seven/24

So, this past weekend I did seven/24 VI, the 24 hour theater circus that The Tin Ceiling puts on every year. At 8 p.m. on Friday, 14 writers arrived at the Strasser’s gigantic and beautiful house. There, we were paired off to write 10-minute plays. At the same time, seven directors were auditioning actors over at the Theater at St. John’s. About 8 o’clock the next morning, the directors were presented with our scripts and began to cast and call actors.

Sounds simple, non?

Yeah, right. Nothing like 14 insecure lunatics let loose in pairs to try to assemble some vaguely entertaining narrative fueled only by exhaustion, booze, caffeine, and French onion dip. Further, the writers are constructing plays with absolutely no idea who might be available to act in them; while back at the ranch the directors are evaluating actors with no clue as to what they might need for their play. Figure in the vagaries of potential writer’s block and the ever-present possibility that a writing team might devolve into a sullen standoff, and the project begins with all the needed ingredients for disaster. And this is even before the actors try to memorize 10 minutes of dialogue and blocking over the course of a long day in a largely un-air-conditioned building.

Good times, my friend, good times.

Despite all that, seven/24 is an amazing experience. I understand that over the years there have been some disasters—bad plays or bad actors or writer shortages—but generally when all is said and done some amazing things happen. While I do not know that I would count my seven/24 work this year as an unqualified success, I think it went well overall.

This was the second year I wrote for show. My writing partner was the Boy, which absolutely floored the both of us since it is most unlike Robert the Producer to pair up couples to write. It could have gone one of two ways. Either the Boy and I were going to work smoothly and well, or we were going to wind up wanting to participate in a murder/suicide by the end of the night. I am pleased, and unsurprised, that it was the former. Our idea came early and the writing went smoothly. We finished at 2, which is practically early in seven/24 terms.

I was, and remain, extremely happy with how our script turned out. I have often complained of late that so very many plays tend to be so very, very male. They have male characters pursuing male interests and being compelling and interesting while women are mothers or love interests or pawns. Ours was a very, very female play.

I would like to take another opportunity to give a hearty thanks to god for our director and our actors. Had we not had an awesome female lead, our play would have slurped bilgewater and the baby Jesus would have cried. Who am I kidding? I’m sure our play made the baby Jesus cry anyway, but I thought it was lovely.

I was able to put my finger this year on a phenomenon that affected me last year as well. Writing something and anticipating its performance fills me with dread. All day, I just wanted to lock myself in the ladies room and cry my eyes out. I felt exactly the same last year, and the only thing both events had in common was that I had participated in the writing of something that was going to be performed. In front of people. Who were, you know, alive.

This year I exasperated the problem by getting a bit more personal with the work. When all was said and done it sort of turned into a “break your own femur and suck out the marrow” thing. I asked the Boy, a far more prolific and talented writer than I, if I could look forward to this part getting easier. “Nope,” he responds brightly.

Gotta love a man who tells the truth.

Sadly, my involvement with the production did not end with saving our script to the designated seven/24 flash drive. Oh no, that would be too fucking simple. After falling asleep at 4 a.m., I got a call at about 9:30. It was my inestimable future roommate. “Can you act?” she asks. Sure. Why the fuck not?

Well. I’ll tell you why the fuck not. Just because one was up writing until the wee hours and lacks much in the way of recent theater experience DOES NOT, contrary to what one might expect, mean that one will get a small part. Sometimes, the vagaries of seven/24 being what they are, it just means one is going to play an old lady in a muumuu for 10 minutes or so.

Zombie Killer and the incomparable Becky wrote a terrifically clever and funny play about a dysfunctional mother and son relationship and time travel, but, as I pointed out to Chris late in the evening after several cocktails, it had so many goddamned words. So. Many. Words. I never got those fucking lines anywhere near to cold. When all was said and done, I’m mostly happy with how the show turned out, but I still worry I didn’t do the script justice.

So. Picture this if you will. Me rehearsing and blanking on, oh, about every other line. I am not wearing makeup, which is fine because I haven’t brushed my hair either. I’m sweating and I suspect I’m starting to smell. I woke up with an “Oh my god I wrote a play” feeling of dread, and added to that a sense of “Oh my GOD I’m going to fuck up someone else’s play.” I think my fellow actors hated me before all was said and done, and frankly, I don’t blame them. Hoo-muthafuckin’-rah.

I like to act, and being on stage that night was mostly a good time (except when I was realizing that I’d just fucked up). There is nothing like the immediate “Love me! Love me!” that a loudly laughing audience provides. However, I cannot say that I would call THAT part of seven/24 “fun.” It was a wonderful challenge. It pushed me, not so much as an actor, but just personally. And I don’t think I would ever want to do it again.