The Library

Intermission

"Where are we on Act II?"

"We're still considering options."

"Do I need to remind you it's two months to curtain? What options? We need Act II!"

"And do I have splendid news for you! We opened it to the public and sponsored a contest, which was very well received. We have thousands of scenarios! I'm telling you we should do this more often."

"You opened it to the public!" The director got instantly aggravated. "So every Tom, Dick and Harry can opine? What for do I need you, then?"

"Don't get upset," the playwright didn't react. He'd been working with the director for a long time and knew the latter could be a bit of a primadonna. It didn't phase him. "We have to stay with the times. Have you seen the social media trends? Everybody is into live, interactive content now."

"God forbid we'd have professional standards!" The director was on a roll. "Call aunt Millie! I'm sure she has a story. We'll make a movie!"

"You know it's not like that," the playwright defended his argument. "We need passion, fresh thinking, different perspectives."

"99% of which, I'm sure, are undiluted crap," the director started fuming. "Throw it all out, and I want an Act II by the end of the day. Or a different playwright. Either will do."

The playwright was unflappable.

"What about the remaining 1%? That little spark of extraordinary that's pure inspiration?"

"Good luck with that! Why don't you sort through that mountain of debris to get me a precious gem and I'll be the judge of whether or not it was worth the effort. You are wasting my time, and the cast's time, and endangering the production with your so called artistic vision. You are here to write, not be the judge on America's Got Talent."

"Please, if you would just take a look... "

"I'm not wasting a single second on that garbage! Sort through it and give me the cliff notes on potentials."

"I've already done that," the playwright spoke, relieved. "I can give you the ten stories I selected, and if you don't like them, we can find more."

"So you're just going to choose a random person from nowhere to decide Gwen's and the numbers' lives for them."

"They're fictional characters in a play!"

"Sure, Dr. Live Interactive Content! They're fictional characters! Where is your professional ethics?"

A horrible realization dawned on the director and he turned an icy gaze towards the playwright, one that didn't bode well.

"Did you send Act I to every loser in the land with writing aspirations?"

"Well," the playwright scratched his head, "I kind of had to, you know? How else were they to come up with decent fan fiction?"

"So, you sent our content out before curtain??!" the director yelled at the top of his lungs. "Do you know how hard is to keep anything out of the press? Why would anybody come see the play then, if you broadcast it on every public channel available two months in advance? Did we get comments?"

"Aah...," the playwright scratched his head again. "I wouldn't read those if I were you."

"That's it!" The director finally snapped. "I'll put up with this outrage because I'm desperate and trying to salvage whatever is left of this production, but if a miracle happens and I find a decent story to pull the second act out of the fire, its writer is going to be your replacement. I'm done with your diva behavior!"

"We were looking for the solution in the wrong place this entire time!" The director defended his vision. "It is the role of communication to allow the flow of information in a group, and it is the role of art is to make things happen by expressing the spirit of the group."

"Did you hear what I said? I want those stories on my desk and you out of my sight!"

The playwright shrugged as he watched the director leave. They'd been working together for a long time and every play went through the firing phase at some point. He had stopped devoting energy to that worry and decided to save it for when it was warranted.

So, he had sold the interactive play story. What a victory! If it were for the director, they'd be all still stuck with Victorian theater, not that there was anything wrong with it. The actors were bored senseless. Everybody wanted something new, something fresh, current, dynamic! What for was he indeed! The director should thank his lucky stars for having someone like him, with creative vision and the finger on the pulse of the audience!

He was pleased and made a note to self to run through some backup stories, just in case; if he knew the director, the latter would throw his choices back at his head just on principle and out of spite for losing the artistic battle.

He wasn't worried.

The well of those almost plausible stories had no bottom: maybe she went back in time, maybe they were the only people on earth, maybe she was already dead, maybe she had fallen asleep on the bus, maybe she was in some lab, subjected to a potent psychedelic, dreaming up a reality that wasn't there, maybe she was every person there.

'Poor Gwen,' he thought. 'Fated to have complete strangers with no qualifications write her life story for her.'

Now that was drama, worthy of Greek Tragedy! Where were the glory days or real theater?

He sighed.

It occurred to him this would make an excellent story, one he could have written himself if his professional standards didn't require him to stay out of the storytelling pool. One had to remain true to one's artistic vision.

He wished he had the time to ask the actors for feedback, their talent was off the charts and many a time had they provided him with brilliant insight, but "Gwen" had given him a poisonous stare at the end of a grueling 12 hour rehearsal and he didn't want to push it. It was bad enough they didn't have an ending to the play. He didn't want to risk the cast quitting two weeks before curtain.

Why were people so resistant to new things, he engaged in a sullen soliloquy? If it were for the average spectator, nothing would ever change, no spark, no breakthrough, no nothing! Just churning the same tired stuff until the mind went numb!

He paused to admit he had to chew through a lot of garbage to find those pearls he had sold to the director. A lot of garbage. Turns out the average person was not that creative.

He sighed, weighed down by his martyrdom. His lot in life was a lot heavier than people knew.

His true vision, which had turned him into a man obsessed for quite some time, was to open the audience to the freedom of endless interpretations, birthing a host of overlapping, simultaneous realities, none more valid than the other. Now that was avant-garde! Oh, how he wished he could sell that to the director, but he was on very thin ice as it was and there wasn't enough time left.

But he had to do it! Art before everything! It was his duty, his purpose, to bring a new vision to his chosen medium of expression. It would be hard, but nothing worth doing is easy. He'll give the director's ire a few days to mellow out before presenting him with the bigger picture.

"Where are my stories??!" the director yelled at the top of his lungs.

"I put them on your desk, like you asked," he replied with perfect poise, like the previous discussion never touched a single one of his emotions.