Prometheus Unbound ... Writer Unblocked

A bit of a grand title for today's blog but what the hell. It's starting to come together. I have had a really productive weekend working on the script and associated notes.

Had a predictably uplifting meeting with DR last Thursday. I had sent him the Outline of the whole play (see Mind-Dump and Other Jargon, 1 April) and he was kind enough about it, even my bizarre and repetitive misspelling of 'no one' - how long have I been doing that I wonder? Encouraged by that I had ploughed on with Act I, my vague short-term plan being to hand in for assessment (the first but not sole objective) Act I scene 1, along with, probably, the Prologue and Epilogue, the Outline and some Casting/Production Notes I have been working on. I was a little concerned that I would bang my head on the 7000 word assignment ceiling but DR is reasonably relaxed about this so I have not been subject to any unduly artificial constraints. The faults will be all mine.

Today has been the best day yet. Well, good for me , perhaps not so good for the boy Waugh who may very well be revolving in his proverbial as we speak.  My characters have today grown into themselves with a right old vengeance and keep speaking lines entirely of my invention without any prompting from old Evelyn. This, I discover, is an inevitable by-product of adaptation, even, ironically, of reduction. By paring down the events I portray and the cast of characters enacting them, I have to put the characters in unexplored places. When they arrive at these new venues they can say the strangest things. For example I start at the Schwertz party and I want to get the cast from there to the uproarious Downing Street denouement (via, of course, a death at Shepheard's) with as little clunkiness and scenery-shifting as possible. But what would these people talk about in the taxis as they tour London in search of drink? I think I now know. In fact I have known it twice because I had a backing-up incident earlier today (user error) which meant this deathless prose had two incarnations. Work that one out.

Some of the fun I've been having: Mary Mouse has emerged as a minor Machiavel who may just be in love with Jane Brown; Miles has more self-knowledge than Vanburgh; I sneaked a bit of Macbeth in there (gratuitous I know but it's my bloody play and I like that sort of thing); I think I can get away with a reference to The Macallan 1926 (last reported trading at £30000 a bottle) even though it wouldn't have been drinkable then; because I now envisage some projected images on the rear stage wall I have been having fun looking out some possible pictures - these adorn today's blog.

Today I have also discovered the music of Philip Glass - not all of it course but enough to keep me typing happily. Sometimes, just sometimes mind, the unblocked writer's life is good.