I am not a professional photographer.

I am not a designer of any stripe.

I don't know nothin' 'bout magazine layouts or art direction or any of that fancy stuff.  I just know what I like.  And what I don't like.

And I don't like the new Conference Report issue of the Ensign.

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About a year ago or so, in the process of following links here and there from a comment made by a friend of mine on Facebook, I happened upon a blog post by someone who was either officially declared as, or was certainly self-confessedly on the road to being, a Former Mormon.  The post was all about the events leading up to being summoned to a Church tribunal and the tribunal itself.  There were descriptions of the process and suppositions about the motives and intentions of the men involved, but, laying those details and other forms of editorializing aside, the thing about the post that intrigued me the most was the anxiety suffered by the individual telling the story.  Perhaps intrigued is the wrong word to use here because, truthfully, I was somewhat confused. More...

Last month my latest play, Brothers, ran for three weeks at the Brinton Black Box Theater in the Covey Center for the Arts in Provo, Utah. It went pretty well--only one sell-out crowd of twelve performances (which isn’t really as impressive as it sounds since the theater sells out at sixty)--but most importantly to me was that the show was an artistic success. At least, as far as I’m concerned, it was. Elwon and Dave worked hard to grasp the subtleties in the roles. Along with them and Paige--my itinerant stage manager--staff at the Covey Center helped me create just the right atmosphere for the play’s premier production.

The brothers in question here are Lucifer and Jehovah, though, nowhere in the script do those names appear. Like its predecessor, Stones, the identity of the characters is pretty obvious from the dialogue, or becomes pretty obvious as the situations unfold. There were two reasons for leaving the names out.  One: The names carry weight. Pretty much anyone who hears those names has preconceived notions about the people who wear them and how they should be worn. More...

A very good friend once told me that there was nothing in the world that he could do that would be more important than his writing. Not too long after that conversation he became a former Mormon. Speaking scientifically, I have no real evidence to prove a correlation between these two events. On the other hand, after years of casual observation, I feel strongly that I can claim there is at least a relationship involved; one does tend to follow the other. I have watched many of my friends and acquaintances leave the church in what appears to be -- to me -- a desire to devote more time, effort and allegiance to their art.

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(A disclaimer before you begin: This little essay should not be construed as a response to Darlene’s essay, "Coward, or What is Not Art." I’m not like most of the other bloggers here who can toss off a few hundred words of keen analysis with barely a thought. I’ve spent days–off and on–trying to word this thing just right so that there will be no misunderstanding of my point, but I despair that I’ll ever be clever enough to be that clear. What I’m saying is, my thoughts about propaganda preceded Darlene’s by several days and have nothing to do with what she said.)

Most artists I know--perhaps I should say, artistes--abhor the thought of creating propaganda; they wouldn’t be caught dead using their work to further or perhaps even damage some institutionalized cause. Although I’m not sure where the notion comes from that only institutions use art to further or damage a cause, this seems to be the understood source of all that can be deemed propaganda. Apparently only oppressive monolithic organizations have agendas.

Right.

Oh, and, I used the phrase "wouldn’t be caught dead," ironically, because in truth, after an artist dies is when the knives are truly sharpened and institutionalized critics are free to dissect an artist’s work and assign all sorts of intent--whether to further or damage--whatever pet cause it is to which the critic happens to adhere. What? The critics aren’t institutionalized?

Right.

Think about it now...just for a minute or two.

Everyone has an agenda. Everyone is institutionalized.

Ev. ‘Ry. One. More...

I claim to be a writer.

As proof, I offer these facts: I have completed several short stories in the science fiction and fantasy genre (two of which have been published); two LDS mainstream novels (neither of which have been published); a couple of screenplays for hire (neither of which have even come close to pre-production); some rather bad poetry (a smattering of which have been published after a fashion); some song lyrics (most of which have been set to actual singable tunes) and a whole bunch of plays.  Several of which have been produced.

Now, I don't write every day; I just don't have the time for it.  I know that--according to some hard core folks of the writerly type--that means I'm not a real writer.  Because, you see, writers write.  Every day.  Or so they say.  More...