In the 21st century, we tend to take for granted we can strike up email conversations with strangers a world away, solicit advice from writer chat rooms, and get instant feedback on cyber- pitched proposals that previously used to take weeks – or sometimes months – for a reply. Advances in technology have brought us spiffy computer programs that free us from the tedium of creating specialized script templates, the annoyance of repagination to accommodate edits, and – thanks to voice recognition packages – not even having to touch a keyboard as we compose our thoughts.
As goes a favorite Christmas week tradition at our house, I was in charge of picking the movies we’d traipse off to the mall to see while everyone else was doing frantic last-minute shopping. “Sweeney Todd is first on the list,” I told my husband. Who could blame him for raising an eyebrow? Tim Burton’s adaptation of the bloodiest musical in the history of American theater is unquestionably an odd choice in a season synonymous with sugarplums, mistletoe and joyous conviviality.
If my husband and I are ever on a quiz show and the topic is White Christmas, we will easily leave our fellow contestants in the dust. Throughout our marriage – and, for me, even longer than that – it has been a tradition that the holidays don’t officially commence until we’ve watched Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye croon their way to Pine Tree, Vermont and give their former commanding general the best darned Christmas of his life.
"You've written musicals before, haven't you?" an associate of mine inquired.
It seems that two women she knew - and whom I’ll call Gwen and Sybil - were looking for someone to develop both the stage and film script for a score they’d written about a tortured Italian artiste.
Thinking it could be fun, I asked them to send a synopsis. I also invited them to a fave Pasadena bistro to chat over a glass of wine. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have further instructed my fave waiter, Andrew, to rescue me after the first 10 minutes.
