This is the thirty-fourth post from my NaNoWriMo Life Story Crafting project (find first post here). In the “12 Questions to Help Us Realize Our Potential”, it continues question six: “Tests, Allies, Enemies”. Name some tests you faced. Who were your (internal or external) allies? Who were your (internal or external) enemies? The “transformation” I chose to write about was how I came up with the Well-Being Toolbox.
“I’m enough of a showman to have learned at least this: If people don’t want to come, nothing will stop them.”–Sol Hurok, American Impresario
Photo by Jack Moreh from Freerange Stock
Valerie asked, “Did you tell Sheila you were quitting?”
“I cc’d her,” I said, setting down the buyer’s proof I’d been working on so I could concentrate.
“Don’t you think she deserves better than that?”
What does anyone deserve? Did those playwrights who sent us their scripts deserve to have them read? Did Wendell, David, Sharon and I deserve to have our plays produced? Did Valerie, Sheila, and I deserve to have at least one producer or deep-pocket donor show up at our showcase?
“I’m out of time,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is there a better time to talk?”
I sighed. “No, there is no other time.”
“I’m not following you,” she said.
What was she not getting?
“I mean every second of every day has been accounted for by work, processing scripts, laundry, groceries, and trying to wake up from this nightmare. I’m sorry if I didn’t resign properly. I wish you and Sheila all the best with this thing.”
“Nightmare?”
I didn’t answer.
“We all have to work.”
“You know what we don’t have to do? Produce plays.”
“Look, Bruce. I haven’t been doing this for my health. A big part of why I signed on to this job was your vision. If you’re not going to be a part of this…”
Her sentence was interrupted by call waiting. It was Sheila. I tried to put Valerie on hold but accidentally hung up. I tried to tell Sheila that I had been talking to Valerie but accidentally hung up on her too. Sheila called back first.
“You really should learn to use a phone,” Sheila teased.
The call waiting interfered again.
“Okay,” I said. “Someone’s on the other line. If it’s Valerie I’m going to attempt to tell her that I’m talking to you. If I accidentally hang up, I’ll call you back. How’s that?”
She sighed. “Sure.”
This time I was successful. “Valerie?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Sheila. How about I talk to her then have her call you?”
“Fine,” she said, hanging up. Kind of a loud hang up as hang ups went.
I pushed the button again. “Sheila?”
“Yes.”
I did a fist pump. “I managed not to hang up,” I said.
“So what’s going on?”
“Oh, I just wanted you guys to know that you need a different literary manager.”
“You need help reading the scripts?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want out.”
“Well, that’s a little inconvenient in the middle of our first season.”
“I don’t think we’re in the middle.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t think there’s a season.”
“Excuse me?” She was pissed. “Did you have a problem with the showcase on Sunday? Because I’ve got news for you, my friend. If you did, you’re in the minority.”
Now I was getting pissed. “Not if you count the people who didn’t come.”
“How many times did I ask you to make more phone calls?”
“That’s what they do.”
“What?”
Now she wasn’t getting me.
“That’s what producers do,” I said. “They see something that works. They make the phone calls.”
“Duh,” Sheila said. “That’s why we worked so hard choosing plays that will work.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the plays. Our vision is the problem.”
“What’s wrong with our vision?”
“Nobody came.”
“What do you mean? Plenty of people came.”
“Zero producers,” I said. “Zero people who could make the season happen.”
“Well, maybe if you had picked up the phone.”
“They all know how to pick up the phone, but they’re not calling playwrights.”
I pulled the current Variety out of my briefcase. My copy supervisor Maggie walked by with a proof. She looked anxious. I would no doubt be getting a lecture from her about taking personal calls at work, but I was already getting lectured, so she had to wait.
I did a quick appraisal of shows currently running on Broadway. Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Neil Simon, George Bernard Shaw. “Producers don’t need new playwrights. They don’t even need new plays.”
“I disagree,” she said.
“All the more reason to replace me with someone more in line with your vision.”
Her sigh seemed to acknowledge our standoff. She’d seen the theater on Sunday as half full. I’d seen it as half empty. And I knew from reading Variety that too many weeks of half-empty houses often prompted a closing notice. We agreed I should drop the remaining scripts with her and that we could work together again if the right project arose.
Though theatrical producers didn’t need new scripts, producers with screens to fill, large and small, did. They might not have known anything, but a number of them, and Variety, believed one woman did.
