I wonder what it would be like to be a writer who bangs out a first draft. Who can see a story in its entirety before beginning. I jump in at a sprint, but then I stop and circle back to make sure I haven’t gotten too far without forgetting something. It’s like racing out of the house because you’re in a rush to get somewhere, then running back inside to make sure the stove is off, which it always is but it’s still good you checked, and while you’re back inside you quickly pee, glance at the stove, which is still off, get back to your car, and realize that you’ve misplaced the keys. That’s how I write. It’s nearly impossible to get to your destination with this kind of writing style.
I might not be getting traction on my ending, but at least Laurie is finding her voice. The problem with having an introvert as a main character is that she doesn’t want to have all the attention focused on her. My secondary characters were leading an insurrection and moving into the primary roles. They were getting all the good lines and the only thing left for Laurie to do was react. Yesterday I figured out how to get her back, but now I have other issues. I have too much extraneous dialogue, a boring monologue that’s way too long, and a near pathological lack of stage directions—it’s as if I’m worried about seeming too pushy or demanding. I need actors. I need to listen to the rhythm and flow and figure out what’s making sense and what’s not.
If only I could blink my eyes and Deja New would be finished. I’m scared I’m blowing this, my first commission. Blowing it. I wish I could blink this play into existence. Blink. Sammy Ronstein’s email is in my inbox telling me that Deja New has Wendy Wasserstein’s insights, Sarah Ruel’s poetic voice, Neil Simon’s humor, no not Neil Simon, but who? I want her to say I am the female who? Oscar Wilde? John Guare? Yasmina Reza? Yasmina Reza is a woman. But she’s French. I want to blink and turn myself into the American Yasmina Reza. I’ll blink past Sammy’s notes. Sammy calls himself a hands-off producer, but while the words, “I don’t want to insert myself,” are coming out of his mouth, he’s handing you a tome of notes. I’ll blink past casting, and past opening night and the pain of reviews, and I’ll blink this play onto Broadway and, why not, the Tony Awards. I’ll write an acceptance speech. I’ll thank the talented cast, the amazing director, and of course, I’ll thank Sammy Ronstein. “Sammy, you believed in me when no one else noticed I was still writing!” My voice will be strong but full of emotion. I’ll thank my incredible son, Marsden, and I’ll thank my mother and father for the gift of great material. I’ll thank Maya for her friendship, and I need to make sure I remember to thank Aunt Rosemary. She’ll feel rejected if I don’t thank her.
Deja New won’t be commercial enough for Broadway, but someday I want to write something that smashes people to smithereens and then elevates them into a near orgasmic euphoria. I want to write something that people refer to as “an emotional tour de force.” Imagine what it’s like having someone say that about something you’ve written. “Elise Hellman has given us another emotional tour de force.” Applause. Invitations to speak. More commissions. I’m ready.
For now, though, I’ll trade tour de force for a good final act. Not contrived. I don’t want to write another play that opens the door for reviewers to grouse about how it fell apart at the end. Yes, we know. We didn’t need you to tell us. Why do things need endings anyway? Are they even necessary? Resolution is overrated. Everyone is always talking about closure these days. Fuck closure. Let’s stop suturing the wounds and leave them open to fester.
That’s what real life is. When did we all get so obsessed with closure? Was it after the Revolutionary War? I somehow doubt John Hancock signed the Declaration of Independence and said, “Now we finally have closure.”
Seeking closure has consumed us. It’s become our North Star, our American identity. We are closure-obsessed. I cannot count the number of times people have asked me if I feel like I’ve found closure with Elliot. What if my play doesn’t have an ending? What if there is no closure?