musical theatre writers' resource center NEWSLETTER

UPCOMING CONTEST DEADLINES

• Samuel French Inc, Off Off Broadway Short Play Festival (December 24)
  http://www.oobfestival.com/
• Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award (December 31)
  http://web.kennedy-center.org/Education/KCACTF/awards/Playwriting/JKSmith
• Theatre in the Raw Play Writing Contest (December 31)
  http://www.theatreintheraw.ca/contest.html
• National Student Playwriting Award (December 31)
  http://web.kennedy-center.org/Education/KCACTF/awards/Playwriting
• New Works of Merit (December 31)
  https://www.newworksofmeritplaywritingcontest.com/dates--award--eligible-script--ineligible-script.html
• Ungar German Translation Award (December 31)
  https://www.atanet.org/aboutus/honorsandawards_ungar.php
• John Lennon Songwriting Contest (December 31)
  http://jlsc.com/
• American Antiquarian Society Fellowships (December 31)
  https://www.americanantiquarian.org/artistfellowships
• The David Mark Cohen Playwriting Award (December 31)
  http://web.kennedy-center.org/Education/KCACTF/awards/Playwriting/DMCohen#main_content
• Pipeline Awards for New Musical Theatre (December 31)
  https://pipelinearts.org/

*** Visit the RESOURCE CENTER to see the full listings ***

SAMPLE PUBLIC DOMAIN IDEAS

EXCERPT:

“Do you believe,” he asked, “that the spirits of the dead can return to earth, and show themselves to the living?”

I answered cautiously–adopting as my own the words of a great English writer, touching the subject of ghosts.

“You ask me a question,” I said, “which, after five thousand years, is yet undecided. On that account alone, it is a question not to be trifled with.”

My reply seemed to satisfy him.

“Promise me,” he resumed, “that you will keep what I tell you a secret as long as I live. After my death I care little what happens. Let the story of my strange experience be added to the published experience of those other men who have seen what I have seen, and who believe what I believe. The world will not be the worse, and may be the better, for knowing one day what I am now about to trust to your ear alone.”

My brother never again alluded to the narrative which he had confided to me, until the later time when I was sitting by his deathbed. He asked if I still remembered the story of Jeromette. “Tell it to others,” he said, “as I have told it to you.”

I repeat it after his death–as nearly as I can in his own words.

EXCERPT:

There was once a fisherman who was called Salmon, and his Christian name was Matte. He lived by the shore of the big sea; where else could he live? He had a wife called Maie; could you find a better name for her? In winter they dwelt in a little cottage by the shore, but in spring they flitted to a red rock out in the sea and stayed there the whole summer until it was autumn. The cottage on the rock was even smaller than the other; it had a wooden bolt instead of an iron lock to the door, a stone hearth, a flagstaff, and a weather-cock on the roof.

The rock was called Ahtola, and was not larger than the market-place of a town. Between the crevices there grew a little rowan tree and four alder bushes. Heaven only knows how they ever came there; perhaps they were brought by the winter storms. Besides that, there flourished some tufts of velvety grass, some scattered reeds, two plants of the yellow herb called tansy, four of a red flower, and a pretty white one; but the treasures of the rock consisted of three roots of garlic, which Maie had put in a cleft. Rock walls sheltered them on the north side, and the sun shone on them on the south. This does not seem much, but it sufficed Maie for a herb plot.

All good things go in threes, so Matte and his wife fished for salmon in spring, for herring in summer, and for cod in winter. When on Saturdays the weather was fine and the wind favourable, they sailed to the nearest town, sold their fish, and went to church on Sunday. But it often happened that for weeks at a time they were quite alone on the rock Ahtola, and had nothing to look at except their little yellow-brown dog, which bore the grand name of Prince, their grass tufts, their bushes and blooms, the sea bays and fish, a stormy sky and the blue, white-crested waves. For the rock lay far away from the land, and there were no green islets or human habitations for miles round, only here and there appeared a rock of the same red stone as Ahtola, besprinkled day and night with the ocean spray.

EXCERPT:

Nanki-Poo, the Mikado’s son, is in love with Yum-Yum, the ward of the tailor Ko-Ko, who is also Lord High Executioner, and to whom she is betrothed, as Nanki-Poo is informed by Pooh-Bah, when he comes to Titipu in quest of her. Pooh-Bah, who accepted all the offices of the Ministers of State after their resignations when Ko-Ko was made Lord High Executioner, is also “the retailer of state secrets at a low figure,” and furnishes much of the delightful comedy of the opera. Nanki-Poo nevertheless manages to secure an interview with Yum-Yum, confesses to her he is the Mikado’s son, and that he is in disguise to escape punishment for not marrying the elderly Katisha. Ko-Ko’s matrimonial arrangements are interfered with by a message from the Mikado, that unless some one is beheaded in Titipu within a month he will be degraded. Nanki-Poo consents to be beheaded if he is allowed to marry Yum-Yum and live with her for the month. This being satisfactory, the arrangements for the nuptials are made.

COMMENTS:

If you’re considering adapting this plot, you’ll want to consider that at its heart is a law which states that when a married man is beheaded, his wife must be burned alive.  So either you take that seriously and wind up with a rather dark retelling, or you take it in its original spirit of silliness.  If the latter, however, you might need to question why you’re adapting the original.  What in it is speaking to you, besides the recognizability of the title?  What would you be spoofing, and why?  (Again — COULD it be serious?)

A word of caution: This plot summary was written by 19th-century literary critic George Upton, who often mixes personal opinion with summation. You would be advised to consult the original source material, if the general plot appeals to you.

EXCERPT:

In the office old Mongilet was considered a type. He was a good old employee, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.

It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in the grass, or soak in the water in the country near by. Asnieres, Argenteuil, Chatou, Borgival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitues and their ardent admirers. We argued about the merits and advantages of all these places, celebrated and delightful to all Parsian employees.

Daddy Mongilet declared:

“You are like a lot of sheep! It must be pretty, this country you talk of!”

EXCERPT:

A Christian and a Heathen in His Blindness were disputing, when the Christian, with that charming consideration which serves to distinguish the truly pious from the wolves that perish, exclaimed:

“If I could have my way, I’d blow up all your gods with dynamite.”

“And if I could have mine,” retorted the Heathen in His Blindness, bitterly malevolent but oleaginuously suave, “I’d fan all yours out of the universe.

COMMENTS:

Sardonic. Cynical. Fun.

*** Visit the PUBLIC DOMAIN IDEAS to see the complete stories ***