THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
In Richard Greenberg’s play The Author’s Voice, there is a duende-in- training. Or maybe he’s an urban Rumpelstiltskin. Or a second-year recruit in Beelzebub’s street gang. Or the ugly duckling that laid the golden eggs. Or maybe he’s what all writers see when they look in the mirror. In any case, a gargoylish imp named Gene lives in a closet off the cubicle belonging to Todd, a handsome and charming young writer whose editor is determined to turn his first novel into a best-seller and, en route, corner him in the hay. Todd and Gene have this arrangement–while Todd meets with the agents and poses for press photographs, Gene writes page after page of the brilliant prose that makes the adulation possible. This collaboration has its ups and downs, of course. “You are the problem of my life,” declares the shallow Todd. “But without you, I haven’t any life!” Gene is not entirely happy either–after a forbidden venture outside the apartment, for which he is soundly and brutally punished by Todd, he sorrowfully concludes, “The outside world is a painful place, but everywhere is painful.” This symbiotic relationship survives until Gene begins to covet Todd’s perceived role as romantic hero, and with the shattering of Gene’s hopes comes the destruction of Todd’s.
