Speechless

(ok, just kidding.  I'm not actually going to write a blank blog post titled "speechless", though of course that would be the only correct thing to do since if I can think of anything to write, then clearly I'm not speechless).

Today's reading of my play far exceeded any expectation I had even dared to think.  Honestly, I don't know that I had a single expectation.  Even when I read through the whole play myself yesterday, I didn't know what to think of it.  There were things I liked about it, but I didn't feel like I could see it.  I was so inside it, it was (is!) so fresh, that I couldn't take a step back and see the big picture.  I honestly wasn't even sure if I had told the story I wanted to tell.  I know this world so well now, having read so much about it, having listened to their music, that I had no idea what the story would look like to people who had none of the information in their heads that I have.

But people saw everything I wanted them to see and more.  The overall consensus amongst the actors and directors and writers there was don't touch it, submit this now.   Of course it will be revised in the development process, but no one could believe it was a first draft and they all think it is ready to be workshopped.  One of the actors is already scheming about presenting the idea to companies with whom she has a relationship to see if I can get a reading or workshop there.

Even as I am typing this, tears are coming to my eyes.  This project has been so long in the dreaming (at least 4 years), and so short in the making (just 3 months) that I still can't quite believe I did it.  On top of that, I have to admit I had started to lose faith in my writing.  Having had my first play rejected from so many places -- even places with which I had strong personal connections -- I was starting to wonder if maybe I can't really write.  My biggest fear in approaching this project was that I wasn't going to do it justice.  I believe so strongly in this story, I feel so passionately that it must be told, and I was scared that maybe I wasn't the person to do it.

But tonight confirmed that I am.  I do have the voice to tell this story.  There are no promises, of course, in this crazy world where the almighty dollar is always the bottom line.  But there is reason for that little candle of hope to flicker to life again, the hope that something I create could actually get produced and be seen by the wider world.  My mother -- the first person on the planet to get to read the play other than myself -- even dared utter the mythical words "when you when your Tony" tonight.  Dare I hope.

Making it real

Though I declared my play "born" on Monday, I'm not sure I really believed it, deep down.  But as of 11:47pm tonight, the draft was tidied up and the missing pieces filled in enough for me to actually print it out.  I can now hold my play in my hands, look at it, feel its weight.  (Oddly enough, despite all the snipping and cleaning up and filling in I've done in the last two days, it is still exactly 112 pages.  The same length it was on Monday.  Funny).

It will become even more real on Friday.  I have scheduled a very informal reading so I can hear the whole thing out loud once before I start the rewrite process next week.  (Next week!!)  I have assembled 10 actors, calling upon people I know as well as a number of referrals to people two or three degrees of separation away.  It is weird to think that people I don't even know will get a glimpse of this baby on Friday.  That makes me feel more than a little vulnerable.

But I'm also excited.  Going through it to clean it up and fill in the gaps, I realized there is more there than I thought.  I like a lot of it.  Parts of it make my cry.

But it's also too hard to tell when you are this close.  I need some distance.  I need it to be taken out of my head and held up to the light so I can really see it.  That's what Friday will be.  I'll let you know what I see.

Play #2 is born!

I have been struggling all day with whether or not to say that the first draft of my play is "done".  I mean, what constitutes a completed first draft, exactly?  Does it have to be something you could actually put on stage right this minute, or if you have the beginning, middle, end and all the important structural beats in between, can you call it "done"?

Even when I finished typing up all of my hand-written notes at 5pm today - constituting 112 typed pages - I was reluctant to pat myself on the back.  Several weeks ago, I was still futzing with the second scene (as I had been for far too long) when I decided to switch from typing to writing by hand in order to move forward.  The gist of it was there, I know how I am getting into it and out of it, but I need to flesh out a bit of the middle some.  And there are a couple of connective-tissue scenes later in the play that I realized today I need to fill in.  So there is more work to do.  There will always be more work to do.

Then, a few minutes ago, I remembered something.  One of my best friends had a baby last January.  She was an absolutely perfectly healthy baby, all 10 fingers and toes, everything in order.  One of her ear lobes was a bit of a funny shape, though, nothing too much to be concerned about, but it was noticeable.  Her dad even wondered if they should get her plastic surgery in order to fix it.  But within a week or so, it grew in and looked completely normal.  It just wasn't quite finished growing yet, but the baby had most certainly been born.

Likewise, I now declare my play to be "born".  I can see what it is, and there are lots of clues as to what the final product will look like when it's more grown-up.  It just has a bit of a funny shaped earlobe, and maybe one or two other little things that aren't quite fully-cooked yet.  I'm even going to introduce it to a few people this Friday in a very informal reading so I can hear it out loud and get an even better idea of what I have on my hands.

So here comes the formal announcement:

Welcome to the world, Sweethearts of Swing.  I look forward to watching you grow up.

3...2...1...

I have just three days to complete my play by my self-imposed deadline.  A couple of weeks ago --before I started writing by hand -- I'm not sure I thought it would be possible.  But now I'm almost there.

So here's the plan: today (Saturday) I will write to the end of the play.  I'm almost there, so that should be quite doable even with teaching on my plate.  Then Sunday, I will go type up everything handwritten and see what I've got, what pieces I might be missing (since I haven't written strictly in order).  Then on Monday I will fill in those pieces.

Wish me luck.

Window Writing Wrap-up

That's me, in the window!

Yesterdays' "Write Out Front" writing-in-the-window experience was both a great success and a bit anti-climactic.

I started getting incredibly nervous the day before when I realized I needed to figure out what scene I was actually going to write for all the world to see.  I wanted to pick something really good, a scene that would seem exciting to passersby who know nothing else about the play.  Fortunately, that question resolved itself the night before, as the writing I did took me up to a sequence of scenes that would include the ultimate conflict of the play.   That ought to get their attention.

The next morning I made myself look pretty (after all, I was going to be in a window), then packed up my computer, power cord, notebooks, speakers (for music to work by), historical reference book, and pretzels and grapes to snack on.   Micheline (the organizer) got me all set up, and I was ready to go by 10:56.  I decided to break my 105 minutes into two halves, allowing a stretch break in between, and set my timer on my phone for 50 minutes. My self-imposed rule was to not stop typing until the timer went off.  With butterflies in my belly and adrenalin pumping through my fingers, I began.

I began typing with the awareness that other people might be seeing it, looking at what I was writing as if someone else was writing it (never helpful). But within 2 or 3 minutes, as I realized that 90+% of the people walking by were paying no attention, I stopped being nervous and just focused on what I was writing.  A half hour in or so, people started gathering in front of the window -- but unfortunately they weren't gathering to watch me, they were waiting for something next door and actually had their BACKS to my window, blocking the view for anyone else who might be passing by.  My initial nervousness at being observed turned to indignation at these rude people who were blocking people from looking at me.  ("Hey, look at me!").  I let it go, and eventually someone from the Drama Book Shop asked them to clear the way.

In the end, not that many people stopped to read.  A few friends stopped by, and two actors with whom I have worked and haven't seen for ages happened by and saw me, which was fun.  But most of the attention I got from doing this project was not from people who actually saw me do it, but from people who read about me doing it on facebook or this blog.  People seem quite impressed with me for doing this, and one person even said I'm an "inspiration".  So that's quite lovely.

More important than any of that, though, is that I WROTE 18 PAGES.  In an hour and 45 minutes.  I am pretty sure that is a personal record for me.  When I left, I could barely even remember what I wrote, and honestly didn't have the faintest clue if it was any good.  But I went back and read it this morning before diving in to write more, and have to admit there is some really good stuff in there.  I can actually see the end of my play from where I stand now, and am completely confident I will be able to finish the first draft by the end of Monday.   Hallelujah.

Adrenalin junky

I'm doing this crazy thing on Wednesday where I will be sitting in a store front window off of Times Square, writing.  What I write will be displayed as I type it on a giant monitor for all the passing world to see. This crazy thing will be happening at the Drama Book Shop at 250 W. 40th St (btw 7/8) from 11am-12:45pm this Wed, August 29.  If you live in New York, swing by on your lunch break and you can get a tiny preview of this play I'm working on!

When I told my best-boyfriend-ever I was doing this, he said something like "that sounds like the most horrific thing ever".  He would hate for anyone to be witness to his creative process when he is composing.  He loves to perform, but to have someone watch while he's trying to create?  Pure torture. I get that -- as a singer, I used to detest for anyone to listen to me practice.  Perform, yes, but to hear me when I'm trying to work things out?  Horrifying.  Surely having people watch me write will be at least as nerve-wracking.

So why am I doing this? 

I could give a big-picture reason: I think the project is truly fantastic, creative, and worthwhile, as it  helps give exposure to playwrights and to give the wider world a window into our creative process*.  Or I could give a practical reason: I love writing under pressure and figure that there is no greater pressure than having people actually watch me write, so I'll be sure to get lots done.  Or a shallow reason: I'm acutely afflicted with "hey look at me" disease (as my boyfriend calls it), and there's nothing like sitting in a store front window on 40th and 7th as a way to get looked at.

But I think the biggest reason is that I have this compulsion - and always have - to do things that scare me.  I'm a different kind of adrenaline junky -- not the bungie jumping/sky-diving/race car driving type, but the kind who constantly pushes myself where I am most vulnerable.  Even as a child and teenager, I competed in as many things as I could from spelling bees to student government to sports to speech and debate to music competitions.  Many of those things I did not succeed at, but I kept doing them anyway.  And when it came time to choose what I was going to be when I grew up, I picked the most difficult thing I could possibly pick, the thing that would force me to constantly put myself out there in the face of rejection and the overwhelming likelihood of failure: becoming an opera singer.  

And boy did I get regular adrenalin fixes with that one: every application, every audition, every performance was another chance to be judged and and to have someone else tell me whether or not I had worth.  

Ah, we artists are such a contradiction that way, such a mix of ego and insecurity.  

Age and experience have helped me gain a bit more control over my addiction, though.  Since giving up my opera career, I've come to recognize the value of contentment in life and now allow myself to devote time to things that don't require someone else's stamp of approval, like cycling, cooking, gardening, and even watching Breaking Bad with my sweetie.

But clearly I still need a hit from time to time.  Which is why I'll be writing in the window on Wednesday.  11am-12:45pm on 40th between 7th and 8th.  Hey, look at me.  

*if you think this project is as awesome as I do, or even just a little bit awesome, consider donating a few bucks to the organizers to help them cover their costs!

Experiment in productivity redux

(also known as the shortest time between two posts I've ever written on this blog, I'm pretty sure).

I can scarcely believe what I accomplished tonight.  I am almost in tears.  I have felt so stuck, so blocked on this piece -- incomprehensibly so, since I love this story so much and want so badly to tell it.  But I've been feeling like I've been spinning my wheels, that what I was writing wasn't any good, and was starting to wonder if I should just give up and focus on my acting since I'd been getting some traction with that lately.

But tonight, oh tonight! The magic of writing by hand! Of setting a timer, being out of the house!  Of having figured out who my characters are, of having done more research this weekend (since its an historical piece).  Tonight in just 3 hours, I wrote 30 pages by hand. 3 entire scenes, 2 of which I had no idea I was going to write.  The scenes are rough and will definitely need some editing, but they are there.  And it is so much clearer to me now where I am in this story, who these people are, what their journey is.  Specifically what Rosie's journey is, my main character's. I know her now. I love her.  She's definitely more than a little bit me.  She's definitely NOT me in any kind of literal sense, but there is something in her essence that is very much me.

I am in love with my play again.  I am in love with writing again.  I am so happy right now I could cry.  I don't know if this experiment will work this well every time I do it, but I will be doing a version of this every day day this week, for whatever amount of time my schedule allows.  Huzzah.