Last night I went to a special, selected meeting of playwrights and composers, ten of each, the meeting arranged and facilitated by the Playwrights' Guild of Canada. I'm not sure how selective the selection was. There are not many playwrights who are librettists or lyricists. Those of us who are (or wannabes) were invited to submit a resume of musical works produced, if any, and a statement of intent or attitude, if one had no actual experience. From the submissions considered admissible, a random choice was made. Not sure if it was eeny-meeny-miny-moe or just take what can get. Anyway, I sent in a resume of the musicals I had had produced, in one form or another, and some suggestions as to what I'd still like to do. I told them I couldn't remember the production dates and that they were irrelevant, anyway. The only date they had to know was that I was born in 1931 and I still have all my marbles. So I was one of the ten.
Of course, they were all younger than I. I was acquainted with the oldest-next-to-me person in the room, a playwright. I talked to a couple of young (one early 20s, the other mid-30s) composers who seemed intrigued with the musical that I wanted to write at one time, a long time ago now. As I spoke of it, memories flooded back, all the research I had done, the people I had interviewed, the plot I had worked out. I even had a title. At the time, I couldn't get anyone interested in collaborating with me, nor could I get a theatre (producer) "eager" to do it. By that time, I could not afford to work on spec. I still can't. I have a film project I'd like to do but one needs a producer, absolute essential these days.
My battery is getting low. I think I am too.
Do I dare to eat a peach?