It’s a Business. Every…Single…Time
A much beloved ball player goes to play for his city’s arch rival without the slightest bit of regret. From him we hear, “hey, sports is a business.”
A highly intelligent, groundbreaking television show with a vehemently loyal fan base that happens to be the wrong age and thus isn’t profitable overnight is cancelled after half a season, without getting off the ground. “Entertainment is a business,” the networks tell us.
Regional theaters and Broadway alike more and more have started showing jukebox musicals and derivative plays based on the same public domain work over and over instead of increasing our cultural depth and breadth with new, challenging material. Why? Because “theater is a business.”
Literary agents, publishers, and authors lucky enough to win the publication lottery advise writers to jump through 400 hoops, study a dozen or so trends, establish their own marketing platform and pimp out their names (if not change them to something more palatable) before they commit a single word of their fiction to the page. Remember, they say, “publishing is a business.”
This very blog you are reading. WordPress ropes me into a certain kind of plan for this blog that includes no advertising, only to decide without warning that suddenly my plan would include “unobtrusive” ads at the bottom of my blog posts. If I want them to go away, I now have to buy the extra super duper premium platinum heaven WordPress package for twice as much money. And you’re a fool if you think that if I purchased it, WordPress would never create a higher tier in the future, and stick me with ads with the justification that, “web hosting is a business.”
It’s a business. It’s a business. Business. Business.
Business.
Business.
Business.
Bullshit.
This is not a socialist rant against capitalism, (though it is a broken system in many ways.) Businesses do exist, and they have a right to. But when did the concept of business become a secular deity? When did the simple, respectable and necessary concept of both paying ones bills and making some profit become the all encompassing, soul-destroying, life-absorbing universal force of spirit death it is today? Why is any and all behavior, any aesthetic, any vision or problem or longing or desire or need or passion evaluated through the lens of business?
When did we redefine business failure as anything less than economic hegemony? When did risk, cooperation, community involvement, vision and creativity become wholesale victims to the quarterly reports that practically scream year after year, “Protect the billions at all costs! Don’t stand up or make a sound! If they ain’t payin’ we ain’t playin’. ”
I don’t know when all of it happened, but I know that we are there now, have been for a while, and show no signs of evolving beyond it. And I say “evolving” because the business-oriented mantras I have described are indicative of immature industries and individuals specifically, and an undeveloped (or ailing) culture as a whole.
It’s a culture that believes and trains every child to believe that the higher the numbers the better, regardless of how the numbers get higher. It is a culture that eschews values such as loyalty, trust, community, curiosity, creativity, artistry and stability. A culture whose language about matters business has become almost Orwellian in its surrealistic simplicity, i.e., changing or dismantling a brand or concept on which millions still rely for simple daily comfort if not essential productivity and then telling the horrified masses, “We did this all for you! You’ll love it, even if you didn’t want it!” Never mind that the old model with which everyone is already comfortable continues to bring in X amount of profit. This is a business, and they have discovered a way to stiff happy consumers and bring in 5X in profit instead. And if it ain’t at least 5x, it’s a failure. That’s being a business in more and more circles today, and it’s not limited to huge corporations either. Modest family business are also becoming infested with this approach.
And we tolerate it. We keep buying the lousy cookie cutter books that the Big Six publish. We go see the increasingly vapid 300 million dollar “Blow Them Up” movies with the same plots as the last eight 300 million dollar “Blow Them Up” movies. We let cheating athletes into our Halls of Fame, recognizing that “it’s part of the game now,” and because everybody still loves Johnny Roid anyway, along with the millions he soaked out of whatever team free-agency put him in before he retired in (all too temporary) disgrace.
We don’t reward people or companies that consider combining profit with improving lives as crucial to their mission statement. We burn a big red “C” for “coward” or “I” for “idiot” onto the faces of people who seek economic models on either the local or national level that run against this grain, or that might, (Heaven forbid) actually allow the wealth of a company to improve the health and well being of the community in which it resides.
Studios can still make a profit on movies without behaving this way. Publishers can still make a profit without publishing books this way. Athletes can still enter retirement as ludicrously wealthy people all because they were adults who played a game for a living without acting this way. Important ideas, innovative formats, geographic loyalty and just plain humanity can coexist with business, if we want it to. But it appears we don’t want it to, and I shudder to think at how many movies or books, or even medicines have gone unmade because of it.
How about we give honorable behavior a try? Or art for arts sake? Or having to think even as we recreate? How about we try establishing roots and teaching our children that making a million dollars and paying our bills while also being noble is in fact better than making 25 million dollars and not giving a damn how it happens, so long as it does? The other way has had plenty of chances to prove its best for society. It has failed to do so, don’t you think?
Upcoming Project: Thank You for Ten
In the theatre world (in which I have spent a great deal of time), the stage manager has many jobs. One of them, on the nights of a performance, is to move throughout the theatre finding actors and letting them know how long they have until the show starts, usually in minutes. If ten minutes remain, they will announce to the actors that are hustling about, “Ten minutes.”
At which point, just about every actor that isn’t a total rookie, (I’m talking about 98% here) will respond to the warning by saying, “Thank you for ten.” It’s a courtesy response, but it’s also to let the stage manager know that you are duly informed of what time it is.
Like any good writer, I have commandeered the phrase for my own purposes, though it’s not as far removed from its original purpose as you might think. Today I am announcing that I will be self-publishing, Thank You For Ten: Short Fiction About a Little Theatre.
As you may have guessed by now, the “ten” in question here refers not to minutes before curtain, but to a number of stories. Thank You For Ten is to be a collection of ten of my short stories, written last year, all of which take place in the same theatre.
Which theatre? This one. They are all set in the same place my novel is set in. Since the playhouse in my novel is very much a character in its own right, reading this collection of short stories will act as a sort of introduction to the Little Dionysus Playhouse.
The stories are from different angles, points of view, of different tones and with varying themes, all tied together both by basic theme and setting. While none of the main characters from my forthcoming novel appear for any significant amount of time within the short stories, the mood and spirit of the novel, I think, is there in all ten stories. You won’t have to read the stories to understand the novel, nor read the novel to understand the stories. Rather, each work complements the other.
Having gained some confidence in the area of self-publishing through my experiences with my recent Nanowrimo novel and having some patience friends who have been through this process before, I feel ready to take on this small challenge. I hope to have it all set and ready for download, (or printing, some things have to be worked out) by summer. Until then I will keep you updated on my progress, and share thoughts about the stories in general.
Whether you have intimate knowledge of community theatre, know someone who does, or just feel moved by the plight and privilege of the creative artist, there’s something waiting for you within Thank You For Ten: Short Fiction About a Little Theatre. I look forward to sharing these with you.
Open Letter to a Peripheral Angel
For the purposes of this open letter, the subject shall be referred to as ‘Stacy Jones’. –T.U.
*
Dear Stacy,
I can think of no better way to start this letter than by asking, “where the hell have you gone?”
As MySpace made way for Facebook, and Facebook shared the stage with Twitter in the years since I left college, I have made efforts to locate you. All of them have failed. I’ve found friends, former friends, former lovers, teachers, casual acquaintances and a number of other people from my life via social media. Those that have been worth it, I have reconnected with. Some have dropped me (again) and some have stuck around like old times. Some I dropped. But never with all of the computing, speed-of-light networking power have I been able to locate you, and I my life is a little less than it could be because of it.
Having a name like Stacy Jones doesn’t help. No offense to you at all, but it is a common name, which means that even when I find a Stacy Jones on Facebook, I find thousands upon thousands. You may be in there, somewhere, I don’t know. I admit I haven’t spent hours upon hours checking such lists. Nor have I tried to cross reference the name with much more than where we went to college, and a semblance of where I think I remember you said you lived. I got your name on an alumni newsletter once, and nothing more than that. And as I said, it may not have even been you, though the year was correct. And you may have a married name now anyway. I’m sure internet wizards could find you. But to go beyond what I’ve already done repeatedly every few years would feel like stalking, and I don’t want to appear that way to you.
I get the impression, however, that even if I did do all of that, and more, you wouldn’t freak out about it. From what I remember of you, you wouldn’t judge me. You never did much judging, from what I can remember. You did, however, do a lot of smiling. And laughing. And asking. We’d cross paths on the mall, or at the dining hall. And once or twice you tended bar for some club or another at the student center, on the occasion when I would drop by for free pizza night. Always welcoming. Always kind to people. Yeah, you’d quietly make fun of some things and some people, that were over the top or something. So would I. But I bet even if the people that were over the top needed something, you’d try to help them. Which is one reason I’ve never forgotten you.
Funny how that happens. We had only one class together, and it was in my very first semester there. But that one class was Acting 101-a class that is the referencing anchor for my entire college life. Where I began to make my impression, and where entire perspectives changed within my mind and heart about several things. Throughout college 90% of my social life and friendship was connected somewhat to the theatre, and much of that sprang up from that first acting class. Not long after said class, you decided it wasn’t for you, whereas I, (perhaps foolishly) immersed myself in it for the remainder of my college time.
But it was enough for me to know what sort of person you are, as I’ve said. The course, the room, the skits we did in class, every one of them made brighter and more enjoyable by your presence. As was my life, and I can’t believe I’m the only one to have felt so. You taking a step back from the theatre aspects of campus was a net loss for me, in the end.
We had various passing encounters in the following two years; we’d run into each other in a food line, or the bookstore. You were always the same cheerful, caring individual. It was clear for even a few moments at a time. I don’t recall seeing you truly angry.
Yet there are three not-as-brief encounters with you after you left theatre behind that are most memorable to me and I wanted to tell you about them now. Perhaps you remember them too.
The first was drinking and singing with you in a friend’s room for a half-hour or so. You had had more than me, because you’d been there longer, but when I saw you were there, I had to come by. I remember singing “Look Away” with you, (something we had done in the theatre dressing room when you were still doing plays.) I remember using your legs as a pillow as we reclined on the floor. If that bothered you you never said anything. And as just about everyone else can attest, the entire concept was very much out-of-character for me at the time. Those who knew me then may read this and ask, “when the hell was this happening, and how did I miss it?” That goes to show how comfortable you make people. The sincerity you draw out. There was more “me” there in less time with you, than with the people I spent most of my time with.
The second encounter I remember was the next year. You were an R.A. in freshman housing. At one point we ran into each other in the dining room again, and you told me about being an R.A. You said that I should come by and say hi sometime. I agreed to try. Once again, going against the grain of my college self, I actually came by. With few exceptions, I didn’t like going to the other dorms. One, it always felt like wearing another man’s shoes. My equilibrium felt off. Secondly, to show up and say hi, even when asked, invited the possibility that I’d be a pain in someone’s ass. An intrusion. So I often avoided it. But stopping by your room that day seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do.
Your door was open, and you looked busy, but truly happy to see me. I actually came in instead of hovering in the door frame as was my custom.
I remember your room was so you…you had the lyrics to “The River” by Garth Brooks written on construction paper and stuck to the wall. You had an original NES hooked up to a tiny TV with Mario 3 standing by. We played a bit, and you lamented that you didn’t have the original Mario there with you. You told me of the ups and downs of being an R.A. and how you hoped you hadn’t been that clueless as a freshman. I was there 45 minutes or so at most before you had to be somewhere. I don’t recall much else of what was said, but I recall not having that empty feeling I often got after leaving somebody elses room/dorm. You told me to come back sometime. Much to my own shame, I never did that year. I should have.
We continued to pass one another in hallways the following year, (my last.) But not as often, as I recall. Our dorms and our schedules kept us in different places at different times. And because I spent much of that year with my head up my ass, dating an obvious bitch, I didn’t venture out much beyond said bitch or beyond the confines of the theatre department, much to my personal detriment. If only I had sought you out more often. If I had, would the general easiness of your demeanor, your ever-present warmth and innate decency have steered my path in a different direction? Would I have seen the world more clearly, or been more philosophically inclined to approach life in a manner more suited to who I truly am? I don’t know…probably not. That’s an awful lot to ask from hanging out with even the nicest of people. But I bet I wouldn’t have felt as alone and as abandoned when shit hit the fan that year as I ended up feeling. (As a result of how most of my erstwhile “friends” had chosen to behave.)
And yet somehow you were still part of the story, Stacy. Because in the midst of the emotional calamity and soul crushing betrayal that defined my final three months in college, you showed up. Literally crossed my path for the first time in months, and at one of my lowest points ever. In the middle of the night, no less.
I was on one of my middle-of-the-night walks around campus, trying to pretend that everything I knew about people and friendship and trust had not been destroyed. It was a weeknight as I passed the recently constructed suites, so it was quiet, as campus goes. As I was walking past the entrance, the clicking and banging of the front door swinging open tore into the night. Lo and behold, it was you. No indication at all that anyone else in town, let alone campus was even awake other than me, and you show up.
We saw each other at about the same, and your “Hey, Ty” was one of the most sincere greetings I had received in forever. In those two words, your first to me in God knows how long, you made me feel more valued than just about any of the people with whom I lived, ate and worked every single day.
We talked a bit, and the nature of my situation came up. (Probably because you sensed I was unhappy. You seemed good at that.) I gave you the basics…I had been cheated on and dumped by what I thought was a serious relationship. But the floodgates didn’t open. I didn’t feel the need to explain everything to you. Didn’t need to express everything, or tell you what I had been through. Or how those who took sides took the other against me, while most remained in horrific neutrality…how they continued to celebrate and sup with the people responsible for my pain. I didn’t have a sense of desperate pleading with you to stand with me. You didn’t know most of the people involved, so it may have been pointless anyway. But the real reason I didn’t have to get into much of it was the instant understanding that you were on my side. You didn’t condemn anyone you didn’t know, but between the door to your dorm and the parking lot, (where you were headed), you made me secure in the knowledge that you were there. That was enough. That would have been enough from any number of people, but you were one of the few who did it.
You asked if I wanted to come with you to the all-night market. Again, going somewhat against my policy, I did. We talked in the car about other things. And talked in the store about other things, while you bought your oatmeal or whatever it was. I even laughed a few times. You laughed even more. That distinctive laugh that would announce you were nearby before anyone saw you.
We got back to the parking lot, and I told you I would hear no argument; I was walking you back to your room, and helping you carry your stuff. Like a true adult and real woman, you smiled, and agreed. No “I’ve got it”, or “Don’t worry about it.” You accepted a gesture with a grace and appreciation I’ve not often experienced since.
I didn’t go into your room this time, though knowing you, you wouldn’t have minded. It was late, and time for me to get back to my darkness. But for the first time in a while, I felt that something, somewhere was okay. That I was not an expendable commodity to everyone on campus after all. Those “demons” tortured me for months and months to come, but when I was with you that night, they didn’t dare try to upstage you.
I never saw you again.
As always, the invitation to come see you stood, but. again, to my own detriment, I didn’t take you up on it. I was feeling more unwanted and inadequate by the day. and I guess I felt I needed to stay away from people. They were certainly staying away from me, after all. But it wasn’t fair to you to feel that way. I should have come by at least once more. Not to feel better, but to give your the credit and gratitude you so richly deserved for being a source of light into both my regular, everyday darkness that we all get, and the crippling, life-changing darkness that scars us forever. You shone into my life briefly, occasionally, and off to the side. Yet few lights in my life have ever shined with such potency. So much potency in fact that I see and feel your generosity and kindness in every word I type in this post. I feel it when I think back on those times. And I feel it when I try once again to see if you’re out there on social media someplace.
And I will try again, and again. There is a decent chance that because of what you meant to me for a short time, and what you did for my definition of humanity, I may try here and there to find you for the rest of my life. Because even if that is something akin to “stalking”, I feel moved to say to you in person what I am saying to you now by means of this letter:
Thank you, Stacy.
*
This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
The (Not So) Secret Formulas of Fiction
To call a story formulaic, whether it be short story, novel, or even a movie is in most cases not a compliment. It tends to mean that a story is predictable and obvious. A consumer of such stories might say “I could see it coming from a mile away.”
That’s not to say that formulaic fiction is never popular. Throughout history many bestselling novels and movies have in fact been highly formulaic without shame. And people eat them up. (Dan Brown novels, particularly the Langdon series, are a prime example.) More discerning or literary readers may either dismiss such romps in fiction, or may enjoy them from time to time as a so-called “guilty pleasure.” I venture to guess that in any case nobody, including the authors of such guilty pleasures would associate their work with high art, or even with experimentation.
But say you yourself seek to write something more than a formulaic romance or connect-the-dots police procedural. Suppose your goal is to write gripping, surprising or challenging fiction. Perhaps you even aspire to that most elusive of undefined genres, literary fiction. Have you anything to gain from these “formulaics”?
Yes.
While I personally don’t think stringent, Aristotle-based plot structure is as important as it used to be when writing fiction, much can still be gained from same. That’s because many good stories that are not described as formulaic do nonetheless follow a basic plot formula. We just don’t notice the formula because quality writing allows it to recede into the background for the reader; it becomes the skeleton that holds up the tale, and not the raison d’être. So if, like me, plotting is not one of your automatic strengths as a writer, you could probably stand to brush up on the nature of such skeletons. What better way to do that than by reading/watching formulaic stories that are almost all skeleton?
Average, or even B-Movie Westerns from the 1950’s through 1970’s are good examples. Pick up a few of these on Netflix sometime, and see how the skeleton appears over and over again. Or have Encore Westerns on in the middle of the night, as I sometimes do. These will of course each have their Westerns conventions, but surrounding those are basic plot skeletons, and they won’t be difficult to find. Eventually you’ll pick up the patterns and will be able to use them in your own stuff. (attaching flesh, muscle and spirit to them as desired.)
Westerns not your thing, even as an exercise? Watch a Law and Order or any other crime procedural. Or, if you must, (and have the stomach for it), turn on either Hallmark or Lifetime movies. Those are so formulaic you don’t get anymore from the movie than you do the trailer itself in many cases. But is easily defined plot structure present? Oh, yeah. In spades.
Then there are the previously mentioned Dan Brown books, and other airport fiction. Pick up a few of those and watch the paint drip right onto the numbers every time.
There are plenty of other examples out there. If you don’t watch or read such things for guilty pleasure, consider doing so as a study in structure. You may not feel artistic, enlightened or deep when you do so, but you’ve got Sundance and Cannes indies and Pushcart Prize-winners for all of that sort of soul wrenching self-discovery. Feed your craft at its most basic level sometimes, and immerse yourself, without distraction, in the not so secret formulas once in a while.
Ty Unglebower 