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| Jack Neary |
I’m pretty sure I’ve been represented in all but one Boston Theater Marathon since the inception of the great enterprise. I don’t know what happened that year. I probably just misplaced Ellen Colton and Bobbie Steinbach’s phone numbers or something. In any case, the Marathon has been a springtime rite for me for almost all of its lifetime. For the past few years, my plays have had the honor of occupying the final slot of the day. I don’t know if this is because the plays are good or because Kate likes me to lock up after everyone leaves the building. I don’t mind locking up, but I do wish the party would break up a little earlier so I could get home at a decent hour.
I love participating in the Marathon for many reasons, not the least of which is the theatre-savvy audience sitting out there in those plush Calderwood seats, reacting knowledgably to my show biz themes. When a playwright can email Israel Horovitz to ask permission to use his name (multiple times) in a play, and then have the man himself sit in the audience and laugh at the jokes, that’s heaven. What a community to play to, he said, trying not to end a sentence with a preposition.
