On Worms and Writing

My daughter and her friend were worms last night, desirous of being dragged from room to room in their sleeping bags. it was fun. Squeals and sniggles coming from red and blue worms are fun!

This is how the sleepover operated. They were in their pyjamas and sleeping bags at 5pm, four hours before even regular bedtime. They had a picnic of pizza, rocky road and ginger ale on a table cloth between their sleeping bags at 6.30. Then there was the infinitely discursive and difficult task of working out which position to lie. Followed by pillow fights, sliding down the stairs in same sleeping bags, watching a film - we forgot the popcorn - becoming worms, telling stories, and deciding where to put the clock and the solar lamp.

By nine, they wanted to be officially 'going asleep'.

I crept out to my office again. I managed the guts of an hour. It was one of those rare and wonderful times when you could go on for ever, only to realise you have to stop because to stay working would mean stumbling over two children to get to bed. It wasn't on. They were meant to sleep.

So, at ten, we had hot chocolate and made up stories about a girl called Rebecca, imploding brains that came from bums and a gazebo who wore a light-bulb on her head.
(And yes, I know a gazebo is a garden structure, probably the size of my entire back garden but, having said it, I claimed it was half-giraffe, half-zebra. I think we even gave it a name.)

By eleven, they had decided the floor was too hard and came upstairs to sleep. And now I'm in my office again, to leave room for some very complicated treasure hunts.

And guess what, I can't write a word!

The Buried Blog

Yup, underneath all the work I'm doing is a blog, glaring at me balefully, making me feel his neglect - don't ask, today it just feels like a 'he' blog.

So, guilt aside, I can honestly say that it's because I've been writing too much. Which is a good complaint, if not an entertaining one. I've been working on a new TV series proposal that could/ should/ may just get funding and it has nudged much else off the table. Can't say more but it will be entertaining when it happens. (See, that positive' when' creeping in!? That's the Blog talking, grateful for being roused.)

In every other moment that's free I'm trying to finish a first draft of a new novel. It's for pre-teens - the main character, Jessie, is eleven - and it's such fun to write. Some parts just write themselves; others skulk around waiting to be yanked into plain sight and then quite enjoy themselves. I did 29,000 words last month, as well as the rewrite of the play and working on the early treatment for the TV series. I've a feeling this month will be slower. The aim is to have a rough draft by the end of the month.

Why go in this direction after 13 years writing screenplays? Because there seemed to be an increasing waft of hints and comments from so many disparate sources suggesting I should write books for children. And I've always wanted to. There's a shelf of files to prove I always wanted to, but any idea I've had the time or confidence to finish became animation series. The others sat in the 'to do' file, winking at me.

The pleasure of this book is that I can play with words, as many words as I like. I can dive inside Jessie's head and dance with her. If she'd dance, but she's a bit grumpy at the moment.

I have no idea if it works as a whole yet. I have to finish it first. That's where faith comes in. And then the rewrite. And then the test audience - my daughter. Who told me she didn't want me to read it to her until I had two chapters finished. Then, if I read a chapter a night, it would force me to keep writing until the end.

Naturally, every other moment is creatively spent... traumatising younger neighbourhood kids with their first experience of Cleudo - "It's about death? I might have murdered someone?! How do you kill someone with a rope!?" -, playing a live Cleudo game - where you have to interview my daughter as each character -; walking the dog, playing with the snail and drinking coffee.

And trying to get back to the book.

George Farquhar is In The Building...

"... Up, all of you. I want to see the whites of your eyes and sense the swell and heave of your bosums as the play dances around you. Smell the underarm sweat. Inhale the odour of horse dung walked in through the muddy cobbles, mixed with the lethargy of bare arms and the whore-making scent of excitement and desire..."

And so George Farquhar returned to Smock Alley Theatre in the flesh (of actor Stephen Bradley) for the first time in 305 years.

A wonderful audience, exceptionally positive - yup, I was floating, just a little; how often do writers hear their work commended by their peers?! - and insightful feedback and, in the end, that wonderful electricity only theatre can create.

Next stop? A full production! From what happened yesterday, just at a reading, I know it will happen. It has to!

Countdown to Resurrection...

... of George Farquhar, playwright, lover and actor. Words by me, performance by Stephen Bradley, the Derry-born actor.

The reading of A Fresh Gale and Cold Chicken happens this Sunday at 5pm sharp in Smock Alley - The Boy's School for those of you who want to come.

I'm getting nervous now, but the excited sort, which is good. It's a return to my first love as a writer and it seems the stage and I have been apart far too long, by virtue of me getting lured into the sinewy world of TV/ film scriptwriting.

In 1997, Trade Me A Dream ran for two weeks in the Focus Theatre, which has just reopened. In addition, a reading of Fur Doesn't Hurt took place with Andrew Bennett in the lead role in The Abbey before winning at the Cork Arts Theatre festival later that year - as had Trade Me... in '96. 13 years is a long time. We will make it an evening to remember!

For those of you coming along, we'll see you there. If you're early, there's a lovely coffee shop just opposite the entrance called Piccolo's. Great coffee.

x

Best Laid Plans

Last Summer, in a flurry of anticipation, I built a shed in the back yard; my dream of a self-contained office. There is a wall of shelves exactly the right height for box files and two desks and some drawers and everything I need to write... but in the winter, it's too cold and in the summer, on a day like today, it's like an oven.

Worse, the fact that the computer is here, lording it over the space, makes procrastination far too easy. Emails, Facebook, Linked In, this blog... there are just too many excuses to write and read material unrelated to work. (And to convince yourself it is research/ networking/ keeping up-to-date!)

Fortunately, Pettigrew took the problem to heart. (He's the snail my daughter forced me to adopt. He has attitude and a purple/ pink shell, but squishily believes he should have a red bouffant and a cigar on a holder, if not a PA who makes him coffee with frothy milk.)

My problems are his, he says; if I'm not writing, I'm far more likely to squish him. (He's right.)

So he came up with a solution: "don't turn on the computer until you have written your quota of words or scenes for the morning/ day".

It's good advice. Excellent advice and it worked for a week. Until my new phone arrived - touch screen, so many apps to discover and play with, and it tells me when I have emails.

"Turn it to silent," says Pettigrew, quick as you like - well, it took him about five days 'cos it's hard work leaving a legible slime trail on a computer desk. Which was just enough time for me and my new phone to become inseparable; I've named it George.

But when a snail called Pettigrew 'speaks', you have to take heed and I am dutifully putting my phone on silent each morning until I have my labours complete.

I'll let you know if it works.

For the wet day that's in it

"If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass" - Fran Lebowitz. Maybe that's what I've been doing wrong - eating too much chocolate! Keep scribbling everyone!

A Fresh Gale and Cold Chicken: The reading

We have a date, tied down, for the rehearsed reading of my new stage play about George Farquhar: Sunday 27th June, 5pm in Smock Alley/The Boy's Theatre.

There’s a fantastic atmosphere in the space but what adds to the magic of the event is that we are bring Farquhar to life again a few steps away from the main theatre in Smock Alley, where he himself performed in 1696/7 and 1705.

The Boys' School is a really interesting space, for those of you who haven't seen it yet. For the reading, there will be just 45 seats, plus standing room at the surrounding balcony – you’ll understand when you get there - so if you want to come, and it's free, can you let me know? It should be an evening of pure theatre, dramatic, powerful, emotional and entertaining!

The reading will run about 75 minutes – which means I managed to cut out about 8,000 words - with a chance for feedback and a glass of wine afterwards.

We hung out in the space yesterday, to see how the script would work. We blocked out some of the scenes – not too much, it is a rehearsed reading – but it’s a shame to waste the very unique space.

Best of all, when everyone had gone, I sounded out some of the scenes myself standing on a church pew, on a table, on the stage and it was pretty powerful stuff. Possibly one of the very few times I’ve ever wished I was a man, so that I could perform it.