“And so with the
sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things
grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning
over again with the summer.”
I wrote that. From my novel Gatsby: Among Ash-Heaps and Millionaires, The Great. The slow molasses transmutation from spring into summer…
Ah, summer. Blistering. Parching. Incandescent. Tweeds scratch. Starch collars pinch. Seemed the only way to cool down was to splash in the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel, kick back a quart of bathtub gin, and bare-bottom wrestle Hemingway to the pavement (whenever the arrogant bastard was in town). Smoke Chesterfields. Do the latest dance craze. Zelda would throw shapes and pitch fits.
And we would drink more gin.
While I was often too incapacitated to write anything beyond a string of unrelated flapper idioms, I have to admire these playwrights of whom you’ll see on these worldly-wide web-net pages of The Good Ear Review this summer. These are writers who, presumably, are not distracted by the cool, tall glass of the Tom Collins, or the flat-footed thumping of Zelda’s schizophrenic pirouettes.
Yes, spin, my darling. Spin. Without the cat, dear.
You will find that these dramatists exude a certain talent that I had when I was, say, 23—fresh-faced from bullshit Princeton and full of all the promise of jazz and endless nighttime. And one mammoth, mountainous, hugely humongous, ever-flowing pyramid of martini, martini, martini.
Over the hot summer weeks, expect wondrous new monologues from Natalie Smith (UK), Kim Wiltshire (UK), Richard Ballon (USA), Ella Greenhill (UK), Ethan Kanfer (USA), Les Hunter (USA), Claire Booker (UK), Nathaniel Kressen (USA), Susan Hodgetts (UK), Rahila Gupta (UK), Michael Monkhouse (UK), Dick Curran (UK), and Deirdre Dowling (USA).
Have yourself a good drama read and pass the scotch, Scottie.