The play’s the thing.

Are you a regular reader of mine? Do you remember my unsuccessful foray into playwrighting? Two years ago, I wrote a two-act play, a dialogue-heavy drama. A part-time dramaturge I know polished it and sent the shining version to a theater producer he has worked with. The producer was dismissive, the golf season was starting, and after writing a blog post about the experience, the play went into the purgatory of an archived Word file.

Until this week, when two unrelated circumstances have joined to give me the push I need to revisit that dusty file.

First came a notification from a Facebook playwriting group. A Chicago theater company was advertising a new play competition for previously unpublished works. The submission process was easy and online, and unlike many other competitions, no entry fee was required. This seemed like an opportunity for a neophyte like me.

A few days later, I was listening to an audiobook of a thoroughly awful novel. It was a murder mystery-psychological thriller dripping with misplaced metaphors and even sillier similes. Despite the poor prose and not knowing or caring “who did it,” I listened day after day.

My patience was rewarded when I heard one of the characters, an elderly, dying mystery writer, say to his daughter, “We should talk.” SPOILER ALERT: Those words are a key line of dialogue in my play.

I have decided I cannot ignore two signals, both pointing me in the same direction. I want to get in.

I’ve located an early draft of the play, a draft from before the dramaturge held sway. While I appreciate his help, I want to be where the characters still feel like my own. This is where I am beginning.

I’m carefully reviewing the producer’s comments and reflecting on the few bits he thought worked well and the roughly 95% he thought didn’t work at all. I’m creating new scenes and new relationships. I am eliminating clunky dialogue. I’m keeping that “we should talk” line, but I’m giving it greater impact.

It’s a blast waking up my old characters, working and molding them in their own images, as they whisper to me what they need to do and say. I love them all, even the more despicable ones.

The deadline for submission is August 31. A countdown clock on the theater company’s website tells me that as of now, I have nineteen days and fifteen hours of prep time left.

Do I anticipate winning the contest? It’s a long shot. But I’m giving it a try. Because, as one of my more optimistic characters says, “You can never run out of hope.”