I started out at this craft more interested in the "write" I perceived in the job than the "wright". I'm learning that you have to be a playwright first, and a writer second. If a poet is a painter, and a prose writer is a sculptor, then a dramatist makes tables and chairs. Chris Herold down in the beautiful San Francisco Bay, who is the instructor that inspired me to dream the theatrical dream, calls a play a "structure of logic". It's built. And that means to make it stand you have to follow the logic. If you don't your legs collapse or your table looks like a wooden duck. In some ways this is comforting. You learn your geometry and the thing stays together. But it's a problem of material. When I sit down to write I have to fashion my play out of people's interactions. You won't find any angles or lines that are easily balanced with that stuff. So it's a matter of honing these observations down into blueprints that you can work from. Tonight I realized that becoming a playwright means constructing illogical objects and then infering the blueprints. Then you start to edit them. Then you make progress.
Why do ideas look like tripe one day and potential a few later? I've heard it stated that ideas come from the outside. That nothing is ever generated internally. I think that's inaccurate. Maybe they start with an observation. But that's not an idea. That's an image filed away in your brain. It's that point when that image decides to break out and run amok in your head that an idea is born. And hence you approve of them one instant--just as you compliment yourself on the state of your hair--and then you criticize them to all hell. That's a strategy to remember: keep what you put down, because there will be a day when you fall in love with it. That or you definitively acknowledge that it's shit. I was reading some of my monologues today. Here's one:
G: So do you drink gin? I always drink gin. Gets out the moisture. Don’t you feel too moist sometimes? I look in the mirror, at my runny, drooping eyes and I think I could use a martini. There is no better cure for the wet moments of life than an olive swimming in liquor. It’s like my head, bobbing there all green and listless. It’s done. Done with the struggles. Done with photosynthesis. It’s just floating. And the ocean is dry. It’s dirty. Icebergs drifting by. They don’t hurt. They don’t bring my olive down. I mean don’t you agree? Aren’t we too full of water? That’s all we’re made of. So much to cry out. I would like to stop crying. I would like to sit in a pool and be dry. That’s why I like you. I can see the cracks on your skin. I feel that you’re a desert. You’re