A play, essentially, is an event. An event is an occurrence in which something actually happens. It is pure activity, driven by actions and interactions that clash and modulate. It is always moving. It springs out of nowhere, with no introduction, no exposition, no commentary, no clarification. It just takes place. It is utterly spontaneous, developing in real time, commanding our attention. There is no theme. It does not tell us where it is going, what it is about or how it will end. It is unpredictable, filled with surprises, propelled by suspense. It is the unvarnished impact of the here and now, of the living present: raw immediacy.  

Playwrights create an event. Naturally it is not arbitrary; we forge it through our awareness and fantasy. We people it. We lend it shape and purpose and humanity and cohesiveness. The defining principle, however, remains at the center: something must happen. This must catch us, hold us and stimulate us. Our words are not designed to be read, they are designed to be performed, carried into effect. We are not writing literature (the "story" doesn't matter; it will arise of its own accord) we are making an experience.

The best plays defy analysis. Waiting For Godot is considered a benchmark in modern drama. The play is unalloyed event: endless games in order to kill time, until the savior shows up (he never does). There are over 190,000 books about the play, "interpreting" everything from its use of the pause to its metaphysical implications. We, at the pub, love to discuss a good evening at the theatre. What spurs us on is the knowledge that it can never be summed up. Form and content are one. What is said cannot be separated from the manner in which it is said. Samuel Beckett comments: "I don't write about something, I write the thing itself."

The life of a play comes from the unconscious, that elusive swirl of inner truth, intuition, imagination and possibility that lies just below the surface. I get my best flashes when I am least expecting them: in a café, at a subway stop, strolling in the park. Sometimes they can be very bizarre and troubling. My intellectual guard is down and visions start flooding in. The minute I start to "think" the moment is lost forever. Plays are like dreams; they pose questions to which the conscious (rational) mind is incapable of  answering. They are journeys, they are quests; their power is impervious to logical examination.

The rational mind can be very dangerous. It wants to organize, it wants to steer; it hunts for ingenious ideas and clever narratives. It concocts themes and guidelines to make us feel more secure. In fact, it interrupts and interferes with the natural, spontaneous flow of writing. It operates as a self-imposed censor. Rationality has a legitimate function: it will give some order to the piece whether we like it or not, independent of our active will, so let's just leave it alone.   

Plays that come exclusively from the conscious mind may be "entertaining." They have many forms: the indictment, the lecture, the confession, the romance, the melodrama, the spectacle. Despite their temporary allure, they are all premeditated fabrications and, as such, we resent them. They are predictable and safe. They devise sterile, magical solutions in lieu of genuine risk and involvement. They assiduously avoid the feelings and challenges that most perturb us. They are neutered simulations of life. We go through nothing, we are not touched.

A good play makes no judgments, nor offers up solutions. There is no "solution" to life.  Life is strange and erratic and difficult and uncontrollable.  Things rarely come out even. The purpose of drama is to remind us of that. We are all mortal, vulnerable human beings. The playwright airs problems, both universal and eternal, as they are insoluble. This acknowledgment will bring us peace.  

When I ask my fellow playwrights how they start, the replies are always vague. There is no designated starting point. Begin with an image, or a character, or a situation or a reverie. Couple that with something that angers you, that perplexes you, that amuses you, that saddens you and make the stakes high. Always base it on a feeling and, most important, do not put pen to paper unless you need to speak out.

We empty our minds of all the bric-a-brac, all the cloying worries that rattle around our brain. We aim for an open, receptive state whereby the intellectual defense mechanisms of the conscious are perforated by the liberating vision of the unconscious. Then we simply jump in. Let your play be unique, let it be original. It may be strange or distressing or outrageous, but it will be yours. We are not concerned with the banalities and conventions of day-to-day routine. We are not concerned with the literal, but with the inspired. Our job is to uncover and lay bare truths that subsume ordinary circumstances, to push past conformity, and to reflect ourselves, our authentic selves.

Once you have begun, let it flow, give up control. Let the action and the characters lead you. Let it happen. Follow, without question or doubt. Surprise yourself (and surprise your audience). Commit yourself to living in the moment. We never know where we're going, we never know where we'll wind up. To write a play is a journey, it is an act of discovery. We are working something out. What it will be, how it will resolve itself, will remain abstruse until the end.

The biggest mistake we can make is to draw up an outline, a blueprint,  a story line. To do so condemns us to "filling in" each section. This is arduous work; we are using the writing to "show," in a calculated manner, what we have mapped out. The play turns dead, all life and spontaneity are drained. The rational mind has sabotaged the event. Craft is the successful execution of a predetermined plan. Art is creation. It has no plan. Creation is bringing something new into the world. 

Another related mistake is the urge to "explain." Novice playwrights will explain their characters, explain feelings, explain the situation. Conflicts can be substituted by laundry lists of why one person dislikes the other;  static argumentation. Explanations, at best, will slow down, dilute and divert the movement. At worst they will kill the possibility of real drama. All the information that we need, we glean through the course of the action. The rest is superfluous. A good play doesn't even need stage directions.

Characters can come from anywhere: yourself, a family member, a friend, a mere acquaintance, or pure invention. What they are like, is not of prime importance. Characters reveal themselves by what they do. Each character has an objective; each character wants something. They may succeed, they may fail, but it is through the arc of their desires that they become known. Unlike soap operas, there are no villains or saints in the theatre – only people. As people, we have many facets. We must treat our characters with empathy.

The structure of a play is rooted in our very being: beginning, middle, end / cause, effect, conclusion / thesis, anti thesis, synthesis / act one, act two, act three. What fuels the structure, what generates its constant motion and mutation, is conflict. Forces manifest themselves. They then come into conflict. It is too late to go back. Resolution comes with a rearrangement of those forces. Make the conflict as primal, as energizing, as extreme as you dare.  

Ernest Hemingway defined writing as "rewriting." This is especially true for the playwright. As I mature, I appreciate the necessity of rewrites. My first draft is to figure out what's going on in my play. I then throw out three-quarters of it and write it again and look at it and find out what's going on in that play and throw out three quarters of it and write it again. It is a rolling exercise in cutting, redoing and rethinking. Eventually, however, I arrive at a piece that is ready (it is never completed, only abandoned). This is part of the process of discovery. Our long term calling, after all, is to wrest incoherence into a clear and satisfying event.

We live in a world that is swimming in lies. Governments lie, courts lie, entertainment lies. We lie to each other, we lie to ourselves.  Our (natural) desire for truth is debased. We seek it in counterfeit forms: formula novels, pop music, pictures of the past that movies freeze, the numbness of television, posing as a fount of perception and edification. Plays, which make money, are shows: soulless, artificial extravaganzas that we forget before we get home. Contemporary society discourages the expression of truth. We are too eager to speak in the fractured language of escapism. We huddle under the mantle of ignorance and replace enlightening discourse with banter of trivia, fashion and trends. We drown ourselves in self-absorption and materialism. We have become anaesthetized. We shy away from the source of our deliverance, for fear that it might be too disturbing.

False idols have replaced morality. Manipulation is the new gospel and its priests sermonize on profit, exploitation, distortion, climbing the social ladder and looking out for number one. Conformity to this corruption has the seductiveness of "success," and success promises comfort. In practice, it leads to dehumanization and isolation. We distance ourselves from the troubles and afflictions of our fellow beings. We harden ourselves to pain. Ultimately we lose grip on those values that make us whole.

Our mission, as playwrights, is to cut through this fog of mendacity and confusion. It is our job to seek out the truth, our truth and communicate it as directly as we can. We liberate ourselves and we liberate others. We rejoice in the elation which honesty brings. We are reminded of our humanity. We are all frail. We are all weak. We all have faults. Let us unbottle them, heart to heart, and celebrate our common lot. The theatre is one of the last places where this can happen. Censorship in the form of laws, political correctness, corporate sponsors, investor greed, corrode other media. It is we, alone, who have the unchecked freedom of confronting the actual conditions of existence.

We have an hour or so, in a room, to create a living event. This event  will evolve through ever-shifting action. It will capture us, stir us and, finally, release us. Meaning and insight will ascend. There may be laughter or shock. Fierce feelings may be aroused. The intensity is sustained because events happen in real time. Our audience is not comprised of spectators; they participate, they assist, and assistance comes back from the stage. It is a joint exercise. This fleeting adventure can never be duplicated. We have an onerous task. If we succeed, we will have provided the audience with an oasis and a visceral memory that will last for years.

There's a rumor that Aeschylus, an ancient Greek playwright, was so moved by religious ceremony that he stole the idea. He set up shop in a theatre, replacing the gods with humans and the liturgy with dialogue. He was an instant hit. The notion and weight of ceremony maintains to this day. We are gathered, not as customers, but as communicants. Writer, actors and audience take the same journey; we undergo it together. It is holy because it is a communal experience that sheds light on the very foundations of our lives. This journey is singular, demanding and affecting. We will be forever changed. We will feel lighter, exhilarated, renewed, as if a burden had been lifted from our backs. I think that is what Aristotle meant by catharsis. We have all traveled the same road – now we are friends.