The Art of Writing for the Theatre: An Introduction to Script Analysis, Criticism, and Playwriting 9781350155589, 9781350155572, 9781350155619, 9781350155602

Table of contents :
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Note on the Text
Introduction
Chapter 1: Script Analysis
Why Do We Need Script Analysis?
Definitions and Terms for Script Analysis
Freytag’s Pyramid and the Dramatic Arc
A Crash Course in Aristotle’s Poetics
Script Analysis Exercises
Exercises
Chapter 2: Playwriting
The Elements of Playwriting
What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean?
The Significance of Exposition
The Good Title Test
The Mechanics of Writing a Play
How Do You Start?
How to Write a Ten-Minute Play
Other Play Formats
Conclusion
Exercises
Chapter 3: Criticism
The “Why” of Theatre Criticism
“I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter
Writing a Critique for a Play
“Why Am I Bored?”
A Sample Critique
Criticism as Entertainment
Remember: Artists Have Feelings, Too
When to Keep It to Yourself
What to Look for When Writing a Critique
Critiquing Other Forms
Exercises
Chapter 4: The Interviews: Conversations with Acclaimed Playwrights, Critics, Librettists, and Lyricists
A Series of Master Classes
On Starting Out
“What Should I Write About?”
On Structure
A Writer’s Process
Readings and Play Development
On Taking Advice on Your Script
On Collaboration
On Writing Musicals
On the Writer as “The Outsider Looking In”
On Critics and Theatre Criticism
Advice for New Writers
What Do You Love About the Theatre?
Discussion Questions
Chapter 5: The Brass Tacks: Practical Tools of Writing for the Theatre
The “How To” of a Writer’s Life
Read, See, and Hear
Theatre Blogs
Submission Opportunities for Playwrights
Cover Letters for Writers . . . and Beyond
Living Room Readings: The Value of Free Pizza
Virtual Presentations
A Map of Relationships
Opening Night Cards and Gratitude Letters: A Lost Art
Exercises
Conclusion
Further Reading
Notes
Biographies of Interviewees
Special Thanks
About the Author
Index

Citation preview

The Art of Writing for the Theatre

  Online resources to accompany this book are available at https://

bloomsbury​.pub​/the​-art​-of​-writing​-for​-the​-theatre. If you experience any problems, please contact Bloomsbury at: onlineresources​ @ bloomsbury​.​com

INTRODUCTIONS TO THEATRE SERIES EDITOR: JIM VOLZ, CALIFORNIA STATE UNIVERSITY, FULLERTON, USA

This series of textbooks provides a practical introduction to core areas of theatre and performance, and has been designed to support semester teaching plans. Each book offers case studies and international examples of practice, and will equip undergraduate students and emerging theatre professionals with the understanding and skills necessary to succeed—whether in study or in the entertainment industry. Directing Professionally: A Practical Guide to Developing a Successful Career in Today’s Theatre Kent Thompson

ISBN 978-1-4742-8876-7 Get the Job in the Entertainment Industry: A Practical Guide for Designers, Technicians, and Stage Managers Kristina Tollefson

ISBN 978-1-3501-0378-8 Introduction to Arts Management Jim Volz

ISBN 978-1-4742-3978-3 Introduction to the Art of Stage Management: A Practical Guide to Working in the Theatre and Beyond Michael Vitale

ISBN 978-1-4742-5720-6 The Art of Scenic Design: A Practical Guide to the Creative Process Robert Mark Morgan

ISBN 978-1-3501-3954-1

“This is a must-read for anyone in the arts, but particularly for young people with a hunger to immerse themselves in the nuts and bolts of the theatre, and the crucial importance of language. The accomplished director and playwright, Luke Yankee, leaves no stone unturned in this comprehensive work; he clearly has a great love and respect, not only for playwriting, but for all the essential elements that fill in the spaces.” Victor Garber, four-time Tony nominee for Lend Me A Tenor, Deathtrap, Little Me, and Damn Yankees; six-time Emmy nominee “I only wish when I was starting out that I had a book like this. It is filled with valuable and important information. Luke Yankee’s insight and guidance is spot on! Anybody who is thinking about going into this profession should start by reading this book.” Scott Ellis, nine-time Tony nominee as Best Director; Olivier award winner as Best Director for She Loves Me “One can’t have a life in the theatre by taking shortcuts. One can’t enter this world with no regard for what has come before you. The elements needed toward becoming a true person of the theatre are beautifully illuminated and enumerated in Luke Yankee’s book. He is a playwright and a director whose heart has been in the theatre ever since he was a kid. Rightly so. Love and intelligence mix in this essential work.” Joanna Gleason, Tony winner for Into the Woods; three-time Drama Desk Award winner “You’ll have to go far and wide to find a better introduction to script analysis, playwriting, and criticism than this. Every theatre teacher should use this in their classroom. Practical and informative!” Millicent Martin, BAFTA award winner and two-time Tony nominee for Side by Side by Sondheim and King of Hearts “This book has it all! It contains a concrete approach to understanding what’s inside a scene, a terrific tutorial on putting thoughts onto paper, a look inside the nuances of criticism, and straightforward advice from professionals at the top of their game. If you are a theatre artist who plans to put words on a page, you need to read and study this book.” Professor Brian Kite, Dean - UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television “First, let me thank Luke Yankee for this extraordinary book. It’s been a long while since I’ve read anything that so comprehensively addresses the subject as The Art of Writing for The Theatre. Not only is the book completely informative, it’s also a good read. The exploration of examples of playwriting, criticism, and analysis are invaluable. The interviews with some of the theatre’s most distinct voices is like going to the ultimate master class. The inclusion of people of diverse

backgrounds makes it all the more applicable to everyone in a personal manner. I am an actor, director, writer, teacher, and devout audience member. This book will be by my side as a guideline in the future in each of those endeavors. Any student or teacher, or for that matter, anyone interested in the theatre in its most elemental form will benefit from this book. Get it and keep it on your shelf. I would be willing to bet that you will refer to it many times in the future.” Ken Page, star of the original Broadway companies of Cats and Ain’t Misbehavin’ “This essential book sits squarely in the ‘required reading’ section for any university theatre course or for anyone who wants to understand the theatrical medium better. It begins with clear, inspiring lessons and tips that guide the writer from conception to fruition while including priceless wisdom from masters in our field. The text provides the reader with invaluable, user-friendly prompts that both allow the writer to be more understanding and critical of their own work, but also to view others’ works with a clearer eye. I simply found this book a pleasure to read and was enlightened and inspired about my own creative process as well as viewing all dramatic works with new insights. A must-read!” Professor John B. Benitz, Chair, Department of Theatre, Chapman University “Luke Yankee offers insightful discussions on the development of character, dramatic structure, and script analysis—all amply supported by interviews with distinguished contemporary theatre artists. Calling on his extensive career as actor, director, and writer, Yankee’s practical approach is an invaluable resource for anyone wishing to hone their skills in writing for the theatre.” Lucien Douglas, Associate Professor of Acting, the University of Texas at Austin “Having worked almost exclusively with new plays and emerging playwrights for over 30 years, it was fascinating to read the insights and wisdom Luke Yankee has managed to unlock from some of the best writers in our field today. This is essential reading for the next generation of playwrights. I finally have an answer when younger writers ask me what book to read about playwriting: this one!” Jon Lawrence Rivera, Artistic Director, Playwrights Arena - Los Angeles

The Art of Writing for the Theatre An Introduction to Script Analysis, Criticism, and Playwriting Luke Yankee Including interviews with: Ben Brantley * Charles Busch * Kia Corthron * Joe DiPietro * Peter Filichia Lyn Gardner * Stephen Adly Guirgis * Sheldon Harnick * Beth Henley Samuel D. Hunter * David Henry Hwang * Ismail Khalidi * David Lindsay-Abaire Donald Margulies * Marsha Norman * Octavio Solis * Naomi Wallace * David Zippel

METHUEN DRAMA Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, METHUEN DRAMA and the Methuen Drama logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Luke Yankee and interviewees, 2022 Luke Yankee has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Special Thanks on pp. 188–9 constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: www.ironicitalics.com Cover image: The Last Lifeboat © Paul Kennedy All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3501-5558-9 PB: 978-1-3501-5557-2 ePDF: 978-1-3501-5560-2 eBook: 978-1-3501-5559-6 Series: Introductions to Theatre Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www​.bloomsbury​.com and sign up for our newsletters.

For my students—past, present, and future— who teach me so much.

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Contents

Note on the Text  xii

Introduction  1 1 Script Analysis  3 Why Do We Need Script Analysis?  3 Definitions and Terms for Script Analysis  9 Freytag’s Pyramid and the Dramatic Arc  20 A Crash Course in Aristotle’s Poetics  27 Script Analysis Exercises  32 Exercises  40

2 Playwriting  43 The Elements of Playwriting  43 What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean?  54 The Significance of Exposition  56 The Good Title Test  57 The Mechanics of Writing a Play  58 How Do You Start?  68 How to Write a Ten-Minute Play  70 Other Play Formats  73 Conclusion  75 Exercises  75

3 Criticism  77 The “Why” of Theatre Criticism  77 “I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter  80 Writing a Critique for a Play  80 “Why Am I Bored?”  84

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Contents

A Sample Critique  85 Criticism as Entertainment  87 Remember: Artists Have Feelings, Too  88 When to Keep It to Yourself  90 What to Look for When Writing a Critique  91 Critiquing Other Forms  100 Exercises  101

4 The Interviews: Conversations with Acclaimed Playwrights, Critics, Librettists, and Lyricists  103 A Series of Master Classes  104 On Starting Out  105 “What Should I Write About?”  109 On Structure  114 A Writer’s Process  117 Readings and Play Development  122 On Taking Advice on Your Script  125 On Collaboration  126 On Writing Musicals  131 On the Writer as “The Outsider Looking In”  134 On Critics and Theatre Criticism  135 Advice for New Writers  140 What Do You Love About the Theatre?  145 Discussion Questions  148

5 The Brass Tacks: Practical Tools of Writing for the Theatre  151 The “How To” of a Writer’s Life  152 Read, See, and Hear  152 Theatre Blogs  153 Submission Opportunities for Playwrights  154 Cover Letters for Writers . . . and Beyond  154 Living Room Readings: The Value of Free Pizza  163 Virtual Presentations  164 A Map of Relationships  165 Opening Night Cards and Gratitude Letters: A Lost Art  166 Exercises  168

Contents

Conclusion  171 Further Reading  173 Notes  175 Biographies of Interviewees  179 Special Thanks  188 About the Author  190 Index  192

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This icon is used throughout the book to indicate that further   resources are available at https://bloomsbury.pub/the-art-of-writing-forthe-theatre.

Introduction

The theatre is a strange beast that seems to get stranger all the time. Ironically, the stranger it gets, the more familiar it becomes. People far more eloquent than I have written about the cavemen sitting around the campfire telling stories of the hunt and how this was the first form of theatre. Pundits have been predicting its demise ever since, and yet, it still remains. Why is that? What is that desperate need we all have to tell our stories? It’s as primal an instinct as breathing. We all want some record that we were here, that we mattered, and that our lives meant something. I have grown up in the theatre. I went to my first Broadway opening when I was nine years old, in a tiny, rented tuxedo with a bow tie that seemed nearly as big as I was. I remember that night as if it were yesterday. There was such a sense of anticipation, excitement, and wonder. The play was a totally forgettable, dark comedy that opened and closed on the same night. Nonetheless, I sat there as transfixed as if I were watching Death of a Salesman. Regardless of the play, something happened to me that night. I experienced for the first time the magic of sitting in the dark with a room full of strangers watching a story being told. It was a palpable and formative moment for me. It was the night I knew there was no turning back. The theatre would be my life. After acting and directing for many years, once I started writing plays, I realized I could create my own tempest in a teacup. I could escape into whatever world I chose. It wasn’t chosen by the director or the other actors; it was my creation. The exhilaration and freedom of that choice are as daunting as the dread of the responsibility. What if I create my own world and no one likes it? The act of creation itself has to be enough. This book is geared toward anyone wanting to learn the craft of writing for the theatre. It is for aspiring playwrights, critics, theatre teachers, and really anyone who wants to better understand the intricacies of the craft. While it is primarily focused on those starting out, there is valuable information for writers at all levels. Whether you are taking your first script analysis class, delving into your twentieth play, or asking yourself why you like a musical so you can write about it, this book is for you. Most importantly, while there are many brilliant books on script analysis, playwriting, and criticism, this book is

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intended as a way to combine them all. It’s “one-stop shopping” for the theatre writer. These are the high points of each of these forms, peppered with specific anecdotes and lessons from a life lived toiling in the vineyards of dramatic writing. The book is broken into five different sections. While you can jump around, they are intended to be read sequentially, as one builds on the other. At the end of each chapter, there are exercises, discussion topics, and ways to enhance your knowledge. Let me say a few words on each section: “Script Analysis”—the foundation of it all. In this chapter, I define a lot of terms and concepts, setting up the reader for dramatic success. There are examples from a number of plays (both classical and contemporary) illustrating my points and demonstrating how things work. “Playwriting”—how to actually write a play, including dialogue, formatting, and techniques for creating various types of plays. “Criticism”—what to look for in a good play, what is lacking in a lessthan-good play, how to tell the difference, and how to write about it. “The Interviews”—excerpts from eighteen different conversations I held expressly for this book with some of the most respected playwrights, critics, librettists, and lyricists working in the theatre today. The “greatest hits” of these interviews have been broken down into various topics to enhance every stage of a writer’s work. “The Brass Tacks”—“I’ve written something! Now what?” This chapter features a collection of online submission opportunities, websites for further reading, and a list of resources to support you as you continue your journey in writing for the theatre. After a substantial professional career as a writer, director, producer, and actor, I decided it was time to teach what I’ve learned. I have taught script analysis, criticism, and all levels of playwriting for a number of years now. I know it sounds cliché, but the more I teach, the more I learn. While I was always a “theatre nerd,” in recent years, I have become more of a “word nerd,” relishing the beauty of dramatic language. If I am able to convey anything to you through these pages, it would be that love of the language of the theatre. I still have the passion of that nine-year-old in his teeny tux waiting with eager anticipation for the houselights to dim. It’s opening night on the next chapter of your life as a writer for the theatre. Break a leg! —Luke Yankee

1 Script Analysis

Chapter Outline Why Do We Need Script Analysis? Definitions and Terms for Script Analysis Freytag’s Pyramid and the Dramatic Arc A Crash Course in Aristotle’s Poetics Script Analysis Exercises Exercises

3 9 20 27 32 40

I often feel I’m incredibly lucky to do a job where maybe six, seven, if I’m really lucky, maybe twelve times a year I go and see something that is so astonishing that I can only describe it as being the equivalent of what you feel like when you fall in love. And it is because it’s a form of falling in love with theatre for the first time, even though actually it’s the 100 thousandth show you’ve seen. —Lyn Gardner, theatre critic

Why Do We Need Script Analysis? “Why do we need to study script analysis? What exactly is it? What will it teach us? And why on earth would I need tools to read a play, anyway? I’ve seen enough shows on TV to be able to figure out what’s going on and how a good story is told. Isn’t that enough?” I’m afraid the answer would be “no.” If you’re simply reading a play for enjoyment (and frankly, I don’t think very many people do), then maybe just knowing the “who” and the “what” will be enough. But if you are studying a play for performance, production, design, direction, or stage management, you have to know the road upon which you

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are traveling. You need to have a sense of what the playwright intended— and more importantly, why. It may sound trite, but you wouldn’t bake a cake without a recipe or build a house without a blueprint. If you are working on a play in whatever capacity, you need to know what the playwright intended. Analyzing the text of a play gives us the “why” so that we can make informed choices as we move forward into rehearsal or production. When it comes right down to it, script analysis, like acting, is about making choices. But they must be informed choices. So, how do we do this? The American acting teacher Stella Adler was a master at what she called “script interpretation.” Her method was thorough, but not complicated. She would read a play again and again, asking a myriad of questions. She would look to what the playwright had given her and make decisions and assumptions based on that. There is a video clip on YouTube from one of her classes where she is deconstructing a scene from Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. In it, she stops and analyzes every single line. I am paraphrasing Ms. Adler’s remarks, but this will give you a sense of what she did:1 Hello, Mrs. Helmer. Hello, Mr. Krogstaad.

I’ve never met people with those names. Are they German? Scandinavian? They don’t tell me anything because I have no association with those names. Someone has forgotten to close the door.

This gives me a sense of being closed in. A small, confined space. Not expansive. Cramped. In my mind, I see row houses with a stoop and steps going up to the second floor from the street. I’m still not sure where we are. But I don’t see an elevator. I don’t feel “elevator.” In essence, Ms. Adler is doing nothing different than what we do every day: using her deductive powers of reasoning to make informed decisions. Let’s say you are channel surfing and you stop in the middle of a television program that holds your attention. Since you haven’t seen it from the beginning, you start piecing things together. “So, that couple is obviously in love. Are they married or just dating? Oh, now I see they’re wearing wedding bands. I don’t think they’re newlyweds. They’re too familiar with each other. Ouch! She just criticized him in a really cold way. They are definitely not in the honeymoon phase. I wonder why she got so mad at him just because he forgot to put out the recycling bin?”

Script Analysis

You get the idea. When we analyze a script, this is exactly what we are doing. As human beings, we are constantly making decisions about people and situations based on our instincts. It is the same when we analyze a script. Let’s look at the scene from one of my plays, The Man Who Killed the Cure,2 and see how much we can learn about it. This scene is from act 1, scene 2. I have intentionally chosen a scene that is not the opening of the play. How much can you figure out just by reading this scene? Dr. Max Gerson, a man in his thirties, examines some dirt under a microscope. He is focused, driven, and idealistic. Max examines the dish of earth as a thirtysomething Rudy enters carrying an empty valise. Rudy  You haven’t started packing? Max  Rudy, you have to see this! Rudy  Max . . . Max  Just look. Picking his battles, Rudy puts down the valise and crosses to the microscope. Max is like a little boy with a new toy. Max  Tell me what you see. Rudy  I see a bunch of organisms moving away from the soil. Max  That’s because it’s one of those new, synthetic fertilizers. They can’t stand the chemicals so they move as far away from it as they can. Now, in this one, with real dirt, they stay put . . . Max reaches for another dish as Rudy stops him. Rudy You do realize we’re leaving in two hours? Gretchen, Max’s pleasant-looking wife, and Young Charlotte, Max’s daughter, enter. Gretchen  You haven’t started packing? Rudy and Gretchen exchange a look. Max returns to his microscope. Rudy  I’ll help him, Gretchen. Young Charlotte  Vati, why are you looking at dirt? Max stays focused on the microscope. Rudy takes Young Charlotte and puts her on his lap. Rudy  Because he’s trying to grow you a baby brother for your sixth birthday! Young Charlotte  That’s not how babies are born, silly!

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Rudy No? Young Charlotte  No! You cut the cabbage and the baby pops out! Rudy  Lottie, you’re getting so smart! Rudy tickles Young Charlotte. She laughs. Gretchen  Mr. Wienski called. He’ll be thirty minutes late. Rudy (to Max)  You don’t have time to see any more patients! Max  This is the last one. Rudy  What if he’s a spy for the SS? Max  He has migraines! Gretchen  Rudy has a point, liebchen. We can’t trust people the way we used to. Max  I don’t know how to act any other way. Gretchen kisses Max tenderly. Rudy  Max, you’ve got to start packing! Max  I can’t touch the office until after I see Mr. Wienski. Rudy (sighing)  I’ll start with your clothes. Max  Don’t forget my tan sweater. Rudy (sarcastically)  Yes, dear.

Exercise Based on what you have just read, how many of these questions can you answer? Even if you don’t know conclusively, do you have hunches or suppositions? Take a moment and really think about each one, rereading the scene if necessary: 1) What is the relationship between Max and Rudy? How do they feel about each other? 2) What about Max, Rudy, and Gretchen? Do Gretchen and Max have a good marriage? 3) Where and when is this taking place? How did you determine that? 4) Who has a better relationship with Young Charlotte? Rudy or her father?

Script Analysis

5) What can we determine about the personalities of each of these characters? 6) What is the mood or tone of the scene? 7) Any thoughts about why the family is packing? 8) What about the title: The Man Who Killed the Cure? Does this scene tell you anything about where the play might be going or what it is about? 9) Who might be the leading character? 10) What is the style of the play (comedy, drama, tragedy, farce?) What makes you think that? 11) Are there any other things that you know for sure? Do you have strong hunches or suppositions about the characters or the play as a whole?

Congratulations! You have just analyzed a scene. Of course, there are specific methods and devices that one can use, and we will discuss those in detail in the rest of this chapter. But when you first read a script, you are using your intellect to make suppositions and form opinions. Of course, these will change as you delve deeper into the play, but when you start, all you have to go on are your instincts. They have gotten you through this far in your life, so it’s a good idea to trust them. Before we go on, take a moment to acknowledge yourself for how much you were able to determine from this short scene. If you’d like to see how accurate you were, the answers are below. But remember, even if you didn’t get them all right, it doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that you stretched your muscles of deductive reasoning and started to make decisions. You are learning how to be your very own Sherlock Holmes when it comes to a dramatic text. You just took the first steps to earning your magnifying glass and deerstalker hat!

Answers to Exercise Questions

1) What is the relationship between Max and Rudy? How do they feel about each other? We can determine a great deal about Max and Rudy’s relationship from this scene. From the level of familiarity, we can tell that they are good friends and colleagues. They are very comfortable with each other.

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2) What about Max, Rudy, and Gretchen? Do Gretchen and Max have a good marriage? Max and Gretchen are tender with each other, yet Gretchen also gently scolds him. This would lead us to believe they have been married a long time and that they have a strong bond. 3) Where and when is this taking place? How did you determine that? Max refers to his wife as Liebchen, which is a German expression of endearment. Also, there is a reference to the fact that Max’s patient might be a spy for the SS, which tells us we are in Nazi-occupied Germany. 4) Who has a better relationship with Young Charlotte? Rudy or her father? It is clear that Young Charlotte has a better relationship with Rudy, as he is playful with her. Max doesn’t know how to relate to her and doesn’t answer her questions, but instead looks to Rudy for help. 5) What can we determine about the personalities of each of these characters? Max is so focused on his work that he can lose sight of the practicalities of life. Rudy is taking charge of the situation and sees the potential danger if they don’t act quickly, as is Gretchen. In some ways, Max acts like more of a child than his daughter, Young Charlotte. 6) What is the mood or tone of the scene? There is a great sense of urgency from everyone except Max, who is oblivious to time. 7) Any thoughts about why the family is packing? Most likely, they are running from the Nazis. 8) What about the title: The Man Who Killed the Cure? Does this scene tell you anything about where the play might be going or what it is about? Max is obsessed with his microscope, and this might imply that he is going to find a cure for something. It is unclear at this point who would “kill” it, or why. 9) Who might be the leading character? Rudy is clearly driving the scene, but Max seems to be the focal point. At this stage, it would be hard to determine between these two. 10) What is the style of the play (comedy, drama, tragedy, farce?) What makes you think that? While there are comic overtones, it seems very dramatic. The situation is very dire. 11) Are there any other things that you know for sure? Do you have strong hunches or suppositions about the characters or the play as a whole? I’ll leave you to your own devices on this one!

Script Analysis

Now that you have tried analyzing a script on your own, let’s look at some of the tools available to make it easier and a more precise art.

Definitions and Terms for Script Analysis There is a lot of terminology one uses when analyzing a script. Once you understand it, you can make informed, intelligent decisions about the play and the playwright’s choices. We will use many of these terms throughout this book. Some will be familiar to you, and some will not, so it’s important that you take the time to read this section carefully.

Narrative A narrative is a sequence of connected events, whether real or imaginary. Basically, a narrative is the same as a story. The word “narrative” comes from the Latin word narrare, which means “to tell.” Narratives can be found in all aspects of human expression, from everyday speech to performances of all types, including plays, television, movies, dances, and even in the visual arts; basically, anything that tells a story. (I’m sure you have heard the expression, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”) Let’s look at one of my favorite classical speeches. It is from the prologue to act 4 of Shakespeare’s Henry V:3 Chorus  Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch. Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umbered face; Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighs

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Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armorers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.

This is an example of a narrative. Shakespeare chose to open each act of the play with a prologue spoken by a chorus who lays out what we are about to see. Here, he creates the tense atmosphere and emotionally charged energy of the night before a battle. Because of these prologues, each act of the play is not meant to tell what happened but to show us why. (We will talk a lot more in this book about showing versus telling. After all, that is the nature of all good drama.) Of course, this is a very lofty example of a narrative. “Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet” is also one. Anything that tells a story is a narrative. For our purposes, we will refer to it more often as a story, but it’s a good place to start.

Plot The plot (often referred to as the storyline) is a series of events that occur during the course of the story (or narrative) and the way in which they are presented. The Greek philosopher Aristotle stated that plots must have a beginning, middle, and end, and that each event in the plot causes the next event to happen. All plays and stories have a plot. Sometimes, if you look at a story backward, you will see clearer examples of it. “If only X had never happened, then Y wouldn’t have to do that.” In his brilliant book on script analysis, Backwards and Forwards,4 author David Ball talks about the actions in a play being like a series of dominoes. If you look at them from a forward perspective, there are a number of different possibilities. If you look at it backward, you see how, in many cases, the choices that were made and the actions that occurred were inevitable. In Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano De Bergerac, if Cyrano hadn’t written eloquent love letters for the doltish but handsome Christian, Roxanne would not have fallen in love with him and she would not be pining away over his death in a convent, never giving Cyrano a chance to profess his feelings for her. If we look at this sequence of events going forward, we see lots of different options. If we look at it backward, the actions of the play seem inevitable; there could be no other outcome.

Script Analysis

The Protagonist When one begins analyzing a script, being able to identify the protagonist and antagonist are among the most important, primary elements. Everything else stems from this. A protagonist, quite simply, is the central character of the story (for our purposes, the play). The word originally came from the Greeks, and in Greek drama it refers to the person who led the chorus. (Of course, this is not a chorus in the modern sense with singers and dancers— although they could do that, too. In terms of Greek tragedy, the chorus was often a series of onlookers who comment on the action.) He or she is usually a character with whom the audience empathizes (or at least cheers for), whether they are rooting for that person’s success or failure. In most stories, the protagonist is obvious: James Bond, Prince Hamlet, and Cyrano De Bergerac are without a doubt the protagonists of their respective stories. But sometimes, the protagonist isn’t so obvious. In certain instances, a false protagonist is established to intentionally mislead the audience. Later, the play reveals another character to be the true protagonist. In other cases, primary characters have major roles within a play, making the true protagonist difficult to determine. So, how do we go about identifying the real protagonist?

Common Misconceptions about Protagonists People often have misconceptions about protagonists. Some common assumptions in a play are that the protagonist is the point-of-view character, the one that gets the most stage time, the first-person narrator, the hero, or whichever character gets the most attention. We often assume the character played by the most famous actor or the one with billing over the title is the protagonist. While all of these traits can be associated with them, none of them will help us identify the protagonist beyond a shadow of a doubt. Here are a few examples of plays where none of these traits are attributed to the protagonist: zz

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Thornton Wilder’s Our Town: though this character has the most lines, the first-person narrator (in this case, the Stage Manager) is not the protagonist. Lanford Wilson’s Balm in Gilead: set in a bar with multiple pointof-view characters, there is no practical way for all of them to be the protagonist.

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Shakespeare’s Macbeth: Macbeth is the protagonist, but he’s definitely not a good guy.

So, Who’s the Protagonist? While a play can have multiple protagonists, there is usually one who stands out above all the others. This is often true in an ensemble, but the strength of the protagonist can vary from scene to scene. While certain love stories or “buddy comedies” could have two protagonists, these are rare, and usually one of the characters fulfills the role of a true protagonist more than the others. Most of the time, you want to identify one character as the protagonist. So, how can we identify the true protagonist in a play? zz

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The protagonist faces the central challenge or conflict within the play. The protagonist needs or wants something (or has a goal). The antagonist’s actions are preventing the protagonist from achieving their goal. In most cases, the protagonist must make difficult choices or decisions. These choices lead to consequences, both good and bad. The protagonist has a dramatic, personal transformation as a result of the events within the play. In most cases, the essence of the play is about the protagonist. In other words, it is the protagonist’s story.

While other characters may possess these qualities, in most cases, the protagonist possesses these qualities more than any of the other characters. Most of all, the play, at its heart, is about the protagonist and their journey, whether it is actual or metaphorical.

Identifying the Protagonist Do all protagonists have the qualities outlined above? As in life, there are exceptions to every rule. Playwriting, character development, and identifying a protagonist are certainly not exact sciences. But these criteria can be used to measure each primary character’s role within a play to determine who is truly the protagonist.

Script Analysis

Exercise Have you ever found yourself wondering which character in a play or movie is the protagonist (even if you didn’t know that’s what they were called)? Have you debated with a friend about which character was the protagonist in your favorite play, book, or movie? Can you think of a story with multiple or even misleading (false) protagonists? Sit down with someone and talk about your three favorite plays or movies. (For the purposes of this exercise, it would be good to come up with ones with which you are both familiar.) Talk about each one and determine who is the protagonist and why. If you have differing opinions on a particular piece, talk it out and see if you can both come to the same answer.

The Antagonist The antagonist in a play is a character (or a group of characters) that functions in opposition to the protagonist (or main character). The term “antagonist” comes from the Greek word antagonistēs, which means “opponent,” “competitor,” or “rival.” But it might not always be this. Oftentimes, an antagonist is referred to as the villain (or “bad guy”), against whom the hero (or “good guy”) fights in order to save themselves or others. In some cases, an antagonist may exist within the protagonist that causes an inner, moral conflict or crisis of conscience. This internal conflict is a major theme of many dramatic works, such as Oedipus the King by Sophocles, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (which has had a number of stage and film adaptations), and Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Generally, an antagonist appears as a foil to the main character, embodying qualities that are in total contrast to them. (More about foils later.)

Examples of Antagonists in Theatre Example 1: Antigone (by Sophocles) A classic example of an antagonist is King Creon in Sophocles’ tragedy, Antigone. In this case, the function of the antagonist is to halt or obstruct the main character’s progress in achieving a noble act. Antigone (the protagonist) struggles against King Creon (the antagonist) in her effort to

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give her brother a proper burial. But since her brother was plotting a civil war to overthrow the kingdom, Creon doesn’t exactly think he was the greatest guy. Creon tries to stop Antigone in her attempt to bury him, proclaiming that her brother was a traitor and decreeing that he must be left out in the cold where his body will be eaten by vultures, rather than have a proper burial. This conflict between the protagonist and antagonist is the central theme of this Greek tragedy.

Example 2: Othello (by William Shakespeare) Another example of an antagonist is the character of Iago in Othello by William Shakespeare. Iago is considered one of the most notorious villains of all time, who spends the entire play plotting against Othello (the protagonist) and his wife, Desdemona. Through his dastardly actions, Iago convinces Othello that his wife has been having sex with other men, and even persuades him to kill Desdemona, despite her having been faithful to him.

The Function of the Antagonist Conflict is a basic element of any plot. To create this conflict, there must be a protagonist and an antagonist. One opposes the other in their actions, which, in turn, creates the conflict of the play. The protagonist struggles against the antagonist, which brings the plot to a climax. As the play evolves, the conflict is resolved when the antagonist is defeated or, as in many tragedies, with the downfall of the protagonist. When defining an antagonist, sometimes one needs to cut a wide swath in terms of the definition. In certain instances, it is very clear: Iago is trying to stop Othello, the conniving Compte De Guiche wants to stop Cyrano De Bergerac, and Blanche DuBois wants to stop Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire (and vice versa). But what about the title character in Sweeney Todd? Sweeney’s life and family have been destroyed by the evil Judge Turpin and he seeks revenge. When he cannot get to the judge right away, he seeks vengeance upon all of humanity by slitting the throats of the unfortunate clients who sit in his barber chair. In turn, his girlfriend, Mrs. Lovett, bakes them into meat pies to serve up to all of London. Is Sweeney insane? While he is far from an honorable character, we understand his motivation. Granted, there are far less twisted ways to achieve his goal of revenge, but we root for him (more or less), as we understand what is behind his actions. We are relieved when he gets his just desserts (so to speak) at the end of the play, but we have willingly gone for the ride because we empathize with his sense of loss and betrayal.

Script Analysis

Let’s look at another character: King Oedipus in Oedipus the King. The great king has unknowingly killed the previous king (his father) and married his mother and is now the ruler of Thebes. According to the oracle, the only way he can save his country from a terrible plague is to avenge the murder of the past king. In this case, Oedipus could be considered his own protagonist and antagonist, for he is both the result and the cause of the main conflict. Many scholars have argued that Oedipus is the protagonist and fate (or the Gods) is the antagonist. While I can see the validity of this argument, it makes the antagonist something nebulous and amorphous as opposed to something concrete. It is as if Oedipus is his own worst enemy and (in this case, he is) therefore the protagonist and the antagonist. One could argue that every character has good and bad traits and varying degrees of self-sabotage. (“I know I shouldn’t have eaten that second piece of chocolate cake, but it tasted SO good!”) Using this argument, one could say that every character is their own protagonist and antagonist. But if we are all our own worst enemy, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of dramatic conflict? It is a much stronger choice to have an opponent outside of ourselves who is trying to stop us from achieving our goals. As stated earlier, drama is based on action, and conflict is the opposition of that action.

Nonhuman Antagonists and Villains Antagonists are not always people. In the book of Genesis in the Bible, a snake tempts Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden fruit, which leads to mankind’s “original sin.” Natural disasters, such as earthquakes, thunderstorms, wildfires, plagues, famines, and asteroids are other forms of nonhuman antagonists. One cannot exactly consider an explosion or a blizzard as a villain. While a villain is always an “evil” character, not all antagonists are necessarily evil or even true villains. While the terms “villain” and “antagonist” are sometimes used interchangeably, this is not always the case. In all plays, the primary cause of the conflict is the antagonist and the way in which the antagonist tries to stop them from achieving their goal.

A Foil In dramatic literature, a foil is a character that has qualities in contrast with those of another character (usually the protagonist). The objective of the foil is to accentuate certain personality traits of the other character. A foil is often

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a secondary character who contrasts with the protagonist to enhance the main characteristics of him, her, or them. The term comes from jewelry making, where gems and precious stones are often backed with foil so they shine more brightly. Similarly, in theatre, a foil “illuminates” another character by showing us important aspects of their personality, which can be either positive or negative. In drama, a foil is an important aspect of character development. The comparison of the contrasting traits of the characters not only assists the audience in understanding their personalities; it also helps them to comprehend the importance of their roles and the differences between them. Have you ever been watching a play and found yourself wondering, “What’s bugging this guy?” or “Why doesn’t she just dump him?” In many cases, a character acting as a foil is the reason.

Examples of Foils There are many examples of foils in plays. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Laertes is a foil to Prince Hamlet. Laertes is kind, thoughtful, and methodical, while Hamlet is often impulsive, headstrong, and rash. In A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche and Stanley are total opposites. Mitch is also a foil to Stanley, because he is a man with a similar background, yet he is respectful, gentle, and kind—everything Stanley is not. In Lynn Nottage’s Intimate Apparel, the landlady Mrs. Dickson is a foil to Esther, as she has let the world make her a hardened busybody. Conversely, Esther goes about her business, keeps her head down, and never loses hope for a brighter future. Playwrights use foils to help the audience recognize and understand important qualities, characteristics, and motivations of the characters. Simply put, foils help to explain why certain characters do what they do. If an audience member asks, “What makes that character tick?” foil characters will help them find the answers. Most importantly, foils help the audience decide how they feel about the characters on a visceral level.

Exercise: Finding Foils Who are some of your favorite foils in theatre, film, or TV? Can you think of ways in which the foil illuminates the traits of his or her counterpart? Do you have any foils in your own life? Is someone you know a foil to you?

Script Analysis

The Plot The great Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy once said, “All great literature is one of two stories: a man goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town.” Of course, many plays are much more intricate, and many narratives include both plots. Some scholars break plots into three groups: man versus nature, man versus man, and man versus self. Other playwrights and storytellers have come up with more “master plots,” such as: zz zz zz zz zz zz

Forbidden Love The Underdog Succeeding Revenge Rivalry Metamorphosis Discovery

In drama, conflict is the result of two opposing desires or the presence of obstacles that need to be overcome. Conflict is always necessary to propel the play forward; the absence of conflict amounts to the absence of drama. Let’s take a closer look at these three types of conflict:

Man versus Man A scenario where two characters have opposing desires or interests. Typically, this would be between the protagonist and antagonist. In very basic terms, it is often “the good one versus the bad one.” Clearly, this is an external conflict. Most thrillers, Westerns, and mysteries have this type of conflict. Shakespeare’s Othello is also an example of man versus man. There are other conflicts, such as racism in society, but the key struggles are between Othello and his best friend and confidant, Iago. He is upset with Othello for two main reasons: Othello has promoted another man instead of him, and Iago believes that Othello has slept with his wife, Emilia. He sets up situations in which Othello confronts tremendous obstacles. Since Iago wants to destroy Othello at all costs, he and Othello are at odds with their desires. The unsuspecting Othello remains unaware that he and Iago are in opposition to one another until it is too late, mistakenly thinking that he is against his wife Desdemona and her lover (who doesn’t really exist).

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Man versus Nature This is a scenario where a character is tormented by natural forces such as storms or animals. Clearly, this is an external conflict. While this sort of conflict might be more prevalent in films (think disaster stories), it also occurs in plays like Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, set during the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s. King Lear raging against the storm or the shipwreck in The Tempest are other examples. The musical Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine is a clear example of man versus nature. In this reinterpretation of many classic fairy tales, the characters must go deep into the forest and overcome the obstacles there to achieve their desires, including wolves, giants, and witches. As in many “Man versus Nature” stories, the woods themselves take on a persona and become another character with distinct personality traits. Another example of this would be the sea plays of Eugene O’Neill, where the characters refer to “that ol’ devil sea”5 as they talk of shipwrecks and people being drowned. The sea and the woods are impersonal entities. Here, they are adversaries with which the characters must do battle.

Man versus Self This conflict develops as a result of a protagonist’s inner struggle. Sometimes, it is about a character grappling with good and evil. In other instances, they are battling with self-doubt. This conflict can be both internal and external, as obstacles outside the protagonist force them to deal with their inner demons. William Shakespeare’s Hamlet is a prime example. Another example would be Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. This is a tragedy in the sense that the main characters are all hiding from the truth. Willy Loman (the title role and patriarch) is a salesman who has worked like a dog his entire life to support his family. He and his wife Linda are under the misperception that he is well-liked and successful within his company. In reality, they view him as a dinosaur and cannot wait to get rid of him. When Willy needles his boss for a promotion, he is fired. While there are external conflicts as to how he is treated, the main dispute is between Willy and his false ideas of who he thinks he is. As the title predicts, Willy cannot overcome his conflict with himself and commits suicide, believing that this is the only way he can lift the burden for his family. Other scholars and critics have further identified more types of conflict, such as the following:

Script Analysis

Man versus Machine This is a more contemporary type of conflict, resulting from humans involved in an external struggle with machines. Think of the famous episode of I Love Lucy in the candy factory where the conveyor belt full of chocolates starts going faster and faster. The Terminator series is an example of this type of conflict as is Frankenstein (which has been adapted for the stage several times) and films like 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Man versus Society In this type of conflict, a character must take on the whole of society as opposed to a single person. A character (usually some kind of outsider) is at odds with the community at large and expresses the need to buck convention and defy the status quo. This is an external conflict. Some examples from the world of theatre are Dürrenmatt’s The Visit or more recently, the musicals Footloose and Kinky Boots.

Man versus Fate This scenario is a result of someone working against what has been foretold for that person. While this conflict is more prevalent in stories where Gods control fate (such as Greek tragedies like Agamemnon), there are still examples of this type of conflict in more contemporary drama, such as the musical, Something Rotten!

Disrupting the Status Quo One of the primary elements in drama is a sense of disrupting the status quo. There is a normal pattern of events for the given world, then something happens to alter this. We then go through a conflict and a resolution, returning to a new normal. While there are many examples of this, one of the most straightforward ones is in William Inge’s play, Picnic. Everyone is getting ready for the annual Labor Day picnic in a sleepy, American, Midwestern town. A young drifter comes along and sweeps the prettiest girl off her feet and runs off with her. Once they have left, the town goes back to normal, though for some (especially the girl’s family and fiancée) it is a new normal. Some scholars refer to this as stasis and intrusion, which is followed by a new stasis.

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The Importance of Conflict in Drama As stated earlier, all drama requires conflict. Most plays show a progression from the beginning to the end, displaying the journey (for better or worse) of the main character. The majority of this character’s transformation happens because of conflict. Conflict challenges a character and brings out their best and worst qualities, just as it does in real life. Conflict in a character is not necessarily a bad thing. Good or bad, it always presents challenges for the protagonist. Most plays contain more than one conflict (often referred to as the “subplot” or “B” story in film and television). Still, there is one prevalent conflict throughout the entire play.

Exposition In dramatic literature, exposition explains what is happening (or what has already happened) in a very matter-of-fact way. The word “exposition” comes from the Latin word expositionem, meaning “a setting or showing forth.” Exposition may present background information of the plot or the characters. It can also explain specific details about the setting, give a sense of the historical or familial context, or whatever information the audience needs to understand and contextualize the story. Playwrights are often instructed to keep exposition to a minimum so as not to overwhelm the audience, or at least to include exposition in a clever way that still keeps the action moving. (When I teach playwriting, I often say to my students, “That line is too ‘expositioney.’” This made-up word is used to convey information being stated in a clunky or obvious way.) We will talk more about how to artfully dole out exposition in the playwriting chapter.

Freytag’s Pyramid and the Dramatic Arc Many well-known playwrights, authors, and scholars have written about how plots work in dramatic literature. The most common understanding of plot—which will also help you understand script analysis—is that of a pyramid, as originally theorized by the German writer, Gustav Freytag. He was a popular playwright and romance novelist in the mid-1800s. As with any great artist, he had some hits and some flops. As Freytag was also a bit

Script Analysis

of a math geek, he tried to find a formula for a successful play. (He probably also did this so he’d stop writing flops.)

Chart: Freytag’s Pyramid

Freytag’s Pyramid is more often referred to as the dramatic arc of a story. It is important to note that Freytag’s analytic system applies to classical drama. Most modern drama contains each of these five parts, though perhaps they might contain more than one climax. The following is a description of each element.

Exposition As stated previously, exposition introduces the audience to the story by giving information about the setting, characters, and a general sense of the events to come. This would also be what we described earlier as establishing the world and the status quo.

Inciting Incident The exposition ends with the inciting incident, which is the one incident without which there would be no story. This is the moment that sets the rest of the story in motion: the body is discovered, the handsome stranger comes into town, or the cause of plague is revealed.

Rising Action The rising action is a series of events in a play which occur after the exposition and lead to the climax of the story. In most cases, rising action is responsible

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for the majority of the plot, as the playwright must include all necessary events and information in order for the rest of the play to pay off for the audience. Other examples can be found in stories, speeches, and jokes. Most of the material leading up to the most exciting, climactic part of a speech could be considered rising action. A joke leading up to the punch line is also an example of rising action.

Significance of Rising Action in Drama All plays and musicals contain rising action. After the audience is introduced to the characters and the main conflict (as well as what’s at stake for the protagonist), the playwright (or composer and librettist) shows us events in which the characters try to solve the conflict and interact with each other. This is a natural part of dramatic structure. If we learned of the end of the story first, what would be the point in staying to see the play? The rising action is what makes us care what happens and want to stay until the final curtain.

An Example of Rising Action Romeo  Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

In this passage from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet6 we see the moment in which Romeo first spies Juliet. This is a strong example of rising action, as it sets into motion their sacred and profane love which, in turn, leads to their untimely deaths. Rising action is usually a series of events, with one action

Script Analysis

triggering the next. Like in the diagram, it is not unlike climbing up a hill. A bunch of smaller events move the action forward to reach the summit of action, otherwise known as the climax.

The Climax In dramatic terms, the climax of a play occurs when there is a turning point from which there is no going back. The climax is the point of highest tension in a drama. It is also sometimes referred to as the “all is lost” moment. In a tragedy, the climax is often the point where the protagonist’s greatest weakness is exposed, and the situation quickly deteriorates. In a comedy, events may have been bad for the protagonist up until the climax, but their true purpose is suddenly revealed, leading to the “and they all lived happily ever after” moment. The word “climax” comes from the Greek word klimax, which means “a staircase” or “a ladder.” Let’s look at the original meaning of the word along with the current definition. A staircase or ladder suggests upward movement. Therefore, the climax in a piece of theatre is the highest point of tension, to which all the action is building and from which the conclusion descends. All drama must contain conflict (which is caused by a series of actions), and in order to resolve this conflict, there must be a series of events that decides the fates of the characters. Without a climax, the audience would be frustrated to have invested so much time and attention without some sort of payoff. Imagine going to a casino and spending hours at the roulette table then walking away empty handed. Such is a play without a climax. The climax may be an event that the audience is waiting for; a fight has to happen or an inevitable meeting occurs between the protagonist and antagonist. In some cases, the climax also may be an unexpected turn of events after which nothing is the same.

An Example of Climax in Drama Hamlet  Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you. Gertrude  What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help ho!

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Polonius (Behind)  What ho! Help, help, help! Hamlet (Draws)  How now, a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead. Hamlet kills Polonius.

There is some debate over the climax in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.7 While the moment where Hamlet stabs Polonius from behind the curtain is clearly one of the highest points of action, some argue that the real climax of the play is Claudius’ reaction to the play within the play, as that is where Hamlet becomes certain that his uncle murdered the king. All of the events in the play have been leading to this moment. After the climax, nothing is the same for the characters. When analyzing a script, some of my students have seen a section of dialogue where two characters are shouting at each other (often emphasized in the text by ALL CAPITAL LETTERS AND LOTS OF EXCLAMATION POINTS!!), and they immediately assume this must be the climax. Well, sometimes yes, and sometimes no. Keep in mind that for a published play, punctuation is often inserted by the stage manager in rehearsal or by an editor at the time of publication. It can add significant meaning to the script—or not. To know what defines the point of highest action, you really need to know the story. It could be something big and dramatic or something small and subtle. When Christian is killed in battle in Cyrano De Bergerac, his friend Cyrano promises to keep his secret (that Cyrano actually wrote the love letters to his beloved Roxanne) to the grave. Obviously, this is a big, dramatic moment. In Lynn Nottage’s Intimate Apparel, when Esther gives the quilt with her life savings sewn into the lining to her philandering husband out of a sense of loyalty, we see her dreams vanish. It is a devastating moment created by a very simple action which creates strong, dramatic tension and compassion from the audience. We have seen how much she has sacrificed, so the simple action of a woman handing a blanket to her husband sends a shiver down our spines.

Falling Action The falling action often contains some final moments of excitement or suspense. Perhaps a subplot is resolved. Usually, the falling action takes up only a short amount of time. It is what happens after the conflict (or point of highest action) and is often akin to a snowball rolling down a hill.

Script Analysis

One could also think of it as the descent down the dramatic mountain. The actions have all been set in place, the conflict has played itself out, and now we are watching the results of the actions that have been set up by the rest of the play.

Resolution The resolution is the part of the story where a character solves the main problem, for better or worse. The conclusion to the main action of the play occurs in this part. One could say it is where all that was hidden is now revealed. The murder is solved, the lovers kiss, or the brothers are reunited. This is where the main issues are resolved.

Denouement This is the final aspect of a work of dramatic literature. The denouement (pronounced “day noo mahnt”) occurs just after the resolution and is the point at which there is a sense of closure for any remaining, minor conflicts within the script. The word comes from the French word desnouer, meaning “to untie” (originally from nodus, the Latin word for knot). In many ways, the denouement is the untying of all the knots created during a group of dramatic events. All of the loose ends of the plot are tied up in this last scene. Often, secrets are revealed, “aha” moments are realized, and there may be a sense of a cleansing or purging for the audience. It is also a return to the status quo for most of the characters, though there may be a “new normal” based on the actions of the play and what has been revealed. In a comedy, the characters end up happier than they were at the beginning, while in tragedies or dramas, the characters often end up worse off, sometimes with one or more of them winding up dead.

Significance of Denouement in Drama Most works of theatre include a denouement as a way of wrapping up the story and providing a conclusion. While many plays are much more complex than this five-part model, Freytag’s Pyramid is useful for understanding the development and resolution of conflict, which is necessary in all plays. Here is an example of a denouement, from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet:8

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Prince  A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things: Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

This is a denouement from a tragedy. The climax of the play is the scene where the two “star cross’d lovers” commit suicide. Afterward, everyone rushes in to see what has happened and find them dead. The prince ends the play by giving a brief eulogy for the two, which leads to the new normal of the Montagues and Capulets putting an end to their longtime feud. Here is an example from a comedy: Gwendolen  Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could have no other name! Jack  Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me? Gwendolen  I can. For I feel that you are sure to change. Jack  My own one! Rev. Chasuble  (To Miss Prism) Letitia! (Embraces her) Miss Prism  (Enthusiastically) Frederick! At last! Algernon  Cecily! (Embraces her.) At last! Jack  Gwendolen! (Embraces her.) At last! Lady Bracknell  My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality. Jack  On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realized for the first time in my life the vital importance of being Earnest.

The devilish character of Jack in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest9 addresses Lady Bracknell in this final moment, as the happy couples have all been reunited. They embrace each other with a mirthful expression of “At last!” and we know wedding bells will soon be chiming for one and all. These are all important elements of the structure of a play. There are many wonderful comments from award-winning theatre writers in the “On Structure” section of the chapter titled “The Interviews.” My mother used to

Script Analysis

say, “Steal from the best. I would have stolen the fillings out of my grandmother’s teeth if it would have helped make my onstage performance better.” While this is a little over-the-top, I hope you find things you can steal in The Interviews section or, for that matter, in any other part of this book.

A Crash Course in Aristotle’s Poetics One of the chief components of Western drama is Aristotle’s Poetics.10 Aristotle is considered the first theorist of theatre, so his Poetics is the origin and basis of all subsequent script analysis and theatre criticism. It was written in the fourth century, sometime after 335 BC. The important thing to remember is that when Aristotle was writing his Poetics, Greek theatre was already past its prime, and he was writing more than 100 years after the golden age of Greek tragedy. In that regard, it’s like a contemporary critic writing about the plays of Henrik Ibsen or Oscar Wilde. The playwrights are already long dead, but their plays have survived. Aristotle himself wasn’t so lucky with his lectures on comedy. Only his lectures on tragedy still exist. Here are some notes illustrating the key points of Aristotle’s Poetics, considered the first great work of literary criticism in the Western world. In a nutshell, he says, “Tragedy imitates the actions of the best people in society, while comedy imitates the behavior of the worst kinds of people in society.” Not unlike Freytag and his pyramid, Aristotle’s Poetics is really an attempt to analyze the features that make some tragedies more successful than others. Aristotle was very concerned with what an audience member learned by watching a play. Aristotle’s definition of tragedy can be summed up as “An imitation of an action which has serious and far-reaching consequences.” In other words, there is nothing trivial, for that is the purview of comedy. Comedy is inconsequential. For this reason, tragedy must deal with the lives of great men and women because only their actions will be of consequence to the larger community. Today, we place a great deal more value on the individual, but to the ancient Greeks, individuality was seen as a negative thing; they believed it would lead to the breakdown of the fabric of society. To the ancient Greeks, it was all about being a good citizen by supporting your leaders and doing as you were told. Everything was for the good of the community.

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Aristotle divides the soul of tragedy into six parts, ranking them in order from most important to least important: (1) plot, (2) character, (3) thought, (4) diction, (5) melody, and (6) spectacle. The first essential element to creating a good tragedy is that it should maintain unity of plot. Since Aristotle was the first theorist of drama, his Poetics is the origin and basis of all subsequent theatre criticism.

Plot and Character Plot is the most important element of tragedy. A tragedy should have only one plot and all of its action should relate to this plot. Aristotle discusses painting to demonstrate how plot is more important than character. “It is much the same case as with painting. The most beautiful pigments smeared on at random will not give as much pleasure as a black-and-white outline picture.” According to Aristotle, character is second to plot in terms of importance. Tragedy is the “imitation of an action” performed primarily for the sake of the action itself, not because of any interest in the psychology of character. What Aristotle is essentially saying is that the actions of the character influence the character. Therefore, action (or plot) comes first because it defines the character.

Aristotle on Character According to Aristotle, a character’s aims must be good; they must be appropriate; there should be a likeness to human nature in general. They should be consistent. Even if the person being imitated is inconsistent, Aristotle says, he must be inconsistent in a consistent fashion. In other words, if a character is mad and behaves like a crazy person, that’s fine, but he can’t be a raving lunatic in one scene and sane in the next. Also, in terms of consistency, doctors cannot be afraid of blood and old people must be wise. Of course, the protagonist is the main character. Their actions are most significant to the plot. (Remember, according to Aristotle, plot is primary over character. As we will see later on, not all dramatists adhere to this belief.) All of the protagonist’s actions must lean toward the good, except for one: the hero’s hamartia or tragic flaw. In fact, that is the element that screws everything up for our hero (or heroine, although there were only a few of those in the plays of the ancient Greeks).

Script Analysis

The unities of time, place, and action were of central importance to Aristotle. This meant all stories had to take place within roughly twenty-four hours, in one location, and with no subplots. All actions had to be interconnected. Tragedy represents a complete action with a clear beginning, middle, and end. The protagonist’s tragic flaw (hamartia) is the only imperfection that exists within them. From a writer’s viewpoint, the audience should be motivated to empathize or identify with the protagonist because the main function of tragedy is to excite pity and fear in the audience. These feelings will only be provoked if the protagonist’s fortunes go from good to bad. A change in fortune (usually for the worse) should come about due to the protagonist’s tragic flaw. In many cases, this flaw is hubris—having too much pride. The change needs to be logical and intentional, and it must be motivated by the actions of the protagonist. Oedipus the King is Aristotle’s example of a great tragedy. It’s arguably one of a handful of the most influential literary texts ever written, along with Hamlet and certain passages from the Bible. And yet, to give you an idea of how much great Greek drama has not survived through the ages, Oedipus the King only came in second at that year’s Festival of Dionysus. First prize went to a lost play by the nephew of Aeschylus. Oedipus the King is bound up with the idea of fate. It’s beyond Oedipus’ control that he will kill his father and marry his mother. This has already been decreed by the Gods. This makes it a bit unfair to describe his “tragic flaw” as his own fault. In a sense, this intensifies the amount of sympathy the audience has for Oedipus, since what happens comes about because of fate. However, it’s possible to argue that Oedipus’ tragic flaw is his pride. This is what has led him to kill his father without realizing the identity of the man. This results in his mother, Jocasta, being widowed and free to remarry. It is the moment of his reversal of fortune, which leads Oedipus to recognize his tragic flaw; it comes about when he discovers he killed his father, leading to him unknowingly marrying his mother. This is what causes his downfall. In other words, one could say his hamartia is his hubris. Following this reversal of fortune, we have the reparation, where the character suffers for his mistake. In Oedipus the King, Oedipus blinds himself and is shunned by the state; in her shame and disgrace, Jocasta hangs herself. Greek tragedies had to end on a note of balance. The social order had to be restored. Obviously, this isn’t the happiest of endings. So, what’s the aim of tragedy, according to Aristotle? To teach you how to be a better person. Because the

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spectator empathizes with the protagonist, he will be led to recognize his own tragic flaw, whatever that may be. (Sorry, ladies. Only men were allowed to view these plays. While there were a handful of powerful female characters in Greek drama—like Antigone and Medea, as well as Lysistrata in the comedies, the women had to stay at home and prepare the post-festival feast.) The spectator will want to discover his tragic flaw so that he does not have the same fate as the fallen hero. Aristotle’s term for this is “catharsis.” The audience member should be purged of undesirable elements that lead to unhappiness. There can be no reason for an individual to go against the laws of the state. And yet, the spectator can still empathize with the hero. We pity Oedipus’ fate because he is basically a good man. He has many heroic qualities, and he is essentially a good leader. This makes his downfall all the more tragic. This is also emphasized by his role in society; since he is the king, his actions have major societal implications.

Catharsis When used in dramatic terms, catharsis is the release of emotions such as pity, sadness, and fear through witnessing tragedy. Catharsis involves the purging of “dark” emotions to lead to internal restoration and renewal. The word “catharsis” comes from the Greek word katharsis, which means “purification” or “cleansing.” Catharsis was first linked to drama (especially to tragedy) by Aristotle. He created the definition based on the medical use of purgative drugs or herbs which cleansed the body and used this metaphor for the drama to cleanse the emotions and the mind. Aristotle’s theory was that by viewing tragedy, people learned to display emotions at a proper amount and lessen excessive outbursts of emotion in daily life. As stated earlier, since the most important aspect of life in ancient Greece was being a good citizen, catharsis helped one to have a clear head (and thus, remember to vote and pay your taxes) by purging negative emotions. There are two ways in which catharsis is significant in drama. The first is the classical definition of catharsis in which watching a tragedy allows the audience to experience intense emotions in an indirect way and feel a cleansing or purging. In other words, it’s as if you saw Hamlet and thought, “Poor Hamlet! No one seems to care that he lost his father. I remember when my dog died, and people told me to ‘buck up’ because it was just a stupid animal. I can relate to what he must have been feeling.” Thus, the audience members empathize with what the character is experiencing.

Script Analysis

The second form of catharsis is when the audience relates to the character from a space once removed. It’s as if their emotional response is, “That Hamlet is such a sucker! I’m never going to let that happen to me!” This is another form of purging or emotional clarity. In either case, catharsis asks the reader to identify strongly with the main character(s) and experience those strong emotions at a safe distance. A playwright also may choose to show a character going through a cathartic event of his or her own. (A good example is Linda Lohman’s final speech at the end of Death of a Salesman, arguably one of the greatest modern-day tragedies, based on the format of the Greeks.) When a dramatic character goes through catharsis, we may expect that character to act differently afterward or experience an intellectual clarifying.

Common Examples of Catharsis We often experience catharsis in our daily lives. For example, if you ever go to a movie, see a play, or watch a television show that you know is going to make you cry, and you watch it for that express reason, this is catharsis. Here are some other common examples: zz

zz

zz

When a relationship ends, one person might choose to “purge” the former partner out of their life. For instance, they may tear photos in half and give away shared objects. When a loved one dies, the family might scatter the ashes together to feel a rebirth of the spirit. When a significant life transition occurs, such as graduating from college or getting married, there is a ceremony that encourages strong emotions so that they may be released. (Have you heard the expression, “I love to cry at weddings?”) Usually, one has anticipated this day for many years, and along with the ceremony where one experiences a sense of catharsis, there is also a sense of celebration.

Deus Ex Machina Deus Ex Machina is a Greek term literally meaning “God in the Machine.” At the end of a Greek tragedy, when everything has become an irreconcilable mess, an actor representing one of the Gods would be lowered onto the stage on a pulley and would magically clean up the mess through divine intervention. This also happens in Shakespeare’s comedy, As You Like It,

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when Hymen, the Roman god of marriage, appears during the final act to “fix” the romantic entanglements of the main characters. Modern examples would be when Lois Lane (or another heroine of your choice) is pushed off the building and Superman (or Batman, or Spider-Man) swoops by and catches her before she falls to her death. Or, in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, when a giant fanged snake is after Harry, it seems like an “all is lost” moment until a magical phoenix flies into the chamber, dropping the Sorting Hat in front of Harry. Inside Harry finds the sword of Gryffindor, which he uses to kill the snake. The phoenix’s tears even heal Harry’s wounds. Many consider this moment to be a Deus Ex Machina.

Script Analysis Exercises Let’s put all of these skills and terms into practice. There are a number of great script analysis worksheets available online, but this one is pretty allinclusive. I’ll show you the example, then we’ll answer the questions.



Script Analysis Worksheet Your Name: Name of Play: Playwright: I. Characters (describe): A. Protagonist B. Antagonist C. Other major characters D. Secondary or minor characters (list name and what they do in the play, who they are) II. Exposition (all the information needed to get the audience “set up” for the story) A. Time B. Place C. Preliminary situation

Script Analysis

III. Plot (which follows the preliminary action) A. Inciting Incident: How does the plight of the main characters begin? B. Main conflict C. Rising action (summary) D. Climax (turning point) E. Falling action (summary) F. Denouement (Resolution or final outcome for each major character) G. How do the characters’ lives change throughout the story? What is their plight at the end of the play? IV. Theme of Play A. What was the main idea or theme of the play and what does it say about the time in which it was set? B. Meaning of the Title: what is the core meaning, or what is the play saying? Often an idea is expressed through a feeling. What lies subliminally beneath the feeling? C. Philosophical statements in the play: cite actual quotations found in the script. Pinpoint the line(s) that makes direct reference to your interpretation of its meaning. D. Implications of the action: what personal and societal changes do the characters deal with and how does this affect the main idea of the play? E. Consider each scene: determine the purpose of each scene in the play. What idea is it trying to convey? How does it help the overall idea? V. Personal Reaction A. Did you like the play? Why or why not? Would you recommend it to others? B. What actors in Hollywood might be suitable to play the characters from this play on the big screen? VI. Mood A. What is the mood of the play? B. What is the mood of the beginning compared to the end?

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Take a moment to really study these questions. Then apply them to this scene from my play, The Last Lifeboat: Background Information: J. Bruce Ismay is the owner of the White Star Shipping Line. He is responsible for building the Titanic, which has recently sunk, causing the biggest maritime disaster in history. This is towards the middle of the first act, where Ismay is reflecting on his life and what could have gone so horribly wrong. In previous scenes of his childhood, we have seen his father, Thomas Ismay, berate him and tell him he will never amount to anything. The scene takes place in Liverpool, England in 1899 in Thomas Ismay’s bedroom as he is dying. Young Ismay (now 37) has come to say goodbye to his father. His wife, Florence, waits in the parlor.11 Thomas Ismay lies there, pale, frail, and on the verge of death. Ismay enters and kneels beside him. Ismay  How do you feel, father? Thomas Ismay  Ripping. I think I’ll swim the channel. How do you think I feel, you idiot? Ismay adjusts the pillow behind his father’s head. Ismay  At least you haven’t lost your fight. Thomas Ismay  I’ve got something for you. It’s in the bottom drawer. Ismay reaches into the dresser and takes out an ornate, wooden box. It contains an elaborate, pearl handled pistol. Thomas Ismay  My father’s handmade pistol. A Bulldog Webley. It’s all I have left of him. Mind you don’t ever have to use it. Ismay  It’s beautiful, father. He closes the box. Thomas Ismay’s breathing gets heavier and more labored. Thomas Ismay  Keep it away from the children. You know I’m leaving you the company. Ismay  Really? To me? Thomas Ismay  Did you think I’d leave it to the sausage vendor? Ismay  Thank you, Father. Thomas Ismay  It’s not a set of hoops to roll about. Be sure you do something with it. Ismay  I will, father. I’ll make you proud.

Script Analysis

Thomas Ismay How? Ismay thinks a moment. Ismay  I shall build the biggest, grandest, most luxurious steamship the world has ever seen. Thomas Ismay  Now, that would make me proud. Ismay  I shall do it, father. All I ever wanted was to make you happy. Thomas Ismay (smiling)  Well, we can’t have everything, can we? The old man’s breathing gets even more labored. Thomas Ismay  Take care of that pretty little thing you married. She loves you terribly. He sits up and starts coughing heavily. Ismay holds him. His breath gets more shallow until it stops. Realizing he has passed, Ismay gently places his father down on the bed and closes his eyes. Florence enters. Florence  It’s over, then? Ismay nods. Florence  Are you alright? Ismay forces a smile. Ismay  I’ll be with you in a moment. Florence exits. Ismay stands downstage of the bed, isolated in a pool of light. He holds the box containing the pistol very tightly, as if he were hugging his father. He starts to well up with emotion, but stifles it. He clutches the box even more tightly.

Let’s answer the questions on the worksheet, using this scene:

Completed Script Analysis Worksheet Your Name: Jane Q. Public Name of Play: The Last Lifeboat (Titles ALWAYS go in italics or quotes) Playwright: Luke Yankee

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I. Characters (describe): A. Protagonist: Because the scene is about Ismay and his relationship with his father, Thomas Ismay, J. Bruce Ismay is the protagonist. B. Antagonist: Since this is a two-person scene, Thomas Ismay is the antagonist, because he is opposing Bruce Ismay, who is clearly trying to make peace with his father before he dies. C. Other major characters: None in this scene D. Secondary or minor characters (list name and what they do in the play, who they are): Florence (Ismay’s wife). II. Exposition (All the information needed to get the audience “set up” for the story). (We don’t know this from the scene, but from the background information. If we had read the play up until this point, this information would have been revealed.) A. Time: 1899 B. Place: Liverpool, England C. Preliminary Situation: The Titanic has recently sunk, and J. Bruce Ismay is reflecting on his life and how he got to this point. III. Plot (which follows the preliminary action. We will answer this based on the scene) A. Inciting Incident: How does the plight of the main characters begin? Ismay is saying goodbye to his father, who is on his deathbed. B. Main conflict: Ismay wants to have a final, tender moment with his dying father, who is incapable of tenderness. C. Rising Action (summary): Thomas Ismay gives his son the handmade pistol. (This is the rising action because it implies that it might lead to the words of kindness the younger Ismay craves.) D. Climax (turning point): Thomas Ismay dies in his son’s arms. (This is the highest point of action.)

Script Analysis

E. Falling Action (summary): Florence enters and asks if Thomas is dead. Ismay confirms this. F. Denouement (Resolution or final outcome for each major character): Thomas Ismay is dead. Florence leaves Ismay alone to have his moment of grief. Ismay hugs the box containing the pistol tightly to his chest as if he were hugging his father (something we imply he could never do in life). G. How do the characters’ lives change throughout the story? What is their plight at the end of the play? This would be more complex in a full play, but in this scene, Ismay has vowed to his father that he will make him proud by building “the biggest, grandest ship the world has ever seen.” Thomas Ismay has died without expressing his love to his son in any direct way. IV. Theme of Play A. What was the main idea or theme of the play and what does it say about the time in which it was set? One could look at this from several vantage points. One could see the theme as “Life is short, make every minute count,” or “Don’t hold back your feelings,” or some combination therein. B. Meaning of the Title: what is the core meaning, or what is the play saying? Often an idea is expressed through a feeling. What lies subliminally beneath the feeling? At this point in the play, one can only speculate about the title (which is actually referring to the last lifeboat on the Titanic), but even without any context, it implies a sense of urgency and finality. C. Philosophical statements in the play: cite actual quotations found in the script. Pinpoint the line(s) that makes direct reference to your interpretation of its meaning. To call some of the statements in this particular scene “philosophical statements” is a bit of a stretch, but there are lines which contain hidden or subliminal meaning. When Thomas Ismay says, “Take care of that pretty little thing you married. She loves you

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terribly,” this is the closest he can come to telling his son that he loves him. Conversely, when Ismay says to his father, “All I ever wanted was to make you happy,” Thomas Ismay replies, “Well, we can’t have everything, can we?” This clearly implies the father sees his son as a total disappointment. When Ismay says, “I shall build the biggest, grandest, most luxurious steamship the world has ever seen,” even at this point in the play, we know he is referring to building the Titanic. In this context, we know that his motivation to build the ship was to finally make his father proud, even in death. That simple line is actually a chilling moment since we all know the tragic outcome. D. Implications of the action: what personal and societal changes do the characters deal with and how does this affect the main idea of the play? In this scene, Ismay is told he will take over his father’s company, the White Star Line (a famous ship building company). Thomas Ismay dies, which releases him from his physical pain and metaphorically releases Bruce Ismay, who has been belittled and put down by his cold, Victorian father all his life. E. Consider each scene: determine the purpose of each scene in the play. What idea is it trying to convey? How does it help the overall idea? Since we only have one scene to consider here, this would be different when we are examining the whole play. But this scene sets up the fact that one of the driving forces in J. Bruce Ismay’s life is to please his father; even after he is dead, it is still a goal that propels him into action. V. Personal Reaction A. Did you like the play? Why or why not? Would you recommend it to others? Of course, this is a matter of personal taste, but it is a good barometer and a valuable question to ask yourself.

Script Analysis

B. What actors in Hollywood might be suitable to play the characters from this play on the big screen? This is a fun question to explore. It also requires you to play casting director. Who would you cast as the mean, hard-hearted, Thomas Ismay? His son, a thirtysomething Bruce? Florence? VI. Mood A. What is the mood of the play? The mood (or tone) of the play is somber and serious. It is also a memory play. B. What is the mood of the beginning compared to the end? The mood (or tone) is tense at the beginning of the scene, as Thomas Ismay is dying. There is a sense of relief once he is dead, as well as mourning what might have been.

Let’s Discuss! This is one of the primary methods of script analysis. Of course, the next (and, in many ways, the best part) is up to you. As we have seen, this is far from an exact science. It is open to interpretation and often based on one’s own life experiences. It is what you as the audience member (or reader) bring to the table as much as what the playwright brings. While the playwright provides the context, in many cases, you provide the meaning. Like all aspects of theatre, script analysis is in many ways a collaborative art form. Perhaps it is not as much as other aspects of theatre, as you are interpreting an existing script based on the writer’s intentions. One of my favorite parts of teaching script analysis is the discussions with the students; to see how they chose to construe a line of dialogue as opposed to the way I did. Sometimes, it is fairly cut and dried. Sometimes, it isn’t. When a director imposes a unique style on a play, it is usually because of how they have chosen to analyze the text and the themes within it. One often sees this with the classics, especially Shakespeare. There have been several productions of Romeo and Juliet set during the American Civil War, complete

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with hoop skirts for the ladies and Confederate uniforms for the men. Since this emphasizes the theme of warring families, it is a choice that is usually successful. Conversely, there was a production of the Bard’s historical drama Henry V which tried to emphasize the theme, “War is a game.” The costumes were all based on twentieth-century American hockey and football uniforms. It was a disaster. Directors, designers, and actors must be very careful not to impose something on the script that is not what the playwright intended. If one makes choices that support the text, the results can be very successful. If one takes an obscure reference and magnifies or exploits it, you may find yourself like Gustav Freytag trying to figure out what made one play a hit and the other a turkey. There is a great deal of terminology in this section, but hopefully, you now have the groundwork on which to build your theatrical house. We will refer to many of these terms in the other sections of this book. Congratulations! You now have a strong foundation in the art of writing for the theatre.

Exercises 1) Try doing an analysis of your favorite play, musical or film. Can you identify the protagonist, antagonist, rising action, climax, falling action, and denouement? Is it simple and straightforward or is there room for debate in any of these areas? 2) Think of the titles of some of your favorite plays or musicals. What is the significance of the title? Do you feel that title truly supports the theme of the play? 3) Is there a play, film, or television program that always makes you cry? How could this be an example of catharsis? Is it the type of catharsis where you feel empathy for the characters or where you think, “I’ll never let that happen to me?” Or could it be both? 4) Can you think of any contemporary examples of Deus Ex Machina—where a character (usually an authority figure) comes in at the end of a play or movie and cleans everything up? 5) Think of a few of your favorite dramatic characters. Who are their foils within the play?

Script Analysis

6) Find a full-length play or musical online. Watch the first five minutes, then pause it. How much can you determine from the exposition? In the same way we did at the start of this chapter, see how many questions you can answer about the characters, the situation, and the relationships. In other words, how well can you analyze it? Watch a bit more (or even the entire first act) and see how accurate you were.

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2 Playwriting

Chapter Outline The Elements of Playwriting 43 What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean? 54 The Significance of Exposition 56 The Good Title Test 57 The Mechanics of Writing a Play 58 How Do You Start? 68 How to Write a Ten-Minute Play 70 Other Play Formats 73 Conclusion75 Exercises75

Stage talk isn’t actually real, but it sounds real. It’s something slightly larger than real talk in size and quality, which, if delivered well by an actor, will shrink slightly on its way out to the audience and then strike them as perfectly natural once they hear it. —Marsha Norman, playwright

The Elements of Playwriting We have been spending a great deal of time talking about plays. A logical next question would be, “How do you write one?” I am so glad you asked! A play has a form unto itself which is unique from a feature film, a television series, or a novel. (When I say “plays” in this case, I am referring to musicals as

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well.) It takes a while to master the formula, but once you do, the possibilities of what you can create are limitless.

“And Then What Happens?” A play is a series of actions, some of which go against one another. If we string together enough actions, spice things up with some conflict, and toss in a few subplots, we have a play. As we discussed in the chapter on script analysis, drama is based on a protagonist who wants something, an antagonist who does not want that person to have it, and the nature of the conflict between them. Will they get it, or won’t they? This is the nature of drama. To use a very simplistic example, let’s say John meets Mary for coffee. They hit it off and next week they go to dinner. As things progress, John asks Mary to go to his high school reunion, where they meet Sarah, who has had suppressed romantic feelings for John for years. When Sarah sees Mary with John at the buffet table, she goes wild. Sarah hurls a glass of sangria at Mary and completely ruins her white blouse. Mary is so incensed, she picks up an ice sculpture and lunges at Sarah, but John intervenes, gets knocked in the head, and passes out cold in the middle of a tray of shrimp cocktail. Another guest mistakes the cocktail sauce for blood and calls the police, and the two women are arrested. What this rather silly scenario demonstrates is that in all drama, action must lead to conflict. If John and Mary had a happy relationship with no bumps or interference, not only would it not be a real relationship, it also wouldn’t be dramatically exciting because there would be no conflict. We need the introduction of Sarah, our antagonist, to create some dramatic tension, thus moving the plot forward.

“When Do We Get To Go Home?” Marsha Norman, the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright of ’Night Mother, said, “Within the first eight pages of a full-length play, you need to let the audience know when they get to go home.” What does this mean? It means your job, as a playwright, is to cue the audience as to what is about to happen. What is the main conflict or spine of the play? For instance, in ’Night Mother, the character of Jessie (a depressed woman in her thirties) states within the first few minutes of the play that she is going to spend a cozy evening visiting with her mother, during which time she will refill the cookie jar and all of

Playwriting

her prescription bottles as they reminisce fondly about old times. When they are done, Jessie is going to say, “’Night, Mother,” go upstairs, grab her daddy’s pistol, and blow her brains out. That is the spine of the play. We know that when Jessie goes upstairs and says goodnight, we get to go home. (Marsha Norman was the head of playwriting at the Juilliard School of Drama in New York City for many years. She has countless other gems about the craft of playwriting, many of which are covered in the interview section.) Since a play is a series of actions, you need to let the audience know which is the main action. This is by no means to imply you should give away the ending of your play. But your job as a dramatist is to let the audience know what sort of journey they will be taking and when it will be over. If you were at an amusement park, the experience of riding the roller coaster is different from the merry-go-round. As you step onto each ride, you know that you will have a certain type of adventure. When the ride ends, you get to either leave the park or go on to the next event. Playwriting is the same way. This is sometimes referred to as cueing the audience. You are outlining the trajectory of where you are headed. How will this manifest itself in your play? What is the series of events that will unfold so that the audience gets to go home? More importantly, what will you do to hold them there with such rapt attention that they have completely forgotten about time and space and want to stay and see how the journey unfolds?

How Do You Know It’s a Play? Dialogue How do you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what you are writing is a play and not a film or a novel? The answer is very simple: Is it driven by dialogue? If your story has long, descriptive passages about the weather and the countryside, it is a novel. If it has grand, visual images, many locales and car chases, it is a film or a television script. If it can be told with relatively few locations, a small to moderate-sized cast, it has limited, contained special effects, and it is primarily driven by the characters and what they say, it is a play. One of the most important accessories in a playwright’s toolkit is dialogue. It must be compelling, and it must sound the way people actually speak. And the best dialogue contains some sense of action. In other words, a character is either doing something, talking about doing something, or compelling someone else to do something. Also, characters must sound different from one another. If one person speaks in long, flowery, descriptive

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sentences, perhaps another one speaks in short, staccato ones. A strong example of this is Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire. Blanche DuBois, a faded Southern Belle, has vocal rhythms that are slow, drawling, and deliberate, filled with metaphors and eloquent language. Stanley Kowalski, her brother-in-law, is a blue-collar worker. His dialogue is gruff, direct, and sometimes it doesn’t consist of more than a grunt. Once you have read a few scenes of the play, if you covered over the character names in the script, it would be obvious who is speaking. Similarly, the characters in your play need to have distinct voices. In many cases, these speech patterns stem from what they want. A character who is very agitated might speak very quickly, while someone who is mellow and laid back would speak more slowly.

Rhythm Not only do different characters have their own patterns in terms of speech and movement, but a scene must have a certain rhythm as well. When we talked about Aristotle’s Poetics, we talked about music. This does not necessarily refer to singing or playing an instrument, although it certainly could. A play has a certain musicality to it, as does each individual scene. The American playwright David Mamet, known for such plays as Glengarry Glen Ross and Oleanna, writes mostly about gritty, urban characters. Not only do they communicate with lots of four-letter words, but the pace and energy with which they speak are very sharp and stringent. Mamet’s dialogue almost sounds like a machine gun. For instance, a character in one of his plays might say, “What. Are. You. DOING?!” One would never use this sort of punctuation in a novel, but in a play, it is perfectly acceptable. Similarly, in Martin McDonagh’s brilliant drama The Beauty Queen of Leenane,1 a young man expresses his intense frustration by saying “Feck” (Irish slang for another f-word) eight times in a row. As his anger builds, the word grows in intensity. It is an entire monologue consisting of one word. As in creative writing, short sentences create tension. Longer, drawn-out sentences create a sense of time and space. South African playwright Athol Fugard says that when people in remote parts of Africa greet one another, they might say, “Hello, Jonathan Smith. How are you on this fine day?” The reason he gives for this is not clunky exposition. It is because if someone is traveling across an African savannah or through the bush, that may be the only person they see for the entire day. As a result, they want to stretch out

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the encounter as long as they can. Someone in a big city who is running to catch a train might say the same line as “Hey John! How’s it going?” In this, we see that place can affect the rhythm of a scene as much as the characters themselves.

Tone The tone of the scene is also of vital importance. In the script analysis section, this was referred to as the mood of the scene. For writers of television series, there will be weekly tone meetings with the top executives to make sure that each particular episode matches the tone of the series as a whole. In the interview section, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Beth Henley states that getting and maintaining the proper tone is the most important element of any script. Tone is somewhat elusive, as it is a combination of other elements such as dialogue, action, and character. All of these factors create the mood or tone of each scene and your script as a whole. This also harkens back to Aristotle where he said that characters must be true to who they are. As stated previously, you wouldn’t have a doctor who was afraid of blood. Pulitzer Prize-winner Beth Henley talks about the importance of tone in “The Interviews” chapter.

Writing Realistic Dialogue As playwright Marsha Norman states, many writers either have an ear for dialogue or they don’t. If you happen to be one of the people who doesn’t, there are several ways around this:

1) Read your work out loud. Think like an actor. Walk around the room playing all the parts, paying close attention to how each character speaks. The famous Russian director and acting teacher Konstantin Stanislavski talked about “The Magic ‘If ’: If I were in this situation, how would I behave?” In this instance, a better question would be, “What would I say—and how would I say it?” If you think like an actor and perform your own plays as you write them, not only will you find it easier to create effective dialogue; you will also discover the gestures and actions that a certain scene requires. 2) Write short sentences. Most people speak in short sentences. They also interrupt one another. If you are writing contemporary

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characters, a line can sometimes be one word. It can also be a look or a gesture. One way I can also tell a novice writer (or sometimes a novice actor) is the way they handle an onstage telephone call. Are there hesitations, overlapping dialogue, or fragments of words? That is what happens in a real phone call. Very often, this also happens in a real conversation between two people. It makes your dialogue flow better. 3) Break up the dialogue with action. When we are speaking, we are almost never still. Life keeps moving around us. Interrupting the dialogue with an activity to explain what is going on in the context of where our characters are holding a conversation brings realism to the scene and makes the story go on. 4) Don’t Write in Dialects. If you have a character who speaks with a dialect, it is very tempting to write your play that way. This can sometimes be confusing to the actor, director, or reader. Rather than taking that chance, it is a much safer bet to write in the character description or stage directions, “She speaks with a thick, Irish brogue,” “He has a noticeable lisp,” or whatever is required. It’s perfectly fine to write in the rhythms that character would use and perhaps put in some colloquialisms or words like “ain’t,” but avoid the temptation to write in a dialect unless it is vital to the script. I’ve had producers and other executives tell me they feel they are being talked down to when a playwright writes in heavy dialect. And how likely are they to advance your script if they feel like they have been insulted? Not very much.

Character In any play, your characters are key. Some playwrights write about their families, some about people they have known, some about historical figures, while still others create them entirely from their imaginations. Stepping back to The Poetics again, Aristotle favored characters who were serious, important, virtuous people, and who were not wicked, but flawed. To some extent, this still holds true today. Most characters are good people, or at least they think they are doing good. Most importantly, your leading characters need to be well-rounded, complex individuals with many facets to their personalities. Aristotle also talked about dramatic characters suffering from hamartia, or a tragic flaw. In other words, they are basically virtuous, but they have a blind spot. Even the great Greek warrior Achilles had his heel. We all have certain

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weaknesses and so should your characters. Maybe someone talks too much, is headstrong or arrogant. They might be fine, upstanding individuals, but in terms of their personalities, they have a major flaw. Somehow, they are a little off balance. If they are the antagonist or villain, perhaps they are a lot off balance. We all have longtime friends we hold dear, despite their flaws. If relationships were smooth sailing all the time, they wouldn’t be very interesting or realistic. So, what is it that makes your characters unique? What are their foibles, blind spots, prejudices, or other issues that make them stand out? I had a godmother who had inherited a considerable amount of family money. She purchased a gorgeous estate in Connecticut, and she had the gardener install an authentic Japanese rock garden. She wanted to be sure that her Bonsai trees and bamboo plants thrived, so she enrolled in a local community college and took Japanese lessons so she could talk to her plants. She learned all the terms of endearment in Japanese so that her trees, flowers, and shrubs would understand her as she spoke to them. This otherwise sane and rational woman did something really wacky to ensure that her garden thrived. What a unique, quirky character trait! (P.S., my godmother’s Japanese garden grew like crazy.) What are some character traits you might employ to make your characters unique and special? Most importantly, a character must want something. As discussed earlier, this is one of the key elements of drama. All your leading characters (in fact, everyone except possibly the minor, supporting players) must be trying to achieve some sort of goal. Actors are taught to always ask the question, “What does my character want?” As the playwright, you must provide the answer. Characters also have secrets. They have hidden information that they don’t want others to know. Of course, if the audience knows them but the characters don’t, that creates more dramatic tension. They can also have surprises. Just when you know your character is going to order chocolate ice cream, they ask for pistachio. That’s a rather simplistic example, but I’m sure you see my point.

A Moment with Arthur Miller My mother was a well-respected, American character actress named Eileen Heckart. In 1955, she was cast as Beatrice, the long-suffering, Italian wife of a longshoreman in the original Broadway production of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, which was to become one of the modern classics of

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American drama. After his tremendous success with Death of a Salesman, All My Sons, and The Crucible, Miller was the preeminent American playwright. Heckart was thrilled to be working with him. During rehearsals, there was a line that didn’t ring true for her. She discussed it with the director, Martin Ritt. “Marty,” she said, “I just don’t think Beatrice would say something like this.” Ritt agreed but said he relied upon her talent to make it work. That wasn’t the answer the actress wanted to hear. “Arthur is here today,” she said. “Will you ask him to change the line?” Ritt looked stricken. “I can’t ask Arthur Miller to change a line!” “Why not?” she asked. “Well . . . he’s Arthur Miller!” “What does that mean? He’s the playwright! If you won’t ask him, then I will!” Heckart marched to the back of the theatre where Mr. Miller was chewing on his pencil and listening to the scene being rehearsed. Halfway up the aisle, her bravado left her. “Oh dear,” she thought, “what if Marty’s right? Arthur is such a quiet, sensitive man. What if I’m doing a terrible thing and I’m about to offend this important playwright?” It was too late to back out now. She approached Arthur Miller, who smiled at her. “Excuse me, Arthur,” she said, “May I speak to you?” Miller removed his notebook and script from the seat next to him and motioned for her to sit down. “Well . . . um . . . it’s about this line on page 43. You see . . . well . . . I just don’t think Beatrice would say this.” Miller was taken aback by the statement, not accustomed to having people question his dramatic authority. Unlike in film and television, in the theatre, the playwright is king. “Well, show me the line,” he said. The nervous actress opened her script to the folded page and placed it in Miller’s lap. He read the entire page to get the proper context, teething his pencil the entire time. Removing the pencil from his mouth, he looked up at her. “Fine. What would you like to say instead?” They agreed upon a suitable line, and she walked away, totally satisfied. That moment for her affirmed the greatness of Arthur Miller. He had the

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sense to know that an actress playing one of his female roles would have gotten inside the psyche of the character deeper than he had as the playwright. She wanted a different line, and he was more than happy to give it to her. This is one of my favorite examples of the collaborative process of the theatre.

Write Like a Collaborator Speaking of collaboration, this is one of the most important aspects of writing for the theatre. The well-known acting teacher and director Herbert Berghof used to refer to the theatre as “a wonderful contact sport.” All aspects of the theatre require collaboration. Everyone is working together to create a creative whole. The more flexible you can be as a writer, the more people will want to work with you and the better chance you have of getting your plays produced. Certain playwrights dig in their heels and won’t let a single comma be altered. This is not a smart way to work. During rehearsals, a play is a fluid thing. The director and the other actors may request changes. If you’re lucky enough to get a play into production, be a team player. Listen to the director, actors, and designers. They are all about making it the best it can be. In the world of improvisation, a distinction is made between “yes, and . . .” actors and “no, but . . .” actors. If an improvising actor enters a scene and says, “You look like you need some suntan lotion” and the other actor responds, “Are you crazy? It’s been raining for three days!,” then the improv cannot really go anywhere, can it? If the other actor had replied, “Yes, can you put some lotion on my back? And do you happen to have an extra pair of sunglasses?” Then the scene can go somewhere. You want to be a “Yes, and . . .” kind of playwright the same way Arthur Miller was with my mother. There is a wonderful section called “On Collaboration” in The Interviews chapter. You’ll want to read more about the vital importance of this integral part of the process.

The Given Circumstances for Your Play Acting teachers always talk about the given circumstances of a scene. This refers to what specific details the playwright tells the actors in the script to help them make informed choices. If we look at this question from the perspective of the playwright, it can help us figure out what questions we

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need to answer. Even if they are not relevant to your play, knowing the answers will help you find needed elements for character development. Here are some of the most important ones. Here are some essential questions for understanding the given circumstances for your characters from the great actress and teacher, Uta Hagen.2 It is important that you answer as many of these questions as you can for every major character in your play:



Who am I? Fill in as many details about your character as you can including name, age, address, relatives, likes, dislikes, hobbies, career, physical traits, opinions, beliefs, religion, education, origin, enemies, loved ones, etc. What time is it? Answer these questions for every scene. What is the century, season, year, day, hour, and minute? Discover the significance of time for your characters. How does this influence their mood? Where am I? What is the country, city, neighborhood, home, room, area within a room? Is your character in their own home? Are they locked in the closet of their arch enemy? What surrounds me? Discover all the animate and inanimate objects around your character. Be specific. Would the presence of a knife or a gun change the scene? World events? What is going on in the world currently? Who is the leader of the country? What world events have happened recently? The moment before. What has happened to each character immediately before the play begins? Or before a specific scene begins? What are my relationships in the scene? Define each character’s relationship to the events, other characters, and objects in each scene. What do I want? What do I do to get what I want? As discussed earlier, these last two are the most important and the crux of any good play.

Personality Profiles In the realm of psychology, there are many fascinating personality profiles, many of which are available online. The two most useful ones for character development are the Enneagram and Myers-Briggs, although there are many others. In the case of the Enneagram (which is based on personality types from one to nine), let’s say your leading character is a six, known as the Loyal Skeptic. The positive traits of this Enneagram type are that they are loyal, courageous, and attentive to others and their problems. What would be the opposite of that?

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It would be someone who is suspicious, pessimistic, and doubtful. You could either have those traits in another character who would be a foil to this one, or better still, you could have these traits in the same character when they are having a bad day or a weak moment. Personality profiles can help you flesh out your dramatis personae (Latin for dramatic characters) by not only exploring what they would do, but what they wouldn’t do in each situation. This can be a valuable tool for seeing the many facets of your characters. Some writers have suggested that when you get stuck on a plot point for your character, if you can’t figure out what they would do next, make a list of things they wouldn’t do. The process of elimination can be a good place to start. I’ve heard other writers say they solve this problem by literally asking their characters what they would like to do or say next. Many roads lead to Rome.

And . . . Action! We have previously talked about action, but it cannot be stressed enough. Give your characters a rich, full, specific life. Where have they come from? After this scene, where are they going? A character who has just come in from a day of working in a factory and who sits on the sofa in their underwear and drinks a beer is going to behave very differently from one who works in a boutique, sips a glass of Chardonnay with a colleague, and then goes to the opera. Actions can be very simple. They could be folding the laundry while revealing their deepest, darkest secrets to someone. They could be polishing their nails while on the telephone. Actions tell a great deal about characters. I once saw a scene in acting class where a woman was refinishing a chair while telling her best friend that her husband had left her. It was such a unique activity, I never forgot it. Can you think of some unique activity that one of your characters could do?

Specificity Becomes Universal The more specific you make your writing, the more universal it becomes. Let me give you a very personal example. This may seem like a total contradiction, but I assure you, it is not. I wrote a memoir about my family. As I was writing, I would often sit at the computer sobbing and saying things like, “Nobody is going to give a damn about this! It is so particular to me and my situation, why will anyone care?” Actually, the opposite was true. When the audience

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sees a three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood character, they relate and choose who they want to see in it. I had so many people say to me, “I had the exact same kind of mother!” Other people said, “Your father was just like my Uncle Stuart, my boss, or brother-in-law.” By creating a rich, full portrait, I created characters who were relatable. This is true with plot, too. I’ll say it again: the more specific you make your story, the more universal it becomes.

What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean? Most beginning writers come across the phrase, “Show, don’t tell.” This means that a play must be written in dramatic action and with a great deal of sensory detail, rather than with exposition. Audiences are much more involved in a play when they feel they can viscerally imagine the events as they are occurring. Playwright Anton Chekhov said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining. Show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Showing illustrates, while telling merely states. It can feel condescending for a playwright simply to “tell” the audience what is occurring and how to feel about it rather than letting them experience it. Everyone will view a play differently. That is the beauty of live theatre. Here’s a quick example of showing versus telling: Showing: Father  Trevor, you are not leaving this table until you eat your carrots! Trevor pokes at the carrots on his plate and grimaces. When his father looks away, Trevor takes a forkful of carrots and hurls them onto the floor.

Telling: Father  Trevor, you are not leaving this table until you eat your carrots! Trevor  But father, I don’t like carrots!

Do you see how much more interesting it is to show this? In the first example, we see Trevor’s behavior through action. In the second, we are simply given information. As a playwright, you want to show rather than tell whenever possible. Showing also helps develop characters in a way that isn’t just listing their personality traits. When used effectively, showing draws the audience in.

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It contributes to story development but also leaves certain things up to the viewer’s interpretation, which is much more compelling than making everything explicit. While you will certainly have some exposition (telling) in every script, it’s best to have showing be your prime strategy. While there are a few notable exceptions to this, one of the most obvious is in the case of Greek tragedy. Due to the conventions of the time, dramatic action couldn’t take place onstage, so characters such as messengers and servants had to explain how they witnessed Oedipus gouging out his own eyes, Jocasta hanging herself from the rafters, or Clytemnestra stabbing Agamemnon in the bathtub. While “Show, don’t tell” is perhaps the most repeated piece of advice given to writers, it is important that a playwright knows exactly  what  to show. After all, the audience doesn’t have to know every detail. Exposition, if judiciously used, is not always a bad thing.

Start the Story Quickly As with other forms of writing, it’s best to get into the action as quickly as possible with a strong dramatic hook to draw in the audience. A dramatic hook is  a device used at the beginning of a play (or film, or novel) to engage a reader’s curiosity. A hook grabs the audience’s attention right from the opening of the story. A slow beginning won’t have them rushing out after five minutes, but you mustn’t let your audience get fidgety. They will expect the core issue behind the story (the first plot point) to be revealed early on. If it isn’t, they might get confused and wonder if they’ve missed something. One way to do that is to always ask yourself, “How late can I start the scene?” and “How soon can I leave it?” For instance, if a scene opens with a phone call, you don’t have to open with the person dialing the number and exchanging pleasantries. Get to the meat of the conversation.

Will They Get It in the Back Row? Writing for a live audience is challenging. Television dramatists and screenwriters can rely on the camera being able to get up-close and reveal every raised eyebrow, hushed comment, and sexy smile, but this won’t work in

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a theatre. It’s no use having one of your characters wink knowingly at someone on stage because only the people in the first row are going to see it. Of course, if you are doing your play in a tiny, black box theatre, the rules would be somewhat different than if it is being presented in a 2,000-seat opera house. But since you cannot dictate where your play will be performed when (and if) it is successful, you need to write for all spaces. When writing dialogue and stage directions, ask yourself if the patrons in the back of the theatre will get it.

The Significance of Exposition Here is an example of really clunky exposition. If you’re a fan of “whodunit” stories and pot-boilers, you’ve probably seen a scene like this before: Lights up on the main hall of a cold, foreboding Victorian mansion. The phone is ringing. The maid enters and answers it. Elsie  Smithfield residence. This is Elsie the maid speaking. Oh no, Mr. Smithfield is away for two months. I’m the only one home. He’s in Africa on safari. An excellent shot, he is. What’s that? Turning off the power? All night? Oh dear, I’m glad you told me. Especially with those storm clouds on the horizon. And that killer still on the loose.

How many times have we seen cheesy murder mysteries or Gothic melodramas begin this way? They give away so much in the first two minutes, there is nothing left to the imagination. You know Elsie is going to be plunged into darkness, and you know there will be a terrible thunderstorm during which time the escaped murderer will show up. You know the master—or someone—will come back unexpectedly and shoot the killer just in time. This is an example of really awful exposition. Let’s look at how to layer it artfully. Playwrights use exposition for many reasons. One key reason is to skim over information that the reader needs to know for story points but does not need to experience “first-hand.” Exposition is also important to fill in background and setting without focusing on them too much. In fact, if a story contained no exposition and only had sensory details, then the reader may not know which of the dramatized moments are of greater or lesser value. Many young writers spew out all the exposition at once. This is a mistake. There is nothing wrong with keeping the audience guessing and finding clever ways to uncover your exposition.

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Let’s say two men are speaking at the top of a scene. We don’t know what their relationship is to one another. There is a sense of pleasant anticipation from the audience as they try to figure it out. After they have been talking for a few minutes, one of them says, “You know, mom won’t like that.” We now know they are brothers. Think of exposition like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumbs. Dole it out slowly, a little bit at a time. Ask yourself, “Does the audience need to know this yet to understand the story?” Think like a stripper and tease them a bit.

The Good Title Test Another very important element of your play is the title. It should be something short and catchy that conveys the essence of your play. My friend Katherine MacDonald, a very talented screenwriter, textbook author, and movie studio executive, says if you can imagine yourself at the box office saying, “Two tickets for . . . ,” it’s a good title. Rob Roberge, one of my grad school professors, said that if you can say, “And other stories” after it as if it were on the cover of a collection of short stories or short plays, it also passes the title test. Let’s take a couple of titles of mine and see if they fit the mold: “Two Tickets for The Last Lifeboat.” Yup, that one works. “The Man Who Killed the Cure and Other Plays.” Yes, that also works. This somewhat silly game illustrates a point. Your title should evoke an image or a feeling. It could be a whiff of nostalgia, a sense of humor, a visceral feeling, or an emotion. More than anything, when someone hears a title, they should say to themselves, “I want to know what that play is about,” or, at the very least, “I want to know more.”

Exercise Do you have a strong title for your play, whether or not you have written it yet? Say it out loud. Does it evoke some sort of image, feeling, or both? Is it a title that is easy to remember? Can you imagine someone standing at the box office and saying, “Two tickets for . . .?” Come up with as many strong titles as you can. Some playwrights and authors have a list of titles for plays or stories they want to write. Does a certain title inspire you to get to work?

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The Mechanics of Writing a Play Formatting There are several basic formatting elements needed for a properly formatted playscript. These are page numbering, act/scene designations, the setting and description, blackout, curtain or end designations,  character names, dialogue, and stage directions.

Acts, Scenes, and Intermissions Plays are broken down into acts; an act ends when the curtain comes down (or when the lights go out). A short play consists of a single act. Longer ones might have two, three, or more. Many older plays (from the era of Shakespeare, Molière, or Restoration comedies) often have a five-act structure. Each act is divided into scenes. An act might include one scene or a number of them. The end of an act is a logical place for an intermission. As a rule, an audience should get a ten to fifteen-minute intermission after every forty-five to sixty minutes of stage time. Sometimes, a play can be one-act which lasts up to ninety minutes. As a rule of thumb, an act should not last more than an hour without an intermission. If your play is in two acts, the first act generally runs longer than the second.

Laying Out Your Script There are several commonly used formats. This is the most popular one: Example 1:

• • • • •

Act and Scene headings are centered. Character’s names are on the left, with colons after them. Stage directions are indented one tab and italicized. Parenthetical stage directions are used for small actions. When a new character is introduced, the name is capitalized.

Let’s look at it in practice, from my play, The Last Lifeboat:3

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SCENE FIVE (An abrupt shift in lighting takes us back in time. Ocean sounds and gulls are heard as THOMAS ISMAY, Bruce’s staunch, Victorian father, enters stage left. Ismay’s energy and body language transforms into that of a small boy as he playfully runs downstage left.) YOUNG ISMAY:  Look, father! Look at the big boats! THOMAS ISMAY:  When they are that large, my boy, they are not called boats. They are called ships. YOUNG ISMAY:  And you built these ships, father? THOMAS ISMAY:  I had them built. I am the owner of the line. And one day, you’ll do the same. (Young Ismay quickly loses interest in the ships.) YOUNG ISMAY:  Thank you, father, but I think I’d rather join the fire brigade. THOMAS ISMAY:  Poppycock. Do you remember the names I told you for the different parts of the ship? (Young Ismay stares at the ships and thinks a moment, eager to please his father.) YOUNG ISMAY:  I think I do. Yes. THOMAS ISMAY:  Now then, which is the port side of the ship? YOUNG ISMAY:  Up there? THOMAS ISMAY: (Sternly)  Wrong! That is the bow. Now, try again. Which is the starboard? (Young Ismay tentatively points again.) YOUNG ISMAY: There? (Thomas Ismay shakes his son impatiently.) THOMAS ISMAY:  That is not a part of the ship! That’s a flag, you idiot! How will you ever be able to speak to the shipbuilders? (Young Ismay looks shocked and wounded.) YOUNG ISMAY:  But you said starboard. It has a star on it . . . THOMAS ISMAY: (Angrily)  You’re hopeless! (Thomas Ismay strides quickly off downstage left. Young Ismay runs after him.)

As you can see, the format is quite simple with character names on the left and their dialogue continuing on the same line. Stage directions are in italics to differentiate them from dialogue. Also note terms such as “stage left,”

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“stage right,” and “downstage” (from the perspective of the actor onstage) to indicate which direction characters enter and exit from. All other directions should be kept to a minimum. Many times, these are abbreviated as SL (stage left), SR (stage right), CS (center stage), US (upstage), DSL (downstage left), etc. Here is another common example. I purposely chose the opening of this play so you can see how the setting is written. Example 2:

• • • •

Act and Scene headings are centered. Character’s names are centered and capitalized. Stage directions are indented one tab and italicized. Parenthetical stage directions are used for small actions. “Marilyn, Mom & Me”4 Scene 1

(As the lights slowly rise, there is a unit set with several different playing areas and a few utilitarian set pieces: a café table and two chairs, a bench, a love seat, an armchair, a coffee table, and an empty door frame. Changes in time and locale are intended to be achieved through lighting transitions. The feel of the piece should be fluid and cinematic, with no blackouts between scenes and minimal costume changes.) LUKE, a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man, enters an upscale living room in a suburban home. He carries a pink pastry box. He sits at the coffee table and arranges the items on it: a pitcher of iced tea, the pastries, a large ashtray, and a pack of cigarettes. Mom! I’m ready!

LUKE

(He takes a mini cassette recorder out of his bag and starts fiddling with it.) LUKE Testing. Testing 123. The date is February 7, 1999, and this is tape 1 of the Mama Project. (Once everything is set, EILEEN enters UR. She is a crusty, no-nonsense actress of a certain age. A cigarette dangles from her lips.) Where’s the ashtray?

EILEEN

LUKE Right here. Can I turn up the heat? It’s freezing in here. EILEEN Only two degrees. It costs a fortune to heat this old place.

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LUKE It’s not exactly like you’re strapped for cash. EILEEN And I want to keep it that way, thank you. You want one of your father’s sweaters? No, thanks.

LUKE

EILEEN I still have a couple. In the bottom drawer of the— I’m fine.

LUKE

EILEEN They still smell like him. When I put one on, it’s almost like he’s hugging me. LUKE Daddy always did give the best hugs.

Whatever format you use, the most important thing is that it is clear and easy to read. Obviously, be sure that different elements (for instance, stage directions versus dialogue) are formatted in such a way to differentiate themselves from one another. In addition to formatting, notice the way the exposition is layered. We get that Eileen is Luke’s mother. She misses her deceased husband and Luke misses his father. We also know that Eileen is well off, but frugal. We are in a cold climate. We also know that Eileen has a penchant for pastries. Except for the date (which Luke says into a tape recorder), none of these facts are spelled out; they are doled out through the dialogue. Because there’s no strict format for a theatre script, it’s harder to say how many minutes are taken up by each page. With film scripts, the rule of thumb is usually one minute per page. I think this is normally a good standard for plays as well, but the best way to judge length is to time yourself while reading it aloud. Better still, get a group of your friends to read it and time it. We’ll talk more about the best way to do this in the last chapter, “The Brass Tacks.” Meanwhile, let’s get back to some of the components of a strong script.

Dramatic Tension Dramatic tension is something that is necessary for any successful play. In the book Backwards and Forwards, this is what author David Ball refers to as “forwards.” In television terms, it’s what keeps the viewer from changing

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the channel. It’s a little harder to walk out in the middle of a play, so this is the thing that prevents an audience member from looking at their watch, yawning, coughing, stretching, or thinking about what they’ll buy for dinner on their way home.

Types of Dramatic Tension Some scholars suggest there are four types of dramatic tension, while others refer to five or more. Writing teacher Michelle Renee Miller has put these into a wonderful list with explanations, which I have slightly adapted.5 These rules are often applied more to fiction writing, but they can certainly work for plays as well. They are: 1. Relationships 2. Task 3. Surprise 4. Mystery 5. Dramatic Irony So, let’s break each one down:

The Tension of Relationships This is the most common one in dramatic literature (and in life) because it is the one we encounter almost daily. The point of tension here is between two characters: Othello and Iago, John Worthing and Lady Bracknell, or Sweeney Todd and Judge Turpin. Often, we see this tension between the protagonist and antagonist. We’re rooting for the protagonist to succeed, but the antagonist keeps preventing them. Friends arguing, parents disciplining, couples wooing, passive aggression, and silent treatments are all examples of tension in relationships. This tension helps make characters feel like real people. That, of course, is the goal of the playwright. If your characters move through the story never having an argument, never crossing anyone, or having a different opinion than someone else, it’s very unrealistic. It would also be boring with a capital “B.” How long has it been since you scrolled through social media and saw a friend or colleague with whom you have a wildly different opinion? Ever argue with your parents about what you were going to wear, how to get your hair cut, or who you were going to date? These are all examples of relationship tension. This is one of the key elements that will make your script rich, full, bursting with life and more importantly, laden with conflict.

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The Tension of the Task The tension of the task has to do with what your protagonist is trying to accomplish. It can be on a smaller or larger scale. Maybe in a scene, they’re trying to figure out an answer to a problem, but the bigger goal of the story is to save the world. Once again, an example that leaps to mind is Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. King Oedipus is trying to figure out the killer of the former King Laius, but that is so he can stop the plague and save his people. If your character can easily achieve their goals, that’s great for them, but not for the audience. Nobody wants to read a story where everything plays out perfectly right off the bat. Again, when was the last time you got what you wanted effortlessly? (Yeah. Me too.) To make a play realistic, your protagonist needs some roadblocks thrown in their way. What kind of obstacles stop them? You can also have them struggle internally. Have you ever had a deadline for school or work that you simply didn’t want to complete? Maybe you were tired, had a cold, your feet hurt, or it was just something you didn’t want to do. As writers, it is often the terror of the blank page or the blinking cursor. These could all be examples of the tension of the task. Maybe your character has emotional problems like depression or OCD that prevent them from completing this task. There are any number of ways to temporarily stop your protagonist, so you can have some fun with this one.

The Tension of Surprise This type of tension is probably the most obvious kind. People who say they like surprises are only talking about parties, gifts, or last-minute trips to The Bahamas. Otherwise, nobody really likes them. There are two different types of surprises. The audience can be surprised by a plot twist, or the protagonist can be surprised by new events as they unfold. Your surprise could range from dad not coming home from work at the normal time to Jack the Ripper bursting through the front door. There really isn’t a day that goes by where we aren’t surprised by something. If you doubt this, just watch the evening news. Much like the other tensions, you must include surprises in your play to make it feel realistic. A story that plays out exactly as expected is generally not worth watching.

The Tension of Mystery This type of tension is also quite common and easily understood. Of course, when one thinks of mystery, one often thinks of spy stories or horror novels by Stephen King or Agatha Christie, but this can occur in dramatic literature as well. This tension propels the audience forward in the story. The mystery is so enticing that they can’t wait to find out what happened. This can be

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achieved by building up with the other tensions to a cliffhanger at the end of act 1 that then gets resolved in act 2. You can have one predominant mystery that’s at play until the climax of the story. Or, you can have smaller mysteries that just keep popping up throughout the play. These moments of suspense will bring the audience in and keep them engaged. Again, mystery happens every day of our lives, but often on a smaller scale. An emotional mystery that could tie in with the tension of relationships is, “Why did she say that to me?” “Why did he treat me that way?” Sometimes we get bigger, more unfortunate mysteries like, “Why did they have to die so young?” There are also bigger questions: “Who killed this woman?” or “Who stole the crown jewels?” Mystery is another thing that happens all the time, so it’s a valuable tool in your dramatic toolbox.

Dramatic Irony Dramatic irony is present when the audience knows more than the characters on stage. It is an extremely old device; Shakespeare often used it. However, it continues to be widely employed by contemporary writers. For example, an audience may know a husband is plotting to kill his wife. They have dinner guests over and as the husband is all lovey-dovey and attentive, it gives the wife a sense of security, but it gives the audience the creeps. Generally, audiences want characters to learn the truth of their situations in the course of a play and eagerly await the character’s moment of discovery. Let’s look at one of my favorite examples.

Another Example of Dramatic Irony: Hitchcock’s Bomb Sir Alfred Hitchcock, the cinematic master of suspense, felt there was a distinct difference between “suspense” and “surprise,” and yet he felt many stories often confuse the two. While Sir Alfred used this model for screenwriting, I have adapted his concept slightly for the purposes of a play. Hitchcock gives an example of two people sitting at a café having a chat. He asks the audience to suppose there is a bomb underneath the table. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, “Boom!” There is an explosion. The audience is surprised, but prior to this, it has seen a perfectly ordinary conversation between two people. Obviously, that is the example of surprise. In his suspense situation, the bomb is underneath the table, and the audience knows it is there, probably because they have seen the villain place it. They are aware the bomb is going to explode at 1 o’clock, and there is a clock on the set. Or perhaps we hear a clock chiming offstage. We know it is a quarter to one. In these conditions, the same innocuous conversation becomes

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fascinating because the audience is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters onstage: “You shouldn’t be talking about such trivial matters! There is a bomb underneath your chair, and it is about to explode!” Perhaps one of the characters drops their napkin and as they bend down to retrieve it, the audience is relieved that they are going to see the bomb, but they don’t. Other moments like this can heighten the dramatic tension of the scene. Do you see how scenario number two is much stronger than number one? In the first scene, the playwright gives the audience fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second, they have been provided with fifteen minutes of suspense. This sort of dramatic irony lets the audience in on the “joke.” Another example would be one of those outrageous, door-slamming farces where the jealous husband comes home early from a business trip and the wife has her lover hiding in the closet (usually without his trousers) as the husband stomps around the house unpacking his suitcase. The audience roars with laughter and anticipation to see just how long the wife can prevent him from opening the closet door. Everyone is in on the joke (except the husband), which gives the audience a sense of ownership. In other words, they are totally engaged. That is the primary task of the playwright: to keep the audience engaged at all costs. In Greek drama, the audience knew the story of King Oedipus and how he had unknowingly killed his father and married his mother. The drama for the audience was the way in which he discovered it. It is akin to a murder mystery where the audience knows the identity of the murderer from the beginning of the story. The excitement comes in watching the plot unfold. Another example is from Alfred Hitchcock’s television series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents. An episode entitled “Lamb to the Slaughter” was based on a short story by Roald Dahl about a beleaguered wife married to a philandering policeman. He comes home one night and tells her he is having an affair and wants a divorce. Filled with rage, as the wife begins to prepare dinner, she bludgeons her husband to death with a frozen leg of lamb. She stages his murder to look like a break-in and assault. Later, the police come by to investigate, and since they are all friends of her dead husband, the wife invites them to stay for dinner. While they are eating the leg of lamb, the policemen speculate about what might have been used as the murder weapon. The audience wants to scream, “You’re eating the evidence, you stupid cops!” Instead, the moment is chock-full of dramatic irony. To summarize, tension happens all around us every day. To leave it out of a play is to make it a dull, unrealistic story. Worst of all, your audience won’t

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care, and your play will open and close on the same night. (As you may recall from the introduction, my nine-year-old self actually saw this happen.) You can create tension between characters, through goals, surprises, with mysteries, and with dramatic irony. Tension happens on a scale. Sometimes it is small and almost unnoticeable. At other times, it is so large, it takes an entire play to fully explore it. No matter the play you write, it’s important to include tension throughout your story.

Settings and Special Effects When you are writing your script, you must remember that this is a play. You are writing in a very specific, theatricalized form; what can be accomplished technically onstage is different from a film or a novel. While this might seem obvious, you’d be amazed how many play scripts I have read with car chases, flying saucers, a cast of fifty, and dozens of elaborate sets. Can these things be achieved onstage? Sure. But not easily. I have also heard beginning playwrights say, “That’s not my problem. It’s up to the director to figure that out.” This, to me, is the sign of an arrogant novice. Any playwright worth their salt keeps the limitations of the medium and the budget in mind. If your script must have explosions and car chases, then maybe it’s a film or a novel and not a play. Mounting a play can be a very expensive proposition. If you want to get your work produced, you need to take this into consideration as a writer. One of the wonderful things about a play is that an actor can walk onto a bare stage in a parka with some cool, blue lighting on their face and say, “I hope I don’t get frostbitten here on top of Mount Everest,” and we buy it. We don’t need to see a mountain and a snowstorm. As many writers say, “Never underestimate the imagination of the audience.” One of the harsh realities of the theatre is that many professional companies will not even consider a play with a cast larger than six people. By the time the producers pay salaries, health insurance contributions, and Actors’ Equity pensions, it is simply too expensive to have a cast any larger. The same is true with sets and costumes. In the interview section, playwright Beth Henley talks about the fact that when she wrote her play Crimes of the Heart (which went on to win the Pulitzer Prize and was made into a film), the final scene takes place at a birthday party. Knowing that this play would originally be produced in a small, ninety-nine-seat theatre, she wrote it so that the actors did not actually cut the birthday cake or consume it. She thought it would be too costly for the theatre to have to buy a new cake at

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every performance, and she was afraid they might decide not to do the play. There is a reason theatre producers love two-character, one-set plays. Economically, they are very attractive. Should you write whatever you want? Absolutely. But keeping these practical considerations in mind gives you a much better chance of actually seeing your play on a stage. In the same vein, if you have a larger cast, you need to ask yourself if it is possible to double or even triple cast certain roles. Can an actor playing the chef walk offstage in their apron and come back as one of the dinner guests two scenes later? Of course, some organizations (like schools, colleges, and amateur theatrical groups) love large-cast shows because it creates more opportunities. Generally, this is only true when the actors are not being paid. And, of course, the theatre must still have a substantial costume budget. In the previous chapter, you saw a scene from my play, The Last Lifeboat, about the aftermath of the sinking of the Titanic. Even with doubling and tripling of certain roles, it still has a minimum cast size of thirteen to fifteen. It has had more than fifty amateur productions around the country, but it has never been presented at a professional theatre. For many, it would simply be too expensive. It is very theatrical (the Titanic is sunk on a bare stage executed simply through the physicality of the actors), but it still requires a number of people. Once again, I want to stress that you need to write what stirs your passion. But if you want to see your work done at a lot of theatres someday, it doesn’t hurt to think like a producer or director as you are writing and keep your play easily producible.

Stage Directions: “KISS” The point of stage directions is to give the minimum amount of information to convey the action to the audience (or reader). “She exits.” “He enters upstage.” “They begin to eat dinner.” Many writers who are used to essay or prose format write very flowery stage directions which are far too descriptive. It is very important to remember the old acronym, “KISS”: “Keep it simple, stupid.” It’s perfectly fine to have parenthetical directions at the beginning of a line like, “Getting angry,” as long as they are showing and not telling. For instance, if a direction reads, “Maria gets impatient, because she realizes that her mother has always loved her brother more,” that is not a stage direction. That is information that needs to go into the script in another format, probably as dialogue or behavior.

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Behavior Behavior is another important element you must put into your script. We have discussed the importance of action and having your character do something. But how are they doing it? Let’s say one of your characters is setting the table for dinner. Are they placing each of the knives and forks gently, taking great care in how they fold the napkins? Or are they slamming the plates and the spoons? This is a great example of behavior without dialogue. We know a great deal about this character’s state of mind by the way they set that table. Conversely, if there is dialogue underneath the action, if the person is speaking sweetly while hurling down the crystal water pitcher with a thud, not only do we have the potential for comedy, but we know they are saying one thing and doing another. This is known as subtext.

What Is Subtext? I choose to explain subtext as a moment where the text is an unimportant result of what is going on in the scene. Like the slamming silverware moment, this is where a character is saying or doing one thing while thinking another. A wife tells her husband how much she loves him before she poisons his soup. A student tells their teacher how hard they studied for the test when they copied the answers off someone else’s exam. Some actors refer to this as “playing the opposites.” My favorite example of this is in Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing. I saw it on Broadway with Jeremy Irons as Henry and Glenn Close as Annie. These were two fine actors at the top of their game. Henry adores and practically idolizes his wife Annie. There is a moment in the second act where, wracked with guilt and shame, Annie admits to Henry that she is having an affair. He is beyond devastated, but instead of showing his broken heart, Irons chose to look at her with an incredibly loving, compassionate smile. Clearly, he didn’t want to cause her any more pain by yelling at her, so rather than showing the depths of his heartbreak, he was conveying how much he loved her. Since the audience knows about Annie’s affair, this choice was even more chilling. It also created a great moment of dramatic irony and subtext.

How Do You Start? Like most artistic pursuits, there is no firm answer to the question, “How do you start?” I have gotten ideas for plays from historical events, tabloid

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headlines, a random comment from a friend, and any number of other places. Sometimes an idea just hits you. At other times, you have had an idea in your head for years and suddenly, you simply must write it down. Or, as mentioned earlier, you have a list of titles on your computer or in a notebook and one of them suddenly bursts into creation. The main thing is that you must be passionate about your idea. This is something you might be living with for weeks, months, or even years. You must ask yourself if this is an idea you are willing to commit to for that period. Composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim said, “The only reason to write is from love. You mustn’t write because you think it’s going to be a hit or because it’s expedient or anything like that. It’s difficult to write, and so difficult to put on a show, if you have the privilege of being able to write, write it out of passion.” You must love your idea and your characters, even if they are despicable people. Once you have an idea and have some sense of the beginning, middle, and end (see the script analysis chapter for these various components), what is the best way to put it down on paper? Some writers swear by outlines. Others use them only under duress. Let’s say you have a wonderful idea for a play with interesting characters and a plot mapped out, even if it’s a rough one. (Trust me, it will change over time.) You can use an outline, make notes on index cards, or you can just start writing. Generally, the latter is what I do. If I have a scene about which I feel passionate, I simply dive in. And then I write another. And another. The problem with this method is that you can sometimes paint yourself into a corner where you have a few disjointed scenes and no road map to get from A to B to C. Even so, a lot of wonderful writers work this way. In some ways, it winds up being harder to stitch things together. The bottom line is that you need to employ whatever method works best for you. I have a bunch of affirmations and sayings over my desk, but there are two in particular that are posted at different heights, so I can see them if I am sitting or standing. The first one is, “Don’t get it right, get it written.” The second one is, “The worst thing you ever write is better than the best thing you never wrote.” As writers, we tend to be perfectionists. And if we write something we don’t like, we rarely say, “Well, I’ve had better days.” We usually say, “This is the WORST thing that has ever been written in the history of the world! Ugh! I could eat Webster’s Dictionary and puke a better play!” Artists, in general, tend to be a bit over-the-top, and writers are no exception.

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Whether you are writing a ten-minute comedy, or a five act drama, you want to be sure to employ all of the elements from the script analysis chapter. Be sure that you have exposition, an inciting incident, rising action, a climax, falling action, a resolution, and a denouement.

How to Write a Ten-Minute Play One of the best ways to practice playwriting is to write a ten-minute play. It’s fast, efficient, and something one can do with relative ease. And since there are a number of rules to which one must adhere, if you can master the tenminute format, longer forms become easier. It’s also a great way to practice the “Don’t get it right, get it written” rule. A ten-minute play is normally about one thing. There isn’t a lot of room for exposition or subplots, so it’s best to take a simple idea and run with it. There are many short-play festivals specifically looking for ten-minute plays. I will talk more about those in “The Brass Tacks.” Here are some things to keep in mind.

Make Sure It’s Ten Minutes This may seem like a no-brainer, but when you’re writing a ten-minute play, you need to stick to ten minutes. If you were writing an essay, you would stick to the word count, wouldn’t you? It’s the same thing with a ten-minute play. As a playwright, the timing of your play is somewhat beyond your control unless you are also directing. Obviously, the interpretation and performance can change the pace of your story. However, to make sure you’re on target when writing, be sure to read each draft aloud with a timer on hand. As stated earlier, the “one page per minute” rule is usually a good one. While it’s always a good idea to time your play, this is especially true if it is more than ten pages in script format.

Create a Complete Story It might seem obvious that you need to write a narrative with an arc (a beginning, middle, and end), but often what can happen in ten-minute plays is that you’ll end up writing something akin to sketch comedy instead of play.

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How can you tell? The main difference is that in a sketch, everything tends to be working toward a punch line (even in a drama). In a play, there has to be an arc to the story, the character, or both. Sometimes the climax of a play is similar to the punchline of a joke, but that isn’t what the story is working toward. In other words, the climax marks the highest point of tension of the story, but it is what it has been working toward. You can tell the difference between laboring to a punch line or working toward (and past) a climax. Be sure you do the latter in a play (even a short one). In sketches, there is very little character development, if any. Nor is there any real purpose to the narrative besides the punchline. A sketch is akin to telling a joke. A play is not. In a play, even if the characters do not change much, there is a realization or arc to the narrative.

Ask a Question Every play should ask a question. Keeping this in mind in a short form is another way to avoid writing a sketch. While some plays ask questions, some plays are about what irks you or what keeps you up at night. While political or social issues might be better suited to a full-length play or even a oneact, don’t be afraid to examine those sorts of issues at least in part in a short play. Whatever you ask or examine, make this the central theme of your play. It will give it purpose, keep your story focused, and reveal many other important things, like your story’s thesis and themes.

Character Development and Conflict As mentioned previously, for any story you write, after you’ve asked the main question or determined the topic of your play, you’ll want to flesh out character, setting, and the conflict that arises from your question, theme, or central thesis. The rules about developing your characters as fully as possible still apply. Develop at least one complex character to intrigue your audience as you develop conflict that is rooted in your story. (Of course, in a full-length play, you would have several.) Settings and other elements should be kept to a bare minimum.

Limit Exposition Since you only have ten minutes, you’ll need to limit exposition or skip it altogether to get to the heart of your story. While you may be tempted to

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slip it in, you could be wasting precious seconds talking about something that the audience doesn’t likely need to know instead of advancing the plot. Remember, in a ten-minute play, you are strictly bound to that time limit. Therefore, you cannot afford to waste much time on exposition. If the information is essential, find a way to incorporate it into dialogue or behavior. If you feel that anything more than minor exposition is necessary, you may have a one-act play on your hands instead of a ten-minute one.

Introduce the Conflict Quickly Remember Marsha Norman’s rule about letting the audience know when they get to go home? In a ten-minute play, the audience needs to know the main conflict of your play by the end of page one. You don’t have to introduce it in the first line of dialogue, but the sooner, the better. If you are asking a question, let the audience know what it is. Whatever it is, every moment of your play should be trying to somehow answer it.

Get Creative and Take Risks One of the most exciting parts of writing a ten-minute play is that since it is a short form, you can experiment and take risks. Since you don’t have a huge investment in time and energy, you can afford to go out on a limb and be bold. Given that you have such a short amount of time, you can really get creative and take risks. If it doesn’t work, there’s always another draft, if not another play altogether. So, if it’s your first time writing a ten-minute play, don’t obsess over getting things right. Once again, “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Instead, let your imagination go wild. Make bold choices and do things you normally wouldn’t. The worst that can happen is you’ll have to rewrite or start over, which only consists of ten to twelve pages.

Cut Out Extraneous Details Since time is of the essence, delete anything that isn’t relevant to your narrative. This could be a secondary character, an entire scene, or simply a line of dialogue. Once you’ve finished a draft, examine every line carefully. Ask yourself if it helps to answer your main question. If it doesn’t, say “Buhbye.” Cut it.

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Use Action and Behavior Avoid writing your play with dialogue alone. Actors can utilize their voices, bodies, physicality, and expressions. Like the example of setting the table earlier, use behavior to make your play deeper and your characters richer.

Make Sure You’re Using the Right Format This is a very important question. Before you get in too deep, ask yourself, “Can I really tell this story in ten minutes?” Are you trying to stuff a threeact structure into ten pages? And remember, if it’s filled with descriptions of the scenery or special effects, it is not a play, but a short story or a film. Be sure your script ticks enough of the boxes to make it a short play and not something else.

A “Slice of Life” Play Conversely, there is another type of ten-minute play that defies most of these rules. I call it a “slice of life” play. My friend, playwright Philip Middleton Williams, has a brilliant example of this in his ten-minute play “A Moment of Clarity,” which is featured in his collection A House by the Side of the Road.6 In it, a man sits with his elderly father at the drugstore waiting for a prescription to be filled. The father is losing his faculties, and while he is experiencing a moment of lucidity, father and son reflect on their lives and what they mean to each other in this beautiful, heartfelt play. It’s nothing but two men sitting in chairs talking about their relationship and it breaks your heart. It goes against most of what I said earlier about starting out of the gate forcefully and establishing a strong conflict, but this glimpse into life is something to which we can all relate. It is another type of ten-minute play that can be extremely effective.

Other Play Formats If you apply these criteria to your ten-minute play, it is actually easier to expand it to a one-act (which generally runs anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five minutes) or a full-length play (which is roughly seventy-five minutes to two

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hours). With a one-act or longer play, you can have subplots, exposition, and elements you simply don’t have time for in the ten-minute format. You can also have more complex characters and richer character development. If you can master the ten-minute play format, these other formats will be a breeze.

One-Person Shows With a one-person show, basically you are writing a seventy-five-to-ninetyminute monologue. This can be a very challenging format, but one that many producers like because it is cost-effective, as there is generally only one actor and one stage manager in terms of salaries. The biggest obstacle in a one-person show is creating conflict when there is only one character. There are several ways around this. You can have a character with an inner conflict (perhaps trying to resolve some issue from their past or overcome some sort of unseen obstacles like racism, homophobia, or a serious illness). Another way is to have an unseen character who acts as an antagonist. As in any play, the protagonist is trying to achieve something, but the invisible (or offstage) antagonist is trying to stop them. It’s also important to establish to whom the person is speaking. Are they dictating their memoirs, talking to a shrink, or are we hearing their inner monologue? And it’s important to know what question they are trying to answer or what they are trying to solve. Also, do we need to know why are they alone in this space? Are they waiting for someone or being detained? At the end of the play, will there be a knock at the door and the curtain will fall just as another person supposedly enters? Sometimes, one-person shows contain theatrical devices like someone on the other end of the telephone, a recorded voice, or music to give the sense that there is a rich, full, world populated with other people just offstage. If you are writing about a historical figure (a common choice for one-person shows), you need to make sure it’s not just a history lesson where the character is constantly saying, “And then I did this.” It’s important that we have a sense of them as a flesh-and-blood person and not just a mythical figure out of a library book.

Writing Is Rewriting I’m sure you have heard this aphorism before: “Writing is rewriting.” Think of your first draft as a blueprint. Now build the house. The next drafts are

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where you tweak, delete, add, refine, and shape your play. How do you know when you are finished? Some playwrights never really feel like their work is complete. But the more you do it, the more you know when it’s time to stop. Playwright Arlene Hutton says, “Some plays are like colts being born. They fall out and start galloping right away. Others are like marsupials. They need to be nurtured in the pouch for a long time before they are ready.”

Conclusion There are many more specific examples of playwriting do’s and don’ts in “The Interviews” chapter. Since most of these are from Pulitzer Prize winners, Olivier nominees, or Tony recipients (many of whom also teach playwriting, criticism, or lyric writing at the college level), I encourage you to glean as much as you can from their years of experience toiling in the rich and expansive vineyards of the theatre.

Exercises There are many more playwriting exercises and writing prompts available online, but here are some examples. Other exercises are referred to in the interview section. As long as you are writing from your passionate heart, you cannot go wrong. 1) Cover over the character names in an existing script. Can you tell who is speaking? Do they have distinct voices? What about the rhythms and the musicality (or lack thereof) in their language? 2) Set a timer. Write for that period of time. Try not to let the pen leave the page or your fingers leave the keyboard. Now, read what you have. Is there anything here that could be part of a play? Maybe you think most of it is terrible, but there is one line or phrase that you really like. What do you admire about it? 3) Consider something you have written. Is the spine (or throughline) of your play clear? Will the audience know within the first eight pages of the play (or less if it is a one-act) when they get

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to go home? Remember, if it is a ten-minute play, this question should be answered by the end of the first page. 4) Think of one of your favorite plays or movies. Write a scene that is not in it, but you wish it were. Or write a different ending to it. 5) This is one of my favorite playwriting exercises. There are a few steps, but they are all quite easy and fun. Write this phrase at the top of a sheet of paper: “The Time When . . .” Then brainstorm for as long as you can. Don’t think about it too much, just write. It is stronger if these are actual events from your life as opposed to fictitious ones. “The time when I broke my leg.” “The time when the tooth fairy left me money.” “The time when I realized I had to go into the theatre.” “The time when grandma died.” My favorite one is, “The time when the dog ate the sweet and sour sauce and looked like Vincent Van Gogh.” (You don’t have to write “The Time When” for each one. It’s up to you.) Once you have your list, circle the top three. These are the ones you’d really like to write about or that you think could make a good play. Then pick one and start writing a scene from a play about that event. You can give yourself a time limit (“I’ll write for fifteen minutes”) or not. If it is something you are passionate about, chances are it will flow out of you quite effortlessly. Don’t worry too much about grammar and spelling. Just get a first draft on the page. (Many writers refer to this as their “vomit draft.”) You can always fix it later. 6) Scroll through some of your most recent texts or emails. Find one that you think could be the foundation for a strong scene or ten-minute play.

3 Criticism

Chapter Outline The “Why” of Theatre Criticism 77 “I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter 80 Writing a Critique for a Play 80 “Why Am I Bored?” 84 A Sample Critique 85 Criticism as Entertainment 87 Remember: Artists Have Feelings, Too 88 When to Keep It to Yourself 90 What to Look for When Writing a Critique 91 Critiquing Other Forms 100 Exercises101

Even when I was a theatre-struck child, I couldn’t get away with saying at the dinner table that I simply liked—or, more probably, “adored,” as I was an affected little thing—a play. My parents insisted, gently, that I had to be able to say why. And was “adored” really the word I wanted? —Ben Brantley, theatre critic

The “Why” of Theatre Criticism “What is the value of theatre criticism? Why is it something worth learning and studying? I know what I like and what I don’t. Isn’t that all that matters?” Well, maybe you know what you like, but can you articulate it in theatrical

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terms? Are you able to say, “This element of a particular play worked for me and this one didn’t, and this is why? And who needs to know this stuff, anyway? I have no interest in being a theatre critic, so why should it matter?” Well, what if you want to be a director? Obviously, you would need to know why a scene is working or why it isn’t. In addition, you need to speak the same language as the designer in order to articulate your artistic vision. Perhaps you see a scene as intense and angry, and the set designer sees it as jagged and crimson. It could be the same thing or not. Suppose you want to be a professional stage manager. After the show opens, in many cases it will be your responsibility to maintain the show and the director’s vision. Or, if it’s a long run, you will need to install replacement actors. Stage managers often think of themselves merely as technicians, but they are far more, particularly in this case. They need to have their creative tools sharpened and at the ready. Let’s say you are an actor, and you don’t like your costume. You need to be able to tell the director and the designer why it doesn’t work for you. Creating a costume takes time and costs money. They cannot keep designing and building new ones until you say, “Eureka! That’s it!” There are many stories of well-established directors watching a scene and saying to an actor, “No. That’s not it.” The actor normally replies, “Okay. What would you like me to do differently?” The director simply says, “I don’t know. But that’s not it.” Do you see how incredibly unhelpful this is to the artistic process? Similarly, I went through a period where I was writing a lot of spec scripts for television shows. (A “spec” is a sample script for an existing television program.) Luckily, I had the opportunity to show my work to some very successful television writers. Several of them responded by saying, “Here’s the way I would have written it.” Not only was that somewhat insulting, but it also wasn’t helping me to become a better writer or to learn from my mistakes. I didn’t need to know what they would have written. I wanted to know how they responded to what I had written. It’s like that corny, old joke, “How many theatre students does it take to screw in a light bulb?” The answer: “Ten. One to screw it in and nine to say, ‘I could have done that so much better!’” That doesn’t help the person who screwed it in to learn what they did wrong or how they could have done it better. In a similar vein, certain directors and professors suffer from what I call “The Seagull Syndrome”: they fly by, defecate all over something, and keep right on going. Again, this is not process oriented, nor does it help the artist to grow. Developing your critical eye is something that will hold you in good stead for the rest of your life, whether or not you continue to work in the theatre. We all fancy ourselves to be critics. The question becomes this: How do we

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learn to express our critical opinions intelligently? As playwright Craig Wright states so eloquently, “A bad painting is just a bad painting. But a bad play, you have to sit through!” In addition to what is covered in this chapter, there are incredibly eloquent comments on this topic covered in the next chapter, “The Interviews,” under the subheading “On Critics and Theatre Criticism.” While there are a number of collections of critical essays and collections of reviews, there aren’t many books on how to actually write criticism. I hope you will find this helpful and informative. There are several points to consider when writing a critique for a work of art. While we will discuss these in terms of a play, these same rules apply to film, music, literature, dance, sculpture, painting, or any of the creative arts. And since this is a book on writing for the theatre, we will focus on the written aspects of a critique for a play or musical. The great German poet, playwright, and critic Johann Wolfgang von Goethe maintained that three questions be asked about any work of art: 1. What is the artist trying to do? 2. How well did they do it? 3. Was it worth the doing? Goethe felt the questions must be answered in order, because you cannot answer number three without properly answering one and two. Let’s take a look at each of these:

1) “What Is the Artist Trying to Do?” A play is meant to be seen and experienced. Yes, a play can be read, but that is not its primary intention. This really comes down to determining the theme of the work and what the director and playwright are trying to say.



2) “How Well Did They Do It?” Obviously, this comes down to opinion. Did the actor hit that emotional peak? Did the dancer complete the double pirouette? Did the designer get their metaphors across?



3) “Was It Worth the Doing?” Have you ever seen a play and said to yourself, “Well, I get what the playwright was trying to say, but they didn’t really achieve it.” If you can see the attempt, regardless of whether or not they succeeded, it was worth doing. It takes months or even years

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to create a piece of theatre. It can take moments to destroy it. Sometimes, theatre students think it’s their right and privilege to decimate someone else’s creation. It’s not. When critiquing a piece of theatre or any work of art, a good rule of thumb is to start by finding three things you liked about it. The harder it may be, the more necessary it becomes in order to gain some objectivity on the work as a whole.

“I Liked It” Doesn’t Matter Before we get into the specifics of writing a critique, I want to stress this point. Whether you like or do not like a performance, a design element or the production as a whole is irrelevant. This may seem antithetical to the very purpose of writing a critique, but it really isn’t. The question is, “Did the choice(s) made serve the production, the director’s vision, and were they supported by the script?” You’re not going to love everything you see, but you can still learn from it. Sometimes, you are learning what doesn’t work and being able to formulate why. Try to avoid peppering your critiques with phrases such as “I liked this” and “that bothered me.” This is not the point of a critique. Now, let’s look at some specifics.

Writing a Critique for a Play Introduction The introduction should include the following: 1) The title of the play, the name of the playwright, and any possibly pertinent historical information (such as similar works from this period or by this playwright). 2) The name of the director, the place and date of the production you attended, and the name of the production company. Do you know of any previous work by this company or this director? 3) The thesis (or main idea) of your review, which should include the following:

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A general impression of the relative success or failure of the production, based on what you actually saw. It should also include your initial impression of how the play should have been presented based on the script itself, and what you can discern of the intended concept. Please note that you are evaluating it based on the director’s concept and how well or poorly it was executed, not your own. It’s important that you have an open mind to other interpretations of the material, as long as they are supported by the text. Since you will not be expected to discuss all aspects of the production, focus your thesis on one or two major concerns that the production has or has not addressed.

Writing the Statement and Summary 1) Include a brief thematic summary of the play and support that summary with concrete evidence from the text. Keep in mind this is not a plot summary, but a reflection on some of the prevalent themes and ideas the playwright is expressing. You can include this summary in the introduction. If you choose to go into greater detail, you can include it in a separate paragraph following the introduction.

The Body of the Paper: Your Critique Like any strong essay, the introduction is your thesis. The review is your argument as you give the specific whys and wherefores from your opening paragraphs. In order to give your critique a strong format and cohesiveness, it would be to your advantage to discuss these elements in the order that you outlined them in the introduction. Such points of discussion might include the nontechnical (acting, directing, and choreography) followed by the technical (lighting, scenery, costumes, and sound) aspects of the production. For each element that you discuss, in as clear, concise, and detailed manner as possible, describe the physical aspects of what you observed. Always keep in mind that whatever you include must support the assertions you made in your introduction and thesis. Focus on particular scenes or performances that will support your thesis for your final evaluation of the piece. Be as specific as possible. As stated earlier, the more specific you make it, the more universal it becomes.

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Your Analysis This part of your critique receives the most attention from your reader. Therefore, it demands the most thought and organization. After you have finished describing the most important elements of the production, evaluate them. Once again, this is not simply your opinion, but in the context of the play itself, as well as this particular production. Many times, these elements will stem from unanswered questions: “Why was the lighting in that scene so dark? Was it meant to symbolize something? When there was that long pause in act 2, did the actress forget her line . . . or was it intentional? Was the gunshot supposed to be that loud? The actor onstage said it was being fired by someone next door.” Answering these questions can be an important part of your critique.

Writing the Summary and Conclusion Your conclusion should not merely recapitulate your thesis in a mechanical way. Instead, you want to try to show why your response to the play is valid and significant, based on what you have described in the body of the paper. In your conclusion, do not add any significant new material, but don’t be afraid to leave your reader with something to contemplate.

Other Important Points





1) Titles in Italics: The title of a play (or film, book, or song) must always be in italics or quotes. Either one is acceptable, but the general practice is to use italics. That means every time you mention the title of the play, it must be in italics. 2) Minimize Plot Points: There is no need to recap the entire plot in your critique beyond an introductory sentence or two for context. If you need to cite a few elements to illustrate a point, that is fine, but it is not necessary to rehash the entire story. It is much more important that you talk about the inherent themes in the work. 3) Verb Tenses: When you talk about what happened onstage or the audience’s reaction (including yours), you must always state in the immediate past tense unless it’s happening in real time (which it’s not). Example: “She looked at her watch” as opposed to “She looks at her watch.”

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4) Be Descriptive and Specific: Try to avoid using words like “enjoyable,” “interesting,” “bad,” and “good.” They are not descriptive enough for a critique and don’t really tell the reader what you thought. Try making strong choices and using vivid, bold words. You can use a thesaurus and view this as an opportunity to stretch your vocabulary. I always tell my students that I’d rather have them take a risk and use a new word in the wrong context rather than using words like “interesting,” “dull,” and “good.” 5) Full Names, Then Last Names Only: If you are writing a critique about a school production, you might be writing about your friends or classmates. If this is the case, avoid the risk of being too casual. For instance, rather than saying, “I liked Jane’s work,” or even worse, “Jane was good,” you would say, “In the role of Stella, Jane Miller’s performance was .  .  ..” Then, when you refer to her again, you would say, “Miller” or “Ms. Miller.” You would never say “Jane” in a formal review. Also, if you are writing about your friends, please try to be as objective as possible. This is an area where many of my students fall short, so I want to emphasize it. Whether it is a critique or an essay, the first time you refer to the subject, you would say, “As a director, Mike Nichols’ work was extraordinary.” Every time thereafter, you would say “Nichols” or “Mr. Nichols.” Even if you knew the subject personally, this is how you would refer to them. 6) Insider Lingo: If you are a theatre student critiquing a performance of a peer, be wary of using a language that outsiders wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t want to say, “Her moment-to-moment specificity seemed off,” or “His Meisner work was strong.” Outside of an acting class, most people wouldn’t know what that means. You might be able to get away with something like “They broke the fourth wall,” as most people either know what that means, or they can at least surmise. But otherwise, try to keep your terminology to things that anyone would understand. 7) Proofreading: Spelling and grammar count. They really do. Be sure you proof your work. You might even want to use an internet program like Grammarly1 to check your usage and punctuation. While such software programs are not foolproof, they can help immensely. Many of my students overlook this final step as they are in a hurry to submit their essay and get onto their next assignment. While I can understand this, it is a big mistake. Why would you spend all that time writing

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a critique only to have spelling and grammar mistakes reduce your grade and diminish your work? Also, if your play contains any foreign or unusual names, be sure you spell them correctly. This includes the names of the actors, directors, and designers. 8) “Performance” versus “Production”: These words are not interchangeable, but many people think they are. The MerriamWebster Dictionary refers to a performance as “the action of representing a character in a play,” or “A public presentation or exhibition.” Therefore, if you are talking about the play as a whole, you are referring to the production. One is singular and one is plural. If you are talking about an individual actor’s work or a single showing of the play, you are referring to a performance. You could say, “At the performance I watched, the role of Ivan was played by . . .” but you would not say, “The performance runs for three weeks.” 9) Avoid the Phrase, “In my Opinion”: You are writing the critique. What is a critique? A series of opinions. We already know it is your opinion. It is redundant to restate it. 10) Mention the Names of the Artists: Many times, my students will submit a critique where they go on for two paragraphs about the brilliance of the scenic design for a particular production, but they never mention the name of the set designer. Or they write about the unique directorial concept and how well it was implemented, but they never credit the director. This may seem obvious, but if you discuss a particular element, whether it is a specific performance, design element, or another facet of the production, you must mention the name of the artist who created it.

“Why Am I Bored?” If you are watching a play and you suddenly cannot stop thinking about those Szechuan dumplings you are going to dive into after the show, something on the stage clearly isn’t working. When this occurs, I ask myself, “Why am I bored? Is it the acting? The direction? The play itself? What isn’t holding my attention?” We have all had the experience of a twenty-minute one-act feeling like it lasted for four hours. Conversely, we have all watched a three-hour play that seemed to last ten minutes. To start flexing your critical muscles, if something isn’t holding your attention, ask yourself what it might be. Once you think you’ve figured it out, ask yourself again. Are you certain

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it is that particular aspect of the production that doesn’t work for you? What would you like to see done differently? And why?

A Sample Critique Let’s take a look in depth at a sample review from one of my former students, a wonderfully smart writer and actress named Teresa Howick: Elegant Design and Verbal Daggers Enrich Coward’s Private Lives By Teresa Howick The Gielgud Theatre’s current production of Nöel Coward’s Private Lives showcases its performances and design elements to ask this simple question: “How can a romantic relationship walk the tightrope between tenderness and volatility? And how much of each can it endure?” The thesis here is very clear. We know the writer will be focusing on the themes of the play and how the work of the actors and designers helped to emphasize them.

As a playwright, Nöel Coward riddled his plays with classic British humor, peppered with witty repartee and sophisticated, verbal banter. While this can certainly be an acquired taste, to pull off such inherently dry humor successfully, a director must often allow his actors the ability to use the situation as the punch line of the joke. Director Jonathan Kent excelled at this. He kept to the reality of the circumstances as much as possible while ensuring that the moments that needed to be larger-than-life remained appropriate to the story. Take, for example, Amanda (exquisitely played by Anna Chancellor) and her treatise on the role of chance in meeting her new husband, Victor (a suitably stuffy Anthony Calf) with the statement, “It’s chance that we’re here, particularly after your driving.” Kent ensures the moment is immediately followed by a lengthy pause so that both Victor and the audience can visibly react to the craftily fired gibe. This is one of the many moments where Kent makes finding this middle ground between realism and uproarious comedy seem effortless.

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In this paragraph, the writer gives us just enough background on the playwright to create context. They also credit the director as overseer of the overall comedic style and introduce us to two of the leading actors.

Of course, any director can only do so much without brilliant actors to see this vision take shape. Thankfully, Kent was indeed fortunate to have assembled a cast who could take this challenge and run with it. As just one standout from the cast, Anna Chancellor’s take on remarried divorcée Amanda Prynne lends itself beautifully to the notion of walking that fine line between joy and regret for leaving her second husband to be with her first. Chancellor’s Amanda struck me as something akin to an older, significantly healthier, and definitely wealthier version of Cabaret’s Sally Bowles: a woman who devotes herself to the pursuit of worldly pleasures and finds little point in discussing the severe ramifications of some of her actions, yet sometimes finds herself occasionally wondering about them. This and her saucy attitude pair off quite nicely with Toby Stephens’s take on Elyot Chase, himself quite akin to The Importance of Being Earnest’s primary troublemaker, Algernon Moncrieff. That being said, the entire cast had their own part in portraying this dichotomy so necessary in comedies such as Private Lives. Here, the writer singles out two of the actors and states what made their performances so strong. As stated earlier, note that with each artist mentioned, the first time, they are referred to by their first and last name; every time thereafter, it is simply their last name.

Speaking of relationships, Anthony Ward’s set and costume designs for this production had to achieve their own balancing act. While securely placing the story in a concrete time and place, they helped to accentuate the characters’ rather complex double love triangle. The set pays homage to glamorous, 1920s playgrounds for the wealthy. The Deauville seaside resort where the couples unintentionally honeymoon together is complemented by Mark Henderson’s moody lighting. The two couples are literally juxtaposed in neighboring suites to let the audience compare and contrast each of their humble, martial beginnings before the wild adventure really begins. Amanda’s flat in Paris, which looks more like a penthouse, definitely shows a lived-in residence that

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actually says quite a bit about its owner; she comes from money (evident by the gold-plated door), she has a taste for the avant-garde (indicated by the many paintings) and is quite cozy spooning with Elyot. The costumes, which draw inspiration from Art Deco designs of the same decade, noticeably find vibrant ways to pair off and contrast the four main characters, mostly using their color palettes. The set and costume designs not only relate certain characters to each other in various ways, but allow them to stay somewhat grounded in reality. In these two paragraphs, the writer discusses the scenic and costume elements and how they complement the other choices made by the actors and the director to make a cohesive whole.

As a piece of theatre, Nöel Coward’s Private Lives displays a complex balancing act between passion and compatibility in the main characters’ relationships. Their initial marital relationships exude compatibility, but lack passion; likewise, when Elyot and Amanda reunite, they have all the passion in the world (not all of it positive) yet only fleeting moments of compatibility. Kent’s production utilized this tightrope as a focal point and used it as a lens through which to view the story. With stellar performances and stunning design elements, it takes a surprisingly introspective look at romance and human relationships. This conclusion ties up the components discussed and recapitulates the main points of the critique in a way that is clear, concise, and restates the thesis in a more complete manner.

Criticism as Entertainment Of course, when you write a critique, you don’t want it to be dry and factual. Like anything you write, it needs to reflect your individual style and voice. In terms of length, unless you are dealing with a specific word count, I am reminded of a teacher I had in grade school who said, “Your writing should be long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting.” If you are writing something for publication, this is even more prevalent. Sometimes, newspaper critics are writing with very strict word counts. Even so, they can still have their work butchered beyond recognition by ruthless

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editors dealing with space constraints. The New York Times theatre critic Ben Brantley said that when he was starting to write reviews for Elle magazine, sometimes his word counts were so severe, he felt like he was writing a haiku instead of a review. Of course, now that more people read reviews online rather than in print, this is not as much of an issue. Lyn Gardner, theatre critic for The Guardian, feels that the internet has also leveled the playing field. The days of a handful of critics at major newspapers having the power to make or break a show doesn’t really exist anymore. Nowadays, anyone with a blog can call themselves a theatre critic. Many people feel this is a double-edged sword. Theatre tickets can be very expensive, especially in places like Broadway and the West End. If someone is having a night on the town which includes two tickets to a show, dinner, and perhaps the cost of parking and a babysitter, they want to be sure what they are seeing is going to be good. They crave the opinion of someone they can trust and a critic with some credentials to advise them on this expenditure. On the other hand, critics who go to the theatre almost every night for years at a time can often become jaded, especially when it comes to mainstream, popular entertainment. Sometimes, they only like material that is drastically outside the box. In this regard, having a review from John Q. Public on a blog post can have its advantages.

Remember: Artists Have Feelings, Too For reviews online or in print, keep in mind that the people about whom you are writing will most likely read your reviews. Certain critics develop a following because their style is punchy, vitriolic, and downright mean. While this might make for a fun read, sometimes it becomes more about the ego of the critic showing how clever and witty they can be as opposed to really reviewing the play. John Simon was a New York-based theatre and film critic for many years who was known for his poison pen. He once said of a prominent celebrity appearing on Broadway: I always thought Miss _______’s face was deserving of first place in the beagle category. Less aphoristically speaking, it is a face going off in three directions simultaneously: the nose always en route to becoming a trunk, blubber lips unable to resist the pull of gravity, and a chin trying its damndest to withdraw into the neck, apparently to avoid responsibility for what goes on above it.

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How does that help anyone decide whether or not to see the play? For obvious reasons, the actress was very upset. Simon reviewed my work twice and said, “The direction is by someone who calls himself Luke Yankee.” The implication was that I had made up that name (which I did not) and that he found it a ludicrous moniker. How did my name and whether or not it was authentic have any impact on my direction of those productions? Nowadays, the internet gives one a certain level of anonymity. When you comment on an article or a YouTube video, keep in mind that the creators will probably read what you have posted. They are artists with feelings. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be honest in your critiques; but there is a difference between being constructive and being destructive. Some artists never read reviews. Either that, or they wait until well after the play has closed to read them. That way, they cannot be swayed either way. Producers need to read them because they can affect the box office. When I am directing, I always feel compelled to read them for several reasons. First of all, the director works very closely with the producer, and as stated earlier, producers have to pay attention to them. Second, if an actor reads a review, it can greatly impact their performance. If it is a bad one, they may want to change a moment or become self-conscious about it. They might be thinking, “Oh, here comes the scene where that dreadful critic said I look like I’m fretting like a spastic gazelle.” The actor then makes different choices that may or may not support the other actors and the production as a whole. If I am the director and I know that this behavior is stemming from a negative review and not just a temperamental actor or actress, I will handle it differently. Another way producers rely on critics is for quotes to use in publicity and advertising. I’m sure you have seen ads for plays and musicals with banners proclaiming, “‘The best show I have seen in years!’ Ellen Rodriguez, The Chronicle.” If someone reads a quote like that and Ms. Rodriguez happens to be a critic they respect, they are more likely to plunk down their hard-earned cash for a ticket. There is a story about Walter Kerr, the Pulitzer Prize-winning New York theatre critic for more than thirty years, from the early 1950s to the late 1970s. This was back in the days when there were only a handful of newspapers and a solid review from someone like Kerr could make or break your show. One of his reviews started with, “First of all, I must say Mrs. Kerr loved the play. I, on the other hand . . .” at which point he ripped it to shreds. The following week, the newspaper banner ad read, “‘Mrs. Kerr loved the play!’ Walter Kerr, the New York Herald Tribune.” While this might be creative advertising, it doesn’t serve anyone in the long run.

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Theatre critic Peter Filichia tells a story in Chapter 4 of this book about seeing the original production of I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change. The piece is a musical revue about the singles scene and people trying to find love. As someone in a long-term relationship, Filichia didn’t really relate to the musical, but he saw that most of the audience did. He stated in his critique how everyone around him was laughing and having a wonderful time. It may not have been his cup of tea, but he couldn’t negate the response it was getting. The producer circulated that review extensively, and it helped contribute to the musical moving to an Off-Broadway theatre, where it ran for years. Conversely, when a show is popular, some critics will pander to it in their reviews. There is an old adage in Hollywood when a new film script is circulating around the studios. Someone may ask an executive, “What did you think of the script?” The executive replies, “I’m not sure. What did other people think of it?” In terms of criticism, don’t be afraid of not having the popular opinion. Remember, it is just that: your opinion.

When to Keep It to Yourself When one starts learning how to critique a play, it is natural to want to show off what you have learned. Still, this isn’t always the best course of action in all circumstances. Let’s say you are a college student and you have been studying theatre for at least six months. You go to see a local community or school production with a friend who is not involved in theatre; in other words, someone who just goes to the theatre to be entertained. I refer to them as “civilians.” I mean no disrespect with this term. They are simply people who are not in the theatrical trenches. We need these people to be audience members. When one works in or is studying theatre and you go to a play or a musical with a civilian, this can often be the experience coming out of the theatre (I will use the initials TP for “Theatre Person” and C for “Civilian”): TP: So, what did you think? C: I liked it. I had a really good time. TP: You liked that?! C: Yeah. I thought it was really entertaining. TP: As someone who knows theatre, let me tell you what didn’t work about it.

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The Theatre Person then goes into a litany of reasons why they hated the production. This makes the Civilian feel stupid and inferior, and in many cases, they feel wrong for having liked it in the first place. In the future, they might not go to the theatre anymore. Or they certainly won’t go with that person. Instead, why not try this approach? C: So, what did you think? TP: What did you think? C: I liked it. I had a really good time. TP: That’s great. Tell me what you liked about it?

In this scenario, you are empowering the Civilian and teaching them to begin to hone their critical skills. Once they say what they liked about it, do not offer your negative opinions. You might save them for another Theatre Person, or not. If pressed, you might say, “It didn’t entirely work for me, but I’m glad it did for you.” If they ask you why, give them a short or vague answer. It is not your right to ruin someone else’s experience just to show them how theatrically savvy you are. I have a friend who even goes so far as to say, “Let me tell you why you shouldn’t have liked it.” This is insulting to the Civilian. Also, you’re basically saying, “Your opinion doesn’t matter. I know theatre and therefore, I’m right and you’re wrong.” Since any kind of art is subjective, you must let others have their opinions. In addition, as we all know, there are a number of people whose philosophy is, “When I go to the theatre, I want to be entertained.” They don’t want to see anything dark or moody. They’d love a nice, toe-tapping musical over Hamlet any old day. The theatre needs civilians as much as it needs critics. Also, I always employ what I call, “The Two Block Rule.” I never say anything remotely disdainful about a production until I am at least two blocks away from the theatre. Have you ever had the experience of turning to your companion in a crowded theatre lobby and saying, “Wasn’t the leading man just awful?” only to realize his mother is standing right behind you? That’s why The Two Block Rule is sound and sensible.

What to Look for When Writing a Critique It’s important to know what you are looking at when you are writing a critique. Have you ever heard the expression, “I left the theatre humming the

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scenery?” That means you loved the sets but hated the music. But what made that so? Perhaps you are not used to evaluating certain production elements and you aren’t really sure what to look for. Let’s say you are an actor, but you have very little experience with sound design. How can you tell if it’s good or not? Or perhaps you are a designer, and you don’t fully understand the intricacies of the directing process. Here are some points to consider. These were created by the Los Angeles Stage Alliance for the voters of the Ovation Awards (the LA equivalent of the Tonys). Not all of them will apply in every instance, but if you are writing a review and you aren’t sure how to evaluate a certain area, this list will help.2

 Acting

1) Does the actor serve the play? Do they help tell the story? 2) Is the actor in their body? Do they appear comfortable in their own skin? 3) Is the actors’ voice emanating from the center? Does it sound connected to the body or is it thin and disconnected? 4) Is the actor affecting the other characters in the scene or are they in their own world, disjointed from others in the scene? 5) Is the actor making strong choices and committing to them? 6) Is the actor living in the moment or do they appear to be aware of being watched? 7) Has the actor prepared enough to deliver a performance that is absolutely believable and personal? 8) Does the actor convey physically and vocally the style of the piece whether it is a classic, farce, drama, musical, or contemporary comedy? 9) Does the performance seem forced or is it completely relaxed and natural?

Directing 1) Is there unity of theme in the design elements? Does it look like there was thought put into the world of the play from a design point of view? It doesn’t have to have a lot of money behind the design, but it needn’t look slapped together, either.

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2) Is the staging competent and interesting? Or does it seem like the director did not put any thought into where actors stand on the stage? 3) Is there an arc to the story that has been created by the director? 4) Did the director seem to have a good grasp of the material? 5) Did they bring something new and interesting to the production? 6) Was the play well cast? Were the performances polished? 7) If a style was imposed on the play, was it to the detriment or enhancement of the play? 8) Were the actors served well by the direction? 9) Were the sets and costumes appropriate? 10) Were music and sound effects properly employed? Is there a unifying concept for the production? Can one detect an overriding metaphor that helps to create the world of the play? 11) Are there unifying production elements? The designers may design it, but the director is the final arbiter. 12) Has the director been true to the intentions of the playwright as can best be surmised by what’s written? 13) Has the director made good choices that belong in the world of the play? Have they allowed anachronisms (inaccurate historical or chronological references) to exist because it’s easier (or due to sloppiness)? 14) How is the rhythm and tempo of the show? Does it feel slow and draggy? Or rushed? 15) Emotion: the actors execute it, but the director orchestrates the emotional flow of the show. Does the show work on an emotional level? Do the actors make choices that seem too big or inappropriate? 16) Do certain actors seem miscast? 17) Can you distinguish the difference between the playwright’s intentions, the director’s interpretation, and the execution by the artists?

Playwriting 1) Does the play create a world that is both recognizable and unique? 2) Do characters behave and speak in a way that is logical—for them? 3) Are the mood, tone, and energy consistent throughout? Does the plot make sense?

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4) Is the world of the play plausible according to its own rules (even if it is a fantasy)? 5) Does the dialogue sound real (within the chosen style) or cliché? 6) Does each scene and character have a purpose? Are they driving the story forward or revealing something new? 7) Does the play fulfill its expectations? Do you know within the first five to ten minutes “when you get to go home?” In other words, do you know the central theme and conflict? 8) Are characters distinctive from one another, particularly in the way they speak? 9) Are the stakes high enough? 10) Are the story elements clear (inciting incident, rising action, climax, falling action, resolution, and denouement)? 11) Does the play inspire visceral feeling? Do you care about what happens to the characters? 12) Is this a story that needed to live on stage? Or would it have worked better as a book or a film?

Scenic Design 1) The set design should express good principles of design, use the playing space appropriately, and be visually appealing. 2) Does the set design create a proper sense of atmosphere and represent the period, style, and concept of the play? 3) Does the scenic design enhance the story or detract from it? Does it hold your attention? 4) Does the physical placement of elements (walls, doors, furniture, entrances, levels, etc.) make sense? 5) Is it well crafted? Is it constructed and painted well? Does it fill the space? Does it have enough detail to enhance the storytelling?

Costume Design 1) Does the costume design suit the play (and the genre or style of the play) and reflect the director’s concept? 2) Does the costume design support, enhance, or define the characters in terms of age, status, personality, and style? Does everyone seem like they are in the same play?

Criticism

3) What do the costumes tell you about the character? Can you tell who the person is by what they are wearing? 4) Does the costume design help the actors? Or hinder them? Can the actors inhabit the clothes or do the clothes overpower the actors? 5) If it is a period piece, how well do the costumes evoke the period and the subtleties of the characters within that period? 6) Is the design innovative and imaginative? Does the costume design use fabric, color, texture, line, form, and silhouette to its advantage? How much attention has been paid to detail? 7) If it is a musical, does the movement of the costumes complement the movement of the actor? 8) Do the costumes merge with the character so seamlessly that they’re just accepted as what the character would wear naturally?

Lighting Design 1) Lighting design should capture the intrinsic qualities in the play and describe them in terms of light. Does it compliment the actors, set, and costumes while setting the tone and mood of each scene? 2) Are the actors visible? Are the performers able to communicate their intentions visibly through appropriate lighting? 3) Is the design imaginative? Is it strong, clear, and consistent with the overall production style and concept? Does the use of color support any symbolism or emotional context that is consistent with other stylistic elements within the production? 4) Does the lighting design help focus the audience’s attention? Is the movement of the light rhythmically consistent with the style of the production? 5) Are cue placements appropriate, or do they seem arbitrary? Does the lighting design guide the audience from one scene to the next?

Sound Design 1) Does the sound design support the pace and tempo of the production while giving the audience an exciting aural experience? 2) Can the performance be heard and understood by everyone? Does the sound design contribute constructively to the production?

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3) Does the sound design enhance the audience’s experience by conveying specific emotion or information? 4) Are microphones being used? If so, are they subtle or glaringly prominent (both visibly and audibly)? 5) For a play, is there a level of artistry and integration of the soundscape with any music used? 6) For a musical, is there a proper balance of vocals and instruments? Or does one overpower the other?

Hair and Makeup Design 1) Does the makeup enhance the actor’s portrayal or detract from it? If the actor has character makeup (for instance, old-age makeup), does it look realistic? Or is it too heavy and exaggerated for the size of the performance space? 2) If a character has a specialty makeup (for instance, if they are playing a monster or an animal), does it support their performance or is it art for the sake of being artistic? 3) Do the wigs look like wigs? Or do they look like the person’s hair? What about mustaches, beards, or other hairpieces? Like the costumes, do they look and feel authentic for the period?

Overall Design 1) The design elements should help the actors and director express the story, meaning, and theme of the play. Also, the design must make sense in the context of the script. 2) The designs must be well executed and support the production. The production shouldn’t struggle against it. 3) How does the design reflect the intention of the production? Does it establish a period, reflect a psychological state, or evoke a feeling? 4) Is the design an integral element or is it merely window dressing? 5) Do the designs (scenic, costume, lighting, sound, projections, hair, and makeup) seem well collaborated and integrated with each other? Do they all look like they are part of the same world? 6) Most design elements should eventually disappear and the characters playing out their stories should be more prominent. Is this true? Or are there design elements you find distracting from the storytelling?

Criticism

Choreography 1) Does the choreography support the story and help to move it forward? Or is it simply pretty dancing? 2) What does it tell you about the characters? 3) Does it have the proper style for the period and the show? 4) Does it play to the strengths of the performers? Or are they trying to do movements beyond their capabilities? 5) It is important that you know the difference between what has been recreated from an original Broadway production or tour and what has been created by the choreographer. Sometimes it will be listed in the program, and sometimes not. There are many wonderful productions that use original choreography, and while it is hard work to recreate and translate that choreography to the stage, it should not be judged as that choreographer’s original work. 6) Sometimes, a play will have stylized staging underscored by music used to facilitate set moves and scene transitions. This is a form of choreography. Is it artful and imaginatively conceived? 7) Is the choreography bold, impressive, and innovative? Does it make you feel something? 8) Is there fight choreography? If so, does it seem realistic and exciting, with an element of danger? Is it well executed by the actors?

Musical Direction 1) The musical director is ultimately a collaborator. They need to combine musical taste, leadership, and a collaborative sense of storytelling. 2) The musical director can be a combination of any or all of these facets: rehearsal pianist, “repetiteur” (from opera: the person who goes over the notes for the singers to learn), conductor, accompanist, therapist, and colleague. Their collaboration starts with the director to make sure that the musical story is told, making sure all the words are heard and being sung appropriately, which means they look after the lyricist and composer as well. 3) Is the production an original work? If so, the musical director’s job is much more involved. They had a much bigger hand in the “sound” of the show.

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4) Did the musical director do any of the arrangements (vocal, dance, and/or music)? The musical director should be given more credit if they produced some great arrangements. 5) Is the musical director also the conductor? If so, give a little more credit to a conductor who gives a spirited performance. How tight does the orchestra sound? Much of that is at the mercy of the sound designer, but nonetheless, it should be considered. 6) Very important: In a musical, the vocal performances of the actors should count for 50 percent of their work. How is their diction as a group? Can you understand the lyrics that are being sung, especially in big group numbers? Again, if the sound is bad, you can’t penalize the musical director, but all those factors need to be considered. 7) Outstanding musical direction is more than just having taught the notes, and playing or conducting the songs. Is the cast inspired musically? Does difficult music seem easy? Is the cast competing with the orchestra (or band, or accompanist) or supported by them? 8) Does the music sparkle? Is the band “hot” or “flat?” Does the show flow with the music or stop every time a song comes along? Does the music seem part of the musical (almost like another cast member) or are you taken out of the story by the music being dull and clueless about what is happening on the stage? 9) Weak musical direction is loud, unconnected, and has no musical focus. In essence, everyone seems to be out for themselves. Is this the case?

Ensemble Acting 1) Gary Sinise of the Steppenwolf Ensemble Company once said, “The principle of ensemble theatre is to put people together over a period of time in a collective way, without the sense that the lead character in a play is the star and the smaller roles are not important. The actors listen to each other and learn from each other and develop as actors together.” A great ensemble gives the feeling of a cohesive whole. The level of talent is consistent throughout the cast. The acting styles of each individual actor meld and are not disparate. The actors work with each other in a way that is collaborative and supportive; they are really talking to and listening to each other rather than merely showcasing their own talent. The spectator

Criticism

senses that the actors as a group collectively agree upon and share a common understanding of the tone and style of the material. The singular ability of a unified company to conjure truth elevates the author’s intention and powerfully enhances the overall impact of the production. 2) Is the play about the journey of multiple characters? Are the performances equally authentic, nuanced, and well executed? 3) Does the group of performers have consistent and effective technical skills such as use of dialects, use of language, and vocal and movement abilities? 4) Are all the actors matched in the level of their fluency with the material? 5) What level of difficulty is inherent in the demands of the material and the number of characters in the play? Do some actors play multiple roles?

Projection Design 1) Is the multimedia worthy of being a design element of its own? Is it simply replacing another discipline’s capabilities, or does it expand the environment and world of the play? 2) Does the use of multimedia fit the texture of the other disciplines’ contributions and the performances? Has it been crafted in ways which blend when necessary and stand out when necessary? 3) What does the use of multimedia tell us about the story? How does it expand the world of the play beyond a texture or setting? 4) Does it draw attention to itself as a “technology”? Is that in congress with the presentation? Is the use of multimedia a statement in and of itself? 5) Is the function or flow of the show’s multimedia and its cueing crafted in natural and organic ways? Are the cues presented in clear and organized structures which make sense with the lighting, set shifts, soundscape, and story needs? 6) Is the content crafted or manipulated in ways where breaks, loop points, or edits are not jarring (unless needed)? 7) How has the designer structured the presentation to respond to live performance? When applicable, is there flexibility in cueing to allow for the performances to drive the technical elements? Or do the technical elements lock in the performances?

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Other Elements 1) Were there any special effects? If so, were they well executed? Did they enhance the storytelling or were they simply there to be flashy and create a spectacle? 2) What about the language? This could be a component of the writing, the acting, the direction, or some combination thereof. If the language was highly stylized or structured (as with Shakespeare, Molière or certain characters of Tennessee Williams or David Mamet), was the story clear— even if you didn’t understand all of the language? Did you understand more or less of the language than you expected? Was the use of the language interesting and compelling? Did the actors execute it well? This is a fairly thorough and comprehensive list of points to consider when critiquing a play. As stated earlier, not all of these will apply in every instance. And if you are writing a critique with a word count, you may want to consider choosing a few of these points in particular. Hopefully, this list has helped to increase your vocabulary of what to watch for when viewing a production.

Critiquing Other Forms In the chapter called “The Brass Tacks,” there are some links to online reviews and articles on criticism from well-respected critics in theatre and several other areas. A number of excellent books exist on how to critique a film, a book, a dance, or a piece of sculpture. I will touch upon those briefly here, just for the sake of understanding their differences. As discussed earlier, a play is dialogue driven. A film is propelled by visual images, so that would be the main thing on which you would focus. A dance piece is all about the human form and how it moves through space. A book is obviously about the words and how they are used. And a painting or sculpture is about the medium and how it is used. But ultimately, any work of art in whatever medium is based on how it makes you feel. Were you moved? Did you laugh or cry? What emotions did it evoke in you? Since art is totally subjective, so is criticism. One person may admire something you simply abhor or vice versa. We have all heard the expression, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” And in the theatre, anyone who buys a ticket fancies themselves a critic. But knowing what to look for and how to articulate it is a skill which in time can become an art. Flexing these artistic muscles will enhance other areas of your work in unforeseen ways.

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Exercises 1) Watch a scene from a play or a movie without the sound. How much can you pick up through gesture, setting, costume, etc.? Then, choose a different scene and watch it without the picture. How much can you discern just from dialogue and inflection? 2) Take three of the “Points to Consider” in this chapter from an area with which you are not terribly familiar. Watch a play, movie, or television show and really think about those three points. Does thinking about elements of performance or production you might not have considered in the past give you a greater appreciation for it? 3) Make a list of at least ten of the most descriptive words you can think of. You might want to use an online dictionary or thesaurus to really help you stretch beyond your literary limits. Then add another ten. Or, if you hear a word that strikes your fancy, add it to the list. Keep this list handy and the next time you are writing an essay (or better still, a critique), see how many of these words you can put into your writing. 4) Write down a highly visual scene as if you were telling it to someone who is blind. Obviously, you would have to be as descriptive as possible. How does this affect your writing style? Does it make it more specific? Is your choice of words perhaps clearer and stronger? What if everything you wrote had this level of power and clarity? 5) In a paragraph or two, describe your favorite play in writing to your best friend. Now, write the same description, but this time choose someone else with whom you have a more formal relationship, like a teacher or your employer. How did your writing style change between the two drafts? 6) When you are watching, reading, or listening to something you like, ask yourself why you like it. What is it about the particular style or genre that appeals to you? You can ask yourself the same question with something you don’t like, but in either instance, make sure your answer is as specific as possible.

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4 The Interviews: Conversations with Acclaimed Playwrights, Critics, Librettists, and Lyricists

Chapter Outline A Series of Master Classes On Starting Out “What Should I Write About?” On Structure A Writer’s Process Readings and Play Development On Taking Advice on Your Script On Collaboration On Writing Musicals On the Writer as “The Outsider Looking In” On Critics and Theatre Criticism Advice for New Writers What Do You Love About the Theatre? Discussion Questions

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Every time I start a new play, I feel like I’m an absolute beginner. I feel like I’m learning how to write all over again. And I can’t bring the prior physics of the earlier work, the work I just did into the room of a new play. It has to be its own house, it has to have its own structure, and it has to work according to its own rules. I don’t know what those rules are. I don’t make up the rules. I find out how the world works as I write. —Octavio Solis, playwright

A Series of Master Classes I felt it was important to have different perspectives, so I reached out to a number of playwrights, critics, lyricists, and librettists from varying backgrounds and ethnicities to share their thoughts on the craft. My favorite part of writing this book has been doing these interviews. When one sits alone all day staring at a computer screen, it is often difficult to have a sense of community. Doing these interviews reminded me that I am a part of a unique and special tribe: the clan of theatre-loving wordsmiths. It reminded me that there are many brilliant scribes out there who go through the same angst, the same joys, and similar struggles when they face the blank page or the blinking cursor. Knowing this takes some of the mystery out of it (not to mention the sting) and reminds us that deep down we are all the same. One of my favorite quotes about artists (which really applies to all human nature) is from Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing. In a dialogue between two actors (and forgive me for paraphrasing the great Mr. Stoppard), the very seasoned actress tells the junior member of the company how nervous she is on the first day of rehearsal. The younger actor replies, “Why would you be nervous? You’re an experienced professional.” She answers, “Every time I start work on a new project, I say to myself, ‘This is the one where I get found out.’” I think we all feel that way. It’s the ultimate imposter syndrome. I shared this quote with a number of the writers in this section and every single one of them said, “Yes, absolutely! That is exactly the way I feel!” It’s both comforting and disconcerting to know that even after winning Tonys, Oliviers, Oscars, and Pulitzers, that feeling never goes away. While each interview lasted over an hour, I have included some of the highlights broken down into different topics: “On Starting Out,” “What Should I Write About?,” “On Structure,” “A Writer’s Process, Readings & Development,” “On Taking Advice on Your Script,” “On Collaboration,” “On

The Interviews

Writing Musicals,” “The Writer as the Outsider Looking In,” “On Critics & Theatre Criticism,” “Advice for New Writers,” and I ended each interview by asking, “What Do You Love About the Theatre?” Each of these conversations was exciting, revelatory, and tremendously fun. In fact, I left each interview in a state of euphoria, feeling like I had just attended a master class. This was not only because of what I learned from these brilliant people, but in addition to the aforementioned fear of “getting found out,” there was also a sense of, “Look, if I can do it, you can do it!” Each section contains pearls of wisdom, but feel free to jump around to a topic that is of particular interest to you. A bio on each person interviewed is included at the end of the book.

On Starting Out Beth Henley My mother performed at the community theatre in Jackson, Mississippi. I fell in love with the theatre and playwriting in general when I used to cue her on roles like Blanche DuBois. She was very specific about every pause, and the exact wording. Tennessee Williams was a huge influence. And his dialogue, the poetry of it. Really, she was right. If there was a comma, it needed to be a comma. If there was a period, it needed to be a period. If there was a long, long sentence, you needed to do it all the way through. He had such a fine ear. In this way, she showed me her love for the thing that she cared about. It wasn’t that the play was being done in the amateur theatre for local people. For instance, when she was playing Laura in The Glass Menagerie, she would go around the grocery store with a limp, and her commitment and courage and care really informed me, because I really think there can be beautiful theatre anywhere.

David Zippel I was in New York, and had little, part-time jobs, and was trying to make my way in the theatre. And at that point, and even today the advice that I would give to myself or to people starting out is to write as many songs as you can, with as many talented people as you can. And encourage your talented friends who are cabaret singers to sing them.

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Charles Busch I was writing full-length plays at age eleven. It’s odd that my teachers all thought me so completely unexceptional and invisible because I was always writing. Often, I’d write the lead role for myself and it would be a fantasy version of me if I’d been born in some exotic setting. It didn’t occur to me as a teenager that I would be a writer, like a lot of kids or people who become writers. I saw myself as a performer first. And I became a playwright really to create roles for myself to be on stage.

Peter Filichia In 1987, I was walking along the streets of New York. I passed a newsstand and I saw this thing called Theater Week and I looked at it. On the cover, it said, “Volume One, Number One.” And I know that when a magazine is just starting out, they need writers. So, I went to my girlfriend’s house, and I said, “I saw this thing called Theater Week. I’m going to call them tomorrow.” She said, “Don’t, don’t do that. That’s crazy. You know they’re not going to pay any decent money. Call The New York Times, give them article ideas, they’ll give you articles.” And I said, “Yeah, but the thing is, this is Theater Week. And that means I can get in every week. The Times might give me an article or two a year that they’ll throw me. And I won’t get a reputation. This way every week people read me, and it might lead to a better job,” which indeed it did.

Samuel D. Hunter In a weird way, I didn’t start writing plays because I thought I’d be a great playwright, it was because I wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t very good at prose. And something about the messiness of the language of playwriting really appealed to me. It wasn’t about constructing beautiful sentences, it was about pulling together a ton of common, everyday, messy lines of dialogue and letting them add up to something beautiful, something that exists outside of the language itself. And I didn’t know it at the time, but the collaborative nature of theatre really agrees with me—it becomes about something bigger than me, it’s about an entire community of artists coming together to tell a story.

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Donald Margulies The lessons that I learned early on were to trust my instincts. To be more assertive when I feel things aren’t going well, to take more control. More than my deficiencies as a playwright, being less passive in the making of theatre was something I had to learn over time. Not deferring so much to others to make certain decisions and assumptions about the work.1

Ben Brantley I come from a family of writers, editors and academics for whom criticism was not only a profession, but also an everyday philosophy. Even when I was a theatre-struck child, I couldn’t get away with saying at the dinner table that I simply liked—or, more probably, “adored,” as I was an affected little thing—a play. My parents insisted, gently, that I had to be able to say why. And was “adored” really the word I wanted? Reviewing fashion—just out of college, with no background in the field—was great practical training for reviewing theatre. You had to focus on a fleeting vision, which materialized on a stage (or runway) for a matter of seconds, commit it to memory, and instantly pass some sort of judgment as to its viability.

Kia Corthron Howard Stein was a legendary theatre educator who was the head of the playwriting program at Columbia. One day, he said something like, “Kia is the political artist.” It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I was an anomaly. I just didn’t realize I was the only one until that moment. Even though obviously no one else was really, at that time, writing stuff in the same way that I was. I think in my head I thought, “Oh, these are their practice plays before they get to the political stuff.” I should say that was terribly condescending because I don’t think everybody has to write as I do. But it’s actually the only thing that drives me to write. I think frankly, it didn’t occur to me that there were other things that people would want to be writing about besides social justice and all that. So, that’s fine that they did, but it was just a little awakening that I realized that not everybody does this.

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Sheldon Harnick I hadn’t been in New York that long. My brother was already in New York and working. He was in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, I believe, and he called me one day and he said, “How would you like to see a backer’s audition?” And I said, “Oh, I’d love it. I’ve never seen one.” So, we went to see the audition and when they started to sing the songs, I thought, “Oh, my God. These songs are brilliant.” And I’d never heard of the songwriter. I thought, “If this is a score by somebody who’s an unknown, if the unknowns in New York write like this, I might as well go back to Chicago.” I was very depressed by the end of the backer’s audition. And my brother said, “Would you like to meet the songwriter?” I said “No.” But he introduced me, and he said, “Sheldon, I’d like you to meet Stephen Sondheim.” So, we became friends. When I went home, I looked at the theatrical ads in the newspaper. I thought, “I have to see a musical that’s terrible,” and I looked at the ads to see whether there was a title that might suggest that the show would be bad. And there was. The show was called Ankles Away. I went to see it that night and I said to myself, “Maybe there is a place for me in the New York theatre after all.”2

Stephen Adly Guirgis I was asked to write something for an evening of one-acts, and I did, and I guess what I discovered somewhere in writing the first one is that . . . you know, I’m an actor. You can’t act until somebody hires you. But I found that when I was writing the play, even this little one-act, that I could be acting through the characters, living out the journey with the characters, which sort of satisfied the absence of abundant acting work. Then also I discovered that I could write about stuff that was going on inside me, that was bothering me, and sort of put it out there and exorcise it.

Donald Margulies Like so many young artists of any kind, I was very invested in early success. I really wanted it. I don’t really know why, but I did. By my early 30s, after several disappointing would-be breakthroughs, rather than self-destructing, I was able to concentrate on the work. Revenge became a very strong

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motivator for me. The “I’ll show them” element. I’m sure it was because I was raised in very modest circumstances, and I always had an artistic drive, and I did want it. And then when it didn’t come as easily or as readily as I would have hoped, I eased up on myself.

“What Should I Write About?” Stephen Adly Guirgis Write about what means something to you. You can learn structure, and I think that anybody who’s honest will admit that you’re learning about structure and craft until the day you die. But if you’re not writing from a personal place, if you’re not willing to put yourself on the line, if you’re not willing to tell on yourself, the chances of you writing something that’s going to really affect another person really goes down. I find that when people are willing to do that, audiences will give you a big benefit of the doubt if you’re writing about something that’s clearly personal, that clearly means something to you. But if it’s not substantive to you from the jump, then what are you doing? It’s an exercise. It’s like, “I’m going to build a house because I feel like building a house. I’ll build a chalet.” How amazing is that chalet going to be compared to somebody whose father’s dying wish was to have a chalet and he missed the train, so he didn’t get there.

Beth Henley I’ve always been attracted to split images: the grotesque combined with the innocent. A child walking with a cane, a kitten with a swollen head, a hunchback drinking a cup of fruit punch. Somehow these images are a metaphor for my view of life. They’re colorful. Part of that is being brought up in the South. Southerners always bring out the grizzly details in any event.

David Lindsay-Abaire Somebody in the class was having trouble thinking of an idea for a play. “I don’t know what to write about. What do I do?” And Marsha [Norman, the instructor] said, “Well, here’s a great idea. Go back to a time when you were

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really scared or think about the thing that terrifies you more than anything in the world. What is it? When were you feeling that? What is that thing that you’re terrified of? Write about that; that’s always a good play.” I was in my early twenties, and I remember thinking, “Gosh, this sounds like great advice. I don’t know what that is. A drive by shooting, maybe?” When you’re that young, you’re fearless in a lot of ways. Of course, I was afraid of my family passing away, I guess. But it wasn’t until many years later when I became a dad and when my son Nicholas was around three or so, and my wife and I heard two or three stories in a short amount of time about friends of friends who had children die very suddenly and unexpectedly. And as a relatively new dad, I experienced fear in a way that I never had before. And in feeling these incredibly terrifying feelings, I remembered back to what Marsha had said at Juilliard, and I thought, “Oh, finally. I now know what the thing is that scares me more than anything. I could not bear that kind of loss. I can hardly try to imagine it, but I should because it might be a play.” And there were other things, too. Most of my other plays were absurdist comedies. And I had been wanting to try my hand at a naturalistic play as an experiment. And so, I thought, “Well, what if you slam these two things together? Let’s see what happens.” And so that’s how Rabbit Hole came to be.

Charles Busch Assuming a female role for me comes from a very profound place. It’s so connected to my creative spirit. I’m very comfortable with both the male and female within me. I love them equally. There’s no big sense of transformation. To go from the male to the female for me, it’s as simple as walking through a door. Many times, I’ve played female characters in staged readings or recordings and I’m not in drag, and I still feel the same sense of female authenticity. It’s a part of me, it’s not about a costume. With the conversation of transgender issues and everything becoming much more complex today, it’s allowed me and forced me to be more reflective and honest. If I have spent forty years of my creative life writing and acting female roles, clearly, it comes from some very profound place. If there’s a transgender spectrum, I might be somewhere in the middle there because I’m rather complex in some ways that I am equally comfortable in my maleness as I am in my identification with women. When I played my first female role in college, it just released something in me that was so natural and so comfortable, and

The Interviews

it seemed right from the start that this place of femininity in me was a place of authority.

Samuel D. Hunter A few years ago, I kind of just realized if I’m going to write good plays, I have to really put something on the line. It has to be a play that’s hard for me to write, where I’m really struggling to work something out. Because if I’m not doing that, if I’m not struggling with something, if I’m not engaged in an active way, then I can’t expect an audience member to be.3

David Henry Hwang I continue to be fascinated by the relationship between external events and our internal sense of self. This has often led to my writing about how individual identities are shaped by social and political forces. I don’t believe that character is inborn, but largely determined by one’s context. Therefore, when that context changes, our identities can transform into something very different. When I initially said that I feel I was trying to understand something I still explore, which is the relationship between my being a person of color or Asian in the United States and how the context of being born and raised in this country affected the person that I’ve turned out to be. I think that’s true. I mean, it’s a little bit like V.S. Naipaul, who said that he felt that if he had been born white in Britain, he wouldn’t have become a writer. Part of his exploration is to understand the degree to which his sense of self and the way he sees the world has been affected by his particular socio-political context. As I’ve grown older, I hopefully have not remained static, and I’ve changed as well. The writing changed me into someone who began to explore what it meant to be Asian-American, and then what it meant to be a minority in America, and then the effects of racism. Then that led me to become politically active. I feel we all have kind of a plot of soil that’s the most fertile soil for us, and that’s where our plants grow. We can’t necessarily determine what that soil is. I mean, you can try to expand that plot and you may find out that, “Oh, actually, it’s a larger plot than I thought it was,” or you might find out, “No, it’s not. I sort of need to stay within the previous perimeter.” It depends on some writers, that’s not where they’re fertile. I happen to like to write about big issues, but that’s just me.

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Naomi Wallace There is too much focus on how to write and not why to write. To me, why we write is far more interesting, and the answers to this question could be more dangerous. I think it’s an important question to ask what kind of theatre we’re interested in writing, which would go to my idea of whether it’s an inclusive or exclusive theatre, a theatre that challenges and provokes or one that comforts or reaffirms. But when we must ask ourselves, “Why are we writing?,” the answer could be, “Well, I want a career in the arts.” But I think we have to stay with that “why” and what kind of theatre we envision writing for. The how is important, although I’d say I think the what is out there, too; it requires much more reading of each other’s work and of what our past colleagues and those who are no longer with us, what were they writing, to learn from reading the work of others. I don’t think that happens enough. So much emphasis is on the fact that we’re going to write and getting the writing out rather than knowing that part of the writing is the learning and the interaction with the works of others.

Octavio Solis I don’t think of myself as a Latino playwright; that’s a label others place on me. I’m just writing for the theatre. Because of my upbringing and my past, I inevitably delve into issues of my Latino heritage, but it’s not my Latino-ness that dictates what I write. There are stories that take place along the border near El Paso because that’s where I’m from, and because I think that region is full of untold stories. But even as many of my characters are of Mexican descent, I feel that their tales are universal stories of love, betrayal, and loss. I go back and forth with this term, “Latino playwright,” and wrestle with its ramifications. Sometimes it means I’m appreciated more, but only within this rubric, and sometimes it makes me visible to a wider audience with no access to the culture. So, there are benefits and pitfalls. Still, if I don’t tell these stories about the people I share my culture with, someone else will. I feel a responsibility to share what I can.4

Joe DiPietro I have to be obsessed with the topic to write about it because it takes so much of my life. So, if you have a show, you have to love it and you have to love

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working on it and exploring that issue of the show for years. I have to be sort of obsessed with something about it. I feel like I am a lifelong student of not only theatre and narrative, but of human nature, of politics, of history, of anything to do with people. I’ve been approached about various projects over the years, and I was like, “You know what? I just don’t care about this. I just don’t.” I was offered one project recently. It was a fictional project about a country singer, and I was like, “It’s too soapy. I know I am not going to wake up every day and want to write this subject.” Whereas, when someone brought me the story of Memphis, I thought, “I’ve been wanting to write about race in America, and I hadn’t figured out an original angle, and this was it.” When I say “yes” to something or have an idea, generally I’m all in right away and I get obsessed. Who knows what exactly that is, but if there’s anything, I would say it’s a reflection of what’s happening in my life or the world at the time.

Marsha Norman Here’s the best secret I know for knowing what to write about. If you tell somebody a story, you say, “Oh, I’m thinking about writing about what happened when I was on this raft journey down the Colorado River.” That’s all you say. And then, somebody says back, “Oh, man, I was on a river trip once.” And then, they proceed to tell you a story back. So, if you give somebody an idea . . . not the full idea, just a little bit . . . and they tell you a story back, then you know that you have landed in a pool of stories. Stories of what happened as we were on our way down the river, whether it’s Huckleberry Finn, whatever it is, is the story of people on a journey.

Kia Corthron I think it was back in grad school when I read Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed. What has stayed with me these many, many years was the notion that if an audience member were to leave the theatre feeling so devastated that all she could do was to throw up her hands in despair, then that’s all she  would  do. If, on the other hand, the audience member was provided with a little hope, then she might actually act upon it. Since reading that book, I have always worked toward that hope. It must be truthful—to fake a happy ending is transparent and silly. So sometimes, with more bleak subject matter, unearthing that sliver of hope has proven exceedingly challenging. But I’ve almost always found it.5

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Donald Margulies I firmly believe that in middle age, our childhoods are inescapable. They are always with us. They form our worldview. They give us a frame of reference to either rebel against or to embrace, or to question. Even when not writing autobiographically, I’m writing about things I care about or that are on my mind, so in that sense, they are autobiographical. And it’s arguable that whatever it is I think or see or feel now is a product of the life that I have lived. The values that were instilled in me as a child are what I have spent the subsequent decades either undoing or trying to untangle, or figure out, or reinvent, but it’s all better. So, in one form or another, maybe we’re all wrestling with that. My own experience is usually a starting place for me.

On Structure Naomi Wallace Handling formal elements is something I’ve been learning from various writers all my life. I studied Eugene O’Neill, trying to understand how he built his plays, and steal some of his genius. More recently, I wrote a play that is roughly written in the form of a Shakespearian sonnet. One reason I decided on that form is because I feel the play is closer to my own life than most of what I’ve written. So, I needed to keep the play on track by imposing a strict form. I’ve often found that the more restrictions I place on my form, the more freedom I have within those same restrictions.6 When I wrote that play, it made me think, “What would it mean?” So, I wrote A, B, A, B, C, D, C, D, in the Shakespearian style. Then I wrote to somebody, and I said, “What would it mean for a scene to rhyme with another scene? So, if you’ve got A, B, A, B, what would it mean for the first scene to rhyme with the third scene, not linguistically, but in another way?” Now, I don’t think I did that much with it going through, but it made me think in a different way. When my imagination is uncomfortable, that’s when it stretches. So, I think for young people, it’s very important that they get uncomfortable sometimes with their writing because almost all the time, new writers are surprised at their own capacities. I think sometimes when we give ourselves complete freedom, what happens is that we tend to write the way we usually write. We get out our top ten hits of the things we’re good at doing. Maybe

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it’s dialogue, maybe it’s an image, maybe it’s an exchange, maybe it’s a certain kind of humor. When I give myself certain restrictions, I’m forced to use my imagination in a way I might not use it. That’s where I feel the fresh and unexpected can come into one’s writing.

David Lindsay-Abaire I think it is probably disingenuous of me to pretend that I don’t think about structure, and certainly I didn’t when I started writing. I was very willful, because I had seen lots of plays that I loved and knew how they worked, so I just wrote instinctively. And I think those early plays have an inherent structure to them. But actually, when I started writing films, they’re much stricter about structure. I resisted it for as long as I could, but then when you get a little bit older you realize, “Oh, you know what? My plays are already structured. If I actually think about structure, this will make my job so much easier.” I try not to be a slave to it, but if I reach a point in the writing where something is bumpy, or I can’t quite get myself out of a scene, I go back to structure or, “What is this play about? What does your main character want? What is in your character’s way that’s preventing them from getting what they want? How can I make this scene more interesting? Can I ratchet up the stakes and the conflict?” Just very basic dramatic structure stuff that I didn’t really think about early on, but that was silly of me not to think about.

Marsha Norman Plays are pieces of architecture. In other words, if you had a ski lift that did not take you to the top of the mountain, that would be a failed ski lift. It’d be a whole failed idea, right? So, what you have to have is the person on the ski lift that wants to see the top of the mountain. That’s you buying a ticket. And so, they get on the ski lift . . . that’s when the play starts . . . and it takes you to the top where you get off the tram. And you look, and you go, “Wow.” And that’s the story. Or the story is the ski lift stops halfway, and you go, “Uh-oh.” And then, it falls. All kinds of stories begin with one person that wants one thing.

Samuel D. Hunter I think if there’s one thing that consistently excites me, it’s when I feel like the playwright is invisible. So often when I’m watching a play and I get

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bored, it’s because I see the playwright at work. I hear the jokes as written, I see the scene construction, I understand the plot as just that: a plot. It becomes an experience about the artistic ego of the writer, not the play itself. But when I’m truly sucked into a play, I forget about the artifice of theatre and am totally immersed in the world, the surprise, the catharsis. And it’s hard to pin down exactly why that happens with some plays and not with others. It’s something to do with honesty—when a playwright is truly honest about what they’re writing, meeting their characters on their own terms instead of muscling them into saying the thing you want them to say. When you feel a writer engaging with the material in that honest, open way, it no longer feels like just a piece of writing, it feels larger than that. And that can take any form, from the most wildly experimental play to kitchen sink realism.

Octavio Solis Sometimes I feel like I’m writing a play, but the play suddenly just takes on a lot of descriptive language. And I’m thinking, “I’m sounding like a novelist,” because I’ve read so many novels, and I love the way they use language. You can take the time to describe a place or a day, and they can still feel like the story is moving forward. In a play, you don’t have that luxury. In a play you’ve got to keep moving. It’s like, “So what happens next, and then what happens next, and then what happens next? So, if there is a descriptive passage, it’d better have a forward momentum and it’d better lead to something. It can’t exist for its own sake.” And so, I temper myself. I say, “I’ve got to pull the reins in on that.” I remind myself I’m writing a play. I have only at one point written something that I thought was going to be a play and it was actually a story. And so, I gave up on it and I wrote the story. And I felt much better about it.

Ismail Khalidi There are many dramatic structures. I mean there’s not only the Aristotelian dramatic structure of The Poetics or of modern contemporary American drama, there’s also the dramatic structure of Eastern storytelling, of African storytelling, of indigenous storytelling of the Americas, et cetera. I would say study them all and expand your toolkit. Let them be tools that you can break out and you can hold your work up against as needed, but

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don’t be limited or imprisoned by them. Know how to use them because sometimes it is necessary. You do need to understand The Poetics and understand dramatic structure as it is understood by most theatres and be able to employ it, but also find ways of subverting it and don’t be too caught up in it.

Donald Margulies I’m very much a structuralist. Not that I insist upon creating the wellmade play, but I do pose fundamental questions like, “Where is the conflict? What is your play about?” Basic pedantic questions. But the truth is that people really need to identify and articulate their subject. It seems revelatory to them sometimes. “Wow. What is my play about? What am I trying to say?” I think it’s essential, particularly in drama, to know what is at stake that must be resolved in 90 minutes or two hours.7 What was the event, the trigger, the last straw, the change in temperature, that caused something to be revealed now? This harkens to another one of my lessons, which is the Passover question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” In other words, why are we seeing this now? Why aren’t we seeing what happened last night or what’s happening next week? What is it about now that is stageworthy, demanding of attention? It’s great fun to flip the switch and prompt young writers to think, “Oh, yeah, that’s a really good question. I can’t answer that, but it’s something I need to figure out.”

A Writer’s Process Sheldon Harnick I find that walking helps. Walking and swimming are very useful to writing lyrics. I don’t know what it is, but I would much rather walk than sit in a chair with my rhyming dictionary or thesaurus next to me. I think I was working on “Tonight at Eight” [for She Loves Me.] The first time I heard it, I couldn’t wait to put lyrics to it. So, I’m walking in the street and not watching traffic, and as I’m crossing the street, I hear this horn blasting. I turned and there’s this truck that’s about two inches away from me. The driver is cursing me, and I said, “It’s okay, I think I got the lyrics!”8

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Marsha Norman Plays are about survival. If turtles wrote plays and risked coming together in the open to watch them, the plays would not be about the joy of crawling in the sand or memories of the happy days before Mommy died. Plays by turtles would be about things you had to know if the species was to survive, where to bury the eggs so that more turtles would stand a chance of hatching. They would be about what not to eat, when to fight, and when to back down. They would be about what happens if you break the long-established rules of turtle life. Plays by turtles would contain the things that the species must remember, even if they are forgotten by individual members. Anything else would not be worth your turtle time. And you would probably swim off in the middle of the show and go eat dinner.9

Samuel D. Hunter When I think about process, it always helps me when I listen to artists who aren’t writers, who aren’t theatre makers talk about their process, because when it shifts the context away from something I’m doing, I can understand how it applies to me and my own craft a little more clearly. There was some interview with Philip Glass where he was talking about his journey as a composer. And he talked about when he was writing early on, it was “student music.” And that really resonated with me. It wasn’t until he found more interest in Eastern music and stuff that was a little bit more experimental, that he started going toward the kind of music that he writes now that’s so iconic and so undeniably Philip Glass. And what was so interesting to me was the music that Philip Glass writes right now is arguably very simple. That’s what he became interested in as an artist.

Octavio Solis Every time I start a new play, I feel like I’m an absolute beginner. I feel like I’m learning how to write all over again. And I can’t bring the prior physics of the earlier work, the work I just did into the room of a new play. It has to be its own house, it has to have its own structure, and it has to work according to its own rules. I don’t know what those rules are. I don’t make up the rules. I find out how the world works as I write.

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Beth Henley I work from a lot of notebooks. I write down bits of dialogue I hear that may or may not even fit in this play and I write down tone. Tone is so important. I think that’s the soul of the play. If you can get the tone, that for me is the most difficult thing. And I write down character images. I knew for instance, there was a bridal dress that matched the bone ivory shoes, images like that. I wasn’t sure whose dress it was, so it’s images, it’s dialogue. It’s ideas for scenes.10 I have notes on character, notes on dialogue, notes on random dialogue, notes on story, notes on theme, images, research. I’ve got all of that going in a notebook, so I’m kind of working under chaos. So, I fool myself into creating something that’s not really plotted out. But then I’ll go to the computer and put all of the information on character and type it in. I mean, this is grueling and really boring to do, but it gets the seeds planted. It becomes more organic, and it gets the play more into your body.

Ben Brantley I think one of the great things about theatre criticism is that theatre-going is a physical experience. We forget that. Movie-going is too, but it tends to be more of an individual relationship with you and the image onscreen. When you’re in a theatre, there really is an exchange of energy between you and the actors. Any actor will tell you that they have a different relationship with the audience every single night, and you’re part of that relationship. There have been plays that kicked me in the stomach. Every night before I’d go to a theatre, before a play would begin, I would feel this anxiety, that I actually used to feel before I’d go onstage when I was performing as a kid. Because you really want it to be good, you always do, and you think how nervous they must be. And once the curtain goes up, the nervousness disappears, and you’re in this moment of real communion. It’s like you’re feeding from the same pool of electricity, and I think you do want to convey that. The other thing I have noticed (and it took me a while to figure this out) is that when I like something, I smile. It could be the bleakest of Greek tragedy, but if it’s really working for me, I’ll just go, “Yeah.” I mean, this kind of smile of admiration, of wonder. And so, sometimes, as I’m taking my cerebral notes, I’ll check-in with my face. And if a smile was there, I’ll know the show is doing its job.

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Naomi Wallace I think as artists, we should not be ashamed of being pleased at times. It’s rare, but to think “I got that, I got what I was trying to do.” Someone else may say it doesn’t work, but to feel that moment of, “I can feel the ground beneath my feet for a moment, it’s going to shift again.” What I will say is that I have seen productions that I feel satisfied with, but that’s because other artists have come in and given life to the script. But there are times when I do feel, “this works” and it’s less a mental thing than a physical thing. The whole thing of, “Is it perfect, will it not be changed?” interests me less, but we get the feeling that we’re, again, headed in the right direction with that. What’s funny, though, is that I can read a new play or draft, let’s say it’s the fourth draft. One day I’ll think, “This is pretty darn good,” and then I’ll go back a few days later and I haven’t changed anything, and I’ll say, “Oh, this is so clunky. It has no momentum.” So, somewhere in between is probably the truth about what one has written.

David Henry Hwang I often say that the artist creates the work, but the work recreates the artist, and there’s a reciprocal relationship where I created the thing, which then changed me. Over the last 30 to 40 years, there have been times when I’m like, “I don’t know if I want to be the Asian playwright,” but most of the time when I go back to my original work, the most personal stuff, I’m mostly interested in the same set of issues, which is not unusual for playwrights. I think it’s pretty artistically organic. For better or worse it’s not something I ever imposed on myself.11

Donald Margulies I like staying busy, so I always have more than one project in the works, each at a different stage of development. Most of my work begins with snippets of dialogue, chunks of monologues, and overwriting. I don’t know where I am going when I start out, only that I have a visceral feeling that something is indeed there, and I have to locate it. I can only find it by writing. Sometimes the writing isn’t toward it but around it or nowhere near it. I don’t always start at the beginning; I start wherever I think my characters will have the most interesting things to say. The structure begins

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to emerge from the pages. I rarely know how a play is shaped when I’m starting out.12 I mean, in the case of Dinner with Friends, for instance, I wrote a scene because I wanted to write the scene. After I wrote it, I thought, “This is where the play should end.” And I was way early in the process, and certainly not knowing at all where the play would end. I had a destination. It was then a question of, “how do I get there?” But it felt satisfying, and it felt right, and it pointed the way. But I wouldn’t have known that if I had just sort of postponed, delayed, the gratification of writing that scene when I felt at that moment that I had a grasp for what I wanted to say. It only helped articulate everything in retrospect or informed everything that was to come.13

Charles Busch I know myself very well as an actor, both my strengths and my limitations. I write dialogue for myself with all of my line readings laid out. It makes rehearsals go by very swiftly. That said, I love when I play scenes with a wonderful actor whose spontaneity forces me to change those prepared line readings in rehearsal and in performance. I think that’s sort of endemic to when you’re a playwright/actor. There are a few of us who do that, and I haven’t spoken to anybody else. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone else who really does that. When I’m writing it, I’m hearing it as playwrights do. So, I write, and when I write a role for myself, yeah, I kind of write it with knowing how I’m going to say it. Therefore, I arrive at the first day of rehearsal, not only memorized, but basically the performance is 85% set. It’s very good for the director, because imagine how wonderful that is that you don’t have to spend any time with the center of your play, it’s all exactly the way it’s going to be; you just have to bother with the people around. So, you can move very, very fast.

David Lindsay-Abaire I deliberately make most of my protagonists female. I think it helps me to give myself distance from the protagonist so that I’m not writing about myself. Of course, I am writing about myself. It’s a stupid little trick. My mother was a huge influence on me as a person, and she was very much a storyteller and the center of every family event. And so, my mother is definitely in there, but I think the main thing is I am always writing about myself, and that

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makes me feel uncomfortable. If I make the character a woman, then I’m not writing about myself, I’m writing about this woman that doesn’t exist except in my head. But really, I’m writing about myself all the time and all the characters and everybody I love. They were all in there. Sometimes they don’t know that I’m writing about people that I know.

Readings and Play Development Marsha Norman Real playwrights just naturally listen to how people talk. And this is good because it’s very hard to teach someone how to create the impression of real speech onstage. Stage talk isn’t actually real, but it sounds real. It’s something slightly larger than real talk in size and quality, which, if delivered well by an actor, will shrink slightly on its way out to the audience and then strike them as perfectly natural once they hear it. It’s also difficult to teach people how to listen to their characters as they write them. So, they can draw clues from those characters as if they were real people. There are also verbal rhythms that work well on the stage and some that don’t. Real playwrights know this instinctively and are musical in their souls. And the sentences they write just sound good from the stage. This is the famous “ear for dialogue” you hear about. If the audience detects something false in the way the character is talking, you will lose them. Characters must pass a certain reality test that the audience administers.

Sheldon Harnick It’s so difficult to get a production that when a show of mine is in rehearsal, I attend every day. It’s a gift. My role is to listen and to see if I can make suggestions that will help the performer understand the lyric and be able to perform the lyric better. Also, I listen and make sure that technically they are singing the song, that their diction is right, they’re pronouncing all of their consonants, things like that, and in general to try and be as helpful as I can in every way. When we did Tenderloin and we were on the road, we found that we were in trouble. I realized that I had not studied the book enough to be of help. I resolved at that point to become thoroughly familiar with the book

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of every show I did so that if there were troubles, I might have suggestions in that area as well as the area of lyrics.14

Beth Henley I had a lot of friends who were actors, and they were very generous. I always think that’s the most exciting thing—to do the very first reading. I don’t give the actors any notes. They just show up and they may have read the script and studied it, or they may be reading it cold. And I just kind of go with what their instincts are, and if they have questions about the script. I don’t sit around afterwards in a big circle talking, but just intimately with people afterwards. I don’t like that public talking about something. It becomes more distant because people, whether they know it or not, are worried about what other people think about what they’re saying. And it changes the questions I ask.

Naomi Wallace I’ve often tried deliberately not to give the public answers but let them find their own. I develop a sense of what I want to feel from the play, and I develop the motion of the play and where it’s going, how it gets there and what is to be revealed. I know there is something that the characters want and so I know the feeling of the scene, I just may not know how to write it.15

Peter Filichia There was a new theatre company in New Jersey that was just starting, and they didn’t expect me to come because they were new. But I said, “Sure, I know it’s important to do this, to have reviews because you can get grants by showing reviews. It makes you look more important. When do you want me to come?” “Thursday night?” “Sure.” And Thursday came and I got a phone call, “Listen, could you come tomorrow night? Would you mind?” They said, “We’re not ready. We’ll be ready by tomorrow night.” I said, “Well, look, what if I come Saturday?” “Oh, great.” So, I went on Saturday, and they still weren’t ready. But you know something? They were close. And I knew that by the Sunday matinee, they’d get it. I know they

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did. TV and movie critics, they get their digital downloads, and they go to screenings, that’s a finished product. But theatre always evolves. I mean, yes, we have all seen shows that have devolved as time has gone on. People get tired of doing them. But at the very beginning there’s no question that everybody wants to improve. And so, I reviewed the show that I knew I would’ve seen on Sunday because in fact, theatre reviews are technically obsolete the moment they’re written. It’s very important to keep that in mind. These are living, breathing things and they can improve. And if you tell people anything else, you can tell people they are good. People love positive feedback.

Marsha Norman What we’re doing when we write for the stage is telling stories people need to see. We do it for the same reason we put up stop signs: because it’s important, for some reason, for people to stop at this place and look around. Our place at the playwrights’ table is determined by how many people remember the stories we tell. And people remember the stories they feel they will need someday, just like life. Urgency is the key to a good story. Fear is the force that keeps it moving. The good news is that humans are so hungry for stories that our brains invent them even when we are asleep. So, they need us. It is a great privilege to be a storyteller. And if it hurts, we can take it.

Donald Margulies If I am in the throes of something, I’ll have a pad by my bed and jot stuff down, and sometimes I feel the need to go and sit at the desk. But that doesn’t happen a lot. I write sporadically. I can’t say that I get up and read the paper at 6:00 and start to write at 7:00. My life hasn’t really worked out that way. I write when I have to, when it becomes a kind of biological necessity. I think I learned a long time ago that to have a career as a playwright and a produced playwright, there will be inquiries I need to respond to, there will be a play that I am casting that is part of the day, or another play that I am rewriting or preparing for publication, or a screenplay that I am writing, or material that was sent to consider for something else. That’s all part of it. And even if it’s not actually writing, it’s a part of the business of being a playwright.16

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On Taking Advice on Your Script Kia Corthron Never feel the need to take unsolicited advice. There are a lot of people out there who would love to rewrite your play for you. Do ask the opinions of those you trust, and in the case of a post-show discussion for example, listen to the thoughts of strangers as well. Be polite, but work hard to stay true to your own intentions, which may mean discarding 95% of what you hear, but that usable 5% might prove to be invaluable.

David Henry Hwang My first play, FOB [which stands for Fresh off the Boat], had been to the O’Neill. [The Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center is a well-known summer festival in Connecticut to workshop new plays.] I got a lot of notes and then tried to incorporate them. At the end of my four-week residency there, I ended up throwing all of those rewrites out. I learned that despite the fact that somebody is older than me, more experienced than me, and presumably well-meaning, it doesn’t necessarily mean that their notes are right. So, I began to learn how to filter criticism. A couple of weeks later we did a reading of FOB for [producer] Joe Papp at the Public Theatre. I was 22. I wanted him to like me, and so he said, “I like this play, but I have some notes.” We went into his office, and he gave me his notes and I didn’t actually agree with them, but I didn’t want to say that. I just listened and then at the end of it, he said, “Do another draft and send it to me and I’ll decide if I want to do it.” I went back to the San Francisco Bay area where I was living, and I waited about three weeks and I sent him back the exact same script. A couple of weeks later, the phone rings and it’s Joe Papp, and he says, “The play is great, we’re going to do it.” That’s how I got my first production. I think the lesson for me was that I didn’t know that when I went to The O’Neill, which is why I did try to incorporate the notes that everybody gave me. But I guess where I did have confidence was that at the end of it, I didn’t like the rewritten version of the play. Maybe it’s because I was writing about subject matter which hadn’t been written about much in those days. Therefore, I felt I had more authority over the story than maybe another writer would feel.

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Beth Henley I’m on my third draft before I give a new play to anybody, and then I try to give it to one or two people to read, and then do revisions from that. I ask actors that I know to come to my living room and to read it. I don’t give them any direction. It’s very safe. The characters just come out of my heart and into the universe when I hear the actors speak the lines. It’s exhilarating. If there are big bumps in the play, I generally know it’s my fault, because the actors are so good. And I keep asking myself, “What is this play about? Anger, revenge?” I keep searching for the answer. And hopefully it won’t be about any one thing.17

Sheldon Harnick During the first show that Jerry Bock and I did, The Body Beautiful, when songs were cut, that was difficult. Maybe not heartbreaking, but it was frustrating and very sad. But by the time we did Fiddler on the Roof, I had learned that the name of the game is rewriting. When a song does not work or is not right, you have to replace it. So, by the time we did Fiddler, when songs were thrown out, I thought, “Yeah, that’s a nice song. We can’t use it.” But the problem was to write something that really was right for the show, that would make the show better, make it more successful. So, I can’t say I was that unhappy when a song was cut.18

Marsha Norman I tell people you can’t work on a play longer than two years. What tends to happen as people revise plays is that they get bad advice and obscure things that were clear and do over-obvious things that were fine, and mess them up in a tragic way. The audience needs to be clear about what’s up on the stage. Often the playwright is the last person that can know how to make that happen because the play is already perfectly clear to them.19

On Collaboration David Zippel The lyricist is the bridge between the book and the music. And so, ideally, you want what you create to sound like one person wrote it. I think the best

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way to do any of this is to make sure that whatever you’re doing is characterdriven. And in a lot of ways, it’s interesting to see how characters become three-dimensional, but the book writer may take the lead in creating the characters. But as the lyrics become more specific and the stronger you adhere to who that character is, he or she, the better or the more likely it is that it’s going to sound like the same person who is singing, as the person who was speaking minutes before. And that’s the key, so that when someone breaks into song, it doesn’t sound like a different character, but actually the same person who started.

Ismail Khalidi I think every collaboration is different. The ones that endure change and evolve over time. I think the ones that matter most endure. I would say, first of all, I do encourage everyone to certainly experiment with collaborating and writing. Even just in terms of getting experience for a writing room if you want to write for television, which are collaborative spaces. But it’s certainly not easy to collaborate. In the case of working with Naomi Wallace, we had developed a relationship over many years of friendship and camaraderie. I think for us, that worked beautifully. It’s that collaboration eventually sprouted organically from our friendship and our professional connection and political affinities. We would always give each other permission when we were passing pages back and forth, to change what the other person had written. If something is incredibly important to them, they have the right to say “No,” and they have to then make an argument why it’s got to stand. Honestly, I don’t think I could count on one hand the times where one or the other of both sides really fought for something that the other person has taken out. That’s very much from the start been one of our protocols in the kind of culture of collaboration that we’ve cultivated, and that’s worked for us so far.

Marsha Norman I think collaboration is basically everyone bringing their best game. And with that, there’s a notion of respect for what the other person does and understanding all of you and developing a common language in which to work on the principle and getting a single sentence that describes what you’re doing. One of the things I’ve learned is that I believe it’s important to write

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with someone who is around your age. If you write with someone who is much older than you are, or someone much younger than you are, you find that your language is not the same. Your understanding of situations is not the same, of what’s dangerous and what’s not. And if you’re writing with someone much older than you are, you have to understand that they have been scheming at this for a lot longer than you have. You have to have interests, interests that are commonly aligned. You shouldn’t write with somebody that’s 30 years older than you are, or younger, because what’s in it for you is also going to be really different, not just your understanding of the subject. But what’s interesting to you, as a story, is likely to be really different, too.20

Joe DiPietro When I met David Bryan [lead singer for the band Bon Jovi, who became the composer of Memphis], the only musical he had ever seen was Fiddler on the Roof and he knew nothing. He literally didn’t know what musicals were. What was great about that was he brought a rock and roll idiom to musical theatre that I loved, that I was finding hard to get people to really key into. So, I immediately gravitated towards his type of music. I’m not taught. I don’t know music or music theory, but it’s basically, “Do I like this melody? Do I like this music? Does this music tell a story to me?” That’s what I look for whenever I work with David, certainly, but when I work with other people now, too. David’s a great guy, and one of the reasons he’s one of the very few rock stars who’ve been successful in musical theatre is that he’s collaborative. He doesn’t write his tune on a napkin and give it to you and say, “Here it is. I’ll be in Monte Carlo.” We’ll hash things out, and he’ll say, “Do you like this?” But what I always tell David is, “Make sure you always have a rock and roll, pop, modern sensibility to everything you do. Never try to be theatre-y.” Because oftentimes we’ll be talking about a song, I’ll play him a couple of songs from the theatre world, and he’ll play me a couple of songs from the rock and roll world. He’s like an encyclopedia of that stuff, and I know all the theatre stuff, and we’re like, “Let’s make this our own.” But what he definitely taught me was to make it a song, which is generally verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus to the end. He continues to teach me what it means to have a song that’s going to appeal to a wide range of people. Conversely, I had to teach him how to put a button on a song. Because when Bon Jovi sings Living on a Prayer, they’ll just fade out in the concert, and everyone claps. But in the theatre, we need people to know the song’s over, clap, and we’re moving on to the next story point.

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Octavio Solis There was a generation where the writer was a writer and that’s what they kept to, and they worked on the play, and they didn’t mix it up with the actors. And God knows the director didn’t want them in the room when they were directing. I insist on being in the co-pilot seat. I think I need to be there. And directors, once they know what my orientation is, they want me there too, because then they can address some issues they have, or problems, some road bumps they have with the text, and I can be there to help immediately; they have my ear, but it works the other way around, too. If there’s a point where they get stuck on something, I try to help, especially if the director is open. They are automatically inclined to want to at least hear my suggestion. I won’t pretend that my suggestions are always the best. Sometimes they’re really downright corny and wooden, but it pushes them to think in a different way to a different solution and they say, “I know how to solve it now.” But sometimes, I’ll state what the obvious solution could be to this snag, and they’ll say, “Great, thank you.” Or after they wrestle with it enough, I’ll approach them and say, “I can fix this in the writing. Do you want me to fix this in the writing?” Some directors will say, “No, the writing is fine. This is a directing problem.” At other times, an actress might approach me and say, “I’m having trouble with this line. I can’t get this line out of my mouth.” And I’ll say, “Well, then what do you want to say?” And then later on, I’ll give them either exactly what they said back to them and say, “Say that as the new line,” or something in between, something that will help them, because I feel like if actors are really, really struggling with a particular text, and this is not on the first or second day, they’re all going to be struggling with it later in the process. If they’re really constantly stumbling over it, something must be wrong with the line, something that I can easily fix. Or maybe it’s just the wrong line. Maybe it’s the wrong sentiment. And they don’t quite know. Some actors are really articulate about expressing exactly what’s wrong. Others just know that it doesn’t feel right. And I’m attuned to that.

Donald Margulies I think that I’ve been very lucky in terms of collaborators because I’ve worked with [director] Dan Sullivan for 20 plus years. Dan is just an extraordinary thinker and collaborator and a kind, smart man. In terms of trusting my instincts, very often it applies to seeing something go awry and not speaking up or trusting that others will see what I am seeing and not saying anything,

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and assuming that it will take care of itself. In the past with Dan, very often, if I say, “That isn’t working over there,” he would say, “Give me a week.” So, I would learn to trust my collaborator. But there were a couple of collaborators that I’ve worked with (who will remain unnamed) in whom I put a certain amount of faith, but it was not really respected. And that’s too bad. I think that, particularly in the work that I’ve done as a screenwriter, asserting myself in those situations of seeing something that is taking a wrong turn and saying, “That really just doesn’t feel right,” instead of being the passive writer for hire, it really does behoove one to speak out. Sometimes in a rehearsal, an actor will come up to me, and say, “Donald, what do you think about this?” I’ll reply, “What did Dan say? You should trust that.” And then if this persists, if an actor is sort of not observing the protocol, the hierarchy in a rehearsal setting, I will go to my director, and say, “She’s been asking me about this. Can I talk to her about it?” He’d say, “Yeah, go ahead.” But I would never have done something like that years ago. I would have just sat back and hoped for the best. But at least I’m given an opportunity to assert myself. I would use that opportunity. But not being dogmatic about it, but trying to respect the protocol of a rehearsal process, which is that it’s the director’s domain. And as long as I have the blessing of my director, I will otherwise remain silent.

Sheldon Harnick The way I worked with [composer] Jerry Bock was this. Once we knew what the project was (in this case, it was an adaptation of the film,  The Shop Around the Corner, which became She Loves Me), I went home to my studio and began to think of song ideas. And Jerry, who was living in New Rochelle, went to his studio in his basement and began to think of musical ideas. When he had a musical notion fleshed out and thought, “Okay, that’s as much as I want to do with it now,” he would record it. Eventually, he would send me a tape. And there would be anywhere from eight to twelve songs, and he would preface each one by saying, “I think this one is for Amalia” or “This one is for Georg.” The most exciting songs were the ones where he would say, “Sheldon, I don’t know what the hell this is, but I like it.” He was very generous because on any tape of fifteen songs, there might only be one or two that coincided with ideas that I had or that I really loved and couldn’t wait to put lyrics to. That’s the way we always started. I think I got about half the score written before I would come up with an idea or feel like I didn’t want to be constrained by music. This was the third show we’d written, so I

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knew that when I gave Jerry a lyric, he would set it superbly. And he would quite often surprise me, because I would write what I thought was a march and it would come back as a romantic waltz, and it was better like that. I’ve never worked that way with anybody else.21

David Lindsay-Abaire When you find an amazing collaborator like Jeanine Tesori (we did Shrek, the Musical together), working with her was the best part of that. We also had a gaggle of Hollywood producers and a lot of other people. We’re going to open our new show in the fall, and nobody has seen it for the longest time. It was just me and Jeanine working in private. It was the most glorious experience that I’ve had as a writer because she was a true collaborator. Currently, we are adapting one of my plays (Kimberly Akimbo) into a musical. So, the framework was already there. But finding the song moments and talking it through was fun and collaborative. And every time I put something in front of Jeanine, she made it better. She would ask a question or pull out something that would make the song better or the scene better. That’s what you want in a collaborator—someone who’s going to open you up instead of shutting you down. And that’s just like a marriage, honestly. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s hard to find a collaborator that you jive with so well, and as hard as Shrek was, I knew that the Jeanine part of it was great. And I wanted to latch onto her and say, “Let’s do this again without any of the hard stuff.”

On Writing Musicals Joe DiPietro The big difference between musicals and plays as an author is that when you write a musical and you get in the rehearsal room, there are many, many more people there. There’s a choreographer, there’s a musical director, there’s a director, there’s generally many more actors. Everyone has an assistant; the assistants have assistants. I had just had a four-person play produced. There were literally the four actors, the director, me and two stage managers. It was eight people. That to me is almost the essence of the difference, which is

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musicals are highly, highly collaborative. Your job is to write the roadmap of the musical and to make that as tight and as interesting and as lively as you can. But in terms of the actual writing process, the difference is in a musical, the songs, by and large, deliver your big emotional moments. So, you are writing scenes that deliver to that big, emotional moment. You have to, as a writer, give up that moment to music. Whereas in a play, you write every emotional moment. Harold Pinter writes silences as emotional moments. Can’t really write a lot of silences in a musical, right? You have to write succinctly and with a real sense of direction of your character’s wants and your character’s needs to get to the music. Whereas in a play, you don’t need as much plot. The really great musicals tend to have a lot of plot, and in plays you can write a ten-page scene which is essentially mood or atmosphere with a lot of subtext happening. I’ve never seen a successful musical do that. With a musical, you want to know who the main characters are, what world they are in, and then what is the plot essentially of what they have to go through to change and learn and grow or not. Also, I always think writing musicals are a little more akin to writing screenplays than writing plays, where you think of the musical numbers as close-ups. You have a movie star. You always hear about screenwriters who write pages and pages of dialogue they love, and then you put a camera on Meryl Streep’s face, and you don’t need to really write. They’ll tell you a lot. Well, you’re doing that in a musical, too. You’re writing dialogue to get to the song, which is going to deliver the character’s emotional journey.

Sheldon Harnick Any successful lyricist has to be part playwright and has to be able to put themselves into the minds and the hearts and the souls of the characters they’re writing about. That’s part of a theatre lyricist’s talent.22

David Lindsay-Abaire Structure is incredibly important to musicals, but clearly the bulk of the heavy lifting has to happen through song. And so, when writing a musical, you want to pick a story that “sings.” And generally, the problems need to be bigger, and the emotions need to be larger. A lot of plays have big, giant emotions as well, but you have to have that in a musical to justify someone bursting into song and opening their heart and putting it into music. That’s a

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thrilling thing when those emotions in plays are generally subtext or unspoken a lot of the time, or they come out as fights sometimes. In a musical, you have the luxury of seeing inside of a character and just letting them sing it or sing it to each other or sing it to the audience, and it elevates the drama in a way that is so unique and specific to musicals. It’s very hard to accomplish those same feelings in a play, just because it’s this magical thing that music does to the body that even the most wonderful monologue spoken by the most amazing actor, center stage cannot; it’s hard to get that same buzz that you feel when thirty people are tap dancing and you just listen. Initially, it was a very hard transition for me, because as playwrights, all the work that we do is internal. We’re by ourselves all the time and no one is going to see this script until we’re ready to show it to them. And so, you have the luxury of it being sloppy for a long time and figuring it out. And I can get to two drafts and it’s not until the end of the second draft where I realize, “Oh, I know what this play is actually about. Now, let me go back and figure it out.” In a musical, you are sharing all the time. You have to be comfortable just putting your mud on the table and saying, “Is this it? Let’s pick through this together.” If it’s the lyricist and the composer that you’re working with, that’s one version. The version that I like is if I’m a lyricist and the book writer, then I’m just doing it with the composer. Sometimes there are directors involved early on, sometimes producers, then that’s even harder because then it’s a committee of people and it’s closer to working on a Hollywood movie with a studio. I don’t prefer that.

David Zippel Becoming a lyricist is sort of like becoming a shepherd. You can’t really train for it. And even if you do, you have no idea whether there’s going to be a flock or an opportunity.

Marsha Norman Musicals, to me, have so much more impact. And you have so many more tools in your kit. Music can get around any defense that anybody can put up. Musicals are about joy. It’s hard to write a play about joy. You can go so much farther in song than you can in dialogue. And I think that’s why I’m there. The form is so flexible. You’re not the only writer in the room, which is really good. It’s a little bit aggravating that the composer has seven people on his

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or her staff, and you have just you. Musicals are the theatre of emotion, and drama is the theatre of thought.23

On the Writer as “The Outsider Looking In” David Lindsay-Abaire I’m racking my brain quickly to think if there are any playwrights I know who aren’t outsiders. Not off the top of my head. I don’t know if that’s what makes us writers, but for sure if you’re writing a good play or a good drama, it’s about characters in conflict. And so, if you’ve spent your entire life in conflict or feeling like, “Oh, how do I get in there? How do I solve this? How do I be a part of that thing?” Then your characters are going to go on that same journey. Maybe everybody feels like an outsider. I don’t know that if it’s just the writers; maybe there are some people that are totally comfortable in their skin and always happy and well adjusted. I don’t know any of those people.

Naomi Wallace If one looks at some of our great playwrights of the 20th century: Lorraine Hansberry, August Wilson, James Baldwin, Adrienne Kennedy, Yussef El Guindi. These are playwrights who many would call “political.” I would call these writers deeply engaged with the world, with systems of injustice. Writers who challenge repression, who envision new social relations, new ways of being human. I’ve always been captivated by how people work and live and love and die, about the myriad ways they are diminished—and their fierce resistance to that diminishment. This is what impels me to write.

Stephen Adly Guirgis My father was from Egypt. My mother was Irish American. We were kind of the poor people in the neighborhood, so I didn’t quite fit in with the other kids, although I did have friends. Then I spent my formative years uptown where I fit in more economically, but there weren’t a lot of white kids, and it was fine. It was a great time and I have no regrets, but I spent a lot of my childhood desperately

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trying to figure out how to fit in. When I headed uptown, I would roll my pants up a certain way, and then when I came downtown, my socks were up. I was desperately trying to assimilate, and that required listening and observation skills. Sometimes social acceptance or even your immediate safety depended on that. I think that the voices that I hear, whatever talent or ability I have for language and diverse characters just comes from that; at an early age, really out of necessity needing to observe and imitate. I just wanted to fit in.

Donald Margulies When I was just starting out as a writer, I used to imagine that time and experience would make writing come more naturally, that it wouldn’t always feel like, well, work. Instead, I have discovered that it hasn’t gotten any easier. The expectations that accompany honors and a growing audience make writing more difficult. There are more eyes on you. People are eager to see what you’ve come up with next. Critics compare your work and rank them.24 In a way, I need to relearn how to do it every time. And I know that doesn’t comfort young writers, but it may also prepare them in a way. I’m reminded of something that Tom Stoppard said when he visited Yale. Somebody asked the great playwright the dreaded question, “What are you working on right now?” And he was incredibly honest, and said, “Well, nothing right now, truthfully.” And I was like, “Wow. How refreshing was that?” I’m sure he has said this hundreds of times, but when he said it that night it certainly was a revelation for me. He said, “I have a stack of magazines and books in my office, and I flip through pages, and every once in a while, I’ll come across something and I’ll think, ‘Oh. There’s a play there.’” And it was a wonderful image. He said, “It’s like a pinprick, and you go, Oh. It’s like you’ve drawn blood. There’s a play there.” I can identify with that because I know it when I feel it, and I know it when I don’t feel it, when I’m faking it, or I’m just overly hopeful that it will find its way.

On Critics and Theatre Criticism Ben Brantley Theatre reviews were very important to me. When I was in love with theatre, growing up in North Carolina, reading Vincent Canby or old

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reviews by Brooks Atkinson and Kenneth Tynan, and whoever was reviewing for The New Yorker; they tended to sort of shift through critics fairly quickly in those days. I write for people who will see plays and people who never will, but again, going back to what I experienced in childhood, reading reviews, that’s who I’m writing for: the kid or the internal kid, or the grownup, or whoever, who is in love with the theatre and wants to know what it was like to be there. Theatre criticism is like sports writing. You’re recording in a way, making a document of a live moment, when something extraordinary may have happened, and it will never happen in exactly that way again. And I do think theatre critics often tend to the hyperbole of sportswriters in that sense—that sort of, “Oh, my God, it’s going over the fence!” And that’s part of the excitement of live theatre too, and that’s something you want to convey.

Lyn Gardner One of the things I’ve learned along the way is to remember that writing a review is not an exam. There is no right or wrong answer. All you can try to do as a critic is to keep an open mind and try to be a midwife, not a gatekeeper. Respond with your heart as much as your head and always be honest in your response. Write what you really think and feel, not what you think you ought to think and feel.25 I think I probably learned this over a period of time, and I think the issue around being a midwife rather than being a gatekeeper comes very much from the fact that the relationship between critics and artists has often been one of suspicion in the past. I think the internet has changed that. It has allowed for greater dialogue between artists and critics. Perhaps in the past, if an artist felt upset about something that a critic wrote, they would pen a sorrowful letter to you late at night. Maybe after several glasses of Merlot. And you could then write back, whereas now with email it’s much easier for people to engage and talk with each other. But I also think that, quite simply, the way that journalism and journalistic platforms and outlets have embraced the internet means that it’s been possible to have much more dialogue below the line, and I think that’s only been a good thing. I think because I think that critics and artists really need to understand each other and where they’re coming from.

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Peter Filichia I went to see a new musical called I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change in Teaneck, New Jersey. And there it was, a tiny production in a tiny theatre. It’s about single people dating and trying to find mates. I was already with my girlfriend for sixteen years, so I didn’t have this problem. I couldn’t relate to the show. I’m not saying it was bad. I’m just saying I couldn’t relate to it. The problems of the people were not mine. However, the audience loved it. As a critic, I always look around to see how the audience is responding. Are the husbands awake? Because so many times husbands are dragged to the theatre, and they don’t even want to be there, and they go to sleep. And many of them have had tiring days. But no, the husbands were awake, and everybody was having a wonderful time. So, why should I write a negative review just because it didn’t speak to me? So, I said, “Single people, you must go to this show because if you think you’ve made an ass of yourself in single’s bars all these years, wait till you see what these people do. You’ll feel so much better about yourself. And by the way, it’s in two acts. So, who knows who you’ll meet in the lobby during intermission? You might not even be single anymore.” Well, the next day, the artistic director called me. He said, “Peter Filichia, you didn’t like it, did you?” And I said, “No, Jim. I didn’t.” He said, “No, that’s all right. I could see what you were doing. You gave us the review that we really wanted. And lots of people saw that review and they’re coming to see the show.” And they moved it. It ran for twelve years and achieved international success. So, it really is a wonderful thing that it had the life it has. The reason I’m positive as a critic has a lot to do with Walter Kerr, who was the critic for the New York Herald Tribune and then The New York Times. Because I will never forget when he said, “Sometimes when I read my review the next morning, while I’m having breakfast, I wish the show was as good as I made it sound.” And that’s where I got that from, because I realized what he was saying. Because we are inundated with so much product and the reader isn’t, we should really accommodate the reader.

Samuel D. Hunter I think in general I’ve always been really inspired by writers who have this almost workman-like approach to playwriting. They continued to write and produce even if they fell out of favor with critics or audiences. They just

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kept hammering away, and now they’ve left behind these incredible bodies of work. It’s like Bach writing music every week for the church service. He wasn’t precious about it, he just worked and worked and worked.

David Lindsay-Abaire I was always, and still am very much a student. I’m always analyzing why things work or why things don’t work and trying to figure out some chemistry and writing, which is a useful thing and also a silly thing to do. As an experiment, I thought, “What makes one of these naturalistic plays that the critics seem to like?” And by the way, with my comedies, some of the critics were very nice to me, so it’s not like they were all mean. But the ones that were mean were very, very mean. I thought, “Well, why are they loving these naturalistic plays? Some were wonderful naturalistic plays, some were not wonderful naturalistic plays, but they were written in a very different way from what I was doing at the time. Whether they were good or bad, they were at least given the respect of an actual review. So, as an experiment, let’s try this. Maybe I’ll convert some of these people.” It ended up being a complete wash. Did I convert some critics? Absolutely. Some that hated me then said, “Finally, David Lindsay-Abaire has grown up and written a powerful, emotionally grounded work.” Some of the ones that hated me still hated me. Some of them that loved me before still loved me. And some of the ones that loved me said, “What a sellout! David Lindsay-Abaire’s work was so exciting and fresh and irreverent and now he’s writing about these bourgeois people up in Westchester. Stop that!” The point is, never write for the critics. It cannot help you. But here’s where it did help me. It made me write in a way that I never had before. I opened a section of the toolbox that I had been ignoring for most of my career, just because. I then had permission to write in a naturalistic way and not worry about jokes or laughs or being funny. I never would have been able to write Good People if I had not tried the experiment on Rabbit Hole. Your entire career is a series of steppingstones. Even the plays or the musicals that don’t go well, they lead you to the next place. And that’s what’s most important.

Lyn Gardner When it comes to theatre, I’m a bit like that kid with their nose pressed up against the sweet shop window wanting it all. Lots of theatregoers, and critics

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too, decide that they like one genre or another. They think of themselves as live art aficionados, but sneer at musicals. Or they will go to see immersive theatre but wouldn’t dream of booking a well-made play or Shakespeare. I will quite happily see a circus at the matinee, a Simon Stephens play at the Royal Court in the evening and then take in a spot of cabaret.26 At heart, we are all critics. As long as there is art, there will be critics writing about and responding to art. Every time we come out of the theatre with a friend, we want to talk about and dissect what we’ve seen. The fact that there are now more platforms that give people the opportunity to publish their work widens the number of voices who can join in the public conversations around theatre. I think a multitude of voices is absolutely crucial. Because in the past, the only people who’ve really been able to talk about theatre were the people who had the platform. They tended to be people who had those jobs in the mainstream media, and they often came from a very narrow background. But now, it’s possible for any sixteen-year-old who’s got an interest in theatre to set themselves up on a platform on the internet and write what they think about going to the pantomime or going to see Hamlet for the first time. That can only be a good thing. I think that often one of the problems is that artists, or certainly theatres, often view critics simply as people who might be able to help sell them tickets. And therefore, the only thing that they’re really interested in is how many stars are awarded to a production. In British theatres, all the time outside it will have, “Four stars, five stars.” That is not the conversation. That is not useful to theatre. It may be helpful for marketing departments, but it does absolutely nothing in terms of interrogating the work that is being made, having conversations around it, and really prodding the place of theatre within our culture and why we do it. The thing that motivates me to keep writing about theatre is the possibility that tonight I’m going to see something truly amazing, which will remind me why theatre at it’s very best is such an astonishing experience. I think the breathtaking thing just creeps up on you unaware. I take people to the theatre and friends who may not be huge theatregoers, but will tag along sometimes. They stumble out after three hours and fifty minutes and go, “Oh my God, that was dreadful.” And I’ll say, “Yeah. It was. It was a terrible mess, but there was this amazing moment at two hours and forty-two minutes that felt so true and real and genuine.” So, I’d go back and see this company do something else again at some point. I think that’s all you can do as a critic. People often talk about the idea of critics being jaded. I think we’re incredible optimists because you simply could not go to the theatre five or six nights a week like I do, or when I’m at the Edinburgh festival maybe five or six times a day.

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You simply could not do that unless you were an optimist and you thought, “Maybe tonight is the night I’m going to see something that just blows me away.” And, of course, when it does, it’s absolutely incredible.

Advice for New Writers Stephen Adly Guirgis When you learn to write, you have to sit down, and if you stay down long enough, something will happen, right? You’ve got to be willing to turn off TikTok, Facebook, Twitter, whatever. There was a great mystery writer. I can’t remember his name, and he had trouble writing, and his deal was that he would sit down for four or five hours to write, and he didn’t have to write, but he wasn’t allowed to do anything else. So, if you sit down and you stay down, something will happen. Unfortunately, what you did the day before doesn’t help get you in the seat any quicker the next day. It’s sort of the same thing. Hemingway said, “When you are writing, leave a little bit undone so that you know what to do when you come back the next day.” I think that’s really smart. But mainly, it’s just “sit down, and stay down.” Try to create deadlines that aren’t secrets, that don’t depend on just you. If I said to you, “I want to write a play.” How long does it take to write a draft? Three months? So, if you say, “In three months, I’ll have a draft,” it’ll never happen. I might not even write a page. But if I say, “Okay. I want to try to write this thing,” and I call you and I call five or six of my friends and I get a space. Now, I haven’t even written anything, but now I have a deadline in a couple of weeks that actually means something, because you’re taking off from your teaching job, and Elizabeth is coming in from Connecticut, and this and that, and then if you don’t have anything, you’re a jerk. So, creating a deadline that involves other people is very helpful. The other benefit of that is, if you’re writing something and you have a reading and the actors like what you’re writing, they’re going to cheerlead you through it because they’ll be like, “Yo. What’s going on? When is the next scene, blah, blah, blah.” Because people want to work.

Donald Margulies The thing that I absolutely live by is that you have to tell the truth. I know that sounds very simplistic, but I think that, and this is something that I

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teach my students as well. If you’re enjoying yourself too much and if you’re intruding too much on a character or the voice of a character, or if you find that you’re stepping back from that character and that situation and you’re commenting on it, you are not doing your job. You need to be as true and as empathic to that moment as possible. You can’t be at a remove. So, you need truthfulness and simplicity. As writers, we all fall in love with the things we write, and sometimes those things are not really faithful to the objective at hand, but they are things we love and things that give us pleasure. And I think as a playwright, focusing on telling the truth has certainly given me the opportunities to cut laugh lines that were wrong laughs. There is a kind of dishonesty in that if you want to get away with a moment that isn’t really true to the situation but that gives you a personal kind of pleasure. And that’s what I mean by telling the truth.27

Samuel D. Hunter If there’s one concrete bit of advice I can give that I’m pretty certain I can stand behind, it’s this: write ten full-length plays. And more than write them, really  work  on them. Suffer through readings and talkbacks that make you want to crawl into a hole and die. Get used to being the one person in your writing group who is always met with awkward silence after your pages are shared. Prepare for your first major review to be very mean. Expect early collaborators of yours to leave you behind because they perceive you to be dead weight. All of these things happened to me, and some version of them will likely happen to you. But keep going; write those ten plays, because in all likelihood those first ten plays won’t be all that great, but the eleventh might be doing something interesting. (And yes, I’m speaking from experience. In all honesty, it took me way more than ten plays.)

David Henry Hwang Do not worry about commercial or critical acceptance. Write what moves you most deeply. What you need to explore. It’s impossible to predict what will or will not be successful. A truly successful play is one that enriches the author’s spirit. However, it is also the case that this sort of work is also likely to be the most successful from a career standpoint. Paradoxically, success shouldn’t be your goal. Career success is the icing on the cake, not the cake itself.

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Ismail Khalidi I think the best way to become a writer is to read, and to read widely and deeply. Not only drama, but history, politics, et cetera. And of course, write. I think one becomes a better writer by using that muscle and toning it. I think it’s only when you let yourself go as a writer and you give yourself permission to let your characters speak and let the story unfold in that way that you grow. That’s not to say that the best thing will always come out, but adhering too closely to dramatic structure is also not a guarantee that it’ll come out great. I think that’s kind of the main thing I would say, to find your voice. It’s easier said than done, and I don’t mean that just in terms of cadence and rhythms and such, but also in terms of structure. Because I think we do need to challenge the notion that there’s only one way to tell a story.

Charles Busch I never thought for a second that it wouldn’t work out, which was slightly insane because I was a rather odd type. If I saw that kid, I would probably think, “Oh, honey, he should find himself a regular job, because I don’t think it’s going to work out.” I mean, here I was, this rather androgynous young person with a talent for impersonating movie actresses of the Golden Age, and there were no roles in the repertoire in the early ’70’s that I’d be right for. There was no Angels in America, or The Inheritance, or The Normal Heart, or any of those plays that would be suitable for me. It took a while to really, really figure out who I am, but I was always convinced that I had something great to offer, and that if I pursued it without deviation from my path, as I continue to grow and learn and get better, it just had to work out. Somehow, I was blessed with never having the concept in my head of, “What will people think?” And that’s put the brakes on more people than anything. I always tell young people starting out that it’s so easy to be negative with ourselves. “Oh, I can’t do that because . . . I can’t do that because . . .” And I think I trained myself somehow to come from the place of, “What is it that I have to offer?”

Marsha Norman What we do, as playwrights, librettists, and composers, is not try for a seat at the table. We just need to say what it has felt like to be alone, living human

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in our time. The playwrights who convey the human condition, who chart the desperate path of one human toward one goal, those are the playwrights we treasure. The plays that tell the stories we need to hear because we’re traveling on the same road, those are the plays that survive.

Ben Brantley I am professional, in the sense that if I’m given a job, I feel I should give it my full attention, and “attention” is the operative word. And I think if you really pay attention, if you don’t go on automatic pilot, if you look at something as if you’re seeing it for the first time, you’ll see so much. And I’m talking about looking out of the car window. I’m talking about looking at the patterns of white on your ceiling in the morning, but we often don’t have that switch on. I made it a point of honor to have that switch on when I was watching a play. And I think if you do pay attention, how can you not feel surprised? Because there will be something there that you haven’t seen before. Even if the play itself is a dog and dragging and off its rhythms, there will nonetheless be something that will make you pay a little more attention or focus on something a little more completely. And as long as you have to do that, I think it’s impossible to be jaded.

David Henry Hwang I think my main advice for playwrights starting out is that it’s really about an investigation into self. The thing that makes you unique, that makes you idiosyncratic, that makes you weird, that’s your superpower as a writer.

Sheldon Harnick To be in theatre is to experience highs and lows, no matter who you are or what you do. One has to love what one is doing. I love the experience of writing lyrics and setting them to music. I love to be able to sing a song, to hear other people sing a song that I wrote. So, when I experience a flop like The Body Beautiful, which was a disaster, or Tenderloin, which closed after six months, it’s very difficult. As a matter of fact, there are people who cannot take it. Years ago, I met a struggling songwriter, and he finally got a musical on. It was a flop, and he killed himself. It can be terribly

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depressing. One has to have an inner strength and a good spouse, which I have.28

David Lindsay-Abaire Submit often. Put your work out there in every way possible. Take every opportunity afforded to you. You’ll be rejected 99.9% of the time. I was. That’s all you can do. Keep casting the lines because you never know when you’re going to get a fish. And maybe you would think this is a given, but I’m learning it’s not. See and read as many plays as humanly possible. I’m surprised how often writers are unfamiliar with other plays or playwrights. Just consume it all; analyze it, study it, figure it out. “I like this. Here’s why I like it. I don’t like it. Here’s why I don’t like it.” And keep a list and figure out, “Oh, here are the eight plays that I didn’t like that I’ve read in these two months. And they all have this thing in common. I don’t want to do that. Here are the ten things that these plays have, that they’ve all accomplished. And that’s why I like them.” Figure it out. Be a student. Study the plays, read the plays, know the plays. That’s the best education, whatever structure stuff, whatever class you want to take, just reading and knowing plays and musicals will teach you all you need to know. Also, write more than one play. Many writers write a play, have a reading, get notes, put it away for several months, then rewrite it later. This cycle can go on for years. In that time, you’ve changed as a person. It’s not that you’ve figured out the play. A person has a play for six or seven years because they think they’re going to crack it. Forget that play. Take those new impulses and put them into a new play. It’s better to have ten first drafts instead of one play you’ve written twelve times. You have to rewrite, but not at the expense of the other great plays you can write. Every play is a stepping-stone to the next play.

Naomi Wallace I’ve always been captivated by language: the way words can construct, dismantle and turn notions inside out. And telling tales, making up days and hours and lives that don’t really exist in the material world, but then a thing is said, spoken, and it comes into being somewhere between what we know and what we imagine.

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What Do You Love About the Theatre? Ben Brantley People who regularly accompany me to plays have often heard me mutter, in a claustrophobically crowded theatre lobby, “I don’t know why I’m still doing this.” Such surly sentiments can persist right up to the moment the house lights dim. But once the curtain goes up, a switch flips on inside me. I feel nervous, expectant, and palpably, exhilaratingly in the moment. In that sense, I imagine, I’m experiencing a milder version of what the performers onstage go through every single night. This is live theatre, after all. We’re in this together. Those people up there need us as much as we need them. And I’m being paid to participate, with all senses wide open, in this fraught, blessed exchange of energy. I’m being paid to pay attention. This means that I am hyper-aware of all the moving pieces that make up a production, and that a part of my mind is assessing how successfully these elements cohere. While this might suggest a cold and clinical detachment, I find that it’s an approach that makes me feel more vital, more connected, more grateful.29

Octavio Solis I love the bargain we make between the audience and the theatre makers. We tell them, “Look, for the next two hours, we’re going to create a world here. We want you to pretend it’s real. And we want you to pretend when Romeo dies, that he’s really dead. But I want you to also understand that they’re just an actor. It’s pretend. But in order for you to really buy into the action that’s happening here, you have to believe that he’s so desperately in love, that he will kill himself for his love in this tomb. And by the way, you have to believe that it’s a real crypt and a real tomb, and not a set.” Often, there’s not even that. It’s a couple of chairs. “But help us finish the picture. Help us finish the set. You can do it in your mind.” That’s the bargain that we make with an audience. And that’s why audiences consistently come back to the theatre. Because what they see is ten times more vivid and rich and deep than anything created in cinema, or on IMAX. And for that, the audience doesn’t have to work at all. They just have to sit still, put the goggles on, and they’re there. In this instance, the audience has to work. They have to work

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so hard. And the dividends depend on them. It depends on how much you really want to invest as an audience to finish the picture, to finish what’s happening there. Right before curtain, there’s an invisible contract that we all signed together and say, “Okay, this is pretend. But let’s pretend it’s real.”

Peter Filichia I think I’m a better person for seeing so much theatre. It teaches me. Because by and large, it is an art form that looks to improve. I mean, even think about songs from musicals from the golden age: Put on a Happy Face, You Got to Have Heart, Climb Every Mountain, You Got to Have a Dream, if you don’t have a dream, how are you going to have a dream come true? All those things are such positive messages. And I will admit that musical theatre has changed, and not always to my liking. Nevertheless, I started with musicals, and those messages really helped me. So, that’s what I love. I think if everybody went to the theatre, I truly believe we’d have a better society.

Donald Margulies I love what I’ve always responded to, which is the communal heartbeat of an audience, and the palpable sense of anticipation when the houselights begin to dim. I must not be as jaded as I thought because I still find the shared experience of seeing an aspect of life reflected on stage unlike anything else.

Samuel D. Hunter What’s amazing about the theatre is we have to figure out how to make this thing happen in its totality every night. So, we all have to be on board. Everybody is all in the same room chasing the same thing. And it can be mysterious in that way, too. I’ve had the experience of doing a play where the last run in the rehearsal hall was the best it was. And something happened when we put it on stage on the set; it just wasn’t there. But when we just did it in the hall with barely anything, it sang in a way that it’s just not singing right now. And even though that can be frustrating and it’s deeply hard, I love that mysterious thing; that church-like aspect to theatre-making is really beautiful. And then, I love theatre because, objectively speaking, it’s ridiculous.

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These hyper bright lights come on, on this set that is missing a wall. And these people generally face one direction and talk way louder than they would normally. I think if an alien culture came and saw us, they’d be like, “What are they doing?!” Everybody’s sitting in the dark watching these people up on stage just cavort around and say things, and I love that absurdity. And even within that absurdity, the theatre can be so impossibly moving and enlightening. It’s a little silly what we do, but it’s when that absurd thing can be divined that it’s straddling this gulf that is so amazing.

Charles Busch Only recently, I’ve come to see that my entire artistic life is based on love; my love of classic film and theatre history, my love of actresses of the Golden Age of Hollywood, my love for the remarkably small group of directors who have worked so closely with me. Most of the roles in my plays have been written for specific actors, and it derives from my love for them and for their talent.

Lyn Gardner I think one of the things that we’re not very good about in theatre is that we’re not great at admitting that actually, a lot of theatre is just so-so. It’s not bad, it’s not brilliant. I mean, I think within that, there are often moments which are truly dreadful and there are also moments where you can go, “Oh, that was just beautiful.” I often feel I’m incredibly lucky to do a job where, maybe six, seven, if I’m really lucky, maybe twelve times a year I go and see something that is so astonishing that I can only describe it as being the equivalent of what you feel like when you fall in love. And it is because it’s a form of falling in love with theatre for the first time, even though actually it’s the 100 thousandth show you’ve seen. And I think to myself, “Gosh, there aren’t many jobs that you can actually do where people have that experience during their working life of falling in love with breathtaking art.”

Joe DiPietro The gift that playwriting has given me and taught me is that we are all essentially the same inside. We want the same things out of life. We all want

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to be happy. We all want to be loved. We all want to love someone. We all want a purpose. We all want to feel like we matter. Once you can internalize that as a writer, all characters are the same. So, you have to write from the inside out. You have to write characters who want these things as we all do, and I think that’s what makes people empathetic.

Discussion Questions 1) Did you gain any insight from these different perspectives? Do you perhaps have a different sense of what it means to be a playwright, lyricist, librettist, or theatre critic? 2) Did anything in particular jump out at you? If so, why do you think this specific comment resonated with you? 3) Did a particular writer (or writers) “speak” to you? Did it make you eager to learn more about that person’s body of work? 4) Since most of these writers are extremely accomplished, did it make you feel differently about your own writing process? Does that process now seem simpler? Or does it seem more challenging? 5) Are there any specific writing methods you’d like to try? Here are a few suggestions: a) Marsha Norman and David Lindsay-Abaire talked about “Writing about the thing that scares you the most.” What would that look like for you? b) Beth Henley talked about writing from specific images, often grotesque ones. Are there any strong images from your past that illicit ideas for plays? c) David Henry Hwang, Naomi Wallace, Kia Corthron, Octavio Solis, and Ismail Khalidi all write about “big issues,” often from a political perspective. Are there any injustices you see that you’d like to address in your writing? d) Charles Busch didn’t fit into any mold, so he created his own form of theatre, which started out as a kind of performance art and evolved from there. If you were to create a one-person show to showcase your unique talents and abilities, what would it look like?

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e) Stephen Adly Guirgis and Samuel D. Hunter write about the specific environments in which they grew up and how this shaped their world views. How has your environment shaped you? Is this something you’d like to write about? f) Sheldon Harnick, Marsha Norman, David Zippel, and Joe Di Pietro all discussed the complexities of writing the book and lyrics for musicals and the different forms of collaboration with their composers. Is there a story you need to tell that could best be told through song? Do you have any ideas about how you’d like to work with your collaborators? g) Ben Brantley, Lyn Gardner, and Peter Filichia all became well-established theatre critics by writing about various types of theatre in very specific terms. What type of theatre would you like to write about? Why does that specific genre speak to you?

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5 The Brass Tacks: Practical Tools of Writing for the Theatre Chapter Outline The “How To” of a Writer’s Life 152 Read, See, and Hear 152 Theatre Blogs 153 Submission Opportunities for Playwrights 154 Cover Letters for Writers . . . and Beyond 154 Living Room Readings: The Value of Free Pizza 163 Virtual Presentations 164 A Map of Relationships 165 Opening Night Cards and Gratitude Letters: A Lost Art 166 Exercises168

I think the best way to become a writer is to read, and to read widely and deeply. Not only drama, but history, politics, et cetera. And of course, write. I think one becomes a better writer by using and toning that muscle. I think it’s only when you let yourself go as a writer and you give yourself permission to let your characters speak and let the story unfold in that way that you grow. —Ismail Khalidi, playwright

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The “How To” of a Writer’s Life This chapter covers a lot of practical “how-to” information on writing for the theatre. Some points are geared specifically to playwrights, some to critical writing, while others are geared toward anyone who wants to deepen their knowledge and understanding of writing for the theatre. Here are some of the questions that will be answered in this chapter: zz zz

zz zz zz zz zz zz

Where can I find plays to watch online? Where can I read reviews of Broadway, West End, or regional theatre productions? How do I write a synopsis or a logline? How do I submit my plays to contests and theatre festivals? What is unique about a writer’s resume? How do I present a staged reading of my play? What is a map of relationships and why do I need one? Why is it important to acknowledge an opening night?

You can jump around and pick and choose which topics best serve you. These are the practical nuts and bolts of writing for the theatre.

Read, See, and Hear As stated by so many of the playwrights in the interview section, the best way of learning about writing for the theatre is to simply sit down and write. Also, read as many plays as possible and watch them whenever you can. Any library or large bookshop will have a collection of plays. Many scripts are also available online. Project Gutenberg (http://www​ .gutenberg.org/) has a number of famous, classical plays (including many by Shakespeare, Chekhov, and Ibsen) filed under Drama (in Book Search, under Subjects). FindaPlay through Playscripts (http://www.playscripts. com/findaplay/) has a large selection of plays geared toward students. You have to pay for complete scripts, but free samples are available. There are many online outlets, including services like Scribd (http://www.scribd. com) where you pay a nominal monthly fee to access libraries of hundreds of plays. If you are a student, you can often connect to an online school library catalogue with a vast number of plays for free. If you spend a lot

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of time commuting, you can subscribe to services like Audible (http:// www.audible.com) where you can listen to plays performed by awardwinning actors. To view plays online, in addition to YouTube, there are sites like London’s National Theatre at Home (http://www.ntathome.com) and Broadway HD (http://www.broadwayhd.com) to name a few. A quick internet search will bring up others. Better still, theatres are always looking for free labor. Many venues use volunteer ushers to hand out programs or seat patrons. In exchange, you get to see the play for free. This is especially true with smaller theatres at the local or community level. Call the box office and ask if they have such a policy.

Theatre Blogs There are a number of excellent theatre blogs with articles, reviews, critiques, online workshops, information on writer’s retreats, how to submit your work, and so much more. There is no way to cite them all, but I have listed a few of the most popular ones. Some are free and some require a monthly membership fee after a trial introduction. Look at the specific website information and be sure you know what the commitment is for each site before you give them any information (especially your debit or credit card). Top 30 Theatre Blogs (from all over the world—monthly subscription required): https://blog.feedspot.com/theatre_blogs/ An extensive list of theatre blogs and writers, mostly based in the United States: https://splatterverse.com/home-2/resources/theatre/ theatre-blogs/ Top Ten UK Theatre Blogs: https://www.vuelio.com/uk/social-mediaindex/top10-theatre-blogs/ The Guardian Theatre  Blog:  https://www.theguardian.com/stage/ theatreblog The New York Times theatre pages (five free articles per month, then a subscription is required): https://www.nytimes.com/section/theater Broadway Musicals Blog: https://broadwaymusicalblog.com/ That Awesome Theatre Blog (Los Angeles Theatre): https://thatawesome​ theatreblog.com/

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Submission Opportunities for Playwrights Play Submissions Helper (US-based subscription service offering roughly fifteen to twenty submission opportunities per month): https:// playsubmissionshelper.com/ Playwrights Center (US-based subscription service offering submission opportunities, classes, seminars, and online resources for playwrights at all levels): https://www.pwcenter.org London Playwrights Blog: https://londonplaywrightsblog.com/ New York City Playwrights Blog: https://www.nycplaywrights.org/ The Dramatists Guild offers a student rate membership at 50 percent of the regular fee as long as you are in school. They offer a variety of resources including US submission opportunities, seminars, and contract information: https://www.dramatistsguild.com The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook is an annual online directory containing information on UK theatre companies, submission opportunities, articles and interviews with writers and other artists (annual subscription): https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/ Writer’s Market is a US publication for writing contests, literary agents, and publishing opportunities for all kinds of writers: https://writersmarket. com Theatre Services Guide—a guide to technical theatre supplies and services in the United States: http://www.theaterservicesguide.com/ home.asp

Cover Letters for Writers . . . and Beyond Like any business, theatre is all about relationships. Every letter of inquiry, cover letter, or follow-up email is an opportunity for someone to get to know you and your work better—and vice versa. Developing a solid group of colleagues, associates, and supporters is part of any artist’s job. Some will become friends and collaborators. And many of them can open the door for

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productions, workshops, commissions, residencies, or creative jobs for your entire career. When you write a letter of inquiry or a cover letter, imagine an extremely busy person reading it. Get to the point. Treat the person you are contacting with respect. Don’t waste their time by requesting information which can be found on the theatre’s website. Be sure you understand how this particular theatre handles new work and follow those guidelines. Using the internet, it’s very easy to find out the specific selection criteria used by theatres all over the world, so do your homework. Make your cover letter immediate and intimate in a professional sense. Tell a story. Bring the reader into your world. Be passionate. Explain why you and your play serve the mission of the organization, why you are the only one who could write it, and why they are the perfect theatre to produce it. It’s important to keep it to one page. Say thank you. Remind the reader of how to reach you. Be sure to have your contact information at the top and the bottom of your letter.

Writing a Synopsis There are times when writing a synopsis of a piece of theatre will be required. A synopsis is a summary of a script (or a book, essay, or pretty much any longer work) that familiarizes the reader with the plot and how it unfolds. If you are a playwright submitting your work, many producers prefer to read a story synopsis before tackling the script itself. Or if you are writing a critique, you might be called upon to summarize the play or musical about which you are writing. Your synopsis should achieve two things. First of all, it must convey the contents of your script, and secondly, it must make the reader want to know more. Overall, the intention of the synopsis is to make the reader want to read the entire script. A synopsis should outline your story in full, but it shouldn’t be longer than one side of a sheet of paper. With submissions, even if a theatre company doesn’t ask for a synopsis, it’s a good idea to include one with your completed script. If your script starts off slowly, a reader might give up on it after a few pages, but if there’s a synopsis to show them how the story develops, they could be encouraged to keep going. Basically, a synopsis covers the points we talked about in script analysis: the protagonist, the antagonist, the climax, etc. It is important to keep in mind you are stressing the main points of your story. In most cases, this

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includes the ending. Since the purpose of a synopsis is to interest the reader enough to make them want to read the full script (or story, novel, or screenplay) it’s important that you use highly descriptive words and keep the story moving as quickly and succinctly as possible. Writing a synopsis can be challenging, especially when you have spent a long time crafting your script and you feel every detail is precious. It’s actually a wonderful exercise to distill your narrative down as much as possible. What is really necessary to convey your story? In film and television writing, there is something known as “The Elevator Pitch.” That means you must tell your story to an executive in the time it takes you to ride up in the elevator with them. While this is certainly not the same as a synopsis, it gives you a sense of stripping your narrative down to the bare bones and still conveys the essence of it. One could say, what is the “big idea” of your story? In the elevator pitch, you are doing this verbally. In the synopsis, you are using your command of language to boil it down to its very essence. Very often, when one goes to an opera, there will be a synopsis in the program so that one can understand the basic plot points even if you don’t speak Italian, German, or whatever the language might be. Knowing how to write a strong synopsis can be a valuable tool regardless of what you are writing. While writing your synopsis, make sure that it includes: zz zz zz

A complete dramatic arc (with a complete story line) Your own voice and the unique elements of your narrative The ending or resolution of your story

As for the ideal length, it varies from project to project. Some authors recommend keeping it to 500 words, while others suggest more. However, the standard range is about one to two single-spaced pages.

How to Write a Logline If a synopsis is distilling your story into roughly one page, a logline is boiling it down into one sentence. A logline is simply the script’s main conflict summed up in one or two phrases. While this practice is more commonly used for screenplays, it can often be used for plays or other longer works. By “main conflict” I mean the struggle between the protagonist and antagonist that tells the reader what’s at stake. In other words, the reason they should watch this play or read this script. In most cases, a good logline combines three basic elements: Protagonist + Struggle with the Antagonist + Life or

The Brass Tacks

Death Stakes. Mind you, not all stakes are going to be “life or death,” but you want to express the stakes as if they are. In other words, the highest possible level of what is at stake in your script must be expressed. The most important element of a logline is that it must make the reader say, “Oh wow! I have to read that script!” Since your script has to be read before it will be produced, this is an important marketing tool. Here are three examples from well-known films: zz

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zz

Pulp Fiction (1994): The lives of two mob hitmen, a boxer, a gangster’s wife, and a pair of diner bandits intertwine in four tales of violence and redemption. Rear Window (1954): A wheelchair-bound photographer spies on his neighbors from his apartment window and becomes convinced one of them has committed murder. Toy Story (1995): A cowboy doll is profoundly threatened and jealous when a new spaceman figure supplants him as the top toy in a boy’s room.

I worked with a brilliant writer who studied poetry to strengthen her loglines. Why? Because in poetry, every syllable counts. Every word has to be the perfect word. Studying this sort of precision in vocabulary taught her how to be more specific in her loglines and stage directions. When you have a limited amount of “word real estate,” this can be a valuable practice.

A Writer’s Resume Most submission opportunities ask for a resume or CV. A playwriting resume is different from a standard work resume. First of all, it should only focus on your work as a playwright. If you write criticism or essays on the theatre, this will apply as well. First, list the plays you have written. Be sure to include any productions, readings, or workshops the plays have had. Be sure to include the theatre name or company that produced the play and the year. If you are a writer of both full-length and short plays, it is best to separate these into two sections. If you are a short story writer, novelist, or screenwriter, you can also list those in a separate section. Next, list your educational experience and degrees received. Be sure to include the name of the school and the years attended. Some would suggest listing your educational background at the top. While this is largely a matter of preference, if you are starting out and only have one or two plays to list but you went to a school known for its writing program, you may want to consider this.

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A playwriting resume is also a perfect place to list any awards. You can include those you have won as a writer, as well as any for which you have been nominated. Again, be sure to include the company or theatre where the award is based (if applicable) and the year. You can also list classes or seminars you have taught (or those you have taken, especially if they are with well-known artists), as well as any publications you might have. The following is an example of a playwriting resume. Again, this can easily be adapted for other forms of writing. You will notice it is very compact. Your resume should be able to show the reader a quick summary of you as a playwright. If this means you only have your education and one play, that is perfectly fine. There is no need to beef up the document with non-writing experience.



An Example of a Playwriting Resume NAME Address

phone email

SELECTED PLAYS—FULL LENGTH Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

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SELECTED PLAYS: SHORT/ONE ACTS Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

Title of Play

Type of Production (production, reading, workshop)—Name of Theatre/Company/Festival, Year

TEACHING EXPERIENCE Class Title/Subject

School/Institute Name & Location Year(s)

Class Title/Subject

School/Institute Name & Location Year(s)

Class Title/Subject

School/Institute Name & Location Year(s)

Class Title/Subject

School/Institute Name & Location Year(s)

PUBLICATIONS Title

Publisher

Year

Title

Publisher

Year

HONORS/AWARDS Name of Award (can be both Company Name/Theatre Name year received/ nominee and winner) nom Name of Award (can be both Company Name/Theatre Name year received/ nominee and winner) nom Name of Award (can be both Company Name/Theatre Name year received/ nominee and winner) nom Name of Award (can be both Company Name/Theatre Name year received/ nominee and winner) nom

EDUCATION Name of School

Degree Earned

year completed

Name of School

Degree Earned

year completed

Name of School

Degree Earned

year completed

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How to Write a Bio for a Program Whether you are a writer, director, designer, choreographer, musical director, actor, or stage manager, at some point, you are going to need to put together a biography for a show program. Like most anything else discussed in this book, this is a skill that is easy to learn if you follow some basic steps. I have adapted this from Gwen Gillis’s article on Six Steps to Writing a Great Actor Bio,1 but you can easily tailor it to suit your needs:

1) Make it short and sweet. Being simple and direct in your bio is better than using florid, overly imaginative language. 2) Write it in the third person. This is not an autobiography. Use subjects like she, he, your name (Jane Jones), your professional address (Miss Jones), etc. 3) Avoid sentimental justification. For example, “Jane knew she wanted to be an actress from the time she was six years old, when she played a Munchkin in her first-grade production of The Wizard of Oz. Tell us what you’ve done, not why you do it.” 4) Don’t make lists. Describe or elaborate your skills, training, and experience in sentence form. As a reminder, titles of plays or musicals always go in italics or quotation marks. 5) Include personal experiences and special skills. Put these in the last paragraph. These skills might help you get a job. For example, you could write, “Fluent in French and Italian, Jane studied cooking at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and painting in Venice.” Or, “A trained massage therapist, she practices sports and pregnancy massage.” Or, “As a gospel singer, her new CD will be released in the spring.” 6) First to last. Put the most important information at the top, working down to the less critical info in the last paragraph. Like any piece of writing, how you open and close are the most important parts. Here are some examples of strong opening statements. Make them want to read more. Weak example: With a winning smile and a “can-do” attitude, Richard is glad to be back in his hometown since graduating from college. Strong example: Classically trained, Richard has played roles from Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams to David Mamet, not to mention featured roles in several short films.

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Here is how the four parts of your bio should be structured. It could be four paragraphs, or you can combine it into less:

Part 1: Your Recent Roles and Strongest Credits It is better to use recognizable plays and roles, not just “showcases.” If you’re just starting out, you can include “representative” roles. Those parts from Shakespeare or Chekhov done at school outweigh showcases of unknown writers Off-Off-Broadway or at a fringe festival.

Part 2: Training Don’t be afraid to name drop master teachers or prestigious drama schools, as well as directors with whom you’ve studied. If you’ve worked with some of the “greats,” they will assume you will be great.

Part 3: Other Credits Include “indie” films and all major stage credits. Don’t include background or extra work. You’re better off to include classroom projects of substantial roles.

Part 4: Personal Life Write about your interests, skills, travel, languages, or musical instruments— anything that makes you memorable. Elaborate and be specific—don’t just list. Here are some examples of closing statements. You want to leave them with a powerful memory of you. Weak example: “She would like to thank her dog Cosmo, her roommate Susan, and her grandma for believing in her.” This gives the impression that you’re still a beginner. Save the gratitude for your acceptance speech at the Tonys or the Oliviers. Strong example: “She is looking forward to working on an Emmy Awardwinning series or whatever exciting work comes her way!” Many times, due to program constraints, you will only be allowed one paragraph for your bio. In this case, you want to stick with the fourparagraph rule, but make each point one or two sentences as opposed to

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paragraphs. Your bio is intended to serve two purposes. The first one is to let the audience know about your past experience as an actor, writer, designer, etc. The second one might not be so obvious. It is to share your credits humbly and strategically with your fellow company members so that they will keep you in mind for future employment. It is also intended to serve this purpose for hiring professionals who might attend the production so they can also keep you in mind and refer you for future jobs. That is why you don’t want to have a laundry list of “thank yous” at the end. You want to keep it clean, to the point, and as professional as possible regardless of the number of strong credits you may or may not have.

Writing Samples In today’s competitive markets, you may be asked to provide a writing sample, even when applying to a position not related directly to writing. These are primarily used to determine ability, show literary and grammatical skills and reflect a candidate’s overall writing style. Of course, if you are applying to a graduate program in writing, this is a given. But other sorts of programs may require them as well. Samples should be concise and succinct; depending on the form (for instance, a critical essay versus a play), one to five pages are usually sufficient. If it is for a job or program where writing skills are not in the forefront, reviewers are primarily interested in how well you convey your ideas (structure and grammatical accuracy) as opposed to content. If, however, it is for any sort of a creative writing program, you need to be sure your sample sparkles like a diamond bracelet. An excerpt from a full-length script is fine, as long as it makes sense as a stand-alone document. If your piece is an excerpt from a longer work, be sure to note that on the first page. You might not necessarily want to use the opening of your script, but whatever you consider the strongest scene. If you need to set up the sample, use the rules for creating a synopsis to give the reader some context, but remember, brevity is key. Tell them only as much as they need to know to establish the scene. The requirements for such writing samples are very specific. In many cases, following the instructions and giving them what they are requesting is as important as the sample itself. They may require a short story, a poem, a ten-minute play, or an essay. If you have some flexibility, use whatever you feel best represents you and your skills. If you are able to inject some humor into it, so much the better. When I was applying to graduate schools, the reader (who wound up being one of my mentors) told me after I had been accepted that my sample was one of the few that year that made him laugh out loud.

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Of course, if you are applying to graduate programs or jobs in engineering, social work, or a non-creative endeavor, you’d want to tailor your sample accordingly. And if you do not have a sample that suits what they are requesting, there is no law that says you cannot create one specifically for that application. If, however, you are submitting a previous piece of work, be sure to proof and revise it. Just because you got an “A” on an assignment three years ago doesn’t mean it cannot use a little wordsmithing. Besides, you might have a different perspective on the piece or new things you can bring to it.

Living Room Readings: The Value of Free Pizza If you reach a point where you become serious in the pursuit of your work as a playwright, at some point you will want to have a living room reading. Basically, this is where you gather together a bunch of your friends and have them read the play out loud in your living room (or dorm room, basement, etc.). If you are a theatre student, most likely you know some actors. If not, find other friends who are strong readers. You can also go to your local college or amateur theatre group and recruit people. My personal theory about living room readings is this: never underestimate the value of free pizza. Actors are always looking for an opportunity to hone their craft and to collaborate with writers or other actors, not to mention a free meal. As you approach them, make it sound like a fun party they won’t want to miss. Believe me, hearing your play read aloud is certainly worth the price of a few pizzas (or sandwiches, chocolate cake, Chinese food, or grandma’s pierogies). I usually have some non-readers there as well to simply listen and give me feedback. Once you have cast it, during the actual reading, your job as the playwright is to sit there and say nothing. Listen to how the scenes flow, if there are laughs (whether you meant them or not) and how the audience is responding. You can tell when those in the room are really with you, or when they are tuning out. Are people shuffling their feet or could you hear a pin drop? As Alan Jay Lerner, composer of such great musicals as My Fair Lady and Camelot, stated, “Coughing in the theatre is not a respiratory ailment. It is a criticism.” The same is true in your living room.

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Different writers approach the living room reading differently. As Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Beth Henley states in Chapter 4, she emails the scripts out to the actors and tells them very little. She wants to see what they bring to their respective roles on their own. She also listens intently during the reading and makes notes, but she does not ask for feedback afterward. Henley feels she learns what she needs to just by hearing the play. Other writers open the floor for comments from all of the actors and audience members. If you choose to do this, however, proceed with caution. I’m not saying you cannot learn from this, but you need to take any and all opinions with a grain of salt. The greatest value in this process is if you get similar remarks from several people, then it’s worth taking it to heart. As author and management consultant Jack Rosenblum says, “If one person tells you you’re a horse, they are crazy. If three people tell you you’re a horse, there’s conspiracy afoot. If ten people tell you you’re a horse, it’s time to buy a saddle.”2 The main thing is that you learn from whatever comments you receive in order to do a strong rewrite that will serve you and your script.

Virtual Presentations In the era of online platforms such as Zoom, you can also do a virtual reading. While it lacks the immediacy and intimacy of a living room reading, the advantages are that you can have actors and audience members from anywhere on the planet. You can also record the reading to use as a reference or to show on YouTube. If you do this, however, be careful that the actors are not members of any professional unions such as Actors’ Equity Association or you could run into rights issues. And, of course, the script must be your original work and not anyone else’s. Be sure that the actors who are reading roles have digital copies of their scripts on one half of their computer monitor and the online platform on the other half. Otherwise, they will constantly be looking down at their scripts. If you wish to do a more polished reading with professional actors for broadcast on a platform like YouTube, it is possible, but you must set up the reading as a charity event and get permission. There is an organization in the United States called Theatre Authority (a subsidiary of Actors’ Equity Association) that controls such things. I’m sure there are similar ones in other countries. Basically, you must fill out a form with the names of the actors, proof

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of nonprofit status of your charity (for a large or well-known charity, only the name is required), and the dates of the broadcast. Since any profits from donations or access codes to your program will go to the organization, you do not need to pay your actors. Under current US Actors’ Equity stipulations, you can only post an online charity event using professional actors for four days (ninety-six hours total). After that time, you must close the portal or take down the video. If your project is ready for this step, it is a wonderful way to create buzz and expand your audience, since the reach is international. I would not, however, advise doing this until you have had several other readings to work out the kinks, revise your script, and be sure it is ready for a wider audience. After all, you only get one chance to make a first impression.

A Map of Relationships A map of relationships is an important tool for everyone. We all know people who can help us move forward personally and professionally. But have you identified them? Here is how you create a map of relationships. This is adapted from Pam Solberg-Tapper’s excellent website, Coach for Success:3 1. On the left-hand side of a sheet of paper (or on your computer), make a list of the types of people who would be helpful to you in your career pursuits. Let’s say your goal is to be a lyricist for musical theatre. What relationships would you need to cultivate? Obviously, a lyricist would need to be connected to composers, musicians, and librettists. But also, there are singers, actors, directors, designers, potential investors, producers, rehearsal pianists, graphic artists, people who run theatre companies, and so on. Make a list of every possible type of person you can think of who might be even remotely helpful to you. 2. On the right-hand side, fill in the names of any of those people you know or would like to know. (Don’t be afraid to dream big!) Examples: “Susan is a really good rehearsal pianist, so I need to list her. Uncle Walter loves musicals, so I’ll put him as a potential investor. And Sami could introduce me to the artistic director of that theatre, so I’ll write down both of their names.” 3. Next, place your name in a circle in the middle of a blank sheet of paper. 4. Add circles around yours and label them with the names of the people you listed, in addition to companies, allies, customers,

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vendors, associations, etc. that are important to your success. In some instances, these can be people or entities that you do not know yet, but you need to know. 5. Draw a line between you and the person or entity to represent your relationship with them. A solid line means a strong relationship, a dotted line means a relationship is in place but needs strengthening, and no line means a relationship needs to be cultivated. Then ask yourself the following questions: zz zz zz

zz

What are the strategic relationships needed to achieve my goal? What do I need to do to strengthen existing relationships? What do I need to do to start relationships that are important but not yet in place? How can I create win-win relationships that will benefit me as well as them?

One important thing to remember: to be successful in life, it is not only who you know, it is who knows and has a strong relationship with you. In terms of networking, you must not simply think about what that more powerful person could do for you, but what you could do for them. If you think you have nothing to offer, think again. Let’s say you’re at a gathering with Miss Important Director, you strike up a conversation and you find out she is a vegetarian and has a Siamese cat. Perhaps the next day you send her an email saying, “I enjoyed chatting with you last night at the reception. I heard you say you are vegetarian, and I wanted to send you my favorite recipe for gazpacho. If you don’t have a fondness for gazpacho, perhaps your cat does!” Whether or not she responds, you have started a relationship. A good rule of thumb is to have at least three exchanges (where the other person actually responds) before asking them for something. And if you do ask them to read a script, listen to a song or give you feedback of some kind, be sure what you are presenting is really solid. Again, you only have one opportunity to make a good first impression.

Opening Night Cards and Gratitude Letters: A Lost Art I was raised with a sense of reverence for the theatre and its traditions. Theatre people have many superstitions and rituals which could fill another book.

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One really important tradition is acknowledging the specialness of opening night. You have worked for weeks (if not months) on this production, and the time has finally come to share it with the world. You are experiencing something special and sacred with your cast and crew that will never come again. It is extremely necessary to acknowledge this. Writing a handwritten note to everyone in the company (both cast and crew) is a wonderful way to show your appreciation. Yes, it may take some time, especially if you are in a musical or a large-cast show, but the joy it will bring you will be returned tenfold. Another gesture you can make is to buy some sweets or hard candies (I’ve known many people to purchase a few bags of sugar-free throat lozenges) and put them in a basket or a bowl in the green room or common area backstage with a note saying, “Break a leg, everyone!” Whatever you choose to do, it doesn’t have to be expensive. It is a token of respect and esteem to acknowledge the magic of the moment. If you are the director, the playwright, or one of the leading actors, this is even more crucial, as you are setting the tone for everyone else. Whatever you do, I urge you not to let the moment go unnoticed. You will be so glad you did—and so will the rest of the company.

Gratitude Letters The next step beyond this would be a gratitude letter. Like the opening night cards, this is something you do as much for yourself as for the other person. A gratitude letter is, quite simply, a way of acknowledging a close friend, a parent, a teacher, a spouse, or someone significant in your life for all the large and small things they have done that have touched you. If you are a playwright and you were to do it for an opening night, it could be to the director or to a special actor who really made your words sing. It could be a list or written as an essay or even a poem. There is no wrong way to do it, as long as you speak from your heart. It could start, “Dear grandma, I wanted to thank you for . . . .” Once you finish it, consider printing it out on good stationery and presenting it to the person. I gave gratitude letters to both of my parents, and they each said it was one of the greatest gifts they ever received. After my father passed away, I found my gratitude letter to him in his top dresser drawer. It was dog-eared and coffee-stained, and it clearly had been read many times over. This is a gift that can have a tremendous impact on the recipient. Another variation is to write a gratitude letter to yourself. Some people find this challenging, but acknowledging yourself for your achievements in

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life (regardless of your age) can be very powerful and healing. Try writing it in the third person. For instance, you would say, “Dear _____, thank you for . . .” then list whatever you want to say to yourself. If you cannot think of anything, start with something small—like the time you received a perfect score on a test or when you supported someone going through an emotional crisis. Build from there and try not to overlook anything. Rereading it when you are having a bad day can be a tremendous gift to yourself. It can also be a tool for your career. The theatre is a business where one can encounter a considerable amount of rejection. On those days when your script is turned down or you don’t get the internship, reading your gratitude letter can help get you back on course. Or rereading one you have written to someone else can remind you of all the love in your life, for this is what really matters.

Exercises 1) Look back over this chapter and see what is of the most value to you. Is there something you can incorporate into your work, such as a logline and synopsis? 2) Who are the five most important people on your map of relationships? Who are the ones with whom you have to create a relationship or strengthen one? Are there any actions you can take to do that? 3) Take a look at some of the theatre blogs. Find at least three theatres where you would like to have your play produced, write a critique, or simply see a show. 4) Create a program bio to have on hand. You can always revise it as needed. Writing it when you are not under the pressure of doing a show (in whatever capacity) can save you time and energy when you are in “crunch mode.” 5) What would your resume look like? Once again, having one on hand that you can simply edit will save you time and stress when someone might need it on short notice. Having a bio and a resume at the ready also shows your professionalism and that you take your career seriously. 6) Write a gratitude letter to someone special in your life. Really take some time and contemplate all the ways (large and small)

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that person has made a difference to you. Print it out on some high quality paper and send it to them. 7) If you were to write a gratitude letter to yourself, think of three things you could put on it. Then think of three more. And three more. Keep going until you couldn’t possibly think of another thing. By now, you should feel quite wonderful! Save this on your computer or somewhere special so you can refer to it as needed.

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Conclusion There is a famous expression about show business: “You can’t make a living in the theatre, but you can make a killing.” No one goes into the theatre thinking they will make a fortune. Once in a great while, someone like Lin-Manuel Miranda (the creator of the musical phenomenon, Hamilton) comes along and proves us wrong. But those are the rare exceptions, not the rule. Most of the award-winning playwrights interviewed for this book would tell you that they supplement their writing income by also working in film, television, teaching, or some combination thereof. We don’t write for the theatre to get rich. We write for the theatre because we have to. Some passion stirs deep within us when we put pen to paper or when we see a play that moves us so deeply, we feel compelled to share that experience with the world. It’s a mysterious and extremely mercurial thing. Tastes change. Playwrights and critics fall in and out of fashion. But what they create endures. There is an old chestnut about when one points out an extremely attractive person to a colleague, the other will reply, “Yes, they’re gorgeous. But can they talk intelligently about art?” If you employ what you have learned in this book, you will be able to do just that. Honing these writing and observation skills will hold you in good stead for the rest of your life. Being able to articulate your feelings, whether verbally or on paper, will enrich you and those you encounter. The theatre is an abundantly fertile playground. Our imaginations can take us wherever we want to go. If you choose to continue on this journey, your lives will have excitement, fullness, and a wealth of experience just by sitting in the dark with a group of strangers and communing over this incredibly magical art form.

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Further Reading

Script Analysis Ball, David. Backwards & Forwards: A Technical Manual for Reading Plays. (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1983). Knopf, Robert. Script Analysis for Theatre. (London: Methuen Drama, 2017). Thomas, James. Script Analysis for Actors, Directors, and Designers. (New York: Focal Press, 2013).

Playwriting Hatcher, Jeffrey. The Art & Craft of Playwriting. (Cincinnati: Story Press, 2000). Spencer, Stuart. The Playwright’s Guidebook. (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2002). Sweet, Jeffrey. What Playwrights Talk about When They Talk about Writing. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2017). Wright, Michael. Playwriting in Process. (Newburyport, MA: Focus Publishing, 2009).

Criticism Fisher, Mark. How to Write about Theatre. (London: Methuen Drama, 2015). Wiltshire, Kim. Writing for Theatre. (London: Red Globe Press, 2015).

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Further Reading

Creative Inspiration Cameron, Julia. The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. (New York: Penguin Books, 2016). Gilbert, Elizabeth. Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. (New York: Riverhead Books, 2015). Pressfield, Steven. The War of Art. (New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC, 2012).

Notes

Chapter 1 1 Stella Adler, Using Imagination to Think About a Play, Setting and Social Class (YouTube, December 25, 2013). 2 Luke Yankee, The Man Who Killed the Cure (New York: Amazon Publishing, 2017), 17–20. 3 William Shakespeare, Henry V, Prologue to Act IV, lines 1–15. 4 David Ball, Backwards and Forwards: A Technical Manual for Reading Plays (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2017). 5 Eugene O’Neill, Seven Plays of the Sea (New York: Vintage Books, 1972). 6 William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene Five, lines 50–60. 7 William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act Three, Scene Four, lines 23–30. 8 William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act Five, Scene Three, lines 316–21. 9 Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act Five. 10 Aristotle, The Poetics of Aristotle (London: Macmillan, 1907). 11 Luke Yankee, The Last Lifeboat (New York: Dramatists Play Service, 2015), 25–6.

Chapter 2 1 Martin McDonagh, The Beauty Queen of Leenane (London: Bloomsbury, 2016). 2 Uta Hagen, Respect for Acting (Hoboken: Wiley Publishing, July 8, 2008). 3 Yankee, The Last Lifeboat, 16. 4 Luke Yankee, Marilyn, Mom, & Me, Scene One. 5 Michelle Renee Miller, 4 Easy Tensions to Make Your Writing Totally Transform (July 7, 2020), https://www​.michellereneemiller​.com. 6 Philip Middleton Williams, “A Moment of Clarity,” in A House by the Side of the Road, https://www​.pmwplaywright​.com.

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Notes

Chapter 3 1 www​.grammarly​.com 2 LA Stage Alliance, Points to Consider (LA Stage Alliance Ovation Awards Voter Handbook, October 16, 2016).

Chapter 4 1 Zack Newick, What Talent Wants to Serve: An Interview with Donald Margulies (The Paris Review, June 27, 2014), https://www​.theparisreview​ .org​/blog​/2014​/06​/26​/what​-talent​-wants​-to​-serve​-an​-interview​-with​ -donald​-margulies. 2 Terry Gross, At 90, ‘Fiddler’ Lyricist Tells His Story (NPR, April 30, 2014), https://www​.npr​.org​/2014​/04​/30​/308276626​/at​-90​-fiddler​-lyricist​-tells​-his​ -story. 3 Adam Greenfield, An Interview with Samuel D. Hunter (marintheatre​ .o​rg), https://www​.marintheatre​.org​/productions​/the​-whale​/whale​ -interview. 4 Emily Wilson, Interview with Octavio Solis (therumpus​.ne​t, February 1, 2013), https://therumpus​.net​/author​/emily​-wilson/. 5 An Interview with Kia Corthron (The Writing University—The University of Iowa, April 4, 2016), https://writinguniversity​.org​/news​-archive​/2016​/04​ /interview​-kia​-corthron. 6 Joel Murray, Radical Vision and Form: A Conversation with Naomi Wallace (AMERICAN THEATRE, January 5, 2017), https://www​.americantheatre​ .org​/2015​/11​/10​/radical​-vision​-and​-form​-a​-conversation​-with​-naomi​ -wallace/. 7 Newick, What Talent Wants to Serve. 8 Ted Sod, A Conversation with Lyricist Sheldon Harnick (Roundabout Theatre Company, February 27, 2016), https://www​.roundabouttheatre​.org​ /about​/our​-blog​/a​-conversation​-with​-lyricist​-sheldon​-harnick/. 9 Marsha Norman, Can Playwriting Be Taught? Dramatists Guild Magazine, July 2006 (Keynote address from Southeastern Theatre Conference—May 2006), http://marshanorman​.com​/can​_playwriting​_be​_taught​.htm. 10 Robert Falls, The Long Journey Home: An Interview with Beth Henley about ‘The Jacksonian’ (AMERICAN THEATRE, February 1, 2014), https://www​ .americantheatre​.org​/2014​/02​/01​/the​-jacksonian/. 11 Diep Tran, David Henry Hwang: Backward & Forward (AMERICAN THEATRE, May 3, 2018), https://www​.americantheatre​.org​/2018​/05​/03​/ david​-henry​-hwang​-backward​-and​-forward/.

Notes

12 Henrik Eger, Mentors and Protégés Exist Everywhere: Interview with Playwright Donald Margulies on Collected Stories (Drama Around the Globe, November 11, 2016), http://phindie.com/18632-18632-mentorsand-proteges-exist-everywhere-interview-with-playwright-donaldmargulies-on-collected-stories/. 13 Romulus Linney, Donald Margulies by Romulus Linney (BOMB Magazine, July 1, 2002), https://bombmagazine​.org​/articles​/donald​-margulies/. 14 Gross, At 90, ‘Fiddler’ Lyricist Tells His Story. 15 Murray, Radical Vision and Form. 16 Newick, What Talent Wants to Serve. 17 Falls, The Long Journey Home. 18 Gross, At 90, ‘Fiddler’ Lyricist Tells His Story. 19 April Gornik, Marsha Norman by April Gornik (BOMB Magazine, April 1, 2000), https://bombmagazine​.org​/articles​/marsha​-norman/. 20 Pat Cerasaro, Marsha Norman and Theatre for Humans: An In-Depth Interview (BroadwayWorld​.co​m, August 7, 2011), http://marshanorman​ .com​/2011​/08​/07​/marsha​-norman​-theater​-for​-humans​-indepth​-interview/. 21 Sod, A Conversation with Lyricist Sheldon Harnick. 22 Gross, At 90, ‘Fiddler’ Lyricist Tells His Story. 23 Cerasaro, Marsha Norman and Theatre for Humans. 24 Eger, Mentors and Protégés Exist Everywhere. 25 Jeremy Goldstein, Q&A: Lyn Gardner Talks Truth to Power with Jeremy Goldstein, about Falling in Love with Theatre and Her Latest Children’s Book (Run Riot, August 5, 2017), http://www​.run​-riot​.com​/articles​/blogs​/qa​-lyn​ -gardner​-talks​-jeremy​-goldstein​-about​-falling​-love​-theatre​-and​-her​-new​ -children. 26 Ibid. 27 Jack Smith and Alison Acheson, Donald Margulies: Writers on Writing (The Writer, October 21, 2018), https://www​.writermag​.com​/blog​/donald​ -margulies/. 28 Sod, A Conversation with Lyricist Sheldon Harnick. 29 Ben Brantley, Why I’ll Never Stop Being a Theatre Critic (The New York Times, October 13, 2020), https://www​.nytimes​.com​/2020​/10​/13​/insider​/ brantley​-critic​-farewell​.html.

Chapter 5 1 Gwyn Gillis, Six Steps to Writing a Great Actor Bio (Backstage Magazine, July 8, 2013), https://www​.backstage​.com​/magazine​/article​/steps​-writing​ -great​-bio​-13225/.

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2 Jack Rosenblum, Managing from the Heart by Hyler Bracey, Jack Rosenblum, Aubrey Sanford, and Roy Trueblood (New York: Penguin Random House, 1993). 3 Pam Solberg-Tapper, Three Steps to Create Relationship Maps for Professional Success, https://www​.coachforsuccess​.com​/3​-steps​-to​-create​-relationship​ -maps​-for​-professional​-success/.

Biographies of Interviewees Ben Brantley, the former chief theatre critic for The New York Times, wrote more than 3,000 reviews over 27 years beginning in 1993 until 2020, filing regularly from London as well as New York. Before joining The New York Times, Mr. Brantley was a staff writer for The New Yorker and Vanity Fair. He reviewed fashion for Women’s Wear Daily, where he was the Paris bureau chief and European editor, and movies for Elle magazine. Mr. Brantley grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and graduated from Swarthmore College. He is the editor of two books of The New York Times theatre reviews and a recipient of the George Jean Nathan Award for theatre criticism. Charles Busch is the author and star of such plays as The Divine Sister, The Lady in Question, Red Scare on Sunset, The Confession of Lily Dare, and Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, one of the longest-running plays in the history of Off-Broadway. His play, The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife, received a Tony nomination for Best Play and is the longest-running Broadway comedy of the past twenty-five years. He wrote and starred in the film versions of his plays, Psycho Beach Party and Die Mommie Die, the latter of which won him the Best Performance Award at the Sundance Film Festival. Mr. Busch has been honored with a special Drama Desk Award for career achievement as both performer and playwright and received the Flora Roberts Award for Sustained Achievement in the theater by the Dramatist’s Guild. He is the subject of the documentary film, The Lady in Question Is Charles Busch. Kia Corthron is a playwright and novelist. Her plays include Breath, Boom, Force Continuum, and A Cool Dip in the Barren Saharan Crick, and for her body of work for the stage she has garnered the Windham-Campbell Prize, Horton Foote Prize, Flora Roberts Award, United States Artists Jane Addams Fellowship, Simon Great Plains Playwright Award, McKnight National Residency, Lee Reynolds Award, and others. Her plays have been produced in New York by Playwrights Horizons, New York Theatre Workshop, Atlantic Theater Company, Ensemble Studio Theatre, Manhattan Theatre Club, New York Stage and Film; regionally by Yale Repertory Theatre,

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Goodman Theatre, Mark Taper Forum, Actors Theatre of Louisville, Center Stage, Hartford Stage, Children’s Theatre Company, Alabama Shakespeare Festival; in London by the Royal Court Theatre and Donmar Warehouse; and elsewhere. Her debut novel The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter was a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice and the winner of the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize, and her second novel Moon and the Mars was published in 2021. She serves on the Dramatists Guild Council, is a New Dramatists alumnus, and is a member of the Authors Guild. Joe DiPietro is a playwright and lyricist. He has won two Tony Awards, a Drama Desk Award, and three Outer Critics Circle Awards. His musicals and plays have received thousands of productions across the country and around the world. Broadway: Nice Work If You Can Get It (ten Tony nominations, including Best Book and Best Musical); Memphis (four Tony Awards including Best Musical, Best Book and Best Score), All Shook Up, and Living on Love. Off-Broadway: Ernest Shackleton Loves Me; Clever Little Lies; The Toxic Avenger (OCC Award—Best Off-Broadway Musical); The Thing About Men (OCC Award—Best Off-Broadway Musical); the muchproduced comedy Over the River and Through the Woods, and I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change (the longest running musical revue in OffBroadway history). Other recent regional theatre credits include The Second Mrs. Wilson, Hollywood and Chasing the Song, The Last Romance, and Creating Claire. His murder mystery The Art of Murder won the Edgar Allen Poe Award for Best Play, and his adaptation of Schnitzler’s La Ronde—called F**king Men—is the longest running Fringe play in London history. Peter Filichia is the former New York-based theatre critic for The Star-Ledger newspaper in Newark, New Jersey, and New Jersey’s television station News 12. In addition, Filichia has two weekly columns at Masterworks Broadway and Kritzerland, and also writes regular entries for the Music Theatre International Marquee blog. He wrote a regular column, “Peter Filichia’s Diary,” for the website TheatreMania from November 2001 until October 2011, and previously for the website BroadwayOnLine. He is the author of the books Let’s Put on a Musical!: How to Choose the Right Show for Your School, Community or Professional Theater; Broadway Musicals: The Biggest Hit and the Biggest Flop of the Season, 1959 to 2009; Broadway MVPs 19602010: The Most Valuable Players of the Past 50 Seasons; Strippers, Showgirls and Sharks: A Very Opinionated History of the Broadway Musicals that Did Not Win the Tony Award; and The Great Parade: Broadway’s Astonishing,

Biographies of Interviewees

Never-to-Be-Forgotten 1963-1964 Season. He served four terms as president and chairman of the nominating committee of the Drama Desk Awards and has also been a member of the nominating committee for the Lucille Lortel Awards. He is currently head of the selection committee of the Theatre World Awards and has hosted the annual award ceremony for a number of years. His plays include Adam’s Gifts and God Shows Up, which had a substantial run Off-Broadway. He has also written the liner notes for many Broadway cast albums. Filichia is also the critic-in-residence for the University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music. He has served on an assessment panel for the NEA and is the musical theatre judge for the ASCAP Awards program. Since March 2009, he has been on the panel of reviewers heard on the podcast This Week on Broadway for BroadwayRadio. Lyn Gardner is a graduate of drama and English from the University of Kent. Gardner was a founding member of the City Limits magazine, a cooperative for which she edited the theatre section. Later, she was a contributor to The Independent. Gardner joined The Guardian as a theatre critic in 1995 and remained on the paper for twenty-three years, taking a particular interest in fringe and more alternative theatre. She was writing 130 reviews and 28,000 words of features annually, as well as 150 posts a year for an online blog for the paper, from 2008 to 2017. Since June 2017, Gardner had been an associate editor of The Stage newspaper, where she continues to write her theatre blog. She also teaches an MA in Dramatic Writing at Drama Centre London at Central Saint Martins. Ms. Gardner is also a writer of children’s novels, the earliest being Into the Woods (2006) and Out of the Woods (2010). She has written six further children’s novels for Nosy Crow, known as the Stage School Series, based around a young girl named Olivia attending Stage School. The first in the series was Olivia’s First Term. Stephen Adly Guirgis is a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, screenwriter, director, and actor. He grew up on the Upper West Side of New York City, attending school in Harlem. Guirgis studied at the University of Albany, SUNY, graduating in 1992. Some of his most famous works include Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, and Between Riverside and Crazy for which he won the 2015 Pulitzer Prize for Drama. He was nominated for a Tony Award for his play, The Motherf**ker with the Hat, which was performed on Broadway and at London’s National Theatre. He is also a member and the former co-artistic director of the New York City LAByrinth Theatre Company. Guirgis is also an actor and has performed in

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films (Palindromes, Jailbait), TV (Law & Order), and on stage (Guinea Pig Solo). Guirgis has directed productions across the United States including Sistah Supreme, Behind the Counter with Mussolini, and Kiss Me on the Mouth. Through his work in theatre, Guirgis has used improvisational theatre to teach HIV/AIDS prevention and conflict resolution in prisons, schools, and hospitals. He was a close friend of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman and often collaborated with him on his theatre works. In addition to his Pulitzer Prize, Guirgis is the recipient of the Windham-Campbell Literature Prize, the Lucille Lortel Award, and the Whiting Award. Sheldon Harnick is an American lyricist and songwriter who is best known for his collaborations with Jerry Bock and beloved musicals such as Fiddler on the Roof. He is a celebrated artist in the musical theatre community. He has been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama and three Tony Awards (Best Musical for Fiorello! and Fiddler and Best Composer and Lyricist for Fiddler). Bock and Harnick were presented with the Oscar Hammerstein Lifetime Achievement in Theatre in 2009. The composing team also received a Drama League Award for Distinguished Achievement in Musical Theatre and a special Tony Award for Lifetime Achievement in Theatre in 2016. Born in Chicago, Harnick graduated from Northwestern University School of Music with a bachelor’s degree in music in 1949. He began working for various orchestras in the Chicago area before moving to New York City. Harnick met Jerry Bock, his longtime collaborator, around 1965. Together, they would write some of the most beloved scores in musical theatre history: The Body Beautiful, Fiorello!, She Loves Me, The Apple Tree, and their most celebrated musical, Fiddler on the Roof. Beyond his work with Bock, Harnick wrote the libretto for the opera Coyote Tales, was the writer of the book, music, and lyrics for Dragons, and wrote the lyrics and cowrote the book for The Phantom Tollbooth. Beth Henley is an American playwright of regional dramas set in provincial Southern towns, the best known of which, Crimes of the Heart, was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1981. Henley, a graduate of Southern Methodist University, turned from acting to writing as a career because she felt that the theatre offered few good contemporary roles for Southern women. Her first play, Am I Blue, was produced while she was still an undergraduate. Crimes of the Heart, her first full-length play, was produced in Louisville, Kentucky, and in New York City. Henley’s later plays include The Miss Firecracker Contest (filmed as Miss Firecracker), The Wake of Jamey Foster, The Lucky Spot,

Biographies of Interviewees

Abundance, Control Freaks, and The Jacksonian. Henley has also written many television scripts and screenplays. Samuel D. Hunter grew up in Moscow, Idaho. His full-length plays include The Whale (Drama Desk Award, Lucille Lortel Award for Outstanding Play, GLAAD Media Award, Drama League and Outer Critics Circle nominations for Best Play), Greater Clements (Drama Desk Nomination for Best Play, Outer Critics Circle Honoree), Lewiston/Clarkston (Drama Desk nomination for Best Play), A Bright New Boise (OBIE Award, Drama Desk nomination for Best Play), The Few, A Great Wilderness, Rest, Pocatello, The Healing, and The Harvest, among others. He is the recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, a Whiting Writers Award, an Otis Guernsey New Voices Award, the Sky Cooper Prize, the PONY/Lark Fellowship, and an honorary doctorate from the University of Idaho. A forthcoming film adaptation of The Whale, directed by Darren Aronofsky and starring Brendan Fraser, is set to be released by A24 Films. His work has been developed at the O’Neill National Playwrights Conference, the Ojai Playwrights Conference, Seven Devils, and PlayPenn. Two published anthologies of his work are available from TCG books, and a third is forthcoming. He is a member of New Dramatists and a current Resident Playwright at the Signature Theater in New York. He holds degrees in playwriting from NYU, the Iowa Playwrights Workshop, and Juilliard. David Henry Hwang is a playwright, screenwriter, and librettist, best known as the author of M. Butterfly, which ran for two years on Broadway, won the 1988 Tony, Drama Desk, John Gassner, and Outer Critics Circle Awards, and was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. The play also enjoyed a one-year run on London’s West End and has been produced in over three dozen countries to date. Golden Child premiered Off-Broadway, received an OBIE Award for playwriting and subsequently moved to Broadway, where it received three Tony nominations, including Best Play. His new book for Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Flower Drum Song earned him his third Tony nomination. He also co-wrote the book for the Disney musicals Aida and Tarzan. Mr. Hwang’s other plays include FOB (OBIE Award), The Dance & the Railroad (Drama Desk Nomination and Pulitzer finalist; CINE Golden Eagle Award), Family Devotions (Drama Desk Nomination), The House of Sleeping Beauties, The Sound of a Voice, Bondage, Face Value, Trying to Find Chinatown, Yellow Face, Chinglish, and Soft Power. He also adapted Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. Mr. Hwang penned the screenplays for M. Butterfly, Golden Gate, The Lost

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Empire (a four-hour NBC television miniseries), and Possession. As a librettist, he has written three works for composer Philip Glass: 1000 Airplanes on the Roof, The Voyage, and The Sound of a Voice. Hwang has been awarded numerous grants, including fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim and Rockefeller Foundations, the New York State Council on the Arts, and the Pew Charitable Trusts. In 1998, the nation’s oldest Asian American theatre company, East West Players, christened its new mainstage the David Henry Hwang Theatre. From 1994 to 2001, he served by appointment of President Clinton on the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities. David Henry Hwang graduated from Stanford University, attended the Yale School of Drama, and holds honorary degrees from Columbia College in Chicago and the American Conservatory Theatre. Ismail Khalidi was born in Beirut to Palestinian parents and raised in Chicago. He is a playwright and director who has written, directed, performed, curated, and taught internationally. Khalidi’s plays include Tennis in Nablus, Truth Serum Blues, Foot, Sabra Falling, Returning to Haifa, and Dead Are My People. Khalidi’s plays have been published in numerous anthologies. His writing on politics and culture has appeared in The Nation, Guernica, American Theatre Magazine, and Remezcla. His poetry and plays have been published by Mizna, and he coedited Inside/ Outside: Six Plays from Palestine and the Diaspora. Khalidi has received commissions from the Actors Theatre of Louisville, Noor Theatre, Pangea World Theatre, and The Public Theatre and is currently a Visiting Artist at Teatro Amal in Chile. He holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. David Lindsay-Abaire is a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, screenwriter, lyricist, and librettist. His play Good People was awarded the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play, the Horton Foote Prize, the Edgerton Foundation New American Play Award, and two Tony nominations. TCG named Mr. Lindsay-Abaire as the most produced playwright in America for the 2012–13 season, and Good People as the most produced play. His previous play, Rabbit Hole, received the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, five Tony nominations, and the Spirit of America Award. He also wrote the book and lyrics for Shrek: The Musical, which was nominated for eight Tonys, four Oliviers, a Grammy, and earned Mr. Lindsay-Abaire the Ed Kleban Award as America’s most promising musical theatre lyricist. Mr. Lindsay-Abaire’s

Biographies of Interviewees

other plays include Fuddy Meers, Kimberly Akimbo, Wonder of the World, and A Devil Inside, among others. In addition to his work in theatre, Mr. Lindsay-Abaire’s screen credits include his film adaptation of Rabbit Hole (starring Nicole Kidman), Dreamworks’ Rise of the Guardians, and MGM’s Poltergeist reboot, among others. Donald Margulies won the 2000 Pulitzer Prize for Drama for Dinner with Friends and was a finalist twice before for Sight Unseen and Collected Stories. His many other plays, which include Long Lost, The Country House, Shipwrecked! An Entertainment, Brooklyn Boy, the Tony Award-nominated Time Stands Still, and the OBIE Award-winning The Model Apartment, have been produced on and Off-Broadway and in theatres across the United States and around the world. Mr. Margulies has received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. He was the recipient of the 2000 Sidney Kingsley Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Theatre by a playwright. In 2005 he was honored by the American Academy of Arts and Letters with an Award in Literature and by the National Foundation for Jewish Culture with its Award in Literary Arts. In 2019, he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and was the 2014 recipient of the PEN/Laura Pels International Foundation for Theatre Award for an American Playwright in Mid-Career and the 2015 William Inge Award for Distinguished Achievement in the American Theatre. He has developed numerous screenplays, teleplays, and pilots for HBO, Showtime, NBC, CBS, Warner Bros., TriStar, Universal, Paramount, and MGM. The film of his screenplay, The End of the Tour, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, was nominated for the Film Independent Spirit Award and the UCLA Scripter Award for Best Screenplay. He is an adjunct professor of English and Theatre Studies at Yale University. Marsha Norman won a Pulitzer Prize for her play ’Night, Mother and was co-chair, with Christopher Durang, of the Playwriting Program at the Juilliard School for more than twenty years. She also won a Tony Award for the book and lyrics of The Secret Garden and has written books for two other Broadway musicals, The Color Purple, for which she won a Tony nomination, and The Bridges of Madison County, for which she won a Drama Desk nomination. She was Vice President of the Dramatists Guild of America for ten years and is a founder and current president of the Lilly Awards Foundation, a nonprofit corporation that promotes gender parity in theatre productions across

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America and celebrates the work of women in the theatre. Other projects include the book for the musical King Kong, and a play commissioned by the UN about trafficking and violence toward women worldwide. Her first play, Getting Out, received the John Gassner Playwriting Medallion, the Newsday Oppenheimer Award, and a citation from the American Critics Association. Other plays include The Laundromat, The Pool Hall, Loving Daniel Boone, Trudy Blue, and Last Dance. Published collections of her works include Four Plays, Collected Works of Marsha Norman, Vol. 1, and a novel, The Fortune Teller. She also has numerous film and television writing credits. She has won Grammy and Emmy nominations, as well as grants and awards from, among others, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Rockefeller Foundation, and the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. She has won the Margo Jones Award, the Sidney Kingsley Award, and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Guild Hall Academy of Arts and Letters. In the spring of 2011, she received the William Inge Lifetime Achievement Award in Playwriting. She writes and lectures frequently on playwriting and musical book and has eighteen honorary degrees from American colleges and universities. www​.marshanorman​.com Octavio Solis is a playwright and director whose works Quixote Nuevo, Mother Road, Hole in the Sky, Alicia’s Miracle, Se Llama Cristina, John Steinbeck’s The Pastures of Heaven, Ghosts of the River, Quixote, Lydia, June in a Box, Gibraltar, The Ballad of Pancho and Lucy, The Seven Visions of Encarnación, Dreamlandia, El Otro, Prospect, El Paso Blue, Santos & Santos, La Posada Mágica, Prospect, and Man of the Flesh have been mounted across the country. His collaborative works include Cloudlands, a musical cowritten with Adam Gown and Shiner, cowritten with Erik Ehn. Solis has received the 2019 Distinguished Achievement in the American Theatre award from the William Inge Center for the Arts, the 2018 Imagen Award for his consultancy on Disney-Pixar’s Coco, the 2015 Distinguished Achievement Award from the Texas State University Black and Latino Playwrights Conference, the 2014 Pen Center Literary Award for Drama, the United States Artists Fellowship for 2012, the 2003 National Latino Playwriting Award, the 2000–1 National Theatre Artists Residency from TCG and the Pew Charitable Trust, the 1998 TCG/NEA Theatre Artists in Residence Grant, the 1998 McKnight Fellowship grant from the Playwrights Center in Minneapolis, the 1995– 7 Playwriting Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, the 1994 Will Glickman Playwright Award. Solis is a Thornton Wilder Fellow for the MacDowell Colony, New Dramatists alum, and member of the

Biographies of Interviewees

Dramatists Guild. His new book Retablos: Stories from a Life Lived Along the Border received the 2018 Silver Indies Award for Book of the Year. Naomi Wallace is a playwright, freelance writer, and poet. During her career, Wallace has also taught English literature, poetry, and playwriting at Yale University, UCLA, University of Iowa, Illinois State University, Merrimack College, Hampshire College, American University of Cairo, Vrije University of Amsterdam, and other institutions. She has also worked with women in the criminal justice system. Currently, Wallace divides her time between Kentucky and the Yorkshire Dales in Northern England. Her plays include In the Heart of America, Slaughter City, One Flea Spare, The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek, Things of Dry Hours, The Fever Chart: Three Vision of the Middle East, And I and Silence, The Hard Weather Boating Party, and The Liquid Plain. Her stage adaptation of William Wharton’s novel Birdy was produced on the West End in London. Wallace’s plays have been produced in the United Kingdom, Europe, the United States, and the Middle East. In 2009, One Flea Spare was incorporated into the permanent repertoire of the French National Theatre, the Comédie-Française. Only two American playwrights have been added to the Comédie’s repertoire in 300 years. David Zippel is a Tony award-winning lyricist for City of Angels. Born and raised in Easton, Pennsylvania, he earned his undergraduate degree at the University of Pennsylvania. After graduating in 1976, Zippel was nervous about the stability of a career in theatre and obtained a Juris Doctorate degree from Harvard Law School. While studying at Harvard, Zippel continued to pursue his passion for theatre, writing several songs for various artists. Zippel’s first major work as a lyricist came with City of Angels, which won the 1989 Tony Award for Best Musical, followed by The Goodbye Girl, which he collaborated on with Marvin Hamlisch, and The Woman in White, with composer Andrew Lloyd Webber. He received a Tony nomination for Best Score. Other works include Liza at the Palace, Hercules, and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s new adaptation of Cinderella. Zippel has also worked as a conceiver/director on many theatre projects including Princesses, The Best Is Yet to Come, and The Importance of Being Earnest. Zippel has also written lyrics for the film The Swan Princess, Hercules (which received an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Song), and Mulan. He has collaborated with Alan Menken on his Disney projects as well as Captain America: The First Avenger. Over the course of his career, Zippel has been nominated for three Golden Globes, a Grammy, and two Academy Awards.

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Special Thanks

As the saying goes, “It takes a village.” I couldn’t have completed this book without the following people: First, to Erica Stevens Abbitt, Jackson Bryer, Gigi Gibson Bolt, Peter Ellenstein, Austin Pendleton, Peter Filichia, and Alan Safier for putting me in touch with some of the extraordinary people I interviewed for this book. And to the playwrights, lyricists, librettists, and critics who gave their time so generously and who shared so much about their craft. I was walking on air after each and every interview. To Marco Gomez from L.A. Stage Alliance and my former student, Teresa Howick, for their unselfishness in letting me use their materials. To my husband, Don Hill, and my good friend, Brian Rohan, for continually reminding me I could do this. Paul Kennedy, your photograph from the original production of The Last Lifeboat is one I will always treasure. I’m so grateful to have it on the cover. My dear friend Sue Terry came out of retirement to help me with the clearances and permissions. How special is that? To Connor Smith, and Jaye Florence Jones for their help with proofreading, the bibliography, and for catching all the little details I somehow missed. To my publisher, Mark Dudgeon and his assistant, Ella Wilson, for their expert guidance and faith in me. Most of all, a special, heartfelt, expression of gratitude to my editor, Jim Volz, for his constant support, loving enthusiasm and for shepherding me through my first textbook. You are all amazing and I cannot thank you enough. * * * The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge the permission granted to reproduce the copyrighted material in this book. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. However, if any have been

Special Thanks

inadvertently overlooked, the publishers will be pleased, if notified of any omissions, to make the necessary arrangement at the first opportunity. The third-party copyrighted material displayed in the pages of this book are done so on the basis of “fair dealing for the purposes of criticism and review” or “fair use for the purposes of teaching, criticism, scholarship, or research” only in accordance with international copyright laws and are not intended to infringe upon the ownership rights of the original owners.

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About the Author

Photo credit: David England Photography

Luke Yankee (yes, it’s his real name) is a critically acclaimed author, playwright, director, and producer. His memoir, Just Outside the Spotlight: Growing up with Eileen Heckart, has been called “One of the most compassionate, illuminating showbiz books ever written” and was named “One of the Ten Best Celebrity Memoirs of All Time” (Michael Musto, Village Voice and PaperMag). It is published by Random House with a foreword by Mary Tyler Moore. His play The Last Lifeboat is published by Dramatists Play Service and has received more than fifty-five productions in the United States and Canada. Other plays include Marilyn, Mom & Me, The Man Who Killed the Cure, Confessions of a Star Maker, The Jesus Hickey, and A Place at Forest Lawn. His television specs and pilots have all won or have been finalists in major contests, including Sundance, Warner Bros. TV Writers’ Workshop, and Scriptapalooza. His screenplay version of The Last Lifeboat was one of ten scripts chosen internationally for the DreamAgo Screenwriting Workshop in the Swiss Alps. As a professional director and producer, Mr. Yankee has worked on- and Off-Broadway at

About the Author

venues ranging from Radio City Music Hall to the MS Crystal Symphony, assistant directed six Broadway shows, and has served as the artistic director of two regional theatres. He is the head of playwriting at California State University, Fullerton, where he also teaches classes in script analysis and theatre criticism. In addition, he teaches playwriting and musical theatre performance at Chapman University and has taught writing and acting workshops all over the United States and abroad. www​.lukeyankee​.com

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Index

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)  19 acknowledgement, specialness of opening night  166–7 actions  44, 53–6, 73 Adler, Stella  4 All My Sons (Miller)  50 Angels in America (Kushner)  18 antagonists  13–15 examples of  13–14 function of  14–15 nonhuman  15 villains  15 Antigone (Sophocles)  13–14 Aristotle  10 catharsis  30–1 on character  28–30 on plot  28–30 Poetics  27–39 As You Like It (Shakespeare)  31–2 Atkinson, Brooks  136 audiences  54 climax for  23–4 cueing  44–5 exposition for  21 foils to help  16 Backwards and Forwards (Ball)  10, 61 Baldwin, James  134 Ball, David  10, 61 Balm in Gilead (Wilson)  11 Beauty Queen of Leenane, The (McDonagh)  46 behavior  68, 73 Berghof, Herbert  51 biography for show program  160–2 major stage credits  161

personal life  161–2 recent roles and strongest credits  161 training  161 blogs, theatre  153 Boal, Augusto  113 Bock, Jerry  126, 130–1 The Body Beautiful (Bock and Harnick)  126 Bond, James  11 Brantley, Ben  88, 107 advice for new writers  143 biography of  179 on critics and theatre criticism  135–6 on theatre  145 on the writer’s process  119 brass tacks  2, 151–68 Bryan, David  128 Busch, Charles  106 advice for new writers  142 biography of  179 on what to write about  110–11 on “what you love about theatre”  147 on the writer’s process  121 Canby, Vincent  135–6 catharsis  30–1 characters  28–30, 48–9 Chase, Elyot  85 Chekhov, Anton  54 Christie, Agatha  63 circumstances of scene/play  51–2 climax  23–4 collaboration  51 conflicts in plot  17–19 exposition  20

Index importance of  20 man versus fate  19 man versus machine  19 man versus man  17 man versus nature  18 man versus self  18 man versus society  19 Corthron, Kia  107 biography of  179–80 on taking advice on script  125 on what to write about  113 cover letters  154–63 Coward, Nöel  85, 87 Crimes of the Heart (Henley)  66 critique/criticism writing for play  2, 77–100 analysis  82 avoid peppering  80 body of paper  81 Brantley, Ben on  135–6 as entertainment  87–8 criteria for  91–100 acting  92 choreography  97 costume design  94–5 direction  92–3 ensemble acting  98–9 hair and makeup design  96 language  100 lighting design  95 musical direction  97–8 overall design  96 playwriting  93–4 projection design  99 scenic design  94 sound design  95–6 special effects  100 feelings  88–90 Filichia, Peter on  137 Gardner, Lyn on  136, 138–40 Hunter, Samuel D. on  137–8 introduction of  80–1 Lindsay-Abaire, David on  138

other forms  100 other important points  82–4 sample  85–7 statement/summary  81 summary and conclusion  82 when to keep it to yourself  90–1 “why” of  2, 77–80 Crucible, The (Miller)  50 Cyrano De Bergerac (Rostand)  10 Dahl, Roald  65 Death of a Salesman (Miller)  18, 50 De Bergerac, Cyrano  11, 14 denouement in drama  25–7 Deus Ex Machina  31–2, 34–5 dialogue  45–6 realistic writing  47–8 DiPietro, Joe biography of  180 on collaboration  128 on theatre  147–8 on what to write about  112–13 on writing musicals  131–2 dramatic action  54–6 dramatic arc of story; see Freytag’s pyramid dramatic irony  64–6 dramatic tension  61–6 of mystery  63–4 of relationships  62 of surprise  63 of task  62–3 DuBois, Blanche  14, 46, 105 elements of playwriting  43–54 actions  44, 53 audience cueing  44–5 characters  48–9 collaboration  51 dialogue  45–6 given circumstances of scene  51–2 personality profiles  52–3 realistic dialogue writing  47–8

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Index rhythm  46–7 specificity  53–4 tone of scene  47 emotions  30–1 Enneagram  52–3 exposition  20–1, 61 significance of  56–7 in ten-minute plays  71–2 falling action in drama  24–5 “Feck”  46 Fiddler on the Roof (Bock and Harnick)  126, 128 Filichia, Peter  89, 106 biography of  180–1 on critics and theatre criticism  137 on readings and play development  123–4 on “what you love about theatre”  146 foils in plays  15–16 examples of  16 Footloose (Snow and Pitchford)  19 formatting  73–5 one-person show  74 playwriting  58 ten-minute play  73 writing is rewriting  74–5 Frankenstein (Shelley)  19 Freytag, Gustav  20–7, 40 Freytag’s Pyramid  20–7 climax  23–4 denouement  25–7 exposition  20–1 falling action  24–5 inciting incident  21 resolution  25 rising action  21–3 example of  22–3 significance of  22 Fugard, Athol  46 Gardner, Lyn  88 biography of  181

on critics and theatre criticism  136, 138–40 on “what you love about theatre”  147 Gillis, Gwen  160 Glass, Philip  118 Glengarry Glen Ross (Mamet)  46 gratitude letter  167–8 Guindi, Yussef El  134 Guirgis, Stephen Adly  108 advice for new writers  140 biography of  181–2 on what to write about  109 on the writer as “the outsider looking in”  134–5 Hagen, Uta  52 hamartia  28–9 Hamlet (Shakespeare)  13, 16, 18, 24, 29–31, 139 Hamlet, Prince  11 Hansberry, Lorraine  134 Harnick, Sheldon  108 advice for new writers  143–4 biography of  182 on collaboration  130–1 on readings and play development  122–3 on taking advice on script  126 on writer’s process  117 on writing musicals  132 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets  32 Heckart, Eileen  49–50 Henderson, Mark  85 Henley, Beth  47, 66, 105 biography of  182–3 on readings and play development  123 on taking advice on script  126 on what to write about  109 on writer’s process  119 Henry V (Shakespeare)  9–10, 40 Hitchcock, Alfred  64–5

Index House by the Side of the Road, A (Williams)  73 Howick, Teresa  85–7 hubris  29 Hunter, Samuel D.  106 advice for new writers  141 biography of  183 on critics and theatre criticism  137–8 on structure  115–16 on what to write about  111 on “what you love about theatre”  146–7 on writer’s process  118 Hwang, David Henry advice for new writers  141, 143 biography of  183–4 on taking advice on script  125 on what to write about  111 on writer’s process  120 Ibsen, Henrik  27 I Love Lucy  19 I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change (DiPietro)  90, 137 Importance of Being Earnest, The (Wilde)  26, 86 Inge, William  19 internet  88 interviews  2, 103–48 Brantley, Ben  107, 119, 135–6, 143, 145 Busch, Charles  106, 110–11, 121, 142, 147 Corthron, Kia  107, 113, 125 DiPietro, Joe  112–13, 128, 131–2, 147–8 Filichia, Peter  106, 123–4, 137, 146 Gardner, Lyn  136, 138–40, 147 Guirgis, Stephen Adly  108–9, 134–5, 140 Harnick, Sheldon  108, 117, 122–3, 126, 130–2, 143–4

Henley, Beth  105, 109, 119, 123, 126 Hunter, Samuel D.  106, 111, 115– 16, 118, 137–8, 141, 146–7 Hwang, David Henry  111, 120, 125, 141, 143 Khalidi, Ismail  116–17, 127, 142 Lindsay-Abaire, David  109–10, 115, 121–2, 131–4, 138, 144 Margulies, Donald  107–9, 114, 117, 120–1, 124, 129–30, 135, 140–1, 146 Norman, Marsha  113, 115, 118, 122, 124, 126–8, 133–4, 142–3 Solis, Octavio  112, 116, 118, 129, 145–6 Wallace, Naomi  112, 114–15, 120, 123, 134, 144 Zippel, David  105, 126–7, 133 Intimate Apparel (Nottage)  16, 22 Into the Woods (Sondheim and Lapine)  18 Jovi, Bon  128 Kennedy, Adrienne  134 Kent, Jonathan  85 Kerr, Walter  89, 137 Khalidi, Ismail advice for new writers  142 biography of  184 on collaboration  127 on structure  116–17 King, Stephen  63 Kinky Boots (Lauper and Fierstein)  19 KISS (“Keep it simple, stupid”)  67 Kushner, Tony  18 Lapine, James  18 Last Lifeboat, The (Yankee)  34–7, 57–8, 67 Lear, King  18 Lindsay-Abaire, David advice for new writers  144

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Index biography of  184–5 on collaboration  131 on critics and theatre criticism  138 on structure  115 on what to write about  109–10 on the writer as “the outsider looking in”  134 on the writer’s process  121–2 on writing musicals  132–3 living room readings  163–4 logline writing  156–7 Lohman, Linda  31 Macbeth (Shakespeare)  12 McDonagh, Martin  46 MacDonald, Katherine  57 Mamet, David  46 Man Who Killed the Cure, The (Yankee)  5–6 map of relationships  165–6 Margulies, Donald  107–9 advice for new writers  140–1 biography of  185 on collaboration  129–30 on readings and play development  124 on structure  117 on what to write about  114 on “what you love about theatre”  146 on writers as “the outsider looking in”  135 on the writer’s process  120–1 Miller, Arthur  18, 49–51 Miranda, Lin-Manuel  171 “A Moment of Clarity” (Williams)  73 Moncrieff, Algernon  85 mood of scene; see tone of scene Myers-Briggs  52 narratives  9–10 ‘Night, Mother (Norman)  44–5

nonhuman antagonists  15 Norman, Marsha  44–5, 47, 72 advice for new writers  142–3 biography of  185–6 on collaboration  127–8 on readings and play development  122, 124 on structure  115 on taking advice on script  126 on what to write about  113 on the writer’s process  118 on writing musicals  133–4 Nottage, Lynn  16, 22 Oedipus the King (Sophocles)  13, 15, 19, 29–30, 63, 65, 91 Oleanna (Mamet)  46 O’Neill, Eugene  18, 114 one-person shows  74 Othello (Shakespeare)  14, 17 Our Town (Wilder)  11 personality profiles  52–3 Picnic (Inge)  19 Picture of Dorian Gray, The (Wilde)  13 playwrights, submission opportunities for  154 playwriting  2, 43–75 acts/scenes/intermissions  58 behavior in  68 dramatic action  54–6 for all spaces  55–6 showing versus telling  54–5 start quickly  55 dramatic irony in  64–6 dramatic tension in  61–6 elements of  43–54 actions  44, 53 audience cueing  44–5 characters  48–9 collaboration  51 dialogue  45–6

Index given circumstances of scene  51–2 personality profiles  52–3 realistic dialogue writing  47–8 rhythm  46–7 specificity  53–4 tone of scene  47 exposition, significance of  56–7 formatting  58 mechanics of  58–68 other play formats  73–5 resume  157–60 script layout  58–61 settings  66–7 special effects  66–7 stage directions  67 start of  68–70 subtext  68 for ten-minute plays  70–3 title test  57 plot  10, 17–19 and character  28–30 conflicts in  17–19 exposition  20 importance of  20 man versus fate  19 man versus machine  19 man versus man  17 man versus nature  18 man versus self  18 man versus society  19 master  17 status quo, disruption in  19 Poetics (Aristotle)  27–39, 46, 116–17 catharsis  30–1 character  28–30 Deus Ex Machina  31–2, 34–5 plot  28–30 Private Lives (Coward)  85, 87 protagonists  11–13 identification  12 misconceptions about  11–12

qualities of  12 true  12 Pulp Fiction (1994)  157 Real Thing, The (Stoppard)  68, 104 Rear Window (1954)  157 relationships, map of  165–6 resolution  25 resume, playwriting  157–60 rhythm  46–7 rising action in drama  21–3 example of  22–3 significance of  22 Ritt, Martin  50 Roberge, Rob  57 Rodriguez, Ellen  89 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare)  22, 25–6, 39–40 Rostand, Edmond  10 script analysis  2–40 antagonist  13–15 Aristotle’s Poetics  27–39 conflict in drama, importance of  20 foil  15–16 Freytag’s Pyramid  20–7 narratives  9–10 need for  2–9 plot  10, 17–19 protagonists  11–13 status quo, disruption in  19 terms and definitions  9–20 script interpretation  4 Shakespeare, William  12–14, 64 “Show, don’t tell,” meaning of  54–6 Shrek: The Musical (Tesori and LindsayAbaire)   131 showing versus telling  54–5 Simon, John  88–9 sketches  70–1 “slice of life” play  73 Solis, Octavio biography of  186–7

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Index on collaboration  129 on structure  116 on what to write about  112 on the writer’s process  118 on “what you love about theatre”  145–6 Something Rotten! (Karey and Wayne Kirkpatrick)  19 Sondheim, Stephen  18, 69, 108 special effects  66–7 specificity  53–4 stage directions  67 Stanislavski, Konstantin  47 status quo, disruption in  19 Stein, Howard  107 Stephens, Simon  139 Stephens, Toby  85 Stoppard, Tom  68, 104 Streetcar Named Desire, A (Williams)  14, 16, 46 submission opportunities for playwrights  154 subtext  68 Sullivan, Dan  129–30 suspense versus surprise  64–5 synopsis writing  155–6 Tempest, The (Shakespeare)  18 ten-minute play  70–3 action  73 ask questions in  71 behavior  73 character development  71 conflict  71–2 creative  72 exposition, limit of  71–2 extraneous details, cut out  72 formatting  73 “A Moment of Clarity” (Williams)  73 risks taking  72 sketches  70–1 “slice of life” play  73

timing of  70 The Terminator series  19 Tesori, Jeanine  131 theatre, writing for  1 antagonist in  13–15 biography for show program  160–2 blogs  153 for collaboration  51 cover letters  154–63 criticism  2, 77–100 interviews  2, 103–48 logline  156–7 playwriting  2, 43–75 practical tools  2, 151–68 protagonists in  11–13 read/see/hear  152–3 resume, playwriting  157–9 sample writing  162–3 script analysis  2–40 synopsis  155–6 Theatre of the Oppressed (Boal)  113 Theatre Services Guide  154 title test  57 Tolstoy, Leo  17 tone of scene  47 Toy Story (1995)  157 tragedy  28–30 Two Block Rule  91 Tynan, Kenneth  136 View from the Bridge, A (Miller)  49–50 villains  15 virtual presentations  164–5 Visit, The (Dürrenmatt)  19 von Goethe, Johann Wolfgang  79 Wallace, Naomi advice for new writers  144 biography of  187 on readings and play development  123 on structure  114–15

Index on what to write about  112 on the writer as “the outsider looking in”  134 on the writer’s process  120 Ward, Anthony  85 Wilde, Oscar  13, 26–7 Wilder, Thornton  11 Williams, Philip Middleton  73 Williams, Tennessee  46, 105 Wilson, August  134 Wilson, Lanford  11 Wright, Craig  79

Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, The  154 Writer’s Market  154 writing  74–5 “Writing is rewriting”  74–5 writing samples  162–3 Zippel, David  105 biography of  187 on collaboration  126–7 on writing musicals  133 Zoom, online platform  164–5

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