The Valley of the Shadow of Arts Death

I couldn’t help but notice. One of the items jotted down on my 2013 to-do list reads, “Stop applying for things out of your league.” A glance through my submissions calendar finds this language again in an entry that reads, “Notes: [do not apply]. Probably outta my league.” When I wrote these directives down, I wasn’t giving them much thought beyond “don’t waste time,” but as I look at it again through fresh eyes, I’m stunned by my choice of words. Out of your league.

My league. My league. What is, exactly, my “league”?

…And that’s where I’m going to leave it. This post was six paragraphs long, a valiant attempt to determine my league or lack thereof by ruminating on self-awareness versus self-destruction, competition, barriers-to-entry, clever Tweets I’ve seen, disheartening Tweets I’ve seen, this year’s flood of script rejections, my handicaps of non-man/non-MFA/non-NY, and a plucky pledge to rise above and keep working no matter what.

It all made sense, and aimed to be reassuring and positive, but I’ve reached a breaking point of tolerance for both my own crap and the crap of others. I don’t want to have to talk myself out of negativity anymore. I just want to be in that place. I’m tired of the amount of envious energy I pay to others, and the lack of respect I give to myself. It’s exhausting.    

I’m not a rookie. I’m not a playa.

There are no leagues. I’m both successful and a failure, highly accomplished and totally green, astoundingly talented and hopelessly bland. Depends on the building, depends on the crowd.

But I’m not a rookie. I won’t be a playa.

I can’t control anything, much less the Establishment, and I can’t make them love me or my work. I’m realizing that that’s not the important thing anyway. My community is the important thing. My task is to start loving my work so much that I don’t shut down when given a compliment, or when I’m asked a question, or when I’m challenged.  

I’m a good playwright, same as everyone else out there. I deserve a seat at the table, same as everyone else. My league is my league is my league.

F that noise.

Damn, I miss this blog!

I’ve been stewing in melancholy for a few days now, trying to figure out how to word a spectacularly dark entry about how stuff is really really hard, and… and how committing to playwriting has made me disconnected from day-to-day theater conversations and also unable to think of blog post topics… and of course about the Failure of 2012: my failures as a playwright, artist, human being etc. But the words didn’t come, which is good. It’s true that this year—particularly this summer—is giving my personal life a beating. There hasn’t been a ton of traction in my theater life either, and I feel like I’m lagging behind the pack. Fortunately, I have a patient, loving circle of friends around me to keep me in line. One of them, who is particularly good at seeing the larger theater-worldview, noted that some years are for letting your work rise and bake in a sense. The little steps, the small things, matter.

When I started using Marisela Treviño Orta‘s very helpful Work Plan, I added a section at the bottom called “2011 Accomplishments,” and I recorded them, big and small. This year I made another list above it for 2012. No, there haven’t been any productions or completed new scripts (yet) this year, but I’ve done small, cool projects and have two more coming this fall. I got to do a ReAct piece with Forum Theatre and an intense Blind Date project at the Source Festival; and most importantly, I got to be part of the PlayLab at Great Plains Theatre Conference, which was one of the most exciting, exhausting, and validating eight days of my life so far.

This is not about being a Pollyanna. It’s about the ongoing battle of acceptance between me and me. It takes a long time to come around, but I have to keep powering through the negative cycles of self-doubt that scream, You’re too old! You started writing too late to get anywhere! No one cares about the things you care about! You’re so effing boring!  It’s hard for me to do this because the screaming is loud. Even though I realize how much time I waste focusing on who or what I’m not, I know how easily I fall back into those traps. “Everyone else” works all the time. “Everyone else” has their shit together. But do they?

I spent most of my extracurricular hours in high school doing theater and band, except for the one semester I joined the swim team. A close friend was on the team, and besides, it was my only chance to get to wear one of those badass warm-up suits to school. Being on the team completely ate up my life, but all that practice made me a better swimmer and a tougher kid. The funny thing about it—and one of the things I still love about swimming—is that it’s less of a competitive team sport and more like a competition with yourself. You can’t really try to ‘beat’ your competitors because you can’t see or touch them. It’s all about how good you’re feeling and whether you can do better than your best time. Sometimes, self-inflicted pressure can be good. There’s no one telling me to keep working and no guaranteed success on the horizon, so I have to push myself. But the pressure needs to come out of a desire to be good and a love of writing, not out of sheer panic because there are so many other people in the pool.

So I keep on keepin’ on, falling into traps, fighting out of them, taking small steps, falling again, and taking small steps again. Will it ever be enough? I hope so. It was only very recently that I started calling myself a playwright without stuttering and/or rolling my eyes. If there’s anything to be “too old” for, it might be rampant self-degradation and doubt.

I’m an introvert. A big one. I wouldn’t say I’m shy—actually I’m very talkative around my friends, in one-on-one situations, and around the amazing theater people I’m lucky enough to work with in DC. But put me in a room full of strangers, or even a small setting, and I clam up. I can’t think. I sweat. I don’t know what to say or how to say it. When I do talk, I often say nonsensical things, flip syllables, substitute incorrect words, or draw a blank when I’m trying to think of a descriptive word or movie title or person. Being around new people is mentally and physically exhausting, and far too many gatherings have devolved into me hovering in a corner and missing out on the action.

It’s bad enough to feel so out of control, but when I think about how others must see me, I panic. I probably seem stupid. Or stuck-up. Or unfriendly? Vivid memories of my unbearable middle-school years rush back in—lunches alone in the bathroom, solitary work at the group tables, the constant snickering and bullying… There was nothing about me to mock at that time besides my small, flat body. So I wonder, did I project some type of meanness, when all I was was afraid? Could I have done better if I’d been able to rise above my own terror?

The deeper I get into Playwrightland, the more I worry about how alive my 10-year-old self still is. I thought she had left the building, but every time I step into a networking event or cocktail party, there she is, wiping her palms on my jeans and making me want to run out of the room as soon as possible. I worry because theater is a business of personality and who-you-know and perception, one in which there are many more candidates and hopefuls than there are opportunities. Relationships matter.

So how does someone like me survive? I can’t possibly be the only introverted playwright out there. I’ve read a few blogs and articles, and when copies become available, I’m going to check this book out too. It turns out I’ve already been following the most common advice for introverts: Avoid big group meetings and instead have one-on-one face time with individuals. I enjoy getting together with new people, after work in a bar or something, just to chat. I’ve been asking people out in a slow but steady stream over the past few months, and it’s been lovely to get to talk to people offline and outside of work. Unfortunately, my “dating” has two sustainability problems. First, I will inevitably have to go to large meetings or gatherings at some point in the near future, some of them high-pressure, and I will have to be able to hold my own. Second, by meeting with individuals only, I’m creating a spattering of colleagues as opposed to a cohesive web. Perhaps it’s worth noting that I’ve always been like this: the girl at school who is everywhere and nowhere, who has one or two friends in every clique but no clique of her own. So far, I’ve found this to be the most comfortable and enjoyable way of living, and it’s only been more recently that I’ve started to think it might be a detriment to my career.

The theater world sometimes seems to be one that belongs to the Alphas, but I just can’t believe that there are no successful introverts out there. If you are like me, or just want to offer some advice, please drop me a line.

I’ve been busy since my last post/the Big Jade of 2011, and neglected to share the response I got from my aforementioned Friend Melissa. It was nice to hear that I’m not alone.

Her advice is pretty solid too. I need to work hardest on Bullet #4–PATIENCE. I don’t have a lot of patience in general, never have, and often catch myself in emotional spirals of this. Perhaps that’s another post for another time.

Read Melissa’s response below:

What to do when we we feel jaded?
Recently, I had lunch with a family friend of mine.  Unbeknowst to me, she too had fallen in love with theatre and just graduated from college with a B.A. in Theatre.  She contacted me through Facebook to ask if I’d meet up with her for lunch while she was visiting the city to “talk about theatre.”   Throughout our lunch I was struck by how effervescent she was; she was beaming and energized by the city.  All she wanted to know was how to do this thing called theatre.  Should she move here?  If so, when?  Where should she look for casting notices?  Which were the good theatre companies?  Underlying each question was a pure love for performing and the willingness to do whatever it took to get there. As I sat there, I marveled at her energy and enthusiasm and wondered: How can I get some of that?

This past year, I have been jaded.

I haven’t been unproductive. I had two opportunities to help create and/or direct new work for the stage. Both were challenging, exciting and satisfying in their own way. But still, a sense of doubt was gnawing at me. It was something larger than these two plays.  For lack of better articulation: why theater? And if theater, why this story? And if this story, then for who? Especially when thinking about creating new work, the decisions of story, place and character became near-paralyzing, especially with the backdrop of 2011 (protests, economy, politics, etc). What could I possibly say that was important? Meanwhile, I was seeing a lot of truly crappy theater. A lot. My anxiety turned to despair, I think, and feeling jaded. The classic and enigmatic Peggy Lee song played through my mind: “Is that all there is?”

Simultaneously, I was attached to a large project (let’s call it Project X) in a producing/administration capacity that was draining me of all passion and interest and challenging my commitment to the arts (or at least making me loathe that particular brand of art). And it was bloody exhausting.

So, I started finding joy in other things – cooking, bike riding, farmer’s markets, home decorating & reading. I thought fleetingly about giving it all up to become a sommelier.

My husband recently went on a very challenging hike of Mt. Washington with a friend of his. He said it completely drained him, which he was conscious of during the hike. He was actually inviting it. He wanted to de-charge his batteries, empty himself out, so that he could be re-charged.

I realized (with a glimmer of hope) that perhaps Project X was my own version of the hike. That I’d been sapped for all I was worth–by long hours, little pay, undesirable tasks, unimaginative art–and could now start to rebuild my energy, focus and joy. Recently, I finally am feeling excited and creative again. Things that have helped:

• Finding little coincidences in my work that resurrect a time in my life when I was at full theater/joy capacity. The impetus for a new play has come from a book I bought in Spain while working with Compania Atalaya.

• Seeing some damn fine theater (WarHorse, Conni’s Avant Garde Restaurant)

• Being with people who are excited about the art I’m making, especially people from other disciplines

• Being patient with myself about making art. Giving myself a longer timeline than I’m used to because I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up crap just for the sake of working. (Remind me of this later, Liz).

So, it’s a start. It’s still easy to feel burnt out, to instantly succumb to envy others when they get the grant/residency/review that you didn’t, to want to choose a glass of wine with the husband over a grant application (oh those grant applications). But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get back to the place where only the art matters and that’s where all my energy will go. And, if I’m doing it right, it will send it back to me threefold.

A few days ago, my friend Melissa asked me when I’m going to blog again. I told her that I’m jaded and can’t think of anything to write about, which really means, “I’m jaded and can’t think of anything to write about because I’m disenchanted with the scene, discouraged by our superficial, stacked-deck hierarchy and am not sure I want to be part of a theater community, on or offline, that is unabashedly competitive and whiny and that sometimes appears to actually hate theater, if that’s possible, which I guess it is.” But I didn’t say all that.

Melissa responded by asking three questions, all of which began with “What to do…” I’m very glad she worded her thoughts this way because sometimes it seems that things are just sucky, and it’s so nice to be reminded that there’s always a what to do. DOING keeps the world spinning.

Her first question: What to do when we we feel jaded?

I’m still figuring this out. I suppose the answer is: stop feeling jaded and start feeling excited. If you’re like me, though, and you deal with things in your own slowpoke way, just proclaiming something to be true won’t work.

And so. When I’m jaded, I mostly focus on working harder than I was before. Work, work, work, even when it’s not fun. Since I’m an inward kind of person, I think a lot. I stare at the wall and try to figure out where the bad feelings are coming from. I curl up on friends’ couches and talk over wine or tea, I take long hikes, I journal and journal and make lists and journal. I remind myself of the genuine, flesh-and-blood friendships I have in the theater world, and I visit with them. I remind myself of all the places I’ve been. Every backstage, every shop, every dressing room and every rehearsal room. I try to collect these memories like snapshots: a big empty room full of strangers; tables full of coffee cups, water bottles and paper under florescent lights.  Rehearsal props and different colored rolls of tape, late-night beers, arguments, note-taking and those many moments of joy when everything just works. Opening night parties. Twelve-hour days. Paint fumes. Stage fright. Saying a line and feeling the audience stop breathing. I remember all those times I realized, as I watched the lights go up, that I helped make that. Something that did not exist at all a month prior is now a whole world, and people I don’t know are watching it. This is very special. This is rare.

I make myself remember how it was at the beginning, when theater was the most exciting thing in the world. I cried every time I stepped into an empty house because this was a room that was alive! Those years lasted longer than these more recent years of cynicism and doubt, and deep down, I know the awe is still there. I still say prayers of thanks before every single show. I’m still here despite all the bullshit and dysfunction I’ve seen and felt in the professional world. I think maybe we all have—and you’re still here.

Why do you write plays, Self? Because it’s the most exciting thing there is when you love theater and you love to write and you love what can happen in rehearsal and on a stage. I’ve done almost everything a body can do in theater, I’ve been learning for a long time, and this is where I am, today, right now. If there’s anything they teach you in theater, it’s to always be present. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying.

So dear Melissa, why do you make theater? What made you love it in the first place? What did your rehearsal space in Spain look like, and if you looked out the window, what would you see? What did it feel like when you got your first playwriting award? What was it like, on a rainy day at SITI, to be at the front of the room and see something amazing happen? What’s written down in all those Moleskines of yours? To whom do you compare yourself? To whom might they compare themselves? Who are your true friends? They love you.

More to come…

Use your Linda Richman voice, readers: The National Endowment is neither national nor an endowment. Discuss!

I wanted to quickly post a few thoughts on the NEA, inspired by Scott Walters’ number-crunching blog post and my plummeting blood sugar.

Poor NEA. It’s batted around by everyone—it doesn’t do enough, it does too much, it’s too progressive, too socialist, too conservative, too good-ol-boy. But it remains, simply, a federal agency that distributes taxpayer money to American nonprofit arts organizations. It is what it is, it can be better, and as is the way of life in Washington, would be difficult to reform. I feel no ill-will toward the Endowment. As an agency, it’s probably one of the most functional with the most bang for its buck, and one of the few that does not do evil. I feel some frustration, however, with the way the NEA functions. Like many arts bureaucracies in business today, it feels outdated and underperforming.

Scott’s numbers are pretty interesting to look at. They confirm what many people know—the award pyramid is big and fat with the major coastal cities on the bottom, then the mid-sized cities, then a teeny tiny tip of funding for “flyover” and southern states. A few comments came up on Twitter about the need to know how many applications are coming from where, which of course would be nice to know, if we could get that information. My reactions all had to do with the back-story of said numbers and applications because, as it is structured now, the mere application process disqualifies the hundreds of small and low-budget theaters dotted across the country. National agency, national problem.

Here’s why: To apply to the NEA, you must have a staff. A minimum of two would be good, and one has to be full time and salaried, along with your artists (this is a legal requirement). A staffer is also highly necessary, because the process of grants.gov registration, getting a DUNS number, registering with CCR, registering as a credential provider and submitting a Point of Contact is a long and frustrating process that requires office equipment, time, organization and planning. You must be a 501c3 or apply through a partner (this is not the same as a fiscal agent). You must have a three-year history of programming. And you have to have impactful programming with preferably a wide reach. These requirements rule out many companies I know.

Now, I know why they do this. The red tape, the frustration, the long chains of approval and checklists an agency follows are all there to protect the taxpayer from fraud and misuse. And I stand by this very firmly. I would not ask or expect the Agency to change its requirements, no matter how desperately small theaters and artists like me need that seed money. Frankly, without an organizational structure, manpower or financial safety net, I cannot be entrusted with federal funds. HOWEVER, as a servant of the people, the Endowment should find ways to try to ensure a healthy community of American theaters in the future, and this very much has to do with feeding the young, the idealistic and underfunded.

My idea: adjust the allocation pie chart. Give the greatest percent to state agencies, and reserve a smaller amount of the pie for direct granting. State agencies, no matter how dysfunctional they may be, fuel art in this country, along with our partner foundations. I would say more about my idea of an ideal structure, using my employer in examples, but unfortunately am not able to do so because I am currently using that employer’s computer. Again, government-style silliness, but it has an important purpose, and I respect that.

…And  since I am easily burned out from talking theater, there’s this.

Playwright Michele Lowe opened her recent HowlRound interview with Kent Thompson by commenting: “Before you became artistic director, less than ten of the 264 plays produced at Denver Center Theater were written by women.” This is almost too embarrassing to print, and I wouldn’t call their current number of women produced “off the charts,” as Thompson says it is now. But hey, maybe I’m looking at the wrong list or maybe they have a special womanz theater in the basement somewhere.

I don’t want to unfairly single them out—the disproportion of women’s voices in American theater is everywhere. It’s painfully overt in arts administration and theater punditry, but perhaps more cloaked in the show-making community. There are a lot of women working in theater, but how many of them hold positions of artistic power? Although it’s been lighting up the radar these days, there’s still quite a bit of timid dancing around the problem. (Yes, it is a problem.) Mad props to those like Theresa Rebeck who don’t mind pissing people off and calling bullshit when they see it. The world is tipped toward maleness everywhere you look, but in theater—a supposedly forward-thinking, communicative, freedom-loving industry—the balance breaks the scale. What gives?

As a little experiment, I decided to tally up stats from the 15 shows I’ve seen here in DC over the past few months, focusing on the following areas:

1) Point of view (Who is the play about? From whose perspective was the play told? Whose story was it?)
2) Playwright
3) Director
4) Cast

Here are the numbers:

Point of View: 8 Male; 3 Female; 4 N/A
Ridiculous. As much as I care about white men and their ‘problems,’ here we go, again and again putting on and sitting through stories about men. Women are full, complex human beings too. Why are we so underrepresented on stage?

Playwright: 11 Male; 4 Female
Wow, this fucking sucks—generally speaking and because I’m a playwright. For a time, I even gave serious thought to using a male pen name, but wasn’t happy about the idea of losing ownership of my written work for all time. Is there a reason why women aren’t being taken seriously as writers? If the belief is that women do in fact have equally compelling stories to tell, then are we not seen on stage or getting produced because… I don’t know…? And if we’re “from Venus” or whatever, shouldn’t an artform that relies on emotion and human connection be women’s work? And if it’s all about business, shouldn’t stories by and about women dominate, since more than half of theatergoers are female?

Director: 8 Male; 8 Female (one show had two directors)
Right on. More of this.

Cast: 44 Male; 31 Female
There’s an equality/inequality male-default theory that if a group is 50% female, a common perception is that it’s ‘mostly’ women. The numbers above are not equal, so don’t get excited. Oh, and be even less excited, because ten of these females played small ensemble parts and some didn’t even have lines. No good. The lack of decent female roles is a whole other conversation, and more artistic directors should be talking about this. I’m not a career actor, so when my woman-centric play Owl Moon got produced, I started to realize what was up. A few female actors in the crowd came to me and said, “Thanks for writing good female roles. There aren’t many,” and “I want to talk about these people with you.” One woman in the audience burst into tears after the show, saying the play brought up some issues she didn’t expect to see on stage. Think about that for a second.

I’m sure some people will whine and argue and tell me how many “opportunities” there are for women, but frankly, they can just save it. Women are half the human population, we give life to the next generation, we’re whole people, and we work and think as hard and as sharply as our men—but we’re still somehow not worthy of equal pay, equal rights, or equal artistic representation. Don’t hire women because of some kind of diversity/bleeding heart/affirmative action bullshit, hire us because we’re really good at what we do.