Dear Jack Helbig:
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Let’s be fair, Jack. It wasn’t the production. Think about it. David Zak’s highly intelligent, imaginative directing? An energetic and creative cast? Joe Wade’s hauntingly moody set? None of the above, Jack. It wasn’t the play. You haven’t had much of an opportunity to see my work, grow familiar with some of the quirks of my writing. I have been writing plays since 1978. No luck though–and it is luck, Jack–in getting productions until this decade. Chicago writers are a pretty neglected bunch, as I keep trying to tell “our” arts council. The play in question here, The Cairn Stones, took 20 years to get to the stage, Jack. But this is Chicago, after all, the city of big shoulders and (where the arts council and big theaters are concerned) small self-image.
Oh, I know about the loneliness of the long-distance writer. All my long life. A secret, Jack. I took up theater with expectations of finally making friends, heaps of friends, but I’m still, for want of a better euphemism, a loner.
So, Jack. You didn’t appreciate the play or the production. I didn’t appreciate your review. Not that you had to love either or both, but civility, fairness were lacking. So now that you’ve had a bit of your own medicine, Jack, how does it play?
