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A GenePoool.com Essay
Requiem
In the Fall of 1994, I finished my first theatrical script in nearly three years. I was, I felt, justifiably proud of my script, and consequently, I immediately put myself to work selling the script via whatever means I could. This meant sending it blind to theaters I could locate in the Dramatists Sourcebook. It was a long and lonely process, and worse, it yielded no productions.
It wasn't until nearly a year later that I decided to pursue another course of action. I bought the computer I'm using right now. The computer I had been using was so old its memory was tallied in kilobytes. I had a modem, which had been state of the art when I first purchased it, but was now a hopelessly inadequate 1200 baud. Something had to be done.
My first visit online very quickly led me to theater message boards where, among the various and sundry banalities, I found a few actual theaters looking for actual scripts. Of the many theaters I sent descriptions of my play to, only one replied with a request for the full script. I sent it off, and soon forgot about it.
If you're not a writer, maybe you don't realize how easy it is to forget about something of this nature. The writer is the modern equivalent of the medieval self-flagellant. To survive we have to become accustomed to the consistent pain that only an inundation of rejection slips can bring about. We strive not so much for success but for simple validation of our skills. It takes a conscious effort to convince ourselves that the absence of validation does not equal the absence of skill. One of the ways we survive this time is by ignoring the times when we strike out.
A month after I e-mailed a copy of my script I received an excited letter from Dwain Edwards, the director of the theater. He adored the play. He wanted to know how long it would take to get an agreement from me to produce it.
I would be understating it to say this was the most important point in my career as a writer. Meeting Dwain was like being introduced to living Muse. On sheer enthusiasm alone he represented everything that should be right about theater.
In the months that followed he became a close friend, a confidante, and an inspiration. He sent flowers on my birthday, and another bouquet when Deus Ex Quanta opened in June the following year. Our relationship continued when I started reading scripts for him. Dwain is possibly the only producer I will ever meet who insisted, from the first day, that he read every script, from beginning to end, and that every script receive a critique (at no charge, even) no matter how good or bad it may be. And he did it all for free because Stolen Fire-- his theatrical company-- would do only unproduced scripts from unknown writers. There would be no well-known scripts to bring the people in, or well-worn musicals to fill the coffers. He worked tirelessly to complete his vision of how theater SHOULD be.
The reason I'm writing this is because of another e-mail Dwain has sent me. Stolen Fire has become economically unfeasible. This saddens me. But what saddens me more is it seems Dwain's spirit has been broken. I can understand; it isn't easy to hold onto a dream for four years only to discover your hands are now empty.
Since that fateful e-mail three years ago I have made a great many strides forward. My scripts are being produced in several places, including other countries. I started a humor column, and I have a book coming out next year. I am in the midst of negotiating an independent film contract for Deus Ex Quanta, the script Dwain saw so much promise in so long ago. I have, in many ways, come into my own as a writer. Dwain Edwards was there to help me take my first step.
Dwain is one of the finest people
I know, and I would be remiss if I didn't remind him that his
hands are not empty at all. At one time they held my career, and
in many ways they still do.
© 2000, Gene Doucette
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