Unconventionality

Spent the weekend at MarsCon - my first time going, though I've done CONvergence for the past couple of years. Mixed experience, though well-weighted to the positive. MarsCon is much smaller, and that's in many respects a good thing -- while my primary love is reserved for the sprawling and diverse (hence my predilection for cities), it's gratifying to do a convention where, say, the elevators are functional.

Performance went well, in any case (con performances usually do, in my experience, it's a crowd that's there to have a good time and they really *want* you to succeed, to the point that the laughs almost roll in a little *too* easily for my tastes as a comedy writer, so those performances are a great place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there, if you take my admittedly ambivalent meaning) and I attended my usual bevy of panels (I am attempting to crash-course myself to a better understanding of how the publishing industry works, and have rapidly progressed from proud ignorance to profoundly ashamed ignorance).

Among my favorites was an update on the International Space Station, and the research that's taking place there. (Plus, I'm one of those guys who's a total sap for images of the Earth from space.) It made me truly mournful that future progress on that frontier seems to be (for now) stalled -- Newt Gingrich recently proposed a Mars expedition and was practically laughed off the stage, so it's an endeavor that we apparently lack the collective will for.

Okay, so, here's the thing -- cons are typically an experience of rapidly oscillating between bliss and fury for me, and that's totally down to that community. At its worst -- I'm a great believer in the importance of civility, and while the attitudes of con-going geeks are certainly grossly exaggerated in the media, I do find a portion -- greater proportionately there than in the general population -- of the rude, of the obnoxious, of the self-absorbed.

The unscarred, Harvey-Dent side of that coin, however, is a portion -- significantly greater proportionately there than in the general population -- of those who have teared up at the thought of the colonization of space; who have spent their share of hours poring over medieval texts; who believe in the careful and thoughtful dissection of entertainment; who believe, truly and without irony, in the wisdom of the past and the promise of the future.

A few years back, there was a panel about the Fringe at CONvergence, and one of the panelists offered a description of one of my shows: an Arthurian romance set in Appalachia to bluegrass music; at which the audience burst into applause, which is a pretty far cry from the eye-rolling that most of my colleagues greet such projects with. And it was a revelation for me; I certainly don't regret the amount of time I've spent trying to angle my material to a hipster audience -- it's made me an exponentially better writer -- but at a certain point, it's worth considering that one of the things I've been banging my head against may be demographic mismatch. My appropriations of myth and legend probably have a lot more crossover with the audience that's animatedly arguing about Tolkien's Elves than they do with the audience that's shelling out to see their fourth sex comedy this month.

I'm convinced that the convention crowd is a powerful resource -- certainly the Scrimshaw Brothers and Vilification Tennis have found a way to capitalize on it. One of the many things I'm hoping to learn here is *how*.

Mic Open, Mind Ajar

Another of my goals since shutting down production has been to re-commit to the open-mic scene. I initially threw myself into it pretty aggressively when I first moved out here -- Jesus, around a decade ago -- and I remain a great believer in it; just about every show that I've produced in that time has gone through a couple of weeks of previewing there.

I maintain my fondness for them for the very same reasons that I suspect many other storytellers dislike them: because it's an audience that isn't there to see me. Most of them don't give a shit who I am or what my last successful show was. What matters is, can you grab a microphone and engage? Which is always a humbling, and therefore important, exercise.

But what's striking to me this time around is that, comparatively, there aren't as many opportunities for *storytellers*, persay. There's Word Ninjas, of course. There's also the Story Slam (which is competitive) and Folktales Rising (which is really more of a writing circle than an open-mic). Ball's is one of the few mics I've been to that seems legitimately multidisciplinary to me -- not skewing towards one form over another.

Beyond that, there's shows you can lobby for a booking at, like the Monday Night Comedy Show or Sample Night Live or Firsty Thursday or Patrick's Cabaret, but the nature of such a process favors polish over experimentation. Otherwise, I'd say the remainder (that I've seen, and God knows my knowledge isn't exhaustive) tend to slant to either slam or comedy -- e.g. the Artist's Quarter will let you perform whatever you want, but boy howdy that's a slam audience.

But the more I think about it, the more I suspect that there's an underlying *structural* discrepancy. Slam and comedy both have clear (well, clearer) ladders -- a comic can gradually (over many years) work his way up to hosting to featuring to headlining. A poet can work her way through competitions to Nationals. And a storyteller can...? What's the next rung on the ladder, after open-mics?

I built a reputation as a storyteller on the Fringe circuit, but that was pretty chaotic and haphazard and I don't know that I'd recommend it. More (i.e. actually) successful storytellers seem to slide in through a variety of side doors -- Kevin Kling through radio, David Sedaris through print, et cetera.

So I suspect that the dearth of storytelling-oriented open mics is a symptom, not a cause. But a diagnosis isn't the same thing as a treatment. And I still have a fuck of a lot to learn.

New York, or a New Low

So I’m sitting on an airplane again, which means that it’s time to write, to try to extract some sense out of the events of the past week (or to impose a narrative upon them, depending on one’s perspective).

***

Yvette greeted me at the door by casually mentioning that she had a rare copy of Norris J. Lacy’s five-volume translation of the Lancelot-Grail Cycle – I own a heavily abridged single-volume reader, but copies of the full text run into the hundreds of dollars. She’s apparently been pushing for her university to order a set for some time (which they finally did, due to a rare surplus), and noted with some amusement that she was to date the only one to check them out.

The Cycle’s interesting to a medievalist (armchair or otherwise) since it represents Malory’s primary source for Le Morte d’Arthur, and a close examination of the text reveals a lot about the dude as a writer: what he chose to use, what he rejected, which word choices he borrowed and which were original, et cetera. The fact that my sister is one of the rare people in my life who gives a shit about any of this is a part of what I enjoy about our visits.

She’s one of the few people – okay, the only person I know – with whom I can have these long, rambling, drunken conversations about Middle English and Latin. And it’s energizing – it’s done a lot to restore my faith in these Marvellous Enquests and Adventures; that there is wisdom, and excitement, and illumination in these aging illuminated manuscripts.

Not that that grants me any insight into how to market these stories. But I’m remembering that pursuing that insight is a worthy goal. Maybe even worth a lifetime. There are certainly worse ways to spend one, before the Dolorous Death and Departing out of This World of Us All.

***

Speaking of long, rambling conversations, it’s also been a pleasure to reconnect with Charlie again – and as a teller with whom I share a lot in common in terms of both genre and style, it’s an opportunity to compare notes on some of the unique problems posed by our adaptations (e.g., how to approach the use and frequency of proper names in the source material).

He was also generous enough to share with me the script for a new show he’s working on – I don’t know how public/private he wants to be with the details, so I’ll be vague, except to say that it’s in the middle of a long development process, and that I think that it’s brilliant – possibly the best thing he’s done.

It’s also, curiously, an epic – an order of magnitude larger than his previous sources – and what’s interesting for me has been watching how he approaches the bulk of material. Whereas my approach has generally been to select individual episodes and expand them, giving their dramatic moments room to breathe, here he’s striving for *completeness*, pounding breathlessly through dozens of episodes at a breakneck pace. They’re both valid and effective approaches, but the differences, I think, are illustrative.

***

I also took the opportunity to check out some shows at the FRIGID Festival, including 3 Sticks’ The Traveling Musicians, which I found to be just fantastically entertaining, the best kind of Fringe mash-up, both a loving homage and a snide ridicule of the Brothers Grimm and the spirit of rock. Watching them, it was strange to think on how our companies first met, dancing together in an empty theatre in Kansas City – a fond memory I was pleased to find they still retain.

Bizarrely, there was a large number of Minneapolitans in the audience, and as far as I know none of us coordinated with each other – we independently and spontaneously chose to descend upon the same place. I spent much of the evening talking shop with Nick Ryan, who spoke warmly of the Festival. It looks like a lot of fun. Plus, hey, New York press always looks pretty impressive on a resume.

***

I actually had a notably positive experience in the city this time round. Several of the locals suggested that this is because the city’s changed a lot in the past decade, but I think the more salient point may be that I have. The subways are crowded? I got my pocket picked in Suva. The bathrooms are dirty? I got food poisoning in Lisbon. The traffic’s lousy? I got run over by a rickshaw in Beijing. The city’s too big? Shanghai is over twice as large. I suspect that the assertion that New York is the greatest city in the world is borne of sampling error.

But the respects in which the city fails to live up to its myth make me, oddly, more affectionate to it. Before, I was overwhelmed – now, I know I’m competent to navigate this place.

***

All in all, a stimulating excursion, both intellectually and creatively. Now, back to memorizing lines…

The Parentheses Returneth

Y’know, I wasn’t anticipating taking any notes on this trip – but I guess that airline travel just has that effect on me; I’ve written before about how oddly inspiring I find the environment. Of course, that’s likely just bullshit romanticization – it’s an environment where I’m forced to wait around without the distractions of the internet or video games or ALL THE PORN IN THE WORLD.

(The latter is probably going to be my Lenten sacrifice, which reminds me that this flight is costing me my Ash Wednesday mass. So if this vehicle is reduced to a fiery canister of death, who knows just where I and my unbesmirched forehead might end up?)

(Heh. Right. Because *that’s* the sin that’ll do it. Not a lifetime of reckless self-indulgence.)

(Speaking of which, and rendering my original thesis less romantic still, the other factor in my sudden return to blogging may be the fact that my outgoing flight was delayed – and that my departure gate was nestled tightly against an Irish Pub. Jameson: the tenth muse.)

(Irish pubs in airports? Truly, human civilization has reached its apex.)

(I also know that I’m blogging again when I use, like, five sets of parentheses in a row. Jesus.)

(Okay, six.)

***

So here I am on a flight to New York – a city I’ve been to only briefly, though long enough to cement an enduring dislike of the place. (Among my pet peeves: the way New Yorkers characterize living in a miserable, unlivable place as some kind of shared cultural experience. Then again, I’m a fucking Minnesotan, so I probably shouldn’t talk.)

Off to visit my sister. One of the goals I set aside when I shut down my company was to reconnect with my family – a major regret of the last decade is that my focus on work has often precluded those relationships.

So I’m delighted for the opportunity to reconnect with a segment of the family I don’t get to see nearly often enough. At the same time, I find myself restless – I’m so accustomed to traveling for work that traveling without that purpose feels…decadent, somehow? I find myself more anxious, more irritable, without that underlying structure of marketing, meetings, and performances.

That said, it’s not a complete pic-a-nic; I am hoping to get out to investigate the FRIGID Festival, which stands as shameful proof that there’s a part of my brain yet that hasn’t wholly abandoned the idea of touring. There’s a couple of groups from Minneapolis this time around, and I’m curious to see how their numbers are; I’ve heard that this can be a rough town for out-of-towners.

(There’s also a few colleagues from the area that I was hoping to grab a drink with. One of the greatest payoffs for the amount of time I’ve spent touring is the fact that I’ve now got people to look up in just about every state.)

Camelot interview

I recently answered a number of questions via e-mail for Sarah Wash (who went on to write an extremely flattering reflection on the show for Minnesota Playlist). With responses for the show ranging from enthusiasm to bafflement, I thought a more detailed exegesis might be of interest. Copied below, and spoilers ahoy.

1. I saw in a couple of places that Camelot is Crumbling is part of a trilogy--one for which you did a lot of background research. What did you research? And what can you tell me about the third show in the trilogy? Has it been written yet? How does it complete the picture?

Ha -- not exactly a trilogy (though I'd be curious to know where you read that). I see it as an ongoing play cycle, something akin (in style if not necessarily in quality) to Shakespeare's history plays, insofar as each one of the stories is self-contained, but placed in sequence they detail longer character arcs. (I'm actually quite wary of advertising the fact that I visualize a sequence of plays, since I fear that that might alienate audiences from wanting to see them individually.)

"Research" also feels a bit grandiose, for an activity that I do largely for pleasure -- the plays are a by-product of a lifelong love of medieval romances, rather than choosing to read the romances solely to inform the plays. This show in particular draws heavily (word-for-word in places) on the last book of Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, a fifteenth-century epic novel written by a soldier in captivity. The book's notable in particular, I think, for painting an incredibly psychologically complex portrait of Lancelot.

I visualize Camelot is Crumbling as the final play in the cycle. I think that it speaks for itself, but it may be of some interest to note that it's heavily cut down for Fringe -- in the full draft, there's a third storyline revolving around Percival, tying the action back to The Rise of General Arthur (which largely features the exploits of his father, Pellinore). Light and darkness is a major recurring theme throughout the cycle, as well, and Percival is noted for being the knight that "pierces through the middle." Again, no idea how interested anyone might be in that bit of trivia, but there it is.

2. I'm not sure whether or not I was reading into things or not, but I sensed that there was some intense personal significance for you in writing about these issues--something that came through particularly in some of the things Mordred said and did. Can you tell me anything about the life experiences or personal reflections that led you to create this show?

I'm extremely wary of attempts to draw connections between a play and the playwright's personal life -- and in many respects I think that the playwright is potentially the worst person to draw those connections -- but I've commented that I think that Camelot is my most autobiographical show (and that's including my autobiographical shows). It's the one that's most intimately concerned with the theological issues that preoccupy me. It's interesting that you saw the connection with Mordred, because I find myself identifying more closely with Lancelot -- particularly with his kind of destructive, all-or-nothing stubbornness. I have a tendency to latch onto extremes, and to struggle with the idea of compromise -- certainly not on the nation-shattering level that he does, but it's a recurring problem for me. Moderation requires discipline, and in that respect the two of us are profoundly immature, undisciplined men.

Much of Mordred's dialogue was written over a decade ago -- heavily, heavily rewritten in that time, but I see him as expressing the frustrations of a younger man, whereas Lancelot is dealing with some seriously grown-up problems. The place I still connect with Mordred is in his irrationally anti-authoritarian streak, his desire to lash out against anyone in a position of power, justly or unjustly. It's that impulse to self-destruct, and to take out everything in range. There's a line of his that I cut from the play (but included in the trailer): "Destroying Camelot is only action that could have any meaning." I've been asked why he does what he does, and I think a lot of it is simply that the destruction of Camelot is a big red button in front of him that he's not supposed to push. And, yeah, there's definitely periods of my life where I identify with that.

3. What is the significance of the symmetrical, side-by-side staging (other than the content and the symmetry between the two characters)?

I think you've largely answered your own question here, but to expand on the idea a bit: the play largely revolves around comparing and contrasting the two men, the white knight and the dark knight. Philosophically, they both form their position from the same premise -- the absence of God, or an objective moral reality (and this is probably the respect in which I've drifted the farthest from the romances -- Lancelot is traditionally quite pious, for all his failings). Mordred uses this as a rationalization to indulge his impulses, whereas Lancelot views this as necessitating an even higher moral standard (although he, ultimately, struggles with that conclusion as well). The irony is that both paths (Mordred's destructive nature, Lancelot's unbending principles) lead them to the same place -- the crumbling of Camelot.

Moderation's a major theme of the Camelot cycle. Once Lancelot swears himself to an absolute, he's to some degree abandoned his own freedom, rendering his own behavior both predictable and easy to manipulate.

4. What do you hope your audience gets out of being a part of this experience?

Oh, man -- on the most basic level, I hope they have a good time. I think the two characters are relating exciting, compelling stories, and if that's not coming across that's my failure. Beyond that, I hope that people identify with the characters and the problems they're struggling with. One thing that fascinates me is that people tend to walk away from the show picking a side -- they're either Lancelot people or Mordred people.

The most gratifying thing I hear, and I've heard it a couple of times, is that it leads people back to Malory. He's a better writer than I am, which is why so much of his writing shows up in the show.

INTERMITTENT VEGETATIVE STATE

WHAT'S UP?

On Saturday, July 16th, we're holding the fourth annual Wordstock fundraiser for Maximum Verbosity. Among other goals, this evening is intended to be the place where we announce our upcoming season.

Which renders it necessary for me to make the announcement that, for better or worse, there will be no season nine of Maximum Verbosity. We have a number of remaining projects through September; but this is, for all practical purposes, the end of MV as a year-round production company.

This is, really, the only critically important piece of information in this post. The rest, regarding my long, whiny, personal thoughts and feelings, can be encountered below.

WHY?

Really, there's dozens of reasons why this course of action is necessary. I've spent the past couple of weeks talking with friends and colleagues about what the best course of action for us is; but ultimately, this has been just to cultivate the illusion of control. The money situation is bad, and we can't continue because of that.

Much of this last season has revolved around attempting to find a way to expand our operations. I began, over a year ago, by sitting down and speaking with a number of producers who have managed to make the transition from Fringe-level theatre to profitable year-round production. (Most of whom, I note with some frustration, have been around for a substantially shorter period of time than we have.) I walked away with the sense that what is necessary for us to hit the next level is, well, press. MV is well-known within the arts community, if only by reputation -- but a production company can't be sustained by other artists. The key to hitting mainstream audiences is press, and the key to getting press is presenting yourself in such a way that press knows how to acknowledge you.

Season eight of MV revolved around presenting ourselves in such a way that press would be able to acknowledge us as a legitimate theatre company. This, frankly, failed.

(The other factor, of course, is time. We've existed for more than long enough to establish ourselves -- fuck, eight years is ripe old age for a theatre company -- but we would have to continue producing at the level we have for the past year, and we've been hemorrhaging money at a rate that makes continued production at that level impossible.)

WHA...WHY?

When I step back and examine it, it seems to me to be a classical lateral-thinking problem.

POINT: We can't go forwards. The amount of financial investment to sustain producing shows at the level we have been -- well, the money simply isn't there anymore.

POINT: We can't go backwards. At least, I can't; at least, not psychologically. I can't go back to producing one-man shows on Monday nights in obscure venues to single-digit audiences. Yes, they're profitable, insofar as they don't really cost anything -- but they don't produce anything meaningful, either.

As nearly as I can tell, there's three worthwhile reasons to produce a show:

1) It will make you money.

2) You will be able to pay it forwards to other projects.

3) It will bring you pleasure.

For the past several years, I've been producing projects that

1) Have lost money.

2) Have done nothing in terms of growing audience.

3) Have brought me far more frustration that pleasure.

...which raises the question, why make the extraordinary effort of time, money, and energy that production requires? I'm certainly not afraid of work; but I've been having to step back and ask myself, what is this working towards?

As any viewer of Dr. Who will tell you, when you have an unclimbable cliff before you, and an unbeatable monster behind you, the correct answer is to...go sideways.

FOUR EMOTIONS

So what are my feelings, regarding this course of events? I can narrow them down to four:

SHAME

...I certainly feel a great deal of shame; as much as, I would say, should be reasonably felt by the creator of a failed business.

I don't regard the failure as total. Certainly, I've managed to keep a theatrical production company afloat, almost entirely on its own profits, for eight years, during an economic recession. I've written and performed dozens of plays, hundreds of stories, and thousands of jokes. I am pleased by this feat.

By the same token, it *is* failure -- insofar as I established a goal for myself, and was unable to meet that goal. Moreover, failed to meet that goal through poor decision-making, and stubbornness. (I consider one of my great failures my struggle to accurately distinguish stubbornness from integrity. They're not the same thing.)

FRUSTRATION

Oddly, the great frustration I feel is the number of plot threads and character arcs that I've left hanging.

I love Pissing on the Great Wall as much as any show I've ever done -- but it was a fairly dark note to leave the Descendant saga on. I'm frustrated that we never got to explore Loki's final acts of co(s)mic despair. I may never forgive myself for leaving Penner in such a vile, awful place -- and, worst of all, I never managed to fully bring Percival into the presence of the Grail.

I had, in my mind, a plan to resolve many of these over the course of the next two years -- to take those characters, literally, through heaven and hell; to explore the landscapes of other worlds; to romp through time-traveling farces and, well, all kinds of wild adventures.

It may feel vaguely schizophrenic, to experience a sense of obligation to fictional constructs -- certainly, I feel intensely embarrassed even raising the idea around my colleagues -- but I'm the only creator they have, so. And I endeavor to care as much for them as, I hope, my own Creator does for me.

RELIEF

When I first began to entertain the idea of not producing a season nine, I was startled to discover a sense of relief.

I had an encounter with a member of the crew of PvtH -- who finally cornered me, and said that it was simply unreasonable for me to try to fill as many roles as I was. I don't know that I would have acknowledged the idea, if it wasn't coming from someone that I trusted -- but the fact is, I *had* been beating myself up for not keeping up with the number of responsibilities I'd assumed -- and *not* beating myself up for taking that number of responsibilities in the first place.

I sat down a few days ago, and actually figured out that I haven't been producing less than three shows at a time since June of 2009. That's not counting any of my acting or storytelling gigs, of which I've usually had a few going on at a time as well.

And, well...I've always been intensely resistant to the claim that I've been dropping balls, but how could I not have been? On the one hand, it feels like weakness to acknowledge it -- on the other hand, there simply aren't enough hours in the day to accommodate the number of responsibilities that I assume for weeks at a time as a matter of course.

I have *dozens* of sensible projects that I've been attempting to pick up, and simply ended up dropping, because production has absorbed my attention. And the great absurdity is that I never had any ambition to produce -- I'm a writer. I entered self-production because, after years of bulk mailouts, I came to the conclusion that that was the only way to get my work in front of people.

The sad irony is that now, my life has become production. I need to learn to be a writer again.

FEAR

The single greatest indication that I had that leaving production behind might be the right decision is that I was fucking terrified of it.

I've worked long and hard to establish myself as a member of the TC arts scene -- and I think I've done that. I've spent eight years doing that. The idea of pursuing other venues now -- e.g. publication -- is terrifying, insofar as it means starting over from the beginning.

So...I should probably do that. I mean, comfort is the death of creativity, right?

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

I'm hesitant to say. As I mentioned, I have dozens of projects that I've been putting on the back-burner, largely since theatre production has absorbed the bulk of my time. I'm not inclined to loudly announce them since most, if not all, will take months or years to come to fruition. I'm not afraid of the work; but I'm conscious of the short attention span in show business.

WHAT THIS DOES NOT MEAN

- I'm not done acting. I never intended to really enter the acting scene, but I'm astounded -- and flattered -- that there's a number of people that have indicated a desire to work with me in that capacity.

- I'm not done writing. If local producers are inclined to work with any of my scripts, I'd be delighted to collaborate. In fact, I've got a new show (potentially) in the works with another storyteller for (maybe) this December. I'm also debating whether or not to submit an application to the 2012 MN Fringe, since that's still both profitable and enjoyable to me.

WHAT THIS DOES MEAN

- I'm done producing outside of a Festival context. There's just no economic model I can construct that makes that make sense to me.

- I'm done touring after this summer. It's brought me an intense amount of pleasure, but there's simply no way that I can justify the expense -- profitability on the road has always been a hit-or-miss prospect for me.

- I still maintain the DBA for MV -- and will probably try to use it as an umbrella for various other projects in the future, if not plays (as such).

WHAT NOW?

We still have three remaining projects coming up.

THE RISE OF GENERAL ARTHUR

...at the MN Theatre Garage, July 10 and 17 at 7pm. Before looking at the end of the Camelot Cycle, it seems only fitting to revisit the beginning.

WORDSTOCK: THE FINAL CHAPTER

...at Kieran's Irish Pub, July 16th at 6pm. One last big blowout. Also, one last attempt to cover our outstanding payments, because good God it would be wonderful to close out with something resembling solvency. Featuring Joseph Scrimshaw, Ben San Del, John Heimbuch, Mahmoud Hakima, and Anthony Paul.

CAMELOT IS CRUMBLING: AN ARTHURIAN NIGHTMARE

...at the Kansas City, Minnesota, Indianapolis, and Chicago Fringe Festivals. A bit fortuitous -- this is, honestly, the show I would have pretty much chosen to go out on. (The only other real competitor was Lokasenna, our first show -- a musical comedy which would have been far too expensive to produce on any level that the script demanded -- although, truly -- the spirits of Thor and Loki (the soldier and the nihilist) seem, to me, in many ways to animate those of Lancelot and Mordred -- locked in their struggle to wrest meaning from the work of death.)

...YEAH?

I deeply regret the way things have gone. And I maintain my hope to provide you with many more hours of entertainment -- in one medium or another -- in the future.

Form vs. Content

So I'm frustrated.

My philosophy has generally been: I'm happy to perform; I'm honored to perform; I'll take any opportunity to perform that I can get. It's been one of embracing, as it were, the very "Power of positive thinking" that I've been so critical of in my writing.

Last season, I produced a show called "Pissing on the Great Wall." I approached it with the same degree of intensity that I usually do; months of work, writing, previewing, crafting. Found a venue, and essentially said "I'll take any open slot you have." I took Monday nights. In February. And after several shows with single-digit audiences, I had to finally say: "I can't do this anymore."

Hence: season eight. It's been a bizarre process: one that began with me sitting down with various artists who had managed to achieve success at the Fringe-level world, as well as successfully producing a year-round season. For the record? I found three. And one thing that struck me: my company is older than all three of them.

The thing is, I've always placed my faith in content: if I focus on developing an excellent script, then nothing else matters. Not the costumes. Not the presentation. If I produce enough, long enough, I'll find the audience.

One of the realizations I've been making -- one of those painfully obvious ones that I have been, for whatever reason, resistant to -- is that presentation matters. If there's threads hanging off of the costumes? If the sets were thrown together at Wal-Mart? It's completely irrelevant whether the script is excellent or terrible, because those other elements are so distracting that the audience never reaches the script.

---

I did an audition for Theatre Mu recently. Handed my resume to the director, who expressed amazement at the sheer number of shows that I've written/directed. Which neatly illustrated the divide between various theatre arenas to me. After all, nearly all of my colleagues have written/directed that many shows; that's what Fringe-level theatre artists do. But at the mid-level theatre world, it's unheard of. It's astonishing. There's a completely different measure of success.

---

So I've been spending the vast bulk of my energy, in the past couple of weeks, on presentation; on graphic design; on marketing-speak. It's frustrating to me, because I feel like it's wasted time. I know it's not -- it's critically important -- but it's hard for me to avoid the observation that I'm currently spending more time talking about the shows than I am creating them.

Moreover, my process hasn't changed. I'm working on developing material, exactly the same way I have for the past eight years. The shows aren't any different (beyond the expanding level of skill that inevitably must take place). But I'm getting press; I'm getting reservations; I'm getting a different kind of response, because the presentation is different.

These are all extremely good things. But as someone fixated on content over form; it's difficult not to have some degree of resistance to it.