How to Write a Play

Art Philosophy

Step 1: Quit Your Job

It’s common knowledge among playwrights that the best work is borne of necessity, and that comfort is the enemy of art. That gnawing feeling inside, that baseless fear the uninitiated try so hard to tamp down you must, instead, chase. Monetary comfort and that artificial sense of self worth which comes from a job well done working in restaurants, flower shops, or tutoring centers (to name a few) are, essentially, for the birds. All that is not your writing must be deemed superfluous. Become ascetic, monk-like—spurn all that which is not food, rent, and, perhaps, a pack of cigarettes every now and again (since smoking cuts your appetite and, therefore, balances out with your budget for food, in addition to making you look cool, which is always a boon to the artistic process). With your wide-open schedule, you can go to bed late and wake up early, go for walks whenever you like, and even pick up a hobby or two—something adjacent to your writing that inspires you but is not so heady, like drawing, or singing, or birdwatching. Exercise whenever you have enough food to support the burning of so many calories. Otherwise, relax and, basically, hibernate.

Of course, you will have to work sometimes, or else risk (for example) eviction, or, worse, the inability to purchase a matcha at your local café. Your local café (to continue along this train of thought) will be your home away from home. Remember: the point is to avoid comfort and (to an extent) joy—to put your back up against the wall, so to speak. Home is so often the center of comfort, and for that reason it must be avoided at all cost. What’s more, your local café will invariably be populated by other writers plunking away at their screenplays in Courier New—the sight of which will send you into a kind of frenzy that anyone should be so bold as to take up the mantle when it is your prowess that is undeniable and your heart which is made of pure gold—is truer than true.

When it does come time to work again, remember to only do the bare minimum. Never take on any special projects or try to make up for slack of others. Show up, do what is asked of you, and then go home. Never engage in workplace drama. Allow the hurly-burly of your coworkers to fall off you like so much rain. While their reward is a sense of self worth from having gotten the upper hand over their imbecilic bosses, your reward (wisdom) is far greater and more potent. Do not compare yourself to them, or stoop to their level. Retain a healthy distance. Be polite. Say please and thank you and the like.

Furthermore, never take on a managerial role, it is never what it seems Naturally, you will be the best worker wherever you end up because you will have (if you listened to my advice) largely avoided quarrels with co-workers, kept your head down, done the job, and gone home without much ado. Your superiors will mistake this for commitment and attentiveness to detail. They will try to entice you with the prospect of increased pay at reduced hours. What they will not tell you, however, is that as manager you will have to bring the work home with you (or, more specifically, to the café), something you cannot afford. You might think, “At least it will get me out of the trenches,” or, “Perhaps I can improve this place,” or, “It would allow me more time and resources to pursue my writing, even to produce one of my plays.” Do not let them fool you, or blind you with the specious prospect of making upwards of sixty-thousand dollars in a single fiscal year. They are sirens sent by God above to test your faith in your artistry.

Step 2: Cease to Enjoy All Forms of Writing

In the past, the word “amateur” meant someone who was a “lover of things,” who perhaps had the spirit, but who could not commit themselves fully to the cause. Nowadays, it is more commonly used to describe someone who, despite committing fully, simply does not have the capacity for creating transcendently. I think the former definition is more correct, since the latter could easily be replaced with the word “hack,” or: someone who is all there, but who falls short. “A lover of things,” however, more accurately depicts the problem. You cannot be too precious about art, if you are, then you will never be able to break it open so that you may understand it. Imagine: you’re presented with a car—shiny and new—and are subsequently tasked with building your own using only the knowledge you can gather from the car you have been presented with. You may be able to create something resembling the car, but in order to make it go at some point you’ll be forced to break it open, to get at the heart of the problem. What’s more, if you decide to move forward with this task and end up quitting halfway through, you run the risk of leaving with two half-constructed cars, and nothing to show for the effort. This is the dilemma of the amateur.

So, it is important that the playwright decides at the outset to dismantle all that came before, to build anew something even better and more beautiful, and to look at the work of others objectively, without rose-tinted glasses. At first, this will produce in you feelings of disgust, and a general sense of ennui as you transition from audience member to critic—an exhausting position.

Conversely, music will become all the more precious to you, as will art forms that have nothing to do with words. Classical music will become a friend, as will dance, and the visual arts. Take it as one small recompense.

Step 3: Read

Ironically, the next step after ceasing to enjoy writing is to consume it. Devour books and plays alike. Make no distinctions. Judge the grammatical competency of billboards and backlit signs in subway cars. There will emerge a new kind of enjoyment, one that has almost nothing to do with the work itself. All media will become self-reflexive, meaning that the enjoyment you gain from it will be from the furthering of your own abilities. All that you read will be in relation to your own work, and though you will no longer enjoy things as you once did, you will, instead, begin to feel a sense of purpose when you sit down to read—a feeling which will propel you back to the café to take up the pen once again. This is called inspiration. You will also be able to take on more difficult, didactic works like those of Nietzsche or Joyce. Even vacuous, plot-heavy, “fast-fiction” novels will transform into (at the very least) a warning of what not to do. What you lose you gain from. You will become a scientist of art, and will no longer see the work of “the greats” as something unattainable and immutable, but as something created by comrades in arms.

Read, read, read. Never stop reading. It all adds up. There is never a wasted word. Be active. Take notes. Ruminate. Form opinions and discuss them with your friends even after they call you pretentious and write you off as wanting to appear as nothing more than an erudite fellow. Don’t worry too much about that. Of course, you will come to a few erroneous conclusions, but what is so wonderful about being human is our ability to change and grow. While they write you off as just another in the long line of hacks, you will slowly but surely cultivate knowledge and, subsequently, the ability to practically apply it as they toil away in managerial positions, talking bad about their coworkers apparent inability to show up on time (as if what anyone else does has anything to do with what they do).

Step 4: Write a Play

Now has come the time to write. You will never feel ready, not truly. You will have to take risks, and fail. This is only natural. However, do not seek failure—allow it to be a byproduct of your attempts to “get it right.” Do not revel in it as proof that the step is being taken. Trust your gut, and don’t ask other peoples’ opinions concerning questions you know the answers to. More often than not you already know the answers, otherwise you wouldn’t feel compelled to ask the questions. Lastly: write, write, write. For the love of God, don’t stop writing.