This is number 152 in the blog series, “My Writing Life.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW, I was a theatre kid. I did both my undergraduate and graduate work in theatre, specializing in design, though I was accepted into a doctorate program in Dramatic Theory, specializing in playwriting.
Well, that didn’t go very far.
What brings this all to mind is that this week, I’ve been in Portland, OR to see a couple of plays and join my friend Angus in polishing a tip rail or two. The plays I saw were Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and King Lear performed by Salt and Sage Company at the Artists Repertory Theatre.
Both shows were played on the same set and I had a seat in the front row center. It was a good seat. Sadly, that’s because there were only 40-50 people in the audience in a theatre that could seat at least 150. People missed a good show. It's playing for another week so if you're in Portland, get a ticket!
The setting was versatile and adapted well to both plays. They made use of quite a lot of original music, played and sung by the cast. Good voices. There were fifteen in the cast, and as most repertory companies, the same actors played in both plays. Many traditionally male roles were played by women or non-binary actors. The opposite of what would have been done in Will’s day. Very well staged.
It got me thinking about my own design for King Lear at UIndy, back in 1971. It was considerably different than what I saw in Portland this week. It was the first really big show I got to design and tech direct. (And play the role of Albany. We did everything in those days.)
I knew the director liked lots of levels. When we’d first met to go over the concept he’d drilled that idea into me. Lots of levels. Cast of 40 or 50. It was huge. I did all the usual drafting of floor plans and Prof. Williams approved. So, I built a model. I showed it to the director and he shook his head.
“I like the platforms and levels and steps. It just needs to be more rustic.”
The next model needed to look more ancient. After six models using the same platform design, but with different decoration, Prof. Williams threw his hands in the air and said, “It needs to be more cliffy!”
Bells and whistles went off in my head. I was back in two days with a model that remarkably resembled the finished set. Wish I could show a picture in this blog, but I'm not going to post a link as it would cut the visibility of the post. If you want to see it, ask. "Cliffy" was a magical word, and I developed a construction technique that enabled me to make it ‘cliffy.’
And that has been a phrase that has stuck with me ever since that fall of 1971 college production.
There is a reason I decided to write about this, besides a trip down Memory Lane. When writing, there frequently comes a time when I try several different approaches to a story, often discarding entire drafts. I know the books in The Props Master went through as many as fifteen drafts before I reached one I was happy enough with to publish. The unpublished Book 3, Child of Earth is currently in its sixth or seventh rendition and I’m still not happy with it. (Much to my editor Pixel the Cat’s displeasure.)
I find myself going back to Prof. Williams’s words in that smoky office of his. “It needs to be more cliffy!”
That’s not an instant solution, but it reminds me to look at the problem in a different way. Look for where the inspiration is. Look into the heart of the work and you’ll find where the cliffs are.
I’m far from an expert. I think I’m still learning things about writing every day. And sometimes what I need is simply that old reminder.
Make it cliffy.