Just Wrought

September 13, 2001

8:57 am

Sitting here in Bryant Park. First time back in Manhattan since the tragedy. It feels good to be here. Just to feel it still here under my feet. To see the Empire State standing tall to the South (in spite of a harrowing bomb threat last night. Heather said then exactly what I was thinking: “I don’t know if I could take it if that goes down as well.”

Been reeling through my brain trying to think of what I can do to be of some use. Oh to be of use! The best I can come up with— it struck me this morning— is to switch gears and start thinking about my most ethereal idea of all, The Good Ship Manhattan.

9:51 am

Sitting on one of the benches at 51st and 6th. Things seem lighter and quieter than usual as far as foot traffic goes in this part of the city. People seem stern for the most part. And whatever conversations I do overhear are all, without exception, related to the attack....

10:56 am

Waiting for the library to open. It must be at 11 ‘cuz so many people are standing outside. I just wanna return Typee.

Went by H’s office just a few minutes ago since I couldn't reach her by phone. The day’s going normally hectic busy for her and she says she’s vaguely offended by that.

1:28 pm

Heather’s building got a bomb scare serious enough apparently to result in the authorities shutting down the building until further notice, at least until Monday.

Air still has a slight taint of acrid smoke that was so strong this morning that it woke me up, poisoned my dreams.

Still no access to internet from home. Got a glance at my emails from Heather’s desk at work, but was only able to reply to DSP. Might try the Woodside library today later or tomorrow.

5:51 pm

Had a run in with some adolescent boys at the library this afternoon that I’m not terribly proud of but, given the frustration I was feeling after trying to deal with my huge backlog of email, seems inevitable. They were back-sassing an older lady librarian who had asked them to leave. I told them, among other things, that they should shut up and do as she says, and that given what’s going on, it was time for them to start acting like citizens. Silly, I know, but it inspired me to come home and write an open letter to community organizations (schools, fire houses, police stations,) offering whatever services I can....

9:59 pm

Guess we all have to ride this terrible wave for as long as it holds us under.

Caring for each other is the beginning and undoubtedly the end.

Experimental Results

I made a promise to myself a while back that if I was going to use the word “experiment” in association with my work as a theatre artist, I had to do so more like a scientist and less like some avant garde poser.  As I said in my earlier post “Putting the Fail back in “Experimental”: 

Any actual scientist understands that true experiments have rules and consequences. Experiments are tests of hypotheses hoping to become theories; and theories, in order to prove useful, must be falsifiable.  In other words, true experiments by definition contain the possibility of failure.

I would add that good scientists publish their results whether or not they find them gratifying.  And that’s exactly what I intend to do here and now regarding the experiment of publishing my play Ballard House Duet simultaneously with its recent world premiere.  (I enthusiastically explained my reasons for initiating this experiment here.)

So as of this posting, here is how my sales break down by channel:

Not a data/chart nerd like me?  Okay, here are my plain English conclusions:

1. I have too much unsold inventory.  If I had listened to my publisher and ordered the number of books he recommended I’d be sitting on a mere 3% overhang now, which would have been right in the estimator’s sweet spot.
2. “Show sales” was my strongest channel, which is gratifying, since offering the script simultaneously with performances was the main point of this effort.  If I did this again I would lean even more heavily into this channel: maybe invest in a more visually pleasing display than the cardboard box with the words “Scripts for Sale - $10” scrawled on the front of it in ballpoint pen.

The bottom line is I turned a profit about three eBay sales ago.  I am now $19.59 richer for this experience; but based solely on the data, I would have to give myself a C +, since I moved only 78 % of my product. 

Of course, it is much harder to quantify all the things I have learned from the experience, not to mention all the nerdy fun I have had.  Here’s a quick list:

• People will buy scripts at a show, but they have to be reminded, in the pre-show speech and then again at intermission and after the show.  The display of scripts has to be prominent.  You have to make buying them easy and fun.
• eBay is not the best means of selling a script on line.  It wound up costing me $2.31 out of every $10 script I sold on-line.  Given the cost of printing, that left me with very little margin to take any profit.  If it hadn’t been for show sales, with their much wider margin, I would still be bleeding red ink at this point.

The best outcome of this experiment was, of course, the chance to talk about the experiment itself: to revisit the question of whether it makes sense to publish play scripts simultaneously with world premiere productions, and more specifically, whether it makes sense for a playwright to put up his own capital to do so. I would say the short answers to these questions are, “Yes, with some improvements in the process.” And “No, a playwright already banks enough when he or she antes up their play for staging.”

Fellow playwright Joshua Conkel chimed in on Facebook to point out, “…In the U.K. it's common to get the script at the show. It costs a few pounds and it also serves as the program…. Oberon Books does it. And then of course the script goes out to bookstores and all that. It's great!”  Perhaps as Seattle grows as one of the nation’s hothouses for locally grown new theatre, it might behoove us as to explore a script sales model like the UK’s, though it should also be noted that the simultaneous publishing experiment has been run quite extensively here in decades past. Bret Fetzer explained in comments posted on my earlier blog:

The experience of Rain City Projects -- which published plays in conjunction with productions for over ten years… was that when the theater promoted selling the script, it succeeded, and when they didn't, it didn't. The single most significant factor, by an order of magnitude, was having someone hold up the script in a preshow speech and say "This is for sale in the lobby; if you enjoyed the show, we encourage you to buy the script." Other approaches -- such as plugging the script for sale in a program ad -- had a fraction of the impact of a live preshow plug.

Over time, theaters became less invested in promoting scripts. There was a trend away from preshow speeches, and even the theaters that still did them just wanted the speaker to say the essentials and get off the stage. Most of the theaters producing new plays were small, volunteer-run organizations, so there was no one to consistently make a plug for the script, and trying to educate a rotating crew of house managers about this was too much to accomplish on top of all the other stuff that had to get done. Everyone supported the idea of selling the scripts in the abstract, but in practice it fell by the wayside.

But the main reason Rain City Projects stopped publishing individual scripts was that, as these were brand new plays getting their first production, a majority of playwrights learned a lot of new things and did significant rewrites after the production. Immediately the scripts were obsolete and the playwrights didn't want them sold or distributed....

My experience working with Original Works Publishing, eBay and Amazon Direct Publishing leads me to believe that new technologies and processes might allow theatres and playwrights to keep their inventory small and flexible enough to offer scripts, either in hard copy or electronically, such that some of the challenges Rain City Projects faced might now be mitigated. 

One conclusion seems certain: folks who bought my script seem very pleased indeed to be able to own a permanent document  of an otherwise inherently ephemeral experience.  Theatre is fleeting, but perhaps we theatre artists could work a bit harder to bottle some of our volatile moonshine for future times.

 

Happy Columbus Day from THE GOOD SHIP MANHATTAN

In honor of this dubious-at-best holiday, I offer a relevant excerpt from my play The Good Ship Manhattan.  (Fair warning: for the most part this is a near exact transcription of a conversation that actually happened.  Politically correct, it was not.)

. . . . GREG:  You gotta live in the real world.

RICHARD:  Yeah.  And apparently you gotta shit in it too.

GREG:  Please.  Cry me a river.

RICHARD:  I’m just saying.

(Pause, as Greg takes a healthy gulp from his single malt.)

GREG:  So are all ex-social studies teachers big whiney liberals like you?

RICHARD:  Actually, my 11th grade American History teacher was a flag-waving, ignoramus Nazi wacko such as yourself: Mr. Capezio.

GREG:  Oh, he was a wop, too, hunh.

RICHARD:  I don’t hold it against the wops.  Some of this country’s greatest Leftists were ginnys: Sacco and Vanzetti, LaGuardia, Columbo.

GREG:  Columbus.

RICHARD:  No, I said “Columbo”.  As in Peter Falk, as in a joke?

GREG:  Yeah, and I’m saying “Columbus”.  As in Christopher.

RICHARD:  Please.

GREG:  Please what?

RICHARD:  Do not talk to me about Columbus.

GREG:  We’re talking about great Americans.  How do you do greater than actually finding the place?

RICHARD:  Oh boy.

GREG:  What?

RICHARD:  Where do I start?

GREG:  Oh don’t tell me.  You got a beef with Columbus.  You’re one of these idiots out here protesting the fucking parade.

RICHARD:  Do you know anything about Columbus?

GREG:  Uh... yeah, I know a little something about Columbus.

RICHARD:  Like?

GREG:  Like Fourteen Hundred and Ninety two.  Sailed the ocean blue.  To tell the liberal schoolteachers, “fuck you”.

RICHARD:  Landed on Haiti.  Immediately enslaved the entire population.  Effectively wiped them out with disease, torture and execution.  Encouraged his men to hunt them for sport.

GREG:  You wanna compare him to a Nazi now?  That’s you people’s favorite thing to do, isn’t it?

RICHARD:  Well, let’s see... he rounds up an entire race of people, puts ‘em in camps and proceeds to annihilate ‘em in a holocaustic blood-fest, all in the name of Queen and Cross.  I wouldn’t say it’s an unfair comparison.

GREG:  And who was it exactly that stopped the Nazis?  Hunh?... 

GREG:  The Americans.    RICHARD (simultaneously):  The Russians.

GREG:  Bullshit!

RICHARD:  Ever heard of Stalingrad?  Got any idea what the casualty rate was for a Soviet infantryman?

GREG:  All I know is, if it wasn’t for us, the Brit’s would be speaking German right now.

RICHARD:  That’s the standard Hollywood fantasy.  Unfortunately utter bullshit.

(The bartender, Ursula, steps closer to listen.)

GREG:  Yeah, I know: nothing I learned in history class is true.

RICHARD:  Well--

GREG:  There’s no such thing as George Washington.  He never crossed the Delaware.  We never kicked ass on the Redcoats and won our independence.

RICHARD:  I’m not saying that.  I’m saying there’s always more to the story.  Like if it hadn’t been for the French, we’d all be--

URSULA:  What?  Speaking English right now?

RICHARD:  What?  That makes no sense.

GREG:  Makes sense to me.

URSULA:  That fact is, the French only brought their full support to bear once they were convinced the Continental Army would ultimately beat the British.

RICHARD:  Which they could only do because Britain was over-extended with her empire stretched across the globe.

URSULA:  Agreed.  But you can’t deny that the symbolic victories Washington won at Trenton and Princeton after crossing the Delaware-- as this gentleman mentioned-- and the subsequent winter of drilling and reinforcement at Valley Forge, effectively transforming a motley crew of rag-tag citizens into an inspired fighting force, had nothing to do with the ultimate victory of the Continentals and the formation of the United States that you call home.

(Ursula steps away to another part of the bar.)

GREG:  Holy fuck!

RICHARD:  Whatever.

GREG:  You think she’s ever modeled?

RICHARD:  Reductionist claptrap.

(He drains his glass.)

GREG:  How much would you pay to fuck her right now?

RICHARD:  I wouldn’t pay your money to fuck her with your dick.

GREG:  Yeah.  Okay, teach. . . .

The Cathedral of Saint John the Divine

I decided at the beginning of this year to focus a little bit more than usual on luck: to court it a bit, if that makes sense. Luck is one of those wonderful inventions that cannot really exist— not in any empirical way— but that nevertheless human beings can still learn a lot by considering. For instance, I spent a lot of last week constructing an essay I felt compelled to write defending my chosen art form from prevarications that would weaken it. Contrary to what some assumed, it brought me no joy to make my arguments. It felt like duty. But then, as luck would have it, someone I did not know read that essay and reached out with an email to thank me for it.  We became Facebook friends and I noticed that this person had a professional relationship with one of my favorite places on earth, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. I flashed on a long forgotten essay I wrote nearly nine years ago for an on-line gathering site for weirdoes and writers and weirdo writers called Everything2.

I repost it here as a burnt offering to luck.

  

I don't believe in God.

I pretty much don't believe in God.

Okay... here's the deal:

I believe in God. . .

. . . but only in one place: the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City. Apparently, the universe is constructed in such a manner that the omnipotent, omniscient—though obviously not omni-present— deity known for the most part in these parts as "God", only exists-- as far as I can tell-- when I exist within the walls of this largest Gothic cathedral in the world.

I can vouch for this phenomenon going back to late 1999 when I first stepped inside the church, its cool echoing darkness enveloping me immediately. I was living up on the edge of Harlem at the time, and began going often. I'd walk in past the periodic light shafting down from the stained glass, sit on one of the chairs (the nave has no permanent pews) and strike up an ongoing conversation on hold since my earnest Catholic childhood.

Hello Old Man. It's me.

These were not supplications, but rather heartfelt chats between one very good old friend and another. I didn't have to genuflect or cross myself to gain access to this communication. It's certainly telling that I don't feel this presence at all at, say, St. Patrick's Cathedral down on 50th and Madison, shouldered up against Rockefeller Center and all those other much taller skyscrapers. If God lives there, he's the God of Pinstripes and Napoleon Complexes and Rudy Giuliani.

We moved to Queens in the late fall of '99 and my visits to St. John's became rarer but no less ardent-- in fact, maybe more so, since a two-train, 45-minute pilgrimage was involved.

And then, less than two years later, the world changed for New Yorkers and for everyone. I found myself in Our meeting place almost every other day, two trains or not. The conversations grew ever more urgent, but also so private that I couldn't even bring myself to write about them in my personal journal:

9/25/01

St. John's again.
Talking with God.
Private stuff.
Wondering: Is faith a means or an end?
Or is the question nonsense? 

Sometimes I'd cry. Sometimes I'd feel God feeling me cry and letting me know that it was understood.

On December 7, 2001, while I watched TV in the living room, my wife took a home pregnancy test. From the bathroom I heard a calm but distinct, "Uh-oh." Back then I didn't know just how damned accurate those things have gotten, but still I had a gut inkling that this time it was for real. I had a whole new thing to talk to God about, a whole new way to be scared. 

Old Man, help me be a good old man.

 On December 18, 2001, I turned on the TV just to be dosed with a whole new horror. 

12/18/01

8:12
St. John's is burning; a five alarm fire.
God damn.
What a lousy, lousy year.  

In my head I drove a pathetic devil's bargain worthy of Winston Smith in room 101. "Take the goddamned Twin Towers", I practically prayed to Satan, "Just leave me my St. John's."

The firefighters, already crowned in glory, waded into the burning church which was home to, among so many other things, the largest memorial to fallen FDNY prior to 9/11. Commanders on the scene rapidly made the decision to use high-tech lasers to find their way through the smoke instead of following the common sense course of action: smashing through priceless, irreplaceable stained glass to vent it (adding a James Bond-esque/art connoisseur quality to their already enormous reputation for heroism). Within hours the fire was extinguished. But who knew how long the church would be closed to visitors?

In March of 2002 I got a short-term temp gig up at Columbia University. I walked by St. Johns on my lunch break, saw where soot still blackened the stones of the northern transept. My heart heavy and anxious, I climbed the front stairs and went in. It still smelled of burnt wood inside, and the gift shop, where the fire started, was still boarded up, but I knew instantly that the conflagration had done nothing to fumigate my Old Friend from the place. I sat down to chat.
In the end, you can only ask Him for a sample of his Grace, a slightly wider perspective than the one you're sitting in. It seems like a small thing writing about it now, but such an epiphany is really the only miracle there is. Art can offer it sometimes. Perhaps that's why I decided to become an artist.

And becoming one I am still.

Now I live in Seattle and have no place to talk to God. 

 

Heather’s Eleventh of September

I told my 9/11 story with the playwright’s notes in the program for the world premiere production of The Good Ship Manhattan,  my hemi-demi-autobiographical play about those days in New York.  That short raw essay also serves as my forward to Original Works Publishing’s printed edition of the play.  So you can check out my version of events from Sunnyside, Queens online here (go to page 4).

My wife, however, saw the second plane hit the towers with her own eyes from mid-town Manhattan.  For the first time ever, Heather Curtis Mullin has recorded in writing her memories of that day and the days to follow; and I am so grateful that she has given me permission to share them here with you.

I was working in the Conde Nast building at 42nd and Broadway on the morning of September 11, 2001.  I was in an extremely good mood because my husband had celebrated his birthday the night before and we had been up late but I still felt pretty good.  I was logging in and getting settled at my desk when a co-worker came out of her office and said a plane had hit “the towers." We walked together to the conference room on the southern end of the building which looked straight downtown to the World Trade Center.  As I made that walk I remember wondering to myself if we'd even be able to see the plane or the damage. One look out the window told me something terrible had occurred. Our view allowed us to see the missing parts of the building where the plane had entered and the enormous fire raging inside. Already at this time the thick black smoke was billowing into the blue and otherwise sunny skies.

I called my husband who was at home and asked him what was going on. He turned on the TV and informed me that a passenger airliner had hit the tower. As other co-workers began arriving at work there was some discussion as to whether this was an accident or a targeted attack. Many were convinced it was an attack and we all stood in shock and horror as the second plane hit the towers.

I remember yelling and placing my hand to my mouth. From our vantage point we did not see the plane and the uniform fire-burst made it look like a bomb. I had the sense at this point that we were indeed under attack and wanted more than anything else to get home. I also remember looking down at Times Square below which under normal circumstances would have been crowded with tourists and not seeing a single person.

Awhile later I called my husband from my desk and asked him what was going on. He confirmed the second plane and seemed in shock by what he was watching. He became extremely emotional when he told me people were jumping off the towers. That was the first moment that I cried and felt truly frightened. I really wanted to leave and try to return to my apartment in Sunnyside Queens, but my husband was concerned the streets would be chaotic and dangerous.

Around 10:30 -11:00 am most of our cell phones had stopped working and dialing out of the office was met with a recorded message that said "all circuits are busy at this time" so I decided not to break the phone connection with my husband and simply set the phone down on my desk. I asked my husband to call my family in Washington State and he was able to reach my grandfather who relayed a message that at that time I was still alive and well. There was already panic from several people who were unable to reach loved ones near ground zero.

I honestly have no idea what time the towers collapsed but I heard shouting and screaming from the conference room and went running there to investigate. All I could see was a giant cloud of black and grey smoke towering toward the sky. It 'was then that I decided I would leave the building and make my way across Manhattan to the 59th Street Bridge.

The subway was not running so I would have to walk the five-plus miles to my apartment building. Someone had gone to the cafeteria and made sandwiches for us to take with us, along with bottled water. Several of us were walking the same way and went together. Before I left the office I told my husband where I would meet him and what I was wearing. He told me he loved me and I hung up the phone. I walked through midtown Manhattan to the sounds of sirens wailing and F16 fighter jets patrolling the air. What struck me most was the silence. The street was thronged with people and every single one of them was speechless. As we walked across the bridge we looked downtown where the tip of the island was belching thick black smoke at least a mile into the sky. Underneath the bridge were boats loaded with firefighters headed downtown to help with the rescue efforts.

I will never forget to this day the sight of those boats, the beautiful September sky, the black pillars of smoke wafting up, the unique stench of burning materials and the sound of feet hitting the pavement.

I managed to meet my husband and make it safely to our apartment around 3 pm on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Like most people we watched tv through the night and into the next morning. Finally I turned it off and went to bed but was unable to sleep  - “what is happening?” I kept asking myself. I knew that I would never be the same.

The next day New Yorkers were asked to stay home so I did, watching TV and crying with my husband.  On Thursday I went to work but due to numerous bomb threats and the chaos of the aftermath of the terrorist attack our company graciously allowed us to go home for two days of paid leave and return the following Monday.  Again I went home to watch tv and cry – only leaving the apartment to buy beer and cigarettes!

On Friday of that week we were all asked to hold a vigil and my husband and I went down to our local fire station where they had lost three men. Their photos were taped to the side of the station house along with flowers and candles left by neighbors. About 25 of us stood around with candles and then we started singing "God Bless America" -which most of us couldn't remember. The firefighters stood around looking sort of uncomfortable and then one by one they all began to cry. I don't know why but at that moment I knew I would be OK and that America would be OK.

I still get nervous in large crowds. I still look for all the exits in large buildings and I still hate to fly. My husband and I left New York City after our first son was born in May, 2002. I just couldn't imagine trying to survive another attack with my infant. I miss the city and I miss the towers. I still think about 9/11 every day.