Reflections on Creative Practice

When I write stories, it serves as a reflective journey, a means to unravel and interpret my own perspectives and life experiences. This exploration is not merely introspective; it also embodies a leap into the lives of others, into circumstances that can be very different from my own. Writing becomes an empathetic outlet for me through which I can simulate experiences and emotions—a place where I can gather, refine, and articulate what I truly think, feel, and believe as a human being engaging with the world. I outline here a personal philosophy that drives this creative practice, with a particular reference to my recently written audio drama, The Staircase, which delves into themes of alienation, self-discovery, and a quest for meaning in an often ambiguous world. Writing the script, as with most of my creative work, was a personal philosophical exploration, serving as both a mirror and a catalyst for deeper self-understanding.

In addition to personal growth, progress in every societal domain from science to the arts relies on the ability to think creatively. Rather than passively receiving content, inertly thinking how one is told to think, and compliantly accepting the constraints imposed by others, creativity represents a higher ideal; it involves infusing a spirit of discovery, exploring ideas, and sometimes moving beyond conventional limits to dream of something new. The Staircase breaks several conventions for good audio drama, purposefully. The first, and most important, is that its primary meaning is not clear and may therefore confuse listeners. In fact, the narrative has several layered interpretations, all of which are perfectly valid for the evidence presented. The layers of meaning enable the narrative to operate on multiple realities simultaneously, encouraging deeper dives into the drama beyond its surface. As the audience engage with and interpret the layers, I would like them to feel a sense of co-discovery and personal investment in the story.

The narrative is formed from the first-person perspective of Guy, the main protagonist in a series of stories, called Human World. Ostensibly, the audio drama is about a person being chased by a terrifying creature up an endless staircase. Guy has to rest and seek sustenance by entering doors to other worlds, but no matter what he does, he always ends up back on the staircase. One may ask the valid question, what is this really about? And how does the story resolve with a satisfying answer to the mystery? The answer, from my perspective, is that mystery symbolises the unknown aspects of life and the universe; it reflects humanity’s perpetual quest for knowledge and understanding in the face of the inexplicable. The use of imagery, symbolism, and metaphor, rather than the use of explanation, serve to deepen the thematic impact. For example, the recurring motif of a fragmented mirror in the Human World stories not only symbolises the protagonist’s fractured sense of self but also reflects the theme of distorted reality.

Life is often lacking in clear-cut answers, and by incorporating this into my writing, I am mirroring the complexities of the world, allowing for multiple layers of meaning within a single narrative. For instance, the story could be describing an Artificial General Intelligence experiencing a simulated world that it had created in order to understand the human condition (with reference to Christian concepts of God living and suffering on Earth as Jesus); alternatively, it may be about a human experimented on by inter-dimensional aliens, or a ghost trapped in limbo between past and future lives, or a dying man’s mind trying to make sense of his life, or a confused person experiencing altered states of reality through drugs and illness, or maybe a biblical Job-like character being challenged by supernatural events. I would suggest, however, that all these explanations are true on different levels. Guy is ‘the ghost in the machine’, both simulated and alive, created by a digital parent world, but born of a human’s experiences. The ambiguous writing reflects that we do not have answers to the big existential questions of reality; we interpret a phenomenon through lenses that are familiar to us rather than comprehend all the dimensions of its being. To label the meaning would be to diminish the meaning, for the interpretation is determined by what resonates and connects within the listener.

Good art is inherently subjective, as it reflects aspects of the experiencer’s own life and awareness. In The Death of the Author, Roland Barthes argues that a writer’s intentions and biographical context should not dictate the interpretation of their work; people often see aspects of themselves in an artwork, and their reactions can reveal insights about their own nature and experiences. Well-crafted art therefore allows viewers to peel back layers, discovering multiple connections of meaning and symbolism. It prompts the experiencer to think, question, and feel—engaging them in an ongoing dialogue with the work. However, Viktor Shklovsky’s notion of Formalism in his essay Art as Technique, when applied to writing for performance, underscores the importance of a clear narrative—one that can make implicit themes and meanings more perceptible and impactful to the audience. Shklovsky’s perspective is that clarity in storytelling is not just a stylistic choice but a fundamental and necessary technique. In contrast to this prescription, I am very comfortable with ambiguity; I do not have a psychological need for precise one-to-one answers that match and label the complex. John Keats introduced this concept of ‘Negative Capability’ in a letter to his brothers in 1817. The term has since become a significant concept in the discourse on artistic theory and the philosophy of creativity. Keats described Negative Capability as the capacity of being ‘in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’ Essentially, it refers to an artist’s ability to accept ambiguity and paradox without the need to resolve them rationally. It is about embracing the unknown and the mysterious, and being comfortable in the midst of uncertainties; an openness that can lead to deeper and more profound artistic expressions. When not constrained by the need for definitive answers, writers can explore more truthfully the nuances of life—they notice and appreciate the subtleties of the world around them, often finding beauty and meaning in ambiguity.

A convention in good audio drama is to convey information subtly through conversation and sound rather than by the overt exposition of characters, such as explaining plot points, backgrounds, or their feelings. I generally adhere to this point that while some narration can be helpful, overusing it to describe actions and settings can make the drama feel more like an audiobook than an immersive experience. However, by stepping out of the conventional boundaries and experimenting with new ideas, styles, or forms, writers can create unique, albeit more risky, work. In this instance, I set myself the challenge of inverting the exposition convention, by choosing a first-person narrative, and giving the listener deeper access to the inner workings of Guy’s mind. As someone influenced by Dostoevsky’s novels, such as Crime and Punishment, I am especially interested in the immediacy of the protagonist; and the first-person perspective is particularly well suited to depicting internal battles of the human psyche. Dostoevsky often grappled with moral and philosophical questions through intimate portrayals of his characters’ perspectives—a writer influenced by him might therefore imbue their narrative with similar existential inquiries, creating a means for exploring deeper ethical and philosophical themes. The first-person viewpoint also adds a layer of subjectivity to the narrative, and invites listeners to question the reliability of Guy as the narrator. Unreliable narration adds more depth to the story, as listeners are left to decipher what is true and what is a product of Guy’s perception or self-deceit.

I aim to incorporate philosophical themes into my writing in ways that enrich the narrative, influenced by writers like Douglas Adams, who used a seemingly light-hearted approach to explore profound metaphysical questions. Despite the comedic overtones in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Adams delves into existential themes, such as cosmic meaning and the search for knowledge and truth—the famous answer being ‘42’ to ‘the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything’. The joke influenced my writing of the crash test dummy’s comment, ‘“What is the meaning of life?” is the 404^th most asked question of the Great Oracle’s Database’—404 being the standard website error for ‘not found’ on the internet.

I also combine the humour with tragedy, sometimes darkly. The interplay between Guy and Lexi frequently serves as a comic contrast to the desperation of Guy’s seemingly hopeless situation. This type of blend, as seen in the works of authors like Charles Dickens, can significantly enhance the impact of a narrative. For example, Lexi’s change of role at the end, to someone who is genuinely concerned about Guy’s welfare, highlights the seriousness of what is happening to him. By contrasting moments of lightness with the darker aspects of the story, the tragic elements can be thrown into sharper focus, making them more poignant. Charles Dickens’ novels, which often dealt with serious social issues like poverty, child labour, and injustice, are marked by his distinctive combination of comedy and tragedy. He created memorable characters like Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield or Samuel Pickwick in The Pickwick Papers, who, despite their often dire circumstances, provide comic relief. These characters evoke sympathy and laughter, making the tragic elements of their stories all the more moving. Shakespeare, as might be expected, was also a master at this; for example, the heightened emotional impact of the usually comedic Falstaff meeting a tragic end in Henry V. Life is a mixture of joy and sorrow, and good art often reflects both.

As a writer who gravitates towards crafting surreal stories, my creative preferences might suggest several things about my personality, interests, and life experiences. The bizarre offers an escape from the mundane and ordinary, and I have found that surrealism can be a creative outlet for the expressing of thoughts and feelings that are difficult to articulate in a more literal or conventional manner. For some writers, such as me, creating strange worlds and characters can be a form of personal reflection or catharsis; it can be a way to process and express the complexities of their inner world in a metaphorical or symbolic manner. The scenes in The Staircase touch on elements of the subconscious and dreamlike states, and are heavily influenced by surreal cinema. Perhaps the most famous in this genre, David Lynch’s films like Mulholland Drive and Blue Velvet are known for their dream sequences, and exploration of the darker side of the human psyche. Federico Fellini’s films, notably 8 ½ and La Dolce Vita, blend reality and fantasy, often reflecting his own life and dreams, and are marked by a distinct, whimsical style. Another personal influence is Ingmar Bergman’s film Wild Strawberries, featuring dream sequences that explore the main character’s memories and fears. With a penchant for quirky storytelling, Michel Gondry’s films like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and The Science of Sleep are distinguished by their imaginative and dreamlike qualities, often exploring the nature of memory and dreams. A key feature of the Surrealist movement, Luis Buñuel’s films, including The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and Belle de Jour, are celebrated for their dreamlike sequences and surreal imagery, often challenging the viewer’s perception of reality. In films like In the Mood for Love and 2046, Wong Kar-wai creates dreamlike atmospheres through his use of colour, music, and slow, deliberate pacing, evoking a sense of longing and nostalgia. Guillermo del Toro’s films, such as Pan’s Labyrinth and The Shape of Water, are known for their fantastical elements and ethereal qualities, often blending fairy-tale-like narratives with darker themes. Films like Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan by Darren Aronofsky possess a dreamlike intensity, often blurring the lines between hallucination and reality, and are known for their psychological depth. Also, Terry Gilliam’s films, such as Brazil, are known for their fantastical and surreal visual style, often creating worlds that blur the boundaries of reality. Perhaps my biggest influence in cinema, however, are Andrei Tarkovsky’s films, which are often described as visual poetry. His films are deeply imbued with spiritual and philosophical themes. He often explored existential questions, the nature of humanity, and the search for meaning, which lend a transcendent, dreamlike quality to his work. Films like Mirror and Stalker are layered with symbolic imagery and scenes that invite multiple interpretations, much like the elusive and metaphorical nature of dreams. He often blurred the lines between reality and illusion, past and present, memory and dream. I have written The Staircase to be of this genre, which I find to be beautiful and deeply profound. Human World is stuck at 1:13 am, like in the middle of a dream—and as a layered explanation, it also equates to 1 Corinthians 13 in the bible, Guy’s time of death as a human, and the time of his creation as a simulation in the Corinthians hyper-computer. It also equates to the time shown on a bedside clock when Guy is slipping between sleep and wakefulness.

I experience hypnagogic hallucinations and vivid dreams that spark creative ideas. Writers like Mary Shelley and Stephen King have famously drawn from their dreams to create some of their most notable work. In the preface to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, Shelley describes how the idea for the novel came to her in a dream after a discussion on the nature of life and the possibility of reanimating the dead. This emanation of her subconscious, provided the groundwork for one of the most influential works of Gothic literature. In his memoir On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King discusses how some of his ideas for novels came to him in dreams; for instance, the idea for Misery came to him while he was sleeping on an aeroplane. Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, advocates for a dream-mining technique I deploy most days, called ‘morning pages’—a practice of writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts first thing after waking. The unending staircase concept was written during this process and originates from my dreaming subconscious.

Although I have conscious writing intentions that structure my thoughts, the story has ultimately emerged from my subconscious, and I do not understand everything that is contained there. Ideas can seemingly emerge out of nowhere because they have been forming below the level of awareness, influenced by hidden thoughts and feelings. By channelling such experiences into my writing, and learning from the insight of others, I can explore and make sense of my own inner life. Contemporary Japanese author Haruki Murakami is known for his surreal, dreamlike narratives—in interviews, he has talked about tapping into his subconscious and dreams to create the fantastical elements of his novels. His writing process involves a disciplined routine that includes running and meditation, activities that he believes helps him in accessing the subconscious. Carl Jung used a technique he called ‘active imagination’ to delve into his subconscious; this involved allowing his mind to wander freely in a semi-trance state, engaging imaginatively with symbols and images that arose. Jung’s approach does not work for me exactly as he described in The Red Book, but I have found that ideas often pop up depending on how my subconscious is primed; and that wandering, both in a literal and metaphorical sense, plays a significant role in enhancing creativity. Wandering involves stepping away from structured thinking and routine environments, allowing my mind to explore freely.  Lexi’s dialogue was imagined while I was walking in the countryside—and perhaps uncoincidentally, Guy is walking outside while talking to her in the story. The plot points for the story were originally written in a journal that I update from ideas that suddenly occur to me as I go about my day; and the themes were the resulting ideas of daily background exposure to the cross-pollination of concepts in technology and philosophy.  

My personal philosophy frames my interaction with daily events and fuels my subconscious. This philosophy encourages resistance to the simplification of complex emotions or issues. For artists and writers, the ability to dwell in uncertainty means being open to the myriad possibilities that exist beyond the realms of conventional reasoning and knowledge. Certainty keeps individuals within the bounds of what they know and understand, which can be far more comfortable than venturing into the unknown. Stepping into the realm of uncertainty can indeed be challenging, pushing individuals outside of their comfort zones, but it is where true value is found. My optimal creative practice is to explore all available avenues; it is one that is dynamic and holistic, blending disciplined routines with creative freedom, technical skill development with imaginative exploration, and personal introspection with external learning and feedback. The initial phase is mostly unstructured, enabling the flow of thoughts onto the page without concern for form or coherence. The subsequent phase is more disciplined, explicitly and implicitly considering best practice. Here, the unrefined ideas are analysed and iteratively developed, transforming impulses into a coherent shape. In the example of The Staircase, the secondary phase in writing the script involved reviewing best practice and in many cases continuing to break it. However, the iterative process did make the story more coherent; Guy returned to the staircase via the hospital as a plot twist. Without the second stage of writing, left to my wanderings, I may have floated further out into symbolism and strange, seemingly unconnected metaphorical sequences. In its essence, though, I had created a script instinctively and viscerally—and over time I have learned to trust this feeling when it happens, as it comes from a deeper, truer part of me that I cannot fully explain. As I wrote the final scene I was tearful and felt that I had been on a journey, like my protagonist, finding my own story arc as a writer. This was my catharsis. I was experiencing my thoughts and allowing my subconscious to show me what I am really feeling.