Space matters: A playwright's perspective
Editorial
Recently I was asked to describe the difference between writing plays with no particular venue in mind versus writing for a specific space. How is the writing process different in each situation? What roles do space and the absence of space play?
I thought the answer to this question would be pretty easy. If I’m writing without knowing where a play will be done, I let my imagination run wild. The staging comes later and can happen any number of ways. If I’m writing with a particular space in mind, I still let my imagination run wild, but also I live with that space and listen to it and let the work emerge in conversation with it. After all, everything about a space—its architecture, resources, history, energy, the other people who interact with it—nuances any performance that happens within it. A writer can embrace or ignore the layers of a space, but they remain part of the shared experience (and feedback loop) between artists and audience. To me, that’s one of the most exciting aspects of live performance. Everyone’s literally in it together, past and present and possibility all entangled.
Yet this question about the difference between the two processes became muddier as I tried to come up with an example of a play I’ve written that absolutely hasn’t been influenced by space. I actually couldn’t think of one. Not that I don’t have multiple unproduced plays; not that I don’t frequently start writing without knowing where my work might be produced; and not that my work hasn’t been produced in spaces other than those in which it originated. But in virtually all cases, the writing has evolved in direct relationship to the spaces in which they first found their legs.
For example, my play
