All entries for Monday 07 January 2008
January 07, 2008
A little confession. I have been writing creatively over Christmas. I should have been writing essays. Naughty naughty.
In fact, I've been working on a play-script. It's untitled, and it's at the first draft. I'm showing it around to readers for opinions (and in the hopes of reeling in a director - but that's far to the future) and if anyone wants to volunteer, then you're more than welcome. Here's an excerpt, from the very beginning -Scene 1 A strange room. A spare bed is covered with a sheet, a human form distinguishable underneath it. There is a lot of blood, some dried, some wet. Paper, notepads, pens, rubbish, books, manuscripts, bottles of ink, magnifying glasses, paints, frames, sketchpads spill out from underneath the bed like surf. The walls are plastered with newspaper cuttings, journal articles, and hand-written scrawlings. We can hear how bad the room smells. A writing desk, similarly limed over with droppings stands to one side, and there is a wardrobe and a toilet at the other end of the room, together with a full-length mirror and a sink. The room is constellated with dozens of standing lamps, at different heights, seemingly at random around the room. Although there are very many of them, the room is still dim. There is knocking at the door. Topski Hello? Mr. Lewis? (a beat) Mr. Lewis? Fuck. (Topski opens the door and enters. She is carrying a briefcase and is obviously unsure what’s going on) Topski Okay, so you’re not here – oh my (She edges towards the bed and the body. She unveils it – V-girl sits bolt upright, and screams. Topski screams) Topski Oh, fuck! Fuck! V-girl Who are you? Topski I’m here- I was looking- V-girl What do you want? Topski I’m here to see Mr. Lewis, but- V-girl What’s your birthstone? Topski What? V-girl Favourite colour? What’s your favourite colour? Topski Yellow! V-girl What was your mother’s maiden name? Topski Deblorovich- but why- V-girl Don’t stop answering, I need to find out! Topski What? V-girl I need to know! Topski What? V-girl Have they got to you? Have they got to you too? Topski WHO!?! V-girl (V-girl gives Topski a poisonous look, before finally deciding she’s safe) Ugh. Fine. Grab a chair. You’re clean. Topski Are you okay? V-girl Grab a chair, woman Topski Could you tell me what’s going on? V-girl Get a chair, first (Topski grabs a chair and sits. V-girl crouches in the bed) Topski Are you sure you’re quite alright? V-girl I’m fine. I was sleeping Topski You were screaming- V-girl You woke me up. You were screaming Topski I thought you were dead! V-girl I am dead Topski What? V-girl I’m a vampire Topski … okay. I’m a, I’m a handwriting expert, it’s nice to meet you.
Writing script is a very strange experience. Nothing but dialogue, you think! My goodness, but this is going to be easy.
Think about that though. Nothing but dialogue. Which means you have nothing else to work with. Well, stage directions. But no thought bubbles. No lengthy descriptions of intimate items. No "She read the letter..." If a character reads a letter, they either read it to themselves (and then you've just made a statement to the audience - you're going to find out what was in that letter, later) or they do it out loud - but why does anybody read a letter out loud? You'd better be justifying that, Mr...
Thinking about theatricality is very difficult as well. I want to write with performance in mind - a text that suggests interesting visual set-ups, interesting audio creations, and which is possible within a realistic performance space (I remember hearing from a friend that he wanted to set a play in a tank, underwater). "Crowskin", my previous project (plug o'clock! performance in week two, capital centre, and tickets are free!) is a globe-hopping play, with locations all over the shop - that's going to affect staging very heavily. With this one I've gone for the more traditional "three people stuck in a room" approach. But why are they stuck? What do they have with them? Will the air run out!? (Okay, that last one's not so much of a concern).
Conversely of course, I don't want to be too controlling. Theate is an interprative media - it is interpreted by the director, the actors, and then finally the audience (thankyou to James McPhun for that insightful piece of advice). The director has to give the actors leeway for their own interpretation - the writer has to give the director leeway. That's not just about putting ambiguity into the text, it's about suggesting your vision, rather than dictating it.
The only solid path I've found for this is to be a genius. I don't think I'm there of course, so I'm waiting on the opinions of several directors to see if they ring up those issues as a problem. Time will tell.
Characterisation is interesting. In truth, I'm not going to be characterising these people - whoever performs them is. But I have to make a text which suggests a coherent character. One experience when performing in "Dinner" was that my character (and arguably some of the others) wasn't entirely internally consistent. It made choosing a direction for the character exceedingly difficult. Nonetheless, as an actor I had the final call. It's very odd, writing characters, and knowing that the goal is to make them interpretable as people, not to make them into people.
Anyway whilst the buzz lasts I'm going to go write a short story and finish learning some lines! Toodlepip!
The Christmas break is over, and the creative vampire bats that suck up the blood of language have returned to me at last. Which isn't to say that I've not been creative over the holidays - anyone who witnessed my abortive attempt at roast potatoes would have a hard job denying it - but rather I have once more been hit with a mad spell of creativity. Which is why I'm writing this, of course.
Who knows how and why they come and go. Perhaps they follow magnetic currents and land marks like birds, moving in migration patterns from one willing mind to the next. Or perhaps they reside deep within the animal hind-brain of the human vessel, rising to the surface only when summoned with the correct libations - a certain concoction of stress, caffeine and milk. Who knows.
Anyway, as an impulse purchase I picked up a copy of "intelligent life", a new magazine being published by the economist. (My semi-autistic half is railing, since I managed to acquire episode 2 of voume one. Fortunately I have a yorkshire half as well, which wears a flat cap and keeps its money in the mattress, and it refuses to allow the autistic half to send off for a back issue numer one). I don't actually have very much to say about it, but I felt I had to blast something out before I started writing on a wonderful short story idea that just came to me.
The magazine is gorgeous, in terms of production values. It resembles those strange photography magazines you only find in very large or exclusive bookshops, the ones that cost more than a hardback. The print is large and sprinkled lightly over the pages like chocolate dust on a cappucino. Or Moccaccino-latte, or whatever kind of chocolate-topped caffeine beverage you sup on. The articles? An interview with Phillip Pullman, the main reason for my purchase, a little light musing on the value of language to clear thought (very much removed from all the Kripke and Frege I was studying last term, I'm sure), an interview with a man who believes that the average IQ is increasing...
It's chocolate box intelligencia, for people too busy and disinclined to read artistic journals, and yet too expensive and rich to read the Guardian. (G2 magazine specifically. A weeks-worth of G2 will give you pretty much the same content as two copies of "intelligent life", although the fashion advice and the review sections you would have to take from the Saturday Guardian and the Observer). You can tell the wealth of the demographic by the adverts - one of them, for a private money eating firm or something, reads "Too much money? We can help. Our specialist money-burners..." and so on.
It may sound like I don't like it. Actually, I very much do. The feel of it in my hands. The opulence. The lush paper of the pages (they're practically card they're so thick and glossy), the beautiful full colour photography throughout, the high quality graphic designer they've obviously shanghaid. I'm waiting for a moment to spring straight into Philip Pullmans dirty six page pull out, and gobble up every sparse word.
The magazine is classy, it promises to make the reader classy. Classy enough not to have to use words like "classy". Classy enough to be cool without saying it. Classy enough to be unafraid of its own intellect.
Will it last? I don't know. I probably won't buy it again unless they keep up the interviews. Not that that matters - the real demographic for this sort of thing is the rich. And how many rich people can there be?