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Why the hell should we keep trying?

Can you answer that Reader?

What do we do when we face writer's block and other creative challenges?

Why should we keep writing or creating when we're worried that it won't be good enough?
Why should we do it when we fear what other people might say?
Why should we even write stories with comedic throughlines or happy endings when the world is going through so much hell in a handbasket?
And if we are supposed to do that, how do we do it?

I've been thinking a lot about negative and positive images and how they play in the minds of anyone, but in particular, in the minds of creatives—those who observe life meticulously so that we can reflect it authentically.

In doing that, I wrote about how I wrote a short story monthly for a year. Part of the trick was not promising to do anything more than just write and complete the stories, not worrying about publishing, editing, or audience acceptance.

I recently came across a photograph from a 1987 production of my play Sherlock Holmes in the Hands of Othello.

It was my first major play, based on my love of Sherlock Holmes. Around that time, I was growing aware of an actual black actor from the late 1800s. A man who had started here in the United States made his way to Europe and became a continental celebrity of sorts: Ira Frederick Aldridge (July 24, 1807 – August 7, 1867).

As I discovered more and more about Ira, there was so much I wanted to share, and I chose the Sherlock Holmes venue as a way to do that.

Why not just write a play about our Aldrich? At the time, I thought it was simple. A few hundred people might come to see your play about our Aldridge, but thousands of people would come to see your play or read a book about Sherlock Holmes and discover Ira Aldridge.

So I wrote the play.

Over a year or two, there were multiple readings with many different actors and rewrites and rewrites and rewrites. Eventually, there was a production and more rewrites, rehearsals, casting, and rehearsals and rewrites.

Finally, we debuted to the world in a small Off-Broadway Theater in New York City. The New York Times review was not kind, but it wasn't malicious either. The performances by some of the cast were acknowledged as enjoyable or pleasantly effective.

But I had my first New York Times review, and it smacked me across the head. I guess one way I could have looked at that was that I failed. That my play sucked. And I should never write another one.

But I also had my first New York Times review. I'd accomplished that much. And I was pretty damn proud of the play. The production, the cast, the director, the lighting, the costumes, and everything. And a vast majority of the crowd enjoyed it immensely. Several of the other reviews were kinder or very complimentary.

From that experience, I was asked to speak at many events hosted by various chapters of Sherlock Holmes fan clubs. An audience member was putting together an anthology of playwrights and asked if he could include my play. And I said yes, of course, never expecting it to come to fruition.

But it did. Suddenly, my first major play, which did not get complimentary reactions from The New York Times, was published in an anthology (Black Thunder: An Anthology of Contemporary African American Drama) along with the works of August Wilson, Leslie Lee, Amiri Baraka, and more.

If I hadn't tried, none of that would have happened.

I wouldn't have had the chance to see what I could do, to meet the talented people I did, to entertain the many who came, and to discover friendships and recognition with the Conan Doyle estate and fans of the great detective that lasts even to this day.

So why do it? Why do we write? Why should we write even when?

Because you never know what will happen.

Never.

Now, take a pen and paper or sit at the keyboard and get to work and play.

End of Part Two

Best,

Alex Simmons

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