No Vivaldi
by Edward Clinton

Now there would be no Vivaldi, she thought as she picked up the black box from its delicate position on the stone cold floor. And she was right: the little battery-sucking monster was dead or just nearly. All it could do now was to fit and start its way through “The Four Seasons." ...

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My Little Brother
by Edward Clinton

She had no idea how long she had been dancing. Probably all day. Definitely since the phone call. The CD of Natalie Cole had been at full volume for hours. The music was so loud she hadn't heard her daughter come in. She bumped into her and jostled the schoolbooks cradled in her daughter's arms ...

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If Two Be Away
by Colin Killingworth

Lady Elizabeth hoped for a beheadal. Something similar to Anne Boleyn's; one painless swipe of a French sword. Certainly they would grant her that. She stared out the oriel window and waited ...

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Appearing Live
by Edward Clinton

“I don't think it should be a woman, regardless of what's going on between them. I think, if I'm going to kill anyone, it should be a man, especially if I have to bash his head in with a hatchet,” Gloria Bel Haven announced in that unmistakable voice of hers ...

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All I Want For Christmas
by Edward Clinton

All I wanted for Christmas that year was to be left alone. I had recently broken up with my girlfriend. At twenty-two this was a great tragedy, and like many great tragedies, it happened at Christmastime. I had made it to Christmas Eve, so I figured I would ...

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Forever Young
by Edward Clinton

I often wonder what keeps young, unknown writers going—specifically playwrights, since playwriting is my main field of endeavor. Perhaps it's the knowledge that we are in a profession in which we will be considered young long after that word has lost its meaning in every other aspect of our lives ...

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Night for Day
by Edward Clinton

The problem with being involved with a film that isn't a hit is explaining it. Not to the industry, but to your family ...

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I Can be Small I Can be Tall
by Edward Clinton

Have you heard the apocryphal story about the actor at the audition? When the faceless director, somewhere out there in the darkened seats, dismissed this man who was of middling height, with a polite but firm, "I'm sorry, we were looking for someone a little smaller than you," the actor cried out in a very large voice, "I can be small!" And immediately he began to move about the stage acting small ...

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On the Road to Morengo
by Edward Clinton

I lost my playwright's theatrical virginity somewhere on the road to Marengo, Illinois . I used to be an actor but gave it up because there was no money in it. To make money I became a playwright, so you know from the start of this article you are dealing with a dreamer ...

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The Generosity of Famous Playwrights
by Edward Clinton

Too often, young playwrights get discouraged. Football players ruin their knees, tennis players their elbows, actors their egos, and playwrights their faith. How do you keep the faith while waiting for the mail? A crucial element in the "I can't continue" playwright's malady could be another playwright, preferably a famous one. The right words, spoken one playwright to another, can give great courage. This is something to remember if you are already famous, or are planning to become famous. A little kindness goes a long way. ...

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In Defense of Durang
by Edward Clinton

I read in the Dramatist Guild Quarterly, Chris Durang's rather horrifying account of his problems surrounding various productions of his hilarious play, Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You . Added to his own defense, I write this in further defense of Mr. Durang ...

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Per Se Pro Se You Say
by Edward Clinton

My most difficult case was not argued before the Supreme Court. Nor was I involved in the criminal courts, saving the life of a fellow, unjustly accused, in the best Hitchcockian sense. And I must admit, sheepishly, that I have not spent my life fighting the sins of huge corporations, pro-bono. Nor fighting FOR a huge corporation, in the backroom, measuring out my days with coffee spoons, or however T. S. Eliot put it in The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock ...

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Saturday Afternoon Man
by Edward Clinton

Saturday Afternoon Man rose quietly Saturday morning so as not to disturb his wife, who was snoring so delicately. He thumbed through his Pierre Cardin shirts with their collars perfectly starched from the French laundry. Underneath a pristine blue shirt with a white collar, which always made him feel like Pierre Trudeau, he found what he really wanted - a plain brown flannel shirt from J.C. Penney's ...

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