Listing Details
| ID: | 126 |
| Title: | Splattworks |
| URL: | http://splattworks.blogspot.com/ |
| Category: | Arts, Art & Artists: Literature: Writers Resources: Playwriting |
| Description: | Playwright Steve Patterson looks at theatre, the arts, culture, and politics. |
| Season of the Bitch - 2012-05-12 16:07:00 |
 You got to crank up every pitch You got to crank up every pitch This is the Season of the Bitch Ah, writing. At last count, I've been doing it seriously for...(pause for math)...36 years. (Not counting the short story I spontaneously wrote, unbiddened, at age six, and then demanded my mother type up. Which she did.That'sa mom.) In general, the first four or five years of writing turned out crap. Then, for the next ten years, it turned out more ambitious, somewhat better-crafted crap. After about 15 years, I started writing for the stage, found my form, and put my apprenticeship behind me. I'd achieved what I'd more or less decided to do when I was, uh...six. I became a writer. Which essentially meant I'd found my way out of one maze and entered another. In the process, I've experienced some incredible highs, weathered some dark stretches (when I seriously wondered if it was worth it) and some bleak streaks (when I had no ideas or just didn't feel like picking up a pen), and received more rejections--I prefer the word "bounces"--than I can count. Seriously. I used to decorate the walls of my office--whatever space I'd set aside for writing--with rejection slips. It seemed like a defiant gestures--something aWriterwould do. After awhile, the decor lost its charm, took on the stench of self-pity, and felt slightly masochistic. Now, production posters and cast photos cover the office walls. And, you know, there are a bunch of them. They're a lot easier on the eyes and psyche because they say: you've done it before, you'll do it again. That comes in handy when one enters the Season of the Bitch. Which is to say, over the last month or so, I've submitted a shitload (to use the writer's technical term) of work after a long stretch of basically non-stop writing (you have to grab the work when it's hot and coming in, else it'll spurn you, and you'll lose it), and the little letters and e-mails have started trickling in. One picks up an envelope armed with a letter opener (I prefer a antique Mexican switchblade, compadres) and a bag full of rationalizations: these are tough times; everybody's having a hard time getting produced; there are a ton of good playwrights out there and a limited number of slots; getting bounced means you're in the game; and, as the posters attest, getting produced is not impossible. These help to push away the darker thoughts, which still have a way of sneaking in when you're tired, bummed, or overwhelmed.The game's rigged. Your work's too weird (non-commercial, non-linear, dark, unconventionally structured, and about 100 other choices you've deliberately made). You don't live in New York City. You're not paying off a more or less useless MFA in theatre.And the killer:You suck and you're kidding yourself. If that last one kicks in, it can paralyze you as quick as a curare dart to the neck. Then you have to: distract yourself (in my case, do something creative just for pleasure, but there are plenty of other options available...some of which won't kill you); get back to work with a big, neonFUCK YOUsign flashing over your head; or crank up some fast, furious rock'n'roll and crawl back into the submission machine. If you can do all three without getting lost, the process can actually feel somewhat manageable. Lightning eventually strikes, but, the longer between flashes, the more tempted one is to wise up and get the hell out of the rain. You can, or course. Sometimes you must to dry out. But, if you want to see the process through, inevitably you're going to have to bundle up and head back into the storm. As for the don'ts.... Don't take it out on whoever responds to you.They're doing a job, may have limited clout, and are prey to circumstances you can only guess at. If they're taking time to read scripts, they love theatre and new work just as much as you do, and they may well be another writer dreading the mail/e-mail when they get home. And, brass tacks, they may not like the kind of plays you write...which means you don't want to be produced there anyway. Don't take it out on other playwrights, sucessful or otherwise.They have worn the very same impossible shoes hurting your feet, and, though they might be having a hot year, they might be lacing up the torture shoes 12 months later. Don't take it out on family or friends.They really can't understand how you feel, and, whatever they say, they probably think they're being helpful. That's called love, and should be accepted as such. Also don't avoid them because you think you'll bum them out. Honestly, they're just as eager to tell you all the stuff that's pissing them off; it's a symbiotic relationship. Don't take it out on the job you have to work to pay the bills.They haven't a clue, could care less, and you're lucky to have a gig these days. Society.Yeah, you can take it out on them. But it won't do a damned bit of good, they don't care what you say or do, and it can lead you back into "lost cause" wilderness. And...don't blame yourself.At the moment, you have enough problems. Just try to write as well as you can, and keep going. So. For writers beginning and otherwise (and, I suppose, any artist--and anyone looking for a job). Do you ever get used to those oh-so-polite kicks to the nuts? Nope. Are they avoidable? Not if you want to play. Should you take it personally? No. Will you? A little, even if you won't own up to it. This is the Season of the Bitch.  |
| Levon - 2012-04-19 18:20:00 |
 There are artists, and, let's face it, there areArtists. What divides the two? Talent, mostly. But great artists seem to have an innate integrity. I wouldn't say dignity, because, some artists are, by nature, a little less than digified, and we wouldn't want it any other way. But there's a sense that they comfortably inhabit their own skin, and they're cool with who they are and what they can do. And they love their work. When they're not doing it, they might get a little...ornery. Comes with the territory. When they're doing what they live for, the passion shows through, and, just by watching them, you can taste a bit of what they're feeling. Which brings us to Mr. Levon Helm, who passed today. Normally, I'd say "who died today," but I've noticed that in blues circles, the gents say "he passed." And Levon was all about the blues. He was, of course, the drummer and one of the lead vocalists (along with Richard Manuel and Rick Danko) of The Band, and he was set for history had he never done another thing. But he did. After The Band hung it up in 1976, he formed the Levon Helm RKO All-Stars, and later reunited much of The Band, though Richard Manuel's heartbreaking suicide really put an end to all that. He also proved to be a fine actor, notably stealing the hell out of a pivotal scene in "The Right Stuff" when Sam Shepard, playing Chuck Yeager, asks him for a stick of Beeman's gum. In 1998, Levon developed a lump in his throat, and it turned out to be the worst kind. Not entirely surprising, given he could rip through a pack a cigs in a flash and kept a good stock of sipping whiskey on hand. He could have had his larynx removed, but he opted on having just the tumor excised, followed by radiation treatments. Why? So he could keep his vocal cords. His voice was a little weak for a spell, but it eventually came back, and he kept on drumming and singing his ass off for another 14 years. And he never seemed happier than when he was on stage. Brass tacks, this was the guy who sang "The Weight." He sang a lot of other songs too, most of them plain wonderful, and full of life and humor, freighted with a hard-won realism and livened with a Puckish wit. But if there was ever an indelible mark, it was his three-kick intro to "The Weight" followed by that wry, knowing, wily Southern voice, rich, worn, and weary, singing: I pulled into Nazareth Feelin' 'bout half-past dead (The Nazareth in the song, by the way, was supposedly not the Nazareth where Jesus and his pals hung out, but, rather, Nazareth, Pennsylvania, home of Martin guitars. Which, if Christ returns like they say, wouldn't be a bad place to look for him.) That and the song below, which, basically, is so full and powerful and goddamn tragic that it has become part of the canon. This the is last time all of the original Band played it, on Thanksgiving at San Francisco's Winterland, at the legendary Last Waltz, and if you want to hear the magic that comes with a great artist connecting with his audience, listen for the crowd response to the wind-up for the final chorus. So, you know, it hurts when the artists we love pass on. But Levon Helm and The Band seemed to keep one foot in this world, and one the other side, digging down into what Greil Marcus calls the "old, weird America," and, though I'm sure he wasn't happy about taking a final curtain call, Levon probably found his way through it with a heart and soul as big and brassy and strong as the songs he lived. So...thank you, Mr. Helm: for many blurry nights, a few rough mornings, and all the spaces in between. Nobody's ever going to forget you or your work. And I think that's about all an artist can ask for, whether they start their title uppercase or not.  |
| The Year of Living Tentatively - 2012-01-07 12:41:00 |
 I think I took last year off. I’m just coming to this realization. Mind you, it wasn’t intentional, nor was I entirely idle. I picked up a guitar nearly every day and practiced my ass off (because it was incredibly fun). Not that I improved all that much, but I still did it, damn it. I managed to make serious progress on the guitar book—wrote probably 120 pages, and roughed out a good portion of the book proposal (and I hate writing proposals). Cleaned up a bunch of plays, getting them in better shape. Did a load of theatre market research. In fact, I ended up doing a bunch of things I wanted to do. Writing or staging plays just wasn’t one of them. The year started out so damned well. The staged reading of “Immaterial Matters” was probably one of the best of my career, and I was ready to roll big with that piece and a number of other, recent plays begging world premieres, scaling the theatrical battlements with cutlass and eyepatch. And then...2011 happened. Not just to me, but to almost everybody I knew. It was like everyone took a long, elegant launch off the board...and then hit the water with a stunning belly flop, that immediately emptied the lungs and sent them sinking into the deep end. In my case, I got sick. Some stomach virus or something that turned into three months of nausea and stomach pain, frightening weight loss, lots of tests, and too many doctors, all which amounted to...nothing. It just worked itself out. Then, just about the time I was starting to feel better physically, my dog died. Wham. The whole goddamn year was like that famous old sports footage of the football player who fumbles, and then keeps kicking the ball farther away each time he reaches for it. You'd wake up, stretch, reach for the door...and the doorknob would come off in your hand. I have to admit: I generally do a lot of stuff, keep a lot of plates spinning. Always have; just the way I’m put together, I guess. I’ve often had people say: “I don’t know how you do it.” Which I kind of take a certain pride in, because I don’t really know how I do it either, other than: I just do it. Admittedly, there have been times when I’ve felt “I can’t keep doing this. Not at this pace.” But then I’d get another wind, another project, and I’d be off in another direction. This was the year that didn’t happen. I couldn’t do it. And I didn’t. Everybody seemed to be there. Pulling back. Retrenching. Fighting this or that thing, with a wobbly economy generally freaking the hell out of everyone. A very nervous year. All the surprises seemed to be bad. So the year became defined by things I didn’t do. I didn’t write new plays. I didn’t take new photographs. I didn’t have productions. I didn’t write much on the blog (which you may have noticed). I barely gardened, just letting the damned thing grow itself. The Northwest weather didn’t help. It wasn’t that it rained and was gray: it was that it rained and was gray more or less straight through to July. The weather seemed to imbue even hardcore, indestructible Oregonians with a besieged aura. What now? What next? Finally, somewhere around the middle of September, I began to feel like I was getting a little mojo back. I wrote a few lyrics. I sent a few plays out. I took a few pictures. It was all kind of half-hearted, like I was forcing myself. Eventually, it started to feel more natural. I started to get ideas again. Jeff Beck came to town and inspired the hell out of me. (As Buddy Guy gave me a shot in the arm in early July--a memory I kept coming back to when I felt I was backsliding.) I figure I’ll be working on a new something theatrical fairly soon—the kind of piece that takes off, and then you’re running to keep up with it. I’m thinking about pictures again, looking back at old projects. I checked a gardening book out of the library. They're all baby steps, which still make me a little edgy, but there’s a big difference between butterflies and straight-up dread. Time to dig out Muddy Waters’ “Hard Again” album, the great man’s ninth-inning comeback, to see if I hear it differently. Last time I listened to it, in early 2011, man, it was just the blues.  |