It's been a while since I've posted here. Part of that is because I've been wrestling with a difficult realization. For the past several years, I've poured an enormous amount of energy into a one man show called Honorable Men. It's a piece that means a great deal to me personally. At its heart, it is an attempt to honor Sara, by examining the human cost of the systems we inherit from the past when we don't learn from history and revel in the belief that Brutus, and others who were hostile to democracy, was an honorable man.
The play has received readings. Thoughtful people have offered encouragement. Again and again, I've heard that it has potential. But I've also heard that it needs changes.... and therein lies the problem.
The changes being suggested are often reasonable from a commercial or practical standpoint. Yet the more I consider them, the more I realize they would turn the play into something other than what I set out to write. Every artist eventually encounters this dilemma: the tension between creating the work that speaks honestly to them and creating the work that is most likely to succeed in the marketplace.
Lately, that struggle has left me discouraged. When you're an artist, it's easy to begin measuring the value of your work by the response it receives. Solo show or not, I can't put it on without some kind of "team" of people who believe in it like I do and want to help me to put it on... and that failed to happen. If a project fails to gain momentum, you start wondering whether the years you invested in it were wasted.
That's one reason this blog has been quiet. But anniversaries have a way of reminding us that not every story ends in disappointment. This month marks the tenth anniversary of the production of Weeds of Sloth in San Diego.
For those who aren't familiar with it, Weeds of Sloth is a story about love, loss, memory, and the things that remain with us even after they seem to be gone. Its title comes from Alfred Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam, and from a passage that asks us to consider whether a life untouched by love's risks is truly preferable to one that experiences love and grief alike. The play follows a young woman struggling to recover memories that others have tried to protect her from, and a love story whose meaning gradually emerges from the shadows of the past.
The play also contains elements that were inspired by Sara long before I ever imagined I would someday be writing about her in this way. Looking back now, there are moments in the script that carry a significance for me that they didn't when I first wrote them. Time has a way of changing art, not because the words on the page change, but because we do.
For years, I intended to publish the script. More importantly, I intended to dedicate it to Sara. After her passing, I made a promise to her family that I would do so. I'm pleased to say that Weeds of Sloth is now available in print. The publication is dedicated to Sara's memory.
What strikes me most, ten years later, is how relevant the play's central theme remains, and how much more powerful it has become. When I wrote it, the questions raised by Tennyson's famous words were largely hypothetical. Today they are not. Like many before me, I have had to confront the reality of loving someone and losing them. Yet if I could go back and choose again, knowing exactly how the story would end, I would still choose every year I had with Sara.
That realization has given this publication a meaning I never could have anticipated when the play was first produced. What began as a work partially inspired by the woman I loved has become, over time, an even more passionate tribute to her memory. If you've seen or read the play, thank you for being part of its journey. If you've never read it, I hope you'll consider picking up a copy. And if you're a director, producer, theatre company, or fellow artist who thinks the story deserves another life on stage, I'd love to hear from you.
Ten years later, I still believe in it. Most of all, I'm grateful that I was finally able to keep my promise.
Get your copy today: https://tinyurl.com/3p5rsh2x
The play has received readings. Thoughtful people have offered encouragement. Again and again, I've heard that it has potential. But I've also heard that it needs changes.... and therein lies the problem.
The changes being suggested are often reasonable from a commercial or practical standpoint. Yet the more I consider them, the more I realize they would turn the play into something other than what I set out to write. Every artist eventually encounters this dilemma: the tension between creating the work that speaks honestly to them and creating the work that is most likely to succeed in the marketplace.
Lately, that struggle has left me discouraged. When you're an artist, it's easy to begin measuring the value of your work by the response it receives. Solo show or not, I can't put it on without some kind of "team" of people who believe in it like I do and want to help me to put it on... and that failed to happen. If a project fails to gain momentum, you start wondering whether the years you invested in it were wasted.
That's one reason this blog has been quiet. But anniversaries have a way of reminding us that not every story ends in disappointment. This month marks the tenth anniversary of the production of Weeds of Sloth in San Diego.
For those who aren't familiar with it, Weeds of Sloth is a story about love, loss, memory, and the things that remain with us even after they seem to be gone. Its title comes from Alfred Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam, and from a passage that asks us to consider whether a life untouched by love's risks is truly preferable to one that experiences love and grief alike. The play follows a young woman struggling to recover memories that others have tried to protect her from, and a love story whose meaning gradually emerges from the shadows of the past.
The play also contains elements that were inspired by Sara long before I ever imagined I would someday be writing about her in this way. Looking back now, there are moments in the script that carry a significance for me that they didn't when I first wrote them. Time has a way of changing art, not because the words on the page change, but because we do.
For years, I intended to publish the script. More importantly, I intended to dedicate it to Sara. After her passing, I made a promise to her family that I would do so. I'm pleased to say that Weeds of Sloth is now available in print. The publication is dedicated to Sara's memory.
What strikes me most, ten years later, is how relevant the play's central theme remains, and how much more powerful it has become. When I wrote it, the questions raised by Tennyson's famous words were largely hypothetical. Today they are not. Like many before me, I have had to confront the reality of loving someone and losing them. Yet if I could go back and choose again, knowing exactly how the story would end, I would still choose every year I had with Sara.
That realization has given this publication a meaning I never could have anticipated when the play was first produced. What began as a work partially inspired by the woman I loved has become, over time, an even more passionate tribute to her memory. If you've seen or read the play, thank you for being part of its journey. If you've never read it, I hope you'll consider picking up a copy. And if you're a director, producer, theatre company, or fellow artist who thinks the story deserves another life on stage, I'd love to hear from you.
Ten years later, I still believe in it. Most of all, I'm grateful that I was finally able to keep my promise.
Get your copy today: https://tinyurl.com/3p5rsh2x
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