upward thrust

Play #15 - Dues

Play #16 - The Pack

Play #17 - Insurance

Play #18 - The Tragedy of Contentment

Play #19 - Heart of Stone

As writers, we have nothing to draw on but our own experiences.  That's the birthplace of all our ideas.  It's very tempting and easy to channel the thoughts and emotions we have on a daily basis directly into writing, but is it always a good idea?  Does it really help to deal with those feelings?

My poetry professor didn't necessarily think so.  She acknowledged that poetry can play a therapeutic role, but she discouraged us from sharing that work publicly.  I think she felt that art should exist for the sake of art, and that it was gauche to air your private coping strategies proudly.  But you can't create great art without being in touch with those emotions.  How close can you get before people start to feel like it's uncomfortably personal?  Is that the true challenge of art?

I like open endings.  I want the reader to imagine what happens next; I think your imagination is ultimately more affecting than anything I can put into words.  But is that just being lazy?  Is it a weakness, or a strength?

Lots of questions, lately.  Questions about the nature of things, questions about the inside of things.  I feel so strong.  So strong that I don't even need the answers, but I like to ask.

say no more

Play #10 - Fleeting

Play #11 - Troubles

Play #12 - Taken for a Ride

Play #13 - Service

Play #14 - Out of Norm

I've been writing away, and sorry for not giving more frequent updates.  I thought you might like some more pictures of Maine.  The below are all from Portland.

to the north of the north

Play #6 - Shedding

Play #7 - The Crossing

Play #8 - Seat of Emotions

Play #9 - Heart's Fire

Sorry for the holdup!  I've been busy gallivanting around Maine, seeing the glorious sights of nature.  Oh, Maine has such a beautiful bounty!

Gorgeous parks!

Splendid graveyards!

Fabulous seafood!

going gentle

Play #5 - Hero

Does there exist in everyone the propensity for great violence?  I doubt it.  In my youth I was pretty violent, at least as far as my siblings were concerned, but I don't think I've ever truly used violence in anger as an adult.  I've certainly gotten angry enough that I wished great harm would befall someone, but never to the point that my vision went red and I took up the burden of doing the deed myself.  I probably won't ever feel that, unless, as I understand it, somebody threatens my children (when I have 'em).

Rather than a heated temper, I've always been impressed with the idea of a cold anger.  The kind that could simmer quietly beneath the surface, only expressed through quiet, subtle remarks, and culminating in an act of perfectly calculated vengeance.  Really, what's the satisfaction of hitting somebody, compared to finding a way to utterly dismantle the very foundation of who they are?  Not that I've ever done that, but it sounds awesome.

I will wake up very early tomorrow to make my way to Maine, as I've said.  I have never been to Maine.  I mainly know that it is very pretty, and very far away.  How frequently those two are correlated.

always a toll

I did write a play yesterday, I was just too busy to post it!

Play #3 - Terminal

Play #4 - A Certain Truth

Man, I don't have any answers.  These plays are bumming me out.

Some days I can't get the idea out of my head of dropping everything and going on a great journey.  It wouldn't necessarily have to be one of self-discovery, but just to travel under my own power, to witness the natural splendors of the world, and to have such time to think, uninterrupted...I'm sure I'd go even crazier.  It's a strange, probably common, romantic notion, and it'd be ruinously expensive, and cost more than just money, but when the fancy strikes me, oh, how the road calls!

I'm headed up to Maine this week to go whitewater rafting and to spend time with family and friends, and I'll have many hours on the road to contemplate the befores and afters of all things.  The wife tends to be sleepy on long car rides, and the solitude will, I hope, give me a great connection to the deepest mysteries.

I was one of those children who would ask "why?" endlessly.  Over and over and over.  I was never satisfied with the reason for anything.  I'm still not, but I'm a great deal better at reading the moods of people I'm talking to, so now I generally know when to shut up.  I fear that these plays are opening up that need to ask why all over again...I am a child again, and the world is full of wonder.

so wrought, so rotten

My second play, slightly less short, finished!  I present to you:  The Climb.

This one originated out of a desire to write a group discussion.  Most of my experience writing characters talking is limited to back-and-forth dialogue, but there's something really fun about conversations between more than two people that I like to explore.  Of course, it's also great fun to write characters who seem to share a mind.  There's a certain punch inherent in characters speaking in unison without prompting.

Also, if I manage to write a play that isn't dripping with death, you should probably check up on me, because it might mean there is something terribly wrong.  For now, we're par for the course!

I'm going to a wedding tomorrow, and the rehearsal for it tonight.  It's been a pretty wedding-ful summer so far, but this is the last one this year.  How many weddings will I attend next year, I wonder?

I came across a poem the other day, and I'd like to share it with you here.  Enjoy!

Writing an Elegy

BY RICKEY LAURENTIIS

But so tangled in the branches they had to leave it, the conquistador’s

black beard cut from his head whose neck had snapped,

his deadness the others had to burn then, for the wind to take evenly away.

             If not for his lust, his sickness to chase, to claim her;

if not for that Native woman’s quick intelligence, out-climbing   ...    

             This is what I see: the Spanish moss

as convicted to its branches — gray, colonial,

but in my century now, suspended so close each vein might well be a whole, hanging

fiction of my mind. The moss

             is a fiction of my mind: a screen, swinging

on its gothic hinges, making the light fussier as it swags, giving not just the trees

but my idea of them a Medusa look. That man,

            I think, had wanted to feed something in himself

not worth feeding, had founded a world on it — 

                                                                                                     What is it

my mind wants to get at, always extending, hungering, looking

back, always tearing open again its own modernity,

as if each thought is more than the little present

moment it sounds like, but, raised at an angle, piercing me, having me imagine,

to build such antique violences in my head, it is a thorn? This moss

has been growing for ages now, can do nothing

but snag and grow   ...    What is it the mind won’t

unsee, beautiful flaw? In another version, the woman dies

and her husband

braids her hair

through the trees.

what is the thing?

The call of the pen is strong, and I am bound once more to spend some time in writing.  Here's what's on the docket:

August:  31 Plays in 31 Days
September:  Blog Every Day in September
October:  Prepare for NaNoWriMo
November:  NaNoWriMo (2 books planned)

I don't have much experience writing plays, so I'm pretty darn excited.  As always, it's fun to stretch the muscles and see what I can come up with.

My first play is titled A Poor Imitation.

You can keep your eyes on this space for my plays, such as they are.  I can also provide a bit of explanation.

"A Poor Imitation" is inspired by the Mongol Invasions of the 13th century, particularly how they were explained by Dan Carlin.  I really wanted to write about the entire process of executing thousands of people in the course of a single day -- when some cities were taken, each warrior had a quota to fill.  I wanted to write in terms of machinery, but I wasn't sure how familiar a 13th century Mongol warrior would be with the idea of mechanisms and automata, so I turned to nature's least self-interested machine, the ant.  But as much as we try to make ourselves like them, we can never be as perfect as that.  So much else gets in the way!

I don't think I entirely nailed the idea I was going for -- the ending feels a bit abrupt, but I hope it's a little chilling.  And I had fun writing the dialogue.  All in all, I think this is a very successful start!