Gasp!

Dear Theater Bloggers

I am no longer a member of the theater blogosphere. Theater will no longer be a topic on Gasp, and I will no longer participate in discussions of theater on the blogosphere.

Please adjust your blogrolls accordingly.

Thank you.

I Am Not Your Muse

The entry stands on its own. I won't acknowledge who I'm talking about, so don't ask. I'm not going to reference it either - not that I can since it's in published form. Most likely, this will be my first and last comment on it. Obviously it's about someone profiting from my work. I wondered if I was being professional enough, posting this entry. But then I decided that I wouldn't be a professional if I wasn't angry about it. And I'm beyond angry about it.

It happened again and whenever it happens, it appalls me.

My writing and my ideas have been used as "inspiration" for someone else's work.

That's how we frame these things, right?

Because the assumption, when we put our work out there, is that someone else will take what we've written and "borrow it." They'll take what we've written and expand it, or change a few words and steal an emotional truth or two. Or maybe they'll use our quirky phrasing. Because after all, you can't copyright ideas, or emotional truths or quirky phrasing. Supposedly.

Quite a few people have suggested I speak to a lawyer.

As I've said, this has happened before, in various forms. Instead of pointing the finger outward, I'm wondering why I'm not benefiting from my own work, my own ideas, my own emotional truths. What is preventing that from happening?

I've obviously got something to say. Clearly, my stuff is valuable enough to be stolen. I see ideas that I've originated replicated elsewhere without attribution. My writing pops up in the oddest places.

Now I'm watching someone profit off something that was mine. My writing. My life.

This entry will sound egotistical. It will make it sound like I think I'm brilliant. Maybe I am, since someone is profiting off my stuff.

I'm surprised when writers do this each other. Really, it shocks me. But then, I shouldn't be shocked because only one of us is a true writer. Real writers, you see, come up with their own stories, their own truths. Real writers don't have to steal ideas because they have enough of their own. If they expand on someone else's stuff, they acknowledge it.

Which, of course, is not what happened here.

A few years ago, I wrote a series of playwriting essays for an international writing website. This site had far more visitors than I ever knew. Some of my essays found their way into European universities. Of course, I didn't find out about it until I Googled my name. Of course, I wondered why I had a shithole job as a receptionist, when my writing was being used as the basis of lessons in Europe. Of course, I didn't highlight this fact as much as I should have. Because it's only in telling people time and time and time again that you're brilliant. Only then will they actually believe that you are brilliant. Only then, does it seem, that you're recognized for your ideas.

This goes against what I believe. I thought that if you were brilliant, you should just be brilliant. You shouldn't have to tell people time and time and time again that you are brilliant. That your ideas deserve merit. They would figure it out on their own. Your ideas and creations would shine on their own. It would be apparent.

I didn't count on other people walking around saying how brilliant they were and using my ideas. I didn't count on that. Just like I didn't count on people taking my essays without dropping me a note and telling me. I felt like a crappy writer back in 2003, while my stuff was being used in colleges and high schools. It would've helped me to know that my writing had that kind of value. Especially since I was struggling so much with my finances and general direction in life. I was deeply depressed and ill and it would've helped my spirits to know that I was reaching people at that level. That, to me, would've been a nice profit at that juncture in life.

I work hard on this blog. The ideas I present here, the emotional truths I write - these are things I'm proud of. I'm intensely pleased with Gasp lately. Over the past few months, two Fox affiliates in different cities have chosen to link to me. I haven't talked about it here because if you're reading this right now, I'm writing this to communicate to you and not to impress you. In reality, you really shouldn't give a rat's ass who else reads this blog.

As well, I'm proud of my work. I don't spin myself as an intellectual, but I live an intellectual life. I read constantly. I think about ideas and sometimes I even float a few here on Gasp. I don't announce myself as being an intellectual because it should be apparent. I write in a way that most people will understand. I want to be understood. Part of being an intellectual is having your own ideas. Part of being a writer is being understood.

But I do get tired of the bluster. I get tired of those who announce their brilliance to others. I don't know why those in power, those who can make a writer's life easier don't see these people for what they are. It seems that in order to get taken seriously, you have to present yourself as the "authority." Even when others around you know the truth.

I don't want to be part of a scene where people are so phony. I don't want my writing, my ideas, my life or my emotional truths appropriated. For those who want to talk about my stuff, at least have the decency to acknowledge where you got it from.

And for those who choose to use my writing in college classrooms or for lectures, acknowledge me. Send me an email to tell me that you are doing it.

And if you profit off my stuff, I will sue your ass.

And to the latest hack son-of-a-bitch writer who appropriated my stuff, I know who you are. And you know who you are. You know that you're less of a writer for doing it. So no matter where you go or whatever success comes your way, you'll know that you're a fraud. You see, as a real writer, I have countless things to say, countless truths to uncover. And you, apparently, have nothing original except for what you steal.

Have a nice life, you fucking piece of shit. Karma's a bitch.

Book Review: Manhattan

Manhattan
by Neal Travis
Crown Publishers, 1979, 212 pages

This book ended up in Decatur, Alabama where I bought it for a dime and I would love to know how it happened. How could a book, about beautiful New Yorkers wind up in a thrift store shack?

The main character is the New York magazine called Manhattan. All of the characters are tied into the magazine. The publisher, Michael Glennon, must fight a hostile takeover of his empire. Jamie Kilgour, a gay gossip columnist, wants to prove his worth as a reporter. Both Glennon and Harry Cave, Managing Editor, are having an affair with Jane, Glennon’s secretary.

Peripheral characters are patterned after famous people. Leon Spielberg is similar to Stephen, except that he’s a 70-year old bald director. Glenda Davis is a dead-ringer for Bette, and Louise appears to be a nod to Linda Ronstadt. These little character asides are fun, but also distracting.

"Tales of the City" by Armistead Maupin was published in 1978, and "Manhattan" is reminiscent of it. Whereas Maupin wrote about the characters and their relationships with each other, Travis writes about the space between the characters. Which is to say, he’s writing about thin air. The pace of the book is fast, too fast to get to know anybody.

Perhaps it mimics life in the Big City. In between the mafia, bricks of cocaine, famous locales, and pseudo-celebs, there’s very little substance. Maybe that’s why the apple on the cover looks like more like tomato.

Chewing Erasers

I can't be the only one in the world who approaches each new writing assignment with a complete lack of confidence. Every week, as deadline looms, I sit at my desk nervously wondering if this is the week that I'll come up with absolutely nothing. Phrases that don't fit, ideas awkwardly stated, a full deck of failure.

When I write plays, I don't have these issues. I approach an assignment nervous, but excited. Sure, I have my neurotic head weirdness, but I also feel exhilarated. I don't think about rejection. I don't worry about failure. Even the times that I wrote on deadline for a public reading, like at Raw Impressions for instance, I didn't concern myself with these kinds of fears. I just listened for the characters.

Playwriting comes easily for me. It feels natural. When I decided to go in this other direction, I knew that it would be like learning a new language. That's why I started blogging years ago. I wanted to learn another form of writing.

It will get easier. I know I'm not the only one who goes through confidence issues. Discomfort means growth, so the best thing to do is keep being uncomfortable.

Book Review: Secrets of a Former Fat Girl

In yesterday's Birmingham News, my review of Secrets of a Former Fat Girl: How to Drop Two, Four (or More!) Dress Sizes - and Find Yourself Along the Way, by Lisa Delaney. Read it online.

Organizing Information

Last week, Intermission compared organizational software packages. She’s writing an historical drama involving plenty of research. Since I’ve had some experience with that kind of thing, we had an off-blog discussion on how to organize jpgs and notes.

For my project on 1968, I have between 10,000 and 15,000 pages of documents, not including secondary sources and hand-written notes. In short order, I expect to have more pages to sift through.

How am I organizing it all?

Since most of my docs were from the National Archives, I borrowed their system. When I photographed docs from an LBJ folder, I named it the same in my computer file. All master folders were named after their LBJ counterparts.

After each visit, I spent weeks logging information – old fashioned note-taking. It was disturbing material, so at least I wasn’t bored.

For the organizations that had no set system, I named folders for the key information contained within them.

The secondary material – which is probably something more like 25 books or so (I’m guessing) – is sitting on my bookshelf. If I couldn’t own the book, I made sure I took good notes and footnotes.

I did transfer my written notes to a Word program. That helped, because I could do a find on certain words. Very convenient when you’re working late at night.

Given the choice, I don’t know if I’d use a software to organize all of these documents. My organizational issues have forced me to focus on the information closely.

Book Review: See You in a Hundred Years by Logan Ward

In the Sunday arts section, my review of See You in A Hundred Years: Four Seasons in Forgotten America by Logan Ward.

For background on the book, read Bob Carlton's interview with Logan Ward, where he explains why a New Yorker would dump modern conveniences, move to a Southern town, and live in an old farmhouse.

I know it sounds vaguely familiar, but at least I don't milk goats.

The Mailer Meister & Motown

If I was in Manhattan, I would avoid the asbestos by hanging out at "The Mistress and The Muse: The Films of Norman Mailer." Events commence this Sunday, 4:30 p.m. at the Walter Reade Theater in Lincoln Center. His television appearances on the Dick Cavett Show will run Tuesday through Aug. 5 at the Paley Center. Since I (heart) Dick Cavett and Norman Mailer, I would give the left tip of my pinkie-finger to be there.

The rest of us will have to be content with reading Mailer's interview with Michael Chaiken. The Village Voice offers more thoughts on Mailer's film career.

By the way, ever read Adele Mailer's memoir of her marriage to Norman? The Last Party is a harrowing account of her union with the meister/master during his early years of fame. He also stabbed her with a penknife, putting her in ICU.

Some people claim that Adele's book was all about revenge, but I disagree. While I'm a big fan of the Mailer Meister, stories from the Silent Generation - women from the 50s and early 60s - need to be told. Adele was a talent in her own right. The Last Party provides wonderful insight into mid-century sexism among the cultured classes.

From what I understand, she's been active in the NY theater and art world. Anyone know anything about that?

While on my imaginary trip to NYC, I'd also pick up a copy of today's Wall Street Journal. An article by Julia Vitullo-Martin titled The Day the Music Died on page W11 (National Edition) features a very good story about the effects that the 1967 Detriot riots had on Motown. Did you know that Martha Reeves is a Detriot City Council member? Neither did I. Now I'll be singing "Jimmy Mack" for the rest of the day.

No free link to the WSJ story, so buy the copy or subscribe online.

Street Cred Continued

Yesterday’s post lingered for quite a while in my mind, so a follow-up is in order.

It’s unfortunate that the words “street cred” got so much attention, as it wasn’t the featured sentiment – or at least it wasn’t supposed to be – of my last post. The main gist of what I was attempting to say was this:

Drifting away from theater is bittersweet. It’s sad, but I’m also a hell of a lot happier.

Not having “street cred” in an old world, i.e. what I call “institutional mainstream theater” simply means that I’m no longer a part it. I don’t live in NYC. I can’t tell you what the latest plays are there. I can’t talk about something I know nothing about. As well, I don’t want to go back to NYC, so my “street cred” in terms of that world is low.

When I left NYC, I said goodbye to that world. It was an active choice on my part. The statement about “street cred” was a reflection about a closed door.

The idea of sending my plays up to NYC while living in Alabama is banished. I don’t have the time, the desire or the inclination.

I’m not currently looking for any “street cred.” Perhaps people are so used to hearing others whine about theater, something like “Why am I not accepted! Why don’t people like my work!” that it’s hard for them to hear the phrase, “I don’t care one way or the other.” But that’s where I am right now.

I don’t desire credibility from anyone in theater. I’m happy where I am. My writing shows up in one of the top 100 newspapers in the country, in a publication that won a 2007 Pulitzer. Why would I need street cred from anyone in theater?

The intention behind yesterday’s post was this: Unless something strikes my fancy, I’m probably not going to be writing about theater all that much. I don’t think I have a whole lot to say about it right now. That could change, but that’s how I’m seeing it.

Book Review: Running Home

My review of RUNNING HOME, 35 Moving Meditations, by Toby Estler was published in Monday's Birmingham News. Read all about it here.