PLEASE Tell Me If You Didn't Like My Play!!!

There seems to be a blog circulating on how to avoid telling a playwright you didn’t like his play.  Nice post.  Good thoughts.  But here’s my rebuttal.

Writing a play is hard work.  I congratulate each and every playwright who manages to complete a play----good or not.  But let’s face it, some of them are bad.
 
I’m not saying this to be a jerk.  I’m not thick-skinned.  I’m the playwright who sits WAY in the back during a reading, often with my hands over my face in mortal fear.  Desperately trying to gauge if what I put on paper is understood.  Does it work?  Does it suck?  Can I make it better?

The first real play I wrote, I gave to my mother to read.  Like a lot of first plays, mine was set in a bar.  I knew it was a cliché, but tried to mock the cliché by showing how stagnant their lives had become in that small town bar.  I thought the characters were interesting.  That they had interesting things to say.  “Let me just get my tea, honey,” Mom said as she settled into her dining room chair and turned to the first page.  I had to leave the room.  I couldn’t watch The Judgment of Mom.

Half an hour later she laid the play on the tablecloth and gave me my very first review, “That was nice, honey.  I liked it.  It was just like Cheers.  But did you have to use all those bad words?”

I knew two things for sure.  First, that my play was NOTHING like Cheers.  And second, Mom didn’t particularly care for it.

I was okay with that.  After all, it was my first play.  But (outside of those bad words) WHY didn’t she like it? 

I needed to find out.  I went to The Playwright’s Center in Minneapolis.  There, I learned how to give constructive criticism----and how to take it.  Not “take it” like taking a punch in the face.  But how to listen to what people were saying.  How to take in all the criticism and then decide for myself what to discard and what to take to heart---and to paper.

After many years of hard work (and many bad plays) I think I’ve become a pretty good writer.  But I still need feedback.  I still cling to the audience’s reaction during a reading.  I re-write.  Cut.  Merge two characters into one.  Cut some more.  Lose entire scenes.  Add new ones.  Rearrange the plot points.  Cut.  Cut.  Cut.  And cut some more.  I try to listen to the audience, the actors, and ANYONE who will offer ANY constructive criticism of my play.

Sometimes I get my Mom’s elusive critique, “I liked it.”  Sometimes I even get, “I LOVED it.” Sometimes my friends leave without uttering a word.   Frankly, I don't know what any of that means.  Maybe it's my Missouri roots---you've got to "Show-Me".

I’ve taken classes with some AMAZING writers.  Writers who were NOT gentle in their criticisms.  I once took a weekend workshop with Romulus Linney---a playwright I held in VERY high esteem.  The workshop seemed informal, and no one at the theatre told me to bring material, so I assumed we’d be writing new stuff and working on that. 

Wrong.

Though I’d assiduously checked my email for weeks before the workshop----I was stunned when I showed up at a cabin in the mountains and twenty playwrights pulled material out of their bags.  I had nothing.  Zilch.  I gingerly pulled my blank notebook out of my bag and awaited my death.

Linney, though polite, was pretty honest in his critiques.  Almost startlingly so.  Rarely do instructors get so blunt when dealing with paying customers.  It made me respect (and fear) him all the more.  Luckily, there was only time for about a half a dozen writers that night.  I was given a reprieve till dawn.  I went back to my cabin room, shut the door, and started writing.  Regurgitating, to be exact.  I’d been working on a new play.  And, like most writers, had spent an inordinate amount of time on the first scene.  I only needed ten pages.  I strained to remember those very carefully wrought words.

By four am, I had re-written the scene from memory by hand.

Three hours later, I got up, showered, and made my way to the only corner store within walking distance-----a gas station down the road.  There, I bought a large coffee and a ream of paper.  Back in my cabin room, I carefully copied my illegible scrawl onto a few sheets of college-ruled paper. 

Half an hour later, I was sitting in front of Romulus Linney, waiting to be called to the stand.

In the meantime, he’d called several other writers to task.  According to him, EVERY delicate jewel they’d brought in needed work.  One piece in particular, he just came right out and said, “This is not a play.  I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a play.” 

Of course, he went on to say several other things that might help it actually BECOME a play----but I felt for the writer.  Nothing’s as brutal as the master saying you created nothing at all.

Finally, my turn came.  My hands were shaking.  While everyone had had several lovely computer printed copies of their script, I passed my measly hand-written copy to the two actors and the stage direction reader, apologized, and asked them if they could sit together and share. 

I was mortified at my unpreparedness.  How often does one get the chance to study with a master and blow it by not only having no material, but also looking completely un-professional? 

The actors read.  They seemed to get the piece.  The other students laughed in the right spots.  Okay.  So not a total disaster.  Hopefully.  I sat in silence waiting for judgment. 

Romulus Linney looked around the room.  A calculated silence.  He asked what they thought of the play.  Most of the writers remained quiet and terrified.  I remember two brave souls commenting that they thought it was funny and that the characters seemed real.  That sort of thing.  It wasn’t looking good. 

Then Romulus Linney leaned his elbows on the table, looked around the room, and simply said, “THAT is how to start a play!”

I was stunned.  I think for an entire minute, I didn’t even breathe.

And then he went on about how wonderful it was.  How the characters worked together.  How the set-up worked.  How EVERYTHING worked.  “You’re very talented,” he ended.  “That was a very, very well-written piece.”

I was in heaven for weeks.  I sent query letters to agents, production companies, theatres, networks, pretty much anyone who might take an interest in my work.

But nothing.  No one wanted me or my scripts.  Maybe Romulus Linney was wrong.  Maybe I stunk.  I decided to take another class.  Then another.  All with amazing, talented, working writers.  Writers who’d received prestigious awards.  Writers I admired.  On a regular basis, I was told I was talented, brilliant, a wonderful writer.  Was always singled out in these workshops for having produced “the kind of stuff I really like.”

One writer/teacher actually said to me, “Did you write this just to make me happy?”

Despite all this wondrous praise----I was STILL waiting tables.  No agent.  No nothing.  Just $4.35 an hour plus tips.

What was I doing wrong?  No one would tell me.

Finally, I took one more class.  With another well-known writer.  At the end of the reading, I sat onstage in a pool of light.  I was the only one in the class who had NO criticism.  Oh, he loved it.  Everything about it was wonderful.  Was told I was very talented.  A wonderful writer.  That I write the sort of thing he loves.  “You should be very proud of yourself.” 

I just sat in silence in the pool of light.  It was possibly, the most depressing moment of my life.  There was the requisite applause from the other students.  I quietly said "thank you".  And left the stage. 

But inside my head was screaming, “IF I’M SO FUCKING WONDERFUL THEN WHY AM I NOT WORKING?!?!?!”

I told this to a friend of mine the next day.  “Why didn’t you ask?” he said.

“I don’t know.  It didn’t seem like the right place to ask.”

But the truth is---most playwright are NOT working.  Well, we’re working---just not making a living at it.  It was at that point that I stopped killing myself.  Began to focus more on life.  Yes, I still wrote.  God, yes.  It’s what I do.  But life was important, too.

So I lived.  And wrote.  And lived some more.

But in the back of my mind, I kept wondering, “What am I doing wrong?”

More importantly, what were playwrights doing wrong?  Plays are the essence of the human experience.  The most vital vessel of understanding.  Why are WE waiting tables and The Kardashians taking over the world?

Of course, if you’ve only been writing for three or four years, the reason you’re not working is because you’re not ready yet.  Writing, like any profession, takes a good ten years to master.

But, like many of my friends, I’m not a newbie.  I WANT to know what you did and did NOT like about my play.  Because if I’ve put it in front of you, that means that I’m at the point where I’ve done all I can without advice.  I’m too close to it.  And your distance (and expertise) might help make it better.  I REALLY want to know. 

Perhaps I’m different.  Perhaps most writers would prefer a simple pat on the back, good job, let’s get a drink.  Not for me to judge.

But if we get a drink, and I ask you what you thought----that means two things.  The first is that I honestly want to know.  And the second is that I value your opinion enough to trust your judgment.

I can handle it.  I’m not a hothouse flower.  It will only benefit me AND my play.  So TELL me!  If you don’t like my play---for godsakes, TELL ME! 

Here’s how you do it:

1. Okay, go ahead and tell me what you liked about my play.  It will make you feel good.  I’ll know the bad is coming----but I’ll also know what actually worked.  Sometimes, that's just as important.
2. Tell me what you didn’t like.  You don’t have to get in depth at this point.  Just point out one or two things that didn’t work.  Sure, you can back-track with the whole, “Maybe I missed this, but….”  Just get it off your chest.  It will only make us that much closer. 
3. Ask me a few questions.  If you have questions, that helps me figure out where the problems are.  Maybe I can answer them and we’ll both be satisfied.  Maybe I can’t.  If I can’t----then I know what I need to work on.
4. Talk about the things OUTSIDE of the writing that worked or did not work for you.  Again, a feel-good moment for you as you don’t have to critique me, per se.  If you didn’t get an actor’s portrayal of the character, the lighting was too moody; the direction seemed “off”.  Tell me what you liked and didn’t like and WHY.  Sometimes it’s in the script and I need to fix that.  Other times, we’ve let our theatre team go astray.  It’s flattering to have a theatre pick up your play, but sometimes (bewilderingly) even THEY don’t get it. 
5. End by asking us what WE thought.  This could lead to a great discussion.  Or it could lead to another glass of wine and talking about great vacation spots.  Even writers get sick of talking about their work.  Don’t worry that opening a discussion will lead to an all-night unpaid dramaturgy event.  We’re your friends for a reason---we like your company.

Of course, I can’t speak for all playwrights.  Some writers like that simple, “Great job.  Really nice play.”  They will read into your words whatever self-loathing or self-lauding is in their heads. 

And those of us who genuinely want criticism don’t wear badges.  We’re hard to distinguish from the guys who just want a hug.  To make it harder----we want different things from different people.  We ALWAYS want Mom to give us a hug and say “I love you”.  We don’t always trust the judgment of the dude at our day job.  And we react FAR too freakishly to the local critic who rushes out during the curtain call without uttering a word.  As a side note, I used to do some freelance theatre criticism.  If I ran out after a performance, it was because I was on a deadline.  Had NOTHING to do with the value of your play.

But if you’re a friend.  And we ASK you what you thought.  What you REALLY thought.  Remember that THOSE are the magic words, “What do you REALLY think?”

We REALLY want to know.  We’re desperate.  Think of us as a sad single woman who just broke up with her boyfriend.  The sort who calls you late at night and wants to keep you on the phone for hours discussing what HE said and what that REALLY meant.  Only difference is, we’re not sobbing on our beds with a cucumber facial, a pint of Hagen-Daas and a bottle of vodka keeping you trained to the phone for hours.  We are right in front of you.  Unlike break-up girl, we’ll happily buy you a beer and some mozzarella stix and listen as long as you want to talk.  We’re trying to grow as a writer.  We think you can help.  If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have asked.

Some say theatre should be a safe environment.  What they mean by that is Safe To Take Risks.  Not all hugs and kisses. 

Playwrights risk their sanity everyday.  All of us are mentally one play away from the crazy, smelly homeless man on the train screaming, “Chicken butt!  Chicken butt!”

You can turn up your iPOD and ignore us, tell us we’re perfectly fine and explain “that's just the way God made you”, or you can lead us to the nearest mental healthcare facility where we can FINALLY  get some help. 

It’s your choice. 

“So, what did you REALLY think of my play?”   

Time, Souvenirs, and Richard Hell

Writers have always had a love affair with New York City. Only Paris can rival the sheer amount of people who have come to New York to live, love, learn and write.

With so many writers here, readings are plentiful. On any day, at least a dozen readings by prominent writers and authors are taking place all over Manhattan. Even Brooklyn has gotten into the act. They can occur anywhere from a coffee shop to a nightclub to a Barnes & Noble. Most are free or very inexpensive. Sometimes there’s free coffee and cookies. Sometimes there’s a cash bar and a band. It’s the sort of thing most of your friends have no interest in attending. But happily, it’s the sort of event one never feels conspicuous attending alone.

The first reading I remember attending was Paul Krassner reading from his autobiography at a local Minneapolis bookstore years ago. Krassner was one of the early counter-culture heroes of the 60s. Founder of the Yippie movement with Abbie Hoffman, founder and editor of The Realist, a member of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters and one of the most influential satirists of the 20^th Century.

I had recently read his autobiography and heard he was speaking. Curious, I showed up at the bookstore one afternoon to hear him read from a book I’d already read. I was the youngest person there. A bookstore full of old hippies, anarchists I recognized from the anarchist bookstore on the West Bank, old men who were bald in the front but long hair in the back, Groupies Gone Grandma----and me.

He talked about his youth. The eerie Cold War shivers of the 50s and trying to conform. And then, the insanity of the 60s, when he just gave in to it all. I listened. Enthralled. I’ve always loved a good story. And Krassner knows how to tell one. AND make it funny. I remember thinking the entire moment was so surreal. Here was a man that J. Edgar Hoover thought was such a threat to National Security that he’d tried to take out a hit on him---and he was just a guy with a bottle of Evian and a book.

And we were laughing.

How subversive can you be standing in front of the cookbook aisle?

His angrier, edgier days had passed. But he was still full of fire and delicious parody. Still a voice. You could hear it and see it in his eyes.

That’s the wonderful thing about readings. Witnessing that fire. Hearing those delicate intonations that make a sentence pop off the page and into your consciousness.

There was a book-signing after the reading. In a desire to complete the experience, I got into the autograph line. Running out of there almost seemed rude. It seemed the thing you were supposed to do. I’ve never been an autograph person. In fact, it was possibly the first voluntary autograph I’d ever sought out.

My mother, on the other hand, has always been a bit fascinated with celebrity. Not in a creepy way. Just very Midwestern.

When I was in fifth grade, I made my Confirmation. Our class was told that the Archbishop would be there to preside over the ceremony.

For some unknown reason, my Mom went out and bought an autograph book. An actual leather-bound book that had the word “Autographs” embossed in gold on the front.

After the ceremony, we were all standing around the gymnasium drinking Kool-Aid punch when she thrust the autograph book into my hand and said, “Honey---go ask the Bishop for his autograph.”

In those days, my cynicism was silent. Sarcasm bound tightly inside my head. Like a gun I didn’t know how to shoot. Not a weapon to be used on anyone---particularly Mom. And I was shy. REALLY shy. But obedient. So I can safely say that nothing in my life up until that point embarrassed me more than being forced to ask a holy man for his autograph.

I don’t know what I mumbled to the man in the pointy hat.

But he signed it. God love him.

A few months later, the autograph book invaded my life again. One of my mother's co-workers was Rock Hudson’s cousin. I knew who Rock Hudson was. Had seen his movies with Doris Day in reruns on the local TV station. It was a few years before he was diagnosed with AIDS. At that point, he was the aging, but still glamorous, Rock Hudson.

One day, I came home from school and my Mom presented me, once again, with the dreaded autograph book and told me to look inside.

There was my name. And beneath it, something like “Best Wishes. Rock Hudson.”

I say “something like” because to this day, the autograph book (with only two autographs) remains in the custody of my mother. Most likely, in a plastic container full of old IRS paperwork and W-2s somewhere in my mother’s basement.

But I like the idea that it’s there. Reminding me less of the person who signed it, than in the actual circumstances of the autograph itself. Rock Hudson couldn’t possibly have known that when his cousin passed him an autograph book at a family reunion it would turn up as a vaguely embarrassing memory of a young girl in a blog years later.

Last week, I heard that Richard Hell would be appearing at The New Museum on Bowery Street.

I think it’s safe to say that all kids, at some point, think they’re adopted. That disconnect you feel when your parents first knock on your bedroom door and tell you to turn the music down.

I was never a punk. The original punk era was before my time. And I only learned of Richard Hell’s music years after he retired from the scene. But it was exuberant, brash, and just frightening enough to seduce a young Catholic girl from the Midwest. He was one of the founding members of Television and later went on to form Richard Hell and the Voidoids. His iconic look was spotted by Malcolm McLaren who took Hell’s spiky hair, ripped t-shirt and safety pin style back to London and copied it for The Sex Pistols. And his song, “Blank Generation” was possibly the most non-anthematic anthem in musical history.

Hell also did a few acting stints---Susan Seidelman’s groundbreaking film Smithereens being the most well-known. And it certainly helped that he was not bad to look at. He quickly became one of the few rock star crushes I’ve ever had. Of course, my school-girl crush never would’ve worked out. He was into heroin and I was into Barbies. You know how those things go.

By the time I discovered him, he’d gone back to his first real love---poetry.

As a writer, he’s had an amazing success not only as a creator of poetry and novels---but also as one of the few survivors of the punk era who has the ability to chronicle those feral CBGB nights.

So yesterday, I got on the train and headed downtown to hear him speak.

As a museum curator asked the audience to turn off their cell phones, the side door opened and a still-devilishly attractive, 50-something Richard Hell stood bearing manuscripts at the door.

No sooner did he get up to speak, than cell phones and miniature video cameras began popping out of bags and pockets. One girl in front of me spent the entire forty-five minutes adjusting camera angles and focusing the close-ups on her iPhone. It occurred to me that many of them were so busy documenting the experience, they were missing out on the moment itself.

He spoke of the early years. Running away from home to New York City, setting up a printing press in his scrappy downtown apartment, and finally forming his first band, The Neon Boys, with Tom Verlaine.

Hell’s writing is stark and gritty, but seminally romantic. Germinating from Baudelaire. Sprouting into Burroughs. And flowering into Hell.

At times, he’s been accused of navel-gazing---though with Hell, any gazing is certainly a few inches further down. The “Free Love” era of the sixties almost seems sweet compared to the anonymous, drug-laden sex of the seventies. And poets are supposed to be navel-gazing. That’s part of the job. It’s like expecting a reality show contestant not to be narcissistic.

Introspection is perhaps a better word. That ability to look at the world with a sensory microscope and cough up hypotheses with nothing more than a pen. Autobiography is naturally self-indulgent. Hell recognized this in the chapter on his early friendship with Tom Verlaine; noting that whenever you speak of someone else, you also speak volumes about yourself.

At the end of the reading, original Voidoids guitar player Ivan Julian stepped on stage, strapped on a guitar and together they performed Hell’s song “Time” as an appropriate end to the evening. But, as Julian turned on the amp and checked the tuning on his guitar---even more video cameras popped out. iPhones. Flip Cameras. And then flashbulbs on everything from digital cameras to cheap instamatics were going off all over the place.

It seemed offensive. Intrusive. Just this side of tacky. Or was it just me? I suppose it wasn’t really that horrifying---but the sheer amount of cameras and lack of consideration for the subject seemed impersonal. Almost destructive. The difference between buying some postcards at The Pyramids and chipping a bit of stone from the tombs. Souvenir-hunting at its worst. A museum. Exhibit: Hell. Click. Upload.

Afterwards, a table was set up at the side and the audience was informed that several of Mr. Hell’s books and CDs would be available and he would briefly sign some autographs.

As an avid book-buyer and rabid reader, I certainly wanted one of his books. Not the sort of thing you can easily pick up at a Barnes & Noble. So I bought one that looked interesting. A hardbound collection of his poems and essays. And then, with my own writer’s introspection, it seemed almost insulting to buy a book and then just leave when I was standing two feet away from its author.

I will admit that I do like signed books. But the signed books I own are generally ones written by friends. It’s kind of kitchy and silly to ask your friend to sign their book. But it also acknowledges their accomplishment. They got published. They did good. Congratulations. And they always write something fun inside.

As I stood there with the book in my hand, I didn’t know what would embarrass me more---asking him to sign it or walking past him refusing to let his signature mar my new purchase.

I continued in the line.

In front of me, everyone seemed to want to talk. Wanted to make the moment memorable for themselves AND for him. Strangers trying desperately to imprint a memory on a man. The line was long, and a museum worker was obviously trying to wrap things up. Hell looked concerned at the length of the line and tried to continue being polite while trying to speed things along. He paused his meet-and-greet to let the crowd know that the museum was closing soon and we would have to move quickly. Meanwhile, the two older women in front of me simply walked behind the table and started posing with him for photos. Not even a “Can we get a photo?” More like a sneak attack. Hell obliged. The camera didn’t flash at the proper time and he was forced to do it two more times. They wanted to talk. Imprint. Hell thanked them and then said, “Does anyone just need a signature?”

I was next. He looked at me and I reached around the photo shoot and handed him the book. As a way of hello, I simply said that I’d enjoyed his reading. He asked my name. I told him. I let him sign in peace. He handed me back the book. I said, “Thank you so much.” He smiled.

And then I left.

Outside, I opened the book and read what he wrote.

“With gratitude. Richard Hell”

I wondered if the “gratitude” was for being the one person that day who didn’t want to suck up his time.

I may be a fan, but I’m a writer, too. I understand the value of time. And humanity. And respect. And that the best souvenirs are of the mind.

Have You Been Writing?

Recently, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a few weeks. One of the first things he asked me was, “So, have you been writing?”

“Yeah. I’m finishing a screenplay and getting ready to start a new one…”

As I spoke, I could see his eyes glazing over. Apparently, this question was along the lines of, “Hi! How are you?” and I hadn't picked up on the subtlety. A detailed medical history was not required.

If you’re a writer, you’ll get this question on a regular basis. People seem to think they need to check up on you.

You still writing?

Yup. Still writing.

As if it’s a game of Gotcha!

Sometimes they’ll even accuse you of not writing. The other day, I posted a Status Update on my Facebook page quoting Gore Vidal. A friend I haven’t seen in a few years commented, “Stop talking about other writers and write.”

What? I was just taking a break from typing in the new stuff for three solid hours. I’m writing! For godsakes! Stop accusing me of not writing!

Even my ex-boyfriend called after the break-up to inquire how I was doing by asking the question, “So, how’s the writing going?”

“It’s fine. The writing’s fine.”

I suppose I wouldn’t mind hearing the question on an almost daily basis, if there were actually some follow-up. Maybe if someone offered to actually READ what I’ve been writing. But not even fellow writers are interested in reading what you’re writing. Why? They’re too busy writing and fending off the eternal questions about how THEIR writing is coming along.

Last week, I ran into a writer friend of mine. I just happened to have a copy of the first 30 pages of my screenplay in my bag. We chatted a bit and then I asked, “Hey---would you do me a favor and take a look at this?”

“Oh sure. Absolutely. When are you here next? Tomorrow. Great! I’ll drop it by tomorrow. No problem.”

Five minutes after I handed him the script, I realized I would never see it again. The next day, my suspicions were confirmed. It’s been over a week now and I have YET to hear back.

But have no fear that the next time I run into him, undoubtedly the first question out of his mouth will be, “So, how’s the writing going?”

Of course, if people really want to know how the writing’s going, they could come out and see your work. But sometimes it’s difficult to get even your best friends to show up. I swear, I could do a striptease while singing “Sweet Adeline” and no one would show up.

A few years ago, my friend Nina and I did a two-woman show. One Night Only! Hope to see you there! We sent out emails and made up little postcards and passed them out to our friends.

It was part of a showcase, and it was a packed house.

A packed house full of strangers. Sadly, we had no peeps.

After the show, as we were hauling our props and costumes outside, Nina looked across the street at another theatre letting out.

“Is that Bob?”

Our OWN DIRECTOR was across the street at another theatre watching another show!

I take it as no judgment on my writing skills. I know tons of talented people and I admit to being as guilty as the next person of not attending enough of my friend’s shows. And in NYC, the entertainment options are far too many. Kind of hard to get your friends to come to your play in Brooklyn when they’ve got tickets to see Jane Fonda on Broadway.

But the question remains---why do people always ask if I’m writing? Do people literally need to see me with pen and paper in hand to be reassured that I’m still writing? The other day, I was sitting at a table doubled up over a notepad and someone actually came up to me and said, “Are you writing?”

No. I’m dancing a minuet, jackass.

Today I received a comment on this blog wondering where I’d been. Wanting me to “come back”.

Okay, I’ll admit that I haven’t posted since my 30 Day blogging marathon. And I’m grateful for the thought. But I blogged for THIRTY DAYS! Thirty days straight of trying to write a clever, yet thoughtful essay EVERY DAY!

That’s a lot of work. If you don’t think it is, just try it sometime.

It’s not like I went anywhere. I was just busy working on other things. Real stuff. After all, this is just A BLOG.

I’ve also received a few emails from friends recently, wondering what I’ve been up to. “Haven’t seen any new blogs lately. Is everything okay? Are you writing?”

The correlation seems to be that if I’m not writing, everything is not “okay”.

And really, that’s all anyone wants to know about me or anyone.

How’s everything?

Everything’s okay.

And then you can get down to planning to see a movie or hitting the newest tapas bar downtown. Maybe even seeing a friend’s show in Queens?

Nah.

Who goes to a show in Queens?

All borough snobbery aside, there seems to be this misconception that writers can’t write when things are not going so well.

This is far from the truth. Sure, I didn’t write for about two days when my Uncle passed away last month. There were calls to make and family stuff to deal with. And not exactly in the mood to write sketch comedy. But a few days later, I was itching to get back to work.

Since I last posted here, I directed and edited a half hour film (from a script that I wrote), finished three drafts of a feature-length screenplay, wrote for TWO sketch comedy shows, held a screening for the film, came up with a treatment for ANOTHER screenplay and am now in contact with the FBI to do some research with them, finally got up at the theatre I’d been banging my head against the wall to get into (and it went really well, by the way, thanks for asking!), and about half a dozen other new things that I won’t even bother to go into…because really, no one wants the details.

Are you writing?

Yeah. I’m writing.

And just for your information, the amount of pages churned out has no direct corollary to how one is ACTUALLY doing. Any writer will tell you that.

But yeah. I’m writing.

Even if I wasn’t----waddya gonna do about it? Hmmm? Take me out back and cane me like a Muslim woman who showed too much eyebrow? Shove me onto a train to a retreat in The Poconos? Take away my good pens? Refuse to let me darken your doorstep or be around your children?

Why do people always ask if I’ve been writing?!?!

Would you ask your doctor if he’s still doctoring? Your mother if she’s still mothering? An NFL player if he’s still beating the crap out of his wife?

This is what we DO. Whether you see it or not.

But…yeah. Everything’s okay. Thanks for asking.

I’m fine. And I’m writing.

My Right Foot---Day 13: Guilty Pleasures

According to Wikipedia:

“A guilty pleasure is something one considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. Often, the "guilt" involved is simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes, rather than actual moral guilt. Fashion, music, and food can be examples of guilty pleasures."

For some, guilty pleasures are things like Reality TV, eating pork rinds, or the admission that they actually read stories about Paris Hilton.

I enjoy NONE of these things. My guilty pleasures lie elsewhere.

Today, I indulged in one of my favorite guilty pleasures---people watching.

Okay, I know---sure. It doesn’t sound like something one should be embarrassed about. But my people watching involves a bit more than simply sitting in the park and watching the world go by.

I listen to their conversations. Look into their shopping bags. And I have a fanatical obsession about the books that they read. If I see someone on the train reading what looks like an interesting book, I suddenly have a burning curiosity to discover the title. I watch them carefully as they turn a page to see if they tilt the book slightly, enabling me to catch the title on the spine.

Let me explain. I’m not a snoop. I would never look in your medicine cabinet, read your diary or go thru your drawers. Not only are these things sacred---but frankly, I have no interest in knowing what sort of prescriptions and over-the-counter meds my friends and family have tucked away in their bathrooms.

I don’t care much for gossip. Don’t read celebrity magazines. And have never *69’d a phone call in my life. I wouldn’t even know how to do it---well, I guess you press * and then 69. But frankly, I have better things to do.

I have strangers to follow.

Yeah, sometimes I follow them.

I don’t know why. Just something about them I find interesting and I want to learn more. Often it’s their conversation---usually with another person, but occasionally on a cell phone. I watch their interactions with other people. I watch them shop, carry out transactions, eat lunch, and do all manner of day-to-day things that everyone does.

Of course, I don’t just pick random people. But something about a person will catch my eye or ear and I just have to find out more.

I tell myself that, as a writer, this is research. That’s how I justify it. But honestly, I think I'd do it even if I didn't have a medium.

Usually, it's just nonsense. But occasionally, something interesting does come of it that I can use. A turn of phrase, a walk, an odd thing someone was carrying that instantly creates a character.

I particularly like to follow people who seem a little crazy. Not full on homeless begging for change crazy. But those people who are just slightly off-center.

I don’t follow them for very long. Maybe a block or two. Or I observe them for maybe five minutes in a store. After a few minutes, they cease to be interesting to me and I move on. Occasionally, if they said or did something particularly interesting, I make a note of it in my pocket notebook or on a piece of scrap paper.

But mostly, they turn out to be dull or repetitive so I lose interest and go on my merry way. Today I wanted to work out some kinks in a piece I’m writing. I decide to take to the streets to do a little walking to help sort it all out. And, as long as I’m walking, I might as well get something done while I’m at it.

I decide to head down to the Garment District in search of a piece of fabric. An ottoman I got for free a while ago and I’m DYING to recover it.

It’s nice and sturdy and my cat loves to lie on it---but I just can’t stand looking at that brick-colored corduroy anymore.

I walk thru the fabric shops hoping something will jump out at me as I mull over my latest script. Unfortunately, I didn’t think quite well enough before I left and really have NO idea what I’m looking for.

I spin around from shop to shop looking at rolls of fabric with a blank look on my face.

But my mind is working. Working on the script.

I decide that one of my characters should be a stalker. It’s a comedy and I start, as they say, looking for the funny. What’s so funny about being a stalker?

Ahead of me, I see a guy talking on his cell phone. Nothing really unusual about him. I just thought his jacket was interesting and I heard him give his location to the caller as being on 23rd and 5th, when he was actually on 38th and 7th.

Hmmm. Curious.

Suddenly, with nothing better to do on my day off---I decided to follow him.

I needed to get into the mind of a stalker. I needed to find the funny.

I wasn’t paying as much attention to him as I was to myself. What it was like to actually BE a stalker. I stayed a few yards behind him as he walked thru Midtown. They stop. You stop. They make the light---and sometimes, you don’t. At one point, I almost got hit by a Chinese food delivery guy on a bike as I tried to hurry across the street.

At another point, he stopped and looked in a shop window. From a few yards away, I tried to gauge what he was looking at by his position and the direction of his eyes and head. When he finally continued on, I walked up to the shop window to see what had been so enticing.

A shirt. An UGLY shirt.

I immediately began to judge his taste.

A few blocks later, I saw him run into someone he knew and they stopped to talk.

Oh great. What am I going to do now?

I stood there on the corner of 35th and 6th trying to stay out of the sidewalk traffic while he chatted away. I would have gotten closer to listen, but it seemed like a really boring conversation. Ugh---why couldn’t I have picked someone more interesting to follow?

All right, I’ll get closer and listen in.

Oh my god---it’s hockey. They’re discussing hockey. Oh, someone shoot me now.

And then---here I am, stuck with Boring Guy when suddenly an old woman pushing a shopping cart full of cats walks by. Yes, a shopping cart full of cats!

DAMN!!! Why couldn’t I be following Crazy Cat Lady? Sure, I could leave Boring Guy and run after Crazy Cat Lady---but I’ve just realized the humor in being stuck with an uninteresting person to stalk and I’m stuck here. Yeah, I’m finding the funny---but at what price?!?!

Oh, there goes Crazy Cat Lady. Damnit.

And there’s my boring ass stalking victim standing there making small talk with a man in a boring golf shirt as they discuss some boring play from a boring hockey game four months ago. And then, just when I think it can’t get any worse…

Boring Guy mentions his mortgage.

OH MY GOD!!!!

This guy is the Worst Stalking Victim Ever!!!

I couldn’t take it anymore. I left Boring Guy on the corner of 35th and 6th and moved on with my life. Surely, there’s a moment in every stalker’s career where they’re sitting in the bushes going, “What am I doing with my life?”

Or maybe not---after all, they are, by definition---a stalker.

I realize that I am not cut out to be a stalker. Way too short of an attention span.

Hey!---if I hurry, maybe I can catch up with Crazy Cat Lady. Was that a meow? No. Just a whiny kid.

Wait---is that a meow?