I may be morphing into a monster.
In the last month I have done more and slept less than I could have believed possible. The patience of my long-suffering family is beginning to fray at the edges, as once again a dark-eyed wraith rises precipitously from the dinner table and rushes out, trailing shreds of costume, stray spoons and French novels, and boxes of clean wine glasses - the normal accoutrements of a director/theatre manager. attempting four different productions in three weeks.
But in spite of this superhuman effort, I have a mild sensation of failure because I have barely written a word in a month.
Nonetheless, the month hasn't been wasted in literary terms, because we revived Playing Faustus (see multiple previous posts - ad nauseam, no doubt) and once again it created a tremendously gratifying effect, the words brilliant, great and fantastic being bandied about. It also garnered some excellent intelligent criticism, which made me understand what it was about the play that I didn't find satisfactory, in spite of the aforementioned extravagant praise.
My friend Adrian identified the flaw at the heart of the play - that I am trying to do two slightly different things with it, and so send out a mixed message. I write about the loss of faith and love, about what it is to be in hell, and also about the inherent nature of sin - the murderer/rapist inside us all. While not strictly inconsistent, the dual thrust of these ideas confuses and overwhelms the auditor.
I am trying to decide whether to rewrite the play completely, change it a little, or simply put it in a box a walk away, having learnt immeasurably from the experience of writing it and playing it, and get on with the next project.
The decision is made harder by the play's myriad fans ( OK, two or three fans) who don't think I should change it at all.
Talking about this to my friend Peter, who is one of the fans, but not disinclined to a rewrite, I am leaning towards a version which concentrates on the portrait of Stephen (and Margaret's) workaday hell, and remove the portrait of workaday sin for some other time (after all, sharp-eyed readers will have spotted the reworking of some of the stuff about the quotidian nature of sin from my novel The Welcoming Committee) . The sexual assault becomes more emotional and personal, than physically violent, though the effect on their lives is much the same.
But the current project ( my vainglorious own version of Three Sisters) has a more urgent call on my time, so these ideas will have to bubble away in the mud at the bottom of my mind for a bit longer.
