What is a Hero?

An interview with David Alan Moore, Stage Left's Artistic Director, and author of Safe.

Please describe your LeapFest play, Safe, and tell us a little bit about the inspiration for it.
At a recent appearance in New York City, the writer Edna O’Brien was asked where she got the ideas for her stories. She said they’relike egg nog: she doesn’t know where they come from or what they’re made of. (Note: I was pleased that she didn’t compare her ideas to sausage, partly because everyone uses that analogy and partly because I prefer sausage over egg nog!)

Of course, the “inciting event” in the play, the death of the man trapped in the burning building, is connected to an actual event that none of us can forget: the attacks of 9/11. A few years ago, many of the recordings of 911 calls made to emergency-services dispatchers by people trapped in the World Trade Center towers were released to the public. Out of what was probably morbid curiosity, I listened to a few of them. One recording, in particular, struck me with a wallop: a four-minute -- conversation? dialogue? scream? -- between a man and an operator that ended only when the tower he was in collapsed around him. Rumble. Click. Dial tone. Horror.

I realized that, in all the talk about the “heroes” of 9/11, very little mention had been made of the hundreds of emergency-services dispatchers who’d fielded thousands of calls from terrified victims, bystanders, and fire and police personnel. Who were these people? How did they cope with a tragedy of such monumental scale -- and how do they and their peers around the country cope with the less-massive but potentially, equally tragic calls they receive every day?

Of course, from there I began musing about the illusion of security in an unpredictable world, the nature of loss and, perhaps more obscurely (at least in the script), the question of “heroism.”
What is a hero? We hear about big, made-for-the-media acts of heroism every day, and such stories clearly fill a personal and societal need. But I often think that, for any sentient, conscious and self-aware being, merely getting through the day -- however you manage to get through the day -- is the biggest act of heroism of all. Knowing -- and not knowing -- what’s out there, yet finding a way to keep going, to have hope? Pretty impressive, if you ask me.

How has the play evolved during your participation in LeapFest?
To be honest (see my answer to the fourth question, below), this time around the play as written hasn’t evolved that much during the LeapFest process. That’s mostly circumstantial; past LeapFest plays (In Times of War and The Day of Knowledge) experienced major growth spurts during the rehearsals and between performances.

I wish that weren’t the case this time -- and the cast, the crew and the director (Scott Bishop) of Safe are awesome, so this should in no way be seen as a knock against them or their contributions. They have leapt into the process with both feet -- their entire bodies, really.
However, at my end of the teeter-totter, most of the work during this year’s fest has been happening between my ears. Answering questions from the cast and director, seeing the show play out in front of me, experiencing it as part of an audience -- all of these things have helped open my eyes and ears to many of the strengths and flaws in the current draft, and will help inform the next rewrite. So at least one goal of LeapFest (helping the playwright craft the play) is definitely being fulfilled. And I think audiences are enjoying the show in its current iteration, too. It’s good to know that even a workshop production can have an effect on an audience, can be a satisfying theatrical experience.

What is your personal writing process, and what are the benefits or pitfalls of a workshop production for you?
I am very definitely not one of those playwrights who sits down to write for a predetermined amount of time or pages per day. Godspeed to those who can and do, especially if that process works for them. I’ve tried it, and it generally produces more guilt (when I fail to stick to a schedule) than good writing.

My own process is a bit like baking bread. I rarely even begin writing a scene or a play until after the ideas, the characters, the action and the dialogue have been churning in my head for a good while -- months, sometimes. Like bread dough, I throw all the ingredients in, let the mess ferment and rise for a while, punch it back down, and repeat the process a few times, all in my head. Only after the loaf or play or scene has taken solid shape do I then commit it to paper (or computer). At that point, it’s like dictation -- the amount I get written at any given point is dependent upon how fast I can type.

That doesn’t mean that I only ever write final drafts. Nor does it mean that I don’t do experiments on paper. But what’s particularly great about the workshop process and a workshop production is that a play, meant to be staged, best reveals itself when it’s on its feet, when it’s in the hands of actors and directors and designers for their interpretations and explorations. Not all of my loaves are perfect when they come out of the oven -- some are like bricks, some are all air!

Do I write this way because it’s my nature, or do I write this way out of necessity? Possibly the latter: as a freelance writer by trade for the better part of 15 years, I spend much of every day parked in front of my computer, writing. Because my clients don’t have the time or the budget for me to write multiple drafts, my first drafts (for my clients) need to be of third-draft quality. So, in contrast to what I said before, I guess I do write every day. It’s just that what I write generally doesn’t make an appearance on the page until it’s been written and re-written in my head several times.

You are also Stage Left's Interim Co-Artistic Director, so you are wearing many hats. How has that impacted your involvement as a writer, and have you learned anything valuable through seeing the process from that perspective?
On the downside, being Interim Co-Artistic Director has had a definite, negative impact on the amount of time I have had available to write, both of the “in my head” sort and the “on paper” sort, as described above. Helping run a theater and managing an ensemble of two dozen very diverse artists is a huge job for anyone (or two), especially when it isn’t offset by a concomitant reduction in other professional and personal commitments. Oh, the deadlines I’ve missed! The friends I’ve ignored! Get out the violins...!
(And kudos to Laura Blegen and Drew Martin for helping me keep at least a modicum of balance.)

On the upside, you learn a heck of a lot about the theater -- the industry, the business, the artists, the audiences, the collaborations, the conflicts of interest, and the joys of creating art on a larger scale -- when you’re in the thick of producing one season and planning for the next for an entire company.

A separate but related thought: I have always been of the opinion that art comes first, practicality second. That is part and parcel of my broader worldview and is unlikely to change (much to the chagrin of certain people close to me who feel I’m more grasshopper than ant). So it has been an eye-opening experience to see the other side of this chicken-or-egg question: how do you sustain artists and the process of creating and sharing art, especially in an economy and an era that are so anti-art? My own response, at the end of this year, is to refocus on my writing, because that’s what sustains me.

For whatever reason, I am driven to write. I am not driven to be an impresario or someone with a title after his name. Nor am I driven to fix what I see as some pretty major flaws in the way we produce theater in this country. I’ll happily share my opinions (elsewhere, if asked!) and will applaud the individual with the the focus and the energy to right the wrongs of the industry -- but I am not that person, I’ve discovered.

Most of my own energy will go into my writing because I cannot help myself. Further, I’m a firm believer that even if a sculpture is locked in a room, it is still a sculpture. A tree falling in a forest, unobserved, still makes a sound. Whether it’s a piece of furniture I’ve designed and built with my own hands, or a play I’ve written, that’s what excites me: the created thing itself. There it is. See?

Of course, I’m also drawn to the Buddhist idea of impermanence. I wear a bracelet of tiny skulls around my wrist to remind me that everything changes. Likewise, when it comes to my writing, that play, that thing I created, I also don’t worry too much about its future. Yes, what happens to it afterward is my concern, but it’s not my worry. Like a mandala made of colored sand, it’s beautiful -- and then along comes the wind. Will thousands of people see my play? Lovely! Will it be appreciated by an audience of one? Equally lovely -- and equally out of (and in) my control.

You can see the final LeapFest performance of Safe today, May 30th, at 7:30pm.