Page count: 5 (Well, five pages of outline)
I'm not usually much of an outliner in general. I'm more of a stewer, mulling over an idea or storyline for months, years, however long, before I sit down and do the writing. But doing this open-source, develop the play with actors thing means having to work a little differently. Hence: an outline. And it was actually okay to do. Not so much fun, but interesting. Writing an outline, at this stage for me, is mostly all about figuring out the structure of the thing. And that's kind of the fun part. I like seeing how things can play out, what the possibilities are. It's just a guideline, but it's a start.
Here's another departure: I'm going to post it here. Not really how these things go, but since I'm trying out this whole "open-source" playwriting thing, it seems like the thing to do. Read it, share your thoughts or ideas. It's a rough outline, getting the shape of the thing down. Hopefully it won't be a huge spoiler for you.
More to come...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
What To Say
Yesterday was surreal. That's really the only way to put it. I was home from work all day, not feeling well, and coming off one of those catastrophic mornings where doing even the smallest simplest things turns into a complete fiasco. Checking status updates on Facebook, it seemed like I wasn't the only one, either. Mercury was in retrograde or something for everybody. Just a miserable day to sit on the couch, feeling bad and feeling sorry for yourself.
And then it all went kind of pear-shaped.
The death of Farrah Fawcett wasn't exactly a surprise, but still a sad thing. But that was overshadowed by the death of Michael Jackson. And I'm still processing it all. How it went from odd, unbelievable rumor to repeated possibly funny gossip to creeping truth to the final, almost anti-climatic confirmation. I waited to hear it from Wolf Blitzer. Somehow, CNN saying it made it true. And then he did. And it was weird.
I found myself on the verge of tears. Really, seriously about to cry over this man that I didn't know, never met, would probably never met, whose new music I hadn't listened to in 10 years, who disgusted and fascinated me, who I made terrible, terrible jokes about. Why the hell would I be sitting on my couch, crying over someone we all reasonable believe to be a child molester? Because he could sing and dance? Is that enough?
This tidal wave of grief and reminisces and emotion has gotten some people I know talking about the nature of celebrity and you have to think about what it all means. Why do these deaths matter? In Iran, in Zimbabwe, in Iraq, yesterday, hundreds, maybe more died. Does this one person, or do these two people really matter more? Our government is trying to remake our healthcare system to benefit millions, put us on the path of fixing our environment, not to mention managing an economy that's cratered on greed and selfishness. Yet for five hours everyone stopped talking about any of that to talk about this one person. Why? Just because he could sing and dance?
Yes. And because he meant so much more than that. This morning I read this from Hilzoy, and it reminded me that, these two people, celebrities, yes. Strange and tragic figures, absolutely. Not exactly role models or people whose lives you want anyone you love to emulate, yep. But they were more than pretty faces and pretty voices. Really, they were.
Growing up black in a very white town, Michael Jackson made it...better. He was cool, and oddly sexy (in an unisex way), and white people loved him. He brought the dancing, the spirit of the parties I had with my family out into the world and made it okay for all. He was a bridge between the worlds.
When I think of Farrah Fawcett, I honestly don't think of Charlie's Angels. Well, okay, I think of the poster, fine. But I think of The Burning Bed and Extremities and how that opened up a world for me. She may not be a feminist icon, not at all, but in a way, that was the beginning of feminism for me.
They filled those roles, served that purpose and both of them paid incredible prices for that. Both of them suffered loss we can't really comprehend, even though we watched it, and sacrificed happiness so that we could all feel a little happier. So I feel like we can take a moment and let them know we cared.
When my dad put these lyrics in his status update, that was when I almost lost it.
And then it all went kind of pear-shaped.
The death of Farrah Fawcett wasn't exactly a surprise, but still a sad thing. But that was overshadowed by the death of Michael Jackson. And I'm still processing it all. How it went from odd, unbelievable rumor to repeated possibly funny gossip to creeping truth to the final, almost anti-climatic confirmation. I waited to hear it from Wolf Blitzer. Somehow, CNN saying it made it true. And then he did. And it was weird.
I found myself on the verge of tears. Really, seriously about to cry over this man that I didn't know, never met, would probably never met, whose new music I hadn't listened to in 10 years, who disgusted and fascinated me, who I made terrible, terrible jokes about. Why the hell would I be sitting on my couch, crying over someone we all reasonable believe to be a child molester? Because he could sing and dance? Is that enough?
This tidal wave of grief and reminisces and emotion has gotten some people I know talking about the nature of celebrity and you have to think about what it all means. Why do these deaths matter? In Iran, in Zimbabwe, in Iraq, yesterday, hundreds, maybe more died. Does this one person, or do these two people really matter more? Our government is trying to remake our healthcare system to benefit millions, put us on the path of fixing our environment, not to mention managing an economy that's cratered on greed and selfishness. Yet for five hours everyone stopped talking about any of that to talk about this one person. Why? Just because he could sing and dance?
Yes. And because he meant so much more than that. This morning I read this from Hilzoy, and it reminded me that, these two people, celebrities, yes. Strange and tragic figures, absolutely. Not exactly role models or people whose lives you want anyone you love to emulate, yep. But they were more than pretty faces and pretty voices. Really, they were.
Growing up black in a very white town, Michael Jackson made it...better. He was cool, and oddly sexy (in an unisex way), and white people loved him. He brought the dancing, the spirit of the parties I had with my family out into the world and made it okay for all. He was a bridge between the worlds.
When I think of Farrah Fawcett, I honestly don't think of Charlie's Angels. Well, okay, I think of the poster, fine. But I think of The Burning Bed and Extremities and how that opened up a world for me. She may not be a feminist icon, not at all, but in a way, that was the beginning of feminism for me.
They filled those roles, served that purpose and both of them paid incredible prices for that. Both of them suffered loss we can't really comprehend, even though we watched it, and sacrificed happiness so that we could all feel a little happier. So I feel like we can take a moment and let them know we cared.
When my dad put these lyrics in his status update, that was when I almost lost it.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Great Writing on Writing
As someone who's often mined my own life and the lives of my friends for my work, I really, really appreciated this.
Writing Anarchists: Diary #2
Page count: 0. Yes, still 0.
This is the calm before the holy God how the hell do I write this play what the flying freak was I thinking storm hits. After I finish something, there's always a down time, a recovery period. I just finished my last play, January 2nd, a couple of weeks ago and so I've need to vege out, watch tv, hang out, refill the spiritual coffers. Also, since this project is a little different, I had to spend some theatre energy on putting together the cast. Which is awesome, might I add. I'm a member at the Ensemble Studio Theatre, one of the last membership companies in New York that develops new plays. I've always wanted to be a part of an ensemble and E.S.T.'s is a great one. This project, since it's being developed at E.S.T., is entirely cast with members, actually the first time I've been able to do it. And they've all jumped in, sight unseen, without a script, or even a full outline (though they'll have one by Friday). It's a nice feeling, especially since a couple of these folks I haven't worked with before. A couple of them I have and they're among my favorite people to work with. So, all kinds of yay.
A little bit about this project: it's a bit different from anything I've worked on, especially recently. A lot of my plays, for whatever reasons, have really been love stories about people my age. You write what you know, right? Well, I did spend a lot of time on one thriller about plagiarism, and my commissioned play was about a middle-aged couple, but, by and large, I've been working in a bit of a comfort zone. This one is heading outside of that a bit. And it's heading into something that's definitely outside of my comfort zone: politics. This will be a play about politics, radicalism, the effectiveness of protest and revolution. Which is interesting, given recent world events. But don't worry! It's a comedy. I swear. Just...a dark one. With bombs and such.
I'll have an outline ready in the next day or so and post it. Should be interesting.
That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.
This is the calm before the holy God how the hell do I write this play what the flying freak was I thinking storm hits. After I finish something, there's always a down time, a recovery period. I just finished my last play, January 2nd, a couple of weeks ago and so I've need to vege out, watch tv, hang out, refill the spiritual coffers. Also, since this project is a little different, I had to spend some theatre energy on putting together the cast. Which is awesome, might I add. I'm a member at the Ensemble Studio Theatre, one of the last membership companies in New York that develops new plays. I've always wanted to be a part of an ensemble and E.S.T.'s is a great one. This project, since it's being developed at E.S.T., is entirely cast with members, actually the first time I've been able to do it. And they've all jumped in, sight unseen, without a script, or even a full outline (though they'll have one by Friday). It's a nice feeling, especially since a couple of these folks I haven't worked with before. A couple of them I have and they're among my favorite people to work with. So, all kinds of yay.
A little bit about this project: it's a bit different from anything I've worked on, especially recently. A lot of my plays, for whatever reasons, have really been love stories about people my age. You write what you know, right? Well, I did spend a lot of time on one thriller about plagiarism, and my commissioned play was about a middle-aged couple, but, by and large, I've been working in a bit of a comfort zone. This one is heading outside of that a bit. And it's heading into something that's definitely outside of my comfort zone: politics. This will be a play about politics, radicalism, the effectiveness of protest and revolution. Which is interesting, given recent world events. But don't worry! It's a comedy. I swear. Just...a dark one. With bombs and such.
I'll have an outline ready in the next day or so and post it. Should be interesting.
That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Get The Lead Out
I don't listen to the radio anymore. It just sort of happened. Living in New York, which is, I think, the single worst radio market in the whole world, it's pretty easy to just assume that any time you turn it on, you're going to hear crap. (Unless, of course, you can get FMU or FUV.) I know, I know, you can get good stuff streaming on the internet or on Pandora or whatever. But that's not really the radio to me. I'm still old school. You listen to the radio on a radio, beamed to you from some tower with a line-of-sight path to where you are. If you're in a valley, you're S.O.L. In New York, that means you get to choose from pop, pop, talk, pop, dance-pop, hard rap, soft rap, easy listening, doo-wop or classic rock. Or at least you used to have that many choices, back in the day. Now, who the hell knows. I don't. I don't listen to the radio. But sometimes I miss it. And at 5 p.m. on a slow, draggy day that's just now turning sunny, what I miss is Getting the Led Out. In case you never listened to classic rock radio, it was a daily staple: at 5 p.m., any decent, self-respecting classic rock radio station would play a block of Led Zepplin tunes for all those now-middle-aged former burnouts and dirtbags, who'd traded their Camaros for minivans and were stuck in traffic on the commute home (and some still lingering dirtbags, polishing their Firebirds in their driveways). Also tuning in were suburban boys who wanted to be cool. In the 7th grade, Led Zepplin was cool. Listening to the radio was cool. Black t-shirts and Camaros were still cool. It was a ten-minute block of being cool and pretending that you were never going to be commuting, that you would always stop to rock out at 5 p.m., no matter what.
But here I am. Wrapping up a work day, and getting ready for my commute. And I could use some rocking out. I'm not so into Led Zepplin these days. But I am into this.
So...get out and enjoy a sunset after a few stormy days. Looking at the forecast, it might be our last for a while.
But here I am. Wrapping up a work day, and getting ready for my commute. And I could use some rocking out. I'm not so into Led Zepplin these days. But I am into this.
So...get out and enjoy a sunset after a few stormy days. Looking at the forecast, it might be our last for a while.
One Of Those Days...
...This is definitely one. The doldrums. Almost literally. Maybe it's the gray, rainy weather we've been living with. Maybe it's a still persistent hangover from my weekend's activities. Who knows? But I'd rather be curled up on my couch watching a Law & Order marathon than doing just about anything else right now. Even writing. So here I am. Looking for a spark of inspiration. Something to push away the low, grey clouds and let some sunlight in. What you got? What's keeping your fires lit?
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