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WordWorkers WordWorkers is an independent micro-publisher devoted to the novels & plays of Conrad Bishop & Eliza

I’d like people to read my new book JOY, so I’m giving it away. In PDF form, which can be read on any computer. To get a...
10/30/2024

I’d like people to read my new book JOY, so I’m giving it away. In PDF form, which can be read on any computer. To get a copy, you don’t have to vow to read or comment on it, you just have to INTEND to read it.

To me, the main obstacle in reading any book that isn’t praised by the Word of God isn’t money but time. I don’t want to waste hours ploughing thru something that’s second-rate. We can’t remove that obstacle, except to say it’s gone through many drafts and is edited by Elizabeth, but we can at least blunt the price thing.

It’s part memoir, with a lot left out, and partly me just expressing my varied feelings about getting OLD: I’ve just turned 84. I don’t know if it’s inspirational or depressing—you can judge that—but it IS entitled JOY.

So just respond with your email address, and we’ll send you out a PDF.

Peace & yes, joy—Conrad

08/25/2024

I fart a lot. More than I ought to. I guess it comes with age, though I haven’t noticed it in other geezers. It may be that somehow you just don’t worry so much about it, or that it’s not as noticeable as it seems.

True, you don’t want to add to usual complaints about the old: we’re either crotchety or spry, we’re forgetful, we’re stuck back in the 1900’s, we’re hanging on to milk Medicare. Indeed, writing a blog about it won’t win any friends, influence people, advance the career, or even get out the vote. It’s just one of the messy features of getting old instead of buying the farm, like so many of my friends.

Not that it happens all the time. I can sit through whole spans of time without the tell-tale tail blurt. I can go to concerts or poetry readings with confidence that I won’t disrupt proceedings with eruptions. Yet sometimes the bus comes out of nowhere when I’m walking or rising or just looking at the trees in the wind. Suddenly, I’m all too human.

It’s a sign of degeneration. Like the speed with which I type, it requires an unusual focus. It excuses me from thinking deep thoughts. It’s little different from walking over rutty ground: I once did it without thinking, but now it requires a focus on balance, like stumbling onto my legs at eighteen months.

It depends so much on whether there are other people about. It’s expected of a baby, but you’re long since out of a diaper. And people proliferate: what once would have been a walk among trees, you likely encounters hordes of fellow humans, forming tours of tourists, wedding parties, or football teams on an outing. The populace proliferates.

All you can do is look the other way. You can look as if you were moved to ask, “Who farted?” but had the good breeding to pretend not to notice. But it takes you back to grade school. Next stop will be kindergarten’s nappy time, when you get your sleep-mat from your cubby and lie there twitching until it’s time to get up and fingerpaint.

ANOTHER BEST-SELLER!(By 2030, maybe.) CHEMO ia our seventh published novel, not counting plays, stories, flashes, and me...
06/20/2024

ANOTHER BEST-SELLER!

(By 2030, maybe.)

CHEMO ia our seventh published novel, not counting plays, stories, flashes, and memoirs. It’s a cross-pollination of spy, science fiction, and character comedy.

Eddie Funstion, after 41 years with a murderous Federal agency, learns that retired agents die fast. He exchanges identity with Victor Otis, an ancient hippie with a smelly dog in a small California town, and crosses paths with Judith, whose multiple identities are a result of alien abduction. With her gritty humor, her teenage son Josh, and her lover Moshe, she’s managed a life, but the Feds target her as an enemy sympathizer.

The aliens are actually very nice folks, sending emissaries to heal the traumas they’ve caused. But seeing our r**e of Planet Earth, they are simultaneously planning to kill us as the cancer we are. It’s black, funny, and vaguely hopeful.

You can order from us at DamnedFool.com or IndependentEye.org. Be the first on your block!

04/23/2024

Careers in the theater don’t normally result in your boxing up your actors after every show, but that’s been a challenge I’ve faced.

It started way back when, when we first discovered the merits of puppetry. Our first ensemble, Theatre X of Milwaukee, produced several agitprop plays with puppets, but then took a huge chomp of the pumpkin with ALICE IN WONDER, an adaptation of the Lewis Carroll books. Fortunately, those puppets disappeared over the years, but the urge did not.

Only a small fraction of the 60-70 plays we’ve produced have been with puppets, so we haven’t made a name in the puppet realm. I’m not an unbiased judge, but I think we’ve done damned good work in that realm.

Our MACBETH was revived twice and played on tour for years. INANNA went through many changes, finally getting it right. THE TEMPEST and KING LEAR were heart-breaking, and our short pieces in RASH ACTS and HANDS UP! I’d stack up with anything that’s out there, though our work has always been more verbal than visual.

But that’s been a lot of puppets. 23 bins in our shop at last count. We’re in our 80’s: what happens to our creatures when we croak? Our kids don’t have room for these dozens, perhaps hundreds of souls: one’s in Italy, one’s in an apartment in SF, the size of a SF apartment. Tchokschkes you can get rid of at yard sales, books ditto, but people? You surely don’t want to bequeath them to your kids to have to cart to the dump.

So we spread them out in the studio, wall to wall, and allowed the kids first dibs. The rest we offered to OCA, Occidental Center for the Arts, in a tiny town where we’ve done a few things. They’ll do an exhibit (through the month of May), and all revenue from sales will go to OCA.

It’s a trip. I’ve never remotely thought of myself as a visual artist, though I’ve sculpted hundreds of puppets and designed many sets & posters, not to mention stage pictures that any director composes—but all in service of the story told. But here’s a card-carrying art gallery exhibiting my friends for a month!

Same anxieties as opening a play: the impossible worklist, the sudden jolt in the night when you realize that something vital isn’t on the worklist, the possibility—born of long years—that a few people come, see they’re the only ones, and wander out, or that someone will turn away bellowing a loud “Ick!” All those things happen. They’re unwelcome, though they’re survivable.

Meantime, the life of humankind goes on.

Surviving Dystopia: Tapdancer is comic dystopia, the least popular genre on the planet, except for late-night comics. Wh...
03/08/2024

Surviving Dystopia: Tapdancer is comic dystopia, the least popular genre on the planet, except for late-night comics. Which we’re not. No major atrocities, no serious car chases or adultery. What we do is what we’ve always done on stage: present humans we hope you have empathy for, whatever their flaws. It started from a play we wrote about 20 years ago and has grown along with us. And our ultimate purpose: to suggest you have empathy for yourself … and all of us. From a reader: “I just wanted to say I loved the novel! Compelling page-turner.I wondered how consciousness can produce some of the scenes in it. It takes a lotof bold to write like that. So honored to read your work.”Take a chance: go to damnedfool.com or independenteye.org/print and buy the thing. And let us know how you like it.

In the past I’ve read posts about racism, sexism, etc., and tried to distinguish between folks making rational points an...
02/25/2024

In the past I’ve read posts about racism, sexism, etc., and tried to distinguish between folks making rational points and pissed-off folks just ranting. But I’ve not felt personally involved. Now I’m moved to post about “ageism.”

I’m 82, and it strikes home. I’m not directly affected: I don’t seek a job, and some folks even open doors for me. True, I can’t get a literary agent, as no one would make any money from me over the long run, but that was probably true thirty years ago, when I had one—she died.

Nor am I vitally concerned with the “creeping invisibility” factor that hits men at the point when you no longer look like a ra**st: I’m used to it. Maybe it’s because I’m shy, or a left-over condition from high school, where I got good grades and consequently didn’t fit in, but it’s been only on stage that I’m visible, because then I’m a more interesting somebody-else.

I’m more concerned with national politics. I see daily headlines about Joe Biden’s “gaffes” but nothing about Trump’s ambling, rambling, utterly demented speeches. That’s not “news,” that shows he says what he thinks. As to Biden’s gaffes: I myself have many moments of not remembering names, and of having to use the thesaurus to find words. That’s a part of aging, and I have no trouble making a choice between “senile” and “long in the tooth,” depending on the context. I certainly admit to being the latter.

At last resort, I should launch into a speech castigating my fourth-grade teacher and all the migrants who’re writing best-sellers. If I do it loud enough and often enough, I’ll be lauded as tough-minded enough to make our enemies cringe.
In the meantime, what’s to be done in more general terms? Senility is a medical condition; it can be diagnosed or ruled out. Other medical conditions give credence to the saw that old age isn’t for wimps. More problematic, for me, are other common cliches of age.

“Stuck in the past” is an euphemism for “close-minded,” and it’s inarguable that the past plays a role in one’s thinking, starting with my mother’s admonition to look both ways before I cross the street. Yes, there’s the danger of not adapting to new technology—I don’t do texting, both because I type very slowly with my thumb, and because I don’t like a dozen new ways to miss your message.

Other ways of being closed-minded? It’s my observation that younger folks—which includes almost everyone now—are more prone, not less, to adopt the “flavor of the day.” Who else would try bubblegum-flavored ice cream?

I readily admit that people of my generation have problems. I hate to drive at night, Balance uncertainties, sleeplessness, and so on, not to mention other less mentionable details. But assuming that particular people who belong to a demographic have all the characteristics associated with that grouping, I think, is bigoted, plain and simple.

Everyone—any age, any race, any social standing—very easily falls victim to the idea that they’re persecuted, that others are more privileged, lazier, dumber, more something, less other. Is it economic disparity, one of thirty billion ism’s, or just grading on the curve? Maybe we’re back to Jimmy Carter, where great tumult was made of “malaise.” Maybe there’s no one answer, but I feel it’s profound.

Tapdancer is our eleventh novel, based on a play that we wrote and produced in 1992. It started as an horrific dream: a ...
02/19/2024

Tapdancer is our eleventh novel, based on a play that we wrote and produced in 1992. It started as an horrific dream: a dear friend was convicted of defacing an obnoxious billboard and sentenced to death: I saw him die and woke up weeping.

But it fueled a week’s workshop with a theatre in Seattle, working with actors on improvisations during the day, writing all night. In the odd process, it transformed into a comedy. It was given a reading at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a workshop staging at Mark Taper Forum. Produced by us in Philadelphia and Lancaster PA, later staged by Fulton Opera House.

After about about ten drafts, it’s become a novel. This is the end result, and we’re very proud of it. Certainly it’s dystopian, but a comic, user-friendly dystopia. The world hasn’t gotten less crazy over the course of time, and if you can listen to the evening news without throwing a fit, you’d actually enjoy it.

We don’t want you to waste your time when you could be mouthing ridiculous words to your pet or your spouse. It takes a long time to read a novel if you’re as slow as me (CB).

We think it’s entertaining, funny, profound—but tastes differ. So we’re making this offer. Send us your email ([email protected]) with a request: Send a Tapdancer packet. We’ll send you the first chapter. If you don’t like it, you’ve spent only a few minutes of your life when you could have indulged in something more injurious to your health. If it appeals to you, buy it.

Or just take a chance: go to damnedfool.com or independenteye.org/print and buy the paperbound what-am-I-letting-myself-in-for. It’s $15.95 plus $3 shipping.

Our newest novel, Tapdancer, a comic novel in the off-center tradition of Vonnegut, Bunuel, or Groundhog Day—farce as to...
01/24/2024

Our newest novel, Tapdancer, a comic novel in the off-center tradition of Vonnegut, Bunuel, or Groundhog Day—farce as today’s reality. It starts as romantic comedy, plunges into horror, then bobs back to the surface.

We don’t want you to waste your time when you could be petting your pet. It takes a long time to read a novel if you’re as slow as me (CB), and you’ll wait till Doomsday before you see a stunning review of this in the NY Times. We think it’s entertaining, funny, profound—but tastes differ. So we’re making this offer.

Send us your email with a request: Send a Tapdancer packet. We’ll send you a summary plus the first 5 pages. If you don’t like it, you’ve spent only five minutes of your life when you could have indulged in something much more injurious to your health. If it appeals to you, buy it.

Or just take a chance: go to damnedfool.com or independenteye.org/print and buy the paperbound all-of-it. Our first week's sale was great: we have high hopes.

07/25/2021

—From CB—

For me, a new experience of the printed page. I’ve spent the last two weeks editing. The first volume of Elizabeth’s three-part memoir will appear after the first of the year. It’ll cover the time from her first howl in 1940 to our forming The Independent Eye in 1974—maybe the two most challenging years of her life, so far at least. Birth into new worlds, both.

In 2010 we collaborated on a joint memoir, Co-creation: Fifty Years in the Making. This is a bit different. All our work since we met has been in collaboration, but here I’m more the midwife, not the dad, helping the baby get born with all its fingers and toes in good order.

In some ways it’s a familiar process. Rewrites are a natural process of writing, like digestion: the food hasn’t done its job by just being chewed. Our most recent novel has been through ten drafts, and some of our plays have had major changes after years of production. As a director, more than a few times, I’ve interrupted rehearsal to move a chair three inches.

In any story, you look first to see that the needed parts are there: the background, the incidents, and the motivations. Is the order right, and the “voice”—the style and mind of the narrator: Does it mumble? Does it shout? Does it have a wry grin or a somber hangdog air? Then you get down to the rhythms and choices of words.

I’m grateful for a lifetime of writing comedy, among many other styles. The discipline of the set-up, the development, and the punch is applicable whether you want to produce a laugh or a stab. It involves word order, sentence length, tempo, and word choice. But you face the challenge of the radical difference between speech and page. In the spoken line, you control—by inflection and tempo—what the spectator takes in; on the page, you try to get the reader attuned to an inner voice that does the same, but you can’t control it completely. Readers have their own speed, acuity of perception, and distractions. In the theatre, they’re aided by the presence of others, impulses to perceive through a laugh or a breath what they might otherwise miss; but the sole reader has no such tribe, and the writer gropes in the dark.

So it does help to have an editor to grope along with. Now it’s chapter by chapter, mostly line edits, though sometimes I bring forth a larger issue: does this have enough weight? should we suggest more of the outcome? will younger readers understand the rules of female dorms in 1958? Otherwise, it’s all about readability. Does it flow? Does this phrase get in the way? What if the paragraph starts this way and ends with more of a punch?
Computers are Satan’s work, but sometimes Satan’s a friend. Being able to switch the Markup function on and off, seeing every proposed change or deletion in a document, is a huge assist. Once I finish a chapter, Elizabeth reviews the changes, and we sit down to talk about those she questions. It’s her decision, but I’ll explain my reason for the change if I think it’s significant, and we may agree on a new way to handle it. More than one way to skin a cat—though we don’t say that in the presence of our cats.

There are many in the realm of prose who advise against “family” as editors. The argument goes that readers don’t have the same perspective as friends or spouse, and often that’s true, except…

If the two of you have very different temperaments; if you’ve clocked sixty years of sometimes gnarly collaboration (and survived it); if you’ve had thousands of audiences telling you, by their reactions, what’s boring, redundant, utterly incomprehensible, and what works; if together you’ve found the eighth or tenth way of doing it more effectively—then you’re probably better off than with an editor who sees their job as making you sound like everyone else. This, to be sure, coming from a writer who’s never sold more than 400 copies of prose.
Meantime, I’m enjoying the work. And reveling in the multiple beings of the woman I love.

06/28/2021

I have a friend who’s an artist. He does wonderful abstract drawings and paintings, but also some monumentally brilliant funny stuff. Some years ago, he did a very wise thing: he split his identity. The abstracts are billed under his own name. The nutty-monkey work is the creation of an artist named Unique Fredrique.

The reason is obvious. Like our hamburgers, we need our artists, our singers, or our writers “branded”—i.e. constituting an unique brand. We want to know what we’re getting, and more: we want an image of the artist. If he/she changes, it needs to be in gradual increments or, like a comedian in a serious role, something that recognizes the norm through the contrast.

Certainly artists go through phases: one decade of Picasso isn’t like the last, ditto Dylan, even ditto Andy Warhol. But they tend to be consistent within that phase. If not, they adopt a pseudonym for the “inconsistent” work, e.g. Unique Fredrique.

To our disadvantage, we’ve never done that in our writing or staging. A transparent comedy sketch is followed by opaque myth or kitchen-sink realism. When we ran “subscription seasons” at our theatres in Philadelphia or Lancaster PA, they were perhaps the most unbalanced seasons in American theatre history. It was a standing joke in the office about the guy who was so enamored of a lightweight dance piece we staged that he’d call up regularly for a reservation, inquiring if there were any barefoot women in Waiting for Godot. To his credit, he came anyway.

We’ve added the further complication, since 1982, of claiming dual authorship. That has different forms depending on the piece, but above all it means that we both sign off on the result, acknowledging joint parenthood. But while joint authorship is commonplace with filmscripts or TV comedy, plays and novels (unless pure genre) lose value in the public mind unless we can see them as the unsullied emanations of solo genius.

It struck me as odd, though predictable, that the revelation that John LeCarre’s novels were written in heavy collaboration with his wife was headline news. It contradicts the tradition of the genius working solo, as friends and family offer, at most, a grim patience. Bertolt Brecht at least had the virtue of publishing his plays listing all his collaborators, but the gears grind and we only know his name and certainly not that of Elisabeth Hauptmann. That doesn’t affect the quality of the plays; it only reflects the nature of the fame machine.

We need our heroes, and the corollary is that their fall can be mighty swift. If a politician’s views change over the span of 30 years, he’s labeled either a “waffler” or a hypocrite. If popular novelists’ political views don’t match ours, they’re seen not only as traitors but retroactively as bad writers. The baby and the bathwater are one and the same.

For myself, I don’t feel contaminated by reading Knut Hamsun’s novels despite his N**i sympathies or by appreciating the virtues of a friend despite his despicable flaws or idiotic moments. I don’t reject Michelangelo’s Pieta or Bach’s music because of the millennia of perverse crimes of the Christianity that inspired them. But that’s just me: your mileage may vary.

What does concern me is the realization that my friend is following the only practical path in separating his “serious artist” name from his Unique Fredrique persona. But personally I see his great value in having those seemingly contradictory dimensions.

# # #

05/17/2021

I’m writing a novel, fourth draft now, and one of the characters is based a lot on me. Great thing about writing, you can rewrite. Revisions are rarely allowed in life, but in fiction, it’s fiction.

I don’t find myself the most interesting character, but I’m convenient. On the page, I tend to talk very strangely, coming up with lots of stuff that gets cut by the second draft. In reality, I tend to cut it on the first draft. In reality, I think myself worth listening to, but I’m pretty convinced that no one else does, with the exception of Elizabeth most of the time.

Michael, my newest incarnation, is a technical writer, a born cynic who’s been dragged kicking and screaming into a non-traditional lifestyle—but he’s found that these are the people he’d like to kick and scream with. Somewhat to his chagrin, he’s not the main focus of the novel—the characters are like a pizza that’s divided pretty evenly around the table, and only the cat fails to get its own chapter.

In fact, I’d like to get away from this tight-assed type, who’s appeared in past incarnations as a substitute teacher, a tap-dancing investment broker, an ER physician, an aged farmer, and probably in a dozen comedy sketches, including a weatherman and a recent retiree who’s presented himself with his own retirement plaque. Still, he keeps crawling out from under a rock and into the scenario. I’m not sure why. He’d surely be more comfortable out of the limelight. He’s pretty shy.

But perhaps it’s because of his yearning. Just as the cats meow at their cat gate at dawn, he wants to be seen, and there’s both comedy and drama in his howl. I guess it’s more the comedy that attracts me. I’ve done a lot of sad, grim, obsessive stories because in this world I can’t help it, but I’ve come to realize that comedy is a survival tool. Escapist, maybe, but it gives you a sharper sight of the onrushing ogre and better vision to read the map for an escape route.

04/05/2021

I get tired, which I guess is normal at 79. But what’s tending to tire me out these days is the past. I’ve been sorting and filing tons of the remnants of a life: scripts, photos, reviews, grant applications, correspondence, etc. etc. etc.—knowing that when I die I’ll inevitably leave a mess, but a less disorderly mess.

I’ve been a bit startled to see how much we’ve done in the last 20 years since moving from our pleasant & well-funded nest in Philadelphia: 19 stage productions (of which we’ve written 17); 92 episodes of a radio series; sculpting of 95 puppets; editing 4 dvds, 40 short stories (7 published); 8 novels and a memoir (5 published); two unproduced screenplays; plus a garden and two cats. Right now, I’m in the 3rd draft of a new novel, editing a memoir-in-progress by Elizabeth, doing interior layout for an anthology of our comedies, and waiting for the world to open up.

Our purpose in life? For sure, the urge of protoplasm to persist in its structure and to replicate itself is pretty certain. Anything beyond that is for us individually to decide. The sky’s the limit, even for those who want to get to Heaven. For me, it’s to offer love to my family; to tell stories any way I can; to behave like a decent human being; to struggle against the solipsism that stemmed from the genes and from being an only child; and to leave my campsite cleaner than I found it, or at least interesting.

Why the storytelling? Beats me. I’ve worked mostly on stage, but also on the page, in radio, video, puppetry—since the age of fifteen. At that time, the motive was clear: a way to meet girls. But by now I’ve met a number of girls and I still persist.

At one time, it was to get famous, to leave Iowa behind, to gain the means—money, prestige, connections—to enable more & better work, and for the work somehow to achieve longevity. That’s long gone.

In part, I guess, it’s curiosity: it’s a safe way to meet people, explore them and their deeds, always wondering why. Some writers write to express themselves; I think I write or act or direct to discover what’s in this creature and its fellows.

And in part, it’s the same urge the cats have to chase a foam ball over the sofa, across the living room, and up the cat tree in the corner—not for the sake of the foam ball but just to feel the muscles. To feel alive.

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