(or sometimes a play takes decades)
In the late 1990s, I decided to give up playwriting.
I’d been at it a dozen or so years and, other than a one-act and an experimental short done in New York, none of the work was landing. And I was busy: a full-time public school teaching gig split between a middle and high school, teaching as many as “six preps” per semester (for those who know teacher lingo), and running an active (maybe hyperactive) high school theater program. We had two kids under ten years old – whose grandparents on both sides were having health issues that occupied a lot of time and emotion. And because I was starting to realize that my public-school teacher salary was not going to let us save enough to pay for college for the kids, I’d started taking additional grad classes with the goal of reaching “Master’s degree plus 60 credits” – the only way to really get anything other than cost-of-living salary adjustments.
Then something happened. I’d been working one-on-one with a junior to prepare her for the Boston Shakespeare Competition. She’d made great progress, winning the preliminary round and heading to finals, but she’d hit a plateau. And she knew it. We were in the midst of rehearsing our winter play, Six Characters in Search of an Author (yeah, it was a hyperactive program) when, during a break from rehearsal, I saw her sitting quietly by herself. Since it was a break, kids were chatting, goofing around, getting water, eating snacks, etc. Chaos. And she sat silently, morosely in the middle. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Everything. She felt she wasn’t getting anywhere with anything and didn’t know how any of it would ever get better. “Start the monologue,” I said. “What?” “Juliet. Start.” “Really?” “Just start.”
She started and suddenly there was no line between her and the character. Her struggles were the character’s struggles. Her voice was the character's voice. The language was hers, not Shakespeare’s. And the room – full of 25 rambunctious teenagers and their drinks and chips and candy – went silent but for her. When she got to the end, they erupted in cheers and congratulations: “That was amazing!” “You should do it like that at the competition!”
And I thought, “I wish the plays I see were as good as rehearsals can be.”
I wanted to see plays that were filled with moments of sublime and messy transformation.
So I decided to write one more play. I just didn’t know how.
Somewhere around the year 2000, I took a three-day playwriting workshop with Alan Brody, a playwright and then Associate Provost of the Arts at M.I.T. I learned more in three days than in all my previous study of playwriting. More importantly, I wrote a scene that became the opening of Breaking the Shakespeare Code. Two people meet: a young, privileged student and a young but already bitter acting coach. In working on a Shakespeare monologue, their lives begin to transform. Their potentials as artist and teacher unlock before our eyes. It started to have the magic of rehearsal that’s often missing in productions.
And then I got stuck. What happens next? I’d learned in the workshop how to make a scene work. But a whole play?
So I gave up playwriting again.
Until a year or two later. I wanted to work with two brilliant former students (one of whom was the young woman from the story above) and suggested they perform what I’d written as part of a scene night. The audience really responded. And a theater person I admire tremendously came up and said, “What happens next?” I thought, if she wants to know, I’d better write the play.
So, about a year after THAT, in 2003, I contacted the other actor from that scene, Shawn Cody, who had by now become a dear friend (he'd always been an inspiring insightful artist). I asked if the theater company he was running could do a reading of “my new play” on one of their dark nights. He said yes. We settled on a date six weeks away.
Now I had to write it.
And then I got stuck. What happens next? I’d learned in the workshop how to make a scene work. But a whole play?
So I gave up playwriting again.
Until a year or two later. I wanted to work with two brilliant former students (one of whom was the young woman from the story above) and suggested they perform what I’d written as part of a scene night. The audience really responded. And a theater person I admire tremendously came up and said, “What happens next?” I thought, if she wants to know, I’d better write the play.
So, about a year after THAT, in 2003, I contacted the other actor from that scene, Shawn Cody, who had by now become a dear friend (he'd always been an inspiring insightful artist). I asked if the theater company he was running could do a reading of “my new play” on one of their dark nights. He said yes. We settled on a date six weeks away.
Now I had to write it.
I had no idea how to follow the opening scene, so I invented some arbitrary parameters. The play would cover 20 years (it ended up being 16). There would be four scenes (it became three) in which the actor and coach would work on four Shakespeare monologues: one from a comedy, one from a history, one from a tragedy, and one from a “late romance” (that condition held).
The writing got intense, personal, dark, and sometimes unexpectedly funny. I still didn’t know if it was really a play, but I had an emerging draft of... something.
Though I didn't know if it was a play or the script of rehearsals.
When the draft was done, I mailed it to Alan Brody, who'd promised to read and give feedback on anything any of us in his workshops ever wrote. He wrote back something like “I’m returning this without notes because it’s ready to be in rehearsal. You’ll figure out what to rewrite then.” I was thrilled.
I was less thrilled that he ended his letter with “By the way, nobody will ever produce this.”
I guess he thought I’d written a rehearsal after all.
We did the public reading, directed by another brilliant former student, Bill Barclay, at a library on a Monday night in the summer of 2003 for an audience of maybe 35. They seemed captivated. Maybe there was something here. Maybe. And maybe it was what I was aiming for. A play as dynamic as a rehearsal, but also a play about how we develop codes that help us build relationships – and the need to eventually break through those codes to let the relationships grow.
The writing got intense, personal, dark, and sometimes unexpectedly funny. I still didn’t know if it was really a play, but I had an emerging draft of... something.
Though I didn't know if it was a play or the script of rehearsals.
When the draft was done, I mailed it to Alan Brody, who'd promised to read and give feedback on anything any of us in his workshops ever wrote. He wrote back something like “I’m returning this without notes because it’s ready to be in rehearsal. You’ll figure out what to rewrite then.” I was thrilled.
I was less thrilled that he ended his letter with “By the way, nobody will ever produce this.”
I guess he thought I’d written a rehearsal after all.
We did the public reading, directed by another brilliant former student, Bill Barclay, at a library on a Monday night in the summer of 2003 for an audience of maybe 35. They seemed captivated. Maybe there was something here. Maybe. And maybe it was what I was aiming for. A play as dynamic as a rehearsal, but also a play about how we develop codes that help us build relationships – and the need to eventually break through those codes to let the relationships grow.
So I looked for places to send it. One place was Orlando Shakespeare Theater for their Harriet Lake Festival of New Plays. They’d take ten new plays to read each year, move three of them to workshop productions the next year, and (in theory but seldom in practice) put one of them on the mainstage in the third year. I sent them the script in 2004 and, after I’d revised it a bit, I emailed them to ask if I could send an update. I got a quick reply from Eric Hissom, the head of new play development, who said, “Send the revised draft. And please send some reasons why we should do your play because I like it and the rest of my readers don’t. They don’t think audiences will be interested.”
I guess because it’s a rehearsal?
I wrote to him that folks who came to the scene sharing and the reading loved the glimpse into process, and they weren’t put off by the insider quality of the work the characters do. Quite the opposite: They were excited to see how the sausage is (sometimes) made.
So Orlando said yes. I went down for a long weekend in January of 2005 after begging my administration to give me one professional development day off to do so, arguing that working with the folks in a professional theater company for a few days is ideal professional development for a theater teacher. I don't think they bought the argument, but they said yes. I got to work with the actors and director, revise in rehearsal, get to two readings of the script, hear audience feedback, and wander in Orlando rather than snowy Massachusetts. Amazing.
Then, as the director predicted, they asked us back to workshop the play for two weeks in 2006. I was able to get several contractual professional days wrapped around two weekends so I could attend, though I had to fly back in the middle to teach and direct.
At intermission in one of the workshop performances, a man sitting in front of me turned around and said, “You’re scribbling a lot in that notebook. You must be the writer.” I confessed. He said, “My wife and I love your play! What time of day do you like to write?” “The morning, usually.” “I do, too!” “Really,” I said. “What do you write?” “I have a syndicated comic, Mother Goose and Grimm.” “You're Mike Peters?!” “That’s right. Now, my friend Fred runs the Utah Shakespearean Festival. We go out there every summer. Can I send him your play?” “Yes, sir, Mister Peters.” “Mike!”
I guess because it’s a rehearsal?
I wrote to him that folks who came to the scene sharing and the reading loved the glimpse into process, and they weren’t put off by the insider quality of the work the characters do. Quite the opposite: They were excited to see how the sausage is (sometimes) made.
So Orlando said yes. I went down for a long weekend in January of 2005 after begging my administration to give me one professional development day off to do so, arguing that working with the folks in a professional theater company for a few days is ideal professional development for a theater teacher. I don't think they bought the argument, but they said yes. I got to work with the actors and director, revise in rehearsal, get to two readings of the script, hear audience feedback, and wander in Orlando rather than snowy Massachusetts. Amazing.
Then, as the director predicted, they asked us back to workshop the play for two weeks in 2006. I was able to get several contractual professional days wrapped around two weekends so I could attend, though I had to fly back in the middle to teach and direct.
At intermission in one of the workshop performances, a man sitting in front of me turned around and said, “You’re scribbling a lot in that notebook. You must be the writer.” I confessed. He said, “My wife and I love your play! What time of day do you like to write?” “The morning, usually.” “I do, too!” “Really,” I said. “What do you write?” “I have a syndicated comic, Mother Goose and Grimm.” “You're Mike Peters?!” “That’s right. Now, my friend Fred runs the Utah Shakespearean Festival. We go out there every summer. Can I send him your play?” “Yes, sir, Mister Peters.” “Mike!”
So Mike sent the play to Fred Adams at the Utah Shakespearean Festival. And Angi Weiss-Brandt, the stage manager of the Orlando workshop ALSO brought the play out, since she stage managed there, too. Thanks to the double-barreled approach, the play was part of the 2007 New American Playwrights Project at Utah Shakes, where it had a spectacular pair of workshop readings and was optioned first by Plan B in Salt Lake City and then by Utah Shakes itself. Sadly, neither option worked out, but Sallie Cooper of Wasatch, a community theater in Salt Lake City, got the rebound and she directed the play in 2008 – its first full production.
Then, nothing. For six years, rejections. But at least I was letting myself write plays again.
In 2013, Victoria Reinsel – who’d seen the workshop in Orlando seven years earlier – contacted me saying, “I’m still thinking about your play. Can you send me a copy?” I said, “Of course, but let me look at it first. I think it may need more work.” I spent a few weeks cutting it from a two-act, two-hour play to, in the words of the play itself, “80 minutes, no intermission.” Shortly thereafter, I got an email from Alicia Washington, who’d played Anna in that 2008 production in Salt Lake City. She was starting a theater company in Ogden, Utah and wanted to direct the play as their inaugural production, fall 2013. At about the same time, Vagabond Theatre Company in Boston told me they wanted to produce it in 2014. Two more productions!
In 2013, Victoria Reinsel – who’d seen the workshop in Orlando seven years earlier – contacted me saying, “I’m still thinking about your play. Can you send me a copy?” I said, “Of course, but let me look at it first. I think it may need more work.” I spent a few weeks cutting it from a two-act, two-hour play to, in the words of the play itself, “80 minutes, no intermission.” Shortly thereafter, I got an email from Alicia Washington, who’d played Anna in that 2008 production in Salt Lake City. She was starting a theater company in Ogden, Utah and wanted to direct the play as their inaugural production, fall 2013. At about the same time, Vagabond Theatre Company in Boston told me they wanted to produce it in 2014. Two more productions!
Also around the same time, Miranda Jonté – then a stranger, soon a wonderful friend – posted in The Official Playwrights of Facebook that she was looking for a two-character play to produce for fringe festivals in 2014. I sent her the first ten pages. She messaged, “This might be the most dangerous play I’ve ever read. Please send the rest.” I sent the rest. Next message, “May I share this with my director, Stephen Brotebeck?” Of course. Next message, “Stephen and I want to produce your play sometime, but we’re submitting my play for fringe festivals this year. Will keep you posted about when we can get to yours.” Days later, a phone call: “My play is complicated, with a big cast, multiple locations. Can we submit yours for festivals this year?” Um…. Yes? Next message, “We got into NY Fringe! Would it be okay if we did a one-week run in Chicago first?” Um… Professional premiere in Chicago? Hell. Yes.
I didn’t see the June 2014 run in Chicago, but did get to see the killer, ecstatically reviewed run at the 2014 New York International Fringe, directed by Stephen and featuring Miranda as Anna and Tim Weinert as Curt. Yes, dangerous.
The play had a brush with Off-Broadway in 2016. The same Shawn Cody – who’d first put a scene on its feet and who produced and played Curt in the very first reading of the play – optioned the play and, with Adam Kern, another brilliant student Cheo Bourne, and Doug Chapman, produced a trio of industry readings at New York’s Shetler Studios, featuring Tony nominee J. Robert Spencer (Next to Normal, Jersey Boys) and Broadway actor Erikka Walsh (Once), directed by Tom Caruso, Associate Director of several Broadway shows and director of their national tours (including Matilda and Master Class – and yet another brilliant former student). The readings generated some interest from producers, but what they were willing to invest was about $100K shy of what it would have taken to finance the proposed out-of-town run that would then transfer to Off-B’way. Ah, well.
Since then, it’s had about ten more productions, including one filmed production and two online-over-three nights open rehearsals during lockdown. Miranda and her company, Hey Jonté! Productions, revived the NY Fringe production at Playwrights’ Downtown in Greenwich Village in 2019.
Several publishers passed on the script, despite its continued popularity. I’d given up on one publisher – their website said no response in eight months meant they were not interested so don't follow up – and began to think Ghost Light Publications might like it, largely because they’d offered to publish an unproduced piece of mine (I'd said no – I always want to test a script in production first). Another big factor in sending it them was that they sometimes produce the plays they publish – and Jonathan Cook and Devon Moody McSherry, the two folks who run Ghost Light, would be great in the roles. I was thrilled that, when I sent it to them, they said yes in under 24 hours!
By the way, the publisher I’d given up on also said yes – somewhere around month 18 of the "eight months" they said to wait. But I’d decided on Ghost Light by then.
By the way, the publisher I’d given up on also said yes – somewhere around month 18 of the "eight months" they said to wait. But I’d decided on Ghost Light by then.
So, that’s the saga. It’s the play I didn’t plan to write, that almost everybody doubted, and that convinced me to keep writing.
It’ll be available from Ghost Light in June 2025 via the publisher and at the Drama Book Shop in NYC. And it’ll be on stage again at The Academy Playhouse on Cape Cod the last weekend in August and first weekend in September 2025, again featuring Miranda Jonté as Anna and with Neil McGarry – who first encountered the play at NY Fringe in 2014 – as Curt.
From there, onward…
You can see the show's sizzle reel here -- featuring music by my son Colin.
It’ll be available from Ghost Light in June 2025 via the publisher and at the Drama Book Shop in NYC. And it’ll be on stage again at The Academy Playhouse on Cape Cod the last weekend in August and first weekend in September 2025, again featuring Miranda Jonté as Anna and with Neil McGarry – who first encountered the play at NY Fringe in 2014 – as Curt.
From there, onward…
You can see the show's sizzle reel here -- featuring music by my son Colin.
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