Last week, we examined some case studies of community-engaged theatre practice. It is clear that a shared intentionality is vital for achieving a high-quality outcome. How and why this affects the playwright and more is discussed below. In the final section, I include some practical tips for emerging writers negotiating an agreement with companies doing community-arts projects.
Measuring and evaluating community-engaged art is not as simple as in traditional theatre modes. In ‘professional’ theatre, we may critique the outcome alone, and with an established set of criteria. We examine the craft of the performers, the themes provoked, and the adherence and subversion to a genre. Although some audiences may judge community-engaged practice by the same measures, it’s hardly fair to do so. Community-engaged art is much broader in its intentions than other theatre forms. By its historical definitions, as discussed in the previous chapters, we understand community-engaged art to have a social intentionality.
If shared and social intentionality is our criteria for judging success, then a rubric for community-engaged art becomes clearer – both for individual artist and for the project as a whole. There is a wide range of scholarship that is now nearly unanimous in its understanding of quality in community-engaged art, in that the process and product of a project are inseparable in execution and evaluation. This shares responsibility for a community-engaged project across everyone: from community participants to artists, to the organisations that are subsidising the work. In order for the production to succeed, all parts of this complex relational web must have a shared intention. You need, to quote Simon Sineck, a big ‘why’.
In order for the production to succeed, all parts of this complex relational web must have a shared intention.
It’s not that without this a project can’t, on one level, succeed. Certainly, for the Liam Project and The Logan Project, there was a positive benefit, and many people had a pleasant experience. However, these were not works of high-quality community-engaged practice because they did not have a shared social intentionality. Both projects suffered because of unclear intentions that were never addressed.
This is surprisingly common for community-engaged arts. Well-intentioned people begin building a project without going through a rigorous interrogation of their reasoning. At its most cynical, community projects are created by a corporation to satisfy a larger part of its funding strategy. These projects typically come across as well-funded but toothless and forgettable. At its most optimistic, community projects are created by incredibly enthusiastic people who want to create an experience akin to a secular church – where everybody comes together to celebrate each other. These projects can become messy and embroiled in leadership committees where multiple people want to hijack the experience for their own aims. For either of these projects, they may ultimately be ‘all right on the night’, and everyone can walk away happy enough…but unsure of what was achieved.
A writer may be absent for such projects. They often are. But when a playwright comes on board, this intentionality becomes all the more important. Without a united intention, their briefing can be vague. They may find themselves responding to multiple masters with conflicting demands or left just to twiddle their thumbs. This is an unfortunate waste of a writer’s potential contribution.
When (and how) to hire a writer
Not every art project needs a writer. I’m also realistic about the fact that writing is an incredibly personal affair, and not all playwrights are created similarly. My process is my process; some will be more suited to a community gig than others. But let’s first examine what a playwright can contribute to a community arts production when necessary, and how they can be managed.
You’re looking for a writer if your community arts project has a narrative – even if it is thematic, not bound by characters or plot.
What does narrative really mean?
Story.
Okay, but what does that really mean?
You’re seeking the event to transform. You’d like the audience to leave in a markedly different state to when they arrived. More importantly, you’d like the event to be capable of transformation and travel from one point to another. And you’d like that transformation to have clearly defined points.
Although this sounds broad, it is easy enough to find performing arts events, community-based or not, that wouldn’t fit into this definition. Take most concerts – including symphonies, concertos, or pub gigs – where the essential aim is that everyone has an enjoyable experience. While the music may move us to different places, we’d like to be returned safely to our concert hall seats/chicken and chips at the end of the evening’s setlist.
Writers may not be needed even if there is spoken dialogue. This may be offered by an MC or artists between songs or acts. When the event itself is entirely episodic, without a clear arc, there’s no need for a writer. In these events, an audience may be more casual, slipping in and out as their attention wanes. Or it may be a formal event, but each act is a moment unto itself, designed to showcase a particular artist.
Conversely, the absence of dialogue – say, in an event entirely centred around dance – does not necessarily mean that a writer isn’t needed. The dance may include characters who need to transform through the evening. That’s a writer’s job.
If money can’t be found to pay a writer, or if a company ploughs on ahead, not stopping to ask if they need one, typical outcomes are usually migraine-inducing. Sometimes the artists write a script ‘by committee’, which rarely has the desired effect of a unified vision. Someone – usually an overworked producer or director – is lumped with the final task of assembling a pile of notes into a clear script in tech week. Alternatively, the ‘script’ remains a loose pile of notes and a stage manager is forced to improvise their way through a show. The stage manager swears to never work with them again, and everyone who is working on the show is reminded of how important it is never to piss off a stage manager.
Without someone solely responsible for a show's narrative, there are no limits. So, divergent ideas or interpretations are welcome. An ensemble can say yes to everything simply because they can, and there’s no one in the room to tell them why they can’t. The final splash of ideas may be a wonderful collage, but the lack of a unified voice to link those ideas together creates a fragmented product that doesn’t leverage those ideas for their maximum effect.
If you are looking for a writer for a community gig, you’re looking for a unique skill set. Writers are common, but playwrights are less so. Playwrights heavily experienced with community collaboration are a cult unto themselves, although most playwrights I know in Australia have had at least some experience. They may have been commissioned by a high school to write a piece for their students, worked with a community arts organisation to assist with a final showcase, or been employed as a teaching artist in the youth and education sector.
Still, personality is key, and any arts manager worth their salt will be able to read an artist’s attitude from a phone call. Playwrights in community collaboration need to have a diminished ego, a relaxed ease in talking with people, and remain calm under immense pressure. They must balance being solely responsible for a show's narrative with remaining open to large amounts of input. They need to be both militant and maternal.
Playwrights in community collaboration need to have a diminished ego, a relaxed ease in talking with people, and remain calm under immense pressure. They must balance being solely responsible for a show's narrative with remaining open to large amounts of input. They need to be both militant and maternal.
A writer will be helped by a dramaturge – I know, another wage to pay. But an experienced dramaturge will help turn an ordinary script into an outstanding one. A playwright is unlikely to produce an outstanding work without direct editorial assistance. It was understood on both The Gladstone Project and The Logan Project that Sean Mee, the director, would act as dramaturge on my drafts. In later projects, I had assistants similarly act in the role, although I feel those scripts missed a clear line of dramaturgical pressure.
If you jump through all these hurdles and employ a writer, I can promise that your event, at the very least, will be more memorable than without one. Particularly if you are an arts manager with a clear artistic intention for a work, then a writer, in partnership with a director, is going to be responsible for carrying that intention forward.
We help make an event an event. Something that creates an impact that lasts in the memories of those involved.
Why should playwrights want to work on community gigs?
Playwrights! Stop what you’re doing! Run, don’t walk, to the nearest community event that needs you.
I struggle when I try to explain the specificity of the QMF gigs to those who only know me from other work. As I list off the absurdity of it (live animals, full orchestras, hundreds of participants), they laugh. Their eyebrows raise. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s a completely different skill set from anything else I do.’
Or at least, that’s what I used to say. Because now I’ve been doing them for a long enough time, I’ve come to realise they’ve made me a much better writer than I was before.
There’s an egoic trade-off when you’re doing community work. The script isn’t about you. It’s not about your vision. It is about a community. It is for them. You will spend more time listening than talking. You will spend more time editing than writing. You can have fun, of course. You can insert your sense of humour or rhythms into the script… don’t expect them to stay there.
I guarantee that the one piece of script you love, a pretty piece of prose in a monologue or a witty exchange between characters, will disappear. I wrote a monologue for The Logan Project that I held onto for way too long, even though the actor was clearly never going to memorise it. Every night, she went out and garbled it. She wasn’t confident in it. It wasn’t in her language. I should’ve sat down with her and rewritten it for her rhythm. ‘How would you say this?’ But I didn’t, because I thought my words were pretty. But, of course, no one cared. No one got to hear them properly.
Is that her fault?
Well, in a mainstream production with professional actors, it is. We expect actors to learn lines. But in a community production, that’s not the case. Volunteer actors are a different beast. You have to write in a way that suits them. This isn’t a nice gift; it’s just something that has to be done. Because volunteer actors, on stage, under lights, with a mic strapped up to them, will almost certainly forget your precious lines if they feel unnatural to say. The nerves will get the better of them.
I had a similar experience on The Gladstone Project, where there were many scenes between the main character and his sidekick that were quick, witty exchanges. They relied on comic rhythm. These actors, even though they were volunteers, certainly had comic rhythm. But it was their comic rhythm, not mine. I needed to do the hard work of listening and writing to how they played off each other. I never did – I assumed they’d find the groove and lock in at some point. They'd get it once they had an audience in front of them.
Nope.
But developing a skill of writing to actors is what all good playwrights do anyway. Any great play is better when a playwright and actor are open enough to collaborate. In these instances, the actor is more likely to lean on the playwright for rhythm and syntax, but the writer will still be deft enough to pick up mannerisms or quirks that are unique to that actor. The easiest examples of this are any successful television comedy: Friends, Parks and Recreation, The Office are written for a specific ensemble of actors, especially in the later seasons as everyone gets to know each other.
This forced sacrifice of ego is of huge benefit to the development of craft. Characters stop sounding like different versions of the writer and end up sounding like unique characters. I’ve written four QMF shows, each set in a different regional Queensland town. I can tell you people speak differently in Gladstone than in Mount Isa. Their senses of humour are different. Their perception of class and status is different. I would’ve never understood that had I not been taught to listen in the way these projects demand.
Along with the impact on craft, the effect on my perception of the industry has been gargantuan. If you’ve chosen the life of an artist, you’re almost certainly bound to a capital city. Within that city, particularly in Australia, there is a finite number of opportunities for artists with your skill set. By survival, it’s easy to develop tunnel vision. Everything can become about getting a gig with a small number of organisations. It’s ‘the cool kids’ table’. I’ve never sat at the cool kid’s table, and I’m wary of those who do.
These productions are not the cool kid’s table. Moranbah’s residents don’t give a shit about the season of large-scale theatre companies back in Brisbane. Why should they? They still have a culture. They have a taste. They can appreciate excellence. But that is all entirely separate from the small eco-system where most arts and cultural outcomes occur in metropolitan centres.
I’m certainly not turning down a commission from a ‘main stage’ theatre company if it comes my way, but these gigs have made me less focused on that singular version of success. I still adore getting in a suit, sitting in the dark, and watching a deliberate, well-rehearsed play. But I also enjoy sitting on an oval with a picnic, surrounded by families, joining thousands of people in a country song. Both are theatre experiences that require artistry.
As I said in the previous section, it is rare to find a working playwright with no experience working in a community context. For those starting on a playwriting career, it’s my first recommendation. Get away from your head and think about other people. Unlike novelists, playwrights must be collaborative and understand teamwork. Nothing teaches you that faster than community gigs.
Negotiating intention: A guide
So, lucky you, you’ve been approached by an organisation to work on a community gig.
Playwrights and freelancers are often so hungry for work that we are quick to say ‘yes’ before asking any questions about the nature of the project. It’s taken me years to work up the courage to ask questions about a contract before I sign (or even to refuse to start work until a contract has been at least delivered to me – a standard in most industries but often too relaxed in the arts). Some part of me always thought I was in danger of losing the job if I had too many queries. Most playwrights don’t have an agent, so we’re alone to defend ourselves.
To date, I’ve never lost a job because of asking professional questions without judgment. When asking, make it clear that you’re only trying to get on the same page and ensure you fully comprehend what is being asked of you.
To that end, here are some questions that are worth asking. Not receiving comprehensive answers isn’t a deal-breaker but may trigger questions that help elucidate the producer’s vision of your role.
What is the anticipated length of the script? How flexible is that length? What is the maximum and minimum duration?
If the script includes songs, music, circus or dance, what is the anticipated time distribution among these elements? (The most common question for me when working with QMF was the divide between music and dialogue. As they were a music festival, they usually wanted scripts that landed at 80% music- or lyric-driven and 20% dialogue. Some years, depending on the artistic director, these numbers fluctuated a bit.)
Can the script contain swearing or adult themes? Is it designed to be family-friendly?
What has been the nature of the discussion between stakeholders so far? The more information you can get on this, the better. I’d suggest physically sitting down with the producer and getting the whole story. Who’s a major partner? What is their expectation?
What is the organisation's intention in holding this event?
Why does the organisation feel a writer is needed for this event?
Is there someone in the creative team who is likely to act as a dramaturge on the script? Are they experienced in this type of role?
There’s always the niggly part of the contract where a timeline is laid out for drafts. These timelines usually marginally shift as the production moves forward, but getting them clear at an agreement level is important.
Most importantly, however – and the line item that trips a lot of writers up – is who gets to see the script and when.
My chief recommendation would be not to circulate your first draft to all stakeholders—quite the opposite. Script distribution should be strict and slow. Only the core creative team should be entitled to see the first script, then other creatives at the next draft, and on and on until the production week draft.
Of course, stakeholders will want updates from the creative team. In my experience, the script is not well suited to this purpose. It’s easy for artistic professionals to forget how alien a theatrical script can be to those not versed in reading them. For community stakeholders, it’s often more important to communicate the feeling of a show rather than the specifics.
To that end, nothing beats costume and set drawings from a designer. Illustrations help stakeholders appreciate the visual aesthetic of a production. I usually have a PowerPoint slide show set up with these pictures. When required, I can tell the show's story, using the slides as visual representations of story beats and even playing music, if I have it, from my phone or a speaker. This, far more than presenting a script to a stakeholder, communicates the feel of a production.
This kind of presentation requires ease and charisma in speaking publicly, which many playwrights may find difficult. It may be a job that falls more easily to a director. Sean would take the lead on shows he was directing, and I acted as an offsider, prompting when needed.
By way of example, here’s a sample timeline from my QMF productions, noting draft deliveries and presentations. I was typically employed from twelve months out from the production. The long production timeline was mostly because we had limited time physically on the ground with locals. We would usually fly in and fly out of the communities for trips of four to five days, about once a month.
12 months out: writer is employed, along with a core artistic team. They interface with the community (as described in the following chapters).
8 months out: the writer produces an outline of what the show may look like so far. This is an initial document for the core artistic team, a blueprint to start moulding and shaping ideas. A production designer may be able to start preparing sketching in response to this document.
6 months out: a first draft is written and distributed among the core artistic team. At this point, we would usually have a ‘creative development’. Taking place over two days, the technical and artistic staff assemble and go through the script beat by beat, becoming clear on what each moment will look like and involve. The script adapts in response. At the end of these two days, we would have our first ‘presentation’, usually to QMF staff, where the director would walk through the show in a fifteen-minute spiel, using designer illustrations as a guide.
5 months out: a presentation is given to the community participants. The script is distributed to those who need it for rehearsals to begin.
From that point onwards, the writer will work with community participants to edit the script, a collaboration that is unique and I’ll talk about another time.
There is a measurable and critical connection between the clarity of intention at a project’s beginning and its eventual outcome quality. While directors and writers drive the artistic output, it is only ever achieved within a context production and management.
If clarity is achieved, then wonders can happen. Priorities are clear. Artists are given clear boundaries and permission to express themselves – and the community – within those boundaries. An agreement is signed and all parties are hopefully happy about what comes next.
Then, of course, the real work begins.