John Greiner-Ferris: A Playwright with a New Voice for the Theater

This post on vice.com written by comedian Bob Goldthwait is making the rounds today on Facebook, and I thought I'd weigh in. Goldthwait first started "making it" about twenty years ago in the Police Academy movies, but I can remember the first time I saw him and the first words I ever heard him say. 

You can read the post here. 

It was in the early 1980s in the basement of the Charles Theater in Boston's Theater District where the Comedy Connection used to be. It was Open Mic Night, and I was sitting in the front row, and this sort of chubby, sweaty guy came onstage wearing a Cub Scout uniform that was too small for him. He stepped up to the mic, and sort of stammered and sputtered for a good long while, then these words shot out of his mouth: "My mother had a baby and it's head popped off!" Hard to forget.

Now it's thirty years later. He had a career that gave him money and fame, but he wasn't happy. The ensuing rant isn't new, but it's funny when it comes out of Goldthwait's mouth: Fame and fortune does not necessarily lead to happiness. As a matter of fact, it almost certainly leads in the exact opposite direction, for certain kinds of people. "Being the man's dancing monkey was fucking horrible," he writes. 

And then there's this little gem: "I have no interest in making R-rated studio comedies with the sole purpose of entertaining teenagers. I hate teenagers. I think most of them are fucking idiots. Christ, I hated teenagers when I WAS a teenager. Besides, I will be 50 this year, so how the hell would I know what teenagers like?"

This is just one artist's journey, another warning to heed. It--the journey--is going to different for each and every one of us, as different and personal as our own fingerprints. 

Goldthwait eventually found his niche as a director and writer of his own films, and of his own art. It helps that he knew Jimmy Kimmel, who gave him work. I'm sure it helped that he knew a few other people who he doesn't name. But you can simply skip the entire post if you wanted, and go directly to the last paragraph. It's what we all know and what we should have taped to the mirror in the bathroom so it's the first thing we see in the morning and the last thing at night: 

"My point is this—if you want to be happy in showbiz (or any creative field), listen to that voice inside you. Even if it says “Fuck it” sometimes. Work with your friends. Avoid chasing fame or money. Just do what you want to do, when and how you want to do it. And if it’s not making you happy, quit. Quit hard, and quit often. Eventually you’ll end up somewhere that you never want to leave."

A comparison of two headshots, four years apart. 

I never would have thunk it then, but in 2008 I looked like such a babe. As in baby. As in, "wet behind the ears." Yeah, I guess an economy that tanked and grad school that encompassed roughly twelve straight months of intense work can put you through the wringer. 

After a few year's hiatus from acting, I've made the move to start up again. I knew I would. I stopped acting to concentrate on playwriting, but knew at some point that I'd start again. I do love it, but the love affair has evolved. 

A month or two ago I read a part in a staged reading, and a few weeks after that I acted in a ten-minute play where I was on-stage for maybe five minutes. I figured I'd start back in a production where I couldn't cause too much damage. And I loved it, though before making my entrance I was more nervous than I usually am. I think things went well. But just like my headshot shows a marked difference in my external appearance, the internal artist has radically changed, too.

Now, I don't have this burning desire to act like I used to, or at least not like I now have this burning desire to write plays.  Acting has transformed into more of a way for me to continue exploring the grand metaphor called the theater. It gives me a way to enter a space and look around, if that makes any sense. More than ever I loved the table work we did for the little ten-minute play. I loved uncovering the layers of the work, discovering the avenues my character could pursue. And I think I now can perform that part of the character preparation better with the education I received to be a playwright. Right there I think is evidence of the combination playwright/actor that's in me now, a more complex theater artist than just a playwright or just an actor. And it was rewarding to bring that character to life in front of an audience. 

I certainly don't live or die over getting a part like I might have before, sinking into despair if I wasn't cast, my feeling of self-worth taking a hit like the Titanic into the cold waters of depression. And I certainly don't get depressed when a show is over. I know this because I didn't when I was still acting regularly. I was happy to get my life back, and get caught up on laundry and bill-paying. 

I'm not sure I'm going to be one of those multi-threat theater artists like some people are. In Boston, John Kuntz, Melinda Lopez, Steve Barkhimer, Heather Houston, Rick Park, and Ryan Landry all come to mind--I know there are plenty others, forgive me for leaving you out--and are all writers who have also proven exceptional on stage. I still audition horribly, as some members of the Lyric and the Huntington have seen recently. I do better with cold readings, with a fellow actor to play off of. But that's not how most theaters audition, and it's a skill I'll need, like knowing how to punctuate to write. Still, I'm grateful to get a call to audition, and happy to just do the best I can, once again, always considering everything done in the theater as a learning experience. 

I think it doesn't hurt playwrights to be as familiar with as many aspects as the theater as they can. The more we know about how theatre works and how the different theatre artists work, the better we can write those blueprints for plays. Act, direct, design and build sets, make costumes. It gets us thinking of other aspects besides dialogue. I know when I write, if I'm actually thinking about the stage or a particular stage versus a world, I tend to see things from the point of view of the actor. Stage right is to my right. Down is in front of me. And so on. I am at the center of the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree world that surrounds me that is the stage. I don't know if that helps or hinders me. It just comes from being on stage. 

 

I'm hoping to tie together three dissimilar topics in this post:  selling items on Craigslist, submitting plays, and insomnia. Wish me luck, and here I go.

I'm selling off a bunch of my hiking gear on Craigslist, and if you've ever sold anything there you know you typically get a slew of interested responses, but only a couple of real bites. There are people who are interested and say they'll pick it up at your apartment so you change your plans and then they don't show up but then they want you to hold the item for them. You juggle a bunch of people like this, until finally you get one person who ponies up the money and the rest are still sending you email wondering if you can still drop off that Thermarest sleeping pad they want to buy for ten dollars at the State Street T stop at rush hour. 

My gut response is to simply stop communicating with people. "Leave me alone." "You should have come over last night and picked it up like we agreed." "You snooze, you lose." "You want me to what?" I mean, that's what people would do to me, or rather, that's what I assume people would do to me. 

But I'm not going to do that. Manners that I've been taught to me, plus a feeling that communication is so important in this world between even strangers, compels me to write emails that say, "Sorry, dude, but someone grabbed the tent with cash in hand. What can I say?" It's closure. At the very least it's acknowledging the other person's place in this world.

Here's where we move into submitting plays. It's that "acknowledging email" from theaters that so many playwrights complain about. Or rather, that lack of any kind of communication from a theater that acknowledges that the theater got a script or declined it even when faced with a mountain of submissions. No closure. 

I got to thinking about this last night during my usual nightly bout of insomnia. I usually spend at least a couple of hours a few nights a week on the couch with the laptop due to lifelong sleeplessness. I try to use the time I'm awake in some sort of productive pursuit. Last night I was checking through submissions I've done recently, and came to a theater's site that said, "We've announced the plays for our festival." I wasn't one of the chosen, and I got to thinking, well, a letter or an email would have been nice. I mean, this is a local Boston-area theater. 

And here's where I started really thinking.

This particular theater (no, I'm not going to name it, but you'll see in a second that it's a fairly typical small theater) asks for email submissions only. And according to its site, it received about 800 submissions. That's a lot, and you might think, that would be a lot of emails to send out.  It's a small theater with a small overworked staff and they're busy. 

Well, sorry, I'm not buying it. And I'm not trying to bite the hands that feeds me, but this is a simple fix that will go far in keeping the dialogue going between theaters and playwrights. 

First, small is good. Small means simple. And since so many theaters ask for email submission, I'm assuming they have some amount of computer skills. Using fifteen-year-old computer technology, especially theaters that ask for email submissions can capture the email and make a mailing list. It's that easy. It's something we all do. Those playwrights who aren't accepted can receive a very simple email saying that the theater has received so many submissions we can't answer everyone individually, but thanks. Lots of theaters do this, but lots don't, too. 

And you know, this is kind of the dark side. Don't tell me you're busy. Everyone today is busy. Not just theaters. Everyone. So, it's not that you're busy, it's that I'm unimportant. Yes, that's exactly the message you're sending, because if my name were Sam Shepherd, suddenly you wouldn't be so busy anymore, would you? Playwrights aren't asking to be treated like royalty. We understand where we stand in the scheme of things depending on our level of success. We understand Sam Shepherd trumps John Greiner-Ferris. But that doesn't mean you can't use some simple courtesy and technology to keep relationships positive.

This isn't a slam for all theaters, because there are plenty of theaters who do communicate. It's meant more as a suggested solution to a relatively simple problem. Even a tweet or a status update of a Facebook page goes further than no communication at all. Really, with today's options, there really isn't any excuse for not communicating. "Thanks to everyone to submitted. Here are the winners." Or even, "The flu swept through our offices and we're behind in answering our mail. Please be patient."

And just so we don't end on a downer, here a few examples of theaters that do communicate. At the top of the list is the O'Neill Center. You get an email that they received your play. You get an update. You get an email address and phone number if you have questions. 

Locally in Boston, Boston Playwrights' Theatre always sends a nice little note. If your play doesn't make the Theater Marathon, Kate still writes a nice little personal note on the rejection letter. Throw a check in what I call the "collection basket", that box that stands in the lobby, and you're sure to get a nice note from Kate or Jake thanking you for your generosity, even if it's only ten bucks. 

Sarah Fleishman or Dan Hogan at Club Passim in Cambridge will always hand-write a little note on correspondence. It's a nice personal touch that keeps me coming back. 

Jessie Baxter, the literary manager at Fresh Ink, a Boston area theater that had its very first round of play submissions this past year, sent me a thoughtful email that made it clear that she had read and considered my work. 

Both the Lark Play Development Center and The Playwriting Center have always been nice and responsive to questions and submissions.

Again, this post isn't meant as a slam to theaters. Again, I've received plenty of emails from theaters telling me they got a script or that they won't be using it. I think for that reason theaters that don't communicate stand out as being an anomaly. 

We talk a lot in today's theater about the "dialogue" and the "conversation." We're talking about what the "new theater" will look like. Communication among ourselves--between all theater artists--I think is key to the future of the theater. 

I get a kick out of this line: "Chances are, if you submit your work to a competition or theatre, sooner or later you will be rejected," on The Young Playwright's Road Map.  

If you're a playwright and you submit to theaters, you have a better chance of getting hit by lightning than NOT getting rejected. You have a better chance of winning the lottery (the really big one that covers nine states) than NOT getting rejected. You have a better chance of living forever and not paying taxes, than NOT getting rejected. If you submit work to theaters, you will not only get rejected, there's a really good chance you'll get rejected at the worst possible moment on the worst possible day. Remember the play, P.S. Your Cat is Dead? That's how it works. Your grandmother just died, the bank just repossessed your house, your cat just died, and oh, P.S. your play wasn't "quite right" for the Kennedy Center. 

This post does a really good job of explaining what you should and shouldn't do when you get rejected. (It's true: I know it's hard to believe, but as much as you'd like to, you really shouldn't bad-mouth the theater on the Internet, even if you have proof positive of the artistic director's mother's heritage.) I'm not kidding when I say that I actually do have a few more ways to handle rejection (years of experience, folks, years of experience) that I will share with you now. 

I have found that controlled wallowing isn't a bad thing. Just tell yourself you're going to feel sorry for yourself for, say, a day. And just feel miserable, pouty, jealous, mean, and vindictive for that day. When the twenty-four hours are up, get back to writing.

Allow yourself to vent, but only in controlled settings. .When I used to run, I'd allow myself to go for miles just spewing vitriol. Now I do it at the gym. An hour on the StairMaster is equal to rejections from three theaters and one major festival. After that, get back to writing.


I'm not advocating alcohol as a solution to all of life's problems, but I have found that checking out of the world with a few stiff hits of your vice-of-choice (tequila on the rocks for me) can work fine. Chocolate or your favorite flammable herb works, too. Then get back to writing. 

Remembering that playwriting is not brain surgery (no one dies if we fuck up) and hanging out with loved ones can right you. Family and friends are what count in this world, and if you only define yourself by how many productions you list on your CV you're missing a big part of life. Actually, you're missing the big part of life that fuels your art. So get back to the root of things and call your mother, daughter, son, grandmother, best friend--whoever it is who reminds you that you're not defined by theaters and festivals but, as the wizard said, by those who love us. Then get back to writing. 

Rejection. There's no dodging it if you're a playwright. 

So, how do you handle rejection?