I have had the pleasure of meeting many a writer here and there, some in passing and others at gatherings at libraries, coffee houses and book stores. We writers and artists alike are a gypsy lot, letting that creative itch take us where it wills, to see what will turn up just around the corner. It is what we do. It is what and who we are.

But one at the gatherings a young lady whom I had to pleasure befriending at such a water pool of creative minds intrigued me with her particular description of me. When she went home and told her husband, “I met an angry playwright today.” and preceded to tell him about me. Now I met her on the first Wednesday of the month, and a month or two later chanced upon her husband as we played in the snow with his and my son. After the Fates invited us over to their house where I met his wife for the second time and thus was dubbed 'The Angry Playwright'.

It seems to me that I stick in people's head, coming across angry in both my writing and my art. It's not that I am angry, well I am, but not really angry. I am infuriated, while ever intrigued by that Human Curiosity of our particular condition. We are rational creatures that are half mad with our passions—this makes a paradoxical creature that are pure mad with our own sense of genius.

Another writer, Charlie whom I met on one of the many writing and networking websites is intrigued by my writings. He is currently working on his dissertation and we have been video chatting. He's in England and me in the good old U.S of A, but he has observed that my style to be a bit of Pinter, Beckett and Antoine Artaud.

When I asked him how he would grade my plays he responded, 'Well I don't know how to 'grade' them per-say, but I know for a fact you added the obscurity of Pinter, the cruelty of Antoine Artaud and the fickleness of Beckett.'  It is an interesting description to say the least, enough to make one pause and ponder.

Now I have studied a range of things in college and I only have had one year of theatre and I hardly read. I just watch people and inquire of our sense of humanity, or there lack of. Beckett's 'End Game' is one my favorite plays and I do love Satre's 'No Exit', and Edward Albee's 'The Sandbox'.

I have a vast education in college, but no degree to speak of, however I do love to think and question every human reality that is imposed or denied in our conscious reality and beyond.

So the title 'The Angry Playwright' is no offense to me, rather it amuses me and I take it as compliment, as it was intended by Sarah, because I intrigued her and I do engage the audience with their own sense of humanity to the point that I assault them with questions of their own human reality. 'What are we? Who are we?' all rapped up in the question of 'Why and what now?'

As Charlie and I engage in conversation and Sarah and her husband banter on, my reading lists gets longer and longer, that is if I can squeeze them in between working on four to five plays while organizing live readiings and gearing up to to HAUNTS & MINDSCAPES and hopefully THE PROBLEM WITH GOD.

So I am poignantly honest in my art, whether it would be visual or the written word. I engage and question our sense of humanity that comes to define our society at large wondering where in the hell we are heading and what we becoming and what are abandoning. The Human Affair is a circus of carnage of wonder and horror and we are capable of great and terrible things, that is we can survive our own selves.

This little piece might even blossom to be 'The Angry Playwright' dialogue. It's a good possibility I think. 

                                                                                                    Gavion E. Chandler~

                                                                                                    'Man is his own devil.'


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