"Dust is the enemy of electronics," my engineer father used to say. It is also the enemy of writers.
Dust collects on long neglected work such as plays, stories, novels. The more indefatigable
of the writing species hustles their work. I'm the type who tends to let the dust
collect, not become I lack ambition, rather, I am indifferent to dust. Only
when I have a hard time breathing do I get out the rags and give 'er.
Two weeks ago, I dusted off a never
produced, barely read one act play and submitted it to a Toronto theatre company holding a contest for new
work.The five plays that made it to the finals were read last Wednesday, to an enthusiastic house.
I found out today that my
play, Hitler's Ass, won and will have an eight show run in mid-April.
Surprised? Yes, if not
shocked. I have no connection with this company and assumed I would be in the
running, but not a winner.
It pays to dust.
The title Hitler's Ass is
a cynical move on my part to attract attention. However, it is apropos of the
theme; the quest for physical perfection and eternal life on earth -- all shades of Nazi experimentation on humans. It is an
ass. It is a stubborn fallacy.
How's that for an answer? Plus it will grab attention.
Thank you Sterling Studio
Theatre, for having the courage to form a company, rent a space and produce new
work. I sure don't.
Yeow.
