Plays...

So, in English we just finished "The Crucible" by Arthur Miller and everyone was complaining about how the play was boring, too simple, lacked visuals, etc...
My teacher told us to remember that The Crucible is a play, and plays are, in fact, meant to be SEEN and not just READ.

Which makes sense, of course. On stage, characters & emotions come alive, whereas on paper they are merely words. I agree that the message of a play can be much more powerful when experienced on stage.

However, you do miss something, I think, if you don't read the script. On paper, one can clearly read everything a character says, whereas you miss some things when watching. Sometimes, plays tend to be confusing, and they make a lot more sense if you can sit down and carefully read every word and make sure you get every point the playwright was trying to make. Plus, directors don't always get everything right when adapting a script to the stage.

But I don't know. I stand kind of divided on this issue. What do you think? Read the script, or watch the play? Or both?

Yours Truly,
Miss Misty of Mystery

My mysterious life story...

I was born in my family's little log cabin on a hazy, eerie morning. My mother says she named me Misty after the mysterious fog that swirled in the air, a name that suits me quite well to this day.

I had a happy yet secluded childhood. I lived with my parents in our log cabin, in the middle of dark, dense woods, on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere. My mother wrote murder novels under a pseudonym, and my father was a scientist who conducted strange genetic experiments in our basement. My parents were pretty lenient, but they did have one rule-stay out of the basement, or else.

Everything went smoothly until my fourteenth birthday, when I discovered one of my mother's old murder novels hidden at the back of her bookshelf. I have always had a passion for all things mysterious, so I instantly stole off to my room with it. I was happily reading along when suddenly something dawned on me. The main character in the book was EXACTLY LIKE ME. Same sunken-in eyes, same knack for Sudoku puzzles, same thirst for the unknown. I ran to my bedroom mirror. I had always thought my skin was a strange paper-white, and that my hair was unusually crisp and floppy. There was a weird birthmark on the back of my neck shaped like newsprint. And I had always felt more at home among my books than anywhere else. Mere coincidences? I was beginning to think not.

Frantic, I dashed downstairs to find my parents, but they were nowhere in sight. Gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Cautiously, I descended the stairs into my basement. If there were any clues to be found, that was surely the place to look. I found the basement all messy and scattered, as if someone had quickly grabbed piles of stuff and ran with it. There wasn't much of use left down there. However, I was able to find a bag with a swab labelled "Misty's DNA" sandwiched between the pages of a notebook filled with illegible handwriting. I didn't know how to decipher DNA, but I figured one day I might meet someone who could. Shoving the book, swab, and the contents of my piggybank into a bookbag, I headed out the door and embarked on a year-long journey to find my missing parents.

I haven't yet been able to track down Mother and Father, but recently I was able to locate a second-cousin, Twyla Lee Nyx. She kindly took me under her wing, and I am staying in her mansion as I continue my search. One day, I will unravel the secrets of my past. Until then, I will have to satisfy my thirst for mysteries in her library.