Dramatic Writing
I sigh contentedly, my head lying comfortably on Theo’s chest. For the first time in my life, I feel sexually satisfied. I finally understand why people crave sex so much. But it only works for me when there is a real emotional bond. Fortunately, for the first time in my life, I’ve found that too.
“I love you,” I whisper, then turn my face to kiss his chest.
“I love you too, Bri.”
I hit save. I read through the words on the screen one last time, then close the document. I smile. That ending works, I think. Brianna definitely deserves the happily ever after.
I know I’ll still need to do significant revising, but The Dreams of Solace is my favorite draft I’ve written. I bet it does well. I hope so. My books are starting to bring in real money. Not enough to support myself yet, although that’s imaginable by the time I graduate next spring. My parents are hoping I’ll pay my own college bill next year, especially with Sam starting Clarkson then.
Thinking about supporting myself is scary.
As long as my readers keep buying my romances, I’ll be fine. As long as they keep believing I know anything about love or sex. I doubt they would if they realized that I’m a twenty-one year old virgin whose last date was in tenth grade. We kissed politely at the end of the night. That’s my sum total sexual experience.
I wonder who would be more surprised by the other side of my life, my readers or my classmates, none of whom know anything about my writing career. A secret I hope to graduate with. I know I have a reputation for being a prude and a snob, thinking I’m too good for them. In reality, I’m just overwhelmingly shy. It would be a struggle to do more than casual socializing with any of them, male or female.
I feel lucky I could get a single room this year. Mostly they go to seniors. I got straight A’s fall a year ago, which got me bumped up in the room lottery. I hated having a roommate.
Professor Isaacson, my advisor and favorite writing professor, knows about my writing, about my alter-ego; he’s helped me improve some of my recent novels. I’ve sworn him to secrecy about it, at least as far as the other students go. I guess he had to tell my dramatic writing professor; that course is closed to anyone outside the school of performing arts without instructor permission.
Whatever he said, I’m enrolled in it. Our first meeting is at nine AM tomorrow morning. It’s part of why I wanted to finish my draft tonight. He warned me the class has a reputation of being intense.
Eleanor Fleming, my dramatic writing professor, sounds amazing; I read her wikipedia page. She’s written seventeen screen plays that have been turned into movies, earning three Oscar nominations. Even more, all four of her scripts that made it to Broadway got Tony nominations; two won for best play. She’s one of the great dramatists of the generation. And I get to learn how to write plays and screenplays from her!
I realize I should post something on my blog before going to bed. I haven’t posted anything in three days, longer than I’m supposed to go. I have to structure the post so that the first paragraph is a good hook. I’ll post that paragraph and a link to the whole post on my bluesky and X accounts. Well, Madison Swift’s accounts. I don’t have any Katherine West accounts. The real me doesn’t socialize.
I hate this part of trying to sell my books. I just want to write my books and have people love them. Paying customers, of course.
Time to put on my Madison persona. She’s bubbly, outgoing, beautiful, experienced. All the things I’m not.
Sigh.
“Welcome to Dramatic Writing. You may call me Professor Fleming. Please take your seat. Plan on being here before 9AM in the future. I will use every one of the 180 minutes I have with you each Thursday. Repeatedly disrupting the class will be reflected in your grade. If it happens too often, I will expel you from the class. This is my time; if you want to learn to write scripts, be here on time, ready to learn. I will accept nothing else out of any of you.”
The few people meandering in quickly take the closest desk and turn attentively to the professor. One young woman searches through her backpack, finding a spiral notebook and eventually, after more searching, a writing implement. By the time she looks up, Professor Fleming is glaring at her.
As soon as Professor Fleming has her attention, she says, “That is number one, Miss …?”
It takes the young woman a moment to gather her courage to answer, “I’m Jennifer Roberge. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrupt the class.”
“What you meant to do is irrelevant. What you did was disrupt the class, steal our time. Don’t do it again. When I say be in your seats by 9AM, that includes having all materials ready. Do you understand?” She is still glaring at poor Jennifer, who I think is on the verge of tears.
“Yes, Miss Fleming.”
“PROFESSOR Fleming.” Another glare.
I can see a few tears start to roll down Jennifer’s cheek.
“If no one else is interested in creating a problem, I can get started.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room as she paused. I think Professor Fleming has every one of us terrified right now.
“Thirty-two of you in this room are taking the class because it’s required for your major. I suspect all thirty-two of you hope you will be able to support yourself acting. If you survive this class, you will be better prepared to take that job, understand a role, argue for what needs to be changed with your lines. In other words, learn to be a professional.”
She looks around the room, watching the reaction. Some of my classmates are getting uncomfortable, some look like they know they will be big stars, regardless of this class. I have no idea whether their certainty has any basis in reality or not.
“You have an advantage over one classmate. She thinks she’s an author, apparently already a moderately successful one. I’m sure she thinks she will become a great playwright. Let me give her a bit of advice. You won’t. And you need to be able to act in this class as well. Are you prepared for that?”
Her eyes scan the room again. I think she’s trying to find me, watch my reaction.
I try to maintain my composure. I’m about one “boo” away from breaking out in tears. Why is she doing this?
“Before I start actually teaching you something about drama, I need to know who you are. Silently raise your hand when I call your name. I will not need to take attendance again; after today. My time here is too valuable for that. I will remember every one of you by face.”
She pauses again. She seems to like her dramatic pauses.
“Jeremy Aarnheim.”
A young man in the back row raises his hand.
“Matthew Adams.”
“Here,” a young man says sharply. He was one of the students who looked certain they will become a star.
“Mr. Adams will need to learn to follow directions more carefully or he will not survive this class. I will warn you, Mr. Adams, directors do not put up for long with actors who don’t follow directions. Learn to obey or be ready to wash pots for the rest of your life, perfect features or not.”
“Rebecca Clarke.”
A pretty young woman raises her hand immediately. Of course, most of the other girls here are striking in one way or another. All of them in comparison to me.
“Anthony Davis.”
A black male raises his hand silently. He is strikingly handsome.
“Javier Estevez.”
“Yo!”
A hush falls over the room. Every eye turns towards the young hispanic man sitting casually in the back of the room. I think we’re all in shock that someone could be that stupid.
“Not only can Mr. Estevez not follow directions, he apparently didn’t listen to my warning to his classmate. This is a serious issue Mr. Estevez, shape up or ship out. I will not put up with this in my classroom.”
He straightens up in his chair.
“Maria Estevez.”
A young Latina in the front row raises her hand.
“I assume no relation?”
“Thankfully, no,” Maria answers.
“Eric Finch.”
He half raises his hand. I guess it’s his way of showing a hint of rebellion without getting scolded. Unlike the other guys in the class, who are generally tall and good looking, he’s average height, maybe even a little shorter than average. Nothing special to look at.
Professor Fleming rambles through more than a dozen additional names. Each student dutifully raises their hand silently. She takes note and moves on without any commentary. Then she seems like she can’t resist.
“Andrew Martin. The next Robert Redford. Or so I hear.” She scoffs.
He raises his hand. Even in this class filled with handsome men, Andrew stands out. I'd noticed him walk in. More stride in. He is truly drop dead gorgeous. Probably the best looking man I’ve ever seen in person. He certainly checks every box I'd look for in a perfect looking mate.
He appears to have no doubt of his destiny.
“Amanda Miller.”
She raises her hand. She has that girl next door appeal to her.
“Elizabeth Nash.”
She raises her hand. She may be the only other female student who I wouldn’t expect every male in the room to be drooling over.
“Timothy Norton.”
He raises his hand, boldly, strongly. Of course everything about him shouts strength. Immense and heavily muscled, he’s the antipathy of Eric. I could easily imagine him being cast in an action adventure movie.
“Brianna Oliver.”
I’m surprised by her only because she doesn’t look anything like my Brianna, the main character in Dreams of Solace, the draft novel I finished last night. She seems more unsure of herself than most.
“Li Ping.”
A petite Asian woman raises her hand.
“Pedro Ramirez.”
A heavily tattooed latino raises his hand.
“Jennifer Roberge. We all know you.”
She puts her hand up anyway. There is no way she is going to risk Professor Fleming’s wrath again.
“Aisha Sani.”
A stunning young woman in an African dress raises her hand high.
“Matilde Schmidt.”
“Please call me Mattie.”
“Ms. Schmidt thinks she’s a special little cupcake. Isn’t that wonderful. You will be Ms. Schmidt in this class, like it or not.”
“Alex Tremain.”
The young man sitting next to me raises his hand.
“Ah, and we come to our author, Katherine West.”
I raise my hand, trying to keep myself together.
“And last, but hopefully not least, Elaine Zerzavy.”
A young, shapely woman raises her hand. Her outfit shows more than a little skin. It’s the most revealing outfit I can remember seeing a student wear. I think I would remember seeing anything more revealing.
“Ms. Zerzavy will have to be watched. Or at least she hopes we all notice her and watch her. You can get ahead as an actress by having talent and working hard, or you can try to make it on the casting couch. You should decide what reputation you want to make for yourself, Ms. Zerzavy.”
For the first time during class, Elaine looks uncomfortable.
Professor Fleming scans the room again. “Good. We have no interlopers who are not registered for the class.”
She shuffles some papers on her podium, only half looking at them while she does. She pulls out a piece of paper, glances at it, then looks at the audience.
“Before you start learning how scripts work, you need to understand how this class will work. On a typical class day, I will take the entire three hours to pontificate on writing. You are responsible for knowing every word I say. If you do not understand something, ask. I can be unforgiving about students not heeding my guidance.”
I think the entire room already has that idea.
“In collaboration with your classmates, each of you will write five short vignettes. The first four will be written in pairs, with one group composed of three students. The last one will be written in groups of four or five. Five times this semester I will turn my precious three hours over to you so that each of you can perform your vignette in front of the class.”
I gulp. Now I know what she meant that I needed to act. I hate the thought of everyone’s eyes on me. I have to force myself to breathe in and out. I squeeze my pen, feeling it digging into my fingers. The sensation keeps me grounded in the physical world.
I try to start taking notes again. I can’t, my hand is shaking too badly to write legibly.
“The first vignette will introduce one or both characters. The second one will be an argument. The third will be realizing you are in love or professing that love to your partner. The fourth will be experiencing grief. The last one, the one done by groups of four, will be a celebration or a party.”
She pauses to watch reactions. I’m terrified by that third one. I will have to profess my love to someone. That's bad enough, but I'll have to do it in front of the class. I close my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out, Breathe in, breathe out.
My condition is of no concern to her. She continues her description. “Each of the first four has the same structure. You must have a written description of the scene, the kind of description that belongs in a play. A classmate will read that aloud. It must take no more than two minutes to read. I will time it and cut it off. Your vignette will be evaluated based on what is read, not what was written. After that introduction you have three minutes for the pair of you to act out the scene. You may recruit classmates to take on any additional roles for the scene. The class will then spend five minutes critiquing your writing. Then it’s on to the next pair. Ten minutes per group precisely. One minute between each group. That leaves four minutes of slack time across the entire class period.”
I’m trying not to hyperventilate. This is not how I expected this to work. I thought I could listen, write, and try to stay invisible, like I do in all my other classes.
“Each student will submit a critique of their own vignette before class. You will also be assigned another group whose vignette and performance you must review, submitting the written review to me by the end of the weekend. I will assign groups two weeks in advance, the same day I give more guidance for what needs to be in that performance. You will need to make time on your own to complete the task with your designated partner. Your assigned partner for the introduction scene will be available on Canvas immediately after class ends today. That scene will need to be presented two weeks from today. I will give more guidance on what I’m looking for in your first scene at the end of today’s class. Are there any questions on the structure?”
One woman, the one with the girl next door look, raises her hand. I think most of us are in awe of her courage in doing so.
“Yes, Ms. Miller.”
“How are we graded?”
Professor Fleming smiles. “Harshly.”
Amanda Miller frowns, then raises her hand again.
“I know that did not answer the question you wanted to ask, but it answered a question many of your classmates need to understand.” She pauses and scans the classroom. “In the unlikely outcome that you earn an A in this class, you can expect to be able to get a reference from me. Otherwise, don’t use me as a reference. I will give one, but it may not help you get the job. You can put an A in your cover to an agent if you want to sell a screen play. All the ones worth anything understand what it means.”
She nods to Amanda, who puts her hand down.
“To answer the question that Ms. Miller intended, the writing in each of those vignettes is worth ten percent of your grade. The performance of each is worth two, as is your participation in the discussion across all your classmates’ performances. Each critique of your own writing andeach review you write of a classmate’s vignette accounts for three percent of your grade. You can find all of this in the syllabus. Does that answer your question?”
Amanda nods.
“If no one else has any questions, I would now like to talk about dramatic writing.”
