A major reason I haven't blogged since November is I'd been directing a play: Life Support, by Madeline Leong.​ Life Support is the second production I've directed of a new play written by someone else—the first being Erica Smith's Come Out and Say It—and both experiences left me contemplating the role of feedback, and the need for humility, in the development of a new play.

Since 2010 I have led workshops and talkbacks involving dozens of playwrights—some through the Mobtown Playwrights Group, others through the Dramatists Guild. If I may briefly set aside humility, I consider myself pretty insightful when it comes to feedback, and I am proud of my contributions, as director and dramaturg, to Come Out and Say It and Life Support. Yet I also believe that had Erica or Madeline followed my instincts on several crucial points, their respective plays would have been worse for it.

Life Support concerns a man's struggles to accept his impending death from cancer. Two members of the man's family appear onstage: his estranged son and his fifth wife. Nearly as important, however, is a character we never meet: the man's daughter, Melody, who "disappeared" long ago. "She wasn't kidnapped," the estranged son clarifies. "She ran away—her mom ran away with her. Because of my father." When I first read this, my instinct was that Melody is unnecessary—a distraction from the play's flesh and blood. If Madeline had asked me to rewrite Life Support, Melody would have been my first cut.

That "if" is the point, of course. Instead Madeline held firm, and Melody remained. Over the next few months, as I lived with the script, my attitude gradually changed—almost without my realizing it. Only as I watched the performances did I fully appreciate the role played by this absent daughter. Far from distracting, she pulls me in deeper ... and then she's gone. The plot doesn't hinge on Melody—structurally, she is still cuttable—yet she belongs in the play's world as surely as life and death, hope and regret. Madeline knows this because she created that world. For me to think I know better requires much presumption.

In Come Out and Say It, I had somewhat of the opposite experience: The draft Erica submitted to be workshopped seemed perfect already. Come Out and Say It has five characters—a mix of longtime and first-time crooks—dodging the fallout of a failed heist. Erica used the workshop as an opportunity to further explore the play's many relationships—every rehearsal, it seemed, she arrived with a new scene to stage. As she distributed the pages, my (private) response was the same: We learn just enough already; why dilute our experience of this world? And every time, as I heard the new material, the ground shifted and I fell harder for the characters. Erica knows this because she created those characters. For me to think I know enough requires much presumption.

A theme, a theme! I am not dismissing the value of feedback or a fresh perspective. But so much of new play development involves soliciting—and seriously considering—gut reactions. Never mind whether readers and audience members are trained dramaturgs or even artists—can anyone really trust their first impressions of a piece of theatre? Of course, here is where idealism smacks into reality. A play must communicate quickly and directly because, for most people, first impressions are the only ones; even among dedicated theatergoers, who has the time and money to see multiple performances? All of which incentivizes theaters to produce and writers to write cleaner, tidier shows. And, when a moment isn't immediately clear, to "fix" it rather than simply live with it. Or, when a moment seems good enough, to resist seeking better.

I'm concerned that the latest trend in Baltimore theater is passing the hat. Since June I've seen at least three shows that ended not with curtain calls but with sales pitches. (I won't name names—I probably missed just as many that ended this way.) The motions are the same, whether the tone is brisk or apologetic, and whether the organization is long established or relatively new: With the audience still applauding, an actor or administrator—sometimes the artistic director—steps forward, thanks everyone for coming, and kindly asks for donations.

I understand that keeping a theater open is an unending struggle for absurdly scarce resources. (I was on the Mobtown Players' board for four years, before rising rent and floodwaters combined to put us out of business.) I understand, I sympathize . . . yet is this really the best fundraising idea our community has had? If we can't even give audiences time and space to digest a show before we beg for money, are we not implicitly reducing the show to crowd-bait? Are we not explicitly communicating that buying a ticket is not good enough—that if people really want to support a theater, they should buy a spot on the donor's list.

Well, maybe they should. But making that pitch from a stage still flecked with sweat, to an audience that is practically captive, seems more than tacky. It seems like preying on goodwill and guilt: We gave you culture. The least you can give us is five more bucks.

Let me step back from hyperbole. I'm sure much of my annoyance is that two of the three shows I saw were new plays. What a disservice to a writer, to interrupt audience members as their responses are still forming, because of course the more vital response is capital flowing to the producer!

Let me step back from crankiness. I recognize every theater's need to fundraise; I can even follow the logic that might lead theater-makers to decide the best time to fundraise is immediately after a performance. I think this is shortsighted and uncreative. It ends in a vision of theater as an obligation rather than a joy. We can do better. We must. Or the only people paying to support our work will be ourselves.