Originally, I had planned to train up to the city and return to Maryland in the same day, but the cost is prohibitive and the timing inconvenient, so I opt for a hotel room at a dreadful place in Long Island City. I enter the room like Barton Fink.

Back in Manhattan I spy Tommy Hilfiger. I assume that there is some sort of fashion shindig nearby since the sidewalks are teeming with girls who appear to be fashioned from pipe cleaners. I later learn that the girls are here to see a Taylor Swift concert at Madison Square Garden.

I have dinner with Ava’s daughter, Raine. Ava, you may recall, is the president and only member of my west coast fan club. Raine is now in New York working as an intern and actress. We talk about the difficulty of starting out and I compliment her courage, coming directly to New York after college. When I was her age, my fear of New York drove me to New Haven, which I suppose, in retrospect, is even more frightening.

The lobby is beginning to fill as I arrive at the theater. Jackob and I shout a quick hello to the cast through the dressing room doors. There are only eight empty seats, but two of the men in the back row are nodding off before the show even begins. It will be a quiet night. The cast give a good performance, though Anne dries in a couple places. The show is greeted with smiles rather than laughter. We don’t lose anyone at intermission, but only half the crowd remains for the talkback. They are quiet, asking only two questions. But that does not stop me from blithering ceaselessly. If you put me in front of an audience, I will not be silenced without the force of armed goons. I talk for nearly twenty dull, quiet minutes, granting everyone else no more than three sentences. Thank God I’m leaving in the morning. After tonight, the critics start coming.

I grab a drink with the artistic director of Athena Theatre, a small company with roots in both New York and L.A., looking to fill their upcoming season. I pitch Stonewall’s Bust and Jack The Ticket Ripper.

THURSDAY, FRIDAY, and SATURDAY–I return to Maryland, happy to receive a couple of script requests for Beckett, a book to critique for Washington Independent Review of Books, and an offer to publish Jack The Ticket Ripper, the last of which I need to discuss with my agent. Mark’s stage manager reports indicate that the houses were either small (Thursday and the Saturday matinee) or quiet (Friday). Knowing that critics are basing their reviews upon these performances rekindles my intuitions of doom.

I am also aware of two slights which I had not expected: The New Yorker is not listing the show in its “Goings On” section, and the Times has not requested a copy of the script, which they usually do prior to a review. I assumed that the success of Engaging Shaw in New York, California, and potentially in Europe next spring would have generated at least a mention. Plus Ben Brantley had just written an article describing his love of theater about theater. Why doesn’t our show count? I am reminded of the critical silence that greeted Gianni Schicchi in Washington last year. All theater is a lesson in humility.

SUNDAY–Betsy and I leave the boys alone and drive up to New York for opening night. We are staying at the Hotel Pennsylvania and, because of this, I can’t get Pennsylvania 6-5000 out of my head. As we emerge from the Lincoln Tunnel, the sidewalks flow with costumed geeks babbling toward the Comic-con.

I scribble notes of thanks and congratulations to the cast before heading out with Betsy for a pre-show drink. We are meeting Jack DePalma, who was the chief advocate for Engaging Shaw at Old Globe before striking out on his own. As we await Jack, I notice Fred Armisen strolling up 8th Avenue. I text my sons about the sighting and they respond jadedly, “Of course you did.” Jack and Betsy hit it off well. I’m very happy she is here. I mention that Henry and I hope to develop Comedy Of Venice and Jack expresses interest in the play’s premise.

Energy is high at the theater. Jackob tells me that last night’s show was packed, with a very responsive audience. We expect the same tonight. I have a few friends present including my agent and a pair of poets from Baltimore, whose luggage we store in the dressing room. I ask Kim about critics but he is circumspect and evasive. Jan whispers that she’s having trouble getting the Times. Frustrating.

The show itself goes off without a hitch. No lines are dropped. Everyone is focused. And the laughter is prevalent. If any critics saw this performance, they saw the one we set out to present.

I am surrounded by well-wishers at the party and don’t get to speak with everyone I see. Jack is complimentary, declaring the play a workplace comedy that could be developed into a sitcom, like Slings And Arrows. He offers to read anything I care to send him. My agent is all smiles, observing that he didn’t see anywhere a critic could “nail us.” Amanda, the box office manager, keeps slipping me extra drink tickets. Kim and Betsy take pictures. Jan appears emotional as she presents the cake. Warren is gloriously loopy from a single wine spritzer and kisses all the men. Everyone is asking Jackob and me “what’s next?”

I hadn’t thought of that. The question lurks all night within the shadows of my mind, nurtured by ego and avarice. Betsy and I leave the party to get dinner at an Irish pub on 9th Avenue.

MONDAY–Jackob calls as Betsy and I are having breakfast. The first review is out, from Theatermania, and it’s a rave. With the Times not in the picture yet, Theatermania is perhaps the highest profile review we will receive this week. Jackob calls twice more during the drive home to read more positive press. My imagination turns to the question of last night: “What’s next?” I feel the contentment from last year’s success of Engaging Shaw transform into ambition for greater successes now. Greed stirs and I create a silent litany of long-dormant, professional desires–the “I want” list.

Back home, I google the title and discover two negative reviews Jackob had withheld from me. In both, the script is blamed for the production’s failure. Rather than cooling the “I want,” these pans make the feeling burn hotter, fueling it with petulant hubris. Delving deeper into the search results, I come across a review from a site I don’t recognize. Upon clicking the link, I see that it is not a review at all but a blog entry. An audience member is writing about the show. And what she writes stirs me deeply.

She dissects the play, quoting from it, applying it to her own life, and advocating for it with the struggling artist’s desperate fervor against the silence of an empty hall. “Nobody reads this,” she concludes, “but if they did, I’d tell them to see this show.”

My wants dissolve. I don’t care anymore about the Times ignoring me or the sanction of lesser critics. All that matters is having touched this one person so profoundly. If I am to continue in this career, my focus needs to shift from “What more can I get?” to “What more can I give?”

I’m guessing the answer is probably, “Not much.” But until now, I’d never felt the responsibility to try.

David, the sound designer, has been recording the scene change vignettes using the talents of Nancy Opel, currently appearing in Memphis on Broadway, Abingdon artistic director Jan Buttram and an actor we liked from the auditions but couldn’t use named John Biles. Kim is concerned about how properly to credit these actors since the program has already gone to print. I suggest we put their names on the mock theater posters that will decorate the set. Jackob asks me to record the remaining voices, the three requiring accents, when I return to New York for tech week.

MONDAY–The lights and set are being loaded as I enter the theater. The designers have a long day and evening ahead of them so they pay me little heed. They are kind enough to store my suitcase in the dressing room while I grab lunch. David has scheduled me to record the remaining vignettes at 6:30 this evening, but Jackob and I hope to convince him to do it earlier. Unfortunately, David hasn’t arrived.

Jackob and I talk candidly in the dressing room about the entire process, some of which he prefaces with, “This is not to be blogged.” But nothing he says is in any way defamatory or upsetting, we’re in good shape. We both confess to being nervous. Is this play–a nervy indictment of contemporary dramaturgy and office politics–an adequate follow-up to Engaging Shaw? With Shaw, an audience knew where it stood: safely within the confines of romantic comedy and Shavian structure. But what genre is Blame It On Beckett? Comedy? Drama? Diatribe? Maybe it’s all three: a Diadramedy! We’ve put the best available elements together. But we won’t know what we have until an audience sees it.

The designers tell us that David isn’t expected until 5:00. He has two other shows opening this week. I grab an early dinner with Jackob and his partner Hugh. David calls Jackob to say he needs to push my recording back to 9:00 p.m. I can’t do this. I walk to the theater to tell David directly, suggesting that perhaps we could record it at the theater now or reschedule for tomorrow morning. David declares tomorrow to be impossible, but asks me, “Is John here? Tell me, do I have John tonight?” I glance furtively at the other designers before confessing to be the John in question. Pause. “Of course you are!” We grab a cab to David’s studio and record the voices.

I take the subway to Astoria, where I’m staying with an old college friend. On the train, a fifty-five year old woman in a mini skirt and large, expensive jewelry smiles at me. I smile politely back. As she leaves the train, she touches my arm and says goodbye. I have no idea what she expects from me, carrying as I am a large suitcase and a wedding ring. I accept the encounter as further evidence that I’m a magnet for loonies.

I enjoy catching up with Mike, the college friend, who arrives with an armful of my two favorite foods: Diet Coke and beer. Since last I saw him, Mike has installed beehives on his roof and is putting the resultant honey in jars. He tells me a wonderful story about an apiary war between New York’s two rival beekeeping societies. It reminds me of Bill Forsyth’s film Comfort And Joy, about the rival ice cream companies, and I start thinking of a Pythonesque sketch that could be written from it.

TUESDAY–On the way to the theater, as the R train stops at Queens Plaza, I see an E train pull up on the opposite track. Doing quick mental math I dash from one train to the other, sparing myself a walk of six blocks. I’m as proud as a toddler who just learned to put a cylinder through a round hole.

The dry tech is my first opportunity to hear the scene change vignettes. They are funny and effective, with one embarrassing exception: my attempt at a British accent barely reaches the level of Dick Van Dyke. Andrew, the set designer, shows me delightful computer images of the mock theater posters that will hang upstage. I make one small suggestion, which he readily incorporates.

The actors arrive late afternoon for the cue to cue. I give them many hugs and a few revisions. Anne suggests a further cut, upon which we compromise. Jackob is concerned about the end of each act, two crucial moments in the show. He asks the actors to run through them for my benefit. Rehearsing end of act one, Warren is made so nervous by my presence that he can’t get a single word out. During a second effort, he and Lori are wonderful. Lori is so youthfully strident I explode with laughter. She reminds me of Peter Pan exhorting the lost boys to fight Captain Hook. I am pleased by their choices and give only one note.

End of act two, however, I understand Jackob’s concern. The scene, as written, is a tough one, containing maybe five major reversals in the span of six pages. None of the reversals are overtly stated. The inferences must all be conveyed through the performers’ gestures and reactions, and some of them are not quite clear yet. I make a small revision and a suggestion to help Lori. But Anne has made a unique choice which she considers intrinsic to her character that runs the risk of transforming a dynamic moment of onstage creativity and discovery into dictation. It’s not a bad choice–it works for her character and is justified in the script–but there’s a possibility that it might take the focus and urgency off the story. Over dinner, I suggest that Jackob find a way to direct around the choice, so that Anne gets what she needs and the audience gets what they need too. That will be tomorrow’s project. Tonight we will run the show with tech.

Jan and Kim are in the house for the run-through. While the actors are getting in costume I talk shop with Jan, who is developing her own script for the next slot in Abingdon’s season. During the run I sit beside Bill, the casting director, who laughs at the scene change vignettes and the inside theater jokes. The cast bring a good deal of energy to act one. It’s the first time in twelve years that I’ve been able to sit through it without cringing. At intermission Bill remarks that the story isn’t really about life backstage, it’s about four passionate people relating to each other in a highly fraught environment. Everyone shines in act two. Big Mark made a crucial discovery about his character before dinner and we see it blossom in the first scene. Warren’s breakdown in scene two is heart-wrenching. Lori is almost never offstage and rides her character’s emotional roller coaster beautifully. And Anne, with no direction from Jackob or me, makes a small but crucial change to the focus of her final monologue which solves much of the difficulty I spotted earlier. I compliment the choice effusively and Anne confesses that she had noted my concern and made adjustments. I love working with good people. Jan gives me a strong line note, which I immediately pass along to the cast.

I drag in around midnight. Mike is still up. He tells me about a fascinating beekeeper in Hong Kong who gathers honey with no protective gear or gloves.

WEDNESDAY–The set is finished, with the posters hung and mountains of scripts from Abingdon’s own literary office stacked in the corners. I look for Stonewall’s Bust and Irish Authors Held Hostage among them, but my two plays are mere needles in this dramaturgical haystack. The props master has created an astonishingly realistic cover for The Complete Plays of Hrosvitha of Gandersheim, with a medieval drawing of faded ink and worn gilt.

Warren, after a long conversation with Jan and Kim, feels that Jim (his character) is forgiving the character of Heidi too quickly and easily in the penultimate scene. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that this is a problem. I offer to create a new line, but Warren and Jackob feel that it’s an interpretation issue. We present the new interpretation to Lori and she agrees. We rework the crucial moment in the final scene when Heidi learns that Jim is going to New York in her place, breaking down Lori’s reaction into three distinct emotions over the course of three separate words. It’s a tough job for an actor, but Lori handles it adroitly, eliciting from me a devastated sigh. At Kim’s suggestion, we switch the order of two of the scene change vignettes and rework those transitions. A run-through is planned for after dinner.

The designers, staff, Jackob, and I decide to sit in various front row “stress” seats, the places where an audience member’s feet could cause a problem for the actors, just to give them a better idea of how little space they will actually have. I love the intimacy of the theater, but it can be a distracting challenge at times. I worry that someone will kick Anne in the head when she lies down on the stage.

The run goes smoothly and Jackob’s notes are mostly positive. Big Mark expresses dissatisfaction with his performance, but I reassure him that he’s doing an excellent job. Tomorrow there will be an invited audience. Jackob gives a pep talk. He invites Kim to do the same. And then me. I’m not really a pep talk guy and I’m a dreadful impromptu speaker, but I manage to stammer out expressions of joy and gratitude to be working at this theater, and with these people again, on a script I’d abandoned as never to be produced. No one appreciates better than I the luck that led me here.

As rehearsal breaks, Kim asks Jackob and me to look deeper at the forgiveness aspect of the penultimate scene. It’s still happening too quickly. I offer to cut a particularly poignant line, one of my favorites. Kim is reluctant to suggest the cut, declaring the line to be beautifully written. I counter that it is only beautiful so far as it serves the action. As I always do, I quote my dramaturgy professor Cynthia Jenner: “Kill your babies.” The line goes.

Back in Queens, Mike tells me about a lecture from a honey sommelier who advocates artisanal, single flower honeys, like pumpkin and bamboo. He disagrees with her, preferring the complex flavors of multi-flower. I talk about beer, which is about the limit of my conversational powers.

THURSDAY–Andrew has added homely, little props to the set to make the office appear lived in: an envelope stuffed with delivery menus, packets of duck sauce in the desk drawers, boxes of scripts labeled “keeper” and “crapper” as Jim divides them in the dialogue. He even provides a small bust of Shakespeare as an ironic comment. I ask if Shakespeare could have a blindfold. Andrew laughs and provides one within five minutes.

Warren and Lori work with Jackob on the forgiveness section, instituting the new cut. The cut makes a huge difference and leads us to more. By the end we’ve cut ten lines from the scene, changing the tone significantly for the better without affecting the plot. After photo call we break for dinner to prepare for the final dress rehearsal in front of invited guests.

I meet my friend Meg at a Cajun place on restaurant row. The faux New Orleans architecture reminds her of Disney World. I’m nervous about Meg seeing the show because I wrote the role of Heidi for her. I can’t believe she has never read it or seen a reading of it over the past twelve years.

The number of guests is small–about eighteen–and the atmosphere is informal. Meg and I sit with Mike in the front row. Big Mark drops a few lines out of first-audience jitters and I spot a section in scene two that could use the knife, but overall the performance appears to be successful. Meg laughs hard at all of the obscure, academic theater jokes, which pleases me to no end. She is impressed with Warren’s performance in particular. But though she does identify with the character of Heidi, she doesn’t think the script has any life outside of a university. We repair to The Brick in Astoria and discuss the contentment that comes with job security and middle age. As we separate, Meg checks her iPhone to tell me that the Yankees lost game five to the Tigers. I’m having too much fun to be upset.

FRIDAY–Mike has early morning bee business (collecting honey) and the only way to the roof is through the closet of the room where I’m staying. Last night, I assured him that, without my hearing aid, I would sleep through it all, which proves to be true. Mike is done by the time I awake, the only evidence of his late presence being two honeybees, who crawl along the carpet beside my bed in desolate confusion.

First preview–or as Jackob says: the first paying audience–is tonight, so I have the afternoon off to relax. I head to a Times Square movie theater to catch Moneyball, perhaps the best movie for absolute baseball geeks I’ve ever seen. I construct an analogy worthy of the SAT. Moneyball is to non-baseball nerds as Blame It On Beckett is to non-theater nerds. The nerds will pick up more inside references to their specialization, but that doesn’t mean the anti-nerds won’t enjoy it too. Or so I hope.

Anxiety provokes me to silly behavior at the theater. As the audience files in, I stand beside Veronique, the ticket taker, and tell every patron that their seats are the best. My agent is in attendance, slightly worried by the cagey responses he has been receiving from Warren and me. We don’t quite know what we have here. The audience will tell us.

And they do. The packed house explodes with laughter at the first scene. Warren has them in the palm of his hand. The script adjustment to the second scene is effective, but now I’m spotting an issue in scene three which I can’t quite fathom. Big Mark has a monologue in that scene about theater and the American political divide that has never ceased to get big laughs in previous readings of the show. Tonight it is greeted by silence. Is it the script? The direction? The performance? Or is it a joke specific to Washington that doesn’t play in New York? I mention it to Jackob as a red flag.

Warren and I grab a drink at Cooper’s Tavern with our agent, who is beaming. The show is so tight, he can’t believe it is only the first preview. He teases us about frightening him with cautious emails. On the subway back, I stand in the empty car because the bench is covered with blood.

SATURDAY–I’ve been invited to this morning’s meeting of the Abingdon playwright’s group. At their request, I bring thirteen pages of something new I’m writing for Rod Brogan, who played Shaw in San Diego. I am hoping to blend into the background, at this meeting, but Kim begins it by introducing me as a special guest and asks me to talk about the rehearsal process. I blither vapidly, ending with, “You’re playwrights, you know how it is.” One by one we share our work and discuss it. They are a talented group and very respectful of each other’s work. Kim moderates wonderfully. I know my play is a verbal minefield and hope to use an actress in the room who is doing a good job with everyone else’s material. But she needs to leave before my turn and I am denied permission to play the Rod Brogan role myself. Even special guests must abide by the rules. It does not play well. Disappointing, yes, but highly instructive.

I sit behind Abingdon’s Executive Director Sam Bellinger during the matinee. He observes that the show is much funnier on stage than on the page. It’s another packed and responsive house. A few people stand at curtain call, including the woman beside Sam. She shakes my hand and compliments the play with the magic words we’ve been hoping for: “I know nothing about the theater, but I loved it.” But I’m not happy. Big Mark’s political monologue still isn’t landing. I tell Jackob I don’t want to cut it, since it’s one of my favorite moments in the show, but I will need to cut it if we can’t make it work. Jackob assures me he will talk to Big Mark between shows. If it doesn’t land tonight, it’s gone.

I have dinner at a Thai place on 9th Avenue with my college friend JoAnn, whose birthday it is, and a group including JoAnn’s sister, the sister’s co-worker, and a pair of actors who at one point were interested in producing A Thing For Redheads. JoAnn tells me about a friend of Mike’s, whose bees made red honey from maraschino cherry syrup which looked, when cut from the comb, like raw flesh. Other friends await me at the theater, including Mike and Mare, the wife of a good actor friend who is currently performing in Newsies. Mare is starting a company of her own and I gave her permission to produce the Oscar Wilde scene from Irish Authors Held Hostage at Houndstooth on 15 October.

The show is sold out. Warren flubs a number of lines, which I know is killing him. Overall, however, the performance is strong. The big breakthrough comes from Big Mark. He considerably brightens his approach to act one. The result is laughter during the political monologue and a significantly more interesting character on stage. Big Mark walks with Mike and me toward the subway. He feels better about the scene and declares the show a hit.

SUNDAY–I lunch with three very dear friends from college whom I’ve not seen since graduation in 1987. Back in the time, we hung out, studied, worked, and essentially lived with each other every day. Sharing our post-college stories we immediately fall back into the rhythm of younger days. Seeing them now, I am all the more grateful for the years we spent at Stony Brook. I confess to having used one of their names for a character in Blame It On Beckett. She and her husband are touched. We exchange high fives.

Another sell-out. I am forced to give up my seat to a paying customer. I remember from 2010 that selling out the preview weekend is uncommon. So why is everyone here? During intermission a couple shake my hand, saying that they saw Engaging Shaw last year and had to come see this one too.  Another couple tell me that they read this blog.  I cannot wrap my mind around the idea of having fans.  Either it’s laughable or it’s terrifying.

The actors give their best performance so far. Warren clearly spent some time going over his lines, which he delivers with greater clarity. Big Mark solidifies his new character choice, and Lori and Anne are delicious. Jan and Kim are all smiles as we head into the day off.

I grab a drink with Anne and marvel at the stunning success of this first weekend. We discuss strategies for extending the run or finding people to move the show, because there won’t be any tickets left for producers if the critics enjoy the show as much as the audience. Somehow, this abandoned script from twelve years ago–which was once called during a talkback after a reading “the most uncommercial play ever seen”–has been transformed into an entertaining evening for which tickets are scarce. When this happened to Engaging Shaw I felt joy and vindication. With this play, it is disbelief.

We’ve made offers to people for three of the roles, so we are only looking for one person and perhaps some back-up actors–just in case Mr. Spielberg calls one of the people already cast. Bill (the casting director), Jackob (the director), and I are essentially in agreement as the cruel process begins. We are assisted by a volunteer named Hannah, who is tremendously efficient. A number of friends audition. It is a joy to see them, but I’d much rather be sitting with them over a drink than assessing their ability to emote under pressure. Toward the end, Jan and Kim (Abingdon’s bigwigs) sit in, along with a regiment of interns. Happily, there is little discussion or horse trading in the end; everyone is on the same page. Bill makes offers to the cast we want, and, after some negotiation, that is the cast we get.

Jackob and I grab a beer at a nearby pub and talk about the cast, the script, my first week of rehearsals at Old Globe, and an upcoming performance of one of Jackob’s plays at the Samuel French Festival. I’m pleased to be working with him again and excited for his success.

Amtrak at rush hour is prohibitively expensive, so my return trip isn’t until 10:00 p.m. I spend the time at Houndstooth Pub with my friend Meg, who is about to start a full-time professorship at Brooklyn College. I fall asleep on the train, nearly missing my stop, and collapse at home around 2:30 in the morning.

MONDAY
The first rehearsal isn’t until tomorrow, but I plan to save money by riding the discount bus from Bethesda this time. One of Abingdon’s board members has very graciously offered me the use of a spare apartment in Manhattan this week, another way of saving money. All the board member asks in exchange is that I never mention him or her in this blog. (Done.)

I’m the first person in line waiting for the bus, but soon I am joined by a man carrying a rug and an accent, both of them heavy. He tells me of his conspiracy theories regarding the JFK assassination and how they are related to Obama’s inability to cross America’s corporate power brokers. As we board the bus, he asks me my profession, which leads to a monologue about favorite actors. Around exit six of the Jersey Turnpike, he shifts the topic to the ability of comedians to “get a lot of women.” He refers to Peter Sellers and Johnny Carson, and asks me if I know how many women Jerry Seinfeld gets. I admit to ignorance. He asks me what kind of plays I write, and when I say “comedies” there is but the slightest of pauses before he asks me if I get as many women as Jerry Seinfeld. Quite happily married, I confess to being the exception that proves the rule.

Throughout this one-sided exchange, the man has been sitting behind me. My head has been turned backwards for most of the ride and I leave the bus feeling queasy. Safely stowed in the apartment, I call Jackob to learn the schedule for the rest of the week. He tells me that we will be rehearsing at night. I could have taken a bus tomorrow.

I have dinner with Meg at a wine bar near the Brooklyn Academy of Music and squander the rest of the evening at a pub near Columbus Circle, watching the Yankees crush the Mariners. An eccentric woman with a Russian accent is trying to win the attention of two businessmen, who move away from her. After yelling at them she grabs my arm, saying, “Tell me something. Would you talk to me?” It’s not an invitation to conversation; it’s a survey question. I say, “Sure,” and she leaves the bar angrily, cursing the businessmen again for good measure. It has been a trying day for the accented community.

TUESDAY
I arrive at the theater about half an hour before my scheduled meeting with Jackob to say hello to the Abingdon staff. I give Kim some revised pages for distribution later at rehearsal. Jan and I share a fun colloquy outside the elevator.

I spot Jackob on 36th Street and we repair to Houndstooth for lunch. I am doing my best not to show what a nervous wreck I am. Despite how comfortable I feel with Abingdon, Jackob, and the cast, I am crawling out of my skin with anxiety over this production. When Engaging Shaw arrived in New York, it had four readings and two productions already under its belt. The play was a known quantity. But Blame It On Beckett will premiere here, and I have no idea how it will be received. The ingredients for a humiliating “sophomore slump” have been laid out neatly on the kitchen counter. It’s my job to put those ingredients away before the chef arrives.

We are joined by Mark, the stage manager, and discuss all aspects of the show before heading to a production meeting in the theater. At the production meeting, I get my first glimpse of where the designers are and am pleased. The set will look like a dreadful, old office. The costumes are appropriate. And the sound designer relishes the vignettes I’ve written to cover the scene changes. About a week ago Jackob suggested that I write short snippets of comic dialogue to mask the scene changes, rather than using music. The dialogue would be recorded as radio plays and would run the gamut from a Tony Award speech to a scholar lecturing about Beckett. Jackob’s plan is to use Abingdon board members with recognizable voices (perhaps Austin Pendleton or Tyne Daly) to perform the vignettes. Kim is on board with the idea, but does not hesitate to tell us how difficult it will be to secure celebrities for something like this.

The actors file in for the first rehearsal and pandemonium ensues. It’s like a family reunion. I know Warren (playing Jim) very well from Engaging Shaw. I know Mark Doherty (playing Mike) from the reading earlier in the year. And I know Lori both from the reading and from the benefit performance of Shaw, when we sat at the same table. The newcomer is Anne Newhall (playing Tina), who I notice feels a little overwhelmed by the familiarity on display from everyone else. Also present are Jan, Kim, a number of other staff, and a board member. After an hour or so of equity business and introductions, we read the script for the first time. I prepare for the worst.

But I have nothing to worry about. Three lines into the play we’re already laughing. I am lucky to have this cast. Warren’s take on Jim is a tour de force of wit, posturing, decayed elegance, and shockingly heartfelt emotion. He is not only the Jim I always envisioned on the page, he is better. He gives the character a competence and dignity that I had not envisioned, but can no longer do without. Lori and Mark (who I will call Big Mark, to differentiate him from the stage manager) share a wonderful chemistry. Lori proves a worthy stage adversary for Warren and I can imagine no one but Big Mark playing Mike. Anne gives the character of Tina a marvelous directness, that hides the character’s overwhelming loneliness or emotional hole.

After the applause and congratulations, the designers and staff leave us to work. Warren and Anne are smart, dedicated actors and have many insightful questions about certain moments in the script. We spend nearly half an hour discussing one page at the top of act two, which I scramble to edit to their satisfaction. Big Mark declares that particular page to be the crux of Jim’s character, which leads to a discussion about themes and repeated actions throughout the play. I’m less comfortable when the talk waxes complimentary than when we’re fixing problems. Jackob asks me to perform the scene change vignettes for everyone, and I have much too much fun doing the different voices and accents. The largest laughter comes from a vignette in which Beckett pitches his plays to a Hollywood producer in an elevator.

With rehearsal done, we repair to Houndstooth, where Warren buys a round for everyone. I talk almost exclusively to Anne, who tells wonderful stories about Circle Rep in the seventies and eighties, working with Lanford Wilson and Albert Innaurato.

WEDNESDAY
It’s a beautiful day. I choose to walk rather than take the subway. As I head down Eighth Avenue, I spy John Turturro heading toward me, talking theater with someone. As they pass, I text my sons: “Just spotted John Turturro. I thought he was a toad.” Both boys respond, “Hahaha! That’s awesome.” Continuing toward Abingdon, I discern John Turturro’s voice close behind me. They’ve turned around and are now walking in my direction. As we wait for a walk signal, I surreptitiously grab a Blame It On Beckett postcard from my briefcase. Discovering a period at the end of one of their sentences, I hand John Turturro the postcard discreetly saying, “Excuse me, I’m the author of this.” He smiles at the title of the play and exclaims, “You certainly gave it to the right person!” I thank him, declaring truthfully that I’m a huge fan, and continue on my way.

Jackob calls and asks me to meet him on the High Line to discuss revisions. I’ve never heard of the High Line, but I follow Jackob’s directions to an old, abandoned elevated train track which now serves as a park and walking trail, two stories above Tenth Avenue. This city never ceases to amaze me: what was once an eyesore requiring demolition has been transformed into a unique and beautiful public space. I present Jackob with a few suggested cuts, to some of which he agrees.

At the theater, we offer the changes to the actors and–strangely to me–they argue for the cut lines to be reinstated. Something is wrong with the world when a playwright wants to make cuts and the director and actors don’t! Anne and Warren again have many questions and concerns, all of them salient, which I address happily with changes. Anne keys into one line in her first scene that, she feels, isn’t written in Tina’s voice. I try to listen to actors who tell me things like that, because they know the characters better than I. They live with the character. I am merely a visitor. After a long, involved discussion, I offer a new line that meets with her approval, as well as Jackob’s, and which significantly strengthens Mike’s motivation over the course of the entire show. Big Mark expresses sincere thanks to Anne for giving him more to play.

I leave rehearsal early to have dinner with Henry Wishcamper, who directed Engaging Shaw in San Diego. We discuss development opportunities for Comedy Of Venice. I’m excited that he is interested in the piece. He tells me about a hilarious Moliere play he wants to direct someday, and about preparing to direct a new Conor McPherson script at the Guthrie. I tell him that his Red Sox are in second place to my Yankees.

I head uptown to see a friend sing at a club on 54th Street, but I’m too late. I duck into a bar to catch the Yankees game, hoping to see Mariano Rivera tie Trevor Hoffman’s saves record. The game is exciting and low-scoring. As it heads into extra innings, some guy sits beside me and loudly proclaims to the bartender and everyone else within earshot that he just got a job. I congratulate him and return to the game. He asks me in a dreadful New York accent if the game is live. I say yes, and he seizes upon that as an opportunity to tell me everything he doesn’t know about baseball.

I do my best to ignore him until he tells me he is writing a play. Seeing that my interest is piqued, he asks condescendingly if I am interested in theater. I answer that I’m a playwright too. I ask what his play is about and he can’t describe it. He explains that it’s a ninety minute one-act that’s only fifty pages long. I don’t see how this is possible, but remain mute. Not only will this play win the Pulitzer Prize, he boasts, but it will deserve it, unlike some of the recent winners. I mention that I remember the scandal when The Kentucky Cycle won without having yet been produced in New York. I was house manager when it was in development at the Long Wharf.

He shouts, “Long Wharf, you know that’s where O’Neill got his start.”

“No.” I answer, “O’Neill got his start at Provincetown.”

“No, it was Long Wharf. O’Neill was from Connecticut.”

“He was from the Groton/New London area, not New Haven.”

“But Long Wharf was where he got his start. They did all of his plays.”

I want this idiotic conversation to end, so I just say: “You’re wrong.”

“Wanna bet?”

Arrogance and ignorance are a dangerous admixture. And yet, I like to think that even the arrogant and ignorant have a place in this world. That place is called “Texas.” It’s not “beside me during a Yankees game in extra innings.”

“If I were to accept your bet,” I seethe, “I would take every penny you own. I worked at Long Wharf. It was founded in 1965. O’Neill was quite dead.”

Pause.

“I’m gonna see your play. Will you see mine?”

“I live in Maryland.”

“I’m gonna get it produced there too. I’m bringing it down there. I’m getting it done all over the world. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

I turn to the game. He then begins to harangue the back of my head with a diatribe about O’Neill–a man who won three Pulitzer Prizes and the Nobel Prize for literature–saying he was unappreciated during his lifetime. I am not a violent man, but if this guy doesn’t stop talking, I’m going to staple his tongue to the ceiling fan. I want to pummel him until he oozes. With dark thoughts, I pay my tab and exit the bar before the game ends. The Yankees lose.

THURSDAY
I am staying at Jackob’s apartment this evening, so I am between places during the day. I drag my suitcase down to the theater and Kim sets me up with internet in the box office. He declares that he enjoyed overhearing our rehearsal discussion last night. We were addressing an important weak spot in the motivation of the action.

The is a depth and intensity to the script work and discussions this evening at rehearsal. The plan is to get through the entire play, answering every concern tonight since I won’t be back again until tech. Again, Warren and Anne take the lead and I appreciate their individual approaches. Warren raises questions in a desperate need to understand. He likes verbs, always inquiring about what his character hopes to accomplish with each line or word. It is up to Jackob and me to determine whether or not Warren’s concern requires direction or revision. Anne, on the other hand, always wants a specific cut or change, but the way she asks for it has evolved since Tuesday. Initially, she treated me with kid gloves, taking a long circumlocutory path to her goal either out of respect or delicacy. By now she’s realized that I require no delicacy and asks directly for cuts and changes, which I readily supply. I’m glad to see Lori speaking up more, specifically addressing the ricocheting plot reversals her character undergoes in act two.

I express one small disagreement with Big Mark and Jackob over the notebook Mike gives to Heidi in scene two. My stage direction indicates premeditation on Mike’s part, but Big Mark and Jackob want Mike to discover the idea and the notebook over the course of the scene. I explain my reasons for keeping it my way but Big Mark respectfully disagrees, telling me a fascinating story about a job he once had in pharmaceutical sales using a strategy called “getting past the gatekeeper.” The character of Mike, according to Big Mark, sees Heidi as the gatekeeper; and he will employ every form of manipulation in his power, observing every photo and book on her desk, absorbing her every weakness in his efforts to get past her. Big Mark’s explanation is compelling and justified in the dialogue. It makes the character of Mike an even bigger shark than I thought him to be. I acquiesce to the change, again grateful for a cast with such intelligence and fire.

Rehearsal breaks happily and with great hope for the production. We achieved the objective of getting through the entire script; it hums now. Everyone is on the same page, professionally and personally, and confident about our journey. I say goodbye to Warren and Big Mark, and Anne treats the rest of us to a round at Houndstooth. Lori and Jackob dominate the conversation, generating much laughter and good fellowship. Safely conveyed to Jackob’s apartment, he and I yak until two a.m.

Great work this week. I am eager to see how they make it their own in my absence.

My original plan was to skip today’s rehearsal and head up to L.A. to see an old friend from high school, Danny Vermont, who writes for George Lopez.  But I want to see how Henry and the cast deal with the schedule, so I call Danny and cancel.  We catch up over the phone and share a laugh over stories from our brash youth.

Because of the gala, traffic is horrendous and I decide to walk to the theater.  Michael is having trouble with the new line I added to scene one.  Henry explains it, but Michael asks for more information.  We rehearse act one.  Henry is homesick, and becomes upset when he cannot get a skype connection to his children.  I invite him and Mickey to see the Padres game that evening.  Ubaldo Jimenez is scheduled to pitch for the Rockies.  Henry declines, but Mickey agrees.

We are late for the game because of parking difficulties.  As we take an elevator to the top level, five drunken Padres fans hop on with us.  One decides to harass Mickey before being pulled away by one of his buddies.  While the moment never becomes outright dangerous, it is frightening enough to make me think of Jonathan Larson dying just before the opening of Rent.  I envision the headline of my obituary:  “Popular E-mail Author Was Aspiring Playwright.”

Mickey and I take our seats in time to see Jimenez walk off the mound at the end of the first inning.  He will not return, having been traded to Cleveland just before game time.  Mickey and I have a great conversation and pay little attention to the game, which the Padres lose.  I hope it ruins the day of that idiot in the elevator.

SUNDAY:  I drive Natalie to the theater and tell her how much I’m enjoying her performance.  I worry about Michael not liking the new line, but she assures me he will make it work.  Everyone seems to be in better spirits today.  We rehearse the final moments of act one through the end of the play.  I leave my car at the theater and walk back to the apartment to meet a friend and her family for dinner before the show.

I first met Ava, the friend, in 2004, after a performance of Irish Authors Held Hostage at the New York Fringe Festival.  She and her daughter were in Manhattan with only time enough to see one show.  I have no idea why mine was the one chosen, but I’m grateful that it was.  Ava stayed after the show to speak to everyone in the cast and collect our autographs before heading back to California.  Shortly thereafter, we began an email and facebook correspondence, which I have enjoyed.

The restaurant is atop a bank building on the west side of Balboa Park, with a staggering view of downtown, the harbor, and the airport runway.  Incoming planes soar by the restaurant at eye level.  From the start, Ava insists on paying for the meal.  But the exchange with the waiter goes more like this:

WAITER:  Would you like something to drink?

AVA:  I want the check.

WAITER:  Would you like that on the rocks?

Ava’s brother Malcolm is quite the oenophile, and orders a Pinot Noir from Oregon, which is the best I’ve ever tasted.  We speak of our children, our travels, our plans for the future, and our preferred methods of cooking salmon.  It is a beautiful meal with good people.  At its end, the waiter presents Ava with the check and a glassful of ice.

I sit beside Wilson at the performance.  The house is full and appreciative, but the performances are to my mind lackluster.  Angela rushes and steps on laughs again, Rod lacks energy, Natalie gets lost a couple of times, and the rain of paper is little more than a trickle.  This is not the way we want to head into another day off.

Afterwards, I thank Ava, Malcolm, and their respective partners for a wonderful evening.  They ask me to sign their programs.  A woman sees me signing and asks excitedly if I’m the author.  I nod and smile and shake her hand.  But I put a finger to my lips while doing so, which makes her apologize.  I feel awful for having dampened her excitement.

Henry decides not to give the actors notes until Tuesday, at which point we will do a full run-through prior to that evening’s show.  He gives the tech crew notes, however, with which I fully concur:  more paper, much faster.

MONDAY:  I leave at 6:30 in the morning for a lunch appointment in Burbank with Barbara Beckley, the Artistic Director of Colony Theatre.  Barbara was interested in Engaging Shaw around the same time as Old Globe, and we struck up an internet acquaintance during the process.

I haven’t been to Burbank since 1985, and no longer recognize it.  Arriving early, I call Jackob Hofmann in New York to discuss the latest draft of Blame It On Beckett and he leads me through a number of avenues to improve it.

Barbara arrives like a whirlwind of excitement and good cheer.  She gives me a full tour of the space, which has just opened On Golden Pond with Hal Linden and Christina Pickles.  The stage and house are gorgeous, much bigger than I imagined, with free parking, in a nice, central location.  Over lunch, we have much to say to each other and take turns eating and talking, as we recount our respective histories.  Everyone at the restaurant knows Barbara and congratulates her on a successful opening.  She requests the latest drafts of Shaw and Stonewall’s Bust, which I gladly promise to send.

I drive back to San Diego in time to participate in an audience talkback for the Old Globe education department with dramaturg Danielle Mages Amato and set designer Wilson Chin.  I love this type of forum.  Danielle tells me ahead of time what questions she will ask, and I begin to concoct idiotic replies.  About eighty people are in attendance, and I have great fun telling stories and cracking jokes.  The conversation is quite lively and the laughter significant.  Unfortunately, once I feel an audience is mine, I have difficulty relinquishing them to anyone else and I begin to call on audience members myself, rather than letting Danielle do it.  She jokingly admonishes me, but I can tell that she and the crowd consider the evening a success.  Let’s hope they buy tickets to the show and bring their friends.

Just before 8:00 p.m., I slip into the performance of Amadeus on the Festival Stage.  I’m sorry to say that this is not one of my favorite scripts.  I like the movie, but I find the play to be little more than an illustrated monologue by a monomaniac.  If I want that, I can simply listen to the thoughts in my own head.

The production is well put together, however, and Miles gives a good performance as Salieri.  I can imagine no greater actor leaving me for dead after an alarm clock mishap.  Angela spies me during the intermission and we express mutual worries about Sunday’s show and the remaining schedule before we open on Thursday.  I feel that I have now ruined two performances by speaking to the actors–Angela’s during the invited dress and Natalie’s on Sunday–so I am reluctant to do anything to Angela now but stroke and compliment and reassure.  Angela laughs and protests that that is not what she needs.

TUESDAY:  I have been rationing food all week, since my wife and kids arrive tomorrow and I will be leaving the apartment at that point for a hotel.  Since I don’t want to throw any food away when I leave, I have spent the week living on Diet Coke and beer.

The cast, crew, Henry, Mickey, and I sit in the plaza outside the theater for notes on Sunday’s disappointing preview.  Henry tells us that, despite what we are feeling, he has no notes for anyone.  He pays a compliment to the play and production by saying it will be considered charming and clever by audiences no matter what we do, since that is the structure inherent in the script.  No audience member went away disappointed on Sunday, only we did.  Our job, then, is to tell the story and let the mechanics of the production work.

We enter the theater and quickly practice Michael’s new line.  It goes well and Michael opines that the line has given him a new perspective on that section of scene one.  Henry tells me that it clarifies Webb’s entire character.  We run through the show and it feels better than Sunday.  Ron Cooling, the company manager, sits in for awhile and laughs heartily in the back.  We’ll see how everything plays at the preview tonight.

Henry suggests one more last-minute cut, to which I would ordinarily agree but I won’t be able to hear how it plays tomorrow since my wife and kids will be arriving and we have plans for the day and evening.  I suggest we save that cut for when the production moves back east.  Henry smiles.

During the dinner break I walk back to the parking lot with Michael, Natalie, and Rod since this will be the last time I have a chance to speak with any of them.  They are quiet as I approach, but Michael asks if Ron was in the house because he had detected different laughter than usual.  I say yes, but add that I try to laugh differently at every rehearsal just to keep the cast honest.  Michael responds that he particularly enjoyed my Carol Channing laugh today.  I tell him I’m still working on that one and he chuckles.

The conversation flags, and as I separate from them at the car I become depressed.  Though I spent more time with this production than the one in New York, my relationship with the actors seems more professional than personal.  Part of it could be my own emotional distance in rehearsal, being reluctant to say anything that might throw them off or contradict Henry.  I certainly like all of them and get the sense that we would all enjoy working together again, but beyond professional courtesy I feel an outsider.

Then again my depression could be related to something else entirely:  knowing that this wonderful process is drawing to a close, or missing my wife and family who will arrive in the morning.  Both of these things could result in feelings of isolation.  Or maybe the unrelenting cheer of San Diego’s oppressively perfect weather–day after monotonous day–has sapped me of my smile.  I’m strange that way.

After dinner and before the show I have a lovely conversation with Roberta, the education director, and her husband John.  John still lives in Baltimore and flies out to see Roberta when he has business on the west coast.  I am cheered by talk of Maryland and marvel at how Roberta and John are able to maintain their relationship at such a long distance.

The show tonight is fantastic.  I sit beside Charlotte Devaux, the assistant costume designer, and mention my wife’s interest in sewing.  Charlotte offers to give Betsy a tour of the costume shop Thursday morning.  During the show everyone in the cast hits the right notes, listening to each other rather than to the audience.  Michael’s new line gets a huge laugh and the explosion of paper before the final scene is extraordinary.  It is the perfect time for the playwright to disappear so they can make the show their own; which I do without saying goodbye, telling Henry to congratulate the cast for me.

WEDNESDAY:  I spend the morning writing notes of thanks and congratulation to the actors and designers in anticipation of tomorrow’s opening.  I pack my things and move out of the Old Globe’s apartment building to meet my family at the airport.  I am overjoyed to see them and catch up.  We drive out to Carlsbad and spend the evening with Janette and Vernon Malone, former Maryland neighbors who recently moved to the west coast.  Their new home and neighborhood are gorgeous, and we laugh a good deal.  Later that night, Lavinia’s performance report indicates that the audience was small and quiet, but that the actors continued to build upon Tuesday’s success.  We are ready to open.

THURSDAY:  Opening Day.  In the morning, Charlotte Devaux gives Betsy a marvelous tour of the costume shop, which is extensive and eye-popping: twelve different workstations, mountains of shoes, over a hundred bolts of fabric, and a stockroom full to bursting with every imaginable manner of dress, suit, and article of clothing.  Betsy is grateful for Charlotte’s generosity and appreciates the craftsmanship and detail of the costumes we see.  Charlotte points out that Angela’s blouse in act one cost two hundred dollars.  Afterwards, Betsy and I stroll through the Spanish Art Village to shop.  I call my Dad to see when he is due to arrive.  With three hours to kill, my younger son suggests we head to the zoo.

Zooed to the brim, we meet my Dad and his wife Gloria for a drink at the hotel bar before changing into more formal attire.  The lot of us have an early dinner with my cousin Judy and her husband Arthur at the Hotel Del Coronado on the beach.  Being a fan of Some Like It Hot, I’m excited to see this place.  Unfortunately, luxury also equals languor, and after a fifteen minute dissection of the menu from the waiter I realize I may be late delivering my opening night gifts to the actors before equity rules bar me from their presence.  I choke down an extraordinary pair of diver scallops like they’re chicken mcnuggets and abandon my family for Old Globe.

I deliver my goodies to the proper dressing rooms and people, then head to the plaza to await the family.  Standing on a balcony overlooking the plaza I spy Henry, sipping a glass of wine and looking tremendously forlorn.  He motions me to join him.  Upon climbing the stairs, I learn that there is a dinner for board members and donors taking place in honor of opening night.  Apparently, I was supposed to be on the invite list, but no one told me.  Henry hands me a name tag.  Executive Producer Lou Spisto apologizes for not inviting me, then asks me to say a few words to the donors.  I look horror-stricken and insist that Henry go first.  Both Lou and Henry say wonderful things that garner applause, while I stammer an impotent expression of gratitude.

At half hour I head back to the plaza, but my family still hasn’t arrived.  I call.  Betsy is frantic.  They are only getting into their cars now.  Coronado is a good thirty minutes away, and there is construction on the bridge tonight.  I tell Wilson what is going on and he goes to beg Lavinia to hold the curtain until my family is in view.

I see the former casting director walk by with her fiance.  Apparently, she does not see me, so I call her name, give her a hug, and thank her for providing the show with such a wonderful cast.  I tell her that she was correct about the wonders of wigs, costumes, and make-up.  She smiles and walks on, hardly breaking stride.  Obviously, I’m not someone she cares to see.  Later I discover that she has unfriended me on Facebook.  I don’t know what I’ve done.  I think I should get on well with a theater person originally from Maryland who loves the Yankees, but clearly I’ve blown this relationship unwittingly after only two meetings.

My family arrives with five minutes to spare, having driven through San Diego like Satan on crack.  Lavinia runs backstage to start the show as we take our seats.  The cast are in fine shape and the audience is vocal.

Henry’s approach to the script focused on the understanding of every word.  Emotion was to be subservient to clarity.  As a result, audience response is quite different from any other production of the play I’ve seen.  Whereas other productions had periods of silence punctuated by loud laughs, this one enjoys an almost never-ending series of chuckles after every phrase–sometimes two or three chuckles per sentence.  The large laughs don’t begin until Webb’s piano monologue in scene two, which seems late to me but not to the audience, since they’ve been chuckling throughout.  The constant light laughter results in other surprising, vocal responses–groans, cheers, gasps–and the comfortable feeling that the audience is following not just the story, but every word of the story.

During the intermission, Judy gives me a quick rundown comparison of how this production compares to the one in New York.  My Dad doesn’t say much.  I can only guess he’s having trouble hearing the dialogue.  I introduce him to Henry, who I have really come to like as both director and friend.

Act two glides by with reassuringly larger laughs.  Angela and Rod are in the zone and taking the audience with them.  I see women and men nudging each other when their particular prejudices regarding marriage are reinforced by one of the characters.  One elderly gentleman cheers when Shaw says he hates the poor.  I doubt we’d have much in common.  All is going well until Rod can’t untie his boot in time to put on the bandage in the penultimate scene, stifling the biggest laugh in the show.  Ever the masochist, I will obsess over this failure for the remainder of the evening, nearly driving my wife to violence.  The performance ends with a standing ovation.  On the way out of the theater, I am surrounded by well-wishers and board members who stand in line to congratulate me.  A number of them thank me for writing the play, which is a compliment to which I don’t know how to react.

In the plaza, Lou congratulates me and asks to meet my sons.  My younger one asks Lou about the difficulties of acting in the round, and Lou treats him to an acting lesson.  I’m pleased by both the question and Lou’s response.  Before we head to the party, Judy asks about how late the valet service at Balboa Park will remain open.  Lou directs his personal assistant to find Judy’s and my Dad’s cars and move them to a nearby lot.  I can’t help remembering when I was house manager at  the Long Wharf at the age of twenty-four, when I had to provide Arthur Miller with jumper cables after his daughter’s car broke down on opening night of The Crucible.  I’ve gone from being the servant to being the served.  Betsy finds it exciting, but I can’t help feeling the guilt of the unworthy.

The party is small.  My older son and I speak with Henry a good deal.  Of the cast, I speak mostly to Angela, who offers to marry my son once he becomes an attorney.  I don’t remember saying more than hello and goodbye to Michael and Natalie.  I tell Rod that I’m writing a role for him and he says, “Yeah, I’m interested in reading that,” then turns back to another conversation which I apparently interrupted.  We exchange a few pleasant words later and all seems okay.  When my Dad and Judy leave, Evangeline and her boyfriend sit with Betsy and me.  On the way out, I meet and compliment Jonno Roberts who played Benedick in Much Ado and Donald Carrier who played the emperor in Amadeus.  I also meet John Cariani, the author of Almost, Maine, who did such an amazing job playing Dogberry.  He is a tremendously charming and interesting individual and I wish I’d met him before my final evening in San Diego.

The next morning, my family and I start a weeklong drive up the coast to San Francisco.  It is a well-earned vacation, which I spend neurotically checking the internet for performance reports and reviews.  They are positive for the most part, but the most important one comes from my father, who simply asks:  “How did you do that?”

THE FLIGHT OUT:  I awaken at three in the morning for a seven o’clock flight.  My wife, dramaturgical martyr that she is, drives me to the airport.  If all goes as planned, I’ll arrive in San Diego just in time to see the final run-through in the rehearsal hall.  Naturally, nothing goes as planned.  The first flight to Denver is delayed two hours.  I’ll still make my connection, but it will be tight.  In Denver, we are delayed while pulling away from the gate because of an engine warning light.  The stewardess attempts to assuage my fury with water and sitcom reruns.

Her strategy is effective.  While gazing stone-faced at an old episode of The Big Bang Theory, I hear a line so devastatingly brilliant I can’t contain my laughter, which as some of you know is quite loud and prolonged.  I fear a federal marshall will deplane me.

We land in California ninety minutes late.  By the time I get my bag and car, there is less than half an hour of rehearsal left.  Mickey texts me to swing by anyway, so Henry and I can talk.  I walk into the rehearsal just in time for the final scene.  It’s the first time I’ve seen it, and Henry’s staging is a revelation.  Shaw appears to be alone in a tower, physicalizing the metaphor in the dialogue.  After saying hello and goodbye to the actors, Henry leads me through the theater to see the set, the size and quality of which I’ve never had for any other production.  We visit the costume shop, where Alejo Vietti, the designer, is fitting Angela.  The costume is gorgeous, but Alejo dismisses every compliment I offer by saying it isn’t finished.  Angela thanks Alejo for making her look thin, which she already is, naturally.

Henry and I grab dinner at Mama Testa’s on University and talk baseball.  Wilson Chin, the set designer, calls to invite us to catch Captain America with Alejo and Matt, the lighting designer.  I’m exhausted, but I want to get to know everyone and say yes.  My head droops during the previews, but I manage to stay awake for the entire film, which was fun.  Wilson and Alejo want to stay for another movie, but I can’t do it.  I drive Henry and Matt back to their apartments and zip over to a supermarket five minutes before it closes to buy tomorrow’s breakfast.  I’ve been up for twenty-five hours straight.  I collapse into bed.

SUNDAY:  I awake to find my screen window open and my front door unlocked.  Someone had broken into my apartment overnight.  A frantic inventory tells me that nothing has been taken, but the bedside lamp and clock have been unplugged.

I later learn that the previous tenant had set the alarm for 5:30 a.m., but since I sleep without my hearing aid I didn’t hear it.  Apparently, the alarm sounded for more than half an hour before Miles, my next door neighbor who plays Salieri in the Globe production of Amadeus, couldn’t stand it anymore and began to pound on my door.  But being both deaf and exhausted, I heard nothing.  So Miles broke into the apartment and began to scream at my sleeping form.  I did not respond.  Suddenly, Miles became afraid, suspecting I was dead.  He quickly unplugged the alarm clock and left through the front door, telling his partner that there was a corpse in my bed.

When he tells me the story later I laugh, exclaiming, “So I’m lying there dead and you just unplug the clock!  Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

“Well, I didn’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering.”

I arrive at the theater for the first day of tech.  All of the design elements are gorgeous, with the exception of Shaw’s fake beard which keeps falling off.  To keep it affixed, Rod does his best not to smile or laugh when he is not on stage, but that only encourages Michael to tell more jokes.  Tech crew place adhesive at every exit, so Rod can reapply the beard whenever he is offstage.

Again, the detail of the design elements is unlike anything I’ve seen.  Alejo’s act one costumes for Charlotte are a turquoise color that makes Angela’s eyes appear green.  Paul’s sound design employs Wagner and Mozart between the scenes, and when Henry asks for an offstage bicycle noise he provides both a bell and a bulb horn from which to choose.  Matt’s light design has taken note of where the desk lamps are, having warmer lights shine from those directions.  Wilson has filled the set with books, all of which had been published by 1896.  Not even an audience member with keenest eyesight would be able to read the titles, but knowing they’re there creates an atmosphere of authenticity for the actors.

It is a slow process.  During a lull, Natalie sits beside me and we have our first real conversation.  After five hours, the show is only through scene one.  I can’t imagine how long it will take to work on the letter-writing scene in act two.  Lavinia’s goal is to get through the first act in the ten hours allotted us.

Henry thinks it takes too long for Shaw to run offstage to grab the claw used to open the crate.  He suggests we have a crowbar already on stage among the books, so I supply Shaw with a line:  “I believe there’s one next to the Shakespeare.”  Rod finds this so funny, he can’t deliver it with a straight face.  But the scene doesn’t work unless Shaw exits, so we go back to the original.

As we head toward eleven p.m. the actors are getting punch drunk.  Not having seen the show in two weeks, I can’t tell the difference between a bad character choice and fooling around.  Henry reassures me that all is okay.  The day ends on schedule with act one written into the computer.

MONDAY:  An equity day off.  I have been waiting for this a long time:  a free day to explore the museums in Balboa Park and maybe catch a Padres game.  But the team is out of town, and when I drive into the park I discover that the museums are closed on Mondays.  I won’t have the opportunity to explore them again, since the remainder of the week is crammed with twelve hour work days.

With nothing to do, I spend the entire day revising Blame It On Beckett, and email the new draft to Jackob Hofmann for approval.

I have dinner with the cousin of a Baltimore friend and teaching artist.  She has been trying for months to get us together.  Her cousin is a former editor for the San Diego Union Tribune.  We hit it off instantly and, after dinner, head to a microbrew pub.  I’m ashamed to admit that I know most of the beers on the menu.  At my suggestion, we both have a snifter of Delirium Nocturnum.

TUESDAY:  Tech for the first scene of act two takes only an hour.  Lavinia takes a deep breath and says, “Okay, here we go!” and the letter-writing scene begins.  Henry suggests that we set the lights and sound before even attempting the rain of paper, to which Lavinia agrees.  That alone takes seven and a half hours.

Rod’s beard looks much better today.  But I notice that he is taking off each bandage during the blackouts and suggest to Henry that the bandages should accumulate throughout the scene.  Henry agrees, and Rod, being a gifted comedian, relishes the schtick.  Rod is definitely my kind of actor.  He delights in–what I call–the “writer words,” those fun words I’ve put in for my own benefit, rather than the benefit of the audience.  The way he italicizes “I was about to telegraph a madman.”  Or “I would never insult any woman (fractional hesitation) in public.”  Makes me very happy.

We arrive at the moment Henry has been building toward:  paper raining down on the stage over the course of the scene.  The idea is that, after each letter is read, a page will fall from the sky.  Gradually, the rate of falling pages will increase until it is a constant torrent, covering the stage.  After the first attempt–though Lavinia never misses a cue–it is clear that it won’t work.  It is too distracting.  As the individual pages fall, our attention is drawn to the paper rather than the actors.  Henry changes the entire concept.  The pages will now fall every four seconds from beginning to end, but rain in a torrent during the change into scene three.  We try it and it is less distracting, but each page falls with a whack upon the hardwood stage floor.  Paul offers to add an underscore of music to mask the noise.

We quickly rush through scene three and break at 11:30 p.m.  We managed to tech the entire show in two days, much to Lavinia’s delight.  Tomorrow we will run it twice.

WEDNESDAY:  I drive Natalie and Angela to the theater and tell them the story of the alarm clock break-in.  Angela responds that I am lucky to be a handsome man.  I have no idea what this means or how it pertains to the story.  Comments like this can have me ruminating for days.

Danielle has come to watch the first run-through and we talk a bit about the recent Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of America conference.  I declare that deep down I consider myself an educator and dramaturg who happens to write plays.  She responds that she is a dramaturg first and foremost, and asks to read Blame It On Beckett, since it is about the plight of literary managers.

Act one of the first run-through is rough.  Danielle correctly opines that the relationships are not being established well enough yet.  I start to worry and complain, as is my habit.  Henry again tells me that my worries will be corrected later, that he is hoping to accomplish something different with this run.  I know that impatience is the playwright’s curse, to which I am not immune, and I trust to Henry’s schedule.

Act two is significantly better.  Other than perhaps my sons, I am more proud of the second act of Engaging Shaw than anything I ever brought into this wretched world.  But it’s not just the text in this instance, it’s the production.  Angela is brilliant.  She makes me laugh very hard and nearly moves me to tears.  If we can get act one to this level, we’ll have a show.

We sit outside as Henry gives notes.  He offers to let me say something, but I decline out of fear that I will say something to screw up their performances.  As we head back into the theater I make the mistake of complimenting Angela profusely.  She tells me that my impression of that particular section is not what she had intended.  And during the second run, all that I enjoyed in that section is no longer present.  When to speak and when to remain silent are the two greatest talents a playwright can possess.

I give Henry a note regarding the character of Beatrice, how she should enjoy matchmaking.  Henry likes the note and passes it along to Natalie, who executes it brilliantly in the second run.

Between runs Henry cuts the rain of paper during the scene.  Rather than masking the sound of the paper, the music has proven to be an even bigger distraction from the characters.  From now on the paper will be relegated only to the scene change, but in torrential form.  We practice it and it works beautifully.  I tell Henry that it reminds me of the first scene change in the original Broadway production of The Real Thing and he responds, “Oh, cool.”

The improvement between runs one and two is significant.  During notes we cut a few more lines of text, which I’m sorry to see go (as is Rod, I think) but must admit improve the scene.  That night Danielle emails me a quote from Sidney Webb which she found in her research.  It is so salient and beautiful that I promise to find a place for it in the script.

THURSDAY:  We spend the afternoon re-teching the last two scenes.  The paper drop and the music that covers it distract too much from the story.  Henry asks me what I think of dropping the paper only during the scene change.  I agree wholeheartedly, echoing many of the thoughts already in Henry’s mind.  In practice, the change works beautifully.  I mention how much I love the image of Shaw looking up into the raining paper and Henry directs Rod’s beard to point to the sky for twenty seconds, which it does after a few corrections.

There is an invited dress rehearsal in the evening, and my brother drives down from L.A. to see it.  While awaiting his arrival, I talk to Roberta, the education director, about the production and the work experience.  After some confusion and conflicting text messages, my brother arrives.  I’ve not seen him in a year, and it’s the first time he has seen a play of mine since the mid-90’s.  I am excited because he is about to see my best script in its highest quality production.  Unfortunately, the show he sees, while not precisely a disaster, is definitely not the show we rehearsed.  The actors are nervous, rushing and forgetting lines, stepping on laughs.  The age range of the audience falls somewhere between elderly and dead.  What should be an intelligent romantic comedy comes off as a confusing bore.  We lose about fifteen people during the intermission.  To be fair, those who stay laugh more during the second act, but it is neither the reaction nor the production I expected.  I make many smiling apologies to my brother and tell Henry that I’m going to start taking notes about how certain jokes need to be delivered.  Henry nods–he saw the same things I saw–but he insists that this week is about telling the story.  Joke telling is next week’s agenda.  I realize, again, that Henry has a very specific process which is at a level I’ve not yet encountered.  I am accustomed to previews being practically finished products.  Henry sees them as work opportunities.  Right now, in his mind, the show is nowhere near finished.  Each new audience will be a lab test until we open on August 4th.

My brother and I head to a tequila bar, where we both order a British beer.  We have great fun, talking family and business.  He tells me to maintain this blog more regularly, but after tonight’s show I feel like deleting all I’ve written thus far.

FRIDAY:  First preview tonight.  I awaken early and, as before, stop playing with that stupid rubber band with which I’ve exercised all week.  Henry texts, saying he wants to discuss a possibility with me.  That means cuts.  Deep down I worry that last night’s performance will have Henry blaming the script for the show’s failure and me blaming him, though I really don’t think either of us was at fault.  The performance was simply the result of nervous actors and a death-cheating audience.

I head to Balboa Park early to zip through the art museum I missed on Monday.  There is a private collection of Spanish art from El Greco to Dali that I am dying to see.  I flash my Old Globe I.D. smugly to gain free admittance.  I’m rushing to find the Spanish exhibit since I don’t have long before my meeting with Henry, but I am slowed and distracted by a collection of gorgeous Persian illustrations and sculptures from India.  The Spanish exhibit, while not disappointing, is much smaller than I expected.  The El Greco is a miniature.  I’ve seen the Dalis in Philadelphia.  The Picassos are either drab or they are later and lesser drawings.  But one artist stands out:  Jusepe de Ribero.  His portrait of Saint Jerome immediately put me in mind of Caravaggio.  And when the docent’s caption points out that Ribero really was a devotee of Caravaggio, I emit a silent, snobbish, and triumphant:  “Yes.”  Four years of college.  Not one in vain.

At the theater, Henry suggests I cut a significant section of scene two, the letter to Ellen Terry.  When I say significant, I don’t mean it has anything to do with the story.  Significant means it contains the one joke that I laugh at every single night, which no audience has ever found funny.  It’s a reference to Ellen Terry’s husband complaining about a bad review Shaw wrote, describing it as “Henry Irving’s private performance of ‘The Aggrieved Thespian.’”

Yes, I know you don’t get it.  But you must imagine me laughing hysterically as I type this, because that’s how funny I find it.

I can’t believe the lines lasted this long in the script.  I give Henry perfunctory reasons why it needs to stay, but he answers them with the cruelest of all arguments:  irrefutable fact.  I agree to the cut, remembering Cynthia Jenner’s advice to “kill your babies.”  But I know there are dramaturgs somewhere in the world who are reading this and laughing as much as I.  Come on:  “Henry Irving’s private performance of “The Aggrieved Thespian!”  It’s the funniest line anyone never laughed at!

The rest of the rehearsal is spent on the transitions between scenes.  Rod and I have a discussion about different types of insults among European cultures and languages.  Michael complains that he has nothing to contribute to such discussions, asking if anyone wants to hear a dirty joke.

Before the preview, Henry, Mickey, and I congregate in the plaza.  Old Globe has a performance at all three of its theaters tonight for the first time all summer.  I buy a souvenir T-shirt and joke that I will lose it somewhere before the evening is through.  I sit beside Ursula, the dialect coach, and I compliment her work with the cast.  As a writer of human speech language fascinates me, and I am eager to pick her brain.  She refers to Munich as München, which pleases me to no end.  (If only Michael were here to complain, it would be a perfect moment.)  Ursula remarks upon my ability to write dialogue that captures the linguistic rhythm of the characters, and I take it as one of the greatest compliments I have ever received.

The house fills.  182 is the official count, out of approximately 200.  I suddenly realize that this is probably the largest single audience a play of mine has received, not counting a reading of Stonewall’s Bust at the Kennedy Center.  I don’t think we ever broke two hundred at Mountain Playhouse, but I could be wrong.  I’ve been told that Shaw is selling “better than expected,” and I immediately start doing the math.  200 people times 8 shows a week, times 5 weeks, means nearly 8,000 people will have seen this production by the time it closes.  Up to now I’ve considered one thousand patrons over the course of a run to be a staggering success.  But that will be only five days here.

Why am I not nervous?

The show begins.  Michael and Natalie set a good pace.  The dialogue is easily understood and passionately presented, garnering small, but heartfelt laughter.  Rod enters and the audience begins to smile, as the laughter grows.  Angela enters, and the play takes off like Apollo 11.  Laughter, tears, gasps, groans of recognition–they not only follow the story, they react to it!  It is the type of communal experience people work in theater to experience.  As I walk through the lobby when it is done, trying to find Henry, I overhear someone say, “Well, that will get good reviews.”

Henry congratulates the cast and me.  I return the congratulations and thank him for all of his work with the actors and the script.  With three more previews before we open, I am confident we have a successful production.  By the time I get to the apartment, it is too late to call my wife and tell her the good news.  It must wait until morning, when we will put aside tonight and concentrate on the fourth.  I return to the apartment and remember that I left my souvenir T-shirt at the theater.

But casting at this level is unlike anything I’ve experienced. Names of celebrities are dropped in conversation. Two of the roles are cast through direct offers. There may not be any auditions at all, excluding the Abingdon cast entirely. I am excited and afraid by how little I seem to know, and beg for understanding as I struggle to keep pace. I ask that there at least be auditions for Shaw and Charlotte, and that the actors who previously played Webb and Beatrice be seen as a courtesy, for consideration in future projects. Henry and Samantha agree and an audition date is set.

Fate intervenes to deprive the New York cast of an opportunity to repeat. Marc and Victoria opt out of the audition, since their roles are already cast. Warren calls me, almost in tears, saying he can’t make the audition because he is stuck at an airport in Florida. The planes are grounded due to tornadoes in the Carolinas. Claire is the only member of the New York cast to audition, but she seems a bit off. I later learn that she suffered a family tragedy that morning. I can’t believe she made it to the auditions at all, and am moved by her dedication and tenacity.

I have great fun telling my usual anecdotes (I only have about five) between auditions. Samantha is always out of the room when I begin the stories, returning just in time for the punch line and hearty laughter from Henry and the reader, Aubrey. I turn this into a running gag. The actors who played Shaw and Charlotte in New Jersey get a chance to read, and I enjoy seeing both of them again. But the audition process is incredibly cruel. The rejections can be entirely arbitrary, and the acceptances can be little more than whimsy. It is clear that many of these actors can play the roles. With ability not an issue there lies a small bit of friction, as I continually advocate adherence to physical type. Samantha assures me of the wonders of wigs and make-up. Henry insists upon fresh approaches to the script. And I eventually come around to their viewpoint, knowing that the actors, whether or not they look anything like these figures from history, will give tremendous performances under Henry’s direction.

MONDAY: The flight out to San Diego. My flight isn’t until one o’clock but, being neurotic about getting through security, I insist that my wife drop me at BWI airport around nine. I use the express check-in, pay the baggage fee, and grab an early lunch. I have a wonderful conversation with a steel mill worker from Michigan, whose son is in the marines, stationed at the Pentagon. At noon, I head toward the gate indicated on my boarding pass, only to discover that there is no one o’clock flight at that gate. Scanning the boarding pass, I learn that the computer assigned me to an earlier flight because I checked-in so early. I missed my plane. And in doing so, I lost my seats on the return flights too. The man at the desk reroutes me, granting me “elite access” boarding into Houston, where I will have a three hour layover before proceeding to San Diego. The first flight is uneventful, other than being given the seat by the emergency door and being exhorted by the crew to save everyone’s life should the plane go down. I vow to use my nose like a can opener, should it come to that. The jest is greeted by silence and a plastic cup full of Diet Coke. Once in Houston, I try unsuccessfully to get on an earlier flight. But I am forced to live out my worst nightmare: Stuck in Texas. In an airport. Named for George Bush.

I’m in first class between Houston and San Diego, and take full advantage of the hot towel. My suitcase, luckily, arrived a few hours before I did. By the time I pick up my rental car and drive to the apartment, it is nearly midnight California time–that’s three a.m. to my pathetic, scrawny carcass. Outside the apartment building, I run into a strikingly beautiful woman, walking a dog. We don’t recognize each other at first, but eventually I guess correctly that she is Angela Pierce, who is playing Charlotte. We speak warmly about the possibilities of the project, and express excitement to be working with each other at such an incredible theater. I stagger into the apartment, text my wife that I arrived in one piece, and do my best to sleep.

TUESDAY: I awaken early, still being on east coast time, and immediately head to the supermarket for my weekly ration of Diet Coke. I tell myself I won’t overspend and overeat out here, the way I did in New York last year, so I am careful to plan a healthy menu for the week. My only indulgence is a tin of Old Bay, which I buy out of homesickness, knowing full well that I’ll never finish it in a week.

As I leave the apartment for the first rehearsal, I run into Angela again and give her a ride to the theater. I offer to serve as driver all week, but she is renting a bicycle from Old Globe and declines. Parking is difficult, so I drop Angela off before finding a spot about a mile away. It is hot and I am carrying my new laptop as I struggle to get to the rehearsal on time. That, coupled with the nervousness of meeting new people, causes me to sweat into my hearing aid, rendering it temporarily inoperable just as I get to the rehearsal hall. I present the first impression of a sweaty, smiling idiot, who can only say, “What?” I miss everyone’s name and the design presentations, but I love the models and drawings and smile at them with a sweaty seal of approval.

Along with all of the new faces, there are a surprising number of familiar ones. Mickey McGuire, who stage managed the Abingdon production, has been brought onboard as Assistant Director. Roberta Wells Famula, Old Globe’s Education Director, is an old acquaintance of mine from Baltimore. And though I’d never before met Old Globe’s Dramaturg, Danielle Mages Amato, we had exchanged e-mails when she was the Literary Manager at Studio Theatre in DC. I catch up with each of them briefly, once the hearing aid is dry.

The first read-through of the script goes well, and I am particularly pleased with Michael Warner and Natalie Gold as Sidney and Beatrice Webb, since I’d never seen them before. Afterwards, Henry opens the floor to questions and discussion. But he doesn’t lead the discussion or ask any specific questions himself, so there are large, awkward pauses. My natural inclination is to fill the pauses with pedantic blather, but I bite my tongue to remain silent. This isn’t about me, but about the actors making discoveries. And at this point Henry seems more interested in learning about who they are, than he is in telling them who they should be. I cork the bottle of bloviation as best I can. But I can’t help myself. While Danielle presents a display of Shaw photographs, one, which I’d never seen before, leaps out at me as perhaps the basis of the Bertha Newcombe painting in scene two. Without consulting Henry, I tell the prop master and the set designer that the painting must look like that.

Lavinia Henley, the Stage Manager, takes us on a tour of the space, which is beautiful and intimate, but large enough to allow the actors to move. Wilson Chin, the set designer, has a surprise for us. After a few minutes delay, pages begin to rain from the flies onto the stage. He and Henry plan to use this device in the letter writing scene, both to symbolize the letters themselves and to clutter the playing area for the final scene in which Shaw has fallen apart. Apparently, this was one of the key things I missed during the design presentations earlier in the day. As the pages float from the rafters, I’m like a child on his first visit to Disneyland, unable to fathom the magic or verbalize the joy.

Wilson, Henry, Mickey, and I grab a drink at the Prado afterwards. It turns out that Wilson worked at Abingdon last season, and we share our respective positive experiences. I return to the apartment ready to cook my newly purchased healthy food, only to discover that my tools are limited to a cookie sheet.

WEDNESDAY: I drive to the production meeting early to avoid yesterday’s parking issue. As I walk to the administrative offices, I notice all of the staff lounging outside in the shade. Some are conducting business meetings at the cafe tables. Just as I begin to marvel at the relaxed luxury of southern California, Roberta, the Education Director, tells me that the power is out. Everyone is outside because there is no light or air conditioning. She and I have a wonderful conversation about mutual acquaintances in Baltimore, arts education in San Diego, and the educational programming at Old Globe. I volunteer to help as much as I can while visiting, and she pencils me in for a program scheduled on the Monday before we open.

The production meeting is held in the hot, darkened conference room, and I worry I’ll miss all that is said by sweating into my hearing aid again. The room is crammed. Aside from Henry, Mickey, Lavinia, and me, there are the designers, department heads, production managers, assistants, and assistants to assistants. And they all read from notes, discussing how to realize in a practical way the specific historical quirks of the Fabian Society from 1896-98. I think back to the genesis of the play in 1997: Me, scribbling notes as I read Shaw’s letters, alone in the McKeldin Library stacks at University of Maryland. And now, fourteen years later, there are twenty people being paid to sit in a hot room and discuss the evolution of the bicycle in late-19th Century England, because it is crucial to the accuracy of that play’s design.

By the end of the production meeting power has been restored to our rehearsal room, toward which we repair. The theater is not so lucky, and it is forced to cancel that evening’s performances. Angela has what Henry calls “an actor moment.” On the way to rehearsal, the chain falls off her bicycle and she crashes. Luckily, she is not hurt, but she plans to draw on that sense of helplessness and fear when playing Charlotte’s bicycle accident. We settle down to four hours of table work and manage to get through act one. Michael quickly establishes himself as the cutup of the group, which works for the character of Webb. I’m happy to see almost everyone is a baseball fan, and that Rod is a Yankees fan like me. Unfortunately, the Padres are out of town this week. The men make plans to attend the Padres/Giants game next week–when I’m out of town.

THURSDAY: More table work. I’m impressed by Henry’s exchanges with the cast, the amount of insight he has into the motivations of each character, and the way he is able to elicit what is required without demanding it immediately. He allows it to be a process of discovery, providing a comfortable environment that lets the actors make mistakes and work their way through them before intervening. Rod asks lots of good questions, and incorporates the answers into his performance effectively. He’s having a lot of trouble with one section in scene three, which I remember giving Warren trouble the previous year. Natalie says little during rehearsal, but reacts well to the adjustments everyone else is making, seeming to absorb it all through osmosis. Angela has a confident stage presence that barely covers a staggering vulnerability. At one point, she finds a direction of Henry’s so beautiful in its simplicity that her eyes overrun with tears. We start to block the first scene, before heading off to a photo shoot.

Mickey and I plan to see Much Ado About Nothing that evening, so we grab a drink and reminisce about Abingdon. We both acknowledge how lucky we are to be a part of this, and reveal hopes to capitalize on the experience once it is done. Mickey heads off to one of the Balboa Park museums before the show, while I grab dinner and try to catch a pre-show lecture by the education department. Henry spies me at the lecture and signals to grab another drink, after which I am ready for anything Shakespeare has to throw at me. Henry and I rejoin Mickey and walk in to the show, which is gorgeous from a design standpoint. I like the actors playing Benedick and Dogberry, but Henry sums up the rest of the production perfectly: it’s too polite.

Walking back to the apartment, I run into Angela walking her dog again. She worries about the physical description of Charlotte in the dialogue, which she does not fit. I compliment her dedication to the craft of acting by her agreeing to wear a brown wig, which she fears will make her unattractive.

FRIDAY: I stop using the resistance bands I brought from Maryland to keep in shape. After three days of it, I can’t bear the image of myself as a pathetic, middle-aged man playing with a pink rubber band.

Evangeline, the Production Assistant, suggests I see an adaptation of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt at La Jolla Playhouse that evening. The mention of the production begins a conversation that seems to encapsulate the obsessive pigeonholes into which theater people put themselves. Evangeline, being a young theater techie, continually remarks upon the fun tech elements wherein five actors construct the story from scratch. The actors all want to know who was in the show, some of them declaring that they were up for that show before they got this one. And I, being the playwright, talk about specific scenes in the Ibsen text, where the play falls within the Ibsen canon, and all manner of academic twaddle. I’ve never met a conversation I couldn’t kill with historic and literary allusion.

Blocking continues and I make a few small changes to the script. Natalie is so efficient, we block the entire arrival of the painting in half an hour.

I drive up to La Jolla in time to watch a lecture on Ibsen and Peer Gynt from their Director of Education. The lecture is rudimentary and uninteresting. The woman actually refers to Ibsen as the Father of American Modern Drama. I check my rising gorge and head into the theater early. The recorded announcement telling us to turn off our cell phones presents the adaptation as having done us a favor by sparing us from five hours of Ibsen. “Luckily, this adaptation is a more reasonable two hours long.” The audience sighs and applauds. I no longer want to be in the room with these people.

The production is fun, as Evangeline indicated. I disagree with some of the adaptor’s choices, but I understand why they were made. The play is not Peer Gynt, but I like it and am glad I made the effort. Yes, one actor is so over-the-top, I can’t even look at him by the end. But I like Danny Gavigan, the actor playing young Peer a good deal, and am pleased to see he has a lot of DC area credits in his bio. Though I don’t believe he and I ever met, we have a good many mutual friends. I don’t wait to introduce myself afterwards.

SATURDAY: Rod greets me at the start of rehearsal with the exciting news that Derek Jeter belted hit number three thousand. Michael provides me with the same information a short while later. I can’t believe it, since it’s only eleven in the morning. I’m still unaccustomed to California time. In the Bronx it’s two o’clock and the game has been playing for an hour. For all the stories of relaxation here, I feel nothing but a constant need to keep working. From the moment I awake, I’m already three hours late.

While blocking scene three, Rod encounters the same difficulties as before. I’d always known the scene was problematic for actors, but it always played well. I didn’t realize how problematic it was until I saw Rod struggle. In every previous production, I’d not had the opportunity to attend many rehearsals due to family considerations. It suddenly becomes clear that I need to revise that scene, and quickly. Henry makes a few suggestions and, having heard Rod’s questions and complaints, I get a sense of what he feels the character needs. But I am due to head up to spend the night with my Dad in Mission Viejo and may not have time to make the revisions before the stumble through of act one tomorrow.

There is no traffic on the way to Mission Viejo. Dad and his wife Gloria are in good spirits and there is much laughter and drink. I man the barbecue while Gloria handles the side dishes. Dad sits there and tells us what we’re doing wrong in his own jocular manner. We watch a DVD I made for Dad as a memento of the old house in Cortlandt Manor and his youth in Brooklyn.

SUNDAY: I get up very early. Eat a quick breakfast with Dad and Gloria, and get on the road to San Diego. I arrive at rehearsal forty-five minutes early, laptop in tow, scaring Evangeline who wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. I quickly get to the revision at the end of act one. Lavinia enters, sees me pecking away, and goes, “Uh-Oh.” Henry delays the start of rehearsal five minutes so I can finish. He approves of the new scene, which Lavinia prints out for Rod and Angela. They read it a couple of times and not only is it clearer than the old scene, it has at least one more laugh. Angela suggests I make one further change to strengthen her character. I agree, and the revision is adopted. Later, Henry compliments the change as both good and necessary.

The cast stumble through act one and all can see the potential of the production. If we continue working in this fashion, it will be a strong show. I push to finish blocking act two before I return to Maryland on Monday, but there isn’t time. The letter-writing scene is too demanding.

I give all of my uneaten produce to Mickey and ask Angela to look after a bottle of wine until my return. She tells me it won’t be here when I get back. I leave the next morning, content with what’s been put in motion. I am eager to be home, but my wife knows that she will hear nothing from me for the next two weeks but a fervent desire to return to San Diego.

Now I am writing from San Diego, where rehearsals for a new production of Engaging Shaw at the Old Globe Theatre are about to start. I plan to keep a diary of the rehearsal process, but don’t want to skip an entire year of productions, some of which were successful. So first let me recount how I got here, play by play, and in the present tense:

ENGAGING SHAW: Shortly after the production of Shaw at Abingdon Theatre closes, I receive a number of unsolicited requests for the script. Two of these requests result in future productions. The first is Old Globe, currently in rehearsal, and the other is from the English Theatre of Vienna in Austria, scheduled for April 2012. I direct my agent to approach the theaters in Washington and Baltimore about producing Engaging Shaw since I’m local, but not one DC area theater even asks to read the script. The dramaturg at Center Stage, where I’d worked for many years to promote their Young Playwrights Festival, jokes to my agent that they don’t need to see my script because they prefer plays written by my son, a three time winner at YPF. After 21 years of banging on doors in the DC/Baltimore area, I’ve had enough.

A THING FOR REDHEADS: With visions of international success dancing in my head, I dive headlong into a disaster at home. A Thing For Redheads at the 2010 Capital Fringe Festival is the most frustrating theatrical experience I’ve had in sixteen years. And the blame is entirely mine. I wrote Redheads in only three days to satisfy a grant deadline in 2009, but that’s not an excuse. I had more than a year to revise it and did not avail myself of the opportunity. From the script, to the casting, to the direction, to the set design, to the marketing campaign, if I was not directly responsible for their failure I am certainly responsible for not intervening to prevent the failure that clearly awaited. The only joyful moment in the show is the part with which I had nothing to do, the song that Lori Boyd wrote for the obligatory scene.

One critic writes that the script “would not go as far as Morogiello’s others.” Ironically, later in the year, a scene from the play is selected for publication in The Best Women’s Stage Monologues And Scenes 2011, which is a trade book publication. Therefore it is farther than any of my other plays have gone. Excited by the possibilities of further life for the play once a portion is published, I revisit the script. But after two pages, I can’t bear it. Too many bad memories bubble to the surface.

Productions like this are good to have once in awhile. They keep me honest and humble. Perhaps the strangest part of that particular fringe festival is being recognized by two total strangers. One asks for me by name. The other asks if I am “the Irish Authors guy.” Funny how you never realize you have a fan base until you alienate them.

GIANNI SCHICCHI: Post-Shaw and Pre-Redheads, I complete the first draft of a play called Comedy Of Venice. Giving it a quick glance, I realize that on an unconscious level the play is about me saying goodbye to the theater community in Washington, DC. But on a more deeply unconscious level what I have really done is rewritten a play I first constructed in my twenties, an adaptation of Puccini’s opera Gianni Schicchi. Unhappy with Comedy Of Venice and recalling many happy memories of Schicchi, I decide to bid Washington farewell by self-producing the latter play in the fall of 2010 with myself in the title role.

I am pleased with the cast we put together, particularly Terence Aselford, who is one of my favorite actors both to work with and to watch. I also enjoy Rachel Meloan’s performance of “O Mio Babbino Caro” during the curtain call. The script, I think, is in its strongest shape yet, after some significant cuts to the prologue and epilogue. It’s funny how items with which I swore never to part when I was 27 are discarded so easily nearly two decades later. I am happy to play a role I always intended for myself, but I suspect I am the darkest Schicchi the script has ever seen. The aspect of the production I most enjoy is being able to work closely with my wife, who designs the costumes and manages the house.

We receive a lot of preview press from the county weekly and from the Italian American community but for some reason the major newspapers choose to ignore us, despite how brazenly we try to sell them on the recent additions to my resume. The result is four weeks of empty houses. The few who attend react positively and the internet reviews mostly follow suit. Though none of them are outright raves, not a single review criticizes the script. Probably because of its production history, all of the critics accept the script as a finished product. Somehow, it has crossed through the mystic portal from the savage land of “new script” to the civilized kingdom of “established play.”

THE MATCHMAKER’S GUIDE TO CONTROLLING THE UNIVERSE: Running simultaneously with Schicchi, but way up in the Finger Lakes, is this one-act. There, Bob Frame, who is a great guy and a wonderful supporter of my work, runs Harlequin Productions for the students at Cayuga Community College in Auburn, New York. I’ve always loved this script. It’s light, it’s silly, and it’s incredibly easy to produce. I renovate it for the production, updating the references and incorporating revisions I’d made for the film version, but I am unable to attend the production because of Schicchi. They send me a DVD, which is a lot of fun. Bob and the cast hit just the right combination of romance and petulance.

COMEDY OF VENICE: Done with Schicchi, I attempt to salvage this play about the rivalry between Goldoni and Gozzi, two 18th Century Venetian playwrights. By January I have a draft that almost seems serviceable. But a serviceable script no longer strikes me as good enough. If I am to continue in this business, I need to match or exceed the quality of Engaging Shaw, not suffer through another Redheads. To test the script’s quality, I decide to host a private reading at my house, using a few close actor friends around whom I’m not afraid to fail. Though I miscast one of the roles, the reading goes well. Again, Terence Aselford makes me laugh harder than anyone. And yet, I’m still insecure about the script. Afterwards, Misty Demory, the actress playing Smeraldina, tells me that Constellation Theatre, a company in DC to which she belongs, is doing a Gozzi play in the spring. Would I be willing to let them mount a reading of Comedy Of Venice to coincide with the production?

Of course I would.

Constellation insists that only company members perform in the reading, so I am unable to use Terence. But I am very impressed with the comic abilities of the cast and director, Rex Daugherty. In particular, I have no idea Gozzi is funny until I hear John Michael MacDonald’s interpretation. During the reading, I sit beside Constellation’s Artistic Director, Allison Stockman, and add a joke to the play specifically for her benefit, advertising her production of The Green Bird. About thirty people attend, laughing more than I anticipated. I cannot determine if the laughter is due to the performers, the script, or to the friendliness of the house. But I am pleased in any case.

YOUNG TURG: In early spring 2011, I get a call from Kim Sharp, asking to mount a reading of Young Turg at Abingdon Theatre Company in New York. He suggests Jackob Hofmann as director, since we worked so well together during Shaw the previous year. I happily agree to both the reading and Jackob.

Young Turg is the script I wrote directly before Shaw. It’s a bitterly comic indictment of office politics in a regional theater’s literary office. I like the script, but I confess to being surprised that Abingdon made the offer since I’d been told it’s not the sort of play that appeals to them. Naturally, I am happy to be wrong.

Jackob and I both agree to ask Jan Buttram, the Artistic Director, to read one of the roles and she readily agrees. Rehearsing with Jackob in the Abingdon space conjures many pleasant and comfortable memories of the Engaging Shaw production. Having most of the Shaw cast in the audience to support me only adds to my delight. Between the rehearsal and the performance, I have dinner with Henry Wishcamper, who will be directing Shaw at Old Globe. After dinner, Henry accompanies me to the reading of Young Turg, and sits beside Old Globe’s former director of new play development, who happens to be in town. Suddenly it feels as though a lot is at stake. And as the reading begins, I am struck with horror by how obvious are the script’s flaws. With every line, I squirm and wince and beg for death. A college friend of mine leaves during intermission. Henry leaves before the talkback. I assume a brave face and take the stage, fully expecting the vitriol of a multitude at the small of my back.

But it’s wonderful. Not only are there more positive comments than I expected, but the criticisms, questions, and suggestions are universally sound and supportive. As always, Kim Sharp has one thing to say which goes to the heart of what needs to be fixed. I take copious notes.

Afterwards, Jackob, his partner Hugh, and I repair to the Houndstooth Pub with Shaw alumnae Claire Warden & Victoria Vance, and a dear friend of mine from college named JoAnn. Everyone provides me with an unending parade of ideas to spark revision, but Claire commands my attention. She recalls specific lines–and words within lines–despite never having read the script before. She directs me to changes I’d not considered and directs me away from changes others had suggested. That and a later conversation with Jackob solidify in my mind what the script needs.

I overhaul the script like I’d never done before. Entire scenes are cut. Others are added. Plot points that were only implied are now fully explored. I send the new script to Jackob and he is effusive with his praise. He recommends it strongly to Abingdon and they agree, offering me the opening slot in their upcoming season. The only problem: Nobody likes the title.

I’m sad to confess that I don’t write good titles. If they’re not outright dull, they’re so obscure nobody cares. So I make a list of possible alternatives and email friends, asking them which ones they like. No consensus results.

Then I discover a quote by an author referred to in the play, which I think is perfect. My agent agrees, so I post the new title as a fait accompli on Facebook. Within minutes, I get a call from Jan at Abingdon. They hate the new title even more than Young Turg. Implicit in the conversation is a threat that if I stick with my new title, they will rescind the production offer. Desperate, I call Jackob. He suggests a cute reworking of one of my lines: Blame It On Beckett. Perhaps I think it is brilliant or perhaps I am overstressed, but I laugh immoderately and directly concur. I will maintain a diary of that production too, when it rehearses.

But not now. This entry is much longer than I hoped it would be. I am now nearing the end of the first week of Shaw rehearsals at Old Globe. I will recount that experience soon.

I spend the week after Shaw opens teaching a residency at one of my favorite elementary schools in Baltimore County and scouring the internet for reviews. I also have a third interview at Everyman Theatre for the position of Education Director, which goes well. I’m really beginning to warm to the job’s possibilities, and am excited by the way my proposals for expanding the position are received. Only two considerations give me pause: how will my residency schools and the Maryland State Arts Council react to my leaving them, and will the New York Times review change my life when it comes out?

As for the former, I haven’t received many residency requests for the 2010-2011 school year. I assume it to be the fault of the economy and look favorably at Everyman again. Just in case, I send an e-mail to my regular schools to see if any are interested in having me return. I expect nothing. But the response is overwhelming: thirteen schools request residencies. I usually only do five per year. So if Everyman doesn’t offer me the job, I still have enough work.

Now to wait for the Shaw reviews. The first comes from Theatremania and is an intelligently written rave. Clearly, the author is familiar enough with Shaw’s work to spot the parallels. If the Times writes anything close to this, I’ll be gold; but Theatremania is just an internet site and has little pull beyond the theater community itself. The second review is positive, but not glowing. Again, from an internet site, so it’s “nice,” but ultimately meaningless. Where’s the Times???

Suddenly, the reviews turn sour. A tiny internet site enjoys the actors but calls the script’s second act lackluster. It’s the first pan the script has ever received in three separate productions, but I’m not hurt. The review has no byline and the site is obscure. I get the sense that whoever the author is, he or she has chosen to write scathing things in an effort to drum up traffic to their site. But then it gets worse: Backstage, the prominent business rag for theater insiders, loves the script in one sentence, but hates the production in four paragraphs.

Again, I’m not hurt, because I am superlatively proud of the production, and no one’s opinion is going to change my own. But it is the only print review so far; and if the Times agrees with Backstage, it will spell trouble for any future career prospects I still harbor. Giving up playwriting for the Everyman job looks more inviting with every passing moment.

Being nothing but brutally honest about myself, I post the pans on Facebook along with the raves. Immediately, I get a message from Doug DeVita at Abingdon to call him at home. Doug worries that I’m upset, but I assure him I’m not. He tells me that he has heard through confidential sources that the Times loved us. I ask when the review is to be published, but Doug doesn’t know. Every new show on Broadway will be opening over the next two weeks. They take priority and, as a result, the review may never come out at all. So we wait. It still has not come out by the weekend.

I don’t go to New York that weekend because I have a reading at the Amnesty International Human Rights Arts Festival. The script, Absolute Amy, is not one of my favorites. It’s a political debate that at times gets too earnest. But I’m pleased with Catherine Aselford’s direction and grateful for the opportunity to hear the script, which plays better than I expected. Rebecca Herron is brilliant in a role I wrote specifically for her, and steals the show. Only nine people are in the audience, and that’s fine by me. One of the audience members is a Teaching Artist from a class I taught last summer. She is kind and I am glad to see a friend in the house, but I wish her first exposure to my work was a different play. I grab a bite with Becky Herron afterwards and have a blast.

I check online for Mickey McGuire’s stage manager reports about Shaw. They are mostly good: sold-out houses, much laughter. Keith Carradine apparently comes to a show. But one performance needs to be canceled because of a water main break on 36th Street. Unfortunately, this is the performance at which a commercial producer is due to attend and she cannot reschedule.

The final week of Engaging Shaw begins much like the previous one, with no review from the Times. We do, however, get two more internet reviews. One is a rave. The other praises everything but one actor, which I find tremendously unfair and thoroughly untrue. We begin to despair. Jackob (the director) and I begin to suggest that Abingdon extend the run, since the show is selling out every performance. But Kim insists that the company is merely an incubator, not a producer, and therefore never extends a run or moves a production. So Jackob and I try a different tack, to maintain our relationship both with the theater and with each other: we promote the possibility of a reading of another play of mine, Young Turg. But Abingdon expresses little or no interest in this idea. And worse, Jackob has been promoting the script without having read it. When he finally does, it’s not to his liking. We give up on Young Turg. Our hope lies in continuing the production of Shaw, which mean the Times review; but after a week and a half without publishing it, that hope has dwindled to nothing.

Naturally, just as we give up on it, it arrives: an unqualified rave, the like of which I never expected. And the effect is immediate: the last remaining seats sell within a few hours, strangers send me congratulations and fan mail through Facebook and AOL, and theaters that had rejected the script multiple times over the past decade request to read it again. When performances resume, Mickey’s reports reflect a surge in audience response. Apparently, once the Times tells New Yorkers the show is funny, they officially have permission to laugh.

Back at home, I’m getting over fifty e-mails a day, mostly from friends and fans, but a few small theaters and publishers make outright offers, and a couple of significant ones request the script. I’m overwhelmed. Betsy needs to remind me to breathe, and I develop a painful habit of unconsciously clenching my jaw, which I can’t shake. Unaware of what my best course of action is, I contact Jim Flynn, the agent to whom Warren introduced me on opening night. We have a great chat and Jim agrees to represent the script. I ask about the possibility of getting a commercial agent in to see the show and move it. He declares it to be remote. Since we only have four more shows, there isn’t time to interest anyone. Since the house is tiny and completely sold, there isn’t a seat we can give to anyone even if they were interested. Despite selling out all but one performance, despite a great review in the Times, the production will close on Sunday. Jim’s strategy is to approach the major regional theaters, which are about to complete picking their next season. We will particularly attend to those theaters where I have worked or possess a personal connection.

Then the phone rings. It’s Everyman Theatre, about which I’ve not given a thought in three days. They offer me the job. From the start they told me that working for them would mean the end of my playwriting career. That wasn’t an unwelcome prospect at the time. But I feel that my luck has changed so much over the past half week that I can’t walk away now. I turn the job down.

I head up to New York with Betsy and the boys for the final weekend. They’ve not seen this production, but they have seen the play before in all of its previous incarnations. They explore the city, while I sit in the lobby for the Saturday matinee. I have a couple of friends in the audience: Anne, a wonderfully creative woman I’ve known since elementary school, and Liz, perhaps my favorite person from the Long Wharf days and the model for a character in The Matchmaker’s Guide To Controlling The Elements. The actors are disappointed by how quiet the house is, but I suspect they’ve become spoiled since the Times review. Despite the silence, the show is well-received. In the lobby with me is a Shaw scholar, whose name I didn’t catch, but we have a warm conversation afterwards about the play and Fabian strategies for manipulating the media. While speaking to my friends, I notice Dr. Cornel West in the lobby. He wants to buy tickets for the evening show, but there are none to be had. The Shaw scholar and I follow him down to 36th Street so I can offer him my ticket for the Sunday matinee. Unfortunately, he can’t make Sunday. But he shakes my hand, thanks me, and tells me to keep fighting.

Meeting up again with my family, we have dinner at Lucille’s on 42nd Street. My younger son is a huge blues fan, and I had hoped there’d be a band playing. He’s disappointed to learn that the music doesn’t start until late. After dinner, we walk up 7th Avenue to see American Idiot, which we’re attending as a bribe for my kids in exchange for seeing Shaw. Before we turn west onto 44th Street, we notice ahead of us a car with some smoke coming out of it, surrounded by fire engines and police. “Typical New York,” we think.

American Idiot is a lot of fun, but has no depth or dramatic payoff. I love the music–particularly one of the new songs, Favorite Son–and the energy and choreography are inspiring, but I don’t care for the characters, one of whom never ventures from a couch. The boys love it and immediately repair to one of the gift shops on the way out. But as we head to the lobby, there are police everywhere, announcing that the theater, indeed all of Times Square, is closed. We later learn that the car fire we saw before the show was actually the attempted terrorist bombing. The police force us out to 8th Avenue, and I insist upon swinging by Abingdon to catch the final scene of Shaw from the lobby.

I stay for less than a minute, leaving quickly once a guaranteed laugh produces not a chuckle. It’s the worst house of the entire run, openly hostile, according to the actors. I’m worried now about the final performance on Sunday because I want my family to see the show at its best.

Sunday arrives and we have a nice breakfast at the Stage Door Deli. We attend mass at the most pathetic Catholic church I’ve ever seen. It offers only one mass on a Sunday, with no altar servers or music, and twelve parishioners in attendance. Betsy and the boys grab lunch, while I rush over to the theater to greet the members of the Bernard Shaw Society, who are bringing a group of about twenty-five people. Doug Laurie, the treasurer, hands me a copy of their journal, The Independent Shavian, in which Engaging Shaw is discussed. I sit beside John Koontz, the secretary, who has become an avid supporter of my work, even traveling down to Washington to see Irish Authors Held Hostage and Jack The Ticket Ripper at the 2009 CapFringe Festival.

My family arrives and the actors give their best performance to date. Huge laughs, much applause. Jackob is there, with gifts for everyone. There are many hugs and tears as we say goodbye, as well as a fair amount of frustration that the show wasn’t extended by Abingdon or moved by producers.

In the weeks that follow, only two of the theaters that my agent approached request to read the script. And not a single theater from the Baltimore/DC area responds. The e-mails from well-wishers, small theater companies, and even the agent evaporate. For all of the excitement of the past month, nothing has changed. Although actors and directors can find work simply because people like them, for a playwright, no matter how pleasant and easy-going you make yourself, it always comes down to two things: a good script and the whimsy of producers. I can only control the former.

I accept ten of the thirteen teaching jobs for next year, giving me no time to write anything new, then take out the garbage.

MONDAY
I’m home for only a day, before heading back to New York. There’s a huge list of things I need to do before my younger son’s confirmation on Saturday. My wife has been working furiously while I’ve been having heaps of fun in the city, so I need to make up some ground. I spend the morning hauling ten bags of mulch out to the garden and replacing two boards of our deck, staining included, when I get a call from Kim Sharp of Abingdon, whom I’d just left yesterday. He tells me that a critic has requested a clean copy of the updated script right away. He doesn’t need to tell me what that means. I know: the New York Times is coming to see the show. I don’t have a clean copy of the script. I need to type it. So, with many apologies, I again leave poor Betsy to prepare for Saturday’s massive party alone, while I tend to theater business.

TUESDAY
I take Amtrak up to New York for a special benefit performance of the play. Although I’d only left the city Sunday, it feels different. I can’t tell if it’s because the romance of the experience is abating or if my thoughts are back home, worrying about the confirmation. Either way, I’m tired. I spend the afternoon watching the Yankees in a pub on 8th Avenue, before walking to the theater.

The audience consists of Abingdon’s donors and board members, each of whom paid one hundred and fifty dollars to see the show and afterwards have dinner with the cast. Artistic Director Jan Buttram introduces me to everyone, like I’m the reason they’re there, which is a very odd feeling for me. I prefer to blend into the woodwork, so no one feels obligated to be nice. I’m immediately put in mind of the first scene of my play, wherein Shaw is meant to charm a potential donor.

I’m pleased to see the actors bringing fresh energy to the show. The audience laughs hard throughout the first scene, including at Webb’s opening speech which is dense and academic. But around scene two, silence descends. Warm smiles turn into disinterested staring. They perk up at the end of the scene, but collapse into silence again until the sex discussion at the end of Act One. I hadn’t noticed the actors doing anything different. The direction is still solid. Is it the script? All are complimentary during the intermission, but I’m worried. Act Two is perfect, with huge laughs; so I keep my concerns private.

The dinner is designed so that every donor has someone from the creative team at their table. I’m seated at the center table between two gorgeous actresses who are affiliated with Abingdon, but not in my show. One is in her twenties, the other in her seventies. I’ve heard the young woman’s name before, but we can’t discover a mutual acquaintance. The other member of our table is a donor being groomed for board membership. The two actresses and I are meant to be the “star power” that convinces him to maintain his relationship with the theater. The head of the Abingdon board was supposed to be at our table too, but had to cancel because he’s a C.P.A. and it’s two days before tax deadline.

The actors and Jackob, the director, work the room, going from table to table introducing themselves and making sure everyone has a good time. I marvel at Jackob’s ability to charm. I attempt something similar, but wind up telling the same story over and over again, boring myself and everyone within earshot. Back at my table, there’s no one around me whose voice is familiar. It’s a loud restaurant, and I am having a great deal of trouble hearing what anyone says. All I can make out is the rhythm of the speech patterns. The two actresses speak quickly, almost conspiratorially, with much laughter and agreement. Warren, the actor playing Shaw, visits our table, and speaks slowly, with authority and significant pauses which command everyone’s attention.

As the donors leave, Jackob and the cast coalesce around the table of Victoria, who plays Beatrice; and then, for me, the fun begins. Marc, who plays Webb, has been urging the people at his table to move the show to a commercial house for a million dollars. No offers are made. The waiters blink the lights to kick us out, so we stagger across the street for a drink. Jan tells me that she wouldn’t mind working with me again. Claire, who plays Charlotte, is “merry,” as she calls it, shouting hilarious, wacky, and belligerent non sequiturs at everyone. I’m still unable to understand much of what is said, but Claire tells me quite seriously that she’d prefer I was more outspoken and direct. I respond in my usual formal and emotionally distant way, perhaps with an attempt and wit. Jan pays for the round, and I walk with Mickey, the stage manager, to Port Authority before heading off to my hotel around 1:30.

WEDNESDAY
I am horribly depressed after a conversation with Betsy, who is offended by something I wrote. I feel I have done something wrong without meaning to do so. I am apologetic and explanatory, but the guilt at having upset her ruins the morning. The city goes from being the greatest place in the firmament, to being the most heartless and lonely. I head down to Horace Greeley Square Park, buy the Times, and read it cover to cover. This is the day I had originally planned to attend the Yankees game, but the cheapest available seats go for three hundred dollars, so I opt for another pub. The Yankees lose, echoing my mood.

There is a talkback with me and the rest of the cast after the show tonight. No friends are in attendance. The audience consists almost entirely of a group sale to the Rotary Club, who are fairly conservative and not at all intellectual. Just the perfect audience for a play about polysyllabic socialists. The show is godawful, completely lacking in energy. All of the problems I saw the previous evening are magnified tenfold. A quarter of the house stays for the talkback.

I love talkbacks, feeling comfortable and in my element. I get a number of laughs from saying the typical idiotic things I’m prone to mutter. The volunteer usher hopes that the cast will be kept intact when (not if) the production moves to a commercial house. Afterwards, I voice my concerns about the show to Jackob. I can’t put my finger on what is wrong, but something isn’t working.

I hop on Amtrak at ten p.m., headed to Baltimore. I arrive home after two.

THURSDAY
I awake at seven, bleary and catatonic. I have a job interview in Baltimore to be the Education Director of Everyman Theatre. It’s between me and one other person, now. I arrive half an hour late and unshaven. It’s the kind of job I’ve coveted for many years, and I paint many compelling pictures of how I see their department expanding.

But there are drawbacks. Though the money they’re offering is about twice what I currently make, the job requires four times the work. Betsy would need to take over my child-chauffering duties, which she found almost impossible last week. Naturally, I’d need to give up all of my freelance teaching and professional development work. Plus, I would need to give up playwriting entirely. There wouldn’t be time for me to write anything new, and they wouldn’t let me travel to rehearse anything old.

This is less of a deal-breaker than many people might think. I’ve been frustrated for many years now about both the quality of my recent work and the nature of the theater business. When I completed the first draft of Engaging Shaw ten years ago, I told myself I’d quit if the show never made it into New York. Now that it is in New York, does this mean that I’m required to continue this dreadfully unfulfilling path in perpetuity? My sons are nearing college age. Maybe, for my kids, I can take a hiatus for eight years, like I did when they were born. Would I have the energy to resurrect my playwriting career at the age of 53? Would I want to?

Though everyone at Abingdon indicates that they’d like to work with me again (a sentiment I return), I’m hemorrhaging money with all of the travel. Plus, I don’t think I have a script of Shaw’s quality which would fit their tiny space. I gave them Young Turg and Irish Authors Held Hostage but so far they’ve responded to neither.

If a commercial producer steps forward to move Shaw within the next few days, or if Everyman doesn’t offer me the job, then the decision is made for me. But it is more likely that I am the one who will need to start examining the course of my future.

In the evening, an e-mail from Jackob tells me that eight critics, including the Times, are watching tonight’s show. I’m not nervous, since it’s out of my hands and I know we’ve put together something that–when it works–works beautifully. Mickey’s stage manager report tells us the audience was full and very responsive.

FRIDAY
Betsy and I scramble to cook and clean for the arrival of thirty family members from four different states in anticipation of James’ confirmation. My wife is a wonderfully efficient planner, and has turned me into a reasonable facsimile of one when I feel like it. We rearrange furniture to make room for the rented tables and chairs. My job is to do grocery and airport runs. As I drive to BWI to pick up my sister, her daughter, and my cousin, I hear a news report about the murder of Brian Betts, who was the Arts Integration Coordinator at my older son’s middle school two years ago. He was one of the most dynamic and dedicated administrators I’ve ever met. He was the reason we chose that school, and he was instrumental in getting Evan into the percussion section of the band. It is a tremendous loss for middle school students in DC.

Compartmentalizing my shock and sorrow, I return home with family in tow and have a great deal of fun playing pool in the new basement with the boys and my brother-in-law. My cousin gives me a DVD of her documentary about skid row artists in L.A., which I’ve been dying to see. Before bed, I check online for Mickey’s stage manager report. For the first time, we had empty seats. He says it was quiet and that we “lost” the audience during Act Two, scene one. All bad signs. Because this is the day I’d arranged for a commercial producer to attend. There are no phone calls or offers made. I think of Shaw’s line in the play: “Like Ibsen, I will put my plays into print and trouble the theater no further with them.”

SATURDAY
The confirmation. My Dad and his wife arrive at the house early. I haven’t seen them in two years, and my father has indicated that this will be his last trip east. James had his braces removed a few days ago and looks like a million dollars. During the ceremony, my father-in-law falls ill, nearly passing out. He refuses to go to the hospital, hoping it will pass. It doesn’t, but he gets no worse, which I suppose is a plus.

The party after the ceremony seems to go well. It’s loud; but I know everyone’s voice, so I can hear them. I float from group to group, assisting with drinks, cooking, and cleaning up. The bar and basement are a huge hit. My Dad infuriates everyone by insisting we play pool by the official tournament rules that his buddies use in California. I remind him that we’re only playing friendly games, but he is adamant. The food came out very well, but we made too much. There are no seats for Betsy and me among the main group, so we sit in the foyer and share a lovely private moment. Unfortunately, the private moment turns out to be seen by the public, and we are teased by all.

Because of her father’s illness, Betsy has decided not to come with me to the press opening of Engaging Shaw. I understand. Mickey’s report again indicates a few empty seats and a quiet house.

SUNDAY
Opening Night. I have an early breakfast in Maryland with the extended Morogiello family, after which my Dad puts his credit card on the table and leaves without signing the bill or retrieving the card. Betsy will sign for it and mail the card to him later. I drive my sister and her daughter back to the airport, and my cousin and I head up to New York. My cousin, Judy, has been particularly worried about jet lag, so I provide her with a pillow if she wishes to sleep during the drive. Instead, we spend the entire drive talking and reminiscing.

We reach the city by three, staying at the Hotel Wellington just south of Carnegie Hall. I furiously write notes to the cast, thanking and congratulating them. At four, I meet Judy in the lobby. She insists upon springing for a cab. At the theater, my friend JoAnn arrives with a large contingent of Stony Brook friends, some of whom I’ve not seen in a quarter century. I return Betsy’s ticket to the box office to be resold, but Jan decides to use it and I’m happy to sit beside her the whole night.

It turns out that not a single member of the press will be at Press Night. They all came last Thursday. Apparently, the press finds Press Night too manufactured, since we’ve packed the audience with friends. They prefer to go to a late preview–which we also manufacture by packing the audience with friends. Essentially, it means that the critics saw the show before Jackob could give the actors the final notes I passed along to him on Wednesday. And it’s a shame, because the cast gives the best performance I’ve seen. Everything is working and the cast is fresh and energized. Beatrice even gets a laugh when she crosses to Webb during the splinter sequence! At the intermission, a stranger thanks me for writing the play. I try to give a witty response, but it comes off callous and glib. I vow to be earnest for the rest of the evening.

Afterwards, I shake the hand of just about the entire audience. I head to the post-show reception with Judy and a friend of hers who lives in New York. For some reason, despite the volume, I am blessed with the ability to hear everyone for this one night. It’s one of those parties where you talk to everyone, yet you talk to no one. No sooner do I start a conversation with one person, than someone takes my arm and my attention elsewhere. Warren has become this quasi-mystical creature to me, as if he knows everyone I’ve ever known, lived the career I’ve always wanted, and now plans to open the portal that has blocked my career for the past twenty years or so. Halfway through the party, he takes me aside and introduces me to Jim Flynn, an agent I’d been pursuing for about seventeen years. I make him laugh once or twice, but he does not proffer his services. I spend a lot of time talking to Piper, the Development Associate, who also has a hearing problem.

When the party breaks up I realize I’ve not eaten anything, so I head to a deli across from the hotel. Looking back on the evening, my only regret is that Betsy wasn’t able to share it with me. Too jazzed to sleep, I strike up a conversation with two women from Holland, who are stuck in New York because of the volcano. They are soon replaced by a couple from Dayton, who talk baseball. The reviews will start coming out in the morning. But I don’t care what they say. They can neither give me more than I received this evening, nor take away a smidgen of the joy that will carry me home. Like the character of Charlotte, I got what I wanted the minute I surrendered.