I am at this enviable and maddening spot that I writer can find himself mired in where all my projects are finished (yay!) but now I'm casting around for something new to work on (bloody hell.)

I completed a first draft of Turtles I guess it was last week. Actually it was more draft 1.5 than a true second draft. It is now at the point where I think it should have been at the original first draft. I pushed on it because now is the time of year that theaters and play development theaters and organizations are asking for submissions, and I wanted it ready to send out. 

So all this is great, right?  It's sort of like being a business with plenty of product on the shelves for when the customers walk in. I've got two completely different full-length plays to send out. I have a few ten-minute plays for the crazy number of ten-minute festivals that are out there. And I have this one one-act that I love, Norwood, Ohio, that I love and I hope to find just the right home for. 

But now the huge, gnawing question is, What do I work on now. What will be the next project that consumes me? What is the Next Big Thing? You know, having a creative mind can be kind of a curse. There are days I wish I did like hanging out in front of the television, watching sports, drinking watered-down beer out of a can, and belching with my male friends whose IQs are smaller than their waist size. 

First, I'll go back and look at old plays and wonder if I should resurrect some of them. Have they been mouldering long enough that I can turn them into something completely different? I have a play, Red Dog, that coincidentally I have had two people in the past week comment on, saying they liked it. I think it's a good play, but in need of a lot of work. Is that the next thing to work on?

And I'd love to write something about what's going on in the world today, about the politics and the economy and how it's affecting people and their normal lives. I mean, this is sort of like the 1930s all over again. But who would I like to be?--Odets, or Kaufman? Kaufman was more successful (more money) but man, could that Odets write a play. 

This isn't going to be pretty. John may get a little cranky, as he twists in the wind. He'll stare in space for long periods of time. He'll take long showers, longer than he usually takes. There are going to be a few false starts. And maybe a few that lead somewhere I never in my wildest dreams thought they'd go. 

I am so broke and I desperately need a job and should be looking for one right now, spending every moment of my waking day finding one,  but my play is calling me. Groceries need to be bought, the dishes washed, the bed made the dog brushed the plants watered errands run but right now there are words in my head that are so critical to be spoken/heard and if I don't take the time right now and write them down they will be lost and in a way so will I.

The airlines are right: In the event of an emergency, take care of yourself first, then the person sitting next to you. 

There's a short piece in the New Yorker about the number of plays that are out and about now that are adaptation of books. Interesting read, and I thought was most notable was that while audiences seem to grumble when a film isn't true to the book  (take Harry Potter, for an example) people seem more inclined to embrace the theatrical adaptation that takes the story into another realm.

Read it here. 

And I just got out of the shower so I don't have a lot of time here. I wrote a whole one-half scene in there, a part that I was stuck on and it suddenly was there for me and so logical and so of course, and it was so pretty and because it's for the stage I could see it and hear it and feel it, and it's in my head and right now I know how fragile it is, like the image on photographic paper that hasn't been stopped and fixed yet. It's there, but it's not solidified in the silver crystals that are my words. 

If you and I are talking and I'm really comfortable with you, there's a very good likelihood that I will begin speaking with a pretty deep drawl. Or if I get really emotional about something, I will probably begin talking that way, too. I was born and raised in Southern Ohio, and that's just how folks talk there. 

The thing is, when I first moved to Boston years ago and talked like that, I quickly learned that people would make snap decisions about me based on what I sounded like, basically assuming I was at the very least uneducated and uncouth. So I learned how to hide my accent. Big mistake. In his autobiography, Malcolm X wrote that doing things like that is metaphorically cutting out your tongue. Years of living has taught me to embrace again who I am, and that identity comes out in a deluge in my writing. If you don't like who am I and by extension what I write about, then I suggest you just turn the page. Just move on. But I will never cut out my tongue ever again. I will never apologize for myself or my art again. 

I write all this because tonight is the first class of the creative writing class I'll be teaching in during the fall semester. New writers (from day one I treat them like writers,) each one an individual and along with introducing them to structure and dialogue and characterization,  if I can do anything for them it's get them to start listening to their own voices and know their own stories and get an inkling for getting those voices and stories heard. And get them to be proud of the stories they have so they don't cut out their own tongues. I start by building a classroom environment where hopefully they'll feel safe to put stuff out there and talk and listen and respond. Over time, hopefully, they will  rise to a point where they will be taking artistic risks without even knowing it. By the end of the semester, I like to see their confidence reach that point where they start arguing and disagreeing with me. That's how I know they're ready to leave the nest. 

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As it says on the home page, my plays will never be set "on an island off the coast of massachusetts." I don't mean to be a snob; for the uninitiated, that simply means Martha's Vineyard or Nantucket, the two enclaves that almost define what it means to be a quintessential Yankee. Though, that's not quite true. The little I know about the places, what I just wrote says more about the people who vacation there (er, excuse me: summer there.) So, see, I wouldn't write about them simply because I don' t know a whole lot about their lives. It wouldn't be genuine. 

But, like a small child who will stare at a freak, I am fascinated by people who live off the grid, off the map if you will. Who say to hell with society and work out their own ways and rules.  (You know, I actually sat here and stared into space for a good two minutes trying to figure out what the PC word is for the word, freak,  so I wouldn't attract the ire of the well-intentioned. But I decided to use that word in the spirit of that lifestyle. I think PC is one of the first things that  gets jettisoned along with cable and trips to Wal-Mart when you go off the map. Living off the map means you don't have to worry about the PC crowd anymore because, frankly, they wouldn't be caring about you either. Off the map isn't on anyone's radar screen.)  

So, this bit of research caught my eye over the weekend. It's about people who live in a place called Antelope Valley outside Los Angeles, and how the county is harassing them and trying to remove them from their land. What has this to do with playwriting? Well, it definitely has something to do with what I'm currently working on. 

The other day I blogged about an LA Times page that had a compilation of stories the Times ran on playwrights (lol, I started to type playwrights with a cap C, as if I was thinking it was a proper noun like, I daresay, God?) and I've been scanning through them from time to time. Interesting reading, yes, and as I wrote before, writers are writers. Famous, successful writers are still cut from the same cloth as the likes of me and right now, at this stage of the game for me, I find that exceedingly comforting. 

Anyway, this little bit from Jane Anderson came to mind this morning, in the shower where I do my best thinking. Anderson is directing her own play, and was talking about that there is a time for the playwright to leave the theater and let the actors go on about their business without the playwright injecting even more pressure on the actors trying to discover their roles. "Writers are free to blunder without fear of judgment (unless you count our own internal critics, who are unfailingly harsh). Getting lost is part of the creative process, and actors must have freedom to wander and explore. This applies to the theater director as well, especially if he or she is working on a new play that's never been decoded before." 

It came to mind because if you could only see the twists and turns I'm making right now on the play that I'm working on. If anyone could see me, they'd right off take me for an incompetent. My only defense at this point would be the seventy-some previous pages that I think stand up pretty well for themselves. I reassure my students all the time, the first draft is going to suck. It is, just accept it. And even if perchance your first draft comes out pretty good, that means it can only get better from there. It's the nature of the beast, the nature of writing that we struggle with plot twists and nuances in character. JSYK, it's the nuances that I'm having a time with right now. I wrote a bit of dialogue last night in bed before turning out the light, and this morning thought to myself, Wait a minute, Bella would never talk like that. That's Angela intruding (from another play, as Angela has a way of doing.) Bella is tough, but part of her charm is how soft and sweet she is, too. That's what makes people like her, but then there is this hard side that really hurts. And that's pretty much the imagery for a turtle, isn't it. 

Happy writing to everyone today. 

This is going to be a grand experiment. You tell me if you think I'm crazy.

You know, despite what some people might say, I find it extraordinarily easy to write a play. I just sit on my couch in our middle room, put my feet up on the coffee table, and start writing. 

What I am finding extraordinarily hard is getting connected with artistic directors and theaters. (Okay, I've been a playwright for not even three years yet, and I just graduated, so maybe I am a bit impatient.) But all I'm hearing from People Who Know is that the old model is broken. Sending your scripts to a theater and expecting them to love your work and then produce it is about as likely to happen as Boston experiencing an earthquake and a hurricane all in one week. (Wait, that did just happen. But you know what I'm trying to say.) 

Self producing is the way to go, we're told. Produce your own plays and create your own buzz and excitement, and then the bigger theaters will come to you. Makes sense. Note to self: rent theater space, hire actors and a director, put on play. 

Musicians went through this broken paradigm business a while back. Record labels were controlling the business and People Who Should Have Been Heard were languishing in groady bars and their parent's basements. Musicians started producing and distributing their own work, and the world is changing for musicians.

In that spirit, I've decided to start sharing my scripts, a la Radiohead. I'm going to start posting, well, not the entire scripts, but first acts and other work. Call me crazy, but I don' t think anyone is going to steal anything. I mean, what are you really going to do with the first act of a full-length play, write your own second act? But this will give artistic directors a better idea of my work, and again, call me crazy, bI think I'll have a better chance of catching the attention of an insomniac artistic director surfing late at night, than I will fighting the slush pile. 

The first posting is right here, and it's the first act of Turtles, my current work in progress. If you like it, or have comments, I'd love to hear from you. If you're an artistic director and would like to commission me to finish it for your theater, I'll be your friend forever. If you like it and think you know someone who should read it, pass it along.