#All that exists is dusty calculus books

[hypercubecats]

Page 5: The physics lesson continues…

Krita brush pack by @abluskittle

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[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

100 Minute Writing Challenge

The Prompt: Adventure, Dungeon

The characters: My OCs, various characters of Has Anyone Heard of the Wire Mother

Here we are :]

In a trailer on a film lot, Sylvia, Nadia, Mick, and Laura cluster ‘round a table. It’s two years before Sylvia chooses the name Sylvia for herself, one year before Laura Corpuz’s big break (the Laura Corpuz), and half a month before Mick and Nadia crash their car off a winding California mountain road. This is before, and they’re gathered together to have some paper-and-dice adventures. Some Dungeons and Dragons.

Laura is the DM, and she spends the whole afternoon more nervous about it than the movie she’s filming. She’s never DM-ed before, and had kind of expected that Sylvia would, since Sylvia’s more of a fantasy writer. Sylvia’s never even played before, though, and neither has Nadia.

Something about being children with gifts seemed to have eaten up the rest of their lives, until there wasn’t anything else. Just lessons, and memorials, and the fear of wasting what they were given.

Laura pushes down her fears about not knowing what to do if Mick derails them, and whatever tentative thing exists between her and Nadia evaporating, and making Sylvia regret leaving her trailer. Every phone call, her mom says that she shouldn’t walk around with an apology over her head, and she doesn’t believe that yet when it comes to the movie, but she tries to believe it for this.

So, when she sets the scene, she’s the picture of confidence. She does what she knows how to do.

- - -

In a college dorm, a young Angela Lee scribbles on a desk. It’s five years before she’ll start writing that elusive, cursed book called The Wire Mother. This is before, and she’s trying to write a character sheet for the new Dungeons and Dragons 3rd edition.

She doesn’t have anyone to play with. The one Dungeons and Dragons club she found was none too keen on having a woman join. They didn’t say so directly, but the looks and the pointed, qualifying trivia questions were enough to get the message across. Still, she can’t help thinking about it.

Angela writes too much backstory for her character. It runs off the character sheet box, and the page. By the end of it, she has five hand-written pages of lore. Orphans, and hatchets, and monsters. The daughter of a central campaign villain, realizing she wants to be something better. Burning down the house.

She tries to explain what she’s written to her friend from Calculus class, but she can’t get the words right. Can’t explain what’s made her get into her head.

Her character's name ends up being Circe, but she does consider some other names. She ends up throwing an important one aside. Thinking Leonore is a nice name, but not quite right for her.

- - -

In a more peaceful section of the dread labyrinth of Tithonus, Leonore Groves uncovers a box. Dusty and ancient. From the Before Times. Very, very soon, her peace will be disturbed by fresh horrors (the events of The Wire Mother: Ordained Voltage). This is before, and she brings the box to her friends to play a game.

It’s funny, to make up fake adventures when she’s in the middle of a real one. To have the monsters be lines of text and her weapon a +2 to checks. She plays a wild magic sorcerer, a young man chosen by gods who know what the fuck they’re doing, rather than her gods, who just throw things at the wall.

Stories were banned in the Court of Wire and sickeningly sweetly restricted in the Court of Cloth, so the group does struggle to play. Turpentine DMs, and he seems to know what he’s doing somehow, but they mostly just sit around talking and snacking on dried meat. No one’s keeping anything on track- Benjamin St. Jobs pretends to try, but he has a love of chaos of his own, Coil doesn’t see the point in it all, Socket’s still tired after they spent the day trying to hack into his cyborg jaw, Stellarose doesn’t talk much (like she’s trying to keep them from remembering she’s there), Diode is trying to seem less invested than she is, and Leo’s just happy to have a moment to breathe.

So, she relaxes, and she revels in a fight being bloodless and imaginary.

- - -

In a bookstore, a young Pamela Dumont looks at a small display of something that seems like a board game. It’s over a decade before she spins Angela Lee’s characters into something else, something worse, and claims a fame that Lee never did. A world that is, blissfully, without Heartstrings: Forever Means Eternity. This is before, and she’s curious about a game.

Then, her mother pulls on her sleeve, says that it’s tied to a secret society of Satan worshippers. She kills the curious thought, and watches it sink. Pamela never plays Dungeons and Dragons.

- - -

In two separate states, connected by a call, Noah “Albatross” and Aster “Peregrine” talk about the rules of a game. It’s a year and a half before Noah drives from Indiana to New Jersey in the pouring rain, Franklin Shepard Inc. playing through the car radio, to threaten to murder them. This is before, and Aster’s trying to learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons.

They’d already “played” before, but, according to Noah, they hadn’t been playing right. They barely know the rules. If they just want to write something, God knows they can do that, good enough to leave Noah behind. But this game has rules, and Aster’s character builds are shit. They wouldn’t be any help to their party.

Of course, Aster and Noah don’t have any plans to play in the near future. It’s just the two of them and Verna against the world. That’s not enough for a good game. They could invite other people, but they couldn’t trust them- what if they were just there to get information? Or to make up information? Stop them from winning the war of words, sink the ElectricRose Triumvirate in favor of that baneful LeoRose fleet? No. It’s just them. But maybe someday, if they win enough, that will change.

It’s a good day, for Noah and Aster. They joke on the call, they vent about their stresses, they act like friends. Noah’s patient and witty again, like it’s still 2015. Aster thanks them, after they’ve built their character to take more hits. Says that without him, they’d be totally dead.

- - -

And, for all of them, everything still goes forward. For now, though, they roll the dice.

[doitwritenow]

DRAGON!! Questions: 2, 4, 27 aaaand 32. XD Also 35, release the rambles.

ADA!!!! Let’s see what I can do here... >:3

2. Why do you write fanfiction? I write fic because of the spaces between the lines of a story. The gaps and unanswered questions in canon encourage me to come up with deeper mechanics, more complicated lore, and complex character motivations in order to explain. Sometimes, one of those pieces will click into canon so well that it becomes inspiration. And then there’s nothing else to do but write! Lol. Stories are so wonderful because of what we can do with them, individually and all together, and I really like being a part of that. 

4. Are there any writers that inspire you? Absolutely. Brandon Sanderson and Neil Gaiman are the novelists who’s skills blow me away and remind me why I like to write. Robert Hass,Trista Mateer, and Robert Graves are inspirations too, though I’m not a poet. I like to think and they make me do so.

27. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received? Oh that’s hard!!! I get a ton of wonderful comments--from long, analyzing, discussion ones to short, joking, fun ones that make me laugh when I’m having a bad day. I love to be able to interact and banter with my readers; it’s my favorite thing, and they’re all so lovely. ANYWAY a comment that jumps to mind is a recent one from @writingish1210​ on all but my oldest fic ever, Wire Figures, praising characterization and tone. (i WILL cry, don’t test me)

32. Summarize a random fic of yours in 10 words or less. I used a random name picker for this, uh “they said I couldn’t fit calculus inside of endgame angst”

35. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want! Release the ramble!!!!  okokok how about a first-page blurb from something I may or may not ever actually write? I’m in the mood for ironstrange fairytale au because I’m working on a Prophets in the Graveyard chapter today, so have some fantasy Rapunzel vibes!

The candle flame sparked weakly at the very base of its wick when the knock finally rattled at Stephen’s window. Stephen didn’t move from where he was kneeling, a hand extended in a careful downstroke to complete the right edge of the design he’d almost perfected. It was vital that his movements were smooth and controlled. He didn’t let the knock surprise him into skewing the line, and it took a long moment to loop his fingers to end his stroke with a flourish. 

Only then did Stephen jump to his feet, tucking the sapphire feather of his quill behind his ear and tumbling toward the window. The glass was fogged from the warmth of the inside air against the chill of the autumn temperature outside, and Stephen could just barely see movement through the cloudiness. He slid his fingers between the windowpanes and threw them open. 

“You’re late,” he said, bracing his hands on the windowsill. He leaned out to peer down at the prince standing on tiptoe atop the closest parapet. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I got some sleep for once,” Tony Stark huffed. 

“You’re lucky I’m still working and was in the bottom room.” The lowermost area of the North Tower—the part of the tower where Stephen spent most of his time and did most of his work—had the only window within reach of the castle wall. Tony was still too short to do much more than fumble blindly at its surface until Stephen noticed.

“You’re always still working,” Tony told him, extending a hand. 

Stephen gripped it with both of his and hauled Tony upward, assisted by the prince’s scrambling feet bracing on the frozen stones of the North Tower. Tony got his free hand around the window frame and swept his legs inside. He perched comfortably atop the sill. 

The cold air had turned both of their faces pink, and Stephen could already feel his nasal canals getting clogged. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin. He knew Tony liked his spot in the window, his perch somewhere between Stephen’s world and his own, but it was cold and Stephen couldn’t help but worry that Tony might one day lose his grip. That he might fall, and not just to the top of the wall six feet below, but down and down to the bottom of the turret all those stories beneath, and Stephen would lose the prince they were all trying so hard to save. 

“What are you working on?” Tony asked, letting Stephen tug him into the tower. He trotted over to the wide canvas spread across the center of the floor as Stephen latched the window behind them. Tony’s fingerprints were pressed into the mist on the glass. 

“Nothing new,” Stephen replied with a shrug. “Still the fox.”

Tony hummed, walking a circle around the design. “I still don’t know how you get this from those dusty old books.”

“I’m a genius, obviously,” Stephen snorted. 

“You’ve never even seen a fox, Stephen.”

“You know I don’t have to see something before I spiritsketch it.”

Tony glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “You have to see me.”

“Well yeah, you’re a person.” Stephen sat back in front of his canvas, patting at his head until his fingers curled around his quill, as Tony circled a few more times before joining him. The prince was like a cat—fidgeting and circling and testing before finally relaxing enough to sit. “When I spiritsketch you, I’ll be reforming an existing soul, not producing a whole new one. All this is just to practice my technique.”

Spiritsketching was a complex art, relying on precision and power and the layered designs that matched ink to spirit and back again. Stephen’s life had been dedicated to it since he was seven years old. For ten years, he’d learned the properties of the soul and how to map it into a sketch, how to draw life into a mind assembled with the right lines and dots and angles, how to capture the essence of a thing by speaking the language of the spirit. 

He’d started small, as the notes of a dead teacher had told him from the margins of the books. ‘Begin with what is manageable, and from there you can flourish.’ He’d started with drills to build his eye for symmetry and exactness. He’d learned how to layer his ink and control the thickness of his stroke. And then he’d begun to form creatures, matching designs described in the texts. There were butterflies huddled in the corners of the room even now; the first being he’d perfected. 

 He didn’t have to see the creatures. The only thing he had to see was Tony, until he could map the prince’s shining, complex spirit onto a canvas and do with it as he was bid. Stephen saw only the creatures he could build himself.

The king made sure of it.

“How close are you?” Tony asked, and for a moment Stephen thought Tony was talking about his own spirit, before he remembered the fox.

“Almost done,” he replied. “Six weeks and I’ve reached the last phase.”

“Oh fantastic. This is my favorite part.”

Stephen hid a grin, fingering his sapphire quill for a moment. He found his place on the canvas once again and drew a stroke of deep blue ink up into the tool. Leaning forward, Stephen carefully sought out the perfect connection and began to sketch. 

That was fun!!! Thanks so much for the ask <3

[casual-eumetazoa]

the taste of blunder

a writing challenge told me to write my own version of a short story i like, so i re-wrote Ray Bradbury’s ‘A Sound of Thunder’. it turned out weird. really damn weird... i won’t explain it just read it, it’s only 2k :)

---------------------

-Hello, boys. – Catherine Anderson, junior manager and human embodiment of Pinterest, tugged on her maximally pierced ear and smiled with her best customer service smile.

-Hi, Cathy. – Anwar muttered, gesturing at Greg behind his back. – You look lovely today. Have you, uh, - he squinted at her, - bleached your eyebrows?

-Not so fast. – She noticed them turning for the corridor and shook her head. – What are you losers up to again?

-Nothing! – Anwar lied enthusiastically.

-Absolutely nothing. – Greg stepped in. – We were hanging out in the skateboard park, practicing a new scooter trick - you know, as you do on a sunny Saturday morning - and then Jamila texted Anwar and asked him to buy her tampons. Which he did, like a good brother, helping his sis out in an emergency.

-Right. – Catherine raised an eyebrow. – And you came along.

-Like a good friend. – Greg nodded. – So, if you will excuse us, we need to locate the women’s bathroom.

Anwar waited for Cathy’s famous sarcastic laugh, but she was silent. He glanced at Greg. He flashed him a grin and moved towards the corridor.

-Have a great day, Cathy! – Anwar added before heading for the exit.

-Uh-hu. – She mumbled, already on her phone, undoubtedly engaging in another heated political discussion with a veil of bored calm on her face and a raging passion in her heart.

But the boys didn’t care. They have just successfully completed part four of the plan.

 -Phew. – Anwar heaved a sigh of relief. – Thanks, man. Top-notch improv.

-Don’t you think I overdid it a bit with the skateboard park? – He asked.

-Nah. – He assured him. – Trust me, Cathy’s clueless. We’re good.

The rest of the path brought no additional surprises. Ten minutes of turns and stairs and the two friends were standing in front of the launch room entrance. “Venture Entertainment – Trip of a Lifetime”, the sign read. Anwar fished in his pocket for the key. The fishing lingered.

-Don’t tell me you forgot it. – Greg hissed through greeted teeth.

In response, Anwar extracted the key and showed it to Greg before fitting it into the keyhole and opening the door.

-I never forget things. – Anwar said, stepping over the threshold. – As opposed to you.

And thus, shots were most certainly fired.

-These spacesuits are so 2015. – Greg proclaimed. He was done struggling with one boot and was preparing to do the same thing all over again with the other. – As well as two sizes too small for me.

-First of all, they aren’t spacesuits. – Anwar began. – We aren’t going to the ISS.

-Timesuits? – Greg suggested. – And we will be traveling in space, dude. Earth moves, and so does the Solar System, and the entire goddamned galaxy. Do you really expect it to be in the same place seventy million years ago?

-Second, - he continued as if he wasn’t interrupted, - the suits are a must. We can’t influence the past in any way. Not even with the air, we breathe out. We’ll stick to the path, follow the protocol, come back, and return the key to Jamila before she notices.

-Yeah, sure. – Greg nodded. He was now done with the other boot as well. – By the way, how the hell did you manage to steal it in the first place?

-She was hella distracted this morning. – Anwar shrugged. – Been yelling at mum about elections since breakfast.

-Who hasn’t been yelling about elections this week. – He scoffed.

-Mum voted for the Cheeto. – Anwar added and suppressed a sigh. – Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.

Both dressed in the ridiculous rubber suits, Greg and Anwar stepped on the platform, wished each other luck, and activated the system. The machine whirred and whistled, and the platform shook under their feet. “Is that it?”, Greg was about to ask when the whole world turned upside down and went black all of a sudden. He didn’t have time to complain. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes in a brand-new world… or, rather, a very old one.

-Woah. – Anwar beamed, spinning on the spot, trying to take in every detail.

-My thoughts exactly. – Greg said. – This is way better than IMAX.

The two guys stood on a transparent path that stretched for a few miles in both directions, hovering about half a meter above the ground. All around them was a vast dusty plane, and a soft wind blew into their helmet microphones. To their left, a group of large dinosaurs was munching on something that looked like an overgrown pineapple. To their right, another group was approaching a pond, their giant feet thumping against the dry ground. It was a kid book turned real life.

-Anwar, mate, - Greg put his gloved hand on his friend’s shoulder, - I must say, I had my doubts about the plan, and I was wrong. This was totally worth it. You know, as opposed to spending four years’ worth of summer job money on a ticket. Next week, I’m taking Alicia here. If that doesn’t make her wanna date me, nothing ever will.

 They spent what felt like half a day walking up and down the path, watching the dinosaurs, taking photos and admiring the view. While Anwar scrolled frantically through the species guide on his phone, playing some prehistoric version of Pokémon Go with himself, Greg sat down on the edge of the path and drew a sketch in his calculus textbook. This sure beat going to the museum and trying to recreate an image based on a skeleton.

-Hey. – Anwar said, taking a seat next to him. – The timer’s running down. We’ll be heading home soon.

-Got it. – Greg replied. – I’m nearly done here. Just give me a minute.

Anwar nodded, shifting his weight to his tiptoes, then back to his heels. The sun was hanging low over the horizon. Strange. Such a long time ago, and it seemed perfectly normal. Exactly like the sun he saw every morning in his bedroom window. He leaned in a tiny bit closer to focus on one of the trees in the distance. A one-inch shift, a slight moment of his body… and he slipped. With a short scream, Anwar toppled over the edge of the path and landed on the ground with a soft thump.

-Anwar?! – Greg was on his feet at once. – Are you okay?

Anwar’s reflexes were quicker than his conscious mind. Before he even realized what has happened, he had already pulled himself up and back onto the path. And there he sat, panting, eyes almost popping out of their sockets with shock and terror.

-Anwar? – Greg repeated.

-I’m good. – Anwar told him and swallowed hard. – But what about the timeline?

 Their hearts raced as the platform buzzed, whirred, and propelled them forwards in time. As soon as the world around them stabilized, Anwar grabbed his helmet and pulled it off his head. He disassembled his suit, one part after another, and tried to ignore the shaking of his fingers. The boots were the last to go. He took off the left one and held his breath as he turned it towards himself. Clean. He took the second one off. Turned it around. Stared at it in horror.

There, stuck to the sole of his right boot, was a beautiful, iridescent, and heartbreakingly dead beetle.

 -We’re screwed. – Anwar chanted, rocking back and forth on the floor. – We’re screwed. We’re so screwed.

-Jesus, get yourself together. – Greg rolled his eyes. – We’re back to the office, aren’t we? So, our species still clearly exists.

-You don’t understand! – Anwar exclaimed. – I killed a beetle. I killed it! The potential consequences of this kind of thing can be disastrous. Have you never watched Back to the Future? Anything could have happened! Hitler might have won the war. North might have never defeated the South. Maybe, - he muttered, progressively losing the feeble remains of calm, - maybe YouTube was never invented. For fuck’s sake, Greg, are you listening to me at all? How can you be on your phone right now?!

-I’m checking! – He replied. – All the major events. Seems fine so far.

-Check your newsfeed! – Anwar suggested and pulled out his own iPhone.

-Seems fine too. – Greg said, scrolling through his Facebook. – Dave is still overdoing every meme he has ever seen. Aunt Rachel is still posting bullshit about organic food. Your selfies still suck.

-Hey. – Anwar protested, but was ignored.

-O-kay. – He paused and tapped his fingers on the floor. – Anwar, mate… I have good news and bad news.

-Oh, cut to the chase, will you?

-Sure. – He nodded, and turned the phone screen towards Anwar.

-The hell. – Anwar muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief.

There, nestled in between an Adidas commercial and their university’s news page, was an article in the New York Times. “History was made today - Collins wins with seventy-three percent, becoming America’s first openly Blattosapient president” read the title, accompanied by a glamorous photo.

-No other way of putting it. – Greg concluded. – The new president… is a giant cockroach.

 They sat in silence for a while, trying hard to process what they just witnessed. Then, as if propelled into the air by an external force, Anwar jumped up to his feet and rushed towards the control panel of the Venture.

-What are you doing? – Greg asked, surprisingly calm.

-What do you think I’m doing?! – Anwar yelled back. – I’m going to fix this. Or try to fix this, at least. I mean… the president is a giant cockroach!

-Well, yeah. – Greg agreed. – But that doesn’t mean we have to change anything.

-What do you mean? – Anwar gestured vaguely, perplexed. – The president is a cockroach! And I caused it. Jamila will kill me!

-How will she ever know? – He shrugged. – As far as she is concerned, this is all normal.

-Well, maybe. – Anwar agreed. – But the president…

-…is a giant cockroach. Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t mean he’s bad! Don’t be a xenophobe, Anwar. Give the guy a chance!

-Are you out of your fucking mind? – Anwar wondered, not even expecting an answer.

-No, seriously. – Greg laughed. – Think about it. He won by a seventy-three percent majority. Surely, he can’t be that terrible. And even if he’s not the best… how much worse could it be?

-Well. – Anwar muttered and sat back on the floor. – Maybe you’re right. Like… do I really wanna make sure that Trump wins?

-Exactly. – Greg clapped his hands. – I say, this has to be a change for the best.

-Damn. – Anwar rubbed his eyes, exhausted both emotionally and physically. – I’m sorry, Greg, but we’re so not taking Alicia here. Ever.

 They sat at the local café, drinking Sprite and catching up on all the modified news. So far, at least judging by their social media feed, the elected Collins seemed to be much less divisive than his orange alternative.

-I have so many questions. – Anwar said. – The cockroach people. Are they like, a separate species? Or a genetic experiment of some sort? Or aliens? And is there a lot of them? And if so, why are there no cockroach people in this place? Are they all celebrating or something? Also, it said in the NY Times article that he’s the first openly cockroach president. The hell does that mean - openly? Are they suggesting there might have been cockroach presidents before, but no one knew about it? Were they wearing human body suits or some shit?

-Anwar. – Greg interrupted his anxious rant. – Chill. Also, stop saying cockroach. Based on this, khm, colorful comment section, I’m pretty sure it’s a slur.

-I wonder if anything else has changed. - Anwar continued, sipping on his drink. – This Sprite tastes kinda funny.

-The taste of blunder. – Greg joked. – And no, doesn’t seem so.

-Alright. – He nodded. – Okay. I can live with that. – He paused, staring into the opposite wall. – Anyway. The new guy… is he democrat or republican?

[in-uthenera-we-wait]

On how I discovered Tolkien...

Today, the 25th of March marks the day that Gollum, in his bid to retrieve his precious, bit off the finger of Frodo Baggins and in doing so, saved the Free People of Middle Earth from the tyranny of Sauron. Today is also World Tolkien Reading day.

Despite everyday being Tolkien reading day for me, today, I thought I'd write a bit on how I discovered Tolkien.

On a humid Sunday at the peak of Chennai Summer, my father and I went on an adventure to return my cousin's long overdue book on Statistics. Where she lived, there was this dusty little lending library where most people came to borrow books on Engineering sciences or huge volumes on the various entrance exams that plagued many a youngster's life.

I was but twelve years old then. And the years when I would need to slog over advanced calculus were still far away. So, I meandered off to the inner depths of the library as my father was preoccupied with the librarian in settling the overdue fees.

And just as fate brought Bilbo Baggins to the ring, I was brought, among the thousand other shelves that held ten thousand other books, to the the exact shelf that held "The Hobbit"... and surprisingly, "The Shaping of Middle Earth". I brought both the books with me to the front desk where I asked for them to be checked out. Interestingly, nobody had ever checked out "The Shaping of Middle Earth" before me... and now, I understand why.

And so it was, that summer, I read my first ever Tolkien. And if you think I'd have read "The Hobbit" first, you'd be wrong! I chose to read "The Shaping of Middle Earth" and it was an experience!

Imagine a twelve year old, on her summer vacation, having nothing to do, with budding ambitions of taking up the literary path... and now imagine the way "The Shaping of Middle Earth" must have looked like to that twelve year old!

I found stories being rehashed and rewritted... and the path this writer took to arrive at the final version that would be read and loved by millions! It was magnificent; something akin to watching how Tolkien's brain worked... to get an over-the-shoulder peek at his work as he worked on them.

I doubt if my interest would have been the same had I started with "The Hobbit". True, that it took multiple readthroughs to understand what was being said but, when soldiered through, the reward was nothing short of breath-taking!

And from there, I moved to "The Lord of the Rings" and then to "The Silmarillion" and now, I stand, my soul fully soaked with all the tales of Tolkien, colouring my existence in a way no other author has ever been able to!

On this day, I express my gratitude for having been given the chance to read Tolkien... for having been exposed to his genius... for getting my hand on a dusty copy of "The Shaping of Middle Earth" from that rickety library that has been closed down, long since.

And now, onward the tale goes... For today, I hope to read "The Book of Lost Tales"... and once more lose myself anew in the telling.

[theatreducation]

Less than ten percent of the American population goes to the theatre. Not award-winning Broadway musical theatre, but regional, not-for-profit theatre. This sad number is not new. We’ve been stagnating here for quite some time, and every year we struggle with: how do we lure in more audience members, and convince people to join us in the dark and listen to our stories?

Honestly, I don’t think that there’s much the theatre community can do to solve this problem because I don’t believe that we are the problem. The problem is that ninety-plus percent of the population loses interest in theatre long before they become part of a target audience demographic. Most Americans get turned off of theatre in high school.

To introduce teens to plays on the page with Shakespeare is akin to teaching calculus to students before they’ve learned algebra, or even multiplication.

Two years ago I started to do an independent study of which plays high school students were reading in their language arts classes. It quickly became clear that the only plays being taught in those classes were classic works, mostly Shakespeare. Every student I surveyed listed at least one, if not three, Shakespeare play. At one school, more than half the kids listed Beowulf as a play. And why wouldn’t they? When the only actual plays they were reading were Shakespeare, why wouldn’t they equate epic poetry with theatre? The most recent works represented at any school were The Crucible, A Raisin in the Sun, and the occasional August Wilson play. When I asked what theatre the students had seen outside of school the answers were inevitably all musicals (plus A Christmas Carol), if indeed they’d ever seen a play outside of school at all.

America’s high school students are being taught that non-musical theatre equals classical theatre, and preliminary results from my study indicate that the vast majority of them don’t like the classics.

“I did not enjoy reading the Tempest; I believe it to be one of the most tedious works of fiction ever to exist.”

“They are old and boring.”

“I was not crazy about Romeo and Juliet due to the fact it was written in old English and kind of hard to understand.”

“Shakespeare plays, they are not from our time and difficult to follow/understand.”

Shakespeare was an incredible playwright, but his plays are dense and daunting. Before the Bard idolaters start bellowing “why should it be easy?” let’s take a moment to consider this: Most kids are never asked to read a play before high school; plays are typically not part of the middle school curriculum. To introduce teens to plays on the page with Shakespeare is akin to teaching calculus to students before they’ve learned algebra, or even multiplication. A few students will somehow have a knack for it, and understand it, (and love it)—most of the folks who subscribe to HowlRound likely fall into this category—but the ninety-plus percent of the population that we’re trying to engage have neither the tools nor the patience to dissect Shakespeare. What they learned from their academic experience is that non-musical theatre is boring, difficult, and makes them feel stupid. Very few people are going to grow up and buy a ticket to something they fear will bore them and make them feel stupid.

A Troubling Lack of Access No other form of literature is taught this way; indeed, no other art form is taught this way. Kids are encouraged to read current, popular fiction in school. Perhaps by the time they reach high school their choices are narrowed, but at least by then they’ve been encouraged to read dozens of contemporary books that they love. Students are assigned novels and poetry by living authors, many of whom are—gasp—not white men. Art class is full of hands-on work where the students create while they study masters both new and old. Even music instructors teach jazz and hip hop alongside classical music. But let’s pretend for a moment that they didn’t. Let’s imagine that schools only taught classical music the way they only teach classical theatre. It’s a fairly even comparison since only about 10 percent of the population goes to classical music performances. Even if students were only exposed to classical music in school, even if they hated it, resented it, felt it wasn’t their thing; they wouldn’t be turned off of all music because they have access to other flavors.

The radio is free. Songs on YouTube, Pandora, and Spotify are free if you have an Internet connection. There is no equivalent to the radio, or Pandora for theatre. There’s not much free access for anyone anywhere. I suppose people could go to the library and read some new-ish plays, but what teenager—who has already been turned off by the classroom offerings— is going to seek out a play at the library? What the school system has created is a society that has no idea that theatre is a living, growing art that is still being created every day. People don’t realize that a significant portion of the folks who write their favorite TV shows have also written plays they would like just as much, if not more. They think of playwrights as an extinct species. When I tell people outside of theatre what my profession is, I am often met with a confused stare, as if I told them I was a blacksmith. They’ve heard of playwriting, but they weren’t aware that anyone did it anymore. This is a problem.

Just this past month, I interviewed audience members as part of Triple Play, a national study of audiences for new plays created by Theatre Development Fund and Theatre Bay Area. We were directed to tell our interviewees that we were theatre practitioners, but nothing more specific than that. We spoke to each person for fifty minutes, asking them if they were able to speak to someone working on a production, who they might want to talk to. These semi-regular theatregoers were not interested in talking to playwrights. Indeed, in my group, three people explicitly stated that they thought playwrights would dislike talking to audiences and would only be doing it under duress. They couldn’t quite imagine what they might ask a playwright aside from where their story idea came from. And yet, at the end of the interviews, when I revealed I was a playwright, they were fascinated and full of questions. So it’s not so much that they aren’t interested in living writers, but they aren’t able to picture an interaction with a playwright until they realize they’re already having one.

Creating Access to New Work If we’re going to increase audiences, we have to figure out how to bring new plays into the high school language arts classroom. We have to create anthologies of new plays (perhaps digital anthologies) that have curriculum tie-ins to historical events, current events, social issues, and science. I know these plays are out there. We need to present these plays to teachers and say, “You can read this play alongside this other book, or these articles.” Teachers don’t have time to look for tie-ins or support materials. We’ll have to provide them. We’ll have to persuade department heads and school boards to let go of Shakespeare and maybe even Arthur Miller. It won’t be easy.

We’re also going to have to provide these anthologies for free to a lot of schools that can’t afford them, but need them most. We’ll have to create new ones every few years so that more voices are heard and the subject matter remains relevant. We’ll also need funding and grant support; again, the plays are already out there. People say that Shakespeare is universal, and anyone can see themselves in a Shakespeare play. Maybe if they try hard enough they can, but girls need more stories about women written by women. People of color need stories about people who look like them, written by people who look like them. The LGBTQIA teen community needs plays that openly acknowledge their existence and their struggles. Shakespeare is not enough. Leave him for senior year, or maybe leave him for college for the truly passionate.

We need to get our plays into these kids’ hands because our plays will engage them; the future of theatre depends on it. Our plays will show them that theatre is alive, that it’s relevant, that it addresses today, that it represents them and their experience, and that they are welcome in our spaces. Once we do that, I have a feeling that more than 10 percent of the population will come to the theatre. We merely have to show people that we’re here, that we exist. Before they’re disenchanted. Before they’re convinced that theatre is dusty and old and only written by dead white men hell-bent on making them feel stupid.

[snoozing-but-not-losing-blo-blog]

Greey

Another day, another class. This class was however different; one of those where you actually get to ponder about something else apart from the subject being discussed.  What this mull over was was what the Anthropologist lecturer side-lined to supplement what she was discussing. It was not meant to be very important but gee did it really get me paying heavy bucks of attention and somehow opened up a big door of overrunning streaks of light and silhouetted guests of thought to distract me off course. To all those curious cats already slaying away, she said “Change is the only constant”- Turns out she was actually paraphrasing Heraclitus of Ephesos, an ancient Greek philosopher by the way.

Of course change is paradoxically a constant but I’m not so sure about it being the “only” one. Everything seems to change in this life. Something, someone, somewhere is always changing sometime. But to what degree is change significant? Which ways can it exist and how can we influence it? This sort of dilemma can be applied in so many scenarios but I’m going to leave it to you to think about. I’m however going to relate this concept somehow to some rabbit hole story that unfolded days after. No cornball lie that it happened immediately after because let’s be real, things rarely occur consecutively like that.

So two days after, I attended another lecture in the morning and after that went to the library to hit some books until noon. I was hungry and tired and needed to go my room. While I was walking out of the library I met a couple of my classmates outside who were going the same way I was and decided to tag along walking with them.

Now there’s this murram road on the way that we have to pass to reach our destinations: It’s not much of a road but more of a dusty trail. It was so odd that so many cars were passing along it that day. Along with the cars came treaded and dreaded clouds of dust and obscurity. We shortly found ourselves trailing blindly and unknowingly across this known road trying to reach our shelters, we sometimes contemplate about being homes. Large trucks shining their bright lights pitched through the dust whipped air avoiding the hammered portholes perpetually making us juggle between the shoulders of the road to walk on. My refuge was a lucid grimy yellow from a far that still managed to stand out despite looking rather orange as the dusty brown gloom coalesced with its colour. That orange mark was my Pleiades star constellation and I was Orion. We finally ended up on the side where my friends’ estate was. Opposite the estate was a small kiosk that vended out the daily “essentials” that I usually went to. I always looked across to the estate and wondered how this unknown abode looked like from within every time I waited for the vender to get me what I asked for. I passed it every day but never seemed to visit or peer inside even if the gates were wide open to fellow strangers at large. My friends invited me in soon after we struck a conversation about the walk here and in a jiffy, I took this opportunity to enter. The estate started off with a stone chip road, not so different from the dreadful one we came from but it was squeezed between strips of green hedges. I could see tall trees that I thought emerged from the estate while I used to stand from the kiosk and my anticipation was to find some sort of hanging gardens of Babylon in the estate. Alas that anticipation was shattered by a field of grey stone and despair. It turned out that those sky-high trees I saw from the kiosk emerged from the area behind. There was nothing but a few trees and more grey brick bungalows here. Tree stumps and wood stood boldly along the houses, with grey gutters gushing squalid water a few meters ahead instead. Dark patches of cement painted the road in a series which seemed intentional. It wasn’t even surprising to find an old truck lying on its side facing the road. Three little wine glass shaped trees per contra lied near three grey bricked buildings, which slightly compensated for this civilization intoxicated with the sweet taste of grape and demise of destruction for development. Deep into the estate was this gate, which had been painted green but was slowly crumbling apart to give way to grey metal- matching the trend taken by the estate. From a lean green the place must have been, it had changed to a fray grey. For lack of a better word a “greey” colour had set in.

For the greater good, of the human race that is, that area along with its greenery had to be cleared to provide those people with homes to live in. I get that change is inevitable and I’m not saying nothing should ever change. It will somehow, no matter what. One shouldn’t get fooled by campaign saying they can stop something from completely happening even in the environment. Entropy: The measure of a system’s disorder. The entropy of the universe is dependent on that of the system and environment. Nature tends to greater disorder and a change can occur spontaneously if the final state is more probable than the initial. If we senselessly hand platters to the final state what’s going to stop a detrimental change from happening? Einstein actually said “The environment is everything that isn’t me”. You’re my environment and I’m yours. We have some powers to delay deleterious divergences; set good precedents, establish an order and the universe will be less spontaneous. Change evokes change: I’m sure you’ve heard of the noted “ripple effect”? Action, no matter how small they are, can spread around the area they’re employed to. If we conjure positive changes, it will implore a positive profusion and the same goes for those itchy negative changes - Transformation will transpire either side of the fence, but gradually.

If certain changes were however like constants similar to those constants in proportion equations then that would be a different tale. Such a constant, whether factors are proportional or inversely proportional, gives a gradual fixed change. Anything put in that direction would be destructive; disorder would be exponential. A possible goal would be to avoid such a phenomenon- make the explained constant not a constant.

Now, most of us are looking for some satisfactory scene, different from the one we’re stuck in now: A scenario, where we might feel comfortable. I don’t know about you but I like “comfortable” and to reach that scene I know certain actions are needed to elicit such a change. Ever think about calculus? I try not to, but find myself occasionally doing so. I think our actions are series of expressions of differential or integration. Actions elicit change and our actions can be like differentiation, where we’re constantly ascending and descending down some dynamic curve trying to identify the maximum and minimum points. Avoiding the latter and eying for the former which could be the comfort to some and for others where the lines are horizontal or vertical when nothing changes for a while that is. Unlike practicing differentiation other people practice integration: where they retrace their steps, possibly striving to go back to a simpler and better situation and maybe find that comfortable shaded region they reminisce and long for. There’s still always a constant that emerges from each step, unlike differentiation making it harder to continue changing the scene.

This is my thinking and my view of things. A single opinion could prove me wrong and I’m not against that. My goal was just to relay such thought in this medium of writing and I think I’m done. A clever but silly way I think I can end this is possibly asking “Change for a note?”

 by - Pavanraj Singh Chana