shakespearemom

Unlike many other writers I know, I simply love rules. Nothing sparks my creativity more than dealing with limitations placed upon what I’m doing. For instance, I’ve written several times for a 24-hour play festival. It is chock full of limitations. Here’s the deal:

Six directors, six playwrights, a ton of actors and many techies show up at 8 p.m. on a Friday night. Each one brings one costume and one prop, and each one gets onstage and introduces himself/herself, explains the costume and prop, and the actors tell us if they have any special talents, like speaking a foreign language, accents, screaming abilities, etc. Once everyone has gone onstage, the actors, directors, and techies go home to sleep as much as they can. And that is when the writers get to work (that’s me). They “cast” their plays with actors first using a draft system (we are ordered in rank, and we take turns picking from the pool of actors until the entire group is cast). And then we have from about midnight to 6 a.m. to write a play using those actors.

What’s cool about it is that I have no idea until my cast is cast what I can even write…and I’ve found, in both instances I participated, that the cast inspired me. I knew many of the actors, knew what they were capable of, or knew their talent based upon what they said. Plus, I had to incorporate many of the props and costumes everyone brought (in fact, sometimes every play used a certain prop, and we had to grab it from show to show during performance).

Once the writers finish their script, they get to go home to bed (and sleep all day). In the meantime, the six scripts are copied, and the directors meet at 7 a.m. to read all the plays, ranking them by preference (during one 24-hour play festival, I found out that 5 of 6 directors ranked mine first!). They are usually matched with one of their preferred plays, and the actors return at 8 a.m. to find out what play they are in and begin rehearsing. They (the directors, actors, and techies) have until 8 p.m. that night to memorize lines and blocking, find costumes, and practice so they can perform for a live audience exactly 24 hours from the time they began work on all of this.

It’s a marathon, believe me, but it has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. I only wish I knew of one here in Seattle, one I could get involved with it.

Funny, though, I’ve heard the only plays that go significantly astray (that suck, as some have said) are the ones which were already formulated before the playwrights came the first night. Afraid they’ll come up with nothing because they only have a few hours, they come with a fixed plan for their play, and then they look only for elements which fit into the established plan. What results (I have been told) is a stale play which doesn’t take advantage of any actor’s idiosyncracies, that uses none of the prop ideas, that is bland.

Yet, if the writer had allowed the elements to inspire him, instead of limiting himself by sticking to an established idea, he could have come up with something brilliant.

I discovered, through this exercise, that working with outside limits (rhyme schemes, etc.) is far easier than working under limitations within, limitations which we impose upon ourselves because we feel incapable of doing something brilliant in a pinch.

I know which ones I prefer. Which limitations would you rather have?

When I earned my doctorate–when all the work was over and I could finally announce to everybody that I was done–a lot of colleagues congratulated me, with cards, happy e-mails, etc. But one e-mail in particular has stuck with me all these years. A fellow teacher congratulated me, but then, on a separate line at the end, he told me to “Use it well.”

As a Harry Potter fan, I couldn’t help linking that line to the first book, when Harry is given his father’s invisibility cloak as a gift, for he is told the same thing: “Use it well.” And that is exactly what Harry does, using it to find out the truth in various books.

Over the last few days, the phrase has returned to me, running through my head, especially as I watch all the political stuff going on in Washington–as well as the presidential debate, etc. And I look at the two presidential candidates, and all I can wonder is why anyone would try so hard for such a tough job. Yet I also find myself aching to send a letter to both of them, telling them that, whatever their strengths, I hope they “use them well” to solve this country’s significant problems.

Where is all this going? Back to myself, of course (when do I not talk about myself, eventually?). It’s no good to feel as if I have talents, and it’s useless to take any pride in them, if I don’t USE them well. Playing piano is AWESOME (I’ve been playing obsessively, lately, too), but having the church to play for, every Sunday, motivates me in ways I never imagined. I find myself practicing and practicing, knowing that my work on it will likely have a significant effect on the service.

Writing is the same. I’m not writing for my own glory, or for money, or out of pride. I want my skills to improve, not so I can feel superior, but so I can make a difference through my writing. My aunt Leilali read my first novel, and her comments are the ones that keep me motivated: she told me reading my novel changed her life. Really, that’s what she said. And I realized that this effect is precisely what I write for. I don’t want to just make a vacuous story that provides entertainment but nothing substantive. I want to change lives.

I’ll never be the president. I have neither the intelligence for such a job nor the capacity to handle such pressure. But I can use the talents I’ve been given for something real, and I can make a difference. I use them every day to help my children grow and learn and reach for their own life-changing potential. As my kids figure out what they have within themselves, I hope they learn to do what I am striving for right now: I hope they take each talent and “use it well.”

Disclaimer first: Do I know whether astrology has any true validity? Nope. But if my horoscope says to work hard towards my dreams, to avoid fights with relatives, or spend the day setting goals for myself, that’s all good advice, and the idea that when I was born might have some bearing on the kind of person I am is fascinating, even if it’s entirely bogus.

Then again, I am a Pisces, and I could not fit the description much better than I do. According to one website about basic astrology, my traits are as follows:

Very sensitive emotional and feeling, compassionate, intuitive, spiritual, adaptable, kind, helpful, sympathetic, very imaginative, artistic, creative, comforting and dreamer.

Moody, shy, depressive, very dependent, too passive, confused and delusional.

The only descriptors that don’t work for me are the “depressive” (though I do go through bouts), “confused” and “delusional”…although I doubt that I would know that I was delusional. The entire definition of that word assumes that I would be ignorant of my delusions if I had them, or they wouldn’t be delusions, would they?

I’ve known a few other Pisceans in my time, too, and I can’t say I knew one I didn’t get along with rather well. In fact, in one academic department, I was one of FOUR Pisceans, and we even kept our offices the same way, darkened (we all hated the overhead lighting–too bright) with one or two dim lamps. The rest of the department said we liked to live in “caves.”

Then again, as I scan through the descriptions of other signs, I find many that also describe me. Like Taurus, I’m extremely stubborn and economical; like Aquarius, I’m energetic and active; like Virgo, I’m overworked; and I share almost all of Cancer’s qualities.

And my husband, who’s close to the cusp between Gemini and Cancer, is far more Cancer than Gemini…Gemini traits are in the persona he puts on for his public life. My daughter is NOTHING like a Sagittarius…but she was induced a week early, putting her right at the end of that sign…does that make her really a Capricorn? But she’s about as “cold and calculating” and “materialistic” as I am…

Perhaps astrology, like self-test quizzes in magazines, is just one more way we try to figure out who we are. Saying my sign is Pisces validates the part of me that wants to consider myself creative…and if I were a Capricorn, I wouldn’t have that label, and my resolve to keep writing–to label myself an “artist”–might falter.

Of course, if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you could probably label me “neurotic.” And you’d be right, even without my sign to justify your label.

Then again, I don’t know that I’ve ever met a writer who wasn’t neurotic… or a person, for that matter. Perhaps that descriptor could be put under each sign, and be still be accurate.

A friend of mine just finished her degree, and her approach to each class was interesting, if not downright inspiring. No matter what the class was–whether webpage construction, photography, or children’s literature–she treated it like an adventure, a new, exciting set of skills to learn, a new chance to explore her world in a different way.

I have to remind myself to do the same. I easily do this with writing: a new novel or play gives me the chance to explore an idea I’ve been thinking about or to do research on something I’ve always had an interest in. Each character is another chance to explore what kind of person is being created–how they came to be what they are, and how that affects those around them and their own sense of happiness or purpose. Writing allows me to return to places I’ve been, to explore experiences I have had from a distance, rethinking them to discover their complexity.

But the truth is, the rest of my life is just as ripe with opportunity. Raising my own children gives me the chance to go back to my own childhood–honestly, it’s nice to have a good excuse to see cartoons, since I adore them–but my kids also help me explore what my own parents did, and the effect their words or actions had on me. Each day of parenting is a chance to know myself and my kids a little bit more, and watching them develop is in many ways far more fascinating than watching my characters develop (especially since I have more control over my characters).

Of course, I haven’t found a way to make dishes exciting.

But give me little time…I might discover something.

I told myself, this year, I would never do this…once I dropped my son off at preschool, I would ALWAYS use those precious two hours to write. I told myself I wouldn’t let laundry get in the way, I wouldn’t let school work get in the way. At least those three days per week, I would take the time to write, forgetting everything else.

Yet last week, I only kept my promise once. And I have a syllabus that must be finished by tomorrow (the class I teach starts tomorrow evening), and I still have nearly two chapters to read. So, what will I choose? Will I write anyway, and just hope I get the 100 pages of textbook read this afternoon so that I can spend all of tomorrow putting the class together? Or do I, yet again, put off my writing for the have-tos?

Now, you may be thinking, “How irresponsible. She needs to get that class done first.” But what you might not realize (but I do from experience) is that habits form quickly. If I put it off today for the syllabus, on Wednesday it will be something else, on Friday something else. And suddenly a month will have blown by, and I haven’t used that time at all.

I know one thing I need to do: I need to get out of this blog and start back into my textbook! Maybe if I can finish the first chapter I can work on my novel without guilt (and restart a GOOD habit of writing every single day).

Happy writing!

I created a new category this morning, primarily because I find myself drawn more and more to discussing theatre. I am currently working on a novel, yes, but my plays are calling me (a common occurrence). Theatre, in general, is more on the cutting edge of literary movement than most other genres. Its edge or newness is often not too marketable, but that matters less than it would for films, for instance, which are pretty much all about marketability to a general audience (Indy films being the exception).

And yet my love of theatre stems not from its edge, but from its other qualities, namely its limitations. In a film, one can do almost anything. One can add special effects, sounds, and music; one can film almost anywhere, even in unsafe places, as long as one has permission. A film can cast hundreds of actors (war scenes, etc.), and directors can set up scenes in every possible way, rehearsing and doing take after take to get the scenes perfect (one would think there would be fewer mistakes doing it this way, although that has not been my observation).

With theatre, limitations are the norm. Very few plays are given the budget for spectacular sets (think Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera). Most theatres can handle perhaps three separate spaces, and designing a fixed set within those bounds is very difficult for a tech director. Thus, ideally, a playwright needs to put all the action in 1-2 spaces (one is best). And having only one set limits the action extraordinarily. Cast numbers are severely restricted, as well. And all of the action happens live…mistakes are mistakes, and forgotten lines, costume malfunctions, set problems, etc. are noticed by many.

With all these limitations, one might wonder why I’d prefer theatre. Sure, films are more expensive, yet they can DO so much more, right?

Not so. It’s the very nature of theatre that I love, as an actor, a playwright, and an audience member. I know that anything can happen, and when it does, I am right there. I am not acting to a camera lens, but to live people, who are watching every move, listening to every word, and reacting to everything immediately. The only thing that beats the thrill of acting in front of audiences is watching one’s own words acted on a stage, seeing what one has written spark reactions, laughter, tears, gasps. And I adore the limitations. It’s like writing a sonnet instead of free verse–the structure forces one to think harder, to fit things in so they can work onstage.

I guess I need to stop writing this blog and go write for real (though this is real writing, too). The call back to my plays is stronger than I thought. I need to get this novel done so I can get back to my plays!

I am amazed at what people expect from marriage. Now, since I’ve only been in one marriage, I can’t claim experience, but I do have 15 years of it, so bear with me. I was reading an article on MSN about what the author termed the “Mid-Wife Crisis,” where supposedly women in marriage past the first few years were all languishing around, finding their husbands completely unacceptable as life partners–in other words, “dreaming of divorce,” as she put it–but they didn’t choose divorce because they didn’t know how that would go financially (would I be able to live at the same level without his salary?)…

In other words, most women wanted a divorce (men are pigs, after all), and the only thing that keeps them from taking the plunge is a reluctance to give up their huge walk-in closets stuffed with 10,000 pairs of shoes in their McMansions.

Do I sound bitter? Maybe that’s because I am. Right now I am taking care of much of my house, doing most of the cleaning, laundry, kid rearing, etc. HOWEVER, my husband is going to a job every day to make nearly ALL the money we live off of. Yes, I do most of the shopping, but I have the money to shop because of him. Yet my husband isn’t my “sugar daddy,” and I am not his kept woman. Even though our roles are VERY different right now, we are partners, taking care of both sides of our world in relative isolation.

Now, it would be great if this is not the way it had to be. I would love it if we could both work 20 hours per week and still get his fabulous salary. But adjunct teaching, even in the relatively great state of Washington, doesn’t pay much at all. In some places, I’ve earned 1/10 of what a full-time professor earned to teach the EXACT same class (okay, perhaps my class was a little better). So there is no way for me to teach a 1/2 time load and earn half of what my husband does.

Yet, according to this author, I am supposed to feel angry that he’s not pulling more weight at home. I am “naturally,” though secretly, wanting out.

And it simply isn’t true. And I resent (if you haven’t figured it out by now) the idea that if I’m unhappy, I need to be looking at him to solve that problem. I’ve heard the rant: If only he put his clothes in the hamper, if only he mowed the lawn more often, if only he watched less football, if only he cooked dinner more often, if only he commented on what I wear when he sees me, if only…if only…if only…

The problem is, if I’m not happy, I won’t be happy, no matter what he does. It’s up to me to make myself happy. Not him. And if I’m not happy, I need to figure out what’s wrong, do specific things to help myself, and get happy.

And if I can’t get happy, perhaps I need to get therapy.

(Thank God I’m happy.)

When I directed plays (I’ve only directed a very few), I did my best to emphasize energy with actors. By the time performances came around, their lines weren’t the problem (and with some actors, lines could definitely be a problem). Blocking (the actions/movement of actors) was no longer the problem. It was something inherent in the nature of rehearsal: once actors had gone over the same thing again and again, they lost their sense of immediacy. They simply didn’t feel what was going on anymore. And if they didn’t feel it, the audience wouldn’t either.

I’ve seen this in a few performances recently. I was watching a live production of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, and much of the plot revolves around a man named Claudio, who is sentenced to death because he and his fiance consummated their union too early (hopefully you follow). This event causes much of the rest of the action, yet I was astonished by how little the actors seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. Even the actor playing his sister seemed uncommitted to the idea, joking about his being executed, but not really taking the idea seriously. Only Claudio himself seemed to find his situation real.

What does this have to do with writing, you might ask? My answer? EVERYTHING.

Enthusiasm, the word I gave my actors, didn’t mean they were to turn into cheerleaders or sorority sisters, gleefully saying all their lines. It meant they would throw themselves into their parts as if those parts were real. Why? Because the audience would know it if they didn’t. The audience would not commit to the action because the actors hadn’t.

And the same goes with writing. If you don’t believe what is going on–if you aren’t committed to seeing what your characters are doing, if you find the events or characters dull or uninteresting, if you don’t see them as real, they won’t be real to the readers. If the characters don’t commit to their action, to each other, readers will sense that.

Is one character not compelling to you? Is the action not compelling for you? Then DO something about it. When you reread your own work, it should draw you in enthusiastically EVERY time…or it won’t draw in anyone else.

“Inch by inch, everything’s a cinch. Yard by yard, everything is hard.”

I remembered this quote as I was reading through a textbook for class (for clarification, I’m teaching the course, and I don’t ever assign students to read something I haven’t). The text book is a good one, but I have never found reading textbooks as interesting as reading fiction. Thus, even though it’s a good textbook, it’s hard to read.

I have a pattern for reading works like this, though. I set up a game online, something that has lots of levels, but with each level only lasting a short time. And my deal with myself is that I have to read a section of the chapter before I can do a level. Then a new section, a level, a section, a level, etc. You see, if I had to read the entire 30-page chapter all at once, it would take me forever. Reading it section by section, it takes half an hour, 45 minutes tops. I read through four chapters yesterday, without even trying that hard.

Doing this made me think of chapters I’d read of novels, though, chapters that seemed to go on and on. With some books (usually books I am forced to read for one reason or another) I actually figure out how many pages the chapter has, and count down as I go. But that is not ideal. If I am truly enjoying fiction, the pages fly away, and I am as aware of how much I’ve read as I would be of a tremendously fabulous 4-hour movie (and believe me, there are fabulous long movies out there).

And what do I want my own writing to be? Gripping. I want people to stay up late at night to finish it, to tell me they couldn’t put it down. I don’t want to hear stories of how they managed to finish it by making themself some sort of deal (one level, one chapter). That would tell me, PLAINLY, that I wasn’t doing this writing stuff right.

You see, in the real world (not my own obsessive reading world), people don’t force themselves to read fiction. If the chapter is boring, or goes too long, they stop reading. They shut the book, vow never to try that author again, and take it back the library. And that’s the end of it.

That’s not the ending I’m looking for, believe me.

Okay, so I was wrong. I admit that. About a week ago (perhaps less), I said I just couldn’t send my novel out anymore. I said it needed more revision. I said it wasn’t ready. I said I was too crushed by the rejections stacking up to take anymore of them for a while.

Several of you offered words of encouragement, urging me to write what I loved rather than making something simply “marketable.” And I appreciated the encouragement, and knew I was remaining true to myself by not just writing something to publish it, instead trying to write something truly worth reading.

I said I was going to write, write, write, and then revise, revise, revise. But I wasn’t going to send my novel out again for a while.

I lied.

I sent out my novel to two places yesterday…without stress, without any weird heavy breathing, without that catch in my throat that usually accompanies sending something out. I just sent it, patted myself on the back, and went back to my writing. You see, I read through the first five chapters of my Thomas novel (that’s what I call it to ID it to my friends and family, since it’s all about this boy named Thomas)…and as I reread it, with the intention of revising, I realized, even though I hadn’t read it in months, that it was really good. I genuinely found myself caught up in the action and characters, in the drama of it. So, instead of tearing out pieces of it, I left it just as it was, and I sent it off to two places.

And I feel such a sense of release, as if I had something twisting around inside myself, and when I opened up to let it out, it flew into the sky, a white dove with silver-tipped wings.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that poetic–or beautiful–but it was still pretty awesome. Maybe I’ll send it out some more, just to see what happens.