The Late Bloomer

By Don Nguyen, member of the 2008 Emerging Writers Group 

I'm turning 40 this year. There. I said it. 

Looking at all the twists and turns I've taken in my life, I'm truly in awe of where I am now. I'm considered an emerging playwright to whatever extent you want to use that term. You might be wondering "you're almost four decades into your life and you're still an emerging playwright?" 

Yes. It seems I'm a late bloomer. Always have been. I did gymnastics in high school and I loved it. But competing at the Olympic or even the collegiate level would never be in the cards for me. I had some raw talent but I didn't have the other element needed: time. Most elite gymnasts come out of the private clubs, where the average beginning gymnast is age 6. I unfortunately didn't discover gymnastics until I was fifteen. In college I discovered acting. I loved it and felt at home with my fellow thespians. But I would soon discover that many of my actor friends had been doing theater since they were 10 or 11. And here I was at the ripe old age of 20 and they already had almost a decade of experience on me. So when I finally moved into the realm of serious playwriting at the age of 35, I thought I was fairly safe from these overachievers. I was so happy to have finally found a profession where it didn't matter if you were young or old! Because a writer can be any age, right? 

Then I noticed something about the majority of my playwright peers. Their resumes are big as a battleship. Most have graduated from an Ivy League college or other highly regarded training program. Many have studied under legendary playwrights who's names rhyme with Shmedward Shmalbee and Shmaula Shmogel. Many have worked or completed internships at major theater organizations. Many are receiving commissions and other big name awards. And dammit, many of them are a decade younger than me! All my life, I feel like I'm a decade late to everything. 

People believe the most basic component to success is ability and that somehow, ability is hard wired to the brain. But ability can take time to develop. I would argue that the experiences in your life help shape and improve your ability and that, in turn, sets the stage for you to bloom. 

So I have to ask myself "Self, because you discovered your path in life late in the game, does that mean you are less likely to change the world?" My answer is NO. It just means I now need to work my ASS OFF more than anyone else. 

Personally, what's great about me starting so late in the game is that I feel much better equipped to handle the ins and outs of this crazy industry. Had I moved to New York in my early twenties I would not have lasted long at all. My money management skills were nonexistent back then. I'm glad I moved here when I did. I'm a much more responsible adult than I was in my early twenties and I actually have a stable job. I have a little bit of savings and I can afford to eat out every once and a while. 

Others have studied more than me, hold more degrees than I have, have written more plays, etc. You'll go crazy comparing yourself to others. Don't do it. Or don't do it as often as you do. Because it's really an individual journey and there's no quantifiable measure of success in this field. 

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the Public Theater's Emerging Writers Group and what that opportunity gave me. The selection was not about how many degrees you had and where you earned them. It was not about what agent you had. It was not about what professional work you've had produced. And it certainly was not about how young or old you are. I believe it was about what kind of voice you had and if it was a voice to get behind. How do I know this? Because that's all I had when I applied. My voice. And that (thankfully) took years to develop. 

So the next time you get depressed because all your peers seemed to have accomplished so much more than you in the same amount of time or less, take comfort in the fact that Julia Child did not even learn how to cook until she was 40. Stan Lee was 43 when he started drawing his legendary superheroes. And even the Bard believes "better once than never, for never too late." 

I may be a late bloomer, but that's okay with me. I'm having the time of my life doing it.

Don Nguyen is a member of the 2008 Emerging Writers Group, The Civilians 2010 R&D Group and the Ma-Yi Writers Lab. Don is the recipient of the 2012 Founders Award from New York Stage and Film, given to an Emerging Playwright which includes a one month residency at Vassar College. During the residency, Don completed a first draft of his new play THE COMMENCEMENT OF WILLIAM TAN. For more information on Don, please visit his website: thenuge.com. 

This post is part of a weekly series from the Emerging Writers Group community of playwrights. The EWG is two-year playwriting fellowship at The Public Theater seeking to target playwrights at the earliest stages of their careers. In so doing, The Public hopes to create an artistic home for a diverse and exceptionally talented group of up-and-coming playwrights.

Playwrights: We do more than write plays

By Mary Kathryn Nagle, member of the 2013 Emerging Writers Group

Once again, it’s 11pm and I am just now leaving the office. In fact, I am sitting in the backseat of the black Lincoln sedan that the client is paying for (because I billed 12 hours today) furiously trying to type my blogpost, the draft of which was due today, and which—despite my best intentions—I did not have time to start drafting until now because I have been typing briefs and letters to the Court pretty much non-stop for roughly 72 hours straight, with a few breaks here and there (yes, I sleep “some” at night, and I also take breaks to the go to the bathroom).

As I settle in to my car ride home and open up my laptop, of course my Dad calls, from the Midwest where it’s a good hour earlier.

Mary Kathryn?

Yes, Dad.

I just tried to call your office. You weren’t there.

That’s because I am on my way home.

Oh, that’s wonderful! This is early for you!

Yes, it is. (and then here it comes, the question that one of my parents asks me at least once a week)

How much longer are you going to stay at this job? I think you should think about doing something else. I just think you work too much.

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t have time to think about what else I would do, so . . .

Why don’t you quit being a lawyer and just be a playwright?

What? Did my Dad just tell me to quit being a lawyer and just be a playwright? Does my Dad think I am a playwright?

Back up a bit to 2005, when I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed senior in college. I had just discovered my passion for playwriting and I could not be more excited. I wrote my first play and it won a student playwriting competition on campus. Watching my first play performed for the first time, I knew—this was what I wanted to do. I wanted to write plays the rest of my life.

My parents were horrified. They pleaded. They begged. Anything but playwriting. I had previously expressed an interest in going to law school—and that became the new campaign. Get MK to law school.

And it is true, I wanted to go to law school. I chose to go to law school—not just because that was what my parents wanted me to do, but because I wanted to be a lawyer. But I also wanted to be a playwright.

After I started law school, my parents breathed a huge sigh of relief. Their daughter had a career. She had a clear identity: lawyer. Until . . . I wrote a play in law school. (Eh, WHAT is she doing?!!!)

Everyone tried to convince me not to. I remember my Mom.

Mary Kathryn, shouldn’t you be studying?!

I am Mom. I am also playwriting. I think I can do both.

My favorite law professor.

If you want to write a play, just wait until you’re done with your first year. Then you can write all the plays you want and they won’t jeopardize your grades.

Have you ever tried to tell a playwright to stop writing the play she is writing? Have you told a woman in labor to just take a break and finish the task later? Yeah, good luck with that.

The first year I was in law school, I wrote a play. I got together with my fellow law students and we produced it. And then the next year, I wrote another play. And we produced that. And then my last year in law school, I wrote another play—and we produced that. And still, even after that, no one in my family called me a playwright. They all insisted that I was a lawyer.

Four years later, my parents are now begging me to quit being a lawyer and just be a playwright. The irony of this reversal has certainly captured my attention. At least my parents have finally accepted my identity as playwright. But now I am supposed to give up my identity as lawyer? 

My parents aren’t the only ones. When I tell people that I am a lawyer and a playwright, most people immediately ask me: When are you going to quit being a lawyer and just be a playwright? 

There are several misconceptions that ultimately lead to this question I repeatedly hear: 

     1. The Legal profession is more stressful than the playwriting profession 

          Being a lawyer is stressful. You have to write briefs about complex legal issues and there are long hours and very demanding expectations. 

          Have you ever talked to a playwright? Writing a play is no easy task. What do you do when all of a sudden your characters refuse to talk to one another? Or when you’ve written the whole play and you realize there’s no plot? Or when you know the end you’ve written really isn’t the end, but you can’t think of the real end because you are thinking too hard and it won’t come to you until you pretend you don’t care anymore and OH MY GOD! 

          Don’t tell me it’s not stressful to be a playwright! 

     2. If you want to write out of passion, you have to be a playwright because lawyers don’t write from a place of passion—they just write for the money 

        Playwrights write from a place of passion. That is exciting. Lawyers write just to make money. That is lifeless. 

        Sure, some lawyers write just for money. Just like some playwrights write for T.V. to make money. Of course, this question highlights one of the largest crises in the American theater: successful playwrights really cannot sustain themselves economically through their writing for the stage. 

        But setting that critique of American capitalism aside (that’s really not what this blog post is supposed to be about)—the idea that lawyers don’t write from a place of passion is ridiculous. I decided I wanted to be a lawyer for the very same reason I wanted to be a playwright: I felt there were stories that I desperately needed to tell, and I had no choice but to tell them. 

        The stories I tell as a lawyer are no different than the stories I tell as a playwright. They are all part of the same fabric of life, blood, words, energy, and sweat—and at the end of the day, whether your audience is someone who has paid $55 to hear your play, or is someone who is being paid $55 to serve on a jury—you are telling a story. A story that needs to be heard. 

        Some of the most passionate people I have ever met are lawyers. 

        Some of the most passionate people I have ever met are playwrights. 

    3. BUT- you can’t be both a playwright and an attorney 

      WHY NOT?! I think by now you realize that this statement couldn’t be farther from the truth. 

      Playwrights are playwrights and they are teachers, they are lovers, they are lawyers, they are doctors, they are sisters, they are brothers, they are daughters, they are drivers, they are smokers, they are runners, they are dancers, they are singers, they are . . . They are. 

      No one is just a playwright. Everyone is a playwright, and well, some of us just write more plays than others. Perhaps I write more plays than your average attorney. I don’t expect that to stop anytime soon. 

Mary Kathryn Nagle is a member of the 2013 Emerging Writers Group and is currently working on her new play MANHATTA. 

This post is part of a weekly series from the Emerging Writers Group community of playwrights. The EWG is two-year playwriting fellowship at The Public Theater seeking to target playwrights at the earliest stages of their careers. In so doing, The Public hopes to create an artistic home for a diverse and exceptionally talented group of up-and-coming playwrights.

The Neurotic Playwright: Why Every Question You Ask Me Is Wrong

By Deen, member of the 2009 Emerging Writers Group 

It can be very difficult to talk to a writer. I sympathize with your plight. We find large portions of the people we meet insensitive to our sensitivities, and we fault you for that. At least I do. 

To get to the heart of the matter, you seemingly-nice-person-I've-just-met-at-a-party are dangerous and what makes you particularly dangerous is that you have no idea of your destructive capabilities. You bandy about small talk questions like so many Hostess Cupcakes at a high school hot box, but in fact you unknowingly lay a mine field that I must cross to hold up my part of this polite chit-chat, and I find it rather upsetting that you look so innocent doing it. 

So once and for all, I am going to explain why every question you have ever asked me is wrong. (I would appreciate it if you would take notes.) 

Questions Not to Ask a Playwright 

#1. What kinds of things do you write about? 

I'm not a textbook writer. I can't say, “The aquatic life of great white sharks living off the coast of Brooklyn.” I'm a playwright! If every play I write is about the same thing then I'm probably not a very good one. And do you mean thematically, or what kinds of relationships do I write about or how would an academic classify my play or something else entirely? Do you want me to refer to the time period, the political situations, or what the main character is struggling with at the moment? Are you looking for descriptors like kitchen-sink dramas, comedies, dramadies, or something more specific? Are you asking me what I wrote last, or what I'm about to write, and are you saying that all my work has to be about the same thing? And why are you trying to pin me down?!?! 

At this point, a mere half-second has gone by in your head, but in my head I've tied my tongue into such knots that I have no hope of answering your question at all without feeling false to myself, and I thoroughly resent you for this feeling. I am at a loss for how to encapsulate my artistic work in a sound bite that will fit between the sip of wine you're taking now and the moment when you realize you have to use the bathroom and wander off, leaving me here, alone, with all the words I never said, and a handful of shattered glass where my wine used to be. 

#2. So, how's your writing going? Did you get much done? 

What do you mean? Do you mean did I write a lot of words down today? I think that's what you mean. As compared to what? Are we counting in words or pages? Or do you mean do I feel good about my writing today? Which is hard to do now that I've been told I'm not writing enough words down. I was feeling good about two-minutes before you asked me that question, but now I'm not so sure. How much is “much” when you say “did you get much done?” Is it a relative term? Are you comparing me to a novelist? Because the medium is totally different. It's fine. My writing is fine. Everything is fine. 

See, this is a trap. If I say my writing is fine, then maybe I'm trying to sound okay when really I'm panicked about it inside, and is that good, or should I be honest and say I'm panicked? But if I'm not panicked, then what does that mean? Have I lost my mojo? Should I be panicked? And what if the writing is not fine, how should I respond, and is it really any of your business? Writing is a very personal business! Why don't you just ask me if I've had sex this week or what my left nipple looks like?! Is nothing sacred anymore? Maybe my writing is not fine, maybe I'm struggling, and maybe my characters are speaking so quietly I CAN'T HEAR THEM RIGHT NOW, but that doesn't mean it won't come back. Sometimes you just have to wait these things out. Sometimes it's about being good to yourself, about not judging, about breathing slowly so you don't hyperventilate. Have a little faith in me for crissakes! Just because I didn't turn out 20 pages last week doesn't mean it's all over! I can't breathe. Is it stuffy in here? I really can't breathe, no really, do you have a paper bag on you? 

#3. So what do you do for work?… A playwright? But, I mean, can you actually make a living doing that? 

I'm sorry, I thought you were asking me what my career was. I thought you were interested in how I've decided to contribute to the world. But no. You wanted to know where the money comes from. The money the money the money, it always comes back to the money! Why didn't you just say, “How do you get your money?” Maybe I steal it. Yes, I steal it. I pick-pocket people on the subway, and sometimes I knock over a homeless person for their change. Who cares where the money comes from?! Why is that the most important part of me? Obviously I'm not starving, so I'm managing to eat and shower and sleep somewhere at night. Maybe you think being a writer is easy, that I just sit home all day twiddling my thumbs like some dilettante? You do, don't you? You think I lazily lounge on the couch in my pajamas playing video games and eating Cheetos? Your day ends at five or six or seven – my day never ends: It's the middle of the night and I'm wondering if the child under the bed in scene four has a disability and if so, what kind? Is that why he's not talkative? Maybe there's another reason. And then when I'm making lunch the next day, I berate myself for not doing enough applications for arts residencies, colonies, contests, fellowships, writing groups, grants... and by the time I'm finished with lunch, I think I need to stop it with the applications my God I haven't even reached Act 2 yet, all these distractions need to stop! By dinner time I'm lonely from a day of writing and want to see people, and by the time I've finished looking at people's shit on FB I've decided people are the enemy and how will I ever get this play completed unless I shut them out of my life and find some solitude? 

And you want to know where the money comes from? From God. The money comes from God. I don't know where it comes from! But writing is what I love. And what tortures me. And how I try to make a difference in the world. Are you really more interested in what kind of soul sucking office temp job I might currently have? Because if you are, I don't want to talk to you anymore. 

#4. Dude, writing is hard. And you're, like, really sacrificing your own comfort because you want to say something important. I totally get that. And I respect it, man, I respect it. Can I buy you a drink? 

This is never a wrong question. On the contrary, this is a splendid response to anything I might ever say. (I threw it in as a “trick” question, so to speak, just to see if you're paying attention. I'm thrilled to see that you are. That means a lot. Really.) I'll have a beer, something malty. Or a whiskey, Makers Mark if they have it. Thank you. Thank you not just for buying me a drink, but for understanding my pain. 

PS - If, however, you are a literary manager, an artistic director, an agent, or any kind of producer, please ignore everything I just said. I'd be happy to answer your questions about anything at all. 

Deen will be be performing excerpts of DRAW THE CIRCLE at the National Queer Asian Pacific Islander Alliance Conference in DC (July 20th) and at Unification 2012 in NYC (August 12th). The show in its entirety will have its Chicago premiere as a partnership between Silk Road Rising and About Face Theatre in December. 

This post is part of a weekly series from the Emerging Writers Group community of playwrights. The EWG is two-year playwriting fellowship at The Public Theater seeking to target playwrights at the earliest stages of their careers. In so doing, The Public hopes to create an artistic home for a diverse and exceptionally talented group of up-and-coming playwrights.

Circadian | a note on practice

By A-lan Holt, member of the 2013 Emerging Writers Group

For the past three full moons I’ve been trying out a new practice: a project I call Circadian Rhythms. The name, knowingly, comes from the cycle of time observed by plants and animals, a 24-hour period of day and night that recognizes and keeps a metric for activity as well as one for rest. Similarly, this project, seeks to revalue a system of time that is inclusive of human connection, art making, being still and other endogenous acts of sustenance. Simply, it is a tool to help ease and encourage transitions throughout the day; to help build a framework for working and living in a healthy and aware state of being. It is a practice of regeneration. 

Circadian Rhythms goes something like this. 

Three months ago I started setting up a series of alarms on my phone that would go off throughout the day starting at Dawn (waking) and ending around 11:30pm (dreaming). The day then was broken into seven somewhat equal (2.5 hour) parts that together completed a full cycle or Circadian Rhythm. Each phase was then named based on seven tenets of health that I identified for myself. These tenets were determined based off values, desired areas of improvement, and avenues for nourishment. They include 1. Physical Health 2. Emotional Health 3. Artistic Freedom 4. Financial Freedom 5. Community Building 6. Mental Expansion 7. Dreaming. 

The names have since evolved within the practice to become: 1. WAKE (emotional health) 2. WERQ (artistic freedom) 3. MOVE (physical health) 4. WORK (financial freedom) 5. CONNECT (community building) 6. MIND (mental expansion) 7. DREAM. I had two tasks within this project. First, I was to set my intentions and actions in accordance with each passing phase despite where I was in the world. Second, I was to gracefully transition when the time came: reorienting my thoughts and actions into a new space. There were some phases that proved more concrete. WERQ for example, always meant writing, meant being enveloped in the art for a couple hours a day—devoted. MOVE, too, was similar. It was about taking time to activate my body be it with others or by myself. Then there were phases that lent themselves to interpretation. CONNECT, for example, could mean connecting with family or friends, connecting with other artists, connecting with art. MIND could be interpreted as an intellectual conversation, sitting down to read a book, or even thinking theoretically or structurally about a play. No matter the circumstances, the beauty came in that each phase was entrained; it adjusted to the local environment in response to internal and external cues. 

After practicing in this way for about a month I began to notice things. I started to feel, everyday, a tiny bit more liberated from this thing called time— this thing that seemed, for a moment, to be taking my spirit. Soon, I didn’t need the alarms these transitions became engrained in my daily operations. This, I found, was something magical. 

Circadian Rhythms, unlike other structures in my life, allowed me to build the things that were necessary for my happiness directly into the framework of my everyday. It gave the things I needed a time and space. There was a time and a place for all things, because there was time enough for only a few things: the things that really mattered. This is regeneration: where we shed the baggage that retards our development to make room for that which aids us in our progression. It is a stripping away of all but the essential. 

During this time of Circadian Rhythms I have been compelled everyday to better understand, that which is essential to my health. This practice gives me daily a heightened awareness of myself in this world; of the daily diggings, and potential I have during each rhythm. This time has been fulfilling indeed. And by fulfilling, I mean to say, that these days, I am quite utterly filled. This daily practice, has allowed me the space for this self-“werq” and oh, it has changed me, most certainly, for the better. 

A-lan Holt is currently developing a new work entitled THE BOTTOM. Her play 8BALL will have its first New York staged reading on August 1st, produced by At Hand Theatre Company. 

This post is part of a weekly series from the Emerging Writers Group community of playwrights. The EWG is two-year playwriting fellowship at The Public Theater seeking to target playwrights at the earliest stages of their careers. In so doing, The Public hopes to create an artistic home for a diverse and exceptionally talented group of up-and-coming playwrights.