Down The Road From Arkham: An Interview With Doug Jones
By Gabriel Ricard
1.) I guess we should start at the beginning and ask how you got started as a writer.
When I was five years old my grandmother gave me a typewriter. And I thought of it as a toy. It had glass windows on the side so you could see how the keys worked. And you could put paper in it, and put words on the paper, and move them around and make them rhyme and play with them. I still have the first two poems I wrote on a piece of orange construction paper. One was about a bunny and one was about a frog–thematically speaking, things that hop. And I fell in love with that kind of wordplay. And I was lucky, in that I had teachers who encouraged and challenged me. I published a few short stories and poems while I was in graduate school, and my Master’s thesis in Studies in Scottish Literature. I wrote some radio commercials and a couple of training films. My first play was actually a favor for a friend. He was the assistant artistic director at Theatre IV in Richmond. He had a badly written script, knew I’d done some writing, and asked if I could repair it for him. I was touring as an actor for the same theatre. He had two weeks before rehearsals were supposed to start. So I’d tour during the day, then write one scene each night. At the end of two weeks I had a play. So I sort of fell into playwriting. Now I’ve written and seen produced over forty of them, and some short films as well.
2.) You were another one of my instructors from the New Voices program in 2003 (Ed Note: New Voices is a theater program based out of Richmond, Virginia. Run by Theater IV, the program chose the seven top playwrights and seven top actors/actresses from Virginia high schools to participate in a theater festival) And I remember one of the distinctive elements of having you for a teacher was the way you combined elements of psychology with the writing exercises you gave us. I was wondering if you could tell me about that.
People fascinate me. If I hadn’t majored in English language and literature, I would have majored in psychology. Either way, you’re studying people. I chose fictional people because I realized that if I went into psychology, at the end of the day I probably wouldn’t be able to leave my clients and their issues at the office. They would haunt me, and follow me home. So I have both interests, and they leak into my teaching. I just finished teaching a class at the VA Museum of Fine Arts called "Writing the Shadow," which takes its title from Jung’s insight that we all have a shadow–a part of our psyche that is unknown and/or repugnant to us. Every light casts a shadow–and the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross said that if we want to get in touch with the Mother Teresa in ourselves, we must first acknowledge the Hitler who is also there. We have to learn to live with both, and see what they can learn from each other. It’s really a good thing we can’t read each other’s minds. Because that information would paralyze us. It would make relationships impossible. We all have thoughts and feelings that must remain secret, if we are to get along with other people in this life. When the Shadow class ended, my students said: "We want to keep meeting. And we want you to charge us more than the museum did. Because you’re under-valued." I swear I’m not making this up. And I am charging them more, but only a little bit.
3.) Through your career you’ve been lucky enough to move pretty seamlessly between historical and educational material, to literary adaptations, to original works. Do you have a preference?
Hindsight being 20/20, writing plays for young audiences was a good place for me to start writing plays because young audiences are honest, and honesty can be brutal. So when I went to see my plays for young audiences, I didn’t watch the plays. I watched the audiences, to see when they began to fidget or lose interest. I know when I was a child, I could tell when a story was talking down to me or patronizing me. So I made it a point always to drop down to one knee and say– "This story is for you." Also from the beginning I wrote on several levels, to keep myself (and the teachers and actors) engaged as well. I enjoy literary adaptation because part of the work is already done, and the challenge is to figure out how to make it theatrical. That being said, however, that challenge can be enormous. Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw, for example, is about 85% subjective–the thoughts or imaginings of its protagonist. Translating that into action and dialogue was labor-intensive. Deciding which of James’ lines to keep, which to revise and what to simply invent was equally difficult. I spent nine months reading every ghost story I could find, reading and re-reading the novella, listening to Ravel and the Benjamin Britten opera and a recording of Susannah York reading the novella, and taking notes. Then I wrote the play in three months, and most of it in the last month. There’s a lot of personal material in the play too, which no one reading the book or watching the play would ever guess. I invest as much in an adaptation as I do in original work. For me, original work comes from everywhere and often takes me by surprise. I pay a lot of attention to my dreams. I read about people who are remarkable or un-remarked or unusual or forgotten, and I think, "There’s a story there." I empathize (my wife calls me an empath, like Counselor Troi: "I sense fear, desperation"). I collect newspaper clippings. I buy odd books. I watch certain films over and over–sometimes not sure what I am learning from them, but instinctively aware that I am learning something. I watch people. I eavesdrop. I borrow from the experience of friends and family and students. I steal shamelessly.
4.) Tell us about Songs from Bedlam, which I understand took you seven years to complete.
In summer 1997 I was playwright-in-residence for the New Voices for the Theatre program. Donna Coghill, Director of Education and Outreach, asked me if I had anything I’d like to give a staged reading. I said I’d come up with something. Then I wrote two monologues, and a one-act for two players. Soon after the reading I wrote a third monologue about Christopher Smart, a poet I’d first studied as an undergraduate at the University of Chicago. I realized the three monologues could be part of a full-length play. After that, I worked on the play–off and on–for seven years. Songs from Bedlam takes its name from Bethlehem Hospital, which in 1547 became London’s main hospital for the mentally ill. The name was soon shortened to Bedlam, which also described the antics of its inmates. For a modest sum, Elizabethans could watch the antics of the "Lunatickes" at Bedlam. Like the exotic animals at the Tower of London, the mentally ill were on display. The hospital became overcrowded so quickly that its patients were routinely turned back out onto the streets half-cured, where they became homeless beggars. A lot like today. I used this historical framework to put together a collection of songs and monologues about persons who are, in one way or another, disadvantaged: homeless, alcoholic, schizophrenic, etc. Bedlam is in many ways the most personal work I’ve ever done. When an interviewer asked me where the characters came from, I said "They’re all me. I am a homeless man, and a call girl, and an alcoholic." I was only partly kidding. A local actor came to me after the show. He was in tears, and told me that his brother has been schizophrenic for all of his adult life–and no one ever wants to hear about it. The play had given him permission to talk about it, even to grieve about it with me. Backstage said the script "translates into pure electric poetry." The Richmond Times-Dispatch praised its "richly metaphorical language" and "soaring, searing poetry." And D.C. Studio Theatre described it as a "rare and magnificent balance between brutal reality and sublime fantasy." But even with those kinds of reviews, so far no one has picked it up for publication.
5.) I know you do a lot of work teaching and lecturing at universities and colleges around the country. What do you specifically teach? What do you want someone to leave your class with?
I’ve taught literature, playwriting and creative writing at the University of Virginia, the UVA Center for Continuing Education, Henrico Center For The Arts, The Virginia Opera, The Collegiate School, St. Catherine’s School, Generic Theatre, New Voices for the Theatre, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, SPARC, and The Visual Arts Center. For the last few years I’ve taught adult classes at VMFA and The Visual Arts Center. I also facilitate writing groups, mostly students who’ve stayed with me over the years. What do I want someone to leave my class with? That’s an excellent question. A best-selling author who shall remain nameless recently told a friend of mine that she isn’t a writer unless she’s published a book. I have zero tolerance for that bullshit. I want anyone who takes a class with me to know that if you write, you are a writer. If not that, what would the definition be? Are you a writer when you get published? Are you a writer when you get paid for it? Are you a writer when you get paid a certain amount for it? Are
you a writer when you win a prize for it? Van Gogh died penniless and insane. Does that mean he wasn’t an artist? Bullshit. If you write, you are a writer. If you write well, you are a good writer. If you make a lot of money writing, you can buy a big house.
6.) Tell us about Bojangles, your first full-length musical, which premiered in 1993. I understand you got to work with Academy Award-winning lyricist Sammy Cahn on that.
And with composer Charles Strouse (Annie, Bye Bye Birdie). Strouse and Cahn had written the songs for the musical about twenty years before, and had given it to four or five playwrights to write a book that would hold the songs together. For whatever reasons, the combination of the book and songs had never worked. A mutual acquaintance of Strouse’s and mine knew my plays for young audiences, and asked Strouse if he’d let me write a treatment for the first act. He agreed, and mailed me a tape of the songs. I did a fair amount of research on Bill Robinson, music and dance and the vaudeville circuits. I don’t remember how long it took–but I wrote a ten or twelve page treatment for Act 1 with some sample dialogue and the structure of the Act. I sent that to my friend, who sent it on to Strouse. I’ll never forget his response. He called my friend and said, "I think we’ve got our playwright. And I’m so pleased you were able to find a black writer." My parents were white–so I consider that quite a compliment. I spent two and a half years researching and writing Bojangles. The show sold at 97% capacity during its premier eleven-week run. Ben Vereen came to see it–this was a couple of years after his accident, and he was well enough to dance again–so there was a lot of buzz about touring the show, with an eye toward getting it to Broadway. Unfortunately, Sammy Cahn died while the show was in rehearsals (I had to write the last lyrics myself)–and after the run ended, his lyrics got tied up in his estate. Strouse didn’t want to do the show without Cahn’s lyrics, and cannibalized his melodies for other projects. My wife still thinks Bojangles has a future. I appreciate her optimism.
7.) Do you feel like it took a long time of work and struggle to get to where you are now as a writer? Do you feel it was worth it?
Finally, a short answer. Yes, it took a long time. Yes, it was worth it.
8.) Do you ever feel compelled to move away from script writing and try something else in the creative field? A novel, for example.
I write short stories, and an occasional poem. I’d like to write the libretto for a chamber opera. And I wouldn’t rule out a novel. I started one in college–actually I thought it was a short story, and when a professor told me it was the first chapter of a novel I panicked and put it away.
9.) Though some may not know it, Richmond, Virginia has maintained a very healthy theater scene for many, many years. As someone who has certainly been a large part of that, would you willing to tell those who may not know Richmond a little bit about it?
I’ve had the pleasure of working with extremely talented people in Richmond (I’m not going to name them, because then I’ll forget one). And I’ve seen scores of theatres and theater troupes open and close since I moved here. The fact that so many open here speaks to the community’s energy. The fact that they close speaks to a lack of sustainability. This isn’t just a local problem; it’s national. So I guess I’d answer your question by saying that Richmond’s theatre scene is healthy because the people who maintain it work awfully, awfully hard.
10.) Who are some of your influences?
Walker Percy, Romulus Linney, Lanford Wilson, Tony Kushner, Harold Pinter,
Marsha Norman, Sam Shepard, Horton Foote, Peter Straub. And everything else I’ve ever seen or read. If I see a bad play, I’m inspired–"I can do better than that!" If I see a good play, I’m inspired–"That’s why I love doing this!"
11.) What do you currently have lined up?
I’m working on a one-act play about Alexander Graham Bell. An actor will play Bell, and an actress will play all of the important people in his life: his father, his mother, his wife, his assistant Watson, Helen Keller, etc. Necessity is the mother of invention: I can only have two actors. I have a horror story in mind for a chamber opera, a literary adaptation. And my friend and gifted composer Ron Barnett and I are considering writing new songs for Bojangles. He’s Musical Director for the Fulton Opera House in Lancaster, PA, which did a first-rate production of my The Turn of the Screw two years ago. So we’ll see.
Copyright C 2007 Gabriel Ricard
This entry was posted
on Friday, November 30th, 2007 at 9:43 pm and is filed under Articles.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.