Meeting With The Mentor
Mentors come at unexpected times and in surprising places. Sometimes we seek them, and sometimes they just show up and offer exactly what we need.My most unexpected meeting with a mentor happened by chance in a Seattle coffee shop.The time was 2003, and the place was Victrola, a favorite Capitol Hill espresso bar, around the corner from my apartment. I’d moved to Seattle from grad school in the Iowa Playwrights Workshop, and was supporting myself with odd jobs I’d cobbled together: a couple of teaching gigs, and a part-time job in the receiving department of the City People’s Mercantile. Making ends meet.Back then, the kind folks at Victrola would let you buy a cup of coffee and nurse it along most of the day, which I did, as I worked on a draft of my play.One day, I noticed a nicely dressed man sitting alone at a table, writing feverishly on the back of a stack of postcards he’d picked up by the door. He stood out, not only because of his dapper attire (nice slacks, a black turtleneck under a tweed blazer, and a smart “newsboy” cap), but because…well, I recognized him instantly.
August Wilson, the Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, lived, as it turned out, in my neighborhood. He was deep in thought that day, so I didn’t bother him. But he showed up again, several days later, and tossed me a friendly smile as he took the table next to mine and began leafing through The New York Times.I mustered up my courage, approached his table and introduced myself to him as a playwright. We chatted about productions of his plays that I’d seen in New York, and theatre in general. Then he invited me to sit with him and we talked for over an hour about our current projects.August was working on Gem of the Ocean, the second to last play in his 10 play cycle. His routine was to write in the early morning, stroll to Victrola and mull over his notes with several cups of black drip coffee, then head back home to write again before his wife and daughter got home.After several random encounters, we began to meet regularly. Our conversations were lively and inspiring. August did most of the talking—and he was fascinating to listen to—an animated storyteller who became his characters, transforming into them as he recited full monologues right there at the table.
He’d talk about his process, and how his stories flowed from one line about a character, who then began to tell his or her story, which led to other characters, which gradually became a play. His rewriting was rigorous, and his characters often surprised him with unexpected actions that caused him to change course altogether.Sometimes he would bring me gifts: a collection by his favorite poet Jorge Luis Gorges, a jazz CD, a favorite image.We were an unlikely pair. Him: an African American man in his late 50’s, at the top of his writing game. Me: a white lesbian, twenty years younger and still discovering my process. Our writing styles, stories and subject matter were vastly different.So I questioned, at first, why we’d come together. What was I supposed to learn from this man, who was so different from me as a writer and a person? Not having an answer, I continued to show up, to listen and ask questions, to accept his blunt, sometimes even harsh critique of my work, because his insights made my work stronger. I learned from his ambitious, bold vision, and from his relentless practice of his art.We only knew each other those two years, which as it happened, were to be his last ones on earth.
When I got to see Gem of the Ocean on Broadway after August died, I knew those characters like they were friends. I knew things they had done or said or thought that didn’t end up in the play, but that shaped who they were. I knew them off the page and in the mind of the writer.Here is what I came to understand: the learning itself was intangible. And by that I mean, supernatural, incorporeal and transcendent.August Wilson continues to teach me. He wasn’t offering me advice on the craft of playwriting. He was giving me something much more rare: the gift of being inside his process with him.This man, a seasoned traveler of theatrical worlds, continually embarking on his own hero’s journey, called me to show up and be present to the gift of time, storytelling and conversation.And this is what gifted mentors do: they share themselves. This post is part of a series by Amy, featured in our monthly newsletter. Stay tuned in September for the next piece in this series: “Crossing the Threshold.”Aren't getting the Hedgebrook Newsletter? Subscribe now!
About the Author:
Amy Wheeler is a playwright and Executive Director of Hedgebrook. Amy’s plays have been produced and developed at theatres and in festivals around the country, and published in Rain City Project’s MANIFESTO series Vols 1 & 2. An alumna of Hedgebrook and Yaddo, Amy holds an MFA from the Iowa Playwrights Workshop.
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