Faux-vations

I go to a lot of local theatre productions. I wouldn't have it any other way. I love to see what's going on and to support my friends and neighbours in their work. It works in reverse, after all- they are always supportive of my endeavours, too.

On the topic of standing ovations, my understanding has always been this: when you like a performance, you applaud. When a performance is so good, transcendent even, that it "sweeps you off your feet," you may choose to participate in a standing ovation. You may find yourself indifferent, in which case you will more likely than not offer polite applause. If you really hated it, you might boo, but chances are, you will have walked out before the final curtain.

Lately, I've been baffled by the amount of standing ovations I have found myself participating in, and not for the reasons you might think.

You see, somehow the meanings have shifted. It seems that more frequently than ever, standing ovations are becoming the norm. To not ovate is to send a message of contempt or apathy, it seems. Because I go to a lot of local shows and because I know several people involved with most of the local productions, I find myself "faux-vating" more often than I'd like. Am I swept off my feet? No. Did I like the show? There's always something to admire. But I feel like if I don't stand, like everyone else is, then people will think I didn't like it. It's like, I worry that the girl seated behind me will think that didn't like her uncle's acting job or something. I may not have minded said uncle's acting job, I may even have liked it, but I stand because I don't want to be thought unsupportive. I guess narcissism is at work here to a degree - why should I assume that anyone in a given theatre cares what I think?

It's happening in the professional/semi-professional scene, too. Last weekend, I entered Bigfork's production of Happy Days with glee, eagerly anticipating a true, no-strings theatrical experience. Within seconds of the opening curtain a bunch of idiot-sticks sitting next to me were pointing their friends out on stage (the idiot-stick reference also extends to their ill-mannered use of cell phones throughout the play). The show was fun, but I'd have to say also mediocre (mostly due to a poorly cast Fonzie and an unfocused script), and yeah, there was a standing ovation, and yeah, I stood because I didn't want to stand out as not standing. I just want to go to a play where I can engage with the actors on my own terms.

There is, of course, another response: silent rapture. That happens to me rarely, but it does happen. Sometimes my responses to a performance are too complex to share with a big group right away, and I may have really liked it, but I'm mulling it over. And please, dear Lord, can we do away with the thing where the actors wait for the audience in the lobby (in costume!) and shake our hands? It's awkward. It's too soon. Anything I say at that moment is going to be contrived and dumb.

So, people, here's what we do. The next time you go to a play, if it's good, applaud. If it's awe-inspiring (AWE-INSPIRING! not simply good), stand (if you like). That's it. Even if other people rise to their feet, don't do it unless it was truly outstanding. I'll do it too, and then we won't be alone, and the girl seated behind us doesn't have to think that we didn't like her uncle's acting job.

Process

I have a way of doing things. When I write plays, what tends to happen is that I start by writing 60 pages. I try to limit the amount of characters somewhat, I have an idea of where it begins and where it ends, but beyond that I don't edit, I try as much as possible to let things go where they may and not question.

I let that sit for awhile, and then I pick it up again, recoil in horror at what's there, and then sift through to see what I can work with. 90 or so pages later, I do it again, this time more fussy about detail and structure. After about the third draft, I feel confident enough to approach a group of people who will sit in a room with me and read the play aloud. That usually tells me what's working and what isn't. More drafts, a public reading, more drafts yet and maybe send it away to a contest.

That's all I got so far. A week or so ago, I finished the 60 pager for Tooth Sized Hole. I think there might be some decent material in there, after all. I'm in the process of preparing for another rewrite of The Mimic's Riddle. It's hard because I know what needs to be done, I'm just not sure how t go about it. I want to have this next draft done by August 13, to send to the Yale Drama Series Competition. I let you know how it goes.

New Chapter Part II

I'm back and I've had a nap, so we can pick up again.

I think another thing I'm nervous about with this upcoming year is that my husband is also taking a sabbatical. Here's what I mean - it takes me a while sometimes to get in the groove to write, to clear my head and get a few ideas flowing. So, sometimes, I'll have gone to that effort, be right in the middle of something great (it does happen on occasion), and then he comes bursting in with a question or a comment and it ruins everything. And then I feel guilty about not meeting my family responsibilities or loving them all enough or something.

There's another thing, too. Suffocating people. Suffocating as in the adjective, not the verb. I don't consider myself to be competitive but for one thing mainly - I love theatre and I want to be great at it, particularly directing and writing. The wonderful thing about that is that I don't feel threatened when other people create great work. I love being delighted and surprised about what another person has accomplished under the lights and in front of a hushed crowd. What I don't like is when something sucks and the audience rises to their feet.

Back to suffocating people. Though I have my passions and, at times, my jealousies, I don't seek the spotlight for myself. I don't need constant attention in any of the spheres I run in. But I know some people who always need to sidle in there and talk about whatever they're doing or adjust the lightbulb to shine on their faces. It's just hard for them to let other people grow around them and get to excited for them about what might be happening in their lives. I find myself not talking about the great things that are happening to me because these suffocating people will just change the subject and turn up their own volume.

I know. I just sounded like a classic suffocating person right there. But I'm not, I know I'm not. So, who cares about suffocating people anyway? Exactly. It's one of my goals, to work hard enough and be so immersed in whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing that I am impervious to suffocation.

All right, time to get back to "Tooth-Sized Hole," formerly known as "Scapedog."

Thanks again for being there.

New Chapter Part I

My one year sabbatical starts today. In the past two weeks, I've had many "So, you must be excited about your year off . . . " conversations. Yes, I am, but there are a number of other emotions at play as well.

Primarily, the huge amount of time I have at my disposal in the upcoming year is a huge responsibility. I'm 38. I have two kids (who get bigger every time I look at them). I'm fat (as previously discussed - things have gone from bad to worse), and I need to get into shape. I'm also concerned about spending too much money. It's easy to not overspend when you're working, but when you're not working, there's more time to notice all the things around the house that need replacing.

I sound ungrateful. I'm not. I'm completely grateful. I just don't wanna mess this up, you know? The last two months have been rigorous. I love my job, but for a while there I couldn't fit another thought in my brain than what I absolutely had to to get through the day. I want to write. I've been writing, but lately it sucks. I keep working and moving forward because writing takes faith and discipline - the only way to not get anything off the ground is not to do anything at all.

Thanks for listening. There's more to come, but I got a call and I have to run.

The Groove

I don't want to make excuses for myself, but I find that one of the great barriers to accomplishing anything is the constant noise of the day. I work full time as a teacher, I'm also a mother of two. Between attending to my professional duties and making sure that the kids get off to dance class and practice their music, my brain is essentially fried.

We just had a family member leave after an extended visit. I am finally able to get back to my writing. But, when I sit down to it, it's been so long since the last instalment that I forget my train of thought. So, I stare off into space trying to get it back, and when I finally do, and get into the groove, it's time to eat dinner or put the kids to bed. Not that I'm complaining. Simply resolving to create a margin in my life for creating. To forbid that constant noise from drowning out the things I really want to do.

On Writing and Sticking it to the Man (or woman, as the case may be)

It's no secret that I feel incredibly fraudulent to be writing about playwriting when I have not yet had any of my work produced. But there is one incredibly liberating aspect to writing, whether you're a Pulitzer (or GG) award winner, or remain in the closet 'til the day you die: the world is full of people who are not on your side. Who, for whatever reason will randomly treat you like dirt and make you feel small. Maybe you have one such person in your life, maybe you have several. But, what's great about writing is, that not one of them can take that perfect turn of phrase, that sublime moment, or that exquisite character away from you. I suppose it's revenge, really. When someone hurts you, just get back at them by writing the best poem, novel, play, scene, whatever of your life. Perhaps no one will ever read it, or ever have the chance to appreciate it, but it's yours and it's great and no one, not even that shortsighted person who doesn't play well with others, can take that away with you.

Yes, I had a few bad experiences this week with some people. Okay, a person. I'm still not over it, but that's what's great about writing. I get to call the shots. That's pretty great in a world where I don't even control when I eat or go to the bathroom. Write on, my friends. Write on.

Dear Diary

I've started doing something I haven't done on a regular basis since I was about 10 years old: keep a journal. Here's the thing: What's something that everyone has either been through, about to go through or are currently putting their kids through? School! (or some facsimile thereof) Who is in one every day and has a thousand stories, observations and insights to share? Me!

So, I thought that since I have a sabbatical coming up next year that will afford me all kinds of time to write, I really should be jotting downs incidents and my reactions to them now, while I'm in the thick of it and it's all fresh.

If anyone finds this diary, it would be a catastrophe. After all, diaries are supposed to be unadulterated and unedited, for an audience of one, right? That's what makes them juicy. If it was the kind of diary other people could read without being astonished, it wouldn't be a very good diary.

Here's an excerpt:

March 30, 2011. Period 3 Socials. Again.

Handed out a worksheet. They like worksheets. They ask for them all the time. I don't mark worksheets. Why would I? All they are is copying out of a book, I don't know how it proves they know anything. They say they like the worksheets. I was just told, "Do you see how quiet it is in here?" But it is surprising (or not) to note how many of them don't even do these coveted work sheets. Can't be bothered.

Okay, so that wasn't exactly juicy. Seriously, the juicy entries can only surface to the world in a very surreptitious, oblique kind of a way where the guilty won't have a clue that the indictments of which I speak are about THEM! You'll have to come to my play when it's ready to really get the dirt.