MR. WILLIAM SHAKEASPEAR, ESQ.
FLAT "C",
STRATFORD-UPON AVON
Dearest William,
How are things going with you? Had any new plays produced lately?
There’s good news and bad news and neutral news, depending on the interpretation. Most of my "babies" have come home to mama...again. Oh the angst of it all!
I know I should feel somewhat relieved knowing that at the very least they’re back home with their creator but there remains that nagging question: “WHY?” Since there was and seldom is commentary provided by the recipients, the reason for rejection is strictly speculation.
In discussing artistic hang-ups with fellow playwrights most were in agreement that after releasing their plays to the world, the second worst thing is the waiting period for replies that frequently don't/never arrive.
When it comes to creative anxiety, playwrights have the corner in this area. There's always this incessant concern that:
a) the play is/was drivel and the recipient will/did immediately toss it in the trash or
b) maybe it never reached its destination having dropped out of a mail bag along the way or
c) maybe the recipient liked the play but the theatre's season is filled up and they decided to keep it for a future production, and by mistake dropped it in "file thirteen" at the bottom of a trash can
A creative idea would be to include a card containing tick-off boxes along with the elusive SASE, in the hope that the director/reader/janitor will send it back:
"Dear Playwright,
This is to advise you that we have received your play and we find that:
a) your play is typed well and we like the font
b) your play had insufficient postage so we took the postage stamp off your return envelope for future use, as payment
c) your play is drivel
d) your play is so good that we are immediately staging it for a Broadway/London/wherever opening, after which it will tour the world
In any case there is still one literary baby “out there.” Where there is life there's hope.
Oh please, oh please, let there be hope! Playwrights live on those four letters!
Meanwhile, say hello to the little missus and the children.
'Til next time...
Eleanor
2 comments:
G'day Bill
Jeez mate, didn't ya bore up it up playeright...mate, ya gotta be more gentle. either 'er play was bloody good or lousy. Youse've got be definite. I think you've blown your chance of getting the maple syrup from Canada, Annie wanted for her pancakes.
Now, mate, talkin' about plays. I got an idea ya might like to toss around.
There's a union boss. let's say, Rome, eh. Julie Cesario or big Julie.
He runs the rackets on the South Side. Now, across the North Side, is this other joker, Bruto, he's got a gang of losers, Cassius, a long lean bloke; Casca-The-knife and a few low lifers. They want all of Rome and Bruto wants to be mayor.
Anyway, Big Julie is walking home after a night at the Purple Pussy Nite Club when he runs into this other loser who rambles on about Hides on the March. Julie slips the poor bloke a ducat and goes home to Cally, hs wife. She's a gorgeous piece of work, former covergirl for the Tiber Times - Cally Purnya. Anyway, in bed, big Julie keeps wondering about what this joker says.
So, he fronts up to work the next morning and is abvout to enter the office when he's knocked off by Bruto and his mob. Julie's last words: "Jeez, not you too Bruto."
Oh boy!~ does the union give big Julie a send off.
Julie's mate, Marco, get's all riled up and gathers up all the paparazzi and reporters and gives them an earful (for prime time TV) about poor old Big Julie and how he didn't want the job as mayor and was not interested in running the city.
In the end, Marco and his boys take on Bruto's mob at the Plains of Fillipo Bar and Grill. Bruto tops himself, because he won't get elected as mayor. Oh yeah! you might like to add that Big Julie was seeing an Egyptian chick - so was Marco, the same chick.
I'm not sure about bringing sex into int, or even tough language.
Give it your best thought and let me know if it has merit. If you want it, it's yours. I have another idea too. It's about this bloke - A financier from Venice, Shyton Locke who has a daughter,. Jessie, who's a bit of a rebel...I'll let you know more on that.
Mate, gotta tell ya. Love the poem about this greasy sheila, Joan. Are you going to put it one of your plays?
Al from Oz
I hath thy correspondence regarding thy frustration in presenting your plays to theatee companies and yea, that archdevil of all devils, the producer.
Verily, he is in the hands of the counters of beans, yea unto those with golden guineas in their doublets to spend - but alas alack, not on plays, but on hawking, wenching, drinking.
Thou mentioneth that females shouldst be cast in female roles. Nay, fair lady, nay.
Fain. I wouldst be laughed of the stage were I to present this to my producers. I'truth, thy sex is to valuable to be traipsing around the rough stage and at the mercy of every wit and buffoon who wouldst sully thy good name with ribald comments - like 'get thy raiment off' - nay! seet Eleanor, nay!
Thou hast been saddened by these rejection letters. I too have felt the rapier thrust in me when once I did pursue a drama of wit and merriment. Forsooth, to be told, "Na, Master Will, the public wilt not be kind in seeing a play about four lovers, a fairy king and queen and a sprite the very name, Puck, is open to much ribaldry. The Guilds of London Town wouldst frown (yea verily! a rhyme) upon the crafts of weaver being held to ridicule by a buffoon with an asses head upon his shoulder. Why, 'prentices would murmer and it would not be be prdent to walk abroad at night. Also, Master Will, the name Midsummer Nights Dream is not a derriere on seat drawcard - I shalt say nay to thy proposal. How how it stung with the sting of a viper.
I did sit under the horned moon and weep bitter tears, yea bitter.
So, scriberess - keep thy quill sharp and filled with ink and thy satchel filled with paper and trampest thou, the streets of Mount Royal, someone wilt buy thy wares, i'truth.
sincerely
Will
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