October 28, 2017

Q follows me to my office to talk about the plays I sent him, seriously and at length, his having considered them more deeply than anyone who was not involved in actually producing them– which he, in fact, longs to do. He repeats that his perspective is that of a born director, which explains, he says, why I sometimes don’t see things as he does. But weaknesses he indicates are weaknesses I’ve seen or suspected myself. He says my plays are “small” in that they arise and develop from quite tiny moments or perceptions. Considering what he’s seen, that’s true, and interesting, since I never intended or really thought of it before. He says they are like jewels which a director must “open up” and into which introduce light. An audience may not perceive them as “real” unless this light is introduced. This part I don’t understand. I say so, adding that’s it’s probably one of those things I’d have to see in action to comprehend. He plays off You Tube music he has chosen for Night Music, though I have pointed out that, this time, somebody else is directing the show. He dances around the room, humming the tunes. I confess to him that I have done everything I could to “director-proof” my plays–and actor-proof them to some degree– guiding firmly away from the most egregious of possible misinterpretations. He suggests it is exactly this strategy, being successful, which necessitates the intervention of a director. I don’t get it. Willing to believe it. Will keep watching.  In any event, this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with anybody about the actual substance of my dramatic work. I never had a mentor in playwriting, having commenced that life in isolation, perhaps even in secret. Have talked with directors, of course, but most of that talk was operational, how to achieve the production rather than purely what I intended by the work. I took this as a kind of compliment, an indication that my vision was trusted. In New York, SB asked me what I meant by certain things, but never made one structural or interpretive observation. SS seemed to trust me and move forward with minimal soul-searching. This is to say that on one level I find all this attention–and from a twenty year old–perplexing, but of course on another, beguiling. So far it’s entirely theoretical. My habit is to, for the most part, stand back and let actors and directors do their work, as I would do with him if he were actually directing, saying “Ah!” when, for better or for worse, I got his point.

Interview with the Dean concerning our new Chair. I never met her before, but sensed immediate sympathy. We even talked to each other a little in German. I said  Es tut mir leid, dass wir uns noch nie getroffen haben, and she answered in German, probably without having noticed. I made clear I would make an awful chair; she made clear (or semi-clear) that the MFA in creative writing is a done deal. Satisfaction all around.

Love the sound of my little gas heater hissing away in the corner.

J had the idea we should meet at the AC Hotel Capella rooftop on Friday night, and so we did, and it was immensely festive. I need to write on my wall where I see i every day, “Go out and party.”

 Montford’s female Othello opens the same day as my play. It is a terrible conception, a terrible idea, one that, from the root up, cannot succeed except to hack a colossal vision into one thin stick of political pleading. Of course, no one will dare say it.

My inner clock, upset by Ireland, is only now back on course. It is still dark and already I have accomplished much. Must plant. Must paint. Must----