Becoming The Overman

QUITE SOME TIME ago, I met a young man named Stewart. He was a student at my college, as well as a very nice guy, who seemed to take a strong liking to me since the day we met. Later on, I would see him walking the corners of the nearby stripmall, talking with his friends or chatting with storegoers, and we spoke often but without much gravity; all I really knew of him was that he seemed to be fairly good with women and worked at a bath-product store in that same shopping center.

Only recently, however, I was at college signing up for classes early -- which is a first for me -- when I noticed him sitting with a young woman at the end of the hallway, appearantly helping her with a schedule problem. After I was invited to sit and talk, we began a conversation on writing and my use of inventiveness in stories where I must explain things that are currently impossible with our modern technologies. He mentioned that he enjoys turning stories into stageplays, and that he has produced several plays for the college in the past, marking a particular interest in the fact that I had a synopsis for a play, but that I was unaware of the writing and casting techniques used in stageplays.

After nearly an hour, and both of us having to be on our ways, we walked as I explained the basic themes and plot points for A Heart for any Fate, which he seemed genuinely interested in, and we exchanged numbers for the sake of scheduling a meeting where we could exchange ideas and, together, write and produce a play.

Well, the meeting was Sunday at one o'clock at Riverside Cafe in Smithfield, but when I arrived the doors were locked; I hadn't thought that, perhaps, the owners were at church in the Bible Belt at the time. I waited outside for what felt like an eternity -- considering I was well-dressed in tie and blazer, and that this afternoon was maxing out at a sweaty ninety-seven degrees.

When he wasn't early, I began getting superiorily angry, wondering if I had been conned like a fool, believing what I shouldn't have, and starting wondering why a person would treat me like such a dull blade. I was pacing angrly when he arrived, smiling, five minutes late. Of course, this made me feel only more foolish for thinking such things so quickly. As he tried to open the door, and found it locked just as had I, and began peeking into the building through the glass, I leaned in through the wooden lattice near the door and smiled.

"Having trouble getting in?" I said, startling him.

"Oh -- hey, Cody. Yeah, it looks like they're closed."

"Well," I said, walking around to shake his hand, "we should have thought they might be at church on a Sunday afternoon. I just always assumed they were going to Hell."

"Well, we are in the Bible Belt," he laughed, and we began deciding where else to work at, eventually concluding my connections at Ruby Tuesday would be most beneficial to the meeting.

Our meeting went well, although not as I had expected it. Stewart told me that although he loved my tragic play, it wasn't for a "Johnston County Audience". He told me that they didn't go to see plays to have cognitive thoughts, or to be reminded of how sucky real life is. They come to be entertained. To laugh.

And so, he asked me if I had anything surface-level we could make. I didn't. I'd never written anything "surface-level" before, and I told him so. I'd never found the need to. I mean, why write unless it is to make people think? I understand comedy, but I'd never tried to write it just to make people laugh. Because, well, what if they didn't?

So, Stewart and I sat in silence together for a while, pondering up some neat little story that neither of us was doing a particularly good job of finding. You may wonder how the creative strike hits some people, at what moment that idea becomes something realized and when it takes on life. I've wondered for quite some time, and I love it when it happens because I remember it almost everytime. But, for those who don't know, this is about how it goes.

I mentioned to Stewart the idea of us taking a story or existing book and making it into a play. He had mentioned earlier about seeing a production of Stephen King's Misery being performed at some theatre somewhere. He said that of course we couldn't do that, because ole Stevie's still alive; it would cost WAY too much to buy out the rights for the play. I knew that, but I said "darn it" anyway, in a sarcastically angry way.

"Yeah," Stewart said under his breath, and snapped his fingers with an air of dissappointment. "Kill Stephen King."

It took me maybe a quarter of a second to get hit, but when I did he saw the cogs get to work.

"Wait a minute..." I said straightening up in my seat. "I...that's it! That's our story!"

By the end of the next ten minutes I had successfully pitched him my idea. Presto Whamo! It's something the "Johnston County Audience" will love and something we're pretty sure no one's done before. I'd love to tell it to you here, but I realize I can't do that. Not until the play is produced, that is. I'd do it for my own story, but I've got Stewart's life on the line, too. I can only be fair, though, and give you the title. A title which won't make sense, but who really cares anyway? Just know there's a mobster, a drag queen, and a hypochondriac.

Killing Samuel Queen. I think you get the drift. I've written the prologue and am about to start work on the first scene, due to Stewart on Wednesday. We begin production in the spring. Hot dig!

Posted by C. Nicholas Walker on Monday, September 04, 2006 at 2:24 AM | Permalink