Carl Sagan on Earth as a pale blue dot in a vast universe.

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.” 

If Your Story Happened to You, Keep that to Yourself

I am absolutely convinced, based on several experiences, that it is never a good idea to announce that a script you are working on is based on your own personal life or experience.  To make such an assertion achieves nothing, and can, on the other hand, get in the way. 

 

Years ago, in the first playwriting group I belonged to, a colleague made a comment that he couldn’t believe that a character in the scene being critiqued would do a particular act, whatever it was (I don’t remember the specifics).  The author of the scene, a young writer, protested saying, “of course he would; it happened to me!” as if that pronouncement would make the critic come to his senses.  Unfortunately, the young writer did not understand that, in writing, reality is no defense.  It’s irrelevant that the given action or moment was grounded in a real event.  The writer simply had not succeeded in recreating the event, or motivating the character, so that the theatrical version of the true moment was credible.  The writer needed to understand that the moment just wasn’t working, regardless of its basis in his life. 

 

Also years ago, while I was at T. Schreiber Studio, we were beginning rehearsal for the first of my plays to be produced, a play called Casino.  I had been jumped while in an Atlantic City casino by an irate casino patron who accused me of stealing thousands of dollars in chips from him.  A case of mistaken identity.  After I was cleared and returned home, my reaction was to turn this traumatic experience into a play.  When it was completed, I very freely let it be known around the studio that the play was based on this awful experience that happened to me (probably subconsciously seeking sympathetic outrage that something like that should befall such a nice guy like me). 

 

Anyway, on the first day of rehearsal we had the customary sit-around-a-table reading by the cast.  After the script reading was concluded, there was this spontaneous burst of enthusiasm and animated chatter among the actors.  I was thrilled.  In that moment of excitement, one of the actors commented that the character of Joe was a real jerk.  Almost instantly an embarrassed hush came over the table.  Like the toppling of dominoes, heads turned in my direction as each actor in turn recalled that the character of Joe was based on me.  I quickly assured the cast that I was not offended, and that they needed to feel free to say whatever they wanted and to do their work without inhibition.  The uncomfortable moment dissipated, but I had hard time shaking the suspicion that some of the actors were being careful around me. 

 

The bottom line is this: the surest way to protect oneself against candid and constructive, if stinging, criticism and feedback is to let it be known that the work is based on your life.  That will quickly discourage many from offering honest criticism and it will insulate you from feedback you might need to hear. 

Theft of Someone Else’s Work

There’s been a lengthy debate in a playwrights’ discussion forum on LinkedIn about the difficulty of getting the rights to use someone else’s music in a play.  After you send an inquiry, most often it’s a waiting game, with no guarantee you will even hear back from the rights-holders.  One fellow (let’s call him Fred) admitted that he’d gotten so frustrated at not getting a response that he went ahead and used the music anyway, and no one was the wiser. 

 

I would strongly caution against Fred's strategy.  That's like asking to rent someone's car, and, if you don't get a response, you go ahead and drive it away.  I don't have to tell you what that's called.  That Fred got away with it was his good fortune.  I'm no lawyer but I'd say he was very lucky because, if the rights-holders had found out, they could have, at best, demanded that he cease and desist and pay them what they asked (at which point he would have had little choice) or, at worst, they could have taken him to court for copyright infringement and/or theft of services.  It's happened, and it is no defense to say, "but, your honor, they didn't respond to my inquiries."  

 

As playwrights, we own our work the moment we create it.  Ownership does not obligate us as rights-owners to respond to inquiries about producing our plays (not that we wouldn’t jump at the opportunity).  But the point is, we have no obligation to respond to each and every communication if we don’t feel like it.  And we certainly wouldn't expect that a theatre would go ahead and produce our plays anyway because we did not respond. 

 

As I've said before, when you use anyone else's copyrighted material of any sort, get written permission (and pay the royalty, if there is one), and do it sooner than later.