Back to the play, then. A weekend of milling around, immersing myself in May 3, 1980, followed by creative spurts. I need to do more of this. There are several monologues, which I'm very, very happy with. In fact, I read one in public the other night - I'd been invited to chat to the local Writers' Circle and the small gathering reacted well, even given my furious, mile-a-minute "he's no actor" performance style and the amount of expletives. Mentally, the play's finished. I know where it's heading, what's coming up. It's just getting it down on paper. It's much more of a commercial piece than I'd have ever dreamed of writing. And that, folks, is the challenge. We can all write stuff for an audience of five. I can treat some parts of the play like a job of journalism - there are a lot of facts and stats to convey. Thankfully, there are also still plenty of flights of fancy. Enough to ensure my voice, my ridiculous voice, is still in there. I'm feeling the pressure as the self-imposed first draft deadline looms. I need to relax. If I were Joe Orton, I'd be out cottaging tonight. But I'm not. Mind you, that's quite an appealing night out and it'd knock socks off an evening watching post-Tommy Harris Corrie...no, no, I'll stick with the Chysanthemum tea and filling up the mp3 player.
Listening: Gwen Stefani - Love Angel Music Baby, The Bravery - The Bravery.
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