I bet you’ve had your share of freelancing nightmares: Magazine editors who pay late or not at all. Once-dedicated book editors who change publishing houses a month before publication of your novel. Cancelled contracts. Boundary-pushing clients.
I thought I had heard, or experienced, it all until a unique incident happened to me in my new freelancing field.
I’m in the process of transitioning from writing for the children’s book market into playwrighting. In the world of playwrighting, every play that receives a production or reading is another credit I add to my resume. My short plays have been performed around the country, but rarely in New York, the center of the theater world.
It was a Saturday night in New York City. My play, Georgia Makes a Scene, was to be given a staged reading at a large women’s playwrighting festival in Manhattan. There were 15 plays scheduled in groups of 5, with an intermission between each group.
The afternoon of the show, well-wishers had sent congratulatory tweets, Facebook “Likes,” and emails. One gave me a good-luck necklace to wear on the night of the performance.
A tech rehearsal earlier in the day went smoothly and the director and I were sure the play would be well-received.
It was 7:45 p.m. Friends and colleagues had arrived at the fine arts center and had taken their seats in the 99-seat theater. The director and I squirmed, both of us nervous but excited. My three actors were backstage, ready to wow the audience.
Lights up on the stage. The sold-out event began with a festival organizer welcoming the audience. “On with the show,” she said.
The first play of my group was to begin. (Mine would be fourth out of five.) Instead, a man we did not know took the stage. “I’m sorry everyone,” he began in a monotone. “There is a possible gas leak in the building. Please evacuate now.”
Silence. No one moved. Perhaps this is a monologue that was inserted in the program at the last minute? I hoped. But then we heard the sirens outside the building. It was clear that fire engines were arriving. This was not an impromptu theatrical experience.
Slowly, we exited the building. More than 100 confused and frightened theater-goers milled about in 2s and 3s on the street on the lower east side of the city. Another 200 from a larger theater in the building joined us on that chilly April evening, some of us squinting from the pulsating lights of the fire trucks.
Three guests went home, assuming the plays would not take place.
After thirty minutes, the fire captain gave us the all-clear and the performances restarted. The plays were grand, the audience appreciative, and we went home happy.
But that night, exhausted from the strain, I wondered if I should leave the theater world and return to what now seems to be the safer and saner book publishing industry.