About Me — CK Brestman
Author, Playwright, Humorist.
What’s there to say about me? I’m just a guy who lives his life and occasionally writes things down.
I came to writing in a roundabout manner. I’ve been somewhat of a performer for as long as I can remember: music, singing, theatre. As a young child, coercing my family into watching a magic or variety show of my creation. Constant joking and story telling, mostly to steal a scrap of attention as a younger sibling in a large family.
Theatre became a creative outlet in my teen years, which I enjoyed greatly but moved away from as demands of education, career, and family took priority. I was fortunate to rediscover this passion later in life and have spent a good part of the last decade exploring theatre as an actor, stage manager, director, production manager, (…set builder, light rigger, fly operator, …) and board member. This environment provides an endless source of inspiration and creativity. Seeds of ideas that might make a funny line, scene, or story. If only someone would write them.
When the Great Plague stopped the world and presented humanity with a sudden abundance of free time, I decided to finally empty out the bucket of bits in my head and try my hand at playwriting. I sat down, fired up the ol’ thinking cap, and immediately set my attention on… learning guitar. Making furniture. Landscaping. Curating vintage rustic industrial decor. Mastering the air fryer. The panini press. The Instant Pot. When I’d finally exhausted all the distractions my multipotentialite mind could muster (oooh, shiny!), I forced myself to finally try my hand at writing.
It was in the course of methodically organizing story structures, character arcs, and background research that my left-brained strategies were overthrown by a right-brain coup.
As a skill development tool, I had been participating in exercises with an online writing group. One of the prompts was to craft a conversation between a couple about a particular topic. Ten minutes of unbridled, uninterrupted creative writing. Task complete, it was back to the sure-fire gems collecting dust in my head.
Dead of night, 3:33am, I bolt awake. Sudden clarity. My subconscious insisting that snip become a scene. That scene become a story. I am up at 3:45am typing.
Over the course of days and weeks, I attempt to steer myself back on track with highly organized and charted plot lines, but something deeper drives my focus singularly on that other thing. The story that won’t go away. The story that must be told.
What I’ve learned about myself in the time since is that there are stories in my head. These are the things my analytical brain knows will be entertaining and engaging stories. These come in fits and spurts. I am a binge writer and will go weeks or months devoid of ideas and have to earnestly work to gather the pieces to fit into place.
But I’ve also learned that there are stories in my heart. These are the things that I have pushed down and locked away and never want to hear or be known. These come as a flood of words and ideas with which my fingers cannot keep pace. These are experiences that make themselves be told. These are stories that won’t allow me to sleep until I’ve purged them. Keyboard confessionals.
The head stories get written, and developed, and submitted, and produced and make audiences laugh and ponder.
The heart stories get written. Period. Full stop.
As primarily a playwright, these keyboard confessionals present themselves in a form that’s not frequently approached in theatre. Most of these manic missives end up as 10 minute, 1500+ word monologues. Engaging and intriguing and challenging and deeply darkly dramatic for sure, but unless fully fleshed out or stitched into a more traditional full-length multi-character work, they are mostly just written.
They’re also deeply personal and revealing and cathartic, and my dominant left brain is usually highly resistant to sharing the words that my heart needs heard.
Which brings us to here.
And a guy who has just lived his life.
Who is now writing things down.
And sharing.
