Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Theatre of cruelty...

Dashed to the end of the first act of a play, 33 pages in. It's a play I'm writing for no other reason than to write. But what other reason is there? Ah, yes, income, that would be nice.
It's an exercise, I guess, while I wait for the nod on a couple of ideas that are drifting about out there. An exercise in writing dialogue, in just writing, in just being creative. And it's nice not to get bogged down in acres of research and audience demographics and keeping my eye on my use of profanities and just write for the hell of it, the fun of it. And who knows, maybe someone will be interested in the fucking thing when I finish it. Maybe we'll put it on. Or maybe I'll put it in the pile with all the rest. Along with the one I wrote just before Sully. I waved that one in front of a lot of creative writing students, as I explained my writing process (who do I think I am?!). "I prepare to write a play by writing another play, about something completely different. Here's it is. 65 pages." They looked at me as if I was mad. They were more interested in what was written in my Moleskine, and whether I'd mapped out the plot for Sully by sticking a million post-its on the walls in my house and what time I wrote. And how you get commissioned. And can I give them the name and number of everybody that might help them? I wrote at night, last night. But I'm better between the hours of 10am-noon. And then it just fizzles away until the next day and, for a few hours, my mind works relatively normally. I probably told them I work 48 hour shifts, fuelled by Jack Daniels, huge chunks of Cheshire cheese and tortilla chips.
How long does a play take to write? A few days, physically. But before that there's months of wandering around in a daze, of staring off into space, of getting more and more irritable and irritated by everything and everyone around you, of watching people but not engaging with them. I'm turning into a pretentious cunt, maybe. Anyone know why the self-belief comes and goes in such huge waves? Some days I'm convinced I, and I alone, could be the saviour of theatre. Others, well, it feels like there's nothing to say, nothing worth saying, that life is just a big black hole we're all sliding towards at speed. You'd never guess I write comedy, eh?

4 comments:

Benjamin said...

Must say I've just very much enjoyed this last batch of posts.

And some days I wish there were more pretentious cunts about giving children troublesome ideas for things to do with stationary

:)

Laurie /Lozman/Eldred J said...

Hear hear, Mr W. This post realigned my kilter after an afternoon in the company of our new meejah manager Paul "Whats a DVD then" Hartley. Apparently, mobile phones are now the future. All that stuff about being first and best? Well apparently they were lying then but now its the truth. Thank goodness for a real writer!

bazza27 said...

Don't know about 48 hour shifts, but Jack Daniels, Chesire cheese and tortilla chips works for me.

Dave W said...

Your face keeps changing, bazza! What's going on??