Emails to a Young Playwright

This kind of feedback means two thing.

First, the respondant watches too much TV and does not see/read enough plays. I guarantee that if you write a TV pilot and give it to this person, they’ll say “it’s too play-like.” It’s just one of those things people say when they don’t know how to offer real, insightful criticism.

Second, it could mean you watch to much TV and don’t see/read enough plays. Do your characters speak the exposition and motivation rather than act it? Are your entrances and exits too predictable, convenient, or unmotivated? Do you have too many scene changes that feel like commerical breaks? Are you simply ‘going for the joke’ at the expense of character consistency? Are you spoon-feeding the audience or making them work for it? Does your script call for several non-speaking actors (i.e., extras)? Are you creating caricatures or characters? If so, turn off your TV and get back to writing. If not, turn off your TV anyway and get back to writing.

Ooof. I’m really sorry. But put down your tanto. It always feels worse than it is, but it can feel pretty humiliating. Do not, however, feel helpless. I do think you have every right to sit down with the director and have a serious discussion about how and why it is not working. You may even need to pull the brilliant actor aside and see how he can help. If the director refuses to listen and adapt, you may leverage your tech time. Be very blunt. “Why should I continue to tech for you if you won’t direct for me?” The worse thing that will happen is a) they’ll hate you, b) you’ll never produce a play there again, c) they’ll drop your play from the evening. Could you live with any or all of those?

Either way, you’re learning a lot from this whole experience, and that’s honestly the most important thing. Next time you are given a production opportunity, you should be very clear about your expectations, involvement, decision-making power, etc. This kind of up-front, lay it all on the table attitude may cost you a production or two, but if your gut tells you not to relinquish all of your control, then I’d go with your gut. Zero productions are better than bad productions (especially if they get reviewed).

And though it doesn’t seem like it, keep in mind that this too shall pass. It’s cliché, but like most clichés, it’s damn true.

I’m going to try and NOT be discouraging, but to also be honest. Here comes the ENCOURAGING part: Put an ad in the local trades, Craig’s list, etc. advertising auditions and info about the reading. Perhaps the easiest thing to do is contract a local director and let him/her do all the work. They will most likely know actors who can play the parts. If you are really interested in the LA scene, check out www.laplaywrights.org and for NYC see www.truonline.org.

Now here comes the I’m-trying-not-to-be-discouraging part: You might spend your time trying to get an actual production in your town (however small or difficult) rather than a patch-work reading in LA or NYC. While you might feel an LA or NYC audience (if you can get one) or producers (if you can get them) or directors (if you can get them ) would do more for your career, it is possible that some reviews and production credits in your own city would go further. My point being, don’t buy into the hype that LA and NY are the only places for dramatic writers. It’s just not true. Often we are looking elsewhere for new writers, productions, etc. Also, the money spent flying actors out to either coast could be better spent on producing your own work. In other words, a great production at home is far better than a mediocre reading in LA or NYC, and I mean that sincerely.

You say there is a great art scene, so what about a low-budget production (even if only for one weekend) in an art gallery? Surely there are also actors who will work for free or low pay just for exposure. And if the gallery owner likes your play enough, perhaps you could get a deal since it would bring people to the gallery. Invite loads of people with a suggested donation ($5) and promise loads of wine after the play. Or even write a series of one acts that take place in an art gallery. You could then send it not only to theatres but other galleries or acting companies. Tough times call for getting creative. Take advantage of what you’ve got available even if it doesn’t immediately seem like an obvious choice.

You don’t need a theater to make theatre.

Approaching an agent for representation can be tricky. On the one hand, you should definitely be brief. Highlight your production histories rather than simply your play synopses. While it would be nice to think they are solely in their jobs to further the arts, they too are trying to make a living and are mostly interested in taking on new clients who will get produced and make money. To quote my manager, “I’m not interested in pushing the boulder up the mountain, rather, in helping control its descent on the way down.” In other words, most agents and managers want to work with working writers. If you haven’t had a lot of productions, I would suggest you put all of your energy into a “press-packet” that includes much of what you would send to an agent, but you should sent them to local theaters instead. In other words, rather than just trying to get an agent (which is only one form of representation) try to get your work mounted as much as possible (which is the best kind of representation). Then the agents will then start to solicit you.

Talk backs. This is when you have a reading of your play at a theatre and you are then called to the stage to answer questions from the audience.

Avoid the talk back at all costs.

Trust me.

I have never, in my entire career, taken the advice of an audience while working on a new play. This does not mean I have not listened whole heartedly, watched closely, and felt the mood of the theatre, but I did so during the actual reading of the play, not during the dreaded talk back. In my opinion, talk backs are nothing but a shameful opportunity for the audience to say “Why didn’t you write the play this way (i.e., the way I would have written it)?” And you can’t blame the audience (NEVER blame the audience). They are simply taking their cue from the director or producer.

I’ll be more specific. Recently a play of mine had a reading in Los Angeles where the director insisted on a talk back. Even I have to practice what I preach, and this night I failed. I agreed to it because she said it would be no longer than 10 minutes and she would only ask a few questions about their reactions to the play. Instead, when I sat on stage before the audience she started by asking, “So, what didn’t you like about the play?” During the course of the next forty-five minutes, she asked the following: “What seemed to drag on? What didn’t work? Did the character relationships seem unreal? Did you find it too repetitive? What were the points that your interest drifted away? Etc. etc. etc.”

Essentially, every question she asked demanded a negative response. And the audience, thinking they were being helpful, obliged.

Truth told, they were not bad questions, but they were bad questions to ask. What I mean by that is, I actually knew the (painful) answer to every question before she asked it. How? By paying attention to the audience during the reading. I listened carefully for shifts in seats, coughs. I watched closely for shoulders shrugging or falling. I could feel the room change for the better and for the worse during certain moments that landed (or didn’t).

What the director did was, in my opinion, shameful. Playwrights are an endangered species, and she basically painted a bull’s eye on my chest and declared open season. Again, I am not blaming the audience. They genuinely were answering the questions they were being asked. I am emphatically telling you that I learned nothing, however, from their responses. And that is the biggest loss of the evening.

My dear friend Beth Henley gave me the best advice once about talk backs. She said, “Read the play. Say thank you. Pour the wine.” In other words, let the audience off the hook and free them up to discuss the play with each other, not with you. What do you do? You mill about, moving from conversation to conversation, listening, asking your own questions, listening some more. But it is more intimate and more rewarding for you and ultimately for the audience. They truly feel like they’ve gotten your ear. This helps curb those people in the audience (the ones who didn’t write your play, didn’t act in your play, and don’t actually have a vested interest in your work) from grandstanding which does nothing but confuse you as the writer. We have enough self-doubt as it is, and this kind of open-season can cripple you from ever finishing your play.

Understand, however, that a “Meet the Playwright” event is quite different. If your play is finished and being produced, sometimes a company will invite the audience to a Q&A with the playwright. This is where they can ask you questions about you and your play, but with the understanding that it is a finished play, not a work in progress. In other words, when your play is in development it is understood that you are still writing it. When your play is produced it is understood that it is finished. The audience then asks you questions like, “How did you get the idea for your play? What did you mean when this character said that? How did you decide to end it this way? Etc.” They even get to ask the actors about certain choices they made in their performance. This type of talk back can be fun, enlightening, and enjoyable because the audience understands that they are not being asked to advise you on what to do differently, but they are being given the opportunity to have a conversation with the playwright about the play as a whole and the artistic process.

So, remember, in a talk back the audience gives answers, in a meet the playwright, the audience asks questions. Which do you think will be most helpful to you as the playwright?

Read the play. Say thank you. Pour the wine.

I just read an advanced copy of Ron Marasco’s “Notes to an Actor” (Ivan R. Dee Publisher, ISBN 1566637570). It is, hands down, the best book I have ever read on the art of acting and actually gave me a lot to think about as a playwright. The writing is direct, smart, brief, and practical. Even better, there are no long stories about the author’s acting career or personal anecdotes that read like an autobiography rather than a guidebook. It’s organized by topics actors (and writers) really want to understand. Can’t recommend it highly enough. You can get a copy off of Amazon or the Ivan R. Dee websites, and it should be in bookstores soon.

Thanks for this honest question. I wish I had a great answer, but all I can do is share my own experience in the hopes that it provides some comfort and support.

First, you should be proud of rejection. And this is why. It is literal, concrete, substantiated proof that you are sticking your neck out there. You can’t get a rejection unless you have submitted your work, and even though it stings, it is proof that you are sending your plays out to theatres. Lots of writers minimize their rejections by not sending anything out, which in the long run hurts more than a frequent supply of “No Thank Yous” in the mail box.

My favorite mantra is NO stands for Next Opportuity. So one theatre passes on you, at least you’ve learned that:

a) they are not interested in this particular play, so you learned a bit more about what they are looking for (even if by negative example)

b) they took the time to even respond, which means they at least read something that you sent them (even if it was just the cover letter, they still read your name and that registered on their radar)

c) most important, you now know that this particular theatre is not interested in your work, so that will make future submissions easier and less time consuming.

d) it’s proof that you are sticking your neck out there (did I say that already? I can’t repeat that enough!)

Wear your rejections like war medals. In fact, celebrate them. When I was first getting started, I took all the rejections personally. So personally, in fact, that at one point I took the letters to Kinkos and had them laminated into place mats. For several months I ate the sloppiest foods over them just so I could drop sauces and chunks of discarded food on top of them. OK, so I maybe was a sloppy eater during this time in my life, but that’s a different story. The point is, I needed to difuse the sting of the rejection by literally eating over them with abandon. It felt good for a while, especially when I did receive good news from a playhouse (”See! This company knows talent when they see it. Glurp glurp”).

The best advice I can give you is don’t take it personally. Use the feelings these rejections arouse to fuel your own writing. Rather than focus on what it feels like to be rejected, ask what one of your characters feels like to be rejected, and then respond. The brutal truth is that your writing was rejected for a reason. Yes, it may be that they don’t know who you are, they don’t care, and they don’t really have enough time to read more than the wrong ten pages of your brilliant 100 page play. The other brutal truth is that your play is not yet good enough. So, when you’re trying to keep the faith as a playwright, get over yourself, and think about how your characters are trying to keep the faith about who they are as human beings. It may just change your play enough to get noticed by the next company you send it to.

While every rejection is a chance to say to yourself, “At least I’m trying” it’s also a chance for you too ask your characters “Are you trying hard enough?

Also, take the rejection as an opportunity to ask yourself, “Did I send this play out too soon?” We all fall victim to the idea that a play is ready for submission so we send it out to everyone and their mother (especially because our own mothers said it was brilliant and ready for Broadway!). I’ve learned the hard way, and by that I mean I am still learning, that I have to have a preliminary screening committee before I send a play out to anyone I do not know. I have a very small list (only three people in fact) to whom I send a play before I offer it up to the big, wide, brutal world. These three people are trustworthy, talented, and above all honest critics who help me decide when a play is ready to leave the nest. On more than one instance I’ve resisted sending it to them thinking “Surely they’ll just give it the green light, so I should just skip this step” but they respond with feedback that ultimately keeps me from embarassing myself (more than usual). So, find those people who are genuinely interested in your success but who also offer unbiased feedback. If you meet their approval, then send it out, take pride in the rejections, and enjoy your dinner with abandon.

Easy.

Go through the script and label all of the jokes either as A JOKES, B JOKES, or C JOKES. A being the funniest, B being pretty funny, C just humorous. Once you have labeled all of them, cut everything that is not an A JOKE.

Easy. Painful, but easy.

Yes. The following two are, in my opinion, the playwright’s bibles.

“Stage Writers Handbook: A Complete Business Guide for Playwrights, Composers, Lyricists and Librettists” by Dana Singer (Theatre Communications Group ISBN 1559361166). Straightforward guide to copyrights, agents, contracts, script approval, credits, royalties, and everything else you never wanted (but needed) to know.

“Dramatists Sourcebook: Complete Opportunities for Playwrights, Translators, Composers, Lyricists and Librettists” (24th Edition, Theatre Communications Group ISBN 1559362944). Over 900 entries for theaters seeking new plays; guidelines for more than 150 prizes; and sections on agents, fellowships, and residencies.

There is a wonderful book by Jerry Roberts called “The Great American Playwrights on the Screen: A Critical Guide to Film, TV, Video, and DVD” (Applause Books, ISBN 1557835128). It contains over two hundred playwrights from George Abbott to Paul Zindel and complete information on when the adaptations were made, who made them, and where you can get them.

You should also look into the Broadway Theatre Archive DVD Collection. They have quite a few plays that were televised in the 60s and 70s and many have been digitally remastered.

And don’t forget about audio plays. L.A. Theatre Works has hundreds of classic and contemporary plays that have been recorded for the radio. The casts are often star-studded and the experience is just as effective as seeing it, if not moreso, since you are really only focussing on the language. I think any of these options are a great way to increase your reading repertoire, especially with some of the more challenging classical plays.

In my opinion, the most amazing and moving filmed adaptation of a play is “Vanya on 42nd Street.” Not only did Louis Malle direct, but David Mamet wrote the screenplay based on Chekhov’s play. It just doesn’t get any better.