Summer

Debrief

 

I'm finding it weird, being a playwright. 

 Writer. Yes. 

 

Screenwriter. Absolutely. 

 

Playwright, well, it's complicated.

 

Most of the plays contain chunks of my heart. A few are smart-aleck* comedies which should layer out differently, but don't. So far [knock wood] all have been staged which is not a bad record for someone who started this particular journey late.

 

The writing starts the same. An idea floats in and suddenly imaginary people are telling me their stories. It's like falling in love, all potential, grace and humor. Then comes the getting it down part. Moving from the ethereal to wood pulp and that's like getting married and it's what's for dinner for the rest of eternity. 

 

But, being married is fun too, so there it goes and before you know it*² a play emerges.

 

A story. Told with heart and movement, love and laughter, joy and pain. And words.

 

"Aye and there's the rub."*³ For who owns the words once they've left the pen?

 

Some may scoff. The writer owns the copyright as soon as the story is written down. And there are multiple ways to more or less legally protect one's work.

 

But theater is different. A play must be staged. It has to be walked into real life by real live other creative souls. And so, the words and heart leave the hands of the playwright and fall into the realm of directors, actors and every other theater person it takes to get something up on its feet.

 

It can be a place where the text is respected and directors build the story in a space and actors bring their lives to an arc of emotion in the story and all that makes the play richer. I've experienced this and it is very heart and soul of theater magic.

 

But it doesn't always happen like that. 

 

A director may claim ownership of the production, fair enough, but in a way that treats the script as only broad strokes that can be rearranged or dismissed. 

 

There's the rub, indeed. 

 

Something a writer may have lived through to realize the story then worked at for serious time to get down, passes like a fart in a wind storm. And who will notice?

 

The writer, of course. And occasionally an audience member who asks the writer either in a talkback or in an aside during the break, what did that mean? And I've experienced that too and have managed to explain my intention and meaning without throwing the disrespectful director under the bus because I sometimes have manners that would make my mother proud.

 

So, what's the answer?

 

1 - Stop going to the productions. Remain blissfully ignorant. Where's the fun in that?

 

2 - Stop writing for performance. Which I have considered a couple of times

     while driving home either seriously pissed off or in tears. 

 

3 - Speak the fuck up, woman. Stop being so polite. Mother will understand.

 

I thought about adding this disclaimer to the cover -- 

 

"This work is protected by US Copyright law and Dramatists Guild rules. Do not alter the text, change the age or sex of a character, or combine characters without permission of the playwright."

 

But would it insult those who know better or dissuade those who don't?

 

What adds to the ridiculousness of the situation is that I've always been available and amenable. The few times I've been asked to change something, I've always agreed. Once because there was sincere creative passion behind the request, once to see what would happen and once because it was so stupid but the director wanted to appease her mother.*⁴

 

So, the playwright fills her play with heart and soul, blood and guts, intellect and wit and sends it out into the world to sail or fall, play fast or limp away.

 

And what's the pay-off?

 

The audience. Listening to them laugh. Seeing them be moved to tears.*⁵ Having them stop me on their way out of the theater to tell me their grief stories. The lady who stopped me in the hallway to say she only came to the Play Fest the day my plays were up because I never disappointed her.*⁶

 

Screenwriters are used to becoming disposable. At least before Hollywood shoos one out the door, they offer lots of money.*⁷

 

I read an article written by Tennessee Williams in which he talks about the life of a playwright. He describes a meeting he had with a theater manager who told him that his play was closing after one performance. Mr. Williams said, But I'll do anything. I put my heart into it. And the manager advises him to not do that anymore. Williams ignores that advice. A paragraph later he remembers a play that received only one positive comment from an acquaintance. And that was enough to prevent him from giving up the theater for a second career as a waiter.

 

So, according to Tennessee Williams, this is just the way it goes.

 

A playwright puts her heart and soul into the work, but it lives on the backs of other people and what happens next is anybody’s guess.

 

 

 

 

 

* smart-ass is my voice. I'm leaning in.

*² or 12 days, or six weeks, or a year and a half.

*³ Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1.

*⁴ Someone should take care of the mothers.

*⁵ I feel guilty about that.

*⁶ ! :) !

*⁷ Or so I've heard.

 

Unhip

Applying for grants and other applications – everything inclusive -- AS IT SHOULD BE -- there were a couple of ponderables along the lines.

In the section – are you from a historically un or under represented group. Now, everyone deserves to be heard and respected for who they are and where they desire to be met. However, by the time I got to the end of a fairly long list of selections, I was annoyed. So at the last square that said –

 

☐ Other

 

I checked it and wrote – you know who no one listens to? Old women.

 

So there.

 

Another section with its own environment was the gender questionnaire.

 

Again, everyone deserves to be respected for who they are and how they wish to be met.

 

Again, a fairly long list and I hoped it was being used for respect and not some nefarious purpose.

 

I came to one selection that I had to google to decipher. While I mocked myself for being out of touch, I wondered if this list needed an extra square.

 

☐ Other

☐ I’m not sure.

 

I used to be hip. Now I’m just careful not to break one.

New Works Fest 2026

Untethered Again

 

Scott

 

Latest

 

Flashback

 In the spirit of drifting back to the 60s --

Rest in Peace, Country Joe

I once sang this song rocking my baby back to sleep, 

It's surprising what music comes back to you in the dark of night at 2 AM.

1st Draft Happy Dance!

.

Finished (hahahahahaha) the first draft of my new play. 

Wilder inspired theme. It's about Vietnam and how the past lives with us. 

 Because, like Faulkner said, "The past is never dead. It's not even past." 

SFC Experience

On a whale watching trip, got to see killer whales hunting dolphins which seems rude since they are a type of dolphin too.

But a uniquely SFC experience is the robot cars or automated taxis or whatever they're called. Since I am being dragged into modern life by my millennial, one was summoned.

And away we went. In a Jag, no less.

I have a question.

Yes, do keep your hands off the wheel, but why does the robot driver need an airbag?

Sometimes a Surprise

As told in countless articles, conversations, blog posts and forum whines, writing is a lonely business. A writer sits in a room, alone, interacting through keyboard, recorder or writing implement with imaginary persons, places and things. The writer, odds are, must also manufacture his/her/their own reassurance out of sometimes/mostly imaginary stuffings.

When I decided I was going to be a screenwriter, after one year of writing, I gave myself an award.  

After one long stretch when nothing much happened, I did it again.

Whether my screenwriting was improving, I don’t know. My cross-stitching was.

Over time, my scripts have won awards, placed in contests, had me invited to workshops, meetings via phone and in person, and kept me busy for years.

That’s right. Years. And I think we’re not supposed to admit that.

I kept plugging along, noting it was too late in the day to try to learn something else to do.

Scripts kept placing and occasionally winning, and once in a while, I’d have that talk with myself along the lines of – what is wrong with you, give up already.

Then I had the playwriting digression. I got an idea that clearly was NOT a movie, so learned play format, wrote a play, entered a contest, won the contest and the prize was full production. From that experience, learned about community theater, made enough money to join the Dramatists Guild, wrote a few more plays and surprise, surprise, every one of them (KNOCK WOOD) has been produced. Several, multiple times.

I joked to my family, all these years trying to be a screenwriter, maybe I was a playwright.

What I learned from writing for the stage was listen to the audience. That I could make them laugh and cry and laugh again. That they hugged me on the way out of the theater and shared their life stories. That they thanked me for a story that told the truth.

It occurred to me, finally, I know how to do this.

And if I don’t win the prize for being the slowest learner on Earth, I won’t know why. Maybe I should make myself another award.

So, back I went, alone in the room, writing movies in the middle of nowhere Montana, which in spite of YELLOWSTONE, is still a long way from Hollywood.

Changed one of the plays into a short script and sent it out. Back to my regularly scheduled program. Some disappeared into the ether. Some returned with accolades I duly noted and moved on.

Then a sci-fi script I love, won a new contest, first year with the wonderful title of GRAND PRIZE and a money award. That was nice. I have screenwriting money. Put up a notice – Oh he’s GRAND – because that cracked me up – and moved on.

Then the contest people put up a winner announcement. They had told me they were going to, so I figured my name would appear on a website somewhere in the immersible expanse of the internet and that would be that.

Well. No.

Late last night, before I dragged myself to bed after an evening of trying to stream some show, any show I hadn’t already seen, I checked Instagram and the contest people had put up an announcement of their first grand prize winner with my picture, the information about the script and some really rocking music.

Really, rocking music with a message any creative, artist or worker bee who has dealt with self-doubt should hear right down to their bones.

So, sitting in the near dark, by myself, it occurred to me, I may be mostly talking to and about imaginary people, places and things, but with a story to tell, a writer is never alone.

Because I am currently full to the brim with hubris – here is the announcement broadcast via social media.

 

Reassurance can come out of nowhere in the middle of the night.

 

Never give up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The contest -- Inciting Incident

The music -- Lenzspot

 

 

A Day in the Life

I wrote a screenplay in which the monster was a zombie werewolf. The script won several awards. One thing I got for it was a silver bullet.

A silver bullet might protect you from a werewolf, but you can’t take it on the plane.

 I carry my silver bullet in a little pouch in my purse because I am a horror movie dork.

 

I recently went on vacation to the Pacific coast. 

This is my favorite vacation. Go to the ocean. Take pictures. Eat seafood until I start craving beef, come home.

 

The weather was perfect. 

The food was great 

I did wonder where all those people were going.

Flight day came. I’m meeting my daughter on the coast. I check in. Park my suitcase in the checked baggage and present myself to TSA.

 

Things proceed smoothly up to the xray of the carry-ons. A supervisor was called over. Two TSA agents peered intently at the screen. My purse exited the ramp into the screening area. 

 

I waited patiently while the agent went through my purse. Frowned. Went through again and finally came up with my silver bullet. 

 

It’s fake. I said. 

 

Doesn’t matter, she said. No replicas allowed.

 

I wrote a story about a werewolf that won some awards and this is one. I am a horror movie dork. I said. And I’m sorry.

 

Can you call someone to pick it up for you?

 

Daughter was already on the coast. 

 

I call her boyfriend at 5 AM – can you come to the airport? TSA won’t let me take my bullet on the plane.

 

What? 

 

No. I don’t have anyone.

 

Did you drive? You could walk it back out to your car.

 

YES!  Oh no.

 

What now?

 

I put my car keys in my checked bag.

 

Well, there isn’t a line because I’m always insanely early and this is a small airport, so the Head of TSA Security walks me back to the Delta counter and asks them to let me retrieve my keys from my bag that hasn’t moved yet. Delta advises I should always keep my car keys with me.

 

Car keys and bullet in hand, and before I take the bullet out to the car, I thank the TSA agent for kindness and understanding and apologize one more time for being a horror movie dork. She says her grandkids like horror movies the best.

 

Me too.

 

Amen

 

https://www.gocomics.com/pickles

Oh, He's GRAND

Usually galactic aliens arrive bent on destruction and world domination. This time they just need a favor.

 

Knowing how diverse, often unpredictable and frequently lethal earth’s population can be, the aliens study world culture to find the perfect face to pose their request and settle on GEORGE CLOONEY as the most recognizable and loved face on earth.

 

Google ‘most recognizable face in the world’ and the answer is …

          

            

           1 Hitler – dead, thank God.           

           2 Brooke Shields – really?

          3 GEORGE CLOONEY    

           4 Einstein – dead.

           5 Putin – are you kidding me?

           6 Marilyn Monroe – dead.

 

            George it is.

 

They send GEORGE CLOONEYS to every country on earth aiming for each culture’s leader.

 

There are a few miscalculations.

 

GEORGE CLOONEY in a flowing Greek robe materializes in the middle of the Aegean Sea and drowns. Unfortunately, Atlantis is under water now.

 

GEORGE CLOONEY in a fur coat and Russian hat materializes, smiles, waves and cooks to death in front of Chernobyl Reactor #4.

 

There are a couple of misunderstandings.

 

GEORGE CLOONEY in a lovely kimono goose-steps across pavement to a wall in front of uniformed Red Guards. He asks, “Are we going to see the Emperor?” The guards back away. GEORGE CLOONEY looks at the wall, turns around to see a Red Guard firing squad. GEORGE CLOONEY says, “uh-oh.”

 

GEORGE CLOONEY dressed in white peasant pants and a poncho appears in a spacious Spanish style mansion. Three thugs with machine guns confront him. Off-camera, over a loud speaker “THIS IS THE DEA. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up! GEORGE CLOONEY smiles and says, “Hola.” The thugs machine gun him to bits. 

 

And then …

 

GEORGE CLOONEY winds his way through the tourist crowd in front of Buckingham Palace. Someone yells, “Look! It’s Ben Affleck!” GEORGE CLOONEY tries to ease through the crowd, but the pointing, shifting crowd coalesces toward him and he has to run for his life on the streets of London. He’s bumped and battered on the run, losing the crowd by jumping a queue, disappearing in and out again of the Underground.

He ends up in Sheffield. In a pub. At night. Staring into his beer when three college friends enter the pub for a celebratory pint for the end of term.

 

The three save him from some Welcome to England action via local thugs. He tells them he’s an alien from space sent to Earth to ask a favor. He needs a telescope to send a pulse – a gradational wave toward his home planet to redirect a bigger gravitational wave from shifting his planet out of its orbit and keep the Universe from turning inside out. 

He speaks with the worst English accent since Kevin Costner played Lord Locksley. An English accent so bad it would make the Queen say the ‘F’ Word.

 

The three Sheffield grad students are:

 

Striker, who is in to STAR TREK not Star Wars like all of his friends - male – 26. Ruby, an artist, female – same age. Lump, male, leader of the group and computer gamer – has all the answers for computer problems.

 

All this time, it’s a tossup whether Our George is really a space alien, a lunatic who just looks like GEORGE CLOONEY or the actual GEORGE CLOONEY gone insane or researching a movie or who knows what movie stars might get up to. 

 

And we wonder, is the Universe filled with endless possibility or is the world just full of con men and naïve marks.

Photo Challenge

My phone is giving my actual real live camera a run for its money.

 

Alas.

 

Walk Around - the Edge of Spring

 

NYC x 2

Life

 Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting at a STOP sign waiting for the light to change.

Twofer