Shower Thoughts and New Play Epiphanies

How is it that the shower is such an illuminating place? Is it the rushing water, the heat, the steam? Is it the environment? Is it the fact that, perhaps, the shower is the one place where the actions are completely habitual and therefore my thoughts are free to wander? I’m not consciously commanding my fingers to massage the shampoo into my scalp, nor am I aware of what I’m doing, though I’m fully aware of the pungent smell—like medicine and industry—erupting at my roots. Perhaps my thoughts wander because I spend so much of my time in the shower with my eyes closed…

The point is that when I’m in that warm embrace of that cocoon, being needled by warm rushing water, all heat and pressure, my mind opens up and issues forth all the answers to my writer’s block. A scene sorts itself out, a block of text emerges, a single line is spoken in my mind that releases a plat’s burden. I’ve read and heard about the mind’s clarity after an ejaculation, how that moment is a connection to the spirit of God or something, something that links man to a higher spirit… Maybe the shower creates that same effect—a relaxed release, a release that connects me to some greater plane or power, whatever that is. One thing I know is that when I’m at my laptop after a shower, I’m hard pressed to find that same clarity again. The passion and understanding of those moments in the shower are gone when I step out from behind that soaked, vinyl curtain and feel the chill of the world peck at my wet body.

I had another such epiphany in the shower this morning. I usual smells of the shower filled my nostrils and I sat down in that small puddle of frothy, shower-beaten water that had built up in the tub. I closed my eyes and somewhere amidst the thrashing sounds of the hot and piercing, pinching water, my mind projected visions of not one, but two plays that have eluded me for the past few months.

Over Christmas, I started writing one of the “problem” plays, a play called “Goody Goody.” This was going to be my adaptation of Brecht’s “Good Person of Setzuan.” My version would follow a young pastor who, in his search for a wife, falls in love with a stripper. My visions didn’t fuse completely with Brecht’s original story, but I felt like the stories were connected somehow. I wrote four pages, beginning as Brecht had begun: a man waiting to welcome the gods to earth. In Brecht’s version, the gods come to earth, searching for one good person in order to justify not destroying earth. Their search leads them to the home of Shen Te, a prostitute, who is the only person in town who allows the wandering gods a place to stay. As a gift for her generosity and goodness, the gods give Shen Te gold, which she uses to start a new life running a tobacco store.

Originally, my thought was that my story was going to be a romantic comedy, turning the “gods” searching for a good person to save the world to a pastor searching for a good person to marry. This past weekend, my thinking changed as I wrote those first few pages, which followed two angels meeting an old man named Ron who has been waiting to welcome God. He leads the angels into town, searching for a place to stay, soon coming to the home of a stripper named Faith.

We meet Faith as she’s overslept and is an hour late for her shift at the strip club. She laments the sheer amount of money she’s losing in this missed hour of work. I had written the scene to the point at which Ron was to knock on Faith’s door, but stopped. Where was this going? How could I sustain this? What was the point of this? Part of me said, “Don’t worry about those questions! Keep writing! This is good!” But another part of me, the part that was asking the questions, proved more powerful as it forced my hands to shut my laptop, leaving the play for another day.

In the shower this morning, my mind returned to those first few pages I wrote for “Goody Goody.” The scene continued in my mind: Faith opens the door, discusses her financial worries with the angels (or maybe it should be God Himself). “All I need is one shot, one landfall or windfall—one lucky break and I can break out of here. Boom goes rent—Boom goes credit card debt and student loans. And maybe then I can… No, not maybe, then I will quit the club and start my own business.”

This “one break” has been a constant topic of conversation lately between me and my friends. And lucky Faith, she gets her break when God gives her cash to thank her for giving Him a place to crash. In my mind, I saw a scene in which Faith talks to her boss and quits. “You’ll be back.” I saw a scene in which she sits in a church, praying for guidance with what to do with her money. Perhaps she could always return to this church when she needs guidance, and this can allow for a romance to start with the pastor…

At the heart of “The Good Person of Setzuan” is the story of a woman who is forced by her surroundings and life to “be bad” (to put it simply) in order to sustain her “good life.” In desperation to keep her business, Shen Te dons men’s clothing and creates an imaginary cousin “Shui Ta,” an enforcer to handle all the necessary dirty work. I knew from the beginning of writing my version that I didn’t wan the cross dressing element in my play. It didn’t ring true for my play. The creation of Shui Ta allows Shen Te to remain “Pure” and “Good.” How could I allow Faith the same “double life?” Faith has to fall. Her “one break” isn’t enough. Her life crumbles. What does she lose?

The other play I’ve had trouble with is my modern day adaptation of Moliere’s “The Learned Ladies.” From reading a translation of Moliere’s script, I began writing my play with the idea that it was a love story, which was complicated by the presence and influence of a group of “intellectual” women who value their education above all else and fail to see their hypocrisy.

After I’d written a few scenes, I saw a production of the play at my alma mater Coe College. I saw at once that my play was missing a dynamic of “control” and “power” in the relationships that existed in Moliere’s text, especially in the husband and wife who are the “heads” of the family. In Moliere’s version, the woman ruled the house, in mine the man ruled the house. How much more interesting is the story of a man regaining control of his house, than the story of a man who already has control of the house!

Moliere’s emphasis was on the role of women vs. men, and I wanted to push things even further towards an exploration of the disparity of socioeconomic status in America. In particular, I’m focusing on the misplaced “good deeds” of the rich, intellectual, liberal class who see themselves as “among the people,” but are, in fact, far above and out of touch with the very people they believe they’re “saving.” Think Hollywood do-gooders.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the first four or five scenes I’ve written for “Learned Ladies,” all of which jump around what will eventually be the “first act” of the play. In those scenes, I’ve been exploring character and the dynamics of the relationships. What hit me in the shower was that the scenes are lacking a dramatic push forward. Perhaps certain scenes could be combined and their venues changed in order to instill this dramatic movement. For example, one of the first scenes I wrote involved the young Hen (short for Henrietta) asking her older sister, Amanda, for permission to date Clint, a young man who has been pursuing Amanda for several years, but has finally given up. There was another scene at an expensive restaurant in which Clint asks Hen to marry him. What if I combined these two scenes? What if Clint, Hen, and Amanda were at dinner together and Amanda was forced to witness the engagement? This is a much stronger and more dramatic, more active choice than before.

In all these shower epiphanies, I’ve been struck at how much my critical eye has been focused and refined in the past few months as I look at my plays. Last year at this time, you never would have heard me talk about “dramatic action” in a scene. At the time, I was busy exploring and experimenting with form, which was a necessary step in my journey. Now, I am able to return to focusing on the smaller scale of individual scenes and their dynamics with new, stronger eyes for drama.