Intermission
a creative coffee break from writing the play

Something I rarely do I’ve done twice since September: leave a play at the intermission. The first was a play I looked forward to. It was directed by someone of acclaim, and I have enjoyed his interpretations previously. The acting was good, and the production values were lovely. The material left me cold; English class issues with comedic over and undertones galore. I’d certainly seen the same subject matter done over and over again as film. Some of them even great films. What was the point of a play? Just because we can, should we?

Perhaps I was cranky, still recovering from the September power outage that lasted over a week in our neighborhood. The Beloved was unable to hide her glee as I ushered her out at intermission and into the parking lot to escape.

The second play was so awful I could not even listen to the script. The central character in the hands of so bad an actor he responded as though he’d only met each character for the first time on the street despite the dialogue which clearly told us these people had been to hell and back together.

It was the Beloved’s birthday, so I let her make the call to leave.

Both times I sat in the theatre impatiently thinking, “So? Why are we doing this?” There was nothing in either show to suggest why the material at hand required being a play. I wondered why the bother, why all the time, money and expertise had gone into bringing these shows to life. Yeah, well, there’s an audience, yadda yadda yadda, and it’s not me.

I’m bored by narratives well-crafted but not well-written, and so dully un-stage-worthy. Undoubtedly, the reason I enjoy musicals is because there is so much inherent theatricality to them. I am always amused by those who declare, “no one bursts out singing like that.” Well, duh.

I am usually more forgiving about theatre.

I’m restless, and having some trouble focusing.

Pondering the play I have not finished, I feel it has been fun to write, but trivial in scope compared to the new plays nagging at my brain. I want to set it aside and move on from it. I haven’t left a play unfinished… since when? Ten years, perhaps. Is there something to learn in stuffing the unfinished work into a drawer and leaving it there? Or is this a wave of a series of unfinished plays about to take me over? Just because I can finish it, should I?

Yes, overthinking quite a bit. More to be revealed, no doubt.