Wright

"Indeed, Jack had already begun to think of the beanstalk as his beanstalk, as if it were a close friend or pet, instead of the beany cloud-busting belfry, the grandiose green garrison, the lovely legendary leafy looming legume--that it was."

-- a line from Jack & the Beanstalk which was not in the original script but was added (and cut) during rehearsals

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Well. Jack & the Beanstalk opened this morning. First public show, tonight. Buy tix here.

It went off hitch-free for the first school show, to our shock and awe. During the second show, the only major snag was an ad-lib nightmare when the cow--played by two dancers in a very sweaty costume; see here--entered late and sans the legs of the back half. From my point of view, anyway, it wasn't a fiasco.

This, among many other things, marks the first (officially) professional playwriting credit I have attained. The baby was in the works since July, if I remember correctly, and seeing it grow from conception to production has taught me five big lessons about writing for the stage.

I wouldn't bother to go into those lessons here, except that they were things I didn't learn in college (nor, arguably, could have learned). And before I make the list, I'll say that having a professional playwriting credit doesn't make me a professional playwright, just as vending muffins at a bake sale does not make someone a salesperson, nor does blogging daily make someone a writer.

I'll also say that I didn't do the writing solo; my co-playwright, Kelly G., came up with most of the ideas and really led the charge as far as creativity goes. If her main metaphorical utensil was a blank pen writing dialog, mine was the red pen, editing.

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1.) Don't write for yourself. Temptations abound when the ink is flowing (or when the keys are clacking), and my worst tendency was to make inside jokes. This includes more than just jokes that I find funny. Into this category I'd put references to good but forgotten songs, movies, celebrities, etc. True, audiences love it when poppish allusions come at them unexpectedly, as Shrek and Will Ferrell movies have taught us, but too much turns your script into a long and insufferably bad "Family Guy" episode. Keep the jokes plot- and character-related, and don't get sidetracked by the "What if" quotient.

2.) Don't write for dummies. Especially when writing for an attention-lacking crowd of children, you may want to dumb everything down to the point that the dialog resembles a one-sided tennis match:

JOE. Hey, Walrus, did you hear?

WALRUS. No. What happened, Joe?

JOE. I'll tell you, Walrus. It involved Jackie.

WALRUS. What?

JOE. Well, I'll tell you. She dropped her groceries.

WALRUS. Oh no! Then what happened?

JOE. She had to pick everything back up again!

WALRUS. Wow! Did she succeed?

JOE. Well, I'll tell you, Walrus...

Let the information come from many sources. Detective stories are great, but even a character whose main role is to question people can get really bland, really quickly if the sleuth only asks questions of only one person. As my journalism adviser in high school told us, "Show; don't tell." Kids will remember something they see, and they will paraphrase what they hear. Dumbing your script down will accomplish only one thing: your script will seem dumb.

3.) Don't write for specific actors. Sure, it's nice to have a local celebrity who appears in your shows, but writing roles tailored to them only creates more problems. Few producers, I think, consider how having a role "written for you" affects the local celebrity's attitude towards the role; they are not expected to act anymore, just be themselves. The result is either local celebrities who feel offended by the kind of ga-ga worship that infiltrates every aspect of the production, or local divas certain that people will pay to see them no matter what show they're in. The former will continue to do your shows and feel uncomfortable because they think they're doing you a favor; the latter will give you a big headache for the same reason.

This flies in the face of most playwriting that happens in small theatres. The thought process goes like this: Director X has already asked Actor Y to play Role Z, so Z should be written for Y under the supervision of X. That's backwards; it moves Z-Y-X instead of X-Y-Z. I think a more appropriate method is to write Z as X advises, and then to ask Y if they like the role. Chances are they'll still say yes.

What happened in J&tB was this. Two local celebrities were asked to play two main characters, and we began to write for the celebrities and not the characters. Then, as rehearsals neared, both celebs dropped out suddenly, leaving us with holes in our cast and a script that no longer made sense. Recasting and rewriting followed. I must admit, the "finished" product is still full of devices that ought to have been cut when the celebrities left.

4.) Pay attention to the in-betweens. Scene changes are chores. You have to make sure you have those done before you have fun. If you don't put enough talk time over a scene change or resort to musical interludes, your show will hit tech rehearsal and grind to a halt. "Who was moving the stool?" "I was, but I couldn't make it because of a costume change."

Costume changes are even worse, because while the actor is between costumes, they can do nothing. I can remember chaotic moments in high-school theatre when I was quick-changing into a tux and delivering lines off-stage. The audiences heard mutters of "get that button" and microphone brushes instead of my lines.

Also: Give your actors breaks. No one likes to be on stage for an hour with no water/bathroom break. My mistake this time was to think playing the Narrator would be easy, so easy that I could stand behind a podium, watch the action, and recite my lines. No sir. My feet are killing me now at the end of each show because I never leave the stinkin stage.

5.) Kill puppies. A great rule I learned in high school, it is the hardest to obey. When you're being creative, you create like the end product will be flawless, and you end up with all of these little puppies that you love and they're so cute and they clutter up your show and poop all over it. Some puppies mature into obedient, reliable friends, but most of them just make life difficult for everyone involved in your show.

A general rule for identifying puppies: The more you love it, the more it needs to go.

My puppies include:

- Excessive alliterations - Applies to rhymes, too. You'd think these would always be funny, but they're not. The first one is fine, the second is fecund, and the third is a turd. As a reader, I like alliterations because they're whimsical and witty (read some chapters out of Roth's The Great American Novel for some killer alliterations). But actors use repetitive sounds to warm up their voices because they are difficult to do. Alliterations help the mind to memorize, but they tangle the tongue.

- Repetition - Again. Tennis match dialog is only interesting if it goes somewhere.

There's a spot, early in this show, where the Beanseller gives Jack the bag of magic beans. She says, "Here are five--magic--beans!" and he says, "Five?" and she says, "Yes," and he says, "Magic?" and she says, "Yes," and he says, "Beans?" and she says--? That's right. She says, "yes," just like she did the previous two times he asked a question, and by the way, his question is a repetition of what she told him he's holding in his hand. The whole thing (rhymes with "bit") eats up about twenty seconds, and each show I stand there at the podium wishing the scene would just move on already.

Guess who fought to keep that part in?

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So, yes: Lots of lessons learned. Now that this show has begun its run, I feel freer to discuss the process of getting it here. If I ever find myself playwriting again, you can be sure I'll make a point not to repeat my mistakes.

Well. The third show happens soon. Gotta grab dinner and a decent parking space.