An article in American Theatre, "If You Are What You Do, I Guess I'm Not a Playwright Anymore," reminds me of another to which I linked not so long ago, being that of a so-called "creative professional" (or would-be "creative professional"), after having had some success in their chosen field, lamenting very publicly that it was not enough.
Okay, "lament" is too strong a word in either case (lament is what I would do), but it feels like a new trend—and one which must meet with a lot of responsive sympathy given how much these articles have been linked to. Scott Timberg in his articles at Salon reported on the crisis of the creative class, and here we see evidence of some of the flotsam and jetsam.
In this case, a playwright who has had what many would consider a highly enviable career, talks about what it means that, even though he has been able to support himself in theater, it has gotten harder to do. I say "highly enviable" in the sense that he has gotten work produced at all, no small achievement in the tight-knit community of professional theatrics. (In other respects it might not be so good.)
As one observing from the "other side," I am given to wondering if Emily Dickinson may have gotten it wrong about "success [being] counted sweetest...."
My purpose is not to consider the industry, or what it means that playwrights find it hard to earn their keep (what is the use in theater anymore?), or anything of the sort. Nor to lament my own situation. Just merely—if anything—to note in passing the similarity of situations from one person to another. "What the hell are we all morticians?" as E.E. Cummings might have asked. Enough is never enough, and yet somehow we all must come to terms.
Okay, "lament" is too strong a word in either case (lament is what I would do), but it feels like a new trend—and one which must meet with a lot of responsive sympathy given how much these articles have been linked to. Scott Timberg in his articles at Salon reported on the crisis of the creative class, and here we see evidence of some of the flotsam and jetsam.
In this case, a playwright who has had what many would consider a highly enviable career, talks about what it means that, even though he has been able to support himself in theater, it has gotten harder to do. I say "highly enviable" in the sense that he has gotten work produced at all, no small achievement in the tight-knit community of professional theatrics. (In other respects it might not be so good.)
As one observing from the "other side," I am given to wondering if Emily Dickinson may have gotten it wrong about "success [being] counted sweetest...."
My purpose is not to consider the industry, or what it means that playwrights find it hard to earn their keep (what is the use in theater anymore?), or anything of the sort. Nor to lament my own situation. Just merely—if anything—to note in passing the similarity of situations from one person to another. "What the hell are we all morticians?" as E.E. Cummings might have asked. Enough is never enough, and yet somehow we all must come to terms.
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