I am still hammering away at the 29 Plays Challenge, which leaves me not a lot of time for much else. It hasn’t been so inspiring this year. Partly because the briefs are repeats of previous years’ briefs, and there’s a one in five chance of picking up a brief I have already written a play for – and partly because there’s a feeling that this is the last time, and I’ll never get the chance to write in the company of talented actors and playwrights again.
My favourite briefs this year (so far) have been the command to write a trilogy, three connected plays that are complete in themselves but even better when seen together (think Alan Ayckbourn’s ‘The Norman Conquests’) and to write the stage version of a film, novel or poem we know and love. The trilogy was based around three generations of one family, starting with the youngest and working up to the grandfather. The film, of course, was Moon. We were asked to add our own take on the original, and I took the chance to bring to the fore the story of the original Sam Bell and his wife Tess. I could not improve on the last speech by the radio show host, about the returned clone being either a whacko or an illegal alien, so that stays as the last line. None of these plays will be performed, so the original scriptwriter is unlikely to sue.
So far, I don’t have any plays that are begging to be re-written and sent off to anywhere, and that’s the saddest part. Twice before I have started March with at least three plays worth editing, but time’s running out this year for a play I’m fond of.
I have had time to send off a micro fiction which made the longlist – it’s currently sinking to the bottom of the public vote, but just getting top twelve was an achievement, so I am not disappointed. I couldn’t help but vote for one of my rivals, who wrote a story that was sinister and deep – in 100 words.
We have had time for other things this month, surprisingly. A visit to Norwich to see Janey Godley, including a visit to what must be the best Mediterranean tapas restaurant in the east of England. If you’re in Norwich, try Haggle – the staff were the absolute best and the food was ‘gimme more’ delicious. Janey Godley was a treat. I can believe she returned the favour to the young thug who stood on her car bonnet and kicked in her windscreen, and I wish I had her balls.
Next up, just a few days later, we were in Bury St Edmunds to see Brian Bilston and Henry Normal. Never heard of Henry Normal before; I wouldn’t have bought a ticket to see him alone, but there he was with Brian Bilston, so… His publicity shot showed him looking very stagily ‘common man’ with a book on his head. Don’t be put off. His poetry started out as almost kid’s joky rhyming stuff, but the life story he told was very down to earth in a way that didn’t ask for pity or admiration; just, ‘This has been my life so far.’ The poetry got more intense as he neared the end of his act, and at one point he struggled to continue reading a poem, taking off his glasses at the end to wipe tears away. Yes, we loved seeing Brian Bilston again, but Henry Normal is now up there as someone worth seeing in his own right.
Himself is ripping up the floorboards in the bedroom for a perfectly good reason; re-routing the plumbing with a view to putting in a shower that is a tad better than our current one – not a hard act to follow, as it resembles a dripping gutter at times of low pressure. Four more plays and I can join him full time, being gofer to the Man who Does.
Roll on March.
Julia Chalkley 