In the weeks since I first wrote this 3-page manifesto in response to a question from one member of my online scriptwriters workshop, I've continued to have requests for copies. So I figured, it wouldn't hurt to post the whole manifesto here for those who wish to revisit and share. Enjoy!
In the first meeting of the Sunday group, Candyce Rusk posed a question which I’m afraid I may have answered somewhat glibly and it’s got me thinking that there’s a whole can of worms here that needs to be addressed with more serious attention than I was able to give in the 45 seconds I took to answer in class. And I’m afraid it’s such an important topic, I just don’t want to put it off one more day. And I need to share it with both workshop groups.
Essentially Candyce’s question was about timing, specifically whether by January 28th, the date of a salon in Austin at which she’s been invited to share 15+ pages of a new script, she might realistically expect to have produced those pages.
I sort of chuckled at her asking me this, pointing out the obvious fact that she certainly is the ultimate authority on her own speed of output. But I’m afraid I missed the more important question behind her question. Not whether one might have produced enough pages to share by that date but whether to share pages of a brand new piece while it’s still in the incipient phase of being born is a wise thing to do.
See, here’s the thing, kids. There are countless activities we can point to which may surround and attach themselves to writing but are not in and of themselves actually writing. And some of these things, like soliciting feedback before it’s time, can do serious harm to the play or screenplay we’re birthing.
When I’m at the beginning of a new writing project of any kind -- prose, fiction, script, music -- I take great pains to resist the temptation to talk about it in anything close to specific terms until I’ve completed a first draft. I do this for a few reasons.
I have noticed that when I describe something in conversation to a friend, it takes a certain modicum of creative energy to paint for my audience of one. Even though on the surface it may look like an innocent cup of coffee with a close friend, as I sit and sip and describe the work (work that has not yet found its way to the page, by the way), I am engaged in a kind of performance. The next time I describe it to a second person, I’m most likely unconsciously editing my little spiel here and there, tightening the presentation, editing out any holes or gaps or confusing bits which might distract from the overall message I’m attempting to communicate. And as we go, happily describing the work (but not yet making the work), whether we like it or not, we are robbing Peter to pay Paul. We’re taking precious creative energy which we may have invested in quiet time with our pad and pen or keyboard and instead we’re spending some of it to workshop our ideas in an improvised chain of presentations to audiences of one. And by reading their vocal patterns, facial expressions, follow-up questions, etc. we cannot help but make some unconscious choices about a thing that isn’t even yet fully written down. And so, I would argue, we cheat our new work, of a natural birth.
Which brings me to one fundamental truth I know we must always remember:
Writing is intuitive.
Rewriting (or revision) is analytical.
When we fill our days with anything which threatens to impose analytical questions on our embryonic work, we are threatening to cripple (or abort) a new impulse before it’s had a chance to take shape. The initial writing of our first impulse must be undertaken without question, without standards, without any outside cerebral concerns. The only concern we should have as we’re writing that first draft is to get as much of it out as quickly as we can.
Why quickly?
Because sometimes it feels as though we have to trick our brains into not clicking into analytical mode too soon. The minute we’ve written one page, there is a part of our brains that is longing to make sense of what we’ve put down, check for logic, etc. etc. but we must resist this natural impulse with every ounce of will we have because we know that we will never love this thing with quite this level of awe and wonder as we do while it’s pouring out of us.
When I stop and review the first scenes of a play before having written END OF PLAY the result is always great difficulty getting to the end. Why might this be? Maybe it’s because what started as an intuitive exercise in trusting my gut impulse and running with it has now been subjected to the harsh light of scrutiny and having spotted a few cracks, I now cannot continue without seeing every new beat as either fixing or making worse whatever flaws I discovered in my first few pages. By the way, this all happens in the unconscious mind. I’m convinced of it.
Think for a moment about what inspires you in the first place. Usually it’s some sort of question or set of questions. The writing of this play or screenplay that you’re creating is an effort to dig deep into these questions through your fully-fleshed-out characters. No great work of art ever begins with a set of answers. Propaganda does. But not art. Because human beings are drawn to theatre because there’s a sense that something being explored on stage might help us feel our humanness more deeply. We identify most naturally with characters in conflict because we human beings are very much (in our heads at least) in a constant state of turmoil. We do not flock to the theatre to see perfectly well-adjusted people share with us their recipe for absolute perfect self-actualization. No. We go to see the mess and chaos we call LIFE reflected back at us. That alone can be at once comforting, empowering, devastating, frustrating, beautiful. The bottom line is, whatever it does, it must first and foremost make us feel something.
So, getting back to Candyce’s question. [Yeah, Roland. What the hell?]
Will I have enough pages of my new play by January 28th to share at a salon?
Here’s what I should have said in answer to Candyce’s very important question.
I don’t know the circumstances surrounding this salon, for example, who will be there, whether there are career motivations encouraging participation. It may be that being offered a slot on January 28th is an important stepping stone towards getting more attention in the local theatre community. I don’t know.
But I do know this. When you’re starting work on a new project, it’s between you and that germ of an idea. No one else can know more about what you’re doing than you do, even when you’re feeling like you have no fucking clue what it is you’re chasing with your pen.
I have had times in my career when I was invited to share some pages from a very new piece. It took me years of placing the PR of a future piece higher on my list of priorities than the actual writing of that piece to discover a simple truth.
I have no obligation to share actual pages from the actual thing I’m obsessively working on day and night at this time in my life. I can pull pages from some discarded pile from five years ago and, really, no one will be the wiser. Or, if that feels too completely alien to what I promised to present, I can pick the pages about which I have no doubts, questions. And I read those pages only.
Why am I urging you to be so protective of your new baby?
Because feedback comes to us in myriad forms. Once we read something aloud in a crowded room, we don’t need a talkback to know which beat landed and which one fell flat. We have read the room as we read aloud from our pages and with each page turned, mental notes are being filed away about what is or is not working.
Problem is. It’s way too soon for you to handicap yourself and your process with the burden of all those external concerns. All in good time. There will be a time in the creation of your next great play or screenplay when you will want to seek out as many people with widely differing tastes to respond honestly and critically to your completed first or second draft.
Now is not the time. Now is the time for vague answers to all questions from loved ones and colleagues and a privately-held (and joyous) eagerness to leave every party early to hurry back to those people waiting for you at your writing desk, your characters, your vision.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I love you all.
