For those of you who don't know yet, I wrote a play. Sometimes I see that sentence, or say it out loud to someone and wonder where those words came from. A play? Me? I wrote one? Something full length, that I didn't get bored of and stop in the middle? Yes. I wrote a play.
And this play, called
The Author, is about to be performed next weekend at Owatonna Christian School. I have written a play that's going to be performed and seen by real people. I'm sorry if this is seeming repetitive, but I still can't believe it.
When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher tell me I would never learn to write. This was because I held my pencil wrong. She gave me one of those rubber triangle things to put on the end of my pencil to force me to write "correctly" (does anyone know what I'm talking about? Do they even still use these torture devices in schools?) And then I'd get in trouble when she'd catch me sliding that thing up under my palm and gripping my pencil my own way. I"ll never forget the day she put her hand on my shoulder, catching me holding my pencil wrong again. "Lindsay," she said shaking her head. "You're never going to learn to write." I guess we have different definitions of "learn to write."
Early last summer, almost as soon as my last play closed, I began looking for a new one. This year--the spring play of 2014--was important to me. When I first began directing at OCS, this current senior class was a bunch of wide-eyed freshman that didn't know upstage from downstage and cue lines from topped lines. They were the very first group of kids I'd directed. They were talented, and they were special. I wanted to find a play that would be perfect.
I guess I was complaining a little too much about not being able to find the perfect play. The one with the right mix of laughs and heart. The one with the right number of solid characters--each character being a role that I myself would want to play. I wanted good roles for the girls, funny lines for everyone, physical comedy, and fun costumes. Of course, it also needed to fit on a small stage with red carpet. It needed to be appropriate for a family audience. Oh, and it also had to make me laugh.
I'm sure this play exists somewhere, written by someone much more talented than myself, but I couldn't seem to find it. And when my family and friends had just about enough of my whining, they began to suggest, "Well, why don't you just write your own play?"
Crazy, right? I couldn't write a play! Could I really write a play? I mean, I used to write plays all the time and force my sister and cousin to act them out. But they were terrible (sorry, Karen and Amy). I also spent a small fortune on a Writing degree...surely I must have learned
something in college. Maybe I really
could write a play...
And then I made the poor decision to tell some of the students that I was thinking about writing the play...and they immediately got excited about it (well, some of them). Which meant
I actually had to write a play.
And so, with a shrug of my shoulders and the phrase everyone uses before they dive into a huge mistake--
how hard can it be?--I got writing.
To quote Hemingway, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Writing is a lonely process. There's the "thinking stage," which for me consists of thinking about how bad I am at writing, how much I hate writing, how I'd rather be doing anything else besides writing, and how much I want to eat some cake right now. You know, the usual.
And then there's the actual writing. The part where you begin to meet your characters. I'd scribble some back story for each of them onto a legal pad (holding my pen incorrectly). I'd muse about their childhoods, their education, the pets they'd like to own. I'd laugh at funny jokes they might tell at a party, or tear up at the sad story of their first crush. None of these things make it into the play, of course, they're just nice to know. I want to be friends with my characters, or least the nosy acquaintance who creeps their Facebook pages.
So, I have these characters now, and I drop them into a situation. One that's difficult and requires a funny solution. I write a scene, and then another one. Neither one of them is the opening--it'll fall somewhere in the middle. I write new characters, learn about them, figure out why they hate my main characters. Then I stir them into the mix. Trouble ensues. For awhile, I was stuck. Right in the middle of Act II, Scene 2. I had nowhere to go. I didn't know what would happen next. My characters were stuck. They couldn't move. I waited a month, hoping they'd find their own way out of the mess I'd created. They didn't. I had to help them a bit. Make an out. Play puppet master, move some pieces, orchestrate an ending (I can't pick a metaphor, so I'm using all of them. Sorry, English teachers).
And then the editing. The part that scared me the most from the very inkling of an idea to write a play.
But I'd have to edit it, I whined internally.
I don't like editing. I spent enough hours at the Bruegger's Bagels in Roseville for my Senior Writing Capstone to know better than to start a project I would have to edit. This play went through seven edits. It probably could have used 12 more. I edited it five times myself. Sewing up plot holes, polishing the dialogue, rounding our characters. And then I gave it to my dad.
My dad is largely the reason I know as much about theatre as I do. When I was a little kid, about four or five years old, I'd sit in Kerux at Pillsbury while he built the sets for plays there. I'd get to watch rehearsals, "help" him tinker with the stage, and soak in this fantastic world of theatre. I watched talented actors act, directors direct, crew run the show, and then watch on opening night when all of this magic came together in a beautiful performance.
My dad's been a part of and seen so many plays he was a logical choice for editor. Of course, it's horrible to give anyone your work to critique. It's vulnerable and painful. But he helped me fix errors I'd made, improve what I'd missed, and made lines even funnier.
I knew I needed at least one more pair of eyes on this beast, even though it was nearing time for auditions. I sent it to my mother-in-law, talented author J.S. Deaton (though I normally just call her Sue). She was generous with her compliments of lines she thought were funny, situations she enjoyed, and humor she appreciated. She also provided valuable critique on plot holes, made suggestions to improve the dialogue, and helped me feel ready to present a script the the cast. And that is how this play came to be.
This post is already nearly the same length as the play itself, but I'm not done. I have more people to thank.
First, everyone who has ever acted with me. My high school plays were some of the best times in my life. I learned so much from all of you and had so much fun making my own magic for the first time with you.
To everyone who ever acted for me as I learned to direct. I was a nothing-nobody who knew so little about how to be a director. You listened, you trusted, and we learned together about how to do this theatre thing.
To my fellow writers and editors at the Owatonna People's Press--thank
you to Derek and Ian, and to Becky who got me the job in the first place
by personal recommendation, even though I'm not sure she'd ever read
anything I'd written. This was the first place I really got to write
things that other people read. You taught me how to write and edit when I
knew literally nothing coming in. And maybe most importantly, you
taught me how to write
fast.
To all of my writing teachers, from elementary school to college. You taught me about character, plot, dialogue, scene-setting, language, pacing, and everything else I needed. Two I have to mentioned specifically: Alexandra Shloss and Judy Hougen. You sometimes hurt my feelings and made me cry when you critiqued my work. Both of you were more than teachers, you were counselors when I completely lost faith in myself and my writing. You made me believe I could do this someday. And now I did.
To my fellow Writing majors at Northwestern. The people who were some of my very first harsh editors and critiquers. You were all so talented, I often felt like a child amidst you writing greats. You taught me many things, and I'm so thankful for how much you helped me grow and improve.
To Kari Steinbach. You once said something to me about how everyone always assumes we English girls are also theatre girls. I guess you were right. We are. You made me believe I could be both a writer and a director. You're a huge inspiration and a role model of what I want my career to look like.
To my grandmother Leta. We wrote so many letters back and forth, and she always encouraged me in my writing, especially when I was away at college and struggling. She told me I was such a good writer even when I was in pre-school. She kept the very first story I ever wrote, called "My Sis is A Pig" (again, sorry, Karen). It's still tucked away in the pantry
of her kitchen.
She won't be at this performance, but I'd like to think she'll still see it.
To my parents
who always encouraged me to write and act. Who let me get a degree in Writing when everyone around me thought I should do something more practical. Who read to me constantly and filled my head with so many stories. You let me believe in worlds outside my own, and encouraged me to write, create, and adventure. And specifically to my mother, who
always corrected my grammar, on which much of this play is based.
To this current cast, especially the ones I told very early on in the writing process, and asked them to blindly trust me. They have, and for the last few months we've been creating the magic together that I've dreamed about since I was a little girl.
To my dear friend Emily. The girl who wrote novels with me in fifth grade--we'd pass them back and forth in colored folders. There was The Red Story (the best one, though not good), The Yellow Story (which was a terrible murder mystery), and The Purple Story (which was basically a complete ripoff of
Alice in Wonderland, except instead of Alice, the main characters were two girls names Emily and Lindsay). The girl who believed we'd both be writers someday, even when I was so terrible and thought that it was okay to kill off main characters in every chapter and just write new ones (I did this in all of them, not just in the murder mystery). The girl who acted with me in so many plays, including when she was my mother (and we messed up that scene so bad I almost cried. And then your fat fell out and I almost cried again). The girl who was asked to direct a play, and said she wouldn't do it unless I would help her. The girl who read through this script and assured me my characters were funny and that she would come and watch Get Over It with me the night before the play and then hold my hand while I weep through opening night of this show.
And finally, to my husband. The man who has put up with Virginia-Woolf levels of insanity for the last six months (and let's be honest, the 10.5 years we've been a couple). The man who read my script and even laughed out loud a few times. The man who is my closest friend, my favorite companion, and the one who keeps me sane. The man who took my face in his hands and said, "Lindsay, you're a good writer." The words I need to hear, the words I will never, ever tire of hearing.
There's so many people to thank, I've probably forget some, and I'm sorry. I could rattle on about this forever (and clearly I'm well on my way). But thank you to everyone who helped me get here. I owe you this dream come true.
So, this play is dedicated to everyone who always believed that I would write something significant. And to everyone else who told me I never would.
