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.

Last week brought news of two more controversies involving what its defenders sometimes term "color-blind casting," and what detractors might call color blindness: Katori Hall described her outrage to learn that a white actor had played Martin Luther King, Jr., in a recent production of her play The Mountaintop; and Lloyd Suh forced the cancellation of a production of his play Jesus in India, for which the director had cast, without Suh's knowledge, two white actors as South Asian characters. (Suh explains his position here.)

Predictably, these events produced epic threads across the tapestry of social media. At least in those I followed, the conversation inevitably turned when one or more posters (if not always, than nearly always, white men) suggested that Hall and Suh were themselves guilty of discrimination by refusing to consider certain actors for certain roles, positions the posters supported by praising "color-blind" productions they have authorized of their own plays. (Here it must be emphasized that neither director asked for Hall's or Suh's permission before casting white actors.) These posters were then told that their opinions do not matter—that they "do not get" to have these opinions—and the arguments quickly degenerated.

Rather than step further into these particular outrages, I would like instead to explore a more general question: As a white playwright, do I have the right to form and express an opinion about "color-blind casting" in plays by writers of color? To begin, I hate this language of "rights," which I think distracts more than illuminates, but it's the default stance for contrarian posters: "I won't let anyone take away my right to my opinion!" begins oh-so-many replies. It would be just as meaningless to proclaim one's right to have ideas. We have opinions because we're human—as long as we're thinking and experiencing, we cannot not have opinions. About everything.

But there's a flip side to opinions, if everyone is having them at every moment: The vast, vast majority are disposable. And so the more interesting—and relevant—question is whether a particular opinion is worth sharing. And if so, to whom? As a white playwright, my opinion is that it's great I don't have to worry much about proponents of "color-blind casting" ignoring—or thwarting—my intentions; on the contrary, it might be thrilling to discover what black or South Asian actors bring to characters I have always imagined as white. As a male playwright, I have the same opinion about "gender-neutral casting." As a straight playwright, I'm open to rethinking heterosexual relationships in my plays as homosexual. It's great to have that privilege!

All these opinions would be relevant—I hope—to a director of my work, and in that context I will eagerly share them and, when necessary, insist they be respected. All these opinions are irrelevant—I believe—to writers of color, to writers who are women or who are gay or who belong to any other group that cannot take my privileges for granted. Of course I "get" to have them. The question I should ask, whether in person or with fingers poised above keyboard, is why anyone else should listen. If my only answer is Because I'm Brent Englar, I should probably do most of the listening. And afterward, I can call up my mom and tell her.