Yesterday, I received the bittersweet news that a play of mine—a ten-minute scene written sporadically over the last couple months “just for fun” (the name of which I momentarily forget as I was on the phone)—has been accepted in a short play competition.
Around 10:45, a phone call interrupted my incredibly productive morning at work. Anticipating a miraculous dream job offer, I answered the vibrating Samsung. Strollers piled up outside my “office,” as I struggled to grasp what the man on the line was saying.
A play of mine called The Concert? In a festival?
“Wow. Really? Thank you.”
What festival? Where is it? When?
“Thanks. Sounds great. Uh, yeah I can be there …”
Where the hell is it? Upstate?
“Uh…”
I don’t have a car.
“Can I take MetroNorth?”
Please? Yes.
“Okay, great.”
When is the festival? How long do I have to pull this together? Omigod, how am I going to do this? I have to be a producer. Again? Chill--you’ve done it before. Write down what he’s saying. There—the newspaper. Jot it … good. When is it?
“Can you email all this to me? Thanks so much. See you Sunday.”
What the hell? Wait … I did it again. Without really trying. Ha. Haha. Hahaha. Sweet. Let’s do this. Wait—when is this happening?
In a month. As part of the competition, I am guaranteed one performance on the weekend of September 4-6. Each of those days will see a performance of four short pieces (under 20 minutes). And if my play is selected by the judges and/or audience, we’ll do it again the next weekend. And if we get through that round, that following Sunday. And yes, there are cash prizes for finalists.
Whew. That was close. It’s been a very long three months—to the day—since my last play, King of the Mountain closed on 42nd St (more time, actually, than it took to produce KOTM). Thankfully, the only seemingly productive thing I was able to accomplish in that interval has born fruit.
Actually, I began writing The Concert on a bus trip College Park, MD in late March to visit some friends at a local university, my alma mater. For whatever reason, inspired slightly by a ten-minute scene from a festival I had worked that winter, I began a scene revolving around a guy and a girl meeting up at party. Actually, I began to describe in vivid, overwrought detail an epic concert I had survived that winter. So, I attributed this passage to the dude. And the girl at the party was also at that concert; and it seems, much to their surprise, they had met there. Well, this was enough to get my pen moving in that shaking bus. But the scene was not complete. No, no, not even ten minutes worth. But I had a seed—a proto-scene. And besides, I was in the midst of producing a play.
And so it sat on my desktop all spring. Occasionally, I’d type out another descriptive monologue, or reorder my disjointed passages. It was just another item on my list of ideas, conceived and sketched, but hardly complete. Frustrated with my progress on a full-length play, I needed a project I could actually finish—and in order to do that, a deadline. A play competition in little Garrison, NY was taking submissions until mid-July. And if I could get the play finished by Independence Day weekend, I could have several writers/family members give it a look before sending it off. And so that’s what I did.
Director and actors. Actors and a director. That’s all I need. As soon as possible. My mind flitted past the set, props, sound, lights—thank God, I’d reduced my production costs and wrote an extremely simple show. I just need the people. I can stage manage, get the props, do sound and lights. But I can’t act in it or direct. They are essential. And I only have one month. Time to pull out the old check list and get to work.
