Playwriting - One-Act Practice
So for my playwriting class, we're supposed to write a one-act play. For our weekend assignment, we were to write a two-page scene that had three moments of exposition - information being revealed about events that happened before the play/scene. Obviously, most of us are writing scenes related to our one-act. For those who don't know, I have a little brother with Autism. This play is hopefully going to end up being me telling his story.
Scene. TATE’s bedroom. TATE is practicing his clarinet and is getting frustrated; he keeps squeaking on the lower notes. He is tense and staring at the music stand angrily. From upstairs, we hear HIS MOM.
MOM. Tate! Shut the door!
HE ignores her.
MOM. Tate!!!
MOM enters the room, looking at him from the doorway. He doesn’t look at her.
MOM. Tate, what is wrong with you.
TATE. (snapping) Look, okay, all right?! He speaks with the awkwardness of somebody who says what he hears in the movies.
MOM. Tate… SHE goes to his bed, sitting. I didn’t mean it that way. I asked you to shut your bedroom door and…
TATE. I didn’t hear you.
MOM. …What is wrong? (HE doesn’t answer.) Is this about the party you went to?
TATE. No.
MOM. I got a phone call from Ian’s mother. She said you got in a fight with one of the other boys. (SHE waits for TATE to respond, but nothing.) She said he called you retarded.
TATE. Mom! (SHE jumps.) Look I don’t… (He is stuttering, frustrated, unable to string sentences right, as if somebody keeps rewinding him.) Look, I… Look, I don’t want to talk about it.
MOM. Tate, you’re not retarded. You’re very smart. You’re getting better grades than your sister, you know that. She asked about you yesterday. She called. She wanted to have seen your solo last night. (TATE says nothing.) Maybe you could play it for her, for Christmas?
TATE. …Okay. (He says it somewhat impatiently - he wants her out.)
MOM. …I don’t like that tone you’re using with me.
TATE. Okay!
MOM. …Okay.
TATE. (not satisfied.) I hate this! I hate this! I hate Ian!
MOM. Tate, no, Ian is your best friend, you don’t hate him.
TATE. Mom, no, I hate him! (Even in this, it is clear that he is repeating her, even if only slightly.) Because Jack said that I was retarded, and Ian just said, ‘Uh, well, no he isn’t.’ And I was like, ‘HEY! No way, man, you don’t say that!’ Because you don’t say that!
MOM. (calmer now) Are you mad because Ian stood up for you?
TATE. Uh, duh, no! (His body is tense and almost shaking, still holding his clarinet.) He told Jack that I was… He said… and I don’t LIKE it when he SAYS that!
MOM. Tate, he was trying to help you.
TATE. But he should know! He should know!
MOM. Tate, what are you saying, honey? Tate, talk to me.
TATE. He said that I was… you know! (SHE pretends not to.) Autistic! And I was like, ‘Hey, no way!’ Just, no way! That is just bull shit!!
MOM. Tate!! (cuts TATE off short) What have I told you about language?!
At this, Tate lets out an angry yell, practically squeezing his clarinet before pulling himself together just enough to set the instrument down.
TATE. Mom, I don’t CARE! I DON’T… Look, I just DON’T want to TALK about it! I’m TIRED of this!
With that, Tate storms out of his own bedroom, heading to the bedroom where he knows his father is. MOM makes an angry noise in her throat, patience tried as usual, before beginning to put away her son’s clarinet in it’s case so it doesn’t get damaged.
So hopefully in the near future I'll write a post about how all my classes are. Or maybe I won't. xD
Scene. TATE’s bedroom. TATE is practicing his clarinet and is getting frustrated; he keeps squeaking on the lower notes. He is tense and staring at the music stand angrily. From upstairs, we hear HIS MOM.
MOM. Tate! Shut the door!
HE ignores her.
MOM. Tate!!!
MOM enters the room, looking at him from the doorway. He doesn’t look at her.
MOM. Tate, what is wrong with you.
TATE. (snapping) Look, okay, all right?! He speaks with the awkwardness of somebody who says what he hears in the movies.
MOM. Tate… SHE goes to his bed, sitting. I didn’t mean it that way. I asked you to shut your bedroom door and…
TATE. I didn’t hear you.
MOM. …What is wrong? (HE doesn’t answer.) Is this about the party you went to?
TATE. No.
MOM. I got a phone call from Ian’s mother. She said you got in a fight with one of the other boys. (SHE waits for TATE to respond, but nothing.) She said he called you retarded.
TATE. Mom! (SHE jumps.) Look I don’t… (He is stuttering, frustrated, unable to string sentences right, as if somebody keeps rewinding him.) Look, I… Look, I don’t want to talk about it.
MOM. Tate, you’re not retarded. You’re very smart. You’re getting better grades than your sister, you know that. She asked about you yesterday. She called. She wanted to have seen your solo last night. (TATE says nothing.) Maybe you could play it for her, for Christmas?
TATE. …Okay. (He says it somewhat impatiently - he wants her out.)
MOM. …I don’t like that tone you’re using with me.
TATE. Okay!
MOM. …Okay.
TATE. (not satisfied.) I hate this! I hate this! I hate Ian!
MOM. Tate, no, Ian is your best friend, you don’t hate him.
TATE. Mom, no, I hate him! (Even in this, it is clear that he is repeating her, even if only slightly.) Because Jack said that I was retarded, and Ian just said, ‘Uh, well, no he isn’t.’ And I was like, ‘HEY! No way, man, you don’t say that!’ Because you don’t say that!
MOM. (calmer now) Are you mad because Ian stood up for you?
TATE. Uh, duh, no! (His body is tense and almost shaking, still holding his clarinet.) He told Jack that I was… He said… and I don’t LIKE it when he SAYS that!
MOM. Tate, he was trying to help you.
TATE. But he should know! He should know!
MOM. Tate, what are you saying, honey? Tate, talk to me.
TATE. He said that I was… you know! (SHE pretends not to.) Autistic! And I was like, ‘Hey, no way!’ Just, no way! That is just bull shit!!
MOM. Tate!! (cuts TATE off short) What have I told you about language?!
At this, Tate lets out an angry yell, practically squeezing his clarinet before pulling himself together just enough to set the instrument down.
TATE. Mom, I don’t CARE! I DON’T… Look, I just DON’T want to TALK about it! I’m TIRED of this!
With that, Tate storms out of his own bedroom, heading to the bedroom where he knows his father is. MOM makes an angry noise in her throat, patience tried as usual, before beginning to put away her son’s clarinet in it’s case so it doesn’t get damaged.
So hopefully in the near future I'll write a post about how all my classes are. Or maybe I won't. xD