Writing with Collaborative Iteration

In the past I have routinely embraced the archetype of the solitary writer, enveloped in the confinement of my own creative realm, choosing to withdraw from the external world to delve into the recesses of the mind, where thoughts and ideas swirl in a tempest of inspiration and despair. The tragic melodrama of it all has a certain romantic appeal to the Edgar-Allan-Poe-admiring-inclined. Writing reality, however, away from the flickering glow of candlelight that dances across the parchment, igniting with deep profundity each soul-searching word, should be one that engages with the world and other people. My experience of collaboration, particularly in a recent collaborative workshop, has helped to shape this more rounded perspective, which I believe will improve the resonance and relevance of my writing. I will draw on the work enacted in the workshop to show examples of what can be learned from valuable experiences shared with other people, and describe the context within a wider writing-for-performance landscape.

Syssoyeva and Proudfit compile various perspectives that highlight the iterative and adaptive nature of scriptwriting within a collective setting, examining the ways in which collaborative methods such as acting workshops can contribute to the development of new scripts and performances. Using my own example in this context, being in the room with actors and the director, answering questions and offering comments as a scene came to life from the page, helped me to form fresh insights on the writing, and enabled me to iterate an improved version of the script. The performance in development was of a monologue in a monologue play where the protagonist, Jane, is talking to her husband, Guy, who is in a permanent coma. The dilemma she is facing is whether she should sacrifice her life for an apparently lost cause or move on with her life despite loving him. Jane speaks a torrent of words to fill the desperation of the silence, but the most important are the last two: ‘I’m sorry’. And she leaves. She has a spectrum of contrasting thoughts in the monologue, many of which she’s not proud of. There is also a recurring theme of faith and whether anyone is listening, partly inspired by Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Silence of God’ trilogy—should she have faith that Guy is listening and lose herself in her love, or accept the reality of her life as she sees it?

The first issue I noticed in the enactment was a diminishing return of the repeated lines that Jane was using to avoid the silence. I have found repetition to have a pleasing rhythmic effect in my poetry and songs, but in the medium of dramatic theatre, meaning does not have to be vocalised. David Mamet offers a provocative take on acting and the creative process, touching upon the relationships between actors, writers, and directors. Actors experimenting with different interpretations can reveal unexpected facets of character, leading writers to refine their vision and perhaps take characters in new directions. The non-verbal cues and choices actors make in portraying their roles can highlight the importance of what is left unsaid, encouraging writers to weave more subtext into the script. It was evident from the actor’s performance of the monologue that the power of silence and its effect on Jane could be made more visceral to the audience by internalising the repeating loops of her thoughts; and that expressing her character objectives through actions and activity would give the actor greater space to find the performance and provide a much more compelling visual experience. For instance, as Jane speaks to Guy, narrating daily events and sharing her hopes and fears, she could obsessively adjust his blanket, fold sheets, fluff his pillow, or rearrange flowers on the bedside table, showing the care for his wellbeing and comfort, yet also signposting repetitive thoughts and inner turmoil. The actor’s movements and her impulse to touch Guy gave me the idea of Jane shaving her husband as he lies there. A break in the flow of text can be an opportunity for the actor and audience to experience what caring for someone is actually like. The tenderness and time she might take to shave him would convey much about the intimacy and closeness of their relationship. She could also hold her husband’s hand, brush his hair, or gently touch his face, establishing a physical connection that underscores her desperation for him to wake up and respond to her. The lack of character interaction on display made me think that Jane could start playing recordings of messages from family and friends, giving the actor something to respond to, and also revealing more of the world outside the hospital room.

Jane is trying to justify herself, and we in the audience are deciding what to think about her actions; we are invested in discovering the mix of emotions we feel about her. She is angry that he left her, that she has been abandoned to isolation, even if it wasn’t in his control. Seeing this unfold in the physical setting, and the interactions of the actor and director, made me think about the movement choices of Jane in the space and how that might be represented in the script. Clive Barker explores the use of theatre games and exercises in drama training, highlighting how these techniques can foster collaboration and creativity among actors and director, and how this, in turn, can lead to the discovery of more engaging or realistic exchanges, influencing the writer of the script to accommodate those dynamic arising interactions. The workshop itself can be viewed as a kind of interactive theatre game, with the actor dynamically responding to the director’s notes while playing with delivery and style. Experiencing the dynamic, and the actor/director experimentations with space, gave me several ideas for the movement activities of Jane that might enhance the emotional depth and narrative flow of the scene, by reflecting her internal journey, her relationship with her husband, and the gravity of the situation. For example, my post-workshop script now helps the actor make use of the whole stage—Jane can literally move away from Guy when lost in moments of anguished thought, but gravitate back to him when reminiscing about shared moments and special stories in their past. Packing up her things to go and making for the door, but changing her mind at the last moment; or stepping away from the bed to look out of a window because it’s all too much; or pacing up and down lost in thought; or standing by herself in contemplation with her back to him for a brief period, can all portray inner conflict, and are now signposted as actions within the script.

I loved the director’s suggestion in the workshop that Jane could be reading to Guy as an activity. In fact, the reading of, for example, magical realism stories could very much chime with the play’s plotline that Guy is experiencing a strange supernatural world in his coma, unbeknown to Jane, based on what she is communicating to him. The director also commented that moving the reveal of what happened to Guy to later in the monologue might add to the shape and direction of the scene, which I agreed with and implemented in my edit. Louis Catron addresses how a director’s vision can guide the scriptwriting process through collaborative workshops. The collaboration and involvement of others provides more perspectives and input into the process, for when individuals come together, pooling their unique talents and insights, the potential for innovation and excellence is magnified. For instance, without the collaboration, it would not have occurred to me to read Happy Days by Samuel Beckett for theatrical context and genre, as recommended by the director. Beckett’s play really demonstrates the power and potential of the monologue in theatre. It features predominantly one character, Winnie, buried up to her waist in the first act and up to her neck in the second, engaging in a continuous monologue that reflects on her memories, her present state, and her relationship with her mostly unseen husband, Willie. The play showcases how a single voice can convey a vast landscape of emotion and thought, making it a pivotal text for me in studying the dynamics of solo performance and the depth that monologue plays can achieve. The monologue format allows Beckett to weave complex themes into the fabric of the play, inviting the audience into Winnie’s internal world and her contemplations on life, isolation, and hope amidst despair. These themes are all echoed in my script, and Beckett’s work will serve as an influence for subsequent development of the play.

The fact that there were four actors available in the workshop made me question whether I wanted to pursue the form of the monologue play, or whether it would be more visually interesting to include character interaction. I am familiar with various monologue plays that bring to life the intimate connection between actor and audience, such as Brian Friel’s Faith Healer, Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads, The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler, A Night in November by Marie Jones, I Am My Own Wife by Doug Wright, Thom Pain (based on nothing) by Will Eno, Sea Wall by Simon Stephens, and so on. However, due to the very similar themes, Beckett in particular reminded me of the beauty in one actor sharing their story with the audience, especially as the subject matter is emotionally intense and personal to the character, who is gradually revealing her internal struggle with conflicted thoughts and feelings about loneliness.

Keith Johnstone’s seminal work on improvisation in theatre sheds light on the impact of spontaneous, collaborative creation among actors in the development of narratives and characters. If a writer can actually interact with and respond to characters and props, and the unique situations that arise in the moment, then this can help invoke truthful writing. It can be refined later, but an enormous creative impulse has been captured in a script that becomes, in a sense, a recording of reality—something that actually happened and was experienced (at least in the imagination of the actor). That piece of reality can then be interpreted and spun in directions by other actors in the endless ways that creativity enables. Constantin Stanislavski’s work, particularly his system of actor training, rehearsal, and performance technique, has had a profound influence on acting, and also script development. His emphasis on emotional truth, character motivation, and the ‘magic if’ provides a foundation for actors and writers to explore deeper layers of a script in a collaborative setting. Viola Spolin’s work is also a useful foundational base in the field of theatre education, particularly regarding improvisation and its role in the creative process. Her games and exercises foster spontaneity and creativity, allowing for the exploration of character relationships and scenarios that can inform script development. Commercial reality may unfortunately prevent collaboration between a writer and professional actors in most cases; however, it may be possible for a writer to apply these acting techniques and exercises to really think and feel as their character, to embody the lines and construct the writing through activity, exploring the full extent of the space or venue. The writer does not necessarily need to have the same refined skills as an actor, but they can invoke what an actor and director are searching for, to help them find their own ways into the performance. Signposts and activity, as powerful cues for dramatisation, become more apparent when the writer attempts to create the physicality from their imagination. John Stylan observes that Shakespeare’s experiences as an actor shaped his dramatic works, including character development, stage directions, and the structure of his plays. Shakespeare, as the actor he was, may have actively written at the theatre and adapted and iterated for how the actors engaged with his words. On my part, I do read my scripts out loud to myself, but from now on I will also physicalise the words as an actor approaching the intentionality of lines. This practice will ensure I have properly engaged with the character’s motivations in the moment and the impulses they are likely to be actioning for their wants and needs within the scene.

I have focussed, in the past, on an internal collaboration with influences in literature: the psychological depth of Chekhov’s characters, the sharp social commentary of Brecht’s epic theatre, or the innovative narrative structures found in the works of Caryl Churchill. However, moving beyond my thoughts and engaging closely with actors and a director, I have come to believe that a script does not have to be a static monument but can evolve with performance. An acting collaborative workshop can serve as a living laboratory for script development, bridging the gap between the writer’s words and its eventual realised life, ensuring that the script iterates to not only a compelling narrative but also a practical, performative blueprint ready for production. There is still a part of me that feels the pull of the candlelight, beckoning me back further into my solitary writing cave, although now I have discovered the appeal of sunlight outside.