August 31, 2007

At lunch JF said, by way of explaining why there’s no formal relationship between NC Stage and me as a playwright, “Development in not part of our program.” The answer I spoke was, “Well, that’s a valid reason.” The answer I thought was, “I’m not talking about development. What I give you won’t need development. If I hand a play to a producer, it is ready for the stage.” I don’t understand why I don’t get more credit for forbearance than I do. People think I say just anything that comes into my head, because sometimes what I say is sharp or hard, or impatient to get to the point. But it is never thoughtless. It’s never untrue, though of course it may be wrong.
I’ve stopped sending scripts to development workshops, for the outcome will be either negligible or, “experts” being anxious to avoid the onus of having nothing to say, damaging. People who haven’t given real thought to the development process, who hope a play can’t work without its buying what they sell, will think that I’m deluded or arrogant. I’m neither of those things. I’m in a hurry. I know what path is the path and what is a morass.

Ganymede Arts (formerly Actors Theater of Washington) didn’t mention development when they asked to do The Loves of Mr. Lincoln in October. It was a hasty choice, because their schedule was full when they read the piece, but they love it, want to get it on the stage, and, if I read things right, to do a full production next year after introducing it as part of a Gay Arts Festival this October. I’m a little perplexed at being the darling of Gay Festivals– I have never thought of my art as particularly “gay,” and in Mr Lincoln there is not even a hint of a hint of sexual peccadillo– but I suppose that’s better than not being the darling of anything. In any case, they clearly think it’s more scandalous than I do. I think my treatment of Lincoln is respectful to an extreme, even a fulsome, degree. I wanted to put a real hero heroically onstage.

Rosemary and Ed came into town, and we had supper at Reza’s (where I haven’t been since the Rickie days) and talked about their house hunting. Maybe it was the food, but I was sick afterward in choir practice, so sick that I had to sneak into the church bathroom, closing all the sound-stopping doors behind me, and vomit copiously. During the vomiting I was stricken with agonizing stomach cramps. The only treatment I know for the muscle seizures is drinking water, and so I tried to drink water while my stomach was still engaged in sending material the other direction. There were no cups in the bathroom, so I had to bend over and try to drink out of the spigot, which position only intensified the stomach cramps. I found myself ladling water to my mouth in the cup of my hand, sweating and weeping from the pain of the muscle seizures, not knowing if I were finished vomiting or not. Contrary to what I thought then, I did recover. But the crowning touch of this calamitous (partially calamitous, anyway) week came upon me only two hours ago, phlebitis, at this point a mild case, like a bad flu with a few additional aches, but we’ve yet to see if it’s going or coming on slowly.

Tea with Jason in the morning. He gave me a book, and joy. A girl got out of a car, ran to me, kissed me, and said, “I love you.” When she came out again with her coffee she said “You’re my hero.” I looked at Jason and said, “I wish to God I knew who she was.”