I wrote this somewhat self-indulgent fan letter a couple days ago. I never do this and certainly hadn't planned on sharing it. But I was emboldened by Julia Lederer's op-ed in Intermission Mag today. I'm not sure if it helps or hinders to receive her reminder that I'm not alone here. But at least it reminds me that it's okay to share these feelings publicly. After all, sharing feelings publicly is basically what I do, right? You can listen to Julia's hit play, "With Love and a Major Organ," right here. And do so quick because it's only up until the end of this weekend. * * * * * Dear Regina Spektor. I know every word of every song in your album, Far. I listened to the album enough that my wife, who turned me on to your music, got tired of me suggesting it. Then I got tired of it too for a while. No offence. I’m a Canadian playwright. Which means that I’ve forever doomed to never quite achieve what other people call “success.” Worse still, I’m a Canadian playwright at the end of 2021. I’m not entirely sure what that means but suffice to know that my own field isn’t presently interested in my profession. No one is reading scripts. As a matter of fact—I imagine the following is clearly paralleled in your field—a major Canadian theatre that is famous for taking important creative risks recently asked all creatives to sign off their rights and likeness indefinitely just to make a short project-pitch to them. I’ve heard horror stories about the music industry being much worse in this manner but, as the backlash washes gently off this company, I can see theatre heading in the same predatory direction as music. If it’s not already there, that is. What can I say? I’m still writing prolifically and I’d like to see my work in front of an audience, of course. I’m writing this to you from a parking lot on my way home from a meeting with a powerful gatekeeper to the Canadian theatre world. Just turned off the car after your song, Genius Next Door closed its last chord. It’s not safe to drive and cry at the same time. I realize that makes me sound like I think I’m a genius. Just the opposite. I make up stories and there’s almost no such thing as a truly original story. In fact, when I write in that successful-yet-stuffy way that most people think of playwrights writing, I get tremendously bored with myself. I’m interested in finding ways to toy with the live presence of the audience woven into the (probably not original) story. I’m more interested in the guerilla-surprising mysticism that happens when people who are forced to sit in the same room are suddenly breathing in unison. I think you’re probably much better at this than I am. The first time I heard Laughing With I was still deeply religious. Everyone thought I would love the song because I loved God. But the song challenged me and felt blasphemous to my ears. Did I actually think that God would do me favors if I “prayed the right way”? Yes, I think I did think that. Obviously, despite everything, I’d still not spent enough time talking to God. Or, at least, not attempting to listen with any nuance. How could you be so far ahead of me in just one song? You later sing, “he stumbled into faith and thought, God, this is all there is” and, over the subsequent years of my spiritual journey, that little concise lyric seemed to clean all the cobwebbed gum off of my sticky insecurities. Now I participate in the age-old tradition of seeking mysticism in art. And I find it. We work in ancient traditions, after all. Also, I don’t find it. My partner and I watched the first few minutes of Diana the Musical on Netflix before turning it off, aghast that such a lazily-made piece of musical storytelling was somehow already destined for Broadway. The night before we watched Tick Tick Boom only to be disappointed that an homage to an artist is never quite as good as that artist’s own work. I don’t know, maybe by virtue of being a New Yorker, you get more from that last one than I do. Fair enough. But considering how detailed and playful your songwriting is in contrast to these I’m still scoffing at the injustice of it. I think neither one of us may ever have a Broadway play. Meh. The meeting I just left lasted two hours. We talked about deeply personal things as well as the general theatre ecology before getting to the new scripts I was pitching. A warm and cozy brunch. I usually have a hard time finding ease when talking to the perceived giants of my field. But my comfort with this particular person might have to do with the fact that neither of us originated from the old-money security that produces most of the world’s theatre. And their small kindnesses around the work make me feel like, yes, despite everything, I do have a place in the artistic tapestry of our culture. When this person retires, however, I won’t have the same kind of relaxed brunch with their likely upper-echelon successor. They gently reminded me that there is currently no room for new plays here or there or anywhere. This news, however, came with a promise to read my script (even two or three scripts if I wanted to send more—which I will). But to what end? Of course, I can produce my own work but, as I said, I have a family. Pounding the pavement for peanuts at fringe festivals is a different kind of labour for those of us with a sliver of poverty trauma. It also means I can only write up to the ends of my capacity to produce, rather than to the ends of my passion for the art form. So, Regina, where am I going to go look for God now? You haven’t produced an album-length project since 2016. And I guess, this letter is simply to say, if you found the courage to cut through the bullshit of the music industry to bleed a little slice of your soul and, once again, spread it into our speakers, I’d be grateful. I appreciate that your last album didn’t continue the upward commercial momentum of Far and others. But if that matters then we stop taking risks, we stop being creative. That’s not a dig, more of a wish. I love your creative risks. Your first album was self-produced. And it merited your journey to writing television theme songs and achieving other such success-signals of your field. Maybe I’m writing to you for your hutzpah as much as your artistry. I try to roll up my sleeves as far as they’ll go. I’m developing a production of a friend’s script, I’m lobbying for a local venue, I’m sending opportunities to local actors. I do think all that is part of the work—though its slow going and I lose sight of what might be holding things back or pushing them forward. Maybe the core of my problem is my own impatience. But I’ve been taking this vocation seriously since I was 10. And, as I incessantly write, I feel that the work is surely getting better. So of course, I’m impatient. If they play Human of the Year at my funeral, that would be okay with me. Just as long as everyone understands, the song would be chosen for them, not for me. We do what we do for the people who are alive right now. I don’t think I’d be making theatre if I weren’t so desperately in love with everyone. Too few living people express it as thoroughly as you. And as this car is “beeping out a song just in your honor,” like Tick Tick Boom, it’s just not as good as the original. Here’s to the importance of creatives alive today. Some, true originals. It’s an uphill battle where no one has a road map. But please, send a new album. I’ll celebrate it more than the charts—no matter what they say. When it lifts me up more than your competitive industry might lift you, that’s part of the mysticism too. Isn't it? And—just--I could really use it right now. “This is why we fight.” Love, Ciarán Hey, incidentally, if anyone knows where fan mail gets directed ... or if you can use your 6 degrees of separation to get the above read by its addressee, that might be kind of nice for everyone? Peace!
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