Titillating and Informative at the Same Time

It's probably terribly post-modern of me to write about writing, but here goes.

If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?

I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.

But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.

The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).

They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.

And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.

Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).

Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.

I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."

A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.

Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.

And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.

I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.

Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").

And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.

Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.

Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.

Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.

Can't Sing, Loves to Dance

Ahhh....

That's the sound of a non-stop busy week finally letting up. I got home from my day trip to see my Mom, got cleaned up and headed right back out again.

This time, it was to see a showcase of a new musical, "Writers' Weekend," at Richmond Triangle Players.

I stopped to collect my theater-loving girlfriend Pru and we managed to snag last minute tickets in row H, also known as the back row of the theater or eight rows back.

Not only was it the highest point in the theater (perfect for two vertically-challenged women) but we were lucky enough to have a table between us for our beverages.

I love a good phrase as when Pru told a woman who stopped to chat with her how much she liked her gray hair. "I'm embracing my crone years," the woman laughed. Meanwhile, Pru is thinking of going blond, although she's not nearly ditzy enough.

Director B.C. Maupin got things rolling by telling us that the purpose of tonight was for the play's writers (of the book and lyrics and maybe even the music) to finally hear words coming out of actors' mouths.

I know that's what I was there for.

Scripts in hand, a cast of eight acted out and sang the story of a weekend writers' workshop at a rural Virginia B & B while a four-piece band (keys, guitar, bass, drums) provided the musical accompaniment for all the songs.

The six aspiring writers began by singing about why they wanted to become writers.

I want to be a writer
because then my life will turn out right
I want to be a writer
because I have to write

There was the TV action star turned playwright, the newspaper reporter turned detective writer, the technical writer who wanted to branch out into fiction, the self-published sci-fi writer, the suburban slam poet and the published romance writer (with classics such as "Hunky Vampires in Handcuffs") who had writer's block.

It was a terrific cast for a workshop with the actors having achieved far more character nuances than you'd expect for people who'd rehearsed for less than a week.

Clearly that's why they're actors.

The early scenes were funny, with the unpublished writer who was facilitating the group unimpressed with their writing samples after having them each read from a piece they were working on (gems such as "Rickets: The Musical").

All were so badly written that there was nowhere to go but up when she had them break into duos and trade genres to challenge their skill sets.

So the older woman romance writer and younger man technical writer are paired up to bodice-ripping results while the slam poet, an attitude-filled black woman, is paired with the former reporter she describes as a "puffy white man."

And of course the playwright (formerly TV hero "Captain Fabulous") gets paired with the worshipful sci-fi fan.

When the workshop leader tells them she has arranged for a literary agent to attend their final reading in hopes that one of them will get representation, it's an excuse for her to vent about the sleaziness of agents and the ineptitude of editors.

"Agents are the speed bumps in the literary highway!" she says with disgust. "Editors are the sworn enemy of adverbs."

Much of the script was hilarious enough to laugh out loud and not just because I earn my (meager) living as a writer, because I was far from the only one chortling repeatedly.

During intermission, Pru and I digressed, discussing the beauty of recycling books by buying used and how the main library's sales and giveaways make that so easy to do.

I have to admit, I'm always curious about whoever read the book I'm holding before I did and whether we had the same reaction to it. Did they get something I missed?

Then we settled back in for the second act, only to discover that each of the sets of writers who'd been paired up were finding attraction in each other.

At a cocktail party, both the angry slam poet and frustrated reporter found themselves ordering the same thing at the bar.

"There is nothing sexier than a woman drinking whiskey," the reporter purrs. I would argue that a woman drinking tequila is sexier, but it's not my play, so not my dialog.

When the playwright and sci-fi writer begin flirting, he's put off, feeling that she's too young for him.

"Old is sexy," she assures him. "Old is the new black." It's enough to get them dancing, despite that she says she doesn't know how.

"A dance floor is a foreign land where you're who you want to be," he tells her. So true.

The lusty romance writer and geeky, young tech writer are soon embroiled in concocting a steamy train tale with her hand repeatedly "on the throttle," necessitating them both needing cigarettes afterwards.

The song lyrics were creatively catchy and, in many cases, so cleverly funny that you missed the next line by laughing, a great problem to have.

If there was a better way to end a jam-packed week than laughing at a bunch of characters whose main goal is to spend their time writing, I can't imagine what it would be.

Well, maybe at a story about a woman who, no matter how busy she finds herself, somehow makes the time between meeting deadlines and going out every night to blog and over-share her life, feelings and thoughts.

Nah, probably not that funny.