Wednesday, February 18, 2015


     In a recent discussion group for playwrights, the conversation turned to the subject of how dialogue should look on the scripted page. One individual stated that dialogue on paper should please the printer, i.e., the words are spelled correctly, and the sentences are grammatically correct. Another individual concurred, adding that improperly spelled words would automatically be corrected by the proof reader, and, if uncorrected, would draw attention of the reader to the seeming error rather than to what the playwright might actually be saying.

     I absolutely disagree with both of these viewpoints.

     First, let’s take a look at how thoughts are communicated in spoken words. (And spoken words, as playwrights, are our stock in trade.) Spoken words and written words are not the same. In normal day-to-day conversation, generally a speaker will say only enough to get his or her message across, and then stop speaking. Most of what is being said may be in complete sentences, true enough, but a part of this rhetoric may also be in fragmented sentences. Indeed, portions of what is being “said” may not be in words at all, but in gestures and body language. Further, people rarely say combinations of words the way they are written. For example, if you were to tell someone you are going to the store, that’s how you would write it – “I’m going to the store.” If you were telling someone, you might say “I’m goin’ t’ th’ store.”

     Another misapprehension is that playwrights create characters. They do not. Actors create characters. Playwrights suggest characters. The choices of words, the rhythm of the words, the pace, the slang, the actual number of words in a sentence, the phonetically (as opposed to incorrectly) spelling of words – all these things help an actor visualize a character from whom these words, gestures, and thoughts, would believably flow. (You don’t believe me? Take a Shakespeare soliloquy, give it to an actor, and have him read it back to you. Then give the same soliloquy to your next-door neighbor. In both cases the words are the same. Who created the character?) Perhaps this is an unfair comparison, but the point is this; words flow from character, not the other way around.

     And so – simple enough – when a playwright places dialogue on paper, he or she is communicating directly to the imagination of the reader, asking that reader to hear the words being spoken the same way the playwright hears them. Toward that goal, there are no rules, no uniform structure, no ridged grammar. Whatever works is what works.


Thursday, July 17, 2014

Thursday, July 10, 2014

A New Play

I'm working on a new play - a man running for re-election, and filled with self doubt. Here's the first few pages:


AT RISE: Evening. Dark brooding shadows blanket the walls, with only defused light from distant windows to make the darkness uneven. Overhead lights cast unflattering pools of lights intermittently  around the portico floors. At rise MISTER PRESIDENT is standing quietly, lost in thought. CHARLIE enters.  

(Speaking into a walkie-talkie.)
I found him. South Portico. No, it’s ok, we’re coming.
Mister President? Excuse me, sir.

What is it, Charlie?

We need to go back in.

I have my coat. It’s ok.

They want to go over your speech one more time.

Oh. Well that’s nice.

You’re on the air in twenty minutes.

I know.

Twenty minutes.

“Fellow Americans. Good evening. Buenas noches. Erev tov. Masa el-khair. This is your President speaking, and I’m taking this opportunity to formally announce that I am running for re-election. Now there’s a surprise. And why am I doing this? That is the question, isn’t it? Because the past four years have not been as bad as everyone predicted they would be, and the consensus of opinion now suggests that with me in office the next four years will more than likely be just about the same – and that’s not a bad thing, now is it? Because I’ve looked over the other candidates – I’m sure you have, too – and wondered just what rock most of them crawled out from under. I’m doing this because it’s expected I would do this.
(a pause)
 Because to do anything else would be to admit defeat - for some obscure reason a journalistic underling will create - in his spare time - on a Sunday afternoon fifteen years from now. I’m doing this because I enjoy bleeding – especially in public.” Did I say it right?

I think you said it all.

I haven’t even started.

You don’t really feel that way.

Sometimes, Charlie. Sometimes.

You don’t intend to say anything like that on television, do you?

Probably not. No. Of course not.

We should be going in.

Do you know what someone asked me the other day?


The, uh, the national vegetable something festival. The kids? You remember.

We should be going in.

Charlie. Humor me.

I remember.

So there we are, sailing along smartly if I do say so myself, and they never once suspected the only way I recognize corn is because it says so on the can. I mean, I was born and raised in Detroit, for God’s sake, what did they expect?
(A pause)
And if you tell me one more time we should be going in, I will fire you on the spot.
(a pause)
So – anyway – we’re sailing through the Q and A section – yes, I have a dog, yes, his name is Herman, no, he does not sleep with me, and this little poop holds up one hand – red hair? Freckles? Looks like Howdy Doody? Google it. Anyway, I can already taste the dirty martini that’s waiting for me, when “Why do you want to be President again?” And this stops me dead in my tracks. Why did I want to be President again? Do you know who our greatest President was? Don’t answer that – I’ll tell you. George Washington. Thoughts?

None I’d care to share at the moment.

Wise decision. Now I am aware that in saying that, scholars will most certainly disagree, and categorically declare Jefferson as our greatest President – or Lincoln, Roosevelt, whomever, and they will give you every reason in the world to support their assumptions. And they would be wrong. Washington was the man. And why? Because he served his term and then quit. He did his best in the time allotted to him by the Constitution and then packed up his bags and went home. The man could have been king! Certainly half the country wanted a king. But he knew – for the good of the nation he helped create – when it was time to step off the stage.

Are you saying that’s what you should do?

Thinking about it. Howdy Doody got me thinking about it. Why did I want to be President again? For that matter, why did I want to be president in the first place?  Four years ago I could tell you – did tell you. I want to be President because I have a vision for America – a passion. And the course of action is – was – so very very clear. Four years later the vision is not so clear. I want to … finish what I started. Something like that. Do you know the White House has a cook on staff twenty-four hours a day?


Honestly. I want to be re-elected because I hate the thought of giving up hot fudge sundaes at three-thirty in the morning. Real fudge – home made. Where do they come up with it? I don’t know. How’s that for incentive? Not only that, but – are you bored?

No sir. Not a bit.

You yawned.

No I didn’t. Sir. Respectfully.

If I’m boring you, the Governor of Pango-Pango is still complaining because he hasn’t found someone to clean the goose droppings off the capital steps on a regular basis. Say the magic word and the job is yours.

Mister President …

(HE holds an imaginary cell phone to his ear and speaks into it.)
Hello Air Force? Do you have anything that on a good day might make it to the American Samoa Islands? Perfect. Thank you.
(HE puts the “phone” back in his pocket.)

Mister President …

You’re in luck – booked first class on the Amelia Earhart Special. Non-stop. Well, …

Paul …

Now that’s a low blow.

Why are you doing this?


Bushido. Death before dishonor. You do it every time you run for office.

(I’m) Clueless.

“If I’m not elected, I can claim I didn’t want the job in the first place.”

Charlie, Charlie …

Forgive me, Mister President, but that’s the truth.

Mister President? What happened to “Paul?”


A mistake. Won’t happen again.


Monday, July 7, 2014

Five Plays

At the moment I am in the process of writing five plays simultaneously.

I never planned to do that - who would?

Two of the plays are on commission. Fortunately they are both short - twenty minutes each. One is about politics, the other is open to whatever I want (so it's about politics as well. The first company will get a choice.)

Play three is actually one my wife and I wrote together six years ago, and has spent its life sitting on a shelf. Her book, PAINTING THE RAIN, is a novelized version of the play. In short, people started asking about the play, so it is being dusted off and polished.

Play four is another co-author deal. I have a friend (another contest winning playwright), and we are writing a play together about elves. (Not Elvis - elves!) Since she lives in another state, we email dialogue back and forth in Dropbox. So far this has been quite enjoyable.

And play five is, I suppose, another political. A man is running for President, and bit by bit you discover he is in an asylum and mentally ... uh ... insecure. The point here being that anyone who runs for President (and has any clue at all in regard to what's going to happen to him) cannot possibly be entirely sane, Cute idea. I hope it works.

That's it for now. More later.


Thursday, April 17, 2014

First Printing

My wife's book did so well on Kindle we have advanced into hard copies! (The small chateau in the South of France is getting closer ...)

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

A theatre experience

     Ok, I have a story to tell you. Many years ago (MANY years ago) I was in an Equity waiver production of “Wonderful Town,” written by Leonard Bernstein. (“Equity Waiver” meaning the leads were Equity, the supporting cast was whatever was capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time. Yes – I was one of them.) We were opening in Ft. Wayne Indiana at a quite respectable theatre when we got work that Bernstein himself might come to see our show. (We were one of the first groups outside of New York to actually produce this musical.) On the night he was scheduled to attend, we outdid ourselves … (What if he likes me? What if HE likes ME?) I mean, he was doing SOMETHING in Cleveland at the time. What if …?) But he didn’t show. Instead, he sent a 21-year-old LACKY to see OUR show and EVALUATE IT to the great maestro. I remember, greatly disappointed, standing backstage and listening to this character sing our praises – that we had done good, that he would tell Bernstein that we had done him proud – yeah yeah yeah. Bullshit. Most of our cast dispersed. (There was a bar two blocks away we called home.) I felt sorry for this guy – obviously he had made a 200-mile-trip for a less than enthusiastic response. So as the cast departed, I invited him to join us. “I can’t,” he responded, “got to get back to Cleveland.” We shook hands in parting. “Jack Petersen,” I said, “glad to meet you.” “Steve,” he responded. “Steve,” I asked. “Sondheim,” he responded, “Steve Sondheim.”

Saturday, March 15, 2014


     With the encouragement of my wife, I've decided to attempt to write a story (I'm far more comfortable with writing plays.) So, for your consideration, here is a small section. The character "speaking" was born in India in 1930, so the time now would be about 1946. 

     Sometime in the sixteenth year of my life my father came to me with the following offer. “Son, I think it’s time to buy you a new suit.”

    ‘Thank you,” I replied. I was both pleased and honestly perplexed. Unless he wanted something, my father rarely spoke to me. And the thought that he wanted to participate in some aspect of my life was quite beyond my comprehension.

     “Would you like to know why?” My father was being both tenacious and purposely vague. And he was enjoying every moment of our conversation.

     Yes, thank you, I would.” If this conversation reads as somewhat stilted, it’s because I honestly don’t remember it. Nor do I recall much of what would happen in the next few days. However, because the events occurred, it seems probable this conversation occurred, as well.

     “It’s for your wedding day.”

     This snippet of information shouldn’t have come to me as any great revelation. In the caste system practiced throughout India, my place was quite near the bottom of the social food chain. The way of life was well laid out, and had been refined over many generations. You were born, worked, married, worked, produced children, worked, and died. It was that simple. Life was orderly and without surprises. Everyone seemed quite content.

     Well, almost everyone. I believe with an almost certainty that all human beings are basically optimistic. I believe that disaster will strike someone else before it strikes me. The fallacy in this logic was that I didn’t know anyone else, so when my turn came it caught me completely by surprise.

     My mother gushed. “Her name is Alisia, and she’s definitely above your station.” I’m not sure I truly appreciated my mother when she gushed. This was in fact the first time I had ever seen her do it, and I’m sure I didn’t appreciate it.

     “I had to work hard for this match. It wasn’t easy. Her grandfather is a true Brit, I certainly hope you understand what that means!”

     I waited for my mother to pause for breath. It would prove to be a long wait.

     “No, you don’t. I can tell by your expression that you have no idea what this could mean for your future. Well. Believe me, I’ll be pleased to tell you. It means that … and that … and that … not only in this life, but in several lifetimes to come! So you just think about that!”

     She said other things. I know she did. Her voice began to echo in my head. The tone of her voice became deeper until it was nothing more than a grumble of sound, not unlike that of distant thunder. At the same time, the edges of my vision darkened, and it appeared that moving objects were slowing down.
     My mind withdrew to some safe place, and the processing of information became questionable. I moved hypnotized through the next few days. I know there were people around me. I know there was a ceremony of some sort - I can vaguely remember a blur of orange and white.

     Awareness returned to me in a snap. One moment I was in our small kitchen, talking to my mother. In the next moment I was in my own room, and across from me was … the enemy.

     She was sitting on my only chair. I was sitting on the bed. She was thin. I was thin. She stared at the floor. I stared at her. Her hands were folded in her lap. My hands were folded in my lap. She was wearing her one-and-only sari. I was wearing my one-and-only suit. Her eyes were red, her nose was running, and she had a nervous cough. I had … my one-and-only suit. Great. She was already ahead of me on points. Neither one of us spoke a word. Eventually I fell asleep. I think she did the same.

     That was our wedding night.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014


     For an artist, inspiration starts with a gnawing hunger. No hunger, no inspiration, no art.  Culture defines civilizations. Art defines cultures.

     Okay, here’s where I’m going with this thought process. A friend bemoaned the fact that people in the dramatic arts are paid less than their counterparts working in Walmart. And, unfortunately, I believe this to be true in the broadest sense. Actors have the only unions where ninety percent of the membership is unemployed at any given moment. Art is a luxury. Food and shelter come first (as they should). Yet art defines us. Look at any generation. What comes to mind ? Music? Movies? Clothing styles? It’s all art. Even architecture falls under someone’s artistic impression (or lack thereof.) During World War Two Winston Churchill was criticized for not cutting the Arts budget for England. His reply? “If we do that, what are we fighting for?”

    So Art is appreciated. Established Art is appreciated. Something – or someone – has to be around long enough to attract an audience. There are places everywhere (and IN XANADU is no exception) where “followers” are courted. Have enough followers and you win a prize. (I’m still waiting.) The point is, an artist is acknowledged. That is, he or she has put together enough of a body of work to create a style to which audiences gravitate.

     So we have been talking about someone who, after years of perseverance, has “made it.” Well and good for that person.

     But what about the poor shmuck working equally hard, who has yet to be discovered? (And, isn’t this the majority of us?) Regardless of the potential for rewards, a person in arts needs to express beyond what ‘normal” life will allow. If you have never been there, it’s like a drug. However, because the need to express is an end goal, the need to be understood and appreciated falls into second place. Because of this, when the dust settles, the artist realizes that he or she has placed a low price on him or herself as a commodity. It’s a psychological Catch-22. Lower the price, reach more people. Raise the price, reach fewer. Like race horses, artists have traditionally been supported by the very rich, and I suspect for many of the same reasons …

     Will this change at any time in the future? I doubt it. Look around. The value of an individual artist’s work usually only increases dramatically after he or she has been dead for a period of time. 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Another Contest

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Shameless Plug time ...

I know, I know.

It's been awhile. Again.

It started when I became a major winner in a playwriting contest in Indiana. At the same time my agent dropped off the face of the earth. The two events together started me in a new direction. Since my wife is a published novelist on Amazon, I got the idea of doing the same thing - publishing plays on Amazon. Sixteen of 'em, all re-written in Amazon-speak. Took months.

Anyway. After looking at all this stuff put together, I was impressed. Never had "collected works" before.

Here they are. I'd love for you to look around, give me your impression. Click here.


Sunday, November 24, 2013


     Sorry we haven't chatted in awhile.

     Writing has picked up considerably. So has exposure, apparently.

     I entered a short play in a local contest. It won a presentation, which was a week or so ago. I attended, and I must tell you, it's always a grand feeling when you see people saying your words, expressing your thoughts ...

     I entered TWO one-act plays in a contest in Atlanta, Georgia. This was months ago, and I have been told that both are still in consideration. ONE would be fine, but the chances that both are still in the running, well, that is rare indeed, and I am certainly honored.

     In mid summer I entered one of my better plays in the Writer's Digest Playwriting Competition. Results will be announcer in the Spring. Modestly, my plays have always placed well in this contest during previous years, and they graciously gush over my work. Still, who knows? Maybe somebody will see this one and do something ... (And why not? I'm having a good year so far.)

     A play I wrote for a competition in Indiana is also doing well. The man in charge has called me several times, and I'm impressed by how impressed HE is. I really do hope this one wins - serious money here.

     And all this has inspired me, at least to some degree. I'm in the process of writing a sequel to one of my earlier plays. Never done that before. Fun and very interesting.

     So there you have it - ego trip all the way, but I wanted you to know what's been going on in my life.

     As always, thanks for being there.


Wednesday, September 4, 2013

The Civil War In Syria, And Our Involvement In It.

     I posted this on Facebook and got such a response that I thought I would re-post it here.

     I have been reading with great interest about our growing itch to involve ourselves in the Syrian civil war. We are presently approaching the point where Congress and the Senate will approve the President’s request to punish the President of Syria for (supposedly) gassing his own people. 

     This brings three questions to my mind. 

     First, who are we gonna hit? I don’t see good guy-bad guy here. I see bad guy-worse guy here. They keep changing positions, and none of them at all like us very much. 

     Second, we will go in there on the pretext that gassing people is a bad thing. Isn’t the implication there, then, that dropping bombs on them is acceptable? 

     And third, I don’t have enough of the facts. I certainly don’t trust any news service. Everyone seems to have his own spin on what is or should be the proper course of action, based on inside information only a select few posess. For whatever reason, Russian President Vladimir Putin seems to be the only mature intelligent voice out there, and that truly does scare me. Truth is, nobody wants us there. And, as bad as it is, it’s a civil war. My thinking is that as long as the conflict remains within the borders of Syria, it would be in our best interests to stay out of it. On the other hand, when have we ever done that?


Tuesday, September 3, 2013

A (somewhat) New Path

     I took back my life a few days ago.

     As a writer, I've enjoyed my share of success. Certainly I've seen a number of my plays produced. But there was always a quality to that effort - everything being a "hands on" experience, up to a point. Then I got my agent who lives in Oregon (I've had two agents as a playwright. The first one lived in South Carolina and worked tirelessly for me. seven days a week.) And, perhaps that's the point - my last agent was selective, allowing opportunities to pass that I felt should have been investigated. (On the other hand, he booked one of my plays at a theatre in Edinburgh Scotland I never thought would have happened, since in it I poke fun - lightly - at the Scots.) The point of all this is that my agent and I have parted company, and I am once again booking my own plays, making my own decisions (and keeping the 15% commission). Shall I find another agent? Of course. Eventually. In the meantime I'm looking, and finding the present situation not entirely unpleasant.

     And I'm starting a new play. The babe and I went to a Farmer's Market last weekend and I bought a loaf of bread from a charming baker who told me she loves her work, and would "bake bread 24 hours a day if (her) husband would let her." With that thought, I was hooked - and am in process of writing a one-act about a woman who gets up at 2:30 in the morning to start a loaf of bread baking, and then goes back to bed. The entire play is dialogue between husband and wife IN the bed. (And for those gentile readers who might be shocked about a play where a man and woman are in bed together, I would point out the fact that since they ARE married, there will not even be the suggestion of sex involved ...)

     For the first time in a goodly number of years, I'm not directing any plays, nor do I have any scheduled in the near future. I would never have thought this - lack - would bother me, but it does! (One of the great secrets of relaxation is to yell at actors for a couple of hours and then go somewhere and have a very dry martini.) As a point of interest, the last theatre I worked for just entered their first play in a contest without me. (They came in at a dismal last place ...)  

     Just this week I got back from visiting my new doctor ... (I've outlived my previous THREE. What does that tell you?} Anyway, I received a completely clean bill of health. (And this somewhat surprises me. I've rarely done anything to actually deserve that.

     ... except perhaps one thing. I love to walk, and am blessed with an abundance of parks nearby. Two days ago I found myself on a pier, half a mile in length, that surrounds a peninsula. The pier is just off shore, and if there's a purpose to it all, I certainly can't find it. There's not even a play here. Fiction, unlike reality, must make sense somewhere along the line.

     And how was YOUR day?


Friday, August 23, 2013


     Today is Friday, August 23rd, 2013 at exactly 9:01 PM, according to the little measurer of time that's built into my computer. I don't know why I feel that it's important to have said that, except that when I post these things sometimes it says it's 2:47 in the morning and it really isn't.

     I entered two plays in a contest today - in a city where I once worked. In fact, the theatre where the plays will be read is a building I helped design, and then moved away before the first shovel of sod was turned over. Just thinking about it gave me an odd feeling. And it still does at this very moment.

     I was offered the opportunity to co-direct a play written by a friend of mine. After attending a couple of rehearsals I dropped out. Without going into a lot of details, have you ever been involved in a project and every instinct in you is telling you to leave by the nearest exit? (I co-directed a play a couple of years ago, and I should have known better this time. It's like two men in a canoe trying furiously to paddle in different directions at the same time.)

     I am acting as an advisor (only) to another friend who is also directing a play. It came to me that for the first time in half a century I don't have a play of my own to direct. I have purposely backed away - for awhile - so I could do some serious writing, but it's amazing how quickly you can find yourself out of touch.

     I feel better now. Thank you for allowing me to bring you up to date on my musings.