48 hours

Act Two – done. Rewriting Act Two – not done. I have about 48 hours to get this play over the finish line. I remembered that I was doing the same thing with One Cloud last year – had to get it done by June 30. Nothing to do with the end of the financial year but that's when all the competitions start and whatnot. Funnily enough, that draft of One Cloud that I finished last year is the next thing on the list to be rewritten. Hopefully I won't be here next year about to rewrite Good World.

Update

Nothing happened with the grant. Nothing went wrong, and in fact it was one of the smoothest transitions from page to post office I've ever had. So that definitely means we have it … right?

Automatically assuming you all love me

I am going to finish this play today. I am, I am, I am. I think yesterday was one of the hardest writing days I've every had. The disparaging evil voices in my head were having some sort of wild and exotic party in my head to see who could come up with the cruellest insults they could. But I wrote through it. In fact I wrote a lot – about 20 handwritten pages. So take that evil voices. Kapow!

The reason for the frat party in my head was quite the feedback session on the play going up in November where a reader couldn't find one good thing to say about it. Not one. Not even that there were no typos. Or one line that was liked. Nothing. All of this is just ego stuff and one person's opinion is, well, just that. But here's another tip for the kiddies out there – never let anyone tell you that this job doesn't require you to have a massive ego that needs constant feeding. Actually, these moments are one of the few when men do it with more grace and dignity than most women can muster. Male writers are inbuilt with mechanisms that can toss off bad criticism and continue on with their lives scarcely skipping a beat. Is it a niceness thing? Women want to be liked and that insidious mechanism can stretch quite easily to their work. Men don't need to be liked. They automatically assume they are.

Today is my day for automatically assuming. Watch this space.

Grants

Finally got what we think will be the last grant application for the show going up in November DONE yesterday. It's all typed, we think we've answered all the questions, we've got all the bits and pieces so now I just have to print it out and pop it in the mail. Easy. Simple. Something will go wrong. Something always goes wrong with grants. The computer will explode. It will have lost the one document I need. The printer will run out of ink, it will too explode, it will suddenly have memory loss and not recognise its good friend the computer. The post office will be closed for an inexplicable public holiday, I'll fall over and break my ankle on my way there. Something will go wrong. Because that's what happens with grants. And there's no getting around it.

Oh, Snap

Well, yesterday, I finally snapped a tendon in the part of my brain that controls sanity and said ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. No more mid-life crisis, no more weirdness, no more being treated like crap. So I called it quits and said today is my last day. And thankfully someone took me seriously and that was that. Walked out at 5 and am not going back. He didn't even do anything so terrible yesterday. Except there was one phone call message asking if my phone was working and if I was 'hoarding' the phone messages. That was pretty much the moment when I heard the snap.

Oddly enough, I think that mid-life crisis guy might be the turning point. I feel as though I have a few weeks to make something happen. Maybe not actually happen but start the wheels in motion because these cash jobs are doing my head in.

Today though, while it would be nice to have a day off, I actually have to write a grant application so the director girl S is coming over and we're going to bang it out over lunch. I also am going to do some work on Act Two of Good World and check over a short play that I made some corrections to on the weekend. And then maybe I'll do some other stuff. Like go for a walk, do some thinking, get myself a plan.

The end my friends ... the end

This is the low point. This is the point where funny becomes sad and irony melts to show a core of pure tragedy.

Things have taken a turn for the worse with mid-life crisis guy who now has a new nickname that rhymes with duckhead.

This could be my last entry about he who has the nickname that rhymes with duckhead. I’ve sent an SOS to my temp agency to please god get me out of here. Yet to hear back but I’m not losing faith just yet. Faith is all I have left.

We’ve stopped talking to each other or looking in each other’s direction. There are no more inappropriate and slightly weird comments. In fact there is nothing at all but silence. Lots and lots of silence. Silent withering looks to the back of heads, evil, evil thoughts, a need to either get out of here or slit my wrists. We’re past the point of no return. I only have an 80 minutes until I get to go home. I have no idea whether I’m going to make it. I have no idea if either one of us is going to come out of it alive. I fear the worst.

sloths

Today, I make sloths look good. Look productive, look as if they don’t swing from trees all day and contemplate not much at all. Today, last night, at the moment, I make swinging from trees look hyper-productive.

I always do this.

I get to a certain point in the day job and I just can’t do much more than get through the day. Nights are for couch sitting and admiring those that find the energy to swing from trees. And we dare to call them sloths? I’m so lazy they haven’t even invented a name for me yet. I have the need, I just don’t have the motivation.

And yet, I did the strangest thing a couple of nights ago. I came home from work, got changed, poured myself a glass of wine and sat in front of my bookshelf, pulling out and reading snippets from my university theatre textbooks. I don’t know why I did this. I have no idea why I had to do it at that very moment, but that’s what I did. And I want to do more of it, but I can’t even swing from trees. And, you know, I still have that play to finish.

funny

I just typed the funniest sentence of dictation I have ever had to listen to - Some guy wrote that the building supervisor of his house “couldn’t supervise a crap out of his own arse”. No wonder mid-life crisis is suing the crap out of him.

about last night

Last night was a bit of a non-event writing wise. Exhausted after the day job which was particularly horrific, I headed for the wine bottle rather than a pen and paper. Mid life crisis lost a piece of paper that needed to be found oh you know, ten minutes ago please … what’s your name again? Makes me want to …

And now I’ve just heard that I have to get a really long grant application done and dusted by the end of the weekend. Life is cruel.

In happier news, I started a new play yesterday which I’m hoping is going to be somewhere around the twenty minute mark which I’ve just realised could possibly be good for a couple of opportunities coming up because technically it’s a two-hander but it’s not really … let’s keep that to ourselves shall we?

Witches

There was a first for me last night. I feel like a virgin the morning after two bottles of passion pop and a testosterone-riddled boy. I too have entered into new territory. Unlike the passion-popped virgin, I could probably pretend it never happened and continue on with my life but now that I’m writing it … well, anyone for some passion pop?

So what’s my big news?

Well, I sent my first children’s play out into the deep, wide, unforgiving world to see if sinks or floats. No, wait, that’s witches. I’m not expecting much from this – it is my first children’s play and who gets their first play produced? Okay, crazy talented people who suck co- no, wait, that’s actors.

So, it’s out there. And hopefully, if I get my act together, it will go to a lot of other places and I’ll write more and people will want to put them on and children from everywhere will love, love, love me and then I will be complete.

No I won’t, but it sure would be nice.

Lazy buggers

It is so hard to pretend you are working when you’re really not. In fact, I think it takes more energy to not work than to actually work. I think there is something in that for all of us on this Monday morning.

Weekend

I was going to sit here and write that the weekend was not as productive as I wanted it to be. However, positive thinking is the call of the day, the week, the month. So I did pretty well. I spent Friday night getting the rest of the backstory into place and Saturday was spent pretty much flaffing around doing housework and whatnot. And then yesterday I spent about six hours getting Act One into some sort of shape. I didn’t get completely through it but I’m almost there and it’s not bad for about six hours work. Look at me being so nice to myself. I feel as if our little girl is finally growing up.

Slave

I've finaly worked out that mid-life crisis guy thinks my job is not to assist him but rather to run his life. I've figured this out because its painfully obvious that he has no idea how to run his life on his own. I had to remind him to do his banking this morning. Because he was in court all day and didn't have lunch and apparently was unable to walk into one of the 65 cafes between the court and work and buy himself one. Oh no, I had to call up the poor catering lady who is about 103 and a little wobbly on the legs and she had to go to one of the aforementioned cafes and buy him a damn sandwich. I also made his booking for dinner tonight and cancelled his booking for dinner on Saturday night. I'm here to type people. Seriously, I'm here to type. And file. I swear to God I'm this close to putting his profile up on an internet dating site. The guy needs a wife. Badly. Or at the very least, he could buy a slave. Oh hang on, technically I guess that's what I am. I should ask for a pay rise or emancipation.

Cover your eyes

Another weekend approaches – what did happen to this week?? – and yet again I have so much work to get done it will be a miracle if I make it back here by Monday with my sanity intact. These are the times I long to be one of the normal people who look forward to weekends so that they can have a rest. Have some fun. Do other stuff that isn’t work. But no, not me, not ever me, not even when I don’t have the cash job is that me. I’m a worker. I’m a non-stop worker. I work because I feel guilty if I don’t. It’s wrong, but that’s what I do. So … this weekend. Tonight I’m going to finish the backstories and whatnot. Then I’m going to use my new found information to rewrite the first act. I need to rewrite the whole first act tomorrow … Yes. Let’s all take a moment to ponder that. Of course, this is not going to happen because I also have to clean my disgusting pigswill house tomorrow. Let’s say that the rest of the weekend is going to be rewriting the first act. And then perhaps Sunday afternoon/Sunday night I can make a plan of what is going to happen in the Second Act which I have to start writing/rewriting come Monday. I need a working draft of the Second Act, typed, by the end of next weekend. Then I have a week to redraft the whole thing. This is the plan. Feel free to cover your eyes, we are now approaching the scary part.

Notice

what a good blogger I have become in the last few weeks. We could blame it on boredom at the cash job but ... well, okay, it's boredom at the cash job.

Rethink to rewrite

Started to pave a way through Leila’s backstory last night in my ongoing attempt to rethink the way I rewrite. I didn’t think I was doing much but the things that came out of it slowly but surely started to cement things in place. God is in the details and so is good subtext. I should copyright that. It’s horrible to say, but I’ve been cutting corners for too long without doing the nitty gritty, sometimes boring, frequently pointless on the surface, extra work. Playwriting takes up so much time as it is who wants to take more time? I got things to do people.

Oh, how wrong can one not so little girl be?

Very, it seems.

But there’s another point to this as well. That this kind of exploration into the deep murky pasts of characters has to be a very disciplined kind of adventure or else it quickly unravels and floats off into a different play and you find yourself getting way offcourse. This I find is what I usually do. Note … usually. Not this time people. Very strict guidelines with clearly marked signposts have been erected for this little exercise. There are certain things I need to know in order to flesh out this play. These are the only things I need to know. I love it when I’m harsh with myself.

Feeding Old Ladies Crap

I saw perhaps the worst first act of a play last night. It probably would have been the worst play but I left at interval. An almost decent night’s sleep was too much of a call from the wild to switch off my brain and make it through the whole things. I have ceased wondering why there were so many free tickets on offer for opening night.

And bad theatre is bad theatre. This I understand. Bad theatre is part of the package deal when you sign up as a theatre goer. But this is a whole different kettle of fish. This is firmly planted on a different planet in a different galaxy that not even NASA has any interest in.

This was a play by the most successful playwright in the country and this was a no expense spared production from the state’s flagship theatre company. You put these things together and I want more magic than even a fairy knows what to do with. I don’t want what I saw last night. Froth and bubble and jokes about gang rape. Plays about women who are lonely and in love with people they shouldn’t be. Clumsy women. What is it with men and clumsy women? Cute, clumsy women who are unlucky in love. And who have overbearing mothers. I swear to god, I almost choked on the bucketfuls of clichés we were forced to swallow in this ridiculous and pointless exercise. Because what happens to the clumsy woman? Oh she falls in love. Oh, the guy is married. But wait! Another guy appears on the scene that is just as clumsy as she is. But wait! Married guy’s wife has miraculously packed up shop and fled the scene. OH NO! What will clumsy girl do?

I am so angry at this play that I could choke it. I could seriously choke the life out of it. It would take all of two seconds. This play made my skin crawl with its lack. I laughed at one line, one line! and this thing was supposed to be a romantic comedy. Oh, the line was about tapas but it was more that my companion and I had started to angrily whisper at each other about how wrong this was, and then this line came out and we both laughed. But that was it. That was seriously it. We however were alone. People were not just laughing, they were guffawing. Seriously guffawing. Old ladies done up to the nines practically wetting themselves at the hilarity of it all. For a while I thought perhaps it was an old lady thing because who else can afford $75 bucks a ticket for this kind of stuff. But there were two lesbians next to me and lesbian in front of me and her father – ALL GUFFAWING! They laugh, I seethe.

Where is our David Hare? Where is our Caryl Churchill? Our Tony Kushner? Our David Mamet? Our Suzan Lori-Parks? This moronic exercise I had to sit through last night is apparently the work of our best. Our best? If that’s our best, then we need to pick up our ball and end the game right now. But of course it’s not. This is the best that we can feed to old ladies with too much disposable income. Mash it up so it has no texture or taste anymore and just shovel it in.

I’m sick to death of being disappointed by this theatre. I’m sick of all this money being thrown at it and the result only amuses the old and rich. This is not a sustainable mission. This will not do what theatre is supposed to do … how was I supposed to be enlightened by what I saw last night? How was that a mirror up to the society that I live in? What was it supposed to make me think? I have no answers to these question and no idea how to get them which makes me stop being angry and just makes me feel sad.

cool kharma

Oh, and mid-life crisis guy remembered my name. If only I had a camera to capture the happy moment.

Baby steps

I’ve decided to be positive today. I’ve decided that mid-life crisis guy is not going to bother me today. And I’m not going to spend the day bored out of my skull.

I made a good start on the new rewriting process last night and found some interesting insights into the characters which I think is going to serve as the subtext fro the play. How fear is passed on from generation to generation. I pretty much got the backstory down for the father of the two sisters in the play and this will be explored through the first act. When everything changes at the end of act one so does the focus of the subtext. And then we learn about the mother. Interesting? One can only hope.

The next step is to work out the backstory for Leila and the incident that happened to her that places her at the point where the play begins. I know what happened, I just have to write it down. Work out the details.

Then it’s on to Frances and Stephen and what happened to them to get them to the same point. I’m hoping to have all this done in the next few days. I’m sorry? Did I just hear a whip being cracked?

Ah ha!

Okay. Just proved that mid-life crisis guy is not actually deaf. Yes, that’s right. He is ignoring me. Because I spoke to him without using his name – yeah, two can play at this game – and he had his back to me, and he turned around and answered me. But he’s really good at ignoring me. As I said previously, not even a twitch. We’re back to the call so and so for me and then put them on the phone but there is only an hour left of this day. Of course there is tomorrow but people, please, let’s not even go there.

Just Finished

my Pitcairn book and wow, what a read. Has given me so many ideas for the play. I also spent some time with an old atlas last night checking it out on the maps. It really is in the middle of nowhere. With nothing but water, water and oh a bit more water to keep it company. My favourite thing is that there version of cabin fever is rock fever. Isn’t that a good name for a play? Rock Fever Nah, maybe not.

Unravelling the Mess

If you could see me right now, you would see one very pleased with herself kind of person. First act of Good World – done! I want to add some more things to that but that’s really all I managed to get done. But that’s what I wanted to get done and so that’s what got done. I also made corrections to a new 10 minute play which I know was going to get renamed but then didn’t. It might still but then again maybe the first thing was the best thing. That is hardly ever true but you never know. It’s still too long, about a page, but it’s getting there. One more go around rewrite circle and I think we might just have it.

You know, I wish that I was a person that didn’t have to rewrite so much. I know, writing is rewriting, I GET THAT, but I seem to rewrite more than most. I think I could get my output higher if I can work on my rewriting skills. I’ve hard many different approaches on how to tackle rewrites, all of them good, all of them differing. It might be worth some time to think about how I rewrite and how I can make that better. Better in the way of being more efficient. Efficiency being the aim of all writers trying to get away from people like mid-life crisis man.

New thing to annoy me about mid-life crisis guy. He doesn’t make his own phone calls. ‘Hey you (because he STILL can’t remember my freaking name) can you get me so and so on the phone?’ I don’t mind finding phone numbers but getting people on the phone? No. No, I draw the line there. Idiot. I cannot WAIT until I am out of this job. Couple more weeks, maybe two, I think two would be enough and then I will have enough money in the bank to get away from this madness.

I digress.

Rewriting. What I usually do in order to pen to paper or finger to laptop is just see where things are going. I don’t usually have a plan for a first draft because it’s a first draft – it’s supposed to be crap. Crap/first drafts I do really well. I have hundreds of them. It’s what happens next that really starts to do my head in. I’m trying to remember what I actually do. I have a clean typed copy. That’s always number one. And a good and hardy pen. I start reading and then I stop, usually a couple of lines in and begin rewriting. As I’m typing this, I realise quite clearly just how wrong that is. A blind person setting out on an unchartered path. The complications seem ghastly. So then how to do it? The problem with first drafts is that they have so much wrong with them but of course it is the aesthetics that jump out of you singing and dancing and looking hideous as they go about it. That’s the thing that I dive in and try to fix – clunky lines, bad lines, filler lines, when all of that is the stuff that should be fixed last … right? Stay with me here people, we may be getting somewhere. It’s the other things that should be tackled first – the characters, the motivations, the tone and structure of the piece. THIS IS WHAT I HAVE TO LEARN. It’s good that we are talking about this now. Okay, well, I’m the one talking about it and you great cyber ethereal you, is out there listening along. But it’s still great because what has to happen now … rewrites. Act One of Good World. Now. I had three weeks from yesterday to get this whole play into shape. So what first – characters, narrative, plot. One at a time? Which one first? These things are going to keep me up night after night after night … Character right? Character comes first. What are the characters doing? What do they want? What do they need? Why are they here? These are the questions, this perhaps is how to do it all, one at a time.

So we start with character. Each scene, what are they doing? Why are they there? What do they want from this scene? We will call this Step One. That is the job for tonight.

Change of Heart

Well - and this is predictable – I take it all back about Post Mao Café. The food was fantastic and we had the greatest time. We then went to a pub around the corner and had a drinking session and had even a greater time. And I didn't even get so drunk that I wrote myself off completely. Which is always nice. In fact this morning, I feel fantastic. Ready to get to work – which will be the final scene of Act One of Good World. Which was … let me think … oh yes, the plan for this weekend. First, just to get the muscles moving, I'm going to type up the rewrites for a ten minute play and hopefully that will be another thing DONE! Cross it off the list – of course there is a list – and move onto the next thing. The list is very, very long. I almost wrote the list is very, very wrong. Which it most likely is.

Paradise has left the building

I'm also reading the most fascinating book that everyone should read. It's giving me all good ideas for the rewrite of One Cloud which is definitely going to start come July 1.

Legs and plays

Well, last night, I managed to get my act together and get SOME STUFF DONE! I now have four beautiful scenes for Good World which I know doesn't sound like much but actually comes to 37 pages. That sounds like a lot more doesn't it? Yes, well … I figure I only have one more scene and then I have ACT ONE! The excitement is palpable, there's a buzz in the air, there's an feeling of … things are going to get accomplished!

I also read about the best article on playwriting ever – read it NOW! and tell me I am wrong. See, told you I wasn't.

Today is pretty myself up and go out to lunch to a hideous place called Post Mao Café. Well, it was hideous the last time I was there so I'm not expecting anything this time around. Perhaps I'll come home singing loud songs of praise about the place but I'm not holding my breath. But this is what I do for the people that I love and my friend Fraser fits very squarely into that category. So I've dyed my hair and I'm about to pluck my eyebrows and shave my legs and scrub myself clean and go and have a good time. Because that's what we do with people we love.

 

Life sans pod

Oh, it feels good not being in a pod. Learnt an interesting detail about mid-life crisis guy yesterday. I think he's deaf. Or at least he's deaf to my dulcet tones. I'm barely three metres away from him but if I call out to him, nothing, not even a twitch. For a while I thought he was just ignoring me but not even a twitch? The guy is actually getting more interesting. No, no, say it isn't true.

Last night I got off to a good start on rewrites for Good World. Totally rewrote scene three and most of scene four, okay, some of scene four. Scene three now totally rocks. It's much better and no longer just a filler scene which it kind of felt like up until last night.

However, this morning has been a slow, rambling start. Basically I've bought some toilet paper. That's been about it. And found a recipe for chilli con carne which I'm going to make tonight. I also managed to waste about an hour and a half in Kmart buying three things. I now have about two hours to do about six hours worth of work. Can she do it? Can she really do it?

Long Weekend

A long weekend approaches and the prospect of actually getting some real writing done. I keep telling myself I only have like three weeks to get my full-length Good World rewritten so that I can enter it into a number of competitions and whatnot. Telling myself this doesn’t actually seem to get me to sit down and do it so I’m thinking I may have to start threatening myself with violence.

I also have to type up the corrections to a short play which at the moment is called Just Over There but I have a feeling by the end of the weekend will either be called Vengeance or Wrath. Makes it a little more hardass, which is essential for all good short plays.

For all this to happen, as well as housework and a lazy Sunday afternoon drink session, it means it will have to start the moment I get home tonight. Which is a shame. I love my Friday nights. I put some music on, I open a bottle of wine, and I dance, dance, dance. Seriously. It’s not as wacky as it sounds. Nothing like a good dance session to flick the stresses of the week out the window and forget for a moment that life is not as great as you want it to be.

Wimp

I know what you’re all going to say and perhaps, just perhaps, you are correct but that is, unfortunately, not going to change it. Even though I did buy the new printer cartridge along with some lovely stationery at cheap, cheap prices, this residency application is not going to happen. Not only is it going to cost me about $100 (and no, I’m not exaggerating) but I think it’s going to take more than a night to get this letter into some sort of shape. There is only one thing worse than not applying and that’s applying with crap.

Don't Plan Without Me

“Planning day” is yet to begin. It was supposed to begin 5 minutes ago but all the lawyers are still feverishly writing things down and engaging in serious, intense conversations with each other. It’s sad really. There’s probably a very expensive and very lovely feast waiting for them in some posh conference room in some posh hotel. But no, there’s no stampede, there’s not even a certain stirring as they gather up their “planning materials” and gravitate towards the door. See, that’s the difference between artists and lawyers. You say free meal and booze to match, tether yourself to something sturdy as the running of the bulls would have nothing on the thumping hordes of artists racing towards some biscuits and cheese. In fact, artists are wonderfully adept at time management. No meetings, and then dinner, and then drinks. Whack it all together people, pass the wine and what do you think our marketing strategy should be?

They’re still here. Someone called out 10 minutes about 5 minutes ago but it only seemed to make them all hunch their shoulders and work harder. I haven’t heard the dum di dum of computers being shut down or last minute instructions on what to do if an emergency crops up – if so and so rings, call me on my mobile immediately and get a judge on standby. I’ve heard those instructions about seven trillion times – know how many times I’ve had to get a judge on standby. That’s right. Zilch. Lawyers usually say this in loud and booming tones, making sure that their boss and their boss’s boss hear it in clear tones and hopefully will take the young tacker aside and call him Superman or Iron Man or Beast or Take No Prisoners Guy or Hit Em Where It Hurts Guy or Brutus (all lawyers think that Brutus is misunderstood. A guy has to do what a guy has to do and if someone hadn’t ratted on him, you know that Caesar would be nothing but a footnote in history because Brutus was the man dude. THE MAN!)

All is still silent on the western front. My mid-life crisis lawyer has two computers which I can’t help but think is greedy and begs the question – how much information on a screen(s) can your brain take in? These are the things I’m left to ponder.

Mid-life crisis guy still can’t remember my name. He just turned to me, opened his mouth and then turned away. My name is on my security pass which is hanging around my neck. He has a post-it with my name stuck to one of his computer screens. I send him emails ever 5 seconds with MY NAME on them. When he calls me I say my name. Seriously, I’m thinking of tattooing his knuckles.

Okay, it’s now 23 minutes since planning day was supposed to start. And it’s sucking all of my energy to look focussed and interested in my work when really I’m just blogging. Blogging and blogging. Mid-life crisis just asked me to show him how to save a document. Seriously. The guy charges out at $500 an hour. I get $26. Kiddies, never let anyone tell you the world is fair. Oh, and he didn’t call me by name.

25 minutes and counting. If my ears aren’t playing tricks on me, I can hear some movement down the other end of the department. I don’t know whether they are let’s get this show on the road stirrings or all of this has to be done before anyone can get to the food. I can feel my shoulders sagging and my love of life evaporating. I just heard the word ‘go’ but … oh wait! I see a lawyer with his bag standing in the corridor. Mid-life crisis is impervious to such subtle suggesting. They will have to go in and drag him out. Lawyer with bag is one of the young ones too. What he thinks, says or does is worth less than what I think, say or do. I can save a document. I’m worth more than he will ever. He might as well stay back here with us. We could teach him to save a document and increase his value. We could order in a Nandos party pack and make a celebration out of it.

Okay, lawyers are now leaving. Rushing out the door like they do for court or other important events. Don’t start the planning without me! Mid-life crisis ploughs on in his office. We are now at the 37 minute mark. At the 40 minute mark I’m creating a diversion and sneaking out.

40 minutes on the dot and he is gone. I feel strangely nostalgic for the times we had together.

Asbestos Jokes

http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2008/06/03/1212258817639.html

This story is tickling my funny bone at the moment, especially the part about him being a chain smoker. I don’t know why I find that so funny but I do. I really, really do.

Dilemma

Well, not really a dilemma. More of a is this worth the effort? Which is, I guess, a kind of dilemma. I have approximately 24hours in which to get an application for a residency in the US together. These are always complicated arrangements where they require small vials of your unborn child’s blood so that you can sign a complicated agreement that you will sing their praises for the rest of your natural born life and perhaps a compliment or two when you shuffle off this mortal coil. Also you have to write a letter. This is the first time I’ve come across this for a residency although an attempt to go to graduate school in the US was I’m sure thwarted by the fact I couldn’t write a good enough letter.

I can’t quite put my finger on it but there is something incredibly wrong about it. And suspicious.

1. Who writes letters anymore?
2. There’s something ‘begging for attention’ about the whole thing.
3. It’s trying to hide what it is – a blatant attempt to convince the dear reader of my letter thatI am more worthy than all those other letters on the pile.
4. It’s not even a real letter – it doesn’t begin with Dear bloke with big house and friend to artistic types and I’m not signing it off – love and kisses, your darling writer – S

If I ever have the cash to open an artist’s residency (oh, the dreams) I’m going to make hopefuls be way more blatant in their attempt to woo me. You have to grovel so let me see the grovelling. On your hands and knees boys and girls. Whoa – this posting is going off in directions neither you or I saw.

Anyway, I’ve made a kind of rough draft of what my project is going to be (which will form part of the letter) but then there’s the bit that always trips me up – how will you contribute to the community at [insert name of rich muckety-muck’s palatial artistic extravaganza]. I don’t know. I’ll probably sit in my room all day playing with words which will exhaust me to the point of a coma. I will then stumble into the kitchen whereby I will crash tackle anyone who reaches for the wine bottle. I will then proceed to drink copiously from aforementioned wine bottle whereby I will entertain and horrify all with lurid stories from my misspent youth. How does that sound dude? You up for a bit of that?

The mid-life crisis at the cash job is off on a “planning day” this afternoon with the other lawyers. No, I have no idea what it is either. I’m sure this guy would know. But he seems to have enough on his plate. While I’m supposed to be doing filing (how many pieces of paper can one not very busy man produce?) I could work on this letter thing. I will also have to go and get a new printer cartridge because I just know that at midnight when I’m trying to print out everything it will run out of ink. And then there’s a whole online thing that I have to do. Okay, now I’m just sounding like a whingey little princess, aren’t I? Just freaking do it. Me and Nike have a lot in common.

Halt

With the menace of the cash job comes the slowing to the halt of real work. I've managed to do oh just about nothing on anything. A couple of pages of rewrites on Good World and last night a rewrite of a 10 minute play … in a week. Pathetic. Oh, the self-loathing is alive, well and happily residing on my shoulder. Everything sucks. Yes, it does. No, I'm not being petulant. No, I'm not. Oh, fuck off, all of you.

INKY

Saw a great play on Friday night … INKY by Rinnie Groff, who after checking her out on Doollee is one of those horrible prolific writers who make me want to slap myself around a bit and scream LAZY BASTARD in the mirror a couple of thousand times. But, apart from that, this is a great little three hander that is quirky, dark, funny and was very well acted and directed. So, if you are in Melbourne check it out before it closes next weekend.

Whinge

Back at the cash job and hating every second of it. Why, oh why, do I always get the most fucked up, disorganised, idiots to work for? … Who treat you like slaves … Who couldn't care less if you spontaneously combusted right there in front of them and would have someone else sitting at your desk before they had cleaned up your entrails? I hate this cash job business. I have to do something, a lot of things, to get rid of it for good. I am not a nice person, a productive human being, or an asset to the world when there is a cash job in my life. There has to be a way to make a living from writing plays. Other people do this … right?