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.

Journal 2024-03-16

I’m currently living on the corners of a triangle between Colchester, Cambridge, and London.

Being asked to write a poem in the afternoon and perform it in the evening was challenging. I spent 30 minutes writing rubbish that was thrown away, then 30 minutes wandering about mumbling; then sat in a quiet corner of the bar and wrote it in 20 minutes. Had dinner and the poem went down great, with a very generous response.

Another highlight was having professional actors pick out lines from my script and be generous with their comments. Different people in different contexts mentioned the word “beautiful”.

My weakness and my strength is that I do not defer to anyone like I am expected to. The great geniuses of the past I admire, but nobody living today receives that gushing appreciation from me. One celebrated person thought I had gone over to talk to her, although really I was passing by to visit the toilet and she had stopped me. She was very friendly and was enjoying the role of benign mentor figure. I appreciate her more not because of her acclaim others were fawning over but because she was nice to me. I later made a fool of myself by knocking over the Meeting Owl.

I love this time of year when everything is returning to life.

Lots of spam from my website so I removed the contact form. Bots just don’t seem to realise that telling me about once-in-a-lifetime deals on SEO opportunities for the 1,000th time isn’t really my thing.

I now have one less tooth.

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.

"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.

Reading Notes: John Yorke’s “Into the Woods”

The text argues that storytelling, regardless of its form or medium, shares a universal framework rooted in human psychology, biology, and even physics. This framework often involves characters embarking on quests in unfamiliar worlds, confronting challenges, and overcoming “monsters.” According to the author, this structure isn’t an artificial construct but a byproduct of how humans perceive and make sense of the world.

The text also posits that the pattern of storytelling is so ingrained in us that even when writers claim to reject traditional structure, they inadvertently adhere to it. This could be because the laws of physics, logic, and form dictate that all stories essentially follow the same path. Moreover, even works that appear to break away from traditional structure are still anchored in this universal archetype.

Importantly, the text highlights that understanding the structure isn’t necessarily a prerequisite for good storytelling. Many great writers have an intuitive grasp of story shape, even if they can’t articulate it. But, having an understanding of this structure can be considered a form of artistic craftsmanship, akin to grammar in language. Even artists who break the rules are often those who first master them; they know the limits so well that they can effectively push beyond them.

The text also contends that this isn’t merely a how-to guide for storytelling but an exploration of its inherent nature, as storytelling is an intrinsic part of human life. It emphasises the critical need to understand storytelling, given its prevalence in human society, from ancient myths to modern media. The recurrent motif in stories across cultures and times—of entering the woods to discover a hidden, usually transformative truth—is cited as an example of the universal elements at the heart of all stories.

Thus, the text is an examination of the fundamental principles underlying storytelling, offering insights into why and how stories are constructed the way they are. It invites readers not only to understand these principles but to probe deeper into the “forest” where all stories originate, hoping to uncover the mysterious forces that drive us to tell stories in the first place.

The text outlines the archetypal structure of storytelling, emphasising the role of the protagonist as the central character who serves as the audience’s avatar in the narrative. The protagonist encounters a problem or a situation that destabilises their world, initiating the journey or quest to resolve the issue. This journey often includes obstacles, moments of despair, and ultimate triumph, providing the story with its essential shape and dynamics.

The text further elaborates that while the protagonist is crucial, they don’t need to be flawless or universally likable. In fact, characters with imperfections or “rough edges” are often more engaging because they resonate with something profound within the audience. The goal of a good story isn’t necessarily to win audience approval but to evoke empathy and identification, making people think, “you too?” or “there but for the grace of God go I.”

The framework for stories revolves around the problem faced by the protagonist and their pursuit of a solution. The audience’s investment in the story is closely tied to their concern for the protagonist, not necessarily because they approve of them, but because they can relate or empathise with them.

Empathy, as the text clarifies, is not simply rooted in understanding why characters do what they do, although that does enhance it. Rather, the basis of empathy is its ability to tap into and connect with the audience’s unconscious mind. The text also acknowledges the magnetic power of wish-fulfilment, whether benevolent or masochistic, in storytelling.

The text focuses on the key elements that define archetypal storytelling, with special attention given to the role of the central character or protagonist. According to the text, a good story always involves a protagonist who has an active goal or desire. This desire is then challenged by a set of obstacles, often personified in an antagonist. The effectiveness of these “forces of antagonism” often determines the success of the story, as evident in popular works like James Bond films.

Another central tenet discussed is that characters are often motivated by primal human desires like success, love, revenge, or survival. These desires usually manifest as tangible objects or “grails” in the narrative. The internal conflict within a character often arises when what they think they want clashes with what they actually need. Such conflicts are crucial for three-dimensional storytelling and are typically a central element in structuring the narrative.

The character’s journey usually involves overcoming flaws and weaknesses, culminating in an epiphany where they realise their actual needs as opposed to their initial wants. Often, this transformative realisation leads them to abandon their initial, ego-driven goals for something more significant and fulfilling. Thus, well-crafted characters do not always get what they want but get what they need if they deserve it. This internal journey generally kicks off with an “inciting incident,” a pivotal event that catalyses the protagonist’s desires and sets the story in motion.

The text elucidates that effective storytelling is driven by a protagonist with a clear desire, facing obstacles and antagonists that challenge this desire. The narrative tension often results from the conflict between what a character wants and what they truly need, leading to a journey of self-discovery and transformation. The antagonistic forces often embody qualities that the protagonist lacks, and the journey often culminates in the character realising a more universal or nourishing goal.

The text introduces the idea of the “crisis,” a pivotal moment of extreme danger or difficulty for the hero. This crisis serves as a catalyst that forces the protagonist to confront their innermost fears and flaws. It’s a decisive point where the hero must make a critical choice that tests their character and worldview. Often, this choice involves overcoming an external antagonist, which symbolically represents the protagonist’s internal fears or flaws. In making the right choice, the hero overcomes these internal challenges and triggers a change within.

Following the crisis is the climax, the culmination of the narrative where the protagonist faces off against the antagonist. It is the point of ultimate resolution where all narrative threads converge. By overcoming the external obstacle in the climax, the protagonist finds internal healing, bringing full circle the journey initiated by the inciting incident. This climactic resolution often leads to a denouement, a winding down of the story where the outcomes and “rewards” are clarified.

The text also notes that these fundamental elements of storytelling can be altered or omitted for specific narrative effects, as seen in works like “The Wire” or “No Country for Old Men.” However, these deviations are impactful precisely because they are exceptions to the well-established rules of storytelling.

The text elaborates on the foundational principles of storytelling, likening them to the alphabet or musical notes: simple yet infinitely adaptable. It discusses variations in storytelling frameworks, such as tragedies inverting the heroic arc seen in mainstream films like “Jaws” or “E.T.” to show a hero’s downfall, as in “Macbeth.” Other variations include dark twists, as seen in “Taxi Driver” and “The King of Comedy,” where the protagonists are rewarded, thus offering a dark commentary on society.

The text underscores the dominance of the three-act structure in drama, composed of a beginning, middle, and end. This structure includes setup, confrontation, and resolution, featuring turning points at the end of the first and second acts, known as the inciting incident and the crisis, respectively. This pervasive pattern suggests that storytelling taps into deeper psychological or even biological frameworks.

Furthermore, the text talks about how characters are often flawed and thrust into a universe that embodies everything they lack, forcing them to find a new balance and self-integration within this challenging environment.

It also touches upon historical views on storytelling structure. Horace’s “Ars Poetica” posited that no play should be shorter or longer than five acts, a principle that is essentially a refined version of the three-act structure. This five-act structure is simply a more detailed rendition of the Hollywood three-act paradigm, inserting two additional act breaks in the second act.

The text also mentions “Freytag’s Pyramid,” outlined in 1863, which identifies five stages in every tragedy. Interestingly, although intuition might suggest that the climax should appear in the fifth part, Freytag places it in the third, corresponding to the “midpoint” in structural study.

The text elaborates on the core elements of storytelling, particularly focusing on the concept of the “midpoint” in a narrative, which is the moment when something profoundly significant occurs. This point in the story is crucial for the characters and the overall arc because it often ramps up the stakes and forces a significant change or decision, creating a risk/reward dynamic.

The text notes that the resurgence of three-act drama in the 19th century was not a reaction against Shakespearean forms but rather aligned with developments in comfort and technology. For writers struggling with the traditional Hollywood three-act paradigm, a five-act structure can provide better control, particularly over the middle section of their stories.

The essence of all drama, according to the text, is the concept of change. Characters must undergo an internal struggle to achieve this change, which is directly linked to their dramatic desire or what they want. In other words, if a character wants something, they will have to change in some significant way to achieve it.

The text also emphasises that in every archetypal story, there exists a template or a paradigm that serves as a guide for structure. Learning and change are central to these stories, following a pattern where characters’ flaws are exposed, acted upon, and eventually overcome. The characters start flawed, discover something that can help them (the “elixir”), learn to use it, and end up complete or whole.

Quoting a description that evokes Joseph Campbell’s monomythic “Hero’s Journey,” the text highlights the universal shape of stories where the hero ventures into a strange world, faces challenges, wins a decisive victory, and returns transformed and empowered. The existence of a “midpoint” hints at a sort of narrative symmetry, implying that this point in the story has a unique and specific importance.

The text outlines the intricate structure of storytelling, emphasising that stories are built hierarchically from acts, which are themselves built from scenes, and further down to units called “beats.” This structure resembles a fractal pattern where each smaller part mirrors the larger whole, containing essential elements like setup, inciting incidents, crisis points, climax, and sometimes, resolution. This fractal concept reveals a deep level of order beneath what may appear as artistic freedom or chaos.

In this framework, a crisis point is critical as it embodies the worst possible outcome of decisions made at the story’s outset. It serves as the point where the protagonist is forced to confront their deepest fears or weaknesses, shaping the story’s overall archetype. The fractal structure works across scenes, acts, and the story as a whole, presenting the protagonist with the critical question they must answer.

The text also introduces the idea of a question-and-answer structure within each act, illuminating how this narrative technique unifies the story. Each act, while sharing the same underlying fractal structure, serves a different purpose depending on its position in the story. For example, in the beginning, it’s about setting up the inciting incident; in the middle, it lays the foundation for the story’s midpoint; and at the end, it culminates in a climax.

Inciting incidents act as invitations for the protagonist to leave the familiar and venture into the unknown, setting the stage for transformative experiences. Each unit of the story, down to the individual scenes and beats, is focused on depicting change. Dramatic tension is achieved through a conflict of desires between the protagonist and antagonist, making each scene a battleground where opposing goals clash.

The text also discusses “turning points,” moments that act as units of change, forcing a character to confront the consequences of not adapting or evolving. These turning points create action-reaction dynamics within scenes, culminating in a moment where one character achieves their goal, forcing the other to confront loss or change.

The text delves into several techniques and principles that sustain narrative momentum and engage the audience. One such technique is “top-spin,” where each scene ends on a question that creates anticipation and keeps the audience hooked. This feeds into E. M. Forster’s notion that a story’s sole merit lies in making the audience eager to know what happens next. By cutting away at the crisis point, writers can defer gratification, building tension and curiosity.

Another approach is the “come in late, get out early” strategy, which aims to heighten tension by ending scenes at their most crisis-laden moments. In essence, every crisis point serves as a cliffhanger, driving the narrative forward. Each scene’s crisis shakes the characters, forcing them to form new plans or wants.

The text also emphasises the value of subverting expectations, an essential device in archetypal storytelling. It keeps the audience engaged by challenging their anticipations, often turning them on their head. The characters themselves, by utilising knowledge gained at critical junctures like the midpoint, manage to defy odds, defeat adversaries, and complete their transformative arcs.

On the note of story structure, while ideal fractal patterns often emerge, it’s important to note that these are not prescriptive rules. Great works can, and often do, deviate from these established patterns. Interestingly, many of these archetypal structures emerge unconsciously in storytelling.

The crux of storytelling lies in the balancing act between order and chaos, merging opposites to create a narrative equilibrium. This relationship between opposites is fundamental to how audiences perceive drama, serving as a linchpin for storytelling as a whole.

The text underscores the importance of character-driven storytelling in creating compelling drama. It posits that great drama is not only predicated on well-realised characters but also thrives on the internal conflicts they endure. Such conflicts often stem from the disparity between how a character wants to be perceived and their true feelings or nature. This tension gives life to drama, making characters relatable, complex, and engaging.

Writers find it particularly enriching to explore characters who act counter to their expressed beliefs or engage in self-sabotage, as these traits lend authenticity and depth. These internal conflicts and contradictions make for characters who are more nuanced and intriguing.

In archetypal stories, characters embark on journeys towards completion, transitioning from a state of imbalance to equilibrium. Successful conclusions—both in fictional narratives and psychological terms—often involve resolving these conflicts and reconciling opposing aspects of one’s self.

The text emphasises that the conflict between a character’s inner self and outer portrayal is central to successful storytelling. This conflict can be so profound that it sometimes necessitates the division of a character into dual identities to dramatise the dichotomy fully.

Characters often project a superficial “want,” which they believe will help them fit into societal expectations. However, it is often their deep-rooted fears or deficiencies—embodied by the antagonist or “monster”—that they must confront and overcome to achieve growth and completion.

The text elaborates on the intricate relationship between a character’s inner conflicts and the dramatic structure of the story. It suggests that what a character perceives as a weakness can often be a source of redemption and growth. As a story unfolds, a character’s superficial wants, which are typically aligned with their external façade, give way to deeper needs that are linked to their inner vulnerabilities.

Characters are often introduced with certain flaws or neurotic traumas, depicted through defence mechanisms or façades that mask their inner selves. As the narrative progresses, these façades start to crumble, leading the character to confront and assimilate their underlying issues, which often aren’t fully revealed until the latter parts of the story. This process mirrors psychological theories, suggesting that characters must confront and come to terms with past traumas to achieve personal growth.

The text further highlights that a character is not just what they say but what they do, underscoring the notion that character and story are intrinsically linked. The actions taken by a character in a story reveal their inner complexities, offering a glimpse into their struggles between their “wants” and “needs”. This evolution is usually marked by pivotal points in the story, like the inciting incident and the climax, where the character’s “needs” start to overshadow their “wants”.

An essential element in keeping audiences engaged is the element of mystery or the “not knowing” aspect. This allows viewers to project themselves onto the characters, making the story a more immersive and personal experience. In well-crafted narratives, the protagonist essentially becomes a stand-in for the audience, facilitating a deeper emotional connection.

The text argues that compelling drama has a therapeutic effect, serving as a “temporary balm” that allows audiences to experience emotional resolution vicariously. In well-structured films, this effect is heightened because character and structure are seamlessly integrated, making explanations superfluous and impacting the audience at an unconscious level.

Dialogue is highlighted as a crucial element of drama, serving multiple functions including characterisation, exposition, and subtext. Good dialogue should reflect a character’s desires and intentions, while also revealing inconsistencies that make the character more complex and relatable. Dialogue should not just tell; it should show, revealing character through what is said and how it’s said. It contributes to the façade that characters create to present themselves in a certain way, while also providing glimpses of their true selves.

Exposition, another element of dialogue, is effective only when it serves a character’s goals and is entangled with conflict, thereby becoming “invisible” to the audience. Bad exposition lacks this imperative, making it easily detectable and detrimental to the drama.

Subtext adds depth to a story by capturing the gap between language and thought, offering a closer approximation to truth. Characters may not always be aware of their hidden desires, which contribute to the subtext, making the story rich and multi-dimensional.

The text also stresses the importance of audience interpretation in the dramatic experience. Too much explanation kills the drama, while the ambiguity and complexity inherent in good dialogue and structure engage the audience more actively.

The text argues that stories serve multiple purposes, including making reality more bearable and facilitating emotional and intellectual exploration. In terms of structure, the Hegelian dialectic is highlighted, emphasising that storytelling is essentially a synthesis of opposites, and that opposition is crucial for effective drama.

The text also distinguishes between subject matter and theme; the former is static, while the latter is an active exploration or argument about the world’s nature. Stories are seen as dialogues that test and explore truths, with the protagonist often taking on qualities of their adversaries to achieve their goals.

In serial storytelling, the characters’ flaws or needs should not be completely resolved until the end, maintaining tension and interest. Drama is defined by its capacity for transformation, and while stories can deviate from traditional forms, they often gain power from their relationship to these archetypes.

The text argues that all good art contains a blend of tradition and revolt against tradition. It suggests that stories serve as a model for life, helping us impose order on uncertainty and providing tools for psychological and emotional resolution.

Censorship is criticised for replacing psychological truth with propaganda, disrupting the story’s capacity to confront and integrate the “other” to produce emotional immunisation. The structure of drama is likened to the dance of opposites, with each scene building on the last and incorporating new elements, reflecting our innate need for narrative order.

Stories are not just entertainment; they are complex interplays of theme, character, and structure that engage us on multiple levels, offering both an escape from and a lens onto reality. They serve as both reflections and critiques of the world, combining elements of tradition and innovation to create emotionally and intellectually resonant experiences.

Reading Notes

1. Critical Reading & Writing

Fraser, Gregory & Davidson, Chad, Analyze Anything: A Guide to Critical Reading and Writing, (London: Continuum, 2012)

The text delves into the study of semiotics, aiming to deepen analytical skills and teach a reliable method for generating evocative ideas expressed in coherent prose. Semiotics is described as the “study of signs,” where the layers of significance of these signs change based on their cultural and historical contexts. For example, the symbolism behind certain images like long hair or beards varies, and understanding this is key to interpreting their meanings.

Meanings are relational and situational; they depend on the context in which signs appear. A sign doesn’t exist in isolation; it takes on meaning through its relationships with other signs within a system. Semiotics emphasizes that all meaning emerges through these relationships, often subtly reflecting power dynamics. The goal of semiotics is not to discover an ultimate truth behind a cultural or literary sign but to study the various messages conveyed by these signs. A definitive understanding of what a sign represents is difficult to ascertain, as the relationship between surface signals and inner truth is never fully resolved.

The semiotic approach to understanding signs encourages an abundant view of meaning rather than a limiting one. This pluralistic approach requires comfort with multiplicity, ambiguity, paradox, and incomplete comprehension. Overall, semiotics provides a nuanced framework for analysing and understanding the complex layers of significance that signs carry within varying contexts.

The text offers comprehensive guidance on how to improve thinking and writing skills by focusing on the art of specificity and semiotics. It advises readers to aim for specificity in all facets of their thinking and writing, encouraging them to “climb the ladder of specificity.” Strong writers are urged to apply scrutiny and to create inventories of unique and provocative details. These details serve as small semiotic elements that can lead to innovative essays with unanticipated interpretations.

The importance of examining the chronology of a phenomenon is highlighted as a method for selecting strong signs. The text also recommends teasing out peculiar relationships between signs, as these juxtapositions often produce irony and subsequently lead to interesting essay topics. An example is given regarding the absence of mentions about elephant slaughter in Joseph Conrad’s “The Heart of Darkness,” even though the novel critiques the ivory industry.

Further, the text introduces the concept of “fusion,” which entails being both a perceiver and a creator. It involves identifying disparate signs and constructing a unifying term that ties these elements together in a creative way. This approach is termed poetic and provides a method for examining complex themes in literature.

Various tests for the effectiveness of sign selection are presented. A good sign must be “above the waterline,” easily visible and discernible. Other criteria include the sign’s originality and its significance in relation to its cultural and temporal context. Additionally, the “degree of difficulty” of interpreting the sign is considered, advising that signs can be either too simplistic or too complex. A balance is urged, and the sign’s potential energy may stem from how much it resists its surroundings or creates contradiction, paradox, or irony.

The text provides a thorough guide on how to approach the analysis and interpretation of a selected sign, emphasizing the need for a well-laid plan. This plan starts with establishing a “field of inquiry,” a unified set of related theoretical questions aimed at delving into the sign’s meanings and significance. To solidify their analysis, writers are encouraged to create a focused “block” of questions regarding the sign.

Two types of questions are identified: practical and theoretical. While practical questions help pin down the specifics of the sign within its context, theoretical questions are more important for interpreting its broader meanings and significance. Writers should strive for objectivity and scientific rigour in their questions, steering clear of binary constructions that oversimplify complex meanings. The questions should also be open-ended, allowing for multiple answers and interpretations.

The text suggests avoiding a focus on character-driven questions, as this may limit the scope of the analysis. Moving forward, writers should aim to craft prose that invites readers into their analyses and captures the intricacies of the chosen sign.

The concept of “staging” is introduced, borrowing elements from drama like a “star” (the focal sign), a “situation” (the broader cultural and historical context), and a “problem” (the interpretive challenge). This serves to engage the audience better, akin to how dramatists and other creative writers think critically about signs in culture. By focusing on these three aspects—making the sign the “star,” situating it within a specific context, and posing an interpretive “problem”—writers can animate their analysis, making it more compelling for themselves and their readership.

The text advocates for a deep, rigorous approach to semiotic analysis, encouraging readers to join the “corps of thought-divers” who delve beneath surface meanings to discover expansive and important underlying significances. It likens the visible aspect of a sign (in literature or culture) to the tip of an iceberg, hinting that its true meaning is vast and largely hidden beneath the surface. The goal of semioticians is to dive beneath the surface and make analytical discoveries.

To generate a compelling idea about meaning, three elements are recommended: identifying the above-the-waterline sign, specifying a below-the-waterline signal it sends out, and articulating why that message matters. The text suggests that meaning is not singular or fixed; it evolves over time and depends on context. Therefore, one is not confined to a single way of understanding reality.

Improving in semiotics, like mastering any skill, requires persistence, patience, and practice. The text advises to think in terms of processes rather than fixed products and to become an “idea machine” capable of offering multiple, persuasive theories. It encourages viewing interpretive writing as a creative activity worth doing for its own sake.

Several “games” or techniques are introduced for generating ideas and stretching creativity. These include the “association game,” which leverages the principle that meanings arise from associations between signs, and the “playing with verbs game,” which focuses on using specific verbs to connect visible signs with their underlying meanings. Another strategy, “the trafficking in ideas game,” encourages borrowing from other sign systems to trigger new interpretations. The “Martian perspective” involves adopting an alien observer’s point of view to refresh our understanding of familiar signs by making unusual comparisons. Lastly, the “frame game” suggests placing the chosen sign in various social, historical, and academic frames to trigger new ideas about its meaning. The text also notes that the process of creating persuasive essays is often nonlinear and pieced together from disparate ideas.

The text provides a robust set of tools and perspectives for deeply engaging with the semiotics of culture and literature, emphasizing the importance of a rigorous, open-minded approach. It outlines the last major phase of analytical writing, focusing on structuring essays to substantiate claims with evidence and logical argumentation. This is often where research comes into play. With a chosen sign and multiple ideas about its meaning, the writer then gathers supportive evidence to convince readers of the validity of their theories. This process is conceptualized as the “Three-’I’ed Monster,” comprising Idea, Illustration, and Interpretation.

The “Idea” is the theoretical claim that needs substantiation. The “Illustration” is the catalogue of hard evidence supporting this idea, and the “Interpretation” is the in-depth reasoning explaining why the idea and illustration make sense. Among these, Interpretation is given the most weight, as it is crucial for persuading the reader.

The monster metaphor is extended to suggest that this analytical approach has “teeth.” These metaphorical teeth encourage the writer to delve into the political and social contexts of the time period and culture for the chosen sign. The aim is to give the essay a “bite,” making it relevant and impactful rather than a mere academic exercise lacking in real-world importance.

The text also advises on the sequence of presenting ideas. In a “five ideas about meaning” approach, it is often effective to move from the most obvious to the most sophisticated ideas for the sake of logical flow and persuasiveness. By first developing multiple ideas about meaning, the writer increases the chances of finding one powerful assertion that can guide an entire study. This collection of ideas can also be mined for a variety of overarching theses. Lastly, the text suggests adopting the “idea-illustration-interpretation” pattern for each of the five major points or movements in the analysis, reinforcing the structure and making the argument more compelling.

The text presents ten different analytical approaches aimed at stimulating thought and discussion. These approaches cover a diverse range of topics: analysing spectacle focuses on the visual or performative aspects of a subject; analysing ads looks at advertising techniques and their implications; analysing metaphor delves into symbolic language and its meanings; analysing gender examines the roles and representations of gender; and analysing slang investigates the cultural and social dimensions of informal language.

Additionally, analysing tomorrow is about examining future trends or possibilities; analysing consumption deals with patterns of consumption and their social or environmental impact; analysing beauty explores the concept and standards of beauty in various contexts; analysing captivity considers issues related to confinement or restriction, whether physical or metaphorical; and analysing disability focuses on the representation and treatment of disabilities. Each approach offers a unique lens through which to view and understand a given subject, allowing for a rich and nuanced analysis.

A multifaceted approach is outlined for the development of better writing and thinking through specificity and semiotics. The text guides the reader in selecting effective signs, scrutinising them closely, and even creating new interpretive avenues through fusion. This methodology encourages the exploration of multiple layers of meaning, stimulating both the writer and the reader to delve deeper into the subject matter.

2. Writing for Performance Overview

Aristotle, Poetics, (London: Penguin, 1996)

Aristotle’s “Poetics” is a seminal work in the field of literary theory and dramatic arts, written in the 4th century BCE. It is among the earliest surviving works that provide a systematic study of literature, particularly the genres of tragedy, epic poetry, and comedy. In “Poetics,” Aristotle aims to discern the principles that make for effective storytelling and emotional impact. The text is both an examination of the elements of narrative and an analysis of the psychological effects of drama on an audience.

The work is divided into sections that deal with different aspects of poetry and drama, including their components, types, and effects. Aristotle begins by outlining the idea of mimesis, which refers to the act of imitation or representation. According to him, all forms of literature are imitations of life, but they differ in the medium used, the objects represented, and the manner of representation.

A significant portion of the work is dedicated to the tragedy genre, which Aristotle considers the highest form of poetry due to its emotional impact and moral significance. He identifies six primary elements of tragedy: plot, character, thought, diction, spectacle, and song. Among these, he gives the greatest importance to plot, considering it the soul of a tragedy. A well-structured plot should contain a clear beginning, middle, and end, and should evoke fear and pity in the audience through a sequence of events that lead to a cathartic emotional release.

Character, while secondary to plot, is essential for making the story believable and the moral undertones accessible. The characters should be well-rounded, and the protagonist should be a person of relative virtue who undergoes a downfall due to a tragic flaw (hamartia) or a lack of judgment.

The concept of the “unity of action” is also crucial in Aristotle’s framework. He argues that a tragedy should revolve around a single, unified plot rather than a complex or episodic structure. This unity facilitates the audience’s emotional engagement and allows for a more profound impact.

Aristotle also touches upon the topic of epic poetry, drawing comparisons and contrasts with tragedy. Both are elevated forms of literature, but they differ in length, scope, and the manner of imitation. While tragedies are performed and include aspects like spectacle and song, epics are narrated and can encompass a broader range of events.

“Poetics” also offers an explanation for why humans are drawn to tragic stories. Aristotle believes that the experience of catharsis, the purging of emotions like pity and fear, is a primary reason people are moved by tragedy. The work also briefly discusses comedy, though that section is largely lost to history.

Aristotle’s “Poetics” is a foundational text that has influenced Western literary theory for millennia. Its analytical approach to the elements of storytelling and the emotional responses they provoke has been a touchstone for scholars, writers, and artists seeking to understand the mechanics and impact of narrative forms.

Esslin, Martin, The field of drama: How the signs of drama create meaning on stage and screen (London: Methuen, 1987).

The Field of Drama is a comprehensive analysis of how various elements—text, actors, stage, lighting, sound, and audience—interact to create meaning in theatrical and cinematic experiences. The book delves into the semiotics of drama, examining the language and signs that contribute to the meaning and emotional impact of a performance. Esslin explores how these signs are not just dialogues or physical actions but extend to lighting, set design, costumes, and even the reaction of the audience. He argues that each of these aspects serves as a ‘sign’ that communicates specific meaning, adding depth and layers to a performance.

The book is structured to provide both a theoretical framework and practical examples, dissecting famous plays and films to demonstrate how these elements interact in creating a holistic experience. Esslin takes into account the historical evolution of drama, giving insights into how different eras have interpreted these signs differently, thereby changing the way meaning is derived. The text also looks at drama from both a writer’s and a director’s perspective, detailing how these roles contribute to the complex system of signs that make up a dramatic production.

In addition to this, Esslin goes beyond Western theories and incorporates ideas from different cultural perspectives, giving the book a more global outlook. He examines the limitations and possibilities of translation and adaptation across different media and cultural contexts. The book is replete with case studies, dissecting scenes from renowned plays and movies to illuminate his arguments.

Overall, Esslin’s work serves as a robust scholarly resource, ideal for those interested in theatre studies, film studies, and cultural studies. It offers readers a new lens through which to understand and appreciate the complexity and intricacy involved in creating meaning on stage and screen. This book is essential reading for anyone interested in delving deeper into the intricate web of elements that contribute to the richness of a dramatic experience.

Yorke, John, Into the Woods: How Stories Work and Why We Tell Them, (London: Penguin, 2014)

“Into the Woods” by John Yorke is an insightful examination of storytelling, both as an art and a science. The book delves into the architecture of narratives across various media such as literature, film, and television. Yorke builds his analysis on a foundation of existing theories, especially Joseph Campbell’s “The Hero’s Journey,” to dissect the elements that make a story compelling.

The central premise of the book is that all stories share an intrinsic structure, and Yorke goes to great lengths to articulate this commonality through the metaphor of a journey into and out of the woods. The “woods” serve as a representation of chaos or conflict, the crucible in which characters are tested and change occurs. Essentially, the structure of all narratives, according to Yorke, can be broken down into three acts: the journey into the woods (Act I), the confrontation and grappling within it (Act II), and the journey back (Act III). These acts form a cycle of equilibrium, disequilibrium, and a new equilibrium.

Yorke argues that this storytelling structure is not just a cultural construct but is deeply embedded in human psychology. He draws on psychology, philosophy, and even evolutionary biology to make the case that humans are hardwired to understand and interpret their experiences through the lens of story. For instance, he delves into why conflict is essential in stories, tying it to our evolutionary need for problem-solving. The book also tackles the elements that go into character development, emphasizing the importance of want, need, and flaw in shaping characters who are complex and relatable.

One of the strengths of “Into the Woods” is that Yorke provides an extensive array of examples from classic literature, modern films, and television series to substantiate his claims. This lends the book a well-rounded approach that speaks to both the casual reader and the more academically inclined.

Furthermore, Yorke offers practical advice for aspiring storytellers, emphasizing that an understanding of the innate structure of stories can serve as a powerful tool for creating compelling narratives. While he acknowledges that there are always exceptions to the rules, he suggests that breaking them successfully requires an in-depth understanding of why they exist in the first place.

The book is a comprehensive guide that endeavours to explain the universal elements that make stories resonate with us. It draws from a wide range of disciplines and examples to offer a compelling argument for the universality of storytelling structure, making it an invaluable resource for anyone interested in the mechanics of telling compelling stories.

3. Framing theories

Bennett, Susan, Theatre Audiences: A Theory of Production and Reception, 2^nd edition, (Routledge, 1997).

Susan Bennett’s “Theatre Audiences” is a seminal work in the field of theatre studies, particularly focusing on the dynamic relationship between the production and reception of theatre. Published in 1997 by Routledge in its second edition, the book aims to analyse the complexities that define how theatre is made and consumed, with a focus on understanding the role of the audience as an integral part of the theatrical experience.

The book delves into the historical evolution of audiences, tracing the socio-cultural shifts that have influenced the role of the audience in theatre. It critically examines the ways in which audiences have been conceptualized, looking at their transition from passive consumers to active participants. Bennett also scrutinizes the frameworks set by theatrical institutions, such as the physical architecture of theatres, pricing, marketing strategies, and even the sociopolitical climate, all of which shape the audience’s reception of a performance.

Moreover, Bennett touches on the diversity of theatre audiences, considering factors such as age, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. She argues that these variables contribute to how an audience interprets and engages with a performance, thereby affecting the intended meaning and impact of a production. By considering such diversity, Bennett pushes the reader to re-evaluate generalizations about audiences and their experiences.

The book uses several case studies, from classical to contemporary performances, to illustrate how varying elements of a production—such as lighting, set design, and acting styles—interact with the audience’s perceptions and expectations. Bennett employs a multi-disciplinary approach, drawing on theories from psychology, sociology, and semiotics to give a well-rounded view of the relationship between audience and production.

At the core of Bennett’s work is a challenge to the traditional models that relegate audiences to mere passive recipients of a pre-constructed theatrical reality. She presents the audience as co-creators in the theatrical experience, emphasizing that a play is not a complete work of art until it has been received and interpreted by its audience. The dynamic exchange of energy, ideas, and interpretations between the stage and the audience is, according to Bennett, what truly constitutes the unique and ephemeral art form that is theatre.

“Theatre Audiences” serves as an indispensable resource for understanding the complex relationship between the stage and the spectator. Bennett’s scholarly investigation pushes the boundaries of how we consider the role of audiences, ultimately arguing for a more nuanced and interactive approach to theatre-making.

Butler, Judith, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, (New York and London: Routledge, 1999).

“Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity” by Judith Butler, first published in 1990 with various editions thereafter, is a seminal work in the fields of gender studies, queer theory, and feminist philosophy. The book challenges traditional notions of gender identity, arguing against the conventional binary understanding of male and female. Butler asserts that gender is not a natural given, but rather a social construct that is continuously performed, enacted, and reenacted through a set of prescribed behaviours and cultural norms.

The book begins by examining the limitations of existing feminist theories. Butler critiques the way that these theories often presuppose a stable, pre-existing category of “woman” as the subject of feminism. Such an assumption, she argues, essentializes gender roles and identities, excluding those who do not fit neatly into these categories. She dismantles the idea that there is a natural link between biological sex, socially constructed gender, and sexual desire, stating that these categories are not as coherent or stable as society posits them to be.

Butler then introduces the concept of “performativity,” drawing from speech act theory, which was originally developed by philosophers like J.L. Austin and further refined by John Searle. She contends that gender is a kind of ongoing social performance, rather than an intrinsic quality derived from biology or some other determinant. Through a complex process of socialization, individuals enact and express gender in a way that is culturally intelligible, thereby reinforcing existing gender norms and structures. However, Butler also suggests that the very nature of performance allows for the possibility of subversion—by deliberately “misperforming” gender, one can disrupt the social norms that uphold gender binaries and hierarchies.

Moreover, Butler explores the politics of this performative act, examining how institutions like the family, the state, and the medical community participate in the construction and policing of gender norms. She also delves into the implications of her theories for sexual politics, examining how a more fluid understanding of gender can empower marginalized communities, including queer and transgender individuals.

The impact of “Gender Trouble” has been immense, shaping academic discourse and activism alike. Its radical rethinking of gender has opened up new avenues for research and political action, providing the theoretical groundwork for a more inclusive and nuanced understanding of gender identity and sexual orientation. However, the book has also been subject to various critiques, including concerns about its dense academic language and the feasibility of its ideas in practical, real-world activism.

The book is a groundbreaking work that disrupts conventional wisdom about gender, sexuality, and identity, offering a transformative lens through which to understand these concepts. By proposing that gender is an ongoing performance, Judith Butler challenges entrenched social norms and offers a more fluid, inclusive way to think about identity, thereby influencing a wide array of disciplines and social movements.

Said, Edward, Culture and Imperialism, (London: Vintage, 1994).

“Culture and Imperialism” is a seminal work by Edward Said that builds on his earlier book “Orientalism.” Published in 1994, the book is a critical exploration of how cultural forms, particularly literature and media, serve as instruments of imperial domination and resistance. Said examines how the West has represented the East and other colonized spaces through various forms of discourse, illustrating how culture is never separate from the power dynamics of imperialism.

The book scrutinizes a variety of Western canonical texts, from classics like Jane Austen’s “Mansfield Park” to Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness,” to show how these works often reflect and legitimize the colonial enterprise. Said points out that while these works might not overtly glorify imperialism, they nonetheless perpetuate the unequal power relations by portraying the colonized as ‘Other,’ thereby reinforcing their subjugation.

Said also turns his lens on counter-narratives emerging from the colonies and postcolonies. He discusses how native writers like Salman Rushdie, Chinua Achebe, and Frantz Fanon have sought to challenge Western depictions and reclaim their own cultures and histories. These alternative narratives provide not just a form of resistance but also an avenue for dialogues between cultures, paving the way for a more nuanced and mutual understanding.

One key point that Said makes is that culture is a battlefield where imperial ideas are both propagated and challenged. This complex interplay serves as a key vehicle for understanding historical and contemporary imperial endeavours. Said pushes for a contrapuntal reading of texts, suggesting that one must read them with their imperial context in mind to fully understand their significance. This approach not only adds layers to the interpretation of individual works but also illuminates the dynamics of cultural exchange and conflict.

In a broader sense, the book posits that culture is not a passive repository of artifacts and traditions but a dynamic and evolving entity that is continuously shaped by social, political, and economic forces. The imperial influence on culture is not just a historical artifact but an ongoing process that continues to shape modern global relations.

“Culture and Imperialism” is an intellectually rigorous and deeply insightful analysis that expands the understanding of how culture and power interact. Edward Said meticulously lays out the symbiotic relationship between culture and imperialism, calling for a more nuanced reading and interpretation of cultural products, and advocating for a discourse that can serve as a form of resistance and a bridge between disparate cultures.

Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics, (London: Routledge, 1988).

“In Other Worlds” by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, published in 1988 by Routledge, is a seminal collection of essays that delves into various domains of postcolonial studies, feminist criticism, and literary theory. Spivak, an Indian-American scholar, explores the intersections of power, culture, and language to illuminate how marginalized groups are rendered ‘other’ by dominant discourses. The book is noteworthy for its multidisciplinary approach, weaving together insights from philosophy, literature, and social science to critically interrogate issues of representation, voice, and identity.

One of the book’s key contributions is its critique of Western feminism’s ethnocentrism, particularly its tendency to universalize the experiences of women, thereby silencing or erasing the voices of women from the Global South or other marginalized backgrounds. Spivak critiques what she views as a sort of imperialism within feminist discourse, arguing for a more nuanced, culturally sensitive understanding of gender and oppression.

Additionally, the book tackles the problematic aspects of postcolonial discourse, specifically how colonized subjects are often spoken for but rarely get the opportunity to speak for themselves. This resonates with her famous question, “Can the Subaltern Speak?”, which she elaborates on in other works but is a recurring theme in “In Other Worlds” as well. Here, the ‘subaltern’ refers to marginalized individuals who exist outside the hegemonic power structures and whose voices are often suppressed or ignored.

Spivak also delves into the complexities of translation, not just in the literal sense of translating words from one language to another, but also in the figurative sense of translating cultures, ideologies, and experiences. She discusses the perils and potentials of ‘translating’ the experiences and struggles of one culture or group into terms that another culture or group can understand. In doing so, she navigates the challenges of essentialism, the act of reducing complex identities into simplistic categories, and offers a more nuanced, deconstructive approach.

Furthermore, the book reflects on the role of intellectuals and scholars in shaping cultural politics. Spivak emphasizes the importance of self-reflexivity among intellectuals, urging them to be aware of their own positions of privilege and power and how these may impact their interpretations and representations of the ‘other’.

The work serves as a rigorous critique and interrogation of the complex relationships between culture, power, and representation. By challenging conventional discourses in feminism and postcolonial studies, Spivak offers new avenues for thinking about and engaging with issues of marginalization and otherness. Her work remains an influential resource for anyone interested in exploring the intricate dynamics that shape cultural and social relations in our increasingly interconnected world.

4. Craft

Writing Theatre

Ayckbourn, Alan, The Crafty Art of Playmaking, (London: Faber & Faber, 2002).

“The Crafty Art of Playmaking” by British playwright Alan Ayckbourn is an instructive manual that delves into the creative and technical aspects of writing and staging a play. Published by Faber & Faber in 2002, the book serves as a comprehensive guide for aspiring playwrights, directors, and theatre enthusiasts alike. Ayckbourn, who has a wealth of experience in theatre, demystifies the process by breaking it down into its core elements.

The book is generally divided into two main parts: the art of writing a play and the art of producing it. In the first part, Ayckbourn goes into great detail about the essentials of dramatic writing. He covers the nuances of developing compelling characters, constructing a gripping plot, and creating authentic dialogue. Ayckbourn also discusses the thematic considerations that can enrich a narrative and make it resonate with audiences. He emphasizes the importance of creating emotional stakes for the characters and bringing tension into the narrative to keep the audience engaged.

One of the notable aspects of this section is Ayckbourn’s guidance on how to work through creative challenges such as writer’s block. He offers practical tips, drawing from his own experiences, about how to navigate these common pitfalls. Ayckbourn stresses the need for revision, arguing that the initial draft is just a starting point that must undergo significant editing and fine-tuning to achieve a polished final product.

The second part of the book transitions from the realm of writing to the practicalities of bringing a play to life on stage. Ayckbourn explores the roles of the director, actors, and crew, highlighting how each contributes to the success of a production. He provides insights into the intricacies of casting, rehearsing, and staging, including the effective use of props, lighting, and sound to enhance the theatrical experience.

One of the valuable aspects of this section is its focus on collaboration. Ayckbourn emphasizes the importance of communication and teamwork among the various stakeholders involved in a production. He shares anecdotes and case studies from his own career to illustrate how effective collaboration can solve problems and elevate the quality of a production.

Throughout the book, Ayckbourn’s wit and personal anecdotes enliven the text, making it not just an educational read but also an entertaining one. His style is conversational and approachable, making the book accessible even for those who are new to the world of theatre.

“The Crafty Art of Playmaking” serves as a holistic guide that tackles both the creative and logistical aspects of playmaking. It is an invaluable resource for anyone interested in the theatre, offering a blend of theoretical knowledge and practical wisdom honed from years of experience in the field.

Waters, Steve, The Secret Life of Plays, (London: Nick Hern, 2009).

The book is generally a guide on the art of playwriting, focusing on the hidden aspects that give plays their life and vitality. Waters delves deep into the craft, revealing the secret ingredients that make plays compelling and resonant. He goes beyond the basics of plot, character, and dialogue to explore the subtle elements that often go unnoticed but are crucial for a play’s success.

The book offers a comprehensive overview of the complexities involved in constructing a play, covering everything from the initial concept to the nuances of language and pacing. Waters includes examples from a wide range of plays and playwrights, dissecting their components to give a clearer understanding of how great works are made. It serves as both a textbook for aspiring playwrights and a behind-the-scenes look for theatre enthusiasts. Waters draws on his own experience as a playwright and educator, providing insights that are practical, applicable, and deeply rooted in the real-world challenges and rewards of theatrical storytelling.

Through a series of chapters, the book often investigates the ‘invisible’ aspects of a play, such as tone, rhythm, and thematic coherence. Waters argues that these hidden elements are what truly connect with the audience, making the difference between a good play and a great one. It is as much about the intentionality of the writer as it is about the craftsmanship, focusing on the questions a playwright must ask themselves throughout the creative process. Whether discussing the critical importance of the first ten minutes of a play, or examining the dynamics of conflict within the narrative, Waters provides a holistic approach to understanding what makes plays tick.

“The Secret Life of Plays” is not just a manual for creating effective theatre; it’s also an argument for the significance and vitality of the art form itself. In a world where the immediacy of film and television dominates, Waters makes a passionate case for the enduring relevance of live theatre and its unique ability to communicate nuance, complexity, and human emotion.

The book provides an in-depth look at the intricacies of playwriting, shedding light on both the visible and invisible elements that contribute to the effectiveness of a play. Waters combines scholarly analysis with practical advice, making it a valuable resource for anyone interested in the art of creating or understanding theatre.

Writing Comedy

Double, Oliver, Getting the Joke: The Inner Workings of Stand-Up Comedy (London: Methuen Drama Performance Books, 2014).

“Getting the Joke” by Oliver Double delves into the intricate and multifaceted world of stand-up comedy, examining its various elements and the mechanics that underpin its performance. The book, which is part of the Methuen Drama Performance Books series, serves as a comprehensive resource for understanding what makes stand-up comedy a unique and compelling form of entertainment and art.

One of the book’s major strengths is its focus on the origins and history of stand-up comedy, tracing it back to its roots in various performance traditions. This allows the reader to appreciate how the genre has evolved over time and how it connects with societal changes and developments. Oliver Double explores the influences of iconic comedians and draws from numerous interviews with professionals in the field to offer insights into their techniques and perspectives.

The book also delves into the nuts and bolts of creating a stand-up routine, from the initial concept to its execution on stage. Here, aspects like timing, delivery, and audience interaction are scrutinized to understand what makes a joke land or fail. The book deals with the specifics of joke construction and comedic storytelling, using examples to explain the nuances of comedic timing, set-up, and punchline. Moreover, it covers different styles and genres within stand-up comedy, like observational humour, one-liners, and social commentary, helping to elucidate how different artists use different methods to achieve comedic impact.

Another critical area of focus is the psychological and emotional dimensions of stand-up comedy. The book explores how comedy can serve as a coping mechanism, a tool for social critique, or a means of personal expression. The relationship between comedian and audience is dissected to reveal how the dynamics of laughter, applause, and even heckling play into the overall experience. Double also takes the time to discuss the complexities and challenges faced by minorities and women in the stand-up comedy world, shedding light on the importance of representation and diversity in the genre.

One notable feature of the book is its scholarly approach to a subject often considered to be ‘light’ or ‘frivolous.’ Double employs rigorous research methods, fusing academic perspectives with the experiential knowledge of practitioners. He not only provides a rich tapestry of the genre’s history but also engages in its ongoing debates and discussions, thereby adding a level of depth that is not commonly found in literature about comedy.

“Getting the Joke” serves as both a theoretical and practical guide to the realm of stand-up comedy. By dissecting the various elements that contribute to a successful routine and providing historical and sociological context, Oliver Double offers an invaluable resource for both aspiring comedians and anyone interested in understanding the intricacies of this art form. The book contributes significantly to the scholarly literature on comedy while also offering practical advice and insights that could benefit practitioners and aficionados alike.

Writing Film

Seger, Linda, Making a Good Script Great, 3rd Edition, (Beverley Hills, CA: Silman-James Press, 2010).

The book “Making a Good Script Great” by Linda Seger focuses on the art and craft of screenwriting, offering both budding and seasoned writers the tools and techniques needed to elevate a good script into a great one. Now in its 3rd edition, this seminal work continues to be a go-to resource for screenwriters and industry professionals alike, reflecting decades of research and practical experience by the author.

The book is structured around the key elements that make up a great script: structure, characters, theme, visuals, dialogue, and general storytelling. By dissecting each of these aspects and providing illustrative examples, Seger gives readers a comprehensive understanding of how to optimize every facet of their script. She often employs case studies, breaking down popular movies to highlight their strengths and weaknesses and demonstrate how a script can evolve from good to great through diligent rewriting and insightful revisions.

In the realm of structure, the book outlines the essential elements of plot, subplots, and timing, emphasizing how these can be harmonized to create a compelling narrative. Seger discusses how to handle three-act structures, and even delves into alternative structural paradigms, all the while driving home the need for an engaging and escalating conflict.

When it comes to character development, the book showcases the importance of well-rounded, believable characters. Seger explains that the reader or audience should feel emotionally invested in the characters, which only happens when these figures are portrayed as multi-dimensional beings. She delves into the psychological mechanisms that allow an audience to connect with characters and provides exercises that help writers flesh out their characters’ backstories, motivations, and arcs.

The book also dedicates considerable attention to theme. According to Seger, a powerful theme can be the cornerstone of a great script. She guides readers through identifying and developing themes that are not just meaningful but are also intricately woven into the narrative, so they resonate throughout the script.

On a more technical note, Seger tackles dialogue and visuals. She argues that great dialogue should be both realistic and functional, serving to advance the plot while revealing character. Additionally, Seger highlights the importance of visual storytelling, reminding writers that cinema is a visual medium and encouraging them to think in terms of visual metaphors and symbolic imagery.

“Making a Good Script Great” doesn’t merely provide a theoretical understanding but also gives practical tips and exercises that writers can apply immediately to their work. Whether you’re working on your first script or have several under your belt, Linda Seger’s book serves as a comprehensive manual, designed to hone your skills and transform your good scripts into great ones.