There’s something slightly surreal about writing the words one hundred. Not because it’s a grand, world-altering number, but because it’s the kind that only happens through accumulation — through showing up, again and again, often without ceremony. This is my hundredth post. [more]

Plays usually lose their center in rewrites when the writer starts solving surface problems by weakening the thing the play is actually about. The “center” is usually one of these: the core dramatic question; the central relationship; the protagonist’s active need; the governing tension or contradiction; the tonal engine that makes the play feel like itself. In rewrites, that center often drifts for a few common reasons. [more]

Theatre is supposed to feel alive. And anything truly alive carries a degree of risk. Not risk in the cheap sense — shock for its own sake, empty provocation or the kind of controversy that evaporates the moment the curtain falls. But real artistic risk: the possibility of failure, of discomfort, of discovery. The sense that what’s happening onstage is not entirely controlled, not entirely predictable and not entirely safe. [more]

Stage presence is the ability to command a live room. It depends on projection, physicality, timing, energy, and the performer’s relationship with a present audience. Onstage, the actor must “read” at a distance, so choices are usually larger, clearer, and sustained. Screen presence is the ability to hold attention through the camera. It depends more on subtlety, focus, stillness, expressiveness in small details, and how the face and body register in close-up. [more]

The stage is an unforgiving medium for excess. It rewards pressure — language under strain, action under constraint — and that is what we mean by compression in theatrical writing. At a practical level, compression is simply the recognition that everything onstage costs something: time, attention, bodies, space, breath. An audience cannot skim a scene the way a reader can skim a paragraph. They must receive it at the speed it is given. So the writer learns to distill. [

Broadway disasters are usually not just “bad shows.” They are often collisions between ambition, timing, money, casting, marketing and audience expectation. Some became punchlines, but many also became case studies in how theater actually works. Shows like Moose Murders became legendary because they failed instantly — it closed on opening night in 1983 after 13 previews. [more]

In theatre, repetition and escalation are closely related tools, but they do different dramatic work. At heart, repetition gives the audience recognition.  Escalation gives them progress. [more]

Somewhere along the way, a peculiar habit crept into the theatre. Plays stopped trusting themselves. Instead of drama — messy, human, contradictory — we began getting lectures with lighting cues. Characters step forward not to pursue their desires, but to deliver tidy arguments. Scenes pause so someone can explain the moral of the evening. Conflict evaporates because everyone already knows the correct position. [more]

Theatre people love to talk about influence.  We debate who changed acting, who reinvented staging, who broke realism, who built modern drama.  Certain names come up again and again — Chekhov, Ibsen, Brecht, Beckett, Williams. But there is one play that quietly shaped enormous parts of twentieth-century theatre, and today it is almost never mentioned outside academic circles. [more}

Theatre audiences encounter a performance that appears whole and inevitable.  What they do not see is the strange, meticulous labor that leads to that ease.  Rehearsal is less about “running the play” than about building the invisible architecture that allows a performance to feel alive.  Several kinds of work happen there that remain largely hidden once the curtain rises. [more]