Imposter Syndrome

The following is my weekly TheaterMakers Studio newsletter, dated June 28, 2023:

Similar to the “blank page blues,” this week’s focus is on a malady that pretty much everybody in our industry has struggled with to varying degrees, yet I think writers take the lion’s share of…

Imposter Syndrome.

I’m sure you’ve all heard of this illogical illness, but if not: Imposter Syndrome is that feeling of not belonging alongside one’s peers. That somehow your status or success is undeserved (or shouldn’t exist).

I’m not going to lie… I feel this way ALL THE TIME.

Now, let’s be clear… “success” is a sliding scale and there are as many ways to measure it as there are people to perceive it. Am I a TONY winner? No. Has my writing been on Broadway? Not yet. Does that make me any less of a success?

Eh.

The honest answer is: no, but it feels like it sometimes…

Because being a “success” as a writer can sometimes just mean that I found an hour out of my week to actually work on my script (when I’m not doing my office work, working on other people’s projects, spending time with my family, etc). And it is easy to look around you and see other people “succeeding” and be discouraged or feel as though your own accomplishments pale in comparison.

Again, I am guilty of this as well.

I read last week that a colleague of mine just had two productions announced (come on, TWO?!) and I felt that pang of “man… I wish that was me…” and felt bad for myself for a moment, but then I remembered that important news had recently come up for one of my own shows. Were they printed up in Playbill? No. But they were important milestones for the quiet development of the piece. I had a success, even if it wasn’t flashy.

We’re all moving at our own pace. And that’s okay.

Try not to constantly measure yourself with someone else’s ruler, and keep an eye out for the wins you do have. Give yourself achievable, manageable goals and keep taking them on. I guarantee those wins will get bigger as you go.

That brings me to another contributing factor to imposter syndrome in our field: the definition of what it even means to be “a writer.”

A few years back a friend of mine was finally at a point in her life where she was able to make the big, scary choice to quit her job and focus on writing full-time (and it’s funny, even just writing this shows the weird bias we have around writing… her “job” was the thing she did during business hours and her writing was somehow this OTHER thing, despite it being just as, if not more, important than her “job”). Now her JOB was WRITING. By even the most draconian of standards, everyone would agree she was a WRITER.

But she was always a writer (and she would agree).

It’s not an all-or-nothing game… You don’t have to be writing full-time to be a writer.

You don’t have to be making money off of your writing to be a writer.

Heck, a lot of the time you don’t even have to be WRITING to be a writer (writers spend a whole lot more time observing, analyzing, and thinking than they do actually creating output).

There is nothing quantifiable about the term writer that should make you afraid to use it or apply it to yourself. There is no reason why Tom Stoppard or Dominique Morisseau are any more writers than someone writing on weekends with only one unproduced one-act under their belt. They may walk more red carpets and have more awards, but you and they are all writers. We all have goals, we all have things to learn, and we all have obstacles. Let the successes of others fuel you, but never let them make you feel as though you don’t belong or that you are anything less than what you are.

Did you write, are you writing, or will you be writing? If yes, then you’re a writer.

END OF PLAY.

The Most Important Part of Your Script

The following is my weekly TheaterMakers Studio newsletter, dated June 21, 2023:

This topic may seem a bit random, but it is one that is important to me (and plenty of other folks who read as many scripts as I do). It’s also one that will have a HUGE impact on how you collaborate with other TheaterMakers.

It may just be the most important thing in your script.

It’s…

(Wait for it…)

Your stage directions.

Bet you weren’t expecting that answer.

Yes… dialogue is very important. And yes… so are concept, structure, character, and plotting.

However, stage directions are the thing that is truly unique about dramatic texts (and yes, for the sake of the following argument I am ignoring published texts that simply codify the staging of the production of note...).

This is perhaps a bit circuitous, but go with me here:

In many ways plays and musicals share with fine and other performing arts a similar relationship between the art (in this case, your text) and the audience: content is created by an Artist that then undergoes two layers of interpretation. Directors, Designers, and Actors provide the first layer of interpretation in a similar manner as Gallery Curators - mediating the relationship between the content and the audience by deciding where a piece is presented, how it is presented, etc (don’t believe me? check out this great article about gallery lighting that I found particularly… illuminating…). In the second layer, theatrical audience members are the same as viewers at a gallery, taking in the content and assigning their own interpretations and meaning.

What makes our situation as Dramatists so unique is that, unlike most Sculptors or Painters, we have the opportunity to communicate directly with the people who mediate the relationship between our art and the audience. That’s where stage directions come in. Not only do we get to provide the content, we can dictate some of the terms of their interpretation: perform THIS action THIS way, cross the stage with THIS intentionality, etc.

That’s a tremendous amount of power.

And it is tempting to wield it like an iron club, forcing any and all comers to submit to our particular vision of the story. And that makes sense… it is your story, right? You likely see it very clearly in your mind’s eye and you want to do everything you can to inform Performers and Directors of what you see and intend.

And that’s great... If you’re writing a screenplay.

But the theater is a collaborative art. It might often feel like it, but we are not alone as writers of drama. Once our job is “finished,” dozens of others begin - and once the script is out of our hands, we begin to relinquish control over its interpretation. That’s where things can get a little scary… and where the urge to keep an iron grip on the content can creep in…

I have seen hundreds of scripts where well-meaning writers attempt to control interpretation of the text by directing from the page with copious notes regarding precise movements, assigning adverbs for every line, and scenic descriptions down to the thread count of the sheets and the height of the pile on the rug… and what that does is suck out all of the room for interpretation and ingenuity on the part of your artistic collaborators (because that’s what your Director and Designers are). Directing from the page locks directors and designers into simply executing a To-Do list when crafting your show rather than building a sandbox for them to play in with you.

The best scripts I see provide spare stage directions that don’t dictate terms… they invite people in.

My favorite stage direction I’ve ever read?

(He flies.)

It’s my favorite because not only is it just poetic in its simplicity, it is one of the most exciting launching pads I’ve ever seen. How does he fly? With what does he fly (if anything)? What does it look like? Sound like?

You can make this stage direction happen with a production budget of $4.3 million or $4.30 - and they both could be just as emotionally compelling and breathtaking.

And the key to it is that the Writer was brave enough to let others take an idea and run with it.

The important thing to remember in collaborative arts like ours is that, ideally, everyone coming to work on your show A) has the script’s best intentions at heart and B) is an expert in their own field, so trust them and give them room to bring their talent, intellect, personal history, and ingenuity to interpreting your text. They’ll often surprise you by discovering things about your show that you never could have dreamed, and possibly could have missed out on had you not opened the door for an artistic conversation.

And if you want to make sure your Actors always interpret your lines as intended? Make sure the intention is IN the lines, NOT in the stage direction.

Write on!

Raising Your Artistic Babies: Sometimes it Takes a Village to Learn to Let it Go

Note: this post was originally published May 16, 2018 on the Producers Perspective (and apologies for the ridiculously long title…)

I’ve been thinking about collaboration a lot recently.

As a dramaturg who works with writers and composers of all stripes, and as a writer myself, collaboration is 99% of what I do every day. Every word of feedback I provide, every talkback or Writer’s Group I run, every note of encouragement… it’s all part of trying to help someone create the best possible work that they can.

Sometimes that collaboration can be hard work, however. Sometimes it’s difficult to hear that something isn’t being received the way you hope it will, or you’re afraid that you’re losing your own artistic voice in the development process.

A client of mine wrote me the other day with concerns regarding whether they should fight for what is “theirs” or go with the flow of collaboration and see where it all takes them. The analogy of children and nannies was bandied about, an idea that seems all the more relevant to me as I balance work with raising a 14-month old: both you and your caretakers theoretically have the best interests of your child in mind (just as you and your collaborators do with your project), yet new perspectives, ideologies and methods can seem foreign or unwelcome until common ground is found.

But that first time you put your baby out there in the world, allowing yourself to trust in the abilities of someone else… it’s absolutely terrifying.

The first day that my wife and I left our precious baby alone with a babysitter we were nearly as petrified with fear as we were the first day the hospital said “yeah, you’re all set… take him home (I’m sorry, what? Who said that we’re capable of this responsibility? Where’s the training manual?!).” We clung to our phones like life preservers, fighting the urge to text or call to check in, sighing with relief at each thumbs up or happy baby pic she sent.

In the end, my wife and I had to agree (as did my client) that our friends at Frozen have the right idea… sometimes you just have to… Let it go… (cue collective artistic groan) and trust those that we have chosen to share our life/project/baby with.

There are many of us, however, who tend to work in a bit more of a vacuum. We live and write, uncertain whether we are going down the right path or unclear whose opinion we should seek out. Friends and family are no longer quite helpful enough when they simply smile and encouragingly state “it’s great!” Their support is meaningful, but the actionable value of their feedback is limited.

As I come to the end of our first experiment with year-long Writer’s Groups, I’ve been struck by how a group of strangers, many of whom have been operating in just such a vacuum, have grown both in their ability to receive and act on feedback both positive and constructive, but have also learned how to communicate their own emotional and academic responses to other people’s work. Conversations become tailored to the person who is receiving feedback, and, in the end… we’ve all become collaborators. We all have the best interests of each other’s babies at heart, and our own experience and tales come to bear in helping to raise them to be clear, vital and valuable to our community. We may not have an active hand in constructing the work, but our feedback, support and care have aided our fellow artists. To cop from another Broadway giant… we are not alone.

This is all to say: my Writer’s Groups are one of the best things about my job, and something that I honestly look forward to with joy each session. I am loathe to use this space to sell myself, however I encourage anyone looking to become a better artist, a better collaborator, a better member of your artistic community… to consider joining us.

In art, as in child care, it sometimes takes a village.