I read several other people’s blogs, and one of them is by a woman who worked as co-chair of a theatre company in God-knows-where. I’ll leave her anonymous, for various reasons.

The guy she co-chaired the company with, to hear her tell it, is a prick. He wants the lead in every show they produce. He also wants his name as producer, director, and whatever-else. It’s painfully obvious to me that he’s doing this job for two reasons: a) he thinks he’s good at theatre (and maybe he is), and b) he likes to be in charge and in the limelight.

One thing I have learned in my years is that the only reasons you should stay in theatre are because you have a passion for theatre and it excites you. Excitement is the key here. If you’re excited, if you’re passionate about theatre, then you’ll find a way to make it. You won’t listen to the naysayers out there, who say you can’t make a living. You won’t listen to those who say theatre’s a waste of time. If you’re excited enough, you’ll find a way.

Excitement has a strange habit of crossing that 4th wall to the audience. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a show or been in a show where the audience afterward says “Can’t say I enjoyed the script, but the audience looked like they were having a blast, and I thought that was very, very enjoyable!” Excitement inspires people. It inspires them to come in the first place, to stick around for an entire performance, to come back next time.

Be excited.
Be passionate.
Inspire.

You know, two summers ago I wrote a play. It was inspired by a conversation I had on a front porch on the 4th of July. There were about 10 people there at the party, but only three of them were dominating the conversation, and as I’m not very good at group conversations, I just listened. One of the three was a professor, another a student. The third was a girl who was visiting from across the country. In a small town like ours, that’s a huge deal.

She was telling us about her life in another place, and we were all rapt with attention. The student expressed his desire to leave, to find himself, and the professor (in rather crude terms) seconded the notion.

Regardless, I found the conversation to be inspiring. They spoke in a very real, down-to-earth way, but instead of half-hearted smalltalk, this was passionate, fiery conversation. It felt like I was watching a play.

As soon as I realized this, I switched my brain into Line Memorizing Mode, where I remember things accurately and quickly. I dunno, it’s a trick I have, I guess. Anyway, as soon as I got home, I wrote the rough draft of a play. It wasn’t long at 25 pages, but it was a good start.

Over the next year, I polished it and refined it. The character personalities were heavily based on my friends on that porch, with several monologues coming verbatim (at least, as best as I could remember) from that porch conversation. I wasn’t ripping off their ideas — I’d already had those ideas. But they had articulated them in ways I’d never been able to do before.

So the character personalities were based on my friends, but the characters deep down inside were based mostly on my own experiences (which, I suspect, everyone else has gone through as well). The conversations were composed entirely of thoughts that I had had before or experiences that I had actually been through. I wrote the way my friends might say it, but the underlying message came from within, rather than from them.

After a year of polishing it up, I turned in a proposal at my school to direct it. It took six weeks to get a response.

The producer came to me, asked me to come to his office, sat me down, and said “This is crap. Lazy writing.”

His reasoning was the professor’s character cursed constantly. I just nodded. I couldn’t very well tell him that the character was based on one of his employees, that this was very, very realistic writing. If it had been truly lazy writing, then the other two characters would have been cursing as well. As it is, neither of them ever say a curse word.

So, my script sits on a shelf, waiting for a day when I can produce it on my own, when I have the resources and opportunity to put it on stage.

I suspect that many people will connect with it. I don’t think it will make Broadway, by any means. It’s not that good. But it’s good enough for a one-act.

Like the characters in my play, someday I know my dreams will come true.

“I need to speak with you.” Carl motions for me to follow him to his office. I look at my friends, fear in my eyes. They look back at me with pity. I shrug and follow Carl.

Carl can be a very intimidating man. He’s not a big guy, nor is he particularly physically threatening. He is, however, moody. He’s unpredictable. He’s also in charge.

“Have a seat,” he says. I sit. I’m afraid he’s going to chew me out for something. I never quite know what to expect from him. One minute Carl will be nice and helpful, the next he’s a raging monster. He’s never truly mean — just short and to the point, blunt. I wait patiently (anxiously?) for him to tell me what this is all about.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Your play. It’s terrible.” I sigh. He ignores it. “It’s lazy writing.”

“Lazy writing?” I ask. I spent over a year writing that play. I wrote it and rewrote it and edited it and rewrote it again. “What do you mean, lazy writing?”

“The character of Rick. He cusses all the time,” he replies. “It’s like every other word was a curse from him.” I nod. This is true. He goes on, “I gave it to my wife to read, and she hated it. She said it was too vulgar, too dirty.”

I respectfully disagree, but I don’t say anything. I can’t very well tell him that the character of Rick is heavily based on one of his faculty members. You see, in my play, Rick is perpetually drunk. He’s not the raging, stereotypical drunk that says stupid things and stumbles around and sloppily tries to pick up chicks. No, Rick is quite the opposite. He’s somber and serious. His only real desires are to help his friends (which never happen because he’s too drunk to think straight) and to keep his feet on the ground.

His speech patterns slow down. If you look into Rick’s eyes, you can see straight into his mind. As far as Rick’s concerned, he’s already said what he needs to say. His mouth just needs to catch up.

“You need… … … …to get… … … …the fuck out of here… … … …man.” This is a rather common phrase leaving Rick’s mouth when he’s drunk. Another facet of Rick’s drunkeness is that his vocabulary shrinks to the point where when he can’t think of a word, he’ll throw in a curse.

“Lazy writing,” Carl says again. I nod and he keeps rambling on about how it was lazy writing. My mind is still churning from his comments.

Lazy writing, to me, is when the author doesn’t try and establish characters. Rick is true to life to my friend and faculty advisor. If it was truly lazy writing, then the other characters, Jake and Katie, would have been cursing all the time, too. But they aren’t. The only person who even says a curse word is Rick. Because that’s his nature.

Finally, Carl’s rant ends.

“Carl,” I say politely. “I really need to direct another show. I’m trying to get into graduate school, you see, and they’re going to want to know that I have some experience.”

He stares at me. I continue, “You’ve been rejecting every proposal I’ve made in the past year and a half. So I’m asking one final time — let me direct something.”

“But you’ve already directed 1984,” he protests. “We’ve got to give other people a chance to direct.”

“But, sir, nobody else WANTS to direct. I’m the only one.” He stares at me silently for a moment, his eyes searching. He’s trying to think of someone else. In the end, he nods. I am right.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you can’t direct this play. I suggest picking one from The Humana Festival.” He wrote down the name on a piece of a paper and sent me to the library.

I sigh. I can produce my play somewhere else, I suppose. But for now, hope has sprung up again.

I am going to be a director.