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Nothing really new to report but for anybody keeping up with the score so far - zero-zero - for the playwright.

Really (she wrote emphasizing the really) made a concerted effort to submit my literary gems (at least in my eyes they are) to various theatres and related opportunities. Received a response from perhaps one with the usual form letter: "Dear Playwright." At least an effort could have been made to address our kind by our given name. I mean, if I'm going to be given bad news, at least relate it personally to me. Don't you think?

Where was I now...oh yeah. 'Dear Playwright, given the huge response to our call for submissions, unfortunately your play will not be among this year's productions.' There is more blah-blah but in the end - who cares. Right? Guess I should be happy that at least I received a response, be it a negative one.

Once the brain acknowledges a rejection, the questions and doubts start popping up like:

- maybe I shouldn't have done re-write # 7,500
- maybe I'm deluding myself into believing I can write plays
- maybe I should adapt my title to "writer-of-plays-that-are-waiting-for-production"
- maybe I'm living in the wrong country
- maybe I'm using the wrong font - that has to be it. Right?
- what happens if I run out of theatres in which to submit?
- what happens if I'm submitting to the same theatres having forgotten to note the lucky recipients?

And so they continue, those insidious doubts that show up in the quiet of the night, filling the mind of the writer-of-plays-that-are-waiting-for- production with doubt and bewilderment. Know what I mean?

Sometimes, too frequently, I bore myself.

"Why would you say (or write) a statement like that, Eleanor?"

On occasion when things are in a static state (like the sound of those two words together), I begin to question my playwriting ability. Thinking back, the impetus for taking up writing plays in the first place was my love for dialogue. It seemed only natural, at least for me, that playwriting, which consists of telling a story through the spoken word, was  a natural progression. However - it's always the 'howevers' in life that get you - there are times when one questions the quest (still more words when said repeatedly that have a pleasant sound) for recognition by theatres...producers...directors...or anybody, actually.

"So what has you bummed, Eleanor?"

Nothing new or momentous (I wish!) to report. As shared in previous blogs, I actually submitted some of my plays to theatres that seemed like a good fit in addition to entering a competition. As is frequently the case, I'm in a waiting state of being. Waiting and patience is not one of my strong points.

Rant time. Can't understand or maybe don't want to understand why theatres or playwriting competition organizers don't advise playwrights when their plays are rejected. As a playwright, hope is frequently the only thing we have to cling to and waiting is tortuous. Okay - I exaggerate. It's definitely nerve-wracking. All it would take is for somebody to write up a few sentences to indicate a rejection:

"Dear Blah-blah,

Sorry but your play doesn't cut it. We may not even have read it given the amount of submissions we receive. Or perhaps it didn't have enough potential to attract investors. Then again, it needs more editing. Go know.

Good luck.

The person who has been designated to send rejections to playwrights

Now, I mean, that seems simple enough to me. Anything is better than nothing and waiting and hoping for some news. Right playwrights?

Still in the finishing stages and last few pages of "Neighbors", which in itself is a personal achievement but it's only the first draft. It will be put into storage for a period of time and then brought out again for changes or - heaven forbid - an indefinite storage never to see the light of day. No new updates on my "Old Soldiers" submission or the play reading series in which "Retribution" will be introduced to actors - and the world - for the first time. As I've said many times, we live in hope. In the end, that's all we have.