EXTRA CRITICUM

Curiosity about the work of others is the most undervalued commodity. Cultivate it in yourself.

Many years ago in a not-so-distant century (the 20th) in a not-so-distant city (Boston), I was in a writers group. There was a core group of about 10-12 members. We each paid dues to rent a space where twice a month we met to read and hear each other's work. Most of us were playwrights and so when scripts called for many roles, we brought our bestie actors in to help bring pages to life. 

Now if you've ever been in a writers group you know that 10-12 members means that no one member will be hearing work of their own every single time. By definition, each member is more likely to get a turn at bat ever third or fourth meeting. 

About six months in, I couldn't help but notice that a certain member writer seemed conspicuously absent on days when his work was not being read. Then, when his new pages appeared on the calendar -- surprise! -- he'd somehow managed to rearrange his busy busy busy schedule to join us.

I'll call him Bigby.

I'm here to tell you this once and for all.

Whatever you do in life, do yourself a favor and make sure you never become a Bigby.

Bigby is an asshole because Bigby has joined a writers group. But he has done so dishonestly. Because a writers group is by definition built on one core principal: that writers can support one another with their eyes, ears and minds. By not showing up on nights when he's not going to hear his own work, Bigby offends us doubly: First, by dressing himself up in the accoutrements of mutual support without really walking the walk and Second, by abstaining from his obligation to actually do some work for fellow artists. What work am I referring to? The work of sitting and listening and offering your honest feedback.

The problem is, without honest curiosity about the work of others, you are doomed to a life as a Bigby. 

What Bigby didn't understand but you and I do, is that in the end the artist who shuts out the work of others is slowly tamping down the tap of his own creative well. 

So, more than 25 years later, I can report with certainty (and no small measure of glee) that the Bigby stopped writing and is currently employed as a part-time donut frier in South Boston. 

Well, okay, I maybe made up that last bit about the donut frying but none of the writers I know have heard from him since the Clinton administration.

Whenever you get up and out to sit and observe the work of someone else and then offer your honest thoughtful feedback, you are doing a bunch of things that matter so much to how your own creative life is going to endure.

1. You are building a little bridge between yourself and another equally frightened artist who needs you.
2. You are taking a much-needed break from worry and fretting and tinkering with your own stuff. 
3. You are gaining a little more perspective on a landscape we can't possibly live long enough to wholly fathom. (the theatrical landscape of new work)

Note to Hollywood: Your rush to in-theatres-only releases is going to bite you in the ass.

It is absolutely unconscionable how many films are currently only available in theatres. Hey, idiots! You may wish the pandemic were over but it ain't and rushing right back to pre-pandemic marketing axioms like release one platform at a time is only going to win you more irate customers.

After spending the better part of two years at home alone only to have had maybe two months during which we were dipping our toes back into the waters of "normal life" to now find ourselves home alone during the fourth CoVid wave without access to the latest titles is pretty fucking irritating.

And have you seen this annoying PSA by the cast of House of Gucci? Could this be more tone-deaf to the current cultural moment?

On Friendships: Are you a Gardener or a Discarder?

The pandemic has, I think, begun to teach us all to see our lives with fresh eyes. Patterns we'd acquired or developed over time were suddenly interrupted and--lo and behold!--hamster off the wheel has a different view of the wheel.

I have noted with a variety of emotions--some sadness, some wonder, a lot of curiosity--how some of my relationships have endured, others have morphed into something altogether new while one or two have simply died.

I wonder about that. What is it that makes some relationships evolve within new and challenging environment while others disappear?

I think in large part it's all a matter of how we see ourselves in relation to other human beings.

I think when it comes to friendships and most other meaningful relationships, there are two types of participants: Gardeners and Discarders.

Gardeners see themselves as fully autonomous contributors to every relationship they're in. The Gardener sees each relationship as something she is helping to build and so it is something she can alter should the need arise. If a problem arises in a friendship, the Gardener's first inclination is to ask: What can I do to fix this?

Discarders see themselves as victims of circumstance and if a problem arises in a friendship, they tend to see the source of the discomfort as external and potentially dangerous and will look for ways to free themselves of whatever outside force they imagine to be causing them harm. Discarders do not build their relationships (at least not consciously anyway). They are controlled by them. 

The Discarder's most common fallback question is: Why me?

The Gardener's is: What am I going to do?

Recently, I was left by a Discarder. We'd been friends for nearly 20 years. Every 1-2 years our friendship would hit a crisis point and we'd not speak to each other for 3-6 months.

Still Fighting My Most Unhelpful Inner Skeptics

So I started working on a new play not so long ago and decided to gather some of my favorite members of the RT Inner Circle to hear me give it a read and see what's what. It's a solo Zoom play and for now at least, while I figure out what shape I want it to take, I'm reading/performing it myself.  Because the play is a kind of response to the January 6th Insurrection I had the inspired idea to schedule its first reading for 1PM, Thursday January 6th, exactly one year to the hour when the angry mob breached the Capitol. 

On Monday, riding a wave of confidence after a particularly good day of writing, I hit SEND on an email to the Inner Circle inviting folks to preregister for the private Zoom meeting which I decided to frame as a lunchtime first read. Within less than 24 hours I heard from a significant number of folks begging me to pick another day due to various prior commitments, many related directly to efforts to mark the historic anniversary.

As often happens with me, on the first whiff of complaint hitting my InBox I began to consider moving the date. And I fell right into seriously unproductive self talk along the lines of:

What were you thinking?

Who do you think you are offering people barely enough lead time?

Could you possibly have handled this any more poorly?

And those thoughts quickly morphed into:

What do you think is so great about this piece anyway? 

If it possibly just belongs in a drawer you might be better off saving yourself the humiliation. 

Maybe its best you cancel the thing entirely.

I got myself so tied up in knots over it that the only thing I became certain of was that with each passing hour, there was little to no chance in hell I was going to be able to perform the thing. 

I wrote an email apologizing for the inconvenience and letting folks know I'd be looking for a better date since so many had complained about the inconvenience of January 6th.

Almost within minutes of my hitting SEND on the correction about 10 people emailed asking if it was too late to register for Thursday's play reading.

Arrgh! I wanted to scream. But instead of screaming I let the anger and frustration turn inward as I told myself I must really be wearing out my welcome with members of the RT Inner Circle. 

I was just about to move the date  to January 18 or 19 when Suzanne, my director, asked if I really wanted to start something new with Mercury in retrograde. 

Without really quite knowing what that meant, I heeded her advice and picked Monday February 7th also at 1PM, EST. 

And now, looking at my calendar recognizing that I have just stumbled into 3 weeks of extra lead time, I find myself having to consciously resist with every fibre of my being the urge to trash the whole thing and start the play over from page 1.

However I will say this: I had the main character's journey moving in one shape and as of this writing I decided that he needs to end the hour in a completely different emotional and moral position than what I'd originally mapped out for him.

So, I suppose if I end up pleased with this absolutely fundamental revision to the piece I will only have one person to thank: my deeply neurotic and fearful inner child.

Any writer who's taken one of my workshops knows how relentless I can be in reminding anyone who'll listen to please never make the mistake of stopping the initial writing of a first draft to consider the first few pages.  And, like an idiot, I recently did that before I had properly fleshed out the last scene of the play. So I am here to fess up to the magnetic power of this, to acknowledge just how tempting it can be to stop, turn to page 1 and take stock of what we've got so far. 

The moment I noticed that I had sort of started to do this on this play, I really had to make a conscious effort to very intentionally write my way free of that burden. How did I manage to write and escape the crushing silence of having just taken a peek under the hood of scene one?

I told myself I had to write at least two completely different paths to the finish line. And by doing so, by giving myself an assignment that contained within it the absolute certainty that at least one of my solutions would end up tossed into the circular file, I was able to shrug off the crushing burden of wanting desperately to insure that whatever I might be creating would eventually find its way to absolute brilliance.

There is no greater enemy to a writer's creativity and productivity than the determination that for whatever ego reason, this piece you're working on must be brilliant. Once I tell myself I'm just playing with ideas, just writing something cause I want to have it laid out. Period. Then the real work can begin. And it happens in my peripheral vision when it might seem as though no one at all is even looking. 

If you're wishing you could join us Feb 7th to hear this first draft of a play I'm tentatively calling Now is the Time For All Good Men to Rise to the Aid of Their Country, you should join the RT Inner Circle. It's free and painless and you may unsubscribe whenever you like. 

In workshop, as I turn my laser focus to helping solve something in YOUR work, my own pathway to fixing MY WORK starts to take shape.

 

 

What do we mean when we speak that dreaded word "exposition" about your new play?

 

 

Everything you're explaining about your play in lengthy stage directions will eventually be made redundant by your close crafting of dialogue as the main engine of the story.

 

 

In Memoriam: Vincent "Vinny" Trentacosta

If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I came to live out loud.
--Emile Zola

Vinny Trentacosta died the other day. He was a doorman in my building but if you're reading this and you never met Vinny, I'm pretty sure the image that just popped up in your imagination would be way off.

Vinny broke the mold. Many NYC doormen, at least the stereotypical ones, work hard to blend into the scenery. They stand perfectly straight, speak in a low voice and say very little. They move with a unique efficiency. If they're reaching to open a door, for example, the hand moves quickly away from the hip making a direct line to the door handle and having completed the task, that hand will seem to have miraculously returned to its usual spot with little fanfare. In some of the most elegant and exclusive midtown addresses, doormen can be rather intimidating to visitors. Whenever I enter one of those buildings I immediately feel guilty. as though I'm trespassing and my own speech becomes stiff and monotone. 

Luckily, my building is not like that. In my building the doormen don't try to pretend they're not people with unique personalities, perspectives and talents. Even so, for the standards of our building, Vinny Trentacosta was considered "big." Big in stature but more importantly, big in personality. 

In fact his personality was so big that several years ago some newer tenants in the building complained and even tried  to get him fired. But those of us who loved Vinny expressed our deep feelings about the issue and in the end the board arrived at a compromise. He was moved to the overnight shift. 

The thing that made Vinny one of those you-either-love-him-or-hate-him kinda guys was what I loved about him. In the words of Emile Zola, he lived out loud.