Thanks, Reader, for being here. These letters about my theatre and film practice might not reflect how you want to communicate, and I understand that so the unsubscribe button is at the bottom. Feel free to forward this letter if someone else might enjoy my work.

Act One, in which I drown.

A line in You, Me, and the Woodsmoke goes something like this… "We built our lives in their habitat, so the rest of nature will try to eat us at some point. We’re living in the era of environmental revenge!"

The run of You, Me, and the Woodsmoke was abruptly canceled when The Player’s Ring flooded on January 13th due to snow-melt accumulation, aggressive rains, and multiple high tides. Let’s not forget that the theatre is housed in a building from 1833 on reclaimed land meters from a powerful estuary. Making artwork in this place is precarious for many reasons, but I’m drawn to this place just like the characters in the play. No person was injured, the building sustained damage but has already returned to programming, and the surrounding ground has reabsorbed the water.

I engaged fifteen artists in this project about friendship. The rising tides washed away hundreds of hours of skilled craft, dedication, and perseverance in a few hours. We lost the opportunity to share our work, this heartfelt and urgent story, with the sold-out audiences of our remaining shows. And along with that, we lost revenue. So, financially and emotionally, it feels challenging to contemplate venturing further into this, or any other, theatre-making process.

Those who know my plays may have realized I don’t write happy endings. I believe tragedy serves us, society, and the artform better. But right now, I’m simply devastated not enlightened. In dark moments, however, I turn to artists for insight. Liz Lerman's words have come to me repeatedly in the last ten days. She inspires us to “turn discomfort into inquiry.” I have no answers, but I do have a question.

“What is the artist's responsibility in the face of climate change?”

If you have a response to this question, reply to this email to share your thoughts. I could sure use some wisdom from friends.

Act Two, when a place offers possibility…

Throughout 2022, in partnership with the New Hampshire Creative Communities Network (NHCCN), I presented a series of conversations engaging nearly 200 people with questions like:

• What does creative placemaking look like in N.H. communities?
• Who and what are the resources to support creative placemaking that we already have at the table?
• Who are the critical partners and participants in your community, and how do we engage them?

Our conversations were turned into a beautiful graphic artifact by N.H. comic artist Marek Bennett.

Download the Round[the]Table: Creative Placemaking Companion

This printable PDF may be assembled as a booklet or as a continuous, creative placemaking “mural.” Coloring is encouraged! It is intended as a tool, incorporating resources you can link to for how-to information and examples of creative placemaking projects happening in N.H. And it’s meant to stimulate your imagination to help you get creative as you consider opportunities for creative placemaking in your community.

Act Three, when Running is an option.

There was another time I was as devastated as I am now. Something else had failed. Something I truly wanted. Something I had worked very hard for and felt ready to tackle. But circumstances out of my control meant my vision would never become a reality.

At that moment, I did two things. I learned to re-upholster furniture, which I very much enjoyed, and I was encouraged to lay out the plot of a play that I couldn’t get straight in my head. It turns out it wasn’t a play. At first, it was a short story. But at some point, it became 80,000 words, and some literary friends told me I had written a novel. I replied incredulously. But the friends were right. In 30 days, I wrote each morning until I got hungry.

It may sound glib, but really, writing the novel was easy. It’s returning to it that has been hard. I had to find paid work, finish an MFA, travel once travel bans were lifted, and generally putter about with life the way one does. But words on a page wait for you until it’s time.

Running let me explore my fascination with living in the granite state. New Hampshire is a weird and wonderful place. And the longer I live here, the more I fall in love. While I contemplate moving to higher ground, I offer you, my dear letter-reader, a sneak-peek at the first chapter. It's a work-in-progress, but aren't we all?

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With a heavy but hopeful heart,

Catherine

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