Guy's Hospital (Excerpt)

HOSPITAL WARD.

GUY LIES IN A COMA. ANOTHER BED IS OCCUPIED BY GUNTER, WHO APPEARS TO BE IN A SIMILAR UNCONSCIOUS STATE.

THE ROOM IS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOFT BEEPING OF GUY’S VITAL SIGNS MONITOR.

JANE ENTERS.

JANE:

Guy, my darling Guy.

SHE KISSES HIM.

It’s me… Jane.

I’m here, just like I promised I’d be, every day, until you wake up.

SILENCE.

How are you today?

SILENCE.

SHE SITS ON A CHAIR BY THE BED AND WITHDRAWS A BOOK FROM HER BAG.

So, where did we leave off?

Ah yes, here we are…

(READING)

The trees, tall and wise, stretched their gnarled branches towards the sky, echoing secrets of the ages in a symphony only Lysander could comprehend. As he ventured deeper into the heart of the forest, Lysander stumbled upon a clearing bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight. In the centre of the clearing stood a majestic oak, its bark etched with runes glowing softly in the silver light. He reached out and touched the ancient bark. In that moment, a rush of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a voice, ancient and…

(SHE SUDDENLY CLOSES THE BOOK)

I won’t pretend it’s been easy, Guy.

Each morning, I rise. Because I have to, because I choose to, because I believe – hope – that one day, you’ll come back to me. Yet I can’t help but feel that with each passing day, a part of me is withering away, rotting in this chair.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I sit with him, you know, every day. I read to him, talk to him about everything and nothing. Shave him. Shave him? Yes.

JANE TAKES THE TOOLS OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO SHAVE GUY’S FACE.

I find comfort in talking to Guy about the mundane; did he know the Hendersons’ cat finally got stuck in their own tree? Irony, Guy loves irony.

I tell him about the Jammie Dodger shortage at the supermarket as if it’s headline news. And sometimes, I swear, I see a flicker, a sign he’s there, trapped in his own head, screaming about the absurdity of Jammie Dodger shortages in supermarkets.

I’ve found myself bargaining with every deity I can think of, promising a lifetime of good deeds for a single moment of clarity from him.

SHE WITHDRAWS A PACKET OF JAMMIE DODGERS FROM HER BAG AND EATS ONE.

I’d even tell him the truth about the Christmas vase from Aunt Muriel he thought was lost.

(A BROKEN VASE SITS ON THE SIDE TABLE)

I’ve become quite the conversationalist, speaking into the void, filling the silence with words.

Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You talk, even if it’s just to the walls, because the alternative is silence, and the silence is unbearable.

SILENCE.

And maybe, just maybe, my words will be the lifeline that guides him back.

Until then, I’ll be here, talking even when I’m not sure if anyone is listening.

TO GUY:

Remember the time you surprised me with that picnic in the living room because the park was closed?

SHE STARTS TO REARRANGE HIS BLANKET.

You had it all laid out, the blanket, the basket, even those little candles you were so proud of finding. We made a toast to indoor adventures and drank until we could barely move.

SILENCE.

I was rummaging through the attic last Tuesday. You remember, our shared vault of “we’ll sort it later” treasures and I found an old picture of us in Brighton.

SHE SHOWS HIM THE PICTURE.

I remember we were seeking out the best fish and chips. We found it, though, didn’t we? Tucked away in that little alley, the one that smelled of salt and vinegar. You said it was the best you’d ever had. I agreed, but between you and me, it was being with you that made them taste so good.

SILENCE.

We spent that night walking along the beach, sharing our dreams under the stars.

There we were, utterly lost but utterly content, discovering hidden corners of the place and each other. Every word came straight from your heart promising a lifetime of adventures together. And then there was the rain. We danced in it. You spun me round and round until we collapsed, laughing, into that massive puddle on the promenade.

We were drenched, utterly soaked, and happy. But here’s the secret I’ve never shared: as we walked back along the beach, hand in hand, I found a small, smooth stone. It was nothing special, just a piece of quartz, but it sparkled in the night. I slipped it into my pocket, a solid piece of that perfect, fleeting moment. I’ve kept that stone with me every day since. It’s here with me now.

SHE REVEALS IT FROM UNDER HER TOP,

HANGING ON A CHAIN. SHE REMOVES THE CHAIN WITH THE QUARTZ STONE AND PUTS IT IN HIS HAND.

These shared moments remind me of us, of who we are beyond this…

SILENCE.

So, I’ll keep sharing these memories with you, my love.

Even if you can’t respond, I know you’re listening. These stories, our stories, they’re the crumbs leading you back home to me.

JANE FINISHES SHAVING GUY.

SHE NOTICES JAMMIE DODGER CRUMBS AND REMOVES THEM FROM HIS BLANKET.

And I’ll be here, waiting, reminiscing, until we can create new memories together again.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I can’t do this.

SHE STARTS TO PICK UP HER THINGS TO GO.

I thought I could, but every day feels like I’m sinking further and there’s no one to pull me out. I tell myself, “just get through today,” but the days stretch on, endless, each one a mirror of the last.

SHE HEADS FOR THE DOOR BUT PAUSES THERE.

And Guy. Guy is trapped in his silent world, unreachable, leaving me to navigate this darkness alone.

SHE WALKS BACK TO HIM.

Everyone says, “you’re so strong,” “you’re doing so well.” But they don’t see this, do they? The nights spent in tears, the days filled with a hollow emptiness that consumes everything.

SHE REPEATEDLY ADJUSTS HIS BLANKET AGAIN.

Strength? It’s a façade I hide behind because the truth is too much to bear. I miss him. Not just the man he was before the accident, but the life we shared, the future we dreamed of.

And the silence? It’s suffocating.

SHE WALKS OVER TO A WINDOW AND LOOKS OUT.

The loneliness, Guy, it’s indescribable. The silence echoes in the emptiness of our home, in our bed, where I lie awake, yearning for your warmth. I’m trying to be strong… but some days, I’m just pretending, hoping somehow to make it through to the next morning.

SILENCE.

I’ve struggled with fear, with separation, with the daunting reality of facing life without you. There were days I felt so lost that I couldn’t see a way out.

SILENCE.

So here, in this quiet, I speak my apologies into the space between us, hoping somehow, they reach you. I have to believe that somewhere, beneath the stillness, you can feel me, hear me; that you remember the moments we shared together.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I used to relish moments of quiet, but now it’s a constant reminder of his absence. I talk to him, to the empty space on the sofa he once filled, but my own voice is a reminder of how alone I am. They say grief is the price we pay for love, but no one warns you about the weight of it, how it can crush you, leave you gasping for air in the middle of the night.

TO GUY:

Dinner for one, a solo walk, and lying next to an empty half of the bed are normal for me now. Although hope and despair have become my new housemates.

(PLAYING WITH HIM)

Hope wanders about with a suitcase full of “what ifs” and “soon maybes,” while despair tends to slouch in the corner, mumbling “what’s the point?” into his tea. They don’t get on, you see. I’m caught in the middle. Oh yes, and guilt.

LAUGHING INTO A HAND MIRROR FROM HER BAG.

Every time I laugh or enjoy a moment of sunshine, guilt is there, reminding me, “Should you be feeling this when Guy is lying there?”

But in the midst of this crowd, there’s love. It’s what turns my feet towards the hospital each day, even when hope and despair are having one of their squabbles. And when you wake, we’ll laugh about this, won’t we?

SHE SHOWS HIM THE MIRROR TO HIS FACE FOR A MOMENT BEFORE PLACING IT BACK IN HER BAG.

About how I became such good friends with loneliness, hope, despair, and guilt.

But mostly, how love never once left the room.

SHE REARRANGES THE FLOWERS ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE.

As for me, apparently I’m glue that holds things together. Or so I’ve been told. Glue that feels decidedly less adhesive these days. All the while, cooking meals that go uneaten and maintaining routines that feel increasingly hollow.

SILENCE.

But that’s okay, because this is all an opportunity for “personal growth”, or so says my cognitive therapist. Personal growth, now there’s a term that always seemed a bit lofty to me, something for selfhelp books…

Yet, here I am, a walking case study. It’s funny, isn’t it? Not “ha-ha” funny, more like “Alanis Morissette ironic” funny, how personal growth’s most profound lessons are often those we’d never choose.

(PACING UP AND DOWN)

I’ve become somewhat of a philosopher, you see. Not by choice, but by circumstance. Contemplating the nature of existence between hospital visits and microwave meals.

I’ve wrestled with questions I never thought to ask, faced fears I didn’t know I had. And in the midst of it all, I’ve discovered strengths – like being able to cry on a crowded bus without garnering too much attention.

I’ve also mastered the art of solitude. Except, of course, being near the ticking of that very annoying cuckoo clock you brought back from Geneva.

SHE INSPECTS THE VITAL SIGNS MONITOR.

I’m convinced it speeds up just to taunt me. But it’s not all existential dread and ticking clocks. No, this journey’s had its share of revelations. Like learning that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an action, a choice made in the quiet moments, in the steadfast refusal to give up hope.

SHE SITS DOWN.

So here I stand, or rather sit, a somewhat unwilling pilgrim on the path to self-discovery. I’ve learned to navigate the world on my own, to find joy in the small victories, and to keep talking, even when it feels like I’m only speaking to the walls.

Because one day, I hope, you’ll talk back. And I’ll keep dreaming, for both of us, until you’re here to dream with me once more.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

A driver collided with our world. Guy, my husband, managed the extraordinary feat of stepping off the pavement at just the wrong moment. A car, too fast, too distracted, turned our life into this drama. Only, in our version, the hero doesn’t wake up with a start. No, my Guy is more the silent type these days. The doctors use terms like “traumatic brain injury” as if I might find comfort in the certainty of a label. I don’t.

TO GUY:

Our future, now I see, is not a place or an event.

It’s us, simply being, together.

(HOLDING HIS HAND)

A future where every day is an adventure because it’s shared with you.

Perhaps our grandest adventure lies not in the peaks we conquer but in the valleys we navigate together, in the everydayness of our shared life.

So, I will dream a different dream for us. One where our future is not measured by the stamps in our passports but by the mornings we wake up next to each other, by the nights we fall asleep mid-conversation.

Though lately, it’s been more of a monologue than a dialogue.

SILENCE.

Guy, bless you, you haven’t been much for conversation since the accident. But does that stop me? Of course not. I’ve become quite adept at talking to myself. With you listening, of course, my darling.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I tell him everything and anything. How the azaleas he planted are blooming, or how Mrs. Jenkins next door has taken to singing opera in the early hours.

(MORE)

It’s our little soap opera, broadcast directly to his bedside.

I’d like to think he’s entertained, that somewhere in the silence, he’s laughing with me. But it’s not just the trivialities of our days I share with him. It’s the “I love yous”, the “we miss yous”, the “please come backs”.

JANE PLAYS A RECORDING OF A MESSAGE FROM HER PHONE:

“HEY GUY, REMEMBER ME? IT’S YOUR SISTER, LEXI. SORRY I CAN’T BE THERE IN PERSON, BUT YOU’RE NOT VERY INTERESTING THESE DAYS… YOU KNOW I’M JOKING… I MISS YOU, YOU KNOW, GUY…”

JANE (CONT’D):

It’s the reassurance that no matter how long this nightmare lasts, I’ll be here, making sure the love finds its way to him.

And it’s not a solitary endeavour, oh no. The outpouring of love and support has been overwhelming. Cards, calls, visits, each a lifeline, a chorus of voices joining mine in this one-way conversation.

It’s heartening, really, how it can take tragedy to draw out such warmth. They say people live on in our memories, and I find that to be painfully, beautifully true. Guy’s here with me, not just in this room, surrounded by machines and the antiseptic smell of hospitals, but in who I am.

Our stories, our memories, they’re what bind us, weaving the fabric of our life together. And so I talk to him, recounting our shared past, our dreams, our arguments over trivialities, as if by sheer longing, I can bridge the gap between us.

TO GUY:

Here in this silence, I’m confronted by words unsaid, of arguments paused mid-breath. Our last argument, the one before… this, it lingers.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

I argue with shadows, defend myself to the echoes.

It’s a peculiar form of madness, isn’t it?

Quarrelling with a memory. How do I argue with a man who can no longer answer back? How do I resolve conflicts that have become monologues?

TO GUY:

I believe in us, in the “us” that survives beyond the harsh words and cold silences.

SILENCE.

I don’t know how to do this without you, Guy. They say time heals, but it feels more like I’ve become used to the pain. You know, I keep asking myself, would I be here, if things had ended differently between us? If we had let go when every argument felt like the last straw, if we had agreed that maybe love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken?

And now, here I am, clinging to your hand, praying for a miracle that feels like it might be too late to even want. The guilt… it’s crushing me. Because part of me wonders if I’m here just trying to make up for all the ways I failed you. I’m tired, Guy. Tired of carrying this guilt. How I stormed out, leaving so many angry words hanging in the air between us. If I had known it would be the last time, would I have stayed? Or tried harder to understand, to forgive?

SHE TAKES A BRUSH OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO BRUSH HIS HAIR.

But here I am, every day and night, talking to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you can forgive me for the days I thought leaving was the easier choice. I wish it hadn’t taken this to make me realise so clearly, I love you. But what if it’s too late? What if all these nights, all these whispered apologies and confessions of love, are just echoes in an empty room? What if you can’t hear me, can’t forgive me? It’s my biggest fear; that I’ve lost you, not just to this coma, but to the mistakes and misunderstandings that we let come between us.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

They tell me you’re gone, that even if you wake, the man I loved won’t be coming back. So, I smile, I nod, I go through the motions of living. But inside, I’m numb. I go to work, I meet friends, I smile at them, and all the while, I feel nothing. They say I must move on, that life has to go on. So, I’ve tried, Guy. I’ve tried to step forward, one foot in front of the other, but with each step, I’m like a ghost wandering in the shadows of other people’s lives.

TO GUY:

Love is the determination to hold on to each other when everything else is trying to pull you apart. I thought we had that kind of love, Guy. I still want to believe we do.

But I need a sign, something to show me that you’re still in this with me. Please, Guy, fight. Fight to come back to me. Don’t make me beg.

I know I should be strong for us. And I am, Guy, I am. But I need you to fight too. Fight to wake up, to come back to me, to us. I can’t imagine a life without you in it.

SILENCE.

I’ll be back tomorrow, darling. And every day after that. You’re not alone, Guy. You’ll never be. I’ll be right here, waiting for you… always. I love you.

TO THE FOURTH WALL:

In the midst of all this, the silence, the waiting, the not knowing… I found myself seeking… no, craving some semblance of life.

SHE STANDS BY HERSELF WITH HER BACK TO GUY.

A connection, a spark, something to remind me that I’m still alive, that there’s still a world outside these hospital walls.

I want to have children and the cuckoo clock keeps ticking faster. And so, I made a decision, one evening, to not be alone. To be with someone who isn’t you. It wasn’t about love, or even desire, not really. It was about feeling something, anything, other than this crushing emptiness. I told myself it was a moment of weakness, too many proseccos, a fleeting lapse in judgement, but…

TO GUY:

I tried, you know. After the accident, after the silence and the waiting became too much, I tried to move on. To forget about you, about us. I thought…

I thought it was the right thing to do, to live again, to be part of the world that kept spinning without you.

SILENCE.

I’m sorry…

JANE LEAVES. GUNTER, WHO HAD BEEN MOTIONLESS IN THE BED NEXT TO GUY, STIRS, AND THEN, WITH A SURPRISING BURST OF ENERGY, GETS OUT OF BED.

Random Thoughts

It is helpful to be aware of low-quality thoughts when you have them. The alternative, in the absence of better or no thinking, is to do something constructive.

A slightly skewed antenna can lead logic to wrong places.

People can be very smart in some areas and behave in ways that drain them of basic cognitive intelligence in others, usually without their realisation, and especially if reinforced by social feedback.

Rather than blandly following expectations, you have an opportunity to create something interesting when you play by your own rules.

If someone keeps getting an answer wrong because they don’t understand the question, they deserve sympathy and help.

Humanity as a group has been and is a psychopath; or at least, the leaders and structures have spread the illness. Individuals are usually far from this but are incentivised and swamped by the culture. What would be kinda cool is if humanity were kind yet strong-willed, funny yet intelligently self-aware.

What’s the point of winning a trophy if you’ve cheated? What does the trophy mean to you? Does it mean the higher perceived social status derived from the acknowledgement of others? In this world, the worst have usually been rewarded with trinkets, titles, and luxurious circumstances. So why would you sell your true value to seek the same?

This should be the emphasis in an educational system: to cultivate the potential to think a semi-original thought; the agency to take action without societal pressure; the ability to be oneself despite the winds of the time. The embedded culture must be rooted in humility, kindness, and generosity of spirit. However, the opposite behaviour is often rewarded in current society.

How will social media change when people can look and sound like anything they choose in realistic AI-generated locations and situations?

If scenes can be designed by text prompts, what’s the point of expensive film sets and CGI?

Actors would need to offer something unique, as AI would be able to produce generic performances.

Perception paints reality.

Unclothed of thoughts

Unclothed of thoughts, murmuring in the breeze,

Under the audience of the leaves,

Where lips feel the warmth of other lips:

Mine yearn for you, deeper in your kiss.

By night we have our chance,

Embraced in a candlelit trance;

Though lifetimes keep our arms apart,

In dreamscape realms, we share a single heart.

First to 8

 (Version 2)

Scratch pad: Riffing on “The Man Who Was Thursday”

INQUISITOR:

“The Central Anarchist Council plan chaos, hidden behind the guise of philosophical debate and social reform. We need someone on the inside, someone who can navigate the complexities of their ideology and expose them. We’ve managed to secure you a position within their ranks. You will be known as ‘Thursday.’“

…..

THURSDAY:

“Our society is built on the precipice of a great chasm, one of inequality and injustice. It is our duty to bridge this divide, not with words, but with action. I propose we start by undermining the false security in which the complacent find their comfort. Our actions must resonate with the disaffected, turning their passive discontent into active defiance. We must be the spark that ignites the fire of revolution.”

…..

SUNDAY:

“Your pursuit has been most enlightening. But you must understand, everything you’ve experienced, every revelation and doubt, was by design. You see, the true anarchy I sought to sow was not in the streets of London, but within the confines of your own beliefs, your trust in order, in structure, in other people.”

THURSDAY:

“In seeking to undermine what I believed, you’ve only strengthened my resolve. Chaos cannot build and does not sustain. Only through understanding and cooperation can a better future be created.”

SUNDAY:

“You’ve journeyed far in search of answers, grappling with shadows and illusions. It’s time you understood the true nature of our endeavour. The Central Anarchist Council, the missions, the internal strife—each element was meticulously crafted not to sow chaos, but to cultivate a select group capable of transcending conventional boundaries of thought and action. Our world is on the cusp of monumental change. To navigate this transition, we need leaders unbound by traditional dichotomies. You were chosen to be one those leaders.”

THURSDAY:

“Why the deceit?”

SUNDAY:

“Because true understanding cannot be given; it must be earned. You needed to experience the ambiguity, the doubt, the struggle, to truly grasp the complexities of governance and freedom. Look beyond the confines of our society, our ideologies. The future demands a new kind of leadership, one that embraces complexity and navigates uncertainty with wisdom and empathy. This was your true mission, to be a guide on the journey towards a more enlightened future.”

Error et descensus

One must remember:

Evil pretends to be the divine.

The wilfully guilty frame others for their sins.​

Cruelty cloaks itself as the guardian of reason.

Those with nothing to say hide behind a wall of words.

The ignorant deceive with feigned wisdom.

Hence, truth must resonate more intensely.

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.