Guest Blogger of the Week: August Schulenburg

A huge thank you to Stacy Davidowitz for blogging for us last week.

This week our guest blogger will be August Schulenburg.

August Schulenburg is a playwright, actor, director, and Artistic Director of Flux Theatre Ensemble, where he is directing their upcoming production of Ellen McLaughlin's Ajax in Iraq. His produced plays include The Lesser Seductions of History, Jacob's House, Rue, Carrin Beginning, and Riding the Bull, which is being next produced in Seattle in July. As an actor, he was nominated for an IT Award for Ezekiel in 8 Little Antichrists. He also blogs for Flux and the TCG Circle.

“Those who can’t do, teach”????

Contributed by Guest Blogger of the Week, Stacy Davidowitz.

NYC Teaching Artists have taken the saying “Those who can’t do, teach” and flushed it down the toilet. For the sake of teachers and artists everywhere, I’m going to net-swoop that theoretical turd of a statement out of the bowl and do some exploration.

As OOB artists, we don’t all have the luxury of earning a full income with what we love to do. So we waiter or nanny, tutor or temp to support our theatrical endeavors. It’s essential to have a job with no strings attached—check in, check out. If we care too much we invest too much, compromising the very art we’re working this crappy job to finance. But we don’t want to hate our job either—it’s exhausting to be miserable and that doesn’t exactly breed creativity.

Moral of the story: Avoid all money jobs that will suck your artistic energy. It’s not worth it.

Except if you’re teaching.

I guarantee working as a Teaching Artist will take it all out of you. You’ll put 100 percent of your energy into lesson planning and teaching (imagine Saved By The Bell’s Jesse on caffeine pills) until you’re sucked dry and need to do absolutely nothing but sprawl out on the couch for at least five hours to recover.

Teaching can be tough. On any given day, a kindergartener could karate-chop your thigh in the middle of Merry Old Land of Oz or a gang fight could interrupt your Linklater Zoo-Woah-Shaw Ladder exercise. You could locate your glue sticks littered on the playground outside the third story window or you could find yourself answering to “Ms. Deena” because consensus says you look like the new girl from Jersey Shore. Maybe you’ll have a 6th grader doodle swastikas at you, ask you if you have a boyfriend and then sneer, “What kind of woman are you?” Also, the Principal might up n’ quit on a random Monday in April. It can be horrific.

But for as many bad moments as there can be, the positive ones always outshine the negative. And no matter how tired I am or how much I’m dreading teaching six long classes in a row, I’m also wholly satisfied, proud of my students, and thankful for the opportunity to be doing something worthwhile.

I’m currently teaching in eight schools a week, working for a variety of after-school and in-school programs and camps. The school I spend most of my time in is a middle school in The South Bronx, one on a tight budget where a handful of my students are living in temporary housing and 96% receive government lunches. Most of my 6th and 7th graders are holdovers, and on average, read on a third grade level. I’m there two full days a week to teach grammar and literacy using visual art and theatre-based approaches – Graphic Novel Making & Playwriting.

It’s always a struggle, even on the most miraculous of days. But the reason why being a Teaching Artist is truly worth it for me is because getting kids—particularly these kids who are self-conscious about their English Language Arts abilities—excited about writing plays and performing is indescribably rewarding.

Nevertheless, I will attempt to describe:

Early on in the playwriting session, I had one 6th grader—a student who had been suspended the day before for swearing and assaulting his peers and teachers—volunteer to improvise a fellow classmate’s story. He was brilliant. SUPER STAR. I pulled him aside after his improv and affirmed his talent (he had an idea based on the roaring laughter of everyone in the room) and told him if he could somehow write the way his character had just spoken, he would make an incredible playwright.

So then this kid who has NEVER completed any work in the class whipped out paper, and based on his own improv with a few of his classmates, wrote a 2-page play. I’m not saying it was grammatically and structurally perfect—it was essentially a block of text with minimal punctuation—but this student successfully transcribed his own performance, maintaining the distinct voices and humor from stage to page. Coming from a child who is kicked out of the classroom more often than he’s in there learning, this was out of control awesome.

By the time the bell rang, I had every student in that class on their feet, listening to each other, doing fantastic character work, and writing with such vigor, eagerness, and focus I thought I was going to explode with excitement. The next day, I received two emails from students asking for feedback on song lyrics and short plays they had written on their own time.

Being a Teaching Artist puts things in perspective. Of course creating theatre and art is essential—we as OOB artists know this—but being in the classroom provides me with reassurance that working in this field as an actor/playwright is neither expendable nor self-indulgent. Creating art stimulates the imagination, triggers emotions, inspires us in our every day lives, and what I’ve learned from teaching: can help, reach, and change kids in the most surprisingly wonderful way.

Happy National Teacher Appreciation Week, BT Dubz.

REJECTION: Act Two

Contributed by Guest Blogger of the Week, Stacy Davidowitz.

 

THE WORSTEST REJECTION LETTER EVER
(At least it made an impression, amiright?)

Last summer, I submitted a grant proposal to a children’s theatre foundation to bring a new musical to underprivileged kids in the outer boroughs of Manhattan. Nice, huh? I thought so.

Too bad for this: “Your proposal lacks weight, substance, and thought. Frankly, it’s disingenuous.”

WHAT?!? Was I just personally attacked for wanting kids to sing and dance and learn and be happy? Or did I accidentally submit the wrong proposal – the one that talks about my intention to maul kittens, steal Laffy Taffy from Kindergarteners, and burn trees? No. That doesn’t exist. Obviously.

This rejection letter was wack-a-doodle to begin with but especially crazy because it was for, um, CHILDREN. And if my proposal really was disingenuous, thoughtless, and skinny, why did it land me the second nicest rejection letter I’ve ever received? The one on my fridge next to the first nicest rejection letter I’ve ever received. In. Your. Face.

Laugh it off. Too ridiculous. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones.

THE BESTEST REJECTION LETTERS EVER
(Fridge-Worthy)

The letters I received this week were rejections, sure. But they were personal, genuine, and specific to my work.

The children’s theatre one was for my musical HANK & GRETCHEN (side note: now premiering in June with a cast of 54 fifth graders). When a rejection letter says something like: “However, because I feel strongly about this piece that it would be a good fit for our students and students in other youth theatres, I would like to keep your play in our files for future options,” how can you not hang it on the fridge?

The first best rejection letter was particularly special because it was so unexpected. This submission was one of those out-of-my-reach, out-of-my-league ones. I knew I had to apply, but I also knew the response I wanted was going to be nearly impossible to attain. And I was right. I got the heart-burning rejection email. But to my surprise, three days later arrived snail mail from the literary manager that was so encouraging, so thoughtful, and so personal, it reaffirmed that I was doing something right. She didn’t have to send that in addition to the email. But she did. She really loved my work.

The very first submission of a play I did was for a playwriting festival in Boston while I was in undergrad. I wrote the short play as one of my weekly assignments for an Intro to Playwriting class. I didn’t realize it at the time, but in many ways that rejection letter put me where I am today. I still have that standard letter – it’s coldly polite – but scribbled on the side is a handwritten note from the Artistic Director personally letting me know how much she enjoyed the play. “Had we room for one more piece, you’d be in!” After that, I invited playwriting to be my crack.

Promising.

So, to wrap it all up… Here’s the thing: Rejections may come in bulk, but it’s worth it for the chance you’ll win that award, earn a spot in that playwrights group, or get your play published or produced. Because, those good calls do come. They do! You just have to be patient, continue working, and submit like your addiction depends on it. There is a light at the end of the tunnel and soon enough you’ll get that chunky envelope, that enthusiastic email, or that unknown caller hitting you up with life-changing news. Hold tight.

People will invite you to pollute their brains.

After all, your words are really good.

REJECTION: Act One

The Celebration of Failure – an unproducably short play Based on a true story


By Guest Blogger of the Week, Stacy Davidowitz.


FRIEND: How was your day?

STACY: Great! I got the best rejection letter ever! (Beat) Wanna see it?

(STACY crosses Kitchen Left to the fridge where we see
Hair and Catch Me magnets, a collection of postcards, photos and “thanks for letting me crash on your couch” notes, a 9 year-old’s MASH game, a NYC Half Marathon certificate, a Thanksgiving card of Grandma surrounded by mostly naked models in a shopping mall in Rome, and her newest addition: two of the nicest rejection letters she’s ever received.)

NARRATOR (V.O.): Moral of the story: “Don’t get hung up, hang it up!”

Things you might be thinking right now:

1. No means no.
2. Her optimism makes me want to throw up.
3. I’d reject her too – she’s ugly.

HOLD UP.
Let’s take it back now, ya’ll. Three hops this time. Slide to the—

OK, OK, yes.
Rejection is painful.
No one is denying that.

Starting with the exhausting collection of:
Application, Cover Letter, 10-page sample, Resume, Bio, Letters of Recommendation, References, CDs, Scores, SASE, Full-script bound or unbound or clipped or double-sided or blindly submitted or hole-punched six times or wrapped up in fine leather and non-meltable chocolate in this font but not so big but not so small either.

Tedium.

Next up is agonizing purgatory—waiting three months to a year to never for a response. Any response. Hopefully, an amazing response. Fingers crossed not a sucky response. Is it going to be a sucky response? Why am I a playwright? I should have been a doctor. I could be a doctor. I’m going to die a failure. I just died. I’m dead.

Anxiety.

And then finally, your apprehension succumbs to a whole other feeling – perhaps adrenaline-induced nausea – as you open that email with the vague “Submission” subject heading or sort of notice “Unfortunately” in Gmail’s preview of the message or slowly begin to peel then impatiently tear open the standard-sized envelope all while wondering why the envelope is so small – are they keeping it professional or are they sending more materials later or wouldn’t they have called or did I miss their call or…

Fear.

I don’t want to pigeon-hole the physical reaction my body experiences as I digest rejection, but because nailing down the gut-wrenching feeling might reward us all some power, I’m going to do it.

Depending on my hope in the project, faith in the recipient, or my own dreams of fame, glory, and the opportunity to submit the full-freaking-script without an agent, my reactions take on sensations ranging anywhere from an unpleasant dab at the heart to “slow-motion brick crashing my heart up to the back of my throat.” The heart is always involved.

Sound awful? You know it is.

Rejection is an inevitable consequence of the obsessive submitter. Of course, you can’t expect opportunities to land in your lap while being a never-nude. You’ve gotta get yourself out there! You have to! No, seriously, share your work.

Because—

(So this is where I might lose you, but try to stay with me as I now go back and…)

I REJECT THE COMMON VIEW OF REJECTION.

I love submitting my work. I’m proud of it, I’m ready to share it, I want more than anything for it to be exposed the world, and I will not miss an opportunity to make that happen.

Like, it’s an addiction.

Sure, packaging my materials is tedious, but once I’ve clicked send or have left the post office empty-handed save a tracking receipt, it can be so sweetly hopeful. Like a newly adopted puppy before being returned to the pound. Or winning a goldfish at a Purim Carnival before it dies in the car ride home. Anything is possible before it’s not!

It’s not entirely masochistic. I don’t enjoy submission for the painful rush of rejection. I just think about it differently. I know rejection will most likely come, but in the time between sending my play off and receiving a reply, I wholly trust that someone if not everyone who has touched it has found it truly special. I’ve worked my ass off and now it’s time for all my effort to pay off.

The universe will spin.
The stars will align.
Broadway will call – Broadway’s a person, right?
Whatever, I will be famous.

I CAN’T WAIT.

But like all hard-core drugs, after a high there’s a crash. And that crash can be mild or it can be a CRASH. That’s why I keep submitting. See? Addiction.

The mere truth of it is quantum physics is just not going to be on your side. It isn’t about the stars or your focused energy and prayers, your mantras or your blind optimism or self-effacing doubt. The refusal of your darkly comedic, universal, groundbreaking, one-of-a-kind baby may be for a number of reasons. Nine, according to me.

1. They’re stupid.
2. You’re stupid.
3. Subscribers would unsubscribe.
4. It’s so crazy! 
5. Not enough incest.
6. Too much rape.
7. I’m not famous.
8. I’m too famous.
9. Racism.

OK, not nine reasons. A buh-jillion reasons. Infinity reasons. It can be ANYTHING.

Your play, your application, your voice are unique. But just because that’s a blessing, doesn’t mean it’s not a curse. It could get you exactly what you want or it can land you with that dreaded “thanks, but no thanks” again and again. And from my experience, the more standard the rejection, the harder the slap. It’s coldly polite, definitive, and verifies nothing but that your work is not welcome. Let’s steer clear of standard and tomorrow we will visit the two extremes—The Worstest and The Bestest Rejection Letters Ever.

Stay tuned.

Guest Blogger of the Week: Stacy Davidowitz

We would like to thank Lil Jimmy "Smarty Pants" Comtois for blogging for us last week. You are an inspiration and a gentleman.

We are so excited that next week's blogger is Stacy Davidowitz.

Stacy Davidowitz is a playwright and actor who has had work developed and produced in New York City, Chicago, Boston, and Los Angeles. PINK!--soon to be published by Broadway Play Publishing--was a 2009 Lark Play Development Center Playwrights’ Week Finalist and received seven New York Innovative Theatre Nominations, including Outstanding Full Length Script, for its production by Down Payment Productions at the WorkShop Theater, NYC. Her screenplay of PINK! is currently being optioned as an independent feature film. Her children’s musical Hank & Gretchen will be produced in NY in the late spring of 2011.  Most recently, her 8-minute musical Stage 4: Jeopardy! was produced at TBG Theatre through NYMF. A recipient of the Bob Hope Fellowship, Stacy is a graduate of British American Drama Academy; BS, Tufts University; MFA in Acting, Columbia University.  www.StacyDavidowitz.com