I wrote those a few years ago, after a bad review, and before starting a self-production. I came across it recently while struggling with myself, as I do from time-to-time. I think it's good advice.

A Letter from sane me to creative me...

Dear Ben,
Here are some things that are useful to remember.
1. Nobody asked you to do this. You started because you love it, and you can stop at any time.
2. A play is not a human patient; if you don’t cure it, it won’t die.
3. A play is not a cure. It will not save anyone’s life if it’s good, or kill anyone if it’s bad (although it could come close to doing both of those things—but try not to think about that).
4. There’s a reason it’s called a “play.” If you lose sight of that, what are you even doing this for?
5. Caring about making generous work is not the same thing as taking yourself too seriously, even though they feel incredibly similar. Do the first; avoid the second. And don’t be such a d-bag that you confuse the two, or, worse, get pissed when someone calls you out for taking yourself too seriously.
6. Everybody who gives you feedback means well.
7. Just because somebody gives you feedback doesn’t mean it’s true.
8. Just because feedback doesn’t seem true, doesn’t mean it’s false.
8a. Nobody who gives you feedback is writing the same play you are.
9. You had enough skill to create an entire set of lives and situations out of an idea. Idiots can’t do that. Thus, you’re not an idiot. If you can do that, you can identify what feedback will help you tell the story you’re trying to tell, and discard what won’t. That doesn’t mean it will be easy, but it does mean you can.
9a. The salient point is: you’re not an idiot. Remember that. But also remember the thing about not taking yourself too seriously. Idiots take themselves too seriously. Look at most of the Republican candidates for president. Don’t be those guys.
10. A play is not a problem that needs to be fixed; it’s a puzzle that’s fun to solve, God dammit.
11. You cannot, will not please everyone, and no matter how hard you try, the people who are not impressed with you will never be impressed with you, so just try to impress the people who are willing to be impressed.
12. Reviewers will probably hate the writing and will blame you for a miserable time, because you had the arrogance to put them through it. They're kind of right. You did instigate this story. But:
13. Your value as a human being is not dictated by what someone says about what you wrote in a newspaper.
14. No, it’s NOT fair that you work really hard to create an emotional experience for your audience and someone who watched it once gets to proclaim your worth as a human being in some newspaper, but there’s nothing you can do about it, and The New York Times was nasty to Sondheim in the original productions of most of his work, and he’s Stephen Sondheim, and they’re supposedly the best reviewers in the country. They also hated Christopher Durang. If they can deal with it, you can, too. Just make sure there is someone around to get you drunk and drive you home.
15. You’re lucky that you’re in position to be obliterated in the paper, because a lot of writers want that and don’t have it.
16. But, yes, it’s still not fair that people get to be mean to playwrights in the paper. They should at least treat you with respect.
17. It’s probably not gonna happen, though, so get over it.
18. Buddhism has a lot to teach us about writing: the practice of non-attachment, for example. Let go of the damn thing, it’s never gonna be perfect no matter how hard you try.
19. A play is an act of empathy.
20. If you discover during the process people forget to have empathy for you, seek out those who do. And, better than that, learn to practice some damn empathy for yourself once in a while, Fuck Face.
21. You invented a whole world out of nothing. In a way, you’re kind of like God. You think God cares about bad reviews, moments in scripts that never get fixed, people disagreeing about language choices, plot holes, or stuff like that? Look at what a mess the world is. You think God’s out there, like, oh, I really have to re-write that whole Israel/Palestine situation? And even if God IS doing that, look at that whole Israel/Palestine situation that even God can’t fix. In the scheme of things? That plot hole doesn’t matter all that much.
22. See number 1. And you haven’t stopped yet. So what does that tell you?

-Me

The moment I dread in post-show talkbacks (particularly of established or known plays) is the dreaded one where someone asks "why is this play important?"

Or maybe it's the following moment when people attempt to answer it.

Anyone who has heard be talk about this before has heard my smug and self-satisfied response: "THEY DON'T!" And of course that's right, really. No play matters that much, in the great scheme of things. It isn't curing any disease. It's an entertainment. Yes, political plays may say something, but they often say something the audience already knows. (Does anyone really walk away from a play about genocide thinking, Gee, you know, when I walked in the door, I didn't think genocide was all that bad. But NOW . . .) I suppose I've got a somewhat nihilistic view of the theatre. I see no evidence it can change an audience or incite the response plays may have in theatre's more glorious and heady past. 

The question also bothers me because the subtext isn't "What is this play important?" It's: "Why is this play important." And, as such, implies it is more important than other plays. 

That bugs me. Maybe, yes, Angels in America is a "more important" play than Noises Off. But to me, it's more important because it taught me a lot about play-making. It's also the kind of theatre I'm more interested in seeing. Poll folks around the country, though, and ask whether they'd rather see a play about a gay guy living with AIDS who is seeing Angels, or a fast-paced comic romp about a bunch of actors falling down the stairs, and my guess is that, important or no, most Americans would rather cap off a long day with Noises Off. Would I? I dunno. Some days, yeah. 

So this is all by way of saying "this play isn't important, or certainly any more important than any other play, because to most people theatre doesn't matter." And that's a sad thing for a playwright to say, but it's how I felt... until I spent a lot of time wrestling with the idea of "important" vs. "unimportant" plays. 

Ultimately, I still believe that no play is more important than any other play, no matter how unpopular that may make me with liberal, particularly political theatre folk. BUT: here's my caveat, and here's where things get good:

Theatre is important. Here's why: unlike nearly any other form of entertainment, it FORCES us to engage with and empathize with others in an active way. My theory is that it's because there are real people there with us, and audiences can't distance themselves from that. Those are living, breathing bodies there, with FEELINGS--and they're FEELING them RIGHT NOW. I don't think movies do that, so much. It's easier to passively engage a movie, I think (maybe this is all crap, who knows), because no matter what you're so far away from it. TV may engage a bit more active empathy because it's in your living room. But a play, when done well, demands that we engage with the characters. But reality TV, the most popular genre (the fast food of entertainment), is all about schaedenfreude. It's about laughing at the real travails of others, rather than sympathizing with them. (Unless it's one of those feel-good, emotional shows where people who've suffered horrible tragedies get their homes made over. That's just using tragedy to manipulate audiences and make them feel like they've done something good, even though that's one family who got a castle with solar panels, and the world is decidedly still NOT a better place.)

A play is an act of empathy. 
And empathy is not something we're all that good at, these days.

What's more, is that plays require us to empathize with people doing pretty awful things. In a way, then, a play is like an emotional workout. We HAVE to empathize with Richard III or Hedda or Hedwig or whoever, regardless of whether we like them, because the person is standing in front of us, and we're surrounded by others, and we paid all this money and found a parking space and came out in the snow and so why not?


It's healthy thing, then. And whether it's Angels in America or Noises Off, we're still empathizing. We empathize with Prior and we empathize with Poppy. In different ways, and for different reasons, but we give a damn. And that's a good thing.

(Of course, this supposes the play is good, the production works, and the actors are talented. Nothing is worse for an audience, and produces LESS empathy than a shitty production. But more on that later.)

See Paula Vogel talk about negative empathy, here:

Sometimes I get my best writing done when dramaturging for other writers, or leading workshops. I suddenly learn lessons I wouldn't have discovered otherwise. 

Recently, I told a friend--a great fellow writer, workshopping a new play--to "trust your first draft. It's the purest incarnation of the story your trying to tell." 

What I meant: in your first draft, we generally write so freely, which such a sense of abandon, we don't like what we've made. For me, that usually causes second and third draft paralysis, as I stare at the mess and wonder what the hell to do with it. And yet: because we're generally smarter than we think we are, particularly when we're firing on all cylinders, we leave ourselves clues (breadcrumbs, I call them in my classes) that we can return to and find the path to where we want the play to go. And also, our characters are doing and saying things that may be structurally inelegant, but in their messiness is a kind of raw loveliness that's realer than anything that'll come in later drafts. In life, we don't have the benefit of a revision. In the times that mean the most, we are often our least witty, our most ineffective. And so are our characters in the first draft.

In Sarah Ruhl's great book, 100 Essays I Don't Have Time to Write, she says "don't send your characters to reform school." In a way, later drafts inevitably do force us to send our characters to reform school. But revising away all their awkwardness I think is a bad thing. Trust the pure and awkward way they engage their situations and the things they say wrong. Conflict and drama lie in what's gross, not what's clean.

I also meant not to let others re-write her play. Trusting that you wrote what you wrote for a reason, and being able to tell the difference between a good note and a note that may be good for the play the giver wants to write is a difficult thing. 

Of course that's harder to do.