Two years ago I wrote a play.  It is based on the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin — you know, the one where the rats get drowned by the Piper.  I wrote the entire thing in three hours and then spent the next three months tidying it up and making it better.  I ran into two problems, two major plot holes that need to be resolved.

I haven’t touched the play in over a year.

Every couple of weeks I spend a good hour or two thinking about ways to resolve the plot hole without compromising the entire script.

I’ve ultimately decided that I may have to rewrite a huge portion of the script in order to make it work.

Lovely.

I’ve also started writing a story — what may eventually turn into a novel of some sort, if it’s good enough.  I’m having a really hard time with it.  I can see the big picture in my head, and all the points in between, but the details of getting the characters from point A to point B is overwhelming — especially when each point seems to be two dozen pages apart.

Another problem I’m running into is something that I mentioned awhile back in one of my posts.  I feel like all of my good ideas are just variations on someone else’s.  I feel like my story is just an amalgamation of a bunch of different stories that I’ve read or seen in the past.  I keep telling myself that this is different, that I’m attacking these things from different perspectives.  But don’t you think that’s what Christopher Paolini said when he wrote that horrid ripoff book, Eragon, and its sequel?  I worry myself sometimes.

At any rate, I don’t really think it’ll ever be published, so I’m considering providing my story free-of-charge as an ebook of sorts.  Perhaps the play as well.  What do you think?

“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.