A Talk with the Playwright

A TALK WITH THE PLAYWRIGHT
An interview conducted by Carolyn nur Wistrand

Q: How did you begin writing?

According to the old report cards my mother saved, I’ve been telling stories since I was a little girl. I remember consciously starting to write for English class in high school (Grade Ten). My teacher, Ms. Nancy Vichert, read my stories, which I paired with dramatic pictures cut from magazines, and she said, “If you want to be a writer, you will be.” She made it seem so simple, like all I had to do was make the decision and it would happen. So when I was 15 I started writing my first novel. That went nowhere, but I kept writing non-fiction; I took lots of literature courses in college, and my professors were very generous with their praise. Once I discovered Toni Morrison and Jamaica Kincaid, I realized black women writers really did exist, and then I started writing for real. I graduated from college in ’93, went to visit my father in Brooklyn, NY that summer, and returned to Toronto that fall with an outline for my first novel. I didn’t finish it until 1999, but I did it and there was no stopping me after that.

Q: When did you know you were going to be a writer?

It actually took a long time for me to claim that identity. I *felt* like I was a writer, but it was a secret passion—not something I felt comfortable claiming in public. In part b/c so often when you say, “I’m a writer,” people’s first question is: “What have you published?” So for a long time I thought I couldn’t call myself a writer without a published book. In graduate school, almost all of my friends were writers but they had more confidence (and success!) than I had. I’d been writing essays for so long, and I’m a mimic—so I easily reproduce the tone of whatever I’ve been reading. It wasn’t hard to write scholarly papers when I was constantly reading books and articles by scholars. But midway through graduate school I had a crisis—I didn’t actually want to be an academic, and another grad student called me out and suggested I was being disingenuous. I did feel like a fraud in some ways, so I decided to quit altogether. My Chair convinced me to take a one-year leave instead, and I finally finished that novel I’d started back in ’93. I had no job, I was depending on the kindness of my family members, and every day I’d just get up and write. I sent chapters to editors and agents, and got a positive response…I thought I’d arrived! So in that moment I felt really committed to writing. But when no contract arrived, I realized I had a problem. I spent 4 months just trying to get publishers to notice me, and finally I realized I had to move on. That’s when I started writing for children. A few years later I heard Toni Morrison give a talk in Minnesota and she said, “You don’t need anyone’s permission to be a writer.” You need that permission to be an *author*, but not a writer. And so I think moving on after that first novel was a pivotal moment for me. I write b/c it’s necessary for me, and the experience itself—even more than the finished project—is enough. It’s preparation for what’s next. And that may or may not be a published book or a produced play.

Q: How do you balance your work in the academy with your creative writing?

It’s very difficult. I think I accepted after a time that I didn’t want to be an academic. And once I accepted that truth, I stopped trying to prove myself in the expected ways. I stopped writing scholarly essays and focused on my fiction; when I did write essays, I wrote something hybrid—something that reflected my identity as an artist in the academy. The academy isn’t so different from the corporate world—you can run up on some cut throat, competitive people, and you can feel like you’re being tested *all* the time. As a woman of color who looks much younger than I actually am, I find I’m often patronized and dismissed by older scholars. I respond to this by enforcing a split between my JOB and my LIFE. I teach b/c I’m passionate about learning, and to teach is to learn. It’s also a way to support my writing; I have a flexible schedule, and enough time to complete my writing projects. But I can’t spend too much time in the academy—it’s great to be around other people who value reading, and writing, and the exchange of ideas. But there’s still bias—a feeling that artists aren’t intellectuals, or that the work (most living) artists produce isn’t rigorous or legitimate. So I’m careful about the folks I spend time with. I have wonderful friends in the academy, but my closest friends are artists—they put no limits on me.

Q: Is there anyone in particular that you look on as a key influence?

I think my artist-friends have been a major influence on me…they provide me with community, they inspire me, they encourage me, they accept me. When I started writing for children, I met an editor, Laura Atkins, who invited me out to lunch and told me I had a really distinctive voice; I never published a book with her, but we’re still friends, and she’s still coaching me! When I started sending out poetry, Nikky Finney read my work and sent me the kindest messages—I expected her to seriously edit my work, but instead she said it needed to stay just the way it was; she encouraged me to claim my identity as a poet, and I still haven’t, but she made me feel welcome. When I started writing plays, David Alan Moore became an important person—he was so genuine and kind, and he praised my first play so sincerely…then he read an essay I had published online, and wrote to tell me he identified with my struggle to find a place in the professional world. He’s so accomplished but so humble; he wrote letters of recommendation for me, and made me feel like I had the right to call myself a playwright. When you write across different genres, you run the risk of not being taken seriously in *any* field, so it’s important to get that validation from folks “in the know.” When I first met Carolyn nur Wistrand, she immediately opened up to me—that kind of reception is so important—to *not* be shut down, or shut out. She didn’t see me as an upstart or a novice, she immediately offered praise and advice and became an invaluable mentor. Established artists sometimes see emerging artists as competition, but I’ve been blessed to have mentors who truly want me to succeed.

Q: How does your ability to write in mixed genre influence you as a playwright?

Well, writing in different genres means you’re always a beginner and when you’re starting out, you’re generally less afraid to take risks. There’s an idea that you have to “master” a form to be truly proficient—otherwise you’re a dilettante, a jack-of-all-trades (master of none). I’m not really interested in mastery—I think it’s an antiquated idea (and elitist, too). I think a curious mind reaches for whatever’s beyond its grasp. I don’t go see many plays, and I’ve never studied acting; I approach playwriting from a different place, and to some, that makes me an automatic failure or an aberration, an outsider. I think I bring something different to the table—a different perspective, different reference points, different intent. And perhaps other playwrights can learn from me just as I learn from them. I tend to write quickly as well, so in three years I’ve written twenty plays; I think pretty soon I’ll have learned what I needed to learn from this genre, and I’ll apply that to whatever I start writing next—maybe screenplays (I’ve written one so far). Writing in different genres teaches you about yourself—your strengths, your limitations. You also become more sensitive to audiences, I think. I never assume that everything I write is for everyone. And I like to surprise people—I’m *always* underestimated, so pushing myself is a way of showing others just what I can do. I walk into a theatre for rehearsal and no one assumes that I’m the playwright. But maybe once they see me there often enough, they’ll start to think differently about black women—maybe they won’t assume we’re all video ’hos or aspiring actresses. Better yet, maybe they’ll stop making assumptions about us—period!

Q: What lies down the road?

I don’t know because I haven’t gotten there yet! I try to take things one step at a time. I have anxiety issues, so trying to predict the future isn’t good for me. My children’s picture book comes out in October, and so I imagine I’ll be working with younger children again, and I’m looking forward to that. I intend to continue teaching at the college level, and my contract’s nearly up at my current job, so I’ll have to start looking for another—that will likely involve moving out of the northeast. I want to finish this last play, and maybe revisit my screenplay. I want to learn how to make short films. I’m trying to promote my memoir and young adult novel. Most importantly, I need to ensure that I’m getting my work done. I try to follow James Baldwin’s advice to writers: “The point is to get your work done, and your work is to change the world.”

Q: Why do we need the voices of black female playwrights?

Black feminists have been saying for decades that if you listen to US, all the problems of this society will be fixed, b/c we’re at the bottom and we KNOW what we’re talking about! A Canadian writer, Marlene Nourbese Phillip, suggested that being on the margins is actually empowering…marginalized people are potentially cutting edge, avant garde, precisely b/c we’re tottering at the lip of the page—we’re not secure in the center. People often see black women as powerless, or clueless, or disinterested in politics. If we are silent, others often assume we have nothing to say. And even some black men have tried to silence us, fearing we’ll tell tales that implicate them. But we have important stories to tell, we have a unique perspective b/c we are unique beings, and we are uniquely positioned to tell others about themselves—and about ourselves, too! A black woman might just be the next First Lady of the United States. The media claims the American public wants to know more about Michelle Obama. She wouldn’t be such a mystery to them if they spent more time reading black woman authors instead of settling for the stereotypical representations on TV. Black woman playwrights dramatize life—they open a window into a world that more people need to occupy or at least be aware of.