I'm very excited to tell you all about my latest play, but before I extend my hand and make the proper introductions, there's a story to tell.
I've often compared writing a play to childbirth. It's clear from my anatomy that I will never have a baby, and I'm well aware that I have no idea what it's like go through labor (nor will I ever), but the process of writing this particular play, from conception to completion, was about as painful as I imagine childbirth to be. Perhaps even more so.
I normally write a play from start to finish in a couple of days, make a few adjustments, have it staged, make a few additional changes, and send it on its merry way. The process is generally quick, painless, and fun. Writing this play, however, was not quick (it took 10 months), not painless (there were at least a dozen completely different drafts), and certainly not fun (I wanted to burn it on more than one occasion).
Yet no matter how much I wanted to rip out what little hair I have left or throw the pages into Lake Ontario, I kept going back to it because I knew I had something important that I wanted to say. It was just a matter of figuring out how.
The first draft was overly theatrical. I had actors appearing all over the theatre. An ensemble that stomped and stared and yelled. Childhood photos of the actors projected on set pieces. This version had everything but the kitchen sink...and it was brilliant. I found a wonderful group of actors willing to workshop the play. I handed over my masterpiece to them. They brought it to life. And...it didn't work. Didn't Work At All. As it turns out, when you have everything but the kitchen sink, you need the kitchen sink. So I went looking for it.
Draft #2 was bigger and bolder. I put the proverbial kitchen sink center stage. There was not a single word from the original draft in this new version, so it had to be good, right? Workshop again. And guess what? That's right, it was worse. Way worse. For the first time I had actors coming up to me with perplexed looks on their faces. "Mr. Hayward, what does this mean?" Or worse yet: "Do I have to say this?"
Stupid me forged ahead, certain that I could turn "the best idea I've ever had" into something great. Draft 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... None of them improved upon the one that came before it. If anything, I was getting further away from my original idea.
Why was I putting myself through this particular brand of torture? I could never seem to come up with an acceptable answer, so I would put the script away for a while and work on something new. But there was always this voice in the back of my head, an annoying one that sounded a little like Fran Drescher, that kept ordering me to try again. So I kept trying again, then hiding it again. Trying, hiding, trying, hiding. It was awful.
I am grateful to have some wonderful and talented playwright friends; however, I regret to say that I put a few of them in awkward situations by asking them to read these clunky drafts and share their professional opinions. Looking back, I see that what I was really doing was shoving ugly babies into their hands and asking them to tell me how cute they were. For this I am both deeply embarrassed and incredibly sorry.
To be fair, there was one workshop that went over quite well. The students involved managed to mold my baby into something that made sense. The actors thought it was good. The director was very helpful. I thought I finally had it nailed. For one day I was so proud that I could have burst. But then I woke up the next day and did not have the same enthusiasm for it at all. I didn't want anyone to read it because I felt like a fraud. I felt like I had simply willed this half baked play into being. It was the first time I had zero, and I mean ZERO, confidence in what I had written. This play, I Don't Want to Talk About It, was done talking.
Or so I thought.
One morning, completely out of nowhere, a little light bulb went on over my head. I don't know who turned it on, but suddenly I could see what was wrong. I was writing a play called I Don't Want to Talk About It, yet all of the characters seemed to have no trouble talking about it. As a matter of fact, they never shut the hell up. I had to take away their voices. But how?
Give them each a script.
Make them read the words.
But not their own words.
Someone else's words.
Let them talk, but not for themselves.
Let them talk for one another.
And that's how it happened. I stripped away all of the theatrics and turned the play into reader's theatre. The actors sit on stools and read from three ring binders.
Whose words are they reading? His? Hers? Yours?
All of the above.
I started writing and finally, once and for all, it was quick, painless, and fun. This baby had been kicking and screaming inside of me for months, but it wasn't going to come out until it was good and ready.
I gathered a new group of students around a table. They read. When it was all over, silence. Then suddenly they reached out to one another and held hands. It was such an overwhelming moment that I wanted to jump out of my chair and shout for all the world to hear: "It's a boy! It's a girl!"
It's a play.
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT
Genre: Dramedy
Cast: 5-32 actors, gender neutral
Length: 30-35 minutes
Set: Bare stage
Synopsis: This unique play features an ensemble of teenage characters in a series of funny scenes and touching monologues — all about the hopes and fears they can’t, won’t, and don’t want to talk about. Requiring very little staging, settings, and memorization, it’s a terrific piece for tours, competitions, and actors looking to sink their teeth into a variety of complex roles.
To read a free preview, click here.
I've often compared writing a play to childbirth. It's clear from my anatomy that I will never have a baby, and I'm well aware that I have no idea what it's like go through labor (nor will I ever), but the process of writing this particular play, from conception to completion, was about as painful as I imagine childbirth to be. Perhaps even more so.
I normally write a play from start to finish in a couple of days, make a few adjustments, have it staged, make a few additional changes, and send it on its merry way. The process is generally quick, painless, and fun. Writing this play, however, was not quick (it took 10 months), not painless (there were at least a dozen completely different drafts), and certainly not fun (I wanted to burn it on more than one occasion).
Yet no matter how much I wanted to rip out what little hair I have left or throw the pages into Lake Ontario, I kept going back to it because I knew I had something important that I wanted to say. It was just a matter of figuring out how.
The first draft was overly theatrical. I had actors appearing all over the theatre. An ensemble that stomped and stared and yelled. Childhood photos of the actors projected on set pieces. This version had everything but the kitchen sink...and it was brilliant. I found a wonderful group of actors willing to workshop the play. I handed over my masterpiece to them. They brought it to life. And...it didn't work. Didn't Work At All. As it turns out, when you have everything but the kitchen sink, you need the kitchen sink. So I went looking for it.
Draft #2 was bigger and bolder. I put the proverbial kitchen sink center stage. There was not a single word from the original draft in this new version, so it had to be good, right? Workshop again. And guess what? That's right, it was worse. Way worse. For the first time I had actors coming up to me with perplexed looks on their faces. "Mr. Hayward, what does this mean?" Or worse yet: "Do I have to say this?"
Stupid me forged ahead, certain that I could turn "the best idea I've ever had" into something great. Draft 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... None of them improved upon the one that came before it. If anything, I was getting further away from my original idea.
Why was I putting myself through this particular brand of torture? I could never seem to come up with an acceptable answer, so I would put the script away for a while and work on something new. But there was always this voice in the back of my head, an annoying one that sounded a little like Fran Drescher, that kept ordering me to try again. So I kept trying again, then hiding it again. Trying, hiding, trying, hiding. It was awful.
I am grateful to have some wonderful and talented playwright friends; however, I regret to say that I put a few of them in awkward situations by asking them to read these clunky drafts and share their professional opinions. Looking back, I see that what I was really doing was shoving ugly babies into their hands and asking them to tell me how cute they were. For this I am both deeply embarrassed and incredibly sorry.
To be fair, there was one workshop that went over quite well. The students involved managed to mold my baby into something that made sense. The actors thought it was good. The director was very helpful. I thought I finally had it nailed. For one day I was so proud that I could have burst. But then I woke up the next day and did not have the same enthusiasm for it at all. I didn't want anyone to read it because I felt like a fraud. I felt like I had simply willed this half baked play into being. It was the first time I had zero, and I mean ZERO, confidence in what I had written. This play, I Don't Want to Talk About It, was done talking.
Or so I thought.
One morning, completely out of nowhere, a little light bulb went on over my head. I don't know who turned it on, but suddenly I could see what was wrong. I was writing a play called I Don't Want to Talk About It, yet all of the characters seemed to have no trouble talking about it. As a matter of fact, they never shut the hell up. I had to take away their voices. But how?
Give them each a script.
Make them read the words.
But not their own words.
Someone else's words.
Let them talk, but not for themselves.
Let them talk for one another.
And that's how it happened. I stripped away all of the theatrics and turned the play into reader's theatre. The actors sit on stools and read from three ring binders.
Whose words are they reading? His? Hers? Yours?
All of the above.
I started writing and finally, once and for all, it was quick, painless, and fun. This baby had been kicking and screaming inside of me for months, but it wasn't going to come out until it was good and ready.
I gathered a new group of students around a table. They read. When it was all over, silence. Then suddenly they reached out to one another and held hands. It was such an overwhelming moment that I wanted to jump out of my chair and shout for all the world to hear: "It's a boy! It's a girl!"
It's a play.
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT
Genre: Dramedy
Cast: 5-32 actors, gender neutral
Length: 30-35 minutes
Set: Bare stage
Synopsis: This unique play features an ensemble of teenage characters in a series of funny scenes and touching monologues — all about the hopes and fears they can’t, won’t, and don’t want to talk about. Requiring very little staging, settings, and memorization, it’s a terrific piece for tours, competitions, and actors looking to sink their teeth into a variety of complex roles.
To read a free preview, click here.
