I have been blessed with seven honest, earnest, free-tongued characters who, within these pages, willingly impart more of themselves to you than the closest friends would ever dare. I will therefore leave them to their story-telling with the briefest of Parental Guidance.
Like a gaudy East Indian purse; outrageous in color, embroidered in cliché design, the worth of these plays lies ultimately in the tiny mirrors woven into the fabric wherein we catch our reflections. Perhaps you’ll see a little of yourself on the phone with Arnold’s “Why don’t you love me anymore?” call. Or maybe find yourself in Laurel’s “Just because I said that’s what I want doesn’t mean that I’m ready for it” logic. Or it might be while reading Mrs. Beckoff you’ll stop and smile, “That’s my Mother.” Any little thing that makes you feel less alone is what and why these plays are.
Not one of the characters you’ll meet is “right.” There are no answers forthcoming. But like an old familiar half heard song playing on a jukebox you might just catch a line that reaches out and touches something going on inside of you. And for that instant you are relieved of the isolation. That is the worth of a Torch Song. That is the goal of these plays.
—Harvey Fierstein