A day in the life of a librettist
So I’m working on an additional scene for my opera. Prior to me adding this scene I only had five characters in the opera, and my colleague who will be staging it thought it’d be a good thing to expand the cast so that more students can be involved. In this additional scene three new supporting characters gossip about the three main characters; the new characters will be also added to another scene (the party) and I’ll write them into the orchestration as a backstage wordless chorus, so it all will add up to somewhat substantial roles. Also, this extra scene will give the singers portraying the two main characters some time to rest and regroup between two very involved scenes, so it’s a win-win.
Anyway, so the three new characters are neighbors of the main characters and they’re gossiping, I’m imagining, while sitting on the stoop of their house. Why are they even there? It’s not like they made an appointment to get together and gossip. OK, so they stepped away from their easels and writing desks for a cigarette break. Got it. The scene starts unfolding, some snappy dialogue emerges (at least I think it’s snappy), some juicy details are shared, and I get to the point where I’m ready to wrap up the scene. Unfortunately, the characters are still in the middle of the conversation. If I let this conversation continue, it’ll quickly become boring and anticlimactic. I need something to happen to chase them away quickly.
What if the police came? But they aren’t doing anything illegal, they’re bohemians, not criminals. But what if instead of cigarettes they were smoking a joint? Ok, let’s go with that. Rewrite the opening of the scene. Write the ending of the scene. Done. Read the whole scene. Uh-oh, would the 1990s NYC bohemians really refer to the police as “five-oh”? May be they would, may they wouldn’t—I spent the total of maybe two weeks in New York during said period, don’t have any relevant memories. Gotta do my research.
Post my inquiry on several Facebook writers’ groups, join another couple of groups, specific to the location, ask the same question there. What would be the appropriate slang for “police” in 1990s NYC? And no, I’m not using any porcine references as tempting as it may be to have one of the characters say “is it bacon I’m smelling?” After a couple of days of silence and comments that don’t address my question, someone comes up with an answer that sounds credible. Yay. Back to editing the scene. Recognizing that the better way to go is if there’s no actual police, one of the characters just pretends that she sees a patrol car as an excuse to end the conversation. And a simple “patrol car” is what I need.
The draft is completed. Showing it to the dramaturg I work with. She thinks the whole police as an excuse thing is not effective and the character needs to find another excuse to end this conversation. I got it—she needs to go because she’s expecting a call from her agent. Or so she says. This will instantly arouse the jealousy of another character who wishes he had an agent; this will tie nicely into the beginning of the conversation. Done. The knowledge that 1990s New Yorkers would likely refer to the police as “po-po” is still stored in the deep recesses of my memory. One day I’ll use it. Or not.