9

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Writing Your Play

After you’ve tried your hand at the scenes in the preceding chapters, you might be excused for asking, “OK, do I get to write a play now?” The answer is: “Yes, of course. In fact, you probably already have!” At the beginning of this book I told you that plays unfold like trees. By working through these exercises you’ve already begun to nurture your trees.

“But,” you protest, “I’ve only written scenes.” What’s the difference between a scene and a play? A scene takes place in one setting and in continuous time. Plays may use different scenes with different settings, or they may use the same setting at different times. Or, a play may consist of just one scene!

The basic elements involved in a scene or a play are the same. A scene and a play both express a story through dramatic means. They both confront characters with obstacles and place them in conflict. They both use dialogue. And, most importantly, they both animate the characters. That is, they put them in action. Isn’t that what you’ve done in your scenes?

The difference isn’t length, either. Some very complete plays are very short, and some very long dramatic works are very incomplete. The determining factor lies in that word “complete.” More specifically, as I indicated earlier, a scene shows us part of a story. A play shows us the complete story; it resolves whatever conflicts have been introduced, and it answers whatever questions have been raised.

If you look at the scenes I’ve used as illustrations in the preceding chapters, you’ll see what I mean. In Chapter 7, Abracapocus could be summarized this way: A boy tries to avoid writing a paper. That doesn’t address the comic atmosphere of the piece, but it does describe the basic action. There is no more to the story. The deed is done, the characters are gone, and the story is finished.

Similarly, Cliché in Chapter 6 could be expressed like this: A young man comes to terms with the death of his father through a chance encounter with a homeless man. The piece is, of course, much more than that, but a concise statement helps to focus the significant action of the work.

Cliché, like Abracapocus, is a complete short play. It doesn’t matter that Chris will surely continue to question his emotions. It doesn’t matter whether Chris and Catch ever meet again. A connection was made, and a crucial step was taken. The story is complete.

In Conversation in Chapter 3, the problem of the couple’s lack of communication lies glaringly unresolved, perhaps even aggravated, but it’s unclear if there is more to the story. Is it important and will we ever find out what Nathan is so preoccupied with or why the communication has evaporated? Will Ellen and Nathan ultimately salvage this relationship?

The Donut Shop in Chapter 6 provokes similar questions. Will Emmett ever get his kiss? Will Ceecee get her comeuppance for her flirtatious behavior? There’s more to come in that story.

In Chapter 5, the scene between Beth and her Mother represents a complete action: Beth gets her mother’s attention and learns a lesson in the process. Unless there is some additional complication, that story is over. So is the relationship between Stephanie and Mike in Nibbles in the same chapter. Unless Kurt’s appearance adds some new development there would be no need for any additional scene.

In Big Brother in Chapter 3 we see the following action: Rick tricks his younger sister into helping him. But there seems to be more going on between the two siblings, and it looks like there could be more to the story.

Good Idea, If It Works from Chapter 4 presents interesting questions. As it stands the scene shows us a young tough pressuring his friend into robbing a store. Is that the whole story? Only the playwright can answer that with certainty. But suppose the whole story includes the young tough double-crossing his friend, and the friend, in deep trouble, avenging himself by killing the cause of his problems. Or suppose the story is about the gullible young man and his father. Imagine the father, disappointed in his son, helps him anyway. Through that act, the young man learns of his father’s love and devotion. The play could be a lesson in the consequences of submitting to peer pressure. It could just as easily be a story of parental support or many other stories. The piece certainly leads us to expect that something will happen when the theft is discovered.

In other words, to decide if a work is complete or needs additional material, you must first decide in very concrete terms just what story you are trying to show, especially where the story begins and where it ends.

Let’s assume for a second that you’ve written an intriguing scene, and you’ve zeroed in on the story you want to dramatize. Your next question might be, “What parts of the story should I show?” As we saw in Chapter 2, a story can change radically depending on which parts of it you choose to illustrate. The Greeks understood that. The three great tragedians Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides all wrote plays about Electra and Orestes, who revenged themselves by killing their mother, Clytemnestra, and her lover, Aegisthus, because Clytemnestra had murdered their father, Agamemnon, a hero of the Trojan War. Yet the very same characters emerged quite differently in each version of the story because of what the authors chose to show, and those decisions resulted from their understanding of the story.

All of those plays about Electra, however, ended with the deaths of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus—and there is a lesson in that. It’s the road the three playwrights traveled to their final destination that makes the plays so intriguingly different. Although at first it seems rather peculiar, many authors need to have an ending place in view as well as a starting place. David Henry Hwang stated just that when he told an interviewer, “I need to know what the beginning of the play is and the end of the play is, and the fun of writing then becomes a way to navigate between the two points.” A. R. Gurney said essentially the same thing, commenting, “In order for the story to tell itself… I really have to have some idea of where I want it to end up.”

The Greeks knew something else, too. They knew that where you begin to show a story is as important as where it ends. They also understood that the starting place, or the “point of attack,” as it is sometimes called, derives directly from the point of view of the writer—from what the writer wants to emphasize.

Take the story of King Oedipus, for example. Oedipus is born to King Laius of Thebes and his wife, Jocasta. An oracle tells Laius that this child will murder his father and marry his mother, so the king disposes of the child on a mountainside. A shepherd finds the child and takes him to Corinth, where he is raised in the household of King Polybus. Upon reaching manhood, Oedipus visits the oracle of Apollo at Delphi to divine his future. The oracle warns Oedipus not to return to his home because he will kill his father and marry his mother. Thinking Polybus is his father and Corinth his home, Oedipus runs away to Thebes.

As he approaches Thebes, a man pushes Oedipus off the road, and Oedipus retaliates with a blow that kills the man. Unknown to Oedipus, the man is King Laius, his father. Oedipus continues to Thebes, where he finds the city under a curse. Oedipus saves the city by solving a peculiar riddle, and a grateful city crowns him king. He marries Jocasta. Years later a plague comes upon the city.

All of that is part of the story of Oedipus. But Sophocles does not even begin his play until this point, with Thebes under a terrible plague. Oedipus is told that the devastation will continue until the murderer of Laius is found and punished. Oedipus determines to do that, and in the course of the investigation he discovers the horrible truth. In despair, Jocasta commits suicide, and Oedipus blinds himself.

Sophocles could have started the play earlier—when Oedipus is born or when Laius decides to get rid of the child or when Oedipus visits the oracle at Delphi. Sophocles could have pursued the story further than he did, after Oedipus leaves Thebes. In fact, Sophocles did just that, but in a separate play, Oedipus at Colonus, which shows the story of the end of the old king’s life.

Sophocles could have done any of those things, but he realized that where you start the story significantly determines the story you tell. Because Sophocles focused on the end of this story, the main action of the play might be stated as: “Oedipus discovers the truth.”

How do you know where to begin your story? Look for the spots where something changes. In Hamlet, the old king is dead. As bad as that is, a kind of status quo has been established. The old king’s brother has ascended the throne, and he has married his brother’s widow. Shakespeare starts his play on the day that balance is disrupted, when the ghost of Hamlet’s father appears to Hamlet and makes him swear to avenge the murder. Just as Sophocles began Oedipus on the day the king decides to find a murderer, so Shakespeare began his play on the day Hamlet decides to avenge a murder.

The event that causes a change in the basic situation is referred to in traditional play structure as the “inciting incident.” I have refrained from describing typical play structure because I wanted you to explore your own avenues. I didn’t want you confined by a rigid system. But now I’d like for you to be able to compare your work against traditional play structure. That might give you additional ideas about how to develop your scenes.

A traditional play is said to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning starts at a point of balance. The characters and the situation are introduced. Even though other events may have occurred earlier, the contending parties are at a pause. In Macbeth, a great victory has just been gained. In The Glass Menagerie, an uneasy truce exists between the family members.

Then a new element is introduced. This is the inciting incident, and it propels characters to action. Often the inciting incident involves the arrival of a new character. In Dancing at Lughnasa, the family has just purchased a radio, and Uncle Jack has just returned from 25 years’ work with a leper colony in Africa. Most importantly, Gerry Evans, the narrator’s father, returns. In Hamlet, the ghost arrives, demanding revenge.

The inciting incident can occur in other ways as well, but it always includes some new information. In Macbeth, the witches incite Macbeth’s thought of the crown, and then the king arrives at Dunsinane Castle. Teiresias tells Oedipus that he must find Laius’s murderer. In The Glass Menagerie, Amanda discovers that Laura has deceived her about attending typing school, which focuses Amanda’s attention on finding a husband for Laura.

The inciting incident sets in motion the desires of the main character to accomplish a goal—Macbeth to become king; Hamlet to avenge his father’s murder; Amanda to procure a settled life for her daughter. Author Lillian Hellman told aspiring writers that a playwright has about eight minutes to let the audience know who the play is about, what is at stake, where the play is going, and why. That’s the beginning.

The desire of the main character meets some form of resistance, and, in the middle section, the play proceeds through a series of obstacles and conflicts. This is sometimes referred to as the rising action. Macbeth overcomes his own fears and hesitations. Hamlet tests his uncle’s reactions to a play. Amanda pressures Tom to bring home a boy for Laura.

Within the middle part, good playwrights find ways to raise the stakes, to increase the emotional and psychological pressures on the main characters, and to complicate their lives. Not only does Macbeth himself want to be king, but he also receives passionate pressure from his wife. As Hamlet pursues revenge, he feels the additional pressure of a deteriorating relationship with his beloved Ophelia. The gentleman caller whom Tom brings to the house turns out to be the one boy Laura has always loved— and he’s engaged to someone else.

Often, as we saw in Big Brother in Chapter 2, action heads in one direction and then suddenly shifts. One side appears to be winning, only to suffer a setback, which is called a reversal. Just as it appears the boy will get his sandwich and the girl her ride to school, Rick double-crosses his sister. Hamlet stalks his uncle to his chamber, but changes his mind when he finds him praying. Laura kisses Jim O’Connor but then discovers he’s going with another woman.

Finally at the end, one side wins or loses utterly and decisively, and the battle is over. Hamlet kills the king, and he and several others die; Fortinbras is left to pick up the pieces. Macduff slays Macbeth, and Malcolm is crowned the rightful king. Amanda’s far-fetched dreams for Laura are shattered like the glass figurine, and Tom leaves town.

Why Now?

As you develop your play, always ask yourself: “Why do these characters do what they do now?” Most of us procrastinate. We would just as soon put off action, particularly important, decisive, and difficult action. Characters are the same way.

I will often ask a writer, “Why does this character erupt—or do whatever he or she is doing—just now?” Frequently the answer comes back, “Things built up.” I understand that “things build up,” but the character didn’t erupt the day before. Or the day after. What caused the disturbance on this day?

Think about the expression “the straw that broke the camel's back,” which means that a camel—or a person—can carry a very heavy load, but eventually a limit will be reached. Physically or psychologically one more item, one more tiny piece of straw will break down the animal.

We, the audience, can’t see all the problems that build up, but we definitely want to see that last piece of straw, and you, the author, have to identify it for yourself and for us. In many cases that moment is the beginning of your play.

Whenever possible in the beginning and middle sections of your play, put your characters under pressure to act. If John wants to ask Barbara to marry him, we have a typical situation. If John knows Barbara is also dating someone else, there’s more pressure for him to speak up. But if John knows Barbara’s leaving tomorrow for a job in another part of the country, then John, if he's going to pop the question at all, has to do it now.

Why does Macbeth kill his sovereign, Duncan? The prospect of becoming king tantalizes him, to be sure. His wife urges him to it. But beyond the desire and the encouragement, he is presented with opportunity and a time limit. The king comes to stay at Dunsinane. If Macbeth’s going to do the deed, he has to do it now. Always ask yourself, Why does the play take place on this day rather than another day? In The House of Blue Leaves, for instance, John Guare sets the play on the day the Pope visits New York.

I said previously that as you develop your play, as you identify the story, figure out where to start it, and create the pressures for action, the themes and ideas of your play would emerge. Plot details and thematic concerns reinforce each other; the point of the play is inextricably bound up with the selections you make regarding the details.

As we saw earlier, Good Idea, If It Works could move in any of several very different directions. It depends on the story the author wants to focus on and what the author thinks is important. In other words, the story comes from the author’s sense of values. Authors must be willing to examine the most compelling concerns, for without a sense of values a plot is merely a mechanical contrivance and characters merely mechanisms for action.

Often the themes of a play emerge in details that appear almost incidental to the action of the play. Lyle Kessler’s Orphans features a shadowy character who seems to have gangland connections. He enters the house of two underprivileged orphans and changes their lives. He helps them procure jobs, fine food, and natty clothes. More importantly, he provides emotional support by giving them “an encouraging hug,” which becomes a central visual motif of the play. When the man dies, the orphans try to place the dead man’s arms around their shoulders.

The visitor sings snatches from a particular old song, “If I had the wings of an angel.” Although the man sings only a few lines, some of the lyrics of that song refer to poor sinners being enfolded by those angelic wings. In dialogue, too, the theme is expressed. After one of the young orphans is given a map of his neighborhood in Philadelphia—not accidentally the “City of Brotherly Love”—the boy declares, “I know where I am now.” Indeed, this “lost boy” has now found himself.

The details of this play might have been different. The stranger could give the boys a pat on the shoulder. He could sing another song. The orphan could speak other words. The setting could have been another city. But Kessler chose to dramatize the theme of encouragement through the details he selected.

Style

Another element that emerges as the play develops is style, which means the manner in which the play is done. Few authors set out to write a play in a particular style. Rather, the style of the play evolves from the material itself. In Orphans, Kessler wanted the realistic trappings of a seedy Philadelphia apartment. In Our Town, Thornton Wilder wanted to show us that we should, for our few hours on the stage of life, try to see and appreciate everything around us. To achieve his point, Wilder stripped the stage of scenery and props so the audience would be forced to imagine all the shapes, colors, textures, sounds, and tastes of life with which Wilder stuffed the play. The style of The Donut Shop in Chapter 6 suggests a realistic setting, while A Man in a Bus Terminal in Chapter 1, despite the realistic setting, evokes a rather abstract world through the exaggerated characters.

In line with that, I offer a warning regarding overt abstraction and abstract characters. It is easy to see good and evil in the world, and inexperienced writers are tempted to put those qualities on the stage as characters. Trying to show a young man in conflict, the author will give us “Angel” and “Devil” presenting their cases in the boy’s ears. Or “Good” and “Evil” will put in appearances. Seldom does that kind of abstraction work very well. Just as the essence of the character is defined in a name, such characters usually come across as predictable, one-dimensional voices. They lack complexity and the human qualities that most attract our dramatic attention.

Abstractions are generally more successful when conceived in human terms. In the Oh, God series, for instance, George Burns proved endearing because of his idiosyncratic human foibles. The stranger in Orphans is a sort of angelic fairy godfather who transforms the boys’ clothing and environment just as surely as Cinderella’s fairy godmother transformed objects with her wand. But we care about the visitor because of his human interactions with the boys.

Now you’re fully equipped to put together your own play, so lets proceed to Exercise 9.

•  •  • Exercise 9.1 Writing a Play

Before you begin your own piece, you might want to read this play by one of my students.

Evaluation

From one perspective, this play focuses on a young woman utterly ill equipped to cope with the daily activities of life. But it also focuses on the relationship that emerges between the woman and Harris, the cable man. Although he indicates that he is just doing his job, he is clearly touched by the woman’s plight and by her simplicity. He makes a connection, but that connection is shattered when he discovers the problem with the baby and he retreats to his businesslike facade.

As with many plays, the arrival of a new character instigates the action. Harris’s first obstacle is just to get inside the apartment. Then he tries to soothe the woman, to get her to sit, to talk, to relax. The play reaches its first reversal when Harris attempts to explain the company plan to the woman. That tactic backfires, however, when the woman suspiciously dismisses his spiel as a “con.” Harris then prods the woman to write out her problems, and that leads to his discovery that she is illiterate. Her insistence that she has a diploma may or may not be true, but it certainly reveals her defiant pride. When Harris agrees to write for her, the woman for the first time begins to accept him. “you’re a good person,” she says, apologizing for her outburst.

The two characters in “Cable Man” not only talk differently, they think differently. Harris is very organized, and his language proceeds carefully, logically from one item to another. The woman’s mind and her language make huge jumps, as when she leaps from “You say this a lot” to “Like a con.” As Harris struggles to reestablish trust, the woman produces one of those startling mind jumps when she says, “Look, I got cheekbones.” That thought associates her with the television images she idolizes, and it leads to the riveting moment when she presses Harris’s hand to her face to show him her cheekbones. That touch creates too much intimacy for Harris, and he withdraws to his official language: “What I was saying is, that this is a form.” The young woman’s simplicity continues to arrest Harris and the audience, however, for she notices the subtle difference in Harris’s speech: “You said ‘I was saying’... I thought it was ‘we.’”

The author has identified the characters by race, but race plays little direct role in the play. Certainly the woman might have race in mind when she says, “I’m not like other people in this … My face don’t belong here.” A difference in the race of the characters could also augment the gap between them and the difficulty they have in making a connection. Still, it seems that the situation could bear performers of any race.

Eventually, moved by the Lady’s monologue about her child, Harris discards his businesslike demeanor and tries to give the woman some heartfelt advice. But just as he recoils from her touch, so she flies from his ministrations. Again Harris reassumes the persona of his job, which leads to a major reversal. Just as the woman is finally convinced that she will keep her cable box, Harris goes to remove it, destroying her shaky trust. After Harris unplugs the box, an uneasy calm prevails until Harris peers into the crib and makes his fateful discovery.

In an earlier draft of the play, Harris actually announced, “Your baby’s dead,” but then the focus of the play became that single fact rather than the characters and their relationship. By keeping the problem implicit rather than explicit, the author retains the emphasis on the two people and their interaction.

Once you’ve written your own play, you will want to examine it as objectively as you can, just as I have done with the scenes in this book. When you’re ready for a self-evaluation, begin by asking yourself these questions:

— Who is the main character? Who is the play about?

— What does this character want?

— Does this character undergo any change in the course of the play?

— Why does this action happen on this particular day?

— What is the most important moment—the climax—of the play?

— Why should we, the audience, care about what happens to the characters?

— Is the setting significant to the action, and is the action used to reveal the characters?

— Can you summarize the action of your play concisely, as in the following format:

If we apply these questions to Cable Man, some of the answers are rather complex. While the woman is apparently the main character, she is in fact only reacting to her situation. It is Harris’s desire to remove the cable box that forces the play. In other words, in the formulation I’ve suggested, “this is a play about a man who removes a cable box from the apartment of a destitute young mother.” In the course of that action Harris makes profound shifts and connections, from businessman to friend and back again.

The action happens now because Lady hasn’t paid her bill, and this is the day Harris must disconnect the box. One climactic moment occurs when Harris gets what he wants; he successfully disconnects the box. But a second climactic moment occurs when he sees the baby. His dreadful discovery undermines his successful disconnection of the cable box and amplifies his unsuccessful attempts at connection with the woman. It leads to their final violent confrontation and his difficult exit. Although he has the cable box, he appears more defeated than victorious by this confrontation with life.

I believe the author has given us characters we can care for, which, especially with the girl, is a challenging task. Like Harris, we want to shake her at times. Yet we see and understand her pride. She seems genuinely concerned about her baby. Her flights of fancy are exhilarating, and the moments when she lets down her defenses are touching.

Not only does the author include superb details about the room, such as the fan trying to blow heat from the oven, but he integrates set pieces and props. The crib, the television, and the cable box, are, of course, central. The phone, mentioned at the start, reappears as an obstacle at the end. The doorway itself becomes a hurdle at the beginning and again at the conclusion. Props and actions mesh to reveal character, as when Harris gives Lady the form and the pen and when he finally disconnects the box.

If you have trouble answering those questions about your play, then you need to focus your action more carefully as you work on your second draft. And then it’s on to your finished script. you’ve placed the characters in conflict, and you’ve put them under pressure. you’ve included significant details. you’ve explored the human qualities of your characters. And out of that grows your play—complete, powerful, intriguing, sensitive, witty. Your play will astonish the audience. It will entertain them, and it will move them to laughter and to tears.