One woman 08/03/2013 - 6:06pm

Our bouncing baby play, after almost a year of labor and some significant - nearly critical - complications (ask me about it over a beer sometime) has taken her first breath. They Called Her Captain - a show I wrote and produced - opened this afternoon at The Playwrights’ Center and I am afloat in this odd sensation. A longtime struggle between sighs of relief and grips of panic has finally ended. The show is up! People came! AND THEY CLAPPED!!! It’s so simple, it seems so obvious, but I don’t think I am the only producer in the Fringe who - like at the age of 15 when you throw your first party - is ultimately just wondering if anyone will show up. Tons of preparation, hundreds of hours of work, with money, egos and tech and POSTCARDS and websites and videos and facebook events and... What if they don’t come?!? And then... Okay... We’re 20-ish minutes from curtain and there’s people! Gads of people! They’re lining up - holy shit - they came! Which shifts the anxiety to...

WHAT IF THEY HATE IT?!?

Tons of preparation, hundreds of hours of work, with money, egos and tech and POSTCARDS and websites and videos and facebook events and... What if they hate it?!? And then... Okay... The show begins and a few minutes in... they’re laughing and rapt! Holy shit - they like it! Which shifts the anxiety to... Something that hasn’t really happened since I first found out I had a slot in the Fringe. I had no more anxiety. It’s done. The show is open. People came. And they like it. My job is essentially... done. I don’t think I’ve exhaled this deep in six months. Jeanne Bearmon, 92, upon whom the play is based - she was also there today. She loved it; she hugged me afterwards real tight - and then we cracked open a Mike’s Hard Lemonade in the parking lot and drank to her health... No, I’m not kidding. And speaking of breaking the rules, the next show I see probably isn’t going to be a solo show... But I will probably go back to The Crooked Pint and have one of those fucking cookies. Good God.