The staged read of “The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” that went down last night was actually a full-on production — lights, costumes, blocking, the whole bit. Ann Kuchins did a brilliant job in getting my play on its feet. About sixty people showed up — who the hell were they?
The final result, in terms of the acting and the direction and the blocking, was shockingly good. People laughed where they were supposed to. People paid attention. They “got it.”
But parts didn’t work, and the director and writer types in the audience were plenty blunt with their criticisms.
And what’s more: most of the criticisms were well deserved.
I sat patiently taking notes after the show, thinking, “Yes, that’s right… yes, that’s true… but how the fucking hell am I going to incorporate that into the script?”
But while tossing sleeplessly at four in the a.m., from between my ears, yet again I can hear the quiet voice, the voice that never sleeps, recombinating, reconstructing, rewriting.
Ah, well. Stephen King: “Only God gets it right the first time.”
