One of the Artistic Directors, Kyle Ancowitz, wrote a post about Todd London’s book Outrageous Fortune and asked us to respond. This was my response.
“Sir, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is 3,720 to 1!”
“Never tell me the odds.”
– C3PO and Han Solo, Star Wars
I’ve never read Todd London’s Outrageous Fortune. This is not because I think it is without value. In fact, I have it on good authority that it’s excellent. I’ve actually met Mr. London several times. He’s a lovely man. He speaks with great passion about playwriting. He has devoted his professional life to helping and nurturing people like me.
And I will never read his book.
I’m usually a big “The truth will set you free” kinda guy. I’ve always felt I can handle anything if I just know what it is. My mind tends to conjure up things far worse than the truth, so even bad news usually comes with a certain measure of relief.
Except here.
I do not want to know the exact figures on how bad the state of the American theatre is. I know it anecdotally. I know it experientially. I know a friend of mine who was paid only $5000 to have his play produced at one of the country’s top regionals. I know several people in their 20s who have never even seen a play. I know how bad it is.
I don’t even want to know the glimmers of hope, whatever bright lights London sees on the horizon. Such news will only make me feel worse, like a girl who tells you how great you are just before she dumps you.
I don’t want to know these things because it is essential to my safety. Not my bodily safety, of course (I’ve survived a certain amount of failure and am up for a great deal more). It’s essential to the safety of my desk. The little desk in the basement where I write.
It’s not much to look at, my desk. I bought it at Ikea for 20 bucks. It’s a graceless formica rectangle that totters slightly on the uneven floor. There’s also a small bookcase down there, and my meditation pillow. A few things that give me comfort are scattered around, like my picture of Abraham Lincoln and my Mookie Wilson bobblehead doll.
Still, humble though it is, it is my sanctuary. A couple of times a week I go down there and pop open my laptop. I look out the small basement window, and I conjure. I invent people and scenes in my mind and try to manifest them through words. It is arduous but very rewarding work.
Though I dream of glory, I work to please myself. Like most writers, I am rarely satisfied. To get the play to be anywhere near as good as it sounds in my head is extremely difficult. If I were to compound that difficulty by imagining my work’s fate out there in an increasingly disinterested world it would, I think, cripple me. That’s why I will never read Mr. London’s book.
I don’t recommend the way I handle this to anyone. I recommend all playwrights, indeed all people who are passionate about the future of the American theatre, to read Outrageous Fortune.
I never will.
