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.

I don’t yet know who the director is, or who is in the cast, but I’ll post the information as soon as I hear anything. Abingdon doesn’t even have it on the website yet. They plan to post it after 26 January, but they’ve given me the okay to start promoting it here.

Some of you are very familiar with the play: it has been produced at Oldcastle Theatre Company (with Langdon Brown) and New Jersey Rep, and received readings at New Jersey Rep and the Kennedy Center. This will be its first exposure in New York (although The Times came to see it in New Jersey and declared it to be “Exactly the type of work that nonprofit theatres dedicated to producing new plays and musicals should be doing.”) My favorite review came from Variety, which called it “a spirited and intelligent combat of words and sparkling banter,” then attributed its authorship to someone named “John Mortimer Langdon.”

For those of you who are not familiar with it, Engaging Shaw is an unromantic, romantic comedy about the courtship of Bernard Shaw and Charlotte Payne-Townshend. The little slogan I wrote for the marketing department describes it like this: “He considered himself the superman. She allowed him to believe it.” Just enough wit to leave you incontinent.

Hope you can make it. It would be great fun to see friendly faces.