The Drought and The Glut

I don't know if this happens to my fellow writers, but as a playwright I exist almost exclusively in a binary state. The zero I call The Drought. It's not hard to imagine what this is. Some call it writer's block, which for me is a bit of a misnomer. A block implies there is something on the other side of it, something pushing, struggling to break out if only it could get passed this THING sitting in its path. On rare occasions, I've had this feeling. And I believe I have tools to deal with this. Most of the time I write around the block, other scenes or other ideas. Often when I return to the trouble, I find the block was never really there and I just didn't understand what I was really working on. But The Drought is different. When I'm going through The Drought, there is simply nothing there. I have nothing to say and I have no way to say it.

Nothing.

This state can and will and has gone on forever. "You will never write again" is often the line I hear echoing in my barren head. It unnerves me and drives me to think that everything I have created is small and terrible. The Drought is depression and anxiety. It creeps into my personal life and drains every scrap of energy I have. I lay awake at night and worry. And I don't know how to fight it because I'm so immersed in the nothingness of it. Trying new projects seems futile and burdensome. Old projects just reveal what a horrible writer I am.And The Drought just persists, waiting for me to die as a failed writer.

And then the The Glut comes. I don't know why or how, but after my time in the wilderness, I find The Glut.

The Glut isn't an entirely joyous state. It's not focus. It's not the cup being replenished. Just like dried land hit by a sudden rain, it's an overflow of ideas. I have learned to try and capture as many of them as I can, to hope that I can get enough of any one of them down to finish it before The Drought returns. I think this is why I call it The Glut. It's not just the flow of ideas, but me frantically shoveling them into a form I can hold onto, even if I'm already over-flowing with thoughts. My writing returns to the teenage compulsion that could drive my mother insane. I scribble lines and ideas on any scrap of paper I find. It's often difficult to sleep (insomnia seems to be a core component of all of my writing) and when I do sleep, I curse myself awake for not getting that last brilliant line down before I drifted off. Unlike The Drought, I always know The Glut will end. I have this sensation that tomorrow it will be over and I'll be left with the wreckage.

Sometimes I can make useful time amongst the wreckage. Sometimes I can repair and complete the pieces thrown together in The Glut. But too often, I find the thing that kills The Glut is The Drought and forever has begun anew.

Such is my writing.

Over time, I have learned to feel each one less, to be less connected to the emotion of each state. But if I'm honest, they're still there. They still exist. I don't know why I'm saying this. But it's part of the process. It's how I function. And while the process of thought is a strange thing to analyze, I feel like admitting it somehow helps.

 That's all for now.


-BGD

Remembering Todd Marrone

I can't shake this sadness that's been looming over my head, clouding my heart, that's been staying three steps behind me and waiting for me to sit down and get comfortable. It's then I feel it pressing down on my shoulders and pulling at the pit of my stomach. I've had this feeling since the day after Christmas, an association that has nothing to do with the holiday. That's the day I had to say this sentence to my wife: Todd Marrone died.

I met Todd once.

And just saying that hurts me. a bit. I met him once. I didn't need to meet him again because I would always have the chance to meet him again. He wasn't hard to find, he was a force of nature in the Philly arts scene, or at least in my head. I could email him and he'd paint a portrait for next to nothing. (I know because he did this for my wife.) I could go to First Friday and take one of the free drawings he always had stapled to a plywood board. (I know this because I did this with my daughter. I got to speak to her about Todd like he was Rembrandt or Van Gogh, because he was. I called him a great man, because he was.) I could just follow his wit and passion from online, watch as he changed the lives of young artists. I didn't have to put the effort into actually meeting him because nothing can stop a force of nature like Todd was.

Only...

Yeah, I'm not going to say it. Partially because I don't know the whole truth. I only have my inferences from what I've gathered online. It would be unfair. But I will say that I never wanted to be stronger than Todd. I always wanted someone to look up to like him. And now I find out that I probably am stronger, and I still don't want to be. I want... This is harder than I thought. I'm at work and I'm near falling apart. I've had to quickly scroll past the memorials and the love facebook is exploding with for Todd because I just can't let my heart break that much, that often. I've actually thought about hiding his feed because even a moment is too much. But I can't do that. I have to be stronger than I want to be, and I have to believe that I am.

But more than that. I have to celebrate art, celebrate life. I have to give away the weird pieces of me for next to nothing so it can be shared with people I don't even know. I have to tell my daughter that there are great people out there doing impossible things for all the right reasons. And that people are bigger than you can imagine, they are forces of nature.

And they're small and fragile too.

I have to remember Todd Marrone... because I never want to forget him.

With Love,
-BGD

Why this play, now?

Over the weekend, I completed a draft of a new play, or rather I have generated enough of a draft that it is completed enough for me to say it will be complete. Meaning I could hand it to actors, designers, and a director and feel as though we all have something to work on. In theatre, there is never really completion until opening night and even then it's questionable. But the work I've done I think is significant enough for me to pause and perhaps reflect on it.

Riding into work this morning on the subway, I was doing that and one of the big "art questions" hit me... Why this play, now?

The question is designed to show immediacy and to describe the audience it is impacting. It's a really important question in theatre because you are choosing to share something in the moment to only a select number of people, really. It's perhaps the first question every production needs to grapple with. As a playwright, I am often gripped with this question myself. I complete something and I suddenly ask myself, "But why would anyone else care?" This question is one of my vampires.

Today on the subway, I was able to shine some light on that vampire. Now, vampires never really die, but at least I know I can make it retreat. Why this play, now? I don't know. This isn't me being coy or clever, really. I'm one artist and here's what's been broiling in my brain, here's what my life has incubated, here's what I think is interesting for me right now. In sharing my work, I'm actually asking, "This play, now?" to the world at large, but mostly to other artists who wear the hat of producer or director. It's not that I shouldn't grapple with the question, but to do that alone is at best egotistical.

Instead, I choose to collaborate. I choose to fight this vampire with fellow -as my friends at BRAT would say- art-warriors. Let the fight be good and the answer be even better.

-BGD

Where did I go?

Remember when I was posting here a lot? I do too. I remember that it was important to me and I felt better the days I did post than the days I did not. I remember enjoying tracking to see if folks read this and hoping I could have more views than the last day.

Then I stopped.

Oh sure, the reason I stopped was freight train of art that ran over my entire life. And it was an awesome, awesome time. And that train continues to roll on in new and interesting ways. But that's also an excuse and it's time to start making thoughts public again. To start being afraid of the messy internal things that I share with the world.

Because that's an art too...

writer's lament

The worst part of finishing a draft is not being able to work on that draft. You've just fallen in love with the script and now there's nothing to do with it.

It's the little things....

So I haven't done this in awhile. Because... life, I guess. It's been weird, rough and wonderful. And it's been keeping me from this, or I've been ignoring it. Bad blogger.

The update is that things are moving along. I'll do a proper update later but this isn't the moment for that. What I really wanted to do was take a moment to praise a designer that I love... Jamie, my wife. (I also love her as a person, just to be clear, but this is about her design life and growth.) For awhile she's been locked in what I think of as an artist's death spiral. It's when doubt and longing of producing art becomes the center of your creative process. Maybe I'm being too dramatic about it and she doesn't feel that way, but I AM a playwright, so... I am prone to fits of drama.

Today, she seems to have taken the first steps out of the spiral. And I am very proud of her. I think it's an important job of any artist to praise others successes. So... today is about jumping for joy with her.

Want more details on what she's up to? Visit her blog and let her tell you herself.  http://jgraceduff.blogspot.com/2013/01/baby-baby-steps.html

Submitted without title

The weird thing about second drafts is how much harder they are than first drafts. A first draft is limitless and displays the POTENTIAL an idea has. And... I hope you can see the problem right there.

A second draft is about fulfilling potentials. Sometimes you don't know what's broken, sometimes you do. But whatever the case is, you have to figure out how to fix it. And how is hard.

First drafts also have suggested forms.... in that it's similar to this or you're trying that. You can diagram things out a bit. But in a second draft, when that form is off the fix is not always as apparent.

Well... this is why it's a job, not a hobby.

Grindgrindgrind.

-BGD

"Don''t you be smart, it don't suit you."

Things happen too fast.

I swear I was gonna post a review of BratShit Crazy and THEN tell you about the notes I got from my first draft and THEN tell you about who my director is.

And now, I'm in this nebulous place where BSC seems like a month ago and I'm still in the middle of notes from the draft and I'm supposed to wait another day or two to announce who the director is.

So, I need to know from you, fair totally-existent reader, what is my responsibility to you? How often do you expect an update from me? All that jazz. (Not that jazz) (definitely not that jazz...)

-BGD

"a Western Melodrama Told in Spaghetti & Song"

...wait, you're writing what now?

This:

 

Still confused? Come out tomorrow night to the Trestle Inn Thursday at 7 PM and... well, you'll probably still be confused, but you'll have a great time and maybe I'll share my latest libation creation with you: a white Jamaican.

Details at the Facebook event page.

BRATSHIT CRAZY.....it's a thing.

Double post day... you're welcome!

So, I need to stop being such a big, dumb negative jerk and start liking myself more.

I realized that as I was writing my last stupid post. (I can do this all day, people, ALL DAY!)

What really made me stop and think was here I am bashing myself while I've got four amazing singers/musicians right now working on something I helped to create, and it's a disservice to them when I sit here and whine about "am I legit?". So.... Peter, Jess, Kevin and Keith- I am sorry I suck at being positive. (like I said... all. day.) You guys deserve better than that. You deserve someone who is promoting the crap out of what you're doing because they're so stoked to see you guys do it and be a part of it with you.

And after an excessively long preamble, I will be that dood.

COME SEE BRATSHIT CRAZY!

What is that, you ask? Why are you swearing in your read-it-to-my-toddler-at-bedtime-blog, you query? Shut up already and just tell me the details, fucker, you shout at your screen even though I can't hear you because of our linear relationship to the time-space continuum?  Really, more swearing, you repeat (sorta)? Isn't this joke getting a little old, you implore?

Yes... awhile ago. But dead horses are made for beating.

Bratshit Crazy is a series of developmental performance of emerging artists. "A little to the right of an open mic and a little to the left of a traditional theatre showcase." Amazing artists will be sharing their freshest stuff. Songs, scenes, who knows what. The only way to find out is to come to the Tressle Inn THIS THURSDAY at 7 PM.

Why am I telling you to do this? Because I'm one of those amazing artists, and I've con.....vinced 4 other wonderful artists to prepare the first song from my upcoming show. That's right, your fist peak at The Last Plot in Revenge!

Death! Love! Accordions!

It's all there for you when you come out for a Brat-style potluck performance!

-BGD

"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

"Ain’t no one deserves rest."

It feels like awhile since I've written. Maybe it hasn't been in real-time, but in internet time, it's probably been years. In my defense, a lot has happened that I will now skim over to try to bring you up to speed. Why do I do this instead of either backdating posts and really going into depth or just speaking about what's going on right now.... I have no clue.

A review of my last several days: (set to music....um, I don't know, hit shuffle on your iTunes- that's the song that is intended to underscore here. Oooooh, how conceptual!)

- Met with a bunch of folks, including the brilliant Adrienne McKay (who also has an amazing laugh. If I could, I would hire her just to be in my audience. On the other hand, she might get bored and the absence of her laugh would probably feel like a massive gaping void in the play.... bad idea, moving on) about a variety of projects, including a dream devised work, (I can hear Davie White groaning from here...) contract-y stuff for Revenge, director-y stuff for Revenge, fundraising-y stuff for Revenge, and a random ten-minute play. Oh! And an old play that I'm totally reinvested to re-write now. (give a holler all you Callie-lovers! She's coming back!!)

- Speaking of hollers, or hollas if you will, got into a bit of a tiff over my use of the phrase "dear non-existent reader". Which I meant as a funny, slightly self-deprecating, but mostly a commentary on the world of blogs, but apparently has been interpreted by some of my loved ones as both self-destructive and insulting. This comes from at least one person who I didn't know even read my blog. In fact, I don't know if anyone reads my blog because I have zero comments. So, dear non-existent reader, prove me wrong.

-  Had another incredible meeting with my writer's group, The Foundry, where I got to present some of play. Presenting pages in a writer's group, for those of you who don't know, is a sweaty experience. At least for me. And it's filled with all sorts of neurotic quirks... So I'm never really thrilled to do it, even if it is one of my favorite things to do. Here's the point in our story where I'd really like to gush about what an awesome and supportive group I have, because they really made it easy. There were some very jangly bits in my play, but I felt so energized walking away. I felt really good and was able to just have a night where I was happy with things. So.... thank you.

- Got to hear a full version of the song for Bratshit Crazy... and it rocks.

- Got all of my rockstars for Bratshit Crazy.... and they rock.

- Found out I might not be able to go to Bratshit Crazy... and that doesn't rock.

And that's sort of it. Besides life (it's okay), work (hahaha.... don't ask me if you don't want to hear mean things.) Thanksgiving (gobble-gobble-gobble) and the family. (Awww man!)

-BGD

FIRST DRAFT IS FINISHED

I have no insight today. Just thought you should know that... That being I finished my first draft, not that I don't have any-

Damnit.

Well, that moment's been ruined.

......*sound of one of those sad little noisemakers* (but secretly I am very happy.)

-BGD

"Told you I wanted a lock"

Want to know what helps to finish a script? Writing another one when you should be working on it. Oh wait... word from the home office says that *actually* doesn't help at all. Huh, who knew?

Clearly, I did not. Today I found this wonderful little ten minute living inside an old character from another play and a bit of scenework from Seth Bauer's playwrighting class. The script became so compelling, that I had to get it down. And I'm super-pleased with the work. I struggled little and it just felt good. And that's great and all... but it's not my script.

At least I'm distracting myself with other writing?

-BGD

Dear Universe,

Please don't do anything interesting or important until next Friday, I have a draft to finish.

Thanks!
-BGD

"Cause nothing could be sweeter..."

I hate waiting for things. It's not that I'm impatient, I just... okay there has to be a good word for this. C'mon, I'm a writer. THINK! What's the awesome way to say that I'm impatient? Ummm... nevermind, just give it to me now!

The "it" in this case, dear non-existent reader, is my composer's first pass at our very first song. He sent me a little sample after I roughed out some lyrics and it totally cracked this smile across my face and I'm so stoked to see what the end product is. It's like Christmas Eve.

And a fun story about my childhood is I threw up on Christmas Eve from anticipation. So... there's that possibility. But after the week I've had-

Let's pause here for a moment to talk about how I got so depressed over my job in the middle of the week, that I texted friends demanding they tell me great things about me or that "they" suck. My two favorites were my sweetsweet friend texted me "You are marvelous. You are funny and smart and nerdy and caring and delightful. And whoever is making you feel crappy SUCKS and I will punch them in their stupid ass-faces." Also..."You deserve unicorns." The fact that I had to solicit them didn't even bother me, I was so down.

-after the week I've had. I deserve something cool. And Peter.... Oh, another piece of news. My composer's name is Peter Gaffney. I will try to describe him more in depth later, but for now I will say he's a wild-haired accordionist with a great sense of fearlessness and fun. He's deeply understanding and really quick at putting things together. Basically, I love Peter and want to pet him every time I see him. (good thing Peter doesn't read this though, that'd be awkward. So don't tell him, non-existent reader) Back to the point... he said he'd send me something today or tomorrow.

ChristmasEveChristmasEveChristmasEveChristmasEve!

-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

Second Meeting...

So guess what isn't good for writing a new play? Writing another new play. At least.... once again, not for me. So why is it then that the day after my brain maps out the play I'm working on for BRAT, a new one I've been struggling with the large concept for years bursts to life? Somewhere, I think my brain feels that I've solved the problem of the other one and wants a new challenge. Somewhere, I think my brain is trying to drive me mad with too many projects. And somewhere.... there's a pla-A-ce for uuuuuuussss! (Ignore what I did there.) No, somewhere I also think this is good and exciting. The point is, that it's maddening to have nothing you're excited about, to feel stuck and then to be over-whelmed. Why aren't there other feelings for writers?

And I can credit this to connecting a concept from one of the writer's who presented last night. She (d'oh, just gave it away to all the fellow group-members who aren't reading my blog) is exploring a wide concept in a play that I've always wanted to take a hack at in a very specific way, which is my way of saying I'm NOT stealing your concept. And a question my new friend (I have a new friend!) said to me as we were leaving the bar in regards to my messed up high school years: "Where's your play about that?" Which is something I've...quite frankly....never even considered.

But now I have to.

-BGD

"a good lover stays sprunned"

Time for some good old fashioned doublespeak.

When I'm writing, I'm not worried about whether something is "good". The moment I share it with someone, that's all I care about. But when writing, I know that it only has to be "right", because if it's right then it will be good, but if I try to write something good, at best it will only be precious, which may not be bad but is rarely right.... and therefore not good. Writing is never a straight line. I worry a lot when I love something I write, when I'm convinced it's good before I'm told it's good. When my ego strikes WHILE I'm writing.

I've heard argument that writing is an act of ego, but it's sharing what you've written that is the act of ego. While you think I'm splitting hairs, I'm not. Writing is a passive act to me. It's active, sure. But passive in that I'm trying to exert as little will as I can on it, discover "truth" or what I call "right", so it can be good later. It's much harder to take something I love and make it good because I already believe that the world is off its rocker and it secretly IS good and no one else knows, and by changing it I will alter what is good and... There's a lot of messy stuff there. It's much easier to look at something I thought was right and have someone else say, "that's good, but it's not quite right." Then I can dig in and make it better.

Not that it's not a blow to my ego. (see? there is ego) I handed it to you to show you what a "good" writer I am, how "good" my writing is because it's not trying to be good, only right. And you come back and say it is good, but it's not right?

Whatever.

What am I really talking about?
I wrote my first song. (well, lyrics.) And I love them.

 Oh........no.

-BGD

"I wanted to hear it out loud, feel my words in space."

Let's take a moment to talk about outlining...

Actually, let's pause and take a moment to for me to say that this is my method, there's nothing wrong with how anyone approaches their own writing. I know plenty of writers who have marvelous structure and dedication and I would be very surprised if they didn't outline. I understand that there are many virtues to it and I'm not trying to be a detractor. These are my own limited perceptions and  I know that many of the claims I make will simply be untrue... unless you are me. But I'm using this writing to help me define my process and so, let's take a moment to talk about outlining....

Or rather the way I work.

I begin (oddly enough) at what I think the beginning is as I begin. This might move, change, be eliminated, but when I conceive of a play it is almost always from the rise of the curtain. It might be a single line of dialogue, an image or a set of givens. At this point, I know very little. And so I dive in and discover. I have characters reveal themselves to me just as the audience receives them. I rarely go into the kind of writer's trance that makes me passive, but this kind of writing is less influenced by the conscious version of me and allows me to be free to question what I'm writing as I'm writing it. (I can hear my writing professors scolding me for self-editing in the generative phase...) It also allows me to be surprised. I have ideas of where I think the play will go, but I'm not sure. Often, characters will jump out and do something shocking to me.

I live for these moments.

As we go on, inklings become more solidified and I make notes and scenelets and unrelated monologues that I know will appear somewhere in the script. I take walks and think about what I've written or what is holding me back from writing more. What I want to see more of. I take showers and do the same thing. I wash dishes and do the same thing. My head gets filled with these questions constantly. I mumble to myself "Okay, so...?" like a mantra. And through spurts and stops, by re-reading messages I left on my phone's text box or the back a receipt, I piece the rest of it together.

Sometimes it's joyous, sometimes it's painful. But it is always mine.

What it gives me is a sense of spontaneity. I don't feel bound to any idea for longer than I am interested in it, I don't feel like I have to know every detail or even be able to predict at all how things will end up. Sure, in truth I ruminate much longer than an opening line or image, but I find that what I think will happen and what I end up writing about never lines up. So why invest time in an outline that will only limit me and distract me from listening to the characters?

For me, it doesn't make sense.

-BGD