Play on words

So I never wrote the book.

Because it turned into a play instead.  I'm not quite sure why that happened.  It started out as a comic novel - a serious comedy mind, you know me - with lots of ideas in it that were best examined  through dialogue.  But after a bit I realised there was an awful lot of speech and somehow it would work better as a play.  Not that I know anything about playwriting.

After that it went well.  I really enjoyed writing it - cramming in more and more ideas, jokes, paradoxes and, finally, tragedy.  The funny thing is that  when it became a play I could see the characters much more clearly as if they were in front of me on the stage.  And as a result it was easy to get into their heads and the words simply flowed out of their mouths.  All I had to do was write them down.

After that, God, that was the most fun I've ever had, down in London on my own writing my two act play.  Kind of thing I've dreamt of doing since I was a pimply teenager.

Just for a while I could kid myself I was a real writer because that's exactly how I felt.

Once I'd finished the first draft I came back up to Scotland and, after a bit, I sat in my room (right here in fact) and worked on the re-writes.  Then last week I launched my baby off into the choppy waters where the theatrical agents swim, like sharks in a pool.

And now I'm waiting for the rejections.  Just like I did as a teenager, all those years ago after my first book.  Nice symmetry though, you have to admit.  Then and now, living in hope.

You'd think I'd know better, at my age.

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Been away from the Pundy House.  Not far.  Just around the corner in fact, in a dark place.

Everything's changed.  Miss the old days, the thrill of the new, the buzz.  All the laughs we had.  What laughs!  The parties!  My God, the parties.  Like Gatsby.  Shut the fuck up the mansion and went away.  Wandered lost in the real world.  Still never found what I was looking for.

Turned off the Comments.  Not ready to perform.  Need to sharpen up my act.  First night nerves and all that.  Nothing much more to say really.  You can see the difference, can't you.  Shame, could have been a pretender.  To the throne.  Hah!  That got you.  Didn't it?  No?  Need to sharpen up the act.  Find the old magic.  Sing for my supper.

The place is empty, full of ghosts.  Draughty too.  Smell the dampness, the rotting brains.  When Winter comes can the long dark night of the soul be far behind.  Open the windows, tear down the dust sheets, put the kettle on, wipe away the tears.  I'll be alright, don't worry about me.  Oh yes, I'll get there in the end.  Nothing surer.

Do me a favour though, don't look for answers here.   Not yet anyway.  Let me get the sanatorium cleaned out first.

Not yet the last post

Moved to London. Returned to the novel for the first time in a year. It's all that matters after all. Slow progress. One word at a time. Hope springs. Spring. Light. Tunnel. Light.