EXTRA CRITICUM

My first editor was my toughest. (and we always remember the toughest)

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the first day of fourth grade. I came home very excited by the innovative way in which my teacher, Ms. Danielson, had organized her classroom. In one back corner she'd placed a round oak table, low to the ground with about 5 chairs placed around it. To the casual observer it may have looked like a breakfast nook for 9-year-olds. 

This, she explained, was The Writing Corner.

Our teacher explained that at any time during any day of the entire year if any of us wanted to we would be welcome to leave whatever project or discussion was occupying the class at that moment and instead take a seat at the writing table and just write. That option would be available to us for the entire year and it would never be questioned.

Implicit in the arrangement was an understanding that writing no matter what it was we were working on, would always be an excellent use of one's time, so much so that it should be protected with a special status. 

I thought this was just the coolest thing ever. And I was especially excited to share it with my Mom, the writer, as soon as I got home.

It was probably no more than a week or two after that when I found myself hard at work on my first writing assignment for my beloved Ms. Danielson. If Ms. Danielson had positioned herself in my view as a champion of writing and writers, I certainly wanted the first piece I turned in to be excellent.

A Unique Opportunity to Study Songwriting with One of the Best

Some of you may recall reading about the couple of Halloweens I spent teaching Ear Training and Music Theory to a wonderful music-loving community of folksingers and songwriters gathered by my pal Cosy Sheridan in the Utah desert. I learned so much about Music, something I thought I understood in every which way, by attempting to teach certain principles of how its put together to students who did not know how to read music notation. There really is something eye-opening about diving into a language without the usual visual markers we're used to referring to. 

Anyway, anyone who has attended one of the Hear Me Out Monologues Labor Day Festival and Awards Ceremony will recognize the name Cosy Sheridan because it is she and her husband Charlie Koch who have provided our incredibly moving musical interludes in between the presentation of Finalist monologues. I consider Cosy to be one of the finest lyricists of our time. There is an economy to her songwriting that surpasses any other I can think of. When you enter into a Cosy Sheridan lyric the words will creep up on you as she chooses carefully to collect the seemingly simplest possibly prosaic words and phrases to spin her tale. And then just when you're lulled into thinking that everything there is to see has already been seen she somehow shifts our focus and the whole world is alight with something unexpected. 

In a nod to CoVid and the disappointing need to put Moab Folk Camp on hiatus these last two years, Cosy is offering a songwriting retreat called Desert Song. It'll run from Tuesday May 31st through Friday June 3rd in the gorgeous setting of Moab.

Desert Song. A Songwriting Retreat

What makes studying with Roland Tec special?

On the Roland Tec Teaching site, there's a button that invites anyone interested in possibly studying with me to schedule a free 20-min. Zoom one-on-one. Whenever I find myself talking with someone who's exploring, I find myself listening to what's not being said. Reading between the lines I try to use those precious 20 minutes to tease out for people what at their core they hope to accomplish through their art so that I might help them decide whether this is the place for them.

A couple days ago one such prospective student -- a writer I've known off and on for years, someone whose work I've admired from afar -- asked the simplest most direct question. So direct that somehow it had never quite been asked in the same way. And I thought. Wow. This really matters. I should communicate my answer to readers of this blog. 

The question is basically the headline of this post.

What makes studying with me unique?

If any current members of the Roland Tec Online Writers Workshop or the RT Private Studio happen to be reading this, feel free to offer your opinion on my answer. Did I get it right? Maybe I missed something. I'm happy to stand corrected... especially in matters pertaining to seeing myself clearly.

The Artist Child. Your Career Requires Adult Supervision.

There are people who help bring art to the world who are not artists but what they do is essential nonetheless. They are producers, lawyers, agents, publicists, managers, etc. They often create a framework upon which the artist-audience relationship is built.

Unfortunately, some of them are invested in seeing artists as children. It may be understandable in a way. To make art, the artist must be at home with play. And it's too easy for observers to conclude that the adult who is at ease with play is also less an adult than the rest of us.

Playwrights have been infantilized in recent years in countless ways. We are told not to worry our pretty little heads with details of production. We are encouraged to seek help in structuring our scripts from dramaturgs. Some even believe they cannot finish a script without the assistance of someone to offer outside wisdom.

And so some of us internalize this childlike way of being and we simply wait for corrections from "the adults in the room."

I wish all playwrights would understand that taking responsibility for every aspect of your writing will free you as an artist. You will only be free to bring your vision to the world when you stop behaving like a helpless baby and take responsibility for what you actually put on the page. 

What does this mean?

 

Here's a handy list of Absolute Musts.

The Artist Who Was Afraid of Taking Up Too Much Space

So, that would be me. Big time.

In case you were wondering.

Put me in a line at Starbucks and you'll see a human being using the power of his brain to imagine (and instantly resolve) every possible way in which he might be, well... in the way.

I imagine I may be a breath of fresh air in some public spaces -- a person intently focused on not interrupting anyone else's flow, even if inadvertently. But take that same skill set and bring it to a career as an artist and...

Well, let's just say there might have been more helpful adaptive behaviors I could have picked up in childhood. 

A deep and ever-present fear of being a bother, a disruption or simply in the way has held me back in more ways and in more arenas than I care to name. The most recent manifestation of this pathology of mine (and, oh, is it ever a pathology! Trust me.) reared its ugly head in February when I decided I was ready to share the earliest version of a solo show I'm writing and will be performing (god willing).

I invited about 50 people I know and trust to attend the reading of A Nagging Feeling Best Not Ignored. And, to be honest, I can't complain because when I invite people to new work of my own, I get a pretty great rate of return. The majority of folks I invited did actually show up.

Your Mission (should you choose to accept it)

Certain fundamentals touch us so deeply that it's possible to sort the actions of humans (our own and those we observe around us) into two simple columns: Productive vs. Destructive.

Take, for example, the situation in Ukraine. Sometimes there's no better remedy for murky indecision than bombs falling all around you. I don't mean to compare the topic at hand to real life war and war crimes. But we can learn from the split-second decision-making we're now witnessing on a day to day basis. There are no guarantees that the road uphill will take us to safety but choosing a road and following it always beats staying in bed and fretting.

I don't know how exactly it came to pass but somehow over the past 25 years or so the American playwright has been tamed into believing she is wholly operating at the mercy of an elite and opaque cabal of gatekeepers who will decide what is and what is not worthy.

I am here to tell you that this is one of the most dangerous and destructive transformations ever to have overrun an entire art form: theatre.

And American Theatre (Yes indeed, with a capital A and T!) will continue to circle the drain of disposable fungible ephemera until the people who write for the stage stop playing the part of humble servants and instead learn to embrace the responsibility that comes from being the wellspring of everything else.

That's right. It all begins with you, the writer. And until you accept responsibility for the role you play in shaping the future of our theatre we will continue to face ever dwindling interest from a distracted and ambivalent audience.

It's not easy to acknowledge our power. But we must.

What makes so many writers feel powerless?

This one's personal. Some1Speaking tonight.

In November 2020 one of the most important people in my life finally lost what had been an incredible 11-year battle with Stage IV Ovarian Cancer. At the time of her initial diagnosis one of the docs she consulted urged her to "get your affairs in order. I give you six weeks."

And so I've been remembering things I either overheard or that she confided in me about various battles she fought and have been turning them into monologues. Jenny Bacon read one of the first ones at a Some1Speaking last year and I must admit that sometimes when I miss my friend just a little too much I head on over to Hear Me Out YouTube just to spend a few minutes with her words, her energy, her fire. 

I don't think I've ever quite had this kind of intense umbilical connection to a script of my own. The only thing that sort of comes close was when my play The Wreck Behind Us filled the upstairs space at the Duplex for a summer. The play explores the impact of the sudden death of actress wife and mother, a family I grew up with, the mother of my best friend growing up. I guess it felt like it was a tragedy I knew in my bones. I'll never forget how David's older brother came up to me at the end of a performance, shook my hand and suggested that I had given him an extra 30 minutes with his late mother. 

It's a strange thing for me now. In a way I feel I'm still having a relationship with her, although unfortunately her ability to surprise me has suddenly vanished.

If you're free tonight, please come by and check it out. The fabulous Marnie Andrews will be breathing life into the text. And for that I am already grateful beyond my own understanding.

House opens at 5:45PM which is when ticket sales stop. Some1Speaking usually runs about one hour from 6PM to 7PM and a ticket'll set you back $5.  Click here for tickets and more info.

Delightfully surprising documentary on a much misunderstood figure

David Geffen is so maligned. And there's so much more to him than meets the eye. I highly recommend this documentary which opened my eyes to the depth and breadth of his contributions. Too often in this culture we have a knee-jerk negative reaction to bald ambition and ego. But consider what this larger than life figure has managed to do for the culture. It's inspiring.

All these years of accomplishments under my belt and still can't stop humming that familiar tune of self-denial

The other day I hosted the first session of Demystifying the 10-min. Play with Gary Garrison, in which 12 scriptwriters (and me) get to learn the essentials of the craft of writing the 10-min play from my friend and colleague Gary, who happens to be the authority on this form. The workshop is turning out to be even more fascinating and eye-opening than I imagined and I'm confident we'll all come out the other end much better craftspeople. Remember. The word is playwright, not playwrite, for a reason. Plays are wrought. With much blood, sweat and tears along the way. That is one key to their unique alchemy.

But I digress. 

What I wanted to address in this post is my annoying and sad little habit of reflexively retreating to self-denial in the face of praise.

Jean-Paul Yovanoff Interviews me for the BE OUR GUEST show on Musical Theatre Radio

I recently had the pleasure of sitting down with Jean-Paul Yovanoff to talk about my approach to teaching, my philosophy about the performing arts and a whole lot more. I had such fun talking with Jean-Paul for his podcast BE OUR GUEST. I wanted to share the interview with you all here. 

 

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)

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. 

What Makes the Difference Between Disposable Entertainment and the Stories That Endure?

Name Your Haunters

Think about those works of fiction, drama or film that haunt you, that pop into mind again and again regardless of how many years it's been since you last encountered them on the page, stage or screen.

We all have at least a couple. Some of us may have a handful. I like to refer to these as haunters because they do haunt us and it seems we will carry a connection to them all the way to our graves.

What are some of yours? Take a moment to jot down one or two titles. 

Right now. (Don't worry. I'll wait.) Here's a little video for inspiration.

No matter what form your stories take, if you have an artist's ego, you probably hope that the stories you write will be the ones your audience never forgets.

If you think about it, the stories that you just never tire of all have certain characteristics in common. 

What might they be?

Can you name them?

Let me venture a guess. (And if I'm wrong, I hope you won't be shy about posting your corrections in the comments section right here.)

Whenever my work is about to be read, I work overtime. Here's how and why.

You're having a new play read, or part of a new play. It's a script. What is a script but a tool used by artists who make theatre or film. The artists we should always consider first, middle and last as we go about our planning are of course the actors.

Because actors are reading your script aloud rather than performing the play with full production value, the reading by definition cuts many of your creative collaborators out of the equation. Set designer? Sorry. Lighting? Nope. Composer. Hell, no. Director? Not really, if we're honest. The direction of readings of new work is actually more like a hybrid of casting and stage management.

Essentially, 90% of readings -- regardless of whether they're private, in a writers workshop or public -- are carried entirely by the actors who read your dialogue aloud.