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.

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.

Life Lesson

Odd memory to surface: I was 14, parents were trying to get my father divorced from his estranged wife (1973, remember). I'm sitting in the lawyer's office getting a serious lecture on what may happen in the court room: accusations, recriminations, threats, etc. Guaranteed miles of extremis ahead in the process.

From the get-go I just had a bad feeling about the lawyer; nothing I could articulate, he just seemed shifty, skeevy, and somehow--and this was the clearest impression--dangerous. But at age 14 one's ability to parse the fruits of instinct may not be fully developed, and my parents seemed to be okay with him and it was their adult business, so I just sat there and kept my mouth shut.

During the coaching...for some reason long forgotten...probably to get the point across that this was indeed Very. Serious. Business...the lawyer told me a personal story about having to do what you need to do to get ahead and succeed. Because that was the sole point: success. I awaited some inestimable gem of wisdom, that for the many years ahead of me, I could recall in times of struggle and set myself back on the straight path. 

But what I got was the following, and what you get, retold some 44 years later:

“So, kid. Lissen up. Two things about law school. (I'm picturing solemnity, hallowed halls, John Houseman gravely laying down the (pun intended) law.) First was the convocation. The president of the college up at the podium—you know what a podium is, right? Up at the podium and he looks across the hall at all of us sitting there and he says, from the podium, 'Look at the person to your left, then the person on your right. Now shake their hands. Good. Because in four years only one of you will still be here.'”

And I'm thinking...okay... that sounds pretty ominous. He made it through, I guess, one out of three and there's a diploma on the wall that says he a graduate (And no, I don't remember the institution).

“So I work myself like I've never worked before. You have to do this or you'll end up as nothing. So my fourth year comes along and our theses are ready to hand in. This is what will determine if we graduate or not. Now I'm an assistant for one of the adjudicating professors, a man revered in his field--by everyone--and he tells me to take all of the collected theses—mine included--and bring them to his house that afternoon. And in this huge pile I see my fellow student Joe Blow's thesis. Now Joe Blow is by far the brightest guy in the class and his thesis is twice as big as anybody else's. It's huge. I take it out and look at it and I see it's in three parts. So I take out the second two parts and only deliver the first part. Lesson is, if you're gonna get ahead you gotta find a way to beat the competition.”

True story. And one that has come back over the years at different times. I keep thinking (as an adult) why would my parents hire somebody this dishonest? Because, simply, they wanted someone who could get the job done, and my Dad's divorce would not be an amicable or easy one. So they hire a guy who can impress with his git-er-done, them-or-us tactics.

But what I ultimately take away from all this is the way he told the story. He clearly thought he had done the necessary thing, therefore the right thing for the situation. He knew it was dishonest. He clearly did. But in his mind he did what any good lawyer needed to do to edge out the competition. Why tell me this? He was looking to impress me. A 14-year-old.

Make what you will.

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.

Noooooo...It belongs Over HERE.

Every once in a while the question comes up: how detailed should I be with my set directions?

For me, the answer is easy. For others it may not be and the difference lies with either experience or preference. Some playwrights feel the use of detailed stage directions is necessary; it is as much a part of the script as the dialogue because it distinctly sets (pun intended) the visual aspect. In most cases a play needs a set. I say “in most cases” because there are those where the playwright is happy to let the actors have command of the bareness, the sheer volume of unimpeded air, the nakedness of the stage space itself. Some plays benefit from this deliberate nondescription, this lack of specificity.

Because it is specificity. Every object on the stage is a tool that helps define the time and place of the piece. Because every object on the stage is either a character's personal property or situational indicator, they should tell us something about the characters, the time, the place, the political situation, the geography. Sets tell us about the vision of the playwright, director, designers; are they realistic or exaggerated? A drawing room with 9-foot bookcases diminishes the actors while accenting the vast array of available knowledge, illuminating the difficulty of attaining the knowledge (those books placed on the upper shelves), and and [promoting] the economic advantages of the person(s) who can afford such luxury.

Or is the set nearly bare, such as the typical set for Samuel Beckett's Waiting For Godot? A road, a tree. (And the road itself can be implied as opposed to created.)

Is it a living room (if so, what culture/era/economic status?) where certain furniture is utilized?

My preference is that nothing should be onstage that is not critical or actually used. I lean towards minimalism for several reasons. In the first place, it's less clutter. Fewer distractions from the action. Theatre audiences don't need to be shown everything. They can imply. I like my actors to have as much attention and command as possible.

Second, it's expensive. I don't know about you, but I've lost beaucoup dinero on productions. It's bad enough to afford a venue, actor and tech salaries, and gosh knows what else, without forking out for a genuine 1930s Appalachin-style wood stove. Maybe the Public or the Mark Taper can shrug this off, but Bad Dog! Productions (“Who??”) certainly can't. On the other hand I was in a production of Mamet's American Buffalo on a set that was jam-crammed with tables of junk shop whatever-you-name-it. Most of the set was “found” or donated. The purpose (in addition to realism) was revealed when the director instructed me to, at the end of the play when Teach realizes that Bobby has been full of shit this whole time and that all his machinations and preparations were for naught, to “Trash the place. Destroy it.” Aside from one obscenely hammed-up death scene in Book of Days, I've never had so much fun on stage in my life.

In third place, it can be indulgent. Listing in detail how everything should be placed, how it should look, in order to transmit a world in exact detail because the play will not work to its fullest perspective otherwise is overkill. Theatre is not an exact science. Theatre is the realm of imagination. In movies everything is done for you. Hence “Lazy brain.” In theatre we leave room for our minds to fill in, amplify, translate what is happening. Theatre is where the audience is to be trusted, not led by the nose. For me, overcontrol of the production by the playwright squeezes the life out of it. By leaving as much to the discretion of the designers and director, I thrill to the idea that every production will be different, that every set will be unique. That every time my work is produced/translated, it will be fresh and new.

I suppose the best and most simple answer I can come up with to the question is: what do you absolutely need to make this play function? And what should you include that is absolutely essential?

As my colleague Arthur M. Jolly wrote: “For A Gulag Mouse, I have a detailed set description. That's partly technical (it really matters whose bunk is closest to the stove - that there is a stove - you can't have a fight about that without it!) and partly as the feel of the bunkhouse in this Siberian prison is important; it's part of the story. For my latest [play], I literally have a single word to say what room we are in, and I'll let the designers handle it. I let the play dictate.”