Keeping it light

Tomorrow is our first orchestra rehearsal. As a musical theater composer, this would inevitably be one of the top thrills of the whole rehearsal process, if not my entire year. But when the orchestrations are by Jonathan Tunick, not only does it become potentially the highlight of my career, but given neurotic tendencies (as any theater professional worth his salt will admit to), it brings into focus a lot of what I've been struggling with during this process but have spackled over with Enthusiasm and Optimism and, most exhausting of all, Hope.

We've known that Ford's would be the Big One for a year now. All our developmental steps along the way, from a writers' retreat to a workshop to a student production to a workshop production, have been important, but there was always the thought in the back of my mind, "Well, if we don't get it perfect here, that's okay, we'll fix it next time," or "It's only a workshop, it doesn't have to make theater history." Not to diminish in any way the importance of all those stops --truly the piece would not be anywhere near its current level of polish had we skipped even one of them -- but as a writer, you do tend to cut yourself a little slack, especially when you sense some sections are not as perfect as you'd like.

At the Ford's however, that slack is no longer an option. We certainly hope that Meet John Doe will have a long, healthy life after this production, but with this business, there are no guarantees. What if this is the last time we ever see the show and this is our last chance to get it right? What if subsequent productions lack the budget to build towering multi-level sets with uplights sunk into the deck or to hire a ten-piece band? If we haven't done absolutely, no-excuses, 100% everything we can to make this show perfect this time around, we may not get a do-over. So with all the excitement and jubilation about this spectacular opportunity, there comes a strange weight as well, a sense of responsibility to ourselves and to the show, a timer running out that for me is omnipresent, providing a touch of anxiety running under all the thrills.

So as I go into the orchestra rehearsal tomorrow, I tell myself that if I don't allow myself to enjoy it, I will take myself out into the middle of the street and kick my own ass. But on top of that come the voices, wondering if I did everything I could to make the score fun, moving, layered, surprising, catchy, original, etc. etc. etc., not knowing the dynamics of an orchestra rehearsal with new orchestrations, with a conductor and an orchestrator and a composer all having things to say, trying to be at peace with the fact that in the end, I have little control left, not being a drummer/trumpeter/sax player/vibraphone player, and that I'm rapidly becoming an audience member.

On the writing side, even though our remaining tweaks are at the word-choice level, they still feel to us as life-and-death as cutting a whole number. Is that the nature of the beast? Have we lived for so long with that level of decision that it's become like oxygen and we must now inflate the most minor of concerns to maintain the familiar feeling that we're making important decisions? Probably. I don't know if all these thoughts are interesting or even constructive, whether a young(ish) composer with such a blessing as a major regional premiere is even entitled to anything less than constant ecstasy, but there you go.

The Artistic Director just walked into rehearsal for our first designer run-through. I'm probably more nervous than I will be on opening, even though our run two days ago was the best version of the show I've ever seen, hardly a moment where I wasn't giddy with seeing everything clicking as we've imagined it for so long. Maybe I just need to make the choice to relax and celebrate, and trust that that won't mean I've stopped being critical, or am giving up for the last 500 yards of the marathon.

I'll let you know how that goes.