My comedy Intentions is halfway through its run at Matrix Theatre Company in my hometown, Detroit! It's exciting for a number of reasons, among them: it's the world premiere, it's my native city, the cast is wildly talented (and includes my dear friend Emily Harpe reprising her role as Lou!) and best of all, Matrix has co-programmed Intentions with interactive social justice events. Today's matinee was followed by an environmental sustainability seminar led by staff from The Greening of Detroit.
I'll be participating in an audience talkback after the performance on Friday, Feb 24. Tickets here.
Another piece for the ever-amazing Toast!
I have no stomach for the Empathy Wars. Dismissal of grief as counter-revolutionary — how dare you show solidarity with Paris as Beirut burns — seems a monstrous response to injustice. When people invite the pain of others into themselves, why condemn that summons? Empathy is rare enough. Let’s not make it a hammer to pound our righteousness home.
But it is because of empathy’s tremendous power that we must question it.
News of the Paris attacks jarred me. The shock I felt was immediate, instinctive, urgent. That’s not how I respond to news of every distant tragedy. How could I? And then: Why don’t I? Headlines and live feeds and Facebook updates don’t proliferate, as they did for Paris, for every mass murder. How could they? Why don’t they?
Asking these questions is not a betrayal of the people of Paris or the mourning we offer them. As someone who stands outside the first circles of grief, I have the space to consider these questions. As someone who values empathy, I’m forced to consider how selective mourning dehumanizes the unwept others.
Moments like this unveil the secret that is no secret: We have broken the world in half. There is a world of perpetual peace and one of perpetual conflict, and both make tragedy impossible. Impossible in the first world because safety is taken so for granted that when tragedy strikes, it shatters something inviolable and brings all of us, not just the victims, to our knees. Impossible in the other because lives there seem to hold less weight. Violence is mundane and we can’t separate the everyday from the horrific. Where all is tragedy, nothing is. We won’t blink.
We’ve made empathy impossible.
The New York Times, in an article today about the silence surrounding the Beirut attacks, refers to this as the “compassion gap.” Anne Barnard reports: “The implication, numerous Lebanese commentators complained, was that Arab lives mattered less. Either that, or that their country — relatively calm despite the war next door — was perceived a place where carnage is the norm, an undifferentiated corner of a basket-case region.”
This is the wall against compassion that movements like Black Lives Matter seek to bring down. The wall that protects the chosen and blocks view of the cursed. It is not morally bankrupt to grieve for Paris. But do we grieve behind a wall? It’s the wall that distorts our vision of human life. Razing it lets us grieve over bodies once considered expendable.
It’s easy to understand why we erect these barriers. Life is hard and the world is violent and to bleed for every wounded being would drain us dry.
But the current solution — to value, consciously or not, certain lives and zones of safety over others — confesses the very brokenness that makes terrorism inevitable. Terrorism, as a political strategy distinct from official military attacks, is violence and intimidation leveraged by the stateless against the secure. (This is why a “war on terror” is a fool’s crusade. Fighting unofficial violence with official violence doesn’t make anyone safer. Look back 14 years ago. Look back two days ago.) If we continue to build and uphold the mythical walls between real places, terrorists will continue to scale those walls with Kalashnikovs. In an empathy-starved society, one in which certain bodies may be destroyed, it will remain a logical tactic.
I use the word “we,” though this isn’t as simple as a matter of individual conscience and bias. We each have to take responsibility for those, but feeling horror in your gut for the Paris attacks doesn’t mark you as a racist. The “we” is bigger. It includes our history, our institutions, our stories. Stories about nations that we tell ourselves to feel immortal. Stories about good and evil that we tell ourselves to feel hope. Stories about ourselves that we tell each other to feel less alone.
On Facebook you’ll see posts about “the magical city” of Paris, even from people who’ve never been there. People will talk about their honeymoons and study abroad trips. They’ll talk about the friends they know traveling in Paris, the beautiful French language they studied. We have French friends. Our friends have French friends. Even if we don’t, Paris means something to us. France, and its magical capital, Paris, are part of our story. And when it’s hurt, we feel it too.
This is proof that stories build the world. I know there are entrenched political and economic factors that make Paris a safer place than Baghdad, but it’s the story — the enfolding of Paris into our shared narrative — that commands our sympathy. Stories quicken your heartbeat, stiffen the hairs on your neck, riddle you with goosebumps, weigh you down with aching. Empathy is physical. The urgency in your chest is not the work of the IMF or NATO. It’s all story.
Art, then, is one way to deal with the pain of the world without being crushed by it. Artists talk about this when they want to assure themselves (and a disaffected audience) of their vital role in the world. I write plays, I believe in this. But to profess their importance is to admit their risk. What stories will we tell? How many will we hear? Because some stories will strangle our empathy, deepening the divide between the world that matters and the one that goes to waste.
ISIS has a story. Graeme Wood lays it out in his thoughtful analysis “What ISIS Really Wants” (published by The Atlantic last year.) He tracks the group’s Quranic foundation and ideological aims. “The Islamic State is committed to purifying the world,” Wood writes, “by killing a lot of people.”
For ISIS also looks at humanity and divides it into two: the damned and the holy, the wicked and good. Wood explains that the Islamic State considers its war efforts “policies of mercy rather than of brutality. …[The] state has an obligation to terrorize its enemies — a holy order to scare the shit out of them with beheadings and crucifixions and enslavement of women and children, because doing so hastens victory and avoids prolonged conflict.” ISIS does not condemn compassion. They apply it selectively. Their vision of a restored caliphate is part of a utopian narrative in which good triumphs over evil — glory to the armies of god.
ISIS is a weaponized story. It’s choked, one-eyed empathy with bombs strapped to its chest. Those who suggest a redoubled “war on terror” fear the bomb more than the story.
But violence is not the seed, it is the harvest.
Beneath the story ISIS tells is a faith in purity. A story so old and seductive most of us have bought into it at one point or another. This is the story that dooms half the world. It says: There is one good, one god, one truth, one peace. It says: You are the holy and the saved. It says: Our lives are real. It says: Fight evil. And with every breath it draws it also says: All the rest must die; they are condemned; those bodies are dust, bones without flesh.
This is the story that layers high the bricks on our citadels. It puts our empathy under siege. This is why stories are dangerous. This is why they are necessary.
We need stories — we need a lot of them. Not just the fun escapist ones with monsters and champions. We need artists who will reimagine pain and contaminate purity. Visionaries who will take us to different worlds and remind us that, lo! it’s the same world and we’re part of it and it’s part of us. Magicians who will remind us that the wall is made of sand. Artists can tell us stories we haven’t learned, from people we rarely hear. They complicate everything. They disarrange our pieties. They fucking fuck everything up, actually, and it’s terrible, and we feel unsafe, and we don’t know where good and evil go, and then we wonder if maybe we have to start rethinking everything.
I find in this a saving doubt.
When we see monsters as people and ourselves as monsters, when we witness the humanity that everyone owns, it changes us. It staves violence. Curbs righteousness. Loosens the chokehold on our empathy.
Maybe peace is the sum of the ceasefires demanded by each doubt. Everyone puts down their weapons for a sec while they work out who the hell they even are. (That’s a metaphor, guys, not Abbey’s Five-Year Roadmap for Peace.) Exploration postpones killing. A whole human history could flourish in that perpetual postponement. Our lives are like that: stolen adventures during the postponement of death. And the work of recognizing and realizing and reimagining one another demands a lifetime of doubt.
Forget good v. evil, us v. them. Our battle is doubt v. certainty, empathy v. annihilation. (Complexity v. binary “X v. Y” statements.)
It’s many messy stories.
France, Kenya, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Nigeria, Ukraine, and on, and on. If we segregate compassion we’re only promising ourselves further pain. If we try to feel it all we’ll dissolve, martyrs to our own secondhand pain. Instead, we have the possibility of rebuilding empathy. It doesn't mean we ration our feelings. And I shall allow every act of violence, every disease outbreak, every famine, the equal and appropriate [portion of my heart. The “heart” isn’t your physical organ to be cut up, a finite beating fact. It is your own intangible humanity, and it has a right to its sensitivities and longings. But when our empathy hits a wall, we should beat back at the brick. We should doubt.
Empathy is no excuse to wallow in borrowed grief. It’s a costly strength, bought through acknowledgement of how vulnerable we are. How light our lives and how heavy each loss. We can temper the pain with art and choose stories that put flesh on all our bones. We can believe in everyone’s humanity. We can start living through the demands of that belief, and let it change how we listen, how we speak, how we label the unknown, how we make monsters, how we express fear and solidarity.
Yes, tangible, political solutions are needed to save lives. But “stories” aren’t just the fantasies played out in tiny theaters and private pages. They’re your Facebook feed, the nightly news, the New York Times, Congressional hearings, presidential debates. They too build and break the world.
The story of Paris made its way inside us. To everyone feeling raw and exposed today — that pain is proof that we’re not walled off. Other stories can enter. Let them. Let crumble the wall that protects my city and blocks all view of yours. Goodbye to the half-seen world. And lay down your arms, Empathy Soldiers. There’s work to do.
Doubt, good monsters.
A few days ago, playwright Leah Nanako Winkler spoke out against a planned NYU Skirball Center production of The (heavy on the yellowface) Mikado and shut that noise down. Around the same time, Matt Damon interrupted Effie Brown, a producer who happens to be a black woman, to explain how diversity really works. If you belong to the group Official Playwrights of Facebook, maybe you’ve followed some disconcerting comment threads about gender and race of late. If you’re in an MFA program, or have ever had conversations about dramatic literature and the theater industry, you’ve likely also found yourself in conversations about gender and race. I think about these things a lot. This week I have been reflecting on the way writers (playwrights in particular) speak about power, identity and injustice.
I expect a lot from writers. Not that they will all be political activists, but that, as truth-telling humanists, they will not buy into certain fictions — things like “post-racial society” or “merit-based economy” or “white supremacy.” But then again, it doesn’t really matter what one's profession is. People don’t get to be bigots. And people who aren’t bigots don’t get to flee from discussions about the harm wrought by institutionalized bigotry. Finally, people who benefit from institutionalized bigotry don’t get to dictate the discussion about what it means for those the system oppresses.
What shocks me is that any writer would even want to.
There are plenty of writers who use their voices to shred these dehumanizing fictions and oppressive realities. Yet there are others — too many others — who respond to these conversations with doubts and arguments that must be addressed, once again for the many-thousandth time. This is going to take awhile.
If a playwright calls other playwrights’ attention to a matter of inequality, exclusion or stereotyping, often this is what she’ll hear:
It’s about merit, nothing else.
These writers would like to stop your protests about exclusion and bias in theater by reminding you that all that matters is the quality of the play. The color/sex/religion/gender of the playwright/characters/ director don't matter — just, is the play good? It doesn’t matter that the quality of art is subjective, nor that power and privilege may blind the arbiters of taste, that’s not relevant cause all we’re talking about here are the merits of the story. It doesn’t matter if you were actually talking about a separate issue, say, white men on a forum trolling you every time you mention the existence of tropes, what matters is the artistic integrity of the play. It doesn’t matter that the suggestion that “merit” may be affected by reductive tropes was actually your point — are you saying that only black people can write good plays? Is that what you are saying? That is racist. Why do you hate white people? Besides, all that matters is quality-control over the ineffable beauty expressed onstage.
For these writers, the fact that white people and male people dominate the theater and entertainment industry is a reflection of their superior artistic merits. For these writers, The Triumph of the Will is but a master class in breathtaking cinematography. It doesn’t matter that you think diversity and empathy are crucial to the survival of a vigorous, artistically vibrant theater culture, the point is what you say doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! What does matter? All lives, that’s what matters.
Diversity comes from the characters.
That’s what Matt Damon interrupted Effie Brown to say! It’s diverse because a white man’s imaginary black prostitute will be embodied by a living black woman who will have to say all the lines these dudes wrote for her in the way this other white dude directs her to. (Sidenote: Has everyone agreed on a new definition of “diverse?” There are sometimes these weird submission calls that are like “this is open to you if you are a diverse writer.” They mean, female and/or not white. But they don’t want to say that cause it feels vulgar so they use “diverse” as if it can apply to a single person. A single person can’t be diverse! That’s not a thing. But okay.)
Let’s just keep this about playwriting.
This one is the weirdest. It suggests that your critique is what “politicized” an otherwise sacred discussion. That’s right, your critique, not the play in which a bunch of white men compete for sexual possession of the only female character, who’s also the only character of color and has the least lines. “Let’s just focus on the writing, shall we?” These writers act as though speaking about the intersections of power, identity and human dignity are an alien seed you are planting in the virgin soil of True Art. That it’s a separate issue you have chosen to bring up — not something they’ve shoved in your face by reminding you, through their script, how your kind is not quite human the way their kind is. It’s weird because I am a woman all the time, and it’s just regular, not an “issue” separate from my life. Same with Hispanic people, trans people, gay people, native people. People don’t think of themselves as Special Issues, and they really don’t think of themselves as crude stereotypes, so when it appears in writing (again and again) it sticks out. Guys, one time in a writing class I had to explain to another MFA candidate (bro was a grad student!) that “beautiful” is NOT A PERSONALITY TRAIT. Come on man. You’re at word-school. Do better.
The need to be considered human is quite basic, and I’ll demand it everywhere I go. Even in a writing workshop. (And just cause there are no black people in this workshop doesn’t mean you get a pass on your Magical Negro character. Also, there should probably be more black people in this workshop!) The dichotomy between “playwriting” and “an honest discussion of human dignity” is false. And crazy.
What does this have to do with THE CRAFT?
Another variation on the Merit Stratagem and the Stick To Playwriting Gambit. Alas, it’s not about the classic 90s witch flick. This is more refusal to engage in any discussion about the racial and sexual pathologies that plague our culture by claiming they somehow have no bearing on the holy pursuit of writing plays. Like really? Someone’s speaking against oppression and you’re tapping on their shoulder to be all, excuse me, how does this relate to the proper execution of an Aristotelian arc? Racism is wrong and stupid, and nobody gets to do it. It’s not like there are two doors, one marked “well-crafted drama” and another marked “not being racist” and you can only go through one. Both are possible!
What’s especially disturbing about this derailing tactic is that in the history of the American stage, theater has specifically been used as a vehicle for the oppression of minorities. Let's not forget that one of the first distinctly American theatrical forms was the Minstrel Show. Let's also remember the immense popularity of minstrel shows among white audiences for years, and how their disappearance correlates directly with the rise in political power for black Americans. White audiences didn’t wake up one day and decide, “This is problematic.” The outcry came from the group being rendered grotesque onstage and subjugated in daily life. And aren’t we all better for it? Or is the “stick to the craft” crowd only concerned with the timing of Zip Coon’s dance steps?
So as a white man am I not allowed to talk????
The guys that say this are so, so beleaguered. They leave a billion comments about “I guess I’m a white man so my opinion means nothing!” on every thread. And when people patiently explain that of course, they can talk, but listening is also important and helpf—“OH SO WHICH IS IT CAN I TALK OR DO I HAVE TO SHUT UP AND LISTEN WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME.” Because, see, no white man has ever learned what a conversation is. You know, where sometimes there’s talking and sometimes there’s listening, and by actively engaging with your interlocutor you can move the conversation forward? Yeah, they don’t know about that. Meanwhile we’ve stopped talking about the matter of inequality in order to ensure Todd that his voice will be heard.
How can you say that no white men know what a conversation is. Way to insult all white men. That’s not a good way to get people on your side.
Are we supposed to be super thrilled that “not all” white guys are privilege-blinded patriarchal asshats? “Not all” isn’t enough! Know what is? Zero. That’s the number we’re going for. Zero racist, sexist, cissexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamophobic, anti-Semitic, classist white guys! That’s the only okay number, everyone! And this applies intersectionally. Zero racist white women! Zero homophobic black men! Zero intolerant people with disabilities! Zero is the only comforting number. And why do you need people to be really sugary and pandering and nice to “get” you to “their side”? Isn’t the shiny glow of “not being racist” alluring enough? Were you like, ooh boy, I was all set to support the rights of minorities, but I sure don’t like your tone! That’ll be a pass for me!
Related: I have received criticism from writing teachers for relying on sexist tropes in my own work. And I am a woman. What can I say, patriarchy’s a bitch. Do I wish those teachers had spared my feelings and not “politicized” their critique? Fuck no. They showed compassion and intelligence and demanded the same from me, and I realized I’d internalized a bunch of shit that was stunting my writing. I’ve been there, Beleaguered White Guy. I’m in the system too. Criticism can be a gift.
You’re being hysterical.
Please show proof that sexism and racism are real.
But just for fun:
This “safe space” nonsense is for babies! Grow a thicker skin!
This one is so zany because it’s almost always a tactic for evading criticism. Like, you should be able to take criticism and deal with all these microaggressions and aggro-aggressions but I, I most certainly should not. Honestly. In my academic program, just about every time some rando casual dehumanization came up, from a classmate or professor, I said something. I didn’t cry, I didn’t leave the room, I didn’t scream, I just defended my point of view in reasoned, academically-appropriate language. (You know, like a baby.) Then once, after a reading of a classmate’s particularly sexist trope-trafficking script, our professor critiqued it — again, in academic-appropriate language, and in a way that questioned the writer’s use of stereotypes but defended the humanity of the people skewered. It was so great! And the writer (white, male, straight, cis) responded by walking out. Later he demanded an apology. For receiving criticism from a professor in a writing workshop WHICH IS LITERALLY WHAT A WRITING WORKSHOP IS. The worst part? She apologized.
Safe space isn’t for babies. It’s for white men’s feelings.
We can all get along and should all be kind to one another.
I thought theater was supposed to be fun.
Yeah, all the not-being-racist is ruining the fun.
This is not relevant.
All of these are escape routes. The speaker uses them to escape, not from real harm or oppression, but from truth through someone else’s eyes. That’s a cowardly move for a writer. Recognize this: our rehearsal space, our writers’ forum, our laptop screen and our stage are not cordoned off from injustice and inequality, and privilege operates there too. Recognize our vulnerability. We're all failing all the time, that's what theater's about, so let's not be so terrified of it. Consider listening, reflecting and questioning instead of evading, derailing and discrediting. Imagine... it's like a writer's workshop. White writers male writers straight writers rich writers cis writers, all kinds of writers will talk about their right to make audiences uncomfortable —perhaps by having a character from a marginalized group brutalized onstage — but they don’t think it’s fair for you to make them uncomfortable with your critical response. Then you are invading their space, violating their boundaries, disrespecting their authority. And we can’t have that.
Here is the credo by which I write, from Chaim Potok’s My Name Is Asher Lev:
“As an artist you are responsible to no one and to nothing, except to yourself and to the truth as you see it.”
It’s not a philosophy of censorship or hypersensitivity or whatever it is that the beleaguered writers might expect. In fact, it’s full of ego and fiercely independent. But I take that shit about truth seriously. And the truth as I see it is this: Everyone’s humanity is equal to everyone else’s humanity. Much of the world is structured around a lie that tells us otherwise. I write toward that truth, to varying degrees of success, exposing myself to criticism, owning my words.
Playwrights have to talk about humans. Playwrights don’t get a special pass to dehumanize others. When people bring up race or gender or class or any other matter of power and identity — they are not unfairly imposing “issues” onto your comfort zone. They are just talking about human beings. That is what we’re here to do.
Hey friends! Lots of new things have been happening — or I've been happening myself up at all these new things — and it's time for an update. Here are some of the things going on...
So I may have loaded up my best friend's car with some of my more crucial possessions and traveled from Detroit (my hometown, whence I came from Boston) to Los Angeles several days ago. Here we are at the Grand Canyon.
Good canyon, recommended to all.
Now the fun part, presented without shame or sheepishness: good writing news! First, last week saw a couple more pieces go up at your beloved online joy library, The Toast.
One, a fairly accurate transcript of a conversation held by myself and my roommate at circa three o'clock in the morning some while ago: Let's Be Real: Two Women In Their Latter 20s Discuss The 2005 Pride & Prejudice.
Also, another pitch meeting! This time I dramatize the origins of everyone's fav non-narrative show in The Pitch Meeting for Jeopardy!
And I'm very excited to announce that I've been selected as one of the 2015-16 Vagrant Writers with Los Angeles-based theater group, The Vagrancy. This means I get to spend the next year collaborating with playwrights and theater artists on new work, culminating in a summer Reading Series (BLOSSOMING 2016). From the Vagrancy's mission statement, here's what makes me so excited to be involved with these artists:
The Vagrancy creates visceral work that seeks to touch the human spirit. We embrace fear, vulnerability, and embarrassment – inviting the audience to experience a communion. We hope to spark a dialogue of questions and compassion, exposing a shared universal truth.
I am about that life.
Ah yes. Now for the shame portion of the blog. The thing about my plan to move to LA with my actor-friend-muse to pursue our dreams of theatrical collaboration + commercial success is that it was about 90 percent dream, 10 percent plan. Since our magical journey cross the land ended, we've faced housing difficulties (cats, to which I'm terribly allergic! bed bugs, to which KILL WITH FIRE AND WRATH! credit checks, to which, hey past self, use a credit card sometime ever maybe!) car trouble, an uphill job hunt and some not-so-happy health reports from our dear ones back home. So if any LA-based friends know of job and housing leads or just want to grab a drink and laugh about our series of small crises, let me know! And other friends and writers going through anxious transitions... I feel you. At least we get to write about it, and I've done some of my most fruitful writing whilst unemployed. (And now I'll stop whining about my post-MFA worries while the human disaster of an international refugee crisis unfolds.)
And that's the news of late.
Yesterday, I returned to The Toast to share some true Confessions of an Ambivalent Girl Scout.
The comments are full of delightful personal accounts of former scouts, to varying degrees of ambivalence. I'm realizing that my Detroit neighborhood troop was a lot more legitimate than some other Girl Scout organizations — I mean, we had camping and everything. We were always doing something educational or cross-cultural or outdoorsy or crafty or civic-minded. Maybe I shouldn't have been so skeptical of organized group activity? Ah well.
Please feel free to share your scouting memories. Or Thin Mint recipes.
Here is one wonderful thing James Baldwin wrote about writing: “[the writer’s] importance, I think, is that he is here to describe things which other people are too busy to describe.”
The world owes on its knees a debt to Baldwin, again and again, for taking the time and for describing ourselves to us with such clarity. Americans especially and white Americans no less. It is, after all, white Americans who need to be reminded that “it is the innocence which constitutes the crime.”
Baldwin is one of the most reliable truth-tellers in the collection that makes up my bookshelf, my intellectual canon and my political morality. He says the things I need to hear as an American, as a white person, as a human person, as a writer. This is another thing he wrote about writing (emphasis mine), and perhaps the one that jabs hardest — right in the deep place where all my fears and longings crouch:
“I think it is the most dangerous point in the life of any artist…It is the point at which many artists lose their minds, or commit suicide, or throw themselves into good works, or try to enter politics. For all of this is happening not only in the wilderness of the soul, but in the real world which accomplishes its seductions not by offering you opportunities to be wicked but by offering opportunities to be good, to be active and effective, to be admired and central and apparently loved.”
Shuddering all over from the truth of it, and from the dare inside it.
Toni Morrison compared Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me to Baldwin’s essays, and pretty much every review about the book repeats her. I finished the memoir this morning with lots of tears and note-taking and am happy to affirm the comparison — Coates’ commitment to the truth and rejection of “magic in all its forms,” above all the American Dream, is in keeping with Baldwin’s intellectual legacy, and once again we should feel gratitude that Coates took this time (which is time the world does not value, until suddenly it does, all at once) to describe these things. And I hope this leads to a James Baldwin reading renaissance because there ought to be, we need it and it is so good, and while part of me knows this is unreasonable, perhaps even lazy, another part of me remains convinced that certain discussions—namely those conducted by white people—about “race relations” need to end because James Baldwin already said what needed to be said about it.
Here is a wonderful thing Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote:
“And godless though I am, the fact of being human, the fact of possessing the gift of study, and thus being remarkable among all the matter floating through the cosmos, still awes me.”
Read this, read Baldwin, read the writers they write about, read the writers who say the things they didn’t say, thank them for the time they gave, wonder how a culture as cruel as ours permits brilliance like this to slip, at times, through its jaws.
Have you ever wondered how the greatest canine literary series came to be? WONDER NO MORE.
This is my first piece for The Toast, one of my favorite favorite websites. Happy to have found an audience for my non-stop Wishbone-related musings.
Exciting news: I'm taking part in the Mad Dash, a 24-hour play festival! Fresh Ink Theatre Co. and Interim Writers are hosting a festival of 8 plays that will be written, rehearsed and produced in naught but a day.
A fundraiser for the two theatermaking groups, the Mad Dash will also include a raffle (one of the prizes is fencing lessons! pretty good prize) which you can enter by submitting a line of dialogue at the Submit A Sentence page here.
Get tickets here!
Please also get me very much coffee. I have deluded myself into thinking I can squeeze this 24-hr playfest in between two full day shifts at work, and it will take a mighty brew to sustain this delusion.
For more deets, visit: https://24hpf.wordpress.com/
Thanks to Interim Writers and Fresh Ink for the chance to participate in the madness!