Living in a Van Down by the River

Not that I haven't been rejected in the past, but this one stung (oh, I'm not talking about rejection in personal relationships; I mean I got a letter of rejection for one of my plays. Personal rejection is a whole blog unto itself that will remain askewed). A theater that shall not be named because one day they might actually like my work and decide to produce it finally got back to me after about a year's wait time. I had high hopes because I had an "In" with their literary department and thought, well...it just might work. I kept waiting and waiting, inquiring to the point where they stopped returning my e-mails because I wanted an answer so bad. Used to be I was too shy to even ask if they had heard of me; now, I'm a something of a bother, which, honestly, is the better of two evils. Back on track: I got a rejection letter. One to add to the growing number I've kept since the age of seventeen when I started be rejected.

The letter reads:

Thank you for sending us OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND and MY FRIEND DAHMER for consideration. We enjoyed the opportunity to get to know your work.

OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND is a heartfelt and harrowing portrait of a family in crisis, bravely investigating the tensions that linger among the victims of Katrina. However, as much as we appreciated your tender character writing (YES!), we felt the plotting of the piece was a bit contrived (Damnit. They must have read an older draft.) As for MY FRIEND DAHMER, unfortunately...this piece just isn't for us.

There was other stuff like "thank you for writing to us" and "hope you find a home for these plays" but that's standard. It was nice to have honest feedback about my work even if it did end with the crushing blow of defeat. Y'know, maybe they're just not that into me. Womp-womp.

I suppose the reason it stung was that I've been trying to imagine where I will be next year. Hopefully at the Playhouse, hopefully in the Literary Department, and hopefully employed generally. With all my student loans coming in I keep biting my nails in hopes of that "big break" coming through so that I can be whisked away to dream land, where I am paid to write brilliant plays in one draft. Yes, dillusions of grandeur. But if I think about the other side to it, I drive myself into a worse spiral of fantasy-that's-too-close-to-reality. Basically, I become Doug.

Doug is not Doug from the show about Doug apty titled "Doug". Though that show is great, I'm talking instead about a real life man named, as you can guess, "Doug". Doug works in the shops at the Playhouse. He wears clothes that don't look like they've been washed in ages, tattered and dirty. Doug can often be seen talking to himself as he walks to his van in the parking lot where he lives. I'm not making this up: Doug sleeps in a van in our parking lot. He never leaves. Maybe to get food or something, but I've seen him in there, cooking away on a hot plate (worse than mine!) and listening to sports on his portable Walkman radio. And this is what I fear: my life turned into a Chris Farrelly sketch from the mid-1990's. If I don't make it in this world as a writer -- and honestly, it's too late to go back and try to start all over again on something like, oh, I dunno, cartography -- I'm almost certain that I will resemble Doug later in life.

Therefore, let's think of the upsides:

1) Don't have to pay rent or buy a new hot plate

2) Working in theater

3) Could finally own a sticker reading: "IF THIS VAN'S A-ROCKIN'..."