Nice piece on Slate.com on the late, great comic-book writer Steve Gerber. But writer Grady Hendrix gets one thing wrong when writing, “[Gerber] delighted in sneaky juvenile wordplay—for part of his run on Man-Thing the book was called Giant Size Man-Thing.”

Yes, great line, and no, Hendrix is not the first to point this out. But Marvel had an entire line of “Giant-Size” something-or-others, including Giant-Size Avengers and Giant-Size Defenders — indeed, there were no fewer than 29 in all (each, you’ll note, with a hyphen between “Giant” and “Size,” which pleases me greatly). So this wasn’t any wordplay on Gerber’s part; this was the result of the regular title selling well enough to merit a quarterly edition as well. But I doubt that would explain the existence of “Giant-Size Kid Colt,” and my algebra skills aren’t up to the task of solving “Giant-Size Marvel Triple Action.”

By the way, the issue above was the one most prized in my collection. I have a letter published inside. I was 14. Ironically I now relate to it even more, but in a completely different way — most nights, I am The Winky Man, wandering around my bedroom creating chaos in my sleep.

I just got in from the memorial service for my writing teacher, Bill Idelson, whom I talked about here. The service was held at the Writer’s Guild Theatre, and let me say that even in death Bill continues to be a great teacher. Here’s advice we all should heed in thinking about the service we would want:

1. Get Carl Reiner to emcee. (You may recall that Bill wrote for “The Dick van Dyke Show” and played a recurring role. Hence the connection to Carl Reiner.) Mr. Reiner is warm, humane, slyly funny and wonderfully off-the-cuff. He didn’t miss one opportunity. Perhaps my favorite bit was the suggestion of specific edits after viewing the tribute film.
2. In every photo of you, make it look like you were having the time of your life. Apparently, every day was the time of Bill’s life.
3. Pose an attractive spouse with you in those photos, and enjoy her company in every shot.
4. Surround yourself with interesting and amusing people like Norman Corwin and Ray Bradbury and various successful former students and performers like Ann Guilbert who will show up and tell funny stories about you.
5. Turn out to have been a World War II flying ace, someone determined to fight even though the Navy has given you a p.r. job so you can keep working as an actor. Pay for private flying lessons yourself so they can’t deny you. Then fly night fighter missions over Japan and get awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and four Air Medals. Then don’t tell people, so that even longtime friends learn this only from reading your obit.
6. If you’re going to have children, do a good job with them so that they say things like “I won the Dad lottery,” a claim that will be supported by all the photos and the video.

In summation: great service, impressive life.

It was a pleasure watching clips from “The Andy Griffith Show,” which Bill also wrote for, with a large audience. It’s easy to forget just how wonderful Don Knotts was — as well as the material he had to work with. Much was made of Bill’s writing advice to students over the years. Last night in class I was talking about “verisimilitude” — a word that puzzled my students and that Bill would have winced at — but really I was echoing Bill said: “Keep it real.” (Or, more literally, “make a simulation of the truth.”) One of his other bits of advice repeated tonight was this: Never mortgage your story for a joke. The story is more important, and the joke won’t be that funny. That’s exactly right. If you want more of this, you might click here and order Bill’s book — the core of his workshop, captured on paper.

There’s great wisdom in this piece by Marsha Norman (writer of “‘night, Mother,” which, coincidentally, I’m teaching from tonight). I especially like Ms. Norman’s insight that smart playwrights are smarter than critics about where fault lies. I still read the critics — sometimes — but no, I don’t heed them, not really. Playwrights can often hear the play that poor direction has muffled, but critics, who often have limited working knowledge of the theatre, can’t knowledgeably separate these creative roles.

Thanks to EM Lewis for bringing this piece to my attention.

My friends Doug and Stephanie Hackney are on a permanent tour of the world. Lucky for them and us, the world is a large place. That way they get to upload awe-inspiring photos like these. Click here to see their photos from the furthest tip of the world and to read Doug’s simple, striking, declarative narrative. Favorite line: “But as the mountains shook off their cloak of nighttime clouds, the day looked more promising.” That approaches Hemingway.

A professor of rhetoric digs at the meaning beneath Obamalingua.

The last week of May at the Great Plains Theatre Conference in Omaha, Nebraska I’m doing two things I like to do: teaching and judging. I like to teach, and I like to judge. (The latter, at least when it comes to the comportment of elected officials, the relative merits of something artistic, and the personal habits of people who are breezily late and/or ill-mannered.) The conference begins May 24th, and if you’d like to join us, you should click here. If you’d just like to see what I’m teaching, click here. (I’ll be teaching two days, and serving as a panelist throughout the week. And also, if past writing or theatre conferences are any indication, hanging out at pool halls and clubs ’til closing.)

When, late last year, they sent me a very nice email asking me if I would do this, once I ascertained that this in no way conflicted with the San Diego Comic Con (which is in July), I agreed, then set about rearranging my schedule so I could do so. (Among other things, I’m teaching a new class this summer at USC. More about that in a future post.) I also thought: Hey, maybe I’ll drive. As we all know, I love driving that Mustang convertible. I could see wide open stretches of America with the top down. I did that in 2004 stumping in Arizona for John Kerry (he lost). And also, I would have my car. So I looked again at my schedule, both personal and professional, then went to Google maps where I always go now because Mapquest has made it a habit of giving me the longest, slowest, most aggravating, and most often wrong route, and then I discovered something I did not know: Omaha, Nebraska is 1554 miles away. In my mind, it was two states over. No, it’s four states over — in the middle of the country. Who knew? I won’t have enough time to drive there and back, and the nice people at the conference are providing a plane ticket. And so, the plains conference became the plane conference.

I take all this time to relate this story because for me every day is an adventure in discovering what I don’t know, including, to paraphrase Socrates, what I don’t know that I don’t know. I’m eager to visit Nebraska because it’s one of the few states I haven’t been to, but until that fateful day when I looked at the map online, I never had a fixed idea where it is. Now I know it’s next to Iowa. That state I can fix on because it’s next to Illinois, and I’ve been there plenty of times. But Nebraska? I know Springsteen did an album I never wanted to listen to about it. I know that 20 years ago a guy I grew up with who was then a sometimes-dangerous drop-dead drunk once took off for there on some strange odyssey he never allowed himself to discuss again. And… that’s it. I know nothing else about Nebraska. But I’m looking forward to finding out more.

Yes, I’m on deadline with a large writing project. But now the script is finalized and we tape on Friday and Monday, so the smoke is lifting. And so look for more posts here.

You would think that it’s relatively easy to keep count of things that exist in whole units, especially when those whole units add up to only double digits. But today I took a break from working on my new play, tentatively entitled “Second Ice Age,” because I suddenly had the burning desire to figure out how many plays I’ve written. This was partially occasioned by my having to send out an updated bio to a conference I’m teaching at early this summer.

The last time I updated it, the bio that gets put into play programs and speaking notices and such says that I have written “more than two dozen” produced plays. That’s true. It’s also true that I’ve written many other plays that I’ve never sent out because I don’t think they’re ready, which means I’ve written more than 40 plays. I suppose in my mind, I will one day “fix” these other plays. (Or maybe I think that, like some wines, they’ll improve with age. Or just go really bad.) But… how many more than 40?

“The Bar Plays” was intended as a cycle of short plays — a cycle I may finish some day. I’ve written two of them so far. So I guess I should count that as two. Or, is it one unfinished play? Do I count the play I wrote in high school? (Hey, it was even produced.) It isn’t on my hard drive but I’ve got it on file somewhere. If I count that one, I’m now writing my 42nd play. (I think.) But I started writing it before play 41, so which one is actually play 41?

Of the 42 plays, about two-thirds are one-acts, some of them brief. But, I should note, some one-acts are “full-length” plays. Is a 60ish-page play (I’ve got at least two) a one-act or a “full-length” play? When it was done in L.A., “Uncle Hem” was full-length. In New York, it seemed short (because they played it too fast, I think. Which is precisely what one friend called to tell me.). When students ask me, “How long is a full-length play” or, more often, “How long is a one-act play?” I give them a variation of Edward Albee’s response. When asked by an interviewer how many of his plays are full-length, Albee, whose first success was with a one-act, said, “All of them.”

When I was an undergrad studying literature, it puzzled me how writers and then critics and academics couldn’t land on an exact number of how many stories or novels or plays or songs or whatever had been created by a particular artist. In cases concerning the passage of time and the lack of good storage, it made sense: Maybe Aristophanes and Chaucer and Shakespeare couldn’t keep track either. But why not Raymond Carver? Since then I’ve come to know that Carver’s stories exist in different versions, often substantially rewritten, sometimes retitled and sometimes not. As does the Bible. As does, it now seems to me, most things.
For years I kept a record of what I had written and in what order. Now I couldn’t tell you even where that is. I have two file cabinets stuffed with various printed-out or published versions of various things — the product also of short stories, and essays, and reviews, and correspondence, and failed novels — and boxes more in storage in the attic. A few years ago I found a computer disk that at some point I had marked “Lee’s Writing” (I like to think that I’ve come up with cleverer labeling systems since then) and found several completed short stories and plays that I had utterly forgotten about.

I am lucky in one regard: I’m not obsessive enough to be paralyzed by this. I have at least one friend who wouldn’t be able to leave his room until figuring this out. I won’t go too far down that rabbit hole, or I’ll never get to play 43. And I remember the beautiful last story I heard about the late Louis L’Amour. When he knew he was dying, L’Amour went into his writing study resolved to clear up all the debris. On every square inch of floorspace he had stacked manuscripts in progress, miscellaneous writing, correspondence, ephemera, drafts — the detritus of creativity, not all of it yet given shape. His wife came in and saw him standing there deciding how to make order of this before he died, and she said, “You leave that. I’ll take care of it.” And L’Amour left all that and went to his desk and back to his writing.

The deadline for a 10-minute play festival that I wanted to enter passed just one minute ago. The topic: “The sense of smell must be an important element of the play.” In about 23 minutes, I wrote a new play called “Crotch Rot” and uploaded it. Will it be selected? Maybe not. But I wrote a new play and uploaded it at 11:59 and however many seconds. I say this to share with my students, whom I constantly advise when they say they don’t have a play that fits whatever imminent submission requirement: “Go home and write one. It’s not due until tomorrow.” (And it’s worked at least once:  I wrote a 10-minute play in 46 minutes to meet that particular deadline — and the play got accepted and produced.)

A learned a few days ago of the death on New Year’s eve of Bill Idelson but didn’t figure I’d blog about it until the Los Angeles Times ran an obit. Now they have, and you can  click here to read it.

To most people reading this, Bill will be known for either or both of two credits: a recurring role as Rose Marie’s boyfriend Herman Gilmscher on “The Dick van Dyke Show,” and for having written the “Long Distance Call” episode of “The Twilight Zone,” wherein a toy telephone provides the link between a boy (Billy Mumy) and his dead grandmother. Bill also wrote and acted in many other television shows, and for years ran a writing workshop from his house that at least a few of my friends signed up for.

He was also one of my professors in graduate school at USC, where he made an indelible impression. Ostensibly, Bill was teaching sitcom writing. In actuality, Bill was teaching Thinking For Yourself 101. He wasn’t interested in seemingly clever puns — I remember him ripping a fellow student apart for writing a scene about a gorilla in a cage in a suburban household that included the very bad line of dialogue, “But there’s a gorilla in our midst!” (This was around the time of the release of the film “Gorillas in the Mist.”) He was interested in the reality of the situation and your take on it. Both elements were important: There’s a reason that good sitcoms reflect the word blend they arise from — situation, and comedy.

On the last day of class, at the height of the reign of Bush the First, Bill decided to go for broke. He stripped away the outer shell of the lesson — the “writing” part — and left only the cold hard center of the “thinking” part. Bill let us know how he saw the world, in terms of the powerful and the powerless. This went over about as well as one would imagine with a much younger generation succored (or suckered) by Reagan/Bush, and in particular with a group of 12 or so who wanted to write junky pun-laden television with creamy caramel centers. Bill didn’t even expect them to agree with him — he wanted them to argue, to defend their positions, to think for themselves in the way he thought writers should — but they turned cold and a pall fell over the room. At the end of class, two of us hung around to console him. I didn’t come of age during McCarthyism, and I wasn’t writing the nakedly enlightened humanism evidenced by “The Twilight Zone,” but I liked to think I thought for myself, and I could surely see the dynamics of the room, and I generally side with the underdog, and in this case that was the aging writer who hadn’t had any reason to risk his self-image in such a personal campaign with disinterested students — except of course he had to.

I will never forget Bill for that lesson. Or for another.

When my play “Guest for Dinner” was produced in the USC MPW one-act festival — a festival that oddly enough I now find myself executive producing — Bill came to see it at my urging. He brought his wife, the actress-producer Seemah Wilder whom, through further odd circumstance, I would wind up producing in a play about 10 years later and whom I hadn’t remembered as Bill’s wife until reading these obits the past week. “Guest for Dinner” had been produced at Stockton College when I was an undergrad and it had been a sensation, with extra chairs required for every performance and big laughs and a sense of minor celebrity in the making. If anything, the USC production had better acting and better direction, and was clearly working better than at least two of the other plays in the festival. (The fourth play, by a fellow grad student named Peter Chase, was very strong.) On opening night, as people streamed outside filled with what to me seemed like excitement, I asked Bill what he thought. He said something short, friendly, and noncommittal like “Congratulations.” But I wanted to hear more, and said, “No, what did you really think?” And then he told me. Within the space of about two minutes, he ripped the play to shreds. I guess my face betrayed my shock and disappointment, because when it was over, Seemah gripped my arm warmly and said, “Well, I liked it.” I thanked him for his honesty and walked away, licking my wounds. As I thought about this later, I grew to agree with Bill that the play didn’t really work: The writing is self-conscious, the motivations at times weak, the conflict muted. These are mistakes I like to think I haven’t repeated, and as for the play, I allowed one further production and haven’t sent it out since.

People who teach writing aren’t there to be your friend — at least, the good ones aren’t. They also aren’t there to feed their own ego by destroying yours. They are there to teach you something about writing. It’s not always an enjoyable process, either for the provider of advice or the recipient. Given my personal experience with him, I have to think that Bill really cared about what he did, and I’m in his debt.