"I got plenty to confess, but better to wait till it’s over, get it all out at once."

Confession: I often feel like someone is about to expose me as a playwrighting fraud. This rears its head at ugly and awkward times: when getting dressed to go to one of my events, ("Is this what a playwright wears, or just someone trying to look like a playwright?") after I meet creative staff for the first time, ("I totally didn't sound like a playwright, what playwright says that?") and anytime the words 'method' or 'style' come up in terms of the words I put down on paper and ask people to perform in front of other people who have paid money to see it.

...because I haven't been 'trained'. And as a write that, I can't help but think of the poor dumb mutt who isn't house broken and just looks forlornly at his own poop when you come home, suddenly realizing that 'Oh, that probably doesn't belong here... But where should I put it?' That's how my work is when I stop to try and catalog it. I've taken some really awesome classes, and I don't want to take away anything from the amazing teachers who have invested their time in me. They rock.

And would the embossed piece of paper, the extra line on my resume... would that make me feel legitimate? Or is it a slow wearing away? Is it something that I have to accept? And, if so, how do I really accept that when asked about my style or my method, the most precise answer is, "I dunno." I'm not very well read; in every class I've taken, there's been a 'basic tool' that is brand new to me and that I fall in love with. And when I sit down to write, I just start writing. I don't have a real plan, I just make stuff up that feels right. That's my method.

I'm trying to get better, but it still feels false. An example: I don't use outlines. But I've heard PLAYWRIGHTS do. So recently, I tried using an outline. It looked like this...





















Which was entertaining over coffee and raisins, but only showed me all the scenes I hadn't written, not what I needed to write. Also... I lost half the cards and most of them came untaped, so my methodology at very least was lacking.

The thing that did help me figure out the rest of the play was this...
 

Which, you know, isn't really a, um, thing. But that's what I do... oh, and try to figure out what the heck to wear.

-BGD

I intended my next post to be about the difficult balance of having a child and writing a play, which basically comes down to the nagging or very immediate feeling that you are always ignoring one for the other. Like my recent experience in hurricane Sandy where many writerfriends of mine touted the forced time to write. I spent it keeping peace between myself, my two year old, my wife and my deadline.

I feel like no one won.

But at 11:15 at night, standing in the colder than chilly but not bitter November weather, after completing a 12 hour workday and missing my bus by about ten paces... I don't want to talk about that.

Because I am angry.

Maybe it was the political back and forth I had avoided with my Dad until today. Maybe its pre-election jitters. Maybe its the 14 hr. day I have tomorrow. Maybe its missing my kid and wife...
But I should be happy. I made headway today on a tough section of the script, and used tools I rarely do. (The impossible for one: throwing a flaming cow head through a window) My daughter has been happy to see me lately, and that hasn't always been the case, even at two and a half. But my J-O-B wears me down. Missing the 11 pm trolley added 30 minutes to my commute, missing the 11:07 bus by ten paces.... that just sucked.

So how does a playwright survive? (both as an artist and a person) Tonight, I have no idea.

-BGD