First Read: A Cotillion

It is after midnight and I sit back-to-back with my mentor and director on the cold, granite steps of the historic Old Post Office Pavilion, a massive Romanesque Revival-style structure with a Clock Tower that soars 300 feet into the bluish-black sky. It occupies an entire city block on the north side of the Federal Triangle along Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC, and is now the home of the National Endowment for the Arts, created in the sixties to embody hope, to nurture American creativity, and to elevate the nation’s culture. It financed legendary works like the original production of Howard Sackler’s “The Great White Hope” with James Earl Jones, and Mona Van Duyn, the first female U.S. Poet Laureate. The enormity of the scene contrasts with how small I feel.

I have just spent the last half-dozen hours in one of its meeting rooms for the rehearsal of my first stage play. For nine months or more, my world has been one of writing endless drafts, ripping out and reordering scenes, the emotional toll of killing characters that were like loved ones, and birthing new characters as the play took on a life of its own. In less than 12 hours, this play is scheduled to be performed by seasoned actors, before an audience of strangers who attend new play readings like sports fanatics follow a team. What if they hate it? What if someone challenges me to defend my creative choices or a character’s motives? What if someone heckles me! What if they all walk out before it’s over? Deep breathing. Affirmations. Nothing helps. What happened to my confidence? The doubters said I would never even finish writing this play, let alone get it produced. Cynics hissed that no self-respecting artistic director would give it a first read, and here I was, sitting back-to-back, with one of the most talented directors and producers in the region. So, what is up with the fear?

A small voice deep inside cites every memory of rejection it can muster, from a middle-school crush with a humiliating end to a misstep that cost me a job. In a misguided attempt to spare me further disappointment, the voice says that a life of mediocrity is preferable to the humiliation of failure. You can’t fall if you never run.

So it is with the table reading, as it is called by theatre folk - essential to a new play’s development, but a risky proposition for the playwright, especially the ego. A team of actors read the script in front of an audience. The playwright listens for holes in the story, dialogue that works well on paper but fails miserably when spoken. It is a bonus when a gifted actor infuses new blood into a character or scene that enriches the story, or if the play attracts a member of the theatre elite. It is like the cotillions of old where poised, well-trained girls in elaborate and uncomfortable gowns – a little loose here, too tight there – prance around in hopes of attracting a suitable mate. In the world of theatre, the table reading is the cotillion, the fabulous fete. The play is the debutante, the young darling, smiling and in control by all appearances, yet trembling on the inside like a foundling.

Few things rival the experience of witnessing an actor give life to a character that was seeded in your imagination. In rehearsal, this is the first time that I hear my baby cry, the moment when she pulls herself up and toddles across the room. And even as she stumbles and falls and pulls herself up again and again, there is this parent-like pride in her effort. I am in awe of my cast: Heather, a Shakespearean-trained actor with bright red tresses that betray her Irish ancestry; Bus, an old friend who fit me in between filming scenes for a motion picture; and a college student who has been doing this since she was twelve. For hours they pick apart my script, sharing brilliant insights that come from years of sitting at tables such as this, and with playwrights who have a name.

Bus peers over his reading glasses. “Good script, but too talky in places,” he says, then turning his attention to Quince, my villain. “This character can be fleshed out more - through his actions - show us who he is, don’t tell us.”

I scribble notes on my copy of the script as each one offers a critique. There are five actors at this table, each of whom has taken ownership of their role and is invested in how the show turns out. The process is dynamic, like the challenge of catching melting candle wax and molding it into a recognizable form before it hardens.

My throat is drying up, my head hurts, and the inner voice whispers that you’re not good enough, you’re not pretty or smart or interesting enough. You’re not a playwright, but a fraud. You have not earned the right to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with all this genius.

Rehearsal ends around 1 a.m. The cast thanks me for the opportunity to read my script. As they pack up their things and begin heading toward the great carved doors, Ed reminds them to get some rest. “Great job, folks. Rehearsal at 10 a.m., MLK Library. Showtime at 3 p.m.”

Although they have offered positive commentary throughout the evening, the voice assures me that they are simply being polite. Tired and beat down, I am reduced to the self-conscious, buck-toothed girl in a ball gown that doesn’t quite fit, and pretty lace pumps that feel like a vise.

The actors are gone and it’s just me and Ed on the steps of this historic building that looks even more like a gothic castle when viewed through bleary eyes under a cloudy sky. As we sit with our backs against the other’s, I ponder whether to call this whole thing off; if I should admit my fears to Ed, my dramaturge, my director, the first person who I trusted to read my work, the man who gave me direct, sometimes brutal criticism, the friend who would list reason after reason as to why he believed in me from the start.

I feel frail both physically and spiritually, and if not for the support of his broad, world-weary shoulders, I know I will crumble into pieces.

Ed senses the intense fear of the rookie, but remains silent, knowing that it is up to me, and only me, to work this out in my own head.

What have I gotten myself into? I have about three hours to decide. If I go through with it, I must get home and work on the revisions, and the new script must be finalized, printed and copied for final rehearsal at ten o’clock. Any subsequent revisions will have to be finished in time for the three o’clock performance. No time for sleep or nourishment or fear. No way is this going to happen. I have been up for 15 or more hours. Hungry, sleepy, back hurting. I will wait until a decent hour to call the actors and tell them that the performance has been cancelled. I will deal with the audience later. Right now, I just want to take in the quiet and close my eyes. But the smell of cigarette smoke drifts my way and a shadowy figure shuffles toward us. His clothes hang and a shawl drags behind him. I imagine that he roams this street all day, and rests on these very steps with a Styrofoam cup in hand, begging for spare change. I wonder how he feels when women clutch their purses as he passes; when men sporting Berluti loafers are so preoccupied that they look right through him. The stranger with the cigarette stops abruptly, just a few feet away. He loses his balance, but quickly recovers. I wonder what he is thinking as his desperate eyes lock with mine. He seems bewildered, and somewhat disappointed by my lack of response and starts to utter something, then changes his mind and goes about his way.

As I watch him disappear beyond the lamplights, I start to think about the choices we make; how they impact the rest of our lives. This stranger with the cigarette, what personal choices, if any, led to him living on the streets? What of the men in Berluti loafers? Was prosperity theirs by choice or by chance? I think about my play, my personal investment for all these months. I think about the choice I am about to make to throw it all away because I am tired, afraid, insecure. I feel ashamed. Like a coward.

I decide to bask in the quiet. The negative voices are silent too. They have won. Random memories float in and out of my head, one of which was a conversation with a friend where I questioned my ability to take on my first 10k run. Was I fit enough? Will the heel spur return? His answer moved me, both then and now: “The difference between failure and success is sometimes just a matter of showing up. We have to make a choice, when we see opportunity, grab it, but we have to be willing to fail.”

I take another deep breath of the perfect spring breeze and nudge Ed’s forearm. “It’s time to go,” I whisper. “I’ve got a lot of work to do before sunrise.”

He smiles, rises, then throws his jacket across his shoulder and offers me his hand. I knew you would work through it,” he said. “Now, you are officially a real playwright.”