Best Advice I Ever Received About Playwriting: Learn How to Do Everything

Seems like a simple concept, and yet many playwrights continue to keep themselves away from the rest of the profession. I've heard them say things like “The more time I spend learning X, the less time I have for writing,” or “I'm not a set designer/director/actor, I'm a playwright. I need to concentrate on my writing,” or “I really can't afford the time.”

I do realize that we are squeezed for time; many of us work two jobs, have families, and whatever time we have for writing is precious. I'm semiretired and have more time than I’ve ever had to spill words all over a page. But when I worked full time I forced myself to get up earlier, trek to the coffee shop, invigorate my blood with fresh ground Costa Rican, and pretend I was on the fast track to a Tony.

We do what we can do in this profession. To take a note from the revered actor, William Shatner, I encourage playwrights everywhere to seek out new life and new civilizations within the trade. To boldly go into every part of the theatre, and learn about what happens after you set down the words that the rest of the profession hangs on.

Because, yes, without those words, there'd be little to do. But in my experience, writing in a vacuum has serious inherent liability. You’ve heard the chestnut warnings: never require the use of a whirling helicopter in a community theatre version of The Entire Vietnam War in Four and-a-Half Minutes. Never insist on 30 tuxedos and an orchestra for the closing number of your ten-minute play, My Cat Has a Cyst.

By spending time learning the crafts and working as a director, dramaturg, stage manager, artistic director, literary manager, and designer of sets, lighting, costumes, and sound, I’ve learned these playwriting lessons—the hard way. Extrapolate as needed:

• Expecting an actor to learn perfect Russian pronunciation to deliver the line “Umyay kahpusty bolshiah kahrona” (“My broccoli has a big head”) may not work out as you expect;
• Medieval dresses that hang to the ground (they ALL did) will cause your actor to go face first into the scenery if you require her to cross the stage at a run;
• Never give a legally-blind person a real sword;
• Attempting to punctuate a scene where two actors are debating work ethics while playing a game of racquetball with ball-bouncing sound effects will (a) create 30 sound cues, (b) cause the actors to lose their places at least once, (c) make the stage manager call down Biblical plagues on your head, and, most importantly, (d) annoy the hell out of the audience with repeated “thwop-ke-whops”;
• And speaking of stage managers, NEVER, EVER give them a task they have to spend inordinate amounts of time trying to accomplish to make your vision happen. They are your allies, your best friends, and the lifeline to a successful production. I'd rather have multiple root canals than a pissed-off SM;
• A reference to a recent historical event that has nothing to do with the setting, time, or theme of the play destroys the linear flow of a play;
• Asking for repeated “specials,” lighting cues that require rewiring, cue creations, and time spent in the flies may be technical overkill for a small, budget-bereft production;
• Asking for a set with the technical complexity of The Price or American Buffalo (both heavily laden with stage crap) may take your play out of production consideration. Theatre companies are (almost) all destitute. Asking for things above the average third-grader's school lunch budget may well get you a “Thanks, but we had 12 million submissions” email. My own preference, learned by trial and lots of errors: You can do (almost) anything with a black-box stage and minimal set pieces. And it's way cheaper.

Everything you do in theatre other than plying your trade as a scribe will benefit your writing. You are not just writing to create a world, you are writing to make that world credible and as easy to produce as possible. You are not alone in this work, not one bit. When you take the time to work with others and learn from their expertise, they will teach you how to be a better and more successful (produced) playwright.

Don't Fear the Talkback!

It’s happened to most of us. We’ve just finished the staged reading or performance of our newest play, and we sit next to the director, look confidently at the audience and await the gushing flood of what we hope will be razor-sharp, insightful, critical observations about the structure, validity, and genius of our work. Our director has prepped the audience, most of whom are non-theatre people, by setting a few rules down, the first, and most important of which is “Please do not attempt to rewrite the play for the playwright. We are not looking for fixes, we are looking to find out your impressions of the work.”

An observant playwright-in-the-spotlight will notice the facial adjustments of many in the audience who have now had their brilliant comments nullified. Because we are somewhat, as the famous 1980s book tells us, a Martian society, we seek to apply fixes. Why else would a talkback exist but to ask for remedies? But fixes have no place in a talkback.

I’ll say that again: Fixes have no place in a talkback. Why? Isn’t that what you want to hear?

Let me offer this analogy: How would you, as a parent, respond to the statement “Let me tell you how to better raise your kids. Let me tell what you are doing wrong so little Rainbow turns out better.”

Plays and other creative works are analogous to offspring; depending on an innumerability of factors it’s an extremely personal choice how best to bring either of them to positive, healthy fruition. In polite society one simply does not tell another how to “best” raise their children. (Unless, of course, it’s your mother.)

It’s the same with talkbacks. The play is the playwright’s offspring, the product of imagination, effort, sleepless nights, and sudden bursts of joy. One literally gives birth to a living entity. Every play is someone’s pride and joy.

So. Once we remove the tactic of quick fixes, we leave much of the audience at sea. Because what else is there for an audience member to contribute (aside from bestowing effusive congratulations) except a way to remedy what they see as a fault?

I imagine the talkback after the first performance of Hamlet:

“So, Will. Can I call you Will? Y’know what would make this really cool? Like when, at the end, when Fortinbras enters, Hamlet gets up as a ZOMBIE and eats his brain!” (This is my “Zombie” moment. It almost always happens.)

Or: “Seriously, dude. Hamlet really needs to get his shit together a lot sooner. Waiting all this time and doing…nothing? And the women in this play are almost window dressing. Gertrude and Ophelia need to get together, pull a Lysistrata move and take control. THAT will make this play interesting.”

If that’s not bad enough, I’ve also received emails from audience members a week later telling me at length how the play could be improved if I did these six or seven rewrites including changing the ending to create a happy, inspiring deus ex rectum moment even a mother would choke on.

And lastly. My dreaded moment is when, as it recently happened, an audience member openly ignored the caveat to refrain from offering solutions: “I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I have nothing to say otherwise…” My director and I glanced at each other. (“Really?” “Yeah.”) Then we said, out loud, in stereo: “Zombies.”

I keep thinking that one day I will write a play called The Talkback. Watch out.

So, what’s the best way to run a talkback and save your sanity as well as further your play? Provide as much structure as you can manage. Experienced teachers know the value of structure, a way to keep activities (and a classroom of hormone-crazed teenagers) on track while at the same time facilitating successful results. Talkbacks are not group therapy. They are potentially useful sessions in which a playwright and director have to prize out a much useful information from an audience as possible. Let me state this for the record: nothing matters except the potential viability if the play. Otherwise it’s a complete waste of time.

As mentioned above, prepping the audience to not provide fixes is a good start. Add to that the following instructions: “We are here to ask you, the audience, a few questions. We’d love to hear your responses, but we need them to be brief, under a minute, please, as time is limited and the playwright wants to get hammered by eleven o’clock. Speaking of whom, please do not address any questions to the playwright; we’re not here to engage him in discussion (you can find him afterwards). We only want to hear your impressions. Please remember this is solely about the play and the information you offer us will be critical and very much appreciated.”

Then you’re ready to go. The first thing is start off with a set of specific questions about the play. Such questions should include, but not be limited to:

“What moments in the play stood out for you?” (What were the highlights? A good starter because it gets the audience into the idea of giving specific answers.)

“Was there a moment in the play when we lost you? When we confused you or you stopped caring?”

“In one sentence, what emotion did you feel at the end of the play?” (Never “Did you like the ending?” It’s never about “like.” “Like” leads to “why I liked” which leads to stories ad nauseum. You hope for words like “satisfied,” “thrilled,” “stunned.” “Confused” is also useful, as is “disappointed.” Not optimum, but indicative of possible work to be done—which is the point of this exercise!)

Questions should be structured to encourage the audience to give concise answers, not opportunities to meander through their as-yet-unformed thoughts. These wanderings are useless to the playwright. He or she needs information, not time taken up by questions that encourage the audience to talk at length (sometimes about themselves).

“Yes” and “no” answers are the shortest and the best. You get what you need in one syllable and then you move on to the next item. Questions that require more syllables in response should be phrased to encourage as much brevity as possible. This is a great way to have the audience respond to a particular question or two the playwright may have about her work. There’s always something that needs a bit of positive reinforcement or clarification.

“Did you feel that Ginger’s decision to throw out her husband Shawn was justified?”

“Was the narrator an efficient facilitator?”

“Did the quadruple icepick murder in act six, scene twenty make you laugh?

“In three words or fewer, what was the play about?” (Seriously, three or fewer. That narrows down the theme and content description.)

Bear in mind the people who attend talkbacks are different from the Saturday night audiences. They know there will be a talkback. They want more than just the play itself; they are almost always theatre enthusiasts and they are looking for a deeper connection to the work. It’s one thing to have a post-event discussion over cocktails with your partner; it’s something completely different to have one with the actors, director, and possibly the playwright in the room.

And of course, there is the theory that the playwright should not be in the room at all for this, that the absence of the playwright will encourage freer responses. No one wants to say something negative about the baby when the mother is in the room. (Unless it’s that actor you didn’t cast.)

This is why talkbacks are a delicate balance; talkback attendees want to be a part of the production. It’s the only real time an audience member can get to interact with the entertainment. Movies and TV do not offer a chance to talk to the creator. And who knows? Maybe one of them will hand you the key to the play’s ending and the eventual Pulitzer will be all due to their perspicacious insight.

Talkbacks do not have to be dreaded. With a little prep and some efficient pre-planning, playwrights can get the information and feedback they need. And still make in time for last call.

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George Sapio’s book, Workshopping the New Play: A Guide for Playwrights, Directors, and Dramaturgs is published by Applause Books.

Company

There's a reason it's called a “Company.”

Company n.

1. a number of individuals assembled or associated together; group of people.

2. companionship; fellowship; association.

3. a number of persons united or incorporated for joint action, especially for business: a publishing company; a theatre company.

The middle word in #2 is critical: fellowship. In theatre companies, well, at least the theatre companies I inhabit, fellowship is paramount. I bring this up because of a recent incident in a newly forming company producing its very first production. One actor was given (poor) direction by someone other than the director (a fellow actor and coproducer). When he demurred, for valid reasons (he was not comfortable with the suggestion), he was then set upon not only by the non-director but by three other actors. In essence, he was shamed and bullied. And the inexperienced director stood by and let this abuse happen.

My first urge, perhaps because I'm male, half-Italian, and a Leo, is to get all up in y'all faces about protocol, respect, and professionalism. And who knows? Maybe I will later. But for now I’ll take a breath and concentrate on another element of a good theatre company: safety.

When I direct or teach playwriting or stage directing, I make a non-negotiable rule on the first day that the rehearsal room, classroom, or studio we use is a safe zone. At no time will any student disrespect, belittle, or coerce any other student for any reason. Of course, the teacher is equally bound by this rule. I stress this emphatically. And I enforce it. Or I would, if I'd ever had to. I've never had to.

Classrooms and rehearsal rooms must be places where artists can feel free to take risks, try unsure choices, and explore the boundaries of their craft. One cannot do this with consistent expectations of success. Students, actors, and writers fail. Face it, everybody fails.

In our over-protective world where kids get trophies for showing up and are told they are each very special, we diminish the possibility of reaching new heights. The farther you stretch, the farther you fall when (if) it all goes kerflooie. It's a law of nature. But if you don't stretch, you never achieve. Risk is an inherent factor in some things. Fear is part of creative work.

Therefore, when members of my class or company take a chance, they know that they are in a cohort that will be there to sympathize, critique constructively, and respect their chance-taking. They are in a safe zone. Because only in a safe zone can you genuinely make unsafe choices. We are there for each other all the time.

This is one reason why cast parties can be full of tears. Over time you build close relationships with your cast and crew mates. You've depended on them, cheered them, and enjoyed every minute onstage and in rehearsal with them. Because they had your back and you had theirs.

So when this is transgressed, as it sometimes is, my hackles stiffen and my canines grow longer. I've seen directors who run their shows with harsh words, disrespecting actors and crew, treating the entire company with disdain. Personally, I'm too old to put up with that kind of self-indulgent, megalomaniacal horseshit. No role is that good to pass up. But I'm more experienced and much less unsure of myself these days; in younger days I might have been the abused.

So when I heard of this instance within a new company with which I had become associated, I was taken aback. It wasn't so much the instigator's actions that appalled me, but the fact that others allowed it without objecting. (To the actor who was victim of this abuse but chose to not follow the improperly given and, as it turned out, somewhat childish direction, I give all kudos; he did not knuckle under to the pressure from his fellow cast members. More on him in a minute.)

In every pack there is an alpha. And this alpha was part of a new company that had had no experience in running a production. The thrill of being in the driver’s seat overwhelmed them, and being young and without supervision, they ran amok.

It is a strict rule in theatre companies that no one but the director gives direction to any actor at any time. To have a producer override the director shows disrespect for both director and actors and sows the seeds of anarchy. A company that is not secure cannot produce good work. Everyone needs to agree upon and follow protocols. And when an actor says, “No, I do not feel comfortable with that direction,” that must be respected. There are ways of working direction out and coming to an agreement. When an actor tells me that she’s not comfortable with something I’m asking of her, I back off simply for two reasons: the actor may instinctually know the direction is not a good one for her character, and even if she pursued it, her lack of faith in the proposal would more than likely result in a half-hearted attempt that failed, wasting valuable rehearsal time.

I always talk about these instances with my actors. There comes a time, late in the rehearsal period, when they have to know better than I what's best for Willy Loman. Why put a particular actor in a role if not to have that actor particularly bring it to life?

Back to safety. Not all of us are on Broadway or a tour or in a big regional. Many of us do this for the sheer joy of it in a community setting. I can't overstress the need for safety in the rehearsal room and classroom. These writers and actors put their egos and asses on the line, and regardless of success, they must be in a place where they are ready to do so again. They must be among allies who will respect their instincts and choices, whether they be good ones or not.

Back to the actor in this situation: He and some others came to me later. Understandably, he was severely upset, not just because he was an object of shame and group derision but because this disrespect came from people he had worked with in acting class for several semesters (not mine) and had thought of as friends he could trust and depend on.

This young actor learned a very hard lesson. The one positive element is that now he knows how to behave in a similar situation, knows his rights as an actor, and knows what protocols need to be observed. He'll do much better work, be more self-assured, and be able to invest in his cohort more effectively from now on simply by knowing how to react should a similar situation arise.

We go through some hard and painful lessons in this journey. Taken unawares, it's difficult to step in, play Parent, and shut down the session, especially when you have never had to do so before. This is one instance I wish hadn't happened. But now we have an actor who can be aware they he has to look out for his fellow company members, and perhaps help them become equally respectful and supportive. Can you ask for anyone better to work with?

To Feed or Not to Feed. That is the Question.

I hate giving line readings.

Here's my mindset: When I cast a certain actor I do so because of a dozen different things: detected affinity/correctness for the role, the promise of them bringing something unusual and/or new to the part, physical appropriateness/gender (although I'm not a stickler on these points), and just plain old heat-of-the-moment WTF. (I go with instinct sometimes; it pays off more than it doesn't.)

So when I put YOU in the role, I do so because I think you are exactly who should be in it. I like who you are, what you say, how you say it, whatever discernible affinity you may show for the role in a short audition, and I balance that with whatever knowledge I have, if any, of your previous experience. If I've seen you before, it helps. If I've worked with you before, even better (usually).

So, with YOU in the role, I expect several things. I expect you to know the script backwards and forwards. I expect you to read it for continuity, wholeness, and grasp the scope of your character's (and other characters, too) journey. What would thrill me to no end is if you took the script and noted every single thing in it that pertained to your character. Honestly, I fully expect you to do the research. What I hope for is that you will unlock the script's mysteries on your own.

So. Line readings. Theoretically an actor should walk in having most, if not all of the answers. I say “should” and this depends on several things. Is the actor of an age to have the life experience needed to portray the role with truthfulness, or did some college professor decide to put the high school prom king and queen in “The Gin Game”? Does the actor have the specific knowledge of, say Jewish arc welders in Lithuania in the 1930s, needed to fully inform the character? Is it a Becket play?

I write this as a director. It is not my job to tell you how to do each and every line. That, dear actor, is your responsibility. You are the one who will portray Hamlet or whoever up on that stage and you need to have the story arc down solid.

I know this makes me sound as if I believe that all the responsibility of script work is on the actor. Not true in the least. While I do expect my actors to work, do the research, and come into the rehearsal ready to make it happen, experiment, and change my life forever with their brilliance, I fully realize there will be times that certain lines and beats will just be difficult to get. It happens a lot. And, while I loathe forcing the actor to do something not of his or her own invention and thereby limiting his or her ability to mold the part to fit his or her interpretation, I will do it when necessary.

As an actor of some limited ability, I have asked for line readings myself. Case in point: In David Mamet's American Buffalo, when Teach enters the junk shop for the first time he mutters “Fuckin' Ruthie” a number of times. We did the show 12 times, and each time I entered I tried it a different way. Not one of them felt right. The script made it clear what Teach's intent was, but I was never able to put down a reasonable interpretation to my satisfaction. My director left it to me to figure it out. (Bastard.)

When one of my actors asks me for a line reading, or I feel that their reading of a certain line is off the mark, I usually throw one of several requests at them:

“Try hitting the first noun in that line. It's her name and I think you need to accentuate how you feel about her right there”;

“Give the verb more inflection. It shows that you're shocked at the method Claudius used to accomplish his goals”;

“Which part of that line is the part with the real bite? The intro or the prepositional phrase? I think it might be the prep phrase, which shows the absurdity of the current situation.”

Giving the actor an explanation of the line's function is always better than saying “Do it this way: To/be/or NOT!!!!! to/be; ThatistheQUESSSSS...tion.”

And yet, for all my qualms of doing the actor's job for them, limiting the actor's ownership of a role, etc, I have from time to time seen line readings reveal the answer to actors who, only when they hear the line read with intent, are able to grasp the function and meaning of it.

In this case, the ends justify the means. What matters is a true and consistent portrayal of a part, and if lines have to be demonstrated, then so be it. I used to completely abhor line readings as cheating and taking the easy way out, but now I understand that not every project comes to fruition perfectly, and if the end result is what is best for the production and the audience believes the performance to be consistent and true, then I say do what needs to be done by opening night. Audience will never know the difference, anyway.