Gaaah! Or, Post-Conference Mayham

As the title might suggest, Lordy, Lordy, have I been busy. There is a lot to be said for trying to assemble an infrastructure from the ground up, and it's definitely given me a new appreciation for the entrepreneurial spirit that I never believed I had. Now, let's not get too crazy. I haven't gotten around to attempting to self-produce (not that there's anything against that). If you know me, you know that's the thing I fear most. I want to sit down opening night and see the show for the first time, having never met the cast, if at all possible. To me, that is when I know how well I did my job. But I'm not there yet, and I'm writing today to talk about the road I've been building to that end. So...

Where to start? That was one of the battles I had to face after attending the Dramatists Guild Conference #WriteChange a few weeks back. There was a lot of chicken-and-the-egg conversations I was having with myself. Honestly.  Here's my post-conference to-do list:

Dramatists Guild National Conference, La Jolla

So, it's been about a week since the Dramatists Guild Third National Conference in La Jolla, California, #writechange and my mind is still reeling. There is no way to properly describe the sheer volume of information that has been lodged in my brain. No way to describe how over this past week, I've been striving to utilize it all and present myself in a more professional, and more visible manner. The sheer number of things I didn't know I didn't know, and which I'm still trying to wrangle under my control, is astounding.

It started simply enough with "Building Community: San Diego Playwrights" and thank you to SDPlaywrights for opening the door into how to connect a little better and how to network on a local basis. This was followed by the an amazing one-on-one with John Logan. It's hard to express how great it is to hear things you keep trying to tell yourself coming out of the mouth of someone so prestigious. And that's only the tip of the iceberg.

From panels such as "Writing Wrongs" which focused on writing to/with underserved communities such as inmates underage and older, to genital mutilation in Africa, to "Gender and Sexuality on Stage," there was a lot be inspired about.

On the other hand, there were so many panels on practical things like the New Play Exchange which opens a new avenue by which new plays might be discovered, to an in-depth discussion on the Playwright's Bill of Rights, and basic negotiation tactics presented by David Faux, that... my head is going to explode.

One important issue that was presented was "The Count," an in-depth study on Gender Disparity in the theatre, the results of which boggle the mind. (here's a good review) Of all the plays that were staged in first class productions, only 22% were written by woman playwrights. Who knows if that even begins to talk of characters presented and women cast, in all walks of race or gender. It is quite a discussion on how an industry so often forward thinking, can yet also be far behind.

But finally, being there for a celebration of former DG president and epic composer and lyricist Stephen Schwartz was incredible. The honor of being to hear some of the earlier iterations of "The Wizard and I" from the musical "Wicked" gave me a wonderful glimpse into a form of the art that I will never have the capacity for.

This was my first time attending a conference of this magnitude as it relates to my field, and I'm hoping that that which has inspired me so far is only the beginning.

Here's to the future, my friends.

Yoked

What inexorable woe

     Is the lonely heart

     That weighs upon the lonely mind.

Worse still when affection's

     Direction

     Is

     A

     Stone

     Wall.

I have banged my head

     Against that wall

     And now the noise

          Of my rattling

               Frazzled brain

               Would overpower

               The woe of the heart

               Though they sing in

               Concert.

This corpse of a burdened soul

Seeks the warmth of the sun

     Born and bathed in love.

But want and desire

                    So strong

     Have left me numb

          Dried and cracked

     As the Santa Ana's blow

     Parches all hope;

     And assaulted by longing

               Confused by the

               Scattered sky;

     Domed and empty.

But there is no sun

     And the stone wall

     And squalid corpse

     Left now desiccated

     Arcs where the sky should be.

Oh that this shell would crack,

     That the loneliness

     Would shatter 'neath

          The reflection

               Of

          Another's

     Affection.

That the light would pour through

          The cracks

     Coating me in the

          Warm viscosity

     Of a broken yolk

     Bathing me in love

Freeing me

     From the stone shackles

The unrequited sandstorm

     Carved for itself.

Sometimes I thing I have forgotten how

     That the tepid residue

     Of the Last Great Love

          Is a false expectation

Faded

     Remembered brighter

Like a starving man

          And a broken plate

     Where the traces of breakfast

          Yet remain.

Have I stared too long?

     Is the afterimage too bright

     To see if the wall is gone?

Have I dodged the light

     Thinking it but an echo

          Of my screams

     Reverberating on the inside?

Or have I dried even further

     Turning that brittle enamel

          Into a marble tomb

     That glows only on the outside

     Reflecting away such love

          As would cook a better

               Breakfast.

Candles

What affliction is desire?

     Of waiting

          Knowing in the end

      That you are not wanted.

It is the inklings of another's

      Seeming affection

That baits us ever forward

      And yet,

           In reflection

      There's

          There.

The ache you feel is self-inflicted

     Slow torture

     Of seeing more

          Than what is there.

Rationally, we know why.

     Know what other priorities

     Lay indelicately

          Affection to the side.

We know what Fears

     A sweet caress

     Can command.

          We know what hidden

          Woe

     Would prefer to hide

          Never venturing forth

               Into the rain.

We're tired of wanting to be wanted

     Of hoping for

          Affection's sound

     Offered not as a response

          But as a desire:

     Of warmth stirred

          From a warm heart

     That pretends to play it cool.

What do we get out of this

     Pointless longing?

Why would our heart persist

     Against the silent wall

          Forged of self-preservation

That brings isolation

     To the heart that would

     Rather not be lonely

     If not for the past

          And the echoes of fear

Bouncing off those self-same

          Walls.

It should be us who flees,

     But there are

          Cracks

               In

     The

          Wall

And the occasional light

          That spills from them

     Ignites a new wick

          Though the silence would snuff

     Each candle that marks the

          Time.

Now the candle burns low

     And I fear that the wind

          Will blow

     And that I'm running

          Out of

               Candles.

The White Whale

How impossible it is to purge
    A love once it has found
    A hole in the heart to serve
    As anchor.
Hard when that harpoon, and the
    Knowledge of it's fearful strike
    Is known, truly, and yet
        Kept at a

            Distance

O'er the uncertainty of action
    Of feeling, even when the
    Feeling is recognized and known.

Am I Ahab hunting out of love?
    Honestly I seek its culmination
    Or its demise
        Either would be a blessing
Though I'd far rather
    Love made Manifest

Than the death and disenchantment
    Of a pull so strong
        So constant
    And then gone.

But it is not gone

    And fresh sightings
        And earnest hints of promise
            From a heart that
        Cannot hide
            And a mind that would.

And I am wishing I could prove
        Myself as worthy
    To the mind that
        Reigns such heart
    As cast that first harpoon.
        So, I am Moby,
            Then,
        And Ahab.

And is she, too,
    Ahab and Moby?

Yet it is a battle of love
    On a sea of pain
        And fear
    And the deep
        Unknown.

Storms of hope
        And hope becalmed
    That white whale
        That albatross
            That captain

That white hope
    Would wave the
        White flag,

But surrendering hope of
    Love
        Only birthed
    Itself in surrender.
And hope yielded, but hid
    A passion that would not die

And a yearning stronger than
    The sea
Whose absence
    Renders the tale
    Ahab and Moby
        To metaphors
        Mundane.

And this is anything but mundane
    And trying to accept what
        Is
    And what will be
    That hope and love
        Unburdened by truth
        Would become the truth
            And
        Ahab and Moby
    Would end a battle
        That was love
    To become love.

That the harpoon
        Which is love
    Might be reeled in
        That the white whale
            Might become the ship
                And that together they might
                    Sail and
                        Perhaps
                            Fly.

Scholarship essay 2.0

After careful consideration, and many thanks to the commentaries offered, I took the time to look once more at the prompts and realized I didn't fully answer either of the two I kinda-sorta addressed. Here's round two. I like it more. Also included are the prompts, cause that's rather useful.

1. Tell us about the moment that you knew you were a dramatist and what unique contribution you knew you could make to both your community and the theatre community.
 
AND/OR
 
2. What would your participation in DG’s national conference mean to you as a dramatist? How would it take you to another level in your craft and/or career?
 
AND/OR
 
3. What is the role of the dramatist in the community? What responsibility does a dramatist have? What responsibility does the community have towards a dramatist?

Scholarship Essay, 600 word limit

So the Dramatists Guild is having their annual Conference in La Jolla in July and I have every intention of going. So much so that I've already paid for it. However, they just announced through the Dramatists Guild Fund scholarship opportunities for said Conference. All one has to do is write a brief essay on one of the prompts offered, and this is my submission. Any feedback would be great.