Lo! Conflux approacheth!

This time next week I'll be gadding about at Conflux, a traditionally very fun and very nice speculative-fiction convention in Canberra. I'm slated to do a bunch of fun things: specifically, teach a workshop in how to start writing science fiction and fantasy (suitable for anyone age 11 and over, and anyone under 18 gets in free!), and be on a few panels (one on food in science fiction, one on studying creative writing at uni, and one on the quintessential getaway vehicle for the well-equipped Evil Overlord).

I'm also eager to catch up with friends, meet some new people, and maybe encourage a newbie or two, even as I, myself, have been encouraged at Confluxes — Conflices? — past.  If you're going to be there, look me up and say hi; I'll be very happy to know you've been reading (and, presumably, enjoying) my blog.   If you came to see my play, The Death of Albatross, especially come see me and tell me what you thought!

Overall, Albatross was a success. Yes, I think so.

The Death of Albatross was, if I do say it myself, a success. The four performances went off without a hitch, the in-house staff at the Seymour Centre couldn't have been more helpful, the audiences were very complimentary, and the actors were happy (moreover, I think that once the numbers are in, we will have covered our costs with a little bit left over to pay them) — no complaints! (If you missed it and are a little sad about that, go to the Albatross "like" page on Facebook and click "like" to be kept abreast of possible — dare I say, even probable — future productions.)

So, what have I gotten out of the experience? Experience, for one thing, which is something never to be scorned. I know a whole lot more than I did about how plays go from, as they say, page to stage. That makes me not only a better producer (in case I decide to produce any more of my own work, or anyone else's, for that matter), but a better playwright. The director and actors — in other words, the people who make a script into a live play — count on the playwright not to ask anything outrageously selfish or stupid (overly costly, for example, or relying on intensely fiddly lighting changes or blocking not possible within the bounds of physics as we know it). A good, respectful script goes a long way toward setting up the deep bonds of trust that are really what make the theatre magic happen, after all.

I also got a chance to work with some excellent actors and an excellent director. This was fun in itself, and it also added to the learning factor. And, judging from some of the feedback I got from audience members, I got the chance to tell a great story and get people involved and thinking. I also (and here's where I get a bit selfish) got the chance to feel all smug, like a real insider. I have always loved being on the backstage side of things. One of the things I enjoyed about my time as a reporter was the chance to get around behind the scenery and find out how things were actually being made to happen. And when you're producing a show, well, that's pretty much as backstage as it gets. I've also been enjoying feeling like a Real Arteest when I'm hanging around in the really cool club that the Fringe people have set up for the duration of the festivities (I'll take some photos to post next time I'm there, as I don't seem to find any on line that convey its awesomeness).

"So, Laura, what's next?" I hear you ask. "How will you prolong the buzz?" Funny you should ask. On November 26 and 27, Houston and I will be having two short operas being performed at Promfest, an event from those great folks at Opera Prometheus! I will also be reading some of my own poetry as part of another of the Promfest performances (if I get my literal act together, I may even be able to perform it from memory). After that, who knows?

Poetry break!

In lieu of a post of my own writing, I provide for you the infintely more entertaining work of Ogden Nash (one of my two favorite poets, the other being the far less jolly Gerard Manley Hopkins).

The Wendigo
by Ogden Nash

The Wendigo,
The Wendigo!
Its eyes are ice and indigo!
Its blood is rank and yellowish!
Its voice is hoarse and bellowish!
Its tentacles are slithery,
And scummy,
Slimy,
Leathery!
Its lips are hungry blubbery,
And smacky,
Sucky,
Rubbery!

The Wendigo,
The Wendigo!
I saw it just a friend ago!
Last night it lurked in Canada;
Tonight, on your veranada!
As you are lolling hammockwise
It contemplates you stomachwise.
You loll,
It contemplates,
It lollops.
The rest is merely gulps and gollops.

Note:  the Wendigo is real — at least, it was at one point (and perhaps still is) considered to be real.

Second note: I was reminded of the Wendigo by its mention in a story by the jaw-droppingly fabulous Rob Shearman.

Playwriting: good for what ails ya.

I've been doing a fair bit of writing,  revising,  producing, and rehearsing a bunch of plays and libretti over the past couple of years.  It's been quite full-on recently, what with The Death of Albatross just a few nanoseconds away from opening night, and with the imminent performance of the two short operas Houston and I have collaborated on (they'll be on in November in Sydney; watch this space for details!).  This has prompted me to reflect on the salutary effects for the writer of writing, quite specifically, plays.

First, there is not one thing in the entire world that will improve your dialogue writing anywhere near as much as writing entirely in dialogue (with maybe the very occasional and very sparse stage direction).  Gone are the adverbs, gone are the dreary explanations and infodumps, gone are the pitiable imitations of the prose style you really liked in that book you read last week!  Instead, you write characters who (as all good characters should) reveal their inner lives through how they interact with other people: how they stand in amazement, how they glance, startled, at another character or shatter a dinner plate in rage — and, most importantly, how they speak to one another.  If you take your playwriting seriously, you leave lots of space for the director and the actors to do their art.  You constantly seek to trim every extraneous syllable, every conversational triviality.  This can only be a good thing for everything you write.

Second, playwriting makes you acutely aware of how long things take, and how long they should take.  The ear of the audience member (not to mention the reader) becomes bored far more quickly than the pen of the writer.  Of course we writers love our own stuff and could listen to it, enraptured, all day!  Of course!  But as soon as you start writing for the stage, the passage of time becomes real, and crucial.  It takes time to speak words out loud!  You must master and control the audience's perception of time through the use of poetic language, dramatic tension, setup and setting, empathetic characters — all crucial tools for anyone writing stories of any kind. Even more, you have to be an excellent steward of your audience's time.  They're trusting you with two hours of their lives:  can you really live with yourself if you waste that gift?

Third, when theatre is done right, it's win-win.  In fact, it's win-win-win-win-win-win.  The playwright, the actors, the director, the audience, the producer, the venue, and the audience all come away full of joy.  And everyone needs more joy.