A group of playwrights walk into a room…
No, this is not the start of a joke. Though, I’m sure that many jokes could start this way. Actually, this is the start of how Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera made its way to Next Stage Press.
At the 2023 Valdez Theater Conference, while waiting for a Play Lab rehearsal, Philip Middleton Williams, Arthur M. Jolly, Scott Sickles, and many other playwrights gather for a photo. Shouts for more to join them ring out.
“Next Stage Press playwrights! Come get in the photo!”
These are playwrights I have admired since my first Valdez Theater Conference in 2018. I look at the group of talented writers with envious eyes, dreaming of a day where I might join their ranks. Thinking that dream is obviously outside my reach. Then realizing that, while I might not be in the photo, I’m literally standing right next to it. Maybe that dream is not outside my reach after all.
A very important part of a writer’s life, besides writing, is keeping an eye out for any and all opportunities. This includes publishing opportunities. On top of subscribing to submission newsletters and websites like New Play Exchange and Play Submission Helper, I also always pay attention to what I read.
When reading a book that taps into my own interests and genres, I always take a moment to look at the publisher. Do they have a website? Are they still in business? And most importantly, do they accept submissions? I had known of Next Stage Press in passing, having seen it on many playscripts – some autographed by those very same playwrights taking a group photo. But for some reason, I never thought to check whether or not they accepted submissions. Call it a blind spot, call it insecurity, call it just plain idiocy.
I had submitted Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera to multiple publishers, had kept my eyes open for all calls for submissions, had received many rejection emails, yet I couldn’t see what was right under my nose. As most things in life, I didn’t see it until it was staring me in the face.
After the 2023 Valdez Theater Conference wraps up, I immediately get to work submitting my play to Next Stage Press. I send the script without scrutiny and, to be perfectly honest, completely forget about it. Summer fills the vacuum created when the Conference leaves Valdez. Our midnight sun rises high in the sky to welcome summer and crests low toward the mountains to usher in the fall. I keep myself busy submitting and writing and forgetting.
Then on an unassuming lazy Saturday evening, my phone chimes with an email. It’s Gene Kato of Next Stage Press. He is interested in my play and is hoping to add it to their catalogue.
The first emotion is happiness. The second is disbelief. The second one is harder to shake. Getting a play of mine published is an odd feeling. The story has lived with me for almost ten years. The idea for the story, doubly so. And now, I’m sending it out into the world.
Doing my final edit on the manuscript becomes harder than I thought it would be. These will be my final words on my version of the story. Is there something I’ve missed? Is there something I should add? Take away? Change?
As I’ve detailed in a previous post, I even agonize over changing the title. That is the largest of the changes I mull over, but there are a billion tiny ones beneath it. A placement of a comma, a period. Should I use an ellipsis or a dash? Pile that all onto the formatting edit I must do to prepare the manuscript for the printers and harder questions arise. Is the play even any good? Did Gene make a mistake? Will the bubble eventually burst, revealing just one big prank?
I’d love to tell you that these questions disappear at the other end of success. But success is not a cure-all for doubt. Success means change and change is a terrifying phantom, lurking in every shadow. The only way to face it, is to unmask it.
Holding the physical manifestation of my words in my hand sends a shock through my system. I finally feel that I can call myself a Playwright. A capital P Playwright. But with that feeling comes the realization that I have been a Playwright for over a decade, if not more. A signature on a page didn’t suddenly transform me into something else. The smell of ink and newly printed paper didn’t infuse me with some sort of power. It only revealed what I’ve always been. What I’ve always feared to call myself.
This blog came into being because I decided to let go of that fear, lean into that fear, unmask it. I am a playwright.
Many friends have helped me face that fear. Philip Middleton Williams has been a constant source of encouragement, knowledge, and friendship. Gene Kato has been with me every step along the way, always quick to respond and happy to help. The “Tuesday Night Tellers” and “Feral Writer’s Guild” writers’ groups has helped me find my voice. And my wife Molly has stood alongside me when those fears threaten blindness.
I don’t know what comes next, but whatever it is, I will heed the call.
That goes for you too. All the writers out there. All the playwrights. Published or unpublished. Capital P or lowercase p. You are a part of a community. You have a story to tell. I’m not sure if Next Stage Press will be the home of that story, but if you’re looking for a submission opportunity, here’s one. www.nextstagepress.com/submit-your-work
Heed the call.
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