What is Productivity?

So...this year isn't about applying for opportunities, for the most part.  Husband and I are going on a much-anticipated honeymoon AND moving next summer, so I'm taking that as a sign to focus more on the writing (all the "artist statement" posts notwithstanding).

Which is weird.  Because for a long time, I've been measuring "productivity" in the fall by how many things I've applied to.  And this year...well...it's about how much I'm actually writing and revising.  Which is probably healthier.

So far, since August 15th, I've spent about 150 hours writing.

I've (finally) finished the (mostly) definitive draft of a screenplay I'd been working on for a year with Maven Pictures (no, it's not sold...but I've made a great friend in the process, so that alone is worth it, and we're both proud of the script).

I wrote my first (totally) new play in two years, and did a reading of it, and am working on getting it to the "official first draft" stage (which takes me about three rounds)

I revised the Dragon Play, did a reading of it, and am preparing to revise more.

I generated 10 ideas for a new screenplay, which I'm now deciding between.

I outlined two pilots, one alone and one with a friend.

I signed up for a playwriting workshop, the first one I've done in three years (SO EXCITED FOR IT!  Pataphysics, here I come!)

I know it's gonna feel weird, months from now, when friends are hearing back from play development opportunities and I'm hearing crickets...like not even rejection letters...but it feels so, so good to be focused on MAKING things rather than asking for opportunities right now...the time will come for that, but first I wanna write more, and refine what I'm writing, and just ENJOY sitting at my computer.

Artist Statements III

In my ongoing search for good information on artist statements, I came across a woman named Molly Gordon who, among other things, has some wisdom on creating effective and (this is key) authentic artist statements...

She's got some exercises on her website, which are...you know...goofy the way these things often are, but if you actually do them, and if you're someone like me who struggles with articulating the place of your work in your life and in the world, helpful.

She's also got a great document on AUTHENTIC marketing, available for those who subscribe to her ezine.  I really appreciate how much emphasis she puts on authenticity...there's a sincerity to what I've read from her that really resonates with me...and probably will with you.  Check her out.

Artist Statements: 8 Pointers

If you read the last post, you'll know that I recently spent time reading through a pile of anonymous Artist Statements by fellow playwrights.  I am deeply, deeply grateful to these folks, whoever they are, because their work gave me the 500-foot-view of the artist statements that I had been seeking, but not finding, for some time.  Here are some of the tactics I gleaned from them, that I hope to employ in my next attempt at one:

1) Launch right in.  “I’d like to tell you about the play I’m working on” or “Lately, I’ve been thinking about the relationship between language and plot in my work” or “I’d like to be part of this opportunity, and here’s why.”  CUT TO THE CHASE.

2) A bullet-pointed list of projects you’d like to work on with the group is good.

3) A succinct, well-researched explanation of why this opportunity is a good match for you right now, with these projects.

4) A succinct explanation of what you want your plays to do in the world, or what broad themes tend to surface in your plays, and how specifically they show up (me, I write about memory a lot, the way the past creates or interferes with the present – I tend to play with language, and I like ghosts and the supernatural). 

5) Questions are good:  these are the questions that motivate my work.

6) If applicable, speak specifically to your philosophy/way of interacting with a writers’ group, or with collaborators.

7) We don’t need too much background into your personal life.  Save it for your therapist.  You shouldn’t need to go back to the one-room cabin where you were born, or your first-grade school play experience, to get us to where you are now.  It’s cutesy.  And we don’t need to know how or why your marriage went up in flames.

8) Stay concrete with your language.  If it sounds hifalutin’ change it.

Artist Statements: A (Snarky) Taxonomy

Personal Statements, Artistic Statements, are tricky.  Whenever I ask other writers how they approach them, everyone tends to groan, order a beer, and evade the question.  No one I know seems particularly happy with their own Statements – yet we’re required to write them, sometimes several times a year, to throw our hat in the right for different opportunities.

So it was a terrific learning experience when I had the opportunity to read several different Statements, back-to-back, all for the same thing (now don’t try to guess – I was reading over a friend’s shoulder, and they were blind reads.  I was struck, immediately, by just how different one statement was from the next, by how much I reacted to one voice or another in the statement. If you imagine the statement as that moment when you find yourself next to someone at a cocktail party and find out they’re a playwright, and then the conversation that ensues…that’s what reading these felt like.

Some specific characters emerged:

The ingénue, male or female, wide-eyed as they told you that they just love playwriting, that they’ve just landed in the big bad city after leaving some tiny school in Ohio (or wherever), that being in this group would change their life.  Very sweet, but I found myself muttering “virgin,” and not in a good way.

The aggressively hyper-masculine balls-to-the-walls guy (and it was usually a guy), who works really hard to show you his “voice” in the statement, to come off like Ginsberg or Kerouac.  Who acts like he’s in the group already, like obviously you’re gonna let him in because c’mon, how could you not, with all the prizes he’s won or the brilliant line he led with.  You kinda feel like he’s the upperclassman cornering you in the dark corner of an apartment party, breathing whiskey and cigarettes at you and trying to get into your pants.

The breathy, sun-saluting broomstick-skirt-wearing woman (and it was usually a woman) with COEXIST stickers on the back of her rusty Honda, who spent her energy (and precious word count) evangelizing you, with passion but without detail, about how wonderful theater is, the power of the stage as a place where people can tell age-old stories…yeah, Lady, I know, that’s why we’re all here…but what stories do you wanna tell?

The bitter, desperate, “I’m getting too old for this!  There’s age discrimination!  There’s gender discrimination!  There’s non-MFA discrimination!  There’s a Boy’s Club! If you don’t accept me into the group, it’s further proof that there’s discrimination!” rant…this is the dude or lady standing in front of you on the subway, asking for change.  They may have a point, but you’re unlikely to invite them home for dinner.

The Down-to-Business Elevator Pitch Guy (or Gal) who immediately launched into “here’s what I’m working on now, here’s why I’m doing it.”  This guy uses bullet points, hell, if he could he’d use powerpoint, to convey to you concisely as possible why there should be a merger between his brand and yours.  This is the playwright who bends over backward to come across as professional.

Now if some of the above seems snide, please understand that it’s because, at one point or another, I have tried to be all of these, and more, in writing my own statements.  What was striking, and educational, was seeing these “types” laid out in front of me like a deck of cards, and realizing how I responded to each one.  Each probably has its place, and each can have its advantages, and in some cases, one’s more honest than another (if you’re fresh off-the-boat from Iowa, you probably shouldn’t sound like the Ginsberg Guy, and if you’re over 40, nobody’s gonna really buy the ingénue).

Me, I found that I reacted best to the Very Professional.  Yes, it was colder than the other voices, but it was concise, specific, and to-the-point…given that I was going to speed through it on my way to the play, it gave me sufficient introduction and let me get on with my business.  Frankly, where I needed “voice” was in the pages, more than the statement.

In Praise of the Kitchen Table Play

Some of my best moments, as an artist, have happened *not* in rehearsal rooms or performance spaces, but at kitchen and dining room tables.

There was the play I wrote at Suzan Zeder's dining room table, when I house-sat for her one semester.

There was the day three friends and I sat around, over dinner on a back porch, reading plays aloud until we found one we felt like we *had* to produce.

There were the Playwright Family Dinners my third year of graduate school, where I solidified what I wanted in a creative community.

There was The Flea's production of The Seven Sicknesses, where we were fed throughout the course of a very long (but wonderful) series of shows.

There was the dining area at Judson Church, where I broke bread with actors on the very long day when we did a very rough draft of a play meant to be performed in a church.

And there was last week, when I invited four smart, talented friends over to read through the earliest, most ragged version of my current draft.

There's something really, really wonderful about the Kitchen Table moments.  They usually happen early, when a playwriting experience or a theatrical experience feels its newest, and somehow both at its most dangerous (anything could happen) and safest (anything could happen).  The people with whom you share the Kitchen Table stage are often your most trusted collaborators, or people you think have the potential to fill that role.  It often feels like things are still up-for-grabs, so there's a willingness to experiment or say the crazy idea out loud.  And it's so powerful to work on something that matters to you with people who matter to you, to say "come over because you trust me, let me feed you, be a part of these early moments."

I want to build more of those moments into my process, to build a sacred space in my house for friends and for work and for good food.  Because I think those moments and conversations keep me fed, and happy, and connected, in a way that few other moments can.  And I don't have to ask anybody's permission for them...I just have to invite people in.

New Draft!

I'm currently revising the first draft of the first new play I've written in two years.  I've REVISED lots of plays in that time, I've had plays PRODUCED, I've filled out an enormous number of APPLICATIONS, I've written and revised screenplays, tv pitches, a pilot.

But it feels really good to be back in the world of a new play.  Just wanted to say that.

"When Do You Write?"

Whenever I tell people that I teach and I write, they inevitably ask "when do you write?"  And for most of the past two years, I've tried to have a good answer to that question, whether it was "weekends" or "breaks" or "after school" or "I get up early."  I would block out time in my calendar, only to have work emergency...set aside a weekend, only to have a friend roll through town and need a place to stay.

This year, I came up with a new way to think about when I write, one that has been very useful, and has increased both my productivity and my ability to let myself off the hook on the days when I just can't get to it.

Lawyers have used it for years:  Billable Hours.

A simple spreadsheet.  Color-coded for writing, outlining, reading/seeing other folks' plays...basically for all the activities that, as a playwright, I gotta do.  Every day, whenever I do something writing-related, I open the spreadsheet, log the time.  Simple.  And very motivating, to see the hours pile up.  So far, I've put in 130 hours since mid-August.  I've also finished the third draft of a screenplay, outlined two pilots, fully revised a play that was produced last year but needed revision, and written my first new full-length in over a year and a half...and read plays for a development organization.

Because here's the thing.  The hours, the work, it adds up.  And the billable hours are helping me see that, and acknowledge my own progress, in a way that "three to five on Tuesday afternoon" wasn't.  And me, I need that, just so that I know I'm not totally treading water.

So.  Spreadsheet.  Highly recommended.  And now, when people ask me "when do you write," I can simply say "whenever I can."