I love writing. I hate writing. It’s a fickle relationship. Writers love to read. We love great books and great writers…unless we are struggling ourselves. Then we resent them, their books and the awards they rode in on. (Or is that just me?)But still, on we plod. We always envision a double chocolate pudding mousse cake as we begin, but once complete, we sometimes feel as if we have produced yet another holiday fruitcake. Heavy, dry and nobody wants it.
I've been a writer all my life. I wrote in secret as a child, and only shared what teachers assigned. It felt...invasive. Writing, really, was just for me. Once I found the courage to share my work with a broader audience, I also found a voice and purpose that came as a welcome surprise. Historically anxious and shy, I discovered I actually enjoyed connecting with other people through my writing. Much of my work has been for students. I have five plays written, published and being performed at schools and community theatres around the world. I’ve had the honor to see my work staged. I’ve seen my words touch people. I’ve made them laugh. It’s a powerful experience to know you’ve somehow connected with total strangers.
When someone asks me what I do—what I AM, my first instinct is to say, “I am a writer.” I have to remember that I am employed as a teacher. It’s funny because while I don’t always love being a teacher, I do love teaching, and I’m confident that I’m good at it. My experiences with writing have made me a better teacher of literature and writing. But in modern parlance, I don’t identify as a teacher. I don’t make enough money as a writer to claim it as a career. Sure, I’ve bought a few computers and other toys and taken a few nice vacations, but my five year plan from ten years ago to be out of teaching and writing full time, well, that hasn’t happened. I’m still waiting to become what I want to be when I grow up.
Reaching for Respect
Epic fail? I can’t help but think so, sometimes. I have already achieved more than I ever thought I could in so many aspects of my life, but have fallen short of several writing goals. And the life clock seems to be ticking more quickly every year. When you tell people you write for young people, you can feel the respect sucked right out of the conversation. Like when you tell people you’re an elementary certified teacher. Nearly every grandma, parent and teacher I meet says they have a great idea for a book they’ll write someday too, when they get a minute. I mean, who wouldn't want something published? Like teaching, writing for kids is something everyone thinks they can do. And I’ve grown tired of working so hard at jobs that people, at times even my own friends, family--and even superiors and colleagues--don’t respect. I aspire to more. I’m ashamed to admit that I crave validation before my clock stops.
One annoyance with being a playwright is that when you tell people you are a writer, they expect you to hand them a book. Or mention a movie they've seen. Something more tangible than hearing that you have had a play staged in a school somewhere in Zimbabwe. I often hear: ‘But what books have you written?’ and ‘Can I be in that movie you’re writing?’ Well, my agent has been trying to sell one of my books, but that can take years. A second was rejected. Two others sit nearly done in my laptop, but I'm paralyzed with self-doubt right now, so I’m eating a lot of cookies lately. And that movie thing is a long shot for a woman, especially at my age. That answer is only comprehensible to other writers.
Success, Dreams and Happy Talk
But is the idea of having goals a victory in itself? My first goal was simply to be published. Anywhere. First thing I ever submitted was accepted. More followed. I’ve freelanced for print media, been in newspapers, magazines and websites. I’d never have envisioned a shiny new book on a store shelf, or a movie on a big screen if I hadn’t first written a play for my middle school. Success breeds success, and others followed. Each one published. But I have to admit I want to play in the big leagues. It’s okay to dream, right? South Pacific’s mysterious native Bloody Mary sings a song called "Happy Talk": You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?
I’m struggling with my dream lately, feeling more quit than grit, mostly because the writing world is a lonely one; a solitary waiting game that moves at a snail’s pace. And I’m not a very spiritual person, but life--or Bloody Mary, sometimes send exactly the message we need to hear. One needs only to be willing to listen.
Message Received
In the midst of my latest writing crisis of faith, my laptop dinged with a Google alert linked to the title of one of my school plays—that very first one from years ago, an award-winner, but now the source of some occasional feelings of inferiority because I’m still ‘just’ a school playwright. The alert contained an article from a newspaper in Humboldt, Saskatchewan, Canada. Humboldt sounded familiar, so I absently wondered if I’d already heard this school was staging the show. I opened it, as I usually do, mildly happy and satisfied to see a headline about someone staging one of my shows. My inner Sally Field mumbled a perfunctory ‘They like me.’
Validation. I thought that was the message.
It wasn’t.
As a school theatre director, I’ve seen the excitement in young actors’ eyes when they get cast, the nervous energy that precedes a performance, and the euphoric high that arrives as the curtain falls and they realize that it’s gone off without a major hitch. I’ve seen parents take photos of their young stars, award them bouquets of flowers, and bring grandma to the matinee. I know photos of my shows end up in family scrapbooks. I’ve even signed autographs and posed for pictures myself with student casts that I have visited. Those are the good days. Proud days. Days that make you remember that writing isn't really about us, the writers; it's about the people who receive our work and make it their own.
So when that alert signaled that my play was going up someplace in Canada, I was proud that they had chosen my work. But there was still that deep-rooted dissatisfaction bubbling alongside. I clicked the link and began to read.
The article said the school, Humboldt Collegiate Institute, had been due to stage my play last April, but the show was canceled due to the ‘events of April 6th.' No further explanation was given. It was said the way we say ‘the events of 9/11.’ Like you should just know. I shifted in my chair and thought harder, going from playwright mode to citizen of the world. A nagging feeling crept into my consciousness and I did a quick search to confirm it.
Fickle, this writing life. That dissatisfaction bubble? Burst. Gone with it were any selfish thoughts of inadequacy, of insecurity because I had ‘just’ written a few school plays that would never see the lights on Broadway. You see, this article wasn't about me, or my goals or my successes or failures. Not at all.
Events of April 6th
On April 6, 2018, Humboldt lost fifteen members of a junior hockey team in a bus wreck. A lost hockey team in a Canadian town. An incredible loss of life, and more than a dozen young dreams that would never come true. My son is a broadcaster for college and junior hockey teams here in the northeast. Of course, he dreams of bigger arenas. We had talked about that crash and felt awful for that small community.
And now, months later and beginning a new school year, kids in that same small community were determined to finish what they had started. They were intent on staging my play, The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower, a comedy about kidnapping a teacher only to find the principal doesn’t want her back. There’s a deeper message, of course, of someone having more faith in you than you have in yourself. Humboldt still wanted those words, my words, on their stage as they heal from the unthinkable. Many in the original cast returned. Graduates were replaced. The show went on.
I didn’t get to see it, but I would have liked to. I’d have liked to shake hands or offer hugs or just applaud the performance and the resilience of the community. I'd have liked to simply say 'I'm sorry.' And thank you. As with hockey, there is a certain kinship among all theatre folk, but I don’t know any of Humboldt’s students, teachers, or the families that sat in the audience for those shows. And they don’t know me, a sometimes frustrated middle aged teacher/writer in upstate New York. But we are forever connected through those words and their stage. I don’t think I could be prouder if I had suddenly achieved each and every one of my dreams.
So, for today at least, being ‘just’ a playwright for a few school plays is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine. It’s happy talk, a dream come true.
I'll still waffle my way along the writing journey for a while longer, loving it and hating it, because I know it isn't really about me. Writing is about the people who might, perchance, connect with it, experience it, and make it their own.
Break a leg, #Humboldtstrong. And thank you for the message. I am honored and humbled that my words have become a tiny part of your story.
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| The cast & crew of the Humboldt Collegiate Institute production of The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower (DiscoverHumboldt.com) |
Link to original article here
The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower is available from Pioneer Drama Services, Ltd.
