The thing I keep learning about writing for the theater is that I will write a ton of plays. I will write so many plays in this life and most of them won’t become full grown in my own garden. (By garden I mean city. Follow me)
So go with me here. When I was a kid and I saw one of those puffy flowers I would be draw to it and I would blow the little tiny fuzzies and they would catch the air and disappear.
I’m not a scientist so I didn’t realize how dope this is. The dandilion makes itself so appealing, so attractive, that is draws children to itself and compels us to do the work that needs to be done! (Or it waits for the wind. Either way. The dandelion makes the work and extends it into the world and trust that the world will take note.)
Y’all let me tell you how that hit me just now that this is the kind of playwright I’m going to try to become. I ain’t there yet. I’m still trying to work my way through this concrete. I’m still getting better and learning. But I’m getting clearer.
I’m preparing to teach playwrights for the first time and I’m self conscious about what to say to them. The act of writing is hard and alienating and emotional and private, and well...I ain’t trying to be out here breaking writers. I know that feeling. I hope I can teach them to be dandelions. To be their organic, natural selves and trust that even if there work does blossom in their own garden, their plays when find the fertile grow in which is can thrive and grow.
Oo. I think this is an anxiety lost. Yikes.