Nasrin Khosrowshahi-The Playwright Club - Fall 11

nasrin khosrowshahi- the playwright club- fall 11
THE PLAYWRIGHT CLUB (synopsis: a woman attempts to form a club in a community college, and she wrestles with logistics and with bureaucratic red tape and her own greenness, so she basically tries to overcome a lot of obstacles, and even the academic departments try to undermine her, because they say, we teach this already at this school, you are kind of trespassing into our territory) CHAPTER ONE It is Monday morning, it is raining, life is dull dull dull. At least she made it to class in time, well, not quite, she is a tad late, she tries to duck and sprint in, drama class, history of theater class, to be precise, her sweet prof who is half her age, explains meropes dilemma, she did not do the reading, but she is quite sure, that the play was called MEROPE. It is later now, she went to the Y, that is just near to the college, ZUMBA is in full session, her weight teeters next to 191, she treadmills a tad, had enough and makes her way back to the college library. She should write a play, call it THE RETIREES, she sees it featured on Broadway, she sees herself negotiating the movie rights, a spin-off, 10 Oscars, the like, the like. She has a Timbit in the caf, ponders if she should start a club, a play wright club, isnt that how the fringe started? If you build it they will come, initiative rules, apathy is bust. Well, tell that to the rain, the ubiquitous, ever ready, always always Vancouver rain. In front of the black computer, in the too black lab, a woman sneezes , twice, she types, types. SHE. Our protagonist is generic, so very generic. She raised a family, children flew away, empty nest, the like, the like. Why is it called midlife crisis? Why not midlife opportunities. Reinvention, or just invention, without the RE, the building of new entities, the charting of new
terrain, the forming of a playwright club. Where people sit together and write , well, plays. Like Seinfeld and George on the couch, this works in a Seinfeldian universe, why not in reality, reality? She types a tad more, maps out her thoughts, outlines them, kind of fragmented, she has to come up with a plot, a plot. The red EXIT sign in the distance, a sign, a metaphor, or something, something. CHAPTER TWO The mall at lunchtime, bustling as always. She hands in her neatly typed resume to the elegant woman, the one that kind of looks at her patronizing, in a typical saleslady way, I took a bath and you did not, I smell nice and you smell, well, dowdy. I am someone and you are no one. That is how merchandise is moved, that is how smells and some kind of goop that is smushed on the face is sold, by salespeople intimidating the consumer, the consumer is not king not king. And the mall is full of people that have nothing to do. But at least it does not rain here, there is a hustle and bustle, especially at lunch time. All kinds of creatures that run away from their shelters, that congregate to the lights, the hecticness, downtown, downtown. Ah, Petula Clark, you should have sung about the mall, but, hey, there were no malls in 1961, and how are you supposed to sing ma-all, maybe, mahall, it has to be poly-syllabic, SHE thinks about all this while rushing to the food court, the newly renovated one, the nicest in the Lower Mainland. CHAPTER THREE Her writing is so bad, she uploads it to Scribd, well, at least it should exist in cyberspace, it will not really make it into real libraries or real bookstores, her writings will not even exist as an E-book, no one will read it on a kindle or an i-pad, she will not make it onto Charlie Rose, but
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does that even matter, matter? Who really needs another author as celebrity, SHE ponders, it is much easier to just exist in cyberspace, no one will critique her stuff, it is just there, just there, floating through the clouds. It is a hobby hobby. If no money is exchanged, if no money changes hands, then her art stays insignificant, but safe, the market will not devour her, it will not praise her either. Cyberart equals timid art, secure art. She ponders, ponders, feels like smashing this monitor either over her own head or making it sail through the window, ah, no violence no violence no violence. Just typing just typing, hunched over, give your energy to the typing, no drama, no tears, no nothing, emotionless, emotionless. The only drama is distilled into emoticons, the silent majority, baffled by their gadgets,. Gimmme bread and plays, the gladiators are quiet quiet, Spartacus does not live here anymore, the like the like the like. Coherence rules, incoherence rules, who cares who cares who cares, whatever, ah, whatever. Whatever forever, forever. CHAPTER FOUR Her wordcount is @ 841, nope, make that 842, 843. CHAPTER FIVE She feels kind of sick, her writing has a nice plot, a story that she can sell, she will be able to describe the plot of this novel very nicely to all the prospective agents all over the world, her next e-query will be precise, precise. But, hey, she feels sad, her writing lacks voice, it lacks colour, rhythm, if there is an overarching plot, the beauty, the drama, the expressiveness has to suffer, it is an either-or situation, so she thinks, she thinks, she is going crazy here, insanity is palpable, that is why they lock up poets, that is why why. CHAPTER SIX
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She needs new shoes, black ones. They should be cheap, but look expensive, sturdy, the like like. She closes her eyes, sees herself taking the Canada Line, moving thru Pacific Center, thru Holt Renfrew, somehow she cannot really describe that while sitting here at this computer in the Langara lab, the one that is too sticky, too filled with people, the one that does not seem conducive enough for creative writing, writings, the one that drowns her literary aspirations, one word @ a time, one word one word one word. Word word word, word. Todays literature is Rap, Hip-Hop, the rehashing of new forms, old forms. Literature is dead, long live poetry. Or something and something, her words suck suck suck. She is hungry and had enuf enuf yepenuf enuf enuf. Enuf. CHAPTER SEVEN She ponders, the playwright club is definitely not a good title, she slithered away from her synopsis, her writing is once more a grande selfportrait, sketched onto the monitor/canvas, she has to fashion a nice enough bio, one that will entice the reader, one that is accurate and poetic at the same time. Her words amass, she has way too many chapters, you cannot have 5 chapters on one page, somehow this should be done differently, how do you write a novel, a novel? Who knows who knows who knows? CHAPTER EIGHT So it is another day in the Langara computer lab, SHE is surrounded by students typing away, a turnaround shows that everyone here is writing an essay, this is quite a different scene than the art school library, where people tend to look @ pretty pictures, this on the other hand is the place where people amass words, fiercely, furiously, images are not that interesting, what counts, is the stringing of words, together, together, like beads on a string, that way that way that
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way. The author pumps in inconsequential observations, shed rather be in Milan or Paris, somewhere exotic will do, should do. Exotic, huh, some very loaded term. My exotic is not your exotic, the author missed her drama class in the morning, slept like a baby, maybe today is not the day to start a playwright club, maybe, today is the day, to once more e-pester some poor lowly lit agent in a dingy room in nyc. Or London. Or Oxford. Or Melbourne. Somewhere, where they talk in English, par Anglais, after all this is her lingo now, all kinds of englishish words, and she types and types and types, fast furious, the like the like da like. She checks the weather in Ottawa, in nyc, in Milan, she is rained in here in vancitay, it always rains always rains always rains. Even when it doesnt rain. What does that even mean, who knows who knows who knows. And stop and spellcheck- how many words how many many words? She must be the only painter, the only animator, who ended up writing, who will read this who and who and who. The day simmers forward, singing slightly, the woman in red at the next computer, does research, reads, wears her white brimmed glasses with the black dots, proudly, proudly. And stop and stop and stop. CHAPTER NINE This overchaptered novel has one-four nine-five words by now. Make that 2000, why not why not why not. CHAPTER TEN Her tea is wedged between her and the keyboard, the two women next to her are busy talking, ah, the computerlab @ ten in the morning, on an indescript Monday morn, except that it is Wednesday. These are her thoughts, random, maybe, bored, maybe, this is what happens when one is unpublished, unpublished. So many words, on paper, and no one to read it. So many films,
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and no one to watch them. So many paintings, that rot in the basement, artist, hmm, that is not what SHE is cut out to be. She cannot handle the constant rejection, cannot, cannot, cannot, she has a cold to boot, sniffles doing her in doing her in. that happens when you have to battle against your loserdom, that and that and that. No more scholarly treatises, just whining and whining and whining. Ah, to describe that, and sell it, but that aint gonna happen, aint and aint. The tea is nice, the woman in black and white is nice, another month is coming to an end. The author has not lost one ounce, even though she was meticulous, meticulous. Watching her food intake, must be all these hours at the typing machine, that did her in, did her in. take a walk, 4 gods sake. Move, geez, move. Stop being such a wuss, ah, ah, ah. And on we write write write, classic boredom pinned onto paper, ah and ah and ah. Chapter ten, okkeedok, how many words how many words, these are her days, as long as she does not spill her tea, everything is fine fine. And stop and spellcheck, words and words and words. CHAPTER ELEVEN Very fast words, while sitting in this weird place under the stairs, looking up @ all the persons descending down the stairs from the second floor, she wonders how many words she can type in, she has to walk back to the mall, where she parked her car, there is a time limit of either 3 hours or 4, she is not quite sure, fast words fast words fast words. The concept of the playwright club has somehow dissipated into thin air, that happens if you have a certain lack of initiative, if you cannot mobilize the masses, if you don-t feel like socializing. Well, and , maybe, writing a play is pretty solitary to start with, it is just a woman and her typing machine, it is about envisioning some kind of thing that is not there yet, in this case a play, it is done under the gun, while people descend from the second floor, the play just should write itself, some how, somehow. SHE ponders, she has written plays before, last year after a performance, before an audition, it is
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actually quite easy, the prob is , like always, the distribution, the making it come onto the stage, that is why she just prefers to write about writing a play, which is kinda weird and strange, but it seems more fun fun fun. The imaginary club, filled with different writers, the imaginary process of writing a play, all of this is kinda weird, a daydream that is there for split seconds, a castle in the clouds that is not really there, not really not really. An image, an inkling, a short plan that does not really manifest, that stays in the realm of planning, never to be executed, never to manifest itself in a concrete form, a time- based medium which is first and foremost time-based. Ephemeral, that kind that kind that kind. She is tired from typing, wonders, if she should hold a book on her lap, which is what the other students here do, they read something and then based on that write their essay, their observations, not like her, she just watches people walk by , and types, types, types. The red exit sign there, potent, prominent, some more words some more words some more words. Somewhere between prose drama and poetry, some more words some more words and some more words. The occupy wallstreet thingie is in full swing, today is day 12, now there are other occupy this and occupy that actions planned, the occupy London Stock Exchange seeming to be more potent, whatever that means, whatever that means. The Author tried to get as much info as she could, but somehow her interest in current affairs is not that great, shed rather spin her own yarn, write about this very place, which is the ever hustling bustling place at the computerstation under the steps in the langara library, hmm, how many words words words. 200, maybe, that should be enuf 4 2day, stop- and spell check spell check spellcheck. Let another chapter begin, begin, begin. CHAPTER TWELVE It is still day, day moving slowly and utterly sleepily towards the evening, king of queens on the telly, a too filled paper basket on the ground, a typing machine that is kinda stalling, the
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writer, author, SHE, whatever you call her, tries to fill the page, amass words, fashion sentences, grittily, determinedly. Against the cereal ad on the telly, against the over-arching writers block. CHAPTER THIRTEEN So, we are @ chapter thirteen, the writer is randomly dispensing chapters, ever so often the rhythm of the reluctant text dictates the end of a chapter and the beginning of a new chapter, there is no real plot here, no plot whatsoever, to be precise precise precise. There is just mere stupefied typing, the sentences that crawl outta nowhere and make it onto the page, there is this mechanical hacking @ the keyboard, here in the outer edges of the computer lab in the langara library, there is the morning crawling towards noon, there is the yellow cap of the person sitting in the distance, there are all these keys that dictate the text, there is the last day of September, reluctantly, hauntingly. Author had a class, though she could hardly make herself roll outta bed, the grade of the quiz was horrible, just pure horribleness, SHE has until October 28 to drop this class drop it drop it drop it. Should be better, shed rather write her perfect novel anyways, and then nano month will start up, another novel to be penned penned. One novel per month, maybe plots will emerge, silently, forcefully. But do we really need plots, cannot much more potent stuff be said without plots, more instructive stuff, more clearer stuff, more artistic, ah, make that more of everything. And the wordcount marches forward, forward. How many words, who knows and furthermore who cares, stop some, spellcheck some, lets write and write and write. Write write write, let us feed our singsong to the monitor, the monitor that does not reject anything, that is patient, always, always, always. How many words how many words how many many words. The rhythm of this takes the sentences forward, makes the words sail-the poet is flabbergasted by the bullshit she churns out on this cold desolate autumn morning, she is outta words outta words outta words. For now, for now, for now.
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Another page greets her, fill this up, too, describe the exit sign in the distance, the lights on the ceiling, the singsongs of the air conditioner, the blinding reflections on the key, that bathe the lower part of the keyboard in silver, describe day 13 of occupy wallstreet, the revolution that is starting up or is not, the author writes, does not really care, revolutions come and go, we have our typewriter here, and that is all that counts, the stoic looking down and virtuoso typing away, typing away, the poet who tries tries, puts in her hours, like the marathon runner who does his laps come rain come shine, mechanically, mechanically, mechanically. How many words, how many many many words? Author needs new glasses, her old ones are disintegrating, they must be eleven years old, author is afraid of her eye doctor, he yells at her, that cannot be good not that good not that good. Maybe she should find a new eye doctor, doctors hate her and maybe that is good good good, they dont subject her to invasive PROCEDURES, SO SHE CAN LIVE LONGER LONGER, AND HER WORDS COME DOWN, COME DOWN, HARD AND HARD AND HARD. Page nine, suddenly, slowly, so very very slowly. Woman with curly hair, next to author, author loses her thread, ah, just type type type, finish this bloody chapter, why not why not why not./ put a love story in there just to enliven the boredom, people walk by, nothing more to describe nothing, nada, zip. And zilch. This is not writing, not writing. Well, hey, typing it is typing it is typing it is and stop- and spell check spellcheck- some spellcheck, the day marches forward, have to move the car, lunchtime or something, had enuf of this , enuf of thisthis. This is nothing but bullshit, so it seems seems seems. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On Granville Island, @ the keyboard that stalls way too much, that seems to fight against the typist, that is where some more words are fed to the machine, a cold chilly morning, Friday in Vancouver, the author types away, types away. A fresh walk near false creek, some biking on
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the stationary, her energy should now flow into all these words, here in this desolate library, here in her old alma mater. Yep, the art school, welcome back kotter, but not quite, not yet. Outside, once more, the ocean factory, all encompassing, the silence of the air conditioner, under the table, the ubiquitous stale globs of chewing gum, the disgustingness of some school, globs of defiance in a democracy, that kind and that kind and that kind. SHE feeds her words to the machine, it is not about playwrights anymore, somehow the author is not anymore taken by the theme, shed rather slither into different territories, the disconnect between title and contents is artsy artsy. CHAPTER FIFTEEN And chapter fifteen it is. Fifteen chapters on ten pages, there is something wrong, something off with the formatting. How to write a novel, there are classes that teach you how. Gotham Writing Seminars, MFA-programs, online courses, you can use them like apple cake recipes, they should work work work, do the trick, somehow somehow, some how. You cannot just start typing, you cannot just call it a novel, there are rules, there are regulations, that is how it is is. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Boredom, stale and reluctant, a car drives by, a white one, she listens in to her typing, push, push, so many keys, so little time. The songs of the air conditioner, the slow library, the desolateness, the quietness before the storm. Once the bell rings, people will descend upon this place like flies, like mosquitoes, there are facebookstatuses to be changed, fast and fast and fast. The plural of status, hmm, hmm, hmm. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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Back in the computer lab @ langara, for some weird, strange reason the class in the wee hours of a rainy Vancouver Monday was cancelled, the author finds herself in front of this computer that is not really legible, @ least its keyboard is not, the neon lights on the ceiling once more bathe part of the keys in light, so you cannot really type coherently, somehow it does not seem to bother the rest of the drones here in this class, somehow calling people drones is borderline impolite, anyhoo, the author puts in her daily allotment of letters and dots and commas, she listens in to the sounds of the printer, to the music of the air conditioner, she sees herself doing book tours and readings, giving interviews, all because of her formidable writing skills, not that she has time to go to the writing center in A-103, the author is kinda becoming addicted to someone correcting her flaws, which is not really a good thing 4 a writer, you should be able to iron out the inconsistencies, the wrinkles, the glitches by yourself, you are the poet poet poet poet. And she types types, against the cold that grips her pretty hard, against the rising temperature in her body, the fever, or something and something. Stop spellcheck and find a better place to type, now and now and now. Now. And chapter eighteen it is, is. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN So, this is it, typing, typing, amassing words in the morning, while still half asleep, it is a curse, a curse. An obsession, maybe, something as automatic as brushing your teeth, the author is sidelined by this woman in the writing center, who took a paragraph of hers and started to take it apart, secondguessing each and every statement, this is not good not good, how can anyone write under this kind of scrutiny. One bad and malicious critic is enough to undermine your career as a writer, the author cannot work like this not work like this. The woman in the writing center, she managed to destroy the authors ability to write, so, therefore, there is nothing left but to get right back on the horse, on the horse. Well. In this case, right back in front of a typing machine. Stupid
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critic, she did not know what she was talking about, anyone can criticize, her editing skills were zero, she was just out to hurt her, out to get her. How can artists work like this, this is horrible, horrible. And the words push on, despite the nay-sayers, maybe, author should not have gone to the writing center, what is a writing center anyways, a place where they take apart your flawless prose, where they hack into your eloquent quivering constructs with an axe, where your flying sentences are shot down out of thin air, how horrible, how horrible, how horrible. The idea was to get a standing ovation, the idea was to chisel away at that one sentence, and only that one, only that one. Author has to get more proficient in handling the editors and that woman was not even good enough, in the real world you work with people you respect, whose opinion matters, matters. Anyhoo, writing is fun fun fun. How many words, how many words, but, hey, who cares, cares cares. The black computer room , as always, as always. Words on the monitor, short inscriptions, for moments, for moments. No plot, no plot as of yet. Except the constantness of typing, the arranging of words, the letters that are hammered feverishly, into the machine into the machine. Stoically, grimly. The difference between longhand and a computer, ah, who cares, who cares who cares. There are differences, or not, or not. The room here fills up, people in black talking, talking. The notice to all students sign in the distance, the papers on the walls, the woman in blond and her coffee cup, moments, moments moments. Another day, one of many, October third, fleeting fleeting fleeting. and another chapter it is it is. CHAPTER NINETEEN So SHE got a rejection e-mail from this agent in nyc, maybe brooklyn, maybe mid-town, rejection rejection rejection. So much more incentive to type type type. Langara on Monday, she
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missed class in the morning, and, hey, it is Tuesday not Monday. Her days roll together, one mush, one platt. No distinction tween all these days, thats good good good good. Her writing sucks, that happens when you open a rejection letter, she should not send her stuff out, the muse will suffer, break, her words will be fragmented, unsure, sad and sorry, they will seize to roar onto the page, she should write bout current affairs anyways, not just play with the words, not just build phantastical buildings that devour the reader, in a moment a moment. No poetry for you, no soup for you. Too much seinfeld, too much feel of general blues. Wind in your face, that will freshen you up, a march thru dewy pastures, ah, she types types types. There is no difference tween typing and writing, Truman Capote, who cares who cares who cares. The clock in the distance, her connotations that no one gets, the words the word the words. And some more words some more words. Was the agent right, is this unsellable, unpublishable. No market for these her words, none none none. No blood, no violence, no sex, maybe that is the prob, ppl, want escapism, they dont want this and this and this. She hates her writing, no one will read this, so why write write write. The career of a writer, non-existent, non-existent. You have to give in to popular demand, you cannot just write what you want to. Sellout is must, sellout or bust. And she hammers away at the keys, the keys, the sound of the printer, the sound of two students. Ppl gathered around the printer, a woman in black, some beige, some red, a bored face, the day lunges towards lunch, languidly, languidly. On some half rainy day, in some awkward college, fast and fast and fast. Who knows what this means, all these words, stomped together, like ingredients in a x-mas pudding, that clash clash clash. And the day roams forward, silently silently silently. And silently silently silently. Her back hurts, one page is in, for now, yep, that is how it seems seem seems, feed your singsongs to the machine, why not why not why not. And we have chapter twenty already, already.
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CHAPTER TWENTY So page 13 is over, we are now penning page fourteen. Author here either pens or ponders, no positing for her, no alleging. Just penning, hi-lit, words to be devoured by generations to come. Her words in the future, discussed, there will be a test, there will there will. If you have the right answers, you will get into the right school, have the right career, the right picket fence, in the right colour. How many organize this city and that city do we have, by now, by now, by now. Global revolution, huh, there are no revolutions anymore, only silently creeping evolutions, that is how it is how it is. Author ponders, she is insightful, not that much not that much not that much. Not courageous enuf to be insightful, short inklings towards the paper, her stuff is insane insane. Hold a thought, cement a thought, for gods sake, organize a thought a thought. This is not a piano, to be klimpered on, use whole sentences, with correct spaellings, the like the like the like. Dont cram 21 chapters into 13 pages, its not done not done not done. Spellcheck this, save this, leave this place, have a pumpkinloaf for lunch, with nuts and nuts and nuts. Her words are so silent this morning, you have to write everyday everyday. Author ponders, what to describe, the grey wall to her right, the blue container to her left, somehow ppl write too much in here, in here- who will publish this who will read this. Her words her words her words. But she said that already, everything seems so redundant, redundant. Maybe she is in the wrong profession, you are no poet no poet no poet. No writer, no author, none, zich, zilp. Even if you are published, your sentences stink stink stink. After all you are no guy, who will take you serious, you have to write chicklit, something which holds up in teacircles with rosebuds and dainty handkerchiefs with holes therein, your writing sucks and sucks and sucks. In the marketplace of ideas, i am just a girl a girl a girl. Nope, we have not come a long way baby, no no no.
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Lets see see, lets storm barricades, go on balustrades, the revolution of the lowly writer, at the typing machine, the typing machine. And the day moves forward, moans forward. Achingly, awkwardly, awkwardly. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE On a day like this, back in the black computer lab, typing typing. It is desolate here, just one lowly typer beside her, class is in session, so everyone is in class, it is still early morning, fresh, short showers, she is not quite sure what that means means. She does not know what to write, is her prose prose, is it poetry, should she write more coherent, less coherent, does she have writing chops or just chopsticks, she saw an interview with Michael Lewis on cnn, he churns out one book per year, all well-researched, he has fiction and non-fiction, author admires him for the discipline that it takes to write, write. That is why she makes herself sit here, typing typing. You have to write each and every day, so it seems so it seems. You need these notes to yourself, in order to get somewhere, in order to build your oeuvre, to explore the possibilities and limitations of stringing together all these sentences. Genre is irrelevant, categorizations, they come so much later, fiction and nonfiction, it is all the same same. It does not hurt if you write in your native language, it does not make a difference though it you write in another language, Coetzee used English, not Afrikaans, if youre good in one language you will be good in another language too, but are you ever good enough, ever ever ever. She did not check the status of occupy wallstreet as of yet, she heard the news on the radio while driving to langara, she did not like it, not one bit, made her mad as hell, mad as hell, mad mad mad. It always does, one day she will write about politics, she will disseminate the horrendous flaws of the decision makers, she will bring down governments with her pen, but not
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now not yet not yet not yet. At this time she will merely describe the titter tatter of the typists in this room, the songs of the air conditioner, the red exit sign, the music of the printer, the songs the sights, the smells, the like. the feel of the keys of the keyboard against her fingers, the roaring of the chair next to her, rolling over the cold asphalt of the floor in the computer lab. It is not asphalt, she knows, how will she ever be able to sell her texts, if she poets around instead of positing strong observations, if her words are too sing songy, 2 melodic, too feminine. The rationale of the poet, will it ever be ever be? And she types and types and types, short hiccups of incoherence, the man with the hat on the other computer, ah, her days her days her days. Time to wrap this up, her words are not that good not that good today. They are as sleepless, as jetlagged as she is herself, jetlagged without boarding an airplane, try to replicate that replicate that. The insomnia that does her in that scratches her prose into oblivion, the metaphors that cant cant. Time to leave this place time to throw the keyboard into thin air, time to disintegrate in front of the typing machine, while the air conditioner keeps on roaring roaring. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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Nasrin Khosrowshahi-The Playwright Club - Fall 11

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Nasrin Khosrowshahi-The Playwright Club - Fall 11

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nasrin khosrowshahi- the playwright club- fall 11