As some of you know, I'm Literary Manager for a small, bright theater in town as of about a month ago. Now, I'm the first Literary Manager this company has had, so I've been slogging through the three-year submission backlog at the rate of a script a day. Roughly. And I'm largely accomplishing this thanks to the ample reading time provided by my subway ride to and from Nosbleed, Manhattan to my Peacock Job.
Our mission statement is very specific. Along the lines of, "We produce plays written between 1928 and 1953, by female Polish amputee emigres with curly facial hair." Yes, I exaggerate, but still, 95% of the plays we get are way off-base.
Yesterday, on my way in, I read a submission about a family recovering from their daughter's attempted suicide. Not one moment of humor in the whole thing, just an inexorable succession of weepy regrets and carefully unfinished sentences, which of course meant that, once I reached my job at 30 Rock, I wanted to hurl myself from the parapets to accomplish what the play's hapless daughter could not.
i'm a white writer. in new york. original, no? i've been blogging since october 2002. this blog picks up in october 2008, when i moved from DC to NY...(and then I moved to Maine in 2012)