Joy, Clarity, and the Stage: A Conversation with John Cariani

John Cariani is an actor, playwright, and storyteller who believes in the power of joy on stage. Best known for Almost, Maine, one of the most produced plays in the US, Cariani brings a unique perspective to both writing and performing, one shaped by his roots in rural Maine, his years as a working actor, and his deep love for language and storytelling. His work advocates hope, humor, and humanity, and he’s not afraid to challenge the idea that theater has to be serious to be meaningful.

In our conversation, we discussed his transition from acting to playwriting, the importance of clarity in storytelling, and how he juggles his many creative roles. And, of course, we talked about joy and why, despite its challenges, it remains essential to the writing process. Over the past few months, I’ve had the pleasure of working with John, and he’s been nothing short of engaging, insightful, and full of energy.

PAULA WILLIAMSON: What drew you to acting? And what roles or performances shaped your early career?

JOHN CARIANI: I grew up in northern Maine in a small farm town. And kids got their driver’s licenses when they were fifteen or sixteen. And some kids got them earlier because they worked on farms. So young people had cars and could get away from adults and that’s not always the best thing for kids–all that independence. So, I think that the people in the town were committed to keeping kids busy—so we’d stay out of trouble. And that meant church and school were central. At school we had a really good arts program with a jazz band and a great theater teacher who directed the plays. Also, there was something called Community Concerts, which were government-funded. They allowed culture to come to places like… my town. As a kid, I saw the Vienna Boys Choir and some famous jazz trio from Montreal and a traveling Shakespeare troupe in my little town because of Community Concerts! I remember seeing that stuff and just being like, “Wow.” My parents would take us to these concerts because they thought it was important to expose us to as much culture as they could. I remember not wanting to go sometimes but they let me bring my pillow so I could just go to sleep if I wanted to.

The first play (not musical) I ever saw was The Glass Menagerie at the community theater in my town. My friends were in it, and I thought it was amazing. You know, in retrospect, I wonder if it was, but I got to see a Tennessee Williams play instead of reading it. And I think getting to see those plays—instead of reading them—I think they hit harder when they’re performed. The live component just affects people. It affected me! And then, in high school, I was in a musical, and I remember playing this little role of a ticket taker, and I had a scene with a very powerful woman. I had to stand up to her. And everybody laughed because I was this little kid standing up to this woman, and I remember getting laughs and just being like, “Ooh, I like this.”

In college, I majored in history. I had a hard time because school was hard for me. And I didn’t really do much theater till I was a senior—when I took a playwriting class and acted in a play in a one-act festival of student written work. I thought the plays in the festival were incredible. I couldn’t believe people I knew had written them! And I learned that I loved the world of actors and playwrights so much, and that I loved being in theater spaces and… that I wanted to be an actor. There really aren’t many more welcoming people than theater people.

After college, I did an internship at a theater in Western Massachusetts called StageWest. And—as interns—we did everything from cleaning the toilets to tending the bar. We did children’s plays that toured around to area schools. My favorite memory of them was that the sets were always incredible. We would bring in one piece like a pillar, and everything would come out of that one piece. I thought that was really clever. So we didn’t have to build a set. We just kind of went in, did the play, and left. We did adaptations of Grimm’s fairy tales—from the original tales. So they were really gross and gory and awesome. I’ll never forget. We did Snow White. At the end of Snow White, Snow White makes the evil queen put on slippers that have been baked in hot coals and then makes her dance until she falls down dead. It’s so dark, but I have to say—kids loved the dark insanity of those fairy tales, and I think they liked that we leaned into that darkness, theatrically.

StageWest had a smaller space that was a black box where the artistic director worked on projects with us interns. So we got to work with him on Twelfth Night, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, some Chekhov. I was at StageWest for three years, and after that, the artistic director said, “If you want to pursue acting, go to New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago.” Those were the options back then. You know, today, it’s so cool because you can go to lots of places where you can cobble together a living as an actor or working artist. Anyway—I moved to New York.

PW: Did you always write as well, or was it something that came up out of the acting?

JC: I learned that you’re stuck with your “casing”—like your physical body—when you’re an actor. Whatever your body is is what you’re stuck with. And so you’re stuck with whatever people think of that body. Whoever’s in control of casting has made a decision about your body, your face. I learned early on when I moved to NYC that everybody thought I was from New York City, that I was a New Yorker. So, I had to learn how to talk, feel, and seem like a New Yorker. No one thought I was a kid from a remote, rural farm town. So I learned pretty quickly that I would never get to play the parts I thought I would play. Like if a character description in a breakdown calls for “a small town kid who grew up on a farm or grew up in a farm town,” I’d be like, “Ooh, I’d love to play that part.” But… I wouldn’t even get seen for parts like that because I don’t have the right look for parts like that. Or—I didn’t back then. Hopefully people have expanded what a rural person looks like!

PW: What is the look? Would the look be like blonde hair and blue eyes?

JC: Kind of? I think back then, yeah, that’s the assumption. I don’t think that’s the case now because things have changed. Anyway—I realized I was—as an actor—passing as a New Yorker. Or as an urban person. And I got to play a lot of urban people and loved playing those characters. But I realized that the stories I want to tell aren’t about urban, super powerful, well educated people. So, I was wondering… how do I tell the stories I want to tell? Stories about the people I grew up with? Who are rural and not powerful and not hyper-educated but who can do really impressive things? Like grow food and plow snow really well and fix things. I realized that if I wanted to tell those stories… I was going to have to make them. As a writer. So that’s kind of what happened. I started writing those stories about where I’m from, rural people, rural places. Monologues, actually. That became stories. And then sketches. And then plays. And—the people in these plays—these rural people were… not sad. And destitute. And hopeless. And mopey. They were… hopeful and happy. I like stories that are hopeful and joyful. And I think hope and joy are important components of drama. And sometimes people in the theater forget that. I think because hope and joy are really hard to act and do. And I don’t think people realize that. There’s a lot of training on how to feel pain and how to be sad in drama school, but I don’t think there’s a lot of training on how you summon actual joy, actual happiness that’s believable. The hard thing to learn as you get older is that happiness doesn’t last very long. It’s just a quick blip, and then you’re back to the status quo. The same with deep, dark sadness. Thankfully, that does not last forever. That’s been comforting to know, and I say that to so many young people. All of the feelings are temporary.

There’s a lot of training on how to feel pain and how to be sad in drama school, but I don’t think there’s a lot of training on how you summon actual joy, actual happiness that’s believable. The hard thing to learn as you get older is that happiness doesn’t last very long. It’s just a quick blip, and then you’re back to the status quo. The same with deep, dark sadness. Thankfully, that does not last forever. That’s been comforting to know, and I say that to so many young people. All of the feelings are temporary.

PW: How did your background in acting inform your writing?

JC: I know when I’m acting in a piece, and I’m forced to do something impossible or really difficult or that just doesn’t make sense in the world the playwright is creating, I get frustrated. It’s the wrong kind of difficult. I don’t want to do that in my writing.

PW: What is something impossible or really difficult to act?

JC: Stories that don’t quite make sense. I get frustrated when I’m asked to do things that don’t make sense, or that are contradictory in the world of the play. Sometimes, playwrights don’t see that what they’ve got is very confusing to the actors. And if we don’t understand it, how do we play it effectively? Playwrights: Help us actors understand! Like—think of how I interrogate your work when we work on your plays. I am interested in making sure that what’s on the page isn’t too hard for people—audiences—to follow so that when your play gets complex on purpose, they have the energy to stay with you. I guess I’m just after clarity. Clarity, clarity, clarity. Because there’s no rewinding in the theater!

Also, different theater artists can make dense, dense material work. I feel actors like Cate Blanchett or Viola Davis could take any kind of writing and make it work. I can’t do that. I don’t know if I have that ability. I feel like I’m only good when the material—the writing—is good! A lot of what I write is written with pretty clear intentions. Simple stories, clearly told. So… actors of different skill will be able to succeed in my plays, I hope.

PW: So now you’re teaching and mentoring. How did that come about?

JC: Colette Freedman. And I’ve got to say, it’s been one of the most fun things I’ve ever done because it’s helped me with my own writing. Because when I’m working with you on your work,  I’ll realize that the help/advice I gave you may be what I need to do in my own work. It’s actually happened. I get off a Zoom session with you and realize, “Oh, my God, that thing I just told Paula she should work on—that’s what I need to work on.” Do you know what I mean? It’s also just been fun to meet people who challenge me and who think about things differently than I do. I’ve never taught at this level. So that’s just been a thrill. Working with people who have done so much in their lives and are pursuing this is very inspiring.

PW: Your style of lecturing is very interactive. Is that just who you are as a person?

JC: I need to learn by doing. I have taken playwriting workshops where they sit and say, “Free write for twenty minutes.” I’m like, “No, I don’t want to. I can do that at home.” I need a little more care than that.. And I need play. So I try to play. Because we need play. Writers of plays, screenplays, and television shows—I think the best ones create fun/exciting/interesting things for actors to do.

Also—writers need to get out of their heads. And that’s what I try to do with my exercises: just try to get the head out of the way and just get the body involved. Because I think it should be more of a physical event—writing—than just a mental event. And so I try to put that in my work and my teaching.

PW: How do you balance it all? I know you are still doing acting work. You’re working on your own play right now? And now you’re doing this mentorship. It’s all demanding. How are you navigating it?

JC: It’s been a bit of an adjustment because most of you are on the West Coast. So it has been interesting to have to work at night. So I’m a little tired. I won’t lie. But also, it’s true what they say: the busier you are, the more you get done. I don’t know how that’s possible. But it’s true. Things that I thought would take me three hours are now taking me like an hour. If I have fifteen minutes, I know: “Oh, I can do this right now,” and I’ll get it done. When my father was dying, I was working on my new play. And you know, he was in hospice, and we were there kind of just helping him be comfortable, and I learned that I could get lots done on my play even while we were all taking care of him. It’s funny—that experience made me think I could have had kids. I kept getting interrupted when I was working while my dad was dying, and it didn’t bother me. And it used to bother me.

PW: How do you find time for your own creativity? I know you’re working on your play, but that’s not the same as creating something new.

JC: I’m not right now. That’s kind of dead. And I feel a little sad about that, you know because it is fun to think of new things. So, I’ll have to figure that out at some point. I’m going to have to start writing something new even though I might be a little tired. I’ve got to think about the next thing because it’s fun. And it helps me think about what the future might hold.

PW: Have you seen or read any plays, shows, or scripts recently that kind of stood out to you, either because of the writing, the performance, or just the themes?

JC: There’s a play by Matt Freeman called The Ask. And I love that play because it challenged my thinking. There is also a play called Heroes of the Fourth Turning. And I have never seen a play address what it addresses. It’s set in Wyoming at a party celebrating the new president of a small Catholic college. And the characters in it are conservatives. And they’re so intelligent and so compassionate and care so much about what they do and this country and about human beings. And to just sit in a room with a bunch of liberal New Yorkers and digest ideas that fly in the face of what we all believe–well, all of us in that audience were being challenged in a big way. Just a fascinating experience. To have things we believe are being attacked in not an emotional way, but intellectually, it blew my mind. It just made me think so hard. The other interesting thing is that the new president of this college is a woman. That’s a huge thing for this college. So, in this conservative bubble, we have something very progressive happening. Will Arbery, I think, is the playwright’s name, just a brilliant writer.

PW: What themes or ideas show up in your work? And have they shifted over time? I know you write a lot about rural America, about that kind of life. But are there other things that you wrote about when you were younger, and now have shifted?

JC: Well, you asked me if I’ve always been a playwright, and I don’t think I ever answered that. When I was graduating from high school, we had senior pictures we would give to our friends—like little folders or large cards. On one side would be your picture, and then on the other side, you’d write a note to whomever you were giving the picture to. There’d be the picture on one side and the note you’d write on the other. I wrote my version of a conversation I had with one of my best friends because it was hilarious and so “us.” And my friend sent me a copy of what I wrote her—the little snippet of dialogue I wrote—the mini “play” I wrote, and she wrote a note that said, “You’ve been writing plays since we were in high school.” And I guess I was. I guess I’ve always just been interested in how people talk. I love listening to people talk. I love figuring out how to map out the way people communicate. Or don’t communicate.

I’m learning that I’m interested in writing “queer happiness.” My new play has quite a bit of queerness in it, but it’s happy queerness set in a rural place. Because a lot of queer people are pretty happy, it’s not all tragedy, being queer. And it’s not all tragedy being a queer person in a rural place. I’m kind of tired of the tragedy narrative. When people learn that I grew up in rural Maine, they often say, “Oh, that must have been so hard for you.”And I’m kind of like, “Well, yeah, but I don’t really want or need to think about it or dwell on it, the difficulty. Because—sure, it was rough sometimes—but I also had so much fun and have such happy memories of growing up in rural Maine! I want to tell the happy parts of rural queer stories—as well as the sad parts.

And in response to what’s going on in this country right now, I say we need to protect those who are being attacked, but also—let’s focus on how far we’ve come and have faith that we will be able to push forward and continue to make progress. And let’s just be vigilant that we protect the people who are hurting right now. And be good to them.