Wiseacres West Blog

I started a theater company.

In the past, I've accidentally created a theater company (and you're on its website!) And I've joined companies already in progress (thanks First Seen!) Of course, I've worked for others. But this is the first time I've intentionally done it. Started a company, ground up.

Every Sunday in October? That's crazy! But it's true.

Los Angeles, please welcome exAngelus Playwrights Collective. We must be real. Here's the proof:

We've got a mission:

To serve its member playwrights by providing ongoing workshops, dramaturgical and administrative support and production opportunities- on the playwright's terms.

And a vision:

Kyle T. Wilson, Katherine Murphy and Tira Palmquist begin the ExAngelus Playwrights' Collective with a small but powerful idea:

     we will do it ourselves.

I'll stop there. You can read the rest on our website.

The real proof: Read the rest of this entry »

Trying to remember when we started studying Tennessee Williams, I looked back at my email trails. The traffic started in January.  That means we studied Thomas Lanier "Tennessee" Williams III for nearly half the year.  Reading so much Williams, I felt like I was in grad school again. (To me, that's a good thing.)  Some classics so great to be reminded of, some lesser known plays from the ignorable to the surprisingly different. (My favorite surprise was Kingdom of Earth (think Sam Shepard meets Tennessee.)) Read the rest of this entry »

Part of my Not Playwrighting series…

What I know: My father was abandoned as a child.

What I believe: He was emotionally stunted because he was abandoned as a child.

What I know: Starting at the age of six, my grandmother sent my father to live with family and friends of the family, many of them unkind and interested in child labor.

What I believe: She shipped him off because my dad looked like his father (she kept my Aunt Iris with her.)

What I know: My father was three years old — I think — when his father left. I'll verify this with my brothers. He saw his father once more, at a train station, when he was ten.

What I believe: (Simplified version) Because his father left when he was so young, whenever a man would befriend my father later in life, he never questioned their friendship. He was desperate for their companionship.

What I believe: People smell desperation. Healthy people are repelled by it and parasites are drawn toward it.

Why can't I finish my play? It's never been an issue until this current play. I've never been prolific, but since I started finishing plays, I've never had nothing.

Of course, non-writers are chock full of advice. To them, I say, Offer no advice, unless asked. And writers who've never been blocked, please don't tell me what you do.

I'm full of oh, that won't work advice for myself. But one idea just occurred to me. People are always saying write it out in one way or another. Of course, when you are blocked, it's like telling a depressed person to exercise to make them feel better. Ain't happening. However, since I've been doing this silly blog thing, telling stories for myself and my five readers, I've been writing- just not playwrighting. So, here's my thought… Use this blog to write it out. just not as a play.

I've been thinking a lot about writing and addiction lately. So much has been written on the subject, I should probably read some of it. But I'll probably watch TV instead.

I quit Facebook because I was spending too much time there. I know to most of you it sounds like the most pathetic addition, but I've given up almost everything else. All that remains is coffee, TV, cheese, and the computer. Not necessarily in that order.

Reflecting on 2010 as one does at the beginning of a new year, I realized how I hadn't written anything except maybe two scenes in a play I'd been diddling with for two years. And to write those two scenes, I'd had to retreat to Northern Wisconsin for several days specifically to write. My retreats are usually where I start or finish something. This time, I sat. No substantial writing. Then I thought again. Oh no, Murphy, you've written way more than two scenes. Think of all the status updates and witty comments to other people's status updates. Think of the time and energy spent on pithy little nothings.

Flashback to Halloween 2010.

Luke and I were invited to a Halloween party of one his friends. Neither of us are big fans of parties, but felt mildly obligated and, well, heck, Halloween used to be my favorite holiday- still, I wasn't feeling it. Until! I was on my way home and realized that I was wearing my father's flannel. I had a stroke of brilliance (read: laziness): I could dress up as my father for Halloween! It would be simple and I could be comfortable. A pair of Luke's beige pants, hiked up to my upper waist, white t-shirt, light colored shoes, my father's baseball cap, and, voila, I am my dead father!

Okay. I'm exaggerating. It weren't that bad. I swears.

2010 just started crappy, with my dad dying in January. Mind you, the old coot lived way longer than he should have. It's just, you know: He was my dad. Sure, he wasn't up for the "World's Greatest Dad" award. It's just, you know: He was my dad.

And then there's the fact that I was writing a play about my dad in his cooterage. A comedy. His dying went and put a damper on the play. The bastard. Can you believe he did that to me? Went and died while I was making his life make people laugh? (Please note: I am fully aware that I am sealing my own special place in hell by writing these words and those words.) In 2010, I've written all of one scene of that damned play. Okay, maybe two. But not much more. Since 2002, I've finished a play every other year. Until now. Because instead of writing, this year I've opted to watch the telly and play on the puter. 2010, the year of doing too much and doing nothing at all. (And whose fault is that, missy? You can't blame everything on the old coot. Did he put that remote in your hand? Make you obsessively update FaceBook? I don't think so. (Oh great. Now my mom is in my head. And I can't believe my mom called him the old coot! ))