This morning after reading email, I’m reminded by my calendar that it’s time to check the Playwrights’ Center for submission opportunities. That usually takes about twenty minutes.
The first op I notice is a recently posted appeal for ten minute plays, they’ll accept up to three of them, and they are due tonight. The time delay gives me a bit of an advantage, but what the heck, I only have three ten minute plays total so at least there’ll be no time wasted in selection. I may as well do it immediately, get the day off to a good start.
I have learned this; always check a script before sending. Never mind that I last revised all three of these plays about three weeks ago, two months before that, and six weeks before that. Each revision was prompted by my horror (horror, I tell you!) at what I had been convinced was pretty good after the previous revision. Each gap between revisions represented a ton of writing, and learning, and changing priorities, and those are all positive things. But come on, three weeks? What major shifts could have occurred in three weeks? Better check them anyway.
Four hours and multiple revisions later I get up, stiff, bleary-eyed, and oddly discouraged, and it’s only eleven o’clock. I keep thinking I’ll eventually arrive at a point where I can trust myself as a writer. That something will seem to stay finished. Apparently not. I send the three plays as instructed, and continue what I began at quarter to seven – cataloging opportunities.
Oh, my goodness. Well over half the opportunities I look at read more or less like this:
“Small, underfunded community theatre in Grand Rapids seeks plays by female child playwrights who were born in Michigan and whose father is a dog owner, to celebrate the theatre’s 125th season in the same location. Scripts of exactly 12.5 pages, 12 point type, Times New Roman, blind copies with all author information stripped out, and only from email addresses that do not have a .com or .net extension, please!
“Our theme this year is ROARING, so have fun exploring ROARING! Send us your best work. We will try to find someone who can read, but they will review only the first 800 scripts received, so submit early!
“Each script must be accompanied by a completed twelve-page online application form, a bio of no more than thirteen words (Open Office) a three-page synopsis (Word) a character list (PDF) production history (WordStar) half-page creative resume (Excel ’97) and a letter of recommendation from an agent, your lawyer, or an ex-lover (longhand).
“No plays that include use of an egg beater, please!
“All characters must be between 34 and 43.5 years of age, and should collectively represent a racial and spiritual cross section of the population of the Midwestern US. Maximum average cast size, 3.76. No profanity that the typical resident of Grand Rapids may find too familiar. All plays must be bold, relevant, provocative, thoughtful, and obscure (but not dense! No dense material, please!)
“A reader’s fee of $35 per play must be paid online, and approved by our business manager, before you submit. Diner’s Club cards, only! Members of Dramatists Guild pay twice. Winning playwright receives $10 and a invitation to attend opening night at half price (guests pay full); no travel, lodging, meals, or haircut expense will be covered. Perms are negotiable. Good luck!”
By the time noon drags around I’m worn out, discouraged, and glum.
I walk to my recently rented house on Via delle Pertiche to suss out paint colors 
and spend a little time weeding the garden. No water yet. The agent said in three days, four days ago. The painter said it would take three weeks. Someone else told me I’d have to go to some office to fill out forms. What can you do in a new rental without water? You can’t clean, you can’t plant, you can’t invite the fellow over who inspects the hot-water heating system. I weed, get tireder, come back to the apartment and take a very short nap. I water the plants on my terrace in Via Pecorelli, just because I can.
An hour passes. I understand very clearly that I need to walk. The town will fix me right up if I just allow it access. I’m ready for a snack, but the kitchen is ten feet away and it takes awhile to summon up the energy. I snack. I sit back down. I check the weather about eight times. Still nice out according to my phone. I sing a made up song about having to take a walk. What finally gets me downstairs is the bag of plastic and metal recyclables that needs to be binned.
I stride out the gate in the direction opposite from my intended route on the 
Anello. Two cats run up to me on the corrective path back – greet me like they know I need to pet them. Then the sleek black and white dog across the street runs to the gate and we have an extended session of sniffs, wet nose sensations, scratches, and nuzzles. He too seems to be saying “Don’t let it get you down bub, it’s only a stupid play.”
On the way down to the Anello, the first glimpse of the valley through the ruins of Porta Vivaria is transfixing. Greens I have not seen before, and I have seen green. Trees that a week ago were nearly naked, are fully clothed in silken foliage. Colors pop out from everywhere, slap me in the face, rough me up, and tickle my belly.
I take a short version of the walk; the wind is picking up and a bit on the chill side. As I emerge from Porta Romana, I run into one of my two or three American friends in Orvieto, Roy. He’s opening his garage to go somewhere, and tells me that when his routine is interrupted, he frequently leaves town with the garage door open and his house keys still in it. He knows this because the keys are always there when he returns.
I head towards Via del Duomo. The previous tenant at my new rental tears around a corner in an overlarge car and nearly runs me over. We both apologize. I savor the irony of the “what if” part of that moment. He needs to slow down, generally, but the fact that he just about plowed me into Via Lattanzi annoys me less that the size of the car he drives.
Taking Via Luca Signorelli to Via del Duomo, Claudia pulls along side in her little red Ford. Just finishing a week of sixty-five students in residence, she is. Ciao! A dopo! Tanti impegni! And she smiles, waves, and pulls away. Turning right takes me past Giovanni and Vera’s. Giovanni is seated majestically in the rear of the shop. We smile, nod, and wave.
On towards the Duomo, just feel like paying homage to its splendor. Once in the piazza I notice that the little ex-church across the way is open for a “WEEKend ART” exhibit. I attended the one in December and was thrilled by the quality of the work, so I cross the square to check it out. Magnificent, moving, provocative black and white paintings of the female form, clothed and nude, wonderful detail, stunning light, and a glorious tension that’s kind of sexual but goes beyond in a way that’s difficult to describe. Manuela Montenero.
Taking the back way towards Teatro Mancinelli, then up Corso towards La Torre del Moro. The evening passeggiata is beginning to stir. Familiar faces pass, some greetings are exchanged. The sun hits the streets at a blinding, but golden, angle. The flower market is filled with exotics. I yearn for water. (But I have to weed first, anyway, so relax.) Turning off Piazza Sant’Andrea there is Ubaldini alimentari, but it’s late, so even though I need cheese I’ll get it tomorrow. Wait! Stop! That’s a habit from somewhere else in some other time zone. Go. In. Now. Cheese. Three kinds.
More cats to honor and court as I continue on to Via Pecorelli.
This evening I hear from Massimo, the real estate agent. The utilities don’t get turned off, he tells me. He takes a dated picture of the meters, then when the account is moved to my name, the bill is apportioned accordingly. To use any of them, including water, turn handles and flip switches at the house.
Life here is not, on the whole, at all similar to a submissions opportunity. It’s only that everyone seems to think it is.