Thomas Hardy didactically preserved his Tess, a young woman who attempted to be honest in her intimate relationship by revealing her secret, and thus ended at the gallows. Tom Anselmo takes care to let his Gail clinch a footing in both her inner and social worlds as she unveils the mask of falsity in relationships. Anselmo’s first volume of plays is a trilogy of two-act plays by the title Gail’s Place (Red Brindle Press, New York, 2006). While each plays stands on its own plot, central to all is Gail Stanza’s character, a woman who is bent on reconciling her inner self with that of her social role by cracking secrets that tend to stifle one’s individuality and true identity.

Gail's Place is followed by three more plays of Anselmo in another volume. An interesting interview with Tom regarding his works is given here.

Ernest: Tom, would you kindly tell us what motivated you to write specifically in the genre of drama?

Tom: A few friends have asked the same question. Thinking about P.D. James’ mysteries helps explain my choice. James’ capacity for descriptive writing places her in a category unlike most mystery writers and more in the camp of the traditional novelist. She often begins by describing a victim’s or prospective suspect’s environs so that by the time she introduces the absent character, the reader already has a feel for him or her. Capturing atmosphere in this way is a must for any good novelist. But if you could peer into my imagination, you’d see instead a spirited dialogue and movement of people. My recognition of this aspect of my inner life drew me to playwriting.

Ernest: And how did you get started with the writing business?

Tom: As to how I got started writing, I’ll quote from my website as to how my plays evolved. This still seems to capture best my original impetus. The following is from www.tomanselmo.com, Behind the Scenes:
For many years, with family members and friends, I accepted a dynamic that seemed natural to me. I would be careful not to cross the other’s boundaries of intimacy; I kept certain areas off-limits believing some secrets were necessary to maintain each relationship. But as I grew older, I increasingly felt that this divide was not natural. Being disconnected -- to whatever degree -- left me feeling inauthentic.
I told a few close friends that they knew me better than I knew them. I wanted more from them; I wanted more for myself. I wanted to feel the pulse of their internal life, to be moved by the stories that shaped their experience of the world. I wanted to be there for their moments of insight. I needed that experience to get under (I don’t know any other way to put it) my friends’ social selves - as well as mine.
Those “selves” would prove more intractable than I first realized. When I’d try to get beyond the banter and updating of “What’s happening?”, the reaction was most often a palpable glaze over the eyes or an off-hand interruption: “Did you see the movie…?”. One discomforted friend explicitly stopped a conversation by saying: “I don’t talk about family with friends.” Why not? An aching desire to understand my friends’ reactions persisted. But I had to be careful: Wasn’t their need to keep some distance between us as valid as my need to be more intimate? Out of respect for their often tacit desire, I chose not to push for more.
But I kept imagining what would happen if social interactions weren’t so limited. If friends revealed themselves more fully, might we begin to understand each other – and our own selves better? These musings were the impetus for my trying to express my dilemma in a literary mode.

Ernest: In the three plays of your first volume Gail’s Place, We met Gail, a woman, speaking for making things better by revealing. How important is Gail’s womanhood here?

Tom: Again, another friend has asked this same question. As you know, in the opening scene of the first play I wrote, Secret Burdens, husband and wife, Ron and Gail, are discussing the nature of a secret they’ve been asked to keep. Gail is uncomfortable with doing this; Ron less so. They refer to their “different styles of communicating” – one direct, the other circumspect. But then Ron refers to a discussion he had with his friend, attempting to show Gail how direct he can be. When Gail points out that he didn’t go far enough, asking why he didn’t pursue a natural follow-up question, their dialogue went like this:
Ron: I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. We allow each other space.
Gail: That’s a lotta space.
I can’t conceive that Ron – or any other of my male friends - could mouth Gail’s response and sound authentic. I think men are more comfortable with Ron’s limited boundaries of closeness. I needed a character who feels a lack of connection when friends place limits on intimacy, and a character who needs to talk about this. Hence a woman felt to me to be the only possible choice.

Ernest: You mind telling us if you are a feminist?

Tom: An intriguing question. My wife thinks I am; I’m not so sure. I certainly don’t write about the political and economic issues of equal opportunity for women, for instance, exposing the “glass ceiling” in the workplace or traditional hierarchies in relationships. My main interest in writing plays is to see whether different characters were able to gain insights about themselves, about the moral implications of their attitudes and behavior. Gail, with the help of her center, most clearly understands the need for a journey within – no matter the pain. When I started Clues, I didn’t know that I would embody an internalized version of self on stage. I felt it was natural and compelling as I began to write the second act. If the main character were a man, I doubt that I would have gone through that particular creative process. What started out as a detective story ended up being a serious tale of self-discovery. Gail starts on her journey by first admitting she doesn’t totally feel “right” about her close relationships – and says so to those close to her. Men friends are not comfortable expressing their feelings that way. I suppose I’m saying, having the more natural inclinations to allow for self-exposure, women have a better chance at self-fulfillment. I guess I’m a social feminist.

Ernest: How integral the inner voices of your characters are to the essence of your plays?

Tom: I think I use this device in three different ways. First, as exposition, to narrate personal history, as I did in The Place, with Evelyn after she died.
Second, as two basic “impulses” (as you rightly termed it): in The Voices, one reminding Cathy of the delicate boundaries with her intimates that should not be crossed (living with others), the other not to edit one’s thoughts (living with yourself). And the third is by far the most important type of voice, one’s “center”. This is not really a device, but an integral part of what I’m after in all of my plays: meeting one’s center leads to personal growth, personal fulfillment, authenticity, discovering the moral imperative. From Act 2 of Clues, where I introduced Gail’s Center, I knew I had a mission to pursue.

Ernest: The Voices seems to be a real challenging work as it personifies two different voices of the same person i.e. Cathy. Is it an attempt on your part to reduce social behavior to individual’s impulses?

Tom: To your question whether I’m attempting “to reduce social behavior to individual impulses,” no I’m not. In The Voices, I think Cathy navigates nicely between the two. Remember, Cathy has a play to “feel” Ellie out. She says to her husband Marty, “I need to sense what Ellie would want. I owe it to her – and to me.” The Voices, in hearing this are both agitated.

Voice One: Oh, I feel anxious about this discussion.
Voice Two: She’s going to hold back – not tell Ellie. I know it.
Voice One: This could really end up in a rift between Cathy and Ellie.

The Voices are riding on their own tracks – and either/or line of thinking. Cathy will forge a third track in the very process of finding what is best for her friend.

Ernest: Who is/are your icons in dramatic fiction and what opinion do you hold in regard to the general climate of drama in contemporary literature?

Tom: I don’t know of many 20th Century playwrights who have my similar interests. Perhaps not being a scholar, I am exposing my ignorance. But I do greatly admire and have been influenced by particular plays – even when the playwrights entire body of work has not fully resonated with me. Terence Rattigan’s Separate Tables is quite special (the influence in Matt & Sara is clear); Oscar Wilde’s The Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest are especially delightful. Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night is towering; and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman is brilliant, not only for its characterizations, but also for its structure. Other names that come to mind include –Friel, Shanley, Edward Albee, Anton Chekhov. Of course, Shakespeare’s genius is unparalled; and I love Moliere, Sheridan and some of the other playwrights of that time.

Ernest: Would you please tell us about your future plans as an author?

Tom: I’ve also been involved in thinking of a new play – clarifying the idea, working out a compelling plot, and “living” with the several characters I think will grace the stage (this is my usual gestation period). I have begun writing the first scenes.
I call the play, which has an all-male cast, The Play Bearers. Four friends have been asked to carry the casket of their mutual friends’ fathers. The four are in an anteroom of the funeral parlor waiting for the casket to arrive. It would seem natural that these friends would be talking about their relationships with their own fathers, who, by the way, are not alive. But out of a sense of “loyalty” to their fathers, they are reluctant to be open about these relationships. For me, this has been an issue with my own male friends – their reluctance to share this important piece of their personal history. I have found it frustrating. What’s the big secret? In order to fathom what this is, I have the four dead fathers on a platform looking down on the scene below. They can observe and hear all; the sons are not aware of their fathers’ spiritual presence. I think what is emerging as a central theme is: the son’s unconscious ambivalence towards their fathers results in self-contradictory attitudes – in turn distorting to some degree their sensibilities and their judgement. Certainly a complicated theme. I don’t know yet if I can develop it sufficiently enough in a one-act play. I’m excited at the prospect.

Ernest: Thank you Tom for this nice conversation!

Tom: I appreciate your thoughtful interest in my work and in my reactions to issues emanating from the plays

Author Website: http://www.tomanselmo.com/index.html