Just Mull. And Enjoy It.

It's called Writer's Block, that agonizing period fraught with insecurity when the creative river dries up. Writer's Block: when you need the words to come trotting out like frisky thoroughbreds, but they remain stubbornly mulish, refusing to leave the barn. (A barn you can't enter, by the way, not even to get a glimpse of them in their stalls, effectively stalling your work.)

I'm going to go out on a limb here and venture a guess that we've all had this experience. We're told it's not fun. It's distressing. Oh my, how good would it be if the lines just paraded out proudly as they should, in a constant cavalcade, all dressed up and looking spiffy.

It does happen. I have several 10-minute pieces and a few 2-minute monologues that just flooshed out of the vomitorium smack onto the page. Such a glorious rush. However, my pride rests on my glacially expanding canon of full-lengths (that subject, the merits of short plays vs longer ones, in another blog, farther upstream. Probably followed by “The Supreme Annoyance of 'Multiple Metaphor Pileup' in Essay Writing”).

Anyway, I digress. The creative standstill does happen. Perhaps more often than we'd like. But I take serious issue with the moniker “Writer's Block.” It’s negative. It plants the idea in every writer’s head that Something Is Wrong!—something bad that screams out to be fixed.

The term “Writer's Block” is, as Gandhi used to say, B.S. This lull in our usual flow of typing is not something to worry about. Maybe we're just tired. Maybe we had too much to eat last night. Maybe too much on our minds.

Relax, it's okay.

In my normal writing process there are periods where I sit and think about my current scribbling, sometimes for hours or days at a time. Weeks, even. It's part of the way I write. My mind goes off into the ether and I'm beyond reach. I don’t even experience concrete thoughts or specific ideas. I feel like a whale shark, mouth agape, gently trolling for krill. I’m lucky to have friends and family who recognize the thousand-yard stare and take turns feeding and dressing me. I'm betting there are a few of you out there who experience similar episodes.

I accept this as a natural part of creativity. I expect it. I enjoy it. I consider it work, as equal a part of the writing process as the frenetic mistyping that thunders out when The Big Reveal finally hits. It's like great sex: a slow, thoughtful beginning, a journey of sensual exploration and discovery that gradually builds up to a fevered climax of gushing words. And this happens several times in every full-length creation.

Let’s call this languid synaptic search Mulling. Mulling is an activity where the imagination goes in search of those magic moments that not just advance the text, but glorify it. Mulls, like whale sharks, troll for those creative krill, Epiphanies. In that massive sea of ether, each Mull needs to find its appropriate Epiphany. Because there is only one Epiphany for each of the writer’s different Mulls.

There will be false alarms along the way, connections that look exciting, promising, and juicy, yet turn out to be disappointing when the resulting sploosh of typing at last breathily subsides and the Epiphany looks around at your apartment and talks about redecorating. Alas, we must change our phone number once again and begin searching anew.

But I never worry. Ever. Because in my experience, nearly every questing Mull has found its mate. It's a zen-like journey—and it's always been worth it. I sit back, relax, and go Mulling merrily along, roaming the ether for that special Epiphany. It's a lovely landscape, and I always find equal amounts of joy in the peregrination and in the anticipation of consummation.

And frequently I find things I never imagined.  Because Mullination by nature largely involves aimless wandering, it sometimes runs into ideas, phrases and words that take me to areas I hadn't previously considered. Each one expands my landscape of possibility, and almost always the work in question benefits tremendously.

I say screw The Block. Deny the disquietude, forswear the fantods, and Get Your Mull On. Big time.

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.

A Playwright's Day

Make coffee.
Write.
Think about taking shower. 
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Daydream.
Write.
Feed/change baby.
Write.
Eat.
Write.
Realize coffee is now cold.
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Disregard inconsistencies until “later.”
Write.
Fix typos.
Write.
Rearrange bedroom.
Write.
Think.
Write.
Think.
Write.
Think more.
Write.
Decide it's utter shit.
Write.
Change title.
Write more.
Laugh at funny brilliant line.
Write.
Cut funny brilliant line.
Write.
Hate self.
Write.
Drink cold coffee.
Write.
Think about what to make for dinner.
Write.
Try unsuccessfully to nap.
Write.
Cut.
Write.
Cut.
Write.
Jog.
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Clean kitchen.
Write.
Look up old friend from grammar school.
Write.
Take shower.
Write.
Search for dinner recipes that feature Norwegian cardamom discovered in the back of your pantry.
Write.
Cry.
Write.
Feed/change baby.
Write.
Donate to deceased old grammar school friend's memorial charity.
Write.
Discuss new title with baby.
Write.
Clean bathroom.
Write.
Experience “breakthrough” epiphany.
Write.
Entertain idea that it might be best thing you've ever written.
Write.
Take zeppelin out of zeppelin scene.
Write.
Go out for dinner.
Write.
Go back to original title.
Write.
See faint light at the end of the road.
Write.
Write.
Write.

Size Matters

Synopsis:

1.  a brief or condensed statement giving a general view of some subject.

2.  a compendium of heads or short paragraphs giving a view of the whole.

3.  a brief summary of the plot of a novel, motion picture, play, etc.

When someone asks for a synopsis of a play I’m submitting, I wonder exactly what they want. Some folks want to read the entire play start to finish in six or so sentences (as in #3 above). Others want a short one-line idea of what the work is about (#1 above). Most places do not specify which one they ask for.

My dilemma when submitting and see the dreaded words “include a synopsis” is which of these to supply. Should they want the whole shebang condensed, I’ll probably nullify my submission by sending a teaser (#1 above). Who’s going to bother getting back to ask me for the full synopsis? No one. Whoops. Sorry.

In reverse, should they need just a teaser and I send the condensed entirety, that also will probably cause too much effort on their part to rectify the error.

Places that invite submissions are usually understaffed and have no time to bother with trifling mistakes.

Let’s look at the various possibilities.

Teaser: Hamlet cannot decide how to avenge his father’s death and deal with his mother’s incestuous relationship with his uncle, who usurped Hamlet’s lineal claim to the throne of Denmark.

Full synopsis: Hamlet, called back from Wittenberg because of his father’s untimely death, finds out that…

***INSERT 32 PAGES OF DETAILED PLOT REVEAL***

…leading to the entire royal family being murdered during a fencing match, leaving Denmark without a government and now under the occupation of Norway.

Clearly, one must be specific as to which of these they want us poor submitters to supply. Especially when they plan to publish the “synopsis” (really “teaser”) on their web page or in their program. Maybe a middle ground?

Condensed full synopsis: Hamlet’s youth and inexperience in dealing with his father’s murder and mother’s incest causes mayhem in the Denmarkian royal household leading to nearly every character with a speaking part being killed off for no good reason and the whole country taken over by the Oh-hi-just-passing-through Norwegian army.

Hey, honey, wanna see this?

Naaah. I know what happens. Is Walking Dead on?

Synopsis or teaser? It matters. I’ve decided to send both from now on.

Live a Little

You know the look. It's the look that people get when they’re processing what you've just said and they have come up against a huge disconnect in logic.

It's the look I get when I tell people that Ithaca Fringe Festival acts are selected by lottery.

It's kind of funny, actually. These good folks immediately have the concept of “What? You just let anybody in?” Then they weigh that against the prototypical no-miss business model that lives vaguely in their heads and there you go: cosmic stalemate. You can't equate letting “anybody” in with having a successful festival.

I mean... what if... what if... the acts suck?

Good question. I could regale you with tales of horror-stricken audienceship as I ingested a musical based on Arthur Miller's The Crucible. (It must have sounded good on paper.) Or a tale of mind-numbing boredom at yet another interminable interpretive dance performance that must have been choreographed by a four-year-old whose main theme was “I have a load in my pants. And it's on fire.”

These things happen. I can say, based on the number of fringe festival shows I've seen, that the percentage of “did-NOT-suck” to “mind-blowingly brilliant” shows far outweighs the number of craptastic crimes against theatrical humanity. I've rarely been disappointed at a fringe show.

Bear in mind the mitigating factors: fringe shows are usually cheap (Ithaca Fringe $10/pop, cheaper if you buy multishow passes); short (about an hour); and plentiful (the Edinburgh Fringe, granddaddy of them all, has some 12 billion; we have eight this year). So what if you attend something as off-mainstream as Hemorrhoids Through the Ages? You at least have a helluva story to tell later. (Honestly, what would you rather listen to, the story that starts with “This show was so good,” or “OMG you cannot believe how bad... how horrifically godawful this show was...”?)

“But,” these folks ask, “you don't at least choose which ones to pick from?” Nope. I don't. I'm the producing artistic director (yes, a three-word title), and even though I wield supreme executive power over this festival, I do NOT jury the entries. Why should I?

They struggle with this, doubting that we'll have a decent lineup. I get it. It's scary when you think of business plans and success. I'm not saying I don't wish fervently for every show chosen to be brilliant and to sell out, but I have to go with the essence of the fringe itself. I have to go with taking chances. I'm probably my own worst enemy. I don't ask “Is it any good?” I ask “Should I see this?”

I'm a playwright. I send my work out to prospective theatres and contests frequently. 99% of the time I never get a response. .05% of the time I get the usual rejection: “It was the toughest choice of our lives, but after sacrificing half of our children and reading their entrails in the dust,” (I'm paraphrasing) “we eventually went with the sock-puppet version of Dick Cheney's Puberty...” I am no stranger to rejection.

So, when I first envisioned the Ithaca Fringe Festival, I fully intended to vet the submissions and throw out the obvious crap. Then, when I attended the US Association of Fringe Festivals conference in Portland, Maine, I was waylaid after dinner by three representatives of three different fringe festival organizations who impressed upon me the very nature of a “fringe.”

“Look,” one said, “the idea of a fringe is anything but safety.”

“Absolutely correct,” another fringe rep concurred, “this is not comfy seats and Appletinis. This is the shit, the good stuff the real theatres can't gamble on even though they may want to and thereby won't invest in.”

“Exactly,” said the third. “You are performing a goodly artistic service by refusing to deny struggling artists a chance to have their work shown to the world. You know how many artists out there will never get a chance to be heard, to be seen, to express the fruits of their souls?”

“Besides,” they said (yes, all three in perfect three-part harmony), “who are you to be the be-all and end-all of artistic taste? What makes you qualified to say what's good and what ain't?”

I had to admit, later on as I surveyed their arguments, they had a very valid point. How many times had I walked out of a theatre performance with more than a few complaints: The plot made no sense; the show was redeemed only by stellar acting; the ending was a feel-good copout that betrayed everything that had come before it. Or the show raised a series of important and timely social issues and did not fully or legitimately explore them. The show had no characters I cared about. The show did not say anything. On and on.

And yet . . . others liked these shows. Liked them enough to produce them for three weeks, five nights a week, in a 99-seat house. So maybe I have a twisted sense of artistic value. I loathe almost anything Hollywood produces, thinking it high fructose corn syrup for the mind. I do have high standards, and I expect all playwrights and producers to as well. Yes, I fully admit my opinion is not everyone’s. You'd be amazed what Perennial Favorites I think are crap. I think most “classic plays” taught in high schools and colleges should be frozen and time-locked until 2246. Bring in the new stuff, start working with the plays that reflect what's going on these days. Be contemporary, be relevant. Be dangerous.

A fringe festival is where some of the best the new stuff shows up. The experimental . . . offbeat . . . non-formulaic. A fringe is where theatrical adventure comes into its own, where what's left of America's theatre scene finds spiritual and intellectual rejuvenation. It takes chances, as it should.

So no. We don't vet. We don't judge. We take your (small) application fees, throw your scripts into a revolving hopper, and pick. This year we'll pick eight. I don't know how good they will be. But I’ll wager most of them will be terrific. And I hope you come out and see them, support the creative arts, and have some fun. And don't worry if the acts aren't the best thing since Phantom. Ask yourself if they are acts you should see.