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Maybe this was because at that time I had never consciously considered my own character in terms of what I wanted in life, either.
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Until that point, I had never thought consciously about who the stage ants were deep inside or what they wanted. In my first playwriting class, my teacher John Poglinco told us that the definition of a story is: a character wants something, is presented with obstacles, and either achieves, fails, or abandons it. The primary function of these stage ants seemed to be to carry objects from one side of the stage to the other until the curtain came down.
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Unlike my soap characters, whom I spent an hour with each day year after year and who in some ways seemed like family to me, I perceived the characters I saw in the theater from a remote distance, like a little kid peering down at an anthill. Not only had I never written a play before, I had not internalized the idea that plays were (or could be) a mirror held up to life. (But that’s a whole other story.)īy the time I was eighteen and began studying playwriting at NYU, I had a sense that I wanted to be a dramatic writer, but my ideas about character and storytelling were shaped by those soap operas I hoped to write for one when I graduated from college. Carly Manning in order to keep Carly from telling the police that Vivian had been killing Carly’s patients at the hospital while hopped up on Chinese herbs. In my neighborhood, no one ever drugged their rivals (leading their loved ones to believe them dead), then arranged for them to be buried alive with a limited supply of air and water on hand so that they would suffer and slowly die while being taunted by their captor via a speaker installed in the casket. Certainly nothing like what happened on Days of Our Lives, my favorite childhood soap opera. Once I discovered writing as an outlet, I used it frequently to escape from what seemed to be a rudderless, ordinary, middle-class existence, where no one seemed to want anything and nothing of consequence ever seemed to happen. I grew up in a city I sometimes affectionately refer to as “Black Mayberry,” the youngest of two children. Tori Amos’s marriage of classical music and groove-based piano pop settled easily into my fingers as I struggled to find my own voice, and to this day the studied listener can find her influence in some of my musical phrasing. During the Stephen King/Dean Koontz years, I wrote an apocalyptic tale of a hyper-ambitious man burning to death in the climate change–induced hot sun in order to make a high-stakes job interview.
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At the height of this phase, I wrote a short story about a successful businesswoman named Selecia (which seemed like a sexier version of the name Felecia) who harbored a dark secret as she climbed the corporate ladder. For a while, it was Jackie Collins, whose salacious tales of Hollywood sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll were the literary substitute for the pornography I had no access to as a pre-teen. Growing up in detroit, michigan, I began writing when I was young, mostly mimicking what I was watching, reading, and listening to.