The
old man approached the counter, hunched and wrapped
in a two-size too
big brown jacket that must have had him sweltered.
“Two and plus one thanks,” he requested of the fifty-something,
gaunt and blank-eyed lady behind the counter. Autopilot carried her
through the day, and
possibly a heavy dose of Prozac alongside
it.
“Lovely
day out there isn't it?” she offered, without giving much away as
to whether this affected her in one
way or the other.
“It is,” the old man replied, “how long will it last though?”
“Ah we had a terrible summer last year didn't we?” said the
counter woman as she printed out the Lottery details, barely glancing
at him. “We did” he was happy to reply. We didn't, of course, we
didn't have a bad summer, it was an amazing summer. I felt my teeth
clench; I felt a desire to step forward and state this fact. It was
an amazing summer last year. I got sun-burnt. Amazing!
Why
say otherwise?
Why
do we do this, I seethed. Why do we make this inane chatter every day
with every person we see, whether we know them or not? Why can't we
just approach the counter, pay for our item, and walk away, happy in
the knowledge that neither one of us has interrupted the other's
thoughts with our banal opinions. I don't care what she says to me, I
decided. I'm going to pay for my item, say nothing, and leave.
“I
hope it's better this year” said she. “Ah sure” said he. He
took his lottery tickets. “When I win I'll come back and make ye my
wife” he laughed. She laughed too. It was a strange thing to say
and
I wondered how many times he'd said it, and how many times money had
been used as a propositional tool for this woman before now. “Sure,
you know where to find me” she
returned. He
left, still laughing. Why
would they say these things? Were
they lovers? Could they be lovers? The thought made me quesy. What
else was going on that I had missed? I
stepped forward to buy my Snickers Bar.
“Lovely
day out there isn't it?” said the fifty-something gaunt and
blank-eyed android in front of me from
behind the safety of her counter.
“It
really is,” I smiled broadly,
“I hope this isn't our summer! The rain last week, my god!
Sleepless
nights, then trying to walk to the bank, and -”
“Just
this?”
“Just
that. My little treat. My little secret. I know it's fattening but
you have to have -”
“Ninety
five cent please.”
I
paid her. Bitch, I thought, as I walked away. Cut me off like that.
Twice!
What
does that old man, her lover, that
oul get
have that I don't have? Fine. I'll never speak to anyone again. Mark
my words. What
a sour old tart she -
“Your
change!” she bellowed across the shop. “You
forgot your change!”
I could have shouted that I LOVED her!
“Twelve
step writing exercise Day
10 : Go sit
in a public place and eavesdrop on a conversation. Turn what you hear
into a short love story (no matter how much you have to twist what
they say).”
WHY?
Why why why why
why why why why why?
1.
I like being indoors. It suits me, it keeps me away from people who,
as a rule, have little of nothing to offer
other than comments about the weather or stuff they're doing, which
is of no interest to me.
2. This is Wexford. People in Wexford have absolutely nothing of
worth to say. Sorry people of Wexford, but read any of Billy Piper's
Wexford plays. Even in Wexford drama terms, they're just dull.
3. I would have to pay for coffee out in the real world. I have
coffee in my house. I prefer to drink that coffee than have to pay
for too-hot, bitter, two-day old coffee served by a sponge faced deli
bird who tells me it's warm out today.
“Twelve
do's
and don'ts
of blogging : Don't Be
negative.
It’s generally unwise to air personal grievances publicly (unless, of course, that’s the theme of your blog). You’ll go a lot further by being positive, inspirational and supportive to the community that you’re writing to.”
It’s generally unwise to air personal grievances publicly (unless, of course, that’s the theme of your blog). You’ll go a lot further by being positive, inspirational and supportive to the community that you’re writing to.”
Oh.
So
okay. Real
quick, sorry about all that negativity towards Wexford folk and
people in general. Keep reading, it has a relevence. Swearsies.
In
the story I opened this article with I was making rather unsubtle
attempts at irony. Now, I have been accused in the past of trying too
hard to be clever, and for using irony as a way to rise
above the readers heads. I don't know, I think it's better to try too
hard and fail than never try at all. Except when skydiving obviously.
There it's better not to try, than fail.
And
I hope
that
my use of self-aware irony punctures what could otherwise seem like
pompous observations. I'm not trying to go over anyone's heads, I'm
trying to show just how ineffectual and un-confidant I really am, out
there, out in the real world, the world you people's occupies. Maybe
I just wants to be loved!
I've
spent the last nine days not only attempting what I have come to
believe are entirely useless exercises in writing, but trying to
deconstruct them to
understand whether it's just me.
So
in the above short narrative piece I was very unsubtly using my
character's irritation with a pleasant discourse between two lonely
people to show that it was the narrator who was at fault, and was just as
prone to banality and human frailty.
You
read this, hopefully
noticed
how obnoxious this fictional
character was,
then went into the article proper. I then opened with a full-on rant,
technically
still in character but
seemingly writing as myself.
You probably hate me now and that's okay
as
once again I was trying to be clever and
ironic.
To what end? Keep reading sir/madam/octopus sandwich.
I'm
writing this having gone out and done just what the exercise told me
to do. No, really. I know past precedents have been set, and you the
dearest of readers are justifiably thinking ill of me, and have come
to realise that I am probably using my supposed Twelve-Step blog as a
Wexford-specific racism forum. But I really did go out into a public
space – several actually – and I really did listen
to various conversations around me, and I really did go quietly and
slowly insane with
the inanity of it all. The
opening piece is based directly on experience, though
skewed to make it more interesting.
See
here's the interesting thing about writing, and specifically writing
plays – something
I'm slowly forgetting I do because of these intolerable exercises -
if
you are assured of two criticisms it's these : your characters all
sound the same; and
nobody
speaks like that.
There
are genuine reasons why both of these criticisms occur, and
both are frustrating and frustratingly common.
Generally,
my characters don't
all
sound the same, they all read
the
same. In other words, placed in the mouths of actors, the characters
will come alive. This is a phenomenon in theatre known as
“performing”. This is what plays are designed for. I write plays
with the knowledge that, because none of them have been given
in-depth prose descriptions as to the gravel in their throats and the
devil in their eyes and the flame in their
teste
hair, readers will merely hear their own voices rattling around their
heads as they read
the
characters.
People
read in a their own, neutral tone. It's just easier that way.
This
is an unfortunate given and it is one of the main reasons why a lot
of playwrites become massively frustrated with the “reading”
process when submitting plays to
agents or groups, even
actors, and why we end up putting them on ourselves.
A little hint – at the beginning of your play, include a fantasy
football style cast list for your characters. In the same as reading
a book changes the
voices of the characters once
you've seen the film, so too
will the reader automatically “perform” the play in these actor's
voices as they read.
If
you transcribe people's real conversation, without context, what
you'll find is that people all sound the same. Accents aside, you
Wexford sleazes.
As
to the criticism that nobody speaks like that, this is a little
double-edged. Have
you listened to the way people speak lately? Actually listened? I
have. Went out there and did it, dear reader. Just for you. Well, for
the exercise. But also for you! But mainly for the exercise. And God.
We
are not a naturally witty race. We really do have to try, try to
string a coherent sentence together, try to combat confidence
nerves when someone speaks to us, try to remember what it was we were
going to say even though we've literally just thought of it, and try
to figure out what it was that person has just asked you, because you
were too focussed on thinking of an answer to actually hear them.
Social intercourse is hard, and generally speaking part
of why it's hard is that
we don't do it because we have some interesting information to impart
but because it keeps us in contact with other human beings, if only
for a moment. That's
why we're doing it. Why we're stuttering through a conversation with
a stranger or a loved one. Why it sucks in formal circumstances that
we can never say what we really want to say.
So
when we write a play, or create dialogue, we're doing so with more
than just human contact in mind, we're thinking of exposition,
carrying a narrative, trying to set a scene or just as importantly, a
character, a
set of relationships.
We're
truncating every aspect of humanity into a few short lines to try and
get across far more than you would necessarily have to in real life
in
the same amount of time.
Except
maybe when
speed dating.
So
very often, it's true, people don't
speak
like that; but they wish they did.
And
that's an important aspect of writing and of reading – fiction
and fantasy.
It's a wish-fulfillment, a way of escape, a way of finding someone
or something that entirely agrees with your viewpoint in a cleverly
articulated way, or gives you something to rail against. It's
not supposed to be real. Yes, we sometimes strive for naturalism or
realism but at no time is what we're creating ever
real.
It's a fiction.
So
what's the point of the exercise above? Again, there's no context to
it – it just exists as an exercise and perhaps I'm just trying to
be too clever by searching for one. In
fact, I
would suggest that listening to the way people hold conversations is
a very
valuable
tool in the same way life-drawing is valuable to artists. It allows
us to learn the basic contours, from which we can begin to abstract,
and develop our own artistic voices.
In
my case, I use irony – I have created a character as the voice for
my blogs, or articles. Is it me? Sure, of course. But in reality, I
don't talk this way. In reality, I sound just like everyone else.
It's dull but true and it's why even when I'm describing true events
I try to mask and fictionalise myself to some degree or another to so that I don't feel naked.
But
these purposes are not got across by the exercise. Also, why on earth
do we need to go away and twist it into a love story? Shouldn't it be
enough to develop a story from the dialogue? I know the idea of any exercise or challenge is to create restrictions but this is just getting silly.
In
school I used to get told I think too much. I used to ask “why”
instead of “how”. I couldn't just learn
answers and formula off by rote, I had to analyse. I will never
consider myself to be particularly bright or intelligent but I can't
just accept things as they are and perhaps that is what's meant by
trying too hard.
“Twelve
steps of addiction – Step ten : Sought
through prayer
and
meditation to
improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying
only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that
out.”
Dom
Tomorrow
- “Day
11: Write
the acknowledgments page that will be placed in your first (next?)
published book, thanking all the people who have helped you along the
way.”
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