Obstacles. Those bits in the middle.

We've all had issues with obstacles--those pesky road blocks that all protagonists have to navigate successfully in order to achieve their goals. Every play needs 'em. But some playwrights have trouble finding them.

I almost always know the beginnings and endings of my plays. Can't start unless I do. I usually also know of some first-act cliffhanger or Momentously Dramatic Moment I need to have happen.

Some folks road map their projects, using index cards or spreadsheets. I think I envy that technique, but I also wonder if by the time I've drawn out the entire plot I may have lost the urge to write it. I say this because I tried it. I spent more time trying to arrange the cards so I could see them all at once, but half of them fell off the wall and behind my desk and they are still back there, presumably talking amongst themselves and the dust bunnies. 

I tried again with the string-path thing, sticking things on the wall and running strings between relevant items. Although that was a complete disaster (it made me dizzy), I did end up with a ten-minute play set in a spider web and about a dozen new political conspiracy theories so it wasn't a complete loss.

In any event, how do we negotiate the ascent up the shark fin (see diagram)? What gauntlets do we design for our protagonists to bravely fight through? What are the individual obstacles? How do we playwrights find them?

I usually take a look at the world of the play itself and see what difficulties it may provide organically.

Assuming I have my basic characters and a general idea of the world of the play, I start to think about some of the following things. Let's start with the basics:

- What does the protagonist want?
- Why does he/she want it?
- Is the protagonist good, evil, or complex?
- Why does the antagonist try to foil the protagonist's efforts?
- Is the antagonist good, evil, or complex?
- Where are the ethical limits/moral boundaries for both protagonist and antagonist?
- What actions do I initially envision the protagonist taking? What would be the results of those?
- What would be the next logical step?
- What would be the next illogical step?
- What dramatic moments do I imagine taking place within the play?
- What are the breaking points for the protagonist/antagonist?
- What are the protagonist's flaws and how does he/she work against him/herself?

Next, let's look at the world of the play in all of its aspects.
Is the world “real” as we know it, hard-wired and limited by our current reality, or is set within magical realism? If not real, what rules apply that don't in the real world (because even in magical realism there have to be rules) and how do these exceptions affect the characters? What limitations or freedoms does that world impose or allow?

Politics: What are the political aspects and boundaries? Are the characters discriminated against? Do they discriminate? Are they endowed with political power or under political restraint? What are their views? Are they active or passive? What form does the government take? Democratic? Authoritarian? Absent?

Sexual/gender: What natural empowerments or liabilities do the sexual/gender aspects of each character impose? What views of life? What past experiences? What possibilities for the future? What ways of creating joy in a relationship? What ways of destroying a reputation? Are they out or closeted? Are they bigoted or welcoming? Is it against the law to be anything but straight...or gay?

Geographical: How does the physical world of the play affect the characters' actions? Is it oppressively hot or freezingly cold? Is it dangerous? Is it unremarkable? Is it lush? Destroyed? Post-apocalyptic or Garden of Eden? In what settings does the world of the play take place: a bar, bowling alley, a castle, a resort, a tenement, a living room, a detention center? What aspects of your setting can be used to challenge a character?

Physical/Medical: Look at the physical traits of your characters and see how they relate to the world around them? What aspects make it easier/more difficult for them to interact? Are they too good looking? Shunned for disabilities? Comely/plain? Sick? Contagious? Can they speak/hear/see?

Other things to think about:

- Time/date/era of the work
- Technological: age of the plow/industrial revolution/computerization/cybernetics?
- Psychological: are there any neuroses/phobias/past events that may inhibit action?

And: Is the protagonist's goal actually reachable? Or are they doomed to failure?

I examine all the elements of the world my characters inhabit and I look to see how they can either aid or work against them. Every particular in the world of your play may serve as an organic problem or a tool used by another character to trouble your protagonist.

Notes from "The Viking Suicides" Workshop, Part 2

In Part I of this post I promised to address why I encourage everyone at the table to speak their minds freely and openly. Here’s why.

I have this thing about endings. I never start writing a piece until I know the ending. The ending has to be right. By that I mean it has to be perfect for the play. Truthful, not convenient. It has to be the unique destination that the preceding actions in the text have logically dictated. Looking back, it has to have been, as Aristotle said, inevitable. Nothing else will work. Once I know how the adventure ends, I know the play itself.

I despise a gratuitous wrap-up, a crowbarred feel-good ending where, for the safety of the audience's emotions (and the promise of further ticket sales) the resolution is deliberately manipulated to maximize positive responses. And the very worst: a deus ex machina, a last-minute reprieve featuring the most sketchy manipulations. Case in point: a hero, who has fallen into a vat of toxic chemicals and logically (a) drowned or (b) been fatally poisoned, suddenly reappears dripping and ecstatic, claiming to have survived by using his emergency inhaler. While submerged in toxic waste. For close to ten minutes. You’ve seen these deus ex rectums a hundred times. Tell me you never felt cheated.

So the ending to The Viking Suicides. Stage one: the idea bounces around the cranial area. This could last from a minute's worth of time to forever. In this case it was a couple of weeks. Stage two: Immediately after writing it down for the first time it I looked at it and had to take a breath. Now it was in print. It had physical form for the first time. Makes a difference seeing it on the laptop screen. Have to admit: This was a rough one. Disney fans would probably crap their Hello Kittys.

I took a couple of days’ break then came back to it. I had come to two decisions: It was absolutely the most correct ending for the play, and despite thinking that I may have just killed any chance of it getting produced, I loved it.

A successful sign of a good workshopping team is that they throw everything onto the table. So when the director addressed the ending, they all went silent. Oh great. The director wouldn’t look at me. Finally someone said “Yeah. It works. But it’s really mean.”

"It works." So it's not just me. Now...Is it logical? Does it seem inevitable?

Someone else: “It wasn't until we read it aloud that I saw how powerful it was.”

“Powerful.” There’s a good word. Okay, let's keep going. I'll take Critical Observations for $600, Alex.

Next: “But.” Pause. “I didn’t see it that way. It could be seen as a compassionate thing to do.”

Silence.

Insert wide-eyed, head-shaking emoji here. I looked at the director, my eyebrows slamming against the dropped ceiling. She just looked back: Shut up. Let them talk.

“Next” went on: “Think about it.” And proceeded to outline a line of reasoning that would never have occurred to me in ten years, but got us all thinking. And them talking again.

It very well could make sense. A director with a different turn of psyche could feel the same. After all, one of my actors just did and the rest agreed it could be interpreted that way. If they'll give it legitimacy, so will an audience. 

If anything, it could be at least as dramatic and shocking as my original intent. I could be tempted to leave it as actor’s choice how to play it.

But I haven't decided that yet.

Notes from the "Viking Suicides" Workshop, Part 1

We’re having the first workshop rehearsal for my new play, The Viking Suicides. Two of the cast members have been through this process with me before, so they know what to expect. They know I want to hear everything they're thinking, and that I’ll hear all suggestions without comment and later decide what to do. They are comfortable with me and the process.

The other five actors are new to me. Of these five:

I had seen three of them on stage at least twice and have enough confidence in their stage abilities to want them (and their analytical brains) at the table.

One actor I had seen only once, but she definitely impressed me with her stage work. She also came enthusiastically recommended by two trusted professional friends.

The last had given a great audition.

None of these five had ever been at a table where the script was discussed with the playwright sitting right there.

So you actually want us to say--out loud--whatever we think about your baby? Really?

My answer is always the same: Yes, please

And I'll show you why in a minute.

Seven actors around a table. Some know each other, some don't. All thinking about four things: Making intelligent critical remarks about the script; Wondering if they'll be able to work productively with each other; Will their acting interpretation be good enough/will they give the director and playwright what they want; and Is the playwright a prima donna?

First thing is the intro. The director/dramaturg explains the process. Everyone nods. Then I explain that I am not a prima donna and open to hearing all thoughts, brilliant or otherwise. Everyone nods again. Then the bullshit is over and the script is read.

Note #1: The actor playing M approaches me early in the session and asks what I have in mind for her character. I turn the same question back onto her. I want to know (a) has she really read the script, and (b) what is her impression of her character? She has indeed read the script. She tells me that she has two different ideas about playing M but is not sure which one will fly. The director and I tell her to run with the one she likes best and we’ll see. When I first hear her tone and accent, I think “Omigod. I’m in Bob’s Burgers.” But with this completely unexpected choice, she finds the opps for the humor and pathos all through the script. Three minutes later she and the actor playing W are kicking and clicking, catching each other’s rhythm and finding ways to make it work. The signs are all there: accidentally stepping on each other’s lines to keep a rapid rhythm going, harsh snaps followed by meek retreats. They’re into it. They’re acting.

The actor playing S is a long-time professional actor whom I’ve seen in several productions. Out everyone at this table, she has the most acting experience by far and has a stellar rep. Our production Venn diagrams have never overlapped. It’s a little daunting having her here.

She picks an interpretation and continues to develop and play with it all through her scene. Pretty soon she arrives at her “First Identity” (my term for the first attempt at characterization that an actor presents in rehearsal, one that almost always requires adjustment and refinement). She and W and M play the scene almost effortlessly, getting into playing with and against each other.

One of the things I love most about early rehearsals is exactly what these three (and soon all of the actors) are doing: playing with actor-y things. I get to see and hear the result of the different thoughts and instincts they’re moving through. Which in turn tells me more about these characters I’d created in my head.

(Note #2: I created the characters two years previously and have been living with only my idea of who they are and how they sound and what they are like at toga parties ever since. I know these entities extremely well. Seeing other people manifesting them is a shock because they are no longer my mind’s eye incarnation but suddenly much different.)

I make a few notes about word changes (With this intonation this word would be better. With this attitude, this word is more appropriate).

After 90 minutes we finish the reading. The director starts the discussion with a couple of easy questions to get people talking. People answer, somewhat tentatively. More things are then said, and shyness starts to go away. More observations and discoveries follow, without any tentatives at all. Dynamics are explored. Purposes, needs, wants, decisions are suggested. What’s mostly left out of the discussion are the politics and themes; they are discussed, but only as secondary topics or as supporting evidence for the characters’ actions. One actor asked “Well isn’t the theme of this ‘power’?” Others replied accountability, feminism, racism. Then that was dropped and they went back to discussing various choices made by characters through the play.

It’s a great thing when the actors discuss the characters themselves, and their actions—not the play’s themes. That tells me I have a story about people. Themes are a director’s purview; that and things like mood, style, color, etc. (and they’re the purview of grad school theses and all that stuff).

During the post-reading conversation the actors soon all seemed to largely forget about me at the end of the table. This is what happens when the playwright actually shuts up. I am by nature a passive and reticent person, but even so, this is always hard.

But to not shut up would be counterproductive as hell. If Mommy starts responding to every comment made about Little Junior, the creative process gets shot right in the heart. But once you as the playwright actually listen, it becomes fascinating. You don’t have to take every suggestion, or even any of them. But you should consider them. They should inform your decisions about how and what to revise, if anything, to make your play as great as it can be. And remember: playwrights are under no obligation whatsoever to accept any critique.

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.

-------------------

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?

The Essential Nature of Cosmic Truth Revealed. Finally.

The last question in the post-show talkback was “In your opinion, what was the theme of the play?” Decent question, and one most likely asked by matriculating theatre students of a certain, still-in-discovery age. Usually this question gets a scatter-shot result, with any number of audience members throwing out concepts with reckless abandon. (“Love!” “Despair!” “You need zombies!”)

In this case, as stated conspicuously in the text, the protagonist's crisis was a “loss of faith.” Decent premise, and certainly can lead to any number of possibilities.The protagonist, a life-long dedicated Christian, finds himself suddenly doubting the very existence of God, the supreme peg on which he's hung his entire life, the very nexus around which he has structured his beliefs, morals, and prejudices. And like most inherently good people, he feels this absence of faith is, not a flaw in the either the deity or the religion itself, but a flaw in his own system.

The Christian God is, by its very nature, perfect. And therefore, he reckons, if god does not exist, or he believes the god does not exist, the responsibility is not God’s, but most definitely his. Guilt abounds. Uncertainty. A questioning of the very nature of the fabric of his existence. So (based on the advice of his friendly neighborhood pastor to “take a vacation”) off he goes, like Don Quixote with a midwestern accent, on a quest to find . . .  he knows not what, because before this (and like many good-hearted folk who put their lives in the hands of their deity) he's never bothered to examine or question his own existence.

The non-thinking blind man begins to travel. We await the awakening of his thinking muscles. Now that hold a promise of good theatre!

And the more I think about the play, the more I come back to the remark I made in the talkback, that by the end of the play, at the point of catastrophe, just before the oh-so disappointing deus ex rectum (when the God of Resolution is pulled from the playwright's nether region to magically tie up the loose ends), I believe that the protagonist had suddenly and finally found, NO, not the answer to his question of faith, BUT, more importantly, the direction in which he was supposed to head in order to achieve his goal. This is the critical moment. We, the audience, can assume, as the character begins to wake up… discover… break out of his self-imposed modes of thinking and self-defeating reactions, discovers his turning point, that he will stumble along his way into the light sooner or later. In this and many other cases, the complete answer, the protracted denouement, the closure,  is not important. Really. Anti-climactic in many instances, I believe (yes, pun intended).

What is critical is his breakout moment, that crest-of-the-shark’s fin of rising action epiphany when he suddenly, surprisingly, and naturally knee-jerks into a heretofore completely different mindset. And it worked. The moment was honest, vital, truthful, and OMG so effin’ sexy.

And yes, most everything had worked up until (and including) that critical point. But the next scene, the last scene, was the wrap-up, and I didn't buy it. Nothing up until then even indicated the resolution the playwright presented. But there we were. Happy ending achieved. (And as some are aware, “Happy Ending” has more than one meaning these days. I mention this disreputable definition simply because a copout ending is metaphorically the same.)

Anyway. Truth. Helluva concept. Our intrepid hero seeks it, but has no idea how to find it. His pitiful wanderings are both aimless and fruitless because he’s never been acquainted with non-linear, instinctive, self-directed thinking. He doesn’t understand it. It’s not a language he can speak. So he looks for a clue, something he can recognize, something he understands the language of. His belief in God has deserted him, so he instinctually seeks something to replace it. He seeks a new set of rules he can follow, something that will give him the answers to Life. And herein lies his real problem: He seeks to replace his panacea, and does not look at himself. He who worships icons and subjugates himself to these idols cannot understand being his own god. He seeks outside direction and can’t trust his own heart. So he seeks a brand new, simple, objectively clear answer, just like the ones he’s believed up till now.

If life were that easy, drama would not exist. But Truth, like the sculpture device presented in this play, is representative. Literalism and objectivity are useless here; what our hero needs to unlock the door is a metaphor, a non-linear, abstract, figurative epiphany. When one’s own language fails, Truth must communicate by abstracts, by emotion.

Truth. Ya know . . . it sounds great, but . . . its very nature is a threat. It promises an objectively accurate mirror to one's own psyche. But who really wants to see who they are? We say we do, but frankly . . . that shit is terrifying. We spend so much time in our heads, subconsciously building up an image we can live with, be proud of, that just gets us through the day. Truth? Dude . . . absolutely! No problem. Talk to me tomorrow, okay?

And here I arrive (OMG finally) at the crux of the biscuit: truth in playwriting. The play I recently saw upon which I base this circuitous typing exercise was . . . well . . . the story moved, the characters were (almost) all interesting, and the direction was solid, imaginative, and visually stimulating. But the play itself — the text — forsook finding the truth of the dramatic crisis and settled for an out-of-left-field plot device to steer the protagonist into a revelation that supposedly settled the dramatic question. I respectfully say, “Poppycock.”

I tell my basic playwriting students this: that a denouement does not have to wrap things up tightly. And here is where I see what kind of people my students are. Life, I pontificate sonorously, is a really long and mostly boring story. Nearly every play you see is the last part of a section of someone’s life. Could be the very last section, in which they die. Could not be, in which case they go on. But, in well-crafted plays, they go on changed. Irrevocably. Some students get this in theory, others completely shut it off. For them Truth means absolute closure; everything all tidied up with no flaps sticking out anywhere. And this forces them into a mode of playwriting that can easily deny the very essential truth of human existence: that the imperfect nature of humanity denies, nay, abhors a clean wrap-up.

So, the poor befuddled students ask me, how do you end a play?

Truthfully, I reply. You’ll know it when it happens. Blank looks ensue, possibly scorn.  I try again. Let the play tell you, I say. Let the play write itself. Now the looks range from one or two quiet “I got it” smiles to notebooks petulantly slamming closed.

Explication: The stimulating device in the play in question was the protagonist’s dying mother. There were three scenes featuring her, but her element was never truly utilized. Her illness never had the emotional weight to sway our intrepid yet quixotic hero into seeking the truth of his own dilemma. No interaction, no action at all, really, between near-catatonic Mom and our intrepid hero. No, it is not our job to assume what he felt, how he was affected. How did he feel about her? All we ever saw of her was her death. That wasn’t special; mothers die all the time. Yes, it’s tragic, but without seeing the relationship itself how can we judge the effect of the passing? Did he love her? Was there a long-standing resentment? We don’t know. So her passing could not sway us to understand his final decision.

He says he suddenly no longer believes in God; fair enough. What does he do to rectify that dilemma? Does he seek spiritual answers in a quest for religious truth? No, he gets drunk, does drugs, falls in with ne’er-do-wells, and tries to learn sculpting. While on this hejira he deserts his wife (a cipher in the play; does she have a personality? We never find out. She is the true Stepford wife, dutiful, and nearly without identity/dialogue), leaves his dying mother to slowly fade away, and abandons both his daughters, only one of whom will have anything to do with him (another issue raised but never examined). But hey ... the mother's death brings him home, instills cosmological hope, and makes him beg for the love of his wife. Ooooo-kay.

Truth. It doesn't happen here. Not in this play. It comes sooooo close, then diverges at the 1:54 mark. A breakthrough—a true breakthrough--happens and then the play leads, no it LEAPS, to something that should have taken another 43 minutes to get to. Truth is the biggest demon for a storyteller.

The protagonist was not searching for his lost faith in God. That was his symptom. In any journey story, heroes travel through discoveries, and almost inevitably the greatest discovery is the one where the hero realizes that his/her original crisis was a symptom of a different problem. In this case his loss of faith in God is really a questioning of his entire life, a midlife crisis, a creeping sense of the fruitlessness of one's avocation, marriage, beliefs. The approach to and the inevitable realization of the truth of the matter: What the Fuck Am I Doing? How the Fuck Did I Get Here? What the Fuck Do I Do Now???

Taken generically, midlife crises are mundane. Boring. Dime a dozen. Its not his dilemma; It’s how our hero attempts to solve his dilemma that makes him interesting. Whether he does or doesn’t is essentially immaterial; it’s his choices along the way that tell the story, show who he is, and keep our interest. Truth is in the action.

Truth, like the sculpture that was produced by our regretful, sorrowful, emotionally traumatized protagonist at the top-of-the-shark-fin catastrophic moment, is not objective but representational. It shows a unique glimpse of a thing beyond true representation, beyond diagramming. We get a slim slice of a vision of the nature of grief, the simple yet earth-shaking nature of the ache in our hearts. Essential truth doesn't come in a chaptered book full of answers and step-by-step solutions. It comes as images, fleeting moments, epiphanies, subjective representations that speak the language for which there is no verbal equivalent, where emotions like love, joy, fear, and despair dwell. We’re not even sure our hero gets it all himself, but his breakthrough comes as he finally understands how to express himself representationally, instead of trying to replicate a moment precisely and accurately. Instead he learns that life and love and pain are instances, indescribables, non-diagrammable, unable to be boxed and labeled. His breakthough, where he finally looks into himself and sees his agony, comes in the form of a twisted clay figure that reaches to the sky, its head thrown back, and is so simple, so open, so honest, that it could have been done by a third-grader.