Artistic License - A young writer's contribution to the debate

I've definitely neglected my blog, in part because I forgot it existed. But a recent Tweet from Jason Robert Brown got me thinking about and reflecting upon an event that hadn't crossed my mind for nearly a year.

Here is the link he posted:

http://www.tcgcircle.org/2011/06/copyright-or-wrong/

Presented on the website for commentary is an open letter from the artistic director of a theater company who took many artistic liberties with his production of "Little Shop of Horrors;" so much so that he changed the script. The production was consequently shut down.

While at first I pitied the director, Nick A. Olivero, the comments made by Jason Robert Brown and others made me reconsider. I was reminded of a personal experience that strongly affected me - an experience that made it impossible for me to take Olivero's side.

Four years ago, I was a freshman in high school writing my first play. It was a one act of scarcely more than fifteen pages, but I spent months revising it and finding the heart of the story I was trying to tell: the encounter between a woman on the run from personal tragedy - the loss of her young daughter - and a schizophrenic recluse living in the wilderness, a man compelled by frightening task masters - his hallucinations - to paint the "essence" of the sunrise and sunset everyday. Yes, it was far-fetched and dramatic, but I was and still am proud of the story I told and the questions my writing raised. I called my play "Painting a Promise."

I submitted my play for consideration for my school's one acts and was delighted when it was one of six scripts chosen by my school's theater department. I was thrilled to see that two seniors had been selected to direct my play. It seemed like such an honor.

The night of dress rehearsal, I sat in the theater excited to see my words come to life onstage. Everything was better than I could have even imagined until the woman (my characters had no names - they were just WOMAN and MAN) launched into a monologue about the day of her daughter's death and how she FELT when she saw her daughter get shot - a monologue that I hadn't written. I sat in the theater in outrage, barely able to hear the rest of the dialogue over the ringing in my ears. The woman I had written was trying to ESCAPE her past, not confront it in a heartfelt monologue! As the lights dimmed at the end, I stood up and left the theater, unable to stay for the next play. My eyes stung, and I began to hyperventilate.

The two directors came outside and sat down next to me. I quickly rubbed the tears from my eyes. They would not get the satisfaction of seeing me hurt. They tried to justify their actions with words that just hurt more. They told me that the play worked better their way. I gaped at them. They patted me on the back pityingly. I clenched my jaw and nodded dumbly until they finally left me alone. I did not have the confidence to dispute them. They were seniors, and I felt like nothing.

About a year later, after I had put some distance between myself and the events of the previous year, I spoke to one of the theater department teachers about the experience. She said that I was right to have been angry, but encouraged me to continue writing. She explained that licensing agreements prevented things like that from happening to professional playwrights.

Olivero needs to realize something: no one knows a play better than its writer. Exercising "artistic license" to edit and change a writer's work is flat-out wrong, and it is egotistical for Olivero to think that he improved upon Little Shop. Maybe his production was a ton of fun. Maybe critics raved. But I don't care. I've been on the other side - where my work was edited without my permission - and it feels like crap. And furthermore, Olivero's disregard for writers makes me wonder if my work will ever be accepted as written. It's not the kind of thing an eighteen-year-old writer should have to worry about, but I am. I'm afraid for my stories.