Gasp!

Undefined

Sickness is an allowance. It provides time and space to reconsider choices.

Over the past few days I’ve been thinking about labels: playwright, writer, reviewer, critic, whatever, blah, blah.

I thought about how I’ve tried to fit into a hole: “Oh, I’ll be (fill in the blank.)” or “(Fill in the blank) is what I’m doing now.”

I don’t know how I became preoccupied with providing descriptions of who I am. Perhaps it was the slug line exercise: Create a sound byte describing yourself as a writer.

I wonder who benefits from these descriptions. Marketing people? Agents? Because boxes don’t benefit creators.

Rather than letting the work define itself, those descriptions define and limit people.

It's time to dump all that. I will no longer tell people that I’m (fill in the type of writer).

Maybe who I am hasn’t been invented yet.

Project 1968, my blog docu-novel

Long-time readers will remember a play I wrote that I talked about back in 2006 to early 2007 called: War is Kind: The 1968 Democratic Convention. It was the story of two young women in 1968 - a campaign worker for Senator Eugene McCarthy and a peace activist. The first act of the play followed the events from January to July of that year. The second act was the convention itself, including the riots.

I spent just about 18 months in Austin, Texas researching the play at the LBJ Presidential Library. I also went to the Chicago Historical Society, as well as the National Archives in Chicago to conduct research. I dug through many used books, collected ephemera, and made every attempt to bring an historically accurate version of events to the stage.

This story is important because the perspective of women from that time period has been largely ignored. This is due to the rampant sexism of that period. There was a reason, after all, that the women's movement gained momentum - just after 1968. McCarthy's story has also been ignored. He hasn't been given the credit he truly deserves for the role he played that year.

I was not alive back then. This is an advantage. I'm not plagued by the nostaligic baggage of those who are still invested in memories of their youth. I will publicly admit, for the first time, that I'm a political agnostic. For me, the question isn't who I will support in 2008 - it's whether or not I'll vote. After all, the last time I voted in a presidential election was in 1992. There are a number of reasons for that, which is just one of the reasons I chose to write this story.

After the third draft of the play was completed back in 2006, I began submitting it to development organizations throughout the country. I needed to hear the play out loud to get a better understanding of where I was in the writing process. Theater is an art that requires community. I was lucky enough to get a reading from Austin Scriptworks, which helped a great deal. After that, I edited the play rather mercilessly. When the fifth draft was completed, I once again attempted to get a reading of it. That's when I hit a brick wall. No development organizations would touch it, and I couldn't get a reading of the play anywhere.

Several agents looked at the fifth draft. One well-known agent said "It is original, well written and constructed with good parts and makes a valuable contribution to the understanding of the historical period." Despite that, she wasn't sure if it would be "commercially viable" in New York. But could she keep a copy of it anyway?

Another agent thought the play was a good idea, but alas, I didn't have the proper resume to have written it.

For a while after that, I tried to get readings - without luck. Finally, there came a point when I just didn't have the money to continue submitting the play. It also seemed like a losing proposition. Either I pay my bills or pay reading fees and postage. Since this project was entirely self-funded, meaning no grant money either, I had no other choice than to shelve the play.

My friends and family, however, had other ideas. They insisted that I do something with the story because it was worthwhile and needed to be told. I had gotten so much positive feedback from "audience members" that it was beginning to seem that the only people who didn't want to do something with the story were theater people.

Last year, I committed to blogging the story. Taking a play, which was a macro version of events and whittling it down to a day by day accounting required more research, more writing and more thought. Sometimes, I wasn't sure if it would be worth the effort, but I figured at the very least I would finally have a voice for my work. That alone would make it worthwhile.

And so today, on Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday, I'm launching Project 1968, a blog docu-novel about the lives of two young women during that turbulent year. As the sidebar says, "Janine Stephenson, an 18-year old freshman from the University of Wisconsin, took the semester off to campaign for Senator Eugene McCarthy. She is accompanied by her best friend, Becca.

Amy, an anti-war protester, works at a well-known peace group in Chicago.

Links to source notes, ephemera and commentary are located at the bottom of many entries. Comments are allowed on these back pages."

Project 1968 will be updated daily.

I had some domain-mapping issues, so for the next few days, you can reach the site by www.project1968.com. It will be a dot net very soon.

Since this is brand new territory, I'll be tweaking the site as I go. The sidebars will say different things. The comments are moderated, for the moment. We'll see how it goes. The subject matter is volatile, but the moderation may be temporary.

I'll discuss other thoughts and issues with the creation of this project periodically on this blog. Otherwise, welcome to the world of 1968, though the eyes of Janine and Amy.

Dream Bit

This morning I had a dream that said I should write plays along with everything else. Sigh.

A Writing Exercise

This is one of the oddest things I've seen. I know it's Britney Spears, but if you can get beyond that for a minute. There are a few thing to notice about it.

A) They are taking so many pictures. Why? Can the paps really sell all of those pictures?

B) Notice how one of the photogs hands Brit and her sis their coffees. What kind of relationship does that imply?

C) Notice how the photogs defend Brit and her sis against the "intruder." How symbiotic is that?

D) Notice what happens when her sister defends them against the "intruder." How odd is that?

E) Notice how Brit asks the photographers to keep the "intruder" away. What does that imply about the relationship?

F) Can you imagine 15 photographers taking pictures of your every move? What kind of life would you have if you were in her position? (Not as far as anything else. Just having those photogs around you all the time.)

Step away from the fact that its Britney. Just look at the group dynamics. Try to compare it to a situation in your own life. Can you come up with one?

Remedies

The University sent me an email to let me know that things will be rectified. It appears to be an honest mistake and I'm satisfied with the results. I have yet to hear from the other folks.

I know I sound like a big ogre about of this. There's a sentiment out there that nothing should be protected by copyright. Since it's creative work, it belongs to everyone.

While I'm as idealistic as the next person, I'm also practical. A brick layer works hard for his money. No one looks at him and say, "You know, your brick wall serves society. Therefore, you should donate your time and money and receive no compensation other than our gratitude."

Part of the reason I left theater was because of what I perceived to be a lack of respect for writers. No money, no union and lots of people claiming ownership for your work. It's an odd way to treat your visionaries. Yes, I'm calling playwrights - visionaries. They are the idea people. Without their ideas and dialogue, you have improv.

As a writer, I'm in the idea profession. It is my job to come up with ideas/stories/ and write them down. That's what I do.

Of course, that's not all I do. For the past 17 years, I've worked a slew of day jobs in tandem with spending many hours writing. It's been a difficult balance. I've delayed dating, starting a family and a whole host of other stuff just so I could continue writing.

You guys who are also writers know all of this. But perhaps it needs to be restated. And my fellow writers, let me leave you with one final thought about all of this: When you allow someone to infringe on your copyright, you are setting a dangerous legal precedent. A lawyer warned me about this a month or two ago. When someone infringes about your copyright and you choose not to defend it each and every time, you are basically allowing people to steal your work each and every time. Copyright is not selective. You either own it or you don't. You demonstrate you own it, or you don't. You can't defend it in one instance and allow it in another.

That was my understanding with the lawyer. Should I say that it doesn't constitute legal advice and to consult your own attorney? Consider it said.

History in present time

Whenever I undertake a history project, I end up living in two time frames – the past and the present.

Since beginning this project 10 days ago, I’ve lost the present. Tuesday is Thursday; Wednesday slipped by and Friday was a surprise.

So now it’s Monday again. A whole week has faded into something other than a memory. I haven’t thought anything about the present. I’ve read books – other than the ones I review - but have nothing to share about them.

Instead, I’m thinking about the time period I’m writing about, and I’m spending time with people who don’t exist, in situations that have already happened.

Maybe this week, I’ll work out the dichotomy between the past and the present. Between what’s in my head and what actually exists in the current time frame.

Therein lies the answer.

What's Nice about Silence

“Silence is a great source of strength."
---Lao Tzu

There’s nothing wrong with talking to yourself. Dialogue isn’t always necessary. The fact is, it’s a distraction. With so much chatter, with so much noise, it’s hard to hear anything important.

What’s nice about silence is what you can hear. Having finally taken the leap, I’ve begun thinking of projects that I’ve put on hold for several years. Books, short stories, essays. For three years, I’ve been distracted by dialogue.

Though it’s been fun… sometimes.

In the ebb and flow of creativity, there’s silence. There’s no need to justify yourself when you’re the only one in the room. Maybe that’s why I always liked being alone.

What’s nice about silence is not having to defend myself.

Creativity is the stillness before the scream.

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.

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.

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.