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INFREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS |
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Occasionally I get e-mails asking about how I write, where I get my ideas, what my influences are – the usual stuff playwrights get asked. Rather than keep my replies private, I thought I’d share them with anyone who might be interested.
***
In March 2006, a student asked about the genesis of my short comedy PLAYWRITING 101: THE ROOFTOP LESSON and the themes I wanted to explore. I replied:
The play was originally produced as part of a series of short plays produced on an actual rooftop in Manhattan. When I was invited to submit a play to the festival, every idea I came up with seemed completely clichéd. So I gathered the clichés into one story and satirized them. Voila, an original play!
I don't discuss "themes" of my plays; I like to think the play speaks for itself. Besides, if you or anyone finds a theme in it different from what I was thinking when I wrote it, that's fine with me. I hope people will be engaged by the story; everything else is gravy.
*** sent to several playwrights:
When you talk about playwriting, is there one particular mistake or misperception about plays/playwriting you find yourself addressing or focusing on? Some pet peeve?
My biggest pet peeve is those who think that playwriting is about dialogue and not structure. Dialogue is an essential ingredient, but it’s never enough to make a compelling work. The best plays follow a journey, with a clear sense of cause and effect. The cause can be psychological, social, political, religious or a mix, but it should always be logical (even if it’s a warped logic created by the world of the play.)
When you write, to what extent do you keep in mind the theatrical marketplace, the commercial potential of your plays? To what extent does the business of playwriting encroach on the craft?
I'd use the word "practical" instead of "commercial". Contemporary economics make it increasingly difficult to get a play produced with more than a few characters and almost impossible with more than six. Of course, this hasn't kept me from writing a play with seven characters when I felt the play demanded it. It has, however, kept me from writing a play with more characters than the play absolutely needs.
Is there a play--a "modern classic"--that you think can "infect" an apprentice playwright with the wrong lessons? To put that another way, are there canonical plays you would advise young writers to steer clear of?
I think
any play can steer a budding playwright in the wrong direction. The
works of Sam Shepard and David Mamet come to mind quickly, as they have
specific (and attractive) styles that can disguise whatever craft lies
in their construction. I think the key is not in avoiding certain plays
but making sure that playwrights become aware of the rules of
playwriting (whether or not they choose to break them later) and that
they don't prematurely seek safe haven in a tone already established by
another writer. Writing like David Mamet doesn't make one another
David Mamet; it just makes one an imitation. Writing in a distinct,
fresh and compelling voice makes one like David Mamet. (Not that
Mamet's voice came from nowhere. It has roots in Harold Pinter, who has
admitted being influenced by Noel Coward. The best playwrights are but
fresh variations on those who came before.) ***
In January
2005, Kat Warren, a high school student in Tallahassee, Florida, so
enjoyed my one-act comedy
THE WHOLE SHEBANG that she wrote me a fan note and asked five questions:
In terms of giving and taking, I've given several of them as presents to friends who don't like ties, and I once took a collection of plays by Ferenc Molnar (Hungary's most famous comic playwright) from the LA Public Library. I liked the plays so much that when the book was months overdue, rather than return it, I claimed I had lost it and paid for it. Although I felt guilty about this (it was the library’s only copy), I wanted to keep them.
Years later, the library later burnt down. When the library was rebuilt, I decided to return the plays anonymously. (I later found another copy at a used book store, and so it worked out well for everyone.)
This is an
absolutely true story.
A student interested in my one-act play I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD COOK wrote me MANY questions. I think a homework assignment inspired him more than curiosity:
1. How would you describe the role of a playwright in contemporary American society? 2. How do you choose the subject for your stories? 3. Did you want to convey a special message in I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD COOK? 4. Where did the idea of this play come from? 5. What kind of audience does the play address? 6. How would you define your style as playwright? How is it reflected in this play? 7. How would you explain the roles/characters of Jerome and Mark? 8. Could you tell me something about the language you used for this play?
What an interesting array of questions. Most of them have little to do with how I work. For example, I’ve rarely “chosen” a subject for my stories. Usually a moment – a situation, a character action, or a line of dialogue – pops into my head and attracts me. I start exploring the situation, wondering what might come before or after, or pulling back to look at the larger picture. If more ideas for the situation enter my head, I write them down. Sometimes these ideas grow into a play.
I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD COOK came into existence because the National Theatre Workshop of the Handicapped asked me and several other playwrights to write short plays for them, all involving a disabled character and set in a kitchen. I was both honored and annoyed by their request. “What can I write about disability that isn’t clichéd?” I wondered. “I don’t want to waste my time.”
Nevertheless, I decided to think about the challenge when I walked – not special walks, just the walks we all take to go from Place A to Place B. All the ideas that popped into my head seemed unoriginal. I thought, “Perhaps if I don’t focus just on being disabled.” Disabled and female? Disabled and Black? Disabled and left-handed? Disabled and gay?
Without effort, I imagined two brothers at a dining table, the older one giving an ultimatum to the younger, “You can be gay or you can be disabled, but not both.” I loved the line, and I knew I could write a play to that line and extending from it. I quickly felt a sense of who would say such a line and who would be hearing it. I was no longer writing about disability or about gay issues. I was writing about two brothers.
For a long time, I just made lots of notes, imagining what they might say and do. One thought lead to the next. I used the ones that appealed to me and threw out those which bored me or didn’t fit. Writing is highly instinctual that way.
I didn’t want to convey a special message with the play and never do; I just want to tell an involving tale. I don’t define my playwriting style and like to think my plays vary in style. Usually the situation and characters define it, not me, just as they determine the language.
I never try to address a specific audience; my audience is always that hypothetical group who will respond to that which I write if I write it well.
I wouldn’t describe the role of a playwright in contemporary American society; I’ll let pontificators do that. I write plays and hope audiences will connect with them. As for explaining the characters in my play, I don’t do that either. I hope that if someone reads or sees a performance of I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD COOK, they’ll be as intrigued by what’s going on as I was. Explaining my plays will just take away the fun.
***
Finally, a beginning playwright once asked if I’d read his new play. I replied:
Although I'll pass on
your request to read your play (I always decline such offers), let me
recommend what I usually do when I finish a draft of a play: Invite
friends over one
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