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.
