• ##

A PRACTICAL PLAYWRITING GUIDE

Leroy Clark
Boston Public Library
Boston, MA 02116
Writing for the Stage
A Practical Playwriting Guide

Leroy Clark
Florida International University

Boston New York San Francisco

Mexico City Montreal Toronto London Madrid Munich Paris
Hong Kong Singapore Tokyo Cape Town Sydney
Series Editor: Molly Taylor
Series Editorial Assistant: Susanne Stradley
Senior Marketing Manager: Mandee Eckersley
Senior Production Administrator: Donna Simons
Composition Buyer: Linda Cox
Manufacturing Buyer: JoAnne Sweeney
Cover Administrator: Joel Gendron
Editorial-Production Service: Omegatype Typography, Inc.
Electronic Composition: Omegatype Typography, Inc.

For related titles and support materials, visit our online catalog at www.ablongman.com.

Copyright © 2006 Pearson Education, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of the material protected by this copyright notice may be
reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
written permission of the copyright owner.

To obtain permission(s) to use material from this work, please submit a written request to
Allyn and Bacon, Permissions Department, 75 Arlington Street, Boston, MA 02116, or fax
your request to 617-848-7320.

Between the time website information is gathered and then published, it is not unusual for
some sites to have closed. Also, the transcription of EJRLs can result in typographical
errors. The publisher would appreciate notification where these errors occur so that they
may be corrected in subsequent editions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Clark, Leroy
Writing for the stage : a practical playwriting guide / Leroy Clark,
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-205-41297-1
1. Play writing. I. Title.
PN1661.C555 2006
808.2—dc22
2005048089

Printed in the United States of America

10 987654321 10 09 08 07 06 05
CONTENTS

Preface xi

1 The Essence of Drama 1

Conflict 1
The Inciting Action 1
The Goal 2
The Central Action 3

The Turning Point 4

The Climax 4

Three Levels of Conflict 4

Inner Conflict 4
Personal and External Conflict 6
Conflict within Society 9

Common Problems 10
Plot Motivators 12
Rising Conflict 12
Static Conflict 12

Solutions 13

Summary 19

2 Getting an Idea for a Play 23

Personal Experience 23

Observations of People, Images, and Events 26

Research 29

Keeping a Journal 32

Summary 33

3 Planning the First Draft 35

The Working Title 36

Character Names and Descriptions 36

The First Scene 37

ill
Contents

Holding the Audience's Attention 39

Plot Scenarios 41

Summary 42

The Professional Format 45

Format Guidelines 45

Sample Scene 49

Summary 51

Rhythm 53

Creating Rhythm 53

Influences on Rhythm 54

Horizontal and Vertical Movement 56

Summary 58

Plot 61

Arranging the Incidents 61

Forming the Plot 62

Kinds of Plots 63

Balancing the Beginning, Middle, and End 69

Obstacles 70

The Essential Scene 71

Common Plot Problems 71

Other Tips 74

Subtext 75

Summary 76

Structure 79

Masculine Structure 79
The Linear Approach 80

Ignition 80
 Contents

Scenes 81

Beats 81

Acts 83

The Resolution 84

Exposition 85

Foreshadowing 86

Story Values 86

The Unities 86
Action 87
Time 87
Place 87

The Play in Today's Theatre 88

Feminine Structure 89
Nonlinear Approaches 90

Circular Structure 91

Episodic Structure 94

Summary 98

Physical Characteristics 101

Development of Physical Character 101

Appearance 101
Posture and Movement 102
Body Types 104
Voice 105
Physical Activity 105

Summary 107

Sociological Characteristics 109

Development of Character 109

Observations 109
Interpretations 110
Conclusions 111

Social Development 112

Life Script 113

Summary 116
VI Contents

Psychological Characteristics 119

Psychological Development 119

The Johari Window 123

Defense Mechanisms 124

Unrealistic Expectations 126

Character Is Action 129

Deep Character 130

Contrasting Types 131

Character Questionnaire 132

Summary 134

Orchestrating the Characters 137

The Back Story 137

Good Orchestration 138

Archetypes 139
The Boss 139
The Rebel 140
The Best Friend 140
The Intellectual 140
The Warrior 141
The Seductive Charmer 142
The Innocent 142
The Adventurer or Nurturer 142
Examples 143

Equal Opponents 143

A Crucible 144

When Another Character Enters 144

Get to Know Your Characters 145

Character Analysis 146

Stage Business 148

Practicalities 150

Summary 152
 Contents Vll

12 Dialogue 155

Use of Language 155

Accents and Dialects 156

Sentence Structure 156

Vocal Rhythm 156

Details 158

Appeal to the Senses 158

Images, Slang, and Street Talk 159

Figures of Speech 159

The "Gems" 160

The "F" Word 161

First Impressions Count 161

The First Line 163

The Lengths of Speeches 164

Ensuring a Smooth Delivery 164

Writing "On the Nose" 165

Poetic Language 165

lambic Pentameter 166

Collaboration 168

Summary 170

13 Monologues 173

Types of Monologues 175

Autobiographical Monologues 175
One-Person Plays 175
Reality-Based Monologues 179
Topical Monologues 179
Fictional Monologues 180
Audition Monologues 180

The Questions 182

Dramatic Style 183

viii Contents

Your Personal Style 183

Finding the Character's Voice 184

Characteristics of Good Monologues

Summary 186

Settings, Costumes, and Other

Technical Matters 189

Theatrical Forms 189

Settings 190

The Magic "If" 196

Costumes 199

Props 203

Transformations 204

Sound Effects 206

Design and Production Meetings 206

Summary 208

15 Genre and Style 211

Genre 211

Style 216

Nudity 222

In-Yer-Face Theatre 225

Summary 225

The Spine and Premise 227

The Spine 227

The Premise 228

Don't Tell, Show 232

Summary 234
 Contents IX

i fj
I/ Writing and Rewriting 237

The First Draft 237

The Second Draft 239

Using Commas 242

Using Commas to Separate 243
Using Commas to Enclose or Set Off 245
Using Commas to Set Off Introductory Elements 247

Editing 250

Copyright 251

Summary 252

Readings, Contests, Productions,

and Other Opportunities 255

The Next Step 255

Sources of Information 256

Memberships 257
The Dramatists Guild 257
Theatre Communications Group 258
Austin Script Works 259
Chicago Dramatists 259
New Dramatist 259
The Playwrights' Center 259

Production Opportunities 260

Readings 260
Staged Readings 260
Workshop Productions 261
Other Productions 261

Other Development Opportunities 262

Contests 262

Types of Theatre Companies 263

Fellowships and Grants 264

Agents 264

Publishers 264

Submitting a Script 265

Summary 267
X Contents

APPENDIX A Sample Course Syllabus 269

APPENDIX B Outcomes and Assessment 275

Bibliography 281

Index 284
PREFACE

My aim in writing this book. Writing for the Stage, is to provide a guide to under¬
standing the basic principles and techniques of the craft. The reader may have a
play already in mind and use the different exercises as guides to write various
scenes, or the reader may have no specific play in mind but use the exercises to
explore a number of different characters in a variety of situations. After writing
about six exercises, the writer should begin to focus the rest of the exercises on spe¬
cific characters and develop a complete play. There are over one hundred exercises
divided into three levels: a level for the beginning writer and the intermediate level
and advanced level for those with more writing experience. This book is not
intended to be prescriptive but uses the information and techniques I have devel¬
oped over the last thirty years as a professor, a director of about ninety stage pro¬
ductions, and a playwright of a dozen or so plays produced in twenty productions
at educational, community, and professional theatres.
Writing for the Stage is unique in that it has three levels of specific exercises to
lead the beginning, intermediate, or more experienced writer through the process
of creating a stage-worthy script. There is extensive material on developing char¬
acter and plot and dialogue. The book contains a wide variety of examples from
plays to clarify the major points. Another noteworthy feature is the relationship of
writing to the practical realities of theatre. Because of my experience in dealing
with writers' problems and questions, I have tried to provide practical advice and
information to cover many areas. A sample syllabus is provided in Appendix A to
help teachers in organizing a playwriting course, and a section on outcomes and
assessment is provided in Appendix B.
From using these exercises in my own playwriting classes, I know they are
helpful for the majority of students. Usually, when an excercise is not helpful, it is
because the student didn't quite understand it. There is no way to please everyone
or to anticipate every need. This book is intended as a guide, not the ultimate
answer to every playwriting question. Take what works for you and your students.
Within this book, you will find many references to plays. It is unlikely that
you have seen or read many of them. Most theatre majors at American universities
and graduate students in creative writing do not have a strong background in dra¬
matic literature. Nevertheless, the examples provided should make some sense in
illustrating the basic point being made. I encourage you to see and read as many
plays as possible. I especially recommend the following short list of ten plays:

How I Learned to Drive, by Paula Vogel

A Long Day's Journey into Night, by Eugene O'Neill
Getting Out, by Marsha Norman
A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams

xi
Xll Preface

Killer Joe, by Tracy Letts

Fences, by August Wilson
The Miracle Worker, by William Gibson
Zoo Story, by Edward Albee
The Beauty Queen of Leenane, by Martin McDonagh
Proof, by David Auburn

When you write, write about stories you care about and people you want to
spend time with. Write about what makes you happy, what you believe in, what
you feel strongly about—and have fun!

Acknowledgments

I am very grateful to my students. I have learned much from them, and I have taken
great pleasure in their successes. I owe special thanks to several students who read
the manuscript and gave me suggestions: Hal Wyman, William Whitehurst, George
Tucker, Hector Ramos, Jennifer Runberger, and Ramon Veunes. I am also very
grateful to Molly Taylor and Michael Kish, of Allyn and Bacon, whose expertise and
wisdom made this book possible. I would also like to thank the reviewers of this
book for their helpful comments: Randall Cluff, Southern Virginia University;
David Kahn, San Jose State University; Richard Kalinoski, University of Wisconsin
Oshkosh; Carlos Morton, University of California, Santa Barbara; Michael Roos,
University of Cincinnati; and David Wagoner, University of Washington.
 CHAPTER

The Essence of Drama

The essence of drama is action. The word drama comes from the Greek word dvam,
which means to do/' A dramatic work presents a protagonist who acts—who
does something. He takes the initiative to act upon a situation which results in
something happening an event that has consequences. He encounters strong
resistance from the antagonist and either wins or loses. This is the traditional view
of a play. Naturally, in the theatre, where rebels thrive and creative artists may
reject the traditional, there are exceptions. Nevertheless, it is a starting place.

Conflict

In this chapter, we will explore a number of concepts related to conflict, including

the inciting action, the protagonist's goal inspired by the inciting action, the central
action or conflict that the protagonist experiences as he or she seeks to achieve that
goal, the turning point, and the climax. There are three levels of conflict—internal
conflict, personal conflict with another character, and external conflict dealing with
issues affecting the larger community. We will also explore the need to create ever-
increasing obstacles for the protagonist, as well as the pitfall static conflict. Finally,
we will explore some common problems that lead playwrights astray and some
solutions for correcting those problems.
Throughout this book, there are many exercises designed to help you put
your ideas into practice. There are three levels of each exercise, moving from the
beginning to intermediate and advanced levels, each designed to help you apply
your ideas.

The Inciting Action

The inciting action is the first significant event of the play. It begins the plot and
leads to the cause of the action. It may happen before the play begins, or it may
occur at the opening of the play. Because of a change in the main character's situa¬
tion, her world becomes unbalanced. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark
or wherever the play takes place. This is the inciting action that creates a need
within the protagonist that makes her want to do something about it. The action

1
2 Chapter 1

may be taken to find an object, to achieve a position in society, to get money, to get
the girl or the guy, to get revenge, or to find justice—the list goes on.
In many ways, the need leads the protagonist on a quest. In Sophocles' Oedi¬
pus the King, the city is suffering from a plague. Oedipus, a kind ruler, seeks to find
the cause. In Shakespeare's Othello, Iago is motivated by revenge and seeks to
make Othello jealous of his own wife. In Tennesee Williams's The Glass Menagerie,
Tom is driven by his mother to find a gentleman caller for his sister. In Shake¬
speare's Romeo and Juliet, the two young lovers fall in love and get married, defy¬
ing their parents, who are enemies. The protagonist's overall objective is "I
want..."
The protagonist must initiate the action. In seeking to achieve his objective,
the protagonist encounters a series of obstacles—in other words, resistance or
opposition—that comes in the form of the second character, the antagonist. Obsta¬
cles create risks that bring physical and emotional danger to the protagonist. The
bigger the obstacle, the more compelling the struggle. Denali, the highest moun¬
tain in Alaska and North America, has the dangers of avalanches, sudden storms,
thin air, and temperatures far below zero. A misstep could bring death at any
moment. A molehill has none of these dangers. Climbing to the top of Denali has
bigger and more dangerous obstacles. These make the stakes high, the suspense
strong, and the struggle much more interesting and emotionally charged. As the
protagonist initiates the action, she raises the question that the rest of the play must
answer: Will she succeed?

The Goal
The protagonist is aroused by the inciting action to assert her conscious will and
direct it toward a specific goal. Yet the goal must be sufficiently realistic that it is
attainable. The audience must understand the goal and the possibility of its fulfill¬
ment. The inciting action has upset the balance of the protagonist's world. The pro¬
tagonist then takes it upon herself to restore order, to set a goal and to reach it. She
plans strategies and tactics to achieve that goal. She develops the ideal scenario of
how everything will work out. But the ideal scenario in her mind isn't what hap¬
pens in reality. This causes a gap, a surprise, a worse problem, and as the antago¬
nist responds, the protagonist must adapt.
Most people begin with one small step. They may try to be nice. They may
not want to make a fuss or upset another person. Whatever they do first, they do
not expect the consequences. They hope their first small action will solve the prob¬
lem in the easiest way possible. However, the protagonist then discovers the gap
between expectation and reality, which only results in a bigger problem.
The strength of the will must be strong enough so that the character is deter¬
mined to go the distance. If a character is weak and gives in or gives up easily, then
the conflict will be over. The character must be willing to continue to pursue his goal
no matter what the obstacles. And the antagonist must be equally strong and com¬
mitted. The antagonist must be as strong as the protagonist. There needs to be a bal¬
ance of wills, a balance of strength. If the adversary isn't strong enough, then the
 The Essence of Drama 3

outcome favoring the protagonist will be obvious. There will be no surprise, no

more suspense. If the protagonist reaches his goal too easily, then there won't be
enough of a struggle and the audience will be left unsatisfied. The antagonist must,
therefore, be equally clever in his opposition so that the outcome will be truly in
doubt until the climactic moment. The effectiveness of the action doesn't depend on
what the antagonist and protagonist do; it depends on the meaning of what they do.
One of the strongest antagonists we have seen in recent years is "The Terminator."
He is a machine. He does not feel. He will not stop.
In drama, the first small action only complicates the situation and makes it
worse. Every conflict consists of attack and counterattack. After the failure of the
first action, the protagonist must then take action number two. Each decision leads
the central character into more and more trouble. Thus, each decision is bigger
than the last one, and the consequences are greater. At each turn, the protagonist
must face the possibility of losing. Each step increases the tension and leads us
from one crisis to a worse crisis until the final showdown.
In Oedipus the King, Oedipus sends Creon to the Oracle for information. He
brings in the blind seer Tiresias. He sends for the shepherd. Each action results in
the unexpected. In The Glass Menagerie, Amanda nags Tom to bring home a "gen¬
tleman caller for Laura. Amanda makes a big fuss in preparation. The gentleman
caller arrives but turns out to be already engaged. In each case, there is a difference
between expectation and result—a difference between what the protagonist thinks
will happen (the ideal scenario in his or her head) and what actually occurs.
When this gap opens up for the character, it also opens up for the audience.
The gap is that "Oh, no!" moment, where the audience says, "Oh, no, don't do it.
Oh, he did it. I can't believe it." These are the moments the audience comes to the
theatre to see.

The Central Action

The central action answers the question created when the protagonist takes his first
action. This question is the chief business of the plot: Will Oedipus solve the prob¬
lem of the plague? Will Iago succeed in his revenge against Othello? Will the "gen¬
tleman caller" be the one for Laura? Will Romeo find happiness with Juliet?
Either the protagonist or the antagonist may win, depending upon the cli¬
max. In tragedy, the protagonist loses the struggle but gains her soul. In comedy,
the protagonist wins and there is a happy end ing. In drama, the ending may be nei¬
ther tragic nor happy. Sometimes the ending doesn't provide an explicitly clear res¬
olution to all the questions, but it must somehow feel satisfactory to the audience.
The stakes must be high. What the protagonist wants must have great per¬
sonal value, and that means he must take risks. The protagonist places himself in a
situation where he may win or lose. The greater the significance of reaching his
goal, the more the protagonist is willing to risk to get it. In A Man for All Seasons, by
Robert Bolt, Thomas More refuses to bow down to the king and go against his
beliefs in the Catholic Church. His action puts his life in jeopardy, yet he is willing
to die for what he believes is right.
4 Chapter 1

The Turning Point

Eventually, the conflict must lead to a turning point. This scene may not seem to be
important. The turning point of the leading character's life is not always one of the
great moments. Real crises are often concealed in trivial events. The turning point
is the moment when the protagonist's future is made apparent, determining
whether he will win or lose. The turning point always involves a deed performed
by the protagonist—a deed that involves not the antagonist but a third person. It is
the deed that makes the ending for the central character inevitable—the moment
when there is no going back. Oedipus learns that he killed his own father and mar¬
ried his mother, and so he blinds himself. Othello strangles Desdemona. Romeo
kills Tybalt and with that deed forfeits all hope of acceptance by Juliet's family. It is
the key scene that leads us to the climax.

The Climax

The climax of a play brings the relationship of the protagonist and antagonist to a
final confrontation. A relationship is established in the beginning, and as the play
progresses, this relationship undergoes dynamic alterations. It is at the climax of
the play where the most violent dislocation occurs in this relationship. This is the
scene that must be shown on the stage for the play to be completely satisfying. This
is the scene in which we see the protagonist win or lose in face-to-face action with
the antagonist.

Three Levels of Conflict

There are three levels of conflict. The first level is internal conflict, that inner strug¬
gle between duty and desire, between responsibility to self versus responsibility to
others, or between one's sense of right and wrong. The second level of conflict is
personal and external, involving a character's relationships with other people. The
third level of conflict affects the larger world of society. Conflict can come from any
level. A play may embody one or two or all three levels. Generally, a successful
play employing all three levels is more complex, more deep, and more highly
regarded.

Inner Conflict
When a character wants something that meets resistance within himself, there is
inner conflict. People feel guilt and have misgivings, doubts, and second thoughts
when duty collides with fear, love collides with guilt, or ambition collides with
conscience. When an audience experiences profound empathy with a character, it
is because the character is in a struggle of intense inner conflict. Inner conflict is
 The Essence of Drama 5

what separates worthwhile drama from lesser melodrama. Hamlet suffers from a
conscience and self-doubt. The psychiatrist in Peter Shaffer's Equus also has
doubts whether his treatments in making Alan normal are really beneficial. Per¬
haps it is better for Alan to keep his creative, wild passion than to cut it out of his
brain and make him calm and passive.
Inner conflict can be caused by sociological or psychological problems: reli¬
gion, cultural differences, ethics, a sense of justice, patriotism, cowardice, tempta¬
tion, sexual desire and fantasy—anything a character might feel strongly about. To
have inner conflict, the opposing forces do not need to be great or earth-shaking
issues, but they have to be great in the mind of the character. One man may torture
himself over stealing a fountain pen, while another man may think nothing of
stealing a million dollars. The story of the man who steals the fountain pen may be
far more dramatic if the theft means the loss of his honor, integrity, or self-esteem.
If your protagonist is planning to marry, an internal struggle may result if the girl
is of a different religion or class or culture or education. If your protagonist is going
to leave her husband, make certain she is reluctant to do so because of a powerful
reason. Because of her religion, Antigone wants to bury her brother, who has been
left on the battlefield. Her uncle Creon, the king, has decreed that anyone who
buries the traitor will be put to death. Antigone is faced with a dilemma: to bury
her brother and face death or to obey her uncle.
Put your character to the test. "Impale your character on the horns of a
dilemma." You have impaled your character when the character is torn between
doing one thing, for very powerful and convincing reasons, or doing something
else, for equally powerful and compelling reasons. Your character is impaled when
she is ripped apart by equally powerful forces pulling in opposite directions—the
abused wife who wants to leave her husband but fears what may happen to her if
she does. Your character is impaled when he must make a decision and doesn't like
any of the choices. As news reports have revealed, a number of Catholic bishops,
learning that some of their priests were pedophiles, were faced with a dilemma. If
they turned the priests over to the police, it would cause a scandal. If they did noth¬
ing, the pedophiles would continue to abuse children. Many of them reassigned
the priests elsewhere and paid off the victims.

EXERCISE 1__

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a monologue or a scene in which Character A confides to Character B
inner conflict over what she wants to do and believes is morally right. Find the
voice for the character. Show the struggle not only by what the character says
but also by her behavior and actions. Is the character articulate or one who
struggles to find the words? What does the character have to lose? Freedom?
A relationship? Honor? Integrity? Money? Position? Power? Friendship?
B. Write a scene in which Character A confides to Character B the inner conflict
he is experiencing because of Character C. Perhaps A is torn by a lack of trust
for Character C. Perhaps A is in love with Character C but afraid to admit it.
6 Chapter 1

Perhaps A has learned a secret about Character C. What does A want from B?
from C?

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene with internal struggle about an issue that affects the larger soci¬
ety. Character B makes Character A tell what's bothering him—an internal
struggle. Suppose your character suspects his sister's husband is involved in
terrorist activities? He doesn't want to hurt his sister, but on human, moral,
and patriotic levels, he wants to do what is best for his country. Does he talk
to the sister first, follow the brother-in-law and try to get proof, confront the
brother-in-law, or call the FBI?
D. Write a scene in which the protagonist encounters a situation that incites him
or her to action. The action may be taken to find an object, to achieve a higher
position in society, to get money, to get the girl or the guy, to get revenge, or
to find justice.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene in which the protagonist takes action to correct a problem but
finds that the ideal scenario she has created isn't what happens in reality.
What does happen is that her action causes the problem to become worse.
Thus, there is a gap between the expectation and the reality, and the protago¬
nist is surprised and faces a new dilemma.
F. Write a conflict scene in which the protagonist must demonstrate the strength
of her will and commitment and her refusal to compromise.

Personal and External Conflict

The protagonist initiates an action. The antagonist may oppose the protagonist for
a variety of reasons—his own different needs, beliefs, goals, values, feelings, and
wants. The central character must try to overcome the obstacles. Each tactic that
the protagonist tries to get what he wants meets resistance or is counterbalanced
by the antagonist. It is important to orchestrate the play with different kinds of
characters. In Neil Simon's The Odd Couple, for example, Felix is a compulsively
neat person, whereas Oscar is a slob. They have different outlooks and different
values. They think differently, behave differently.
All people have physical things about themselves that they don't like: nose,
chin, lips, teeth, arms, legs, stomach, and so on. People also have mannerisms that
drive other people crazy: leaving the toilet seat up, hanging pantyhose in the
shower, leaving dirty clothes on the floor, and the like. Tennessee Williams, for
example, gives a vivid detail of character in The Long Stay Cut Short with the line
"Stop sucking your teeth, Archie Lee." In Williams's The Glass Menagerie, Amanda
rails at Tom about his manners at the dinner table. Oscar rails at Felix in Simon's
The Odd Couple for being obsessively neat. People have done things in their past
that they are ashamed of—things involving sex, greed, power, revenge, or status.
 The Essence of Drama 7

People have specific likes and dislikes concerning food, sleeping habits, and daily
living. People have different rituals—procedures to face the day, dinner rituals,
family rituals for holidays, and rituals when they come home from work. There are
personal, social, religious, and public rituals. Physical aspects, mannerisms, and
interrupted rituals can cause conflict between people. To get what he wants, one
character will bring up such problems and use them as weapons against another
character.
Characters use a variety of questioning tactics. Open questions ask for an
answer of more than a few words—for example, "What do you think about this
problem?" Closed questions ask for a very specific response, such as yes or no—for
example, "Do you love me?" Leading questions tend to direct the respondent toward
the specific answer the other person is looking for—"What do you think of this stu¬
pid policy?" Mirror questions simply rephrase a previous answer to elicit more
information—for example, "You think you can help Mary? Tell me more." Probing
questions, like mirror questions, attempt to get more information or the reasons
behind opinions and feelings—"Why do you feel like that?" Consider an interro¬
gation scene with a policeman and a suspect, a courtroom scene between a hick
lawyer and a well-educated witness, or a scene between a wife and her husband
who staggers home in the early morning hours.
Dramatic incidents lead somewhere. When a conflict scene ends, more is
expected to result because of it. More questions are raised. A conflict scene may end
with no resolution, but when it ends, the conflict should be worse. Each scene
needs to have a change in the relationship of the characters. It needs to build to
something worse—an action, an event, an explosion of some kind.
Sometimes physical movement may constitute dramatic action. A handshake
isn't particularly dramatic, but slapping someone's face is. Stabbing someone,
smashing someone's prize object, throwing a manuscript into the fire—such
actions as these have been pivotal points in a number of plays, signaling a charac¬
ter's explosive release. In plays such as The Miracle Worker, by William Gibson,
physical action provides the turning point of the play. When Helen Keller has her
hand in water under the pump and Anne spells the word for water, Anne finally
makes Helen understand. Anne's struggle up to that point to teach Helen has been
a failure. Anne depends on this job to give her life meaning. She has invested her
self-worth in this job. Helen's breakthrough is a turning point for Anne, as well.
She has finally proven her worth. The dramatic action equals the deeds done dur¬
ing the course of the story.
In any relationship, there are taboos, subjects, or events that people don't
mention. A husband doesn't bring up the fact that his wife is fat, has heavy thighs,
and cellulite. A wife doesn't discuss the size of her husband's penis. A daughter
doesn't discuss religious differences with her mother-in-law. If you care about
another person, you don't bring up past indiscretions, physical limitations, and
other flaws. When someone does touch upon these topics, the conflict becomes
very personal and very destructive. However, when the stakes are high enough,
these things may be brought up.
8 Chapter 1

But what happens when two characters love each other? How do you
develop conflict with characters that care about each other? They may love each
other and still have different needs, wants, and desires. When such differences are
encountered, people usually start the discussion by being reasonable: "You can't
do this. It isn't practical." When that doesn't work, they use other tactics: "You
keep this up, and you're really gonna piss me off." "How can you do this to me?"
"What's going to happen to me?" "You do this, and I'm leaving." Look at The Lion
in Winter, by James Goldman, in which characters try numerous tactics to manipu¬
late and win.
The following are some of the kinds of tactics used by characters to get what
they want:

factual analysis bargaining threats

appealing to sense of fair play cajoling stereotyping
attempt to heal efforts at humor avoidance
persuasion ridicule tears
emotional appeals physical force rationalizing
appealing to trust blackmail appeal to common beliefs
concern for the other person anger using physical contact
looking for support name-calling admitting one's faults

When an actor studies a scene, he tries to discover the tactics the character is
using. The actor must analyze the character's intentions and objectives and the tac¬
tics that govern the character's actions. The playwright in writing the scene needs
to be clear in her own mind what those tactics are to make sure there are playable
intentions within the scene.
Sometimes we may play different roles to get what we want. We play the
child who needs to be cared for, the student, the teacher, the wife, the authority fig¬
ure, the underdog, the understanding friend, the victor, the sick person, the mis¬
understood, or the maligned. In each episode of the I Love Lucy show, Lucy had a
goal, usually opposed by her husband. She would use any tactic or play any role to
get what she wanted.

EXERCISE 2_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a scene in which the protagonist and antagonist battle over something
personal and use a variety of tactics or play different roles to try to reach their
individual objectives. For example, two sisters may fight if one of them wears
the other's clothes without permission. What if someone eats your protago¬
nist's chocolates, takes off in his car, or takes money from his wallet without
his knowledge?
B. Write a scene in which the protagonist and antagonist battle over a physical
object. The scene should involve physical action. The goal: to get the object by
 The Essence of Drama 9

any means. The scene also should involve at least one character lying to the
other. The protagonist should use at least six different tactics within the
scene; the antagonist should counter with her own tactics. Bring in a third
character that each of the other two tries to win to his or her side.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. People employ different rituals as a way of dealing with life: personal morn¬
ing rituals; family rituals for dinners, holidays, and anniversaries; and social
rituals such as religion and marriage. What happens when a ritual is inter¬
rupted? What happens when a secret ritual is discovered? Write a conflict
scene between two or more characters that involves a ritual, a secret ritual, or
an interrupted ritual. Chose an offbeat locale. Use music, sound effects, and
props.
D. Write a conflict scene between two characters who love each other but dis¬
agree over a very important issue, such as whether to have a child, to invite
their parents for Christmas, to buy a house, to have an abortion, or to borrow
money. Give them conflicting perceptions, beliefs, and goals.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene in which two characters violate the rules and breech a taboo
subject, involving past indiscretions, physical limitations, character flaws, or
other weaknesses. When the taboo is brought up, the conflict should become
personal and destructive.
F. Write a scene using ten of the sample tactics listed in the preceding section.
Explore the variety of questioning techniques: open, closed, leading, mirror,
and probing questions. Make sure the antagonist puts obstacles in the way to
prevent the protagonist from reaching her goal. Who wins, who loses, and
what are the consequences?

Conflict within Society

The third level of conflict involves issues that affect society, such as the family con¬
cerned that the electrical lines running overhead are causing children in the com¬
munity to have leukemia, the man who takes a stand for justice, and the mother
who joins MADD. Any issue can cause conflict. The protagonist is upset about a
problem that affects the whole community and takes it upon himself to do some¬
thing about it. He first takes a simple conservative action, but each subsequent step
makes the matter worse. Each new obstacle creates higher risk. For example, in An
Enemy of the People by Henrik Ibsen, Dr. Stockman has been a town hero for dis¬
covering that the local water was favorable for health baths, turning the town into
a tourist center. At the opening of the play, however, he has learned that wastes
from a tannery are polluting the baths. He demands that the condition be corrected
and makes a desperate appeal at a public meeting, but the mob turns violently
against him. Each action results in a situation he doesn't expect, which in turn
10 Chapter 1

forces him to take more and more drastic measures. By the end of the play, his
whole world has crumbled.

Common Problems

The attention span, like the growth of technology, has changed over the years.
Shakespeare couldn't afford to be dull, but playgoers then were willing to stand
and listen to a play for several hours in an open-air theatre. The Elizabethans
didn't bathe much, and the stench was considerable; sometimes it rained. On the
other hand, theatregoers today have grown up with television, video games, and
the Internet. People are used to seeing images change every twenty seconds. It is a
challenge simply to get people to the theatre, and the greatest offense is to take
their money, waste their time, and bore them. A dull play not only offends an audi¬
ence, but it also scares them away from other future plays, including your own.
But how do you write a compelling play and avoid writing a boring one? Bore¬
dom is most acutely experienced when the playwright makes one of three mistakes:

1. There is too much exposition. Exposition is information, and providing too

much about a character, one's past, or the nature of something without any real
motivation for doing so is deadly. Typical of this error is the monologue in which a
character offers up her life history when no one has asked for it.

2. There are too many details. When a character raves about the beauty of the sky,
the nature of pigeons, or the history of an event without a need to do so, that is also
deadly. In short, providing information about a subject when it has nothing to do
with the conflict and doesn't aid the characters in achieving their goals causes a
play to drag. This is particularly a problem for the writer who does considerable
research to write a historical play and includes too much of the research as unnec¬
essary exposition that slows down the action.

3. Unnecessary characters appear on stage. If a character is brought on stage to

have someone to bounce jokes off or doesn't relate to the central action, a play
becomes confusing. The writer needs to know the purpose of each character in
each scene and in the whole play. Why is the character there? Why is he necessary?

Note that the common element in all three problem situations is the absence of
conflict. Lack of conflict equals lack of energy. When a positive force meets a nega¬
tive force, this causes sparks. For example, when polar opposites, such as a wife
and her mother-in-law, clash over the husband/son, this causes sparks. The stakes
are high. Both women are fighting for the man's love. If the wife and her mother-
in-law do not clash and stay safely away from each other, the result is a dull play.
Most plays can struggle through occasional scenes that are low on conflict, but
everyone in the theatre feels it. Although the audience won't know why the scene
in question is dull, they'll note the dip in energy. You, the writer, should also notice.
 The Essence of Drama 11

And nobody should be harder on you than you. If you build a house that falls
down, you should recognize your faults and figure out how to correct them before
building the next one.
You can describe a character at the beginning of a play as clever, witty, charm-
ing, noble, or wise, but your character will not be those things unless you show it by
her actions and dialogue. The character must be put to the test, forced to make deci¬
sions and act. She must initiate action, face obstacles, and encounter conflict. What
a character does and how she does it under extreme pressure reveals her nature.
If a play is like a meandering, slow-moving and flat river, it will be boring.
The conflict should be like a raging river, crashing over rocks, rushing through
deep ravines, and cascading over waterfalls. At times, it will be dimly glimpsed
darting through the depths, showing the potential energy awaiting release. At
times, the water will leap from the surface; this is kinetic energy being released.
Two characters may seem to be getting along, but we know their making nice is
destined to end soon in a big fight. At all times, the tension will be there if the char¬
acters are polarized and have different goals. It also works far better to take one
major incident and develop it in depth than to take fifteen incidents and deal with
them in superficial ways.
To correct errors that threaten to render your play weak, follow these guidelines:

1. Stay focused on each character's goal and how it is in opposition to the other
characters' goals. In other words, keep the conflict going.

2. Deliver exposition as conflict. If there is information you must convey, put it

into the antagonist's mouth as a weapon and attack the protagonist. This simple
technique makes the antagonist an accuser and makes the protagonist resist and
fight back. That's conflict.

3. When writing about history, realize that the audience doesn't care about a
long, highly detailed account. They only need enough to know what happened,
how it relates to the characters, and why it is important to the action now.

4. A conversation is not dramatic. If there is no conflict and nothing changes in

the relationships of the characters, the scene isn't necessary. Push the characters
until something happens.

5. Because of the costs of paying actors, it is necessary to keep the number of

characters to a minimum. There is no place for a walk-on in theatre today. If you
have a waiter who only appears once with a few lines, cut it. The Dramatists Source-
book (2004-2005) lists all U.S. theatres that produce new plays and their guidelines.
Most theatres are looking for small casts. Eight is usually the maximum; six is okay,
and four is better.

6. Make sure the stakes are high. There's a difference between the student who
wants an A for his own ego and the student who will lose his scholarship and get
dropped from the program if he doesn't get an A.
12 Chapter 1

Plot Motivators
Any number of conditions can provoke conflict. Choose from the following:

Injustice the desire for justice

Vengeance the desire for revenge
Catastrophe the desire to act positively or negatively to a humanmade or
natural disaster
Love the desire for a relationship
Hate the desire to respond in kind or go in the opposite direction
The chase the desire to capture a character, for whatever reason
Grief and loss the desire to avoid reality
Rebellion the desire to challenge the status quo
Betrayal the desire to violate a trust
Persecution the desire to cause suffering
Self-sacrifice the desire to help others at one's own expense
Survival the desire to survive a humanmade or natural disaster
Rivalry the desire to beat another person
Discovery the desire for education, information, or insight
Ambition the desire for success
Greed the desire for material goods

Rising Conflict
To make sure you have rising conflict, plan your play so that the protagonist faces
ever-increasing obstacles. The problems need to multiply. The pressure put on the
character needs to increase. In every play, there is a central or core conflict. That con¬
flict may be man against woman (Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew), woman
against man (Lillian Heilman's The Little Foxes), man against man (Peter Shaffer's
Royal Hunt of the Sun), woman against woman (Maxwell Anderson's Mary of Scot¬
land), man against himself (Steve Tesich's The Speed of Darkness), man against soci¬
ety (Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman), man against the environment (Patrick
Meyers' K2), or man against nature (William Hoffman's As Is).
Typically, that core conflict is arranged scene by scene in climactic order,
moving from the least important to the most important. Each scene requires the
protagonist to risk more. Each scene puts her in more peril. Each situation is more
difficult than the last, until we get to the climax—the scene in which the protago¬
nist and her opponent meet face to face and one of them wins and the other loses.

Static Conflict
Conflict that doesn't escalate or change anything is static. Two characters bickering
is static. A static or nonrising conflict is caused by a series of scenes that repeat the
same conflict, make the conflict general rather than specific, seem of equal impor-
 The Essence of Drama 13

tance, or are not strong enough to cause change. Consider the situation of two
brothers Sam and Tom who run a business. Sam is unreliable and so Tom does
most of the work. If all the conflict scenes focus on the issue of Sam's general unre¬
liability, then they will soon begin to seem too similar. If neither brother changes
because of the conflicts, then nothing will really happen. What the writer must do
is focus on specific irresponsible actions that cause larger and larger problems. The
writer must focus on each brother's specific actions that cause larger and larger
problems. Sam s actions might include taking an extra long lunch, taking too many
days off, rudely reprimanding an employee in front of a client, writing down an
order incorrectly, ordering the wrong materials, or telling off a client and losing a
large order. With each problem Tom needs to assert himself with Sam to correct the
situation. Tom s every action must be met with resistance from Sam, who must
fight back in even more destructive ways. The writer needs to select specific events
and arrange them in climactic order—minor irritations to major problems—until
eventually they result in a showdown.
If a wife nags and her husband's response is only to give lip service, nothing
will change. It will be static. However, if the wife's nagging causes the husband to
take an action, then there will be change. Once when my parents went camping,
my father forgot to bring a table. My mother went on and on about it until finally'
my father took a piece of two-by-four out of the boat and nailed it to the side of his
station wagon. Then he got a piece of plywood from the boat, nailed it to the two-
by-four, and propped up the open side of the plywood with a couple of sticks.
Then he said, "There's your damn table!"

Solutions

Four words to remember when thinking about conflict are goal, motivation, obsta¬
cles, and tactics. Because of a situation (motivation). Character A wants something
(goal), but Character B seeks to prevent Character A from achieving that goal
(obstacles). If the character's motivation is strong enough, the character will try
various means (tactics) to overcome the obstacles. Consider the following scene in
a diner:

SCENE I

AT RISE: (BETTY is at the counter. SAM enters.)

SAM
Hi, Betty. What's cooking?

BETTY
Same old, same old.

SAM
Coffee fresh?
14 Chapter 1

BETTY
Not as fresh as you, but it'll do. Black?
(HE nods.)
Want a menu?

SAM
No, just give me the usual.

BETTY
Hamburger, raw onion, pickle, mustard, hold the mayo?

SAM
Sounds great.

BETTY
Fries?

SAM
Sure.

BETTY
Paper is on the table. The Chiefs lost.

SAM
What else is new?

This scene is realistic, but it is boring. The characters are flat, dull, and lifeless
because there is no conflict. We know very little about these characters. They have
not shown through action what makes them tick. They are having a conversation.
Consider the following:

SCENE I

AT RISE: (BETTY is at the counter. SAM enters.)

SAM
Hi, Betty. What's cooking?

BETTY
Nothing's cooking. We're closed.

SAM
Coffee fresh?

BETTY
It's about three hours old and cold. Want some?

SAM
Forget it.
 The Essence of Drama 15

BETTY
No, you forget it. You were supposed to be here an hour and forty-two minutes
ago.

SAM
I didn't know you could count that high. I got held up.

BETTY
Yeah, well, I ve had it. This is it, the end, the big finish. I don't want to see you
anymore. I don't want to wait for you. I don't want you coming around. Is that
clear enough for you? You get no more hamburgers from me.

SAM
Sure. Now give me some coffee.

BETTY
You want it. Here it is.
(SHE grabs the pot and pours coffee in his lap.
HE jumps, yells.)

SAM
Hey, Jesus, cut it out. You'll burn my dick.

BETTY
I told yah, it's cold, baby.

SAM
I'm gonna slap you silly.

BETTY
Out! I want you out!

SAM
Aw, you don t mean that. You don't wanna hurt Sammy Whammy!

Conflict is the collision of characters' desires with resistance from another;

from nature, society, the environment, the spirit world, or outer space; or from
within themselves. We learn who a character really is by the way he or she
responds to the obstacles. Conflict highlights and exposes deep character. Conflict
between characters always takes the form of insistence versus resistance. In Neil
Simon's Barefoot in the Park, Corie Bratter wants her husband, Paul, to loosen up
and have some fun. Paul resists because he is practical. In William Inge's Bus Stop,
Bo wants to sweep Cherie off her feet, marry her, and take her off to his ranch in
Montana. She resists being manhandled and forced. When characters have differ¬
ent goals and are intent on achieving them, conflict results. If the stakes are high
and both sides are unyielding, you have the makings of high drama.
16 Chapter 1

Nothing moves forward in a play except through struggle—the push and

pull of different wants, needs, and goals. Complication should not only make life
difficult for the protagonist, but each new problem should be more difficult than
the last. Subplots are also used to complicate the life of the protagonist. They must
relate to the main action either by supporting it or contradicting it. There must be
a relationship between the main plot and a subplot. If there isn't a connection, the
audience will try to make one anyway. The subplot also allows for contrast, such as
adding comic elements in a serious drama or vice versa. In Tennessee Williams's A
Streetcar Named Desire, the neighbors, Steve and Eunice, have scenes that provide
comic relief. Their battle is in contrast to that of Stanley and Stella. The love story
in a murder mystery is there to make life more difficult for the protagonist. It com¬
plicates the main story if the hero falls in love with the killer. The magnitude of a
work depends on the number of actions. Three major actions and three major
reversals are needed to take the character to the limit of experience.
Some plays and films are more interesting than others because of the com¬
plexity and depth of their characters. Plot-driven works such as the farces The Twin
Menachmi by Plautus and The Comedy of Errors by Shakespeare and many melodra¬
mas have little depth or complexity. However, plays such as Tennessee Williams's
The Glass Menagerie, Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman, and Edward Albee's Who's
Afraid of Virginia Woolf? have a complexity that goes beyond the dialogue. There is
a deeper, richer subtext. The characters do not always say what they mean or mean
what they say. Yet with their very subtle techniques, these authors are able to con¬
vey the true meaning behind the words. In Beth Henley's Crimes of the Heart, Lenny
tells Meg about the recent history of Doc, Meg's former beau (Act I, p. 20):

MEG
Gosh, the last I heard of Doc, he was up in the East painting the walls of houses to
earn a living.
(Amused)
Heard he was living with some Yankee woman who made clay pots.

LENNY
Joan.

MEG
What?

LENNY
Her name's Joan. She came down here with him. That's one of her pots. Doc's
married to her.

MEG
Married—

LENNY
Uh huh.
 The Essence of Drama 17

MEG
Doc married a Yankee?

LENNY
That's right; and they've got two kids.

MEG
Kids—

LENNY
A boy and a girl.

MEG
God. Then his kids must be half Yankee.

LENNY
I suppose.

MEG
God. That really gets me. I don't know why, but that really gets me.

LENNY
I don't know why it should.

MEG
And what a stupid looking pot! Who'd buy it, anyway?

Although it isn't mentioned, Meg still loves Doc. She probably has hopes that
since she's come back to town, they might get back together. Whereas she's char¬
acterized as a free spirit by unconventional actions and behavior in most of the rest
of the play, in this scene, she reverts to the childhood prejudice against Yankees.
However, it isn't that the woman is a Yankee that really upsets her. It is because the
woman is married to Doc. Meg s anger, resentment, hurt, and love are all conveyed
in her last line about the pot.
In the film Casablanca, there's one scene that has always remained with me
because of the subtext. The scene is set at a linen stall in a marketplace. Ilsa is look¬
ing at some napkins. There is a sign on the counter by the display that reads "700
francs." That is the price the Arab quotes to her. Ilsa sees Rick approach but pre¬
tends to be absorbed in the napkins to escape his notice. When Rick tells her she's
being cheated, she reacts in a formal manner and the Arab jumps in. He keeps
changing the sign, and the price gets lower and lower. During this, Rick asks her
why she abandoned him at the railroad station in Paris many years ago. She even¬
tually tells him that she was married to Victor Laszlo. At the end of this scene, Ilsa
goes into the cafe to her husband after that last line. Rick walks off in another direc¬
tion. In an amusing moment, the Arab rushes back in with his arms full of linens
and is shocked to find they have both left. Then he puts the first sign, "700 francs,"
back up.
18 Chapter 1

What does the overall scene really show? Rick wants to win lisa back, and he
is feeling positive in the beginning. Ilsa is full of mixed emotions because of their
encounter the previous night. She wants to push him away. Rick apologizes. Ilsa
rejects his attempts. He tries to make her feel guilty about the railroad ticket. She
does the same to him about the previous night. She gives him the "let's be friends
and remember the good times." He doesn't hear it. She basically calls him a jerk,
and he calls her a whore, saying she'll lie to Laszlo someday. She really surprises
him with "Laszlo is my husband." This opens a wide gap between what he was
expecting and the reality of what he hears. She wants to hurt Rick. She wins. Love
is at stake but never mentioned. The subtext revealed is far more complex than
what the lines say on the surface.
Avoid "writing on the nose." People are seldom completely honest. What
they say is always filtered by their relationships with the people they are talking
to, what they want, and what they want to hide. "Writing on the nose" is the
phrase used to describe direct dialogue, in which the characters say exactly what
they mean. This kind of writing doesn't have any subtext and results in flat char¬
acters. What is exciting about theatre, for both the actors and the audience, is fig¬
uring out the subtext—trying to understand what the characters are not saying.
People don't say exactly what they mean. They try to be polite, they lie, they want
to avoid conflict. Suppose a guy hits on your protagonist. He's smiling with yel¬
low teeth, his breath smells of bourbon, and his nose hair needs to be trimmed.
Your protagonist smiles and edges away or gives a polite answer and tries not to
offend him because she doesn't want to create a scene. The creep leans forward,
puts his hand on your protagonist's thigh, and whispers something obscene. He
won't give up. Finally, your central character says something direct. This makes
the situation worse.

EXERCISE 3_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Is there a social problem that concerns you? Date rape? Bureaucratic red
tape? Abuse of children? Select an issue you care about at work or in your
neighborhood. Write a scene in which Character A seeks to deal with this
problem in society. Character B represents the other side of the issue and
opposes Character A. For example, what if Character A found out about other
workers stealing merchandise? What if Character A suspected a relative of
child abuse?
B. Write a three-person scene in which Characters A and B seek to deal with a
problem in society but are opposed by Character C. Consider an issue that
you care about—perhaps a nearby atomic power plant, a proposed highway
that will cut the community in half, a pollution problem, or teenagers drag
racing that leads to a hit-and-run. Whatever Character A and B's objective, it
must run into an obstacle provided by Character C.
 The Essence of Drama 19

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene about a social problem or issue in which there is a reversal.
Character A has a goal that he believes in. Character B opposes that goal for
private reasons. Character C is brought in, and her information causes the
opposite of what is expected.
D. Write a scene with four or five short sequences in which the emotional tem¬
perature of at least one of the characters rises. Start the scene at normal, and
increase the pressure step by step so that the emotions escalate. Perhaps
Charactei A is manipulating Character B deliberately. Perhaps Character A is
having to drag information out of Character B, and each new revelation
causes increased anguish for Character A or increased anguish for Character
B as he relives a terrible ordeal.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene of no-holds-barred conflict that centers on a ritual interrupted
by the protagonist who believes what is happening is wrong. What is the rit¬
ual? A social, family, personal, religious, or secret ritual? What is the antago¬
nist doing to a third character that the protagonist believes is wrong?
F. Write a conflict scene in which two characters seek to avoid overt conflict.
The two characters should never say exactly what they mean. Make them lie,
tell fibs, and offer half-truths. Have the characters avoid a particular word.
Give the two characters a variety of subtle tactics to use. Find behaviors that
reveal the mental processes of the characters. What motivates the conflict?
What does each character want? The idea is to make whatever they're doing
or talking about on the surface different from the subtext.

Summary

The inciting action begins the plot and leads to the cause of the action. It may hap¬
pen before the play begins, or it may occur at the beginning of the play. Because of
the environment, a situation, or a circumstance of some kind, the world of the pro¬
tagonist becomes unbalanced. This is the inciting action that creates a need within
the protagonist that leads him to want to do something about it.
The protagonist is aroused by the inciting action to assert his or her conscious
will and direct it toward a specific goal. The goal must be sufficiently realistic that
it is attainable. The character's will has to be strong enough so that he or she will
pursue the goal no matter what the obstacles. And the antagonist must be equally
strong and committed. The central character plans strategies and tactics to achieve
the goal, but his or her ideal scenario isn't what happens in reality on encountering
the antagonist. There is resistance, and every conflict consists of attack and coun¬
terattack. Each decision is bigger than the last one, and the consequences are
greater.
20 Chapter 1

The central action answers the question. Will the protagonist achieve her goal?
The action shows us the struggle, the conflict, the complications the central char¬
acter faces.
The turning point of the plot generally involves a third character, not the
antagonist, but it leads to the final confrontation between the protagonist and
antagonist and the inevitable end. The turning point of a life may seem mundane
at the moment when it happens. Real crises are often concealed in trivial events.
The turning point is the moment when the protagonist's future is made apparent.
This is the moment when there is no going back.
The climax of a play brings together the protagonist and antagonist for a final
confrontation. It is at the climax of the play where the most violent dislocation
occurs in this relationship. It is in this scene that the struggle is won or lost, and it
must be shown on the stage.
There are three levels of conflict. The first level is internal conflict, or conflict
within—that inner struggle between duty and desire, between responsibility to
self versus responsibility to others, or between right and wrong within one's own
conscience. The second level of conflict is personal and external, involving a charac¬
ter's relationships with other people. The third level of conflict involves issues and
situations that affect the larger society. Some plays employ conflict on all three
levels.
Common problems that lead playwrights astray include (1) providing too
much exposition, or giving information about a character or background story
without any real motivation for doing so and without conflict; (2) including too
many details found through research that have nothing to do with the conflict and
don't aid the protagonist in achieving his or her goals, and (3) introducing a new
character without a clear purpose.
Solutions to these problems and others are as follows: (1) Exposition should
be delivered as conflict. If there is information that must be conveyed, put it into
the antagonist's mouth in the form of accusations and attacks against the protago¬
nist. (2) Realize that the audience only needs enough information to know what
happened, how it relates to the characters, and why it is important to the action
now. (3) If there is no conflict and nothing changes in the relationships of the char¬
acters, the scene isn't necessary. (4) Keep the number of characters to a minimum.
There is no place for a nonessential character in theatre today.
To make sure there is a rising conflict, the playwright must make the protago¬
nist face ever-increasing obstacles. The problems need to multiply. The pressure
put on the character needs to increase. Plan your play so that the central or core
conflict is arranged scene by scene in climactic order.
Conflict that doesn't escalate or fails to rise is static. A static play is caused by
a series of scenes that repeat the same conflict over and over, make the conflict gen¬
eral rather than specific, seem of equal importance, or have conflicts that are not
strong enough to cause any change
Four words to remember when thinking about conflict are goal, motivation,
obstacles, and tactics. Because of a situation (motivation). Character A wants some-
 The Essence of Drama 21

thing (goal), but Character B and/or others seek to prevent Character A from
achieving his goal (obstacles). If the character's motivation is strong enough, the
character will try various means (tactics) to overcome the obstacles.
Conflict between characters always takes the form of insistence versus resis¬
tance. Nothing moves forward in a play except through escalating conflict. The
magnitude of a work depends upon the number of complicating actions. Three
major actions and three major reversals are needed to take the character to the limit
of experience.
 CHAPTER

Getting an Idea for a Play

A play begins with characters and language. The story is generated by the wants
and needs of the characters, especially the central character, and the characters
usually pursue those wants with words. For example, if a young man wants to
seduce a pretty girl, he employs a velvet tongue. If a prosecutor wants to win a
trial, he uses words to get convincing testimony to support his case. The action is
in the words.
But where does the idea for a character or a play begin? Like the beginning of
a pearl, it may begin with an irritation, a tiny grain of sand. For each author and
each play, it is different. There are probably as many sources of ideas as there are
plays. However, we can start with three categories: personal experience; observa¬
tions of people, images, and events in our daily lives; and research.

Personal Experience

Just as the actor often finds it easier in the beginning of his training to play a char¬
acter similar to himself or herself, the beginning playwright will also find it easier
to tell a story by using his own experience. It is often said that a writer should write
what he knows. This is fine up to a point, but it must also be strongly emphasized
that a writer may use his creative imagination, observation, and research to
increase what he knows. An actor may play a deranged killer without having actu¬
ally killed someone by building on his knowledge and experiences with imagina¬
tion. The writer does the same thing. There have likely been times in both the
actor's and the playwright's life in which he has been angry with another person.
Perhaps he has felt injustice, prejudice, rage, and a desire for revenge. He may not
have acted on those feelings but can imagine what would have happened if he had.
So, the writer, like the actor, is able to build upon real-life events with his imagina¬
tion and exploit specific events for dramatic ends.
My play Like Father, Like Son was inspired by an incident in my family. After
my wife and I were married, my mother had a small party for us that ended tragi¬
cally: My father and his brother got in a fistfight that began in the kitchen and con¬
tinued into the driveway, where my uncle was pushed backward against a sharp

23
24 Chapter 2

piece of metal. From this event, I created a play in which there is a similar fight and
the uncle is impaled and then dies. The father then commits suicide just as his
father had done, by putting a gun in his mouth and blowing the back of his head
off. (My grandfather actually killed himself in this way.) Thus, I began with char¬
acters and a basic situation that I knew and built upon it with my imagination.
John Guare notes in an interview in The Playwright's Art, edited by Jackson R.
Bryer (1995), that the first scene in his play Bosoms and Neglect was taken essentially
word by word from an incident in his life. This event was very personal and shock¬
ing to him emotionally, and after it happened, he wrote it down because he didn't
know what else to do with it. This event, which involved his mother in one of the
darkest moments of her life, served as a springboard for the play.
In Mel Gussow's (1999) Edward Alhee: A Singular Journey, a biography, the
playwright describes the genesis of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and other plays.
Albee says, "I will discover one day that I am thinking about a new play, which
means that it's been in my unconscious and I am informing my conscious mind
that I have been thinking about it. I'll put it back again. I'll forget about it. It will
pop up again a few weeks later and I will discover that I have thought more about
it" (p. 151). Albee explains that it is similar to the arrival of Six Characters in Search
of an Author, by Pirandello. They sort of come to him and say, "Write us." Albee
experiments with characters like an actor doing improvisations. He says, "I'll take
a long walk on the beach with the characters, who I plan to have in the play I
haven't written yet. I will put them in a situation that won't be in the play, and I
will improvise dialogue for them to see how well I know them" (p. 151).
Our dreams may provide a useful starting place. Dreams are theatrical. They
are free. They don't have to be rational. They aren't predictable. Many expression¬
ist playwrights have used dreams to explore the subjective, internal reality of
humans. Dream sequences are common in television and films, as well. Dreams
provide a rich and exciting source of ideas for work in the arts. Nightmares can
provide thrilling experiences. It is possible to use the images and energy of anger,
fear, and frustration to show what is inside a character's mind.
Write down a favorite dream or nightmare and explore the possibilities.
Combine several fearful events. Ask others about their dreams and nightmares.
What do you fear? What do you know of the fears of other people close to you?
Avoid psychological interpretations or judgments of actions in a dream scene. You
do not need to explain the dream or tell the audience what it means, but a dream
scene must make sense within the larger context of the play.
Orphee, by Jean Cocteau, is a short surrealistic play that has many strange
details like a dream, and the author also explains in the stage directions how to
stage them. What's Wrong with This Picture? by Dennis Margulies, was inspired by
a dream that he had after his mother's sudden death in which she came home. He
wrote in "Writers and Their Work," in the Dramatists Guild Quarterly (Margulies,
1995), that it doesn't conform to any preconceived rules about a person who comes
back from the dead. Margulies calls it his most "personal play."
 Getting an Idea for a Play 25

Watch out for autobiographical characters. A character based on the writer is

often a passive character. It is difficult, if not impossible, for a writer to be able to
observe himself and report truthfully. We all have many secrets we fear to expose,
and our writing usually doesn't capture an honest portrayal. The character based
on the author usually ends up as an observer, watching others in action. The other
characters then become far more alive and interesting. The character standing in
for the author in the following plays is overshadowed by the women. In Eugene
O'Neill's A Long Day's Journey into Night, it is the mother who is the major figure.
The same is true in Tennesee Williams's The Glass Menagerie and Neil Simon's
Broadway Bound. In Arthur Miller's After the Fall and Simon's Chapter Two, it is the
wives who emerge as the most colorful characters.
Don't think of your characters as you. The characters are not you. When they
are not you, they are more free, more complex, more alive, and more outrageous.
You may step into their shoes sometimes to get in tune with what they feel, and
you may use some of your experiences, but make your characters different enough
from you so that you can be honest.
Many little moments in a play may come from personal experiences, which
the writer puts into the mouths and actions of characters. When Albee was about
twenty-one, he worked as a messenger for Western Union. His best friend, William
Flanagan, was also a messenger. In Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Act 3, p. 107)
George tells Martha that a telegram announcing the death of their only child was
delivered by "some little boy about seventy." Martha then asks, "Crazy, Billy?" and
George says, "Yes, Martha, that's right.... Crazy Billy." As Gussow tells us in his
biography of Albee, this was a joking reference to Flanagan.
So, to what extent should playwrights use their own experience? As some
critics have noted, writers can be too self-preoccupied and too self-indulgent. Such
charges have been leveled at Tennessee Williams and Edward Albee, both for their
return to the same themes and their regular use of family members. Williams's
Glass Menagerie used portraits of himself for Tom, his mother for Amanda, and his
sister for Laura. In A Streetcar Named Desire, there were elements of both Williams's
mother (the southern belle) and sister (allegations of rape and insanity) in the char¬
acter of Blanche. Stanley is a version of his father. In Suddenly Last Summer, his sis¬
ter Rose is also reflected in Catherine as is his mother in Mrs. Venable. Mrs. Venable
wants the doctor to perform a lobotomy on Catherine. In real life, Williams's
mother had his sister Rose lobotomized. Albee's parents, Reed and Francis Albee,
are reflected in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? The American Dream, Three Tall
Women, and many others.
There is room for plays of all kinds, but no matter what the story, it will only
work if the playwright taps an emotional core. All artistic expression is naturally a
reflection of the artist, but the point is to select characters you can be honest with.
If the playwright is uncomfortable about revealing too much of himself in a char¬
acter, it will not work. The character will seem hollow, untrue, and incomplete. On
the other hand, the playwright who gets too involved with the intellectual issues.
26 Chapter 2

rather than the character and the emotions, will put the audience at a distance.
When a play focuses on the ideas at the expense of character, it often doesn't grab
an audience emotionally. A good play intrigues us by finding the balance between
the intellectual and the emotional. It has something to say and touches us where
we live.

Observations of People, Images, and Events

A play may begin with a character based on someone you have observed. When I
was in college, I had a philosophy teacher whose name was actually Dr. Virtue, and
he inspired me to write a character that I called Dr. Soul in Wine of This Year's Vin¬
tage, a play about resisting conformity. The actor Michael Wager, a great opera fan
and friend, inspired the character of Mendy in Terrence McNally's The Lisbon Travi-
ata. The Caretaker, by Harold Pinter, was inspired in 1960 by two brothers in the
author's apartment building and a homeless person that they allowed to live with
them for three weeks. Although he did not know these people intimately, Pinter's
creative imagination was able to build upon the various encounters he had with
them in the hall and on the street.
A play also may begin with an image. According to Mel Gussow (1999) in his
biography of Albee, The Death of Bessie Smith was inspired by an album cover. It
was also a reflection of Albee's outrage over the racial prejudice in the South. Albee
explored the story about the great blues singer's alleged automobile crash and
death from loss of blood because she was refused admittance to a hospital due to
her skin color. A play may also begin with a series of images, or a collage. Nilo Cruz
often gathers photos from newpapers and magazines and creates a collage when
he's writing a play. Anything that helps him in the visualization of the characters,
locale, or action is added. Sometimes he even does drawings himself.
Playwrights may be inspired not only by situations they encounter person¬
ally or by people or events they observe but also by newspaper and magazine sto¬
ries. Equus, by Peter Shaffer, was inspired by a newspaper story about a boy who
blinded several horses. Tracy Letts's play Killer joe was inspired by a newspaper
story about a family in Florida. Garcia Lorca's Blood Wedding also took its plot from
a newspaper account of the murder of a bridegroom. The musical Godspell took its
inspiration from the Bible.
I read an article in Teacher magazine about a gay high school teacher who
came out to his history class and whose job became jeopardized. The article dis¬
cussed some of the issues involved in the case but offered few details about the
people involved. Nevertheless, I was intrigued and spent the next six years writing
and rewriting Outburst based on this incident. It was up to me to invent the char¬
acters and get inside them until I could feel their pain, hopes, and dreams. Issues
may be important for essays and magazine articles, but it is the characters' wants
and needs, actions and words, feelings and clashes that make a play compelling.
 Getting an Idea for a Play 27

Godspell, performed at Idaho State University. Directed by J. David Blatt, Set and Lighting
Desig?i by J. David Blatt, Costume Design by Sonja Nelson.

A photograph, a painting, a poem, a stranger, a magazine article, an over¬

heard conversation, or something that the writer sees on the street—almost any¬
thing can trigger an idea for a play. By the time a play has been finished, however,
there may no longer be a connection. A play has to start with an idea somewhere,
but the actual writing may lead the writer in a totally unexpected direction. Lan-
ford Wilson said in The Playwright's Art (Bryer, 1995) that the Hot l Baltimore started
with an image of lost trains, abandoned railroad stations, and a once glorious hotel
that had become run down. He didn't realize it was a whores' hotel until the char¬
acter of April came down the stairs. Once she entered the play, the focus of what he
was writing became clear.
Neil Simon's Lost in Yonkers was quite different when he first thought of the
idea. He wrote twenty pages of it and then decided that it wasn't going anyplace.
He put it aside and went on to other things, but it was starting to germinate and
28 Chapter 2

grow in his mind. When he went back to it, he realized what was wrong. In the first
version, Bella was not retarded and the young boy who came to live there was
alone. As Simon continued to work on the play, Bella became emotionally arrested
because of her grandmother. The boy was joined by a brother so that he would
have someone to talk to. Louie the Gangster turned into Bella's brother, who was
there to show what the grandmother had done to the family and to encourage Bella
to speak up against her.
John Guare (1992) has noted that his play Lydie Breeze was inspired by seeing
two women on a beach one day when he went swimming. There, walking along
the beach in the water, was a woman with more vivacity and energy than he had
ever seen before. She was wearing a long dress, because she wore long clothes to
mask herself, and pointing at a young girl and lecturing to her. That was the
image that started the writing. The rest of the story came from Guare's desire to
write about one of his ancestors, a very beautiful woman who had come from
Poland and defected to the United States through an extraordinary chain of
circumstances.
Disease can also serve as inspiration. The AIDS epidemic has been the source
of many works, such as Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart, William Hoffman's As Is,
Paula Vogel's The Baltimore Waltz, Tony Kuchner's Angels in America, and Craig
Lucas's The Dying Gaul. Wit tells the story of a cancer patient. Steel Magnolias
focuses on a diabetic.
Throughout human history, from the Peloponnesian War to Vietnam to the
Israeli/Palestinian conflict, war has served as the source for numerous plays. Viet¬
nam War experiences have been drawn upon for plays such as Tracers, which was
conceived by John DiFusco and written by the original cast, and the trilogy by
David Rabe including Streamers, Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel, and Sticks and
Bones. In the Heart of America, by Naomi Wallace, is a recent play about the Gulf
War.
Intolerance, injustice, and prejudice also have inspired plays. Clifford Odets
voices his protest about unfair labor practices in Waiting for Lefty. Society's intoler¬
ant treatment of gays is the focus of plays such as The Children's Hour, by Lillian
Heilman; Boys in the Band, by Mart Crowley; and Gross Indecency and The Laramie
Project, by Moises Kaufman. Other plays showing an emerging tolerance in the last
few decades include Torch Song Trilogy, by Harvey Fierstein; The Lisbon Traviata, by
Terrence McNally; Jeffrey, by Paul Rudnik; and Angels in America, by Tony Kushner.
Racial discrimination has been portrayed in Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in
the Sun, Leroi Jones's The Dutchman, and Charles Fuller's A Soldier's Play, among
others. A broad range of the African American experience in the United States has
been chronicled by writers such as the three just mentioned and August Wilson,
Cheryl West, Susan-Lori Parks, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Charles Gor-
done, Joseph A. Walker, and George C. Wolfe. While few plays by Latin American
authors have become well known nationally, the Hispanic world is represented by
playwrights Nilo Cruz, Jose Rivera, Luis Veldez, Judith Perez, Severo Perez,
Arthur Giron, Milcha Sanchez-Scott, and Jeremy Blahnik.
 Getting an Idea for a Play 29

Conflict is readily apparent in social problems such as injustice, war crimes,

hate crimes, rape, gender issues, sexual molestation, aging, the youth culture,
drugs, adultery, abortion, discrimination, freedom of speech, euthanasia, suicide,
terrorism, arson, and so on. However, a play must focus on characters, not just
issues. If the characters are not developed enough to make the audience care about
them, the audience won't care about the issues, either. Moreover, its best to avoid a
protagonist who is a passive victim. A play that focuses on a person who has been
wronged by society but fights back for her rights, justice, and dignity will be far
more interesting because she takes action.
What situations in your own life make you really angry? Imagine waiting for
a parking spot and having another driver zip around you and steal the space. What
would happen if you took a tire iron from the trunk and smashed the driver's
headlights? Imagine that you are at a university trying to find out why you lost
your financial aid. You call the office but get a recording. You go to the office but are
ignored; the clerk is indifferent, then hostile, and then rude. You are sent to the reg¬
istrar's office, then the dean's office, then back to financial aid. You are given an
appeal form and told it will take a month before it will be acted upon. What other
situations have you experienced that might be useful in writing a play?

Research

Another very important element in the creation of plays is research. If writers write
about what they know, that also means they can write about what they learn. Many
plays are based on historical figures, such as Abraham Lincoln, Saint Joan, Queen
Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Becket, Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and Edgar
Allan Poe, among many others. There are plays about 9/11, dropping the bomb on
Hiroshima, hiding from the Nazis, and the destruction of the Native Americans in
early U.S. history. There are plays about historical figures and events in nearly
every country.
Biographies and autobiographies, diaries, letters, photos, newspapers, mag¬
azines, journals, transcripts of court trials—all of these may serve as source mater¬
ial. Dear Liar, by Jerome Kilty, is a play based on the letters of George Bernard Shaw
and Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Probably the best-known play adapted from a diary is
The Diary of Anne Frank, by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett. Transcripts of
court trials were used in Moises Kaufman's Gross Indecency and Shaw's Saint Joan.
Since the mid 1990s, there have been many one-person shows based on the lives of
famous people. Katherine Hepburn in Matthew Lombardo's Tea at Five, George
Burns in Rupert Holmes's Say Goodnight, Grade, and the former prime minister of
Israel in William Gibson's Golda's Balcony, are three examples.
I have written three plays based on historical events and people: Shootout at
Keystone Canyon, The Lady and the Gypsy, and Shakespeare's Journey. With each suc¬
ceeding draft, I had to throw out more and more history because all the little facts
and anecdotes slowed down the action.
30 Chapter 2

Shakespeare's Journey, performed, at Wichita State University. Directed by J. David Blatt, Set
and Lighting Design by Dan Williams, Costume Design by Betty Monroe.

In Shakespeare's Journey, I wanted to write about Shakespeare's adult life as a

husband and father, actor/playwright, and successful businessman. The amount
of material written about Shakespeare is enormous, and so I had a wealth of mate¬
rial. My major problem was deciding what to keep and what to omit. What I
learned from writing these plays is that historical details do not a play make. You
have to structure the events to tell the story effectively. Sometimes you have to omit
details and add events to make it work—to make it stage worthy. You have to make
the play meaningful. You may ask. If I have to throw out the history, then why do
the research? It's important to know as much about the truth as possible. You
should be faithful to the spirit of the truth yet provide an interpretation that will
have a point of view and enlighten the audience. It is not the facts that are impor¬
tant; it's your interpretation of them. Select the details that make the story dramatic
and meaningful.
Recently, several movies, including Hurricane (about the boxer Rubin Carter)
and A Beautiful Mind (about the brilliant mathematician John Nash), have came
under fire because the filmmakers left out some details in order to focus the stories.
 Getting an Idea for a Play 31

Their intent was to make art, to tell a story in the most dramatic terms, not to pro¬
vide every detail of the subject's life.
Contemporary people or situations may inspire a play as well as historical
ones. Presidents, national heroes, movie stars, and various other real-life individu¬
als in the United States have given rise to plays such as Dore Schary's Sunrise at
Campobello, about Franklin Roosevelt; Kathryn Schultz Miller's Amelia Earhart,
about the early woman aviator; and Moises Kaufman's The Laramie Project, about
the effect of the murder of Matthew Shepard on the town. The film Erin Brockovitch
came into being because of a situation involving industrial pollution and a real
contemporary person.
A theme may inspire a play. If you have a particular message, something
important to say, that may inspire you to write. Tennessee Williams's Not about
Nightingales was inspired by an atrocity in Pennsylvania, in which convicts were
locked in a steam-heated cell and roasted to death. David Rabe's play A Question of
Mercy explores the issue of euthanasia, with each character battling with the moral
and legal issues that attend helping an incurably ill person to die. Arthur Miller's
The Crucible explores the hysteria and hypocrisy of religious fundamentalists.
Although inspired by the hearings of Senator Joseph McCarthy, who sought to find
communists in the United States in the 1950s, the play's theme remains timeless.
Observe your world to see what inspires your voice. You may find inspira¬
tion in a contemporary or a historical event, person, injustice, or ethical concern.
What current events grab your attention? Which do you think could be developed
into a story about a central character who has a strong goal and who is faced with
great obstacles? Who would be the opposing characters? Do you foresee a way of
structuring the idea? How can you best show the action? As Jeffrey Sweet (1986)
notes in "Ethics and Responsibilities," in Dramatists Guild Quarterly, "Playwriting,
by its very nature, is bound up in ethical concerns. As playwrights, we design
behavior for the stage. That's what a script is—a program of words and actions
which, when given life by actors, are evaluated by the audience" (p. 15). The eval¬
uation of behavior is the evaluation of ethics.
All the wrongs and injustices of society, the business world, and politics may
provide fodder for a play. However, the author must show what is happening and
portray people in action, not just talk about it. If there is no conflict, there is noth¬
ing dramatic happening. As David Mamet (1993) wrote in Dramatists Guild Quar¬
terly, "Anything in drama which is not dramatic is going to cause the audience to
snore, and they won't tell their friends to come and see the play" (p. 13).
Any story may require you to do research on a particular name, event, dis¬
ease or drug. Research may be needed to enhance your knowledge even for writ¬
ing a contemporary play. For example, you might need to research tuberculosis
because one of your characters has this illness. If you write a play about a specific
kind of cancer, you had better know the symptoms and treatments. When you give
a character a profession, you need to know the vocabulary and views of people in
that profession. Police officers, firefighters, and accountants all have unique vocab¬
ularies and perspectives of society because of who they are and what they do.
32 Chapter 2

Keeping a Journal

A journal is a helpful tool for the playwright to jot down the events of the day,
descriptions of people he meets, a new word or a line of dialogue he hears, a scrap
of conversation, or a sketch of an unusual place he sees. Sometimes the playwright
may want to carry the journal with him, especially on going to a public place such
as an airport, bus station, grocery store, or mall. It is also helpful to keep a file for
newspaper clippings, magazine articles, pictures, letters, and even ads that might
have dramatic possibilities. Later, the playwright can come back to the journal or
the file for inspiration.

EXERCISE 4_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Consider a situation or event in your past that resulted in a change of per¬
ception and behavior. Such an event might include a divorce, a death, a hard-
earned success, or discrimination. What happened? How did you feel? Write
a monologue in which a character responds to such an incident. Have the
character speak in an immediate conflict in which she uses the past event to
achieve a current objective. To whom is she talking? Why?
B. Choose a character different from you in education, status, values, or lifestyle.
Develop a second character that is the opposite of the first. Create a collage for
each character, or a list of details—important, insignificant, meaningful, ran¬
dom, internal, external—that add up to a composite portrait of each character.
Write a scene about one event in which the two different personalities clash.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a monologue in which Character A talks about a significant object
given to him by Character B, a person no longer in his life either because the
person is dead, estranged, or moved away. Use an object that an actor can
have in his hand when performing the monologue. The significance of the
object is not its monetary value but its importance as a symbol of something
the character values because it represents the relationship—the love, sadness,
joy. Possible objects include a ring, key, pin, shirt, candy box, watch, photo,
and letter.
D. Write a conflict scene inspired by a photograph, a painting, or an observation.
Create two people whose personality and character traits are polar opposites.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Find a newspaper article that tells about an event that is inherently dramatic.
It must deal with at least two people in a conflict involving intolerance, prej¬
udice, or injustice related to race/ethnicity, color, religion, age, size, or sexual
orientation. Write a scene focusing on the two people in conflict. Remember
 Getting an Idea for a Play 33

that a play must focus on characters, not just issues. We must care about the
people in order to care about the issues. (See Chapter 4 for format guidelines.)
F. Do research on a historical figure that intrigues you. Write a scene in which
two contemporary characters encounter the ghost of the historical figure.
What is the conflict? What does the ghost want? Is the ghost one who pro¬
vides obstacles or help?

Summary

Where does the idea for a play begin? For each author and each play, it is different.
However, most sources fall into one of three categories: personal experience; obser¬
vations of people, images, and events in our daily lives; and research.
Just as the beginning actor often finds it is easier to play a character similar to
herself, the beginning playwright will find it easier to tell a story by using her own
experience. It is often said that a writer should write about what she knows, but it
must also be emphasized that a writer may add to what she knows with creative
imagination and research. An actor may play a murderer without having actually
killed someone by building upon her knowledge and experience with imagination.
It is the same for the writer. A writer needs to be careful in this regard, however, for
autobiographical characters are often passive observers. It is very difficult for writ¬
ers to observe themselves and report truthfully because they fear exposing some
aspects, making the writing often flat and dull.
Observations of people, images, and events may inspire a character or a story.
A writer may be inspired by an image, a painting, a newspaper article, a poem, an
interesting stranger, or an overheard conversation—almost anything can trigger an
idea for a play.
Research is another important element in the creation and development of
plays. If a writer writes about what he knows, then it can also be about what he
learns. Many plays are based on historical figures and events. Biographies and
autobiographies, diaries, letters, photos, newspapers, magazine, journals, tran¬
scripts of court trials—all may serve as source material.
A journal can be a helpful tool for the playwright, prompting her to jot down
the events of the day, descriptions of people, a new word or a line of dialogue over¬
heard, or a scrap of conversation. Keeping a file of newspaper clippings, articles,
pictures, letters, and other material that catches the writer's eye also may provide
inspiration for future plays.
CHAPTER

Planning the First Draft

Once a writer gets an idea for a play, it is unlikely that that idea will emerge exactly
as planned. It is the approach in this book to encourage you to write nine or ten
scenes based on some of the suggested exercises and then try to develop your idea
for the play into a clearer scenario. With a clearer idea of the major action and con¬
flict, the characters, the climax, and the ending, you can then focus your writing in
the later exercises to accomplish the plan. Once you have completed the exercises,
it will be time to put them together, add transitions, make changes, and create the
first draft.
When John Guare (1992) began writing The House of Blue Leaves, he had an
entirely different ending in mind. As he recalls, "I got sick when I saw what Artie
was going to do, what had to happen. The lesson that it taught me was, if you go
into a play knowing the ending, it's no fun to write. You can have a general idea of
where you would like to have it end, but leave open the possibility of the charac¬
ter's running away with it" (p. 34).
When Lee Blessing gets an idea for a play, he asks himself what makes the
seed of the play distinctive or different in point of view. "I want to find something
special or unique about it," he says. "What's this idea going to do that others I've
seen don't do?" (Albee, 1993, p. 11). By do he means the effect on the audience: How
is this idea going to affect the way an audience thinks, feels, or dreams about a par¬
ticular subject or a particular feature of the perceptual world around us? What can
this play do to make them deal with it in a way they haven't before? How can it
make them see the values they have and make them question those values? Bless¬
ing believes that "affecting the audience is why one writes a play to begin with.
You don't write a play for yourself, the actors, or the director. You're there to do
something to the audience" (p. 11).
Blessing's process is to walk around the lake eating chocolate bars and think¬
ing about the problem confronting the main character and the solutions that char¬
acter tries in order to solve the problem. He says, "It's fairly close to what an actor
has to do in his or her process. Given the character's problem, how does he want to
solve it, where does he go with the people he encounters, what gets in his way, and
how does he shift to try to get around it" (p. 12). A lot of exploratory work goes on
in his head. He says, "I think of the characters in the setting. I see them there, see a
scene, hear some dialogue. The process that is occurring, I hope, is that the good
ideas are staying in my head. The ones that aren't necessary go away" (p. 12).

35
36 Chapter 3

In this chapter, we will explore the development of the working title, charac¬
ter names and descriptions, and first scene. We will also consider how to hold the
audience's attention and create plot scenarios.

The Working Title

Finding the right title for a play may be difficult. A title should be relevant to the
subject matter and fit what the play has to say. It needs to be brief. It also needs to
grab our attention and arouse our curiosity and interest. It should not give away the
ending. The Hot l Baltimore is an intriguing title because of the missing letter, which
leads us to understand that the setting for the play is a rather seedy, run-down hotel.
We also get author Lanford Wilson's suggestion that it is "hot," that the goings-on
there are spicy. Proof, by David Auburn, is a very appropriate title for the mathe¬
matical connection to the story and what the leading character has done. The word
means the act or process of testing or trying to establish the truth of something.
Truth is also what the characters are seeking. Fences is another appropriate title both
because of the literal fence being constructed on stage during the play and the
metaphorical meaning playwright August Wilson wants to convey related to barri¬
ers created between people and the fences we build to keep others out.
Brainstorm and make a list of every title you can think of that may fit your
play. Ask others for their opinions. Pick the title you think is the most special, will
catch public attention, and is most appropriate for the content of the play.

Character Names and Descriptions

Write a brief description of each character in your play. What does an actor or
director look for in a description of a character? Most contemporary playwrights
give only minimal information, as Martin McDonagh did in The Beauty Queen of
Leenane:

MAUREEN FOLAN Aged forty, plain, slim.

MAG FOLAN Her mother, aged seventy. Stout, frail.
PATO DOOLEY A good-looking local man, aged about forty.
RAY DOOLEY His brother, aged twenty.

Others give a slightly longer description, as did David Grimm in Kit Marlowe:

THOMAS WALSINGHAM A trim and elegant young gentleman in his twen¬

ties. Born to a good family and raised with tradi¬
tion. Though more pretty than handsome, there is
nothing delicate about him. He is quick-tempered
and impatient and deeply concerned with appear-
 Planning the First Draft 37

ances. Dark curly locks over soulful eyes. He

dresses conservatively but expensively
KIT MARLOWE A playmaker. An athletically built, yet unhealthy-
looking young man in his twenties. Lack of sleep
and too much drink are running him to seed at an
early age. A wild haystack of hair sprouts over a
moonlike face which is capable of the wildest ani¬
mation and the coldest stare. He is at once jester,
scholar, thug, and seducer. His voice is quick and
confident but undermined by a self-mocking laugh.

Names should be chosen carefully. A name often says a lot about a character.
Marjorie, Margie, Madge, Marj, and Jorie all suggest different ages and personalities,
as do James, Jim, and Jamie. Avoid having two characters with similar-sounding
names. Millie and Mattie are of course different, but they look and sound too much
alike. It will be easy for actors to read the wrong lines, and the names may be confus¬
ing to the audience. In descriptions, note each character's age, relationship to other
characters, and what is special about him or her. Keep the information minimal.

The First Scene

Your first five to ten pages should grab the audience and make them want to dis¬
cover the rest of the play. They should also give a feeling for the tone of the rest of
the play. Make the dialogue fit the characters. For example, two students were read¬
ing a scene in class about two bank robbers. Suddenly, there came a line that stood
out. One robber said, "I'm screwing this goat; you just hold onto the horns." This
line struck a chord with the class. It fit the moment and said metaphorically exactly
what the robber meant. It was a gem, like "What kind of a house is this it ain't got
an orange?" from Awake and Sing!, by Clifford Odets, Blanche's line in Tennessee
Williams's Streetcar, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," and
even the famous line from Clint Eastwood's Sudden Impact, "Go ahead. Make my
day." These lines grab us because they are so right. Make sure you don't lose impor¬
tant characters for long periods of time in your play. Keep important characters
alive and involved during a scene.

EXERCISE 5__
All Levels
Write the first scene of your play. Select a relevant working title and the names of
your characters. Give a brief description of each one. Visualize the setting. Try to
jump into the conflict quickly. Put the exposition into the mouth of the antagonist,
who uses it as a weapon. We need to know what the protagonist wants within the
first five pages.
38 Chapter 3

To provide depth to your character, focus on the journey she takes. Have a
sense of your central character at the beginning of the journey and how she will
change by the end of the journey. What are the obstacles? How does the character
overcome them? Pay close attention to the key choices that your central character
makes. All choices—from moral to expedient—define character. What are the char¬
acter's major relationships in the story? How do these relationships help define
her?
Answering the following series of questions for each character will provide
further insight into his or her specific makeup:

1. What is the character's sign? Scorpio, Aries, Leo? A horoscope guide will pro¬
vide an overview of the personality characteristics associated with each sign.
Such a guide can give you ideas for character attributes, especially those that
are polar opposites (fire and water or earth and air).
2. What music does he or she like? Music is very personal. People have strong
likes and dislikes.
3. What is the tackiest thing in the character's life? Does he or she have plastic
trinkets from Las Vegas, porn magazines under the bed, or underwear with
holes?
4. What kind of advice would the character offer his or her best friend? Some
people mean well but don't have a clue. Some try to be a savior figure, but
their advice and actions are often more destructive than helpful. Others are
jealous or resentful and provide advice that undermines others.
5. Where is he or she from? People from each part of the country have distinct
characteristics, attitudes, concerns, and regionalisms. How do they affect this
character?
6. What food reminds your character of home or of a pleasant time growing up?
7. If this character were stranded in a desolate place, what one item would he or
she want to have? Why?
8. What is the first movie the character remembers? What is his or her favorite
movie and why?
9. How does this character feel about holidays? What is his or her favorite one?
Why?
10. What games does your character play?

In his book Games People Play, Eric Berne (1964) provides an analysis of social
intercourse in which people respond either as an adult, a parent, or a child. A char¬
acter may respond to his wife, for example, as if he were a responsible adult—an
equal. He also may respond as a parent—in the same mindset as one of his parents
and with the same posture, gestures, vocabulary, and feelings. This carries with it
a sense of authority, of "I'm right and you're wrong." A character may respond
inappropriately as a child. It is the role of the adult to regulate the activities of both
 Planning the First Draft 39

the parent and the child. The transactions, roles, or "games" between any two char¬
acters in a scene may involve the following responses:

Character A Character B
Adult to Adult
Adult to Parent
Adult to Child
Child to Adult
Child to Parent
Child to Child
Parent to Adult
Parent to Parent
Parent to Child

Each of us has these ego states within us. In some situations, we function and
respond as adults and process data in order to effectively deal with the outside
world. In other situations, something triggers us to respond like one of our parents
did. At other times, we act like children. The child may operate on a positive level
creatively and with enjoyment or on a negative level as a rebel who is angry defi¬
ant, and destructive. If another person takes on the role of the child, we often take
on the role of the parent.

Holding the Audience's Attention

Many contemporary plays, like How I Learned to Drive, by Paula Vogel, are ninety
minutes straight through with no intermission. Today, people are used to seeing
fast cuts and films that change the visual picture every twenty seconds. Fewer and
fewer people have the concentration or patience for the long plays of the Eliza¬
bethan or Restoration periods. It is difficult for modern audiences, for example, to
see a production of Shakespeare's Hamlet without cuts. Five-act, four-act, and
three-act plays are forms of the past. Even today when they are produced, they are
usually done in two acts and cut for shorter playing times. Audiences want shorter
plays.
Audiences also want to know the point of a play, and they want to know it
right away. This doesn't mean that we should directly tell them. Rather, it means
that we should suggest the point of the play and do so in the first scene. If the play
is about a vegetarian forced to eat meat at the hands of a sadistic butcher, then the
first scene should have him or her in a fury about the evils of fast-food hamburg¬
ers. This conveys what the audience will need to know about the character and the
probable challenges ahead. Moreover, there's immediate energy.
Begin with an interesting character in conflict. You also need to answer at
least two other questions at the same time: What is the tone? Comic or tragic?
40 Chapter 3

Lightly comic or darkly comic? Learn from so-called pulp writers. Their first chap¬
ter always grabs you with some odd situation that resists reasonable explanation
until the final chapter, which you race breathlessly toward. Similarly, your play has
only the first couple of pages to grab the viewer (or director, literary manager, or
agent) and make the rest of the play irresistible. Don't spend those pages describ¬
ing daffodils. Martin McDonagh's The Beauty Queen ofLeenane, Neil LaBute's The
Shape of Things, and David Auburn's Proof are just three examples of plays that grab
you, take you to unexpected places, and make you re-examine what you thought
was the truth.

EXERCISE 6_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. For several days, jot down in a journal descriptions of people and locales that
you find intriguing and note bits of dialogue that you overhear. Select set¬
tings that are simple yet unique and dramatic. A dark basement, a place in the
woods, a rooftop, a parking garage, a storage room, and an auto shop are all
more interesting and unusual than a typical living room or kitchen. What
characters and locales stand out? Pick any two of the most colorful people
and one locale and write a five- to seven-page scene in which the characters
clash. How does the locale affect them?
B. Write the answers to the preceding ten questions for two characters, and then
write a scene of their first meeting. Do research on the characteristics of their
astrological signs. Make your characters different and complex with contra¬
dictions, but give them strong wills.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene in which one character acts like an adult but the other character
switches his behavior from that of an adult to a parent to a child. What is the
status of the main character? What does he know that the audience does not?
Who in the story is in the superior position? When does your character dis¬
cover something new and important? Does the audience learn the truth
before the protagonist or at the same time?
D. Write a scene beginning with an immediate action and strong conflict that
builds from one surprise to another. The pace must be fast. The lines must be
short. The characters should be clearly different—different perspectives,
quirks, looks, objectives, and voices.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Observe real-life individuals in a public setting. Note what they are wearing
and look like, as well as their manners, attitudes, voices, and movements.
Add these specific details to two of your characters. Imagine a situation in
which one confronts the other to learn the truth, confirm a newly learned
secret, expose a lie, or demand information about an event. Write a five-page
scene. (See Chapter 4 for the proper format).
 Planning the First Draft 41

F. Write a scene set in a hospital room about a young person who is unconscious
from a drug overdose. In the scene. Character A—a doctor or a nurse—ques¬
tions Character B—the patient's friend—about a rave and what drugs the
patient ingested. Nexus, Liquid-X, Afterburners, rolling, speeding, 2-CB,
MDMA, 4-PMA, and GHB are associated with the drug scene. Do some
research about the symptoms and street slang. Make Character B reluctant to
talk but finally have to confess.

Plot Scenarios

In preparation for writing and developing the structure of your play, you need to
map out and describe the high points, or the major incidents. You need to plot the
key events and write a brief narrative of the story. As noted earlier, while Lee Bless-
ing/ John Guare, and many other playwrights do not preplan by writing out a
detailed plot synopsis, they do have a general plan in their heads of where they
intend to go.
As you think about the scenes you have written, you may find the original
scenes were in different locales. If so, you may need to translate and adapt them to
work in one locale or a unit set. If you have many characters, you must limit the
number to no more than three or four in a one-act play or six in a full-length play.
You therefore may need to eliminate characters or combine several into one.
Perhaps at this point, having worked your way through the first few chap¬
ters, you have already written scenes that will be incorporated into your play. It is
time now to fill in the gaps and to complete your scenario of the major incidents:
the inciting action, what the central character wants, what tactics the character uses
to get what he or she wants, what the antagonist wants, and the climax.
In a linearly structured story, the events are causal and chronological. Event
B cannot happen unless Event A has already happened. In a nonlinear story, each
scene leads to the next, but the story is not shown chronologically. Think of each
scene as a railroad car. On the side of each car, write who is in the scene, what hap¬
pens, and what is different at the end of the scene. What is the overall premise for
your play? State in one sentence what you intend for the action of the play to show
or say. Review the scenario of your play, and rewrite and edit so that it is no more
than one or two pages. Make it exciting.
The following examples are based on the first three scenes in my play, Shake¬
speare's Journey:

Goodbye Scene

Scene 1: Stratford. Will, Anne, John, and Richard

Leaving to join the players in London, Will tries to convince his wife, Anne, that it
is his opportunity to make something of himself. Although she doesn't want to be
left alone to raise the kids, she gives in at the end.
42 Chapter 3

Learning the Ropes Scene

Scene 2: London. Will, Richard, Cuthbert, Kempe, Pope, and Tooley

At the Theatre, Will is put to work with menial tasks while the more experienced
players make fun of him and his shortcomings and rail against the Puritans. At the
end of the scene. Will vows to keep his wife's Puritan background a secret.

Trouble at Home Scene

Scene 3: Stratford. Anne, Gilbert, Mrs. Crosse, John, Mary

Mrs. Crosse, a strict Puritan, considers Will a sinner and chides Anne for not dis¬
owning him. When the sinner comes home, Anne is greatly disappointed to learn
that it's just a short visit. At the end she storms out.

EXERCISE 7_

All Levels
Write a scenario of your play. Your synopsis of the story should answer the follow¬
ing questions: What are the given circumstances in terms of place; time of day;
economic/political/social/religious environment, if relevant, the inciting action;
the complications; and major conflict scenes? When does the climax occur? What
happens that changes the protagonist's course of action? How is the play resolved?
Divide the play into its scenes and designate the nature of each with a title, such as
the "drink scene," "sex scene," "no scene," "fight scene," and so on. Who is in each
scene, what happens, and what is different at the end of the scene?

Summary

Develop a scenario of your play. Decide on the point of attack. You may begin by
showing the audience a normal situation to introduce us to the main character, and
then hit the character with a dilemma. You may begin after the world has become
unbalanced—after the inciting incident—plunging the audience directly into the
conflict. Include only the significant events.
In a linear structured story, the events are causal and developed chronologi¬
cally. Event B cannot happen unless Event A has already happened. In a nonlinear
structured story, each scene leads to the next scene, but the story is not chronological.
Rough out the order of the scenes or incidents in the play. Develop a working
title. Write a list of characters' names and a brief description of each character.
Choose names carefully to match or contrast with personality and avoid having
names that sound similar. Use a single or unit set. Limit the number of characters
to no more than six. For the scenario, divide the play into its scenes and note who
is in each scene, what happens, and what is different at the end of the scene. To bet-
 Planning the First Draft 43

ter understand your characters, provide answers to the following questions for
each character.

1. What is the character's sign?

2. What music does he or she like?
3. What is the tackiest thing in the character's life?
4. What kind of advice would the character offer his or her best friend?
5. Where is he or she from?
6. What food reminds your character of home?
7. If this character were stranded in an isolated place, what one item would he
or she want to have?
8. What is the first movie the character remembers?
9. How does the character feel about holidays?
10. What games does the character play?

Particularly for a short play, jump into the conflict quickly in the first scene to
grab the audience and make them want to discover the rest of the play The first
scene should also set the tone and clarify the genre (comedy or drama).
'
 CHAPTER

The Professional Format

Imagine what reading a book would be like if there was no standard for spelling.
Imagine seeing a film in which no one paid any attention to the continuity—for
instance, a character walks down the street wearing a coat, then suddenly comes
around a corner without the coat, and then enters a store with the coat back on.
Imagine seeing a play during which (totally unconnected with the play) a stage¬
hand or a cat keeps coming on stage. Any of these distractions would take away
from the story and lessen our enjoyment. The same is true in writing. A play with
excessive spelling and punctuation errors or typos will distract and confuse the
reader. You must learn and follow the professional format, or no actor, theatre
director, agent, or producer will want to read your work.
The goal of proper manuscript form is to make it easier for literary managers,
agents, actors, and directors to read. Most experienced theatre practitioners are used
to seeing manuscripts that follow a professional format. A standard page layout,
with at least one-inch margins on each side and at the top and bottom, is expected,
and following that layout means you are conforming to traditional word counts.
Most directors and actors really don't care what font is used, as long as it eas¬
ily readable. Choose a font in which the letters are simple, clear, and not too close
together, such as Arial or Times New Roman, and use a 12-point size for the type.
Single-space each individual character s speech and double-space between sepa¬
rate speeches. As for page and time estimation, you can generally assume that one
page of dialogue averages one-and-a-half minutes. Long monologues may take sev¬
eral minutes, and really short speeches may fly by in a minute. The general length
of a play—about seventy-five pages of script—is about two hours, including inter¬
mission. A one hundred-page script is two hours and forty minutes, with intermis¬
sion. Today's theatre audiences expect a two-hour show or less, including
intermission. A play that runs two-and-a-half or three hours is considered too long.

Format Guidelines

T The name of the character (JOHN) speaking should be in capitals and cen¬
tered above the speech. Set the tab for 3.0 inches.

2. Single-space speeches.

45
46 Chapter 4

3. Double-space between the end of a speech and the name of the next speaker.

4. Single-space between the name of the speaker and his or her speech.

5. Put all stage directions on separate lines from the dialogue.

6. Put stage directions in parentheses. Set the tab for 1.5 inches.

7. Type the names of characters within the stage directions all in capitals
(JOHN). Do the same for pronouns (HE, SHE, or THEY) referring to the characters.
Do not put him, her, or them all in capital letters.

8. In general, avoid stage directions that tell an actor how to read a line, such as
"quietly," "angrily," or "sarcastically." The line itself should convey the tone: "What
in the hell do you want?" "Hi, it's nice to see you," or "Whatever it is, the answer is
no." Give a clear impression of the character's state of mind.

9. Preceding the first page of the play, there are three pages without page num¬
bers. First is a cover page with the name of the play and the author's name. Second
is a page with the name of the play and the author's personal contact information
in the lower-left corner: copyright date, name, address, telephone numbers, and
e-mail address. Third is a page that includes the character names and descriptions,
a description of the setting, and a specific listing of the time scene by scene.

10. When describing the characters, provide each character's age and note his or
her relationship to others in the play. Put the character's name, all in capital letters,
at the left margin. The description starts in the middle of the page, indented to 3.0
inches. For example:

MARJORIE The head of the household, a widow of

thirty-five, with a slim figure and still
youthful, long hair.
JIMMY Her son, a skinny fifteen-year-old, still
in that rebellious stage.

11. Keep the description of the setting brief. Convey the general look of the place,
the entrances, and the atmosphere. If specific items must be there, note them,
but avoid highly detailed descriptions. Give enough so that the set and lighting
designers have the information they need but the freedom to be creative. The fol¬
lowing is an example from the beginning of Betty's Summer Vacation, by Christopher
Durang:

A summer cottage, breezy-looking, inexpensive but functional summer furniture.

Pleasant, soft colors, inviting. An upstage door leads in from the front of the cottage.
Inside there are a number of doors, leading off to bedrooms—four doors in a clus¬
ter, one by itself. (Some of the doors can be implied in an offstage hallway, if need
 The Professional Format 47

be.) There is a door off-left that leads to an outdoor deck and the outside. Primarily
a living-room, but an open kitchen is also part of it. (Act 1, p. 1)

12. Note the time of the play. If there are various times, show a breakdown of the
play scene by scene, and note the time of each.

13. The scene and number (SCENE 1) should be typed in all capital letters and
centered at the beginning of each scene. END OF SCENE 1 should be centered at
the end of the scene, again in capital letters.

14. If you are using Microsoft Word, set your tabs for 1.5 inches for stage direc¬
tions, 3.0 inches for the characters' names, and 5.5 inches for act, scene, and page
numbers. The pages should always be numbered consecutively.

15. On the first page of each scene under the scene designation (SCENE 1) and
indented 1.5 inches, the same as the stage directions, type the words AT RISE: fol¬
lowed by a colon. On the same line, indented 3.0 inches, indicate who is on stage
and what each character is doing at the beginning of the scene. Put this description
on the top-right side of the page, single-spaced and in parentheses. If more than
one line is needed, indent every line of the description to 3.0 inches.

16. Put all stage directions in parentheses and on separate lines from the dia¬
logue. Generally, keep stage directions brief. Most stage directions are skipped
over by actors and directors. They focus on the dialogue. Keep the stage directions
limited to noting characters' entrances and exits and their physical actions. Do not
describe characters thoughts and feelings. Do not tell the actors how to act (sar¬
castically, angrily). The dialogue should convey the characters' emotions. If you
feel stage directions are needed to understand what you want to show, rewrite so
that it's clear in the dialogue. Stage directions should indicate action—what the
characters are doing.

17. Use proper punctuation and spelling. Avoid typos, grammatical errors, and
punctuation and spelling errors. Proofread several times. If you haven't mastered
the rules of punctuation, grammar, and spelling, you will need to follow an English
grammar guide.

18. In the following section, which shows a sample format of a scene, note that
the page numbers indicate it is the first scene of a one-act play with several scenes.
For a full-length play, the writer may need to include three numbers at the top-
right of the page. The first is for the act, the second is for the scene, and the third is
for the page number (for example, 1-1-1, 1-1-2, 1-1-3). If you are writing a one-act
with no scene breaks, only the page numbers are needed (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc.). If there
are scene breaks, the first number is for the scene and the second number is for the
page (1-1, 1-2, 1-3 and 2-4, 2-5, 2-6). If there are several scenes, for Scene Two, the
scene number changes to 2 but the page numbers continue to be numbered
48 Chapter 4

consecutively. A third scene is designated with a 3 and the pages continue to be

numbered consecutively (3-7,3-8,3-9). Do not start over with number 1 for the first
page of every scene. In all cases, no matter how long the play or how many scenes,
the page numbers are consecutive, beginning at 1 on the first page of the actual
script (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc.).

19. If you have a speech by one character (MARJORIE) that is interrupted by

lengthy stage directions, particularly actions by another character, you may want
to insert the character name again followed by (cont.) in parentheses to indicate
that the character is continuing to speak:

MARJORIE
Stop it! No! Don't!
(SHE tries to push him off, but RAFAEL forces her hands
above her head. HE pulls up her shirt and licks her bellybut-
ton. SHE tries to squirm out of his grasp, but HE slams her
head onto the floor hard.)

MARJORIE (cont.)
Please, I have money. Just let me go. I won't say anythi—

20. If a character's line is interrupted at the end of a page, its continuance on the
following page should be shown in the same way: MARJORIE (cont.). Avoid leav¬
ing a character's name isolated at the bottom of one page with the speech on the
next.

21. When you have completed your play, have the manuscript bound. Copy cen¬
ters can do this for you. The spiral plastic binder is the best. A three-ring binder is
difficult to hold and the pages rip out. Loose pages get out of order easily, get lost,
and are difficult to handle.

22. Manuscript format is different from that of a published script. When a play is
published, the character's name is usually placed at the left margin, followed by
the speech. Stage directions are also mixed into the speeches. The aim is to cram as
much on a page as possible because that's the cheapest way to print it. That format
is not acceptable for a manuscript. Manuscript format is designed to make it easy
for actors to read by clearly separating the dialogue from the stage directions.
You can order online a handbook for professional manuscript format that is
used by publisher Samuel French. Just go to the Samuel French website at
www.samuelfrench.com and follow the directions. Feedback Theatrebooks also
publishes professional playscript format guidelines. Go to www.hypernet.com/
prospero.html. Both French and Dramatists Play Service have a terrific selection of
plays that you can order online. Go to www.dramatists.com. Their catalogues also
provide excellent examples of how to write a play synopsis that is brief and grabs
the reader's attention.
 The Professional Format 49

Sample Scene

SAMPLE SCENE

By George Spelvin

CHARACTERS
JOHN
The Artistic Director of a professional
regional theatre in his mid-forties.
PAULINE A student playwright in her early
twenties.

SETTING

The director's office is in an old theatre, cluttered and comfortable, with one win¬
dow and a door to the outer office. The furniture which includes a table with a
computer, a desk, an office chair, two arm chairs and an end table are of good qual¬
ity but worn. There are colorful, framed posters on the walls, stacks of scripts, pro¬
duction photos and other theatrical items scattered about.

TIME
An afternoon in spring.

SCENE 1

AT RISE: (An afternoon in spring. JOHN is sitting

at his desk working. There is a knock at
the door. JOHN rises, comes around the
desk and opens the door. PAULINE
enters.)

JOHN
Come in. Welcome. So you're Mrs. Vernon's daughter. Pauline, right?
(HE offers his hand. THEY shake.)

PAULINE
Yes. Thanks for taking the time to see me, Mr. Church.

JOHN
(HE gestures for her to sit and crosses back to his chair.)
Call me, John. Your mother twisted my arm.

PAULINE
She's a strong lady.
50 Chapter 4

JOHN
She's a rich supporter. So what are your questions?

PAULINE
(Opening her notebook)
Well, John, I'm taking a playwriting class—actually my second, and I'm doing a
report on your theatre. What is your company's approach to producing new
plays? If I decide to submit a play to your company, what do you base your deci¬
sions on whether or not to produce it?

JOHN
Given the number of submissions and the costs of mailing manuscripts, I suggest
sending a letter of inquiry with 5-10 sample pages from the play first to see if we
want to read it.

PAULINE
(Looks up from taking notes)
So if I just send a script, you may not even read it.

JOHN
Without being recommended by an agent, yours would go to the bottom of the
pile. And it would stay there unless some intern happened to pick it up and read
it on his own.

PAULINE
That's not very encouraging.

JOHN
Look, we get over 1,000 scripts a year, but we're lucky to find half a dozen of
quality.

PAULINE
You're tough.

JOHN
It's a business. Listen, a good writer learns the craft, the skills needed for the job.
He understands what makes a good play, understands character and conflict, and
understands how to put it all together to make it clear on the page. If it's not on
the page, it won't be on the stage.

PAULINE
I'll remember that.
(SHE rises, offers her hand.)
Thank you.

JOHN
(Shaking her hand)
Say "hello" to your mother.
 The Professional Format 51

PAULINE
I will.
(SHE exits. JOHN picks up the phone. Blackout.)

END OF SCENE 1

Summary

The goal of using a professional manuscript format is to make it easier for literary
managers, agents, actors, and directors to read. Experienced theatre professionals
and practitioners are used to seeing manuscripts that follow a professional format.
The use of a simple and easy-to-read font, such as Times New Roman or Arial, and
a standard page layout, with at least one-inch margins on each side and at the top
and bottom, is expected.
Professional theatres have been inundated with so many scripts that most
now require a script to be submitted by an agent. If a play is not in the proper for¬
mat, many theatre directors, managers, and agents will not even read it. If you
enter a play in a contest and it is not in proper form, it will also likely be discarded
unread. The general feeling is that if the play follows a professional format, the
author has at least some knowledge and training in theatre and playwriting. If it
doesn't, the playwright is considered uninformed or ignorant. Who wants to read
a script from someone who doesn't even know the proper format? Moreover, using
the professional format makes it easier to see the difference between dialogue and
stage directions and thus makes a script easier to read.
 CHAPTER

Rhythm

Rhythm is a part of life, and the natural world is highly rhythmic. Consider the
sounds of crickets chirping, dogs barking, a fire crackling, a fountain spraying water,
and a brook babbling behind your house. Your heart beat is rhythmic. Your days
have a rhythm in the ebb and flow of daily activities. One day starts off slowly with
a morning coffee, speeds up as work takes over, slows down when the midafternoon
"blahs" set in, and then picks up again when you have an evening play or ballgame
to go to. Another day goes haywire when you drop the coffee pot on the floor, get
chewed out by the boss, have a flat tire on the way home, and get some unexpected
company that night just when you're ready to settle down for a quiet evening.
For a play, we telescope the events, eliminating the dull parts. It is important
to plan the rhythm so that the play has variety. In this chapter, we will explore the
use of rhythm, what influences rhythm, and the differences between vertical and
horizontal development.

Creating Rhythm

Consider rhythm the heartbeat of your play—its pulse. The more excitement and
the more action, the faster it beats. But it can't continue fast all the time because
that's exhausting. Therefore, some scenes need to be fast, others need to be slow,
and some need to be in between. Some should start softly and happily and end in
agitation and anger. Rhythm is part of structure, and if you write with careful
attention to the rhythm of your material, you should be able to come up with a play
that is sound and solid.
Rhythm is not just a matter of the tempo of speech—fast or slow. It is also the
variation of tempo and beat that provides emphasis. Rhythm provides emphasis
by contrast. Edward Albee (cited in Bryer, 1995) notes that drama is made of two
things: sound and silence.

Each of them has its own very specific duration. Playwrights notice sound and
silence, loud and soft, just as precisely as a composer does. There is a profound dif¬
ference in the duration of pause between a semicolon and a period, for example,
and the wise playwright knows that, in the same way that a conductor knows the
difference between durations. I discovered that writing a play is very similar to

53
54 Chapter 5

writing a piece of music. The psychological structure of a play is very similar to that
of a string quartet, (p. 12)

A play is developed though a series of scenes that vary in length, rhythm, and
mood. Like structure, rhythm creates a sense of forward movement. It provides the
variety needed to hold audience attention and conveys a sense of progression. It
also has the effect of helping us balance between advancing the action and deep¬
ening the characters. Orchestrating the rhythm of a play is in a sense like creating
a symphony with words. If the last scene was a fast one, make the next one a slow
one, the next one moderate with deep lows and high highs, and the next one stac¬
cato and jumpy.
What kind of scenes are slow? Perhaps a leisurely breakfast scene, a romantic
love scene, or a death scene. What kind of scene is harsh, staccato, fast, and jumpy?
A scene of excitement, a wacky party, people in and out, a battle, or a fight between
lovers. What kind of scene has deep lows and high highs and swings from one
extreme mood to another? Perhaps a manic-depressive woman waiting for her
lover, a scene of deep emotion, or a scene of despair. What kind of scene is fast and
light? Perhaps a comic scene, a farcical chase scene, or a comic lover's quarrel. Usu¬
ally, as we move toward the climax of the play, the scenes get shorter and things
happen more quickly.

Influences on Rhythm

A number of factor influence the rhythm of a play. For instance, the characters help
in determining the rhythm. Rhythm of speech and movement both vary with the
kind of character as well as with the attitude of that character in that situation. Peo¬
ple also have their own individual rhythms. If we compare a waitress and a bus
driver with a couple from the country club set, it becomes evident that each pair
demands a different rhythm. The first couple are likely to be placid, tired, and less
verbally astute while the sophisticated couple are likely to be sharp, rapid think¬
ing, and poised. There are differences in social status, education, and income.
Race/ethnicity may also affect rhythm. Different kinds of scenes call for different
energy from the characters.
The locale also affects the rhythm. Each locality is different. If the play is set
in the country, it is likely to be more casual and relaxed than a play set in a major
city. The time of day, the season of the year, and the kind of climate or weather
affect the rhythm. Two characters in bathing suits in Miami on a sunny day will
have a different rhythm than two characters waiting at a bus stop in Chicago in the
winter. A scene at the waterfront in thick fog will have a different feeling than a
scene in full daylight. The time of day also affects the rhythm and mood. If you are
alone in an isolated country house in the middle of the night, it may be frightening.
Two characters in a beach house during a hurricane may be frantic.
Rhythm and mood are intertwined. The mood is the dominant emotional
characteristic of a scene. If the mood is hard or soft or light or heavy, the rhythm of
 Rhythm 55

the scene will correspond. The tonal quality is varied by the lengths of lines and
pauses as well as by emphasis, movement, vocal quality (the pitch of the voice, the
resonance), and delivery of lines. There may be scenes of love, jealousy, argument,
reconciliation, deceit, or death and so on in a play. Each of these scenes will have its
own inherent mood.
What determines the rhythm has to do with both the emotional content and
the lengths of the lines and speeches. A series of very short speeches, with only a
word or short phrase in each, will suggest a fast rhythm. A majority of medium-
length speeches (two or three lines) or short monologues with serious intentions
will provide a moderate or slower rhythm. A scene with considerable conflict and
a variety of tactics will contain a mixture of short and long speeches: abrupt and
angry exchanges, apologies, further explanations, more anger. In short, it may
have a harsh, staccato rhythm and build in intensity to a strong climax, an explo¬
sion. It is impossible to make a love scene seem real if it is rushed. Expressing deep
emotion, kissing, and caressing are not fast activities. The words are less important
than the responses and feelings they generate. A scene with deep emotion, such as
one portraying a child dying and the anguish of the parents, may have deep lows
and a slow pace. It has to be slow for the actors to capture the emotion.
Nilo Cruz, who won the Pulitzer Prize for his play Anna and the Tropics, pays
careful attention to rhythm in his plays. His work usually features Cuban charac¬
ters and poetic language, which are captured especially in the economy of words
and use of rhythm in his work. Cruz met with my playwriting students the week
before his award-winning play opened and noted that each scene has a different
overall rhythm. Language has to be re-created in the theatre. It is art. My plays are
poetic," he told them.
The rhythm in poetry is more formal than the rhythm in prose. Poetry
involves a heightened patterning of rhythm. It is more structured than prose, but
most of the principles of poetry analysis are also applicable to prose. The general
term for the patterning of poetic elements is prosody, and the name for analyzing
rhythm syllable by syllable is called scansion. All words are made up of one or more
syllables, some of which are emphasized or stressed and some of which are rela¬
tively unstressed. When these words are joined in a poetic line, their stressed and
unstressed syllables work together to form an overall rhythmic pattern for the line.
Prose rhythms are usually not as heightened or as formalized as poetic
rhythms, but they operate on much the same principle of variety within regular¬
ity—changes in the repetition of stressed and unstressed syllables. The rhythmic
layers of prose are called cadences. Sentences are grouped into units of meaning, or
paragraphs. A character's speech acts as a paragraph. We get a good impression of
the tempo of a scene by looking at the density of the script. A mass of long speeches
will be slower than an exchange of short back-and-forth dialogue. We call this dia¬
logue cadence. A play is generally composed of a great variety of combinations:
sequences of short speeches interspersed with monologues or longer speeches and
sequences of moderate length mixed with short speeches.
The genre of a play generally dictates an overall tempo. Tragedy is usually
slow, for instance. Greek and Roman tragedies are filled with long speeches and
56 Chapter 5

monologues, as are Elizabethan tragedies and histories and neoclassic tragedies.

Romantic works from the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries also contain
long speeches, but they usually have a mixture of dramatic and comic scenes. A
comedy has a faster tempo than a tragedy or drama. Farce calls for the fastest
tempo. Situation comedies, comedy of manners, and romantic comedies generally
provide a mixture of short and moderate speeches with perhaps a few long
speeches. Comedy also calls for a heightened sense of timing in relation to the
development of a joke as well as the comic physical activity. Drama generally calls
for a moderate tempo.
Within each play, there is usually a mixture of serious and comic scenes.
While each genre has an overall mood, there needs to be variety within it. The same
tone throughout would be boring. Tennesse Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire is
a serious drama, but it also has numerous funny moments. Blanche's scene with
the newspaper boy has a poignant quality but is also funny. The early awkward¬
ness between Mitch and Blanche has a similar quality. The squabbling neighbors,
Steve and Eunice, add humor in their scenes.
Rhythm is also affected by the lengths of scenes. A series of short scenes gives
a sense of rapid change and movement. Longer scenes seem slower. Speed conveys
an emotional meaning. Short speeches generate quick, brisk, clipped speech and
fast movement. Long speeches and monologues slow down delivery and call for
slower movement. Scenes of excitement, anger, and violence move quickly. Scenes
of love, tenderness, and grief move slowly. As the emotional key changes, the
tempo changes.
Tempo is defined as the impression of speed, and the impression of speed
depends upon audience involvement. If the actors feel, the audience will. If the
actors are mechanical and race through their lines, they may speak and move
quickly but the audience will find the play dull and boring. They will not be emo¬
tionally involved, and the impression of speed will be slow. Extensive exposition
without conflict will also seem boring and slow.
Jump into conflict soon in every scene, and only bring in exposition when it
is essential to the immediate conflict. Make sure long speeches are built in climac¬
tic order from the least important to the most important. There should be only one
objective per speech. Ask yourself, What response does the character want? There
should be one answer.

Horizontal and Vertical Movement

It may be useful to think in terms of two kinds of movement: horizontal and verti¬
cal. Horizontal movement is concerned with the action that takes the story from Point
A to Point B. It is a scene that advances the plot. It is horizontal movement because
it covers ground and takes us to a new point in the story.
Horizontal and vertical movement are also related to tempo. Horizontal
movement is faster since it moves the plot forward. Vertical movement occurs when
 Rhythm 57

you slow the story down in order to explore character—what a character is think¬
ing or feeling, some aspect of her back story or the past events that have shaped
her. Vertical movement occurs in the scenes in which we learn something impor¬
tant to the story about the characters that we didn't know before. Instead of mov¬
ing forward, you go deeper. It is vertical movement because it digs into the roots of
the character.
Most melodramas and certainly many action movies have a lot of horizontal
movement amazing plot revelations, people getting killed, explosions, car
chases, and so on—but not much vertical movement. In other words, plot is their
primary focus. Anton Chekhov's plays, in contrast, have relatively little horizontal
movement and primarily vertical movement—characters bewailing their plight or
moping and not really able to do anything about it. As you watch The Cherry
Orchard, it sometimes feels like little is happening, although by the end of the play,
you may find it amazing how much ground has been covered.
Both kinds of movement are needed. If a play is all horizontal movement, its
relentlessness will burn an audience out, and they may not care much about the
characters anyway. Plays that emphasize plot over all else fall into this category.
However, if a play is all vertical movement, it will put the audience to sleep.
You should be conscious of the movement of each scene. It may mean fol¬
lowing a scene that drives the plot forward with one that explores character. It may
mean knowing that if you've had three horizontal scenes in a row, then it's time for
a vertical one. It's also important to vary the lengths of the scenes. It may mean
allowing for both kinds of movement within a single scene. There is a pure theatri¬
cal pleasure to be drawn from simply contrasting the two—following a fast scene
with a slow one or following a scene set in dazzling sunlight with one set in shad¬
owy moonlight.
Was the last scene you wrote primarily horizontal or vertical? Does the scene
present your protagonist with a new problem, or does it reveal something gen¬
uinely significant about him? Is the beginning of the scene positive or negative?
What about the ending? Pay attention to positive and negative values at the begin¬
ning and end of scenes. Some scenes start on a positive note and end on a negative
note. Some start negative and end positive. You may also begin and end on a neg¬
ative note or begin and end on a positive note. If you are focused on varying the
rhythms of the scenes, varying the movement from horizontal to vertical, you
should also vary the positives and negatives.

EXERCISE 8 __

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a continuous scene with two sequences, one horizontal and one verti¬
cal, in which Character A tries to learn a secret from Character B's past. The
horizontal scene should be fast, the lines should be short, and emotion should
run high. The conflict should build to a point at which Character B finally
makes a confession, a surprise revelation, and the scene becomes vertical.
58 Chapter 5

B. Write a continuous scene in three parts: moderate, slow, and fast. What does
the protagonist want? Make sure long speeches are built from the least
important to the most important. Use only one idea per speech. Make the
mood different in each.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a continuous scene in four parts, each with a different rhythm, about a
character who breaks the rules. Listen to four different kinds of music. Write
one section slow, lyrical, and gently flowing like a brook. Then write a harsh,
staccato, fast, jumpy sequence, like white water rushing through a canyon
around turns and over rocks. Next write a moderate part, with deep lows and
high highs, like a river in the mountains flowing over a rocky falls into a deep
pool. End with a light, fast sequence, like water bouncing and skipping down
a hill. The reader should be able to clearly recognize the changes among the
four parts.
D. Write a continuous scene with a horizontal conflict section and then a vertical
section. Character A wants information Character B has not shared about an
event. Character B refuses to divulge it. Character A uses various tactics to
drag it out of Character B. Build the scene so that the rhythm begins slowly,
increases to a faster and faster rhythm, reaches an emotional explosion, and
then slows down for a deep vertical exploration. Start the scene on a positive
note and end it on a negative one.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a comic romantic scene with three or four characters. Vary the rhythm
within the scene to include a section with short speeches and a lot of physical
activity, a slow love scene, and a moderate section. Look at one of Moliere's
plays for ideas. What sound effects, music, or props may be helpful?
E Write three short scenes in which Character A is lying, cheating, and stealing;
Character B is trying to catch her; and Character C believes Character A and
supports her. The first scene should begin on a negative note and end on a
negative note. The second should begin on a positive note and end with a
negative value. The third scene should begin on a negative note and end on
a positive one.

Summary

A play is developed though a series of scenes that vary in rhythm, length, and
mood. Rhythm provides the variety needed to hold audience attention and con¬
veys a sense of progression. It also has the effect of maintaining a balance between
advancing the action and deepening the characters. A playwright needs to plan the
rhythm of a scene, alternating among fast, slow, and moderate.
 Rhythm 59

What determines the rhythm has to do with both the emotional content and
the lengths of the lines and speeches. A series of very short speeches will suggest a
fast rhythm. Longer speeches or monologues with serious intentions will make the
rhythm of a scene moderate or slow. A scene with considerable conflict, a variety of
tactics, and a mixture of short and long speeches—abrupt and angry exchanges
and apologies and further explanations—may bring a series of highs and lows or a
staccato rhythm. A love scene needs to be slow to be believable. Expressing deep
emotion, such as love or grief, cannot be done quickly. Words are less important
than the responses and feelings they generate.
Horizontal action is concerned with moving the story from Point A to Point
B. It occurs in a scene that advances the action. It s horizontal movement because it
covers ground and takes us to a new point in the story. Vertical action occurs when
the playwright slows the story down in order to explore its depth—what the char¬
acters are thinking or feeling or their back stories. Vertical scenes tell us something
important about the story or about the characters that we didn't know before.
•.
 The term plot is defined as the selection and arrangement of incidents in the story.
It is the plan of the action, from the initial inciting action to the final resolution. To
plot means to choose. Determining the structure of the plot means making choices
of what to include and what to exclude. As the playwright imagines a character, he
must select from the significant events in the character's life. In this chapter, we
will explore the elements of plot; kinds of plots; the proper balance of a beginning,
middle, and end; obstacles; the essential scene; common plot problems and advice
for the playwright; and subtext.

Arranging the Incidents

The selection and arrangement of incidents in the story may not be completely
clear to a writer until the first draft of a play has been completed. Regardless, she
must begin with some kind of plan for the action, from start to finish, even if that
changes during the process of writing.
The world wants a terrific story. Who are these characters? What do they
want? Who is the protagonist? What are the forces against her? If the story isn't ter¬
rific, it doesn't matter how beautifully it has been written. The dialogue may be
clever, the format perfect, and every comma in its place, but if the story is banal or
flawed, the audience will not care about it. If you have a great idea and can't tell it
well, no one will care no matter how profound it is. However, if it is a dynamite
story that drives to a first-act climax, accelerates to a powerful second-act climax,
and has a resolution of enthralling beauty, people will care. They will be engaged.
Stories are metaphors for life. Stories are like life lifted to a poetic level. They
must rise above the specific. An understanding of the artform, the craft, is needed
to tell a story well. As you imagine a character, you must select meaningful and sig¬
nificant events from the character's life and figure out how to arrange them into a
strategic sequence to express and arouse emotions—to mean something.
There is no magic formula for organizing the actions into a carefully designed
order that best fits the playwright's purpose. In today's theatre, the pattern does not
necessarily mean telling the story in a straightforward manner. Theatre is eclectic

61
62 Chapter 6

and it uses forms, images, techniques, and patterns from all areas of life and history.
There are many plays not written in chronological order that save the main revela¬
tion for the end, even if the event happened long ago. In Equus, by Peter Shaffer, a
psychiatrist seeks to help a boy who blinded six horses. The psychiatrist's personal
story and struggle moves forward in chronological order, while that of his patient,
Alan Strang, is told in flashbacks. What caused Alan to blind the horses is not
revealed until the final scene. A similar approach is used in How I Learned to Drive,
by Paula Vogel, and Agnes of God, by John Pielmeier. The playwright's job is to craft
the events in a play into the specific order best suited for the needs of the story, and
only the playwright can decide what that is. For instance, in one play, X could hap¬
pen and then Y and then Z. The same story with the same characters could be devel¬
oped in another play with a different approach, and the order might be Z and then
Y and then X.

Forming the Plot

There is no single approach to play construction. A great deal of individuality is

found in play structures. Yet no playwright should conclude he has absolute free¬
dom. The standard diagram of plot shows preparation, rising action, climax, falling
action, and denouement. Preparation establishes the situations and indicates the
coming problem. The rising action, starting with the point of attack, consists of dis¬
coveries and complications. The climax is the major confrontation scene and the
highest point of tension. The falling action is the denouement or the resolution of the
problems or conflicts. It's the cleaning up after the axe has cut off the head.
A play doesn't rigidly march forward to an insistent drummer or move in a
straight line toward its goal. Playwrights often deliberately relax the tensions in
order to be able to start up again. They use both vertical and horizontal movement.
Some plays start at the beginning of the story. Others begin just before the climax.
The point of attack may vary.
Plot is the expression of the playwright's philosophical tenets, just as charac¬
ter and thought are. In Equus, author Peter Shaffer created a psychiatrist who has
led a dull, conservative life. He has a great affinity for the heroes of Greek legends,
but he has never had the kind of passion in his life that he desires. He sees in Alan
a boy who lives a passionate existence, and he struggles with the philosophical
question of whether it is right for him to take that away from Alan. In How I Learned
to Drive, author Paula Vogel did not want to focus on the graphic details of sexual
abuse, or on the heroine as victim. She wanted to tell a story about a woman who
was hurt by the ones who loved her and how that made her strong.
Every event means change. If you go into a building and the streets are dry
and later come out and see puddles of water, you know something happened. It
rained. However, meaningful change must happen to someone. A story event is a
meaningful change in the life of a character expressed by the writer in terms of
values—right or wrong, good or evil, just or unjust. Moreover, a play must illumi-
 Plot 63

nate one central dramatic event. The full-length play may have a dozen complica¬
tions. The one-act will have perhaps only three to six. The ten-minute play will
likely have only one. All need to have one central action.
The plot shows the play's thoughts. The playwright uses the plot to lead the
audience to conclusions. The plot selects and emphasizes points, thereby stressing
the play s meaning and it leads to the ultimate climax, which helps the playwright
draw the audience's attention to the play's subject and theme. In David Auburn's
play Proof, Catherine is introduced in the opening scene talking to her dead
father a brilliant mathematician who went insane. This scene sets up the main
question: Since she inherited some of his genius, did she also inherit his insanity?
In the second scene, we meet Hal, one of the father's former students, who has
been looking through the materials in the mathematician's office. Catherine
becomes suspicious and questions him about stealing one of her father's note¬
books. Hal denies it and convinces us and Catherine that he is innocent. But when
she picks up his jacket to give to him as he's leaving, a notebook falls on to the floor.
We are shocked. The audience gasps. The playwright has led us to one conclusion
and then given us the unexpected. When this kind of twist really works, it is
thrilling. Later, after Hal and Catherine have spent the night together and she has
grown to trust him, she gives him the key to a drawer in her father's desk. He finds
a notebook with an amazing original proof. The author leads us to believe it was
written by her father, but at the end of the first act, Catherine announces that she
wrote the proof. It is another unexpected but well-prepared twist and further
develops the notion that she inherited her father's genius.
A play is a series of meetings between people. To plot means to plan those
meetings, arranging them to be happy or disastrous encounters and making them
significant. Plot brings characters to life and illustrates their thoughts by showing
them in action. Plot provides actions and reactions that reveal the characters under
pressure and give us, the audience, an understanding of what they do and why.
The total of the protagonist's and the antagonist's behaviors illustrates the play's
theme.
The human who must cope with the unexpected crisis will have to face his or
her own psyche while dealing with the situation. Each new challenge illuminates
new aspects of personality. Plot provides these constant changes through conflict.
Without conflict, there is no dramatic action. Plot creates, interacts with, and
results from character. It develops suspense about whether the central character
will achieve his goal—to live or die, find the truth, get the girl.

Kinds of Plots
A plot can be considered a series of actions that may be explained by a stimulus /
response diagram. A stimulus causes a response, which itself becomes a stimulus,
which causes a response, and so on. For example. Person A insults Person B, B
responds by slapping A, A responds by hiding behind a chair, B grabs the chair away,
and so forth. Plot provides surprise, sudden turns, new events, and unexpected
64 Chapter 6

twists. Character A lunges at B, pulling him to the floor. Character B suddenly stops
all resistance and lies passively on the floor. The new event strikes Character A by
surprise, and new aspects of the person may be seen as a result.
A play can be seen as a series of scenes building toward a final confrontation.
Drama requires rising action; that is, increases in suspense and tensions. Each new
event hurls the play forward.
Each of the following sections describes a specific kind of plot and how best
to use it.

Action Plot. In the action plot, the focus is on what happens next, with a lot of
suspense and some surprises. The plot has the protagonist on a mission to solve a
problem, discover a murderer, or get revenge. Rumors, The Count of Monte Cristo,
and The Desperate Hours all fall within this category. Rumors is one of Neil Simon's
active farces. The Count of Monte Cristo, by Charles Fletcher, is an action melodrama
in which the Count seeks revenge for the injustice he has suffered. The Desperate
Hours, by Joseph Hayes, is about several criminals who break into a home and hold
a family hostage.

Thriller Plot. Most thrillers are really puzzles that must be solved by the charac¬
ters. Audiences experience intense identification with the main characters of
thrillers. Audiences of puzzle stories demand constant novelty—old solutions will
not do.
Deathtrap, by Ira Levin, is an ingeniously constructed play blending thrills
and laughter. The play focuses on Sidney Bruhl, a successful writer of Broadway
thrillers, who is suffering a "dry spell" and a shortage of funds. When he receives
a script from a student in his seminar, Sidney immediately recognizes its great
potential. Sidney's plan, which he devises with his wife's help, is to offer to collab¬
orate with the student, an idea which the younger man quickly accepts. Thereafter,
the suspense mounts as the plot twists and turns and continues to provide sudden
shocks until the very last moment.
Wait Until Dark, by Frederick Knott, is a thriller about a blind woman who
has a doll that some drug dealers want. The last scene, in which one of the drug
dealers tries to kill her, is a very heart-in-your-throat, suspenseful, and scary scene.
The tension continues to mount as the main character is isolated from help. These
plays generally take place in a short space of time, such as a weekend.

Victim Plot. The victim plot features a sympathetic protagonist who undergoes
a series of misfortunes through no fault of her own. This is basically a plot of suf¬
fering, as shown in plays such as Wings, by Arthur Kopit, and Whose Life Is It Any¬
way? by Brian Clark. Wings explores the world through the perception of a woman
who has had a stroke. Whose Life Is It Anyway? is about a sculptor who is paralyzed
and wants to be allowed to die. Both plays show victims, often struggling with pri¬
vate anguish, in search of remedies.
 Plot 65

Tragic Plot. In the tragic plot, there is a sympathetic protagonist who takes a
stand for what she believes. These protagonists cause their own downfalls but also
take responsibility for their actions and for what they have caused. These heroes
suffer misfortune because of errors in judgment or refusals to compromise. On
finally learning of the error and recognizing her faults, the protagonist makes the
morally right choice. Death may be inevitable, but the protagonist saves her soul.
The tragic plot is shown in Oedipus the King and Antigone, both by Sophocles, and
in A Man for All Seasons, by Robert Bolt.

Dilemma Plot. The dilemma plot concerns divided interests or loyalties. The
trick is to make the choices really difficult and to keep the reader from knowing in
advance what your characters decision will be. In a dilemma plot, the ending
comes when the central character makes up her mind about something important
and difficult. In Antigone, the title character must decide whether to follow her
uncle's decree or to bury her brother and be put to death. In A Doll's House, by Hen¬
rik Ibsen, Nora must make up her mind to stay with a husband she no longer loves
or to go out on her own alone without her children.

Victory Plot. The victory plot gives us a situation in which the protagonist wins
or loses. The sympathetic central character faces a difficult problem. His attempts
to resolve it fail and make the situation more desperate. The character then faces
the major crisis—his last chance to win. The successful resolution must be brought
about by the central character's own courage, ingenuity, and other qualities.
In Rain, by John Colton, which was adapted from a story by W. Somerset
Maugham, the central character, Sadie Thompson, is a raucous trollop who is
forced by quarantine to stay over at Pago Pago on her way home from Honolulu.
There she is confronted by the fire-and-brimstone missionary, Mr. Davidson, who
threatens to make trouble for the governor unless he deports her to the mainland,
where a prison sentence awaits her. Sadie first tries to appeal to the governor and
to Dr. Macphail. When these attempts fail, she gives in to Mr. Davidson and allows
him to save her soul. She becomes a changed woman until Davidson has sex with
her and then hangs himself in remorse. The next day, Sadie is dressed and made up
in her old manner, and her raucous laughter rings out again. She has won. Note
that the ending we are led to expect—Sadie reformed and going off to jail to repent
for her sins—would be disappointing. The conflict that begins the story is only a
sham, a work of misdirection. What we are waiting for is the surprise ending.
Most victory plots are built around some kind of conflict or competition
about which the outcome is in doubt. The beginning of the story sets forth the
terms of the competition; the middle is the contest itself; the ending is the outcome.
If all stories followed this formula, however, they would be unbearably pre¬
dictable. In practice, what usually happens is that the author uses the conflict struc¬
ture to misdirect the reader. The real meaning of the story turns out to be something
altogether different. Victory plots can be seen in such musicals as The Full Monty,
by Terrence McNally, Damn Yankees, by George Abbott and Douglas Wallop, and
66 Chapter 6

Hairspray, by Mark O'Donnell, Thomas Meeham, Marc Shaiman, and Scott

Wittman.

Punitive Plot. The antihero, hero/villain, or unsympathetic protagonist whose

quest is not admirable is the focus of the punitive plot. As the antihero sets forth an
immoral scheme, we can admire his rise above the fools around him. But when this
character succeeds in victimizing truly good people as well, we feel shock and out¬
rage. In the end, we feel a sense of vindication when the antihero reaches his ulti¬
mate downfall. This protagonist deserves his misfortune and suffering. We may
admire the character's intellect or strength or audacity, but we are glad he gets it in
the end. Iago in Shakespeare's Othello fits this description. Other plays in this cate¬
gory include Amadeus, by Peter Shaffer, Killer Joe, by Tracey Letts, Les Liaisons Dan-
gereuses, by Christopher Hampton, Hedda Gabler, by Henrik Ibsen, The Little Foxes,
by Lillian Heilman, Tartuffe, by Moliere, and Richard III, by Shakespeare.

Revelation Plot. The revelation plot means the exposure of something previ¬
ously hidden. In this plot, there is rising tension because each new event narrows
down the choices and because we know that we are coming closer to the revelation
of the truth and an understanding of the meaning. Martin McDonaugh's The
Beauty Queen of Leenane, for example, tells the darkly comic tale of Maureen Folan,
a plain and lonely woman in her forties, and Mag, her manipulative aging mother,
whose interference in Maureen's chance of a loving relationship sets in motion a
train of events that leads inexorably toward the play's terrifying end. Misled to
believe that the mother is the villain, we have a revelation about Maureen and a
surprising new understanding in the final scene.

Admiration Plot. The admiration plot shows us a sympathetic hero who may
suffer the loss of fortune or job or some other material matter, but he gains in the
area of reputation and honor because of his integrity. The sympathetic protagonist
suffers but overcomes the obstacles through his determination, strength of charac¬
ter and morally right action. Finally, he experiences a change for the better. Mister
Roberts, by Thomas Heggan and Joshua Logan, The Normal Heart, by Larry Kramer,
and The Miracle Worker, by William Gibson, provide us with admirable heroes and
heroines.

Education Plot. The education plot provides us with a sympathetic protagonist

whose life, beliefs, attitudes, and insights are changed for the better through edu¬
cation. The protagonist starts out as inadequate and grows up. This inadequacy
may be because of ignorance or naivete, as in Born Yesterday, by Garcin Kanin,
Orphans, by Lyle Kessler, My Fair Lady, by Lerner and Loewe, and Educating Rita,
by Willy Russell. Or it may be more sophisticated, with the protagonist going
through a series of disillusioning experiences that make him or her cynical or fatal¬
istic, as in All the King's Men, by Robert Penn Warren, and Death and the Maiden, by
Ariel Dorfman.
 Plot 67

Born Yesterday, performed at Idaho State University. Directed by Ron Hansen, Set and Lighting
Design by f. David Blatt, Costume Design by Sonja Nelson.

Maturing Plot. The protagonist causes his or her own misery because of a mis¬
taken view but eventually sees the light. He or she may be a slacker—shiftless and
unfocused—or wrongheaded and stubborn. Some means must be devised to change
the character's thoughts and beliefs. This often involves a coming-of-age story. We
long for the protagonist to choose the right course of action, and we are satisfied in
the end when she does. Butterflies Are Free, by Leonard Gershe, Extremities, by
William Mastrosimone, A Doll's House, by Henrik Ibsen, Ah, Wilderness! by Eugene
O'Neill, and Da, by Hugh Leonard, all provide us with maturing protagonists.

Reform Plot. The reform plot shows us a protagonist who knows he is doing
wrong but is too weak to do the right thing. As this character is faced with expo¬
sure, he must then choose an alternative course of action. Once we see through the
character's mask, we feel indignation and anger. We want him to stop deceiving
others and do what is right. These protagonists eventually face the truth and
reform their ways. All My Sons, by Arthur Miller, Fences, by Auqust Wilson, and
Homesteaders, by Nina Shengold, show us men who deceive but who face the truth
in the end.

Testing Plot. The testing plot puts the sympathetic protagonist into a position
whereby she is pressured to compromise or surrender her moral principles. The
character has to choose between keeping her principles or accepting the bribe
68 Chapter 6

offered—whether it means her life, reputation, money, or power. The play focuses
on the question of whether or not the protagonist will give in. By refusing to com¬
promise, the protagonist places herself and perhaps others in danger. The charac¬
ter may even risk death. However, giving in will mean losing her self-respect and
our respect, as well. Plays such as Kit Marlowe, by David Grimm, A Man for All Sea¬
sons, by Robert Bolt, and Becket, by Jean Anovith, show us characters who face such
tests and confirm that our faith in them is justified.

Degeneration/Regeneration Plot. The degeneration plot shows a good person,

one we can admire for his principles and actions. That character is then subjected
to a crucial loss that results in complete disillusionment. He eventually reaches the
bottom and must choose between trying to pick up the threads of his life and start¬
ing over or just giving up. If the character chooses to start over, we have the regen¬
eration plot. This is the plot of the typical Hollywood biography. On stage, we see
elements of this in Tennessee Williams's Sweet Bird of Youth and Night of the Iguana,
and Neil Simon's The Gingerbread Lady.

Disillusionment Plot. The disillusionment plot is the opposite of the education

plot: We begin with a sympathetic protagonist who, after being subjected to some
kind of loss, threat, or trial, loses faith completely. These plays show such charac¬
ters left at the bottom—suspended, lost, incapable of dealing with reality, and
unable to start over. We see figures such as these in Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman
Cometh, Maxim Gorky's Lower Depths, Gerhart Hauptmann's The Weavers, and
August Strindberg's Miss Julie.

Pivotal Plot. This plot shows us generally estranged family members forced
into interpersonal conflict at an emotionally sensitive event, such as a wedding or
a funeral. The action occurs in a limited space that forces the characters to deal with
each other. The time of the conflict is telescoped into a single day or a weekend,
and the intensity of emotions demands that the characters resolve their discord
quickly. These characters are the most vulnerable, dimensional, and human
because their conflicts are like those experienced by ordinary audience members.
Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun, Tennessee Williams's The Glass Menagerie,
and Robert Harling's Steel Magnolias are examples.

These plot forms are not rigid little boxes into which every play must be crammed;
rather, they are in a sense ideal categories. In actual practice, these forms are mixed
in all kinds of ways. A play may be partly one of resolution, partly one of solution,
and partly one of admiration. When you understand the simple forms, you can
mix and combine them to make more sophisticated ones. There is no end to the
plays that can be written, because the possible combinations of old forms will
never be exhausted and because good writers keep on inventing new forms.
 Plot 69

Balancing the Beginning, Middle, and End

A proper balance of beginning, middle, and end is essential. The beginning needs
to grab our attention, develop our interest. It needs to be as neat and effective as
you can make it. Start in the middle of an ongoing action. Jump into a conflict.
Exposition and other elements can follow.
A play that has little or no beginning seldom brings the audience around to
care about the action and the characters. There's just not enough information about
the past and the present, about the inciting incident, or about the characters. No
sense of urgency has been established. The solution is to start with a conflict and
then work to make us care about the characters.
A play with too much beginning seems to start and start and start but never
go anywhere. There is a feeling of wheels spinning. In this case, the playwright
needs to consider cutting away everything that precedes the beginning of the
action—that is, everything that comes before the first point of conflict.
The beginning must do the following:

1. Hook the audience's interest.

2. Imply forthcoming events of interest via foreshadowing.
3. Establish the inciting incident that starts the whole problem.
4. Indicate the mood of the play, and the genre—comedy, tragedy, or drama.
5. Establish the significant characters either by bringing them on stage or by
implying their presence.
6. Establish essential relationships between the characters.
7. Indicate significant information about the time and place.
8. Start the action.

Missing from this list is exposition. It is better to get the action going first and
then bring in essential background details, as needed. The inciting incident is usu¬
ally not a part of the play but rather an event that has taken place before the play
begins. In Euripides' Medea, the inciting incident is Jason's betrayal of his wife,
Medea, by having an adulterous relationship with Kreon's daughter. In Edward
Albee's The Goat or Who is Silvia? the inciting incident is Martin's affair with a goat.
Both incidents occur before the plays begin. Both plays begin when the protago¬
nists decide to take action.
The middle is the heart of the play and contains the movements of the plot
and the character developments. It is the longest of the three parts. It goes up and
down like a seesaw, reversing directions as characters respond to new conflicts. It
is active with changes, complications, and "dragons" that the protagonist must
slay. The protagonist works to achieve her goal while the antagonist puts up obsta¬
cles. There are complications and discoveries, victories and defeats, twists and
reversals. Hopes are dashed and then given new life. Through it all, the play's basic
line of conflict is increased. The complication is an obstacle, twist, reversal, discov¬
ery, or crisis—any new force that changes the direction of the play's action. A play
70 Chapter 6

with many and frequent complications will be one that generates excitement. A
complication may come from inside the character or the external world.
The end of a play should not be used to deliver a message. If a play contains
a message, it has to be integral to the overall action. Be very careful about the
"author's spokesman's curtain speech." The playwright's meaning should be
implied, not told. The end should answer the final questions. This doesn't mean
that it only fulfills expectations. The complex play may lead us to expect one end¬
ing but then provide an unexpected twist that gives us a different but still very sat¬
isfying ending. This may also lead the playwright to end the play with a new
question for the audience to ponder. For example, what happens to Nora after the
end of Ibsen's A Doll's House?
Avoid the O. Henry trick ending that comes out of nowhere and is not really
satisfactory. This gimmick is out of fashion and unpopular because it depends on
awkward contrivances. O. Henry wrote hundreds of such stories. An example is
his story of the widowed bakery owner who begins to have romantic feelings
about a shabby man who comes in every day to buy a loaf of stale bread. Impul¬
sively, she cuts a loaf open and conceals a pat of butter in it to surprise him. He later
comes back in a rage because he is an architect who uses stale bread to erase pencil
lines from his drawings, and she has just ruined six months' work. Any play, espe¬
cially a mystery, may make this error if the ending isn't carefully prepared. We
want to be surprised, but the surprise must be realistic and acceptable, completely
within the scope of the characters, and motivated.
Also avoid the cliff-hanger. It may work in a kind of spoof to have every scene
until the last one end with a cliff-hanger, but the final scene must not leave us hang¬
ing. A play needs a satisfactory resolution. You cannot have a play that centers on
a man on a ledge about to jump and not let us know if he jumps or not.
Finally, don't end the play with the central question unanswered—letting the
audience members make up their own mind. You need to make the decision and
write the ending. Otherwise, it will not satisfy an audience.

Obstacles

An obstacle is something that stands in the protagonist's way. There is a major

obstacle in the play and an obstacle in every act, every scene, and every beat. The
antagonist blocks what the protagonist is pursuing, creating unpredictability,
which excites the audience to participate mentally. Action requires obstacles to sus¬
tain attention. Obstacles challenge the protagonist to intensify his commitment
and strengthen his will to succeed.
Ask the question. What character is stopping the protagonist in each scene?
Not all obstacles have to be negative. Young lovers might have different attitudes
and beliefs about sex before marriage. Character A may desire to have sex, but
Character B may want to wait until marriage. If each character refuses to compro¬
mise, there is a strong obstacle and suspense. The audience wants to know what
 Plot 71

will happen. What will each character do to win? How far will he or she go? Will
refusing to change result in a broken relationship?

The Essential Scene

No matter what the plot, each play must build to an essential scene—a major con¬
frontation between the protagonist and the antagonist that decides whether the
protagonist will win or lose. This is the scene that the audience expects. This is
the scene they look forward to, wondering what the clash will be like and what the
possibilities are.
In Ibsen's Hedda Gabler, the essential scene is between Hedda and Lovborg. She
lies to him about the manuscript, gives him a dueling pistol, and orders him to use it.
Everything after that scene shows the effects. In the last act. Judge Brack returns with
the news that Lovborg is dead and that Hedda's pistol was found on him. Hedda
also learns that Lovborg didn't die beautifully Judge Brack's knowledge gives him
power over Hedda. She realizes, "Everything I touch becomes ludicrous and despi¬
cable!—Its like a curse" (p. 424). In the end, she takes the remaining pistol and shoots
herself. In Pielmeier's Agnes of God, the essential scene is the one in which we learn
the truth about Agnes and the baby. In Hairspray, by O'Donnell, Meehan, Shalman,
and Wittman, it is the scene in which Tracy Turnblad wins the contest.

Common Plot Problems

1. The story is confusing, cause: Too many characters, too many scenes, no clear
central action. The author has not found a way to focus the narrative on the central
character or has not decided who the central character is. solution: Rewrite, focus¬
ing on the central character and his objective and the antagonist responsible for the
obstacles. Increase the stakes—what the central character has to lose in each scene.

2. Whose story is it? The protagonist is passive, undermotivated, and not truly
causing the action to unfold, cause: This is a character problem, often the result of
having a victim-type protagonist that bad things happen to, a passive protagonist
who witnesses the plot events but doesn't participate, or a bumbling protagonist
who acts stupidly without learning from her mistakes, solution: The central char¬
acter doesn't have to be likeable or without faults, but she does have to be moti¬
vated to act and those actions should drive the plot. Make a list of the major plot
events, and note the protagonist's contribution to each one. Does each action con¬
tribute to a change?

3. The story line doesn't go anywhere. The central character's goal isn't clear, cause:
The author started writing the story without any clear idea of its direction, solu¬
tion: Give the central character a stronger motivation and make things more diffi¬
cult. Make the central character's goal clear and more important, and strengthen
72 Chapter 6

the antagonist. Keep us uncertain about who will win in the end. Rewrite without
looking at the old version.

4. The plot structure looks complete, but the story seems pointless. The play doesn't
really have anything to say. cause: The author has not carefully thought out what
the theme is—what the play adds up to or shows. He has forgotten that we must
care about the chief characters and what happens to them. Even when the plot is
important, the characters are more important, solution: Go back to characters and
build from there. Make the stakes higher. Make the characters' goals more impor¬
tant. Make the antagonist stronger. Show the main character's passion and a great
struggle. Then the overall meaning will be clear.

5. The ending isn't satisfying, cause: The author didn't plan ahead for the end¬
ing, hoping something would turn up, and in despair tacked on a weak, irrelevant,
or illogical ending. The ending may also be disappointing because it is obvious and
expected and the author failed to make the obstacles strong enough to make the
outcome a question, solution: It is useless to treat the ending by itself; any tacked-
on ending will seem tacked-on. Go back to the opening situation and work through
the entire play, focusing on the central action.

6. The story doesn't work because of structural weaknesses, cause: There may be any
of several problems here. The protagonist is hidden and the audience can't tell whose
story it is. There are scenes with supporting characters that have nothing to do with
the major action. The protagonist doesn't have much to do with the main plot, or this
person would never do what the plot requires him to do. The climaxes are rushed
and the scenes not fully developed, solution: Such problems may derive from a mis¬
understanding of the purpose of structure. It's not a prison, chaining you to a for¬
mula; rather, it's a map to guide you. Learning structure can teach you when to
modify it and when to branch out on your own. What is the major plot question?
Focus all events that lead to the answer on the actions of the protagonist.

7. The author avoids conflict in the writing. Conflict is the fuel that powers the plot
and forces the characters into action. Without it, you might have a nice slice-of-life
portrait or a great character sketch, but you won't really have a dramatic play.
cause: Conflict in real life is often unpleasant, and some writers avoid it in their
plotting as they avoid it in their lives. But just as we need discipline to grow, char¬
acters need adversity to change. And drama is about change, solution: You must
provide conflict for your characters so that they will be forced to change. Linking
conflict to character change will revitalize your story and avoid the problems of
serial conflict or incoherent conflict, in which the conflict has nothing to do with
who this character is or what she needs.

8. There is a cast of thousands. Secondary characters are distinguished from

major characters because they make things happen in the plot, but their own con¬
flicts and issues are not part of the story. Every secondary character with a personal
story dilutes the impact of the major character's journey, cause: Tracking sec¬
ondary characters' lives and loves is a waste of time and confuses the audience in
 Plot 73

a protagonist-centered plot, solution: Avoid long speeches by secondary charac¬

ters that dwell on their problems, not the protagonist's.

9. The play moves too slowly. There are too many cause-and-effect types of events
happening in the play, or the scenes are too long, providing too much information.
cause: The author is trying to include too much in the story, solution: Selection is
the key. What events are essential? What are the turning points? Can you raise the
stakes and strengthen the major conflict? Are all the events of the plot related
causally that is, does the hiding of the gun in Act One set up the escape of the
imprisoned protagonist in Act Two? Make sure every scene has at least one event
that affects the main plot. Do some major editing.

10. The plot has too many coincidences and isn't believable, cause: Drama is about
cause and effect, and there's no cause and effect when the central elements of the
plot happen by coincidence. Look at the chain of events. What would not likely
happen unless you, the author, made it happen? How likely is it that your lawyer
protagonist would just happen to get the stolen car case of the man he believes was
responsible for the hit-and-run killing of his daughter? Not very, solution: Get rid
of coincidence. Make events happen because of characters' decisions and actions.
The lawyer doesn't just happen to get the case; he goes after it, determined to
avenge his daughter's death. Now the conflict is not an accident but the result of
the lawyer's need for vengeance. One primary purpose of the plot is to force the
protagonist to change, usually by recognizing and overcoming some internal con¬
flict. Know your character, and you will figure out your plot.

11. The middle of the play drags. The purpose of the middle scenes isn't clear.
cause: These scenes don't show a rising conflict, in which the protagonist is tested
up to or beyond the limits of her ability. They don't develop the internal and exter¬
nal conflicts that influence the protagonist's actions. They don't set up the great cri¬
sis, climax, and resolution that will bring the play to an end. solution: Make the
stakes higher. Challenge the protagonist more. What events can make her internal
conflict impossible to ignore any longer? How can that internal conflict impede her
progress toward the goal? Make the antagonist stronger and the obstacles bigger.

12. The beginning is boring and takes too long, cause: You have too much exposition
in the setup, and this will cause you to lose most of your audience. This is the age
of television and film, when audiences don't like to wait and expect the visual pic¬
ture to change every twenty seconds, solution: Start where the protagonist's prob¬
lem starts, or just before that, and feed in the back story later. Start the conflict
immediately. Don't tell too much too soon about the character's past.

EXERCISE 9___

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Using the action plot, write a three-person scene with a beginning, middle,
and end that builds to a climax. Have the protagonist on a mission to solve
a problem, discover a secret, or get revenge. Lead the protagonist and the
74 Chapter 6

audience to expect one thing, and then provide a twist that hits both with a
surprise, as David Auburn does in Proof.
B. Using the pivotal plot, write a four-person comic scene with a beginning,
middle, and end that builds to an unexpected climax. Show estranged family
members forced into interpersonal conflict at an event such as a wedding or
a funeral. The action should occur in a limited space that forces the characters
to deal with each other. Lead Character A and the audience to expect one
thing, and then provide a surprising but logical twist at the end.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Use the education plot and write a short scene that builds to an unexpected
climax. Lead the audience to expect one thing, and then provide a twist that
presents them with something different. Provide a sympathetic protagonist
whose life, beliefs, attitudes, and insights change the teacher.
D. Write a scene in which Character A experiences a terrifying event. Perhaps he
is confronted by an abusive father or spouse. Perhaps he comes home
because of the illness and imminent death of a parent, but his estranged sis¬
ter there is bipolar and in an altered reality. Perhaps the character's new
roommate is psychotic and wears his clothes, takes on his identity, and uses
his checkbook. Thrust your protagonist into an extreme situation. The antag¬
onist is morally indifferent, creates a climate of fear, and is willing to kill.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a comedic scene in which adults act like children because of leaping to
a wrong conclusion—a basic misunderstanding dealt with irrationally. The
characters can get away with anything that isn't immoral. Because of the
exaggeration of the story, the unreality of the misunderstanding cannot exist
forever, so the time is frenetic and intense.
F. Write a scene with a revelation plot that exposes something previously hid¬
den between two people once very close but now alienated. In this plot, the
tension should rise because each new event narrows down the choices and
because we know that we are coming closer to the revelation of the truth. Use
exposition as a weapon.

Other Tips

1. Write about something you care about, something that touches your heart. There
must be conflict. Conflict is essential to drama. Drama is the art of the showdown.
Force must be opposed by force, person by person (or group), desire by desire. Let
there be emotions. People need to care in your play. People feel strongly, whether
it is love or hate, happiness or despair. If you are able to make them emotional, then
your characters will more likely be active and do something. A play that succeeds
on an intellectual level but doesn't engage us emotionally may be admired but it
will not be loved.
 Plot 75

2. Limit the number of characters. The usual play has from three to five characters.
Three is a good number to start with, especially for a short play. Most theatres look
for small-cast shows. Very few theatres today can afford to produce large-cast
shows, unless they are musicals. Avoid utilitarian characters who make minor
announcements and deliver packages or telegrams. All the characters must be
essential to the basic action.

3. Keep all yoin characters on stage as long as you can. Too often, a scene develop-
ing a potentially exciting situation is deflated by the exit of a prime character.
Another problem experienced by the beginning writer is to build up to a conflict in
four or five pages and then end the scene once the first point of conflict has been
reached. When this happens, the writer isn't developing conflict but rather run¬
ning away from it. Begin the scene at the point where the conflict begins, and then
take the conflict as far as it will go.

4. Try to write with no breaks, scene shifts, or time lapses. Wh.y? The energy, the
story, the audience s interest drops with every break. Start the plot as soon as pos¬
sible. Jump into the conflict with the first line, if possible. Let the exposition, fore¬
shadowing, mood, and character come later. Let the other elements emerge as we
need to know about them. The protagonist is the main character whose conscious
will is driving her to attain a goal. The protagonist may be an antihero. She may be
self-destructive and not sympathetic, but we must be able to understand her. Good
or bad, the protagonist initiates the action.

5. Understand the purpose of a one-act play versus that of a full-length play. A one-act
play illuminates one dramatic event, in contrast to a full-length play, which is built
on a series of dramatic events. Shakespeare's Macbeth, for example, has many
events: the witches' prophecy, plans to kill Duncan, the assassination, shifting
blame for the murder on the princes, and so on. A one-act play might be built upon
only one of those events. A full-length play will unfold a number of dramatic
events like a tapestry. A one-act may look at a single moment of that tapestry, and
if the correct moment is shown, the audience will be able to imagine the whole.

Subtext

When a character seems to have one motivation or action or goal but in reality has
another, there is subtext—what lies under the text that is not spoken directly but is
made apparent to the audience. A scene or play may be well constructed, the char¬
acters polarized, and the action clear, but if there is no subtext, it will offer no mys¬
tery, no surprise, no sudden discovery. This happens when characters say exactly
what they mean. It may be clear, but it's deadly. The author needs to withhold
some information. He needs to make the motivation seem to be one thing but
reveal that hidden behind it is another. What did happen in that house years ago?
Why is there such an undercurrent of rage and resentment between the two of
them?
76 Chapter 6

Conceive of every action as having different levels of meaning. The first is the
most apparent: John wants a drink. The second is the hidden meaning: He wants
to throw the drink into Peter's face. The third meaning is that John really wants to
humiliate Peter. The fourth meaning is that John wants to break his friendship with
Peter because it costs more than he's willing to give. The fifth meaning is that John
has had an affair with Peter's wife and can't face him anymore. All these revela¬
tions will only become apparent later in the scene or play, but they provide the
actor with a depth of subtext during the initial action. Audiences go to the theatre
because of the subtext—the deeper meaning—because they want mystery, sus¬
pense, and surprise. They want to be engaged emotionally. A work with no subtext
may read well, but it won't play well.

Summary

The plot is the selection and arrangement of incidents in the story. It is the plan of
the action, from the initial inciting action to the final resolution. To plot means to
choose what to include and what to exclude. In imagining a character and her
whole life, the playwright must choose significant items from the events in the
character's life. Structure is a series of selected events composed into a strategic
sequence to express and arouse emotions—to mean something. An event means
change. However, in a play, meaningful change must happen to someone. A story
event is a meaningful change in the life of a character expressed by the writer in
terms of values.
Among the various kinds of plots are (1) action, (2) thriller, (3) victim, (4) tragic,
(5) dilemma, (6) victory, (7) punitive, (8) revelation, (9) admiration, (10) education,
(11) maturing, (12) reform, (13) testing, (14) degeneration/regeneration, (15) disillu¬
sionment, and (16) pivotal.
A proper balance of beginning, middle, and end is essential. The beginning
needs to hook the audience's interest; imply the forthcoming events via foreshad¬
owing; clarify the inciting incident that has caused the whole problem that will be
dramatized; indicate the mood, genre, and style of the play; establish the signifi¬
cant characters and their relationships; and establish the time and place. Most
important, the beginning needs to begin the action. The middle is the heart of the
play and the longest of the three parts. Here, the protagonist works to achieve his
or her goal while the antagonist puts up obstacles. There are discoveries and com¬
plications, victories and defeats, twists and reversals. Through it all, the play's
basic line of conflict is increased, building to a major climax. The resolution ties up
any loose ends and answers any questions left after the climax.
An obstacle is something that stands in the protagonist's way. Every obstacle
complicates the story. By blocking what the protagonist is pursuing, the antagonist
creates unpredictability. Obstacles challenge the protagonist to intensify his com¬
mitment and strengthen his will to succeed. Action requires obstacles to sustain
attention.
 Plot 77

No matter what the plot, each play must build to an essential scene—a major
confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonist that determines whether
the protagonist will win or lose. This is the scene that an audience expects and
looks forward to.
Among the common plot problems are the following: (1) The story is confus¬
ing, with too many characters, too many diverse scenes, and no clear central action.
(2) The protagonist is passive or undermotivated and not truly involved in causing
the plot to unfold. (3) The story line doesn't go anywhere. (4) The story seems
pointless and doesn t really have anything to say. (5) The ending isn't satisfying.
(6) The story doesn't work because of structural weaknesses—scenes that have
nothing to do with the major action or a protagonist who has little to do with the
main plot. (7) The author avoids conflict in the writing. (8) There is too much focus
on secondary characters and their personal stories, which dilutes the impact of the
major character's journey. (9) The play moves too slowly because the scenes are too
long or include too much. (10) The plot has too many coincidences and isn't believ¬
able. (11) The middle of the play drags and doesn't show a rising conflict in which
the protagonist is tested to the limits. (12) The beginning of the play is boring and
takes too long.
Other tips are as follows: (1) Write about something that touches your heart.
The characters in your play need to care and feel strongly. There must be conflict
with high stakes. Drama is the art of the showdown; force must be opposed by
force, person by person. (2) Most theatres look for small-cast shows, so limit the
number of characters. Avoid utilitarian walk-on characters. (3) Keep the characters
on stage as long as you can. (4) Try to write with no breaks, scene shifts, or time
lapses. Jump into the conflict and the action quickly, and let the exposition, mood,
and character come later. Develop a sympathetic protagonist whose conscious will
is driving her toward a goal. Provide an antagonist as strong as the central charac¬
ter and equally as uncompromising. (5) Understand the purpose of a one-act play
versus that of a full-length play.
Subtext refers to the hidden motivations and deeper meanings that lie under
the text are are not spoken directly but made apparent to the audience. Subtext is
what gives the audience mystery, surprise, and sudden discovery. It is what keeps
the audience mentally and emotionally engaged. It is why they go to the theatre.
*
 CHAPTER

Structure

In this chapter, we will explore masculine or linear construction, which follows a

traditional narrative approach from ignition of the action; what distinguishes a
beat, scene, sequence, and an act; building to a major climax and resolution; deal¬
ing with exposition; foreshadowing; positive and negative story values; concepts
of unity; and feminine or nonlinear construction (often circular and episodic),
which uses techniques such as flashbacks, direct address, shifts in time and per¬
spective, and the use of theme as the unifying glue.

Masculine Structure

Greek philosopher and critic Aristotle first outlined his views on effective dramatic
writing in The Poetics about 350 B.c. He examined Greek tragedy, analyzing what
elements were essential, what approaches were more effective than others, and
what effects it had on the audience. Western civilization adopted Aristotle's mascu¬
line or linear framework of storytelling.
Until the twentieth century, most plays were written and produced by men
and for a predominantly male audience. Apart from the obvious anatomical differ¬
ences, there are chemical and character distinctions to the sexes. More important
are the typical roles assigned to men and women by society. For the past 2,500
years, dramatic writing has primarily followed the masculine or linear approach.
Only within the last century has a feminine approach to playwriting emerged,
powerfully redefining the structure of drama.
Note that the use of a masculine or feminine structure is not necessarily con¬
nected to the dramatist's gender. Nor do these structures imply that only male
playwrights only write linear, masculine scripts and that female playwrights only
write circular, feminine scripts. In fact, it is rare to find a play that is rigidly one
structure or the other, just as it is rare to find a human being who is unwaveringly
feminine or masculine. However, most dramatists generally identify strongly with
a masculine or a feminine approach to play construction at any point in time,
regardless of gender. Playwrights Nicky Silver, Tennessee Williams, and Arthur
Miller have all used a feminine structure for some plays, and Beth Henley has used
a masculine structure.

79
 Chapter 7

The Linear Approach

The masculine or Aristotelian structure centers on Aristotle's unity of action and a
linear plot. In this basic order of events, one event follows another in chronological
order, and this chain of events has a beginning, middle, and end. There is a unity to
the events—in other words, no event is arbitrarily thrown in without reason.
Events are chosen by the playwright to accelerate the forward momentum of the
plot.
When does the play begin? The plot, like any chain, has a beginning, but it
does not necessarily begin when the lights come up. Every Aristotelian play begins
in a state of balance that identifies which part of our chaotic world it's going to
show. It is a balance because, peaceful or painful, it will go on without change for¬
ever. It is Oedipus's home of Thebes before the plague in Sophocles' Oedipus the
King. It is the quiet Kansas town of William Inge's Picnic before Hal shows up. It is
the raging world of the wild child Helen upsetting life at the Keller home before
the arrival of Anne Sullivan in The Miracle Worker, by William Gibson.

nition

The spark that lights the fuse of an explosive is the first link of that chain. This is
the "no turning back" action that alters that balance. The ignition that propels
Oedipus forward is his decision to find the cause of the plague and eliminate it.
Annie Sullivan's decision to take on Helen Keller starts the action of The Miracle
Worker. The action in Shakespeare's Hamlet starts when Hamlet sees the ghost and
swears revenge. The mere arrival of Blanche Dubois in Tennesee Williams's A
Streetcar Named Desire is the ignition for that play, just as Hal's entrance ignites the
flame, upsetting the world of women in Inge's Picnic. Their intrusion on a balanced
world has the same impact as the outlaw bursting through the bank's front door.
In some plays, the inciting action happened long ago. When the curtain rises,
we are already in the midst of the conflict, and we find out the antecedent action
through exposition—the information you need in order to know what's going on. In
Moliere's Tartuffe, for example, the father has upset the balance of his family by
bringing home a hypocritical religious zealot, causing the family to rebel. Moliere's
play begins in frenzy, with the fuse already burning.
After the fuse has been ignited, the play builds through a series of beats to a
scene and through a sequence of scenes to an act. The term sequence indicates that
the scenes are tied together by cause and effect. Each scene and act builds eventu¬
ally to a climax and resolution. The masculine structure, which evolved from Aris¬
totle's outline for play composition, unifies all the script's actions to fuel the
ultimate climactic event. Following the climax comes the resolution, and after the
resolution, a new balance is established. Again, the masculine script is linear. It has
a clear beginning, middle, and end. Each point on that line can be identified by its
function.
 Structure 81

Scenes

A change in a character's life equals an event or scene. What values are at stake at
the beginning of the scene? Is it positive or negative? Two brothers who share a
one-bedroom apartment are seen getting dressed. They are in a good mood and
teasing one another. While hunting for a shirt, John finds his girlfriend Sarah's
scarf in brother Mark's closet. They get into a conflict about Mark's history with
women, trust, and loyalty. John decides to kick Mark out of the apartment. The
value of the scene has changed from positive to negative. The scene ends with
unresolved conflict.
This alienation scene can be divided into five beats:

1. Teasing. Mark teases John about his taste in clothes. John teases Mark about
his superficiality. Mark notes that John has no sense of humor. John decides to wear
one of Mark s shirts. In Mark s closet, John find's his girlfriend's scarf—a gift he
gave her.

2. Accusation. John confronts Mark, who tries to lie his way out of the situation.
It turns ugly. Mark disparages John's masculinity. John brings up Mark's previous
despicable treatment of women.

3. Threats. Mark threatens to take Sarah away from John. John threatens to tell
her about Mark's previous indiscretions. Mark threatens to tell their father about
one of John's secrets.

4. Pleading. John pleads with Mark not to tell his father. Mark apologizes. One
chance remark, however, and John turns angry and withdraws.

5. Crisis. John rejects his apology, gets into a physical fight with Mark, and
gives Mark an ultimatum: Take your stuff and get out, or I'll throw your stuff into
the street.

Beats

A change in human behavior is a beat. A beat contains a character's objective, what

he or she wants. There is an external stimulus that arouses an inner need (see Figure
7.1). The character reviews the alternatives and makes a choice. Once a choice has
been made, the character has an intention of what to do and a strategy of how to do
if- That is the objective. When the character acts on that objective, that is the response.
The action must be stage worthy—one that is visible to and can be read by the
audience. The response then becomes the stimulus for the other character.
What kind of stimulus involves "hitting below the belt?" In Edward Albee's
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Martha hits below the belt when she tells the truth
about George s novel that it is a thinly disguised account of his killing of his
82 Chapter 7

Event is a STIMULUS,

which creates an inner NEED

in the character to respond.

The character considers possible

responses and ALTERNATIVES.

The character
makes a CHOICE.
He has a clear
INTENTION and a STRATEGY
of how to do it: an OBJECTIVE.

He takes ACTION in
a stageworthy way
that can be visible and
read by an audience.

His action becomes

an EVENT which
in turn becomes
a STIMULUS.

FIGURE 7.1 The Stimulus/Response Model

parents. In Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Maggie hits below the belt
when she brings up Skipper. A character that is losing may bring up a taboo sub¬
ject in any scene. It is always a sore subject—whatever weakness the other person
has—that is sure to hurt.
The character's goal or need provides the motivation for her action—what
the character says or does. The objective may lead to a series of actions. If Charac¬
ter B blocks Character A from getting what she wants. Character A will then change
tactics. Each character anticipates, adjusts ahead, and adapts to new information.
But when the other character responds in a way that is unexpected, a gap opens
between expectation and reality, requiring the character to adjust and adapt her
response to the reality.
We have a series of beats, or changes in human behavior, composed in a cer¬
tain order, with the last beat bringing about the greatest change. In creating the
scene and the moment-to-moment actions of a character, the playwright should
 Structure 83

ask. What does the character want? What strong choices does he make? Like the
actor, the playwright should think of strong verbs when developing each beat
Strong verbs can reveal what the character is thinking and feeling, rather than
what he or she is saying. Compare the following strong active verbs with their
weaker passive counterparts:

Active Verbs Passive Verbs

To defy To tell
To hurt To get angry
To needle To suggest
To trick To learn the truth
To force his hand To ask
To embarrass To laugh
To "baby" To feel sorry for
To intimidate To hint

The beats should get beneath the surface of the dialogue and express the
dynamics that motivate the characters. The playwright must, therefore, have a
deep insight into the psychology of human motives. As noted in Chapter 12 on dia¬
logue, characters do not say exactly what they mean. Each has a public side and a
private side. The public side may appear to be sympathetic while the private side
is seeking to demean and destroy the other character's self-esteem. Thus, the play-
wright must focus on the subtext, what the character is not saying. This is most eas¬
ily done if the playwright has a clear vision of the intention of the character. The
playwright should select beats with a sense of progression, growing from weakest
to strongest. This series of beats forms a scene with a climax.

Acts

Thus far, we have beats, a scene composed of a series of beats, and a series of scenes
that make up a sequence. A sequence of scenes makes up an act. A full-length play
today is generally made up of two acts. The five-act form was used from Roman
times into the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century, the four-act form
became standard. By the beginning of the twentieth century, plays were written in
three acts. By the 1970s, the two-act became the standard. Today, a growing num¬
ber of plays have basically one act and run for about ninety minutes, without an
intermission. Hownver, even within the twn-act or one-act form, there are gener¬
ally three major actions.
A story is a series of actions that bring about major changes and culminate in
an irreversible climax. Classical structure requires a closed ending. All questions
raised in the audience's mind must be answered and all emotions must be satis¬
fied. There is a single protagonist who is active. The main conflict is external, with
the protagonist in a struggle with other characters. The protagonist goes through
84 Chapter 7

major irreversible changes. In one way or another, the story makes us wait for the
other shoe to drop. We are waiting for the resolution of a conflict, the solution to a
puzzle, or the explanation of a mystery, and it is this anticipation, as much as any¬
thing else, that makes us continue to be interested.

The Resolution

The rising action creates conflict and stress not only for the characters but also for
the audience. After identifying with the characters and emerging from the climax,
the audience wants to survey the ruins or celebrate in the victory This postclimax
event is the resolution, sometimes called the denouement, which is a French word for
unraveling the complication.
After a hurricane, television cameras in helicopters pan over the ruins. They
take in the entirety of the locale: houses, cars, and businesses in ruins; power lines
down; bridges washed out; devastation for miles around. After a climactic event, it
is human nature to want to see the outcome. After a new house is built, the owners
are given time for a room-by-room inspection. There is the media discussion on
television after a presidential debate. There are interviews with actors after they
win Oscars. These are all forms of closure. Without closure, we feel uncomfortable.
If a close relative dies, a friend moves out of town without saying good-bye, or we
are forced to leave a competitive event before the end, we experience the pain of an
unresolved, incomplete situation. People relish release and even like to heighten
the sensation through delayed gratification. Sex is perhaps the most primal exam¬
ple: an intense build-up of stress until an explosive release.
This ultimate release of conflict or stress in a play, as in life, is the climax.
Drama thrives on conflict. The intensifying stresses and releases within the plot
build up pressure like a covered pot boiling rapidly and spouting bursts of steam
until it finally explodes. The play's opposing forces pressurize to the point that an
ultimate, final victory is imperative for only one. That event is the climax.
A climax can be defined by a number of criteria. It can be a climax of action,
such as Stanley Kowalski's rape of Blanche Dubois in Williams's A Streetcar Named
Desire. In fact, Stanley defines the dramatic climax: "We've had this date with each
other from the beginning" (Act 3, scene 4). There can also be the climax of an idea,
such as Thomas More's assertion in Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons that he must
obey God's law or Eliza's assertion that she is independent of Professor Higgins's
control in George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. In classically based tragedy, it is a cli¬
max of recognition—reversal and discovery. Oedipus learns that he is the unclean
cause of the plague—he killed his father and married his mother. Regardless of
type, the sequence of stresses and releases within the play builds to the final show¬
down: the climax
A plot, then, is a series of imaginary events planned to create anticipation in a
story of conflict. The ending may take the form of a resolution, a revelation, a deci-
 Structure 85

sion, an explanation, or a solution. It establishes a new balance, either the restora¬

tion of the initial one or a change to one that is better or worse. After the climax of
Williams's Streetcar, Blanche is taken away to an asylum, and the balance is
restored. In Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? George and Martha have killed
the illusions, and although it is unendurably painful, there is hope for a new begin¬
ning. Everything in the script after the climax is the resolution. Some scripts give
false climaxes to lure you into believing that you are free and clear, only to jolt you
with a more powerful moment. At the end of the film Fatal Attraction, the Glenn
Close character is supposedly dead in the bathtub but suddenly rises up out of the
water.

Exposition

The best exposition is unnoticeable: information that is brought in only because it

is essential and tied to the characters and action. In numerous comedies of man¬
ners from the seventeenth century well into the twentieth century, exposition was
obvious, with servants discussing the situation, the main characters, and the
events going on. In The Real Inspector Hound, a satire of British murder/mysteries,
Tom Stoppard pokes fun at the obvious exposition of these drawing-room plays
when the maid answers the phone, "Hello, the drawing room of Lady Muldoon's
country residence one morning in early Spring" (pp. 10-11).
Addressing the audience directly with the exposition is expedient and has
been practiced since the early Greeks. For example, the prologue to Aeschylus'
Agamemnon begins with the watchman telling us of the situation. Contemporary
plays require more subtlety. In David Grimm's historical play Kit Marlowe, Thomas
sets the scene by complaining: "And yet, Christ forsake it, look at me! Five hours of
a sore backside on a testy nag, riding through the rain and mud to a destination I
wish didn t exist" (Act 1, p. 10). He goes on to say, "When I knock at his door—when
I find it—a young boy—what—fifteen—with sleep in his eyes, sends me away. Try
down by the river,' he says. 'He's swimming.' Swimming—I ask you!" (Act 1, p. 10).
In Martin McDonagh's Beauty Queen ofLeenane, we learn on the first page that
Maureen has been out in the rain. Mag, who has a "urine infection," had to get her
own porridge, and she's scared of having to deal with hot water. Maureen is
annoyed that Mag can't tidy up the house and wants to be waited on. Mag com¬
plains of her bad back. Maureen complains that she isn't appreciated. The infor¬
mation comes from the interaction of the characters. As they rail at one another, we
are sucked into the play and interested in the characters, and we're not really
aware that this is exposition.
Exposition is one of those "dragons" that a playwright must overcome. Expo¬
sition is background information intended primarily for the audience. It tells the
audience who the characters are, where they live, their current relationships, and
how the past influences them. Because exposition is information, it typically does
86 Chapter 7

not propel the play forward in the present and to a sense of future. In today's the¬
atre, it is best to jump into the conflict immediately and then bring in the exposition
a bit at a time, only when needed in the present. Let it be part of the action, dragged
forth reluctantly by one character insisting on answers. Make it a part of the con¬
flict, with one character resisting the telling, the other insisting. Have the antago¬
nist use relevant background information as a weapon against the protagonist.

Foreshadowing

Foreshadowing is an important tool for playwrights. It awakens audience interest

by telling them of an event to come and guiding their attention toward it. It can
give characters motivation and depth. Foreshadowing needs to be subtle. The term
foreshadow means to give a hint or suggestion beforehand. Thus, the playwright
introduces a problem by a brief reference, a prop, a phone call, a letter, or some
other device. This arouses audience anticipation. If a knife is used to chop vegeta¬
bles in the first scene, it may be the murder weapon later when the husband kills
his wife. When a man is cleaning a gun early in the play, it suggests that the gun
will be used later. A phone call from an alcoholic relative will lead us to expect to
meet her later.
If foreshadowing gives us an idea that there is something in the dark at the
top of the stairs, it also creates anticipation, expectation, and mystery. Once we are
led to expect something, we anticipate the fulfillment. We want to be led up those
stairs. We wait until the light is turned on. The tension creates suspense.

Story Values

Values are those qualities of human experience that can be positive and negative at
different times—qualities such as courage and cowardice, love and hate, interest
and apathy. Changes in characters' lives are achieved through conflict. Coinci¬
dence isn't enough. Motivated change through conflict is necessary. A scene may
begin on a positive note and end on a negative note or in the opposite way. A scene
may also start and end on a positive note or the reverse. The playwright needs to
be conscious of the positive and negative values and to make sure there is variety
in how scenes begin and end.

The Unities

The traditional idea of the unities was that the play should have one central action
that takes place in one setting within one day. This began with Aristotle's analysis
 Structure 87

and interpretation of the Greek tragedies. Artistotle stressed that unity of action
was essential. Much later, the unities of time and place became required.
In today's theatre, the unities of time and place are frequently disregarded for
full-length plays, especially musicals. Only the unity of one central action is still
standard. However, the rising costs of sets and costumes have also brought limits
to changes of locale and time. Many professional theatres cannot afford to produce
multiset, nonmusical comedies and dramas. Changes in time also usually call for
costume changes, another financial concern.

Action
The action is brought to life by the protagonist's desire—her passionate need—to
achieve a certain goal. The desire is an emotional quality. The protagonist is one
who feels even more than she thinks. This character will move nonstop to her
objective. A protagonist must have a passionate need to right the wrong, to punish
the guilty, to recover the lost child, to make the marriage work, or to get revenge.
The protagonist's goal must be made clear relatively early in the play and have a
sense of urgency. While full-length plays have more events and complications than
short plays, there must still be one central action. Today's theatre is streamlined.
Every word, line, and event must advance the plot.

Time
The concept of the unity of time dates back to Aristotle's The Poetics and his expla¬
nation that a tragedy should deal with events within one revolution of the sun, or
essentially one day. Although this later became a prescription for generations,
playwrights today are free to manipulate time as they wish. The brevity of the one-
act or ten-minute play limits changes in time. Jumps in time cannot depend on
scenic devices or elaborate lighting techniques to communicate the change. One-
acts, however, still may be composed with jumps in time, but plays that call for
lighting changes or sound effects to indicate time changes and do not require cos¬
tume or set changes are more acceptable.

Place
Today, plays are not limited to single places. We can create multiple locales and
have the technology to change from one to another quickly for musicals. However,
for a nonmusical play, if the action moves from place to place, it must do so with¬
out elaborate stage devices to indicate the changes. In general, no set changes
should be required. Some kind of unit set—usually, one that is simplified, abstract,
nonrealistic—with minor changes combined with lighting must be the answer. A
simultaneous staging technique or a unit set still boils down to one set.
88 Chapter 7

The Play in Today's Theatre

The "straight" play in today's theatre—that is, a contemporary comedy or drama

that is not a musical—typically has only a few characters and is an examination of
a single dramatic incident. Most full-length plays are divided in two acts. The
usual running time is two hours, including a fifteen-minute intermission, although
in today's theatre, the ninety-minute play with no intermission has also become
popular. Most of these plays have a single or unit set.
Most one-acts run thirty to forty-five minutes. Usually, a bill of one-acts
includes two or three plays. It is especially important for a short play to stay within
one time and one place. It isn't practical to change sets within a short play, particu¬
larly if any degree of realism is required. There are, of course, short plays with a
series of locales and time changes, but these are generally produced without any
attempt to physicalize the changes. In a play such as Fun, by Howard Korder, for
example, two young men go to many different places, but the changes are accom¬
plished solely by the actors and lighting. There are no set or costume changes.
In the 1990s, ten-minute play festivals developed. The popularity of the ten-
minute play has become a national phenomenon. The Kennedy Center American
College Theatre Festival selects ten of these for each national festival. There are also
eight regional festivals across the United States, each of which presents ten plays.
Other ten-minute play contests are held in many cities. In Miami, for example, City
Shorts produces a series of these plays each summer. Generally, there is one locale,
one time, and one continuous scene, with no time breaks and no costume changes.
The casts are small.

EXERCISE 10__

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a linear scene using the stimulus/response model. In the scene. Char¬
acter A and Character B should each try to win Character C to his or her side.
Character A should use various tactics and may exaggerate or even lie. Char¬
acter B must be very quick and inventive to show the true side of Character
A.
B. Write a linear scene in which the protagonist uses the tactics listed earlier
under "Active Verbs." Focus the conflict on a desire, a goal, a secret, or a third
character.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene that jumps into the conflict immediately between two charac¬
ters that know each other well. Have Character A use information that he
knows as a weapon to discredit, criticize, expose, demean, degrade, or
inflame Character B. Let the exposition be dragged forth reluctantly from
Character B. Allow Character B to finally reveal some new information that
pulls the rug out from under Character A.
 Structure 89

D. Write a scene with different moods and five physical actions. Label each beat
with a verb according to the type of behavior: to joke, plead, bargain, demand,
seduce, defy, bribe, and so on. Write the verb in pencil in the margin at the start
of each beat. Usually, a beat is short. It changes every time the leading char¬
acter in the scene changes his or her objective.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a five-page scene with three characters, in which the first part clarifies
Character A s expectations and ideal scenario and the second part brings him
or her face to face with a very different reality. Label each beat with a verb
according to the type of behavior: to bargain, demand, seduce, ignore, flatter,
threaten, deny, refuse, ridicule, and the like.
F. Write a conflict scene resolved by the protagonist's decision between two dif¬
ficult choices or a conflict resolved by a revelation from another character.
Label each beat with a verb that describes the behavior: to joke, plead, bargain,
demand, seduce, ignore, flatter, and so on. Put the verb on the page at the begin¬
ning of each beat.

Feminine Structure

In the twentieth century, women emerged as a force on an equal par with men, gain-
ing new power in all areas of life in the United States. With this power came new
forms of expression, such that uniquely feminine artistic structures now prevail in
Western civilization. This is not to say that these forms didn't exist before. Certainly,
women were expressing themselves in distinctly feminine ways before the twenti¬
eth century. However, because the selections for play production were being made
overwhelmingly by men, these forms were either suppressed or lost over time.
Other than the obvious anatomical differences, there are hundreds of other
contrasting qualities to the sexes. Science has uncovered a variety of gender-
specific differences. For example, women's wide-field vision is more accurate, yet
men's night vision is stronger. Due to hip placement, men can run faster, yet
women have more endurance. Females have better manual dexterity; males are
better at spatial relationships. Males have more muscle mass, whereas females
have more fat reserves: strength versus stamina. One could theorize that these dif¬
ferences evolved for species survival: Females were built to bear and protect chil¬
dren and males to feed and secure the genetic line. Fortunately, civilization and
technology have made the physical restrictions that limit lifestyle choices obsolete.
Our gender differences are most apparent in our sexual responses. Modern
research has shown that men radiate that energy from their sexual organ, whereas
women express themselves sexually through their entire bodies. Most relevant to
playwriting is this: Men are focused primarily on the climax, whereas women are
focused on the overall sensation. A man can have a rewarding experience with
90 Chapter 7

nothing but a climax, and a woman can have a rewarding experience without a cli¬
max. Each sex may also experience the energy of the opposite sex, since both qual¬
ities are present in varying degrees in both. However, each sex generally reacts
with gender-specific responses.
The differences in our evolutionary development and our sexual responses
help explain how playwriting evolved as having a chain of events targeted toward
achieving a purging climax. The male playwrights and audiences of Aristotle's
time up to the twentieth century were naturally more moved by making a linear
progression to a final goal. Yet a nonlinear structure can also provide a full, satisfy¬
ing theatrical experience.

Nonlinear Approaches
According to Judith Michaelson (1988) in her article "Woman Playwrights and Their
Stony Road," "only seven percent of the plays written in this country are by women,
and those that are produced generally cluster at the bottom rungs of the theater lad¬
der" (p. 47) somewhere off-off-Broadway. Throughout history, women playwrights
have faced discrimination, and they were largely ignored until the twentieth century.
Today, however, more and more women are telling stories. Is there a woman's aes¬
thetic, or is true art genderless? Are women creating their own artforms?
There is no agreement to these questions, even among women. For some, art
is art no matter who writes it. Others see a difference between a male and a female
aesthetic, and they consider linear writing as male and nonlinear writing as female.
"We tend to write in a circular fashion," says playwright Kathleen Betsko (quoted
in Michaelson, 1988, p. 47), basing her opinion on talking to thirty women play¬
wrights and reading hundreds of plays by women. She notes that women live a
very fragmented life doing a large variety of tasks—making beds, dropping the
kids at school, cooking dinner, handling part-time or full-time jobs—and tend to
write shorter scenes and share the dialogue more generously among all the char¬
acters. As a result, there are often several leading characters as opposed to a single
protagonist and antagonist. Betsko also notes that women playwrights "have a lot
of problems structurally because we are trying to force our perceptions and our
vision into predominantly male forms" (p. 47).
The underlying foundation of the male form is a play made with rising con¬
flict until it reaches a climax and then tapers off. Women's work, according to Bet¬
sko, has a lot of small climaxes: "Women tend to want to return to where they
began at the beginning of the play" (p. 47). Mexican playwright Sabina Bergman
notes, "I am in search of structures closer to the feminine, that is circular dramatic
structures" (quoted in Michaelson, 1988, p. 47).
In the same article, Canadian playwright Margaret Hollingsworth also notes
a difference between men and women regarding the use of conflict. She says, "This
word conflict. Plays have to have conflict. I hate that word! It's a male model of how
to write a play, and it's been very damaging to our work. What a play needs is push
 Structure 91

and pull, it needs energy and tension, something that drives it forward, but that is
not necessarily conflict" (p. 47).
If you were traveling by car from New York to Miami, you could do it two
ways. One way would be to get on Interstate 95 and drive south until you hit the
city This should take about two days, but you would only see a lot of highway. Or
you could start heading south on a road that isn't a major interstate expressway,
stop at a few towns you have never seen, visit some natural landmarks, and maybe
take a tour of a southern mansion in Georgia. You would get to Miami eventually,
but you would also see countless sights on the way.
In the first method, the masculine script emphasizes the goal in the shortest
time and the least expensive way possible. In the second method, the feminine
script emphasizes the experience. Some people may employ bits of both. The
emphasis depends on priority

Circular Structure

While the masculine script emphasizes singular or parallel plot lines climaxed by
a powerful event, the feminine script emphasizes the process of exploring a basic
thematic idea through a succession of varied but equally weighted scene varia¬
tions. What follows are the structural elements of the feminine script.
For the scene variations to have continuity, they need a unifying focus. That
unity is generally provided by a theme. Johann Sebastian Bach perfected a popular
form of music in the eighteenth century called the fugue. A fugue is a composition
with many voices, each treated with equal importance, each exploring a given
theme. That theme is usually a short melody line that is stated by any one voice
at the fugue's beginning. The first thing you hear in a fugue is the identifying
subject—the melody line. Then you hear the answer, which is another voice inter¬
preting that subject, and then you hear others still, added onto those first two
voices. The fugue ends when the subject has been fully expanded and the con¬
trasting voices rejoin in unison.
The unifying force of the feminine script, like the fugue, is the subject. The
subject is the concept or thematic idea the playwright wishes to explore. It can be an
observation about human behavior, a debate on social structure, an exploration of
an emotion, or even the celebration of life's joy. The subject of a feminine script
says. This is what we're talking about here," just as the subject of the fugue says,
"This is the sound we're going to play with."
Unlike the ignition of a linear script, the subject of a circular script doesn't
have to be stated at the script's opening or in the title, although it often is. In fact, if
the subject is considered difficult to swallow, it might even be best left until the
end. To construct a house, you have to begin with the foundation and build to the
roof. To construct a jigsaw puzzle, you can begin with any two pieces that match.
Constructing a house requires a linear progression. Constructing a puzzle requires
92 Chapter 7

relationships between varying pieces and can be constructed in any sequence. The
feminine script is like a jigsaw puzzle.
The scenes within the circular script are the topic variations. Each topic vari¬
ation examines an angle or point of view on the thematic subject. When the varia¬
tions are pieced together in complementary relationship to each other, the entire
picture is created. The circular script's variations do not utilize Aristotle's tidy uni¬
ties. Instead, the script layers variation upon variation through diverse scenes and
devices. Since topic variations don't have to follow the logic of time or unified
action, the notes played and instruments used can be unlimited—constricted only
by necessary thematic consistency. For example, in Paula Vogel's How I Learned to
Drive, the subject is sexual abuse, inflicted on Li'l Bit by her uncle who also taught
her to drive. The play begins in the parking lot. The scenes within the play are also
titled to suggest driving lessons, but they are metaphors, as well:

Sample Scene Titles

Safety First—You and Driver Education
Idling in Neutral Gear
Shifting Forward from First to Second Gear
Vehicle Failure
Defensive Driving

Vogel wanted to explore the conflicting effects of love that hurts. A linear explo¬
ration of a specific plot would have been too logical and realistic, drawing atten¬
tion to the details of abuse rather than the dysfunctional family and how Li'l Bit
was able to survive and overcome it. Instead, Vogel focuses the audience on the
subject through the title and adds flashbacks until the whole picture is complete.
Mother Courage, by Bertolt Brecht, is an episodic and circular play. The play
explores what happens to a mother and her children as she pulls her wagon along
with the troops in a war. The scenes show the devastating effects of the war. It
would be possible to eliminate some of them or to change their order without
destroying the play. The play is concise and powerful without needing to justify a
coincidental relationship between the characters or to weave an intricate plot line
for unity. A similar structure is used for all of Brecht's epic theatre plays.
Since the circular script does not rely on chronology, one way to recognize
this structure is to determine if you could transpose the order of the scenes without
losing the integrity of the story. Obviously, the playwright orders the scenes for
artistic reasons, and they shouldn't be altered. But in the overall understanding of
the play, cause-and-effect sequence is less crucial than the thematic relationship
and counterpoint. The feminine script encircles a theme with topic variations that
complete a full picture.
In linear writing, the endpoint is the resolution. In circular writing, the end¬
ing is complete when the circle has been closed; the closing point is the completion.
Rather than provide a climactic showdown, the circular script ends with a satisfy-
 Structure 93

ing totality, similar to the feeling you have when you finish viewing a museum col¬
lection. There is a sense of fulfillment, saturation, and entirety. All the parts have
merged into one experience.
As with any circle, it is impossible to pinpoint the end. You cannot point to
the completion scene in a circular script as easily as you can identify the climax of
a linear script or spot the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle. However, at the circular
script s finish, that satisfying fulfillment is felt. When the playwright or fugue com¬
poser has explored as many variations as he or she needs or senses to complete the
work, the play or composition is over. If the playwright or artist is successful, then
completion will be achieved. If he or she falls short, then the audience will be left
frustrated, confused, or unsatisfied.
By the end of How I Learned to Drive, you feel an enormous satisfaction. Vogel
provides a concise exploration of another way to experience the world through the
attention paid to the subtle details of a dysfunctional family and to LiT Bit's sur¬
vival of the abuse from an uncle who loved her and gave her life lessons in driving.
Note the following comparison and contrast of the masculine and feminine
viewpoints using specific concepts. The masculine structure can be broken down
easily into distinct steps. Feminine script elements have fewer rules and more
options. The effectiveness of the masculine script can be measured by the success¬
ful, unified completion of its steps—no loose ends, an exciting climax, and a char¬
acter journey. The effectiveness of the feminine script is measured by the satisfying
wholeness felt at the final curtain. If the subject has not been fully explored, then
the script will have fallen short. If it has made a strong impression and created a
full experience, then it will have achieved its goal.

Comparison of Structures
Masculine/Linear Leminine/Circular/Episodic
Action and event Topic variation
Protagonist and antagonist Ensemble
Climax and resolution Completion
Architect Sculptor
Building blocks Jigsaw puzzle
Novel Short-story collection
Narrative storyteller Storytellers /Different stories
Travel Tour
Five-course meal Buffet
Having sex Making love
Goal Process

Very often, male critics have adjudicated scripts as being ineffective because
they have looked only for the familiar elements of linear progression. It is up to the
performers and directors to show that our world is not limited to one viewpoint.
But doing so requires a clear understanding of the tools. Actors who project a linear
94 Chapter 7

build on a circular constructions weaken the collage of topic variations. Actors who
place equal weight on all events of linear construction, as though they were topic
variations, rob the thrusting momentum of events that build to the climax.

Episodic Structure

The episodic structure develops a play through a series of separate scenes that are
generally complete in themselves. The episodic structure may be circular or a com¬
bination of chronological elements—scenes arranged in climactic order, from least
important to the most important, and an ending that takes us back to the begin¬
ning. Aristotle wrote in The Poetics that he did not have a high opinion of episodic
structure: "But of simple plots and actions, the episodic are the worst. I call the plot
episodic, in which it is neither probably nor necessary that the episodes follow
each other."
However, a play may have an episodic plot that does follow a linear cause-
and-effect structure. There are many successful plays with episodic plots. The key
is for the playwright to set up the rules of the play. Whatever those rules are, the
playwright must be consistent with them. A play with a major plot and a subplot
may also be developed with alternating scenes that come together in the final act.
A subplot may be the opposite of the main plot and used primarily as comic relief.
A subplot may provide a comparison or a parallel to the main plot, highlighting the
overall theme. A subplot may take the form of a counterplot, a plot which pro¬
gresses in contrast to the main action.
Most expressionistic plays have an episodic structure. The scenes are sepa¬
rate stories involving the protagonist, in which the hero's problems become worse
and worse with each episode. Expressionist plays—such as Eugene O'Neill's The
Emperor Jones and The Hairy Ape, Georg Kaiser's From Morn to Midnight, and Elmer
Rice's The Adding Machine—illustrate progressively worse circumstances for the
protagonist, finally ending in death. These plays also call for a separate set for each
scene, many costumes, special effects, and generally large casts.
Because each scene is an entity unto itself, it is possible with some episodic
plays to omit a scene completely or to change the order of scenes without destroy¬
ing the play. Ibsen's romantic drama Peer Gynt is seldom produced in its entirety.
Many scenes in the second part are often omitted to shorten the playing time. The
same is true of Brecht's epic theatre plays, such as Mother Courage, The Caucasian
Chalk Circle, and The Good Woman of Setzuan. These plays are episodic. Each may
have an overall linear framework, but within it are scenes that are variations on a
theme. The plays are not realistic, and many theatrical devices are used.
In the contemporary American theatre, there are successful writers who con¬
tinue to use an episodic or cinematic structure. Wendy Wasserstein is the well-
known author of The Heidi Chronicles, which has won the Pulitzer Prize, the Tony,
and the New York Drama Critics Award for best play. Wasserstein said in an inter-
 Structure 95

view in The Playwright's Art, "All of my plays have episodic structures; they all
break down into around eight scenes. For me they're fun to write because basically
I know that within ten pages I'm out of the scene—so I'm not stuck there. In some
ways you can move the action forward in that way, and also in a way you can make
the action and the storytelling elliptical" (1994, p. 264).
Most plays follow a defined chronology or sequence of events, without
which the story would make no sense. When there are cause-and-effect relation¬
ships between the events in a play (and there almost always are), then there is a
chronology that cannot logically be changed. If the telling of a story is linear, the
structure of the play follows chronology. The first events described are the ones
that happened earliest, the lasts events described are the ones that happened last,
and everything that happens in between is described in order. A play with flash¬
backs and foreshadowing (events described out of sequence) can have a much
more complex chronology. Many literary devices are available to bend time. No
device is necessary, however, to describe a well-ordered, linear sequence of events:
It is what happens automatically, unless an effort is made to the contrary.
Some contemporary writers use a nonlinear structure. We are familiar with
the use of flashbacks and foreshadowing even within conventional plays.
Williams's The Glass Menagerie is told in flashback by the narrator Tom. There are
also flashbacks in Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. Both plays employ a mixture
of styles: realism and expressionism. The world in each play is seen through the
eyes of the central character, one of the main aspects of an expressionistic play.
Each play also has a bit of a dream quality. The set for each play is suggestive and
expressive, rather than totally realistic. However, the acting style used in both
plays is realistic.
Nicky Silver, a playwright who came of age in the 1990s, uses a nonlinear
structure. His themes include topics from cannibalism to incest, from unattractive¬
ness and AIDS to eating disorders, maternal obsession, and suicide. Many, if not
all, of these issues tie into his portrait of the contemporary American family.
Among his major plays are Fat Men in Skirts, Pterodactyls, Raised in Captivity, Fit to
Be Tied, The Food Chain, Free Will and Wanton Lust, and The Altruists.
In Fat Men in Skirts, Silver introduces us to three character types that we
encounter in only slightly varied versions in his other plays. These include a young
man; his domineering, middle-class mother; and a loopy young woman who is a
bit confused and often unfocused. After surviving a plane crash, Phyllis and her
son Bishop are stranded on a desert island for five years. During these years.
Bishop changes from a stuttering little boy into a feral savage who eventually rapes
his mother. Phyllis evolves from a glib, callused sophisticate to a helpless, addled
shell. Left to fend for themselves, the characters dine on the dead bodies of those
who perished in the crash. Back in civilization, we see Howard, Phyllis's husband
and a famous movie director, continuing life with his dizzy mistress, Pam.
Again, Silver's style is nonlinear. He uses direct address, shifts in time
and perspective, and the overlapping of settings to show the parallels between
96 Chapter 7

environments and situations. Characters frequently move into a spotlight and talk
directly to the audience.
Fat Men in Skirts is typical of Silver's nonlinear approach. The first act opens
with a monologue by Phyllis and a scene with her and Bishop on the beach. The
next scene flashes back to Phyllis's wedding night, returns to the beach, goes to
Phyllis's recounting of a dream in the present, then to a scene with Pam and
Howard back in civilization, a monologue by Bishop about Katherine Hepburn, a
flashback to the struggle over the naming of Bishop, a monologue by Pam about
her relationship with Howard, a scene in the present with Bishop eating a baby and
verbally taking charge, a scene of conflict between Pam and Howard, a monologue
by Bishop about monkeys, and so on.
Getting Out, by Marsha Norman, probes into the past and present of a young
woman attempting to find her way after release from prison. Arlene returns to a
rundown apartment in Louisville, intent on starting her life over. Rebellious, dis¬
ruptive, and abused as a young girl, she has found strength in religion and wants
to put her youth as "Arlie" behind her. As Arlene struggles to find her way in the
present, flashbacks of her past as Arlie shed light on what she must overcome. Her
two personalities are represented by two actors, who sometimes appear on stage
simultaneously. The unit setting focuses on the living room of her apartment, but
it is surrounded by the prison of her past, with areas representing a jail cell, a cat-
walk, and a principal's office. There are shifts in time and place from the present to
the past, and sometimes both are reflected at the same time.

Getting Out, performed at University of Alaska Anchorage. Directed by Leroy Clark, Set and
Lighting Design by Frank Bebey, Costume Design by Lois Aden.
 Structure 97

In Harold Pinter's Betrayal, George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart's Merrily We

Roll Along, and Stephen Sondheim's musical version of Merrily We Roll Along, the
scenes play in reverse chronological order. That is, the last scene in the story is pre¬
sented first and the beginning event that happened years earlier is presented last.
Rashomon, by Fay and Michael Kanin, based on the movie by Akira Kurosawa, is
the tale of a rape and murder told through the eyes of four different individuals
involved with the crime. Each version tells a different story, but eventually, we
learn the truth behind these crimes and see a stunning perception of people's
diverse altering of perceptions.

EXERCISE 11_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Select an organic object, such as a twig, a piece of natural wood, a leaf, a veg¬
etable, a fruit, a flower, or a weed. Write a conflict scene that in your mind is
shaped like the object. Follow the structure of the organic object and shape
the scene like it. Bring the object to class with the scene.
B. Write a dream scene in which your characters, objects, locales, and events are
free from the restrictions of reality. Dreams do not obey linear thought or
structure. Do not worry about interpreting the dream. Follow the dream of
one character: the behaviors and events, what is said, the images. Let it flow.
Is it a daydream, a nightmare, a quest dream, or a problem-solving dream?
Who is good and who is evil? What does the person like? Hate? What does he
or she fear? Want? Love? How do age, race, occupation, religion, family,
lifestyle, needs, and desires affect the character in the dream?
Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:
C. Write a nonlinear scene with a specific theme. It can be an observation about
human behavior, a debate on social structure, an exploration of an emotion,
or even the celebration of life's joy. To construct this jigsaw puzzle scene, use
flashbacks, direct address, shifts in time and perspective, dream sequences,
or fantasy sequences.
D. Rewrite one of your previous scenes, turning one character into a talking
mechanical object. Find an object that best describes or identifies the charac¬
ter. Think of the object as animated—as if it were somehow alive in this tech¬
nological age—and rewrite the scene. For example, in the musical Beauty and
the Beast, there are talking pieces of furniture.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write an expressionistic scene about a theme. The setting, costumes, and
props should be seen through the eyes of the protagonist and may be dis¬
torted and exaggerated. The other characters should be types identified by
the protagonist's perception of them. In this world, there are transformations.
Characters and objects may change into other things. Masks, direct address.
98 Chapter 7

fantasy scenes, dream scenes, shifts in time and perspective, and the overlap¬
ping of scenes in different simultaneous settings may be used.
F. Write three short scenes about an event that happened. Each scene should
portray the same event as seen through the eyes of a different character
involved. Masks, direct address, fantasy scenes, dream scenes, shifts in time
and perspective, and the overlapping of scenes in different simultaneous set¬
tings may be used.

Summary

The masculine or Aristotelian structure centers on Aristotle's unity of action and a

linear plot. In this basic order of events, one event follows another in chronological
order, and this chain of events has a beginning, middle, and end. The play has a ris¬
ing action that builds to a climax and is followed by a resolution.
A change in the character's life equals an event or scene. A scene may begin or
end with a positive or negative value. A scene that begins in a positive way may
end in unresolved conflict. A scene that begins with conflict may end with a reso¬
lution. The playwright must vary the values that begin or end scenes.
A scene is developed from smaller units, or beats. A change in human behav¬
ior is a beat. A beat contains a character's objective or intention. The need provides
the motivation for the action—what the character says or does. The objective may
lead to a series of actions. Each character pursues an objective that is often the
opposite of what actually happens. A gap opens between expectation and reality.
A play is composed of individual beats that are put together in a series to cre¬
ate a scene. A series of causally connected scenes makes up a sequence. A series of
sequences makes up an act. A series of acts makes up a story, which brings about a
major change that is irreversible.
Resolution, something called denouement, shows what happens after the cli¬
max. It answers any lingering questions related to the protagonist.
Exposition sets forth the necessary background information. It tells the audi¬
ence the given circumstances: who the characters are, where they live, what their
current relationships are and why, and how past actions influence the present.
Exposition does not propel the play forward. The playwright must use exposition
cautiously, bringing it into the dialogue only when needed in the present conflict.
Foreshadowing is an important tool that playwrights can use to awaken
audience interest by telling them of an event to come.
Values are those qualities of human experience that can be positive and neg¬
ative at various times—qualities such as courage and cowardice, love and hate,
interest and apathy. Changes in characters' lives are achieved through conflict.
Coincidence isn't enough. Motivated change through conflict is necessary.
The traditional idea of the unities was that the play should have one central
action that takes place in one setting within one day. In today's theatre, while the
 Structure 99

unities of time and place are frequently disregarded, the unity of one central action
is still standard. The rising costs of sets and costumes have also brought limits to
changes of locale and time.
While the masculine script emphasizes singular or parallel plot lines that cli¬
max in a powerful event, the feminine script emphasizes the process of exploring a
basic thematic idea through a succession of varied but equally weighted scene
variations. These scene variations have continuity and a unifying focus that is gen¬
erally provided by a theme.
A play follows a defined sequence of events, without which the story would
make no sense. If the telling of a story is linear, then the structure follows chronol¬
ogy. If the telling of a story is nonlinear, then there is no chronology. Plays with
events described out of sequence can have a much more complex structure. These
plays are episodic in structure. The telling of a story may go along many paths, each
with its own implicit chronology. Some plays have a circular approach, coming
back at the end to the same or a similar situation as the one in the first scene.
Among the nonlinear techniques are the use of flashbacks, foreshadowing, direct
address, shifts in time and perspective, and the overlapping of settings to show the
parallels between environments and situations.
.
 Physical Characteristics

A person's external characteristics are determined by his or her physical attributes,

social aspects, and psychological profile. Physical attributes influence how a person
sees himself or herself and how others see him or her. Physical and mental
defects—real or imagined—shape behavior. Social aspects—education, economic
status, religion, environment—affect behavior, as well. Finally, someone's psycho¬
logical profile is the product of the physiological and sociological and includes fears,
insecurities, phobias, complexes, inhibitions, feelings of guilt and desire, and fan¬
tasies. These three areas determine the posture, the movement, the speech, and the
other daily actions of a character.

Development of Physical Character

As you begin to think about a character, consider the physical dimension that is
important to that character. Think of the different world Fred Astaire would have
faced with a clubfoot. What would have happened to Marilyn Monroe had she
been flat chested? What if Barbara Streisand had been given Hank Aaron's pitch¬
ing arm and he had been given her voice? In each case, the choices of profession
and personality would have been different.
Society shapes us by reactions to our appearance, size, sex, build, skin color,
scars, deformities, abnormalities, posture, bearing, and voice. In William Inge's
play Picnic, Madge is a golden girl, pretty and popular. Her looks have given her a
certain importance in the town. Her sister Millie, who is plain and wears glasses,
has cultivated her intelligence. Madge envies Millie for her intelligence, and Millie
envies Madge for her looks and sophistication. In a more extreme case, in Shake¬
speare's Richard III", King Richard III is deformed and hunchbacked. This perme¬
ates how he sees the world and the world sees him. In Gibson's The Miracle Worker,
Helen Keller is blind and deaf. In Williams's The Glass Menagerie, Laura has only a
slight limp, but it is magnified in her mind and affects her self-image and actions.

Appearance
Studies have shown that babies respond more to a person who is attractive and
whose features are symmetrical than one who is less attractive with less symmetrical

101
102 Chapter 8

features. Attractive men and women are often hired over less attractive people with
better qualifications. Studies have also shown that taller men are hired more quickly
than short men. They also receive more raises and promotions and generally make
more money overall. People flock to attractive people, and ignore average people.
For example, if an attractive man or woman drops several folders or packages, peo¬
ple passing by will stop to assist him or her, whereas the average people who drop
something will be ignored, as people walk around and avoid them.
Society's standards of physical beauty affect our self-confidence. When soci¬
ety dictates that being attractive means having ears close to the head and a small
nose, having ears that stick out and a big nose can make life miserable for you. If
you are fatter, thinner, scarred, or in any way different from the norm, your peers
will attack you where you're vulnerable. Whether a perceived flaw is large or small,
it can take on proportions that far exceed its real dimensions. It often becomes mag¬
nified in the mind, and the person with the flaw behaves in a way to reduce calling
attention to it. Someone who feels flawed may avoid mirrors, wear his hair in a cer¬
tain way or dress to disguise the flaw, or avoid contact with the people who pick on
him. Such a person may become withdrawn, a loner, or a class clown.
Physical flaws often affect the vulnerability of a character. Society's preju¬
dices and intolerances are made excruciatingly clear.

Posture and Movement

Characterization is conveyed by the posture and movement of the actor. In actor
training, the first thing the actor must focus on is the body—his or her instrument.
Actors explore exercises in relaxing, sitting, standing, centering the body, moving,
gesturing, and exploring space. Actors are trained to control their bodies and to use
them to take on characteristics appropriate for the characters they are playing.
Playwrights should be aware of the physicality of their characters—their move¬
ment and sense of self and how their bodies have shaped them. The audience is
strongly influenced by the physical portrayal.
In Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac, the title character lets society con¬
vince him that the length of his nose is so ludicrous that no woman will be inter¬
ested in the man behind it. Accordingly, Cyrano does not dare woo Roxanne for
himself. He does not realize until it is too late that she could not care less about his
obsession. His problem is not his nose; it is how he feels about his nose. Any dis¬
figurement, deformity, or problem with one's appearance generally leads to low
self-esteem, a degree of psychological withdrawal from society, and difficulty in
relationships.
Modern theatrical training provides actors with makeup skills to change
their appearance. Highlights and shadows on the face can make the nose appear
crooked, create wrinkles, and make the face seem round or angular. Crepe hair can
add a mustache or a beard or turn the eyebrows bushy. A wealth of makeup prod¬
ucts can create disfiguring scars, along with cuts and bruises, and it can make the
nose bigger or longer. A head can be made bald, or by using wigs and hair exten¬
sions, it can be given any kind of hairstyle imaginable.
 Physical Characteristics 103

Michael Hood as Cyrano de Bergerac in the University of Alaska Anchorage

production. Directed by John Rindo, Set and Lighting Design by Frank
Bebey, Costume Design by Fran Lautenberger.

As a playwright, develop in your mind a clear image of each character. Peo¬

ple hold their tension and their energy in different ways. After a while, the body's
contour and stance reflects this. One of the first things an actor must learn is proper
posture and how to center his or her body in order to be grounded and move grace¬
fully. However, some dramatic characters are not healthy and beautiful. They are
warped, wounded, and bent out of shape. Actors, therefore, have to learn how to
use their bodies to develop these characters.
104 Chapter 8

Body Types
There are five types of bodies (see Figure 8.1). The first body is the normal one. The
second body leads with the head; the back and shoulders are bent forward, the
arms are bent at the elbows, and the legs are weak. The energy center is in the front
stomach area, as though the character is protective, but this stance reflects low
energy and is not stable. The high-level energy version of this body reflects an
overdevelopment of the upper body—arms and shoulders—so that the figure
takes on the aspects of a gorilla.
The third body is the military stance, with the shoulders thrust back, the arms
clasped behind, and all the tension and anger concentrated between the shoulder
blades. This is the most negative and aggressive posture. The softer area of the
front—stomach and chest—is made hard. This body is grounded, but because it is
rigid, movement tends to be awkward or mechanical, not graceful.
The fourth body leads with the stomach, and that's where the energy is. The
back is swayed and blocks the aggressive energy of the rear of the body. The stance

FIGURE 8.1 These sketches of Margery and Gilbert from Shakespeare's Journey, by Leroy
Clark, were designed by Marilyn Skow and Marina Pariji. They show two different
body types: the normal lower-class tavern wench (first body) and the portly gentleman
who leads with his stomach (fourth body).
 Physical Characteristics 105

is heavy but jolly, and sentimental, not aggressive. This body is the easygoing,
"Aw, what the heck" personality. This character is talkative, outgoing, and hides
the pain.
The fifth body is all angles, characterized by a twisted view of the real world
and a greatly reduced ability to carry out daily tasks. All the major joints are disas¬
sociated, and the head is cocked sideways. The right hand doesn't know what the
left hand is doing. This body is unstable, poorly grounded, and lacks grace in
movement.
You, as the playwright, need to take a walk mentally with each of your char¬
acters. Stand in their shoes. What contour, kind of body, and kind of energy is part
of each character? How do they stand, move, gesture? How does the body reflect
the personality?

Voice
In creating a character, the playwright must be able to hear her voice. The voice
conveys a great deal about who the person is, where she came from, and what she
does. While it is not appropriate to make fun of someone with a speech impedi¬
ment or to seek a vocal quality that may be harmful to an actor's voice, the play¬
wright may create a character with a special voice. If a character is supposed to sing
well, this should be clear from the dialogue and from the character's behavior. If a
character must be strong and masculine, both physically and vocally, this should
be clear in the dialogue and actions. A character with an accent should be written
in the rhythm of that dialect.
Certain roles have become associated with distinct voices. Judy Holliday cre¬
ated Billie Dawn in Garcin Kanin's Born Yesterday with a high, nasal, "dumb-
blond" voice. Actresses in subsequent productions have cultivated a similar voice.
We learn about a character not only from the description provided by the play¬
wright but also from what the character says and what other characters say about
her. In Eugene O'Neill's The Long Voyage Home, the character Olson says, "I mean
all the time to go back home at the end of a voyage. But I come ashore, I take one
drink, I take many drinks, I get drunk, I spend all money, I have to ship away for
another voyage. So dis time I say to myself: Don't drink one drink, Ollie, or, sure,
you don't get home. And I want to go home dis time" (p. 73). Speeches such as this
give us a clear understanding of the character's state of mind and the life he or she
she has led that brought about this life-changing moment.

Physical Activity
We also learn about a character by his activity or stage business as well as his
actions. Consider the corporate executive swinging a golf club in his office, or the
woman who drinks from a bottle of gin, or the man who is knitting. A character's
major decisions are also shown as actions, such as Proctor's refusal to sign the con¬
fession that he is a witch in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, Thomas More's refusal to
106 Chapter 8

go against the church in Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons, and Nora's walking
out on her husband in Ibsen's A Doll's House.
Physical character is important in many plays. In Tennessee Williams's Cat on
a Hot Tin Roof Brick hops around on crutches after injuring his ankle. In Inge's Pic¬
nic, Hal must be masculine, muscular, athletic, and attractive. The actor must
assume a twisted posture to play John Merrick in Elephant Man, by Bernard Pomer-
ance, and this affects his every movement. Extremities, by William Mastrosimone,
explores attempted rape and torture. In each of these plays, the character's physi¬
cal actions are extremely important.
In the 1964 movie Tom Jones, there is a wonderful comic scene in which actors
Joyce Redmond and Albert Finney are sitting at a table in an inn, eating. Not a
word is spoken, but through their eyes, their facial expressions, and their manner
of eating, they convey their attraction to one another, their carnal desire and lust.
Finally they rush off to bed to have sex. In Eric Bogosian's Suburbia, the slacker
characters get angry at a shopkeeper and throw Chinese food. Physical actions and
props can be very useful in creating a scene.

EXERCISE 12_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a scene in which there is a physical obstacle within the locale. This
obstacle must be something that will affect the characters in the scene, such as
a disabled woman in a wheelchair in her home seeking to escape a drug
addict trying to rob her, a character that has been kidnapped and tied up by
another, or two people trying to move a large object but being unable to.
Maybe the characters are trying to open a box, defuse a bomb, or unblock a
cave in.
B. Write two half-page, single-spaced monologues. In one, have Character A
describe how Character B looks, and in the other, have Character B describe
how Character A looks. What is the conflict between the characters? Who is
she talking to? What does she want? Focus only on important details. Each
monologue should tell us not only about the character being described but
also about the character speaking. Think of the times you have told someone
about a person you saw at school or at work. You describe the person's
appearance and what she did that was outrageous and memorable. Why did
you tell the story? Did you color the image to make that person more comic
or eccentric?

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Create a dream scene. What objects are visible? Perhaps it is in an open field, a
room of refrigerators, a shop of old appliances, or a room with many easels
and paintings. What if a character is locked in a cellar of an old house with the
ghosts from the past? Describe the locale and then write a dream scene. In
dreams, characters, objects, and actions are free from the restrictions of reality.
 Physical Characteristics 107

Dreams do not obey linear thought or structure. Do not worry about inter¬
preting the dream. What are the actions, the sounds, the images, the costumes?
D. Write a climactic scene for your play with three characters. The action should
result from the direct conflict between the protagonist and the forces of oppo¬
sition, whether internal or external. The protagonist—a character who is a
prime mover should take action. There are clearly defined consequences.
Are any physical actions important to the scene?

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a conflict scene between two characters that builds to an important
physical action. The action may be comic or serious—perhaps a food fight, a
pillow fight, a sword fight, destroying an object, or creating an object.
F. Write a scene in which Character A makes an important discovery. Character
A suspects that Character B has done something and so questions him or her
and pulls out the evidence—some letters, an e-mail, a bill, a record of phone
calls. Character A has made assumptions. Character B resists, using a variety
of tactics. He or she denies, lies, shames, verbally attacks, and finally pulls the
rug out, making Character A realize that his or her assumptions and expecta¬
tions were false. Character B provides new information that enlightens Char¬
acter A.

Summary

Consider the physical aspects that are important to a character. Society shapes us
based on our appearance, size, sex, skin color, scars, deformities, abnormalities,
posture, bearing, voice, etc. Some men are tall, dark, and handsome. Others are
short and pudgy. Some women are slender and beautiful. Some are thin and
stringy. Whatever their appearance, others react either positively or negatively.
Studies have shown that people are more attracted to the so-called beautiful peo¬
ple. You need to determine what external features of your character are important
and how they affect the character's self-perception as well as those of others.
Physical characterization is conveyed by the posture and movement of the
actor and by the costumes and makeup he or she wears.
There are five body types: The normal posture is centered. The second body
leads with the head; shoulders are bent forward, the arms are bent at the elbows,
the legs are weak, and the energy center is in the stomach area as though the char¬
acter is protective. The stance may reflect low energy and instability; in the high-
level energy version, there is over-development of the upper body so that the
figure takes on the aspects of a gorilla. The third body is the military stance with
the shoulders thrust back, the arms clasped behind, and all the tension and anger
balled up between the shoulder blades. This is the most negative and aggressive
posture, and because it is rigid, it causes movement to be awkward or mechanical.
108 Chapter 8

not graceful. The fourth body leads with the stomach and that's where the energy
is. The back is swayed and blocks the aggressive energy of the rear of the body. The
stance is heavy, jolly and sentimental, indicating an easy-going personality. The
character is talkative, outgoing, and hides the pain. The fifth body is all angles. All
the major joints are disassociated and the head is cocked sideways. The right hand
doesn't know what the left hand is doing. This body is unstable, poorly grounded,
and lacks grace in movement.
The playwright must hear the character's voice in his head. The way the char¬
acter talks should not only reflect his age, health, and origin, but also his personality.
The playwright needs to select physical activity appropriate to the character
and develop stage business with props that helps to clarify and emphasize the im¬
portant physical elements.
 Sociological
Characteristics

Characterization refers to the externals—the surface or appearance of the character.

The external characteristics of a character that are determined by physical attrib¬
utes influence that character's self-view and behavior, as well as how others see
him or her. Social aspects—education, economic status, religion, and environ-
menf affect the character's behavior as well. These two areas determine the pos¬
ture, the movement, the speech, and the kinds of responses the character makes in
his or her life's choices. These two areas lead to the character's psychological
development (see Chapter 10).
As the writer, you must slip into the character's shoes, just like the actor does.
You must seek to determine the character's superobjective or goal in the play. You
must consider the objectives and intentions in each scene. You must explore what
the character does to achieve his goal. You must determine the characters' relation¬
ships to each other and their lifestyles, educational backgrounds, occupations,
social statuses, social adjustments, manners, and attitudes toward sex and religion
and politics, plus the role each one plays. Conflict upsets the equilibrium of each
individual character. It results in emotional turmoil—determination to reach a new
goal, fear of failure, laughter and eagerness while planning, anger and tears when
frustrated by obstacles. The three basic emotions are anger, fear, and love.

Development of Character

Each character sees the world differently. Why do people—even those who live
together or attend the same event—have different stories? Our stories don't come
out of nowhere. First, we observe and take in information and experience the
world. Second, we interpret what we experience and give it meaning. Third, we
draw conclusions. By age seven, we are all programmed so that our observations
and experiences are interpretations that are somewhat predisposed according to
conclusions we have already drawn.

Observations
We all have different stories about the world because we all take in different infor¬
mation and process it in our own unique ways. In difficult conversations, too often

109
110 Chapter 9

we only trade conclusions back and forth, without exploring the information and
interpretations that lead us to see the world as we do.
There are two reasons we all have different information about the world.
First, as we proceed through life and experience situations, the information avail¬
able is overwhelming. We simply can't absorb all of the sights, sounds, facts, and
feelings involved in even a single encounter. Inevitably, we notice some things
and ignore others. And so the second reason is that what we choose to notice and
ignore will be different for each of us. We each have access to similar information
but different sets of perceptions and thus different memories.
We notice things, people, places, and events depending on our interests.
When I was about eleven, my father took me to see stock car races. I enjoyed the
excitement, the hot dog and the Coke, and getting to be with my dad. I got to sit in
one of the winning cars, but I didn't know one car from another. For my father, a
mechanic who rebuilt cars and outfitted them for racing, his interest was in which
cars performed the best and what problems the others had. In a sense, my father
and I experienced and remembered completely different events. My dad assumed
that what he paid attention to was what was significant about the experience, but
for me, just being with him was the most significant aspect. Each person assumes
he has the facts and that others have the same facts.
What we notice also has to do with who we are and what we care about.
Some of us pay more attention to what we feel, what we know, what we like, or
what we are afraid of. Some of us are artists, others are scientists, and others work
in business providing goods and services. Some of us want to prove we're right;
others want to avoid conflict or smooth it over. Some of us see ourselves as victims
and others as heroes, observers, or survivors. Some of us see only what a person is
wearing. Others pay attention to the sad eyes or the kind manner. We may go
through a whole conversation—or even an entire relationship—without ever real¬
izing that we all pay attention to different things, that our views are based on dif¬
ferent information. Therefore, we all live in different worlds.
We know ourselves better than anyone else can, so in addition to choosing dif¬
ferent information, we each have access to different information. Others have access
to information about themselves that we don't. They know the pressures and
restrictions they are under; we don't. They know their secrets, hopes, dreams, and
fears; we don't. We act as if we have access to all the important information there is
to know about them, but we don't. Their internal experiences are far more complex
than we imagine. What influences each character to perceive as he or she does?
How is that character's information different? Imagine that everyone around you is
as complex and as internally conflicted as you. Is this a jarring thought?

Interpretations
As noted earlier, the second reason people and characters have different stories
about the world is that even when they have the same information, they interpret
it differently and give it different meaning. One sees a cup as half full of coffee;
 Sociological Characteristics 111

another sees a piece of antique china she would love to see at auction. One's
thirsty; the other's a poet.
Two important elements in how characters interpret what they see are past
experiences and the implicit rules they have learned about how things should and
should not be. The past influences what we do in the present and what is mean-
ingful to us. Sometimes, it is only in the context of someone's past experience that
we can make any kind of sense out of what she is saying or doing. Whether we like
a particular sport, whether we spank our kids, whether we can stay within our
budget for food—each is influenced by what we have observed in our own family
and learned throughout our life. Often, we aren't even aware of how these experi¬
ences affect our interpretation of the world. We simply believe that's the way
things are.
Our past experiences often develop into rules or habits by which we live our
lives. Whether we are aware of them or not, we all follow such rules. They tell us
how the world works. As such, rules have a significant influence on the stories we
tell when we find ourselves in difficult situations.
We get into trouble when our rules collide. Our implicit rules often take the
form of things people should or shouldn't do: You should spend money on books
but not on magazines. You should never criticize a student in front of others. You
should never leave the toilet seat up, drink out of the milk container, or use the "F"
word. You should go to church and change your sheets once a week.
Morals, being both relative and taught, fall into this category, as well. The list
is endless. Creon, in Sophocles' Antigone, lives by one set of rules, Antigone by
another. What is moral for one is considered immoral by the other.

Conclusions
When a character tells his own story about the world, it often reflects his own self-
interest. The character looks for information to support his view and gives that
information the most favorable interpretation. Then he feels even more certain that
his view is right.
This tendency to develop unconsciously biased perceptions is very human
and can be used to develop your characters. When you have two characters, both
of whom believe they are right—especially when they have something important
at stake—then you have conflict. Character A is thinking "How can he think that?"
and says, "That's the most selfish, shallow, ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Char¬
acter B is thinking "How can she be so irrational?" and says, "It's the best possible
solution."
Explore the way in which each of your characters views the world differently,
interprets the information differently, makes different assumptions, and reaches
different conclusions. These affect both characterization and deep character.
Each character's profession, job, hobby, hometown, and educational level
provides him with a distinct vocabulary. Every character has a certain body of
knowledge and a vocabulary related to what he does. Those involved in the theatre
112 Chapter 9

learn a vocabulary that outsiders would have a difficult time understanding. Block¬
ingstrike, tech-dress, combat, SM, TD, AD, zufl/fc a/Df, wagon, French scene, sf/Ze, Fres¬
nel, Lc/co—these are just a few of the terms that have special meanings in the
theatre. Similarly, the medical profession uses many terms not readily understood
by the average person.
Observe the people around you in your daily life. Watch what they do and
how they speak. Take notes in your journal. When you sit down to write, ask your¬
self these questions: What is the biggest decision this character has made? What
were the consequences? What happens when she doesn't understand something?
How does what this character knows show up in her speech? Is it easy for the char¬
acter to explain or difficult? Is this speech the character's first effort at trying to
articulate her feelings—words never said before?
While characterization and character are closely related concepts, there are
important differences. Characterization refers to the externals, the surface, the
appearance of the character—all the objective things that you can observe. Deep
character is shown by a character's action in a crisis, when he is pushed to the
extreme. It is created by the choices the character makes under pressure, such as
the man who risks his life for freedom or the woman with desperate financial prob¬
lems who embezzles a million dollars.

Social Development

Characters are formed not only by their physical development but also by their
environment. Children are shaped by the economic and social status of their par¬
ents or guardians as well as their education, profession, religion, values, and atti¬
tudes. Children's own attitudes and values will shape how they respond to the
society in which they live and their behavior will determine how that society will
respond to them.
Consider how events experienced during childhood have affected the char¬
acter's interaction in society. What is the character's social class? What was the eco¬
nomic status of her parents? What kind of neighborhood did she grow up in? What
kind of schools did the character attend? What were her parents' attitudes about
work, sex, money, politics? Was the character given a lot of freedom, or did she suf¬
fer harsh discipline? Character is forged by the society in which a person lives. The
boy who grew up in the country in Kansas has lived a different life than the boy
who grew up in Chicago. The girl who was gang raped at twelve has a different life
than the one who is a virgin at twenty-five. What was important in the character's
development? How has that affected the character's motivations?
The events experienced during childhood help create the person's or charac¬
ter's automatic responses to similar events throughout life. For example, suppose
a girl grew up in the projects in the Bronx and was chewed by rats as a kid, causing
her fingers to have some ugly scars. That event might have caused her to be afraid
to sleep or fearful that other kids would make fun of her hands. She might become
hysterical every time she sees a rat. How might that event influence the character's
 Sociological Characteristics 113

goals? Every character must have a need and an objective. Perhaps this girl decides
to become a pianist to make her hands beautiful. She is driven to practice daily to
become a professional.
In the film Erin Brockovich, for example, Erin needs a job and goes to a law
office with the objective to get one. Her dress, manner, vocabulary, and behavior
are all in contrast to the head of the firm, which shows a difference in their social
backgrounds. The lawyer tries to get rid of her, but she refuses to take no for an
answer. She has somehow learned to be aggressive, outspoken, and strong enough
to overcome her background. In Getting Out, a drama by Marsha Norman, Arlene
gets out of prison, determined to change her life and go straight, no matter what
obstacles she must face. In Orpheus Descending, by Tennessee Williams, Carol
Cutrere is an outcast, and although she acts outrageously, she really wants to be
loved. How these characters react in social situations sheds light on who they are
and where they came from.
Just as an actor or playwright seeks to develop the profile of a character by
examining his physicality, so must certain areas be explored to determine the char¬
acter 's social profile. The following areas should be explored to discover the cur¬
rent social life of a character and the influences on him: relationship with parents
and peers, current family life, education, religious upbringing and current prac¬
tices, cultural and recreational activities, job or business, political activities, friends
and lovers, organizational memberships, and social role (father, son, daughter,
mother, sister, boss, employee, activist, feminist, environmentalist, thief, mistress,
terrorist, arsonist, convict, etc.).
Our attitudes and mannerisms color everything we do. It is likely they have
been created to conceal how vulnerable we are to the world's opinions and how
deeply those opinions have wounded us. To deal with this, we often create per¬
sonalities far removed from our true essence. In creating a character, try to find
both the naked and private character underneath and the layers added to hide that
vulnerable self.

Life Script

What is a life script? It is a character's history, the major events that determine the
character's outlook and future responses. What are the major events in the charac¬
ter's past life: a life-changing event, such as the birth or death of a sibling, a
divorce, a move from one environment to another; a catastrophic event, such as a
bombing, hurricane, or earthquake; a traumatic event, such as a murder, a rape, or
a car accident? How have these events affected the character's outlook?
The character's history reflects his expectations—often unmet. Writing your
character's history should help you uncover the early decisions your character made
unconsciously as to how life should be lived. Early in life, a central emotional posi¬
tion is established, which becomes the automatic position to which that individual
will tend to return for the rest of his days. The easiest approach to creating this pro¬
file is to list the ten major events in the character's life (see later in this section).
114 Chapter 9

Your character acts not according to what things are really like but according
to her life script. It gives rise to mental images of what the character perceives
things to be. How the character sees the world creates the action. Is your character
waiting for Santa Claus or rigor mortis? How does the character 's life script dictate
her actions in the scene? How does the character's childhood shape her point of
view in the scene? What were the good times? The bad times? Although the play¬
wright must provide some back story, it must be injected into the play in small bits,
which are exposed one at a time when there is a need to know in the present.
Create a life script for every main character. Not all of the profile is needed in
the play itself, but the work involved in developing it will be helpful in creating the
character, to know what motivates her (see Figure 9.1). Henrik Ibsen was a master of
exposition. In Ibsen's Ghosts, Mrs. Alving wants to tell her son, who has been away
in Paris since he was a child, the truth about his father. Interrupted, she is not able to
tell him until the last act. Similarly, in Ibsen's A Doll's House, Nora doesn't confess her
secret until the middle of the last act. Ibsen brings in bits and pieces of information
about the past only when they are needed in the present. Moreover, the characters

FIGURE 9.1 The costumes designed by Betty Monroe, Wichita State University, for
Shakespeare's Journey show the Dark Lady's high status as a member of the court and
Beulah's lower-middle-class status in Orpheus Descending. The costume designer helps
bring a character's profile to life by showing the status, style, and physical character.
 Sociological Characteristics 115

use these bits of information as weapons to get what they want. The final revelations
are generally earth shaking and connected with an epiphany—a new insight.
Some characters do not change within the course of a play. Shakespeare's
Hamlet, Arthur Miller's Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, Harpagon in Moliere's
The Miser, Organ in Moliere's Tartuffe, and Stanley in Tenessee Williams's Streetcar
are essentially no different at the end of the play than they were at the beginning.
Other characters grow and change, such as Nora in Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House,
Liza in G. B. Shaw's Pygmalion, and Rita in Willy Russell's Educating Rita. Some
characters change not only psychologically but physically, as well. Liza and Rita
undergo quite amazing physical and psychological changes, as does Adam in Neil
LaBute's The Shape of Things.
For as a life script example, look at the following profile of ten major events
in the life of James Dean:

1. He is born to parents on a farm in rural Indiana.

2. His family moves to Los Angeles when he is five.
3. His mother dies when he is nine.
4. His father ships him back to Indiana to live with his aunt and uncle.
5. At age eighteen, he moves back in with his father in Los Angeles.
6. He moves to New York and is accepted by the Actors Studio.
7. He lands a supporting role in a Broadway production.
8. He is offered a leading role in a major film and moves back to Los Angeles.
9. He falls in love with a girl who marries another man.
10. He buys a Porsche.

As you are developing your leading characters, decide what the ten most impor¬
tant events in their lives are.
One of the qualities for a playwright to strive for is an acceptance of all char¬
acters, no matter what their sins or woes. Too often playwrights editorialize and
present an attitude that labels a character good or bad. The great playwrights such
as Shakespeare, Lope de Vega, and even modern American writers such as O'Neill,
Miller, Williams, and Albee seem to be able to create characters without passing
judgment upon them. They are able to show the character, even those whose
behavior or actions are despicable, with understanding and insight that doesn't
label or editorialize in a negative way. Characters are shown with their good points
and faults, and we are left to make up our own minds.

EXERCISE 13__

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Make a list of the ten most important events in the life of a character. These are
the major events that have shaped that person. Pick one event in the growing
up of your character that clarifies the social aspects. Suppose your character
suffered a traumatic event as a child. How would that affect the character now,
ten years later? Imagine a scene in which the character uses that event to gain
116 Chapter 9

sympathy from someone else. What does the character want? He or she must
have a need and an objective. Write a five-page conflict scene in which Char¬
acter A uses that event to gain sympathy from Character B.
B. Write a scene in which Character B is asked by Character A about an event in
his past that he is reluctant to talk about. What is the locale, the characters'
relationship, the climax of the scene? Each character should have his or her
own manner of speaking. Experienced playwrights often collect interesting
vocabulary and phrases, keeping a notebook of snatches of conversation they
overhear. In your dialogue, focus on vocabulary. People use the vocabulary of
their professions, of what they know, and of their social class. Focus on vocal
patterns, rhythms, emphasis. In Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Brick does¬
n't want to talk about Skipper, but Big Daddy pushes him to tell the truth. In
The Homesteaders by Nina Shengold, Neal and Jack are reluctant to talk about
their past because they avoided the draft by moving to Canada.

Intermediate Level
C. Write a scene in which Character A makes a decision based on feelings about
an event which happened to him as a child. In the scene. Character A should
be asked by Character B about an incident in the past that he is reluctant to talk
about. What secret is Character A afraid to reveal? What is the relationship of
the two characters? Is it positive or negative? What is the climax of the scene?
Each character should have his or her own way of speaking. Where is the scene
set—in a public or private place? How does the locale affect the situation?

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

D. People may make a decision based on their feelings about an event which
happened to them as children. Write a scene in which a character's past
affects her present actions. This could potentially be a very bad decision for
someone whose life is destroyed, not because of what she did, but because
someone else acted in a negative way due to a past personal event. Consider
the following: (1) a lawyer interviews a witness negative to her client because
of an unrelated incident in the witness' past, (2) a race car driver has a run in
with the mechanic who worked on his father's race car the day his father
died, or (3) a businessperson has to fly to Bermuda and questions the pilot
about the small, private plane because of an incident when she was ten.
E. Write a conflict scene in which two people who experienced the same event
have very different perceptions of the event because of what they each chose
to notice. As they each try to convince a third person of the truth, how are
their different perceptions and thus different memories revealed?

Summary

By age seven, an individual is programmed so that his or her observations, experi¬

ences, and interpretations are somewhat predisposed according to conclusions he
 Sociological Characteristics 117

or she has already drawn. A character is formed not only by his DNA, which deter¬
mines physical development, but also by the environment, which influences the
social development. Children are shaped by the economic and social status of their
parents or guardians as well as their education, profession, religion, values, and
attitudes. Children's own attitudes and values will shape how they respond to the
society in which they live, and their behavior will determine how that society will
respond to them.
What events determine a character's outlook and attitude toward life? Early in
life a central emotional position is established, and it becomes the position to which
that individual will tend to return automatically for the rest of his days. Each char¬
acter is influenced by the major events in his life, usually involving major changes,
such as a move, a divorce, a birth, a death, an accident. Writing a character's history
should help you uncover when your character made that decision consciously or
unconsciously, as to how to live his or her life, blow the character sees the world cre¬
ates the action of the play. The character makes a decision, acting according to his
perceptions with certain expectations. He finds reality is different than expected.
The character must then make another more important decision. That leads to
another and another and so on. Each act is a bigger risk than the last, until finally the
character must come face to face with his adversary in a major confrontation.
.
 CHAPTER

Psychological
Characteristics

The third dimension of character is the psychological, which is the product of the
physiological and sociological. The physical attributes of a person shape his self-
image, physical development, and social development. Thus, the person develops
ways of thinking and behaving related to the physical. The little girl who is smart,
pretty, and well coordinated is treated in a positive way, while the dyslexic,
chubby, and uncoordinated girl is treated negatively. The first is confident,
unafraid, and popular. The other develops a poor self-image, is afraid of being
called on to read, and is the last to be chosen for a team.
The social aspects are equally important in shaping personality. The first lit¬
tle girl grows up in a college-educated, religious, comfortable middle-class family.
She has a stay-at-home mother and a financially stable father, both of whom are
very loving. She goes to a well-equipped, top suburban school. She is exposed to
cultural events and given special music and ballet classes. Her parents are already
planning for her college education. The second girl grows up living in a third-floor
tenement apartment. Her mother is a single parent who works two minimum-
wage jobs just to pay the bills. She goes to an old, ill-equipped, and poorly staffed
inner-city school. She is exposed to drug dealers and addicts. Her only cultural
experience is going to the movies. She gets no real support at home, and she hates
school and can't wait to quit.
Each girl is programmed by her heredity and environment, but her suppos¬
edly inevitable outcome could be changed at any moment by other events in her
life. A car accident could wipe out the first girl's family. A caring teacher might
change the second girl's life.

Psychological Development

Within this area of character, we find fears, phobias, insecurities, complexes, inhi¬
bitions, feelings of guilt and desire, and fantasies. The psychological dimension
also includes intelligence, aptitudes, special abilities, habits, sensitivities, talents,
kinds of reasoning, and sources of anger. When the playwright creates a character,
he seeks to understand what the character wants and does—and why. The play¬
wright must develop a psychological profile for the character so that the audience
can understand why the character says and does what he does.

119
120 Chapter 10

Study human nature in the everyday world around you. Continue to write
notes and observations in your journal. Make character sketches of the people you
meet. I once knew a woman who was the wonderful wife of a minister and the
mother of three children. She was the last person in the world I would have
expected to get an abortion, but she did. What in her psychological makeup caused
this or led to this? Your friend wants a divorce. Why? Why did your character
become a doctor or drop out of school or end up to jail? What in his psychological
makeup led him to that point?
Let's follow the story of Ray. He grew up in a poor family. Until he was twelve,
he and his parents lived behind his father's garage in three tiny rooms with no run¬
ning water, no bathroom, and no doors—just curtains. Ray wet the bed almost
every night. He took a bath once a week in a round metal tub in the middle of the
kitchen floor. Most of the time, he smelled like urine. His mother made shirts for
him that looked like drapes. He was an only child—small, introverted, and shy. His
father hated sports, so Ray never learned any. He was not popular on the play¬
ground. At twelve, he moved into an unfinished house, still without doors but with
water and a bathroom. He started smoking at thirteen and drinking at sixteen. Like
his father, he had a vocabulary filled with excessive profanity and obscenities. He
worked for his father in the garage during the summers when he was fourteen and
fifteen. His father was a severe alcoholic, who drank a fifth of whiskey a day and
sometimes went into violent rages. At sixteen, Ray was working in the shipping
department of a shoe factory, loading and unloading trucks. Neither of his parents
went to high school. He had never been in a church. He was probably destined for
a future at a minimum-wage job in a factory. However, everything changed for him
when he went from a large-city high school to a small rural academy during his
sophomore year. He excelled academically, and he had a teacher who took a special
interest in him. Sexually abused repeatedly by an uncle at age fourteen and fifteen,
Ray channeled his terrible guilt and fear of being found out into his studies.
Ray's early life programmed him psychologically. He was afraid of being
laughed at and would go to great lengths to excel, to win, to succeed, and to avoid
new and uncomfortable situations. He learned how to tiptoe around his father and
not make waves. He learned how to hide the inner demons and present the public
persona of a super intelligent and studious student who was also a talented actor
and writer. He became editor of the yearbook, was elected senior class president
voted "Most Likely to Succeed," and was accepted into the nearby university. Yet
inside, he was still afraid of failing, afraid of being laughed at, afraid of sex. How¬
ever, with his drive to succeed and control his life, Ray earned a Ph.D. and became
a successful teacher.
The profession of your character also affects how he acts. While both are in
their sixties, the characters of James Tyrone (an actor) in Eugene O'Neill's Long
Day's Journey into Night and Willy Loman (a salesman) in Arthur Miller's Death of a
Salesman have been affected by their different professions. James has a strong
voice, erect bearing, and strong gestures. He has a strong sense of self. Willy
dresses quietly, talks to himself, and slouches. He's losing his grip on reality and no
 Psychological Characteristics 121

longer measures up to his former image in the eyes of others. However, in his own
mind, he is still the great salesman of his youth; he clings to the past. He once
believed that having the gift of gab, getting a shoeshine, and making friends were
the keys to success. Now, he has to beg for money.
What does your character know? Suppose she is a pianist, a drummer, a
nurse, or a pharmacist. What terms of that profession does she use in everyday
speech? How does the profession affect her? Does the character love or hate her
job? Someone's occupation and work history influence her outlook on life, percep¬
tions, vocabulary, and behavior. What happens to a young man who is fired from a
job? What happens to a man who has worked twenty years for a company and is
then laid off? You've read their stories in the newspapers. The young man wants
revenge and sets his former place of work on fire. He takes his gun to the post office
and kills his former supervisor and co-workers.
Ask people about their jobs. Make a list of the terms, words, and operations
appropriate to each job. Imagine two characters from different professions in a non¬
job situation. For example, two people from different educational and class back¬
grounds go to work. One is a store manager, and the other is a carpenter. Put these
two people in prison together, strand them in a forest after their plane has crashed,
or trap them in an underground parking garage after a tornado or earthquake. Each
character has a different physical and sociological makeup. One has succeeded
because of strength and endurance and the other because of brains. Each has fears,
psychological scars, and a life script that influences how he will react under pres¬
sure. Depending on the situation, one of the characters will take control. Will brains
or brawn be more effective in a prison? In a forest? Underground?
Characters must be dynamic, not passive. Avoid characters that are static,
wishy-washy, and don't know what they want. Your character's psychological
profile should be alive with passion and strong emotions: lust, anger, greed, ambi¬
tion, love, hate, revenge, malice. Do you have a character that is determined to find
out the truth? Do you have a character that is trying to hide the truth or hide from
it? What tactics does the character employ? What will bring the confrontation to a
climax? What will be different in the relationship, once the truth is known?
Most characters have habitual emotional responses to stress and conflict.
When they are under pressure and their frustration or tolerance level has been
reached, they may revert to their habitual defense mechanisms. Doc, in William
Inge's Come Back, Little Sheba, is a reformed alcoholic who goes back to drinking.
Mary, in Eugene O'Neill's A Long Day's Journey into Night, begins taking morphine
again. Oscar, in Lillian Heilman's The Little Foxes, tries to be nice for a while, but his
sadistic nature returns and he takes pleasure in hurting his wife. Bishop kills his
antagonists and eats them in Nicky Silver's Fat Men in Skirts. Under stress, Honey
gets sick and vomits in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? In Shake¬
speare's Richard III, the title character's twisted body is mirrored in his twisted
actions (see Figure 10.1). A man of ambition, intellect, and unlimited faith in force,
he is tyrannical, disposes of all who oppose him, and eventually becomes a child
killer.
122 Chapter 10

FIGURE 10.1 Costume sketch from Richard HR

performed at Wichita State University. Directed
by Joyce Cavarozzi, Set and Lighting Design by
Brad Reissig, and Costume Design by Betty
Monroe.

Playwrights endow some characters with individual idiosyncrasies that

make them come alive as unique and vibrant characters. In And Miss Reardon
Drinks a Little, by Paul Zindel, Catherine snacks on raw meat hidden in a candy
box, Fleur steals toilet paper and towels from the school where she teaches, and her
husband. Bob, doesn't use the bathroom in their apartment. When Beatrice gets
dressed up in Paul Zindel's The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds,
she always wears feathers. Captain Queeg takes out steel balls and rolls them in his
hand in Herman Wouk's The Caine Mutiny Court Martial.
Some characters are created with special abilities that require the actors play¬
ing them to already have or learn those same abilities. In Suburbia, by Eric
Bogosian, the character of Buff arrives on Rollerblades. Terrence McNally's Master
Class calls for actors who can sing opera. Artie, in John Guare's The blouse of Blue
Leaves, is supposed to play the piano and sing. The actors playing Annie and Helen
 Psychological Characteristics 123

in William Gibson's The Miracle Worker must know the sign language alphabet for
the deaf. Each Vietnam veteran in Tracers, written by the original cast of Vietnam
veterans, must know how to handle a rifle.
What if one of your characters had a knife collection? What if one of them was
a sculptor? A baker? A computer repairman? A butcher? What if one of them smug¬
gled items into the country for extra cash? What if one of your characters had a
phobia about telephones? What if one were colorblind? What if one was allergic to
rye flour, peanuts, or wasps? You may be writing a conventional love story of boy
meets girl, but by adding layers and specific details to the individual characters,
your play can become original and your characters unique.

The Johari Window

In a psychology class years ago, I learned about the four different aspects of each
person, which can be presented in the Johari window (see Figure 10.2). This model
describing the process of human interaction was named after its inventors, Joseph
Luft and Harry Ingram. As you are developing each character, consider the four
following questions:

1. What is the character's public persona? Each of us has a public self—that

information about ourselves that we readily share with others.
2. What is known to the public that the character is blind to? Each of us has a
blind self. We cannot see ourselves. We may have a particular walk, gesture, or
habit that stands out to others but that we are unaware of.

PUBLIC SELF SECRET SELF

Known to Self Known to Self

and to Others but not to Others

BLIND SELF UNCONSCIOUS

SELF
Known to Others Unknown to Self
Unknown to Self and to Others

FIGURE 10.2 The johari Window

124 Chapter 10

3. What is the character's secret self? What is it that she doesn't want anyone to
know? All people have secrets: things in their past they're ashamed of or
secret fears or desires.
4. What is your character's unconscious self? What desires, wants, or fears have
become buried in her subconscious?

Take two of your characters from a previous exercise, and make a list of
answers for each of the above questions for each character. What knowledge does
Character A have that Character B does not have and vice versa? It will soon be
apparent that much of what goes on inside one character's head is not known by
the other.

Defense Mechanisms

It is easier to see another person's blind spots than it is to see our own. Our defense
mechanisms can blind us to our inconsistencies and leave others wondering why we
don't act more responsibly. In spousal abuse, for example, an abusive individual
may believe that violence against family members is wrong. But the inhibiting
effect of this value can be neutralized by a defense mechanism permitting violence
to occur. The abusive individual may rationalize, "When I drink, I lose control, so
it's not my fault." Similarly, wherever people organize for a purpose, their group
leaders may talk about the value of working together in unity yet behave in ways
that polarize and alienate their members.
Even in our own relationships with ourselves, defenses and blind spots are
there. Some people who advocate health continue to have unhealthy habits. Some
doctors still smoke. Values are guides for action. When we are inconsistent with
our own values, an internal tension arises as a signal something is wrong. We are
motivated to reduce that tension to maintain a sense of self-consistency. This if
often done by employing defense mechanisms. Life maps are formed early, and
core beliefs are more persistent than peripheral behavior patterns. People often use
defense mechanisms to justify conduct after the fact. This temporarily props up
their self-esteem but ensures that the self-defeating behavior will continue.
Here are some defense mechanisms that can create blind spots and serve a
good purpose in terms of creating conflict:

1. Denial: This primitive defense protects a character from painful reality by

having him refuse to acknowledge it. When faced with a well-documented event,
the character thinks "That just wasn't me" or "That simply did not occur." Painful
memories can be excluded from awareness rather than remembered, but if they are
brought up, they are often denied. In this context, people deny being prejudiced.
They deny having a dependency on alcohol or drugs or any action that isn't accept¬
able to their picture of who they are. People may also see others not as they are but
as they want them to be.
 Psychological Characteristics 125

In Anton Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard, the Ranevskys live in denial about
their economic plight and lose their home. In Moliere's Tartuffe, Organ is blind to
the true character of the hypocrite Tartuffe, and when others attempt to tell him the
truth, he refuses to listen. Roy Cohn, in Tony Kuchner's Angels in America, denies
that he is a homosexual and he has AIDS. In his mind, homosexuals are weak and
have no power. He tells his doctor that he has power, that he is a heterosexual who
has sex with men, and that he has cancer, not AIDS. In Ariel Dorfman's Death and
the Maiden, Dr. Miranda denies that he raped and tortured Paulina.

2. Repression: Repressed material is really forgotten. A character may have been

so traumatized by an event that she blocks out all conscious awareness of it. A char¬
acter may also forget what she doesn't want to remember. In this context, an indi¬
vidual may not remember being sexually abused, seeing her father kill someone,
or being in a car accident.
John Pielmeier explores Dr. Livingstone's search for the truth, which Sister
Agnes has repressed, in Agnes of God. While searching for the answers to the ques¬
tions of who fathered the baby, and who killed the baby, Livingstone forces Agnes,
the Mother Superior, and herself to face some harsh realities. Halle, in Sam Shep¬
ard's Buried Child, seems to have repressed all knowledge of the dead baby, and
Tilden has no recollection of his son Lenny.

3. Projection of blame: One person's responsibility for a behavior is sometimes

shifted to someone else, so that the abuser is now the victim. "She hit me first" is
rather obvious. Blame can also be transferred to bad luck, alcohol, job stress, or a
boss or subordinate. A rapist may blame his victim for being a slut or for the crimes
of other women.
In Tracy Letts's Killer Joe, a father and son team up in a plan to murder the
mother. She stole the son's drugs. She is a hateful person. The father divorced her
years ago. She makes everyone miserable. The world would be better off without
her. The father and son blame her for their problems and see her death as a solution.

4. Displacement: Here, feelings are shifted or displaced from the original source
of frustration to another source. The character in conflict with her boss may dis¬
place her anger to her husband, who in turn may take it out on a child, who may
then take it out on a sibling or a pet. A robber may blame his behavior on his boss
or his parents or society in general for treating him with no respect and making
him feel powerless.
In Kenneth Lonergan's This Is Our Youth, Warren is a slacker who gets stoned
all the time. His father is abusive and beats him. Both blame their behavior on the
fact that Warren's sister was murdered.

5. Undoing: Often people try to undo what they have done. Atonement, apolo¬
gizing, and asking for forgiveness are typical responses, but real repentance is a
180-degree change that seldom happens. Thus, the abusive husband apologizes,
buys his wife gifts, and swears he won't do it again. The wife wants to believe him,
so she stays.
126 Chapter 10

In This Is Our Youth, Warren is kicked out by his abusive father, so he steals
$15,000 from his father's briefcase. Near the end of the play, Warren decides to give
the money back. He calls his father and tries to patch things up. Playing poker with
his friends, Stanley in Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar named Desire gets angry
because Mitch goes off to talk to Blanche. He throws the radio out the window and
strikes his wife, Stella. Blanche takes Stella upstairs to another apartment, but
when Stanley gets on his knees and calls to his wife, Stella forgives him.

6. Rationalization: The character may devise seemingly logical explanations to

reinterpret her weakness as admirable qualities. The loser with a million schemes,
the politician who took a few uncredited gifts, the contractor who uses poor-grade
materials, and the manufacturer who ships defective parts can all come up with a
reason that doing so was necessary.
Meg, in Beth Henley's Crimes of the Heart, has a reason for sticking her finger
in every chocolate in Lenny's box of candy, and Babe has a reason for shooting her
husband. Babe didn't like his looks, and Meg is hunting for one with nuts. In their
minds, their reasons justify their actions. In The Visit, by Friedrich Durrenmatt,
Clara states that she will pay a huge sum of money to the town if someone will kill
Anton Schill, her lover of long ago who cast her out. The people refuse, but soon
the hypocrites are buying things on credit. Schill is eventually murdered, and the
townspeople rationalize that what they did was for the good of the town.

7. Labeling: Once a character has been labeled, she doesn't have to consider the
truth in what the other characters are saying. Once a character has been lumped
into a category—she is the girl next door, a loose woman, a career woman, a mur¬
derer, a beauty queen, a liar, an alcoholic, or a drug addict—she is no longer an
individual.
In The Heiress, by Ruth Goetz and Augusta Goetz, Catherine is labeled by her
father as a pathetic ugly duckling without any charm. When a suitor woos her but
doesn't show up on the night of their planned elopement, she takes this as confir¬
mation that what her father said is true.

Although not a complete list, these are some of the common defense mechanisms
that people use unconsciously to reduce anxiety. All defense mechanisms involve
some degree of self-deception and distortion of reality. Consider the ways in which
your characters are deluded and suspicious, conjuring up in their minds all sorts of
possibilities. Each character looks for signs that prove his theory right, and regard¬
less of whether the signs are truly there, the character will interpret what he sees as
proof of what he believes.

Unrealistic Expectations

Because of their past experiences, people develop unrealistic expectations. These

lead people to choices and behaviors that are often destructive. To provide a pro-
 Psychological Characteristics 127

tagonist, antagonist, or supporting character with one or more of these unrealistic

beliefs can be helpful in polarizing the characters. Doing so can be great fun, too,
but you must have a rational character to provide contrast and balance. Unrealistic
beliefs that make a character upset include the following:

1. "I must be loved (or approved of) by other human beings for what I do and what I
am." Meg, in Henley's Crimes of the Heart, has held on to the view "I must be loved
or approved of by men." Blanche, in Williams's Streetcar has also lived according to
this view. The more rational approach is to realize that loving others is the only
thing a person can control. They cannot make others love them. Given the many
natural conflicts among humans, it is more realistic to expect disapproval now and
then.

2. "I should be perfectly competent, intelligent, and successful in all possible respects. In
short, I must be perfect." Naturally, no one is perfect. Shelly Levene is a former top
salesman having a streak of bad luck in David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross. He
refuses to acknowledge that all human beings have limitations or that he is an aver¬
age human being. He makes excuses, blames others, and acts defensive. Suckered
into a scheme by one of his colleagues, he robs the office. Only at the end, after he
has been caught, is he forced to admit that he is responsible for his own mistakes.

3. "It is horrible, catastrophic, and awful when things are not the way I want them to
be." This is the view held by cousin Chick in Henley's Crimes. She is appalled at the
whole family because she's afraid of how their actions will reflect on her. It is cata¬
strophic that Babe has shot her husband. It is disgraceful that Lenny buys her chil¬
dren cheap presents. It is awful that Meg has had all those men and earned a trashy
reputation. It is horrible that their mother hung herself and her cat. While her rela¬
tives have suffered much, their suffering has only been a nuisance, a minor incon¬
venience for Chick. Yet she goes on and on about them, as if they signaled the end
of the world.

4. "Certain acts are wicked, awful or bad. Individuals who do these bad things should
be severely punished." This is the philosophy of Sister Mary Ignatius in Christopher
Durang's wacky comedy by the same name. She believes that homosexuality, adul¬
tery, abortion, and almost everything else are all bad, and when her students are
guilty of any of these things, she believes they should be severely punished. This
power of public criticism is also seen in Lillian Heilman's The Children's Hour.

5. "Life should be fair and just; there should be equality." This is the theme of many
plays dealing with injustice, prejudice, and discrimination. However, in reality,
fairness is arbitrarily defined by each person. In most cases, someone eventually
seizes the power to require that her concept be accepted by others. Laws often orig¬
inate this way and remain in effect until there is a change in power. From Babe's
point of view in Henley's Crimes of the Heart, life should be fair and her African
American, sixteen-year-old lover should have equality. When her husband treats
him badly, she seizes power and shoots her husband.
128 Chapter 10

6. "The past must continually affect my current feelings." This is the view held by
every character who is a victim. As Paula Vogel stated in reference to How I Learned
to Drive, on the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, that this is the typical role of the victim,
and in her play, she wanted to show a more rational approach. Li'l Bit learns from
her past experiences, but they do not determine her current emotion and behavior.
She doesn't dwell on being abused as a child but rather celebrates her strengths as
she encounters each new moment of her life as an adult.

7. "Other people cause my misery." The black man and white woman in LeRoi
Jones's The Dutchman each blame the other's race as the cause of their problems. In
Simon Gray's Butley, the university lecturer of the title rails against the petty uni¬
versity politics and unease caused by student dissent. In fact, however, other people
cannot really cause a person to feel bad. He or she can choose to be happy or not.

8. "I need someone or something stronger than myself on which to rely." Again, this
is Blanche DuBois's modus operendi in Williams's Streetcar, and it fails her. Stanley,
on the other hand, takes a rational view. He is willing to take risks, even if they
don't pay off. He knows the results are seldom as bad as feared, and he knows he
has to take charge of himself.

9. "My happiness can come by passively waiting." Skeeter, in Jack Kirkland's

Tobacco Road, and Lenny, in Henley's Crimes of the Heart, are both unwilling to work
hard for what they want. Skeeter is lazy and prefers to steal rather than work.
Lenny has a shrunken ovary and is afraid no man will want her. She eventually
decides to risk it and learns that people are happier when active and focusing pos¬
itive attention on another person. Skeeter never learns anything.

10. "I have no control over my emotions." Many of the plays mentioned already
have characters who exhibit this philosophy. Meg and Lenny in Beth Henley's
Crimes of the Heart act impulsively and without control. Evy in Neil Simon's The
Gingerbread Lady, Stanley in Williams's Streetcar, and Uncle Peck in Paula Vogel's
How I Learned to Drive are others who don't seem to be able to control themselves.

Characters who exhibit unrealistic expectations are hard for reasonable people to
deal with. They wouldn't have such feelings if they were rational. Moreover, they
are often not consciously aware of the forces within them. Rational people often
recognize certain idiosyncrasies and try to avoid upsetting them. You may have
heard relatives say things such as: "Don't tell Charlotte the dress didn't fit. She'll
think you don't love her." "Don't say anything to Tom. He's hated Charlie since
high school when Charlie was valedictorian. He blames Charlie for taking away
his scholarship. Of course, it never was his, but you can't reason with Tom."

EXERCISE 14_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Using the Johari window as a model of human interaction, write a conflict
scene between two or three characters. Character A digs into one of Charac-
 Psychological Characteristics 129

ter B's secrets, perhaps exposing it to a third character, while Character B

exposes Character A's blind self. What knowledge does each character have
that the other does not have? Make it apparent that much of what goes on
inside one character's head is not known by the other person.
B. Write a scene about a situation or event in which one character acts in a rep¬
rehensible way, lies about it, and then is confronted by another character who
has learned the truth. Select at least two or three defense mechanisms that the
guilty character uses to try to deflect the other character. Make sure the other
character is connected to the guilty one in an important way such as being her
parent, spouse, boss, sibling, or teacher.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene in which Character A confronts Character B about something
Character B has done. Character A demands to know why Character B avoids
A's question, but A slowly gets at the truth. In what ways are the characters
polar opposites? What is the climax? What is different in the relationship at
the end of the scene?
D. Write a scene with three archetypal characters in which Character A deliber¬
ately lies to Character B about a past action that he has done. What is he hid¬
ing or afraid of? Who is he protecting? When Character B is out of the room.
Character A tells the truth to Character C. Why? What does A want from C?
What if Character B learns the truth?

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene about two characters who hate each other on the surface but
underneath really love each other. For each character mix two or three arche¬
types: Boss, Best Friend, Rebel, Intellectual, Warrior, Seductive Charmer,
Innocent, Adventurer, Nurturer.
F. Write a scene with three characters of different status. At the climax of the
scene, the status of two of the characters is reversed by a revelation from the
third character. For example, a Boss may be in conflict with his Rebel-Intel¬
lectual son, blaming him for an event. The son's Charmer friend reveals that
the Boss actually caused the problem.

Character Is Action

All that can be known of a character comes from her actions and reactions. A char¬
acter is the sum of her actions during a play. What a character does conveys who
she is more clearly than anything else. In Shakespeare's Othello, Iago is a smooth
talker who appears to be Othello's friend, yet his actions show him to be a villain.
Action is the clearest indicator of character.
Characters are constructed of playable emotions. They have wants and needs
that drive them to make choices. They care about things. Strong and contrasting
emotions build strong characters. In Henrik Ibsen's A Doll's House, for example.
130 Chapter 10

Nora is characterized as a doll, an empty-headed plaything, but we soon see that

she is a very strong woman who is willing to do whatever she feels she has to do.
Strong emotions are caused by putting characters in situations of extremes and
forcing them to make crucial, pivotal decisions.
"Show, don't tell" is one of the most important essentials of good playwrit¬
ing. Themes come through not by having characters tell about them but by making
what happens in a play illustrate the themes. Consider one character who says
"I'm angry" and another who says "Go to hell" and in a fit of rage dumps over a
table. The first one tells; the second one shows. In Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park,
the actions of the characters show us that for a marriage to survive, compromise is
necessary. This is clear through what the characters say, do, and learn. No one has
to tell us this. If the sum of the actions of the play equal the premise or theme you
intend, the audience will observe the interactions of the characters, discover the
story, and come to the conclusions you want.
Recently, as I was reading a student's first draft of a scene in my playwriting
class, I discovered that he was telling, not showing, in the stage directions. For
example, he was telling what the character was feeling or indicating that the char¬
acter should move. What he didn't understand was that a specific action—such as
a man throwing a beer can across the room—would show anger. If he had used
stage directions that showed action, he wouldn't need to tell us the man was angry.
He would have shown it.

Deep Character

Deep character is revealed by a character's action in extreme circumstances. It is cre¬

ated by the choices the character makes under pressure. For example, the woman
who is sexually harassed by a boss and takes legal action, instead of just putting up
with it, shows us a person of integrity and principles who is willing to take action
for what she believes is right. In A Man for All Seasons, by Robert Bolt, we see
Thomas More refusing to buckle under to the will of the king; he is a man who
stands up for what he believes, even though it means his own death. The same is
true for the title role in Jean Anouilh's Becket.
Not all characters are able to make such noble decisions. Blanche, in Ten¬
nessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire, is unable to face reality. She wants to see
the world through rose-colored glasses. She actively lies, embellishes, and tries to
hide. When Mitch rejects her and Stanley rapes her, she slides further into a world
of fantasy. Willie Loman, in Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman, also loses touch
with reality and escapes into the past.
The choices the protagonist makes under pressure are usually in contrast to his
characterization. The audience knows people are not who they seem. True character
is formed by the choices the character makes under pressure. An individual brings
certain qualities to his choices and must have the moral qualities that will convince
him to act on those choices. Three-dimensional characters have complex motives
 Psychological Characteristics 131

and conflicting desires. They want something and go after it. They have worries,
grievances, and fears. They have strong passions and ambitions, which make them
alive. They have often committed great sins and endured terrible sufferings.
Looking at it subjectively, writing involves sitting at a desk and getting inside
the mind of the character, walking in his shoes. Take a character to the limit:

1. What are the possibilities?

2. What is the worst possible thing that could happen? Make it happen.
3. What does the character fear most? Make it happen.
4. What is the dream? What steps does the character take to make it a reality? Or
is it a pipe dream that she knows is impossible and so does nothing about.
5. Where is the passion in your character's life?
6. What reduces her to "a kid at Christmas?" Heart comes from the details.
7. What is at stake? What is the character risking? What will happen if she loses?
The higher the stakes, the more there is to lose and the more dramatic the
story.
8. What is the character's ideal scenario? What are her expectations?
9. How does the character deal with reality when it is different from her expec¬
tations?
10. What does the antagonist do to stop the protagonist from succeeding?

Contrasting Types

It is important to create characters that are not stereotypes. We do not need another
sweet young girl next door, or another whore with a heart of gold, or another hand¬
some hunk hero. Stereotypes are characters that are too familiar; they say and do
what we have come to see as a general profile. The key to originality is real knowl¬
edge. If you don't have the knowledge, then you will have a cliche. There will be
no surprises. Think of what makes each character unique, special, and different.
What are his contradictions? When all the audience's expectations of a character
are fulfilled, when there are no contradictions or surprises in the character, you
have a stereotyped role.
The secret of a fresh, nonstereotyped characterization is to combine character
traits that the audience wouldn't expect to find in the same character. You might
create a professor who reads comic books, a tough detective who has a pet bird, or
a grandmother who loves boxing. Contradictions can be found in everyone. They
need to serve the purpose of the play and affect the character's emotions and
behavior. In Crimes of the Heart, by Beth Henley, Meg has had many men; Lenny has
had only one. Meg is selfish; Lenny is selfless but a complainer. Meg is popular;
Lenny is not. Meg has had a nervous breakdown; Lenny has cared for her grand¬
father. These characters are complex.
One of the ways to develop a fresh character is to make a list of attributes for
that character and then incorporate them within different scenes in the play. That's
132 Chapter 10

what Elia Kazan did when he was preparing to direct Arthur Miller's After the Fall.
(Meyer & Meyer, 1965, p. 57-59). He wrote the following about Louise:

Louise believes in certain rules of behavior, of right and wrong.

She is dominated by the "ought to" and "should."
Louise has been taught and believes if she conforms to those rules, she'll
come thru O.K.
Sin is absolute. She can't forget it.
Quentin is soiled, disgusting [to her].

Kazan wrote the following about Quentin:

Quentin has patronized her.

Quentin has used her—as a mother.
Quentin has used her—as a servant.
Quentin has been totally selfish.
Quentin has made her feel insignificant.
Quentin never granted her individuality.
Quentin has truly shared nothing with her!

Character Questionaire

In a similar way, the playwright can begin by answering the following questions
for each character and then finding ways of showing the qualities that are most
important:

Physical Traits
How old is the character?
How does the character feel about her appearance?
What does she usually wear?
What are her ethnic origins?
What is her self-image?
What is her favorite footwear?

Social Traits
What is the character's occupation?
What are the conditions at her job like?
How is the character regarded in the community?
Who was her favorite teacher?
How did she vote in the last election?
What insect does she hate the most?
Who is the person the character most admires?
What kind of car does she prefer?
 Psychological Characteristics 133

What is her status?

What is her income?
What is her attitude toward work?
What was her attitude toward school?
What was the last book she read?
What does the character have in her pocket?
How often does she do her laundry?
What kind of music does she listen to?
When was the last time she was scared?
What does she like to do for fun?

Psychological Traits
What are the character's sexual practices and attitudes?
What is her dominant view of self?
What secret does she have?
What did she dream about last night?
What is her greatest ambition?
What is the character's dominant view of the world?
Who is most important to her?
What is her greatest fear?
What is her earliest childhood memory?
What is the dark side of her character?

EXERCISE 15_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Action is the clearest indicator of character. Write a scene in which a charac¬
ter makes a decision at the beginning of the scene with unexpected conse¬
quences. Give the character playable emotions. What are the wants and
needs that drive the character to make the choice she does? Put the character
in an extreme situation and force her to face a crucial, pivotal decision that
causes extreme emotions.
B. Write a scene that shows us a person of integrity and principles who is will¬
ing to take action for what he believes is right. Provide a devil's advocate who
tries to persuade the character not to take action.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene in which there are two contrasting characters who exhibit con¬
tradictions. The secret of fresh, nonstereotyped characterizations is to com¬
bine character traits that the audience wouldn't expect to find in the same
character, such as a smoker who worries about eating healthy foods, a tough
detective who doesn't like bad language, or a grandmother who loves box¬
ing. The contradictions need to serve the purpose of the scene and affect the
character's emotions and behavior.
134 Chapter 10

D. Write a scene in which a character has committed a sin or a bad deed of some
kind. Take a character to the limit. What is the worst possible thing that could
happen? Make it happen. What does the character fear most? Make it hap¬
pen.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Develop a character with an unrealistic belief system. In many cases, if one of
the rationalizations discussed is applicable, so are three or four others. Begin
with a female character of low esteem who bases her self-worth on the opinions
of others. When she isn't perfect and is put down by others, she thinks those
people who say bad things to her should be severely punished. She blames oth¬
ers for her misery. She finally assaults someone, verbally or physically.
F. Write a scene with two characters in which appearance, movement, clothing,
or physical activity is the cause of conflict. Reveal to your audience how each
character combs his hair, gestures, dresses, and goes about his stage business.
Imagine your character's physical life. Healthy? Athletic? What does the
character wear and do to hide his flaws? In the scene focus on the conflicts.
Do not give us any description of the characters before the scene. Let us learn
about each character from his or her behavior. For example, imagine how a
teenager rebels against his parents in terms of dress, hair, piercings, tattoos,
smoking, or drinking. Imagine a wife who comes home and finds her hus¬
band wearing her clothes.

Summary

The third dimension of character is the psychological: the product of the physio¬
logical and sociological. Within this area, we find fears, insecurities, phobias, com¬
plexes, inhibitions, feelings of guilt and desire, and fantasies. The psychological
dimension also includes intelligence, aptitudes, special abilities, habits, sensitivi¬
ties, talents, kinds of reasoning, and sources of anger. The psychological profile
should make clear why the character does and says things.
When we are inconsistent with our own values, an internal tension arises as
a signal something is wrong. We are often motivated to reduce that tension and
maintain a sense of self-consistency by employing defense mechanisms. Life maps
are formed early, and core beliefs are persistent. People often use defense mecha¬
nisms such as denial, repression, projection of blame, displacement, undoing,
rationalization, and labeling.
Because of their past experiences, people develop unrealistic expectations
and beliefs, which lead them to choices and behaviors that are often destructive.
When reality hits, conflict is bound to occur.
All that can be known of a character comes from his actions and reactions. A
character is the sum of his actions during a play, including what he says (verbal
 Psychological Characteristics 135

action) and does (physical actions) and the decisions he makes (mental actions).
Characters are constructed of playable emotions. They have wants and needs that
drive them to make choices. They care about things.
Deep character is revealed by a character's actions in extreme circumstances,
as determined by those choices she makes under pressure. Deep character is
shown by putting characters in extreme situations and forcing them to make cru¬
cial, pivotal decisions.
The secret of a fresh, nonstereotyped characterization is to combine character
traits that the audience wouldn't expect to find in the same character. Create con¬
tradictions. Use polar opposites. Characters need to have different backgrounds,
attitudes, beliefs, and goals so they have disagreements over issues.
 CHAPTER
M

Orchestrating
... the Characters

We might compare orchestrating the characters in a play to baking bread: If you

don't have the right ingredients in the proper portions, the results will not be good.
Imagine what might happen if you add too much water, leave out the yeast, or sub¬
stitute corn flakes for flour.
Audience members make up their minds about who a character is and
whether he or she is likeable in the first four minutes the character is on stage. Play¬
wrights need to be very careful that the first impression is the one they intend to be
conveyed. With the bread, if the first taste is bitter or too sweet or disgusting, that
will determine the outlook toward the entire loaf. Similarly, each character must be
clear and vivid in the first four minutes of his or her first scene so the audience will
know how the author wants them to respond.
In this chapter, we will discuss six important concepts related to orchestrat¬
ing characters:

1. Using significant events in the back story of the character to tell the story in
the present
2. Selecting a polarized mix of characters with different personalities and goals
3. Making sure the protagonist and antagonist are evenly matched
4. Bonding the characters in a crucible so their motivation to continue in conflict
is greater than their desire to quit and run away
5. Using the entrance of another character to heighten the conflict or suspense
6. Applying techniques to get to know your characters

The Back Story

A character profile is needed to develop a back story, and frequently, the writer
doesn't know the answers until he sits down and begins to make specific decisions
about the characters. The back story is not just the biography of the character.
Rather, it comprises, previous significant events in the life of the character that can
be pulled out and used to tell the story in the present.
In Henrik Ibsen's Ghosts, the back story about Mrs. Alving's husband is
essential to the plot of the play, but we learn that story only gradually, in bits and

137
138 Chapter 11

pieces. Following her parents' wishes in the days of arranged marriages, Mrs. Alv-
ing weds a man she doesn't love. She loves another—Manders. She discovers after
her wedding that her husband is a womanizing drunk. Cooped up in a drab,
provincial town with a dull, petty, routine job, he finds nothing to stimulate his
mind or feed his spirit. He thus drinks to excess and has numerous affairs with
other women. He has even seduced the maid and is actually Regina's father. Mrs.
Alving goes to Manders for help, but he tells her to do her duty and stay with her
husband. So she does her duty, sends her son away to Paris, and never lets him
know the truth about his father until near the end of the play. Then, Oswald reveals
that he is suffering from syphilis, which he has inherited from his father. He begs
his mother for euthanasia when his next attack occurs because the doctor has told
him that it will result in dementia.
In Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Big Daddy finally pushes Brick
to admit the truth. His best friend. Skipper, had revealed to Brick that he has homo¬
sexual feelings for him. Brick then turned his back on Skipper, and Skipper killed
himself. Brick finally tells Big Daddy the truth—that everyone has been lying to
him and that he is dying of cancer. These revelations provide major turning points
both in the plays and in the characters' lives.

Good Orchestration

Good orchestration—selecting the right mix of characters, who have different

beliefs and goals and will definitely clash—is essential. The characters need to be
different. Look at the mother and daughter in Tennessee Williams's The Glass
Menagerie and Martin McDonagh's The Beauty Queen of Leenane. In the first play,
Amanda wants a "gentleman caller" for Laura. Laura is afraid and wants to play
with her glass collection. In the second play, Maureen wants to go to America with
a man. Her mother, Mag, wants to make sure her daughter doesn't leave her alone.
The gay title character in Paul Rudnick's Jeffrey decides to give up sex because he is
afraid of getting AIDS. He then falls for a man who is HIV positive. They are polar
opposites in many ways, with far different wants, needs, and dreams, but it's a
comedy and they both finally come together because each man loves the other.
The key to creating a good mix of characters is to put together people with
polar or contrasting beliefs, personalities, and wants. The ideal cast is polarized.
Imagine the characters sitting together at a dinner. If a bottle of wine were tipped
over, how would they react differently? With polarized characters, no two would
act the same. One would be all upset and appalled. One would deal with it in a
practical, expedient manner and clean it up. One would ignore it. One would think
it was funny and laugh. One would complain about how much the wine cost. One
would go get another bottle. If you do have two characters that will respond in the
same way, eliminate one of them.
The real unity of opposites is one in which compromise is impossible. This
assures us that the characters will not make a truce in the middle or call it quits.
 Orchestrating the Characters 139

Any uncompromising character creates the expectancy of conflict or tension. In

conflict, the true self is revealed. The conflict also shows who is loyal, who is a cow¬
ard, and who is selfish. It tests the other characters in terms of their relationship
with the protagonist.
In Sophocles' Antigone, the young woman, Antigone, and Creon, her uncle
and king, are opposites for whom compromise is impossible. They are united by
blood. They both share a love for Haemon. Yet Creon believes in duty to the state,
and Antigone believes in duty to the individual. Neither will change or relent or
back down. As a result, Creon walls up Antigone in a cave. His son, who loves her,
commits suicide. When Creon learns of this tragic outcome, he sends men to
recover Antigone, but it is too late. She has hung herself.
In A Doll's House, by Henrik Ibsen, Nora and Helmer are united by marriage,
love, home, children, and society, yet they, too, are opposites. Neither one meets
the other's standards of desired behavior. Helmer is not the kind of man Nora
thought he was, and she is not the kind of wife that Helmer will tolerate. This
knowledge only comes to them in the final scene, after a series of complications
and reversals. Again, compromise is impossible. Nora walks out and slams the door
on both Helmer and her children.
A play tells the story of how someone deals with danger. Until the protago¬
nist decides to fight the injustice, rather than run away from it, there is no story.
The character who is willing to take on the struggle and give it her all is the kind of
uncompromising character that is needed. The character cannot be passive. We
want characters who take action.

Archetypes

There are many male and female archetypes that may be helpful in terms of orches¬
tration, analyzing the characters you already have, or layering different qualities in
each character. Archetypes are the original or basic model for all characters of the
same type. Some of the typical archetypes include:

The Boss
Male Version. He is the father, the leader, the corporate executive, the platoon
leader, the captain. He likes to take control. He is a problem solver. He likes new
challenges. He expects people to do what he wants. He is decisive, committed, goal
oriented, stubborn, and domineering, and he may appear to be cold and unfeeling.
He is intelligent and competent. His way is the right way.

Female Version. She is the mother, the career woman who climbs to the top. She
is strong and tough and takes charge. She is a problem solver and doesn't mind
bending the rules. She is decisive, goal oriented, and arrogant, and she can be cold.
140 Chapter 11

calculating, and ruthless. She expects others to do what she wants, and she will
mow them down if they get in her way.

The Rebel
Male Version. He never follows the rules and is unwilling to play the game
expected of him. He is reckless, daring, cocky. He has a chip on his shoulder. He
maintains his reputation as a "bad apple." He acts according to his own code of
ethics. He is charismatic, cool, volatile, pessimistic, dangerous, and very attractive
to others. He is always at odds with authority figures.

Female Version. Like the male rebel, she is a free spirit—unconventional, spon¬
taneous, and impulsive. She has a strong sense of individuality and is guided, even
ruled by her emotions. She wants to be liked for who she is. She is sincere, positive
in her approach to life, and imaginative. She is undisciplined, makes promises she
can't keep, and hides her inner pain. (See Figure 11.1.)

The Best Friend

Male Version. He is the pal, the guy with the shoulder to cry on, the guy you can
depend on. He's calm during a crisis, finds solutions, and negotiates the peace.
People trust him. He is a follower and has trouble asserting himself. He doesn't
have a good self-image and puts himself down a lot.

Female Version. She is the loyal friend, full of spirit, and reliable. She has guts
and a good sense of humor. Everyone loves her. She lacks self confidence and plays
down her attributes, covering her insecurity with a sarcastic wit. She is the eternal
optimist, fun to be around, and the voice of reason.

The Intellectual
Male Version. He is a logical, analytical, committed expert in some field. He
takes his time, thinks things through, and is task oriented. He is open and honest
but also blunt and inconsiderate. He is inflexible, used to getting his own way, and
he's doesn't deal with other people or change very well. He is inhibited with
women. He is either very sharp and organized or an absent-minded geek.

Female Version. The female intellectual is more organized than the male. She is
bright, efficient, and dependable but straight laced. She dresses very conserva¬
tively, but when she lets her hair down, she is a passionate woman. She is stubborn,
opinionated, self-reliant, and a perfectionist. She is often inhibited on the romance
level with men, but she considers herself an equal.
 Orchestrating the Characters 141

FIGURE 11.1 Costume sketch by Betty

Monroe for Carol Cutrere, the fast-driving,
hard-drinking rebel in Tennessee Williams's
Orpheus Descending, performed at Wichita
State University.

The Warrior
Male Version. A hero, he is a man of high standards who is searching for justice
in a world where everything is viewed as right or wrong. Dark, dangerous, and
disciplined, he fights evil and is merciless to his enemies. He is tenacious, relent¬
less, and noble but also a loner, stubborn, and sometimes unpopular. He chooses
friends carefully, but he is always loyal.

Female Version. She is the crusader, the spunky street fighter. She is a problem
solver. She is an activist. She is goal oriented, confident, tough, and tenacious. She
142 Chapter 11

fights evil, seeks justice and truth, and looks out for the underdog, the disenfran¬
chised, and those afraid to stand up for themselves. She is trustworthy. She means
what she says. She can be stubborn and rash.

The Seductive Charmer

Male Version. He is the dashing, charismatic, smooth-talking man who makes
people around him feel special. He is fun and gets by on his warm personality and
great sense of humor. It is a mask, however, and he doesn't allow others to see the
real man underneath. He makes others believe in fairy tales, but if the going gets
tough, he gets going. He is creative, romantic, fun, and unreliable. He makes
promises he can't keep.

Female Version. A seductress, she uses the force of her looks and personality to
get what she wants. She beguiles and seduces men by being manipulative, calcu¬
lating, and provocative. She hides her distrust behind a protective and alluring
cover. Strong, fiery, assertive, clever, and cynical, she is a chameleon, changing her
persona as needed. She has the instincts of a man, but they are disguised by her
femme fatale manner.

The Innocent
Male Version. He has a heavy heart, filled with angst. He is a lonely, lost indi¬
vidual who suffers pain. He wants love and happiness but is incapable of reaching
out to find it. He's a wanderer, an outcast, a loner. He has an artist's temperament.
He is creative with the voice of a poet and a deep soul. He is vulnerable, idealistic,
pessimistic.

Female Version. She is sweet, naive, trusting, vulnerable, and kind. She has con¬
siderable inner strength and resiliencey. She is adaptable, willing to risk it all for a
chance at happiness, and doesn't complain. Frequently an orphan, she seeks a
home and rushes into relationships but never finds the happy life. It is easier for
her to give in than fight.

The Adventurer or Nurturer

Male Version. This is the adventurer. He is athletic, thrives on action, and is not
afraid of danger. He is a thrill seeker, who is impulsive and leaps before he looks.
He is colorful, passionate, fearless, selfish, foolhardy, and unreliable. He doesn't
like commitment and dances to his own tune. He always has a new goal to reach
and an eye on the horizon.

Female Version. This is the nurturer. The opposite of the adventurer, she takes
care of everyone and always thinks of others first. She is wise, giving, caring, capa-
 Orchestrating the Characters 143

ble, conscientious, and reliable. She needs to be needed. She is in control and enjoys
other people, but she can be too much at times—too idealistic, too much the mar¬
tyr. She gives her love to others unconditionally.

Examples

In Tracy Letts s Killer Joe, Dottie is the Innocent, Joe is the Boss and Charmer, and
Carla is the Seductress. In The Music Man, by Meredith Wilson, Harold Hill is the
Charmer while Marian exhibits the characteristics of the Intellectual. In Lerner and
Loewe's My Fair Lady, Henry Higgins is the Intellectual and Eliza Doolittle com¬
bines the Innocent with a bit of the Rebel. In Streetcar, Stanley embodies the Boss
and the Rebel. Shaw's Major Barbara combines qualities of the Crusader and the
Nurturer.
Characters are often created that exhibit the qualities of one major archetype
but combine the characteristics of two or more others, making them more complex
and original. Still others show an individual evolving from one archetype into
another. For more information on archetypes, consult The Complete Writer's Guide to
Heroes and Heroines, by Tami D. Cowden, Caro LaFever, and Sue Viders (2000).

Equal Opponents

The protagonist is the character who initiates and follows through with the central
action of the play. Usually, the protagonist is the character the audience sympa¬
thizes with. In a few plays, the protagonist is an antihero, an unpleasant person
who evokes little sympathy but captures our attention in another way. For exam¬
ple, the character of Jimmy Porter in John Osborne's Look Back in Anger is an
aggressive, working-class man who often treats his wife and best friend badly. He
is highly critical of the British establishment and of his wife's upper-crust family.
He wants to be waited on hand and foot. He has an affair. In short, he is an unpleas¬
ant antihero. Yet we understand him and where he's coming from. We can even
admire some of his good qualities. The important point is that the protagonist is
the one who acts, who makes the action happen. Jimmy Porter acts and makes
things happen.
The antagonist is the one who puts up the resistance. The antagonist doesn't
have to be unsympathetic. Usually, if the protagonist is sympathetic, the antagonist
is not, but in some plays, both are sympathetic. There can be no struggle or worth¬
while conflict, no story unless the protagonist and the antagonist are evenly
matched. Helen and Annie in William Gibson's The Miracle Worker, George and
Martha in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Beatrice and Benedict in
Shakespeare's Much Ado about Nothing—all are evenly matched.
Raymond Hull (1983) in How to Write a Play, created this formula: M + G + O
= C, or Main Character + his Goal + Opposition = Conflict. Good opposition
requires that the antagonist counter each of the protagonist's actions with equal
144 Chapter 11

force and cunning. Good opposition doesn't require that your protagonist be com¬
pletely good or that the antagonist be a villain. The antagonist may be as pure as
the protagonist. The characters of Helen and Anne in William Gibson's The Miracle
Worker are both sympathetic, as are both Beatrice and Benedict in Shakespeare's
Much Ado about Nothing. The antagonist may be just as heroic as the protagonist.
What is essential is for both characters to be well motivated, well rounded, fully
fleshed out individuals, determined to have their own way.

A Crucible

Moses Malevinsky calls "the pot, or the furnace"—in which the drama is "boiled,
baked, stewed or hibernated"—a crucible (quoted in Frey, 1987, p. 35). The crucible
is the container that holds the characters together as things heat up—the bond that
keeps them in conflict with one another. Characters in a crucible won't quit or walk
away in the middle. They have to stay to the end. Characters are in the crucible if
their motivation to continue in conflict is greater than their motivation to run away.
You have failed to put the characters in the crucible if the audience asks "Why
doesn't she just leave?"
Here are some examples of characters with a bond: A husband and wife will
remain in conflict until separated by divorce or death. Marriage is their crucible.
Lack of self-esteem, lack of money, and fear and ignorance may hold an abused
wife in place. She may be in a bad marriage, but she may see no viable alternatives.
A father and son in conflict will remain in conflict if they are bonded by love and
duty. Love and family ties are their crucible. Two cellmates in prison who are in
conflict will remain in conflict because there is no escape from their cell. A soldier
in the army cannot get away from his platoon leader. The army provides his cru¬
cible, and he cannot leave without severe punishment.

When Another Character Enters

Recently, Phyllis went to Clearwater, Florida, to visit family. Many of her twelve
siblings, now in their 70s, 80s, and 90s, are still alive, including one brother and
nine sisters. Her entrance into that scene was so dramaturgically appropriate that
it almost seemed scripted. First, there were the various rounds of reintroduction
and catching up ("You've gained weight," "You look great!" "Your hair's differ¬
ent," "How was your flight?" and "How's Tom?"). Tom is her husband. Because
Phyllis was a new character to the scene, this catching-up process was a legitimate
and believable sharing of information. Woven throughout this was character work.
Her sister. Aura, had already planned activities for everyone, and they all had to
comment on those. And then, just as Phyllis began to sense something wrong, they
said to her, "We have something we have to tell you." The something turned out to
 Orchestrating the Characters 145

be that Dotty, one of the still-surviving sisters, had terminal cancer. And the rest of
the trip dealt with the conflict and turmoil caused by that situation.
A new character in a scene brings new information and new conflict into play.
Such a character can be viewed as an opportunity. If you need to put some life into
the world of your play, you can introduce a new character or bring back someone
from offstage, as long as that character brings a new twist to the conflict of the
scene. An example of this is found in The Cuvetukev, by Harold Pinter. The main
action concerns the bum, Davies, who is taken in by the kindly Aston and allowed
to live with him in the attic of his crumbling homestead. Davies takes greater and
greater advantage of the beneficent Aston, and the possibilities of the play seem
limited—until Pinter introduces Mick, Aston's younger brother. Mick is clearly a
schemer, along Davies's own lines. Davies throws in with Mick, betraying his own
benefactor.
The play is far more complicated than this, but the point is that Pinter con¬
stantly reintroduces one or the other of these two brothers into the scene with
Davies. And that rejuggling of the personnel in the room keeps the action moving.
When your story gets boring or runs out of steam, open the door and bring in
another character. Then watch what happens.
Although the "door" is sometimes the playwright's friend, it is not a good
idea to bring in a new character every time it opens. Keeping the cast size small is
important, for several reasons:

1. It is easier to fully develop a few characters.

2. A large cast tends to diffuse the story.
3. A large cast also ends up with characters that are functionary stereotypes.
4. Actors don't want to play the "waiter" or the "clerk" or the "third woman."
5. Producers don't want to to pay for a large cast. Such shows have very limited
appeal to producers and are likely to be rejected because most theatre com¬
panies never have enough money.

Focus your attention on a clear storyline with six or fewer fully developed
characters in a simple setting, and then use returning characters in various combi¬
nations. Even with four to six characters, there are many possible combinations.

Get to Know Your Characters

Although we may have an idea or an experience to write about for a scene or a play,
we may have characters who are not fully fleshed out at the beginning. In Shoptalk,
conversations about theatre, edited by Dennis Brown, Lanford Wilson says of his
work that "the first thirty pages are always terrible" (p. 12). Only after he had writ¬
ten enough to begin to see the characters more fully and understand what their sit¬
uation was did they start to be interesting and clear. As a result, he generally threw
away the first thirty pages.
146 Chapter 11

I have often found that I have to write several scenes before I begin to know
the characters. I often end up writing dozens of scenes that do not end up in the
final version but do give me insights into the characters' behavior. There are also
other methods for discovering character, such as answering a character question¬
naire or asking the typical questions that you would like answers to when you
meet an exciting new person.
Frank Moher, a Canadian playwright and teacher on the web (Escript.com),
explains that when you don't have a fully developed character already in mind at
the beginning, you can answer a series of questions and see what emerges. One of
the exciting things about this method is that through the accumulation of enough
random details, you will eventually find yourself shaping a three-dimensional
character. It is also important to have these details so that if you get stuck while
writing, you can go back to the character's biography.

Character Analysis

The following list contains questions for another character questionnaire that I have
revised for actors and directors over the years for character analysis work. Answer
the relevant questions as precisely as possible. Don't just note that your character
likes to drink beer. Note the brand and whether she prefers a can, a bottle, or a glass.
Your "stained glass" image of the character can be made up of a handful of
pieces of colored glass, or it can be made of hundreds or thousand of pieces. Is your
character a Coke bottle or a window from Chartres Cathedral? The more pieces, or
the more detailed, the greater the depth of understanding and the clearer the image.
When you write a play, you spend many hours with the characters. Make sure you
are interested in them, like them, and want to spend this time with them.

I. What is the character's spine—his major goal in the play and in life?
A. What does he want?
B. What is he willing or able to do to reach that goal?
C. How conscious is the character of his own motives?
II. What is the character's background?
A. What influence did the character's family have on him?
1. What were the character's relationships to his father, mother, brother,
and sister?
2. What type of discipline was he subjected to?
3. What was the economic, religious, political, and social status of the
family?
4. Were there any special situations in the family, such as divorce, drink¬
ing, or illness?
B. What is the character's level of intelligence?
C. What is the character's educational background? How does this affect
his language, attitudes, and interests?
 Orchestrating the Characters 147

D. What effect does the political and sociological environment—war, occu¬

pation, pioneering, disillusionment, travel, temper of the times—have on
him?
E. What are the character's adjustments to his background and the forces
that molded him?
1. What are his social adjustments—manners, kinds of friends, member¬
ship in organizations, sex attitudes, attitudes toward others, role
played in a group?
2. What is his lifestyle in terms of a home, car, furnishings, clothes, and
food?
3. What are his hobbies and interests?
4. What are his ideals, beliefs, heroes, and hates?
5. What is his marital situation?
a. Whom did he marry?
b. How has he adjusted to marriage?
c. What is his relationship to a spouse and children?
6. What is the character's vocation and career?
a. What kind of work does he do?
b. How does he feel about that work?
7. What is the character's general emotional state?
a. How does he react to stress or conflict?
b. How much pressure can he tolerate?
c. How does he deal with or adjust to crisis?
III. What external features of the character are important?
A. How does age affect him?
B. What is his appearance (health, major facial expression, eyes, size and
height, hair color and style, style and quality of clothing and attitude
and treatment of it, posture)?
C. What characterizes his movements?
1. How does he walk (fast, slow, limp, meek)?
2. How does he gesture (vigorous, weak, controlled, incomplete)?
3. What props might be used to help establish character?
4. What is his energy level?
D. What is his voice like?
1. Is it loud, fast, slow, deeply resonant, or high pitched?
2. Is his articulation careless or precise?
3. Is his pronunciation standard or colloquial?
E. What is the character's rhythm (jerky or smooth, volatile or even, impul¬
sive or deliberate, ponderous or light, broken or continuous)?
IV. How does the style of the production affect the character's portrayal?

In the play M. Butterfly, by David Henry Hwang, the character of Song Liling
appears to be a delicate Chinese opera star. She has a twenty-year affair with a
French diplomat in Beijing, who then learns that his delicate Asian lover is a spy—
148 Chapter 11

M. Butterfly, performed at Wichita State University. Directed by

Joyce Cavarozzi, Set and Lighting Design by J. David Blatt,
Costume Design by Betty Monroe.

and a man. The character's major goal in the play is to conceal her true identity from
the diplomat and provide her government with classified information. She is very
conscious of manipulating her lover because of his desire to see her as a submissive
Asian woman. She has been trained to impersonate women. Her mother was a pros¬
titute, and she learned from her how to deal with Western men. She is very intelli¬
gent. Her relationship with the diplomat gives her special status. She even fakes
having a child. Eventually, Song removes all of his clothes and makeup and stands
naked before the diplomat as a man. The external features are extremely important.
The costumes, makeup, movement and gestures, and voice and manners must con¬
vince the diplomat and the audience that this character is a woman until the
unmasking.

Stage Business

One of the useful tools in bringing a character to life is to involve her in actually
doing an activity—for example, folding laundry, washing dishes, painting a chair,
fixing a small appliance, cleaning out a drawer, cutting up vegetables for a stir fry.
 Orchestrating the Characters 149

ironing, sewing on a button, or making a bed. Such physical activities require that
the actor really iron, really cut up vegetables, or really sew on a button to bring
realism to the scene. In The Knack, by Ann Jellicoe, for example, one man actually
paints the walls of the room during the play.
The director sometimes adds such action to a scene to help the actor perform
with a sense of truth. The playwright may find that adding an activity to a scene
takes it to a more truthful level. This use of hand props and activity can be used by
the playwright to highlight the action and to express emotion. Consider how a

The dead baby in Buried Child was created by using a doll, rags, and
mud. Performed at the University of Alaska Anchorage, Directed by
Leroy Clark, Set and Lighting Design by Frank Bebey, Costume Design
by Lois Aden.
150 Chapter 11

very neat man versus a very sloppy man might fold clothes. Consider how the neat
man might go about refolding the clothes done by the sloppy man. Such activity
might cause a conflict between the two that would escalate into the sloppy man
angrily throwing the clothes all over the room or grabbing some scissors and cut¬
ting them up. Consider the possibilities of a woman character instructing her
daughter-in-law in how to cut up vegetables. Consider a wimpy man forced to iron
his own shirts by a verbally abusive wife, who finally reaches the end of his toler¬
ance level and irons her hand. In McDonaugh's The Beauty Queen of Leenane, the
daughter gets so angry at her mother that she drags her to the stove and plunges
her hand into a frying pan.
As a director, I often insist that every actor bring a prop to rehearsal that his
character would always have. One character might always have food in her
purse—a banana, a candy bar, a roll. Maybe she steals a roll every day from the
bakery on the corner. Maybe she never had enough to eat as a child and food gives
her comfort, a feeling of security. Another character always carries a knife for pro¬
tection. For the playwright, selecting such a prop may give new insights into the
character. What props would your character use? See the list in Chapter 14.

Practicalities

The appeal of the characters and the practical realities of staging affect the selection
of a play by a producer or a theatre. Assuming the play under consideration is a
good play, several practical factors may affect its choice for production.
One of the first considerations is cast size. A director or producer will look at
the cast list and very likely toss a script requiring more than ten actors—or six or
four or whatever she sees as viable. Special skills for a role may also be a blessing
or a killer. A producer will reject a play if she doesn't think it will be possible to find
an actor capable of both sword fighting and singing beautifully; one who has train¬
ing and excellent skills in modern, ballet, jazz, and tap dance; or one who can roller
skate, play the piano, juggle, and of course, really act. On the other hand, if the pro¬
ducer has just the right actor, that may mean immediate selection of the script.
The design and technical elements may inspire either great interest or
absolute rejection, as well. In terms of scenery, a play with one set is easier to pro¬
duce than a multiset show. A play in which the set is a major element, such as the
ice mountain in K2 or the carousel in Carousel, by Rodgers and Hammerstein, may
not be feasible in some small theatres or financially practical on a huge stage. How¬
ever, a play with a challenging set may be so exciting for a particular designer that
he will get the play accepted.
A third reason that a play may be accepted or rejected is the costume require¬
ments. The Mystery of Irma Vep, by Charles Ludlum, only uses two actors. However,
each actor plays four roles and must change from one costume to another for a total
of forty-two quick changes. Doug Wright's Quills requires period eighteenth-
 Orchestrating the Characters 151

century French costumes. Whether the costume designer is enthusiastic or hostile

to a play may well seal its fate.
The fourth consideration centers on special props, such as the live animals in
Tennessee Williams's Rose Tattoo and Sam Shepard's Curse of the Starving Class, the
talking and singing plant in the musical Little Shop of Horrors, and the car in the
musical Grease, by Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey. If the production company is
excited about doing the play and knows they can borrow, rent, buy, or make the
special prop, then the problem will be solved. If not, the play will be rejected. A
play may also be specifically selected because the director or designers are excited
and challenged by a particular concept.
Given these considerations, it is wise for the playwright to ask a few realistic
questions when developing the characters and story for a play: Will the number of
characters be acceptable or impractical? Does any character have such a specialized
talent or requirement that it would limit (or enhance) the play's marketability? Will
the set, costumes, or props be a limiting factor? Is anything about the play so unique
or intriguing or special that it will really attract people to want to produce it?

EXERCISE 16_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a scene in which your characters are in conflict yet bonded in a crucible
they cannot leave. The cause of the conflict should be a third character not
present. Character A wants something related to Character C but is met with
resistance from Character B. Character A tries various tactics to achieve his
objective, but Character B counters each one. For example. Bull wants to rape
the new kid in prison, but his cellmate won't let him. Martha wants sole cus¬
tody of her daughter, but her husband refuses. Rachel wants to put her
mother-in-law in a nursing home, but her husband wants to keep her home.
B. Write a scene in which your characters are in conflict and in a crucible. The
scene should include the protagonist with an unfulfilled need. He seeks to
accomplish what he wants but is met with opposition and resistance by the
antagonist. The protagonist tries various tactics to achieve his goal, but the
antagonist counters each one. Take the scene to the limit and break the bond
between the two characters. Remember to keep their voices unique and
distinct.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene in which Character A confronts Character B about an action
Character B has done. Character A demands to know why Character B avoids
A's question, but A slowly gets at the truth. In what ways are the characters
polar opposites? What is the climax? What is different in their relationship at
the end of the scene?
D. Write a scene with three archetypal characters, in which Character A delib¬
erately lies to Character B about a past action that she has done. What is
152 Chapter 11

Character A hiding or afraid of? Who is she protecting? When Character B is

out of the room. Character A tells the truth to Character C. Why? What does
A want from C? What if Character B learns the truth?

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene about two characters who on the surface act like they hate each
other but underneath really love each other. For each character, mix two or
three of the archetypes: Boss, Best Friend, Rebel, Intellectual, Warrior, Seduc¬
tive Charmer, Innocent, Adventurer, or Nurturer.
F. Write a scene with three characters, each of a different status. At the climax of
the scene, the status of two of the characters should be reversed by a revela¬
tion from the third character. For example, a Boss may be in conflict with his
Rebel/Intellectual son, blaming him for an event. The son's Charmer friend
reveals that the Boss actually caused the problem.

Summary

The back story is not just the biography of a character but the previous significant
events in the life of the character that can be pulled out and used to tell the story in
the present. Details should be brought in only when essential in the current action.
Selecting the right mix of characters, who have different personalities and
goals, is essential. The key to creating a good mix of characters is to put together
people with contrasting or polar beliefs, personalities, and wants. If the cast of
characters is polarized, conflict will occur whenever they open their mouths. With
polarized characters, no two will act the same. The most dynamic situations arise
when the leading characters are in opposition and will not compromise. Audience
members makes up their minds about whether a character is likeable in the first
four minutes that the character is on stage. The playwright needs to be very care¬
ful that the first impression is the one she intends to be conveyed.
The protagonist is the character who initiates the central action of the play.
The protagonist acts, or makes the action happen.The antagonist is the one who
puts up the resistance and the obstacles. In a few plays, the protagonist is an anti-
hero, an unpleasant character who evokes little sympathy. Usually, if the protago¬
nist is sympathetic, then the antagonist is not, but in some plays, both are
sympathetic. There can be no struggle or worthwhile conflict, no story, unless the
protagonist and the antagonist are evenly matched and there is a real possibility
that the protagonist may lose.
A crucible is the bond that keeps the characters in conflict with one another.
Characters in a crucible won't quit or walk away in the middle. They have to stay to
the end. Characters are in the crucible if their motivation to continue in conflict is
greater than their motivation to run away from it, A crucible can be created by fam¬
ily, a marriage, a contract, or a certain environment—anything that forces the char¬
acters in conflict not to give up until one of them has won and the other has lost.
 Orchestrating the Characters 153

If a playwright needs to put some life into the world of the play, he can intro¬
duce a new character or bring back an offstage character. Doing so will bring new
information and a new level to the overall conflict of the play
Often, a playwright doesn't have all of the characters fully developed in her
mind at the beginning. One approach to develop them is to answer a series of ques¬
tions for each character and see what emerges. One of the exciting things about this
method is that through the accumulation of enough random details, you will even¬
tually be able to shape a three-dimensional character. It is also important to have
these details so that if you get stuck while writing, you can go back to the charac¬
ter's biography.
 CHAPTER

Dialogue

Another way to discover and explore the characters in your play is through voice.
Unlike the fiction writer or poet, who may develop a personal voice or recognizable
style as an author, the playwright deals in different voices. In fact, the author's voice
should not intrude upon the play. The audience wants to know how the characters
see and experience the world, and that needs to be reflected in both what the char¬
acters say and how they say it. Just as how characters behave and act reveals who
they are, so, too, does how they speak. Voice is one of the most potent character¬
building tools of all.
In this chapter, we will explore the use of language, accents or dialects, sen¬
tence structure, rhythm, details, slang, profanity and obscenity, and poetic speech
to create characters.

Use of Language

Every character, by the way he uses language, reveals something of his spirit,
habits, capabilities, and prejudices. If a ... character ... speaks in ... a way that...
suggests he often likes to . . . pause and think before .. . speaking,. . . then we get
the impression that that character is thoughtful or reflective or perhaps just a little
slow. If a character . . . you know . . . constantly interrupts himself . . . well, I don't
mean interrupts, but... well, yes, sort of changes his mind, you know ... or tends
to exclaim and talk in sentences without a lot of commas where in the ordinary
course of things you would expect commas—Then we understand that this indi¬
vidual is a bit hyper and his ideas come so fast they tumble over each other. This
character probably doesn't have a very peaceful inner life.
Make use of sentence construction, grammar, vocabulary, and voice in build¬
ing characters. One way to capture the rhythm of everyday speech is to observe
and listen. Take a notebook and go to a public area, where you can overhear the
conversations of others. Listen to how differently people actually talk and jot down
snippets of their dialogue. Other good sources for natural speech are reality-based
television shows, such as Survivor and Fear Factor. Consider how your choices of
words, images, and sentence structures can help create the character.

155
156 Chapter 12

Accents and Dialects

Everyday conversation isn't necessarily dramatic. In fact, it's often full of pauses,
repetitions, vocalized "ahs," and curse words. In creating art for the stage, we gen¬
erally need to be selective. We want to avoid language that is commonplace, awk¬
ward, wordy, poetic, archaic, or dated.
If an accent or dialect is needed, you must decide whether to write the dialect
or present the dialogue in a normal manner, seeking to capture the appropriate
rhythm but spelling the words correctly. Since written dialect is difficult to do and
difficult to read, you may want to choose the latter approach and let the actor mas¬
ter the dialect with assistance from a dialogue coach.

Sentence Structure

One of the keys to creating characters with distinct dialogue is to focus on sentence
structure. The first scene in Act Two of Anton Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard offers
a series of characters whose various sentence structures provide insight into their
personalities. Lopahin is a direct, open, and honest person who speaks in short,
direct, and complete sentences. He tells Lyuboff, for example, "We must decide
definitely, time doesn't wait. Why, the matter's quite simple. Are you willing to
lease your land for summer cottages or are you not? Answer in one word, yes or
no? Just one word!" (p. 203). A shy, socially inept, or insecure person may speak
sparingly, apologize frequently, and talk in a very hesitant manner. The character
of Epihodoff speaks in sentences that are full of qualifiers. For example, he says,
"Strictly speaking, not touching on other subjects, I must state about myself, in
passing, that fate treats me mercilessly, as a storm does a small ship" (p. 203). A
pompous and arrogant character may pontificate, use big words, talk a lot but say
little, and be condescending and irritating. When Dunyasha tells Yasha she loves
him, he replies, "Yes, sir—To my mind it is like this: If a girl loves someone, it
means she is immoral" (p. 203). After a pause, he continues, "It is pleasant to smoke
a cigar in the clear air—" (p. 203). He then hears Lopahin and Lyuboff coming and
tells Yasha, "Go to the house, as though you had been to bathe in the river, go by
this path, otherwise, they might meet you and suspect me of making a rendezvous
with you. That I cannot tolerate" (p. 203). Yasha treats her in a condescending man¬
ner, with no regard for her feelings.
Dialogue should capture a character's unique qualities. The use of sentence
structure and the choice of words both help translate personality into dialogue.

Vocal Rhythm

The rhythm of the language must work for the character. As Edward Albee has
stated, "It is sound and silence; it's a matter of durations" (Bryer, 1955, p. 12).
Punctuation is a key element in providing clues to the rhythm of a speech. A
comma is a short pause. A semicolon is a longer pause. A period is a slightly longer
 Dialogue 157

pause. Three dots (an ellipsis) indicates a pause, in which a character is either
thinking or trails off. A dash indicates that what follows is either an appositive—
meaning the same thing—or an interruption. In either case, the words that come
after are delivered faster.
An understanding of how to punctuate is essential to creating the rhythm
desired for a speech. Look at the following example from Scene VI of Tennessee
Williams's The Glass Menagerie (pp. 313-314):

JIM
(Grinning)
What was the matter?

TOM
Oh—with Laura? Laura is—terribly shy.

JIM
Shy, huh? It's unusual to meet a shy girl nowadays. I don't believe you ever men¬
tioned you had a sister.

TOM
Well, now you know. I have one. Here is the Post Dispatch. You want a piece of it?

JIM
Uh-huh.

TOM
What piece? The comics?

JIM
Sports!
(Glances at it)
Ole Dizzy Dean is on his bad behavior.

TOM
(Disinterest)
Yeah?
(Lights cigarette and crosses back to fire-escape door)

JIM
Where are you going?

TOM
I'm going out on the terrace.

JIM
(Goes after him)
You know, Shakespeare—I'm going to sell you a bill of goods!

We can tell by the dashes in Tom's first line that he is thinking about Laura
and choosing his words very carefully. Jim's answer to Tom's question about what
158 Chapter 12

part of the paper he wants to read is "Sports!" This one word, with an exclamation
point, let's us know that the character is enthusiastic. We can tell sports are impor¬
tant to him. Jim's last line about "a bill of goods" also ends with an exclamation
point and indicates a lively, enthusiastic delivery. Tom's use of short, declarative
sentences about different subjects in every line shows his matter-of-fact, unemo¬
tional, and rather indifferent state of mind.

Details

What details does the character use in her speech? Generally, the more specific the
details, the more vivid the speech. Giving a lot of specific details is a good way of
telling a lie and convincing others that it's true. Giving a lot of details and getting
them jumbled up or starting to tell one aspect of a story and then backtracking to fill
in other details may be used to show a ditsy individual. Here are more examples:

"When Mrs. Lucky arrived at the terminal, her luck had already left."
"When Lady Luck arrived at the Miami Amtrak Terminal, she found the 4:15
for Baltimore disappearing on the western horizon."
"When the old cow got to the Amtrak station, the train had just pulled out; all
that was left was the stink of the diesel fuel and her perfume."
"Well, I saw her get to the Amtrak station. She was dressed to the nines. You
know what I'm saying? Black cocktail dress, jewelry—oh, wait! No, first I saw
the train leave. Then she came running in. She had to stop and take her heels
off. I watched her get to the platform, and she could see there was no train.
She was steamed—I mean, I could tell she was mad 'cause she threw down
her shoes. She kept pacing back and forth barefoot. Then she stepped on
something and hurt her foot. I had to laugh. 1 did. I mean, it wasn't funny, you
know, but it was."

Appeal to the Senses

What is your favorite color? How does color affect your mood? How does color
affect your perception of space? Are there smells that you definitely do and do not
like? What effect does the smell of a person have on the way you feel about him?
How about the smell of a certain place? Do people from different cultures smell dif¬
ferently? Are you aware of textures in daily living? What kind of sound do you
like? What kind of sound do you not like? How does the sound level affect you?
What associations do certain foods have for you?
Ask these same questions about your characters. How may a character's
speech appeal to the senses? Consider these examples:

"I watched her pace back and forth on the platform, trying to figure out what
to do."
 Dialogue 159

"1 watched her marching back and forth on the old gray planks of the plat¬
form, trying to think of what to do next. I don't know what she was doing
there in the first place—dressed like that. She looked like a million, you know.
People like that don't usually travel on trains."
"A man walked by."
"A man stumbled past me and I could smell the acrid stench of body odor
and alcohol, even in the open air."
"Some dumb idiot staggered by. Jerk almost knocked me off the platform.
Looked like he wet himself or worse. He said, 'Scuse me' when I looked at
him with disgust. Wow, he stunk so bad I thought I was gonna puke. You
know how a dog smells sometimes when it rolls in something rancid? That's
what he smelled like."

Images, Slang, and Street Talk

What kinds of poetic images, slang, or street talk does the character use? Language
characterizes people in terms of age, profession, education, social status, and reli¬
gion. Look at the following lines from different characters as examples:

"Do you ever get cho acrylics done? Acrylics. You know, nails. Look at mine.
I have them done every Thersday for my man. I bet yo' man would like that."
"Gargamel. The Smurfs didn't exist; they were a figment of the Gargamel's
acid-induced hallucination. Little blue people? Come on. They all lived in
colorful mushrooms. He used to always talk to his cat. Don't you know
nothin'?"
"You're rude. I don't know why I let Joe talk me into this. You're rude, Wayne.
Has no one ever told you that?"
"Boy, you are crossing the line. You are in my office, making an unwelcome
disturbance, and I may need to call the police. Now, in the name of Jesus, get
out of my office."
"I said no guacamole. I do not eat green things, nothing green."

Figures of Speech

Does the character use poetic speech? Figures of speech may be used especially to
create comic characters. Richard Brinsley Sheridan created Mrs. Malaprop in The
Rivals, a woman who misuses the English language in every way possible:

"Promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him" (Act 1, Scene 1)

"Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself" (Act 1, Scene 1)
"There's a little intricate hussy for you!" (Act 1, Scene 1)
"My affluence over my niece is very small" (Act 4, Scene 1).
160 Chapter 12

Using the wrong word that sounds similar but has a different meaning offers
numerous comic possibilities: "She's in her middle flirties." "She's one of them
illegibles snuck over the borders from Mexico/7 "Yeah, he's at the pineapple of suc¬
cess." Here we see substitutions for the words thirties, illegal aliens, and pinnacle.
Using personification—giving human qualities to inanimate objects—is a good
way to make a comic remark or express sarcasm: "The coffee pot was unhappy like
a spoiled child; it spit right in my face." Hyperbole, or exaggeration, is also a comic
tool: "My wife has the disposition and bad breath of a shark." Metaphors and simi¬
les can also be used to convey vivid images. A metaphor states a comparison directly:
"He struck his face in a car accident and turned it into mince meat." A simile uses
the word like or as in making a comparison: "His smile was like the keys on a piano,
the broken ones." "Her smile was like that of an old camel, yellow and brown."

The "Gems"

One of the things a playwright should consider is finding and honing the "gems"
in dialogue. Metaphorically, most of the dialogue of any play will be "gravel," but
every now and then, a line stands out as a polished and shining gem—a line that
perfectly fits the character and the situation and offers us either insight into the
character or the situation or theme. Playwright David Henry Hwang, in an inter¬
view in The Playwright's Art (Bryer, 1995), offered this quote, and while it is not
from a play, it illustrates the idea. It's a gem:

Jimmy Walker had a remark that I thought was great. He was saying that in the
States we've got this thing between blacks and whites; then, when he went to Ire¬
land, he saw the same thing between Protestants and Catholics and he said, "You
know, if people don't have an enemy they'll improvise." (p. 139)

Richard Greenberg's Eastern Standard, written about the stress points of the
generational meltdown, has several comic gems. When a character wants some
service in a restaurant, he yells to Ellen, the chatty waitress, "Oh, actress." This line
has stopped the show because many actresses in New York have day jobs as wait¬
resses. Greenberg is a compelling writer who uses language and distinct character
voices to draw out the humor and the pathos of the human condition.
Think of some of the famous movie lines that have become part of our every¬
day existence, such as Clark Gable's "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!" Clint
Eastwood's "Go ahead, make my day!" Arnold Schwarzenegger's "I'll be back!"
and Dustin Hoffman's "Mrs. Robinson, you are trying to seduce me." There are
stage lines that capture the same kind of moment and become part of theatre leg¬
ends. Think of Williams's "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers"
(Streetcar, p. 102). Think of Miller's "He's a man way out there in the blue, riding on
a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that's an earth-
 Dialogue 161

quake" (Death of a Salesman, p. 225). Note Marlowe's "Was this the face that
launched a thousand ships?" (Doctor Faustus, p. 330). What gems can you think of
to crystallize a character's response?

The "F" Word

Should you use the "F" word and other curse words? I am well acquainted with
words considered obscene—those relating to body parts and functions—and those
that are considered profanity—words considered offensive because of religious
beliefs. Many people use these words. However, in writing dialogue, it is impor¬
tant to consider not only the character but also the audience for whom you are
writing.
If you're writing a one-act play and the intended market is high schools, it
might be realistic to use curse words but it probably won't be appropriate or
acceptable. If your play is intended for a general family audience, the same holds
true. As a writer, explore your creative vocabulary and try to find other expressions
that work for the character and the situation. On the 1970s sitcom Alice, Flo's
expression "Kiss my grits" became a national sensation.
What expressions can you come up with instead of using curse words? Con¬
sider the use of references to food, animals, reptiles, birds, and inanimate objects:
tomato, onion head, mule-headed, dog breath, lizard-lips, hawk face, monkey nipples, com¬
puter brain. "Hey, is your battery dead?" "Are your lights on?" "Zip it." "You like
to toot your own horn? Well, toot this." "Your face is a stop sign, man." "You're like
a vending machine. Sometimes you work, sometimes you don't."
Consider saving curse words for moments of extreme tension and conflict,
when they will really have an impact. Consider the audience you hope will see
your play. A strong drama with working-class characters, convicts, or soldiers may
be more appropriate for expletives than a family-based comedy. Make the lan¬
guage work for the play, not against it.

First Impressions Count

Voice is very specifically useful when a character is first introduced in a play. Your
parents may have told you before your first job interview that "First impressions
count," and nowhere is that more true than in the theatre. Audiences make up their
minds about whether characters are likeable in the first four minutes after they first
enter. As a playwright, you need to give the audience a firm handle on the charac¬
ter right off the bat. They will make up their minds anyway—only they may decide
the wrong things about the character if the writer is not very clear.
It is important to pay careful attention to how a character is introduced, and
most particularly what they say in those opening moments, because voice can
162 Chapter 12

convey a lot of character information very quickly See how Robert Harling intro¬
duces the character of Ouiser in Steel Magnolias (p. 37).

OUISER
This is it. Fve found it. I am in hell.

TRUVY
Morning, Ouiser.

OUISER
Don't try to get on my good side. I no longer have one.

We know in these few sentences a great deal about who this woman is. And
note that we find out through a combination of what she says, how she says it, and
what she does as the scene continues:

TRUVY
You're a little early. You're not expected till elevenish.

OUISER
That's precisely why I'm here. I have to cancel.
(The phone rings. OUISER picks it up and hangs up on the
caller.)
I have to take my poor dog to the vet before he has a nervous breakdown. My
dog I mean. The vet is perfectly healthy.
(To ANNELLE)
You must be the new girl.

ANNELLE
Hi.

OUISER
May I have a glass of water? I have been screaming this morning.

Harling gives us character quickly and concisely; we get a good sense of

Ouiser's cutting irony and Truvy's deference right away. Ouiser's action of picking
up the phone in this place of business that doesn't belong to her shows her custom
of doing whatever she pleases wherever she pleases.
In his book Shoptalk, author Dennis Brown (1992) gives us profiles of twelve
major American writers that he has interviewed. While I found the book offered
fascinating insights into the personalities of the writers, I was also struck by
Brown's observations:

Ask Lanford Wilson a question and you'll get an answer, more often than not a long
one. Ask Jason Miller a question and you'll get a pause, more often than not. . . .
Lanford Wilson thinks while he talks. Jason Miller thinks and then talks. If Lanford
Wilson spoke with the open delight of an Ozark mountain breeze, Jason Miller's
 Dialogue 163

words were as wary, weighed, and measured as mercury. If Lanford Wilson con¬
veyed an aura of accessibility. Miller's demeanor was intense, guarded, (p. 23)

This comparison gave me a clear idea of the two distinct voices and the dif¬
ferent manners that these two men exhibit through their speech. Since Brown was
able to record the interviews, he was able to quote the writers verbatim in the book.
Tennessee Williams's voice is one of the most distinct, and the following two
excerpts offer interesting samples.

And you know, St. Louis is a very materialistic city. It really is. It's very middle-
American. Of course, when I was a kid the South still had an aura of romance about
it. Not a Gone With the Wind sort of thing, but people still had time for each other.
And they didn't judge you by the kind of car you drove or the street you lived
on.... (p. 104)
Now, I am not ... I never thought politically before. I don't even vote. I've
never belonged to any party of any kind, and I don't subscribe to any "ism" at all. But
I've just become recently, in the last few years, very conscious, very conscious, of this
corruption, you know, of morals, and of the decay of democratic ideals which I think
began as far back as Korea, which manifests itself through our political system, and
which surfaced most dreadfully with the Kennedy assassination, you know. (p. 105)

Williams's rambling, broken-up speech, with repetition for emphasis, offers a

strong contrast to the short, direct expressions used by Albee in this excerpt:

My brain gets tired. Or my concentration vanishes. Or I get a headache. Or I want

to do something else. I find usually four hours is enough. Then I can go and correct
for fifteen minutes. But I concentrate rather heavily when I'm working, so my brain
gets tired, (p. 132)

Both men were major playwrights of the twentieth century. Yet they were very dif¬
ferent, wrote in very different styles, and possessed very distinctive and unique
voices.

The First Line

The first line of a scene should lead us directly into the essence of the scene, and
that is especially true of the first line of a play. Give careful thought to setting the
right tone and grabbing the audience's interest and attention immediately.
Henrik Ibsen's romantic drama Peer Gynt begins with his mother saying
"Peer, you're lying" (Act 1, Scene 1, p. 5). This immediately gives us insight into
Peer and connects with the whole action of the play, which involves Peer's inabil¬
ity to face things head on. The first line of August Wilson's Fences is similar. Bono
says, 'Troy, you ought to stop that lying!" (Act 1, Scene 1, p. 3). Later, we find that
Troy has fathered a child by a young woman who is not his wife.
164 Chapter 12

Thomas Ludwig's 7/22 begins with "Who left this pubic hair on my soap.
(Act 1, Line 1). This line lets us know we are in for a look at real life with a comic
tone, and it jumps right into conflict. The opening of Clifford Odet s iva e an mg
begins with Ralph complaining "Where's advancement down the p ace. or 1 e
crazy? Think they see it? You'd drop dead first" (p. 25). Sam Shepard s Curse of the
Starving Class begins with the line "You shouldn t be doing that (Act > P- /•
Whatever the makeup of your characters, whatever your premise, the first ine
spoken should start the conflict and the inevitable drive toward the proving of the
premise. Dialogue is action. Dialogue reveals character.

The Lengths of Speeches

Keep speeches varied in length. Long speeches may grow boring and lose the
point. Make certain that if you are writing a long speech, it is necessary for the play
at that point. Ask yourself. Would other characters interrupt, ask questions, or
respond during such a long speech? If so, include speeches by other characters to
break up the monologue. Short to medium exchanges between characters keep all
of them alive and make the play more crisp and vital. Variety provides different
rhythms and keeps us interested and involved.
How long is short? Let the dialogue carry one idea per speech. Listen to the
other characters while one person is talking and see who wants to interrupt. Keep
the lengths of the moderate speeches generally under twenty words. Each speech
should be driven by one specific objective or intention. The character is saying it
for a reason. If you have a speech in which the character has several intentions,
break it up and have the other characters in the scene respond after each intention
has been completed. In some cases, another character will interrupt before the
speaking character has completed his objective.
The mood and emotional content of a scene will affect the lengths of lines. A
scene with a lot of activity or a very strong conflict usually has short speeches of a
few words each. A deep discussion will have medium and short lines. A moment
of revelation will often involve a long speech.

Ensuring a Smooth Delivery

Dialogue must be designed for actors to speak and audiences to hear. If after read¬
ing a part several times, an actor continues to stumble over certain lines, the play¬
wright would be wise to examine those lines and try to make them more playable
It may be a matter of rhythm, a word that's difficult to articulate, or a sentence that
is too long.
It may also be an actor problem—a word the actor doesn't understand a
peculiar reaction because of the actor's own personal life, or a poor association.
 Dialogue 165

The playwright should talk to the director, not the actor—unless the director has
established an open policy The director may suggest that the actor do an action on
the line, such as cross to the telephone or smell the flowers, without mentioning the
line-reading problem at all. If an actor is made too self-conscious about a particu¬
lar word or a line, she may get anxious, tense up when the line is coming, and
never be comfortable with it again. If the actor continues to have problems with a
line, the writer may want to simplify or rewrite it.
An actor knows what a word feels like in his mouth, what a speech feels like,
how a relationship is played. Actors understand this practically, viscerally, in their
guts. You may or may not be an actor, but by reading your material aloud, you will
soon learn what the words feel like in your mouth, what is difficult to articulate,
and what seems wordy or awkward.

Writing "On The Nose"

Avoid direct dialogue—that which expresses exactly what is on the character's

mind, with no attempt on the part of the character to lie, be witty, or use a variety
of subtle tactics. This is called "writing on the nose." It is a rare occasion that a per¬
son truly speaks exactly what's on her mind. Good dialogue expresses the will of
the character indirectly. In reality, characters seldom say exactly what they mean.
Determine if your characters are witty, charming, and intelligent or stupid
and inarticulate. Make them lie, tell fibs and half truths. Let them raise and lower
their status. Let them stumble. Have a character avoid certain words in some way.
For example, if a young man meets a woman with large breasts, he doesn't tell her
he is attracted to her because of her breasts. He doesn't mention breasts, but an
observer of the interaction should be able to tell his thoughts. Find behavior that
reveals the character's mental processes. Make whatever the character is talking
about on the surface different from the subtext, but include enough inferences,
hints, and signs that we understand what the subtext is.

Poetic Language

Most contemporary American plays use standard English, and there is little effort
to use elevated diction or language. Conversational realism is the norm. However,
some plays experiment with poetic form or use a dialect or poetic language.
Tennessee Williams uses poetic language in his plays. While they are grounded
in realistic acting, they also have a heightened use of language and metaphor and are
particularly strong in imagery. Among his most poetic dramas are The Glass
Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, and Summer and Smoke. Maxwell Anderson
explores the use of iambic pentameter or blank verse in writing both contemporary
and historical plays, such as Winterset, Anne of the 1000 Days, and Elizabeth the Queen.
166 Chapter 12

Today, we are most likely to find poetic language used in plays by Hispanic writers,
such as Nilo Cruz; African American writers, such as August Wilson and Ntozake
Shange; and in plays by non-American writers from Ireland and Africa.
I wrote Shakespeare's Journey using both blank verse and prose, as Shake¬
speare did in his plays. I wanted to capture the feeling, the language, and the style
of the Elizabethan period, while making sure the meaning was very clear. Most
playwrights use autobiographical elements in plays, so I reversed the process,
reworking some scenes from Shakespeare's plays to fit his life. The play is struc¬
tured like an Elizabethan play, as well, with comic scenes alternating with serious
ones. Since the actors of that time also played more than one role, I designed the
play for actors to play two or three roles.

Iambic Pentameter

Words are made up of one or more syllables, some of which are emphasized or
stressed and some of which are relatively unstressed. When these words are joined
into a line, their stressed and unstressed syllables work together to form an overall
rhythmic pattern for that line. Scansion is the term for analyzing rhythm syllable by
syllable.
The first step in scanning a line is to identify the stressed and unstressed syl¬
lables. Take this famous line from Romeo and Juliet (Act 2, Scene 2, line 1) as an
example.

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

We put a macron, or line, over each stressed syllable and a semicircle, or breve, over
the unstressed one:
~ _
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

Even though we have marked the syllables as either stressed or unstressed,

these are only very general categories. There is actually a great deal of variation
within each. If we were to read all the stressed syllables one way and all the
unstressed another way the result would be a monotonous singsong. Only a few
of the stresses in each line are major stresses.
Using the most common system of English scansion, foot scansion, you can
identify the rhythmic pattern of a line. Scansion is not an exact science, however
Different people's choices will lead them to stress words or syllables that others
m'p i!,Und?|rp ay' 1S relatlf' and the amount of stress placed on a stressed
syllable will vary. Readings would be monotonous if this were not the case.
, To use foot scansion, we arrange the stressed and unstressed syllables into
units called feet. There are a limited number of these arrangements of stressed and
 Dialogue 167

unstressed syllables, established by tradition. The "But soft" line is recognized as a

foot called iamb. There are six traditional kinds of feet used in English verse, as rep¬
resented by the acronym PITADS:

P is for pyrrhic, which stands for the weakest and smallest foot, ta-tain
I stands for iamb, which has an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed
syllable. ta-TUM
T stands for trochee, the opposite of iamb. TUM-ta
A is for anapest, which is different because it has three syllables, two
unstressed and one stressed. ta-ta-TUM
D is for dactyl, the opposite of anapestic. TUM-ta-ta
S is for spondee, the strongest foot of all, with two stresses, tum-tum

Of the six kinds of feet, we will only deal with the iamb, which has an
unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. If we look at the same line from
Romeo and Juliet again, we see that it divides regularly into iambic feet. There are
five feet in all. We call this meter iambic pentameter. Notice that the division of feet
does not necessarily coincide with the division of words. Iambic pentameter is the
most common English meter. When it does not rhyme, iambic pentameter is called
blank verse. The iamb relates to basic rhythms of the human body. The iamb is the
swift, strong, flowing beat of the human heart—ta-TUM. Shakespeare used basic
iambic pentameter but deviated from it for his more sophisticated and subtle char¬
acters. These deviations give important clues to the nature of the character and his
or her actions and reactions.
An end-stopped line is one in which the thought or idea ends at the end of the
line. When lines run on into each other, they are called enjambed lines. These are
expressions of thoughts and ideas that go beyond the ends of the lines. Enjambed
lines are the opposite of end-stopped lines. Sometimes, they go to the middle or the
end of the next line; sometimes they continue for as many as a dozen lines. Here are
examples from Shakespeare's Macbeth (Act 2, Scene 1, lines 31-34):

Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, This is an enjambed line.

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. This is an end-stopped line.
Is this a dagger which I see before me. This is an enjambed line.
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me This is an end-stopped line.
clutch thee!

Some students find it easy to write in iambic pentameter. Others do not

understand it at all. Some write in language that is too Elizabethan and not mod¬
ern. Try to open yourself up to this language. The idea is to write a modern scene
with modern characters using contemporary dialogue in iambic pentameter, so
168 Chapter 12

that you begin to understand how to focus your attention on the language and
heightened expression. The following is in prose.

If your father does live, I hope you'll try to make up with him. It's more difficult
when a parent dies—if there's unfinished business—and there's no chance of say¬
ing "I'm sorry" or "I love you." When your last words are "Go to hell," it sucks
big time. Believe me, son, I know.

The following is a rewritten version in verse:

My dad and I—we yiever got along.

We had a fight a week before he died.
I never had the chance to say "Goodbye"
Or anything. The last few words he heard
From me were, "I hope you do die quickly
Because I sure as hell don't want to have
To care for you or put up with your crap."

Collaboration

Two imaginations are better than one. Think about collaborating with a partner.
Two writers are more prolific in brainstorming. They can modify the each other's
ideas, and combinations or modifications of previously suggested ideas often are
superior to the initial ones. Working together reduces inhibition and defeatism,
builds enthusiasm, and develops a competitive spirit in which each person wants
to top the other. It can also help you through writer's block. Collaboration can help
in developing better work habits. You have to show up and do the writing because
the other person is. Writing with another person helps you stay motivated,
focused, and productive.
For any collaboration, you need to begin by working out agreements to the
process. Explore different spaces to see where you both work best—home, office,
coffee shop, library. Work out your schedule for writing. Use your journals for not¬
ing ideas when you're not together. Consider the characters. Talk about people,
character traits, habits, attitudes. Find photos to represent the characters. Make
sure the characters are polarized. Decide what the story is about.
Set some ground rules for the process. Decide how you want to work
together: co-writing every word together or dividing up the work into sections. In
the latter approach, aftei one person has written a section, the other can rewrite it;
then the two of you can act it out and agree on changes. Realize that some dis¬
agreement is bound to happen. It is an integral and valuable part of the process and
often leads to important breakthroughs. Talk about how you plan to deal with dis¬
agreements and avoid hurt feelings. Perhaps the first writer of each section will
 Dialogue 169

make the final decision on that section. A good collaboration must have trust and
respect, and it must focus on the work. The writers must have an agreement to talk
things through and find ways to make decisions that both find acceptable. Many
famous writers, such as George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, collaborated for years
and found great success.
In doing the following exercises, you will find that as you work on them, you
become more conscious of the language, the choice of words, the imagery, and the
sentence construction. These exercises force you to edit, to restructure sentences,
and to choose other words to fit within the pattern.

EXERCISE 17_

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Form a partnership with another writer. Set the ground rules for the process
and work together to write a ten-minute play, ten pages long, with two char¬
acters of very different voices, backgrounds, educations, and professions.
Give them emotions caused by things they care about. Brainstorm to come up
with a plot. Discuss each character's objectives, tactics, and subtext. Work
together to make sure the dialogue is sharp.
B. Write a monologue of twelve to twenty lines, or about 125 words, and have
Character A give advice based on his or her own experience. Rewrite the
monologue in iambic pentameter. Do not use rhyme. Continue the thought
beyond the end of the line (enjambed) as much as possible. Make the dia¬
logue contemporary. Turn in both versions.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Write a scene in which two characters never say exactly what they mean.
Avoid direct dialogue. Good dialogue expresses the will of the character indi¬
rectly. Have each character attempt to lie, be witty, and use a variety of subtle
tactics.
D. Select two characters with different professions. Make a list of fifty different
words appropriate to each and write a scene using them. Perhaps the conflict
is because the characters' professions have caused different outlooks. Per¬
haps one character is a workaholic or is learning a dangerous new job. Use
differences in language to define each character.

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a conflict scene between two modern characters of different social sta¬
tus over an object. Focus on the language, slang, images, details, and so on.
F. Rewrite a previous scene, making it comic by turning one of the characters
into a talking animal. How does making the character a dog or a cat or a pig
complicate the situation? Look at the comedy Sylvia by A. R. Gurney, Jr.,
about a man who has to choose between his wife and his dog.
170 Chapter 12

Summary
Dialogue is action and reveals character. The audience wants to know how a char¬
acter experiences the world and how that is reflected in both what the character
says and how he says it. Just as the way a character behaves reveals who he is, so
does the way the character speaks. Voice is one of the most potent character¬
building tools.
Every character, by the way she uses language, reveals something of her
spirit, habits, capabilities, and prejudices. The choices of words, images, and sen¬
tence structures help create the character. The rhythm of the language must work
for the character. Punctuation is a key element in providing clues to the rhythm of
speech. A comma is a short pause. A semicolon is a longer pause. A period is a
slightly longer pause. Three dots (an ellipsis) indicates a pause, in which the char¬
acter is either thinking or trails off. A dash indicates that what follows is either an
appositive—meaning the same thing—or an interruption. In either case, the words
that come after are delivered faster. An understanding of how to punctuate is
essential to creating the rhythm desired for a speech. The more specific the details,
the more vivid the speech. The way in which details are included give clues to the
character's perception. Figures of speech may be used especially to create comic
characters. Language identifies character in terms of age, profession, education,
social status, and religion.
Words that are considered obscene relate to body parts and functions. Words
that are profane are considered offensive because of religious beliefs. Both obscen¬
ities and profanity are used by many people. However, in writing dialogue, it is
important to consider not only the character but also the audience for whom the
playwright is writing. Although it might be realistic to use curse words, it may not
be appropriate or acceptable for some markets.
Now and then, a line stands out as a polished and shining "gem." Such a line
perfectly fits the character and the situation and offers us insight into the character,
situation, or theme.
The first line of a scene should lead directly into the essence of the conflict of
the scene, and that is especially true of the first line of a play. Give careful thought
to setting the right tone and grabbing interest and attention immediately.
When a character is first introduced in a play, the first impression counts.
Audiences make up their minds about whether characters are likeable in the four
minutes after the characters first enter the play. It is important to give the audience
a firm handle on the character right off the bat.
Most contemporary American plays use standard English, and there is little
effort to use elevated language. Conversational realism is the norm However
some plays experiment with poetic form, and some use a dialect or poetic lan¬
guage. Words are made up of one or more syllables, some of which are empha¬
sized, or stressed, and some of which are relatively unstressed. When these words
are joined into a line, their stressed and unstressed syllables work together to form
 Dialogue 171

an overall rhythmic pattern for that line. Scansion is the term for analyzing rhythm
syllable by syllable. The first step in scanning a line is to identify the stressed and
unstressed syllables.
Collaborating with a partner provides two imaginations. Two writers are
more prolific in brainstorming. They can modify the each other's ideas, and combi¬
nations or modifications of previously suggested ideas often are superior to the ini¬
tial ones. Working together reduces inhibition and defeatism, builds enthusiasm,
and develops a competitive spirit in which each person wants to top the other. For
any collaboration, you need to begin by working out ground rules for the process.
HAPTER

Monologues

In a play, a monologue is a long uninterrupted speech. Monologues can be quite

flexible as to the forms they can take. A monologue may be given by one character
to another. Usually, a monologue is not offered freely but given to answer a
demand within a scene, such as Hickey finally telling the truth in Eugene O'Neil's
The Iceman Cometh and Jerry telling about the dog in Edward Albee's Zoo Story. In
William Saroyan's The Time of Your Life, Kit Carson tells Joe a colorful story that
shows us a bit of his character (Act 2, pp. 425-436):

Told the Texas Ranger my name was Rothstein, mining engineer from Pennsylva¬
nia, looking for something worth while. Mentioned two places in Houston.
Nearly lost an eye early one morning going down the stairs. Ran into a six-footer
with an iron claw where his right hand was supposed to be. Said, You broke up
my home. Told him I was a stranger in Houston. The girls gathered at the top of
the stairs to see a fight. Seven of them. Six feet and an iron claw. That's bad on the
nerves. Kicked him in the mouth when he swung for my head with the claw.
Would have lost an eye except for quick thinking. He rolled into the gutter and
pulled a gun. Fired seven times. I was back upstairs. Left the place an hour later,
dressed in silk and feathers, with a hat swung around over my face. Saw him
standing on the corner, waiting. Said, Care for a wiggle? Said he didn't. I went on
down the street and left town. I don't suppose you ever had to put a dress on to
save your skin, did you?

At the climax of Arthur Miller's All My Sons, Chris Keller demands answers
from his father about why he sold defective airplane parts to the air force during
World War II. Chris says, "I want to know what you did, now what did you do?
You had a hundred and twenty cracked engine-heads, now what did you do?"
Keller responds (Act 2, p. 58):

You're a boy, what could I do! I'm in business, a man is in business; a hundred
and twenty cracked, you're out of business; you got a process, the process don't
work, you're out of business; you don't know how to operate, your stuff is no
good; they close you up, they tear up your contracts, what the hell's it to them?

173
174 Chapter 13

You lay forty years into a business and they knock you out in five minutes, w at
could I do, let them take forty years, let them take my life away?
(His voice cracking.)
I never thought they'd install them. I swear to God. I thought they d stop em
before anybody took off.

Some monologues are delivered directly to the audience, such as the solilo¬
quies in classical Greek, Roman, and Elizabethan plays. Today, such monologues
delivered directly to the audience are frequently used in a drama with a narrator,
such as Tom in Tennessee Williams's The Glass Menagerie, the Stage Manager in
Thornton Wilder's Our Town, and Clifford in Warren Leight's Side Man. They are
also used in contemporary comedies, such as Paul Rudnick's Jeffrey and Nicky Sil¬
ver's Tat Men in Skirts, Fit to Be Tied and The Food Chain. The following speech is
spoken by Phyllis at the opening of Fat Men in Skirts (Act 1, p. 7):

I loathe the beach. I am Phyllis Hogan and I do so loathe the beach. To me, it is
the very definition of monotony. Just sand and water and sand and water. And
more sand and more water. Ick. And look, a perfectly good pair of shoes, Susan
Bennis/Warren Edwards, crocodile and completely ruined! I have never under¬
stood the appeal of the seashore: sand in your stockings and young girls with bet¬
ter bodies in skimpy swimsuits. When I was a girl I used to bury myself in the
sand. Head first. I've no idea where I am. I was supposed to be in Italy by now,
but I've been to Italy, and I always gain weight in Italy so here I am at the beach.
My husband is in Italy, gaining weight no doubt, gorging himself on the local del¬
icacies and the local girls—and perhaps, thinking, only fleetingly, "What could
have become of Phyllis?" He's scouting locations for a new film. Something
heartwarming about extraterrestrials I assume. My husband is a filmmaker. He
was a director in the seventies, now he's a filmmaker. He makes heartwarming
films about lovable extraterrestrials, mostly. My plane crashed. It's a miracle that
I'm alive. I suppose. There were eight of us on the plane, including the pilot. Only
Bishop and I survived. Of course one died of a heart attack during the in-flight
movie. It featured Tatum O'Neal. I can't say I was frightened when the plane
went down—the film was beastly. I just watched the ground getting closer and
closer, spinning around outside my window like a top. I shut my eyes and waited
for it to happen, the bang, the crash, the end. And knowing my life was over was
kind of a relief in a funny way. The chore of my life was over and I could just
relax and wait and see.... But then I opened my eyes and now a perfectly good
pair of shoes is down the drain. Damn. You should meet Bishop. Bishop! He's my
son. I sent him to go through the pockets of the others. I only have two packs of
cigarettes with me and there's no telling how long it'll be before they find us
That was an hour ago. bishop! I'll go mad if I don't have some cigarettes.

Some writers try to create the impression that the character is alone, talking
to himself or herself. This is a soliloquy, and it has a long history throughout clas-
 Monologues 175

sical drama. Perhaps the most famous is Hamlet's "To be or not to be" monologue.
In plays by William Shakespeare, Bertolt Brecht, Lanford Wilson, and many other
writers, the soliloquy is often addressed to the audience. In realistic plays, the char¬
acter is usually not expected to look at the audience directly, since a soliloquy is
generally considered to be thinking out loud. Edward Albee uses this kind of a
monologue in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? when Martha is alone and unable to
find George. She's wandering around with a drink in her hand and does a rift after
noticing the ice in her glass is going "clink." Other monologues happen when the
character is talking to an imaginary person or persons, saying things that he
always wanted to say but never had the chance, never had the courage, or perhaps
is preparing to say.
The short monologue generally runs from two to six minutes. It needs to have
a relatively uncomplicated story, with not too many characters. A successful short
monologue is a highly condensed experience that can be thought of as the theatre's
equivalent to poetry. Generally, such a monologue is written to be part of a larger
play. Any monologue must be motivated by the situation and the character's emo¬
tional state. People just don't offer up their life stories to others for no reason. In a
conflict situation, the monologue is usually the character's major explanation,
plea, or excuse to clarify his or her behavior. Every monologue needs a clear refer¬
ence point. We need to know who the speaker is addressing and what she wants.
The character must have a passionate reason for saying this and needs to have dif¬
ferent tactics that lead to achieving her objective.

Types of Monologues

Monologues and monodramas are often difficult to categorize because they are
hybrids of style. The following distinctions are somewhat arbitrary but may be of
some use in clarifying specific characteristics of both monologues and monologue
plays.

Autobiographical Monologues
In this category, the writer recalls actual stories and events from his life. The
actor/writer generally is the narrator in such a piece. There may be little or no
attempt to perform different characters in the story. The emphasis here is on the
telling of his tale.

One-Person Plays
A long monologue, or monodrama, is a one-person play. It may be autobiographical,
fictional, or based on a real person. Monodrama can be a powerful form of theatre.
Quite often, the writer uses elevated language and strong images to create a poetic
enlargement of the characters and subject. A monodrama is like every play in that
176 Chapter 13

it has a beginning, middle, and end; contains concise dialogue, and expresses the
writer's personal vision. Monodramas vary as to style, content, and time.
What makes monodramas so exciting and challenging to work on is that they
are so flexible in terms of form. Although there is only one actor on stage, she can
bring many characters into the piece by assuming their personalities and voices.
Although it is difficult to incorporate conflict into a monodrama, some form of con¬
flict is essential. The writer can rely on interesting characters, dialogue, a dramatic
situation, and so on to make the piece theatrical, but there needs to be an expres¬
sion of conflict, a struggle unfolded, a difficult goal finally reached, and adversity
overcome.
Spalding Gray's autobiographical monologue, Swimming to Cambodia, is an
example of this mainly narrative storytelling style. In it. Gray recalls his fascinating
experiences working as an actor in the movie The Killing Fields. Charlayne
Woodard's Pretty Fire is another example of the autobiographical narrative. She
tells of her formative years and experiences as an African American girl who grew
up with the same values, fears, and dreams as white girls. In this play, she remains
the narrator throughout but also changes her voice and manner to portray the var¬
ious role models in her life.
In monodramas such as Freak and Sexaholics, John Leguizamo uses only him¬
self to tell an autobiographical story, but he sometimes transforms himself into oth¬
ers by assuming the voices, postures, and actions of family members and
girlfriends. In his play Mambo Mouth, Leguizamo creates a series of character
monologues. Each individual monologue features a family member or friend from
his past. Each tells his or her own individual story, with a beginning, middle, and
end. The form of these monologues has the character talking directly to the audi¬
ence, conversationally. It is through the culmination of all of these individual
monologues that the audience sees a larger story and understands what it was like
being "a Latin from Manhattan."
Similarly, in Spic-O-Rama, John Leguizamo creates a series of wildly comic
monologues portraying some of the people he encountered growing up in Jackson
Heights, Queens. However, in this play, the monologues are all connected and the
story as a whole has unity and momentum, moving toward one event: the wed¬
ding. Also an actor, Leguizamo has played all the characters in this satire of an
urban Hispanic household, changing costumes and wigs as well as voices and
movements to convey their distinct elements. In Leguizamo's play, Krazy Willie, a
Desert Storm vet, is getting married. The looming event inspires the six members
of the Gigante clan—nerdy nine-year-old Miggy, the bridegroom himself, Lau¬
rence Olivier wannabe Riffi, wheelchair-bound Javier, their sexy and sassy mother,
Gladyz, and their foul-mouthed, philandering father—to reveal the love, pain, and
frustration of unrealized dreams common to all families. As the actor changed cos¬
tumes and prepared for each new scene, videos were shown to keep the forward
motion accelerating. The videos bridged the plot and aided in camouflaging the
costume changes, which ranged from the quickest of forty-five seconds to the
longest of one-and-a-half minutes.
 Monologues 177

/ Am My Own Wife is a new play by Doug Wright, who also wrote Quills,
about the Marquis de Sade. The play is based on a true story and inspired by inter¬
views conducted by Wright over several years. I Am My Own Wife tells the story of
Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a real-life German transvestite who managed to survive
both the Nazi onslaught and the following repressive communist regime. The play
is performed by a single actor, who portrays a host of characters, including Char¬
lotte and an American writer who becomes intrigued by her. The play is a highly
theatrical and subjective biography.
William Gibson's play Golda's Balcony is a one-woman bioplay about Golda
Meir, who after a lifetime of public service, came out of retirement at age seventy
to become Israel's fourth prime minister. Gibson (also author of The Miracle Worker
and Two for the Seesaw) spent eight months with Meir in 1977, and the text of Golda's
Balcony is largely derived from his conversations with her. There are parallels
between the current situation in the Mideast and Meir's Israel of 1973.
Tea at Five, by Matthew Lombardo, is an intimate biodrama about Katharine
Hepburn at home in her Fenwick estate in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. The first act
takes place in September 1938. In spite of her Broadway appearances and Oscar,
Hepburn has just been labeled "box office poison" after a series of film flops. With
her professional future in doubt, she contemplates her childhood in Hartford, her
education, and her start in show business. The second act takes place in February
1983, after Hepburn was injured in a car crash. The accident affords the now¬
legendary star an opportunity to reflect on the triumphs of her career and her
heart-breaking romance with Spencer Tracy.
In the biocomedy Say Goodnight, Grade, by Rupert Holmes, George Burns
finds himself unable to join his wife, Gracie Allen, in heaven until he can give the
final performance of his lifetime, completing his perfect track record of never hav-
ing missed a curtain. The play—a last hurrah, as he might have presented on his
one-hundredth birthday—is a guided tour through an American century, told
through the eyes of a man who savored each day. From his impoverished youth on
the Lower East Side of New York City to his career in vaudeville and his wooing of
and unlikely marriage to Gracie Allen, the show illuminates Burns's life.
That Day in September, a solo play written and performed by Artie Van Why,
chronicles his journey as he leaves behind an acting career and enters the corporate
world. Being at work in New York City on the morning of September 11, 2001,
across from the World Trade Center, and witnessing firsthand the horror of that
day caused him to re-evaluate his life, quit his job, and begin chronicling his per¬
sonal experience of being there. The greater part of That Day in September is given
over to Van Why's graphic description of images from what he dubs the "war
zone." He conveys the conflicting feelings of fear, awe, confusion, and helplessness
as he recounts in graphic detail what he viewed. His recollections of his return to
work, some two months after 9/11, are similarly vivid. That Day in September bal¬
ances painful memories with a difficult healing process that encompassed a major
life change for Van Why, who quit his job in November 2001 and returned to the
career in theatre he had forsaken nearly two decades before.
178 Chapter 13

Unlike a fictional monologue, an autobiographical one requires a somewhat

different preparation. Since your life is the main source for the materia , you
need to review parts of it for material that will not only be informative to you but
will also be a source of inspiration and illumination to your audience. Sometimes,
the things that we consider to be the most private are in fact quite universal and
can be understood by everyone in the audience.
Look through desks, drawers, and closets for photos, letters, old diaries, old
toys, and any other sources of memorabilia that may trigger recollections. Try to
recall your first romance. What was it about that person that excited you? How do
you feel about the experience now? People face a number of turning points in their
lives. Which ones have you faced? Think about what your life was like before each
event. How did it change afterward? Think about an important job you once had.
What was important about it? How did it change you? Recall the death of someone
you really cared about. How did that affect you then? How does it affect you now?
Think about a relative, friend, or teacher who influenced you and changed your
life in some dramatic way. What was so special about this person? How did he or
she influence your life? Thinking about past holidays usually brings up memories.
Was there a particular holiday that will always bring back strong memories? What
happened? Did you have a dream growing up, something that you really wanted
to do? How has that affected your life? Did you make the dream come true, or did
you change to another goal when you grew up? Have you or someone that you
loved been ill with some life-threatening or incapacitating disease? What was the
story surrounding that period? These suggestions are just memory triggers. If your
monologue is about a specific period of your life, try to recall, in as much detail as
you can, what was going on, both internally and externally, in the world around
you. Recalling world events will create a context for your story.
Another thing to keep in mind is the list of characters that you're going to
include from that period of your life. Recalling the exact things that they said is the
ideal, but unfortunately we usually can't do that. But we can recall things like what
they wore. If you think back, a particular day or moment may come to mind. Think
specifically about what people were wearing. Try to remember every detail of each
person's wardrobe—your mother, for instance. How did her hair look? Was she
carrying a purse? Was she wearing earrings? What was her makeup like? Can you
recall the smell of her cologne? Do you remember any specific mannerisms that she
had? The way she held her head when listening to you? A look in her eyes when
she ate something she liked? Her look of disapproval when she saw someone she
didn't like? Try to remember any idiosyncratic things she did.
Try to remember how you felt about each character back then. Have your
feelings toward any of these people changed? It's interesting how after people are
gone, our feelings toward them change, sometimes dramatically. That change in
feelings can be very helpful when writing about them. Interviewing relatives and
family friends can be a useful source for gathering information that you may not
recall. Return, if you can, to the old neighborhood that you grew up in Walk
around, look at familiar buildings and streets, and see what is conjured up. See if
 Monologues 179

the people you knew then still live there. Perhaps pay a visit. Interview them, if it
feels comfortable and is practical to do so.

Reality-Based Monologues
Some pieces are created from real-life events. This type of monologue uses the exact
words of the people who were involved. In her play Twilight: Los Angeles, 2992, Anna
Deavere Smith relates the experiences of forty-six characters in the wake of the Rod¬
ney King verdict on April 29,1992, and the riots that followed. Smith portrayed all
the characters when the play was performed. In writing it, she obtained information
by tape-recording the actual people and taking notes on their speech tics and vocal
inflections. In Fires in the Mirror, Smith explores the tensions between African Amer¬
icans and Hasidic Jews after a Caribbean American boy was killed in Crown
Heights, New York, on August 19,1991, by a rabbi's motorcade, and a Jewish student
was slain in retaliation. Smith again interviewed most of the principals involved and
many others, presenting a series of characters with diverse points of view.
The Exonerated, a reality-based work by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, is about
people who were sentenced to death, spent anywhere from two to twenty-two
years on death row, and then subsequently were found innocent and freed by the
state. Taken verbatim from court transcripts, depositions, and interviews. The
Exonerated tells the true stories of six people who were wrongly accused, convicted
of murder, and spent many years on death row before finally being proven inno¬
cent and released. Blank and Jensen edited their source materials to produce a
series of monologues to tell their story (which is more about the loss of time than
the morality of the death penalty) and fused everything into a seamless, com¬
pelling whole. The impact of The Exonerated is made more striking by the decision
to stage the play as a reading. The actors sit on ten stools with music stands, facing
forward. The direct contact helps the audience absorb the play's full weight.

Topical Monologues
Topical monologues rely heavily on the experience of the performer/writer. They
are part autobiographical, part observation, and part opinion. There is a thin line
between a topical monologue and stand-up comedy. Both generally incorporate
anecdotes, jokes, and personal observations. The difference between the two lies in
the writer's intention. The topical monologist's intention is to discuss a theme. His
or her stories generally have a more cohesive quality. Stand-up comics primarily
tell jokes, although on occasion, they will also include some anecdotal material.
Comedian George Carlin generally focuses on a theme. He cites personal observa¬
tions and specific incidents and then moves to the larger picture and his opinion of
it. Kate Clinton's funny, feminist topical monologues express her particular view of
the world. She has done both stand-up and topical monologues. Bill Maher also
does topical monologues, often focusing on political issues.
180 Chapter 13

Fictional Monologues
This is a fictional story performed by an actor. It is generally written in narrative
form, in which the actor serves as storyteller. Shirley Valentine, by Willy Russell, is
a very successful example. In it, Shirley ponders her unfulfilled life and eventually
goes to Greece to find her "missing person" within. During the telling of the story,
the actor will occasionally break the narrative form to momentarily become one of
the characters, but then she immediately returns to the narrator/storyteller role.
St. Nicholas, by Conor McPhearson, is another example. In this monologue
play, a fictitious character tells a chilling imaginary tale of a night of drinking and
an encounter with a vampire. Although the story is told in a narrative form, occa¬
sionally, the man will re-enact a moment with present-tense dialogue. The story
has a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. It builds in tension, as we expe¬
rience what the main character tells us about this scary night. Similar to a tale told
around a campfire, we are in suspense as the storyteller takes us from one moment
to the next.
Although Eugene O'Neill's The Emperor Jones has a scene with dialogue at
both the beginning and end, it is essentially a monodrama, in which Jones is run¬
ning through the jungle experiencing a nightmare of visions from his past and
from the history of African Americans. He encounters the "little formless fears,"
the pullman porter he killed, the negro convicts, the prison guard, the planters, the
slave market, the slave ship, the congo witch doctor, and the crocodile god. O'Neill
uses monologues, masks, pantomime, suggestive scenery, lighting, costumes, and
the increasingly faster throb of the tom-toms to outwardly express Jones's
thoughts and emotions.
Talking Heads, written by British playwright Alan Bennett and produced in
New York in the summer of 2003, showcased seven actors in a program of alter¬
nating monologues. Each monologue is a one-person, one-act play, complete with
set and even costume changes. Even though they are united thematically and all
explore the inner reaches of loneliness, they stretch the monodrama format in
unexpected and new ways.

Audition Monologues
Sometimes, instead of using a monologue from an established play, a monologue
is written especially for auditioning, usually by the actor performing it. Casting
directors and agents pride themselves on their ability to make snap judgments, so
if you write for auditions, it is best to remember that brevity is essential. An audi¬
tion piece that unfolds slowly will still end whenever the director or agent says
"thank-you." For this strange format, the material should not exceed two to three
minutes. In some cases, an actor will be allowed only a one-minute monologue.
The purpose of an audition monologue is marketing. The actor is seeking to
prove his talent. The actor/writer needs to choose a character that he is capable of
p aying and is realistically suitable for being cast. The monologue and the charac¬
ter need to show off the best assets of the actor. An actor/writer who is not good at
 Monologues 181

physical comedy or gut-wrenching emotion should not try to create a character

that requires such a portrayal. It is especially important for an audition monologue
to have a clearly defined beginning, middle, and end. In a bare space, with no
lights and costumes, the actor only has the words and his body and voice to indi¬
cate to the viewers the start of the performance, the high point, and when the piece
is finished. Remember, directors and other casting agents, who often see dozens of
actors, usually make these decisions quickly. A monologue must fit within the
allotted time. If the call is for a two-minute monologue, it must work within that
time limit. Less is more. Otherwise, the actor may be cut off before being able to
really show his stuff.
While the monologue form is a flexible form with flexible rules, the audition
monologue has more strictures, especially when it comes to time. A good, short
audition monologue or character monologue should include several attributes:

1. It should generally be from one to two minutes in length. Because of its

brevity, the story shouldn't be too complex.

2. It should not contain much exposition because that tends to drag the piece
down and bore the audience.

3. It should avoid storytelling about a past event. An audition monologue needs

to include strong, immediate dialogue; have an intense, passionate, and exciting
reason for the character to be speaking; and employ clear tactics. Such a mono¬
logue is generally much more effective, especially for an audition where the goal is
to wow the director or agent.

4. A limited number of characters should be mentioned in the piece. Too many

characters will confuse the listener. Therefore, the number of characters involved
in the story should be limited to no more than three.

5. Every monologue should have a clear beginning, middle, and end, and each of
these three portions must be given its due. Without a strong adherence to this
structure, problems will develop. A monologue with a faulty structure seems to
hop all over the place, losing the audience along the way, and often seems just to
stop rather than end. Such a monologue exemplifies the need for a strong begin¬
ning and end. A monologue that sets out to handle a large issue and then suddenly
ends, without sufficiently dealing with that issue, generally needs a stronger mid¬
dle. In most, though not all, monologues, the main character wants to achieve
some goal. In the middle section, we see her struggle, which builds to a climax.
Generally speaking, the middle of the monologue will dominate because it deals
with action and plot development.

The monologue should include three elements. First is the character's objec¬
tive, what she wants or must have. When we know what the character's objective is,
the action of a piece can begin. Second, there must be an obstacle, which is any
obstruction, hindrance, or opposition that stands in the way of a character's getting
something that she wants. The third element, the arc, is the shape the monologue
182 Chapter 13

takes. It is the through line, from the beginning to the middle to the end. The arc is
determined by the journey that the character takes to get what she wants or needs.
The challenge and demand for the writer is to tell some sort of story and express
some sort of meaning or message.
Unlike a play, a short monologue within a play does not always have to
include a strong conflict. Striking characterization and dialogue are sometimes
enough to keep the monologue interesting and theatrical. However, without con¬
flict, nothing happens, and if nothing happens, it s not dramatic. This will not
work for a longer monologue play.

The Questions
A monologue should make clear answers to the following questions: Who? What?
Why? When? Where? To whom? How? I'm not suggesting that you write informa¬
tion out in some factual way. Avoid obvious exposition. You should be able to cre¬
atively reveal and show important information to your audience within the
dialogue or narrative without stating all of it explicitly.

1. Who is the character speaking? You must know your character inside and out.
You should be able to improvise in that character, if necessary. You should be able
to imagine the character in situations other than the one you are presenting in your
piece.

2. What problems or complications arise for this character? To make something dra¬
matic, there should be some sort of conflict, something that stirs the character into
action. What the character is trying to get and from whom will influence his choice
of actions. As a writer, you must create a character with strong, specific wants. This
is especially true in character-driven and narrative pieces.

3. Why is the character telling this story? Through the character's dialogue, let us
know why the character is saying and doing the things he is. The audience must
have some sense of what motivates the character; otherwise, they will become con¬
fused and eventually disinterested. Why does the character need to tell the story?
The need cannot be general; it must be specific. The character may need to dispose
of some guilt or pain from his past. Perhaps he has this hilarious story that simply
must be told. Or maybe the character has discovered some profound insight that
must be shared with the rest of the world—now! Whatever you select, remember,
the need to tell and the urgency should be compelling.

4. When is this happening? Are we in the present, the past, or the future? What is
the time of day? Is it 4.00 a.m. or 3:00 in the afternoon? Obviously, the time will
affect how the character speaks, moves, and thinks.

5. Where is it happening? Where is the character physically when she is deliver¬

ing this monologue? Letting the audience know the locale in the context of the
stoi y is helpful in their understanding and sharing of what you're trying to tell. In
 Monologues 183

the case of an autobiographical monologue, the character may be back in the house
that she grew up in. If you can clearly establish the location for your audience, or
at least give them a sense of it, you will set a mood and bring them into your world.
How does this location affect the character who is speaking? In some monologues,
the actor may be the story's narrator and there may be no pretense that she is in a
make-believe location. The character is just in the theatre, telling the story of your
monologue to the audience. In an audition monologue, there are no pieces of
scenery, no costumes, and no props. Therefore, it is the job of the storyteller to fill
the stage with images that will evoke the world needed.

6. To whom is the character speaking? If the character is talking to someone, who

is this person? What is their relationship? The secret to dealing with this aspect is
not to clutter the monologue with a lot of facts about the person being addressed.
How the character relates to this person, what she says, and how she says it will
give the audience most of the important information. Certainly, some relevant facts
about the relationship may be necessary. But by calling someone "Mom" or
"Honey," you immediately give obvious clues about the relationship.

7. How does the character resolve the complication? The way the character goes
about solving his dilemma or conflict is one of the main components of story¬
telling. Specifically, how a character resolves his problem is often an indication of
whether we are watching a comedy or drama.

Dramatic Style

It's important to understand the difference between narrative and dramatic writing,
since both styles are interwoven throughout most monologues. In the narrative
style, a narrator tells a story. Background material, with detailed descriptions, is
presented. Character, set, and plot are developed in these detailed descriptions.
Generally speaking, autobiographical monologues use more of the narrative style
than other types of monologues.
In the dramatic style, we are shown the story through strong dramatic
actions, rather than told the story. The writer frequently begins with the character
in the middle of an action—a conflict situation. For instance, the character may
start the monologue ranting about some issue or appealing to the audience for
something. The story is happening right there, right now, in the moment. In this
case, there is no need to go through the beginning, middle, and end of the narrative;
regardless, the piece still needs to have an arc to it.

Your Personal Style

Your voice is your style, your way of expressing yourself. Your voice stems directly
from your sense of truth. It is your unique choice of words and phrases, your
rhythm, the way you speak, your vision, how you tell your story. It is your
184 Chapter 13

trademark style. It is a major factor in determining the tone of your work. All good
writers have their own distinct voice. Finding and developing your personal voice
is an integral part of your work as a monologist.
The trap for most beginning monologists it that they try to emulate their
favorite writer's style, consciously or unconsciously To avoid this, always stay
focused on specifically what it is you want to say, on your need to tell your story,
and create your characters exactly the way you see and feel them.

Finding the Character's Voice

A writer needs to develop a distinct voice for each character in a play One way of
doing this is to get the characters talking. Let your imagination take you inside
each character's head. Stay there a while; breathe it in; live in her shoes. Imagine
what it's really like to be this person. Notice the differences and similarities
between who you are and who she is. Notice how the character thinks and feels
about things.
When you feel that you really know the character, viscerally, let the character
speak. Write exploratory monologues, in which each character is in the present and
talks about the ten most important milestones in her life and what effect each one
had. Explore how the characters feel about the moments of crisis and change. Let
the characters get emotional. Envision how each character looks and acts upon
making her first entrance. Concentrate on her thought patterns, word choices, and
command of language.
Many playwrights have said that they really don't write their plays but that
the characters tell them what to say. Let your characters lead you where they want
to go. Let your characters tell the story that they want to tell. Get out of the way;
just "play." Always try to simplify things; bring them down to their basic truths.
Nothing is more boring on stage than a long-winded, unnecessary narrative that
could easily have been stated in a line or two.
Keep in mind that you are writing for the stage, not for a book. You don't
want to become too literary, too cerebral; your audience will fall asleep on you.
People in real life sometimes struggle to find the right word. They repeat them¬
selves. They interrupt themselves and change directions. They don't use complete
sentences. They use contractions and slang, and their grammar isn't always cor¬
rect. Write as the character thinks, feels, and speaks. Visualize the character going
to school, eating dinner, listening to music. What does the character's face look
like? His teeth? Lips? Find the voice.

Characteristics of Good Monologues

A good monologue play should have a well-defined structure, just as a good play
does. There is no one rule as to how a monologue must be structured, however The
story should always dictate the form.
 Monologues 185

A monologue play, like a short monologue, should have a clear beginning,

middle, and end. No matter what form it takes, the monologue play is a way of
telling a story, and all good stories have a clear through line.
The story that you're telling should be able to sustain interest for however
long it takes to tell. This means that since there is an audience, there must be enter¬
tainment value. Make sure that the monologue is theatrical, not something that the
audience could have stayed home and read. When you're writing for the theatre,
you must take into account your audience.
Images are one of the main things that capture an audience. The more specific
and descriptive you can be, the better. How the character feels about the event of
the story that he is telling is another important thing to keep in mind. Storytelling
is about saying something out loud to people who are listening. Words, images,
and ideas are what we communicate to make stories alive, vibrant, and interesting.
The short monologue or monologue play should include an objective, an
obstacle, and an arc. It should have conflict, for it to work theatrically. You may cre¬
ate as many characters as you want. Just be sure that each one is necessary to your
story; you don't want to overpopulate the piece. Each character should be fully
developed and different from the others. If you have a play with a series of charac¬
ter monologues, such as Leguizamo's Mambo Mouth, each may have a different set¬
ting, as long as the locales are simple and set changes can be made in less than a
minute. Sometimes, with a no-set show, locale changes are indicated within the dia¬
logue, but the writer must be sure that the audience always knows where they are.
At some point, your audience should become aware of your point of view, of
what you're trying to say. For any play to succeed, the audience should have some
sense of why the writer took the time to create it in the first place. One of the main
reasons to create your own monologue should come out of the need to express
something that deeply concerns you. It may be a burning issue or some event in
your past that you need to resolve. The important thing is that during the mono¬
logue, you attempt to come to grips with the issue or the meaning of the event. The
most important thing to keep in mind is that every monologue and monologue
play must have an interesting story to tell, a good yarn, a reason for the audience
to want to be there.

EXERCISE 18 (Optional) ____

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write an autobiographical monologue in which Character A talks about a sig¬
nificant object given to him by Character B, a person no longer in his life because
the person is dead, estranged, or moved away. Use an object that an actor can
have in his hand when performing the monologue. The significance of the
object is not its monetary value but its importance as a symbol of something the
character values because it represents the relationship—the love, sadness, joy.
Possible objects include a ring, key, shirt, candy box, watch, photo, or a letter.
B. Write a fictional monologue in which the character spins a whopping, fantas¬
tic story that has just enough elements of truth so that the audience might be
186 Chapter 13

sucked into believing that it is not a total lie, but it is. This might be a fantasy
trip, an experience with an alien, an urban legend, a wild west story, or a brie
love affair with a romantic stranger.
Intermediate Level Choose one of the following.
C. Write an audition monologue. Imagine a conflict situation in which the char¬
acter has reached the end of his or her rope. The character is confronting a
best friend or lover about a serious addiction problem with food, drugs, alco¬
hol, or sex. Who is the character speaking? What is the problem for this char¬
acter? Why is the character telling the story? What time of day or night is it?
Where is it happening? To whom is the character speaking? How does the
character resolve the complication? The monologue should have a beginning,
middle, and end. It needs an arc that builds to a climax.
D. Write a monologue specifically designed to focus on the character's voice.
Pay careful attention to the choice of words and phrases, slang, and region-
alisms. Craft the sentence structure to reflect the personality. Is the character
tough, shy, uneducated, urban, rural, overconfident, brash, sassy?
Advanced Level Choose one of the following:
E. Pick a serious monologue from a play. Rewrite the monologue to fit a comic
character with attitude and a distinctly different voice and vocabulary.
F. Write a fifteen-minute monodrama about a well-known contemporary or his¬
torical figure. Explore one major event in that person's life in one space at one
time. Although there will be only one actor on stage, he can bring other char¬
acters into the piece by assuming their personalities and voices. There needs
to be expressions of conflict, a struggle unfolded, a difficult goal finally
reached, or adversity overcome.

Summary

A monologue is a long, uninterrupted speech delivered by one character to another

or directly to the audience. Some writers try to create the impression that the char¬
acter is alone, talking to himself. This is a soliloquy. A successful short monologue is
a highly condensed experience that can be thought of as the theatre's equivalent to
poetry. Any monologue must be motivated by the situation and the character's
emotional state. In a conflict situation, the monologue is usually the character's
major explanation, plea, or excuse to clarify his behavior. A long monologue, or
monodrama, is a one-person play.
Monologues and monodramas are often difficult to categorize because they
aie hybrids of style. The following distinctions are somewhat arbitrary but may be
of some use in clarifying specific characteristics of both monologues and mono¬
logue plays.
 Monologues 187

In an autobiographical monologue, the writer recalls actual stories and

events from his life. The actor/writer generally is the narrator in such a piece.
Examples include John Leguizamo's Freak and Sexaholics. A variant of this form is
a series of monologues portraying different people, all played by one actor, and
centered around one event in his life, such as Leguizamo's Spic-a-holic.
A long monologue, or monodrama is a one-person play. Golda's Balcony (Gib¬
son) and I Am My Ozvn Wife (Wright) are two examples. This type of play may be
autobiographical, fictional, or based on a real person. Monodrama can be a power¬
ful form of theatre.
A reality-based monologue is created from a real-life event. The monologist
uses the exact words of the people who were involved, as in Fires in the Mirror
(Smith).
A topical monologue is part autobiographical, part observation, and part
opinion. There is a thin line between a topical monologue and stand-up comedy.
Both generally incorporate anecdotes, jokes, and personal observations. The dif¬
ference between the two lies in the writer's intention. The topical monologist's
intention isn't only to get laughs but to center the material with a cohesive theme.
Fictional storytelling monologues are fictional stories performed by actors.
They are generally written in narrative form, in which the actor serves as storyteller.
Sometimes, instead of using a monologue from an established play, a mono¬
logue is written especially for auditioning, usually by the actor performing it. The
characteristics of a good, short audition monologue or character monologue are as
follows: (1) It should generally be from one to two minutes in length. In some cases,
an actor is only allowed a one-minute monologue. (2) It should not contain much
exposition because that tends to drag the piece down and bore the audience. (3) It
should avoid storytelling about a past event. An audition monologue needs to
include strong, immediate dialogue; have an intense, passionate, and exciting rea¬
son for the character to be speaking; and employ clear tactics. (4) A limited number
of characters should be mentioned in the piece—no more than three. (5) It should
have a clear beginning, middle, and end.
Every monologues should make clear answers to the following questions:
(1) Who is the character speaking? (2) What problems or complications arise for
this character? (3) Why is the character telling this story? (4) When is it happening?
(5) Where is it happening? (6) To whom is the character speaking? (7) How does the
character resolve the complication?
A good monologue has a well-defined structure. The story should always dic¬
tate the form. A monologue play, like a short monologue, should have a clear begin¬
ning, middle, and end and a clear through line. The story should be entertaining.
The monologue should be theatrical, not something that the audience could have
stayed home and read. The words, images, and ideas used to communicate must
make the story alive, interesting, and capture an audience. The short monologue or
monodrama includes a clear objective, obstacles, and an arc. It has conflict. It works
theatrically.
 CHAPTER

Settings, Costumes, and

Other Technical Matters

What is the period in which you plan to set the play? What about the people, man¬
ners, country, time, culture, sounds, and clothing? What kind of world does the
play create? What is the visual environment? How can the playwright deal with
this visual world in a manner that is practical for the theatre?
One of the problems I encounter with student playwrights is their lack of
knowledge about the practical issues of theatre from a design and technical stand¬
point. Recently, a beginning playwright turned in three scenes with three very real¬
istic and different locales. The first scene took place on the edge of a cliff, the
second scene was set in an office, and the third was in a bedroom. Among the stage
directions was the note "Half an hour goes by." This playwright was used to film
but had no understanding of the stage. As such, the writing he had created on
paper wasn't possible or practical for the theatre.

Theatrical Forms
The physical setting of a play is often determined by its type of theatrical form. A
professional musical production—with its presentational style, spectacular scale,
numerous sets, and large cast—generally requires a large theatre with a seating
capacity of at least 1000 to 1500 in order to make a profit at the box office. A straight
(nonmusical) play, which is more intimate in nature, needs a smaller-sized stage
and house, with seating from 99 to 850.
Both types of theatrical productions have clung to the traditional proscenium
theatre, with the audience facing the stage. However, there are small theatres with
flexible seating arrangements off-Broadway, off-off-Broadway, and in many uni¬
versities and communities throughout the United States. These theatres are able to
change the audience/actor relationship by having the audience on two sides of the
stage (alley staging), on three sides (thrust stage), surrounding the stage (arena stag¬
ing), or in an L-shape around the stage.
In the past hundred years, new theatres of all forms have sprung up all over
the country. The black box theatre, which allows for flexible staging and changing
the audience stage relationship for each play, has become popular. These smaller
theatres have reduced the ornate splendor of the old proscenium theatres for a

189
190 Chapter 14

simpler "form follows function" approach. These theatres minimize the scale of
production.
Most student playwrights start out with a ten-minute play or a one-act.
Often, such a work is presented with no scenery and a minimum of furniture and
props. An evening of two long one-acts may have sets, if produced in a profes¬
sional theatre or occasionally in an educational or community theatre. This is more
apt to occur if the playwright is well known or if the theatre is focusing on new
work. Colleges and universities are more apt to produce an evening of four or five
short plays directed by students, with just furniture and props.

Settings

Because of the enormous costs of producing a straight, nonmusical play—comedy

or drama—most plays today are restricted to a single or unit set. Most straight
plays take place in living rooms. Many use a kitchen setting. Some are set in cafes
or bars. Some are set outside houses. Only a few plays call for a really unique or dif¬
ferent kind of locale. For instance, Out of Gas on Lover's Leap, by Mark St. Germain,
and The Unseen Hand, by Sam Shepard, are each set outdoors with a car on stage.
Arthur Miller's The Price is set in an attic filled with junk. Tennessee Williams's Cat
on a Hot Tin Roof and Alan Ball's Five Women Wearing the Same Dress are each set in
a bedroom. Tennessee Williams's Orpheus Descending and Ed Graczyk's Come Back
to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean are each set in a general store. Doug
Wright's Quills and Peter Weiss's Marat/Sade are each set in a mental asylum.
Steaming, by Neil Dunn, is set in a Turkish bath. Herb Gardner's I'm Not Rappaport
is set in Central Park. Miguel Pinero's Short Eyes is set in a prison. David Rabe's
Streamers is set in a paratroopers' barracks. Patrick Meyers's K2 is set on the side of
a mountain covered with ice. Leroi Jones's Dutchman takes place in a subway car.
Other locales include locker rooms, offices, brothels, gas stations, and even
beaches. Most contemporary plays are tied to realism. The exceptions are those
plays with a number of locales, which are then produced with a unit set, an imagi¬
native and creative approach that is suggestive rather than realistic. My advice to
the playwright is to try and find a setting that is more unique than the typical liv¬
ing room or kitchen.
A unit set provides a basic structure and allows minor changes in the set,
props, and lighting to suggest different locales. There are many different solutions
to the problem of multiple locales. A revolving stage with three sets in a pie shape
may work for some plays. Another approach is to have a major set on stage with
inserts, which may be on a wagon that rolls through an opening. Another way is to
anchor sets on the right and the left. Once the main set is rolled upstage the set on
the right or the left swings on stage, like the opening of a knife. Another approach is
to have one major set piece with some areas on the stage that are neutral By adding
a chair or a bar or a bed, the neutral space can be used for short scenes in other
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 191

locales. Some contemporary plays with intriguing unit sets are Peter Shaffer's Royal
Hunt of the Sun and Equus, Arthur Miller's After the Fall, and Tony Kushner's Angels
in America.
Royal Hunt of the Sun uses a large raked circle. (Raked means that the back of
the area is raised higher than the front so it is tipped up, allowing the audience to
see better.) The circle opens up to suggest a blazing sun. After the Fall, by Arthur
Miller, uses an abstract platform stage to represent many different locales. Equus
uses a platform in the center with benches to represent the psychiatrist's office, the
Strang home, a stable, a movie theatre, a field and so on. The area around the cen¬
ter platform is used for other locales. The center platform also revolves. In the
background around the stage, there are benches for the actors to sit on when they
aren't involved in the action. There are six towers that each hold a horse mask.
When the actors are to play horses, they move to the towers and put the masks on
in a ritualistic fashion.
Angels in America: Millennium Approaches is a three-hour play in three acts that
has about ten different locales and thirty set changes. In some scenes, there are
simultaneous actions in two different locales. This design, by J. David Blatt, is a
unit set with most of the furniture on stage throughout. Two turntables down¬
stage—small revolving circular platforms—and a wagon upstage are used.

After the Fall, performed at Berry College, Rome, GA. Directed and designed by Leroy Clark.
192 Chapter 14

Angels in America: Millennium Approaches, performed at Wichita State University. Directed

by Leroy Clark, Set and Lighting designed by J. David Blatt, Costume Design by Betty Monroe.

Changes are made on the turntables during intermission. A few items are brought
on and off by actors. Lighting focuses the audience's attention on the area of the
stage associated with each specific locale. White drapes provide an opportunity to
show off dramatic color in the lighting as well as to visually provide a theatrical
metaphor for the angels in heaven, the white of a hospital room, and the snow-
covered landscape of Antarctica.
Working with student playwrights. I've encountered the same major problem
over and over again—that the writer has no understanding of the stage or the limi¬
tations of live theatre, the small budgets, and what is practical. Most important,
however, is how this lack of understanding translates into poor approaches to struc¬
turing plays and poor choices concerning settings and technical production. In
every playwriting class I've taught over the last twenty years, a number of the stu¬
dents turn in first drafts of plays with multiple locales and time changes. Most
beginning writers are very influenced by film, and they write in a cinematic way,
with a series of scenes in different locales and the expectation of a realistic set and
an immediate change for each locale. They also do not take into account the needs
for costume and prop changes. Thought must be given to the time, labor, and cost
such changes would require. In most cases, I am able to show the students how their
plays can be rethought to work in one location or a unit set with fewer time changes.
Such plays, when produced—even if a unit set is devised—often seem
choppy If there is a blackout between scenes, it drops the audience out of the play
and when this happens over and over, it alienates the audience. If the stage doesn't
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 193

go completely to black between scenes but stage hands appear and change props,
that also takes the audience out of the play. When I am directing, I try to incorpo¬
rate prop changes within the activities of the characters in the scene. If props are
used and left on stage at the end of a scene and should not be there in the next
scene, I try to find a way of dealing with them in the stage business of the actors
during the scene, so that stage hands are not seen on stage until intermission or
after the play.
It is nearly impossible in most theatres today to produce a play with multiple
full stage sets. There isn't the space to store sets, and the cost is prohibitive. The
time it would take to change the scenery would destroy the flow of the play. In
many university, community, and professional theatres, the personnel who are
available to build, paint, decorate, find or make props, and run the set and prop
changes are too small in number to manage such a large-scale production ade¬
quately or effectively.
Therefore, the wise writer should think small. A play by an unknown writer
that requires a spectacular, complex, and expensive setting (or several of them)
isn't likely to ever be produced. The beginning writer should focus on the charac¬
ters, the plot, the structure, the dialogue, the rhythm, and most important, the con¬
flict. Depend on the characters to tell the story. The setting and technical
requirements need to be kept simple. This doesn't necessarily mean boring, but it
means the writer needs to be practical and creative. She needs to learn what is pos¬
sible and practical, to be resourceful, and to find a setting that is unique and not
overcomplicated. The same cautions apply to the playwright who wants numer¬
ous lighting and sound effects or music playing during the play. Any production
that focuses on these elements, rather than the story, the acting, and the characters,
is likely to have major problems.
Visual design in the modern theatre is concerned with the total visual effect
of a dramatic production. It involves not only the scenic background—the colors
and shapes of framed pieces of scenery—but also the selection and style of the fur¬
niture and set dressings, the quality and intensity of the lighting, and the easy
movement of the actors. The careful consideration of the actor's costumes to con¬
trast with the background; to represent the personality, age, period, sex, and status
of the character; and to fit with the overall style of the production is also part of the
visual design. Visual design is the creating of a form to fulfill a purpose. Scenic,
lighting, costuming, and sound design all provide a visual/aural support of the
dramatic form. The form of the play should guide the designers in understanding
the relationship of the scenery to the action, to the style, to the moods, to the theme,
and to the story in general.
Jo Mielziner, one of the most notable stage designers of the twentieth century,
avoided realism. He did not believe literalism had any place in the theatre. He
omitted the nonessentials and accented the details he believed were the most
revealing. His designs for the original productions of Death of a Salesman and A
Streetcar Named Desire became world famous and reproduced in countless theatre
books internationally. His design for Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof a
194 Chapter 14

realistic play set in the bedroom of a Southern mansion, was originally represented
on the stage with just platforms and furniture in front of a cyclorama. There were
no walls, no attempt to present a realistic bedroom in a Southern mansion.
Women's costumes were poetic and stylized, not realistic. Playwrights can learn
how less is more by looking at his designs in his book. Designing for the Theatre,
published by Bramhill House (1965) or Mielziner: Master of Modern Stage Design by
Mary C. Henderson, published by Watson-Guptill Publications (2001).
As you think of the locale or setting for your play, seek to find unique places.
In The Knack, by Ann Jellicoe, the setting is basically an empty room, in which one
character is painting the walls during the play. Edward Albee's Seascape is set on a
beach, and his Sandbox is set in a sandbox. William Saroyan's short play Hello Out
There is set in a jail. The possibilities extend as far as your imagination.
It is also helpful to understand what is practical in the theatre. As noted ear¬
lier, the practical problems of staging will affect play selection by a producer or a
theatre, even when the play under consideration is clearly a good play. Practical
factors include the number of sets and the style and detail of the sets. Whether
there is a large stock of ready-made flats and platforms to use or whether all must
be built from scratch may also determine the acceptance or rejection of a play. The
playwright's script may be extremely set-specific, such as A Streetcar Named Desire
or Equus. The original sets for these plays were so successful in creating the envi¬
ronments for the plays that the designs for most other productions continue to be
strongly influenced. The directions for staging within the scripts also make it diffi¬
cult for any director of designer to ignore them or produce the plays in a different
way. However, many plays lend themselves to a variety of approaches. A revival of
An Inspector Calls, by J. B. Priestley, on Broadway in 2001 showed how a typical
kind of mystery play, set in a 1912 drawing room, could be creatively reimagined
with an expressionistic exterior setting. When the play opened, it was raining. The
floor of the stage was paved with stone, so that the water could be channeled. In
the background was a miniature English manor house. This moved downstage
toward the audience, and the family members emerged from the house. The
approach to any play depends not only on what the playwright is saying and how
he is saying it but also on the vision of the director and designers. The director's
concept, the theatre space, and all that is in the script—the demands of the action,
the literary style, the characters affect the vision of the designers. The more you
as the playwright know about staging, about scenery, and about costumes, the
more stageworthy your work will be.
I always ask the students in my playwriting classes how many have never
seen a play. I remember that in a recent class, two people had never seen a play. They
were familiar with television and film, but here they were, taking a playwriting
class without ever having seen a live theatre production. Both of them also pre¬
sented scenes m class that were cinematic and not really developed or practical for
t te stage One wrote a scene that called for darkness, then a nuclear explosion, light-
at eJ)t §ettin8 bri§hter and brighter, and two soldiers in silhouette fighting
witn swords. There were only a few lines of dialogue. The soldiers dropped their
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 195

swords, but the swords moved in slow motion and disintegrated before they
touched the floor. There was dialogue about the heat, the numbness in the body, and
the end of the world. The soldiers hugged each other and disintegrated. It would be
very difficult to show these things on stage, of course, and the lighting, projections,
and special effects would be very time consuming and expensive. The assignment
was an exercise calling for students to write a scene focusing on the use of a creative
and unique kind of setting, with a character making a major decision. The writer of
the scene just noted focused on the setting but wasn't able to describe it in stage¬
worthy terms. His description was more suitable to a movie, and the only decision
made was the soldiers throwing down their weapons. The soldiers were not devel¬
oped as characters. They were cardboard types. There was no clear protagonist.
There was no distinction between the two characters. Understanding what is possi¬
ble and practical in the theatre will help you tell a story in a way that will work.
If you don't understand what is practical, you may find your play will be con¬
sidered unproducible and tossed aside. This nearly happened to a play called
Under Fire, by Catherine Keyser. I want to tell this story for two reasons: First, I
want to make it clear that you don't always have to have one simple set and only a
few actors. If you have a clear vision, follow your dream. Second, if you have a
vision but are not sure if it will work, find someone to help you—someone you
trust and who has faith in you. Otherwise, you may be wasting your time. Under
Fire was produced at Central Florida University. Without the support and help of
director Lani Harris, the play would have been discarded.
The play had been selected from a student competition. Professor Lani Har¬
ris was part of the selection team. Some of her colleagues felt the play was unpro¬
ducible. It focused on Hillary Clinton and her election to the U.S. Senate, it had a
strong role of the very well-known Bill Clinton, it had many locales, and it had a
huge cast of about 150 characters. Casting, staging, costumes—all presented many
problems to be solved. Nevertheless, there was much about the play and what it
had to say that intrigued Harris, and there was no doubt that the twenty-one-year-
old student writer from Harvard was talented.
Harris worked with the author to cut down the number of characters and
make the play more focused. She cast the play with individual actors playing the
major roles and a chorus of other actors playing five or six characters each. Each
chorus member had one basic costume, and by adding a hat or a sweater and
changing his or her physicality, each actor was able to convey different charac¬
ters—real contemporary people, historical figures, and the imagined group of
reporters, aides, secretaries, and other people Senator Clinton dealt with. Harris
found solid, experienced actors to play Hillary and Bill, who were made up to cap¬
ture the likenesses of the real people. Her set designer created a multilevel, abstract
set with terrific acting areas and used five screens—television and large projection
screens—for slides and video. The student lighting designer lit the actors and the
set brilliantly. It was a good story, but without the daring and skill of the director
and designers, whose collaboration helped shape this enormous project, the play
would not have been produced.
196 Chapter 14

This situation of a first play being produced with a huge cast, a very compli¬
cated setting, and the extensive use of slides, film, and live mics was an exception.
Similarly, there may have been one-hundred other successful plays that have bro¬
ken the rules, but there have been tens of thousands of plays produced that ave
followed the rules. The beginning playwright with no track record and no recog¬
nizable name should work to create a dynamic play that focuses on the characters,
story, structure, and dialogue, using a small cast and a simple set. A play that
focuses primarily on spectacle is like one of those overhyped movies with amazing
special effects that leaves you disappointed. We must care about the characters and
the story first—the rest is just window dressing.
A playwright may write a play that is extremely realistic, but the director and
designers may come up with a production concept in which the setting and light¬
ing is not realistic. The acting style of Arthur Miller's The Crucible, for example, as
well as the costumes and props, may be realistic while the setting is abstract. Since
the locale changes from Betty's bedroom to Proctor's house to the courtroom, to
outside in the woods, then back to the courtroom, and finally to a jail cell, the play
is frequently staged using a unit set—platforms, a raked stage, or suggestive frag¬
mentary scenery. Theatres seldom try to create completely realistic settings for all
five locales.
The director and designers normally seek to find a concept that works with
the playwright's style, provides unity, and supports the message of the play. For a
drama, they will seek to create the proper atmosphere and meet the needs of the
action. For a comedy, they will seek to use color, line, and form to accentuate the
genre. However, the budget, the stage space, or the timing may demand a more
creative and simpler approach to the visual style. A Shakespearean play might be
done in modern dress, with projections of modern locales, without changing a
word of the dialogue. A seventeenth-century Moliere play might be produced in a
lavish, period style, with historically authentic costumes and opulent painted
drops, or very simply using nonspecific costumes and stock flats.
When I directed Sam Shepard's realistic play Curse of the Starving Class, I kept
the acting realistic but wanted an expressionistic setting to suggest the old farm¬
house kitchen, and so we used a wooden framework with slats for walls. The slats
were placed about an inch apart, like a lathe. Keeping the natural wood color con¬
tributed to the rustic atmosphere.

The Magic "If"

If you were this character in this situation, what would you do? What is within the
capacity of this character? What would he really do? These questions address the
magic "if" that Constantin Stanislavsky told actors about in his famous acting
school. It is a question invoked to stir the actor's creative imagination. It also works
for the writer. What would happen if you put these characters in a creepy base¬
ment, in a subway tunnel, or on a cruise ship? You need to consider all the possi-
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 197

bilities your character would consider. Suppose Rachel is hopelessly in love with
John, a married man who she has worked with for nine years at an office. She has
been pining away for him without ever saying a word. Nothing has happened.
Nothing is happening. Think of all the things Rachel could do if she takes action:

She might have a friend intervene for her.

She might telephone John and disguise her voice.
She might join his church choir.
She might befriend his wife or decide to kill her.
She might get tipsy at a party and make a pass at him.
She might decide to end her life.
She might decide to stalk him.
She might...

What setting would be appropriate for each decision? If the character is to be

believable, you must ask. Would she really . . . ? Think of clever and resourceful
alternatives for your character. Ask yourself: What would I do if I were this char¬
acter in this situation? Would she really do that? Is it within the capacity of that
character? What else could she do that would be more ingenious, dramatic, sur¬
prising, or funny?
What would happen if you used an actual place for the setting? Eugene
O'Neill's Long Day's Journey into Night takes place in the Monte Cristo Summer
Home, where O'Neill lived in Connecticut during the summers of his youth. Paul
Rudnik's I Hate Hamlet is set in the apartment of the actor John Barrymore in a
brownstone off Washington Square in New York. Herb Gardner's I'm Not Rappa-
port is set in Central Park. Doug Wright's Quills is set in the Charenton Asylum in
France, where the Marquis de Sade spent his last days. It is possible even to visit
specific places and take pictures. If you can't photograph a locale, you can draw
sketches and describe the place for future reference. If you have a clear vision of the
locale, it will be easier to write the play. However, realize that a designer may want
to provide an interpretation, rather than a literal reconstruction.
Take a camera and explore your neighborhood. Find unique and interesting
locales that might serve as inspirations for stage settings: a park bench, a place
where homeless people sleep, an abandoned house, inside an old garage, a hospi¬
tal room, the backyard of a home, a front porch, a cave, a junkyard, a rock quarry,
a clearing in the woods, an abandoned store, a garden supply store, the front stoop
of a building.
In preparation for choosing a setting, explore books that have pictures and
discussions of stage designers such as Jo Mielziner, Boris Aronson, Lee Simonson,
Ben Edwards, John Lee Beatty, and Heidi Landesman. In most stage settings, there
are three to five acting areas—that is, different sections of the set where the furni¬
ture is grouped to provide realistic reasons for characters to gather together. With
exterior settings and sets designed as abstract formalism, platforms, steps, and
ramps are often used to provide different levels to areas of the stage. The floorplan
198 Chapter 14

of the set for Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit in Figure 14.1 shows several different act-
ing areas.
For a production on a proscenium stage, the relationship of each area of the
stage to the audience creates an order of importance (see Figure 14.2). The down¬
stage center area is the strongest because it is closest to the audience and provides
the best visibility to all. Stage right is usually considered stronger than stage left
ecause of the conditioning of our eyes, since we are programmed to read from left
o right. (Remember, these designations are from the actors' right or left as they
ace the audience Therefore, stage right is actually on the audience's left as they
look at the stage.) Up left is the weakest area on the stage. It's most often used by
irectors for scenes that are judged hard for the audience to take. For example the
scene with Stanley s rape of Blanche in Tennessee Williams's Streetcar Named Desire
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 199

5 4 6
Upstage Right Upstage Center Upstage Left

2 1 3
Downstage Right Downstage Center Downstage Left

Audience

FIGURE 14.2 Areas of the Stage and Their Order of Importance

is usually staged up left. Scenes of violence and taboo situations that might shock
the audience are staged up left in order to distance them from the audience, soften
the unpleasantness, and avoid nervous laughter.
What other pictures, research materials, films, or other sources might be help¬
ful to you as a playwright or to your actors or designers? If you plan to use a non-
realistic setting, your description of a nonrealistic or abstract setting needs to give
us a combination of the shapes you imagine on the stage and the feeling you hope
the whole arrangement will evoke.

Costumes

When a script is considered for production, all aspects of costumes will be carefully
weighed—the number of costumes, whether they are contemporary or period,
whether they are simple or elaborate, whether there is a large stock to draw from,
whether they can be borrowed or rented. Nudity in a play may make it unaccept¬
able for many theatres. You must take into account what is theatrically effective,
stage worthy, and realistic as you are writing. The Diary of Anne Frank, by Frances
Goodrich and Albert Hackett, has a single setting but takes place over a long
period of time. It presents a number of quick-change problems for actors, which
require careful planning to make sure the costume changes can be made efficiently.
With each production the costume designer, director, and actor must work out a
plan for what clothing can be underdressed or overdressed. Underdressed means
the actor wears one costume over the top of another so that they can remove the
top layer quickly. Overdressed means the actor adds a second costume over the first.
Set designers must be aware of the needs for costume changes, as well, so that they
200 Chapter 14

provide access to offstage areas where the actors can be accessible to the wardrobe
crew.
The playwright must take into account costume changes during writing. If a
character ends one scene in a wedding dress and returns four lines into the next
scene, set the following day, in a completely different costume, it will not work. To
get into or out of any costume takes time. An elaborate costume such as a wedding
dress takes even more time and probably at least two people on the wardrobe crew
to assist the actor. The more the playwright knows about the realities of the theatre,
the better she can prepare for the technical necessities.
In The Miracle Worker, author William Gibson has Annie Sullivan lock Helen
Keller in the dining room for twenty minutes, where she tries to teach Helen to eat
with a spoon. There is no dialogue. Just action. The costumes must allow free
movement and be constructed so that seams will not easily split. In Lerner and
Loewe's My Fair Lady, Eliza is transformed from a filthy guttersnipe to an elegant
lady. Not only is this change manifested in the character's dialogue and behavior,
it is also seen in the costumes.
Fran Lautenberger (2002), a costume designer that I worked with for many
years at the University of Alaska Anchorage offers the following costume advice
for the playwright:

1. Keep it simple. Unless your script revolves around a piece of costume, do not
try to describe every little thing you would like an actor to wear. It is more helpful
if you give an indication of character if that is what you are looking for. example:
Mary enters wearing a black lace, low-cut blouse with sleeves and a short, black leather
skirt. This might be more specific than you need. If these specific items of clothing
are not crucial to the plot, you could say Mary enters wearing a really low-cut blouse
and a short skirt or even Mary enters in a sexy outfit, if that is what you want, or a
really tacky outfit, or She looks like a hooker.

2. Give the designers room for imagination and collaboration. Don't do their work
for them. Think about quick changes before they happen. Realize that humans can
only move so fast, so if you need to have a character change into something or
someone else, give them time to do it. example: In the play Corpse, by Gerald Moon,
one actor plays two different characters. At one point in the play, there was a prob¬
lem for the actor to change from one to the other quickly enough. Thus, we made
clever use of another actor as a body double to give the actor time to change. This
technique has been used in many different plays and is fun to use. Otherwise, giv¬
ing the actor even a few seconds between changes really helps in the long run.

As always, don t use a cast of thousands. More people mean more costumes.
However, doublecasting an actor also means more costumes. Remember, every
time you have another character, whether or not that character is played by an
actor in another part or a separate actor, he or she will need a costume. Think about
the cost of each new character. It makes a big difference as to whether anyone will
want to do the show.
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 201

The costume designer is extremely important in helping to create the charac¬

ters. The designer can change the shape and size of an actor by using line and color
as well as padding, special shoes, and wigs. The costume will also affect the move¬
ment of the character. The designer's choices also will reflect the character's socioe¬
conomic status. For example, in Shakespeare's Journey I wanted Will to appear rustic
and poor in his first act costume. Figure 14.3 shows the conceptions by two differ¬
ent designers for two different productions.

FIGURE 14.3 Left: Will, Act I, Shakespeare's Journey, performed at Wichita State
University. Costume designed by Betty Monroe. Right: Will, Act I, Shakespeare's Journey,
performed at Florida International University. Costume designed by Marilyn Skow.
202 Chapter 14

In this same show, ten actors play eighteen roles. The costumes m hot pro¬
ductions helped the actors by giving them completely different looks for each char¬
acter. In the Florida International University production there were two designers.
Christina Perdomo played Shakespeare's daughter, Susanna, m a plain blue dress
with a white collar, designed by Marilyn Skow (see Figure 14.4). It was m the style
of the Puritans. As the whore Donna Holland, designed by Manna Panji, Christina
was dressed in a rust-colored skirt with a low-cut, off-white blouse, a vest t at
laced up the front, and a long, reddish-brown wig. As Mrs. Cross, she wore a very

FIGURE 14.4 Left: Costume sketch for Susanna. Right: Costume sketch for Donna. From
Shakespeare's Journey, performed at Florida International University. Costumes designed
by Marilyn Skow and Marina Parigi.
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 203

dark Puritan-style dress with a fitted white cap that tied under her chin, designed
by Skow, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. Danny Suarez played Gilbert
Shakespeare in a fat suit, designed by Parigi, and a shoulder-length brown wig.
His brown doublet with a white collar was padded in the front to give him a pot¬
bellied look. When he switched to playing Cuthbert Burbage, he wore regular
unpadded doublets of blue or burnt umber and used his own hair.
The contemporary play Angels in America: Millennium Approaches was written
by Tony Kushner to have some of the actors play two or three characters. Two of
the women also play men's roles. In the production at Wichita State University,
with costumes designed by Betty Monroe, the actress Amity Hoffman played Han¬
nah Porter Pitt, Ethel Rosenberg, and Rabbi Isidor Chemelwitz. Karen Hinkle
played Joe's wife. Harper, and the Reagan man, Martin Heller. They had to be con¬
vincing as men in their looks, movements, and voices. The rabbi wore a beard and
moustache, a wig, glasses, and a man's suit and tie and shoes. Martin wore a wig
and moustache and a man's suit, tie, and shoes.
Such double-casting may also work for your play, particularly if you need a
large number of characters who only appear for one scene. Double-casting is also
appealing to producers because it cuts costs. It is appealing to actors because they
get to show their versatility in playing more than one role. It is also a fun challenge
for the costumer to create totally different looks for the same actor.

Props

There are three kinds of props: set props, props for set decoration, and hand props
used by the actors. Set props are the larger items and furniture needed for the action;
they are usually selected by the designer as part of the overall set. Set decorations are
the additional props used on the set to help make the visual environment seem
authentic. They must be approved by the set designer and are often selected by him.
Hand props may be called for in the script or added by the director. For example,
pumping real water is essential in the final scene in William Gibson's The Miracle
Worker. Cooking is called for in Gerald Moon's Corpse. Ears of corn for shucking are
needed in Sam Shepard's Buried Child. Working on the characters' hair is an impor¬
tant activity in Robert Harling's Steel Magnolias. Actually having an actor do an
activity with hand props is often used to bring reality to a scene. A director some¬
times adds such activity to help the actor perform with a sense of truth or to spice
up a rather talky or static scene. Folding laundry, ironing, washing dishes, sewing,
and making a bed are typical examples of such activities with props.
As a playwright, consider what each character would always have with him.
Building a scene around an activity may help bring the characters to life. Consider
a group of women all working together in sewing a quilt. What about a group of
men playing basketball or playing poker? What about a group of women at a gath¬
ering to learn about sex toys? What about a family decorating a Christmas tree? A
particular prop and the way in which a character uses it can give clear insights into
204 Chapter 14

the character's habits, outlook, and emotions. What creative ideas do the following
props inspire?

Towel Feather boa Whip

Clipboard Rollerblades Bicycle
Mannequin Briefcase Grocery cart
Horse's skull Rubber gloves Mask
M-16 rifle Bag of apples Prosthetic leg
Thermos Chocolates Severed hand
Boom box Large painting Bottle of pills
Sunglasses Paper shredder Bowl of ice
Paperback Newspaper Pail of water
Cat skeleton Pillow Playing cards
Saxophone Coffee cup Dead rat
Bottle of wine Machete Purse
Urn Garbage bag Pair of shoes
Pitchfork Skin lotion Shopping bag
Laptop computer Kite Walking cane
Ten watches Airline ticket Bird cage
Kimono Camera

Transformations

Characters in conflict often transform an object in some way by modifying it,

destroying it or using it in a manner for which it was not intended. Objects are not
always used for the purposes for which they were intended. In Billy Wilder and
I. A. L. Diamond's screenplay for The Apartment, C. C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon),
clowning to amuse a depressed guest, uses his tennis racket to make pasta, demon¬
strating its applicability both to straining spaghetti and serving meatballs. At the
end of the film version of The Graduate, directed by Mike Nichols, Benjamin rescues
Elaine from an inappropriate marriage, grabs a big cross from a stand in the
church, and swings it at the wedding guests to keep them from charging. The cross
becomes a sword. When the guests emerge from the building, he uses the cross
again to bar the church doors to prevent their pursuit. In both of these movies, the
filmmakers not only made the characters' relationships to other characters vivid
through the use of an object, but they also jolted the audience by transforming that
object so it could perform a new and unanticipated function. In Jason Miller's That
Championship Season, four former teammates meet for a reunion with their high
school basketball coach. As the evening progresses, what these men were and have
become is revealed. They are frauds-morally bankrupt men living poisoned lives.
The ob)ect transformed is their championship trophy into which one of them vom¬
its. transformation often involves using a high-status object for a low-status pur-
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 205

pose or vice versa, further violating the audience's expectation. The cross in The
Graduate is a high-status object, and part of the scene's power lies in the use of a
sacred artifact first as a crude weapon and then a barricade. The same is true of the
trophy in That Championship Season.
Comics often subvert the usual functions of props. Part of comedian Jonathan
Winters s act featured him approaching a table full of objects and using a mixing
bowl, for example, as a football helmet or a banana as a telephone. This is hardly a
new idea, of course. In The Second Shepherds' Play from the Middle Ages, a thief,
hoping to elude discovery, wraps the lamb he has stolen in swaddling clothes, puts
it into a cradle, and tries to pass it off as a baby. In Rodgers and Hammerstein's
South Pacific, the character Luther Billis, in drag for the number "Honey Bun,"
wears two coconut shells on his chest to simulate femininity. When a fellow ser¬
viceman lifts up one of the coconuts, it turns out that it serves another purpose—
as a hiding place for his cigarettes. So the coconuts are transformed into a bra, and
the bra is further transformed into a stash for cigarettes.
In murder mysteries, we often see objects transformed into murder weapons—
the letter opener, a plant pot, the heavy candle holder, the paperweight, the poker
from the fireplace. Someone picks a lock with a paper clip or a hair pin. In prison dra¬
mas we see a razor blade added to a toothbrush to create a weapon or other common
objects changed into shanks. A candle or a cigarette can become a torture device.
Transformation is particularly striking in the theater. But then, the theater is
about transformation. This points to one of the key differences between stage and
film: No matter how realistic the setting and staging of a play, this element of trans¬
formation applies. When you go to the theatre, you have to agree to translate in
your imagination the elements on the stage into what they are intended to repre¬
sent. In film, although technical gimmickry is employed, the idea is to persuade
you that you are seeing something that is real, even if what is represented is palpa¬
bly preposterous.
Another interesting transformation is to have one character transform on
stage into another. The son in Sam Shepard's Curse of the Starving Class transforms
himself into his father by putting on his father's clothes. In The Mystery of Irma Vep,
by Charles Ludlum, a character turns into a werewolf on stage. In the mystery
Corpse, by Gerald Moon, the play begins with an old woman talking to the land¬
lady. Then the old woman enters the apartment, takes off her wig and dress, and
turns back into a man.
There is no more radical way you can transform something than to destroy it.
Imagine that you have only one copy of your play and you lose it on the street. A
homeless person finds it and uses it to make a fire to keep warm. In Henrik Ibsen's
Hedda Gahler, the character of Hedda burns the manuscript of the man who idol¬
ized her. In Beth Henley's Crimes of the Heart, Meg opens her sister's box of candy
and sticks her finger in each one. The unicorn in Williams's The Glass Menagerie is
changed into an ordinary glass horse when its horn is broken off. Transformations
such as these provide major dramatic moments.
206 Chapter 14

Sound Effects
Music and sound effects are often important elements in plays. For a play such as
Peter Shaffer's Amadeus, which explores the lives and music of composers Wol gang
Amadeus Mozart and Antonio Salieri, music is a central element. However, even in
the average straight play, music is used to provide transitions from scene to scene, set
the mood, intensify emotion, transmit the impact of offstage events, heighten the
reality of a scene, and suggest the outside world and environment. To establish the
nervous tempo and the spirit of life in the French Quarter for Streetcar, many offstage
sounds are used, such as train whistles, street cries, and cat screeches. Tennessee
Williams wrote into the script that every time Blanche thinks of her husband's sui¬
cide, there is the polka tune "Varsouviana," which is only heard by Blanche.
When Elia Kazan began directing the Broadway production of /. B., by
Archibald MacLeish, there were thirteen sound cues written by the playwright into
the script. These included the sound of a distant voice, the crash of a drum, and a
rushing sound in the air. Kazan added music where the human drama was at its
most intense. He wanted the music to intensify the human feelings. In addition, he
added many more sound effects, bringing the number to thirty-nine. He added cir¬
cus calliope music, laughter, doorbells, jazz music, a siren, car door slams, and a
trumpet sound.
Although much of the sound is added to a show in production, the play¬
wright should be aware of how such effects can enrich a play. If a particular piece
of music is desired to serve as a recurring motif, such as the "Varsouviana" in
Williams's Streetcar or Rachmaninoff in Axelrod's The Seven-Year Itch, it should be
noted in the stage directions. Sound effects that suggest the outside world should
also be included. Offstage laughter, a dog barking, breaking glass, cars arriving or
leaving, explosions, and cricket sounds all can help establish mood and time of
day. They can also bring a reality to what is happening on stage. Imagine a scene
that begins with the sound of a drunken young man, banging a garbage can lid on
wrought-iron fence. A dog barks. The man knocks on a door and then pounds on
it. The barking becomes louder, more intense. The protagonist is awakened, goes to
the door, opens it, sees the man, and tries to close it. The man forces his way in.
They shout at each other; the dog continues to bark. The tension mounts.

Design and Production Meetings

Once a script has been finished and scheduled for production, a design meeting is
held with the director and designers. By this point, the production team has ana¬
lyzed the play and done the necessary research on the period, style, set, and cos¬
tumes. They discuss all the elements of the production and how to approach them.
The purpose of the meeting is for all the team members to bring their ideas to the
table for discussion and eventual agreement on the concept. Usually, the director
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 207

leads the way, but sometimes the set designer is the one who finds the right
approach. Frequently at this meeting, the focus is on images, and participants may
bring pictures or a collage to the table for discussion.
When Elia Kazan directed After the Fall, by Arthur Miller, he told designer Jo
Mielziner that he saw the play as the story of a man who discovers he has survived
by the deaths of other people, especially those he loved. Kazan noted his thoughts
on the setting: "It should seem primordial, as old as murder itself.... It should be
stained with old hatreds, old bloodsheds. ... It should be cavernous, deep and
dark. It should be made up of the corners of his memory into which his mind has
never penetrated before, because it never dared to." As the discussion continued,
there was a steady progression toward the elimination of physical detail. While
Kazan and the team considered a sort of collage, this was eventually discarded in
favor of abstract platforms and simple boxes.
When Kazan was hired to direct Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman, the script
contained over forty scenes with numerous locales. There were instantaneous time
changes, from the present to the past and back again. Actors playing a contempo¬
rary scene suddenly went back fifteen years in the same setting. Miller had
described the house as once surrounded by open country and trees but now
hemmed in by apartments. Mielziner's solution was to have a backdrop showing
the house encircled by ugly brick tenement buildings for contemporary scenes and
to project leaves on the backdrop and parts of the house for scenes in the past.
Kazan agreed with Mielziner that the most important visual symbol in the play
was the house. All the other scenes—the hotel room in Boston, the business office,
the lawyer's consultation room, the bar, the cemetery—were, therefore, played on
the forestage. Kazan's vision for /. B., by Archibald MacLeish, was as follows: "The
set is not a circus. It looks like a circus. It is not an illustration of anything. It is the
plastic rendition of essences."
Once the concept for the show has been agreed on, the designers go off and
work, putting their ideas on paper. Sketches and models are made and brought to
later production meetings, until all problems have been solved and all aspects have
been agreed upon. Everything needed for the play—sets, costumes, props, light¬
ing, and sound—is decided at these meetings. Sometimes, this also involves
rewrites by the author. As Kazan and Mielziner developed the plans for the set for
Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller continued rewriting to make the script work with
each new change.

EXERCISE 19 (Optional)____

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Select a real locale that you can use for the setting of a scene, and observe its
distinct qualities. Describe it. What is the atmosphere? What are the textures?
The sources of light? The furniture? The colors? Where are the entrances and
exits? What levels are there? Use this setting and write a scene in which a
character faces a major life decision.
208 Chapter 14

B. Describe a real environment, using as many details as possible to evoke the

atmosphere. Write a conflict scene between two or three characters, m which
their problem centers on the environment and their present condition, fate,
fears, and so on. Make one of the characters pregnant or injured to increase
the stakes.
Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:
C. Create a dreamscape—a locale that exists in a dream. What objects are visi¬
ble? Perhaps it is in an open field, a field of old appliances, or a field with lots
of easels, paintings, and models. Describe the locale, which doesn t need to
be realistic, and then write a dream scene. In dreams, characters, objects, and
actions are free from the restrictions of reality. Dreams do not obey linear
thought or structure. Do not worry about interpreting the dream. Give us the
actions, sounds, and images.
D. Look at books with color photos or reproductions of great paintings. Find a
picture with a striking environment, and write a conflict scene between two
or three characters in which this setting is important. Include at least one
transformation. Use the painting as your central image or metaphor for the
scene. What effects do you want the scene to have on the audience? What
emphasis is the scene to have? What is special about this setting? Turn in a
copy of the picture with the scene.
Advanced Level Choose one of the following:
E. Write a scene in which there is a physical obstacle within the locale. This
obstacle must affect the characters in the scene, such as a disabled woman in
a wheelchair in her home seeking to escape a drug addict trying to rob her, a
character that has been kidnapped and tied up by another, or two people
struggling to move a large object. Maybe the characters are trying to open a
box, defuse a bomb, unblock a cave-in. The setting must be vitally important
to the characters.
F. Write two contrasting mood scenes about two pages each. Both scenes
should be in the same locale, but they may use the same or different charac¬
ters. The time of day should be different, as should the tone, the atmosphere,
and the lighting. For example, perhaps the scene is on a street in the daylight
and the other is on that same street deserted and dark at 2 o'clock in the
morning. What sound effects could be helpful? Props? Costumes? Music?

Summary

The playwright must have a clear understanding of the period in which the play is
set. He needs to know about the people, manners, country, time, clothing, and
whatever else is important in understanding the time, place, and events. The play¬
wright needs a clear vision of the world in which the play takes place.
 Settings, Costumes, and Other Technical Matters 209

The physical form or setting of a play is generally determined by its genre

and theatrical form whether the play is a musical or a straight play, a comedy or
a drama. The size of the piece may dictate the venue in which it is produced. The
space may dictate what is practical to produce.
Playwrights need to be aware of what is practical and have a realistic grasp of
what is stage worthy. Those with only a literary background or a knowledge of
films will have no understanding of theatre and how it works. As such, they may
find their expectations impractical. The size of a show—the number of characters,
the number of sets and set changes, the kinds of costumes and the number of cos¬
tume changes—may cause a play to be tossed aside as unproducible.
Visual design is concerned with the total visual effect of a dramatic produc¬
tion. It involves the scenic background—the colors and shapes of framed pieces of
scenery, the selection and style of the furniture and set dressings, the planning of
the quality and intensity of the lighting, and the easy movement of the actors. It
also involves the careful consideration of the actor's costumes to contrast with the
background; to represent the personality, age, period, sex, and status of the charac¬
ter; and to fit with the overall style of the production.
Characters in conflict often transform an object by modifying it, destroying it
or using it in a manner for which it was not intended. Transformation often involves
using a high-status object for a low-status purpose or vice versa, further violating
the audience's expectation. The usual function of a prop is often subverted or
changed for some comic purpose. Another interesting transformation is to have
one character transform on stage into another or change gender through a change
in costume, makeup, and wigs. This use of disguise is a major device in numerous
plays, especially comedies.
 CHAPTER

Genre and Style

This chapter explores how plays are classified as dramas or comedies or tragedies.
These are genres. We will also explore style, which refers to the treatment or
approach to the play by the author, including her individual style and the theatri¬
cal conventions she selects to use. Most styles fall within three areas: presentational
or classical, representational or realistic, and one of the revolts against realism. We
will also look at the value and risks of writing nude scenes as well as the latest in-
your-face style of theatre.

Genre
Genre refers to a play's classification: comedy, tragedy, or drama. Each of these can
be further divided into many subcategories. A comedy may be a comedy of man¬
ners, satire, farce, situation comedy, burlesque or parody, or fantasy or romance. A
tragedy is a serious work of some significance, in which the protagonist seeks to
overcome formidable obstacles and is overcome, in the end, despite having taken
the morally right path. A tragedy may be historical, mythological, romantic, hor¬
rific, or melodramatic. A drama is a serious play, which may have a sad or happy
ending.
Tragedy and comedy began with the Greeks. Drama began in the eighteenth
century and takes its name from the drame in France. These were serious plays
dealing with everyday people, written in prose, and focusing on domestic and
romantic matters. This was the coming together of domestic tragedy and senti¬
mental comedy. In the late 1880s, Emile Zola, Henrik Ibsen, August Strindberg, Leo
Tolstoy, and others created modern realistic drama, centered on the philosophy of
determinism—that all things were determined by heredity and environment. These
plays were naturalistic, taking realism to the extreme. Settings were highly detailed
and included everything that would be in that locale, whether it was needed or
used in the play.
For the one hundred years since then, drama has been primarily grounded in
realism, with sets that are realistic, less extreme than naturalism, and more selec¬
tive, usually including only those things actually needed in the play. In the 1940s,
Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller combined realism with expressionism in

211
212 Chapter 15

plays such as The Glass Menagerie and Death of a Salesman. In Europe after World
War II, realism was combined with the philosophy of existentialism m some of the
plays by Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Jean Giradoux. From the 1950s on,
realistic drama continued in the works of nearly all the major writers. In the 1990s,
Tony Kushner mixed realism with fantasy in Angels in America. Dramas may be
problem plays, "whodunits" or mysteries, soap operas, tragicomedies, or melo¬
dramas. They may even include elements of fantasy.
Melodrama came into vogue in the midnineteenth century. These plays cen¬
tered on an innocent victim whose life was endangered by a villain. They were plot
driven and characterization was limited. The plays included many realistic ele¬
ments, however, such as real animals and special effects to create fires, buildings
collapsing, and waterfalls. The complexity of the productions required a director
who could coordinate all the various elements into a unified whole. When these
plays are produced today, the approach is generally to stage them as campy, comic
plays, but in their day, they were presented very seriously.
Today, melodrama is often associated with crime dramas, such as Sidney
Kingsley's Detective Story, mysteries such as Mary Roberts Rinehart's The Bat, and
thrillers such as Fredrick Knott's Wait Until Dark. These are serious plays with
happy endings, in which the focus is on overt conflict, suspense, and physical
action. Plays with extreme behaviors, such as savage murders, suicides, and
lunacy, are often called melodramatic. Melodrama is now often defined as charac¬
ters overreacting to what's going on. When writers look at something they've writ¬
ten and realize it is melodrama, they often cut back on the big scene and try to
lessen the over-the-top quality. However, melodrama isn't really about a character
overreacting; it's caused by the writer not providing appropriate motivation for
the character's behavior. The problem isn't the reaction but the lack of motivation.
If a man (Character A) comes home to his apartment and finds his wife, girl¬
friend, partner, or friend (Character B) screaming, throwing things, and slashing the
furniture with a knife, what are we to think? We might think. Hey, this is way over
the top. This is too much. However, what if we had seen Character B in an earlier
scene that foreshadowed this reaction? What if we had seen Character B in an earlier
scene upset because of her father's bad driving? What if this person had had a sib¬
ling killed in a highway accident and was trying to connect with her father to make
him stop driving? What if Character A had condescendingly undermined Character
B's concern? Now in this final scene, the father is dead and Character B is distraught.
A comedy of manners draws its main characters from the upper strata of soci¬
ety and looks at how they behave in their social world and the consequences that
befall them when they lack common sense. Whenever a character is at odds with
the expected norm—overblown, affected, pretentious, hypocritical, pedantic, self-
deceived, or vain—he or she is set up for ridicule. Such plays usually focus on love
plots and witty dialogue. Language and style are very important.
Satire is comedy of the mind, for it makes us laugh through the mind. Satire
makes us look at our current civilization and its public policies, figures, and events.
It awakens thoughtful laughter. When people—because of their greed or lust or
 Genre and Style 213

stupidity—act in ways that violate the unwritten laws of society and become the
objects of public inquiry or scandal, they are candidates for satire. Satire often
focuses on a specific situation, such as the Monica Lewinsky affair, the Enron scan¬
dal, or Watergate. A play by Mindy Kaling and Brenda Withers in the fall of 2003 in
New York called Ben and Matt satirized Affleck and Damon. Plays by Aristophanes,
such as The Birds and The Clouds, satirized current events and figures in ancient
Greece. In the 1960s, Barbara Garson's Macbird poked fun at President Lyndon B.
Johnson and Lady Bird. In the 1970s, there was Larry Gelbart's Mastergate, which
satirized the Watergate scandal.
At the Coconut Grove in Miami each year, there is a parade called the King
Mango Strut. Although it doesn't present plays, it shows groups of people in cos¬
tumes and each group satirizes a local, state, national, or international event from
the past year. In a recent parade, the local mayor, who supposedly threw a teapot
at his wife, was one of the targets. Another was the terrorist Osama Bin Laden. A
large group of people dressed in Middle Eastern garb and wore signs satirizing Bin
Laden and members of the Taliban. The Capital Steps is another group, which
stages scripted political satires in Washington, D.C.
The laughter of comedy is impersonal. We understand and are able to relate
to a character or situation intellectually, but if our emotions are truly aroused, the
humor is lost. We see a man run into a pole. It is funny as long as the man reacts to
it and responds in a way that shows the event as harmless. If we believe he is truly
injured and have concerns for his well-being, the fun will be gone.
Low comedy, or farce, depends on physical action, ludicrous situations, unex¬
pected happenings, and especially physical humor. Two characters sneaking on
stage and backing into one another is a physical joke. Two characters backing up
and missing each other is another. Three characters who are sneaking around and
all run into each other at the same moment and scream is another. Laughter is open
to perversion. Imagine the exterior of a house on stage. A character sneaks into the
yard and steps in dog poop. He opens a window in the house and climbs in. We
hear the growls and barks of a large dog. Neil Simon's Rumors and Michael Frayn's
Noises Off are popular recent farces.
Gene Perret (1990), in Comedy Writing Step by Step, defines a sense of humor as
having the ability to see life as it is, to recognize life as it is, and to accept it as it is. If
you are losing your hair, baldness may not be a funny topic to you. Some people
think that if they part their hair on the side and comb it over the bald spot, no one will
notice. There's a new spray you can use to paint the bald spot. Some people do not
see reality, or recognize the truth, or accept the fact that they are growing bald. Once
you can look at it from the perspective of Perret's three abilities, it can be funny.
Human attitudes, gestures, and movements are laughable when the body
reminds us of a mere machine. Rigidity of character—obstinacy, absentminded¬
ness, an obsession, or a particular vice—is funny. A character with a rigid virtue, as
in Moliere's The Misanthrope, shows us this kind of humor. Comic characters are
comic in proportion to their ignorance of themselves. Organ, in Moliere's Tartuffe,
is blind to the real nature of the religious hypocrite, Tartuffe. He wants to do
214 Chapter 15

something good for Tartuffe, and he is completely out of touch with reality. Organ
responds like a jack-in-the-box in one scene. Dorine tells Organ of his wife s illness,
and he interrupts her time after time with questions about Tartuffe. No matter
what she says about his wife, he asks "And Tartuffe?"
Vices have the same relation to character that rigidity has to intellect. The
character is pulled by the vice as though he were a puppet, an automaton. In
George Axelrod's The Seven-Year Itch, the leading character is trying to quit smok¬
ing. After he throws his cigarettes on top of a tall bookcase, he tries to find some¬
thing to stand on so he can retrieve them. The idea of lying is set up with the
turning on of a blender in Jonathan Tollin's The Last Sunday in June. Every time
someone tells a lie, someone else turns the blender on.
A ceremony or ritual has potential for comedy when things goes wrong.
When the bride falls backward into the pool, the seat of the groom's pants is torn
out by a dog, or the mother-in-law falls on top of the cake, a wedding becomes
funny. Although a drama, William Gibson's The Miracle Worker offers a lesson in
ritual that is both fierce and funny. The ritual of the family dinner is interrupted by
Anne when she stops Helen from grabbing food from her plate, an unacceptable
custom that has been tolerated by the family. Helen pitches a fit. The father is
angry. Anne makes the family leave the dining room, locks the doors, and for the
next twenty minutes, engages in a physical action scene, in which she teaches
Helen how to eat with a spoon and fold her napkin.
Humans are comic. We find it funny when an animal exhibits a human atti¬
tude or expression. A. R. Gurney's play Silvia, about a dog, is funny in the ways in
which Silvia takes on human characteristics. Since Silvia is played by a woman, it
is also funny when she takes on dog characteristics.
Characters are funny when they exhibit mechanical qualities. When a char¬
acter continues to perform in the same way when something else is called for, it is
funny. When a character goes to a door expecting it to open but then finds it locked,
her body continues the momentum and she runs into the door. An absent-minded
person is always thinking of what she has just done, never what she is doing. Run¬
ners after the ideal who stumble over the reality are funny.
The dancing Jack—a character who believes himself to be acting freely but is
actually a puppet—also makes us laugh. When this character thinks he is speaking
and acting on his own, he retains all the essentials of life, but from another perspec¬
tive, he appears as a toy in the hands of another who is playing him. Knowing how
he will react, he is set up in such a way as to act just as expected. In Moliere's Scapin,
the fathers of Leander and Octavio are tricked by the servant, Scapin, to assure the
happiness of the sons. In Fit to Be Tied, by Nicky Silver, Boyd acts as a puppet con¬
trolled by Arloc. Arloc offers a bribe of five hundred dollars if Boyd will let Arloc tie
him up for five minutes. Boyd agrees and Arloc ties him to a bondage chair and then
won't let him go. Two or more people who move in unison, dance or gesture
together, or strike the same attitude are comic because they are like marionettes.
The periodic repetition of a word or a bit, the systematic inversion of the
parts, and the geometrical development of farcical misunderstanding can create
 Genre and Style 215

great fun. However, each must be suitably motivated to preserve an outward

aspect of probability.
The snowball effect is a technique—like a snowball rolling downhill, growing
bigger and bigger—that puts something into effect which then grows by arithmetic
progression. It might be a letter that is written and sent and then must be recov¬
ered. Recovering it creates a series of other problems, results in numerous lies, and
eventually causes the very thing that recovering the letter was supposed to pre¬
vent. The Italian Straw Hat, by Eugene Labiche and Marc-Michael, and The Servant
of Two Masters, by Carlo Goldoni, are two entire plays based on this snowball con¬
cept. Another approach is for the letter to be found and misinterpreted, as happens
in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, when Maria plants a letter for the servant Malvolio,
who mistakes it for a love letter from the lady of the house. This then sets off a
chain of events. Such comic techniques appeal to the intellect, not the emotions.
Larry Shue sets up The Foreigner with the lie that Charlie Baker is a foreigner who
doesn't speak English. This results in a series of delightfully funny incidents.
As noted earlier, comic characters are generally comic in proportion to their
ignorance of themselves. The comic person is not aware of what makes him or her
funny. Once a character realizes she has a defect that is ridiculous, she attempts to
modify it or appear to have changed. What life and society demand is that we con¬
stantly pay attention and adapt. We must have elasticity of mind and body to
enable us to adapt. If these are lacking in a character, we have rigidity of character,
and that creates laughter.
When the body, facial expressions, or character as a whole is imprinted, con¬
tracted, or made mechanical, the effect is comic. The attitudes, gestures, and move¬
ments of the human body are laughable in proportion to the extent that the body
reminds us of a machine. When one person is imitating the gestures of another, he
or she is imitating the mechanical uniformity of those gestures—the automaton.
Fashion that exceeds the norm is comic. The fop in Restoration-era comedies is
always dressed too elaborately. A man or woman in disguise is comic. The worse
the disguise, the funnier it is. A man with a mustache and hairy legs in a dress is
funnier than a man without a moustache and without hairy legs because of the
contrast. A woman dressed as a man is more outrageous when the shoes are too
big, the pants are held up by suspenders that are too big, and the eyebrows and the
moustache are painted on.
A good comic scene needs an idea, a few complications, and an ending. Try to
think of a premise: a statement of what the scene is about. For example, a person
who refuses to adjust to change will suffer the consequences, and a person who
responds on a mechanical or habitual level will get what she deserves. Once your
premise is set, put it into motion. If you have promoted a goal to be accomplished,
introduce some complications. John is in a hotel and covered with mud; his clothes
are not wearable. He must get dressed for a meeting with his boss. He opens what
he thinks is his suitcase, but it contains only women's clothes. He tries to find what
will fit. A family is at the airport saying good-bye to their daughter, who's going off
to college. The situation progresses from sadness at her leaving, to impatience that
216 Chapter 15

the flight is delayed, to an argument over what is the best college, to an argument
over money, to name-calling, to a fist fight, and finally back to the loving good-bye.
Base your jokes on characters and situations. The ending should progress
naturally out of the scene and the characters, tie the scene into a neat package, and
end with a big laugh.

Style
Style refers to the treatment or approach to the play by the author, including his indi¬
vidual style and the conventions he selects to use. There are three types of style: rep¬
resentational or illusionistic; presentational or classical; and one of the revolts against
illusionistic plays, such as expressionism, surrealism, theatricalism, stylization, epic
theatre, or absurdism. Representational styles include naturalism and realism.
Naturalism, the extreme form of realism, developed in the late 1880s, uses the
philosophy of determinism, or the idea that man is determined by heredity and
environment. The structure follows a slice-of-life approach. Settings are extremely
detailed. Examples of naturalistic plays are Leo Tolstoy's The Power of Darkness,
Henrik Ibsen's Ghosts, August Strindberg's Miss Julie, and Gerhart Hauptmann's
The Weavers.
Realism is an approach that incorporates selective realism within the well-
made play. Artistic choices are employed to give the play a well-developed struc-

« ?r? I r! 15 l1l natuml,stw style’wi* dozens of props selected for the overall visual
effect. Orpheus Descending, performed at Wichita State University. Directed by Leroy Clark Set
and Lighting Design by J. David Blatt, Costume Design by Betty Monroe ' '
 Genre and Style 217

Beth Henley's realistic comedy Crimes of the Heart, performed at University of Alaska Anchorage.
Directed by Leroy Clark, Set and Lighting Design by Frank Bebey, Costume Design by Fran
Lautenberger.

ture and the appearance of reality, but only those elements needed for the play are
actually used. In both of these approaches, the actors and audience pretend that
what is happening on the stage is real. The audience is viewing the play through an
imaginary fourth wall, so to speak. Most plays today fall into the category of real¬
ism. Examples of realistic plays include Kenneth Lonergan's This Is Our Youth, Beth
Henley's Crimes of the Heart, Brian Friel's Dancing at Lughnasa, William Mastrosi-
mone's Extremities, and Lanford Wilson's Burn This.
Presentational styles acknowledge that this is the world of the theatre. The
characters speak directly to the audience in asides or soliloquies. There may be a
chorus or other theatrical conventions employed. These styles include all classical
plays up to the end of the nineteenth century: Greek tragedy and comedy, Roman
tragedy and comedy; plays of the Middle Ages, Elizabethan and Jacobean and Car¬
oline plays, French neoclassic. Restoration and eighteenth century, and Romantic
plays. Each period had its own theatre conventions, style of theatre, and kinds of
218 Chapter 15

Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, performed at Wichita State University, was set on the planet Illyria
in a place where the sea had receded, leaving a pink coral landscape. This science fiction approach
allowed for many strange costumes, as well. Directed by Leroy Clark, Set and Lighting Design by J.
David Blatt, Costume Design by Betty Monroe.

scenery and costumes. Today, we may try to recreate those conventions and
approaches to staging, or we may produce the play in a very modern way.
Realism emerged in the late nineteenth century. Once it had become the
established style, there were revolts against it, continuing into the second half of
the twentieth century. The new forms included expressionism, surrealism, theatri-
calism, stylization, epic theatre, absurdism, and abstract formalism.
Expressionism as a style presents a subjective view of the world, as seen
through the eyes of the central character. These plays are episodic in structure and
include themes dealing with man's place in the world and the evil effects of indus¬
trial technology on humanity. Only the central characters are developed; the others
are types, frequently one dimensional, and often identified by just their roles in the
story, such as bank teller, wife, judge, or bicycle rider. Masks are often used. Sets
and costumes are distorted and exaggerated, showing the world as seen through
the subjective eyes of the main character. Expressionist settings and costumes are
 Genre and Style 219

sometimes used even for realistic plays. Examples of expressionistic plays include
Eugene O'Neill's The Hairy Ape, August Strindberg's Ghost Sonata, Georg Kaiser's
From Morn to Midnight, and Elmer Rice's The Adding Machine.
Surrealism was both a literary and art movement influenced by Sigmund
Freud and dedicated to the direct expression of the unconscious as revealed in
dreams, free of the conscious control of reason and convention. The movement,
founded in 1924 in Paris by Andre Breton, was primarily confined to France. Sur¬
realist writers were interested in the associations and implications of words, rather
than their literal meanings; dreamlike perceptions of space and dream-inspired
symbols dominate their work. Among the leading surrealist writers was Jean
Cocteau. Surrealistic plays include Cocteau's Orphee, Guillaume Appollinaire's The
Breasts ofTiresias, and Fernando Arrabal's Picnic on the Battlefield.
Theatricalism is a style that calls attention to the theatre itself using a play
within a play, a direct address of the audience, the appearance of a stage manager

Curse of the Starving Class, performed at University of Alaska Anchorage. Although this play by
Sam Shepard is realistic, the setting was approached in an expressionistic way and the farmhouse
interior was created with a skeletal framework and slats on the walls. Directed by Leroy Clark, Set
and Lighting Design by Frank Bebey, Costume Design by Lois Aden.
220 Chapter 15

For the outer-space musical Starmites, performed at Wichita State University, the setting used an
abstract metal structure and cartoon-like costumes. Directed by Leroy Clark, Set and Lighting
Design by J. David Blatt, Costume Design by Betty Monroe.

or other crew member, or direct references to theatrical devices. Examples of plays

in this style include Our Town and The Skin of Our Teeth by Thornton Wilder,
Christopher Durang's An Actor's Nightmare, and Maxwell Anderson's Joan of
Lorraine.
Formalism is a return to the architectural stage, similar to the classic forms of
the Greek, Roman, and Elizabethan theatres. This style creates a new abstract unit
setting, using platforms, steps, ramps, columns, and other devices to mold the
space. Like the fixed stage of the classical theatre, this formal abstract setting
doesn't change during a production. It might even be used for all the plays pre¬
sented in a given season. The designs of Adolphe Appia, Gordon Craig, and
Jacques Copeau, as well as those of some American designers such as Robert
Edmond Jones and Lee Simonson, brought this new style to the theatre.
Stylization involves imposing a style on a work that calls attention to itself.
For example, the musical City of Angels, by Larry Gelbart, Cy Coleman, and David
Zippel, on Broadway had scenes in which everything was in shades of black and
white and gray, as though it were a black-and-white movie: the set, the props, the
costumes, even the actors' skin. Similarly, designer Cecil Beaton used all black-
and-white costumes for the horserace scene in Lerner and Loewe's My Fair Lady.
Erwin Piscator was the first director to explore a militant approach to the the¬
atre and create a proletarian drama called epic theatre; however, the term is now pri-
 Genre and Style 221

marily associated with Bertolt Brecht. Brecht arrived at his characteristic style with
the play Man Is Man in 1926. Brecht called his approach "epic" because of its broad
sweep and mixture of narrative and dramatic techniques. He wanted the audience
to watch critically, not passively. Consequently, he developed the concept of alien¬
ation, making the audience constantly aware that they are in a theatre and partici¬
pating in a work relevant to them. Epic theatre was developed so that spectators
did not watch the show as if it were a real event; rather, they were distanced and
made aware intellectually of relating what they saw on stage to the outside world.
Brecht's plays and the techniques of epic theatre became synonymous. This
type of play was episodic, and each scene was distinct in itself. Frequently, a scene
could be cut and it wouldn't affect the rest of the play. The scenes were connected
not just by the continuing events surrounding the protagonist but also by the
theme. These plays incorporated characters speaking in the third person along
with theatrical settings and costumes. No attempt was made to hide lighting
instruments or devices of the stage, and various nonrealistic devices were used,
such as slides, placards, film clips, masks, and songs.
Theatre of the absurd became popular particularly in Paris in the 1950s, after
the existential angst caused by World War II. Absurd means "out of harmony with

The Good Person of Setzuan, performed at Viterbo University. Directed by David Gardiner, Set
Design by /. David Blatt, Lighting Design by Greta Haug, Costume Design by Jeff Stolz.
222 Chapter 15

reason or propriety, incongruous, unreasonable, illogical. Martin Esslin (1986) in

his book The Theatre of the Absurd, provides the major comprehensive examination
of this kind of theatre. Eugene Ionesco, one of the most notable absurdists, showed
that life was devoid of all meaning. In his plays characters are cut off from reli¬
gious, metaphysical, or transcendental roots. As a result, man's actions become
senseless. This absurdity of the human condition is the theme of the plays by
Samuel Beckett, Arthur Adamov, and Jean Genet, as well. Absurdist theatre also
destroyed the conventions of the well-made play, action, and development of char¬
acter. In an absurdist play, characterization is left on a surface level. There is no
deep character because no meaningful decisions or choices are made. Characters
don't change and are sometimes interchangeable. Dialogue is meaningless. The
world presented in this type of play is meaningless and absurd. There is no mean¬
ingful plot, structure, action, or dialogue.
The audience makes decisions based on their expectations of the author's
intentions as to the type of play. It is the author's intent, as perceived by the audi¬
ence, that determines the genre and style. Today, the theatre is eclectic. It may use
any of the conventions of the past, mix elements in new ways, and combine the tra¬
ditional with the new. Some genres succeed in the marketplace more than others.
Today's public seems to prefer musicals to other forms of drama. Comedies are
also more popular than dramas, although a really strong and highly acclaimed
drama can be a strong draw. Plays tied to realism are more prevalent than any
other form. Surrealistic fantasies and experimental forms draw the least apprecia¬
tion, but nonlinear structure combined with realistic characters and dialogue is
growing in popularity.
Style and genre define both the writer's and the actor's approaches to the
play. In general, the beginning writer is most knowledgeable and comfortable with
realism. Some writers, such as Eugene O'Neill, experimented and tried many dif¬
ferent genres and styles. Beyond the Horizon was naturalistic. The Hairy Ape, The
Great God Brown, and The Emperor Jones were expressionistic. Ah, Wilderness! and A
Long Day's Journey into Night were realistic. Mourning Becomes Electra and Desire
undei the Elms were adaptations of classical works. Strange Interlude borrowed from
the novel and included long internal monologues. O'Neill experimented with a
different approach for nearly every play.

Nudity

1 think on-stage nudity is disgusting, shameful and damaging to all things Ameri¬
can. But if I were 22 with a great body, it would be artistic, tasteful, patriotic and a
progressive religious experience.

I found this quote by actress Shelley Winters on the Internet. It points up the dual
perspectives common to audiences in the United States.
What is the value of onstage nudity? Is it shock or art? Nudity can be a natural
part of a play and essential to the story and the character, or it can be gratuitous.
 Genre and Style 223

added primarily to sell tickets. Nudity is more powerful on stage than in film. In the
presence of a live person, you are sharing the same environment and breathing the
same air; all things are unpredictable, and more is unknown. Nudity in general
doesn't always have a sexual context. It's normal life. People get naked to bathe, to
have medical examinations, and to change clothes, as well as to make love.
In the theatre, as in many arts, there is a premium on "pushing the envelope,"
and using nudity is one of the ways of doing that. For Tracy Letts, author of Killer
Joe and Bug, nudity is a way to strip away the skin of respectability as a way of get¬
ting to what is really important. Letts uses three nudes scenes in Killer Joe and two
in Bug. They help him tell his stories in an efficient way, without having to use a lot
of words to substitute. Sharia is wearing only a T-shirt when she opens the door to
admit Chris in the beginning of Killer Joe. We know immediately something about
her character without having a lot of exposition. This also sets the tone for the play,
letting the audience know that they're in for a graphic ride that is loud, raucous,
and in your face. There is a tender, vulnerable, and powerful scene with Dottie
appearing nude. Killer Joe Cooper also appears nude later on in the play. That
immediately establishes his relationship with Dottie. Letts began his career as an
actor. He appeared nude himself in the 1992 Buffalo Theatre Ensemble production
of D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, adapted by Nick Lane.
Nudity can be a device for character revelation, but it is often added to a pro¬
duction primarily for the box office. A recent New York presentation of Shake¬
speare's Macbeth had Banquo baring everything but his throat, which was
encircled by a bloody Elizabethan ruff, while the ambitious Lady Macbeth
dropped to the floor during her sleepwalking scene and let everything hang out of
her nightgown. Nicole Kidman's fleeting nude scene in The Blue Room, by David
Hare and Kathleen Turner's nude scene in The Graduate, adapted for the stage by
Terry Johnson, were too brief and overhyped to be more than a distraction. A major
selling point in the musical The Full Monty, by Terrence McNally, was the promise
of on-stage nudity, but there is only a fleeting glimpse, and that view is quickly
obscured by a strong backlight. Other contemporary plays using nudity include:
David Henry Hwang's M. Butterfly, Tony Kushner's Angels in America, Joshua
Sobol's Ghetto, Terry Johnson's Hysteria, Rick Cleveland's Danny Bouncing, Eric
Bogosian's Griller, Michael Sutton and Cynthia Mandelberg's Looking Glass, Mary
Zimmerman's Metamorphoses, Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange, Tracy Letts's
Bug, Margaret Edson's Wit, Sam Shepard's Curse of the Starving Class, Doug
Wright's Quills, and David Grimm's Kit Marlowe. In some cases, it's essential to the
story, and in others, it is used to titillate. "If you want to put bums on seats, then
put bums on the stage," wrote David Benedict in the London Observer (2002).
Benedict went on to note that the peculiar business of stage nudity is differ¬
ent for women and men. The playing field is not level for both genders. Stage cen¬
sorship was abolished in England in 1968 and about the same time in the United
States. "Suddenly the gloves, and everything else, were off," noted Benedict, in
productions of Hair, by James Rado and Gerome Ragni, and Kenneth Tynan's Oh,
Calcutta! Since then, actresses have been harassed, hoodwinked, and blackmailed
into baring it all for wily directors. Women have been asked to strip for action far
224 Chapter 15

more often than men have. Nicole Kidman's nudity in The Blue Room was a cause
celebre, but Iain Glen's cartwheeling in the nude every night in the same play went
unnoticed.
However, gay theatre is changing that. Recently, numerous American plays
have presented buff and toned men. This "boys-keep-swinging" kind of play
reached its highest or lowest form to date (depending upon your perspective) with
shows such as Naked Boys Singing with book, music, and lyrics by Stephen Bates,
Marie Cain, Percy Hart, Shelly Markham, Jim Morgan, David Pevsner, Ray me
Sciaroni, Mark Savage, Ben Schaechter, Robert Schrock, Trance Thompson, Mark
Winkler, and Bruce Vilanch. Naked Boys Singing is a musical review done with the
entire cast nude. However, highly respected dramas including Terrence McNally s
Love, Valour and Compassion, Richard Greenberg's Take Me Out, and Edward Albee s
The Play about the Baby contained significant scenes with nudity.
In addition to the exploitation of actors, the dramatic dividends of nudity may
not be worth it, in some cases. Nude scenes make some actors and audience mem¬
bers uncomfortable. Nudity for some actors is no big deal, but there are many actors
who will not appear naked on stage, no matter what the play or what the role. For
the audience, even if the nude scene is essential to the plot, being faced with a naked
actor makes it difficult to concentrate on the scene. Because we are rarely allowed to
stare dispassionately at a real naked person in the United States, it is difficult for
audience members to stop their extracurricular thoughts of lust or loathing. Rather
than seeing the character, audience members are looking at the actor, noting the size
of his penis or her breasts. The result is that the suspension of disbelief—and the
focus on the characters and story—disappears. Instead of being involved in the
world of the play, people are self-conscious, embarrassed, and distracted.
John Istel writes in "The Naked Truth," in American Theatre Magazine, that fire
and nudity in the theatre make the audience uncomfortable and take them out of
the play. He urges a moratorium on nudity, believing that it is not only distracting,
it is antitheatrical. He explains that it is difficult to get swept up into the illusionary
world of a play in the first place. We have to accept all kinds of crazy theatre con¬
ventions such as families who crowd around only three-fourths of a dinner table
and people who, no matter what they're doing, always seem to face in the direction
of the audience. For naysayers such as Istel, nudity raises unnecessary questions
that are just further distractions. Audience members may be wondering, for exam¬
ple, Is she cold? Did he take a shower before the show? What do her parents think
about this? or Do they get splinters?
The test of obscenity that usually wins for artists relates to the question of
whether the play is utterly without redeeming social, artistic, and literary value. A
work of art has artistic value by definition. However, playwrights need to remem¬
ber that there are still many communities and theatres that do not allow nudity.
Any show that is more tart than art may have difficulty getting produced. Some
believe the magic of the theatre is more intriguing, more romantic, and more imag¬
inative if the actors keep their costumes on.
 Genre and Style 225

In-Yer-Face Theatre

A current style is in-yer-face theatre, which is defined as something blatantly

aggressive or provocative, impossible to ignore or avoid, and confrontational. It
implies being forced to see something close up, having your personal space
invaded. It suggests crossing normal boundaries. In short, it describes the kind of
theatre that puts the audience in just such a situation.
In-yer-face theatre has been notably prevalent in Great Britain and has really
taken off in the last decade. Just as the theories of Antonin Artaud inspired
provocative and confrontational theatre in the 1960s, in-yer-face theatre became
the dominant style of much new writing in the 1990s. Among the writers of in-yer-
face theatre are Sarah Kane, Mark Ravenhill, Nick Grosso, Tracy Letts, Martin
McDonagh, Patrick Marber, Philip Ridley, Naomi Wallace, and Richard Zajdlic.
Mark Ravenhill is the author of Shopping and Fucking, Handbag, Some Explicit
Polaroids, Faust Is Dead, and Mother Clap's Molly House. Critic Michael Billington
wrote in The Guardian (2001) about the last play, "Mark Ravenhill clearly likes to
have it both ways. In this wonderfully exuberant new musical play, he celebrates
Sodom like there is no Gomorrah. But the satirist in him also attacks the commod¬
ification of sex and the resultant loss of love. The result is an evening rich in rudery
and ambivalence" (p. 14).
In the United States, in-yer-face theatre is exemplified by plays such as Killer
Joe and Bug by Tracy Letts, Bash and The Shape of Things by Neil LaBute, and some
of Sam Shepard's work, but the majority of audiences in the United States seem to
prefer comedies and musicals; they want to be entertained, not shocked. Never¬
theless, in-yer-face theatre has found an audience, and the plays of Letts and
LaBute have met with critical acclaim and sold-out houses.
How can you tell if a play is in your face? The language is filthy, there's prob¬
ably nudity, people have sex in front of you, violence breaks out, one character
humiliates another, taboos are broken, unmentionable subjects are broached, and
conventional dramatic structures are subverted. At its best, this kind of theatre is
so powerful, so visceral that it forces you to react. Its themes include society's stan¬
dards, hypocrisy, and values as well as attitudes toward extramarital sex, drugs,
fraud, violence, and marriage.

Summary

The term genre refers to a play's classification: comedy, tragedy, or drama. These
classes can be further divided into many subcategories. A comedy may be comedy
of manners, satire, farce, situation comedy, burlesque or parody, fantasy or
romance. A tragedy is a tragedy, but it may also be historical, mythological, roman¬
tic, horrific, or melodramatic. A drama is a serious play, which may have a sad or
226 Chapter 15

happy ending. A drama may be a problem play, a "whodunit or mystery, soap

opera, tragicomedy, or a melodrama. It might even include elements of fantasy.
Style refers to the author's treatment or approach, including his individual
style and the conventions he or she selects to use. Theatre styles include
approaches that are representational or illusionistic, presentational or classical, or
revolts against realistic plays, such as expressionism, surrealism, theatricalism,
stylization, epic theatre, absurdism, and abstract formalism. Representational
styles include naturalism and realism. Presentational styles acknowledge that this
is the world of the theatre. Characters speak directly to the audience in asides and
soliloquies. There may be a chorus or another theatrical convention employed.
These styles include all classical plays up to the beginning of modern drama in the
late nineteenth century. Once modern realism became the established style, there
were revolts against it, but it remains dominant.
Nudity can be a natural part of a play and needed for the story and the char¬
acter, or it can be gratuitous, added primarily to sell tickets. Nudity that is integral
to the believability of the action helps tell the story efficiently, shows the audience
about a character without having to use a lot of words, shows the relationship of
the characters, and conveys the tone of the play.
In-yer-face theatre is defined as something blatantly aggressive or provocative,
impossible to ignore or avoid, and confrontational. It implies being forced to see
something close up, having your personal space invaded. It suggests crossing nor¬
mal boundaries. In short, it describes the kind of theatre that puts the audience in
just such a situation. In a play of this kind, the language is filthy, there is nudity,
people have sex in front of you, violence breaks out, one character humiliates
another, taboos are broken, unmentionable subjects are broached, and conven¬
tional dramatic structures are subverted. At its best, this kind of theatre is power¬
ful and visceral, pushing the audience to react.
 CHAPTER

The Spine and Premise

The playwright should ask. If I were the audience, watching this play, what conclu¬
sions would I come to about the story, about the characters, and about life? Each
play says something through what it shows. In this chapter, we will explore the
spine and premise of a play The spine is defined as the basic action of the play The
premise is the major idea behind the play—what it shows. If we define a dramatic
story as the transformation of a character through a crisis, the premise is a succinct
statement of that transformation. One of the essentials to good playwriting is to
show, not tell. The premise, or theme, comes through not by having the characters
talk about it but by having the play illustrate it, so that the audience can discover it.

The Spine

Plays that succeed do so because they nail the basics and build from there. One basic
is that central thread around which all the other threads are woven—the spine. The
spine of a play refers to a coherent and focused storyline—the basic action of
the play, the critical path along which the story moves, what the play is about from
the standpoint of the characters' principal conflict. Like a train following its rails to
its destination, the spine keeps the play on track as the script unfolds. This can be a
useful tool when troubleshooting a play that has lost its focus at some point.
Harold Clurman (1972) in On Directing writes, "The director chooses the
spine of the play, the key or springboard of his interpretation, according to his own
lights, not to mention the actors he has at his disposal, the audience he wishes to
reach and the hoped for affect on that audience" (p. 30). He learned this concept
from Richard Boleslavsky, who had been trained by Stanislavsky at the Moscow
Art Theatre. The body's spine holds the vertebra in place just as the main action in
a play must hold all the smaller events and actions. For example, he explains that
Eugene O'Neill's A Touch of the Poet focuses on characters who are immigrants to
this country, and the spine was for these characters "to make a place for them¬
selves" (p. 221). For his production of O'Neill's Long Day's Journey into Night, he
determined that each character was alone with his own secret or guilt but that each
had his or her eye on everyone else. For him the play was a self-examination, a
search into oneself and into others. The spine was "to probe within oneself for the

227
228 Chapter 16

lost 'something'" (p. 255). For Carson McCullers's The Member of the Wedding, he
said the spine was to get connected.
For a playwright, the spine must be the dramatic core of the script, extended
from beginning to end. It is created as one scene builds on the next, as one event
follows another, as characters act and interact. It is a dynamic mix of story and dra¬
matic elements that provides the source of energy that drives the story forward. It
is also the path along which the energy flows, a central and critical element in the
anatomy of a play.
After finding the spine of a play, Clurman (1972) then determined the spine
of each character and how it related to the main action. For example, if the spine in
McCullers's drama was to get connected, he then asked, "What does the protago¬
nist Frankie do about it?" To Frankie, getting out of herself means growing up. As
she is growing, she faces twists and turns, joy and torture—in short, growing
pains—but at the end, she has achieved her aim. She's ready to get out of herself
and get connected (pp. 189-190).
The spine provides a path for the inner moral /spiritual journey of the central
character. The protagonist will reach various destinations along his or her path,
each of which advances the story. The spine triggers the major question in the play:
Will the protagonist get what he or she wants? We learn the answer when protag¬
onist and antagonist meet face to face at the climax.
So, in the final analysis what is the spine? It is organic, generated during the
writing process itself, not built or assembled according to some handy blueprint. It
doesn't pre-exist. It comes into being as the play unfolds. Its creation is an evolving
process. Character is the heart and soul of the spine, dramatic structure provides its
skeleton, and dynamic storytelling adds the flesh and blood. The presence or
absence of a clear spine can be felt on a very basic level: "It's working" or "It's not
working."

The Premise

A good spine needs a strong dramatic premise to set it in motion. The premise is the
controlling idea of the play, expressed in a single sentence. Think of the dramatic
premise as the prime mover—the source of momentum that causes the story to
unfold and the dramatic elements to function at maximum efficiency. The dramatic
premise is active like a fully charged battery waiting to transform its energy into

The potency of a dramatic premise derives from an inherent imbalance or

conflict that demands to be addressed and set right. This imbalance—a form of
dramatic instability—forces the protagonist into action, relentless and unstop¬
pable until equilibrium is restored. A good dramatic premise springs from some-
t mg being out of balance, and the protagonist takes it upon herself to set it right
In Shakespeare's Macbeth, the title character's world goes out of balance as soon as
 The Spine and Premise 229

the witches' first prophecy comes true. It is then that his ruthless ambition starts to
take hold.
The dramatic premise is postulated in the setup and always involves the
main characters facing a very specific set of circumstances, which ideally spring
from both internal and external sources. A viable dramatic premise is a statement
of what the whole play is about.
The dramatic premise is the starting point, providing the motive to drive the
story forward. In Sophocles' Oedipus the King, Oedipus wants to save his people
from the plague, even if it is to his own peril. For Annie Sullivan in William Gib¬
son's The Miracle Worker, the goal is to make Helen Keller understand how to com¬
municate, and the successful completion of the task is one on which her own
self-worth depends. For Macbeth, it is to become king, no matter what the cost. For
Shakespeare's Hamlet, it is his duty to avenge the murder of his father, above all
else. In the play Extremities, by Mastrosimone, a woman named Marjorie is
attacked and nearly raped but eventually overpowers the rapist, Raul. She ties him
up and barricades him in her fireplace. Raul tells her that he will be out of jail
quickly because he didn't really rape her, and then he will come back and finish the
job. She tortures him and then decides to dig a hole and bury him. Eventually, her
two roommates return and try to convince her that the most reasonable action is to
call the police. She then sees the situation rationally and demands that Raul confess
in front of her roommates. He must do so before she will call the police to ensure
her future safety from him.
In these plays, the classic elements for dramatic action are in place: The main
characters are in extreme jeopardy, the obstacles are seemingly insurmountable,
the goals are clearcut, the need to take action is overwhelming, and the clock is
ticking. This familiar mix of ingredients can be found in the setups to a great many
plays. It creates a solid dramatic footing that is then spun into a play.
The premise also clarifies what the author has to say. It shapes the ending. It
answers the central question of the play and tells us what happens afterward. For
example, Macbeth does become king, but his ruthless ambition leads to his
destruction. Oedipus does save his people, but to do so, he must realize his own
faults. He learns that he killed Laius and is the cause of the plague, and to fulfill his
promise to punish the evildoer, he blinds himself and goes into exile. We might
offer several premises for Extremities: "He who digs a pit for others, falls into it
himself," "He who commits violence on others will suffer in equal measure," or
"Reason leads us away from destruction." The central character is on her way to
destruction, but reason prevents it.
But whatever the conflict, it is meaningless until it has been personalized. It
needs to have a significant impact emotionally on the audience, and for that to hap¬
pen, they must care about the characters. The story must grab hold of its audience
early and not let go.
The relationship of the characters must compel our attention and concern. We
need to identify with or sympathize with the protagonist. We must see how he
230 Chapter 16

struggles and what the quest costs him. Taking on the quest should cause the pro-
tagonist trouble, pain, and suffering.
The antagonist must make the protagonist's life miserable and be so strong
that we're never sure of the outcome until the end. We must also learn how tern e
the consequences will be if the protagonist fails. In classic fashion, the protagonist
will probably lash out at those she loves to protect herself and shelter the core o
inner pain that has become the defining aspect of her character.
A good dramatic premise has three C's; character, conflict, and consequences.

1. A character (protagonist) who takes action and is a prime mover.

2. An impulse to action that results from the direct conflict between the protag¬
onist and the forces of opposition, whether internal or external.
3. Clearly defined consequences.

The antagonist must be as determined to win as the protagonist. The antago¬

nist must also be determined to confront, expose, and stop the protagonist from
getting what he wants. They need to dance around each other like a pair of boxers
probing for weaknesses and openings, landing an odd jab here, a solid punch
there, until through the progression of their scenes, each becomes more exposed
and more vulnerable to the other. They must battle with their hearts and minds.
This kind of unwavering focus on the central issue of the story will generate
tremendous strength and sustain the spine.
There is a strong link between the spine and the overall structure of the play.
The structure may be as simple as beginning, middle, and end. It may involve mul¬
tiple story lines, multiple timeframes, or a deliberately fractured or scrambled nar¬
rative line. It may utilize unusual narrative devices, like the three-part "repeated
with variations" rape in Rashomon, by Fay Kanin and Michael Kanin, or the multi¬
ple story lines of a Shakespearean play. But good dramatic structure goes beyond
architecture to something more akin to musical composition.
The playwright, as well as the director, needs to approach structure in terms
of what happens when, for how long, and at what intensity. Creating this sense of
pacing, duration, and dramatic impact is an intuitive process. It has to do with
rhythm, and it also has to do with expectations. We expect to see the conflict set in
motion and the first complication—the protagonist's first step into quicksand—
within the first twenty pages. By the end of Act One, we need to see the protago¬
nist fall into the next quagmire, so that we go out at the intermission wondering
what is going to happen next. The second act needs to take us to a third and even
worse situation that will lead to the climax. If there are some surprises, some new
discoveries by the protagonist or antagonist that take us to unexpected places, that
is even better.
The structure is designed to compel and focus questions in the audience's
mind. The inciting incident propels the first question: How will this turn out? What
is going to be the outcome? The audience wants its expectations reversed. They
 The Spine and Premise 231

didn't come to see what they already know. They want a surprise—a reversal. If a
play turns out to be exactly what the audience expected and unfolds exactly how
the audience expected it, then they will be disappointed. If you, as the playwright,
can answer the main question in a way the audience doesn't expect and can sur¬
prise them such that they can truly understand and accept the outcome, then you
will have brought about a successful resolution. This sense of pacing, momentum,
and overall shape is a vital part of dramatic structure and the one that links most
directly to the effective functioning of the spine.
Think of the premise as the controlling idea of the play expressed in one sen¬
tence. It is the root idea or central idea of the play, suggesting how the idea controls
and guides the writer's choices. The controlling idea is the one we take away from
the play.
It is unlikely that the writer will begin with a clear idea of the premise, unless
the inspiration for the play is a message she wants to tell. Usually, a writer begins
with an experience, an image, a vague idea of a story, or a character. She writes a
few scenes. The characters may take the writer places she didn't expect to go. The
writer discovers the controlling idea as the focus of the play develops. As the
writer continues, the characters make choices and the writer's vision becomes
clearer. Eventually, the writer must decide what the controlling idea is and what
the play will show when all is said and done. Through the controlling idea, the
writer reorganizes and reshapes the story and gives it meaning, creating a
metaphor for life.
A. R. Gurney, Jr., states in an interview with Jackson Bryer (1995) in The Play¬
wright's Art that he really has to have some idea of where he wants to end up but
that he often doesn't end up there. In writing The Dining Room, he didn't know how
it would end. He says.

All I knew was that I wanted to have a play that took place in one room during the
course of a day. It had to get more exciting, and something important had to happen
toward the end of the day. What could you have take place in a dining room as the
light is beginning to wane? I suppose it had to be something about death, which has
become a kind of penultimate scene in The Dining Room, as the table is being set for
the final dinner party, the ultimate scene, (p. 95)

Gurney goes on to note that with Later Life, he had a specific climax clearly in mind
and what he thought was a wonderful ending. The second draft, however, took
him in an entirely different direction and resulted in a different ending. Similarly,
Edward Albee (1995) states in The Playwright's Art, "When you write something,
you're working from both your conscious and your unconscious mind, and you
don't necessarily always know what you have until someone points it out to you"
(p. 15).
The responsibility of the writer is not to uplift society or to be politically cor¬
rect. The responsibility is to tell the truth as you passionately believe it. Do you
believe what you have written? Do you believe what the end shows?
232 Chapter 16

The audience wants a reason to go to the theatre. Why should they go

through the ritual of driving to the theatre, buying a ticket, sitting in the dark in a
public room with a bunch of strangers, and putting in a great amount of concen¬
tration and energy to experience the story? They want to experience a meaningful
metaphor for life.
The premise, message, or theme may be stated briefly, but it doesn t mean
that the idea behind the play or the theme is simplistic. A ten-minute play or a one-
act is capable of mind-stretching thought. It can carry a significant subject and
theme just as a full-length play can. What's important is that the play shows
thought. What does the play in its entirety say?
Every story, novel, or play must have a premise. A play without a premise is
like a car without a steering wheel. It should be avoided. Think of the premise as
the love in a marriage. It is the reason you are writing what you are writing. It is the
major point that your play shows when the final curtain has come down. Thomas
Price (1992), in Dramatic Structure and Meaning in Theatrical Productions, claims the
play's argument is "fundamentally the projection of a spiritual struggle within the
soul of its creator" (p. 7). In his view, the playwright develops a proposition that is a
brief statement or syllogism and then develops the action of the play to demon¬
strate it. Lajos Egri (1960) calls it premise or purpose and defines it as the "theme,
root idea, central idea, goal, aim, driving force, subject, plan, plot, or basic emo¬
tion" (p. 2). The premise of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is "Great love defies
even death" (p. 12). Henrik Ibsen's Ghosts shows us that "The sins of the father are
visited on the children" (p. 13).
In Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park, newlyweds Corie and Paul Bratter move
into a fifth-floor walk-up. Corie is a free spirit. Paul is a conservative, stable lawyer.
When Corie tries to get Paul to lighten up, have fun, and walk barefoot in the park,
he resists. They fight. Finally Paul gets drunk, walks barefoot in the park, and then
climbs on the roof above the skylight. Corie is terrified he will fall. In the end, she
is enlightened. The premise of the play is "Compromise on both sides is necessary
for a successful marriage."

Don't Tell, Show

One of the essentials to good playwriting is to show it, not tell it. Your premise or
theme will come through not by having your characters speak about it but by mak¬
ing the play illustrate it. The audience must be able to observe the interactions of
the characters, discover the story, and come to their own conclusions. It is crucial
that your story actually illustrate the themes you want it to through the dramatic
action. If the play does not illustrate the themes you planned, you have a choice-
change the themes or change the story. Look at your scenario closely and ask your¬
self, It I were the audience, watching this play, what conclusions would I come to
about the story, about the characters, and about life?
 The Spine and Premise 233

For example, Shakespeare's Macbeth clearly illustrates the terrible conflict

and tragedy caused by obsessive ambition and greed. It is not just about how
things go awry when you listen to your spouse. If it were about that, the first scene
would not show Macbeth meeting the witches and reacting strongly when they tell
him he will be thane and king. Instead, it would give us a scene between the mar¬
ried Macbeths right off. This doesn't mean that all plays are thesis plays (some are
just good yarns, with theatricality) or propaganda, although your play may come
across that way if your story and characters don't have plausibility and dramatic
probability. They must be consistent within the dramatic conventions of the world
you set up. Examine each scene that you've written in terms of its premise. Make a
list of the titles of the scenes and state the premise of each one. What does each
scene show?
Note that the premise is not stated directly in the scene but implied in a sub¬
tle way. Once you have a clear understanding of what each scene shows, then try
to determine the overall premise of your play.

EXCERCISE 20 (Optional)_—-

Beginning Level Choose one of the following:

A. Write a comic scene with a strong premise. The premise might be "A person who
cannot make up his or her mind will suffer the consequences" or "A person who
responds in a way to baffle, confuse, and astonish others will get what he or she
deserves." Once your premise is set, put it into action. What complications can
you use to put obstacles in the protagonist's way? What is the worst that could
happen? Make it happen. Again, base your jokes on characters and situations.
The ending should have a big laugh and tie the scene into a neat package.
B. Rewrite a previous scene. Make it comic by turning one of the characters into
an imposter who gets confused, lies through his teeth, and goes off on tan¬
gents. Imagine a comic such as Robin Williams, Kathy Griffith, or Dave
Chapelle playing the character.

Intermediate Level Choose one of the following:

C. Select a familiar classic comedy by Shakespeare, Moliere, Etherage, Sheridan,
or another dramatist. Select a scene and rewrite it, changing the characters
and setting to today. Moliere did this by adapting The Pot of Gold, by Plautus,
into The Miser. Plautus's The Twin Menachmi was adapted by Shakespeare into
The Comedy of Errors, which was adapted into the musical The Boys from Syra¬
cuse by George Abbott with music and lyrics by Rodgers and Tlart. Sly Fox, by
Larry Gelbart, is an adaptation of Ben Jonson's Volpone. The contemporary
film 10 Things 1 Hate about You was based on Shakespeare's The Taming of the
Shrew.
D. Select a playwright and write a scene in the style of that playwright. For
examples, look at the following plays: Lend Me a Tenor or Noises Off by
234 Chapter 16

Michael Frayn (farce). Cat on u Hot Tin Roof by Tennessee Williams (realism).
The Hairy Ape by Eugene O'Neill (expressionism), Bug by Tracy Letts (in-yer-
face drama).

Advanced Level Choose one of the following:

E. Write a scene in which it would be realistic and believable for a character to
be nude. Look at Tracy Letts's Killer Joe. Make sure the nudity is essential for
the story and the character. Include an important physical action, whether
serious or comic.
F. Write an in-yer-face scene that focuses on social standards, hypocrisy, greed,
or old-fashioned attitudes that you believe should by changed. Maybe you
want to draw attention to the problems of date rape, extramarital sex, drugs,
fraud, violence, or marriage. This is experimental theatre, where you make
the rules regarding language, nudity, violence, taboos, theme, character, and
structure. Your goal is to write a powerful and visceral scene that pushes the
audience to react.

Summary

The spine of a play refers to a coherent and focused storyline—the basic action
of the play, the critical path along which the story moves, what the play is about
from the standpoint of the characters' principal conflict. Like a train following its
rails to its destination, the spine keeps the play on track as the script unfolds. This
can be a useful tool when troubleshooting a play that has lost focus at some point.
Harold Clurman (1972) writes "To give active direction a formulation in the
simplest terms must be found to state what general action motivates the play"
(p. 27). He used the word spine to indicate the major struggle that is at the core of a
play, and he used a single sentence to describe the spine of each play. For example,
Shakespeare s Hamlet is a story of a man s search for the truth. William Saroyan's
MV Heart s in the Highlands is the story of people eager to give things to one another.
Clifford Odets's Night Music is the story of the search for a home.
Every story, novel, or play must have a premise. It is the reason you are writ¬
ing what you are writing. It is the major point that your play shows when the final
curtain has come down. The play needs to have form. It needs to be organized in
such a way, scene by scene, to make clear the action and theme. The premise sug¬
gests three things: the central character, the conflict, and the ending of the play. If
we define a dramatic story as the transformation of a character through a crisis, the
premise is a succinct statement of that transformation. In William Mastrosimone's
Extremities, the premise is "Reason leads us away from destruction." In Shake¬
speare s Macbeth, it is Ruthless ambition leads to destruction." In Martin McDon-
agh's The Beauty Queen of Leenaner it is "The inability to face reality brings about
isolation and destruction." &
 The Spine and Premise 235

One of the essentials to good play writing is to show, not tell. The premise will
come through not by having the characters talk about theme but by making the
play illustrate it so that the audience can discover it. Examine the story closely and
ask. If I were the audience, watching this play, what conclusions would I come to
about the story, about the characters, and about life? If the play does not illustrate
a writer's desired themes, he or she has a choice: change the themes or change the
story.
 Writing and Rewriting

In this chapter, we will explore many of the areas you need to address in writing
and rewriting. Once the first draft is done, it is then important to determine what
changes are needed to improve and clarify the plot, characters, and dialogue as
well as to correct punctuation and spelling. We will focus on comma problems and
also look at information on copyright.

The First Draft

If you are putting together a series of scenes written in response to the exercises for
your first draft, you will need to pay careful attention to transitions, entrances and
exits of characters, and costume changes. If you have used different locales, you
will need to decide how to rewrite the scenes to make them work in a single or unit
set. If you have more than six characters, you should rethink the roles and try to
combine and/or eliminate characters. Make certain that each scene is essential to
the story and that something is different at the end of a scene from the beginning.
Using the average of one and one-half minutes per page, remember that a
thirty-minute short play is about twenty pages, a forty-five-minute play is about
thirty pages, a sixty-minute play is about forty-five pages, a ninety-minute play is
about sixty pages, and a two-hour play is about seventy-five pages. Carefully work
through your play, line by line, and edit. Eliminate unnecessary repetition and ver¬
bosity, and rewrite for clarity. Make sure that you follow the professional format
(see Chapter 4), and proofread for typos, spelling, and punctuation. Make sure that
the pages are numbered correctly.
Also, don't forget to have fun with your play. If you aren't having fun with it,
then neither will anyone else. And if you aren't having fun with it, you probably
won't be writing much of it. So as Buff says in Suburbia, "Go with the flow." Listen
to and obey the unexpected whims of your characters.

EXERCISE 21---
All Levels
Complete your first draft:
A. Beginning Level: 30 pages minimum

237
238 Chapter 17

B. Intermediate Level: 45 pages minimum

C. Advanced Level: A full-length play, 60 to 75 pages

Follow these guidelines for writing your first draft:

1. Your title page should have the title and the name of the author centered.

STUDENT BODY
By Lola Montes
2. Your second page should have the same title and name of author plus copy¬
right and contact information in the lower-left corner.

© Lola Montez
11684 Lincoln Rd.
Miami, FL 33199
(305) 555-4321
lolal982@hotmail.com
3. Your third page should include the character descriptions, setting, and time.

4. Your scenario may be on the fourth page.

5. The first page of dialogue should be page 1. Make sure you include the page
number at the top-right of each page, beginning with the first page of dialogue. If
your one-act has only one scene, you should number the pages consecutively: 1, 2,
3, and so on. If you have more than one scene, provide the number of the scene
using a numeral, a hyphen, and then the page number. Always number the pages
consecutively. Do not start over with 1 at the beginning of each scene or act. If you
have more than one act, use numerals for both the acts and the scenes and continue
the numbers consecutively for the pages. Examples: 1-1-1,1-1-2,1-1-3; 1-2-4,1-2-5,
1-2-6; and so on.

6. Each scene starts on a new page. The word SCENE and the number are cen¬
tered at the top of the scene. Example: SCENE 1.

7. At the end of the scene, the words END OF SCENE 1 should be centered.

8. Make sure you follow the correct format. Stage directions in parentheses are
indented 1.5 inches and character names are all in caps and indented 3.0 inches.

9. Make sure that you proofread your script and correct all misspellings, punc¬
tuation errors, grammatical mistakes, and the like.
10. What editing needs to be done?
A. Cut repetitive words.
B. Cut elaborate, long-winded stage directions.
C. Edit every speech, removing any unnecessary words.
 Writing and Rewriting 239

When you see a performance of a play, nothing should be distracting. You

should notice the set, and then it should go away You shouldn't be aware of the
acting, the directing, the sets, or even the playwriting. If, instead of being caught
up in the experience, something distracts you, then somebody has not done his job
properly. Similarly, when a teacher, or hopefully a literary manager, agent, director,
or producer reads your play, nothing in the manuscript should distract from the
story. The format, spelling, and punctuation should be as clean and professional as
possible.
The best way for a playwright to determine the strengths and weaknesses of
her play is to hear it. The playwright who's working independently can make this
happen by enlisting friends and relatives to read the play aloud in her living room.
The student in a workshop or university playwriting class will most likely have a
teacher who makes this happen in the classroom by enlisting the participation of
the other students. Following these kinds of readings, whether they are for a scene
or the whole play, the participants and observers generally provide feedback to the
writer. The playwright should listen, take notes, and ask questions, but under no
circumstances should she get defensive when others offer criticisms and sugges¬
tions for change.
Rewriting is part of the process. Even the most astute playwrights rewrite
their work many times. Lanford Wilson's play Burn This was four hours long when
it went into production. It needed to be cut considerably to shorten the playing
time, as did Sam Shepard's A Lie of the Mind and Tennessee Williams's Night of the
Iguana. If you look at The Season, by William Goldman, and Playwrights in Rehearsal,
by Susan Letzler Cole, you will see numerous case studies of rewriting situations.

The Second Draft

Once the writer has heard the first draft read, he must decide what changes are
needed to improve the plot, characters, and dialogue as well as to correct the punc¬
tuation and spelling. During the writing process, the writer must be emotionally
connected to the material and follow his instincts. Fie should also realize that fin¬
ishing the first draft of the play is just the beginning. Then comes rewriting.
After becoming subjectively and personally involved with the play during
the writing process, the writer must be able to distance himself and be able to look
at each draft with a more objective eye. In the beginning, this may require listening
to other theatre professionals who have more experience and can guide you. The
more knowledge you have of the theatre and the more experience you have as a
playwright, the more independent your decisions will become. However, we all
have blind spots. Thus, having someone else read the play or having a public read¬
ing can bring you feedback and insights from others.
William Whitehurst, a former student, wrote a ten-minute play called Chinese
Takeout in which a consultant, Jeff, calls in a phone order of Chinese food while fin¬
ishing an all-night "megaproject." The Chinese man answers yes to Jeff's order but
240 Chapter 17

no food ever comes. Jeff finally gets so angry that he finds the address he had
from looking in the Yellow Pages, drives there, and attacks the Chinese man. What
he thought was a restaurant turns out to be a laundry, and the Chinese man says
yes to everything. It is the only English word he knows. Jeff is thrown in jail an
then, much to his consternation, the Chinese man shows up and he must share the
cell with him.
When Whitehurst's play was read aloud, it became apparent that it didn't
work to actually have the phone calls, different locales, and a passage of several
hours. Whitehurst described the experience as follows:

It sounds like I have described a lot of action: phone calls, growing conflict, an
attack. Yet, the response I got was: "Nothing interesting happens until we get to the
jail cell." On reflection, I realized the characters did not really interact until the jail
cell. I revised the piece beginning in the cell. All of the previous action was easily
captured as "backstory" in a few references by Jeff. And these passages weren't
empty exposition: since the characters were in dramatic conflict, Jeff's comments on
their immediate past were "motivated speech." The principle was clear: begin at the
point closest to the dramatic climax—a lesson particularly valuable in a ten-minute
short. (Personal communication, November 12, 2002)

There are many reasons a play may not work. Each play has its own specific
rules and structure and language. Since a writer often doesn't know where it's
going on starting a play, she may not figure that out until near the end of the first
draft. It may be that she can't solve the major problems until several drafts later.
Most writers do not start writing with the beginning, middle, and end already
decided. The idea may come from an image, an event, a character, or a situation. It
may metamorphose into something quite different. A scene may be too long or
underdeveloped. A character may not be interesting or dynamic enough. The
exposition may be clumsy. There may be two many stories or characters or locales
mixed up in the play. All of this must be sorted out.
In addition to improving the play itself, the writer must take care of the
mechanics. It is difficult to read a script that has errors on every page. Few literary
managers and dramaturgs will read such a manuscript. It will be left on the shelf
or tossed. Before a writer sends the script off to a theatre, an agent, or a contest, he
must edit the work. This important aspect of rewriting is like cleaning house before
guests arrive. It's not much fun in itself, but you feel really good when everything
has been completed.
If you read your script from a computer screen, you will miss problems with
formatting and spacing. You need to print a paper copy to read so you can better
see the mistakes. A well-written and edited manuscript flows smoothly. There
should be nothing in terms of format, grammar, spelling, or punctuation that dis¬
tracts from the story. Also consider the following:

1. Make sure you are showing, not telling. Exposition is telling. Action is show¬
ing. We don't want to be told what happened offstage. If it is important and possi-
 Writing and Rewriting 241

ble, make it happen on stage. Show a character's emotions by his or her actions.
Don't tell us how the character feels. Don't have John say, "You really make me
angry." Show it. Have John throw the book at the door and yell, "Take the book and
get out!"

2. Establish each character gradually. A character doesn't need to enter the stage
and deliver a monologue about her past life. Although a character may make a ref¬
erence to another character's behavior or personality or attitude before entering,
once that person arrives, we need to see her in action and others responding to her.
Bring in background information only when it is vital to the current scene—on a
"need to know" basis. Make sure that your characters do not offer information that
would already be known by the other characters. Make sure they don't offer infor¬
mation to another person they normally wouldn't confide in: "Hi, husband. Aren't
you going to work today? I'm sure they're going to need you to look at the dials at
the nuclear power plant."

3. Are your stage directions clear and brief? Remember that many actors and
directors do not read stage directions. Some directors even blacken out all the stage
directions when they direct a show. Limit the stage directions to the characters'
specific actions. Avoid telling actors how to play lines (e.g., "sarcastically").

4. Read your dialogue out loud to make sure your characters have specific
voices. Cut any words and phrases that are repetitious. Are you saying the same
thing several different ways? Remember that ellipses (three dots) are for gaps and
dashes for interruptions. Are some lines too long and difficult to articulate? Do you
have one idea per speech? If you have more than one, add a response by another
character to the first idea before expressing the second.

5. Are you trying to tell too much with dialogue? Have you made the dialogue
count? Can you eliminate expository dialogue? How much of your story can you
tell visually?

6. Point of attack is important for the play itself and for each scene within the
play. Are your scenes starting too early? Do the scenes run too long past their com¬
pletion? Each scene should have a beginning, middle, and end. You can usually
hone a scene effectively by eliminating all the setup at the beginning and starting at
the first point of conflict. Don't try to bring each scene to a neat, comfortable com¬
pletion. Leave some scenes open, ending with unresolved conflict. In the structure,
pay close attention to the discoveries your central character makes. Where you
place the discoveries or turning points in the progression of the story is very impor¬
tant. Have you looked at the transitions? What is the hook that takes us from scene
to scene? Have you looked at the contrasting rhythms and tones of your scenes? No
two scenes should be the same length or have the same emotional feeling.

7. Have you checked for unintentional repetition? Do you have two scenes that
accomplish the same end? Does a character give the same information more than
242 Chapter 17

once? Is the same word repeated too closely in the dialogue? Do you have too
many italics, exclamation points, dashes, metaphors, or uses of profanity? These
items are most effective when used sparingly. Use them too often, and they will
lose their impact.
8. Check your general mechanics. Check your spelling with a spellcheck. If you
don't have one, get one. Make sure you are using the right forms of words. The fol¬
lowing are often confused:

their/there/they're
its/it's
who's/whose

On a final read through, check for errors such as two periods per sentence,
two spaces between words, and words your spellcheck missed. For instance, per¬
haps you've typed the instead of them. Your spellcheck won't get this because the is
a correctly spelled word, even though it's not the right word.
Editing involves an ability to look at your work with an impersonal eye. For
some, this is difficult. Find another person who's willing to proofread your script,
as well. It is often helpful to let your manuscript sit for a while; then go back and
do a final edit. Time and distance can give you a clearer view of your dream.
Always remember that a play is not just written; it's rewritten.
Rewriting is like finding the meaning of life. We go on a quest with the first
draft, and in the subsequent drafts, we get to relive that life over and over until we
get it right.

Using Commas

The comma is the most widely used of all punctuation marks, since it serves so
many different purposes. Because of its varied and distinct uses, however, it is also
the most troublesome of all punctuation marks. Its overuse and misuse obscure
meaning more than the misapplication of other punctuation marks. In fact, comma
usage varies so greatly that only a few rules can be considered unchanging.
Regardless, this mark of punctuation, more than any others, can help to clarify the
meaning of writing.
The writer needs to keep in mind several important facts about the comma. It
is a weak mark compared to the period, semicolon, and colon. It is always used
within a sentence. It has three primary purposes:

1. To separate sentence elements that might be misread

2. To enclose or set off interrupters within a sentence
3. To set off certain introductory sentence elements
 Writing and Rewriting 243

Using Commas to Separate

Use commas to separate words and other sentence elements that may be misread.
The single most important use of the comma is to prevent misunderstanding. Look
at this statement: "Mr. Robinson our neighbor is an acting teacher." Is this a com¬
ment to or about Mr. Robinson? You can make the meaning clear by writing "Mr.
Robinson, our neighbor is an acting teacher," which translates as a direct address,
or "Mr. Robinson, our neighbor, is an acting teacher," meaning that Mr. Robinson
is both our neighbor and an acting teacher. In each of the following sentences, if
you omit the commas, the meaning becomes confused:

In 2002,102 directors produced this same play.

Outside, the theatre needs a coat of paint; inside, the walls need plastering.
The day after, our director was absent herself.
Soon after, Lesley Ann got up on her crutches and stormed out of the room.
The cost increased five dollars, to twenty-one. (The comma makes it clear that
the range of advance was sixteen upward, not between five and twenty-one.)

1. A comma is used to separate two main clauses joined by a coordinating conjunction. A

comma between two such clauses prevents misreading, as in the following sentences:

We ate fruit and our leading man ordered eggs and bacon.
Last week I was sick with a cold and my understudy took over.
I am not interested in staying for the role is dull.

Adding a comma each after fruit, cold, and staying will prevent readers from think¬
ing that the subject of the second clause is part of the first clause. If the clauses are
short, the comma before the conjunction may be left out. But how short is short? If
each clause consists of only a subject and a predicate or of only three or four words
each, then the comma may be omitted:

Roberto did not win the Irene Ryan Scholarship nor did Lina.
The audience came and the actors performed.

Long clauses may be written without a comma between them if both have the same
subject and if the thought connection is close:

Philip looked at the stage set quickly and then he began a close inspection of it.

2. Do not use a comma to separate a subject from its predicate or a verb from its object
or complement. No comma is needed in any of these sentences:

Jack gave out copies of the script and asked me to read the stage directions.
We asked to hear the scene read by the actors and then improvised.
Hal found that writing for an hour was not so hard after all.
244 Chapter 17

3. Use commas to separate the elements in a series. One kind of series is represented
by A, B, and C—three or more words, phrases, or clauses, with a conjunction (usu¬
ally and) joining the last two members. Book publishers use the comma before t e
conjunction. Some writers omit the comma before the conjunction and use A, B and
C. Present practice in the playwrighting field favors this pattern.

Melissa, Megan, Ramon and Christina are terrific actors.

That director is noted for his wild concepts, cinematic music and long
rehearsals.

Another kind of series is represented by three or more words, phrases, or clauses

without any conjunctions.

The room is bright, clean, quiet.

4. Do not use commas when conjunctions join the items in a series.

I have read no plays by O'Neill or Inge or Odets or Lilliam Heilman.

All makeup must meet the same standards for safety and strength and purity.

Use commas to separate two or more adjectives when they equally modify the
same noun:

This beautiful, rich, athletic woman could actually act.

For the performance, Katie wore an old, ragged dress and an ugly, cheap hat.

When the adjectives do not modify equally—that is, when they are not coordinate—
use no commas:

A large green centipede crawled on the dry waxed floor.

If you cannot tell whether modifying adjectives are really coordinate, test it by
mentally inserting the coordinate conjunction and between adjectives; using a
comma is correct only if and fits naturally. In the preceeding sample sentence, you
can fit and between large and green and between dry and waxed, but the fit does not
seem natural. Large, for example, seems to modify green centipede. Also, truly coor¬
dinate adjectives can be reversed: dry waxed floor makes sense whereas waxed dry
floor does not.

5. Use a comma to separate contrasted elements in a sentence. Such contrasted ele¬

ments may be words, phrases, numbers, letters, or clauses:

Jorge begins his name with a J, not with an H.

Your punctuation problems are due to carelessness, not to ignorance.
Food should be kept in the green room, not in the theatre.
The harder it rained, the faster they ran.
 Writing and Rewriting 245

6. Use a comma or commas to separate an absolute phrase from the remainder of the sen¬
tence. An absolute phrase, or group of words that has no grammatical relationship to
any word in the sentence, consists of a noun and a participial modifier. (The latter
is sometimes omitted but understood.) For example:

The performance having been finished, we started on the trip home.

I went to the main office, my resume in hand, and asked for the stage
manager.
We need another actor for the show, Rachel having moved to another town.

7. Use commas to separate elements in place names, dates, and titles of people:

Troy left on May 27,1999, to go to Norman, Oklahoma, for the interview.

He lives in Rome, Georgia, having been transferred there from Miami,
Ohio.
Schriner, B. F., Allen, P. G., and Marreo, T. B., head the list of producers.
The son of Tim James, Sr., is listed as Tim James, Jr., in our records.

The second comma must be used when the state follows the town or city and
when the year follows both the month and day When only the month and year are
used, the use of commas around the year is optional. Use two or do not use any:
Betty was born in June, 1981, or Betty was born in June 1981. In the dateline of a let¬
ter, punctuation is optional. It was formerly common practice to write July 7,1977;
increasingly popular is the form 7 July 1977. Both are acceptable. For clarity,
always separate two numerals; where a word intervenes, the comma may be
omitted, if you prefer.

Using Commas to Enclose or Set Off

Use commas to set off or enclose interrupting constructions. A word or phrase that
comes between a subject and its verb is an interrupter of sentence sense. So is any
element that comes between a verb and its complement or object. Some inter¬
rupters are necessary and, when used, should be set off in order not to confuse the
basic pattern of the sentence.
Use commas to set off nonrestrictive phrases and clauses. A nonrestrictive
(nonessential) phrase or clause is not necessary to the meaning of the sentence. It
merely adds information about a word that is already identified:

Rafe Silva, who lives across the street, is the most exciting designer.

In this sentence, the nonessential clause who lives across the street is not needed to
identify Rafe Silva. Since it could be omitted from the sentence, it is nonrestrictive
and thus set off by commas.
246 Chapter 17

A restrictive (essential) phrase or clause, on the other hand, contains informa

tion that is necessary to the meaning of the sentence. An essential element limits or
restricts the meaning of the word it modifies by identifying the particular one that
is meant:

The person who lives across the street is the local eccentric.

In this sentence, the descriptive clause is needed to identify the person. It is essen¬
tial and therefore not set off by commas.
Consider these pairs of examples:

The Laramie Project, telling about the death of Mathew Shepard, is well written.
The play that tells about Shepard is well written.

The actress my brother met in Los Angeles has traveled extensively.

Angela Summerfield, whom my brother met in Los Angeles, has traveled
widely.

Tourists, who can usually be recognized by their cameras, seem to outnum¬

ber the native population on Miami Beach.
Tourists who visit Miami for vacations are treated like special guests.

Remember that commas are used to enclose nonrestrictive (nonessential) phrases

and that no commas are needed if the phrases are restrictive (essential).

1. Use commas to set off parenthetical words, phrases, and clauses. A test of a paren¬
thetical expression is this: It can be omitted without changing the basic meaning of
the sentence. Here is another test: Frequently, though not always, its position in the
sentence can be shifted without any change in meaning:

However, we do not disagree very much about quality writing.

We do not, however, disagree very much about quality writing.
We must, on the other hand, consider every aspect of the production.
I believe, if anyone should ask my opinion, that opening night should be
postponed.

Parenthetic elements vary in intensity, and you show their relative strength by
means of punctuation (commas, parentheses). Some expressions are so weak that
they require no punctuation.

2. Use commas to set off words in a direct address (vocatives). A vocative is a noun
pronoun, or noun phrase used in a direct address. That is, a vocative indicates the
 Writing and Rewriting 247

person to whom something is said. A vocative may appear at various positions

within a sentence:

Hey, you, come over here.

John, will you perform for us next?
Will you please, sir, speak more distinctly?
We are here, pig face, to discuss an important problem.

3. Use commas to set off words in apposition. A word in apposition—that is, an

appositive—is a noun or pronoun (word or phrase) that identifies a preceding noun
or pronoun using different words. Usually, the appositive is explanatory and there¬
fore nonrestrictive. But occasionally, it is restrictive in meaning; then, the commas
are omitted:

His father, a television director, retired from Channel 6 last spring.

This is Dean Cantrell, our newly elected Equity representative.
Nell Gwyn was the famous mistress of the English king.
Haidee Gunderson, our supervisor, was a considerate woman.
My task, to write a ten-minute play, seemed hopeless.

Using Commas to Set Off Introductory Elements

Several introductory sentence elements need to be set off from the rest of the sen¬
tence with a comma. In effect, these elements act as interrupters, delaying the main
thought of the sentence. The comma serves both to separate these elements and to
introduce the main idea that follows.

1. Use a comma following an introductory adverbial clause. Remember that a clause

expresses a complete thought, but in this case, it becomes a modifier. Among the
many words used to begin the adverbial clause are because, when, while, if, before
and after:

Before Martin started memorizing his lines, he highlighted just his dialogue.
If I arrive first. I'll wait for you in the lobby.

Many introductory adverbial clauses are simply transposed elements. Inserted in

their customary order, they may or may not have commas, depending on their
meaning. Inserted elsewhere, they are enclosed by commas:

After you arrive at the theatre, the stage manager will guide you.
The stage manager, after you arrive at the theatre, will guide you.
248 Chapter 17

When the adverbial clause follows the independent clause, omit the comma if the
adverbial clause is necessary to complete the meaning of the sentence.

The stage manager will guide you after you arrive at the theatre.
Marilyn wrote her own one-woman show because she was sick of waiting
tables.
Many actors have jumpstarted their careers because they have learned how
to write.

Note that an introductory noun clause is not set off by a comma. Also, an adjective
clause follows the noun or pronoun that it modifies:

That your final script was turned in late is unfortunate. [Noun clause]
The playwright whom you were talking to is my aunt Simone. [Adjective
clause]

2. Use a comma following a series of introductory prepositional phrases and following a

long prepositional phrase:

On the stage, in the aisles, in the lobby, litter was everywhere.

After a long walk across the city to the theatre, we were glad to rest before the
curtain went up.
In a funky little shop in Greenwich Village, we bought a long piece of red silk.

Use a comma following an introductory participial phrase:

Acting on the advice of the producer, we bought some stock in the company.
Standing in the line at the front of the stage, Lacey knew where she belonged.

3. Use a comma to introduce a short quotation, especially in writing dialogue:

Frankie said, "Get outta my face or I'll hurt you."

If the he said or its equivalent follows the quotation, it is separated by a comma,

provided that a question mark or exclamation point is not demanded:

"I ain't leaving without my money," said Paula.

"If I give it to yah, will you leave me alone?" asked Frankie.

If the he said or its equivalent is inserted between the parts of a quotation, it is

enclosed by commas:

"I'll leave you alone forever," he said, "until I run outta money."
 Writing and Rewriting 249

When the quotation being introduced is long or formal, a colon replaces the
comma.
Sam Shepard is quoted in Playwrights in Rehearsal about ending a play:

I never know when to end a play. I'd just as soon not end anything. But you have to
stop at some point, just to let people out of the theatre. I don't like endings and I
have a hard time with them. ... A resolution isn't an ending, it's a strangulation.
(Cole, 2001, p. 25)

Make a careful distinction between quotations that are really quotations of speak¬
ing or writing and quoted material that is the subject or object of a verb or is mate¬
rial identified by quotation marks, such as titles, slang, and special word uses. See
the following examples:

His usual remark is, "Up your puppy with a meat hook."
"Make friends quickly, but make love slowly" is the motto that came to my
mind.

If the "he said" comes between parts of a quotation, it is enclosed by commas.

"Stink pot" is not the exact phrase to use for a warm greeting.

4. Don't use unnecessary commas. Be able to account for each comma in your
writing. A comma must be needed for sentence construction, clarity, or effective¬
ness. Do not use commas needlessly to separate closely related sentence elements.
Some of the most common misuses or overuses of the comma are discussed in the
following:

■ Do not use a comma before an indirect quotation. No comma is needed in this

sentence: The stage manager asserted that she stood squarely by the rules.
m Do not use a comma indiscriminately to replace a word that has been omitted. The
word that in an indirect quotation, the word that in introducing another noun
clause as an object, and the relative pronouns who, whom, which, and that are
frequently omitted in informal writing. They should not be replaced by com¬
mas. In Like a star Lina replied, she would return next week, the comma is incor¬
rectly used for that. (The comma also comes between a subject and its verb.)
In The person, I met was a friend of a friend of mine," whom should replace the
comma or the comma may be omitted. She thought, that the man was dead
should be written She thought that the man was dead.
■ Do not use a comma between two independent clauses; a stronger mark of punctua¬
tion (semicolon, period) is needed. Confusion is always caused by this misuse,
sometimes called the comma fault or comma splice. Use a period or semicolon
in place of the comma in a statement like this one:

My director told me to come to rehearsal early, I told her I couldn't.

250 Chapter 17

■ Do not use a comma or pair of commas with words in apposition that are actually
restrictive. The following bold words really limit, identify, or define, they
should not be enclosed with commas:

Eugene O'Neill's play A Long Days Journey into Night is one of his greatest.
My cousin Cameron Diaz is a lovely actress.
Richard Maxwell of the Juggerknot Theatre was a follower of Kozinsky.

■ Do not use a comma in any situation unless it adds clarity and understanding.
Comma usage is slowly growing more open. In the following sentences,
every comma can be justified, but each could be omitted, since clarity would
not be affected in the slightest degree:

After the play, Maria and I went home, by taxicab, because we wanted, at all
costs, to avoid subway crowds.
Naturally, the last thing you should do, before leaving the theatre, is make
sure the coffee pot is off.

Of all marks of punctuation, commas are the most frequently used and the most
important for clarity. Use them when necessary to make your meaning clear. Avoid
using them when they slow down thought, interrupt, or make your writing look as
if you have used a comma shaker.

Editing

A play that is tight has nothing superfluous. Editing is important. After completing
your first rough draft and getting feedback, decide what changes are needed for
the second draft:

1. What must be done to revise the script for the final draft?
2. What characters can be eliminated or combined?
3. Do you need to change the gender of a character?
4. What editing needs to be done?
a. Shorten or eliminate scenes that are too long or static.
b. Cut lines that are wooden, unbelievable, or repetitive.
c. Make cuts to shorten the playing time.
d. Clarify your intent or meaning.
e. Cut elaborate, long-winded stage directions.
f. Edit every speech in the play to remove unnecessary words.
g. Reduce the number of scene changes and time changes.
 Writing and Rewriting 251

5. What specific problems must be addressed?

a. Create a more distinct voice for each character.
b. Raise the stakes.
c. Develop a scene more.
d. Develop a character more to add depth.
e. Provide a different ending.
f. Add more physical activity.
g. Correct all typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors.

EXERCISE 22_

All Levels
Write the second draft, making all the needed changes and corrections.

Copyright

Once you have completed editing your script, you may want to send a copy to the
Library of Congress and register it formally for copyright protection. Copyright
information is easily available on the Internet and in books and other resources.
(You can find the United States Copyright Office at http://lcweb.loc.gov/
copyright and the Copyright Website at www.benedict.com:80.) I am not a lawyer
and cannot give you legal advice. But as a teacher, I strongly recommend that you
check out the sites just mentioned for more detailed information.
Granting a copyright is how the law protects people who create original works
of authorship. It gives the copyright owner the right to determine who can use his
or her work and how. This right can be sold or licensed to someone else. It can be
bought in advance for work someone has hired you to do, as in work for hire. The
copyright exists as soon as the original work is created in a tangible form. Ideas
and thoughts cannot be copyrighted, but as soon as you put them in tangible form
on paper, on a disk, in an e-mail, or in computer code, they can be copyrighted.
In general, a copyright established after 1978 lasts until seventy years after
the author's death. The work also has to be creative, not just factual. But any orig¬
inal play you write is considered creative. And even though factual data can't be
copyrighted, a play based on those facts can be. (That doesn't mean, however, that
you can use the actual wording from other documents without permission.)
No printed copyright notice is required on copyrighted material. If you won¬
der why there are copyright notices on plays and other works, it is because doing
so serves as a warning to people not to violate the copyright.
Things like titles, names, characters, slogans, blank forms, and information
that is common property (i.e., taken from public documents and other common
sources) cannot be copyrighted. However, titles, slogans, and the like can be trade-
marked, but that involves a different process.
252 Chapter 17

Copyright has to do with protecting your right to profit from your creative
labors. Obviously, if you write a play, you want to be the one to benefit from the pub¬
lic performance or sale of published copies of your work. Copyright infringement
suits usually don't happen unless some serious money is involved. So really, to be
enforced, a copyright should have some commercial value to it. A regular e-mail, for
instance, usually has no commercial value, but when a play is posted anywhere on
the Internet, it definitely means it is being published. Anyone with access to the
Internet can read it, and by giving it away free, you can damage that value.
When you formally register a play with the Library of Congress, a public
record is created of the basic facts of that particular copyright and additional pro¬
tection is provided. You may have evidence that a work is yours, but registering it
gives you statutory and more easily enforceable rights. Should you desire to file an
infringement suit, formal registration of the copyright is necessary. If you register
a work within three months of publication or before infringement, you can receive
statutory damages and attorney's fees in court actions. Otherwise, you get only
actual damages and profits. To register your play costs thirty dollars and involves
filling out a form and sending a copy of your work to the Library of Congress. The
forms are available online.
Do not confuse publication rights and copyright. The right to publish some¬
thing is what you offer when you submit a play to Dramatists Play Service, Inc.;
Samuel French, Inc.; Broadway Publishing; or one of the other publishers of plays.
Your copyright already exists; you are offering a publisher the permission to pub¬
lish it. You are selling the exclusive right to publish your work one time and for the
first time. Geographic limits may also be stated: First North American, World, and so
on. You retain all other rights. If you sell "All Rights" to your work, it means you
are selling your right ever to use the material again in any form.
It is important to consult with the Dramatists Guild before signing any con¬
tract for a professional production of your play and to consult a theatre lawyer
before signing away future rights related to recordings, film, television, video, or
the Internet.

Summary

Writing and then rewriting your first draft mean more than just correcting typo¬
graphical errors. Editing involves many decisions about revising the script for the
next draft. Can you reduce the number of characters by eliminating or combining
some roles? Do you need to change the gender of a character? Other editing ques¬
tions to ask yourself include the following. Do you need to:

1. Shorten or eliminate scenes that are too long or static?

2. Cut lines that are wooden, unbelievable, or repetitive?
3. Make cuts to shorten the playing time?
4. Clarify your intent or meaning?
 Writing and Rewriting 253

5. Cut long-winded stage directions?

6. Reduce the number of scene changes and change the time?
7. Provide a different ending?
8. Add more physical activity?
9. Bring the outside world into the play more through the use of sound effects,
props, and lighting?
10. Raise the stakes?
11. Find a more distinct voice for each character?
12. Write more believable dialogue?
13. Develop a scene more?
14. Provide more depth for a character?
15. Edit each speech of the play, removing all unnecessary words?
16. Correct all typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors?

The comma is the most widely used of all punctuation marks and serves many
different purposes. Because of its varied and distinct uses, however, it is the most
troublesome of punctuation marks. Its overuse and misuse also obscure meaning
more than the misapplication of any punctuation marks. Regardless, this mark of
punctuation, more than any other, can help to clarify the meaning of writing.
Granting a copyright is how the law protects people who create original
works of authorship. It gives the copyright owner the right to determine who can
use his or her work and how. This right can be sold or licensed to someone else. It
can be bought in advance for work someone has hired you to do, as in work for hire.
The copyright exists as soon as the original work is created in a tangible form.
Ideas and thoughts cannot be copyrighted, but once on paper, on a disk, in an
e-mail, or in computer code, they are copyrighted. A copyright established after
1978 lasts until seventy years after the author's death. Copyright information is
easily available on the Internet and in books and other resources. Locate the U.S.
Copyright Office at http://lcweb.loc.gov/copyright and the Copyright Website
at www.benedict.com:80.
 8
CHAPTER

Readings, Contests,
Productions, and Other
Opportunities
The Next Step

Once you have the play written, there are numerous possibilities for getting it pro¬
duced and eventually published. Never send off a first draft, however. No matter
how good you may think it is, a week later, you will begin to see some of the faults
in this draft. You will have ideas about rewriting it as soon as you get some feed¬
back from others. Therefore, wait until you are sure the play is as good as you can
make it before sending it off.
Just as there are many talented actors who don't get acting jobs, there are
many talented playwrights who don't get produced. If you wish to succeed, you
must keep working and writing. You must also not take the rejection of your script
personally. You must learn how to market your work and yourself effectively. You
must be aggressive: Find the information and follow the guidelines set forth by
every theatre, contest, or other opportunity.
Most commercial productions of new plays in recent years have come from
nonprofit theatres, either regional theatres found in major American cities or off-
off-Broadway. New York has many small theatres devoted to new plays. Each has
its own philosophy and mission. Some theatres only look for plays for children,
some do only musicals, and others will not even consider either one. Some theatres
are looking for clean, entertaining, small-cast, one-set comedies. Others are look¬
ing for experimental, cutting-edge works. Some contests are primarily for women
or for Hispanics or Asians or other special groups.
There is no point in submitting a children's play to a theatre that doesn't pro¬
duce this type of work or in sending a play to a contest for women if you are a man.
Most theatres will not accept a play that is not submitted by an agent. Most agents
will not represent you until you have a track record. It's a catch-22 that requires
you to learn the ways of the current theatre scene and how to develop a track
record. If your play wins a contest or two, is selected for development at a confer¬
ence or festival, or is given a staged reading by professionals, then you may at least
get it read by an agent or a director.
Play development is a major step in the process for many theatres. This
involves a company taking a script and working on it with the playwright so that
its flaws are corrected and it connects with an audience. Part of this process is also

255
256 Chapter 18

making sure that the play that emerges is as close as possible to the playwright s
vision. Rewrites are set in motion by discussions between the playwright and the
director before rehearsals begin. Once in rehearsal—in collaboration with the
director, designers, actors, and so on—the playwright continues to rewrite. Read¬
ings are given so that the writer can hear what's on the page and the director can
get a firm grasp of the play. The actors involved in the process may also contribute
their thoughts and feelings about the characters. The writer often begins to write
with the voices of particular actors in his head.
Rather than send out scripts haphazardly, it is generally best first to write a
letter to agents or theatres telling them about the play. The letter should briefly
describe the story of the play, note the numbers of characters and sets, the style,
and the history of the play (if it has had readings, a workshop production, or wop7
any awards). If you have written other plays that have had some success, you
might give a bit of your background in a short paragraph or attach a one-page
resume. It is essential that you understand the mission and follow the guidelines of
each agency or theatre. That information is readily available in many sources.
In this chapter, we will explore some of the major sources of information for
submission guidelines, discuss the kinds of production opportunities available,
and examine kinds of theatre companies, contests, fellowships and grants, agents,
colonies and residencies, workshops, and publishers.

Sources of Information

A number of publications provide information about the submission guidelines of

specific theatre companies and contests, fellowships and grants, agents, colonies
and residencies, workshops, and publishers.
The Dramatists Sourcebook is published every two years by Theatre Communi¬
cations Group (355 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY 10017-0217). This book is
available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Borders, and other bookstores. If you
can't find a copy on the shelves, you can order one. Since this guide is very com¬
plete and updated every other year, it is a great reference to have. You can also
become a member of Theatre Communications Group (see later in this chapter).
The benefits include (1) a subscription to American Theatre Magazine, which pub¬
lishes many new scripts each year; (2) a discount price for Art Search'a bimonthly
listing of jobs available throughout the United States, and (3) a discount on the pur¬
chase of various publications, including The Dramatists Sourcebook.
Backstage is a weekly newspaper published in New York. Outside New York
it may be obtained by subscription. This publication covers stage, film and TV
providing information on all the auditions for actors every week for Broadway and
off-Broadway theatres, regional theatres, touring companies, summer stock out¬
door dramas, film and TV. It also includes many features on playwriting opportu¬
nities, agents, how to find what you need in the city at reasonable prices reviews
of plays, and everything else important to the theatre professional
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 257

Other excellent sources of information are available to writers when they join
the Dramatists Guild, the professional union for playwrights, composers, and lyri¬
cists (see later in this chapter). It publishes The Resource Directory, which lists con¬
ferences, festivals, contests, producers, publishers, and theatres as well as agents,
attorneys, colonies and residences, emergency funds, fellowships and grants,
membership and service organizations, and workshops. Members of the Guild are
invited to attend informative and insightful symposia, held nationwide.
There are also a variety of books that may be helpful, such as Marketing Strate¬
gies for Writers, by Michael Sedge (published by Allworth Press, New York); The
Script Is Finished, Now What Do I Do? by K. Callan (published by Sweden Press, Stu¬
dio City, CA); and Louis E. Catron's Writing, Producing, and Selling Your Play (pub¬
lished by Prentice-Hall). They all give useful information about submitting your
script.
Information about copyright and other legal and business aspects of play¬
writing can be found online and in the following sources: The Copyright Book, by
William S. Strong (published by the MIT Press, Cambridge, MA); The Rights of
Authors, Artists, and Other Creative People, by Kenneth P. Norwick and Jerry Simon
Chasen (Southern Illinois University Press); and Producing Theatre: A Comprehensive
Legal and Business Guide, by Donald C. Farber (published by Limelight Editions).

Memberships

Some of the larger theatre cities—such as New York, Los Angeles, Chicago,
Atlanta, Austin, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Philadelphia, and Boston—have organiza¬
tions that provide playwrights a supportive environment to develop and present
their work. Some are national in scope; others are regional, state, or local. A few of
the major organizations are described in the following sections, but for a larger
overview of support groups across the United States, check one of the information
sources noted previously, such as The Dramatists Sourcebook.

The Dramatists Guild

The Dramatists Guild of America is the only professional association for play¬
wrights, composers, and lyricists. Guided by an elected council, which gives its
time, interest, and support for the benefit of writers everywhere, the Dramatists
Guild works to advance the rights of its more than six thousand members, span¬
ning around the globe. Membership is open to all dramatic writers, regardless of
their production history. You can learn more about the guild, including how to join,
by going to the group's website: www.dramaguild.com.
Any writer who has completed a dramatic script may become a member of
the Dramatists Guild of America and receive a wide range of benefits: business
affairs advice, contract review, and publications. The business affairs department
offers assistance to members on a wide range of contractual issues. The lawyers in
258 Chapter 18

the department will examine your contract and provide you with detailed infor¬
mation involving its negotiation. In certain situations, you may use t e ui s
standard or model contracts, available only to Guild members. Also through the
business affairs department, members may receive advice on theatre-related mat¬
ters such as options, commissions, contracts, producers, publishers, agents, an
attorneys.
Members also have access to third-party health and dental insurance pro¬
grams and a group term-life insurance plan. Other benefits include a Dramatists
Guild credit card, free or discounted theatre tickets to certain New York produc¬
tions, national hotel and travel discounts, and access to the Guild s Frederick
Loewe Room in the heart of the theatre district for use in readings and auditions.
The categories of membership in the Dramatists Guild are as follows:

1. Active members have been produced on a first-class/Broadway, off-Broadway,

or mainstage of a regional theatre (LORT) contract. Active members have full vot¬
ing privileges and annually elect representatives to the council (board of directors).
An application must be accompanied by a copy of a review or program from the
qualifying production. Annual membership dues are $125.
2. Associate members are all other theatrical writers, without precondition of pro¬
duction or publication, who may be elevated to active members when the criteria
is met. An application must be accompanied either by a completed script written
by the applicant or by a program or review of a production. Annual dues are $75.

3. Student members must be currently enrolled in an accredited writing degree

program. An application must be accompanied by a letter from the program's
senior administrator indicating the expected date of graduation. Student members
are eligible to become associate members upon graduation. Annual dues are $35.

The Dramatists Guild offers monthly symposia on numerous issues every

year. Past symposia have included interviews with Stephen Sondheim, Marsha
Norman, Terrence McNally, Arthur Miller, and many others; the secrets of applying
for playwriting grants; panel discussions with emerging writers; the business side
of writing for theatre; and getting your work produced in the United Kingdom.

Theatre Communications Group

Theatre Communications Group (TCG) is a national service organization whose
mission is "to strengthen, nurture, and promote the not-for-profit American the¬
atre." TCG serves over 425 member theatres and has 17,000 individual members. Its
programs and services include American Theatre Magazine; the ArtSEARCH employ¬
ment bulletin; plays, translations, and theatre reference books; grants to theatres
and theatre artists ($4.4 million in 2001-2002); workshops, conferences, forums, and
publications for theatre professionals and trustees; research on not-for-profit theatre
finances and practices; arts advocacy; and the U.S. Center of the International The-
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 259

atre Institute. The cost of membership (individuals $39.95 and students $20.00) is
worth it just for American Theatre Magazine, which provides an overview of all the
professional regional theatres in the United States and often includes the complete
script of a new play. The TCG website is www.tcg.org/index.cfm.

Austin Script Works

Austin Script Works, in Austin, Texas, is a playwright-centered organization that
provides support for playwrights at all stages of the writing process. An associate
membership is open to everyone, and benefits include participation in readings
and the ten-minute play playwriting retreat, the ten-minute play showcase pro¬
ductions, and the Harvest Festival Member discounts are provided on all Script
Works events.

Chicago Dramatists
Chicago Dramatists is dedicated to the development of playwrights and new
plays. Membership provides a wide variety of services, including a professional
playwright's critique of your play; classes, workshops, readings, productions, and
panels; collaborative projects with other theatres and festivals; national playwright
exchanges; and referrals to producers. I have found their critiques to be insightful,
detailed, and helpful.

New Dramatists
New Dramatists, in New York City, is located in the theatre district not far from
Times Square. As the nation's oldest playwright development center, it was created
to give member playwrights the resources they need to create plays for the Ameri¬
can theatre. New Dramatists helps playwrights through play readings and work¬
shops; dramaturgy; a resident director program; musical theatre development and
training; ScriptShare (a national script distribution program); fellowships, awards,
and prizes; a free-ticket program for Broadway and off-Broadway productions;
writing spaces and accommodations; and photocopying. All these services are pro¬
vided free to members.
Membership is open to emerging playwrights who live in the greater New
York area and to those living outside the area who demonstrate a willingness to
travel regularly to New York and actively participate in that community of artists.
Playwrights interested in applying for membership should check the guidelines at
www.newdramatists.org/member_application.htm.

The Playwrights' Center

The Playwrights' Center, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, is a service organization for
playwrights. Its programs include developmental services (cold readings and
260 Chapter 18

workshops using an Equity acting company); fellowships; exchanges with theatres

and other developmental programs; a biannual journal, the Jones commissioning
program; PlayLabs; playwriting classes; year-round programs for young writers,
and the Many Voices program, designed to provide awards, education, and lab ser¬
vices to new and emerging playwrights of color. The Center annually awards five
Jerome Playwright-in-Residence Fellowships, for which competition is open
nationally; two McKnight Fellowships, for which competition is open by profes¬
sional nomination; three McKnight Advancement Grants open to Minnesota play¬
wrights; and three Many Voices Multicultural Collaboration Grants.
A broad-based Center membership is available to any playwright or inter¬
ested person. Benefits of general membership for playwrights include discounts
on classes, applications for all Center programs, eligibility to apply for the Jones
commission and script-development readings, and the Center s journal. Core
(must be a Minnesota resident) and associate member playwrights are selected by
a review panel each spring, based on script submission. They have primary access
to all Center programs and services, including developmental workshops and
public readings. Write for Membership information or go to the Center's website:
www.pwcenter.org.

Production Opportunities

Readings
The best way for a playwright to determine the strengths and weaknesses of her
play is to hear it. Cold readings are those in which actors are gathered and read a
script aloud, with no rehearsal. Following these kinds of readings, the participants
and observers generally provide feedback to the writer. The playwright working on
her own can enlist friends and relatives to read the play aloud in her living room.
When writers hear their plays for the first time, they notice the difference
between the written and spoken word. Good actors bring new dimensions to
words. They know how to use their voices. However, at this stage, there is often a
discrepancy between what sounded good to the writer in his head and what
sounds good on stage. There is a difference in timing. Writers have to hear their
plays to know what needs compression or expansion. There are moments that hap¬
pen too quickly, trivial things that take up too much time, and lines that are repet¬
itive. These are the things that directors, actors, and dramaturges point out.

Staged Readings
Many college theatre programs, community theatres, and even local semiprofes¬
sional and professional theatres offer opportunities for readings. These range any¬
where from an occasional gathering of amateur actors, who read the play with no
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 261

rehearsals, to a regular sophisticated theatre series for subscribers of readings done

by professional directors and actors, who rehearse the script for days and present
a staged reading. In a staged reading, the actors carry the scripts for reference, but
they often have had time to study the characters and work out some of the general
movements. Such a staged reading with skilled actors is able to provide a good
indication of whether the story works.

Workshop Productions
A workshop production is a very low-budget affair. Its purpose is to mount a pro¬
duction of the play with actors who are fully committed to the roles and perform
the play in front of an audience to see how it works. During the rehearsal process,
the playwright is able to do some rewriting and tweak the script here and there to
improve it. The production values—sets, costumes, lighting, sound, and props—
are minimal. Sometimes, a full set, costumes, and the rest are provided, but they
are still simplified. Sometimes, the show is done in front of black drapes with stock
furniture and props and basic lighting.

Other Productions
When a play is selected by a theatre for a fully mounted production, the theatre
company—producers, directors, designers, actors, technicians, front-of-the house
staff—seeks to collaborate with the author to bring the play to life as she envi¬
sioned. A new work may be selected for production by a college or university, an
amateur or semiprofessional community theatre, or a professional theatre. Profes¬
sional theatres are members of LORT (the League of Resident Theatres) and must
abide by union rules. There are four levels of regional theatres, which are deter¬
mined by size, budget, and other considerations. Broadway, off-Broadway, and off-
off-Broadway theatres in New York are categorized basically according to the size
of the theatre house—specifically, the number of seats.
A few new plays get produced on Broadway because of incredible luck,
because somebody knows somebody who knows somebody, and because they are
viewed as commercially viable. However, the majority of plays generally come up
through the ranks, starting with readings, a workshop production here and there,
and a production at a small regional theatre. Then, if some producers are attracted
to the show and feel the play is worth the risk, they may produce it off-off Broad¬
way or off-Broadway. An extremely successful off-Broadway production some¬
times transfers to Broadway.
A new playwright should begin at the local level and try to find a theatre will¬
ing to provide a reading of his work. If, after a couple of readings and rewrites, the
play is considered worthy of production, the playwright should again start at the
local level and try to find an area theatre willing to produce it. Another option is to
enter the play in a contest or competition for further development.
262 Chapter 18

Other Development Opportunities

There are a number of major festivals, theatres, and other organizations whose pri¬
mary purpose is to work with emerging playwrights. The O'Neill National Play¬
wrights Conference and the Bay Area Playwrights Festival are two of the most well
known.
Probably the most prestigious and most competitive is the National Play¬
wrights Conference at the O'Neill Theatre Center in Waterford, Connecticut. Nine
to eleven plays are selected for staged readings at the month-long conference
annually in July, which is attended by professional actors, directors, and dra-
maturgs. A couple of my former students have had works presented at these con¬
ferences, and I attended a few sessions and a reading in 1999. Their website is
www. theoneill. org.
The Bay Area Playwrights Festival, in San Francisco, is another major oppor¬
tunity for playwrights. Six to twelve scripts (unproduced, full-length plays
only) are selected annually and given dramaturgical attention—two rehearsed
readings separated by five or six days for rewrites during a two-week festival. For
those selected, there is a mandatory prefestival weekend retreat for initial brain¬
storming with directors and dramaturgs. For information, e-mail the festival at
bayplays@best.com.
Information about other festivals, conferences, retreats, and theatres that spe¬
cialize in developing new works across the United States can be found at the fol¬
lowing websites:

Asian American Theater Company Project www.naatco.org/index.html

Greensboro Playwrights Forum www.ci.greensboro.nc.us/leisure/
drama/gp forum.htm
Baltimore Theatre Festival www.baltimoreplaywrightsfestivaI.org
Playlabs www.pwcenter.org/playlabs.asp
Sundance Theatre Laboratory www.institute.sundance.org/jsp /
site. j sp ? resource=p ag_ex_home

Additional information can be found in the sources noted at the beginning of this
chapter.

Contests

There are hundreds of contests for new plays every year in the United States
About 125 are listed in The Dramatists Sourcebook and many others are sponsored
by universities and various local arts organizations. Most of the contests have no
fees, but a few have begun charging fees to pay for the readers. In most cases, the
fee is nominal. The prizes are varied and include awards ranging from $25 to
$3,000 or more; a staged reading or a production; and travel expenses and housing.
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 263

Even if you don't win, some of the contests will send you one-page evaluations
from readers. The primary benefits for those who win, in addition to the money,
are the readings and productions. This is also an indication that the play has some
artistic merit. It is not unusual for a really strong script to pick up several awards.
When this happens, it is easier to get the play read by agents, literary managers,
and directors and considered for a professional production.
American Theatre Magazine recently published the play A. M. Sunday, by
Jerome Hairston. It was written while he was a student at Columbia and was fur¬
ther developed in a series of readings in the Black Ink Series at Playwrights Hori¬
zon, the Genesis Festival at the Crossroads Theatre Company, and the O'Neill
Theatre Center's National Playwrights Conference. The success of having his play
worked on and read at these three competitive events helped Hairston get the play
accepted and produced at the Annual Humana Festival at the Actors Theatre of
Louisville.
Information about contests can be obtained in The Dramatists Sourcebook, pub¬
lications by the Dramatists Guild, online at the websites for various theatres and
support organizations, and through local and state arts agencies.

Types of Theatre Companies

As noted earlier, each theatre has its own mission and philosophy. Some focus on
presenting plays for young audiences. Some are dinner theatres looking for light
entertainment. Others are seeking plays that deal with social, political, and psy¬
chological issues or perhaps with multicultural issues. Still others are looking for
musicals and reviews.
A few theatres accept unsolicited manuscripts, but most theatres will not
accept unsolicited scripts. They require that you write a letter of inquiry and
include a synopsis and a resume. The following is a typical example:

St. Louis Black Repertory Company (634 North Grand Blvd., Suite 10-F, St. Louis,
MO, 63103) requires the playwright to send a synopsis, a three- to five-page dia¬
logue sample, a resume, and a letter of inquiry. The material this theatre is looking
for includes full-length plays, plays for young audiences, and musicals. There is
special interest in works by African American and Third World playwrights.
Facilities include the 470-seat Grandel Theatre with a thrust stage. The best submis¬
sion time is June to August. The response time is two months for a letter and two
months for a script. This theatre has a touring company that presents works for
young audiences.

It is important to know the mission and interest of a theatre before sending it your
script. Don't waste your postage to send out dozens of scripts to theatres at ran¬
dom. Some theatres have such specific and narrow interests that any script that
does not fit their profile will not be read. On the other hand, when your play fits
exactly the kind of material a theatre is looking for, you have a much stronger
264 Chapter 18

chance of having it considered. Read American Theatre Magazine to see what plays
theatres are presenting this year. It provides an annual listing of all the major the¬
atres seasons of plays each fall, and each issue has additional articles on some of
these theatres, plays, and other events.

Fellowships and Grants

Various fellowships and grants are open to playwrights. Study the guidelines care¬
fully, and then follow them meticulously. Don't hesitate to ask for advice and assis¬
tance from the organizations that sponsor the grants. Make sure you proofread your
application for errors, and make sure it is mailed in time to meet the deadline. Once
you have written one grant request, you can often modify it to fit other grants.
As with contests and productions, the competition is strong. Don't waste
your time unless you really meet the requirements. There are many international
fellowships and grants for which knowledge of the language and culture is impor¬
tant. Contact state arts councils, service organizations, and your local university, or
check online for information about programs and opportunities. Information
about a few fellowships and grants can be found at the following websites:

Arizona Commission on the Arts www.arizonaarts.org

John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation www.gf.org
New Play Commissions in Jewish Theatre www.jewishculture.org
Playwrights' Center Grant Programs www.pwcenter.org
Princess Grace Awards: Playwriting Fellowship www.pgfusa.com

Agents

For information about agents, check with the Association of Authors' Representa¬
tives at (www.AAR-online.org) or ask for some names from the Dramatists Guild
(www.dramaguild.com). If you have just finished your first play, don't waste an
agent's time. Spend your own time working to get the play produced. Enter it in con¬
tests. Find local venues and organizations willing to help you develop it. If you have
had work produced or published, then write a brief letter to an agent describing your
work and ask if he or she would like to read a script. Include a professional resume
that demonstrates that you look at playwriling as an ongoing career, not a hobby

Publishers

Plays are generally not published until after they have been produced The three
major publishers of plays in the United States are the Dramatists Play Service
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 265

(www.dramatists.com), Samuel French, Inc. (www.samuelfrench.com), and Broad¬

way Play Publishing, Inc. (www.broadwayplaypubl.com). Samuel French is a
worldwide organization, with offices in New York, Hollywood, Sydney, London,
and Toronto and affiliates in Germany and all over Eastern Europe. The company
publishes 90 to 110 new titles a year. Dramatists Play Service publishes 40 to 45, and
Broadway Play Publishing publishes an average of 15 a year. Broadway Play Pub¬
lishing focuses on contemporary American full-length plays and wants "writing
from imaginations not from personal traumas." These publishers control the rights
and royalties for most of the amateur and professional productions in the United
States including plays produced in high schools, colleges and universities, commu¬
nity theatres, dinner theatres, and regional theatres. Musicals are handled by
TAMS-WITMARK and Music Theatre International.
Once your play has been produced and polished, any one of the three major
publishers may be interested in publishing it, if it is a good play and they believe
there is a market for it. You can send a copy of the script and a cover letter to
Samuel French, Dramatists, or Broadway Publishing, noting that you are submit¬
ting it for consideration. Do not be surprised if the script is rejected, however.
These publishers have high standards. If your play is produced in a professional
theatre, your chances of getting it published will be increased. Bernard Kalos, exec¬
utive director of Dramatists Play Service, said, "When it's a strong work there's
hope. ... If you get a rave review, . . . you'll be all set. It's close to that simple"
(Wiener, 1990, p. 22).
In addition to the publishers noted, there are many others for you to consider,
if your play meets their particular interests and specialties. Many publishers only
accept specific kinds of material. Find out as much as possible about a publisher's
operation before sending in a script. Dramatic Publishing Company (www.
dramaticpublishing.com) publishes many plays for young audiences and high
schools and some plays for professional, stock, and other amateur markets. If
you've written a play for young audiences, this is an appropriate place to start.
Eldridge Publishing Company (www.histage.com) is interested in musicals, come¬
dies, mysteries, and serious dramas for church, school, and community theatres.

Submitting a Script

Whenever you submit a script, enclose a cover letter, a brief synopsis of the play, a
resume, and a self-addressed, stamped envelope (SASE) for the return of the man¬
uscript. The script needs to be bound. Any script that is too thick, hard to read, full
of typos and misspellings, unbound, wrapped in a rubber band, or difficult to han¬
dle will not be read. The cover letter needs to be well written and include a brief
statement identifying what the play is about, the cast size, and the kind of setting
(see Figure 18.1). A poorly written letter will also turn off potential readers.
In some situations, it may also be helpful to include a letter from a theatre
professional recommending your work. If you want an acknowledgment that the
266 Chapter 18

GEORGE SPELVIN
56 110th ST.
NEW YORK, NEW YORK 11009

November 21, 2005

Rafael de Acha, Artistic Director

New Theatre
4120 Laguna Street
Coral Gables, FL 33146

Dear Mr. de Acha,

I am submitting a copy of my play Tennessee Tom for your New Works of Merit
Contest. In keeping with the guidelines, this is a full-length, nonrealistic play
about Tennessee Williams. It has a simple, nonrealistic set with three areas: his
office in Key West, a bedroom, and a sofa and chair sitting area. There is a cast
of four men and two women.

The play takes place in one night in May in 1968, as the relationship between Tom
and his latest lover comes to a violent end. Suffering from the failure of his latest
play and the effects of alcohol and drugs, Tom slips in and out of reality. He is
visited by demons from the past who haunt him, including his mother, his sister,
and his long-time love, Frank Merlo.

The play is unpublished and unproduced. It did win the national Key West
Playwriting Festival and was given a staged reading last August. With the
feedback from that event, I have since revised it.

Thank-you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

George Spelvin

Enclosures

FIGURE 18.1 Sample Cover Letter

script has been received, include a self-addressed, stamped postcard. Do not call a
theatre or any other organization to find out if it has received or read your script
Keep a record of what you have sent out to whom and when. Do not e-mail a script
unless that is specifically requested. ^
 Readings, Contests, Productions, and Other Opportunities 267

Summary

There are numerous opportunities to explore once your play has been written.
Never send off a first draft, however. No matter how good you may think it is, you
will soon have ideas about rewriting it. Wait until you have polished several drafts
and the play is as good as you can make it before sending it off.
You must learn how to market your work and yourself effectively. You must
also not take the rejection of your script personally. You must be aggressive. Find
the information and follow the guidelines set forth by every theatre, contest, or
other opportunity. Each theatre and organization has its own philosophy, mission,
and goals. You need to find out what those are before submitting a script. First, you
need to locate the sources. Then, consider memberships, development and pro¬
duction opportunities, contests, fellowships and grants, and agents and publish¬
ers. Determine the best possibilities for submitting your script. When you send it
out, always include a cover letter and a self-addressed, stamped envelope.
APPENDIX A

Sample Course Syllabus

PLAYWRITING I
PROFESSOR__
WEBSITE_

Course No._ Section_ _ Department_

Credits_Class meeting times _ bldg and Room

Office address __ Office phone_

Office hours_ E-mail_

Overview of Assignments
T Overview of the class, review syllabus, discuss expectations, class introduc¬
tions.
TH Read Chapter 1. Do Exercise 1-A: Write a scene in which Character A confides
to Character B an inner conflict over what she wants to do and believes is
morally right. This will be assessed, but not graded.
T Read Chapter 14. Do Exercise 2-A: Write a scene in which the protagonist and
antagonist battle over something personal and use a variety of tactics or play
different roles to try to reach their individual objective.
TH Read Chapter 15. Do Exercise 3-A: Write a scene in which Character A seeks
to deal with a social problem in society. Character B represents the other side
of the issue and opposes Character A.
T Read Chapter 16. Video and Discussion.
TH Read Chapter 2 and 13. Do Exercise 4-A: Consider a situation in your past
that resulted in a change of perception and behavior. Write a monologue in
which a character responds to such an incident. Have the character speaking
in an immediate conflict in which she uses the past event to achieve a current
objective.
T Read Chapter 3. Do Exercise 5: Write the first scene of your play. Select a rel¬
evant working title and the names of your characters. Give a brief description
of each one. Visualize the setting. Try to jump into the conflict quickly.

269
270 Appendix A

TH Read Chapter 4. Do Exercise 6-A: For several days, jot down in a journal
descriptions of people and locales that you find intriguing. Pick any two o
the most colorful people and one locale and write a five- to seven-page scene
in which the characters clash.
T Do Exercise 7: Write a scenario of your play. Who is in each scene, what hap
pens, and what is different at the end of the scene?
TH Read Chapter 5. Do Exercise 8-A: Write a continuous scene with two
sequences, one horizontal and one vertical, in which Character A tries to
learn a secret of Character B's past.
T Read Chapter 6. Do Exercise 9-A: Use the action plot, write a three-person
scene with a beginning, middle, and end that builds to a climax.
TH Read Chapter 7. Do Exercise 10-A: Write a linear scene using the stimulus/
response model. In the scene. Character A and Character B each tries to win
Character C to his or her side.
T Exercise 11-A: Select an organic object such as a twig, a piece of natural wood,
a leaf, a vegetable, a fruit, a flower, or a weed. Write a conflict scene that in
your mind is shaped like the object.
TH Read Chapter 8. Do Exercise 12-A: Write a scene in which there is a physical
obstacle within the locale. This obstacle must be something that affects the
characters in the scene.
T Read Chapter 9. Do Exercise 13-A: Make a list of the ten most important
events in the life of a character. These are the major events that have shaped
that person. Pick one event in the growing up of your character that clarifies
the social aspects. Write a five-page conflict scene in which Character A uses
that event to gain sympathy from Character B. (First review due.)
TH Read Chapter 10. Do Exercise 14-A: Using the Johari window as a model of
human interaction, write a conflict scene between two or three characters.
Character A digs into one of Character B's secrets, perhaps exposing it to a
third character, while Character B exposes Character A's blind self.
T Do Exercise 15-A: Action is the clearest indicator of character. Write a scene in
which a character makes a decision at the beginning of the scene with unex¬
pected consequences.
TH Read Chapter 11. Do Exercise 16-A: Write a scene in which your characters
are in conflict yet bonded in a crucible they cannot leave. The cause of the
conflict should be a third character not present.
T Read Chapter 12. Do Exercise 17-A: Form a partnership with another writer.
Set the ground rules for the process and work together to write a ten-minute
play, ten pages long, with two characters of very different voices, back¬
grounds, educations, and professions.
TH Read Chapter 17. Do Exercise 21: Complete your first draft. Thirty pages min¬
imum. Presentation of your first draft in class. Please bring a script for each
character. We will plan in advance the day for the presentation of your first
 Sample Course Syllabus 271

draft so you will know when to bring extra scripts. We will plan to read two
scripts during each class. One-half point will be taken off for every error in
punctuation, format, spelling, grammar, or spacing. Anyone wanting to do
extra credit may write Exercises 18,19, and 20. These must be turned in at the
first class after Thanksgiving.
T Class presentations continued.
TH Class presentations continued. Do Exercise 22: Your final draft will be due
one week after your class presentation of the first draft.
T Class presentations continued.
TH Class presentations continued.
T Class presentations continued. (Second review due.)
TH Thanksgiving—No class.
T Class presentations continued.
TH Class presentations continued.

Note
Writing isn't easy. There may be a week when your effort to do an exercise is a total
failure. You may end up writing a scene that doesn't fit the assignment. What is
important is that you come to class with something—that you try. In some classes
there will be times when it is impossible for everyone to read his or her work aloud.
Sometimes you may want to share a scene. Sometimes you may not. I'll try to allow
for individual eccentricities up to a point, but I want you to try. I want you to make
the effort. Please don't get hung up on being perfect. There is no such thing as per¬
fect. Seldom are first drafts of a scene absolutely wonderful. This is an environment
in which to write and explore, an environment where it is okay to risk failure, an
environment where you will get honest and positive feedback. You will really only
learn from your mistakes.

During Class Discussions

It is important when criticizing the work of others that:

1. You respond with positive comments about what you liked and why, what
stimulated you, what touched you.
2. You discuss what didn't work for you and why, what seemed inconsistent or
underdeveloped or cliched or out of character or didn't hold your attention
or seemed confusing. Do not critique the author, critique the work.
3. Be careful about telling another writer how to write his or her piece by
explaining what you would do or how you would rewrite it. Just respond to
the work. Let the writer decide how and what to rewrite or change. If you
have a suggestion, ask the playwright if he or she would like to hear it.
272 Appendix A

4. Each of you should check your ego at the door. You should remain silent and
listen unless asked a direct question. Do not defend your work or explain or
make any comments about its meaning. The argumentative playwright who
doesn't listen will short circuit responses and not hear feedback. Shut up and
listen, take notes if you wish, and then use what you find valuable and dis
card the rest.

Objectives
Each student should develop the ability to:

1. Understand and evaluate the literary form of the play.

2. Acquire knowledge of the techniques of linear and nonlinear structure.
3. Develop an understanding of character development, conflict, dialogue, and
dramatic action.
4. Realize the relationship between drama and human life.
5. Put the above into practice through the writing of exercises, culminating in
the development of a complete script.

Types of Assignments
1. Be responsible for assigned readings.
2. Analyze and evaluate writings of others in class.
3. Prepare written assignments for playwriting exercises.
4. Write a one-act play.

Other Expectations
Students will be expected to see at least two theatre productions and write a two
and a half page, double-spaced review of each one (see the website for guidelines).

Tickets are available for productions of___

You may also usher and see shows free. Contact __

Attendance
Since tnis class is designed to provide helpful feedback to writers, attendance is
extremely important. Each major assignment needs to be prepared before class and
then read and discussed in class. Students who miss a class should consult with the
instructor to discuss their work. No more than one unexcused absence is allowed.
Excused absences are those due to illness, accident, or death in the family and must
be documented. It is the student's responsibility to notify the instructor of the rea¬
son for an absence. Excessive absences will result in a lower grade. One point will
be subtracted from the final grade for every day missed.
 Sample Course Syllabus 273

Tardiness
Students are expected to be in class on time. Tardiness will not be tolerated because it
interrupts the class activity, it is rude, and it shows a lack of respect. I will allow
you to be tardy no more than three times. After three, don't bother to come to class
if you are late.

Journal
Each student will keep a journal (simple lined notebook is fine) and write a mini¬
mum of one page at least twice a week. The journal should include descriptions of
people and events observed, snatches of conversation (dialogue) overheard,
descriptions of unusual settings, and anything else that you think may be useful,
as well as reflections on your writing.

Required Text
Clark, Leroy. Writing for the Stage. Boston: Allyn & Bacon, 2006.

Grading
Grading in a creative writing class is naturally subjective. It is imperative that
assignments be done on time, because this is a course in which each assignment
builds on the last one in many cases. The final grade will be based on three areas:
meeting deadlines, completing the work on the individual exercises, and complet¬
ing the first and the final draft of your play. The grading will follow a point system
such as follows. However, the exact number of points may change if assignments
are changed or omitted. Extra credit scenes 1 to 10 points each. The reviews will be
10 points each.

Assignment Points
Attendance and class participation 20 points
Two reviews, 10 points each 20 points
Sixteen individual exercises, 10 points each 160 points
First and final draft, 100 points each 200 points
TOTAL 400 POINTS

Grade Points
A 400-360 points
B 359-319 points
C 318-278 points
D 277-237 points
F 236-0 points
274 Appendix A

Plays
I encourage you to read the following plays:

How I Learned to Drive by Paula Vogel

Long Day's Journey into Night by Eugene O'Neill
Getting Out by Marsha Norman
A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams
Killer Joe by Tracy Letts
Fences by August Wilson
The Miracle Worker by William Gibson
Zoo Story by Edward Albee
The Beauty Queen of Leenane by Martin McDonagh
Proof by David Auburn
APPENDIX B

Outcomes and Assessment

Sharing with Others

The approach I have found most successful from my experience in teaching is to
have students write the exercises and bring enough copies with them to class so
that they can cast the monologues and scenes with other members of the class and
have them read aloud. First, the reading itself allows the author to hear what he has
written in the mouths of others and to judge for himself what works and doesn't
work. Second, the reading allows everyone in the class to know the work, and
when everyone in the class is familiar with what everyone else is writing, they all
learn by example. Third, reading puts everyone in the same boat, so to speak.
Everyone's work is displayed. Everyone participates. Everyone gets to know one
another. There is a conscious effort to create a trusting and supportive environ¬
ment, in which observations and responses are shared and personal attacks and
rants are sharply discouraged.
Following the reading of a monologue or a scene, the teacher should lead a
discussion. Students are encouraged to ask questions and to respond to the work. It
is important when criticizing the work of others that students address both the pos¬
itive aspects and the weaknesses. The writer learns from both types of responses.
Usually, at the end of the semester, when students have completed the first
drafts of their final projects, I bring in actors to read the plays during several class
periods. Skilled actors are better able to bring the characters to life and provide the
playwright with insights into how the play is working and how it is not. Actors are
also very adept at critiquing a work. They are able to use the skills they have
learned in analysis—the techniques of finding motivation, using tactics, and
developing characters—to provide the playwright with insights into where they
were confused or lost or what didn't make sense to them.

Learn by Doing
A playwright may begin reading this book or taking a playwriting class with no
idea in mind of a specific play she wishes to write. However, as she writes various
exercises and learns about the craft, the writer will find certain characters that take
off. Some scenes and characters will rise to the top, and eventually the ideas and
the shape of a play will emerge. After completing six to eight exercises, the writer
has usually discovered the play he or she wants to write.

275
276 Appendix B

As stated in the sample course syllabus (Appendix A), writing isn t easy
There may be days when a student's efforts to do exercises seem total failures.
They may end up writing scenes that don't fit the exercise. What is important is
that they write; that they come up with something; that they try.
Discourage students from getting hung up on being perfect. There is no such
thing as perfect. Seldom is the first draft of a scene or a play absolutely wonderful.
Students should try to approach the class as an environment in which to write
and explore, an environment where it is okay to risk failure, an environment
where they will get honest and positive feedback. Encourage students to develop
their own support groups from their families, friends, other teachers, and theatre
professionals.

Assessment
Assessment is the process of gathering and discussing information from multiple
and diverse sources in order to develop a deeper understanding of what students
know, understand, and can do with the knowledge as a result of their education
experiences. The process culminates when assessment results are used to improve
subsequent learning.
Through the feedback from the class after the reading of a work and with the
written comments of the teacher, it is expected that students will use these assess¬
ments to improve their writing of future pieces and/or to rewrite and improve spe¬
cific works.
Assessment is far more useful than grading. There needs to be a guide for
qualitative judgments about student work that provides both criteria and stan¬
dards of attainment for those criteria. The following are some guidelines and crite¬
ria for the assessment of student work for each exercise:

Criteria Average Proficient Distinguished

Content Fulfills purpose of Fulfills purpose of Fulfills purpose
assignment. Generally assignment. Shows of assignment in a clear
well done but some clear development and compelling man¬
elements lack clarity, of conflict and ner. Excellent develop¬
depth, or detail. character. ment of conflict and
character. Shows depth
and detail.

Characters Clearly defined but Orchestrated, Well-orchestrated, polar¬

may have problems clearly polarized, ized characters. Believ¬
such as too stereotypi¬ and distinct indi¬ able. Rich in detail.
cal, too much on one viduals. Believable. Distinct and unique.
level, or not believable.
Three-dimensional.
Individuals.
 Outcomes and Assessment 277

Dialogue Generally works but Dialogue is appro¬ Each character has a

voices are not suffi¬ priate for each char¬ distinct voice. Distinct
ciently different. Too acter. Believable. differences in vocabu¬
wordy, sketchy, or lary, sentence struc¬
commonplace. ture, and rhythm.
Speeches are too Contains at least one
long, too many "gem" of a line.
ideas per speech.
Not consistently
believable.

Plot and Generally has a begin- Has a clear inciting Well-developed begin¬
Structure ning, middle, and end action, strong and ning, middle, and end.
but doesn't completely rising conflict, vari¬ Provides a strong ris¬
work. Ending may ety, and a satisfac¬ ing conflict and vari¬
be unsatisfactory. tory ending. ety. Provides surprises,
Conflict may not be takes us to places we
strong enough. Stakes didn't expect. Strong
may not be high ending.
enough.

Format and Generally follows cor- Follows format con¬ Follows format consis¬
Mechanics rect format but too sistently. Few tently. Spelling, punc¬
many inconsistencies, spelling, punctua¬ tuation, and grammar
typos, comma errors, tion, and other are correct.
spelling errors, and errors.
other mechanical
mistakes.

Improvement Makes same mistakes Corrects past mis¬ Makes few mistakes.
over and over. No dis¬ takes. Makes new Corrects past errors.
cernible improvement. mistakes. Shows Asks questions and
improvement. seeks to avoid new
mistakes.

See also Figure B.l, a checklist that's based on these criteria.

Grading. The primary function of grading is to communicate as accurately as

possible the extent to which students have learned what the course is designed to
teach. Grades are the final evaluative message, but they may have little impact on
actual learning. A grade is an end product, a summation, the letter or number doc¬
umenting to what extent the student learned the course material.
Grading in a creative writing class of this kind is naturally subjective, but
hopefully, the criteria and guidelines provided here will give you a clearer under¬
standing of expectations and evaluation. It is imperative that students complete
assignments on time, because playwriting is an activity in which each step builds
on the last one.
278 Appendix B

Student Name __ Faculty Member

1 2 3 4 5
Criteria

Content
Fulfills purpose of assignment in a clear,
compelling manner.
Shows depth and detail.
Shows clarity of thought.
Characters
Clearly defined.
Well orchestrated and polarized.
Believable and well developed.
Distinct and three-dimensional individuals.
Dialogue
Each character has a distinct voice.
Distinct differences in vocabulary, sentence
structure, and rhythm.
Dialogue helps develop character.
Language is appropriate.
Style is consistent.
Plot and Structure
Well-developed beginning, middle, and end.
Clear inciting action.
Development of strong rising conflict.
Exposition brought in only when needed.
High stakes.
Variety in mood, structure, and rhythm of scenes.
Provides surprises, takes us to unexpected places.
Strong ending.
Staging
Stage worthy.
Understands reality of theatre.
Setting, props, costumes, and actions doable.
Format and Mechanics
Follows professional format consistently.
Uses appropriate punctuation.
Uses appropriate grammar.
Uses correct spelling.
No typos or other errors.
Improvement
Shows discernable improvement.
Corrects past mistakes.

FIGURE B.l Evaluation Checklist

 Outcomes and Assessment 279

Expectations for a Sixteen-Week Semester or a Ten-Week Course or Workshop.

An instructor should select the exercises that will meet his or her expectations for
the course. He or she may choose exercises from each level: Beginning, Intermedi¬
ate, or Advanced. The assignments could be the same for either ten weeks or six¬
teen weeks, depending on the instructor's use of class time for reading the plays
aloud at the end of the term. For a ten-week term, it might work better to read all
the plays outside class, perhaps as a public showcase. At the Beginning level, ask
for a complete one-act play, thirty pages minimum, by the end of the semester,
demonstrating a mastery of the skills and techniques covered within the course. At
the Intermediate level, ask for a longer one-act of about forty-five pages. At the
Advanced level, ask for a sixty- to seventy-five-page full-length play. However,
you can vary the length as you see fit. For example, for the Beginning level, the
focus could be on writing a ten-minute play, limited to ten pages.
BIBLIOGRAPHY

Albee, Edward. 'The Playwright's Craft." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Autumn 1993.
Albee, Edward. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1962.
Aristotle, (trans. Theodore Buckley). "The Poetic." In European Theories of the Drama. New
York: Crown, 1965.
Berne, Eric. Games People Play. New York, Ballantine Books, 1964.
Benedetti, Robert L. The Actor at Work, 8th ed. Boston: Allyn & Bacon, 2000.
Benedict, David. "If You Want to Put Bums on Seats, Then Put Bums on Stage." London
Observer, March 10, 2002. Available at: http://observer.guardian.co.uk/review/story/
0,6903.664667,00.html
Bergson, Henri-Louis. "The Comic Element." In European Theories of the Drama. New York:
Crown, 1965.
Brown, Dennis. Shoptalk. New York: Newmarket Press, 1992.
Bryer, Jackson R. (ed). The Playwright's Art. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press,
1995.
Chekov, Anton (trans. Stark Young). The Cherry Orchard in Masters of the Modern Stage,
Haskell M. Block and Robert G. Shedd (eds.). New York: McGraw-Hill, 1962.
Clurman, Harold. On Directing. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997.
Cole, Susan Letzler. Playwrights in Rehearsal. New York: Routledge, 2001.
Cowden, Tami D., Caro LaFever, & Sue Viders. The Complete Writer's Guide to Eteroes and
Heroines. Hollywood, CA: Lone Eagle, 2000.
Cox, Michael, "What Every Nurse Needs to Know about Rave Drugs." Advance for Nurses,
May 2002.
Crain, Caleb. "Nicky Silver." Men's Style, December 1995.
Dietrich, John E., & Ralph W. Duckwall. Play Direction, 2nd ed. Englewood Cliffs, NJ:
Prentice-Hall, 1983.
Dramatists Sourcebook (23rd ed.). New York: Theatre Communications Group, 2004-2005.
Durang, Christopher. Betty's Summer Vacation. New York: Grove Press, 1999.
Egri, Lajos. The Art of Dramatic Writing. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1960.
Epstein, Julius, Philip Koch, & Howard Koch. Casablanca Script and Legend. New York:
Overlook Press, 1992.
Esslin, Martin. The Theatre of the Absurd. New York: Penguin, 1986.
Frey, James. How to Write a Damn Good Novel. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1987.
Grebanier, Bernard. How to Write for the Theatre. New York: Crowell, 1961.
Grimm, David. Kit Marlowe. New York: Dramatists Play Service, 2001.
Guare, John. "Conversation with John Guare." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Winter 1992,
pp. 6-14.
Gussow, Mel. Edward Albee: A Singular Journey. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999.
Harling, Robert. Steel Magnolias. Garden City, NY: The Fireside Theatre, 1986.
Henderson, Mary C. Mielziner: Master of Modern Stage Design. New York: Watson-Guptill
Publications, 2001.
Henley, Beth. Crimes of the Heart. New York: Penguin, 1982.
Hull, Raymond. How to Write a Play. New York: Writers Digest Books, 1983.

281
282 Bibliography

Ibsen, Henrik (trans. Eva La Gallienne). Hedda Gabler. New York: Random House
Modern Library, 1951.
Ibsen, Henrik (trans. Michael Meyer). Peer Gynt. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books,
1963.
Istel, John. "The Naked Truth." American Theatre Magazine, July 2003.
Lautenberger, Lran. "Costume Advice for the Playwright." Personal communication,
July, 2002.
Malevinsky, Moses. "The Science of Play writing." In How to Write a Damn Good Novel,
James Prey. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1987, pp. 34-35.
Mamet, David. "Mamet on Play writing." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Spring 1993.
Margulies, Dennis. "Writers and Their Work." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Autumn 1995,
pp. 2-11.
Marlowe, Christopher. The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus in The Complete Plays. New
York: Penguin Books, 1969.
Meyer, Nancy, and Richard Meyer. "'After the Pali': A View from the Director's Note¬
book." In Theatre, Annual of the Repertory Theatre of Lincoln Center, Barry Hyams (ed.).
New York: Hill and Wang, 1965.
McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. New
York: Regan Books, 1997.
Michaelson, Judith. "Woman Playwrights and Their Stony Road." Los Angeles Times,
November 6,1988, p. 7.
Mielziner, Jo. Designing for the Theatre. New York: Bramhill House, 1965.
Miller, Arthur. All My Sons. New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1974.
Miller, Arthur. Death of a Salesman in New Voices in American Theatre. New York: Random
House, 1955.
Minot, Stephen. Three Genres: The Writing of Poetry, Fiction, and Drama, 7th ed. New York:
Prentice-Hall, 2001
Odets, Clifford. Awake and Sing in Famous Plays of the 1930s. New York: Dell, 1959.
O'Neill, Eugene. The Long Voyage Home in Seven Plays of the Sea. New York: Vintage Books,
1972.
Perret, Gene. Comedy Writing Step by Step. Hollywood, CA: Samuel Prench, 1990.
Price, Thomas. Dramatic Structure and Meaning in Theatrical Production. San Prancisco:
EMtext, 1992.
Ramsey, Dale. "Albee, Weller, Blessing on the Playwright's Craft." Dramatists Guild Quar¬
terly, Autumn 1993, pp. 6-14.
Saroyan, William. The Time of Your Life in Famous American Plays of the 1930s. New York:
Dell, 1959.
Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet in The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Hardin
Craig (ed.). Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1961.
Shepard, Sam. Curse of the Starving Class. New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1976.
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. The Rivals. Boston: Walter H. Baker, 1896.
Silver, Nicky. Fat Men in Skirts. New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1964.
Stoppard, Tom. The Real Inspector Hound. New York: Samuel French, 1968.
Sweet, Jeffrey. "Ethics and Responsibilities." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Summer 1986.
Thomas, Ludwig. 7/11. Unpublished manuscript. 1991. Wichita State University.
Vassallo, Philip. "The Reasons to Write." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Autumn 1994.
Vogel, Paula. How I Learned to Drive in The Mammary Plays. New York: Theatre Communi¬
cations Group, 1998.
 Bibliography 283

Vogel, Paula. "Interview with Elizabeth Farnsworth" The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, April
16,1998.
Wasserstein, Wendy. "Conversation with Wendy Wasserstein." Dramatists Guild Quarterly,
Winter 1994, pp. 6-15.
Whitehurst, William. Personal interview. November 12, 2002. Florida International Univer¬
sity.
Wiener, Sally Dixon. "The Word on Play Publishing." Dramatists Guild Quarterly, Autumn
1990.
Williams, Tennessee. The Glass Menagerie in Six Modern American Plays. New York, Random
House, 1951.
Williams, Tennessee. A Streetcar Named Desire. New York: Dramatists Play Service, 1953.
Wilson, August. Fences. New York: New American Library, 1986.
*
 INDEX

A. M. Sunday (Hairston), 263 defined, 2,143 Bates, Stephen, 224

Abbott, George, 65-66 equal opponents for, 143-144 Bay Area Playwrights Festival, 262
Absence of conflict, 10 in essential scene, 71 Beaton, Cecil, 220
Absolute phrases, 245 goal of protagonist and, 2-3 Beats, 81-83
Accents, 156 relationship with protagonist, 230 Beatty, John Lee, 197
Action Antecedent action, 80 Beautiful Mind, A (film), 30-31
central, 3 Antigone (Sophocles), 65, 111, 139 Beauty Queen ofLeenane, The
character and, 129-130 Apartment, The (Wilder and (McDonagh), 36-37, 40, 66,
dramatic style and, 183 Diamond), 204 85,138,150
inciting, 1-2 Appearance, of characters, 101-102 Becket (Anouilh), 68,130
showing versus telling and, 232-233 Appollinaire, Guillaume, 219 Beckett, Samuel, 222
stage business and, 148-150 Apposition, 247 Beginning, of monologue, 181-182
unity of, 87 Arc, of monologue, 181-182 Beginning, of play
Action plots, 64 Archetypes, 139-143 common problems with, 73
Active verbs, 83 adventurer, 142-143 nature of, 69
Actor's Nightmare, An (Durang), 220 best friend, 140 Ben and Matt (Kaling and Withers),
Acts, 83-84 boss, 139-140 213
Adamov, Arthur, 222 examples of, 143 Benedict, David, 223-224
Adding Machine, The (Rice), 94, 219 innocent, 142 Bennett, Alan, 180
Admiration plots, 66 intellectual, 140 Berne, Eric, 38-39
Adventurer archetype, 142-143 nurturer, 142-143 Best friend archetype, 140
Adverbial clauses, commas with rebel, 140 Betrayal (Pinter), 97
introductory, 247-248 seductive charmer, 142 Betsko, Kathleen, 90
Aeschylus, 85 warrior, 141-142 Betty's Summer Vacation (Durang),
African-American playwrights, 28, Arena staging, 189 46-47
166. See also names of specific Aristophanes, 213 Beyond the Horizon (O'Neill), 222
playwrights Aristotle, 79, 80, 87, 94 Billington, Michael, 225
After the Fall (A. Miller), 25,131-132, Aronson, Boris, 197 Birds, The (Aristophanes), 213
190-191,207 Arrabal, Fernando, 219 Black box theatre, 189-190
Agamemnon (Aeschylus), 85 Artaud, Antonin, 225 Blahnik, Jeremy, 28
Agents, 264 ArtSearch, 256 Blank, Jessica, 179
Agnes of God (Pielmeier), 62, 71,125 Ashman, Howard, 151 Blatt, David 191
Ah, Wilderness! (O'Neill), 67, 222 As Is (Hoffman), 12, 28 Blessing, Lee, 35
Albee, Edward, 16, 24,25, 26, 53-54, Attention span, 10 Blind self, in Johari window, 123-124
69, 81-82, 85,121,143,156,163, Auburn, David, 36, 40, 63 Blithe Spirit (Coward), 197-198
173,175,194, 224, 231 Audience, holding attention of, 39-40 Blood Wedding (Garcia Lorca), 26
Alice (TV program), 161 Audition monologues, 180-182 Blue Room, The (Hare), 223, 224
Alienation, 221 attributes of good, 181-182 Body types, of characters, 104-105
Alley staging, 189 uses of, 180-181 Bogosian, Eric, 106,122, 223, 237
All My Sons (A. Miller), 67,173-174 Austin Script Works, 259 Boleslavsky, Richard, 227
All the King's Men (Warren), 66 Author information, in professional Bolt, Robert, 3,65,68,84,105-106,130
Alternatives, 81 format, 46 Born Yesterday (Kanin), 66, 67,105
Altruists, The (Silver), 95 Autobiographical characters, 25 Bosoms and Neglect (Guare), 24
Amadeus (Shaffer), 66, 206 Autobiographical monologues, 175, Boss archetype, 139-140
Amelia Earhart (K. S. Miller), 31 177-179 Boys in the Band (Crowley), 28
American Theatre Magazine, 256, Awake and Sing (Odets), 37,164 Breaks, avoiding, 75
258-259, 263 Axelrod, George, 206, 214 Breasts ofTiresias (Appollinaire), 219
Anapest, 167 Brecht, Bertolt, 92, 94,175, 220-221
Anderson, Maxwell, 12,165-166,220 Backstage, 256 Breton, Andre, 219
And Miss Reardon Drinks a Little Back story, 137-138 Breve, 166
(Zindel), 122 Baldwin, James, 28 Broadway Bound (Simon), 25
Angels in America (Kushner), 28,125, Ball, Alan, 190 Broadway Play Publishing, Inc., 252,
190-192, 203, 212, 223 Baltimore Waltz, The (Vogel), 28 264-265
Anna and the Tropics (Cruz), 55 Barefoot in the Park (Simon), 15, Brown, Dennis, 145,162-163
Anne of the 1000 Days (Anderson), 130, 232 Bryer, Jackson, 24, 27, 53-54, 94-95,
165-166 Bash (LaBute), 225 160, 231
Anouilh, Jean, 68,130 Basic Training ofPavlo Hummel, The Bug (Letts), 223, 225
Antagonist (Rabe), 28 Burgess, Anthony, 223
central action and, 3 Bat, The (Rinehart), 212 Buried Child (Shepard), 125,149, 203

285
286 Index

Chicago Dramatists, 259 Core conflict, 12

Burn This (L. Wilson), 217, 239
Children's Hour, The (Heilman), 28,127 Corpse (Moon), 200, 203, 205
Bus Stop (Inge), 15 Costumes, 150-151,199-203, 215
Butley (Gray), 128 Chinese Takeout (Whitehurst),
239-240 Counterplots, 94
Butterflies Are Free (Gershe), 67
Choices, of characters, 81,130-131 Count of Monte Cristo, The
Circular structure, 91-94 (Fletcher), 64
Cadences, 55
City of Angels (Gelbart et al), 220 Cover page, in professional
Cain, Marie, 224
Clark, Brian, 64 format, 46
Caine Mutiny, The (Wouk), 122
Clark, Leroy, 23-24, 26, 29-30, Coward, Noel, 197-198
Camus, Albert, 212
41-42,114,166, 201-203 Cowden, Tami D., 143
Caretaker, The (Pinter), 26,145
Cleveland, Rick, 223 Crimes of the Heart (Henley), 16-17,
Carlin, George, 179
Cliff-hangers, 70 126,127,128,131, 205, 217
Carousel (Rodgers and
Hammers tein), 150 Climax, 4, 62, 80, 84 Crowley, Mart, 28
Clinton, Kate, 179 Crucible, importance of having, 144
Casablanca (film), 17-18
Casey, Warren, 151 Clockzvork Orange, A (Burgess), 223 Crucible, The (A. Miller), 31,
Cast size, 11, 72-73, 75, 88,150, 200 Closed questions, 7 105-106,196
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (Williams), 82, Clouds, The (Aristophanes), 213 Cruz, Nilo, 26, 28, 55,166
106,138,190,193-194 Clurman, Harold, 227-228 Curse of the Starving Class, The
Caucasian Chalk Circle, The Cocteau, Jean, 24, 219 (Shepard), 151,164,196, 205,
(Brecht), 94 Coincidences, excessive use of, 73 219, 223
Central action, 3 Cold readings, 260 Curse words, 161
Central conflict, 12 Cole, Susan Letzler, 239 Cyrano de Bergerac (Rostand),
Central question, 70 Coleman, Cy, 220 102,103
Ceremonies, 214 Collaboration
Chapter Tzvo (Simon), 25 in costumes, 200 Dactyl, 167
Character analysis, 146-148 in dialogue, 168-169 Da (Leonard), 67
Characterization, 109,112 Collage, 26 Damn Yankees (Abbott and Wallop),
Character questionnaire, 132-133 Colton, John, 65 65-66
Characters. See also Antagonist; Come Back, Little Sheba (Inge), 121 Dancing at Lughnasa (Friel), 217
Protagonist Come Back to the Five and Dime, Dancing Jack, 214
autobiographical, 25 Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean Danny Bouncing (Cleveland), 223
beats and, 81-83 (Graczyk), 190 Dear Liar (Kilty), 29
common problems with, 71 Comedy, 56, 211, 213-216 Death and the Maiden (Dorfman),
consistency of, 11 Comedy of E rrors, The 66,125
contrasting types of, 131-132 (Shakespeare), 16 Death of a Salesman, The (A. Miller),
dialogue and, 155-171 Comedy of manners, 56, 212 12,16, 95,115,120-121,130,
finding voice of, 184 Comedy Writing Step by Step 160-161,193, 207, 211-212
in first draft, 36-39 (Perret), 213 Death of Bessie Smith, The (Albee), 26
influence on rhythm, 54 Commas, 242-250 Deathtrap (Levin), 64
life roles of, 38-39 avoiding unnecessary, 249-250 Deep character, 112,130-131
monologue and, 173-187 to enclose or set off, 245-247 Defense mechanisms, 124-126
names, in professional format, to separate, 243-245 Degeneration plots, 68
45, 46 to set off introductory elements, Delivery, of dialogue, 164-165
names, in published scripts, 48 247-249 Denial, 124-125
names and descriptions of, Complete Writer's Guide to Heroes and Denouement, 84-85
36-37, 46 Heroines (Cowden et al.), 143 Design and production meetings,
number of, 11,72-73, 75,88,150, Conclusions, in development of 206-207'
181,200 character, 111-112 Desire Under the Elms (O'Neill), 222
orchestrating, 137-153 Conflict, 1-21 Desperate Hours (Hayes), 64
physical characteristics of, avoiding, 72 Details
101-108,132 central action in, 3 in dialogue, 158
psychological characteristics of, climax and, 4 excessive, 10,11
101,119-135 common problems of, 10-13 in one-person plays, 178-179
questions about, 38 in feminine structure, 90-91 research and, 29-31
relationship of, 229-230 goal of protagonist in, 2-3 Detective Story (Kingsley), 212
in second draft, 241 importance of, 74 Determinism, 211, 216
social characteristics of, 101, inciting action in, 1-2 Dialects, 156
109-117,132-133 levels of, 10-11 Dialogue, 155-171
tactics used by, 8,13-18 in masculine structure, 90-91 accents in, 156
time on stage, 75 solutions to problems of, 11,13-18 appeal to the senses in, 158-159
unnecessary, 10 turning point and, 4 collaboration in, 168-169
Chekhov, Anton, 57,125,156 Confusion, in plot, 71 details in, 158
Cherry Orchard, The (Chekhov), 57, Contests, 262-263 dialects in, 156
125,156 Copyright, 238, 251-252,257 figures of speech in, 159-160
 Index 287

first impressions in, 161-163 Emperor Jones (O'Neill), 94,180, 222 holding the audience's attention,
first lines in, 163-164 End, of monologue, 181-182 39-40
"f" word in, 161 End, of play planning, 35-43
"gems" in, 160-161 in circular structure, 93 plot scenarios, 41-42
iambic pentameter in, 165-168 nature of, 70 working title, 36
images in, 159 unsatisfying, 72 First impressions, importance of,
length of speeches, 164 End-stopped lines, 167 161-163
poetic language in, 165-168 Enemy of the People, An (Ibsen), 9-10 First line, of scene, 163-164
reading out loud, 241 Enjambed lines, 167 First scene, in first draft, 37-39
sentence structure in, 156 Entrances, 144-145 Fit to Be Tied (Silver), 95,174, 214
slang in, 159 Epic theatre, 220-221 Five Women Wearing the Same Dress
smooth delivery of, 164-165 Episodic structure, 94-97 (Ball), 190
street talk in, 159 Equus (Shaffer), 5,26,62,190-191,194 Flashbacks, 95
use of language in, 155 Erin Brockovich (film), 31,113 Fletcher, Charles, 64
vocal rhythm in, 156-158 Essential scene, 71 Food Chain, The (Silver), 95,174
writing "on the nose," 18,165 Esslin, Martin, 222 Foot scansion, 166-168
Dialogue cadence, 55 Euripedes, 69 Fop, 215
Diamond, I. A. L., 204 Events Foreigner, The (Shue), 215
Diary of Anne Frank, The (Goodrich observations of, 26-29 Foreshadowing, 86, 95
and Hackett), 29,199 too-slow action, 73 Formalism, 220
DiFusco, John, 28 Existentialism, 212 Format, professional, 45-51
Dilemma plots, 65 Exonerated, The (Blank and guidelines for, 45^48
Dining Room, The (Gurney), 231 Jensen), 179 page numbers in, 238
Direct address (vocatives), 246-247 Expectations, unrealistic, 126-128 reference for, 48
Disguises, 215 Exposition, 69, 80, 85-86 of sample scene, 49-51
Disillusionment plots, 68 as conflict, 11 Frayn, Michael, 213
Displacement, 125 defined, 10 Freak (Leguizamo), 176
Doctor Faustus (Marlowe), 161 excessive, 10 Free Will (Silver), 95
Doll's House, A (Ibsen), 65, 67, 70, Expressionism, 95,211-212, 218-219 Freud, Sigmund, 219
106,114-115,129-130,139 External conflict, 6-8 Friel, Brian, 217
Dorfman, Ariel, 66,125 External stimulus, 81 From Morn to Midnight (Kaiser),
Double-casting, 203 Extremities (Mastrosimone), 67,106, 94, 219
Downstage center, 198 217,229 Fugue, 91
Drama, 56,183,211 Fuller, Charles, 28
Dramatic premise, 228-232 Falling action, 62 Full-length plays
Dramatic Publishing Company, 265 Family, impact on psychological length of, 88
Dramatic Structure and Meaning in development of characters, 120 number of characters in, 88
Theatrical Productions (Price), 232 Farce, 56, 213-216 one-act plays versus, 75
Dramatic style, 183 Fatal Attraction (film), 85 unities in, 87
Dramatists Guild of America, 252, Fat Men in Skirts (Silver), 95-96, Full Monty, The (McNally), 65, 223
257-258 121,174 Fun (Korder), 88
Dramatists Play Service, Inc., 48,252, Faust Is Dead (Ravenhill), 225
264-265 Fear Factor (TV program), 155 Games People Play (Berne), 38-39
Dramatists Sourcebook, 11,256,262-263 Feedback Theatrebooks, 48 Garcia Lorca, Federico, 26
Dreams, as source of ideas, 24 Feet Gardner, Herb, 190,197
Dunn, Neil, 190 defined, 166-167 Garson, Barbara, 213
Durang, Christopher, 46-47,127,220 kinds of, 167 Gay theatre, 224
Durrenmatt, Friedrich, 126 Fellowships, 264 Gelbart, Larry, 213, 220
Dutchman, The (Jones), 28,128,190 Feminine structure, 89-97 Genet, Jean, 222
Dying Gaul, The (Lucas), 28 circular, 91-94 Genre, 211-216
episodic, 94-97 defined, 211
Eastern Standard (Greenberg), 160 masculine structure versus, 93 rhythm and, 55-56
Eastwood, Clint, 37 nonlinear approaches in, 89-91 Gershe, Leonard, 67
Editing, 250-251 Fences (A. Wilson), 36, 67,163 Getting Out (Norman), 96,113
Edson, Margaret, 223 Fictional monologues, 180 Ghetto (Sobol), 223
Educating Rita (Russell), 66,115 Fierstein, Harvey, 28 Ghosts (Ibsen), 114,137-138, 216, 232
Education plots, 66 Figures of speech, in dialogue, Ghost Sonata (Strindberg), 219
Edwards, Ben, 197 159-160 Gibson, William, 7, 29, 66, 80,101,
Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the- Fires in the Mirror (Smith), 179 122-123,143,144,177, 200, 203,
Moon Marigolds, The (Zindel), 122 First draft, 237-239 214, 229
Egri, Lajos, 232 character names and descriptions, Gingerbread Lady, The (Simon),
Elephant Man (Pomerance), 106 36-37 68,128
Elizabeth the Queen (Anderson), first scene, 37-39 Giradoux, Jean, 212
165-166 guidelines for writing, 238-239 Giron, Arthur, 28
288 Index

Hello Out There (Saroyan), 194 Istel, John, 224

Glass Menagerie, The (Williams), 2, 3,
Henley, Beth, 16-17, 79,126,127, Italian Straw Hat, The (Labiche and
6,16, 25, 68, 95,101,138,
128,131, 205, 217 Michael), 215
157-158,165,174, 205, 211-212
Glengarry Glen Ross (Mamet), 127 Hispanic playwrights, 28,166. See
also names of specific playwrights J. B. (MacLeish), 206, 207
Goals
in conflict, 13-18 Hoffman, William, 12, 28 Jacobs, Jim, 151
of protagonist, 2-3 Hollingsworth, Margaret, 90-91 Jeffrey (Rudnick), 28,138
The Goat or Who is Sylvia? (Albee), 69 Holmes, Rupert, 29,177 Jellicoe, Ann, 149,194
Godspell (Schwartz), 26, 27 Homesteaders (Shengold), 67 Jensen, Erik, 179
Goetz, Ruth and Augusta, 126 Horizontal movement, 56-57 Joan of Lorraine (Anderson), 220
Golda's Balcony (Gibson), 29, 177 Hot l Baltimore (L. Wilson), 27, 36 Johari window, 123-124
Goldman, James, 8 House of Blue Leaves, The (Guare), Johnson, Terry, 223
Goldman, William, 239 35,122 Jones, Leroi, 28,128,190
Goldoni, Carlo, 215 Hoiv 1 Learned to Drive (Vogel), 39, Journal-writing, as source of ideas, 32
Good Person ofSetzuan, The (Brecht), 62, 92, 93,128
94,221 Hozv to Write a Play (Hull), 143-144 Kaiser, Georg, 94, 219
Goodrich, Frances, 29,199 Hughes, Langston, 28 Kaling, Mindy, 213
Gordone, Charles, 28 Hull, Raymond, 143-144 Kane, Sarah, 225
Gorky, Maxim, 68 Hurricane (film), 30-31 Kanin, Fay and Michael, 97, 230
Gracyzk, Ed, 190 Hwang, David Henry, 147-148, Kanin, Garcin, 66, 67,105
Graduate, The (film), 204-205 160, 223 Kaufman, George S., 97,169
Graduate, The (Johnson), 223 Hyperbole, 160 Kaufman, Moises, 28, 29, 31
Grants, 264 Hysteria (Johnson), 223 Kazan, Elia, 131-132, 206, 207
Gray, Simon, 128 Kessler, Lyle, 66
Gray, Spalding, 176 Iamb, 167 Keyser, Catherine, 195
Grease (Jacobs and Casey), 151 Iambic pentameter, 165-168 Kidman, Nicole, 223, 224
Great God Brown, The (O'Neill), 222 I Am My Own Wife (Wright), 177 Killer Joe (Letts), 26, 66,125,143, 223,
Greenberg, Richard, 160, 224 Ibsen, Henrik, 9-10, 65, 66, 67, 70, 225
Griffith, Charles B., 151 71,94,106,114-115,129-130, Killing Fields, The (film), 176
Griller (Bogosian), 223 137-138,139,163,205, 211, Kilty, Jerome, 29
Grimm, David, 68, 85, 223 216,232 King Mango Strut (Miami), 213
Gross Indecency (Kaufman), 28, 29 Iceman Cometh, The (O'Neill), 68,173 Kingsley, Sidney, 212
Grosso, Nick, 225 Ideas, sources of, 23-33 Kirkland, Jack, 128
Guare, John, 24, 28, 35,122 journal-writing, 32 Kit Marlowe (Grimm), 68, 85, 223
Gurney, A. R., Jr., 214, 231 observations of people, images Knack, The (Jellicoe), 149,194
Gussow, Mel, 24, 26 and events, 26-29 Knott, Frederick, 64, 212
personal experience, 23-26 Kolpit, Arthur, 64
Habitual emotional responses, of research, 29-31 Korder, Howard, 88
characters, 121 Idiosyncracies of characters, 122 Kramer, Larry, 28, 66
Hackett, Albert, 29,199 Ignition, 80 K2 (Meyers), 12,150,190
Hair, 102 I Hate Hamlet (Rudnick), 197 Kurosawa, Akira, 97
Hair (Rado and Ragni), 223 I Love Lucy (TV program), 8 Kushner, Tony, 28,125,190-192, 203,
Hair spray (O'Donnell et al.), Images 212, 223
65-66, 71 in dialogue, 159
Hairston, Jerome, 263 observations of, 26-29 Labeling, 126
Hairy Ape, The (O'Neill), 94, 219, 222 I'm Not Rappaport (Gardner), 190,197 Labiche, Eugene, 215
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 39, 80,115,175 Incidents, selection and arrangement LaBute, Neil, 40,115, 225
Hammerstein, Oscar, 150, 205 of, 61-62 Lady and the Gypsy, The (Clark), 29
Hampton, Christopher, 66 Inciting action, 1-2 Lady Chatterley's Lover (Lawrence),
Handbag (Ravenhill), 225 Inge, William, 15, 80,101,121 223
Hand props, 203 Inner conflict, 4-5 LaFever, Carol, 143
Hansberry, Lorraine, 28, 68 Inner need, 81 Landesman, Heidi, 197
Hare, David, 223 Innocent archetype, 142 Lane, Nick, 223
Harling, Robert, 28, 68,162, 203 Inspector Calls, An (Priestley), 194 Laramie Project, The (Kaufman),
Hart, Moss, 97,169 Intellectual archetype, 140 28,31
Hart, Percy, 224 Intention, 81 Last Sunday in June, The (Tollin), 214
Hauptmann, Gerhart, 68, 216 Interpretations, in development of Later Life (Gurney), 231
Hayes, Joseph, 64 character, 110-111 Lautenberger, Fran, 200-203
Hedda Gabler (Ibsen), 66, 71, 205 In the Heart of America (Wallace), 28 Lawrence, D. H., 223
Heggan, Thomas, 66 Introductory elements, commas to Leading questions, 7
Heidi Chronicles (Wasserstein), 94-95 set off, 247-250 Leguizamo, John, 176,185
Heiress, The (Goetz and Goetz), 126 In-yer-face theatre, 225 Leight, Warren, 174
Heilman, Lillian, 12, 2.8, 66,121,127 Ionesco, Eugene, 222 Leonard, Hugh, 67
 Index 289

Lerner, Alan Jay, 66,143, 200, 220 beats in, 81-83 finding character's voice in, 184
Letts, Tracy, 26, 66,125,143, 223, 225 circular, 91-94 length of speeches, 164
Levin, Ira, 64 exposition in, 85-86 personal style in, 183-184
Les Liasons Dangereuses (Hampton), 66 feminine structure versus, 93 questions in, 182-183
Library of Congress, 251-252 foreshadowing in, 86 types of, 175-182
Lie of the Mind, A (Shepard), 239 ignition, 80 Mood
Life scripts, 113-115 linear approach in, 80 defined, 54-55
Like Father, Like Son (Clark), 23-24 resolution in, 84-85 rhythm and, 54-55
Linear structure, 80 scenes in, 81 Moon, Gerald, 200, 203, 205
Lion in Winter, The (Goldman), 8 story values in, 86 Morgan, Jim, 224
Lisbon Traviata, The (McNally), 26, 28 in today's theatre, 88 Moscow Art Theatre, 227
Little Foxes, The (Heilman), 12,66,121 unities in, 86-87 Mother Clap's Molly House
Little Shop of Horrors, The (Griffith Master Class (McNally), 122 (Ravenhill), 225
and Ashman), 151 Mastergate (Gelbart), 213 Mother Courage (Brecht), 92, 94
Loewe, Frederick, 66,143, 200, 220 Mastrosimone, William, 67,106, Motivation, in conflict, 13-18
Logan, Joshua, 66 217, 229 Motivators, plot, 12
Lombardo, Matthew, 29,177 Maturing plots, 67 Mourning Becomes Electra
Lonergan, Kenneth, 125,126, 217 M Butterfly (Hwang), 147-148, 223 (O'Neill), 222
Long Day's Journey into Night, A McCullers, Carson, 228 Movement, of characters, 102-103
(O'Neill), 25,120-121,197, McDonagh, Martin, 36-37, 40, 66, Much Ado About Nothing
222, 227 85,138,150, 225 (Shakespeare), 143,144
Long Stay Cut Short, The (Williams), 6 McNally, Terence, 26, 28, 65,122, Music Man, The (M. Wilson), 143
Long Voyage Home (O'Neill), 105 223, 224 Music Theatre International, 265
Look Back in Anger (Osborne), 143 McPhearson, Conor, 180 My Fair Lady (Lerner and Loewe),
Looking Glass (Sutton and Medea (Euripedes), 69 66,143,200,220
Mandelberg), 223 Meehan, Thomas, 65-66, 71 Mystery of Irma Vep, The (Ludlum),
LORT (League of Resident Melodrama, 57, 212 150,205
Theatre), 261 Member of the Wedding, The
Lost on Yonkers (Simon), 27-28 (McCullers), 228 Naked Boys Singing (Bates et al.), 224
Love, Valour, and Compassion Merrily We Roll Along (Kaufman and Narrative writing, 183
(McNally), 224 Hart), 97 Naturalism, 211, 216
Low comedy, 213-216 Merrily We Roll Along (Sondheim), 97 Needs, 81,113
Lower Depths (Gorky), 68 Metamorphosis (Zimmerman), 223 New Dramatists, 259
Lucas, Craig, 28 Metaphor, 160 Nichols, Mike, 204
Ludlum, Charles, 150, 205 Meyers, Patrick, 12,150,190 Night of the Iguana (Williams), 68,
Ludwig, Thomas, 164 Michaelson, Judith, 90 239
Lydie Breeze (Guare), 28 Middle, of monologue, 181-182 Noises Off(Frayn), 213
Middle, of play Nonlinear structure, 89-91
Macbeth (Shakespeare), 75,167, 223, common problems with, 73 Normal body type, 104
228-229, 229, 233 nature of, 69-70 Normal Heart, The (Kramer), 28, 66
Macbird (Garson), 213 Mielziner, Jo, 193-194,197,207 Norman, Marsha, 96,113
MacLeish, Archibald, 206, 207 Miller, Arthur, 12,16, 25, 31, 67, 79, Not about Nightmgales (Williams), 31
Macron, 166 95,105-106,115,120-121,130, Nudity, onstage, 222-224
Magic "if," 196-199 131-132,160-161,173-174, Nurturer archetype, 142-143
Makeup, 102 190-191,193,196, 207, 211-212
Malevinsky, Moses, 144 Miller, Jason, 204-205 O. Henry, 70
Mambo Mouth (Leguizamo), 176,185 Miller, Kathryn Schultz, 31 Objectives, 81,113,181
Mamet, David, 31,127 Miracle Worker, The (Gibson), 7, 66, Obscenity, 161, 224
Mandelberg, Cynthia, 223 80,101,122-123,143,144,177, Observations
Man for All Seasons, A (Bolt), 3, 65, 200, 203, 214, 229 in development of character,
68, 84,105-106,130 Mirror questions, 7 109-110
Man Is Man (Brecht), 221 Misanthrope (Moliere), 213 as source of ideas, 26-29
Manuscript. See Format, Miser, The (Moliere), 115 Obstacles
professional Miss Julie (Strindberg), 68, 216 in conflict, 13-18
Marat/Sade (Weiss), 190 Mister Roberts (Heggan and defined, 70
Marber, Patrick, 225 Logan), 66 in monologue, 181
Marc-Michael, 215 Moher, Frank, 146 in plot, 70-73
Margulies, Dennis, 24 Moliere, 66, 80,115,125, 213-214 Odd Couple, The (Simon), 6
Markham, Shelly, 224 Monodramas, 175-179 Odets, Clifford, 28, 37,164
Marlowe, Christopher, 161 Monologue, 173-187 O'Donnell, Mark, 65-66, 71
Mary of Scotland (Anderson), 12 attributes of good, 181,184-185 Oedipus the King (Sophocles), 2, 3, 4,
Masculine structure, 79-88 defined, 173 65, 80, 229
acts in, 83-84 dramatic style in, 183 Oh, Calcutta! (Tynan), 223
290 Index

On Directing (Clurman), 227-228 Pielmeier, John, 62, 71,125 Prosody, 55

One-act plays Pinero, Miguel, 190 Protagonist
full-length plays versus, 75 Pinter, Harold, 26,97,145 central action and, 3
length of, 88 Pirandello, Luigi, 24 common problems with, 72
O'Neill, Eugene, 25, 67, 68, 94,105, Piscator, Erwin, 220-221 defined, 143
120-121,173,180,197, 219, Pivotal plots, 68 equal opponents for, 143-144
222, 227 Place, unity of, 87 in essential scene, 71
O'Neill National Playwrights Plautus, 16 goal of, in conflict, 2-3
Conference, 262 Play About the Baby, The (Albee), 224 inciting action by, 2
O'Neill Theater Center, 262 Play development, 255-256 relationship with antagonist, 230
One-person plays, 175-179 Playwright's Art, The (Bryer, ed.), 24, Psychological characteristics, 101,
Onstage nudity, 222-224 “ 27,53-54, 94-95,160, 231 119-135
Open questions, 7 Playwrights' Center, 259-260 character as action and, 129-130
Orchestrating characters, 137-153 Playwrights in Rehearsal (Cole), character questionnaire, 132-133
archetypes and, 139-143 239, 249 character questionnaire and, 133
back story in, 137-138 Plot, 61-77, 84-85 contrasting types, 131-132
character analysis in, 146-148 arranging incidents in, 61-62 deep character, 112,130-131
crucible in, 144 balancing beginning, middle, and defense mechanisms, 124-126
entrance of another character, end in, 69-70 Johari window and, 123-124
144- 145 common problems in writing, psychological development,
equal opponents in, 143-144 71-73 119-124
getting to know characters, defined, 61, 62 unrealistic expectations, 126-128
145- 146 essential scene in, 71 Pterodactyls (Silver), 95
good orchestration, 138-139 forming, 62-63 Public self, in Johari window,
practicalities in, 150-151 kinds of, 63-68 123-124
stage business in, 148-150 obstacles in, 70-73 Publishers, 48, 252,264-265
Orphans (Kessler), 66 other tips for, 74-75 Punctuation, 47,156-157, 242-250
Orphee (Cocteau), 24,219 subtext in, 75-76 Punitive plots, 66
Orpheus Descending (Williams), 113, Plot motivators, 12 Pygmalion (Shaw), 84,115
141,190, 216 Plot scenarios, 41-M2 Pyrrhic foot, 167
Osborne, John, 143 Poetic language, 165-168
Othello (Shakespeare), 2,4, 66,129 contemporary and historical use of, Question of Mercy, A (Rabe), 31
Our Town (Wilder), 174, 220 165-166 Questions
Outburst (Clark), 26 iambic pentameter, 165-168 central, 70
Out of Gas on Lover's Leap (St. rhythm of, 55 about characters, 38
Germaine), 190 Poetics, The (Aristotle), 79,80, 87,94 for monologues, 182-183
Overdressed, 199-200, 215 Point of attack, 241 types of, 7
Pomerance, Bernard, 106 Quills (Wright), 150-151,177,190,
Pacing, problems with, 73 Posture, of characters, 102-103 197, 223
Page numbers, 46, 47-48, 238 Power of Darkness, The (Tolstoy), 216
Parenthetical expressions, 246 Premise, 215-216, 228-232 Rabe, David, 28, 31,190
Parks, Susan-Lori, 28 Preparation, 62 Rado, James, 223
Passive verbs, 83 Prepositional phrases, commas with Ragni, Gerome, 223
Peer Gynt (Ibsen), 94,163 introductory, 248 Rain (Colton), 65
People, observations of, 26-29 Presentational style, 217-218 Raised in Captivity (Silver), 95
Perez, Judith, 28 Pretty Fire (Woodard), 176 Raisin in the Sun, The (Hansberry),
Perez, Severo, 28 Price, The (A. Miller), 190 28, 68
Perret, Gene, 213 Price, Thomas, 232 Rashomon (film), 97
Personal conflict, 6-8 Priestley, J. B., 194 Rashomon (Kanin and Kanin), 97,230
Personal experience, as source of Probing questions, 7 Rationalization, 126
ideas, 23-26 Production opportunities, 260-262 Ravenhill, Mark, 225
Personal style, 183-184 other productions and Readings, 260-261
Personification, 160 opportunities, 261-262 Real Inspector Hound, The
Pevsner, David, 224 readings, 260-261 (Stoppard), 85
Physical activity, of characters, staged readings, 260-261 Realism, 95, 211-212, 216-217,218
105-106 workshop productions, 261 Reality-based monologues, 179
Physical characteristics, 101-108 Profession, impact on psychological Rebel archetype, 140
appearance, 101-102 development of characters, Reform plots, 67
body types, 104-105 120-121 Regeneration plots, 68
character questionnaire and, 132 Projection of blame, 125 Repetition
movement, 102-103 Proof (Auburn), 36,40,63 in farce, 214-215
physical activity, 105-106 Proposition, 232 unintentional, 241-242
posture, 102-103 Props, 151,203-204 Repression, 125
voice, 105 Proscenium theatre, 189-190, Research, as source of ideas, 29-31
Picnic (Inge), 80,101 198-199 Resolution, 80, 84-85
Picnic on the Battlefield (Arrabal), 219 Prose, rhythm of, 55 Response, 63-64, 82-83
 Index 291

Restrictive phrases or clauses, 246 life, of characters, 113-115

Revelation plots, 66 Simon, Neil, 6,15, 25, 27-28, 64, 68,
manuscript format versus 128,130, 213, 232
Rewriting, 239
published format, 48 Simonson, Lee, 197
Rhythm, 53-59
professional format for, 45-51, 238 Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All
creating, 53-54 submitting, 265-266
horizontal movement in, 56-57 For You (Durang), 127
Seascape (Albee), 194 Situation comedies, 56
influences on, 54-56 Season, The (Goldman), 239
nature of, 53 Six Characters in Search of an Author
Second draft, 239-242 (Pirandello), 24
vertical movement in, 56-57 editing, 250-251
Rice, Elmer, 94,219 Skin of Our Teeth, The (Wilder), 220
guidelines for, 240-241 Slang, in dialogue, 159
Richard III (Shakespeare), 66,101, after hearing play read aloud, Smith, Anna Deavere, 179
121,122 239-240 Snowball effect, 215
Ridley, Philip, 225 Second Sheperds' Play, 205 Sobol, Joshua, 223
Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 212 Secret self, in Johari window, Social characteristics, 101,109-117
Rising action, 62 123-124 character questionnaire and,
Rising conflict, 12 Seductive charmer archetype, 142 132-133
Rituals, 214 Sensory appeal, in dialogue, 158-159 development of, 109-112
Rivals, The (Sheridan), 159-160 Sentence structure, in dialogue, 156 life script in, 113-115
Rivera, Jose, 28 Sequence, 80 social development in, 112-113
Rodgers, Richard, 150, 205 Servant of Two Masters, The Societal conflicts, 9-10
Romantic comedies, 56 (Goldoni), 215 Soldier's Play, A (Fuller), 28
Romantic works, 56 Set decorations, 203 Soliloquy, 174-175
Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare), 2, Set props, 203 Some Explicit Polaroids
166,167, 232 Setting (Ravenhill), 225
Rose Tattoo (Williams), 151 description of, in professional Sondheim, Stephen, 97
Rostand, Edmond, 102,103 format, 46-47 Sophocles, 2, 3, 65, 80, 111, 139, 229
Royal Hunt of the Sun (Shaffer), 12, development of, 190-196 Sound effects, 206
- 190-191 influence on rhythm, 54 South Pacific (Rodgers and
Rudnick, Paul, 28,138,197 magic "if" for, 196-198 Hammerstein), 205
Rumors (Simon), 64, 213 monologue, 182-183 Special abilities, of characters,
Russell, Willy, 66,115,180 unity of place, 87 122-123
7/11 (Ludwig), 164 Speeches. See also Dialogue;
St. Germaine, Mark, 190 Seven-Year Itch, The (Axelrod), 206, Monologue
Saint Joan (Shaw), 29 214 length of, 164
St. Louis Black Repertory Sexaholics (Leguizamo), 176 in professional format, 48
Company, 263 Shaffer, Peter, 5,12, 26, 62, 66, rhythm of, 55
St. Nicholas (McPhearson), 180 190-191,194, 206 Speed of Darkness, The (Tesich), 12
Samuel French, Inc., 48,252, 264-265 Shaiman, Marc, 65-66, 71 Spic-O-Rama (Leguizamo), 176
Sanchez-Scott, Milcha, 28 Shakespeare, William, 2,12,16, 39, Spine, 227-228
Sandbox (Albee), 194 66, 75, 80,101,115,121,122,129, Spondee, 167
Saroyan, William, 173,194 143,144,166,167,175, 215,218, Stage directions
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 212 223, 228-229, 232,233 areas of stage, 198-199
Satire, 212-213 Shakespeare's Journey (Clark), 29-30, in professional format, 46, 47,
Savage, Mark, 224 41-42,114,166, 201-203 48, 238
Say Goodnight, Grade (Holmes), Shange, Ntozake, 166 in second draft, 241
29,177 Shape of Things, The (Labute), 40, Staged readings, 260-261
Scansion, 55,165-168 115, 225 Stage left, 198
Scapin (Moliere), 214 Shaw, George Bernard, 29, 84,115 Stage right, 198
Scenery, 150 Shengold, Nina, 67 Stanislavsky, Constantin, 196, 227
Scenes Shepard, Sam, 125,149,151,164, Starmites (Keating), 220
defined, 81 190,196, 203, 205, 219, 223, 225, Static conflict, 12-13
essential scene, 71 239, 249 Steaming (Dunn), 190
first, draft of, 37-39 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 159-160 Steel Magnolias (Harling), 28,68,
first line of, 163-164 Shirley Valentine (Russell), 180 162, 203
format of, sample, 49-51 Shootout at Keystone Canyon Stereotypes, 131
length of, 56 (Clark), 29 Sticks and Bones (Rabe), 28
numbers, in professional format, 47 Shopping and Fucking (Ravenhill), 225 Stimulus, 63-64, 82-83
rhythm of, 53-59 Shoptalk (Brown), 145,162-163 Stoppard, Tom, 85
Scene shifts, avoiding, 75 Short Eyes (Pinero), 190 Story, 83-84
Schaechter, Ben, 224 Short quotations, commas with Story events, 62-63
Schary, Dore, 31 introductory, 248-249 Story line, common problems with,
Schrock, Robert, 224 Shue, Larry, 215 71-72
Schwartz, Stephen, 26, 27 Side Man (Leight), 174 Story values, 86
Sciaroni, Rayme, 224 Silver, Nicky, 79, 95-96,121,174, 214 Strange Interlude (O'Neill), 222
Scripts Silvia (Gurney), 214 Strategy, 81
cover letter for, 266 Simile, 160 Streamers (Rabe), 28,190
292 Index

Streetcar Named Desire, A (Williams), Time of Your Life, The (Saroyan), 173 Wanton Lust (Silver), 95
16, 25,37, 56, 80, 84, 85,115,126, Titles Warren, Robert Penn, 66
127,128,130,143,160,165,193, on title page, 238 Warrior archetype, 141-142
194,198-199, 206 working, 36 Wasserstein, Wendy, 94-95
Street talk, in dialogue, 159 Tobacco Road (Kirkland), 128 Weavers, The (Hauptmann), 68, 216
Strindberg, August, 68, 211, 216, 219 Tollin, Jonathan, 214 Weiss, Peter, 190
Structure, of play, 79-99 Tolstoy, Leo, 211, 216 West, Cheryl, 28
feminine, 89-97 Tom Jones (film), 106 What's Wrong with This Picture?
masculine, 79-88 Topical monologues, 179 (Margulies), 24
Style, 216-222 Torch Song Trilogy (Fierstein), 28 Whitehurst, William, 239-240
defined, 216 Touch of the Poet, A (O'Neill), 227 Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
in monologue, 183-184 Tracers (DiFusco and cast), 28,123 (Albee), 16, 24, 25, 81-82, 85,
Stylization, 220 Tragedy, 55-56, 65, 79, 211 121,143,175
Subject, as unifying force of Tragic plots, 65 Whose Life Is It Anyway? (Clark), 64
feminine script, 91-93 Transformations, 204-205 Wilder, Billy, 204
Subplots, 16, 94 Trick endings, 70 Wilder, Thornton, 174, 220
Subtext, 75-76 Trochee, 167 Williams, Tennessee, 2,3, 6,16, 25,
Suburbia (Bogosian), 106,122, 237 Turner, Kathleen, 223 31, 37, 56, 68, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85,
Sudden Impact (film), 36, 37 Turning point, 4 95,101,106,113,115,126,127,
Suddenly Last Summer (Williams), 25 Twelfth Night (Shakespeare), 215, 128,130,138,141,143,151,
Summer and Smoke (Williams), 165 218 157-158,160,163,165,174,190,
Sunrise at Campobello (Schary), 31 Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992 193-194,198-199, 205, 206,
Surrealism, 219 (Smith), 179 211-212,
Survivor (TV program), 155 Twin Menachmi, The (Plautus), 16 216.239
Sutton, Michael, 223 Two for the Seesaw (Gibson), 177 Wilson, August, 28, 36, 67,163,166
Sweet, Jeffrey, 31 Tynan, Kenneth, 223 Wilson, Lanford, 27,36,145,175,
Sweet Birth of Youth (Williams), 68 217.239
Swimming to Cambodia (Gray), 176 Unconscious self, in Johari window, Wilson, Meredith, 143
123-124 Wine of This Year's Vintage (Clark),
Tactics Underdressed, 199 26
of characters, 8 Under Tire (Keyser), 195 Wings (Kolpit), 64
in conflict, 13-18 Undoing, 125-126 Winkler, Mark, 224
Take Me Out (Greenberg), 224 Unities, 86-87 Winters, Jonathan, 205
Talking Heads (Bennett), 180 Unit set, 190-191 Winters, Shelley, 222
Taming of the Shrew, The Unrealistic expectations, of Winterset (Anderson), 165-166
(Shakespeare), 12 characters, 126-128 Wit (Edson), 223
TAMS-WITMARK, 265 Unseen Hand, The (Shepard), 190 Withers, Brenda, 213
Tartuffe (Moliere), 66, 80,115,125, Up left, 198-199 Wittman, Scott, 65-66, 71
213-214 Wolfe, George C., 28
Tea at Live (Lombardo), 29,177 Values, 86 Woodard, Charlayne, 176
Tempo, 56 Van Why, Artie, 177 Working title, 36
Tesich, Steve, 12 Veldez, Luis, 28 Workshop productions, 261
Testing plots, 67-68 Verbs, 83 Wouk, Herman, 122
That Championship Season (A. Vertical movement, 56-57 Wright, Doug, 150-151,177,190,
Miller), 204-205 Vices, 214 197, 223
That Day in September (Van Why), Victim plots, 64 Writing
177 Victory plots, 65-66 collaboration in, 168-169
Theatre Communications Group Viders, Sue, 143 copyright and, 238, 251-252, 257
(TCG), 256, 258-259 Vilanch, Bruce, 224 editing in, 250-251
Theatre companies, 263-264 Visit, The (Durrenmatt), 126 first draft, 35-43, 237-239
Theatre of the absurd, 221-222 Vocal rhythm, 156-158 length of play and, 237
Theatrical forms, 189-190 Vocatives, 246-247 narrative versus dramatic, 183
Theatricalism, 219-220 Vogel, Paula, 28, 39, 62, 92, 93,128 "on the nose," 18,165
Theme, common problems with, 72 Voice professional format and, 45-51
This Is Our Youth (Lonergan), 125, of characters, 105 punctuation in, 156-157, 242-250
126, 217 finding character's, 184 rewriting in, 239
Thompson, Trance, 224 first impressions and, 161-163 second draft, 239-242
Thriller plots, 64 personal style and, 183-184
Thrust staging, 189 Zajdlic, Richard, 225
Time lapses, avoiding, 75 Waiting for Lefty (Odets), 28 Zimmerman, Mary, 223
Time of play Wait Until Dark (Knott), 64, 212 Zindel, Paul, 122
monologue, 182 Walker, Joseph A., 28 Zippel, David, 220
in professional format, 47 Wallace, Naomi, 28, 225 Zola, Emile, 211
unity of, 87 Wallop, Douglas, 65-66 Zoo Story (Albee), 173
 BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

3 9999 05840 730 3

■ (.

fO
-

Safe of this m** -

Material bei
 With skills-focused exercises ranging from beginning to advanced levels, Writing for the
Stage takes students through the creative process to develop a stage worthy script* The
purpose of Writing for the Stage: A Practical Playwriting Guide is to provide students with a
variety of exercises to help develop writing skills for the stage that eventually lead to the creation
of a script. Although there is no magic formula—no right or wrong way to create a dramatic
work—there are still traditional expectations for plot, conflict, theme, character development,
dialogue, and so forth, that need to be discussed.

Features
♦ Provides both a theoretical framework and practical exercises for developing skills, helping
students to gain a complete understanding of the creative process.
♦ Includes exercises at beginning, intermediate, and advanced levels for each topic, allowing
instructors to choose the most appropriate exercises for their students.
♦ Looks at the relationship of writing to the practical realities of today s theatre, making
students aware of how the realities of staging and budget must be considered in writing for
todays theatre.
♦ Explores three kinds of conflict—internal, personal, and external—and conflict within
society, providing many choices for developing dramatic situations.
♦ Discusses not only the“masculine" linear approach to playwriting but also "feminine"
and non-linear structure, providing exercises for non-traditional, experimental scene
development, opening students eyes to exploring structure and character in more creative,
experimental ways.
♦ Devotes an entire chapter to writing monologues, including short monologues within plays
and long, one-person plays, providing extra guidance in this important technique.
♦ Offers extensive material on exploring character that is more detailed than in other texts,
especially in the depth of physical, social, and psychological character development, providing
students with a starting place to create characters.

Praise for Writing for the Stage: A Practical Playwriting Guide

“I haven't seen a more thorough text than Writing for the Stage. The exercises it suggests for stu¬
dent writers are ingenious and,. .of great benefit to anyone trying to develop the skills required
to develop character, maintain audience interest and involvement, reveal exposition subtly, create
a plausible and aesthetically satisfying plot structure, and so on,..."
—David Wagoner, University of Washington

"This book is distinguished and.. .is a superior and useful text because it is honest, very thor¬
ough, step-by-step, and comprehensive. It is wise about the way theatre works today.,.."
—Richard Kalinoski, University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh

Cover Photograph: ©Rubberball.PictureQuest

ISBN
9 0 0
For related titles and support
materials, visit our online catalog
at www.ablongman.com
9 78 02 05 412976