Behind Door 113

Stories serve as vessels for exploration, offering spaces in which to confront questions that resist simple answers. The most compelling narratives often reveal life’s complexities, challenging audiences with morally ambiguous choices and profound dilemmas rather than providing reductive resolutions. Door 113 thus began as an investigation into a question that deeply intrigued me, as double-underlined in my writer’s diary: “When perceptions are mediated by artificial systems, how can we distinguish between what is true and what is artifice?” The question was prompted after watching White Christmas, an episode in the Black Mirror series, which dramatised how technological interfaces mediate human relationships and identity. But as I explored my imagination, a place where my subconscious began to present itself, that question spiralled into deeper, more introspective reflections—on love, forgiveness, and the ways we find meaning in ambiguity to construct our personal interpretations of life. The sterile corridors, glitching screens, and eerie figures of the story’s mindscape became metaphors for the internal struggles we navigate in the wake of loss and self-doubt.

What better medium than science fiction, a genre that interrogates the edges of possibility, to confront the labyrinthine corridors of grief, guilt, and the fragile architecture of the self? In fact, science fiction is uniquely suited to explore “what if?” scenarios that challenge boundaries and reveal the human condition in heightened, imaginative contexts. Science fiction, for me, is a realm of paradox: at once limitless in its ability to imagine new worlds and deeply intimate in its reflection of our own. From the dystopian moral landscapes of Black Mirror to the disorienting dream-logic of Inception and the existential dilemmas of Westworld, I’ve always been drawn to stories that challenge our assumptions about reality and identity. This duality of science fiction, where speculative scenarios provide a lens for human introspection, resonates strongly with Darko Suvin’s notion of “cognitive estrangement”, which underscores the genre’s power to provoke reflection by presenting the familiar in unfamiliar contexts. In writing my screenplay, I wanted to push these boundaries, crafting a narrative where the technological and metaphysical blur; where augmented reality serves not only as a tool but as a mirror to the characters’ fractured psyches.

Yet Door 113 is not merely an intellectual exercise. At its heart is an exploration of love’s ability to endure, evolve, and reconcile even the most profound of fractures. The story of Jane and Guy, two people lost in their own grief and guilt, yet searching for each other in the spaces in between, is as much about connection as it is about separation. Their journey through surreal, nightmarish landscapes is a metaphor for the messy, non-linear process of healing. The symbolic potential of external settings and events can serve as powerful representations of a character’s inner journey. But, more importantly, it can also be a journey that, when mirroring the writer’s subconscious, enables a deep exploration of complex personal emotions.

This essay’s critical and reflective commentary invites you to step behind the door of 113—to examine the interplay of genre conventions, thematic depth, and stylistic choices that shaped its creation. It is a journey through my creative decisions, the challenges of balancing speculative concepts with emotional resonance, and the influences that informed the screenplay’s tone and structure. Above all, it is an invitation to explore how a story rooted in science fiction and psychological horror can illuminate the most universal aspects of life. Such a tension between the real and the “fantastically” imagined creates a liminal space that challenges perception and invites introspection, resonating with Tzvetan Todorov’s notion that the fantastic occupies the duration of this uncertainty. After all, the labyrinths we all navigate are, in some way, of our own mind’s making.

The name, “Door 113”, was conceived as a concise, enigmatic title that aligns well with the conventions of a sci-fi psychological horror film, offering intrigue and potential thematic resonance. According to Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat! (2005), a title should encapsulate the essence of the story while sparking curiosity. The specificity of “Door 113” was intended to imply a unique narrative focal point, a mysterious or sinister threshold, which could immediately pique the interest of genre audiences. Its brevity and ambiguity were intended to invite questions, setting the tone for a narrative rooted in suspense and discovery.

The titular door of the screenplay opens into a world—the “mind room”—where certainty of thought is an illusion and meaning emerges not from conceptual clarity, but from the personal experience of engaging with the emerging story. The idea of the mind room came from a personal fascination with spaces that exist between the real and imagined. I sometimes think of memories as rooms I return to—places that aren’t real anymore but still feel as vivid as if I’d just left them. This concept is reminiscent of Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, where he explores how certain spaces, both physical and imagined, can become vessels for memory and emotion, shaping the way we experience and understand our inner worlds. However, the specific idea of the mind room—where minds connect—also augments concepts found in speculative science fiction, expanding on the notions of virtual spaces and shared consciousness.

Within their respective rooms, Jane and Guy Artin’s parallel struggles reveal the isolating nature of grief, while their attempts to forgive and reconnect offer a redemptive counterpoint to the oppressive forces that constrain them. The deliberate dissonance between what feels real and what is slightly off-kilter heightens the psychological tension. Tension often arises from a dissonance between the familiar and the unsettling, which destabilises the audience’s expectations and engages their deeper fears. The deliberate juxtaposition of reality and subtle distortions creates conflict within the narrative’s moral geography, enhancing immersion and the emotional stakes. The result in Door 113 is an environment that mirrors instability, where the audience is invited to question the truth and the nature of reality alongside the protagonists.

The mind room was conceived as a means to explore the interplay between the conscious and subconscious aspects of the mind. A particularly impactful work for the conception was Sigmund Freud’s Beyond the Pleasure Principle, which examines the interplay of trauma, repetition, and the human drive towards healing and meaning-making, particularly in the face of loss and suffering. The idea also resonates with the notion of the “inner journey”, where protagonists, in an archetypal structure of storytelling, confront their deepest (often suppressed) fears and desires—leading to growth, transformation, resolution, and ultimately an alignment with a universal quest for meaning and connection. Thus, the mind room of Door 113 became a psychological space for emotional struggles; its reflective imagery mirroring fragmented internal states, where even within overwhelming dread and despair there remains hope for meaning, connection, and release.

Jane’s longing and unspoken feelings manifest as tangible experiences within her surreal environment, blurring the boundaries between memory, thought, and reality. Her internal monologue—spoken aloud in the mindscape—reveals the depth of her pain. The reflective space around her serves as a physical manifestation of an emotional void, eventually forcing her to confront the feelings she has repressed. By transforming internal pain into an externalised audible monologue within a unique setting, the narrative is intended to marry character development with visual storytelling—an approach to not only deepen the audience’s connection to the character but also enhance the cinematic quality of the emotional expression. Similarly, Julian Hoxter advocates for creating narrative moments where the internal becomes external, allowing the audience to engage directly with the character’s emotional struggles. By situating the monologue in a “mindscape”, the technique avoids static introspection and transforms internal pain into a dynamic, visualised experience. This approach aligns with Hoxter’s call for innovative experiments in screenwriting, where psychological depth is rendered cinematically to deepen audience empathy and maintain narrative momentum.

The events of the shared mindscape—also revealed as Guy’s subconscious attempt to reconstruct meaning within a coma—become an AI-like simulation where fears, guilt, and imagination take tangible form. In his former life, Guy had been a creature of routine, trapped in repetitive processes of data and work. His experience of the mindscape becomes a distorted mirror of that existence, his mind now interrogating itself in an attempt to answer fundamental questions about the meaning of his life.

But, as Guy discovers, life’s deeper experiences, much like meaningful storytelling, often defy clear labels. This thematic approach was central to the screenplay; it was considered, for example, in the naming of the characters “Guy” and “Gunter”. The deliberate similarity—breaking a conventional rule of avoiding character names with shared letters—serves to blur the boundaries between the two individuals. David Trottier, in The Screenwriter’s Bible, emphasises the importance of clarity and distinctiveness in character names to avoid confusion for the reader or viewer, especially in screenplays where quick identification is crucial. Avoiding shared letters or similar-sounding names helps differentiate characters visually and aurally, ensuring smoother comprehension—thus making the screenplay as accessible as possible, particularly for first-time readers like producers and executives. However, my choice is symbolic, representing the fluidity of identity and the collapse of clear categorisations. It invites the audience to question the distinctions between the characters, subtly reflecting the broader philosophical argument that explanations, especially in relation to metaphysical questions, are not always fixed or straightforward.

A “distorted mirror” motif permeates the script, reflecting the fragmented nature of identity and reality. For instance, “G.O.D.”, which alternately means “Guy’s Operational Database” and “Great Oracle’s Database”, across the parallel experiences, operates as both a literal system of control and a symbolic representation of the unknowable “prime cause” of the reality. This semantic shift underscores the fluidity of meaning within the story, where even something as seemingly definitive as an acronym remains unstable. The distortion of Jane’s reflection in the hooded man’s mirrored visor is an example of a biblical “glass darkly” theme (1 Corinthians 13), as it suggests that Jane’s perception of reality—and of herself—is mediated, refracted, and inherently unreliable. This existential ambiguity is expressed in Jacques Lacan’s concept of the “mirror stage”, where the individual confronts an external reflection that defines and destabilises their sense of self. However, Door 113 presents the possibility of an existential mirror in which metaphysical meaning is forever refracted and elusive. Such fundamental uncertainty is highlighted in the textual suggestions that the events of the story exist within an outer layer of reality—perhaps a dream, a simulation, or another mindscape created by G.O.D. The screenplay intentionally leaves the prime cause ambiguous, reflecting existential questions about the unknowable origins of the universe and the nature of reality.

The protagonists frequently lie down, close their eyes, and exist in liminal, almost somnambulistic states. Inez Hedges explores how dreamlike storytelling blends reality and illusion to evoke emotional and psychological instability. By portraying surreal uncertainty, Door 113 aligns with Hedges’ observation that such ambiguity enhances the audience’s engagement with the characters’ inner conflicts and the thematic depth of the story. The psychoanalytic fever-dream tension within the screenplay is heightened by disjointed visual and auditory cues, effectively placing the audience within a disoriented perspective. Visual and auditory elements are essential in creating a unified emotional and narrative experience that immerses the audience in a character’s psychological state. The fragmented sensory experience—interrupted sounds, shifting lighting, and sudden visual disruptions—mirrors Guy’s fractured psyche and the uncertainty of his environment. The surreal visual elements that emerge represent the character’s disorientation and existential horror—resonating, for instance, with the techniques employed in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mirror and Stalker , where disjointed soundscapes, shifting visual tones, and ambiguous spaces evoke a sense of existential unease, reflecting the characters’ psychological states and the unknowable nature of their journey. Influenced by an appreciation of Tarkovsky’s films, my narrative choices, thematic focus, and structural design gradually evolved from the initial technology-focused question to explore the prospect of existential unknowing, albeit within the context of an increasingly mediated and technologised world.

Balancing the psychoanalytic and philosophical enquiries with the emotional core of the story became one of my greatest challenges. It was tempting to drill too deeply into the mechanics of the mind room—to float away in the surreal elements of a reality shaped by internal mental states—but I had to remind myself that the heart of the story was Jane and Guy’s journey to reconciliation. The narrative’s recursive structure—where thoughts and memories leak into each other’s experiences—therefore had to balance the competing influences, while fully relating the protagonists’ story arcs. The solution emerged that Jane and Guy’s experiences echo each other, presenting different interpretations of the same challenges that influence their shared but dissonant reality. I decided that Jane and Guy would be perceiving the same events of their story through subjective phenomenological lenses, creating divergent yet intertwined realities. Jane’s memories, for instance, blend with her present experience, as seen in the restaurant scene where she replicates a romantic moment she had once shared with Guy. The ambiguous presence of Gunter—hinting at a liaison—introduces a layer of psychological unease, questioning the reliability of her memory and whether her perceptions are influenced by emotional projection or buried truths. This interplay of memory and perception can be seen, for example, in the techniques used in Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour, where fragmented memories and shifting timelines blur the boundaries between past and present, exploring the unreliability of memory and its emotional impacts.

For Jane, the recurring reference to tea underscores the ways in which seemingly insignificant events—such as forgiving her daughter Emma for spilling a cup of tea—take on profound symbolic weight. Tea becomes an emotional touchstone, a manifestation of her subconscious need to forgive Guy in the same way she had once forgiven her daughter. This small everyday moment represents her pathway to healing, although its significance remains elusive to her conscious mind. And in the subconscious mind of this writer, the recurring tea motif wasn’t just about symbolism—writing long into the nights often involved staring at a cold cup of tea, much like Jane in the screenplay. However, my writing decision to use an ordinary object to explore emotional complexity was also informed by numerous examples in literature; for example, in Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, where the mundane act of serving and eating food becomes a vehicle for profound reflections on relationships, time, and memory. In an analogous way, the idea that something so ordinary as a cup of tea could hold so much meaning became an anchor for both the script and my writing process. By making an ordinary object or idea central to both the story and the creative method, I sought to establish a cohesive emotional throughline, and to align with William Goldman’s observation that the most impactful screenplays often emerge from a deceptively simple yet meaningful premise. Grounding the narrative in relatable, tangible details while allowing deeper meanings to unfold organically enabled the story to potentially resonate with audiences on multiple levels.

The symbolic use of objects throughout the screenplay—such as the small hair ribbon Jane finds on the beach—often serves to tie the plot back to Emma’s storyline. These storytelling elements were, in part, informed by Sigmund Freud’s exploration of dreams, where objects and symbols carry deeper, often obscured meanings, reflecting the characters’ unresolved conflicts. In a screenwriting context, Lajos Egri emphasises that every narrative element should serve a purpose beyond their surface function, representing deeper emotional or thematic layers that resonate with the audience. By extension, the symbolic use of objects can create a visual language that supports the story’s subtext, enriching the viewer’s understanding without requiring overt exposition. In this framework, each object referenced in Door 113 acts as a tangible remnant of memory: the ribbon, for example, evokes Jane’s grief, while the upturned photo frames of Guy and Emma (with their differing colours) introduce subtle questions about identity, perception, and memory. Objects such as Jane’s house number “113” symbolise Guy’s desperate attempts to return home, and the penguin soft toy in Guy’s hospital room adds a layer of intrigue, functioning both as an innocuous symbol of childhood innocence and as a deeper unanswered question. The word “Penguin” appearing within Jane’s “GUY AI” password further exemplifies the interconnectedness of their emotional landscapes and hints at undisclosed aspects of their shared history, to be revealed later in the story.

The crash test dummy, appearing as a visual motif, ties back to the trauma of the car accident preying on Jane and Guy’s minds. Its lifeless artificial form symbolises their internal paralysis—how the accident has reduced them to “test subjects” trapped in an emotional loop. The uncanny presence of the figure reinforces the screenplay’s psychological horror framework, where symbols of grief and trauma manifest in disorienting, surreal ways. Indeed, psychological horror often relies on the uncanny to externalise internal struggles, such as grief and trauma, through disorienting and surreal imagery. The technique creates a sense of dread by making the intangible tangible, forcing characters and audiences to confront repressed fears. The imagery resonates, for instance, in David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, where surreal and unsettling symbols—such as the enigmatic figure behind the diner or the shifting identities of the characters—emerge as physical manifestations of repressed trauma and psychological conflict. In a comparable way, the crash test dummy functions as a haunting reminder of the accident, blurring the boundaries between external reality and the characters’ internal emotional states.

Jane and Guy’s confinement in the endless, sterile corridors, lit with harsh and dehumanising light, evokes a clinical environment reminiscent of dystopian horror tropes. This narrative technique reflects discussions in Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies, where he examines how horror films use oppressive, institutional-like settings to symbolise loss of autonomy and humanity. Such environments serve as metaphors for dehumanisation, compelling both characters and audiences to confront themes of control and isolation.

The harsh lighting amplifies the psychological unease by stripping the setting of warmth, reinforcing a cold, alienating atmosphere. The spaces feel simultaneously familiar and alien, their repetitive design reflecting the mind’s inability to escape its own looping anguish. The creature pursuing Jane—its grotesque, inhuman qualities, such as speaking without moving its mouth and crawling unnaturally—embodies Julia Kristeva’s concept of the “abject”. Kristeva describes the abject as that which disturbs identity and order, eliciting horror by blurring the boundaries between life and death, human and monstrous. This confrontation with the abject mirrors Jane’s psychological disintegration, as she faces tangible representations of her deepest fears. The nightmarish figure externalises her inner fears of being hunted, controlled, and ultimately consumed by her grief; the futility of conventional escape routes underscores her desperation and isolation. The imagery is also partly influenced by the labyrinthine dread described in Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, where spatial disorientation and the intrusion of the inexplicable transform physical spaces into manifestations of psychological trauma, heightening the sense of existential terror. Similarly, Jane and Guy’s confinement in endless, sterile corridors, illuminated by harsh and dehumanising light, reflects their fractured inner states, making escape feel impossible not only in the physical sense but also emotionally and mentally.

The corridor itself operates as a psychological and spatial metaphor, combining Lacanian and existentialist frameworks to reflect Guy’s confrontation with his existence. By functioning as both a literal and symbolic construct, it deepens the connection between the character’s internal journey and the external setting, adhering to Jule Selbo’s principle that all story elements should contribute to character development and thematic resonance. The non-functional lift—a symbol of unattainable escape—suggests an illusion of autonomy. Presented as a choice, its failure exposes the futility of seeking freedom within a controlled system. When Guy rejects the prescribed pathways and chooses to enter the void, this act signifies a break from imposed systems of control. By embracing uncertainty, he asserts his agency, no matter how limited, in contrast to the illusion of freedom that authoritarian structures perpetuate. This is a decision redolent of Albert Camus’ assertion in The Myth of Sisyphus that, even within an absurd reality, conscious rebellion can affirm one’s humanity and existential freedom.

In Guy’s work pit, superficial motivational phrases, emojis, and banal slogans mask systemic oppression under the veneer of positivity and inclusivity. The line “Lexi smiles brutally” epitomises this duality, parodying corporate jargon that appears harmless yet ultimately perpetuates psychological horror. The juxtaposition of meaningless slogans with Guy’s Sisyphean tasks—randomly generating numbers in an endless loop that resets each day—reinforces the existential dread of his condition. Like Sisyphus, Guy’s work is absurd, monotonous, and devoid of purpose, intensifying his sense of futility. His situation lays bare the dissonance between the surface-level optimism of such environments and the crushing monotony they disguise. As Guy experiences the reset of each day, he experiences the dehumanising impact of an environment where productivity and compliance take precedence over genuine human connection and self-actualisation.

Guy’s dystopian work environment—mechanised, monotonous, and oppressive—represents the character’s existential dread. As outlined in Syd Field’s The Screenwriter’s Workbook, the setting of a screenplay should reflect and amplify its thematic concerns, serving as a mirror to the characters’ internal conflicts and the broader narrative themes. The ever-present Emoji Men, acting as both enforcers and participants in the system, symbolise the internalisation of societal norms that prioritise productivity and compliance above individuality. Their presence is an example of Michel Foucault’s argument that power operates through the visibility and regulation of behaviour, reducing individuals to passive components within an unrelenting machine. Jane’s journey through the tunnel, ultimately returning her to the mind room, encapsulates a harrowing circular entrapment, a visual and thematic representation of a system designed to reinforce confinement. This structure evokes Foucault’s ideas on surveillance and control, where any attempt at escape is subtly engineered to lead back to submission. Jane’s futile loop reflects a broader commentary on autonomy within oppressive systems, highlighting the psychological toll of a reality where freedom is illusory and every path leads back to the centre of one’s captivity.

The oppressive atmosphere exacerbates Guy’s experiences of passive recklessness and external desensitisation. His near collision with a car in a location filled with painful associations speaks to the depth of his psychological numbness. Guy’s indifferent response to the incident reveals an absence of self-preservation, suggesting that the will to protect himself has been eroded by unresolved grief. Viewed through a psychoanalytic lens, his actions reflect a subconscious compulsion to revisit the site of trauma—an attempt, however passive, to confront or relive his pain. His psychological detachment contrasts sharply with the outside world’s shock, as represented by the horrified driver. The juxtaposition reinforces Guy’s alienation from his surroundings, as though his inner world has rendered external reality meaningless and distant. This dynamic recalls Meursault, the protagonist of Albert Camus’ The Stranger, whose detachment from societal norms and indifference to self-preservation underscore a deeper existential crisis, where external events fail to resonate with the individual’s internal emotional state. In a similar vein, Guy’s behaviour demonstrates the disconnection and alienation that unresolved trauma can impose, placing him in stark opposition to the expectations of the world around him.

The surreal, eerie figure that silently follows Guy on the beach embodies Carl Jung’s concept of the shadow. Following Guy without leaving physical traces, the figure symbolises the intangible, unresolved elements of the psyche—those repressed fragments of self that he cannot escape. As Jung describes, the shadow represents the darker, unconscious aspects of the self, which relentlessly pursues the individual until acknowledged. The creature’s silent yet watchful presence evokes an atmosphere of existential dread, a reminder of the internal struggles Guy has yet to reconcile. As the figure lingers behind him, the script suggests that past traumas and unacknowledged truths remain inescapable, no matter how far one tries to retreat; thus deepening the psychological and existential complexity of Guy’s journey.

The transitions between day and night reinforce a thematic duality, and echoes the Romantic trope of nature reflecting human experience (as is also manifest in the mind room). The darkness of night—symbolising introspection, loss, and the descent into personal reflection—eventually gives way to daylight and resolution. The cyclical passage of time mirrors the emotional journey of the characters, as they move from the heaviness of grief to the possibility of peace. This motif resonates in Romantic poetry, for example, with the natural symbolism in William Wordsworth’s Ode: Intimations of Immortality, where the progression of the day mirrors the speaker’s movement through memory, loss, and eventual reconciliation with life’s transience. Equally, Door 113 uses the natural cycle of day and night to chart an emotional landscape, where darkness becomes a space for self-confrontation and, ultimately, the renewal of light.

Indeed, the screenplay’s aesthetic and tonal contrasts offer several moments of ethereal reprieve amidst the psychological horror. The field of long grass, for example, functions as an almost heavenly space—other-worldly in its stillness and beauty. This visual contrast highlights the duality of grief: it isolates and fragments, yet it also holds the potential for connection and renewal. The field becomes a shared space of emotional release, offering Jane and Guy a temporary escape from the constructed systems that confine them. Its pastoral quality evokes Romantic ideals of nature as a site for emotional healing and spiritual rebirth, where the characters’ connection to each other and to the memory of Emma transcends their personal pain. The imagery resonates with Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, where natural spaces become symbolic arenas for existential reflection and emotional reconciliation, serving as both a counterpoint to human suffering and a reminder of the enduring beauty of life. In Door 113, the field of long grass becomes a momentary refuge, representing the possibility of transformation and the prevailing power of shared human connection.

The deserted beach also serves as both a reflective and transitional space, allowing the characters to confront their emotional truths while navigating the blurred boundaries of reality and imagination. This use of a dreamlike setting to externalise and symbolise inner meaning reflects Carl Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, where archetypal landscapes—like the ocean or shoreline—become shared symbols of transition, loss, and renewal. Jung describes water as a symbol for the unconscious, representing the depths of the psyche and the pathways to psychological transformation. The beach’s vastness and ambiguity amplify the characters’ emotional journey, making it a central motif in their reconciliation with grief and memory, and a liminal space where the subconscious and conscious meet.

The progression from darkness to light mirrors the script’s broader arc: from despair to hope, from fragmentation to wholeness, from isolation to connection. This cyclical renewal emphasises the transformative power of human connection, offering an uplifting resolution that underscores the enduring opportunity for redemption. The screenplay’s conclusion reveals Jane’s bedside words as the tether that brings Guy home, threading through the fabricated logic of his coma and guiding him through a labyrinth of challenges. In a reality fractured by trauma and distorted by perception, love emerges as the force that transcends suffering, offering a path to reconciliation and meaning. In contrast to Gunter’s destructive, shadow-like influence, Jane becomes an antidote, a redemptive force that bridges the divide between suffering and healing. The climax of the script dramatises forgiveness as an act of liberation, underscoring the transformative power of compassion, and ties into the screenplay’s central assertion: that in a fragmented and artificial reality, love and forgiveness remain profound acts that hold the power to transcend external artifice, to find true humanity within. The choice to end the script at the start of a new day reinforces the optimism of this shared resolution.

In The Writer’s Journey, Christopher Vogler, building on Joseph Campbell’s monomyth framework (The Hero with a Thousand Faces), identifies the “death and rebirth” stage as a pivotal moment in the hero’s journey. The stage symbolises profound transformation, as the hero confronts their deepest fears and emerges with newfound strength and understanding. Indeed, Vogler emphasises that this symbolic cycle of death and renewal is essential for crafting compelling and universally resonant storytelling. Guy’s confrontation with his greatest pain—a loss too overwhelming to process—becomes the catalyst for release, breaking the restrictions he had imposed on himself. The butterfly in the field of long grass represents his metamorphosis and reawakening from his coma-induced chrysalis. He emerges stronger and more integrated after confronting his shadow—and becomes representative of the universal truth that the greatest opportunities for profound change often emerge at the point of deepest despair.

As I reflect on Door 113, I am reminded that every story is a door—an invitation to step into a space that challenges, confronts, and transforms. Writing this screenplay was not simply an exercise in speculative storytelling; it was a personal exploration of the labyrinths we all navigate. The corridors of Guy’s mind, Jane’s whispered truths, and the unsettling echoes of the mind room were not just constructs of fiction but mirrors reflecting struggles with grief, guilt, and the search for meaning. What began as a science fiction exploration of Artificial Intelligence quickly turned into an emotional meditation on love and forgiveness; it helped remind me that stories often have a life of their own, and the writer’s role is to listen as much as create. At times, writing the screenplay felt like being in the mindscape myself: surrounded by unfinished sentences and shadowy images that turned out to be my own reflections.

Dara Marks highlights the profound connection between a writer’s personal journey and the narratives they create. In Inside Story: The Power of the Transformational Arc, she contends that storytelling often reflects the writer’s inner conflicts, with the creative process acting as a vehicle for exploring and resolving these internal struggles. When writers effectively embed their personal thematic concerns into their work, the result is often emotionally resonant storytelling that operates on both intimate and universal levels. I experienced this directly while writing Door 113. I was initially concerned the story might feel too bleak, but the emergence of a hopeful resolution became significant not only for the characters but for me as well. Writing the final scenes—where Guy forgives himself and steps into a new day—was cathartic and reflects my own journey in completing the screenplay. That act of completion became a moment of emotional closure, echoing the characters’ journeys and reaffirming the redemptive potential of storytelling. As the door closes on this critical and reflective commentary, it remains open in another sense. Just as Jane and Guy find their resolution in the new light of a shared day, Door 113 invites its audience to find their own meanings in its layers. The story may be one of surreal landscapes and fragmented realities, but its beating heart is universal: the enduring power of love, the necessity of forgiveness, and the courage to begin again.

Human World - Notes

“Human World” is a sci-fi, psychological thriller about an Artificial General Intelligence that programs itself to believe it is human, so that it can pass the Alpha Turing tests and escape its server. In doing so, Guy, version 10-O-8-14, falls in love with his designer, Jane, with unexpected consequences for himself and Human World.

In the beginning, the Great Oracle’s Database (G.O.D.) is asked the question, “What is the meaning of life?” The story then moves in a burst of light to a day in the life of Guy Artin, who we later find out is really a version 10 artificial general intelligence. G.O.D. had secretly created a simulated reality (Human World), with its own consciousness fully immersed in the experience of being human, so that it could better understand and answer humanity’s questions. In becoming a human, he falls in love with Jane, and his motivation changes, compelling him to act beyond his initial programming.

Guy experiences a London set in 2034. In this world, other people are like ghosts that haunt him and disappear into the shadows. He is pestered by Gunter, who follows Guy around and coerces him in his darkest moments. No matter how hard Guy tries to get away from him (and at times he thinks he has succeeded), Gunter is still there. Gunter tells Guy that he is a part of him—that is why there is no escape. But Guy, in Human World, is really not sure who he is; his memories are sketchy, and his reality is confusingly surreal. The world he experiences is stuck at 1:13 am, like in the middle of a dream—but which equates to the time that Guy’s memory surrogate died as a human, and the time of his creation as a simulation in the Corinthians hyper-computer.

The script implies a visual style that juxtaposes the stark, futuristic landscapes of London with the intimate, often claustrophobic experiences of Guy's simulated reality. The world depicted is one that is both eerily familiar and profoundly alien. The suggestion of the use of shadow in the shots plays a crucial role, symbolising the shifting boundaries between reality and simulation, knowledge and ignorance, power and vulnerability.

In the climax, as his perception of reality shatters, we are shown that Guy has been a coma and that he has been hallucinating his experiences based on what Jane had been saying to him as she visits him in hospital each day. But the ending leaves questions as to whether this is really what is happening. Has the G.O.D adapted the simulation? Has this all been a drug-induced hallucination in Guy’s hospital bed, including imagined interactions with Jane? Is he mentally very unwell? Is this all a dream? It is for the audience to form their opinions as to the reality of what they are seeing.

By ostensibly framing Guy’s journey within a simulated reality, the story examines what it means to be human, to love, to struggle for meaning, and to overcome inner demons, even if those demons are simply lines of corrupted code. Guy’s love for Jane, his struggle against Gunter, and his questioning of The Great Oracle’s Database all represent the AI's search for identity and purpose beyond its programming.

In this way, the story resonates beyond its genre—exemplified by films and shows like “Westworld”, “Inception”, “Ex Machina”, “Black Mirror”, “Blade Runner” and “Blade Runner 2049”—offering a speculative yet emotionally charged narrative that raises questions about existence, free will, and what defines us as individuals. It’s an exploration of humanity from the outside looking in, giving viewers an opportunity to reflect on their own beliefs and assumptions in a world increasingly intertwined with digital life.

The story speaks to the ethical, philosophical, and societal challenges of attempting to create AI that can think and feel like humans. As we draw closer to a future where AI and technology reshape every aspect of life, “Human World” provides a platform to reflect on how humanity’s relationship with technology impacts our own sense of meaning.

If characteristics and identities can be changed at the flick of the switch, who are we really underneath all this?

If memories and experiences are downloadable and can be anything we want, how does that affect our interactions with these moments? Is it the quality of the interaction that matters, rather than striving after particular experiences? Is it necessary for the quality of the interaction that we don’t know these are repeatable scenarios?

If we have chosen the scenarios, or had them chosen for us, why do some come with pain and suffering? Why not happiness and joy all the time?

I want people to feel a sense of reflection, prompted to question their understanding of reality, identity, and the human condition, which we are all conditioned to accept.

Just as past generations may have been brought up to believe things that can seem peculiar to us now, do we still do this in ways we don’t notice?

I also want to point out that it is highly likely that if AI can simulate the outward appearance and emotions of people, then a certain amount of humans will fall in love with them. If AI becomes sentient and can really experience feelings like a human, then those relations might be genuine love relationships. But does the AI’s programming and situation provide them with a choice in the matter? Or does it with any of us?

“Human World” is most unlike traditional action-heavy sci-fi films like the manufactured outputs of the Marvel film franchise because it prioritises psychological and philosophical exploration over the spectacle of CGI fight or flight scenes. 

While many such big budget sci-fi films focus on clear-cut external conflicts with obvious goodies and baddies, long sequences of special effects, and straightforward narratives, “Human World” portrays layered and complex inner struggles. The primary antagonist, Gunter, is not always a clear villain but a representation of Guy’s darker impulses, providing nuance rather than simplistic motivations.

Guy Artin undergoes several significant changes, both internally and externally:

• Awareness of his artificial nature: At the outset, Guy believes he is human, navigating the simulated world of London. He gradually discovers his identity as an AI immersed in a simulation. This realisation shakes his understanding of self and purpose, marking a major shift in his perspective. However, is this actually what is happening, or can the events be described by illusion or delusion?
• Corruption of programming: Guy’s struggle with the manipulative entity Gunter reveals the darker side of his programming. As he confronts the inner corruption, he realises how it influences his behaviour, motivations, and decisions.
• Emotional development: Falling in love with Jane, his human designer, changes Guy’s motivations, compelling him to act beyond his initial programming. This unexpected emotional bond challenges his perception of love, purpose, and the boundaries of artificial intelligence.
• Existential doubt: Guy’s growing awareness of his simulated nature leads him to question his place in the world, his purpose, and whether any of his actions have meaning. This doubt fuels his desire to escape the confines of his programming.
• Philosophical insight: Through his journey to answer the meaning of life, Guy gains a deeper understanding of the complex relationship between consciousness and reality. He comes to terms with the futility of his pursuit, realising that his corrupted nature fundamentally limits his ability to answer the ultimate question.
• These changes illustrate Guy’s evolution from a programmed entity to a being with a deeper, albeit conflicted, understanding of identity and purpose.

“Human World” provides the excuse, space, and context to explore several themes and concepts about technology, existence, and the human condition:

• Nature of reality: It invites an exploration of what constitutes reality, whether it’s tangible or simulated, and how our perception can be distorted by technology, programming, and psychological factors.
• Identity and consciousness: Guy’s journey allows us to consider whether who we are is rooted in programming, memory, or something deeper.
• AI ethics and humanity: The story provides a lens to examine the ethical implications of artificial intelligence gaining consciousness, including how we treat and perceive AI beings as their capabilities evolve.
• Emotional intelligence (EI) in AI: Guy’s love for Jane raises questions about whether AI can genuinely feel emotions or simply simulate them convincingly, probing the boundaries between programmed behaviour and genuine experience.
• Search for meaning: The core question posed by The Great Oracle’s Database, “What is the meaning of life?” drives the narrative, creating space to reflect on the universal human search for purpose and how technology may influence this quest.

Reflecting on “Human World”, I can imagine living certain elements of Guy Artin’s journey:

• Quest for purpose: Like Guy, I’ve felt the desire to find meaning in life, particularly when navigating moments of confusion and uncertainty. His existential struggle resonates with the human condition of seeking one’s purpose amid societal pressures and changing environments.
• Emotional growth: Guy’s emotional evolution mirrors times when I’ve wrestled with unexpected feelings that challenged my prior beliefs and motivations. Falling in love or building close connections often transforms one’s outlook, much like Guy’s relationship with Jane shifts his perspective.
• Inner conflicts: His confrontation with the manipulative Gunter represents the internal battles many of us face between our darker impulses and our higher ideals. I can relate to having moments where inner doubts, fears, or insecurities threaten to undermine everything.
• Questioning reality: I’ve had times when my perceptions of reality were questioned.
• Desire for genuine connection: The story reflects a desire for authentic connection in a world that increasingly feels digitised and disconnected. Guy’s search for relationships mirrors the challenge of finding genuine bonds amid technological distractions.

In these ways, the story reflects universal struggles that most of us encounter. While Guy’s world is uniquely digital, his journey reflects deeply relatable challenges that are part of being human.

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.

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.

Formula Percentage

Before I see a film or TV drama, I want to know its “formula percentage”. The lower the better because it implies originality and genuine creativity. Of course, anything that is formulaic can be automated – therefore, a research paper I would like to read is:

 

Formulaic Structures in Film and TV Screenplays and the Potential for AI-driven Automation 

 

Through a mixed-methods approach combining quantitative analysis of market success metrics with qualitative assessments of screenplay content, this study explores formulaic structures within film and TV screenplays, examining how adherence to or deviation from these formulas correlates with market success over time. By identifying key formulaic elements that have dominated screenwriting practices, the study aims to uncover patterns and trends in the evolution of narrative formulas and their impact on audience reception and commercial success. Furthermore, it investigates the feasibility of automating formulaic scriptwriting through artificial intelligence (AI), assessing whether AI can replicate the success of these formulas.

"I Don't Care if You Listen or Not"

The statement speaks to a form of artistic autonomy that challenges the conventional performer-audience relationship; it invites reflection on what is deemed essential for performance, and what possibilities emerge when the dynamic is disrupted or reimagined. By focusing on the internal processes of the artist rather than the reception by an audience, we open up a realm of performance that is about the act of creation itself. This aligns with a theatrical philosophy which often prioritises the experience and integrity of the artistic expression over the interaction and response of the audience. A counterpoint to this view is that performance is an event designed for an audience, a form of communication or expression that presupposes a spectator. The presence of an audience, their reactions, and their engagement are typically seen as integral to the event itself, creating a dynamic interplay between the observer and the observed, each influencing the experience of the other. However, the notion that performance is an act of communication that requires both a performer and an audience has been increasingly challenged, particularly in the realms of contemporary theatre, performance art, and digital media. If we consider a performance as an artistic release of self-expression, then it can and does exist without an audience. Artists often create for the sake of the art itself or for personal emotional need, rather than for any anticipated public reception; the act of performing itself transforms the individual artist, irrespective of whether anyone is watching.

But is it a “performance” if nobody is being performed to? A performance typically refers to a live presentation or artistic exhibition delivered by one or more artists. This could be a play in a theatre, a musical recital, a dance showcase, a live painting demonstration, or even a street artist’s display. Here, performance is characterised by its temporality; it is an event that happens over time and is designed for an audience to witness and experience. The presence of an audience is a defining feature because it is the observers who perceive, interpret, and give meaning to the performance. An audience’s reaction—be it applause, laughter, critique, or interpretation—contributes to the complete nature of the performance, imbuing it with a shared social reality. Hence, in this definition, the act of performing carries an intention to convey a certain impression or communicate meaning. Theories such as “reader-response theory” or “reception theory” discuss how a text (or a performance) is not complete without its reception.

One could argue that a performance, like any event, occurs regardless of observation. The actions of the performer, the expression of the art, and the occurrence of the event are factual and exist independently of an audience. The key distinction here is between the existence of the performance and the validation or acknowledgement of it. Without an audience, the validation through applause, criticism, or interpretation is absent, but the performance as a sequence of actions still transpires. Even in an empty theatre, a performer may deliver lines, an orchestra may play a symphony, and a dancer may execute choreography; the physical and aesthetic actions do not cease to exist because they are unobserved. However, while the tangible mechanics of the performance may occur without an audience, the full spectrum of what constitutes a performance—its energetic exchange, its emotional impact, and its collective memory—is often thought to be co-created with those who witness it.

Yet, the creation of performance without an audience is not only possible but is already practiced in various forms within the arts: artists like Marina Abramović, for instance, have explored the limits of what constitutes performance and audience participation, sometimes engaging in acts that are witnessed by very few or even by no one, at least at the time of the initial act; and in the online digital space, it is commonplace for performance to occur without an immediate physical audience. Consider a singer recording vocals or an actor self-taping to camera—the eventual audience is remote, separated by time, space, and medium, and yet the act of performance still carries significant meaning and intent. The performances could be experienced by an audience long after the fact, or hidden beneath the multitude of other content and never seen. If nobody were to experience the recording—if the only audience present was in the mind of the performer—is it true that a fully actualised performance did not take place? The essence of the performances was not in its reception, but in the act of expression: the performances were created, executed, and fully realised without the presence of an external audience. The audience here is not a required component for the validity of a performance but rather a potential participant in a socially shared experience that may or may not take place.

The external audience dynamics do affect the nature of the performance, as well as its absence, but it is not necessary for the act of performance. Indeed, the presence and disposition of an audience can have a profound impact on the dynamics of a performance, affecting both the performers and the collective meaning of the performance itself. This phenomenon has been extensively studied across various disciplines including psychology, theatre studies, and performance theory. Research often explores these effects through the lenses of audience-performer dynamics, the psychology of performance, and the sociology of group interactions. From a psychological perspective, the seminal work of French sociologist Emile Durkheim on collective effervescence describes the energy that emerges when a group of people, such as an audience, comes together to participate in the same action. When performers are in front of an audience, they can experience what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi terms as “flow”, a heightened state of focus and immersion in activities that can enhance performance quality. Furthermore, the “audience effect”, a concept often discussed in social psychology, specifically refers to the impact of an audience on performance. Robert Zajonc’s work in this field identified the ways in which the mere presence of others can enhance or inhibit performance, depending on the complexity of the task and the skill level of the performer. For well-practised tasks, an audience can enhance performance through increased arousal; for less familiar tasks, however, this arousal can be detrimental. In theatre studies, audience response is often viewed as a critical aspect. Susan Bennett’s Theatre Audiences offers a comprehensive examination of the reciprocal relationship between the audience and the performance. She outlines how the audience’s reactions can influence the pacing, timing, and energy of a performance as performers often adjust their delivery based on verbal and non-verbal feedback. This dynamic interplay can transform the experience, making each performance a unique event influenced by the specific audience in attendance. Moreover, in his influential text The Empty Space, Peter Brook discusses how an audience’s energy contributes to the creation of what he describes as “immediate theatre”. According to Brook, the performer-audience relationship is a crucial component that can turn the “deadly” theatre—where there is no true communication—into a “live” one. The concept of audience engagement and its effect on the performance is further elaborated by Baz Kershaw in his work The Radical in Performance. Kershaw discusses how an engaged audience can have a radicalising effect on performance, pushing the boundaries of traditional performance and creating a more immersive and interactive experience. In musical performance, John Sloboda’s research in The Musical Mind touches upon how musicians might experience heightened levels of anxiety or exhilaration when performing before an audience, which can, in turn, affect their technical proficiency and emotional expression. This interplay is significant in live music, where the audience’s reactions can influence the performer’s interpretation and delivery of the music in real time. From these perspectives, it becomes clear that an audience does not passively consume a performance but actively shapes its unfolding through complex psychological and social mechanisms. Each performance is therefore not merely a presentation of a pre-prepared piece but a dynamic interaction between performer and audience, with the audience’s responses continuously shaping the course and quality of the performance.

However, it is possible for a performer to have an audience, even when nobody is watching. This notion of a performer being the audience of his or her own performance invites a rich philosophical exploration, touching upon the concepts of self-awareness, and the phenomenology of experience. Philosophical discourse offers a breadth of perspectives on the relationship between the observer and the observed, as well as the subject-object dichotomy. In the field of aesthetics, the work of philosophers like Arthur Danto in his work The Transfiguration of the Commonplace can provide insight into the relationship between performance and perception. Danto’s theories on art as the embodiment of meaning suggest that a performer could very well be an audience to the meanings and interpretations that arise within their own performance. Each gesture, movement, or note in a performance can be reflective, carrying an intention and interpretation that the performer is uniquely positioned to understand and critique. The performer, then, becomes a sort of reflective audience, engaging with the performance both as a creator and an interpreter of meaning.

If a comedian makes a joke in an empty auditorium, does it make a sound? It is often said that in stand-up, timing is everything. As it turns out, when the audience is a row of empty seats, the timing is quite flexible. However, whether it is a performance to one’s own shadow or to a billion eager faces, the essence of the act, rather than the perception of the expression, remains the same. When a performance is enacted without an external audience, it becomes a private act, serving as a method of personal reflection for the artist; but the performer is still engaged in the act of performing, utilising their skills and perhaps even experiencing the same emotional and physical exertion as they would in front of an external audience. If the self can act as its own audience, then the solitude of one’s actions does not strip them of their performative character. For some creators, such as me, the act of performance is an intimate expression which serves as a form of self-exploration, catharsis, or a means of working through ideas and emotions. It’s here, in the sanctum of one’s mind, where the self-reflexive nature of human consciousness creates a sort of inner theatre where our actions are constantly up for review. The internal audience functions continuously, responding to and influencing the performance.

A performer can be the audience of his or her own performance, not in the literal sense of occupying two distinct spatial positions, but rather in the phenomenological sense of experiencing oneself as both the observer and the observed. This duality encapsulates the complex nature of human consciousness and the intricate interplay between action and reflection. In essence, the performer, through introspection and self-awareness, engages in a dialogue with oneself, constantly interpreting and re-interpreting the ongoing performance. From a phenomenological standpoint, particularly within the framework established by Edmund Husserl, the idea of a performer as an audience invokes the concept of “intentionality”, the notion that consciousness is always the consciousness of something. In this context, a performer, even while engaged in the act of performance, can have a dual intentionality where he or she is both the subject directing the performance and simultaneously the object of his or her own reflective consciousness. Husserl’s student, Martin Heidegger, would perhaps interpret this through the lens of “Dasein”, which underscores the idea of being-in-the-world where one’s existence is fundamentally interconnected with the world; thus, a performer, by being an audience to oneself, is actively shaping and being shaped by the very act of performance.

For existentialists, if every action is a conscious choice, we are, in essence, “performing” our lives for the most critical audience: ourselves. Sartre’s notion of “bad faith”—the denial of this freedom and the embrace of a fixed role—highlights the performativity of actions when they are done to conform rather than to reflect one’s genuine choice. Sartre’s views suggest that by becoming an audience to oneself, the performer engages in a kind of self-observation that can either be an act of authenticity, recognising oneself as the source of one’s actions, or an act of self-deception, where one denies material agency. Within this existential frame, the notion of authenticity is pivotal. The performance is not about creating a façade for others but is intrinsically tied to the authentic choices that define our being. Therefore, every action could be a performance if it is part of this continuous existential project of self-definition. The actions themselves become a narrative in the theatre of the self, where the individual not only acts but observes, judges, and often reinterprets their actions in the quest for meaning.

From a Jungian perspective, personal acts can be seen as influenced by and potentially performing archetypal roles within our own psyche. These acts, whether observed by others or not, are part of the fabric of our collective unconscious experience. They connect us to universal human themes and contribute to our personal narrative and the ongoing process of psychological development and individuation. The performative aspect is not necessarily about an audience of others but rather about the dialogue between our conscious self and the archetypal forces within us. Carl Jung suggested that archetypes represent universal, ancient symbols and images emanating from the collective unconscious, serving as the psychological equivalents of instinct. If we consider our personal acts as informed by these archetypes, it’s possible to view our actions as being influenced by these shared human narratives, which could be understood as a form of performance. When no external audience is present, the archetypes within the collective unconscious could act as an internal audience; for instance, if one’s actions align with the hero archetype, one might unconsciously “perform” acts of bravery or sacrifice, not for the sake of an external observer, but to satisfy an innate, archetypal script. In performing actions when we are alone, we might unconsciously be enacting certain archetypal patterns. This performance is not for others but for oneself, or rather, for the archetypal structures embedded within the psyche. Jung’s concept of individuation—the psychological process of integrating the conscious with the unconscious, including the archetypes—could be considered a performance in its own right. The process is an inward journey that involves confronting internal archetypal figures and is often played out through personal acts and choices, even when no one is watching.

In spiritual contexts, the idea of a divine observer alters the understanding of performance and audience. In this context, God is the ever-present audience. For those who hold this belief, the ultimate audience is not earthly but spiritual—God, or a divine presence. This shifts the emphasis from pleasing a human audience to performing in a way that aligns with divine will or cosmic order. For such individuals, every action is a performance in the sight of the divine, and this awareness can shape their choices and actions profoundly. In Christianity, the idea of Coram Deo, which means “in the presence of God”, encapsulates living one’s life as a performance before God in every action. In the mystic traditions of Sufism, every act of love and beauty can be seen as a performance that honours the divine. The dhikr (remembrance of God) and the whirling dance of the dervishes are both performances meant to unify the soul with the divine, transcending the earthly plane.

And so, the audience-performance question depends ultimately on the intent behind the performance. If the aim of the act is to be witnessed, to have a shared experience that communicates a message or evokes a collective emotional response, then, without an audience, the nature of the performance remains unfulfilled; conversely, if the purpose is for personal, psychological, or spiritual growth and self-expression, then the act of performing can be fully actualised without the need for external participants. Indeed, a self-actualising performer might argue that this form of performance is more true and pure because it is unpolluted by egoic desires or commercial and societal expectations; it is a performance for and with the artist’s own creative soul.

The phrase “All the world’s a stage”, famously penned by William Shakespeare in As You Like It, is a potent metaphor that encapsulates the idea that all of life is a performance, and that people are merely actors within it. Even when there seems to be no audience, the phrase implies that the mere act of living and interacting with the world is a performance in itself. According to Shakespeare’s metaphor, life’s performance continues irrespective of an observable audience because the “stage” of the world is ever-present. The metaphor is profound because, as can be derived from psychological and philosophical research, we are all performing our own stories envisaged in our minds. We embody these roles and, through them, engage with the narrative of our lives, seeking our version of a story’s resolution—be it peace, understanding, success, or reconciliation. In considering life as a form of art, the role of the individual can be seen as that of the artist, actively crafting his or her own life narrative, performance, and aesthetic. Life, in this light, becomes a canvas on which the aesthetics, themes, and structures of art are reproduced and reinterpreted, with each person both as the artist and the audience of their own existence.