Timothy Daly - 21st Century Playwriting, A Manual of Contemporary Techniques-Smith & Kraus (2019)

21ST CENTURY PLAYWRITING
A MANUAL OF CONTEMPORARY TECHNIQUES
Timothy Daly
21ST CENTURY PLAYWRITING
A MANUAL OF CONTEMPORARY TECHNIQUES
Timothy Daly
A SMITH AND KRAUS BOOK 2019

A Smith and Kraus Book
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21st Century Playwriting

A Manual of Contemporary Techniques
Copyright © 2019 by Timothy Daly
All rights reserved.
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tected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of
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public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all
other forms of mechanical or electronic reproductions such as informa-
tion storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of
translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.
ISBN: 9781575259222
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Cover art by: Peter Sheehan
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For Charlie Little.
Advisor and friend.

$ർ඄ඇඈඐඅൾൽ඀ൾආൾඇඍඌ
I’ve learned my craft from hundreds of actors, writers and directors.

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during my early years. They include Ros Horin, Frank McNamara, John
Clark, Peter Cook, John Krummel, Kevin Jackson, James Waites, Isabelle
Starkier, Michel Lederer, Rodney Fisher, Charlie Little, Carol Woodrow,
Jim Searle, May-Brit Akerholt, Keith Gallasch, Louise O’Halloran, Wayne
+DUULVRQ0DUN.LOPXUU\&DWH%ODQFKHWW*HR൵UH\5XVK-DFNLH:HDYHU
Dick Reichman, Dawson Moore, David Chandler, Ron Blair and Terry
Clark. A huge Thanks to Gayle Mortimer and Mark Grolman for their
work on the manuscript (or whatever I’ve currently got), as well as to Peter
Sheehan for his superb assistance with many of the tables and illustrations.
Finally, to my priceless friend and manager, Victoria Wisdom, a
special thanks. And to the wonderful women in my life, Angela, Ursula,
Maryanne, Kathie, Cathy and Madeleine, who helped to teach me things
only the heart can learn.
&ඈඇඍൾඇඍඌ
Foreword 9
Introduction: A Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist 11
Gateway 1: Becoming a Modern Playwright

1. Writing for the 21st Century 15
Gateway 2: Getting Started

2. Quick Start: Shaping the action 29
3. Slow Start: Building your skills 35
4. Becoming a story teller 45
Gateway 3: The Basics of Theatre Space—and its Audience

5. Understanding the Audience (I): Hitting the F Buttons and other
basic techniques 51
6. Writing for Theatre Space (I): First Principles 69
7. Writing for Theatre Space (II): The Spatial Axis 75
Gateway 4: Understanding Stories and their Patterns

8. Classical Story Shape 87
9. Narrative Types; or, Knowing what story you’re writing 111
Gateway 5: Getting Familiar with Theatrical

Language and Dialouge
10. Dramatic Language (I): The basic concepts and the
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11. Dramatic Language (II): Syntax, punctuation, rhetoric
and other tools of dramatic language 133
12. Dramatic Language (III): Modernism and its techniques 167
13. Dramatic Language (IV): Using texture to create
theatre space 187
Gateway 6: Writing Characters for Actors

14. Acting and the Art of Writing Great Roles For Actors 199
15. Character (I): Character as Symbol 221
16. Character (II): Creating a powerful character journey 237
17. Character (III): More Character Techniques 249
18. Character (IV): The Relationship Journey 255
19. The Art of Titles 261
Gateway 7: All about Dramatic Structure
20. Dramatic Structure (I): Structure and the
unleashing of energy 267
21. Dramatic Structure (II): The techniques of scene
& phase writing 285
22. Dramatic Structure (III):The 2-Act Play More
theories of narrative and dramatic form 299
23. Dramatic Structure (IV): Universalisms, dramatic tone,
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24. Dramatic Structure (V): New formal possibilities
for the 21st century 339
25. Dramatic Structure (VI): A Theory of Everything 347
Gateway 8: Becoming a Modern Playwright 2

26. Understanding the Audience (II):The two largest
audiences for theatre 353
27. Understanding the Audience (III): Liberal Anxieties, or
How to win a Pulitzer Prize and other mysteries
of modern theatre culture 373
Gateway 9: Contemporary Theatre Writing as an Art,

Craft & Business
28. Working Methods: How to start work on your play 385
29. The Marketplace (I): Getting your play produced,
networking and writing for the world theatre market 393
30. The Marketplace (II): What to do when your play is
scheduled for production 423
31. Life in the rehearsal room: Working with actors, directors,
dramaturgs 429
32. Twenty-one years... twenty-one lessons 441
33. Becoming a successful artist 449
Index 455
)ඈඋൾඐඈඋൽ
In my role coordinating the Valdez Last Frontier Theatre Conference,
I’ve been privileged to work around a lot of great dramaturgical thinkers,
from staggering intellects like Edward Albee, Paula Vogel, and William
Missouri Downs, to spiritual theatre leaders like August Wilson, Michael
Warren Powell, and Erma Duricko. None of them are more impressive
than Timothy Daly.
Timothy’s book has ideas in it that you’ve never thought of before,
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studying playwriting for decades. They range from common sense adages
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The key to pretty much any dramaturgical challenge you face, I promise,
it’s in here.
I’ve known Timothy for the past decade; he works for the Confer-
ence as a Featured Artist and a respondent in our developmental Play Lab
reading series. His classes are fast-paced, witty, and dynamic. Participant
HYDOXDWLRQVDUHDOZD\V¿OOHGZLWKSOD\ZULJKWVVLQJLQJKLVSUDLVHV2QWRS
of Timothy’s massive vocabulary of words, higher concepts and deep
insights is a real joy in the search for great theatre. He is cheering for all
playwrights to achieve their greatest scripts. His responses ring true with
the audience.
Before the hyperbolic writing makes me seem insincere, I don’t agree
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with preference and opinion, and I have my own long-established and
thoroughly-reasoned opinions which sometimes take me the opposite di-
rection. The places where we disagree are almost more useful than where
ZHFRQFXU:KHQ,¿QGVRPHRQHDVEULOOLDQWDV7LPRWK\ZKRWKLQNVGLI-
ferently than I do, it makes me look more deeply at my beliefs. It’s a gift.
This book is very approachable. It’s broken down into hundreds of
small, delicious bites of knowledge. You can start from the beginning and
work your way through it. Or you can look for the chapter that you think
ZLOOKHOS\RXZLWKZKDWHYHUFKDOOHQJH\RX¶UHIDFLQJULJKWQRZ,W¶VD¿QH
read, and has the knowledge that you were looking for when you picked
LWXSLQWKH¿UVWSODFH
This book’s existence is a boon to our craft. I hope you enjoy it as
much as I did.
Dawson Moore
Coordinator, Valdez Last Frontier Theatre Conference
11
,ඇඍඋඈൽඎർඍංඈඇ
A PORTRAIT OF THE YOUNG MAN AS AN ARTIST
or How I got to the writing of this book.
This book has been over a decade in the making. It didn’t start out
that way. In fact, it didn’t even start out as a book. It was an attempt to
VDYHP\FUHDWLYHHPRWLRQDODQG¿QDQFLDOOLIH
To explain that, I’ll have to go back a bit.
I was not born into a theatrical family. Very few people are. My
family was not particularly interested in theatre or the creative arts. My
own theatre career began when, in my mid-twenties, I decided that I was
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Ephesus. I just woke up one morning and decided that I wanted to express
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professionally in music.)
After having beginner’s luck in writing a one-act play that was pro-
duced by Sydney Theatre Company, one of Australia’s most prestigious
theatres, I then entered the World of Writer’s Reality, where every new
play makes you a beginner again. This is doubly true when you really
are a beginner in writing. I struggled for several years, desperately trying
to maintain a relationship, income and to master the nebulous art of the
full-length play.
In the early 1990s, after years of trying to please theatre audiences
and the gate-keepers of modern theatre—the Artistic Directors—I decided
WRKDYHRQHODVWÀLQJDWWKHDWUHZULWLQJ%\ZULWLQJDSOD\WKDWZDVIXOORI
the things that had made me want to plunge my life into theatre—a play
full of chaos, pain, magic, hope, enchantment and virtuosity. Instead of
pleasing others, I decided to ‘delight myself’, as a friend advised me. I
wrote a play based on the bizarre attempt by my literary hero, Franz Kafka,
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devices, schtick, big speeches and fun. It was my ideal theatre. I was also
convinced that it would never be performed, being so unlike Australian
theatre of the time. After asking several people, “Would you go and see a
play called Franz Kafka Learns to Tap-Dance?”, and watching their eyes
glaze over, I settled on the simpler title: Kafka Dances.
Almost immediately, a miracle occurred: a theatre director called Ros
Horin, who ran a small theatre company in Sydney, Australia, had read
the script (I’d sent just one copy out), and despite the chaos of the play
(or perhaps because of it) Ros thought there was a play buried somewhere
inside it.
12 7ංආඈඍඁඒ'ൺඅඒ
We met, and she tentatively agreed to work toward production of the

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GRVRDQGVR5RVSURPLVHGWR¿QGVRPHDFWRUV,WZDVQ¶WHDV\7KHSOD\
was messy, and many actors did not like its profusion of energy and word-
play. After reading the script, the country’s top dramaturg at the time told
Ros “You’ll never make a play out of this thing.”
But as the play gradually got clearer, both in structure and thematic
coherence, Ros began hiring the actors. She told me about an interesting
new graduate from the Sydney-based NIDA (the National Institute of
Dramatic Art.) She was young, enthusiastic and ‘had something’. I met
her and agreed to the director casting her. (In Australia, writers often have
a veto over casting. In this case, I didn’t use my veto.)
Her relieved acting teacher told me that she’d not had an acting job
in seven months. The actress’s name was Cate Blanchett.
Cate went on to star in two seasons of the play in Sydney, before the
play started being picked up by other Australian theatres and cities, and
then going international. Since then it’s become the most internationally-
performed Australian play of all time, with thousands of performances all
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that we all know about. As for me, it gave me a career that has lasted
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was unproduceable.
My life-long obsession with dramatic structure and playwriting tech-
nique grew from the painful path to dramatic coherence that re-writing
Kafka Dances involved. My discovery of many of the writing principles
and techniques that appear in this book all came from the study of hun-
GUHGVRISOD\VZKLFK,VWDUWHGWRUHDGRQO\LQRUGHUWRKHOSPH¿QLVK
Kafka Dances.
But since the days of that play, having established an international
career with numerous international productions of this and other works,
I decided that it was time to give something back to the international
theatre community that has given me so much joy and career satisfaction.
There are very few books on the actual writing techniques that make
for great theatre plays, and of those that do exist, many are either out-of-
GDWHQRWWHFKQLFDOO\VSHFL¿FHQRXJKRUHOVHWKH\KDYHEHHQZULWWHQE\
non-writers. Theatre writing is one of the most practical of arts, combining
as it does the crafts of actor, director, lighting designer, sound designer/
composer, movement instructor, choreographer, set designer, costumier,
make-up, ticket-seller, publicist... The list is long. Almost endless.
More to the point, having seen quite a lot of American theatre in the
last decade, it’s my belief that American theatre is in a crisis of sorts. The
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21st Century Playwriting 13
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the technique becomes more brilliant, the audiences will follow.
Although currently living (some of the time) in Australia, my life-
long interest has been in the techniques that create extraordinary modern
theatre, regardless of country of origin. It’s why this book has been writ-
ten: to improve the understanding of writing principles and theatrical
techniques available to us when we write plays. It’s dedicated, above all,
to my friends and fellow-artists in the American and European theatre
community, who’ve shown me such kindness and generosity. My personal
motto is: Artists help each other. The rest are just business folk. If this
book helps any artist in America, Australia or elsewhere, I’ll be delighted.
15
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
WRITING FOR THE 21st CENTURY
On March 22, 2009, an extraordinary event occurred. A play opened

on Broadway to great acclaim and huge popular success. Nothing ex-
ceptional in that, given Broadway’s long history. However, this play was
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of Carnage E\WKH)UHQFKSOD\ZULJKW<DVPLQD5H]DDQGLWVVLJQL¿FDQFH
is much greater than the actual success of the play.
%XW¿UVWDZRUGDERXWLWVVXFFHVV,QWKHZHHNRI$SULOVariety
UHSRUWHGWKHWRSWHQ%URDGZD\ER[R൶FHUHWXUQV1LQHRIWKHWRSWHQZHUH
musicals. There was one play, God of Carnage. To have a play appear in
the top ten Broadway earners is, to be kind, a rare event. But it happened.
+RZHYHUWKHUHDOVLJQL¿FDQFHRIWKHSOD\¶VVXFFHVVLVWKDWLWLVWKH
¿UVWVXFFHVVIXODSSHDUDQFHRIDJHQXLQHWKHDWULFDO0RGHUQLVPLQ$PHULFDQ
mainstream theatre. It will not be the last non-English or foreign play to
win American plaudits. As recently as May 2016 saw the arrival of another
French play, The Father, by Florian Zeller—and in June 2016, it was nomi-
nated for a coveted Tony award. The deeper reasons for this are not even
understood by many teachers of writing, let alone understood to the point
RIR൵HULQJDQ\VROXWLRQVWRWKH\RXQJSOD\ZULJKWVVLWWLQJLQWKHLUFODVV%XW
the brutal truth is that, in cultural/historical terms, much American theatre
and play writing instruction are old-fashioned, and often deliberately so. In
many cases, it is humanist theatre, pure and simple. It is about the (beautiful)
ideal of real people and their stories, a typical humanist focus. (The rest of
this chapter explains what ‘humanist’ means.)
But the theatre world is changing very quickly. In cultural terms
the public taste is getting more grotesque, more Jacobean, more violent,
emotionally detached and cynical. The more delicate combination of
sensibilities that created the tortured moral anguish of an Arthur Miller is
rarely seen nowadays, except in regional theatres and revivals. The poetic
sensibility of Tennessee Williams (albeit only the surface of his complex
soul) is another aesthetic ideal that many modern American writers still
look to, while the world and its theatre audience have largely moved on.
But this is not new: Shakespeare faced several changing public tastes in
his lifetime. After his death, the public taste became Jacobean; perhaps
an early foretaste of Modernism with its bloodlust, violence, cynicism,
jaded morality and pulsing despair. The Jacobean moral and aesthetic
world seems very close to our own.
It might be argued that a few successful French plays do not make a
Modernist New Wave. But there will be more. For it’s not only the wily
French that American playwrights have to fear. The British theatre indus-
try, while largely closed to outsiders (including American playwrights),
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addition, the government-subsidized nature of British theatre (funded
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uneven than American writers realise. The international success of War
Horse in 2011 is a case in point: it grew out of a funded system of script and
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theatres weep with envy. Just as U.S. airlines are facing unprecedented
competition from oil-rich government-backed airlines, the international
competition for the American theatre market has never been stronger.
Once, it would have been enough for a young American playwright to
move to New York, where an exciting and viable career would await. But
the post-World War II New York theatre no longer exists. An actor playing
a character in a new play opening in New York would have needed a local
New York accent. That was because the plays that once opened in New
York were all about New York, its life and its people, whether that play was
a serious drama by Arthur Miller, or a light, skilful comedy by Neil Simon.
But that type of inward-looking New York theatre no longer exists. At its
highest levels, the New York theatre has become a sales clearing-house,
a type of ‘national marketplace for theatrical sales’, where plays from all
over the world are played to increasingly international audiences. Increas-
ingly, it doesn’t matter that the play or the playwright be American. A type
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other national styles—French, German, British among them.
It’s at this point that the third issue confronting the on-going health
of American theatre has to be raised. It concerns the comparatively old-
fashioned theatre principles that govern the teaching of theatre craft in
the USA. I’ve seen enough American theatre, play workshops and theatre
conferences to realise that while the craft of the new ‘international’ con-
temporary playwriting has advanced, its teaching to a new generation of
American playwrights has not. No disrespect is intended here. It’s hard
to surpass the genuine love of theatre that the average American writing
professor, dramaturg or director has. But it is also true that there are not
enough practising and internationally successful playwrights working in
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teaching of contemporary American theatre craft into the 21st century.
There are honorable exceptions, of course, like Yale University, but fac-
ulties packed with internationally successful playwrights are much more
rare than they should be.
For all these reasons, the American playwright must come to terms
with the fact that he or she is less protected from international competi-
tion than ever before. Only the “regional factor” (where, for example, an
Atlanta theatre company tries to give priority to local Atlanta playwrights)
softens this harsh reality. Regional protection, however, is increasingly
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star-driven and internationally-focussed theatre world. To paraphrase the
sign on the door of the Writers’ Hut at Warner Brothers’ studio, it’s not
enough to be American; you have to work around here.
Do you want to succeed nationally and internationally? Personally,
I’ve yet to meet an American playwright who does not want national and
international success. But many have no idea how to make this happen.
Writers always want to speak to as many readers or audience as possible.
By nature, we have a burning desire to communicate.
That’s what this book is all about: giving you the skills to compete
both nationally and internationally. The German poet Christian Morgen-
stern said, “Home is where you are understood”. Wherever your plays
are produced and loved, that is Home. And who said you couldn’t have
more than one home? I’ve had much success in France; just as much, in
fact, as in my birthplace, Australia. Do I care? Where would you rather
be produced? Paris or Pittsburgh? Why not in both places?
See this book as a primer for ‘how to write in such a way that national
and international success may follow’. Personally, I’d rather fail grandly
than succeed modestly. If you are excited by having a larger audience than
you currently have, then read on.
With all that said, it’s time to jump into the deep end of the pool, and
start to get a handle on the aesthetic background that operates in contem-
porary theatre. Much of what follows in this chapter will feel like a rapid
Cultural Studies program. This can’t be helped. If you already know all
that follows in the rest of the chapter, you can skip it. If you don’t, you
should just take the rest of this chapter in bite-sized portions, for it will
probably take some time to absorb; and the rest of the book beckons. But
gradually a strong sense of what I’m getting at will emerge. This book
doesn’t have to be read in any particular order. Let your creative instincts
guide you as to what’s important to learn next.
(POST)MODERNISM Vs HUMANISM
All over the world, and for many years, a Cold War has been raging
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the following ways: a hatred of what is (wrongly) called ‘linear plot’; a
disdain for text-based theatre; a ghettoising of performance theatre, and
even a perverse pride in its marginality; an audience horror at a contro-

versial modernist production of a classic; or theatre directors overheard
muttering that there is hardly a single modern playwright who “has a clue”
about writing for theatre.
7KHH൵HFWRIVXFKDZDUKDVEHHQXQIRUWXQDWHIRUPXFKPRGHUQWKHDWUH
Modernist directors don’t even talk to most playwrights, let alone work with
them, only working with local writers when they have no other choice. Play-
wrights are hardly better, especially the most commercially successful ones.
They have refused (or have been unable) to grow artistically, or have become
YHU\LQVXODUDQGGHIHQVLYHRUWXUQHGWREHWWHUSD\LQJ¿OPDQG79ZRUN$QG
the theatre-going public? Sadly, and for lots of historical and cultural reasons,
those that remain couldn’t care less: they simply want “a good show”.
The result: everyone has lost. Theatre artists lose one of the main rea-
sons that most of them enter the profession: the chance to grow artistically.
Directors turn careerist or stubborn ideologues. And audiences, year after
year see the same type of “shows” and walk away half-wondering why they
don’t enjoy theatre as much as they used to. (The ‘churn factor’—people
who visit theatre for a while and don’t return—is worth a study in itself.)
A major aim of this book is to synthesise the two major theatrical
aesthetics of our time: humanism and (post)modernism. To do this, I will
need to explain and describe these aesthetics.
+XPDQLVP FDQ EH GH¿QHG DV an aesthetic which emphasises the
human and psychological dimension of experience. Stories are written
and performed to illustrate human psychology; their plot is structured to
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what Brecht contemptuously called ‘psychological strip-tease’. As I will
explain in detail in Chapter 15, humanism relies on a vicarious relation-
ship to its audience. They must feel that in some sense, the characters and
the story are dealing with their own lives, so that an audience thinks to
itself, “That character is me’; or ‘This story is about me, even though it’s
set in New Orleans in the 50s, because I can imaginatively place myself
into the middle of the story’.
0RGHUQLVPRQWKHRWKHUKDQGLVQRWRULRXVO\KDUGWRGH¿QH+HUHLV
DURXJKGH¿QLWLRQ0RGHUQLVPLVan aesthetic which seeks to place the
human in proportion to forces much larger than the individual and his/
her personal psychology. (For the purposes of this chapter, I am blending
modernism and post-modernism. Quite apart from the near-impossibility
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especially humanist ones, are the same. The “Postmodern Vs Modern-
ism” debate is also a very long and meandering argument with little
bearing on the direct focus of this book, which is the discovery and use
of a comprehensive range of practical techniques useful in the creation of
contemporary theatre, regardless of their place of origin.)
Modernism and humanism have been warring for over a century.
The insights of Freud gave great energy to the psychological impulse of
humanism, while the ‘discovery’ by Nietzsche that ‘God is dead’ ques-
tioned the point of creating such a hierarchical narrative structure based
on portraying humanity in a benign universe defended by a protecting
God. It is no accident that about the same time, the centuries-old tonal
system of musical composition began giving way to atonality. If there is
no God, then what does C major now ‘mean’? The perversely reactionary
and conservative state of some popular music is another matter again!
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discussion of the fruits of these opposing aesthetics.
THE AESTHETICS IN ACTION: An example of each aesthetic
The one-time New York Times theatre critic Rex Reed said that “The
basis of criticism is comparison.” So, consider the following scene, from
the early moments of a play published in 1998:
C: He needs to have a secret but he can’t help telling. He

thinks we don’t know. Believe me, we know.
M: A voice in the desert.
C: He who comes after.
M: There is something in the way.
A: Still here.
C: Three summers ago I was bereaved. No one died but I
lost my mother.
A: She had him back.
C: I believe in anniversaries. That a mood can be repeated
even if the event that caused it is trivial or forgotten In
this case it’s neither.
M: I will grow older and I will, it will something.
B: I smoke till I’m sick.
1RZORRNDWWKHIROORZLQJVFHQHIURPDGL൵HUHQWSOD\,QWKHH[FHUSW
below, Diana has invited some friends round to meet an old friend from
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Diana admires Evelyn’s infant baby:
DIANA: Have you got him to sleep?

EVELYN: Yes.
DIANA: (looking into the pram) Aaah! They look so lovely
like that. Like little cherubims.

EVELYN: (unenthusiastic) Mmm.
DIANA: Just like cherubims. (Anxious) Should he be covered up
as much as that, dear?
EVELYN: Yes.
DIANA: Won’t he get too hot?
EVELYN: He likes it hot.
More small talk ensues, before Diana gets to what is really troubling her:
DIANA: No, there are times when I think that’s the principal
trouble between Paul and me. I mean, I know now I’m
running myself down but Paul, basically, he’s got much
more go…
And soon the real point of this chit-chat emerges:
DIANA: I wouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t blame her. Not as long

as I was told. Providing I know, that I’m told—all right.
Providing I feel able to say to people—“Yes, I am well
DZDUHWKDWP\KXVEDQGLVKDYLQJDQDৼDLUZLWKVXFK
and such or whoever… it’s quite all right.
And on she rambles, until the doorbell rings, and more friends arrive.
At the risk of over-simplifying the debate, I’ll suggest that much of

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ZULWLQJVW\OHVWKDWWKHVHWZRSOD\VUHSUHVHQW7KH¿UVWH[DPSOHLVIURP
Crave by Sarah Kane. The second, also by a British writer, is Absent
Friends by Alan Ayckbourn, for a long time the most performed play-
wright in the English-speaking world. In Kane’s work all the power (and
fragility) of modernist dramatic writing is in evidence: the disembodi-
ment, the refusal to be a ‘social character’ (that is, someone we think we
could easily meet in the street), the insistence on treating psychology
as both an intensely personal—and supra-personal—phenomenon. But
in Ayckbourn’s work—the work of a humanist writer if ever there was
RQH²VRFLDOUHDOLW\LVSDUDPRXQW<RXFRXOG¿[DQH[DFW]LSFRGHWRHDFK
of the characters. They inhabit social worlds that resemble the lives of
WKHLUDXGLHQFH(DFKFKDUDFWHU¶VSHUVRQDOSV\FKRORJ\LV¿[HG$ERYHDOO
there is an understanding between playwright and audience that each of
these characters is knowable, and if you watch closely, the ultimate truth
of the play and its characters, however contradictory that truth may be,
will become clear to you. With Kane’s modernist writing, such assurances
DUHLPSRVVLEOH,W¶VQRWHYHQFOHDUDW¿UVWLIWKHVHYRLFHVDUHGL൵HUHQW
characters or from the same character.
With these examples in mind, it’s time to evaluate the two aesthetics.
MODERNISM AND HUMANISM: A COMPARISON
Both humanism and modernism are philosophies, even theologies,

relying on a cosmological conception of ‘how life and the universe really
RSHUDWH¶%XWWKH\KDYHYHU\GL൵HUHQWSUDFWLFDORXWFRPHV7RLOOXVWUDWHDOO
WKLV,¶OOR൵HUDFRPSDUDWLYHYLHZRIKRZGL൵HUHQWWKH\DUH,WLVQHFHV-
sarily general.
PHILOSOPHY
,QLWVµDHVWKHWLFSKLORVRSK\¶PRGHUQLVPLVQRWVSHFL¿FDOO\UHOLJLRXV
rather, it is post-religious. It shares the same opportunity for largeness
of conception that the sceptical western mind feels now that it has been
‘freed’ from religious constrictions. But this freedom—like most things
in modernism—is not especially new. King Lear has some of the same
‘Man Vs Universe’ outlook and tone. For Shakespeare, the setting of this
play in a pre-Christian era provided much of the freedom of outlook that
post-Christian writers now feel.
The aesthetic philosophy of humanism, on the other hand, tends to
EHPRUHLQGLYLGXDORULHQWHG,WGRHVQRWDVSLUHWRDVSHFL¿FDOO\UHOLJLRXV
conception (far less an overtly Christian one) but the notion of God (even
if symbolised by authority, order or ‘the moral hierarchy’) is embedded in
its cosmology. But this is not an easy cosmology (any more than modern-
ism is). One of the chief preoccupations of humanist writing is the tortured
place of the individual in the scheme of things: the individual pitted against
his/her society (like Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People); or the relationship
that obsessively examines itself (like David Williamson’s The Perfectionist
or many Ayckbourn plays) in the middle of a changing society. Sometimes,
however, the individual relationship is content simply to look at itself.
(A ‘love story’ is usually just that: a decontextualised self-examination,
with society as little more than a backdrop to the main romantic event.)
INFLUENCES
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Ibsen, modernist theories and practise in music, architecture, dance, art,
sculpture and ballet; Dada, expressionism, symbolism, Artaud; Brecht;
Jungian psychology, the analysis of linguistics (semiotics, Derrida etc), the

linguistic innovations (for example, ‘stream-of-consciousness’ technique)
of James Joyce; various theatre experiments of the 60s (installations, hap-
SHQLQJVDJLWSURSWKHDWUHDQGWKHVPDOOEXWLQÀXHQWLDO$PHULFDQVFKRRO
of modernist theatre writers like Maria Irene Fornès and Mac Wellman.
7KHLQÀXHQFHVRQFXUUHQWKXPDQLVWZULWLQJLQFOXGH6WULQGEHUJLQKLV
realist plays), the ‘social realist’ side of Ibsen, Chekhov, Arthur Miller,
the American realist school of theatre writing (most current American
playwrights), Freud’s psychoanalytical writings, and the conventions and
FKDUDFWHUSV\FKRORJ\RIPRGHUQ79DQG¿OP
FORMS
0RGHUQLVPLVDVPXFKLQÀXHQFHGE\GDQFHDVE\WKHWUDGLWLRQDOWKHDWUH
it often rejects, and so it is no surprise that many modernist pieces end up
as ‘performance theatre’ (a silly term, considering all theatre is meant to
be performed). A host of performance types emerge: installations, hybrid
artforms, especially using new technology, dance-cum-theatre work. A
variety of ‘relationships to text’ results: no text, use of text in quite for-
malist ways, a ‘sharing of theatre space’ between image and spoken word
(instead of the latter’s dominance, as with humanist writing.)
The text-based humanist theatre still has, as its basic aesthetic out-
come, a ‘play’; that is, a work that is ‘driven by text’, usually involving
WKHQDUUDWLYHFUHDWLRQRID¿FWLRQDOZRUOGZKHUHWKHDXGLHQFHFDQµORVH
LWVHOI¶LQDYLFDULRXVUHODWLRQVKLSWRWKDW¿FWLRQDOZRUOG,¶OOKDYHDORW
more to say on the notion of vicarious writing in Chapter 13.) Characters
are created who have a strong relationship to the social world we live in.
They have a personal psychology that is, ideally, rich and complex—
KHQFHWKHREVHVVLRQERWKLQKXPDQLVWWKHDWUHDQGPDLQVWUHDP¿OPZLWK
character motivation and ‘plausibility’ of character actions. Causality is a
crucial aspect of this writing (that is, ‘because of A event, she now does B
action’), whereas events in modernist theatre are rarely so neatly causal.
STRUCTURES
Modernist theatre has little time for what it calls ‘linear writing’
(though I will argue in Chapter 18 that there is no such thing). It prefers
the cyclic, the episodic or alternating forms that, in spirit, are very close
to the rigorous and profound formal enquiries of such great musicians and
theatre writers as Beethoven and Wagner. There is often a concentration
on the small, the tiny, the slowed-down, the enormously-expanded. This
IUHHGRPFRPHVIURPDGL൵HUHQWUHODWLRQVKLSWRtime. Because time is not
channelled through the powerful medium of ‘story’, it is freed up to be
used in a variety of ways—slowed down, sped up, re-iterated or reviewed
(almost like a theme-and-variations). This is not to imply that there is no
interest in narrative ordering. Most of the modernist theatre that I have
seen has a very strong interest in beginning, middle and end, but—as
Godard said—not necessarily in that order.
The structures of humanist writing are closely bound to the unravel-
ling of character through story—which is their strength and their weak-
ness. (See below). The segmenting of story into centuries-old phases (for
example, status quo, disturbance, major action etc) is extensively covered
in this book, but like all craft principles, they must be at the service of the
work itself, and should be used to the extent that they serve the unique
vision that your work is trying to impart.
LANGUAGE
Modernist theatre does not tend to interest itself in writing dialogue

‘the way people really speak’. But nor, as I’ll explain later in the book,
should humanist writing. The function of all theatre language is to be sym-
EROLF0RGHUQLVWWKHDWUHODQJXDJHXVXDOO\R൵HUVDYHU\H[FLWLQJYDULHW\RI
language types and levels; the closer it gets to ‘everyday speech’, the more
unconsciously parodic it tends to become (because of its own aesthetic
ambivalence about ‘creating character’.) Humanist theatre language, on
WKHRWKHUKDQGVWDUWVR൵E\FUHDWLQJD¿FWLRQDOFKDUDFWHUWKDWLVEHOLHYDEOH
in terms of the story, social setting etc, and thus gives that character ‘the
language that s/he would speak’ in that narrative/social setting. That is
very helpful to an audience, but if it stops there, it fails. (See Chapters 10
to 13 on theatre language.)
FORMATIVE MATERIAL
In modernist writing, the notion of character is very ambivalent. At

PRVWD¿FWLRQDOLVHGFKDUDFWHULVIUDJPHQWDU\RUWHPSRUDU\7KLVDFFRUGV
with the psychological conception at the heart of modernist theatre: that
character and personality are either unknowable or irrelevant to the larger
concerns of the work at hand). What is most useful and creatively excit-
ing is the notion of “the actor’s body”, which is to be used in a variety
of ways to embody the ideas of the theatre work being performed. Thus,
a whole range of exciting possibilities emerge: the actor-as-dancer, the
actor-as-character, the actor-as-teller (of stories, anecdotes etc), or the
actor-as-speaker (of varieties and levels of text).
Humanist theatre, on the other hand, is still dominated by the idea
that a character is a) knowable, even partially; b) governed by certain

dramatically showable personality/character traits; and c) that character
changes according to the demands of the story, and by the end of the story,
is either changed for good , or returns to its damaged and incomplete state.
Which is the more correct? As I’ll explain below, our whole job is
to place these apparently opposite states into an exciting and not-quite-
resolvable tension. It has been done: Shakespeare did it, more than thirty
times. Many other writers have succeeded to some degree.
RELATIONSHIP TO AUDIENCE
*HQHUDOLVDWLRQEHFRPHVGL൶FXOWKHUHEXWLQVRPHYHU\URXJKPHD-
sure, modernist writing seeks to provoke, to challenge or to engage its
DXGLHQFH RQ D GL൵HUHQW OHYHO WKDQ MXVW µHQWHUWDLQLQJ VWRU\WHOOLQJ¶7KH
great modernist texts—Strindberg’s Dream Play, Brecht’s best work and
much of Beckett—are questioning their own nature at the same time as
they are unfolding their structure and meanings to an audience.
Thus there is an ‘interrogative’ (self)-questioning thrust to the best
modernist writing; it seeks to analyze, to take old, tired motifs or stories,
and re-synthesise or re-invent them.
+XPDQLVWWKHDWUHE\DQGODUJHVHHNVWRHVWDEOLVK¿FWLRQDOZRUOGV
which the audience can ‘identify with’ (that is, place itself emotionally,
socially or imaginatively inside the world of the story) and then ‘go on
a journey’. There is nothing wrong with this—apart from it being an
incomplete exploration of ‘what can be done with/to a theatre audience’.
The problem is that even the best humanist theatre—Strindberg, Chekhov,
Ibsen, Miller etc—whilst astonishingly formally innovative for those
times, has come down to us now as a tract in how to live, love and build
the great society. The role of theatre in being an ‘aesthetic form interested
in its own form’ has been overlooked.
THE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES OF EACH
No theatre aesthetic is ‘perfect’, or even complete. At its most satis-

factory, it answers the needs of the times. That’s all. It is my contention
that neither aesthetic—the humanist or modernist—fully answers the
complex needs of our times. At its best, modernism uses the human body
in a wonderfully inventive, rich way. It is genuinely concerned with artistic
innovation and aesthetic development. It often feels more in touch with
the spirit of the times than the hard-working “message”, “social issue” or
“problem” plays that humanist writing often produces.
But, as I said, the modernist theatre aesthetic is incomplete and im-
SHUIHFW,QGLVSHQVLQJIRUWKHPRVWSDUWZLWKYLFDULRXVDQG¿FWLRQDOLVHG
FKDUDFWHUVZLWKDQLGHQWL¿DEOHVRFLDOVHWWLQJLWEHFRPHVPXFKKDUGHUZRUN
for an audience to ‘place itself in the imaginative space’. Audiences are of-
ten disempowered and reduced to being confused or admiring ‘watchers’.
Similarly, the riches of humanism have given us much of the great
theatre of the last few centuries. But when it is less than brilliant, it is often
sentimental and full of clichés and truisms. The visceral power of theatre
is often forgotten in favour of a sentimental ‘Theatre of Good Intentions’.
This is a complex age. We deserve theatre that doesn’t treat us like children
with little imagination and no appetite for the exploration of ideas. Weak
humanist theatre is often laughably short of ideas of any description: most
Neil Simon, for example, could (unfairly) be summarised as ‘People should
be nicer to each other’. This statement of meaning— representative of a
widespread commercial theatre aesthetic— falls far short of what theatre
can do in relation to ideas (a subject I deal with in detail in Chapter 22).
Personally, I have no use for the ‘well-made play’—I’m only inter-
ested in the brilliantly-made play. That said, however, some of the critical
rage directed against humanist theatre might be better directed against
WKH PDVVPRURQLVDWLRQ WKDW PDQ\ FRQWHPSRUDU\ ¿OPV SUDFWLVH LQ WKHLU
utterly conventional use of story, character psychology etc. I don’t just
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aesthetic is much closer to the 19th century Scribean ‘well-made-play’
aesthetic than most contemporary theatre is. But that’s for another book.
RECONCILING MODERNISM AND HUMANISM
Our aim as playwrights should be close to that of Shakespeare’s:

to be everything. As Sven Delblanc has written; “Shakespeare was well
aware of humanism, its enthusiasm for human dignity and the wonders of
a brave, new world. But in his conception of humanity, he is at once both
older, more Christian and medieval, as it were, and more modern than
sixteenth-century humanism. He has a sharp eye for human folly, human
enslavement to the passions, human susceptibility to mass psychosis. He
is at once close to the danses macabres painted in medieval cathedrals
and to the absurdism of our modern stage.”
Humility is called for, on the part of both warring camps. Modernist
directors need to realise that much of their ‘new’ technique is derived from
a diverse range of ancient sources. Apart from those I’ve already men-
WLRQHGPRVWRIWKHDHVWKHWLFDGYDQFHVZHUHPDGHRYHU¿IW\\HDUVDJRE\
the German post-war musico-theatrical aesthetic of the Darmstadt school
(Stockhausen, Kagel and his seminal work Staatstheater). Modernism is
not new, though it often boasts that it is.
Playwrights—the majority of whom are humanists writing in a style

VRUHDOLVWLFDQGVRFLDOO\UHÀHFWLYHLWYHUJHVRQEHLQJWHOHYLVLRQ²DOVRQHHG
to realise that it’s not enough just being interested in ‘people and their
stories’ with all their implicit human and social psychology. In talking
of Kagel’s Staatstheater, Schreiber quotes Adorno’s dictum that “Art as
security has no chance of survival; only art as experiment’. Every work
needs to be experimental in some way, if only on the level of deepening
and challenging your own craft.
When I enter the magic space of theatre, I want everything. I want
the mystery and formalistic power of the modernist aesthetic along with
the still-seductive vicarious hypnosis of individual psychology. In other
words, I want to believe that ‘this character is me’ as well as respond to
a cosmological concept much, much bigger than just “me’. I want to see
P\VHOILQDQDUUDWLYH¿FWLRQDOSKLORVRSKLFDOZRUOGPXFKELJJHUWKDQWKH
realistic world I come from. Why else go to theatre? Just to be entertained?
I can do that with a book of Cucumber Jokes. In a great night at the theatre,
I’ll be entertained along with a dozen other things.
5HPHPEHUWKLV¿UVWFKDSWHUZKHQUHDGLQJWKHUHVWRIWKHERRN<RX
may want to return to it once you’ve gone through the book in detail. As
I said, in one sense it’s a crash course in cultural studies as much as an
introductory chapter on play writing. I should also clearly state that my
aim is not to preach the dominance of one aesthetic over the other. The
only hope for theatre to be both innovative and accessible is that it be a
synthesis of both humanism and modernism. If any chapters of this book
DOORZ\RXWRGRWKDW,¶OOEHVDWLV¿HG
HOW TO USE THIS BOOK: A SUGGESTION
)LQDOO\,¶GOLNHWRR൵HUDWKRXJKWRQWKHQDWXUHRIWKLVERRNDQGKRZ
to get the most from it. This is a ‘How to write contemporary theatre’ book,
¿OOHGZLWKSUDFWLFDOZULWLQJSULQFLSOHVDQGXVDEOHGUDPDWLFWHFKQLTXHV<RX
should start anywhere \RXOLNHLQWKHERRNHVSHFLDOO\LI\RX¿QGRQHRI
the ‘Gateways’ indicated in the Chapter Contents more immediately use-
ful than others. Some playwrights will feel a need to understand dramatic
structure more thoroughly. (In which case, you should go through Gateway
ZKHUHLQ,PRGHVWO\EHOLHYH\RX¶OO¿QGPDQ\WKLQJVWKDWQRRWKHUERRN
on playwriting covers.) Others might feel a need to gain mastery in theatre
language and dialogue, in which case Gateway 5 holds the chapters you
could start with. But the more chapters you read, the more the circle of
understanding will be completed.
So let me state what the book is not. It’s not an academic survey of
‘modern theatre’. It’s not a personal manifesto on “Why I, Timothy Daly,
need to write plays.” (However I think you can assume that a deep love of
the medium is my main motivation.) Anything more would be between me
and my therapist—if I had one. Thus there’ll be no passages on “Why You
Should Be A Writer”, or “My Deepest Longings for Art and Life, Written
While Sipping a Macchiato in Greenwich Village.” I love the technical
challenges of writing for theatre and so do you, or you wouldn’t be reading
this book. So if your mother hated you, you feel deeply inadequate, your
VHFRQGPDUULDJHEURNHXSDQG\RXPLVV\RXU¿UVWWR\FDOOHG%RER²LI
any of these apply to you, please accept my sympathy. They may be part
of the complex motivations pushing you toward writing theatre, but this
book is pre-occupied with turning a ‘desire to write plays’ into a solidly-
based technical ability to write plays. To put it another way, the book
is all about turning the Literary Dreamer—and I’ve met thousands of
those—into the Dramatic Technician. I’ve only met a few of those. It’s a
small club. I invite you to join it.
29
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
QUICK START: OR “WHY AREN’T YOU HOME WRITING?”
The most startling and courageous lecture on play writing was de-
livered many years ago. Its lecturer/hero was an American to be awarded
The Nobel Prize for literature, Sinclair Lewis, who when confronted with
a hall full of would-be writers said only one thing: “Why aren’t you home
writing?” He then left the podium.
6RIRUWKRVHZKRGLGQ¶WXQGHUVWDQGWKH¿UVWFKDSWHU²RUZKRVLPSO\
GRQ¶WFDUH²,R൵HUWKLVQH[WFKDSWHU,W¶VDQLPSDWLHQWDJHZHOLYHLQ(Y-
erything has a ‘Quick Start’ manual. But such was the case over twenty
years ago when I started writing. I had no use for theories. All I wanted
was The Plan: How To Write A Fabulous Play.
If you’re reading this book and you’ve not written before, you’re
most probably reading it because you’re itching to write. You won’t be
ready to write, but that’s not the point. I wasn’t ‘ready’. Who is? It’s only
in writing—a lot—that one achieves any competence, and thus becomes
ready—to write some more.
Ignoring the subtleties and aesthetic complexities of the previous
chapter (which you should only revisit when you’ve had enough of The
Joy of Writing Blind), I’ll show you an approach (even a Plan?) that throws
you straight into the experience of theatre writing.
Here are four ‘play types’ that you can use to get you writing
quickly—and with reasonable results. From years of working with
writers, I found that many plays that seemed to work well— regard-
less of the talent or background of the writers— fell into the following
four categories.
1. THE SINGLE-SET, ‘WAITING PLAY’
A character—or, better, a group—is in a room. They’re waiting

for something. There is a hostile world outside, and the hostility
seeps into the atmosphere of the room. Something is about to
happen, or already has.
Over the years, I’ve met, seen, read and worked on perhaps hun-
GUHGVRISOD\VWKDWUHJDUGOHVVRIWKHLUGL൵HUHQWSORWVKDGWKHVDPHEDVLF
scenario as I’ve just outlined. Why does this type of play work so well?
Many reasons: it combines the humanist interest in ‘how people behave’
with a big-picture modernism that dares to speak about life, the state of
the world, or future dystopias. Perhaps the play type is both attractive (to
writers) and successful (with audiences) because it embodies a deeply
symbolic human state: waiting, that state of half-life we all experience
whether we’re waiting for death, God, Godot or just the bus.
But even on the level of story, such a play type allows for big and
clear dramatic stakes. That is, something important is going on, or about
to happen which matters to the humans in the room because something
vital and precious can be won or lost. And when dramatic stakes are in-
volved, the psychological desperation seems to release in writers a ‘go
for broke’ attitude which often brings out the best in them, especially
regarding their use of language. Faced with this no-holds-barred premise,
a writer gets daring/experimental/innovative in his/her use of language.
The writing is focussed because this situation allows ‘only the essential’.
No chat; no ‘How’s your father’ or ‘Did you hear what happened to So-
SKLHWRGD\¶2QO\WKHODQJXDJHWKDWH[SUHVVHVWKHVLWXDWLRQVHHPVWR¿W
Maxim Gorky’s The Lower Depths, Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot,
Jean-Paul Sartre’s Huis Clos and Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh
show the variety—and beauty—of this play type.
2. THE TWO-HEADER PLAY or The Relationship Journey
Two characters meet. They connect. Things start to happen

between them. Before they know it, they are on a roller-coaster
journey that could only have happened because of the ‘accident’
of meeting each other.
3HUKDSVWKLVSOD\W\SHVXFFHHGVEHFDXVHLWGLYHVKHDG¿UVWLQWRWKDW
complex, fascinating, bewildering, painful and passionate area—human
relationships. I deal with the concept of the Relationship Journey in Chap-
ter 18, but if you’ve already turned the laptop on, then all you’ll probably
want to know is that this play type is an excuse to ‘unleash’ (physically,
verbally) everything you’ve bottled up about love, hatred, desire, longing
and other people. Not to mention the Other, the one who no longer loves
you, the one you still love to the point of sickness. The plays which work
best tend either to have lots of short scenes where with every scene, the
relationship has changed and developed; or, alternately, the long scenes
DUHEURRGLQJGHHSO\IHOWDQGFUHDWHJUHDWDUFVRILQWLPDF\VX൵HULQJDQG
release. In other words, the characters in this play type tend to get closer
to each other than ‘people in real life’—but isn’t that the chief pleasure
of such stories? Again, just like the Life as a Waiting Room scenario,
WKH WZRKHDGHU WZR DFWRUV W\SH LV LPPHQVHO\ ÀH[LEOH DOORZLQJ ERWK
light, joyful social comedy and darker, more painful work. John Patrick
Shanley’s Danny and the Deep Blue Sea is a good example of the latter.
3. THE NARRATOR-DRIVEN PLAY or Welcome To My World
That’s my Dad. He’s not like any other Dad. This Dad’s insane.
And to prove it, they had me, his youngest daughter.
Many new writers are young. They are driven to write because, to
them, life is a maze of mysteries they don’t understand. It’s not only them-
selves they don’t understand. It’s ‘Other People.’ And the most infuriating
group of ‘Others’ is often the people they are closest to: friends and family.
The chief joy of this third ‘quick’ play type is the direct access an audi-
ence is given into the emotions, rituals and madness of a group of people
who otherwise would remain strangers to us. And the chief tour-guide
to this Mad, Mad World is the Narrator. He guides the audience into the
family/social group, introduces us to the inmates of this movable asylum
and sets up a story which shows that, beyond the apparent ‘madness’ of
the social and emotional world the family or group lives in, is a pattern of
life surprisingly close to our own. The audience both laughs at the bizarre
happenings and thinks, “That’s pretty close to how my family/group/clan/
gang acts.” And like the others, this type allows both for mad comedy and
darker work. Louis Nowra’s Summer of the Aliens is an example of this
type, as is Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa.
4. THE ‘PROTAGONIST’S JOURNEY’ PLAY
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate the one against the other...
An example of the fourth and last play type is supplied to us by a

writer no longer with us. His plays are, however. For William Shakespeare
knew that a single character who ruthlessly pursues a goal, regardless of
the cost, can make for good drama as in Richard III.
The Character Journey is also covered in Chapter 16, but since this
chapter is all about Quick Start, you should know that a Protagonist is
that character who is the most central to a play, either because s/he is
‘driving the events’ (that is, causing the plot to happen) or because the
events all seem to be happening to him or her.
It’s also possible to state, however crudely, a general plan for the
unfolding of this dramatic action. It goes something like this…
The Protagonist is ‘born’ into a World (a suburb, kingdom) that he or
she is not happy with. For convenience, let’s call this Protagonist by the
name of Richard. He lives with this unsatisfactory state of events for some
time (whether hours, months or years). But eventually, something happens
to disturb that World. Forced by his unhappiness at this Disturbance (or
encouraged by the opportunity), the Protagonist responds to the changed
circumstances. He states a goal or Dramatic Objective:
I am determined to prove a villain…
To make this goal possible, he develops—
To set my brother Clarence and the King

In deadly hate the one against the other.
A Plan.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
The Plan involves thinking about what he will do, and then carrying
it out. It involves lying to other people, cheating them, seducing them,
and ultimately, killing them. But always it involves interacting with them.
With each step of the Plan, there may be—
An initial period of success.

Complications.
Setbacks and Reversals.
A change in the relationship between the various characters of
the drama.
An inner change happening inside the Protagonist himself. It
may involve any of the following;
o A learning process, which in turn may create
o $QHHGIRUDPRGL¿FDWLRQRUFKDQJHRISODQ
o A temporary victory (“So far, so good”).
o A growing sense of ‘what it all means’.
o $ÀXFWXDWLRQEHWZHHQKRSHDQGGHVSDLU
A turning point, where the goal may recede from his grasp.
A climax, where the attainment (or retention) of the goal is
decided once and for all.
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Protagonist about ‘what all my struggles now mean to me’.
Of all the four types discussed in this Quick Start chapter, this fourth
play type most resembles the ‘traditional theatre’ we’ve come to know.
That is its attraction—and its trap. The Plan seems simple, but it’s not.
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than with all the other three types combined. In other words, use this play
type at your peril, or simply stop writing and read the rest of this book.
As I’ve tried to indicate, there are limits to a Quick Start approach—and
we’ve just reached them.
35
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SLOW START: DEVELOPING THE SKILLS YOU’LL NEED
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should I write?” Having read the second chapter the answer should be
obvious: you write exactly the way you want to. You obey the impulses
of the moment, your sense of ‘what the play needs’. You also will be
responding to your own developing aesthetic.
A playwright’s ‘personal aesthetic’ is a complex and subjective thing.
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beauty, and second, a conscious set of creative principles as well as an
intuitive feel for the sort of drama you wish to create. Your aesthetic is
both personal (resulting from your own life, beliefs and artistic responses)
and communal (resulting from society’s impact on you and your art.)
I should say this—if it’s not already obvious— I will not be urging
you to write a certain way. I won’t be preaching just one school of thought
DW\RX$VWKH¿UVWFKDSWHUH[SODLQHGWKLVERRNLVFRQFHUQHGZLWKVKRZLQJ
you how you can create your own personal synthesis of the two dominant
aesthetics of our age—the humanist and the modernist. It is up to you how
that blend occurs. As far as possible, I will also refrain from pointing out,
like an irritating tour-guide, “This is a modernist technique”, “On your left
is an interesting humanist convention.” Your job, as a creative artist, is to
forget the label and respond viscerally to the imaginative potential of a
technique or concept, regardless of its historical or ideological provenance.
Put simply, there will be things that you, the creative artist, can use,
and some you can’t. There will be ideas you like, and some you don’t. If I
have one advantage in writing this book it is that I am basically self-taught,
which means that in my early years of learning, I welcomed everything
that might be useful. Nothing was excluded ‘on principle’. Similarly, you
should feel free to use creatively what you personally respond to.
Labels and historical analysis aside, the aesthetic that is developed in this
book is all about using the stage as an agent of communication about human
beings and the lives they lead. Or to put it more forcefully, it’s not just about
communicating, but communicating so powerfully, that theatre becomes an act
of mesmerism, a magic act—a carnival full of tricks and sleights of hand and
virtuosic diversions. But above all, I will be advocating that you, the writer,
aim high. Set out to astonish, and amaze, and move and shock profoundly.
Be brilliant. Push your actors to near-breaking point. Dazzle, disturb and prod
our often-lazy audiences way past their usual and familiar zones of comfort
and ease. I will be encouraging you to go for broke, to court failure by aiming
high, because it is often the only way to succeed.
CRAFT TOOLS YOU WILL NEED
You’re a writer when you say you are. You’re a writer when you buy
the laptop. You’re a writer long before others tell you so. This chapter is
all about how to prepare yourself to write plays. In preparation, you’ll
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The greatest writing tool is your own mind. Many of the ideas in
this chapter are about the training of your own mind, so that you learn to
think dramatically.
Before you can train yourself to write plays, you need to know what
those skills are that you are acquiring. Don’t misunderstand this, however.
I’m not saying that you should go away and acquire these skills and then
come back and write plays. It is in starting to write immediately that you
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such a conscious and deliberate acquiring of these skills.
TEN SKILLS USEFUL FOR PLAY WRITING
1. A LOVE OF THEATRE
This may seem an odd skill to have to ‘acquire’. Usually people fall
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reason and land in the mud of passionate involvement with theatre. It may
be an extraordinary play, an amazing performance that stayed in your head,
or simply the profound experience of seeing a community of strangers in
WKHDXGLHQFHPRPHQWDULO\XQLWHGE\WKHPHVPHULFH൵HFWRID6KDNHVSHDUHDQ
ending. Whatever it is that makes you love theatre and plays is probably the
reason you want to write them. Often there is a desire to duplicate the original
astonishing experience. If there is no ‘astonishing experience’, then you may
care to ask yourself why you actually want to write plays. It may be that the
H൵HFWRIWKHDWUHDQGSOD\VRQ\RXLVOHVVHOHFWULFEXWMXVWDVGHHSO\IHOW
In any case, test it. Go to plays, and see if it moves and excites you to be
in a theatre space. If it does, or if the idea will not leave you alone, it’s probably
not a passing thing, and you may as well acquire the remaining skills in this list.
2. A KNOWLEDGE OF AUDIENCE
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audience for our work, but essentially, a play is an act of communication
with strangers. It’s drawn from a single imagination, but it is meant to
reach the hearts, minds and inner lives of people you’ve never met, but
who share one thing in common with you: they are human beings.
TABLE 1: A SUMMARY OF SKILLS YOU WILL NEED FOR
PLAY WRITING
7ඁൾඌ඄ංඅඅ ൺඇൽ ඌඈආൾ ඐൺඒඌ ඒඈඎ ർൺඇ
ൽൾඏൾඅඈඉංඍ
The desire to create theatrical/spatial Understand how the creation of exotic
‘magic’ yet universal Worlds helps make a play
magical. (See Chapter 23)
An understanding of theatre space When you’re at a play, watch the actors’
PRYHPHQWVDQGWKHLUH൵HFWLQWKHDWUHVSDFH
A knowledge of human psychology Both books and your own developing
understanding of people and their lives
will help you here
A hunger for amazing stories Consciously collect stories and examine
their patterns
A capacity & willingness to feel and cre- See Chapter 5 on the F-Buttons
ate characters who also feel
A deep & detailed knowledge of narrative, See Chapters 20-25
scene, act & phase structure
An ability to write & rewrite scenes over Read out your scenes aloud, or have ‘out
& over again loud’ workshops of your scenes
A love of language... Enjoy words and keep developing your
vocabulary and verbal articulateness
...& a detailed knowledge of realist See Chapters 10-13
dialogue techniques
...& a willingness to experiment with See the sections on "Performative States"
‘linguistic formalism’ as well as Chapter 12
A knowledge of audiences & a respect When you see a play, also study the
for them audience's reaction to various moments
A comic impulse Comedy can and should be practised.
Keep looking for the comic potential of
all your scenes
A comprehensive theatre aesthetic, (in- Read widely, and enjoy other arts like
cluding a decision on where you stand music, sculpture and painting. See also
on these aesthetic questions) Chapter 1 of this book for more ideas
A love of the ‘theatre game’and showbiz Spend time in theatre foyers, talking to ac-
tors, listening and questioning all and sundry
...and a knowledge of the ‘real politik’ of Develop a feel and even enjoyment of
the theatre business. professional networking. (See Chapter 29)
A non-ulcerous ambition to succeed... Be organised and know ‘What the next
step is’, and treat it like a delightful game
...& a sense of fun, play & creative joy Remember that it’s only a (wonderful)
part of your life
But when human beings get together, they are not simply a clump
of individuals. They become one of the mobs that history calls an ‘audi-
ence’. Knowing what makes an audience tick, what puts them to sleep,
what keeps them awake, what fascinates them or repels them is our job as
playwrights. I devote a whole chapter to this, so all I’ll say at this point is
that the only way to get to know how plays are working on their audiences
is to go to the theatre and see lots of plays.
This is not as obvious as it might sound. You’d be amazed at the people
who never listen to radio drama but think they can write a radio play. A
short story writer I met once advised me: “Read hundreds of them.” For
SOD\ZULJKWVRXUWDVNLVFOHDU6HHDKXQGUHGSOD\V7DNHWZR\HDUVRU¿YH
to do so, but do it. And when you go to these plays, keep one eye (so to
speak) on the play, and one eye on what the play is doing to its audience.
3. THE MASTERY OF HUMAN PSYCHOLOGY
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to see what the play is really doing, and what it’s really about. By ‘about’
I don’t mean what the story is really about. I mean, what deep aspects of
the human psyche are being dealt with tonight. You see, the truth is that
people don’t just go to a play to be entertained. They go for many reasons,
of which the deepest—or highest—is to learn about themselves and their
RZQLQYROYHPHQWLQWKHPHVV\D൵DLUFDOOHGOLIH7KHWUXHPDWHULDORISOD\V
is not ‘story’, but ‘humanity’. To know humanity you must ultimately have
a view of humanity, but before you have a view, and regardless of your
aesthetic inclinations, you will want to acquire some basic knowledge of
human psychology, individual and group.
How do you do this? Lots of ways. First, you live your own life to
the full. You examine it, and become aware of its nature, contradictions,
logic and illogic. You study other people’s lives, people you know as well
as those you can only read about. Develop an interest in ‘what makes
that guy tick?’ Speculate. Create an inner life for your neighbour. Watch
people and make observations about the way they may live, based on the
way they walk, talk or buy food. Read as much as possible about psychol-
ogy— normal and abnormal. Be as expert on the tortured inner life of a
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WKH\PD\HYHQKDYHVRPHWKLQJVLQFRPPRQ7KHSD\R൵IRUWKLVVRUWRI
study should be obvious: You’ll eventually have powerful insights to of-
fer to people in your stories. And you may just understand yourself well
enough to be happy, and even save the occasional relationship or two.
Don’t misunderstand this point: you’ll still need to develop strong
actions for your characters—but what you learn from studying character
and characterization may provide the soul from which these dramatic
actions spring.
4. VIRTUOSITY IN LANGUAGE
More than anything, plays are galvanised by the mesmeric power of

language. Not plot, or character—but language. (You’ll notice that I use
the word ‘dialogue’ quite sparingly, for reasons I’ll go into later in the
book.) You also might think that language is more the province of novels.
But the fact remains that the greatest linguist in Western literature was a
dramatist. We need to take back language from the ‘mind theatre’ of the
novel so that rich, powerful, convulsive language is once again at home
in the theatre. Again, there’s a whole chapter on this. All you need to do at
this stage is to develop (or strengthen) an interest in language. In words.
In new words. In polysyllabic words. Short words. Fat words. Esoteric
words. Banal words. Clichés, truisms. Motherhood statements and arcane
formulations. Be aware of and fascinated by the use of language in all
walks of life. Learn to talk imaginatively, and listen even harder. Enjoy
using words as well as hearing them. Like most theatrical skills, this also
has a double value. Regardless of the public success of your plays, your
linguistic training will probably ensure you turn out to be a great dinner
party guest. There are worse fates in life.
5. MASTERY OF NARRATIVE FORM
Plays are full of stories, because ‘stories’ are metaphors of how to

live. Or how not to live. Or even ‘look at the way these people lived.’ To
R൵HUDSRZHUIXOPHWDSKRU\RXQHHGWRKDYHDVWURQJJUDVSRIKRZVWRULHV
work. For good or ill, we live in an age where an interest in the mechanics
of story is often stronger than the story itself. The truth behind the Truth,
if you like. Look at the interest in biography, and autobiography, and other
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ERRNV7KLVDOOFUHDWHVDQLQWHUHVWLQJGRXEOHH൵HFWµ¿FWLRQ¶LVGLVWUXVWHG
EXWVWRULHVDUHQRW:HUHTXLUHHLWKHUWUXWKLQWKHIRUPRIQRQ¿FWLRQRU
patterns into which we can pour the content of our own lives.
To put all this another way: we need to be so skilled and knowledge-
able in the ‘types’ of stories, the conventions of their form, that we can
outwit an age that thinks it knows (and often does) a great deal about
stories. Look at the guy walking out of a shop with eight videos, all of
them thrillers. As writers, we need to know more about thrillers (for ex-
ample) than that viewer.
Audiences generally have a much stronger and more conscious

awareness of narrative shape than they used to. Once they just fell asleep,
whistled through their door keys, or just walked out. Now, they usually
know why they’re about to fall asleep. Our job is to keep them awake by
VXEYHUWLQJWKHLUH[SHFWDWLRQVRUFRQ¿UPLQJWKHPLQDYHU\H[FLWLQJZD\
%HFRPLQJDQH[SHUWRQµZKDW¶VJRLQJRQLQWKLVVWRU\¶EHLW¿OPRUWKH-
DWUHZLOOKHOS\RXZLWKWKHGL൶FXOWDUHDRISORWWLQJ7KHUHDUHDOVRPDQ\
chapters on story and dramatic structure later in this book. Moreover, the
good news is that learning to be an amateur expert on stories is not just
great fun. Your family and friends can do it too. You won’t have to pursue
the task alone. They’ll all want to join in.
6. DEVELOPING A STRONG FORMAL(IST) INSTINCT
This is obviously related to the last skill, but it’s also a development
of it. As playwrights we need to have a very strong sense of such things
as plot order, the building of incidents and dramatic momentum. Believe
it or not, dramatic instinct can be trained. Here are two ways:
Read as many plays as possible, acting out the play in your mind.
But most importantly, read each act in a play without interruption.
In a good play, Act I or Act II is a masterfully shaped whole,
and the only way to experience the whole is by reading each
DFWZLWKRXWVWRSSLQJ$IWHUDZKLOH\RXZLOONQRZWKHGL൵HU-
ence between those writers who can shape an act so that it is a
powerful, visceral and unstoppable experience—and those who
can’t. To save you time, I’ll give you a short list of dramatists
with a wonderful sense of form and act structure: Ibsen, Mamet
in his better plays, early Stoppard plays, the best work of Arthur
Miller, some Caryl Churchill plays, much Beckett (the shorter
pieces are masterly in their feeling for form), and, best of all,
Shakespeare. (No one can match him for his visceral unloosing
of theatrical energy; to understand what I mean, read the Forum
scene in Julius Caesar where ‘the dogs of war” are let loose.)
There are many writers, of course, from whom you can learn
this ‘feeling for formal rightness’, but if you start with the ones
I’ve mentioned, you’ll soon develop the instinct that you’ll need
for your own work.
Type out, literally, every word of your favourite three plays.

Choose only the plays that seem crucial to your own writing.
Each night, type out a new page of it. Why? Because there
are instinctual things that you can only learn in this way. Most
importantly, you will learn variety of texture. That is, the use of
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VKRZ\RXKRZWRYDU\DQGJURXSWKHPIRUPD[LPXPH൵HFW7R
learn this way, you need to be a reasonable typist. Ideally, you
will be able to type the characters’ language at close to the speed
at which they would be saying it. (Not as hard as it sounds in this
laptop/email age.) I deal with linguistic and ensemble textures
later, in Chapter 13.
7. A FEELING FOR THEATRE SPACE
Theatre space is not like an ordinary room. It is both larger, more

intimate and more concentrated. Whenever you start to write a play, you
KDYHWZRPDMRUSUREOHPVFRQIURQWLQJ\RX¿QGLQJWKHnarrative form of
WKHVWRU\DQG¿QGLQJWKHtheatrical form. That is, “How will I tell this
story using theatrical space to the full?” Again, I devote a chapter to this.
The quickest way to develop an instinct for theatrical space and what
happens inside it, is to see as much theatre as you can.
8. HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY
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write. That’s your business. The job of this book is to help you say what
you want to, regardless of what that is. That said, however, your task as
a playwright is to become unique. The world doesn’t need a second Sam
Shepard, or another disciple of Harold Pinter. Your only hope is to become
more like yourself, in style, in the unique way you see the world, and in
the way you express that unique vision.
Occasionally people will tell you that “you need to develop your own
voice.” This is unhelpful advice, not least because those advising you usu-
ally have no idea as to how you should go about getting this “unique voice”.
/HWPHR൵HUVRPHWKRXJKWVRQWKLV9HU\IHZZULWHUVLQWKHLUHDUO\
years of writing have a particularly unique voice. Just as with opera sing-
ers, a ‘voice’ needs development. Before you can have something to say,
you need to know how to say it. And the reverse is also true. But to help
you along the path of discovering who you really are, creatively speaking,
try some of these practical steps:
Start developing your own philosophy about the way the world
runs. Use any belief, ideology, prejudice or personal passion
that speaks loudly to you. One of your values as a playwright
will be a strong sense that audiences get from your work: “This
is how s/he sees the world. I may not agree with it, but it makes
for astonishing theatre.”
Begin collecting stories that mean something to you. Newspa-

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$IWHUDIHZPRQWKVRIFOLSSLQJDQG¿OLQJVWDUWDVNLQJ\RXUVHOI
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tain themes common to them. For example, I’ve always been
interested in stories of people who lacked courage at the crucial
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phenomenon. One day I found a story in a newspaper about
Kitty Genovese, a woman who was murdered outside a New
York apartment, and the neighbours all heard the screams, but
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No one helped her. No one even called the police. Others closed
their windows to shut out the sounds which may have been dis-
turbing their television viewing. This preoccupied me for some
years until I became a father. My love for my child created an
anxiety: “What if I lost her?” I wound this basic human anxiety
around the larger plot structure and theme of ‘the bystander’,
and suddenly found I had a strong, moving story which became
an award-winning radio play.
Study genres, of all types: thrillers, comedy, romantic comedy,

screwball comedy, westerns. It doesn’t matter what. If you
imaginatively respond to it, there’s probably a creative reason
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Similarly, you should study theatrical forms that you particularly

like: farce, epic theatre, agitprop, monologues. Study anything
you enjoyed seeing, trusting that there’s a longer-term reason
why you responded so deeply. It probably means that you’re
going to use this knowledge one day.
What does all this have to do with developing a voice? All the pre-
paratory groundwork I’ve listed above will give you both a great aware-
ness of your artistic preoccupations and thematic concerns, and also
will eventually equip you to express these preoccupations skilfully and
powerfully. And if you never develop a uniqueness of dramatic style? No
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particular originality. They’re often just excellent craftsmen. They know
how to write a comedy, a farce or a thriller. They know what they’re good
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and leave the development of a “unique voice” to time and circumstances.
9. AN ABILITY TO WRITE FOR ACTORS
You don’t have to be an actor to write well for actors—but it helps.

If you have acted, you can bring that experience to your writing. If you
haven’t, then you can easily make up lost ground. It’s more important to
develop the instinct for the “sayable line”, the powerful moment that is both
speakable, actable and memorable. This can be acquired in several ways:
Watch actors closely in performance. Seeing the same play sev-

eral times will help you in this. As a young man, working as a
theatre usher, I saw Ibsen’s A Doll’s House about twenty times
in a row. Needless to say I learned a lot about acting from this.
Watch actors in a rehearsal, to see what problems they’re having,

and see them working on their part.
Try some acting yourself, however amateur the company.
Volunteer for play readings as an actor. You probably need a

modicum of acting ability in order to pick up the crucial lessons
of timing, rhythm and performability. But, again I say: you don’t
have to become a great actor in order to write great theatre dia-
logue. (Otherwise, all great actors would automatically be great
writers.) It’s the experience that is the crucial—and exhilarat-
ing—thing. I have acted only twice in my life, and I forgot my
lines both times. But again, I learned more useful lessons about
acting, not to mention the importance of memory. Or, to put it
another way, you need not become a great actor, because what
you are really learning is the acting instinct.
If the above suggestions are of no use (for example, you live

in an isolated region) where play readings are infrequent, then
read your favourite plays aloud— to yourself, your dog; anyone
or no one. The crucial thing is to verbalise and physicalise. I’ve
personally discovered something in this regard: if the line cannot
be gestured, the line is un-actable. That is, when you are speak-
ing a line, unless you can feel an impulse to gesture (with arms,
head, trunk) there is little chance that the line is sayable by an
actor. Actors respond to the in-built rhythm of a line of dialogue.
They respond to the physical energy implicit in each line and each
phrase. Unless you get your voice and body moving in engaging
with great text, you won’t learn this art of ‘the physicalised text’.
You won’t learn the acting instinct either, unless you do some
acting. The end-result may be that you write stage language that
is lifeless because you ‘heard’ it exclusively inside your head.
That’s all right for novel and other prose forms, but not for theatre.
Good theatre language has to be heard and felt in the writer’s
body before it can be felt in the actor’s.
10. HAVING THE HARDWARE (AND SOFTWARE)
A writer has the proper equipment. This might mean that you make
a small investment and buy the computer and other writing tools that you
need to really do the job properly. There is specialised software for theatre
DQG¿OPZULWHUVWKDWPDNHVWKHMREDORWHDVLHU9LVLWDVSHFLDOLVHGWKHDWUH
RU¿OPVWRUH6FULSWVDQGVFULSWZULWLQJVRIWZDUHDUHDOVRREWDLQDEOHRQWKH
web. So don’t allow poor or non-existent tools to be the reason that you
don’t start writing. Don’t scratch away on a pad unless that’s the way that
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Take a chance. Hire it, buy it or borrow it. It needn’t cost a lot. Find the
equipment you need to write your play. Until you do, your desire to write
plays may only be a pipe dream.
45
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
BECOMING A STORYTELLER
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You’re sitting there staring—dull, like we all get sometimes. A
pretty stenographer that you’ve seen before comes into the room
and you watch her—idly. She doesn’t see you, though you’re
YHU\FORVHWRKHU6KHWDNHVRৼKHUJORYHVRSHQVKHUSXUVHDQG
dumps it on a table— ’
Stahr stood up, tossing his key-ring on his desk.
‘She has two dimes and a nickel— and a cardboard matchbox.

She leaves the nickel on her desk, puts the two dimes back into
her purse and takes her black gloves to the stove, opens it and
puts them inside. There is one match in the matchbox and she
VWDUWVWROLJKWLWNQHHOLQJE\WKHVWRYH<RXQRWLFHWKHUH¶VDVWLৼ
wind blowing in the window—but just then your telephone rings.
The girl picks it up, says hello—listens—and says deliberately
into the phone, “I’ve never owned a pair of black gloves in
my life.” She hangs up, kneels by the stove again, and just as
she lights the match, you glance around very suddenly and see
WKDW WKHUH¶V DQRWKHU PDQ LQ WKH R৽FH ZDWFKLQJ HYHU\ PRYH
the girl makes—’
Stahr paused. He picked up his keys and put them in his pocket.
‘Go on,’ said Boxley, smiling, ‘What happens?’
‘I don’t know’, said Stahr. ‘I was just making pictures.’
(The Last Tycoon by F.Scott Fitzgerald)
Stories are wonderful. They entrance the imagination whether you

want them to or not. Boxley, the listener in the above scene from Fitzger-
DOG¶VQRYHOLVDVWL൵SUHWHQWLRXVDXWKRUZKRGLVGDLQVWKHSRSXODUDUWRI
story-telling. But even he is entranced by the impromptu story that Stahr
the movie-maker spins for him.
We all know that movies are like theatre—and they’re not. But what
WKHDWUHDQG¿OPKDYHLQFRPPRQLVDORYHRIVWRU\WHOOLQJ1RWHYHQSRVW
modernism’s arch ambivalence about ‘grand narratives’ can take away the
fascination that all of us have with narrative. It’s the key to our uncon-
scious. A story is both real and dream-like. It seems like fact and that it is
really happening, but everything also seems symbolic, even blurred, as if
reality has been shown to be just a surface layer, and there is something
else bubbling underneath...
It is my strong contention that stories are both wonderful things
in themselves—and they are also an ‘excuse’. An excuse to release the
‘something else bubbling underneath’. I spend a lot of time in Chapter
20 discussing how structure is the shaping of energy. But the energy is
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Action creates curiosity. Intention creates energy, and when that energy
is shaped, a play results.
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modernist) the playwright comes from. Take this recent example of bravura
story telling, which mixes modernist brashness with a breathtaking speed
and economy of story telling.
Imagine this happening to you: You’re at home, after a hard day
at work. The doorbell rings. You open the door—and there’s a woman
standing there.
She speaks to you:
ROMY: It’s me, Romy,—Romy Vogländer... But if you don’t

recognise me, then you really should shut the door
again.
FRANK: Romy Vogländer...
ROMY: You don’t even recognise me.
FRANK: Romy...Romy Vogländer...
ROMY: You know now—
FRANK: Yes—
ROMY: For one whole summer we were lovers—
FRANK: Romy Vogländer...
ROMY: Twenty-four years ago.
FRANK: Romy... that was. (Brief pause) We were seventeen then.
ROMY: Seventeen, that’s right, I was seventeen, and you were
twenty, and you swore that you’d love me forever.
(He laughs out loud.)
FRANK: Yeah—
Just then, Claudia, Frank’s wife, enters the room. Romy tells Claudia:
ROMY: Twenty-four years ago this man was the love of my life.
(Pause)
We were lovers then.
(Pause)
And we still are now.
(Pause)
CLAUDIA: What?
ROMY: Him and me—we were lovers then and we still are now.
Claudia slaps her husband’s face and slams the door in front of Romy
Vogländer.
This play, Die Frau von Früher (The Woman From the Past) by Ro-
land Schimmelpfennig, presses so many F-buttons simultaneously that the
audience is exhilarated, confused and taken somewhere both familiar and
VWUDQJH²DOODWWKHVDPHWLPH(YHQEHIRUHZHJHWWR&KDSWHU,¶OOEULHÀ\
list here the F-Buttons and how they work in this wonderful opening scene.
There is the F-Button of Familiarity. The audience thinks, “Oh, yes, I
get it. Just before dinner. Frank relaxing. Drink in hand. I do that regularly
myself.” The Familiarity Button is an underestimated level of audience
connection. It helps establish an initial level of understanding for the
audience. But the important thing is to move on from this level to other
F-levels—which, in this play, happens almost immediately.
There is the F-Button of Feelings. When a woman tells you, “You
were the love of my life”, she is obviously dealing with the level of human
feelings and emotions. When a stranger says this—we are dealing with fear.
The F-Button of Fear is a potent factor for the audience. Imagine
this happening to you! Your worst nightmare—a former lover turning
up; and just before dinner! I’ve seen this scene acted, and it’s so scary
and tense that the audience both laughs and worries at the same time. (i.e.
two F-buttons at once, Fear and Fun.) There is also the F-Button of Social
Frisson, which is pressed whenever strangers meet. Finally, there is the
F-Button of Fury, when Claudia, Frank’s wife, hears about this woman
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Like I said; stories are wonderful. And this play has only just started.
In the next chapter, I have a lot more to say on the F-Buttons. But for
now, it’s time for another story. Imagine this. A young girl, about thirteen
years old, arrives at the house of a language teacher. She is let in by the
maid. “I’ll tell him you’re here”, the maid says, and leaves.
The girl is left alone. She gets an exercise book out of her school
bag and some pens. She waits for a moment, looking around the room
before settling into that potentially endless state known to all students as
‘waiting for the teacher to arrive’.
A minute later the teacher arrives. He surprises us: he is not a domi-
QHHULQJ¿JXUH+HLVWLPLGDOPRVWSDLQIXOO\VK\+HJUHHWVWKHJLUODQGWKH\
sit down to begin the lesson. He is a model of politeness and friendliness.
He apologises profusely for having kept her waiting. She demurs, but he
will hear none of it. He kept her waiting. It is his fault.
Watching this we—the unseen observers of this fantasy—are very
impressed. He’s a very kind man, though a little fussy. She’s lucky to have
this man for a teacher. He is sure to be thorough and conscientious. With
this man as her teacher, she will pass the exam she is intending to sit for.
He begins a preliminary assessment of the state of her knowledge. But
he’s interrupted. The maid comes into the room, looking for something.
The teacher tries to continue, but the maid’s presence is disturbing him.
He asks her to leave. But before she does, she advises the teacher, “May
I suggest you not start with mathematics? It tires you.”
We are surprised that the teacher’s maid would say this. So is the
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leaves, the teacher apologises to his student for the interruption and their
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He decides they will start with mathematics.

TEACHER: How much is... one plus one?
STUDENT: One and one are two.
The teacher looks excited. He continues...
TEACHER: How much are two plus one?
STUDENT: Three.
TEACHER: Three plus one?
STUDENT: Four.
TEACHER: Four plus one?
STUDENT: Five.
The teacher is ecstatic.
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And we—the witnesses of this—start laughing at the oddness of it

all. “What is going on here?” we think. But soon, the student makes a
small error. The teacher stops. He tries again. She is still incorrect. We
start thinking maybe she isn’t so bright after all.
The teacher has to impress upon the girl the need for accuracy. She
has, after all, told him she wants to study to be an engineer.
TEACHER: Miss, if you can’t reach a clear understanding of these

mathematical principles, you’ll never be able to pass
your exams.
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TEACHER: I know it’s not easy. It’s quite...quite abstract.

Apparently. But how will you succeed without having
mastered the basics, in being able to mentally calculate,
for example— and this is the least of those things an
engineer will need— how much, for example, three bil-
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seventy-two million three hundred and three thousand,
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from? It’s clear that the atmosphere of this lesson has changed.
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STUDENT: That makes nineteen quintillion three hundred and ninety

quadrillion, two trillion, eight hundred and eighty bil-
lion, two hundred and nineteen million, one hundred
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TEACHER: No. I don’t think so.
He corrects her. And the simple social transaction— a lesson—that

takes place every day of the week, in every suburb, in every country, has
suddenly been transformed into something else. And we, the witnesses,
the audience, can only watch in fascination, to see where this bizarre
thing will lead to.
What is the ‘something else’ that this lesson has turned into? It’s
moved from being a realistic, social encounter into a mixture of dream,
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strategies and agendas. It’s a menacing dance whose choreography we
can watch but have no control over.
In other words, it’s turned into theatre.
This encounter is from The Lesson, by Eugene Ionesco, a play that
LVMXVWO\IDPRXVIRULWVWKHDWULFDOEULOOLDQFHOLQJXLVWLFÀDLUDQGSULPLWLYH
power. It’s a classic of modernism, with its surreal logic and menacing
XVHRIODQJXDJH+LVWRULFDOO\LW¶VWKH¿UVWFRQWHPSRUDU\XVHRIµODQJXDJH
as a weapon’, and predates Pinter’s use of it by many years.) You can see
this play in Paris any time, as it’s run continuously for decades, a bit like
Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap. But unlike Dame Agatha’s play, it’s a
dangerous, volatile piece that gets under the audience’s skin, and turns
XVLQWRIDVFLQDWHGDQGKRUUL¿HGRQORRNHUVZKRIHHOFRPSOLFLWLQWKHDFW
of watching. Suddenly the whole idea of being a ‘theatre audience’ takes
on a less neutral, passive meaning.
It doesn’t just make the audience feel uncomfortable. It transforms
reality. After seeing this play, I doubt an audience will ever view a private
lesson in quite the same way again. Why? Because reality has been af-
fected. It’s been interpreted, massaged, pummelled, lifted out of banality
and given a big shock. Our job as imaginative writers is to give reality a
big shake-down, to so confront it that the audience not only sees ‘reality’
in a new light, but also sees far beyond it.
You might think that this is the result of clever plotting? It is much
more due to language. From the moment the teacher begins his impos-
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hundred and eighty-eight thousand”, the story has become something
else. And that something else is theatre. What was a mundane, everyday
WUDQVDFWLRQKDVµOLIWHGR൵¶RQWRDQRWKHUSODQH$QGLW¶VWDNHQXVWKHDXGL-
ence, along for the ride.
When the audience attends a performance of The Lesson, they are
not just in the grip of mesmerising dramatic language. They are also in
the grip of a structure. And the way that structure grips you is by being
framed in the familiar social metaphor of ‘recognisable story’. I’ll return
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WKHVXSHUUHDOSODQHRQZKLFKWKHDWUHH[LVWVEXW¿UVWZH¶OOH[DPLQHWKH
social animals watching: the audience.
51
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$PHULFDQDXGLHQFHVDUHµWRRNLQG¶,IWKDWLVWUXHWKH\VKRXOGQ¶WKDYH
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WUXWKWKDWLQDQLGHDOHYHQLQJDWWKHWKHDWUHDQDXGLHQFHZDQWVeverything.
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“I want to be challenged.”
,I\RXZDQWWRFKDOOHQJHDQDXGLHQFHGRVRLQDQ\RIWKHIROORZLQJ
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than truisms or motherhood statements. If all the play is saying is, “People
should be kind to each other”, then why bother writing it? In fact, I’d be
more fascinated by a play that proposed, say, “the best thing that lovers
can be is insanely cruel to each other.” Hearing that, I’d want to know why.
There are lots of other challenges an audience can respond to and
enjoy: in the speed of the writing, in the many levels that a character can
exist on: the physical, the sexual, the sensual, the emotional, the intellec-
tual etc. A character that is in touch with several of these levels will speak
from those depths and provide a challenging complexity for the audience.
“I like to see characters I can relate to.”
This humanist conception of character touches on an audience’s need

WRKDYHDµYLFDULRXVH[SHULHQFH¶ZKHQLWZDWFKHVD¿FWLRQDOLVHGFKDUDFWHU
Even though it knows that the character is ‘made up’, they still want to see
that character as a representative of themselves in some way. They want to
imagine that a particular character “is me, even though I’m sitting in the
audience.” I go into this in the chapters on character, but I will say now
that the best way for an audience to respond vicariously to a character is
to have that character possess an inner life which is worth imagining is
yours. Have that character stand for some important part of the audience’s
hopes or fears. A character with a great capacity to love, for example, al-
lows the audience to invest in that character, to believe “that character is
me, because I also have a great capacity to love… or wish I had!”
“I want to see an actor do amazing things.”
There are clear implications here for us as writers: Where is the

‘amazing speech’ in your play? Where is the dazzling language that is
both hard to perform and challenging to take in? Where is the bit in the
script where an actor does several things simultaneously, thereby drawing
gasps of appreciation and applause from the audience? Where is the ‘show
R൵¶DVSHFWLQ\RXUPDLQFKDUDFWHU":KDWSK\VLFDOOLQJXLVWLFWHFKQLFDORU
emotional challenge have you set for the actor?
“I want to be able to hear what the actor is saying.”
This is not simply a matter of ensuring that the actor speaks more
loudly! The problem of inaudibility may be built into the writing. For
example, have you made both the character and the language so ‘tiny’ that
it’s better suited to TV than theatre? Are there no large emotions in your
characters? Is there a downward direction to your theatrical language?
(See Chapters 10 and 11 on dramatic language.) Have you made your
theatrical language so “realistic” that its very ordinariness makes for
small, unexciting, arrhythmic lines that can only be played small? Are
the characters just too dull?
“I want to be given insights into human life.”
What insights are you giving into human life and experience in the
play you are writing? Are you saying the obvious? Is your research so
VXSHU¿FLDOWKDWWKHUHLVQRWKLQJLQ\RXUSOD\WKDWFRXOGQRWEHOHDUQHGIURP
the average newspaper article? Where is the fact, the insight, the percep-
tion that few in the audience have ever read, heard, spoken or thought of
before? Is the ‘emotional research’ deep enough or thought-through (that
is, how a human being in that situation would respond)? What is the big
idea in your play? What are the big themes (love, revenge, passion, duty,
jealousy etc) that will not let go of you, and therefore the characters will
also not let go of?
“I want to be shocked.”
What shocked you in the writing of this play? What moved you?
What excited you? What made you cry out loud? What made you laugh
so much that you embarrassed yourself in a public place? If none of these
things happened, something may be wrong. My own experience is that if
,ZDVQRWODXJKLQJFU\LQJKRUUL¿HGDWDSDUWLFXODUVSRWLQWKHZULWLQJRID
play, then the eventual audience wasn’t either.
“I want to see great acting.”
Great acting requires great parts. Great parts need a conception of

character which is larger than ‘the ordinary’. Thus, which of your charac-
ters is not just ‘bad’, but monstrous? Which of your characters is not just
‘emotionally intelligent’, but preternaturally sensitive to a degree that is
almost psychic? Which of your characters has a control of language which
borders on the spell-binding and virtuosic? Which of your characters is
so inept in the use of language that it verges on the retarded? Beyond all
these, however, extraordinary acting is the result of extraordinary wilful-
ness, whereby a character says, “This… I really, really want it, and I will
do absolutely anything to achieve it!”
“I hate not being able to see what’s going on.”
You might think this audience wish is a problem for the stage designer
WRVROYH7KLVLVODUJHO\WUXHEXW\RX¿UVWQHHGWRFUHDWHDVWDJHVSDFH
which has movement built into it (in the rhythms of your language, or
in the energy and physicality of the characters’ responses to each other.)
If there’s no inner life to the play, all the stage designer can do is create
impressive stage pictures in the hope that the audience will not notice that
there is no life to the play beneath its surface.
“I want to be shown a whole new world.”
You’ve got two big choices here: the exotic and the familiar. You can
create a world that makes an audience think, “I’ve never seen this world
before.” The obvious way to do that is to set it in a place which actually is
quite exotic and foreign to its intended audience. To a Nevada audience, a
Parisian café is exotic. To a Parisian audience, Nevada is exotic. I’ve seen
or read wonderful (and occasionally bad) plays that were set on the moon,
the top of Mount Everest, the bottom of the Rhine River and other unusual
locales. But there’s another option: the familiar. Setting a play in a social/
physical location very familiar to the audience is tantamount to saying,
“Watch this space: I’m about to show you how strange your ‘familiar’ world
really is.” Your writing and its insights will suddenly make the audience see
their own world with new eyes. That, too, is exciting playwriting.
“I want to see a play that explores something of relevance to my life.”
This is partly ‘the vicarious’ problem again. But it’s also asking you
WR¿QGZKDWLVZRUU\LQJ\RXDQG\RXUVRFLHW\QRZDWWKLVSRLQWLQLWVKLV-
tory. An older writer friend once suggested, to a young writer who asked
him “What is there to write about?” He said, “Find what the community
is most ashamed about, and write about that.” This is a variation on the
idea that an audience actually likes to worry when it goes to the theatre.
An audience likes to have its ‘hopes and fears’ buttons pressed. So decide,
quite early in the writing, what fear, anxiety, fantasy, hope or shame you
are thematically exploring, and then go in hard, pushing your characters,
story and theme to the limit.
“I want to laugh.”
In a very simple sense, laughter is the release of tension. If there is no

laughter in your play, it could be that there is also no tension. You don’t
have to be writing a comedy for the natural tensions and the relief of them
to be present in both the story and your characters. It doesn’t have to be
belly laugh territory. Audiences also like irony, which tells the audience
“there are things this character doesn’t know about himself, but you, clever
SHRSOHGR´)HDULVDOVRXVHIXO$WHUUL¿HGFKDUDFWHULVRIWHQYHU\IXQQ\
“I want a good story.”
As we’re about to see, a story is a narrative pattern which creates

expectations in the minds of its audience. Even as a child, you will have
heard hundreds of stories. The hearing and watching of stories creates
expectations—of what will happen, and what will not happen. As dra-
matic storytellers, we have several tasks: to satisfy the expectations of
our audience; to subvert those expectations (by giving them something
else instead), and to overcompensate for the expectations (by giving them
something much better than the audience thought it wanted.) As we’ll see,
a ‘good story’ operates on many levels, and usually demands much of its
audience, even if they don’t realise it.
“I want to feel awe and a sense of mystery.”
A play is not just ‘a story told in the theatre’. Its narrative pattern
has an inbuilt form that is itself a statement about life and the universe.
The world in which a story is set is just as important as the story itself. A
director once told me that, more than anything, he asks of a playwright
that he or she “create a world”. What makes up this world is crucial. Is the
world benign? Is it malevolent? Is it godless? Is it narcissistic? In other
words, a story and its world is the excuse for a meditation on spiritual
and philosophical values. Remember that Western theatre came initially
from a volatile and shifting relationship with religion. The best theatre
still has something big to say about the deepest issues. Your job is not
necessarily to provide people with easy (or even clear) answers. Just show
them how complex the question is. Their hearts and minds will take the
question away and wrestle with it, dream about it, and brood on it. Show
them what’s incomplete, enigmatic and mysterious about life by imbuing
the dramatic world and your characters with those features.
“I want to be given something that’s thought-provoking.”
An actress once endeared herself to me by describing an early play

of mine in these terms: “There was nothing in the play that I didn’t
know already.” After several days of pain, I realised she had taught
me a valuable lesson. A good play is an experience of shock for
the audience. They sit there and think, “My God, I never realised that!”
The shock might be informational (facts, insights and connections they
didn’t know or hadn’t made for themselves); emotional (a relationship
pushed way past the point of safety); social (posing a tough question to
a society reluctant to think about the answer); or philosophical (asking a
big question about life). You’ve got two choices: you either go broad or
deep. ‘Broad’ is where you read widely on an area, so that what you have
to say cannot be read in the average daily newspaper. ‘Deep’ is where
you think through the implications of an idea so that everyUDPL¿FDWLRQ
(however terrible) is made possible in your story.
“I want to be surprised by something.”
Many things surprise an audience: unexpected cruelty, a plot twist,

a rapidity of plot development. In one sense, every scene that you will
ever write is likely to have one or more surprises in it. As we’ll see later
in the book, one of the best types of climax to write is one which reverses
everything that has gone on up to that point. That type of climax is always
a surprise to at least one of the characters.
“I want to be spatially excited.”
As I explain in the chapters on structure, a play is an excuse to

release energy. It ‘explodes into space’, as it were. A character bursts into
song. A relationship erupts into savage recrimination. A group of actors
perform the same physical/verbal action simultaneously. All these things
create a wave of energy which reaches every member of the audience.
We actually go to plays not just for their story, but also to receive energy.
A good production or performance has you bouncing with energy. A bad
one simply tires you.
To ‘spatially excite’ an audience, try any of the following: have

several things happen at once; have your story go so fast that the audience
must ‘chase’ the play (something they enjoy doing more than you might
realise); have a character talk to several characters at a time; have two
plots operate at once; get the actors’ bodies working (and not just their
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writing that shows the world as a type of semi-chaotic carnival, full of
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“I want to hear wonderful, intricate language.”
Intricate, ambitious language often comes from a similar ambition of

theme and story. Unless you’re explicitly creating a character of unusual
abilities in language (and nothing wrong with that), then you’ll need to
create the big story, and then consider the social, realistic, emotional and
metaphysical levels that your story deals with. Create characters who
live on those levels, and the language will follow. Easy to say (or write)
but harder to do.
“I want to be entertained.”
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said, a way of making people forget where they are for two hours.
Nothing wrong with that, though theatre has other higher, more exciting
and deeper roles to perform. They can also be mesmerised, lulled, made
WRZRUU\EHKRUUL¿HGGHOLJKWHGRUWHDVHG6HWRXWWRJLYHWKHDXGLHQFH
an experience that will demand the best of them, and they’ll soon forget
about the valid but highly comfortable desire just to be entertained. They’ll
be too absorbed in the world of your play to ask themselves such an
obvious question.
“I want to see a story that helps us with our problems.”

A ‘relationship story’ is often very important in this regard. (A
‘relationship story’ is one where the most important agent of character
and plot is a central relationship.) Often these types of plays perform a
valuable function: of telling people how to love. It’s not going too far to
say that every relationship involving deep feeling is, to its audience, a
mirror of ‘how one can love and relate’. It’s one reason why love stories
are so popular. Beyond escapism and weepy sentimentality, an audience
is being taught (or reminded) of some basic principles of human relations.
“I want to feel a lot of emotion.”

Put simply, if your characters have no deep and rich emotions, then
the audience won’t either, as long as they’re watching your play. Above
all, your characters need to have two things: a thought-life, and a feeling-
life. A ‘thought-life’ is that area of human consciousness which deals
in understanding, both cognitive (thinking) and intuitive. ‘Feeling-life’
means the area of the emotions. Test your characters: How many emo-
tions does your character feel? Generally speaking, the more important
the character, the larger, deeper and more complex should be the range of
emotions that the character has access to. As a writer, you need to create
characters who are much more spontaneous than you probably are. I’ve
noticed that writers, compared to actors (and people generally) tend to be
less emotionally responsive, and less spontaneous and direct in the com-
munication of those emotions. It’s the down-side of being a writer. We
‘ferment’ stories, characters and ideas inside us, but sometimes they don’t
come out properly distilled; they’re just pickled from too much brooding
and introversion. And worst of all, it creates a habit of being constantly
complicated in our responses to many things (life, love, people). Some-
times simple (but powerful) is better, in life and literature.
“I like a show that’s full of sound.”
An odd request, you might think. But historically, drama has always
been a multimedia event, full of sound, light, colour, costume and fury.
It’s only recently, with the advent of the well-behaved, middle-class
‘theatre of discussion’ (most prominent in the British theatre until recent
times) that we’ve got used to a ‘drier’ type of theatrical experience: a bit
RIVRXQGPRGHUDWHO\ULFKOLJKWLQJH൵HFWV«%XWZKDWHOVH"7KHLGHDORI
theatre is when its verbal richness is combined with the plastic physicality
of dance, mixed with the ceremonialism and visceral power of opera, and
given the transcendence of music, only to be brought back to earth by the
spontaneity of stand-up comedy, and then braced by the ritual uncertainty
and fear of blood sports. The ancient Greek theatre was closer to a Broad-
way musical than the talk-talk of much theatre today. The implications
DUHFOHDU¿OO\RXUSOD\ZLWKORWVRIPXVLFOLJKWVRXQGIXQIHDUIXU\
spookiness, weirdness, changes of pace, dashes of surprise and dollops
of outright perverseness.
“I want to see cleverness.”
7KLVRQH¶VVLPSOH\RX¶UHWKHUHWRVKRZR൵:ULWH\RXUSOD\VZLWKDW
least half the self-conscious cleverness that most other entertainers (pop
singers, footballers, self-help gurus and TV evangelists) take for granted.
This doesn’t mean that you should strain to be clever. Work at being subtle,
swift, dazzlingly ironic, verbally dexterous—and all for a higher cause
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Let them be wittier, cleverer, more intuitive, more emotionally powerful
than you ever are in real life—even if, on some other level (emotional,
social) they’re rather stupid.
“I want to see a play with issues that linger after the play’s over.”
Put simply, a play that lingers does so because it has not provided
answers so much as rich, paradoxical questions. I’ve already discussed this
idea, but mention it again because there’s another angle to this: the topical. A
contemporary political or social issue that is topical, burning and extremely
GL൶FXOWWRVROYHPLJKWZHOOPDNHDJRRGSOD\EXWGRQ¶WJHWWUDSSHGLQWR
the idea that plays must always be about important political or social issues
of the moment. A year goes by, and your play may be as stale as a week-
old doughnut. A debate doth not a play make. If you can debate the issues,
it could be that it’s better left as a debate (or a documentary) than a play.
“I want to see depth in characters.”
In drama, ‘depth’ is always an illusion. But it is an illusion that

must be striven for. I deal with this question extensively in the chapters
on character, so all I’ll say now is to repeat that a ‘deep’ character feels
deeply, thinks deeply and responds from the depths of his/her guts. Be-
FDXVHKHIHHOVKLVUHVSRQVHLVERGLO\%HFDXVHKHWKLQNVZLWKHYHU\¿EUH
of his being, this character’s response is powerful, physical and eruptive.
“I want to see something controversial.”
:H¶UHQRWZULWLQJWKHDWUHWREHDWDPHSOD\WKLQJRIWKHERUHGEXWD൷X-
ent. We need to take on the toughest areas and give the audience the feeling
of exhilaration that comes from knowing it’s in dangerous and uncharted
territory. “Uncharted” is a key word here. Our job is to enter new territory,
narrative and thematic; to create the age rather than just retrospectively
UHÀHFWLW7KHFRPSRVHU.DUOKHLQ]6WRFNKDXVHQRQFHKHDUGWKDWKLVIHOORZ
composer John Cage was exploring a particular area of electro-acoustic
sound. He immediately cancelled his own projects in that area. I wish we
theatre writers had such a rigorous integrity (or vanity). It would mean far
fewer plays on tired or over-explored areas. The taboos are particularly dif-
¿FXOWLQWKLVUHJDUG,QFHVWIRUH[DPSOH,WZDVµQHZ¶SROLWLFDOO\VRFLDOO\
thirty or more years ago.
“I want an intellectual challenge.”
Don’t shrink from intellectual complexity. It hasn’t hurt Tom Stop-

pard’s career. In this country, we have an immature tendency to propose
ideas simply to laugh at them. It takes more guts (not to mention research
and dramatic skill) to vigorously propose a big ambitious idea.
“I want an amazing, strong opening.”
Another strange request, you might think. But personally, I would

rather see an author promise the world, even if she ran out of steam half
way through. Better this than a safe, well-behaved and predictable story
that never promised—or delivered—much at all.
“I want to be transported, taken somewhere.”
This is a common desire in audiences: the desire to be ‘taken on a

journey’. There are several ways of ensuring that this happens. One is to
give the characters themselves a very rich and powerful journey through
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they will inevitably be swept along for the ride. Another invitation to
journey comes in the form of “the inviting world”. The world that looks
interesting, sexy, intriguing, hot, magical and bewitching is very hard to
UHVLVW,QRWKHUZRUGVLW¶VDOOLQWKHORFDWLRQ$ZLQGVZHSWFOL൵LVWRPH
intrinsically more alluring than Fred and Flo’s kitchen in suburbia.
“I want surrealism and fantasy.”
Don’t we all! But do we get it? Our theatre is surprisingly realist,

perhaps because our own cultural and historical conditioning has been
pragmatic, unambitious, realistic and sceptical. But even within this culture
and history there has been room for the ironic, the quirky and the satirical.
Alternately, consider ignoring past conditioning. Try and amaze people
with the utopian intensity of your imaginings. Keep pride of place for the
surreal, the fantastical and the bizarre. Our theatre is mostly dominated by
social realism, which concentrates on ‘solving problems’, mostly social
issues, ‘burning questions’ and other moral teasers. Consider stepping
outside the picket fence of realism and recognisable character types. Or,
better, give those character types a few more levels. After all, surrealism
was invented through a collage-type process of simply layering one real-
ity on top of another: the lion in the business suit; the bishop preaching
to a congregation of pigeons. Juxtapose one reality with another, and you
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“I want to see lots of spectacle and visual delights.”
Satisfying this wish is easy: where are the ensemble scenes in your
play? Where are the rituals (social, religious, political, personal, emotional
or psychological) whose disruption makes for great theatre? (Look at all
the disrupted rituals in fairy tales and Shakespeare: weddings that go
wrong; banquets with uninvited guests, interrupted masques and other
volatile rituals). What about a scene or two set at night? (Film thinks like
this, but it’s amazing how few plays have a sense of day/night about them.
“I want some theatrical magic.”
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it—and I make another attempt in Chapter 29, in my discussion on those
American plays which succeed internationally. There is literal use of magic
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writers—with the honourable exception of some Irish playwrights—are so
reticent to use the occult, the esoteric or ‘other’ when our age has probably
never been so open to it? We’ve probably never been as Jacobean as now,
where the horrors of the last century have bred an audience that relishes
a taste for the monstrous.) But magic can be gentler, too. Shakespearean
magic comes from a feeling that we, the audience, are being given a
privileged access to the inner life, most particularly the rich, sophisticated
inner lives of Shakespeare’s major characters. We can aspire to the same,
by remembering that drama is the unleashing of the characters’ inner lives,
and the story is just the key that opened the door. In theatre, as we’ll see in
the chapters on story, ‘story’ is a means, not an end. There might also be
magic, however, in the world that you’ve created. In all dramatic ‘worlds’
there is usually a dominant tone: a yearning for the past, a hope for the
future, an obsession with loss. Tennessee Williams and Chekhov are the
masters in creating such worlds.
“I want to be changed forever.”
It’s often said by the deep thinkers in our newspapers that we are
‘change weary’. But change is natural and mostly good. When an audience
asks to be ‘changed’ it is expressing the hope that, tonight of all nights,
they’ll see the best play they’ve ever seen, the one play that made up for
all the other nights of disappointment. Change is built into our very notion
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moral questioning, transformation and redemption. It’s a seductive formula,
though not all writers believe in it. An Arthur Miller certainly does, but not
so a David Mamet. You should decide your own relationship to the notion
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your story? In writing your play are you trying to change your audience?
,¶YHQRWWULHGWRFHQVRUGH¿QHRUVPDUWHQXSWKHFRPPHQWVDERYH
They are typical of how audiences tend to feel.
A few more thoughts about audiences: First, and most importantly,

there are many audiences. There is no one homogenous group. Your job
LVWRZULWHD¿QHSOD\DQGEHLQJD¿QHSOD\LWZLOO¿QGLWVDXGLHQFH7KDW
audience may be a large one. It may not be. But there is always room for
another good play. There are always too many bad plays and not enough
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When an audience goes to see ‘a show’, they may have many precon-
ceptions (social, cultural etc), but few actual demands, apart from the ones
you set them up to expect. The style or theatrical conventions used, the type
of story and how you use language are entirely up to you. Whatever you
do, they just want it to be wonderful. It’s a good time to be writing plays.
Compared to previous generations and centuries, our modern audiences have
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delirious with gratitude if they got even half of the wish-list I’ve just listed.
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one technically achieves many of the ideals you’ll have to seek out the
more detailed information in the specialist chapters on dramatic language,
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read the later chapters, this chapter may be worth revisiting.
For now, let me conclude this section by pointing out the obvious:
that an audience is made up of individuals who lead lives composed of
many levels. On an individual and group level, an audience leads a physi-
cal life. It has a social life. It leads a political life, however latent. It has
a sensual and sexual life. It thinks. It feels. It has much life-experience
which it brings to the play, hoping that this will be deepened. It brings
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fears and anxieties, as well as its hopes, its sense of fun, playfulness and
imagination. It’s a great honour and joy to be a playwright. But it’s an odd
profession when you think about it. You are communicating with strangers,
touching, stimulating, provoking and moving them.
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WKHPE\VKRZLQJWKHPZKDWLVWUXHDERXWWKHPVHOYHV,WLVDJUHDWD൶UP-
ing act which helps to make up the civil society we live in. It is one of the
supreme acts of generosity, to create a story that speaks to these strangers.
For as long as the play lasts, they are not strangers. They are bonded by
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PRESSING THE F-BUTTONS FOR A RICHER AUDIENCE RESPONSE
When I started writing plays, I had no idea what I was doing. I simply
wrote. Or to put it another way, I wrote simply. To me, it was wonderful.
But to others...
It took a while before I realised that the unconscious can be con-
sciously ‘stoked’ with aspects that the writing needs to deliver in order to
create rich, multi-layered theatre stories. Those ‘other’ aspects include the
FDSDFLW\WRD൵HFWWKHIHHOLQJVRIRXUDXGLHQFHWKHDELOLW\WRFUHDWHIHDULQ
them; or the power to ‘mess with the minds’ of the paying audience. All
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6R,JUDGXDOO\GHYHORSHGDWKHRU\RIµKRZWRD൵HFWDQDXGLHQFHRQ
multiple levels’, and by pure coincidence, they all seemed to have an
F-word in them. I give you this list below, with comments on the use of
HDFKµ)%XWWRQ¶WKDW\RX¶OOQHHGWRSUHVVLQRUGHUWRD൵HFW\RXUDXGLHQFH
on more than one level.
1. FEELINGS
It’s easy to write without feelings. But the writing may not be any
good. John Osborne, the British playwright, considered his job was the
education of the audience’s emotions, to educate them in subtleties and
depths of feeling. But this point should not be misunderstood: it is not an
invitation to become sentimental or lachrymose.
To help an audience to feel deeply is one of the greatest gifts you can
give them. To do this, you need to create characters who feel. That is, they
have a feeling-life. They feel things. They feel contradictory things. Ideally,
your characters will live as many humans do: on the edge of their nerves,
on the adrenalin of their emotions. They will erupt, shout, scream for joy,
be ecstatic, furious, or all of the above. But they will feel something. And
they will constantly be dealing with the turbulent complexities of their
unpredictable, uncontrollable inner life. You don’t have to be that way
yourself (as, to some extent, Tennessee Williams was). But you should
create characters who are dominated by their emotions, their inner feel-
ings, doubts and yearnings. Tennessee Williams’ characters did—and his
plays are some of the treasures of American theatre.
2. FUN
Great art can be full of fun. Mozart’s music is. Shakespeare’s plays
are. ‘Fun’, to me is the expression of an inner life that is (even temporar-
ily) in a state of freedom. It may express itself as character playfulness,
or it may be the inevitable result of a plot whose bizarre paradoxes and
grotesque ironies cannot be held back any longer.
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enjoying the awkwardness, the looming embarrassment or the incipient
humiliation being delivered by the plot. Fun can be innocent, child-like
and care-free. Or (believe it or not) it can be loaded with tension, danger

and fear. Look at the example from Roland Schimmelpfennig’s play in the
previous chapter. I’ve seen this play a few times, and the opening causes
laughter, shock and audience release every time.
3. FEAR
Fear is one of the most powerful tools you have in drama. The audience
JRHVWRZRUU\&KDUDFWHUVZKRDUH¿OOHGZLWKIHDUDUHDOVRWHOOLQJWKHDXGL-
ence: “You should be frightened too.” And only a bad writer fails to transfer
the fear to her audience. Dramatic stakes—where something universally
valued can be won or lost, are probably enough to create fear in both plot
and characters. It should then transfer to the audience. When characters are
victimised and/or manipulated (whether it’s Othello or Laura in The Glass
Menagerie) the audience feels fear on the character’s behalf.
4. FRISSON (Social, emotional)
Human beings are also social beings, and the pure pleasure that comes
from human’s getting together in a pleasurable social context should not
be overlooked. It creates an almost instant rapport with the audience.
Audiences like seeing characters being happy, however temporarily, and
for a legitimate reason. And experiencing pleasure in the company of other
people is one of the most legitimate reasons possible. So use this Frisson
Button when you need to create a temporary break in what might be an
otherwise oppressive and uni-tonal dramatic world.
5. FANTASY (Social/Emotional/Material )
:H¶YHDOOVHHQ¿OPVWKDWZHUHEDVHGRQD³:KDWLI"´IDQWDV\³:KDW
if you won a million dollars?”, or “What if you could manipulate reality
so that a stunningly handsome man fell in love with you, even though you
were obese?” In theatre, however, the Fantasy Button needs to be a little
more subtle and less craven. The best way to create the Fantasy level in
your dramatic world is to use any of the following three types of fantasy:
—A social fantasy (e.g. a fabulous group of close friends, whom any

audience member could envy and wish she had);
—An emotional fantasy (e.g. the perfect marriage/relationship)
—A material fantasy (e.g. the perfect home overlooking the sea; a job to
die for, an income in the stratosphere etc)
The important thing to say about the Fantasy Button is that while
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for example, gives away his wealth at the start of the play. But he pays
for it. That is probably the way to go: a character lucky enough to have
something the audience envies should probably pay for it in some way.
But in the meantime, the audience will be envious, fascinated—and will
watch like crazy to see what happens.
6. F ... for DESIRE
A writer friend of mine believes that plays are really ever only about
one of two things: either sex or death. Whether that’s true or not, it’s a good
place to start, for desire (bodily, carnal, guilty, libidinous or saturnine) is
one of the great dynamic forces we can bring into play when we release
our stories into theatre space. Don’t misunderstand this point: I’m not
advocating that our theatre be a type of ersatz soft porn. Quite the reverse.
The power of longing and desire lies precisely in the way it is bottled up,
suppressed to a state approaching boiling-point... and only then should it
be released. And sometimes, not even then. See it this simply: characters
who desire each other are, by nature, theatrically powerful. Don’t be afraid
to bring this desire into play and make it palpable in the language, the
interactions and the plotting.
7. The FANTASTICAL
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us theatre writers into taming down the power of the theatre space, so that
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HVW²LQUHDOLVP)LOPZLOODOZD\VR൵HUDPRUHFRQYLQFLQJDQGDWWUDFWLYH
form of reality and representation than theatre, so our response should be
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IDQWDV\ERWKLQODQJXDJHDQGLQWKHW\SHRI¿FWLRQDOZRUOGVZHR൵HUWKH
theatre audience. The most amazing scenes in Shakespeare are precisely
those which are least “realistic”: the ghost scenes, or the mad, bedlamic
scenes, where bestial impulses (Titus Andronicus), paranormal phenomena
(Hamlet), bizarre miracles (The Winter’s Tale) and freakish feats of nature
(The Tempest) are unleashed on the awe-struck human witnesses of such
events. Imagining a world where miracles (demonic, celestial or simply
the inexplicable) occur could create plays that the audience wants to see.
8. FRENZY (Dionysian)
Why should the devil and rock music have all the fun? Frenzy—that
ecstatic delight—that takes a dramatic character outside himself is a much
under-used Button in the writing of many contemporary theatre writers.
At one point in Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa, (a huge international
success, by the way), the women of the village put aside their humdrum
existence and hurl their bodies into a dance that is more than just ‘enjoy-
able’. Its energies are ecstatic and transporting. Similarly, I’ve seen more
than a few performances of Romeo and Juliet where the young lovers both
move and speak with an ecstatic abandon and energy. Could it be that
Shakespeare was aware of the power of frenzy as a dynamic and tonal
level in play writing? Of course he was. Even his comic characters (Sir
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the slightest prompting.
9. FURY
Just as Frenzy is the ‘good’ side of ecstatic release of human emotions,

so Fury is the more demonic, more anguished and wrathful side. Romeo
has it, in his famous ‘Banished’ speech, which I examine in Chapter 12.
10. The FAMILIAR
The world is a strange place. It’s why we connect with things we

already know. Any university lecturer will tell you how students gravitate,
week after week, to the same part of the lecture hall; even the same seat.
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But for most of us, most of the time, the world of the Familiar is what we
know—and like. The relevance of all this to your theatre writing is simple:
One of the easiest ways to charm an audience into the dramatic world of
your play is to give them the F-button of familiarity. “Oh, I see, this is an
R൶FH´2U³,JHWLW²WKLVLVDMRELQWHUYLHZ´,WDOVRKDVVRPHWKLQJWRGR
with what I call giving the audience a Temporary Certainty. For example,
the job interview is the Temporary Certainty; but soon, the scene might
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because you hooked them with the Familiar world they know. Even if they
hate that familiarity, are ambivalent about it, or fear it (another F-button
in itself) they’ll already be inside, because you put them there by relating
it to their pre-existing knowledge of the world.
11. The (PSEUDO)-FAMILIAL
The family is, and probably always will be, a powerful force in both
society and drama. Related to this F-level is one I will call the ‘Pseudo-
)DPLOLDO¶,GHDOZLWKWKLVPRUHLQ&KDSWHULQWKHVHFWLRQRQ¿QGLQJ
the Universalism in your play. In essence, this level deals with those
dramatic relationships that are quasi-familial in nature. In other words,
when two female characters form a relationship, it may resemble a sibling
or sisterly relationship. But because they are not sisters, it can only ever
be a quasi-sisterly relationship. But this is a strength. I’d almost say this:
a sisters-in-spirit relationship has even more powerful dramatic potential
than a set of real sisters, because the audience makes the bond itself (at
your prompting) and it adds yet another level of meaning to an already-
interesting relationship.
12. (MODERNIST) FATALISM & FOREBODING
All over Europe, a spectre is looming. The benign, humanist Christi-

anity which sustained cultures and theatre audiences for centuries is being
questioned. In some cases, this questioning creates wonderful theatre.
In other cases, the questioning has advanced to the point where a New
Certainty now exists. This ‘new’ certainty involves an approach to life
and human experience that is fatalistic, brooding, a little cynical, with an
irony verging on the grotesque. If you think that all describes the current
German theatre, you’d be at least half-right. For this is where this New
Certainty comes from: the paradoxical belief that life is no longer certain,
pleasure is nuanced by pain, doubt, anxiety and other negative emotions,
DQGLI\RXSXVKKDUGHQRXJK\RX¶OO¿QGWKDWOLIHLVDIUDJLOHWKLQJRQWKH
edge of a fearful abyss. And that is the tone of many (frequently German)
plays now having wide international success.
The play I quoted from in Chapter 3, by Roland Schimmelpfennig
is a good example. Disaster is just around the corner. Don’t open your
front door. You never know who will be waiting there for you. It’s dan-
gerous—and rather exciting. American theatre has its equivalent, in the
Gothic forebodings of Sam Shepard and other writers.
PRESSING THE F-BUTTONS: HOW DO YOU MIX THEM?
The F-buttons do not usually exist in isolation to each other. In other

words, when one F-button is pressed, it’s usually in combination with
one or two others.
For example, a brooding, dark, dramatic world (the Fatalistic/Fore-
boding button) might also have a spirit of playfulness, however dark (the
Fun button). But soon, the Fear button is pressed (for example, by the
arrival home of a truly scary character). It’s not your job to ‘systematically’
press any F-buttons. Rather, your only task is to respond deeply to any
VWRU\\RXZULWH%\DOOPHDQVRQFHWKH¿UVWSDVVLRQDWHZULWLQJLVGRQH
you can set out to add other levels of meaning and richness, by checking
that a certain F-button or two has been pressed. But this should not be
too calculating. Just let your writing run free and wild, then review what
you’ve written a bit later. It’s then that you might want to consider what
actual buttons you’re pressing in the audience’s consciousness.
69
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
WRITING FOR THEATRE SPACE (I): FIRST PRINCIPLES
Theatre is hard. I wish it weren’t, but it is. You’re not required just
to tell a good story. You have to tell it in theatrical space in real time be-
fore people who will fall asleep or walk out if you haven’t done a good
job. This chapter and the next concentrate on showing you how to use
theatrical space.
To put it another way: when you write a play, you have two challenges
WRRYHUFRPHWKHFKDOOHQJHRI¿QGLQJWKHULJKWnarrative form, and more
LPSRUWDQWO\¿QGLQJWKHULJKWtheatrical form. But you will only solve the
problem of theatrical form, by understanding the phenomenon of theatre
space. Incredibly, information on how to write for theatre space is hard
to come by. The reason is that how-to-write books are often written by
non-writers who’ve never had to solve such practical problems.
/HWPHVWDUWE\EUDYHO\SURSRVLQJDGH¿QLWLRQRIGUDPD“Drama is
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social context (people, groups, relationships) which uses narrative patterns
(myths, story) to express itself through the medium of time and space.”
A story is the excuse to release a great deal of energy. There are lots
of energy ‘types’— physicalised, verbalised, acoustic, sensory, visual,
emotional even mental energy. The social context is whatever human
situation you are dramatising or embodying. The time aspect has to do
with whatever plot techniques you use. For example, a “fast scene” is a
manipulation of time. (It’s amazing how many of our plotting strategies
have to do with altering time.) And what of space?
It’s the Cinderella of our dramatic technique. The poor cousin that
we writers don’t clothe well enough, leaving it to directors and actors to
³GUHVVWKHSOD\XS´WKHDWULFDOLVHLWPDNHLWOLYHPRUHH൵HFWLYHO\LQWKHDWUH
space than we managed to in our initial writing.
Let’s establish a few basic principles.
First, there are really only ¿YHZD\VWR³¿OOWKHWKHDWUHVSDFH´7KH\
are—
1. STRONG DRAMATIC AND ACTING INTENTIONS
That is, character A has a very strong intention toward character B,

and is hell-bent on carrying it out, by fair means or foul. Iago is going
to turn Othello mad with jealousy; Romeo turns his burning ardour in
Juliet’s direction.
The intention may also be directed against the self, as in Hamlet’s

occasional self-loathing. The very strength of will, passion, fury, desire,
love, an intention to manipulate, all create an invisible ‘line’ across the
space, from A to B. The more intense the initial impulse, the stronger
the line is. Or, to put it another way, the bigger the theatrical space, the
stronger the line must be.
2. HEIGHTENED LANGUAGE
It’s not enough just to have a strong intention. Iago doesn’t simply
glare, whisper and hint. That will not support his evil intention and carry
it across the big theatrical space. He uses a very muscular, rhythmic, even
operatic language, as does Othello. The language dips and dives, now it
soars, now it whines. It’s a real performance. Most importantly, when
needed, it goes up and up and up...
OTHELLO: Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!

Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For ‘tis of aspics’ tongues!
IAGO: Yet be content!
OTHELLO: O, blood, blood, blood!
IAGO: Patience, I say! Your mind perhaps may change.
Is it clear how ‘high’ Othello goes, in intensity, in ‘direction’? The

energy from this speech will hit the roof. It will certainly hit the very back
of the largest theatre. It’s not just a question of shouting, of loud voices. It
is intensity meeting emotion meeting a linguistic vehicle (the right words)
that are capable of carrying it up, up and away. The actor’s body will also
be at work, weaving, dodging and ‘angling’ the lines to all parts of the
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The other thing you’ll notice is that, in order to match him, Iago must
also ‘go up’. He must also match the vocal and emotional energy, even if
only to neutralise him. It’s like a card game. The higher one player goes,
the higher the other one must go, simply to stay with that player.
3. PHYSICALITY
It’s also not enough to have a muscular, highly rhythmic and expres-
VLYHODQJXDJH$MHDORXVPDQKDVDµMHDORXVERG\¶$ZRPDQ¿OOHGZLWK
discontent (like Hedda Gabler) has a panther-like restlessness built into
her actions, her personality, her speech, even her syntax.
There’s an interesting ‘chain of command’ happening here. It goes
like this—
A white-hot intention, want, desire or need (expressed toward self and

others, which Æ
... creates a pumped-up language capable of conveying the emotion
in all its intensity , which Æ
... in turns creates a ‘body’ that, like language, is the expression of
its fundamental need or desire.
Thus, Othello’s body expresses his writhing state of rage, despair

and visceral jealousy. In every case (Romeo; Hamlet; Cassius in Julius
Caesar), a character’s body is a vehicle for expression along with their
language.
Does this mean that you need a language as powerful, as energetic,
as rhythmic as Shakespeare’s? Well, sadly, yes, to some extent. You
don’t have to imitate the Elizabethan grammar, vocabulary and syntax.
But you canEHLQÀXHQFHGE\WKHUK\WKPVUKHWRULFDOÀRXULVKHVDQG
general ‘directionality’ of the language. (I’ll deal with directionality in
WKHQH[WFKDSWHU)RUWKHPRPHQWVX൶FHWRVD\WKDWZKLOH\RXFDQ¶W
copy Shakespeare’s verbal music, which is original to his poetry, you
can copy his rhythms and verbal densities and varieties of texture,
which are basic to the English language—mostly due to him!
But there’s another way to physicalise the stage, while you’re
learning to ‘physicalise your language’. That is, you create a story
that has physicality built into it. Find or invent a story that throws
the characters round—actors don’t mind a few bruises. Don’t just put
your characters under psychological and intellectual pressure, other-
wise you have the talking heads/paralysed bodies syndrome that used
to dominate many British plays. Put your characters under extreme
physical pressure. Get them beaten up—or let them beat themselves
up. Let them be shot at. Let them get physically, socially, emotionally,
mentally ravaged. Why else go to a play if not to see humans being
tormented in some way?
The best writers knew this. Shakespeare doesn’t fool around.
/LPEVH\HVDQGPLVFHOODQHRXVERG\SDUWVKDYHDWHQGHQF\WRJRÀ\LQJ
in your average Shakespeare play. And it’s not just a matter of ‘boys
being violent boys’. If the violence is interior, let him or her be eaten
away with it.
4. THE ‘SPACE-FILLING’ POWER OF IMAGE
The modernist technique of Beckett and his (often German) followers

is useful in this regard. As I indicated in Chapter 1, you don’t always need
ELJSRZHUIXOWH[W6RPHWLPHVWKHUHYHUVHLVMXVWDVH൵HFWLYHFRQFLVHWH[W
which ‘shares’ the space with a repeated image. Look at the following,
from The Ride Across Lake Constance by the German dramatist Peter
+DQGNH*HRUJHLVDWWHPSWLQJWR¿QGFRPPRQJURXQGZLWKWKHVWUDQJHU
-DQQLQJVLQWKHH[LVWHQWLDOYRLGRIWKHLUGRPHVWLFFRQ¿QHPHQW
GEORGE: Take a look around.

(They look around the room.)
Car.
(They hesitate a little, continue looking around the room.)
Cattle prods.
(They hesitate, continue looking around the room.)
Bloodhounds.
(They look around the room, hesitate.)
Hunger oedemas.
(Only JANNINGS looks around the room, hesitates.)
Trigger button.
JANNINGS: You’re right, let’s talk about rings!
Notice how space is ‘shared’ between word and image here. The alter-
nation between spoken and physicalized is almost balletic. (It’s certainly
musical, deriving as it does from the ancient technique of ‘antiphony’ or
‘call and response’, a texture used in styles as diverse as Gregorian chant
and Venetian polyphony.) Similarly, Beckett’s Rockabye is mesmerising
(almost literally) in performance due to the constant, obsessive image of
an old woman bobbing back and forth continuously in a rocking-chair.
In both cases, the crucial thing is repetition of image, and alternation

of image with text. 7KLVOHDGVQDWXUDOO\WRD¿IWKZD\RI¿OOLQJWKHDWUH
space.
5. SENSORY IMPACT
This involves you having a story that’s so big, or so intense, it does

things to the senses of both characters and audience. The dramatic tension
and narrative ‘stakes’ of the play (see Chapter 20) need to be big enough
to justify their devolving into theatre space, but assuming that this is the
case, there are numerous ways that you can spatially reinforce the narrative
and tensional levels of your play. Here are a few—
— Make a lot of noise at some point in your play (sensory overload.)

— Go totally silent at some point (sensory deprivation.)
— Have a story using great (and contrasted) intensities of light (a com-
bination of sensory overload and deprivation.)
— Put the stage ‘set’ (if you even have one) under great pressure. Let it
collapse. Let it be pummelled. Don’t let the props be there for pur-
poses of ‘blocking’ (“Just move over there, darling, and sit down on
that line, would you? Yes, you can take your drink with you.”). If a
prop is there at all on stage, it’s there either to be symbolic (that is,
meaning something more than its material reality) or it’s there to have
the tripe beaten out of its material reality. In other words, if a chair
is not a symbol, then have someone break it. This excites our sense
RIWRXFK6LWWLQJLQWKHDXGLHQFHZHFDQIHHOWKHÀRRUYLEUDWLQJDV
VRPHRQHVWRPSVÀLHVURPSVDQGMXPSVWKHLUZD\WKURXJKWKHSOD\
— Use your cast ‘chorically’. It’s no accident the way that the big operatic
climaxes always bring on as many of the cast as possible. Doing that
ensures that it is not just a ‘narrative climax’. It’s a physical culmina-
tion, a peaking of sound, energy, light, even touch. The audience will
feel the vibration and murderous hatred of an angry crowd, as in Co-
riolanus or in Julius Caesar, when Mark Antony unleashes the mob.
75
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
THEATRE SPACE (II): THE SPATIAL AXIS
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DQDWWHPSWWRPDNHSOD\ZULWLQJDGH¿QDEOHORJLFDODFW7KHWUXWKLVTXLWH
the opposite. Playwriting is an act of intuitive ‘unleashing’. But there is an
important place for being objective about your work. You should try and
understand your writing so you can communicate as strongly as possible,
DQGEHDEOHWRFRQWURODQGVKDSHWKHH൵HFW\RXDUHKDYLQJRQ\RXUDXGLHQFH
My approach is simple: to learn to write, you simply start to write.
But having done this, you then look at what you’ve done. After you’ve
ZULWWHQVWDQGEDFNFRROR൵JHWVRPHVOHHSRUJRRXW$IHZKRXUVODWHU
look at what you’ve done. It’s at this moment that all the principles, rules
RIWKXPEDQGJHQHUDOJXLGHOLQHVR൵HUHGLQWKLVERRNPD\EHXVHIXO
:ULWLQJOLQHVWKDWDUHDFWDEOHGUDPDWLFDOO\SRZHUIXODQG¿OOWKHDWUH
space is, to some extent, an act of intuition. You “feel” what is right for a
certain moment. It’s an instinct, but you can train this instinct.
TRAINING YOURSELF TO THINK SPATIALLY
There are many things you can do to give you a feel for theatre space.
Some of them are obvious.
— See as many plays as you can.

— Read plays imagining their staging.
— Read a play before you see it, and watch the solutions that the produc-
tion comes up with.
— Act in plays, or take part in play-readings.
— Try the following: Simply get up out of your chair, hold the script
in your hand and read aloud the parts. In a good play, you will
feel the movement, the energies and rhythms that are buried in
the lines that make them come alive in theatre space. You will feel
yourself wanting to move, this way, then back, according to what
the line is implying. It’s not just a matter of the literal meaning of
a line. As I’ve said, there is a hidden energy, a concealed rhythm
in many lines that makes it nearly impossible NOT to move when
saying the line.
THE SPATIAL AXIS
As part of your self-training, take a moment to consider the following

theory. I’m on shaky ground here, because I’m attempting to rationalise an
intuition, but from years of watching actors at work on my plays and the
work of others, I’ve come to the view that there is a type of axis at work that
allows both writer and actor to speak a common verbal/physical language.
If you see the actor’s body as a type of instrument, then where that
instrument is pitched to, or sounded, creates a type of spatial geography
in the three-dimensional space of a theatre (height, width and breadth.)
The axes of this spatial ‘compass’ are shown below. There are four
cardinal points.
The northern end of this compass, I’ll call the histrionic. This is the
part of space that is in some way ‘above’ the actor’s body. It may literally
be that spatial area above the actor when she screams or shouts a line.
You may see actors angling their voice and body in a general upward
direction to express an emotional intensity that requires strength, power,
vocal and sensory intensity.
The southern end, I’ll call the ruminative point of the spatial compass.
It is the area around and below an actor’s body, where emotions that are
deeper, less excitably expressed, more personal, more intuitive and less
capable of verbal expression are all given voice and body to.
Both the northern and southern areas of the space around the actor’s
body are part of a vertical axis, and that vertical axis is the domain of
the personal.
The vertical axis can best be understood by comparing it to its op-
posite, the horizontal axis. The horizontal axis governs the realm of the
social. When an actor speaks a line to another actor on stage, he is basically
using the horizontal plane. Energy is “pushed” toward the other actor. The
amount of energy he pushes depends on the line, and what emotionally is
happening at that point of the scene and the story.
This axis-theory is not just an explanation of where actors project their
voice, though that is an important part of it. It helps to explain how theatre
space is bodily created, as actors push energy, intentions, lines of dialogue
and physical movement in a complex, three-dimensional space. As soon
as the actor moves, the third dimension—breadth, or depth—is created.
See it like those revolving carriages you’re strapped into at amusement
parks that then turn you round, sideways and upside down. That is close
to how an actor uses body and voice to send verbal and physical signals
to all parts of the pleasure dome we call theatre space.
This theory is not as new or eccentric as it may sound. Baroque theatre,
opera and music all recognised that there was a physical rhetoric to the
public expression of emotion, an organised system of physical movements
and their verbal correlation. Each emotion had its own ‘body geography’,
which in turn created its own space. I’m not suggesting that a system of
¿[HGPRYHPHQWVRUSRVLWLRQVEHXVHG%XWRWKHUSHULRGVKDYHUHFRJQLVHG
that such a geography exists.
Although there are only four cardinal ‘compass points’ (up, down, and
the horizontal planes) there are hundreds of gradations, perhaps thousands,
because the actor’s body moves not just along the vertical and horizontal
dimensions. An actor is like a swimmer who can twist and twirl, and aim the
line or the emotional intention in absolutely any direction. But there is always
a relationship with the horizontal and vertical. Otherwise, a line of theatre
dialogue would mean nothing, or rather, would always mean the same thing.
To understand this more fully, let’s imagine an actor is performing
onstage. Being a typical actor—with a low boredom threshold—he keeps
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dialogue. The line in question is, “The truth is, I’m not what you think I
am.” It’s not a great line, but it’s not a great play either. It’s a job.
On opening night, because the playwright, the director and the critics
are there, he gives it a very strong but straight reading. He ‘aims’ the line
around shoulder-height of the actress he’s supposed to be addressing. It
seems to work. The next night, still a bit seedy from the opening night
party, he looks directly at her when saying this, and aims the line right
to her forehead. It doesn’t work as well. It needs more of an emotional
“push” to feel right. So over the season, he tries a variety of spatial posi-
tions and emotional weightings. Every night, it means something slightly
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said it, but by where he said it.
This is the joy and the frustration of working in three-dimensional

theatre space. An actor may say a highly intimate, personal line while
looking directly at someone. Or, the line may be just below the eye-contact
line of the other actor. That is another meaning. Or, the actor may send the
line way over the audience’s heads (a reading which may well invalidate
WKHWUXWKRIWKHOLQH2UWKHOLQHFRXOGEHDQJOHGWRZDUGWKHÀRRUZKLFK
would give it another meaning. What makes an actor decide where to place
his body and voice in the performance of text? There are many factors—
— Where the other actors are in the space.

— What emotion must be clearly communicated.
— Where the character is in the ‘character journey’ the writer has created.
— What the audience is meant to take from the passage— the stated, literal
truth, or something else. For example, by simply changing position
and vocal angle, an actor can make the audience believe that what
he is saying about himself is a lie.
All of these go to make up the actor’s decision about how to play a

certain line. It’s what others will call ‘the actor’s instinct’. But there is
more. A line that an audience may ‘expect’ to be delivered in a certain way,
with a certain body/spatial relationship, can often be made more exciting
and truthful by doing the exact opposite. Why? It is precisely because
there is a ‘standard’ body geography to many line readings and emotional
states. The actor recognises this, and works against these expectations.
Suddenly, even a tired and predictable text comes alive.
MAKING THE THEATRE SPACE COME ALIVE
As well as the general ideas I’ve just outlined, I’ll list some very practical
ZD\VWKDW\RXFDQPDNH\RXUZRUNXVHWKHDWUHVSDFHH൵HFWLYHO\,WDOOVWDUWV
with your original text. Look for, or create, a story that has the following—
— Lots of physical movement, as outlined above.

— Lots of entrances and exits. (I’ll discuss this in Chapter 21, dealing
with Scene Making).
²$YDULHW\RIYRFDOH൵HFWVWHPSRVSKUDVLQJ1RWMXVWµFRQYHUVDWLRQ¶
but a range of vocal states (that the story creates in the characters)
such as whispering, howling, singing, mimicking, shouting, scream-
ing, laughing, crying, lecturing, haranguing, droning. Anything but
just “talking”.
— The impact of other arts—music, dance, mime, puppetry, mask.
— The chance for a rich and varied sound-world, such as music, silence,
manufactured sound, natural sound.
— A variety of physicality, from lying down, to running, standing still,
sitting, kneeling, stretching, change of position, and varieties of
movement and momentum. You might think that all this physicality
LV³WKHGLUHFWRU¶VMRE´,W¶VRXUMRE¿UVW
— The chance for a rich and varied use of light and colour, not forgetting
the odd costume change.
A way of expressing the above might be this: Give the audience

something for its eyes, something for its ears, something for its sense of
touch, smell, taste, imagination and intellect.
DOES YOUR PLAY NEED A SET?
This is one of the most confused areas in the thinking of many new
SOD\ZULJKWV0DQ\¿UVWWLPHZULWHUVEHOLHYHWKH\KDYHDWHUUL¿FSOD\LQ
the making because “the set will be amazing.” The truth is, your play may
not even need a set at all.
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recognise your play in one of these.
1. THE ‘NO SET’ PLAY
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alised and physicalised encounter between actors and audience, using the
medium of imagination. If an actor says, “I am Cleopatra”, the audience
will believe it. They have come to the theatre to use their imagination
and watch the actors pretending. If the play is intense enough, or funny
enough, or sad enough, the audience will even forget that there is any
pretence. Why? Because while audiences always ‘suspend their disbelief’
in order to watch a play, they never suspend their belief in the power and
integrity of their own imaginations. An audience believes in the vitality
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audience is asking for that imagination to be engaged. If a play and its
actors succeed in turning on the imagination of the audience, the question
of belief becomes irrelevant. So does a set. Work on the power of your
story and its theatrical communication before you worry about what type
of set you need.
2. THE ‘FIXED-SET’ PLAY
This is where a specially constructed set is used for the entire dura-
tion of the play. This can be a trap for the playwright. The audience has
to look at it all evening, so the set had better be interesting. Often it isn’t.
The reason for this is because many writers do not understand a bizarre
but important fact, which is that theatre does not do interior space es-
pecially well.
Historically, the great theatre has always been an outdoor event—the
Greek, the Elizabethan, the medieval, the modern epic theatre. They are
all more concerned with the social experience of human life. So they put
their plays outdoors, or into a neutral ‘public space’, where the big issues
and the big ideas could be dealt with. It was only in the nineteenth century,
when theatre turned predominantly middle-class that a love of interior
design and domestic themes came to the fore. (Restoration comedy does
not alter this fact. The salon where the wits gathered was really the inva-
sion of private space by all of society.)
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a nicely designed living room. In fact, if I had a dollar for every bad play
I’ve read that was set in a kitchen, living room, bedroom or study, I’d be
a very rich man. Something about interior space tends to stultify. Equally,
setting a play outdoors tends to open up the imagination. We relax. We
breathe more easily. Our senses are more stimulated. But what about Ib-
sen, you say, and his numerous drawing-room plays? Two things should
EULHÀ\EHVDLGDERXWWKDW,EVHQKDGWRDFFHSWWKHPLGGOHFODVVQRWLRQVRI
his time. But he progressively moved away from them. His last play ends
with an avalanche in the great outdoors.
/HWPHR൵HUDUXOHRIWKXPEKHUH,I\RXUVWRU\GHPDQGVWKDWLWEH
set indoors, then extraordinary things should happen in that indoor space.
Look at Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?RU-XOHV)HL൵HU¶VLittle Murders,
where the family takes pot-shots at passers-by from their living room
window. Or Mackerel (Israel Horovitz), where a giant mackerel lands
smack in the middle of the family’s living room. Now, that’s something
to do with the living room. Demolish it.
The reverse also applies: because the outdoors is so alive, you can
often get away with a quietness, an intimacy that would be plain boring
in an interior space. Put it this way—if your play is domestic, small in its
themes, or simply acoustically quiet, then put it outdoors!
3. THE ‘MULTI-SET’ PLAY
This is a type of play that requires two or three main locations. I’m
not a big fan of this type, as it dilutes the power of the space into several
mini-spaces, each weak and lacking the spatial power of the full theatrical
space. I’m not saying it can’t be done. The trick is probably to keep your
writing economic, powerful and brief, so that it’s precisely the interrela-
tion between the spatial areas and the accumulating story that is the main
interest.
People who write this sort of play are often writing a type of wide-
screen television. “Lights up on Fred’s study...Back to Marj on the
porch.” You can often tell a closet TV writer who thinks s/he is writing
for theatre. The give-away is the detail of the scene directions. Fred’s
study is described in such detail that it’s clear that the Theatre Company
is meant to build Fred’s study, piece by piece. (The writer makes it clear
in the dialogue, as there’s some “really funny” by-play as Fred opens and
shuts numerous desk drawers.) Same for Marj’s porch, because she sits
down on it, bashes the back door closed and faints against the awning.
What is really being prescribed here are two separate TV locations. The
writer is simply designing a ‘location’ or set, which is the way TV works.
Television pretends to simulate reality, whereas theatre has to treat reality
as symbolic, because they are in a theatre space whose very raison-d’etre
is the imaginative contract drawn up by audience and actors. There are
no desks in Shakespeare.
Thus, be wary of your own play if it calls for several locations, all
of them indoors. Another clue to this ‘disguised television writing’ is the
smallness of the dialogue and its closeness to social reality. A third clue
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portions before the audience would even notice.
Another problem of the multi-set play is the way it can divide the
stage into small spaces that have no cumulative impact. They’re just
small, uninteresting spaces. But this type of set can, of course, be made to
work—and brilliantly. The Season at Sarsaparilla by Patrick White uses
three simple, iconic domestic residences. It works well because it is based
on one major principle: each stage location is a world in itself (moral,
VSLULWXDODQGLPDJLQDWLYHUDWKHUWKDQDPDWHULDOSODFH7KHGL൵HUHQFHV
and similarities of each of the three domestic worlds are continuously
on display.
4. ‘DIVIDED STAGE’
Despite my comments about the previous type of stage use, there is

VRPHWLPHVDSOD\WKDWH൵HFWLYHO\XVHVDGLYLGHGVSDFHEHFDXVHWKDWLVWKH
very point that the play is making. Ayckbourn’s How The Other Half Loves
has characters enter the two spaces in a dance of love and desire. Early
productions of Death Of A Salesman used an expressionist set design to
VKULQNWKHXSVWDLUVEHGURRPDQGGRZQVWDLUVNLWFKHQ7KHH൵HFWLVHHULH
Are these people giants in a small house? Is the house collapsing in on
them? Or are they pygmies in a doll’s house that the world will soon crush?
5. THE ‘FLUID SCENE’ PLAY
This is, I admit, not a pretty term, but the sort of play that results is
often impressive. It is a character-based and structural approach, where
the writing is so fast and tight, that the whole question of set becomes
secondary. Concentrate on writing brief and highly focussed scenes, where
characters enter with a clear and powerful intention, and the stage design
and set will look after itself. Shakespeare uses this conception of space
brilliantly in Antony and CleopatraZKHQWKHHEEDQGÀRZRIEDWWOHLV
VKRZQZLWKHFRQRP\DQGSRZHU7KHÀXLGVFHQHDSSURDFKVXLWHGWKHRSHQ
Elizabethan stage, but it also suits the modern. Many writers use it: David
Mamet (in Edmond); Nick Parsons (in Dead Heart); Stephen Sewell in
The Blind Giant Is Dancing, Welcome the Bright World and Traitors.
A FEW MORE THOUGHTS ABOUT SETS
— Make your set part of the plot. Look at A Doll’s House, and how the
audience is watching like mad for that dreadful letter to get popped in
the mail-tray attached to the front door. Imagine the physical impact
being made by that damaged spiritual giant, John Gabriel Borkman,
as he paces about upstairs, while downstairs the women engage in a
deadly battle of wills over ownership of the man upstairs.
— Eliminate all props that are not symbolic of something more than their
materiality. Use a single chair, and make that chair mean something
more than ‘something to sit on’.
— Consider placing your props and set under great pressure. Look at how
in Sam Shepard’s Fool For Love, half the set gets blown away with a
shotgun by a jealous husband (or his hit-woman), while the cowering
lovers hide behind a bed.
MAY: Somebody’s sitting out there in that car lookin
straight at me.
EDDIE: What’re they doing?
MAY: It’s not a “they”. It’s a “she”.
(GGLHGURSVWRWKHÀRRUEHKLQGEHG
EDDIE: Well what’s she doing, then?

MAY: Just sitting there. Staring at me.
EDDIE: Get away from the door, May.
MAY: (turning toward him slowly) You don’t know anybody
with a black Mercedes Benz by any chance, do you?
EDDIE: Get away from the door!
(Suddenly the white headlight beams slash across the stage
through the open door. Eddie rushes to door, slams it shut and
pushes May aside. Just as he slams the door the sound of a large
FDOLEUHPDJQXPSLVWROH[SORGHVRৼOHIWIROORZHGLPPHGLDWHO\E\
the sound of shattering glass then a car horn blares and continues
on one relentless note.)
MAY: (yelling over the sound of horn) Who is that! Who in

the hell is that out there!
EDDIE: How should I know?
(GGLHÀLSVWKHOLJKWVZLWFKRৼE\VWDJHOHIWGRRU6WDJHOLJKWVJR
black. Bathroom lights stay on.)
— Start writing your play with only a sense of ‘space’, and allow only
vital, indispensable props to be used as the story demands them.
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PDWHULDOWKLQJV7KHUHDVRQIRUWKLVEULHÀ\LVWKDWWKHDWUHLVDW\SHRI
dramatising of the inner life, which usually involves transcendence
of some sort. Light and music are, by their very natures, transcendent
things, both suggestive and evocative, but impossible to precisely
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expensively built set.
THE FOUR BASIC THEATRE DESIGNS
I write the following not to give you a history lesson, but to stimulate
your own interest in theatre space. As this chapter has tried to show, if
you’ve no understanding of theatre space, you won’t be able to write for
theatre. So let’s look at the four basic theatre designs in use today.
1. THE PROSCENIUM ARCH STAGE
This is a design that is several centuries old. It was based on the de-
sign of the old French Royal tennis court, the space of which was simply
used for theatrical and ballet performances at the French court. One end
of the tennis court became the stage, and the performance took place on
a raised platform. The performance was ‘projected’ from one end to the
other. The proscenium arch theatre suits tableaux and dance theatre, special
H൵HFWVSURGXFWLRQVDQGPXVLFDOVEXWLVRIWHQDGUHDGIXODQGXQV\PSDWKHWLF
space for plays. The reason is that theatre, as I’ve already said, is about
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this is a circle, not a large rectangle. It’s an interesting fact that theatre
that relies just on the spoken word contains much less in-built energy than
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Thus, the trick is to get the audience as close as possible to the stage
and the actors. This is often impossible for most of the audience sitting
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Historically, some audience members who paid enough or were born into
the right class got to sit onstage with the actors, thereby getting very close
to the action—and the energy.
What sort of plays work well in this space? Sadly, not the sort of plays
that most writers can write in the early years of their artistic development.
Big spaces require big plays. By ‘big’ I mean plays that use the
sensual and acoustic impact of a big cast, and deal with ambitious and
epic themes. Theatre space has to be used to the limit to overcome the
limitations of the rectangular space. The language also has to be big in
some way—intense, highly musical. Racine’s passionate and lyrical
poetic dramas grew out of this space. Brecht also works well in this type
of space, where his iconic characters such as Mother Courage have great
mimetic and visual power. Ideally, the large space of most proscenium
theatres will suit big plays. But where there is a shortage of excellent
and ambitious new work (and there usually is), the stage space is simply
reduced in size. Thus, you will often see quite intimate plays for two
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VLPSO\¿OOHGLQE\WKHVHW7KHUHDVRQKDVPRUHWRGRZLWKHFRQRPLFV
and down-scaling than artistic imperatives.
2. THE THRUST STAGE
The thrust stage is where the stage comes out to meet the audience.
The Elizabethan stage works in this way. Modern variants have also at-
tempted to overcome the problems of the proscenium by bringing the stage
forward. I won’t dwell on the perfection of the Elizabethan theatre space,
except to say that it permitted a dazzling blend of intimacy and epic sweep.
3. THEATRE-IN-THE-ROUND
The ‘theatre-in-the-round’ usually ends up a ‘theatre-in-the-half-

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example, great restrictions on the set and the type of play that works well
there; problems of upstaging, sight-lines and where to enter and exit. But
the reason that the fully-round and half-round theatre came into being in
WKH¿UVWSODFHLVEHFDXVHth century theatre changed and required such
a space. A smaller theatre space was needed that could handle a range of
theatre styles, from the experimental to community theatre. A democratis-
ing impulse was also at work, in trying to free the theatre from exclusive
patronage by upper and middle-class audiences.
4. AMPHITHEATRE
As everyone knows, the Greeks invented most things, including the

amphitheatre, and found in this shape a perfect way to show the many
states of drama that their theatre embodied. Theirs was a theatre of ritual, a
theatre of intimacy, a theatre of dance, of comedy, of satire, of communal
FHOHEUDWLRQ,WFRXOG¿WDQHQWLUHVPDOOFLW\LQWRLWVDXGLHQFH7KHDFRXVWLFV
were such that no one was very far from the stage, and even those in the
back rows could hear because the sound carried so well to the raised seats.
A more accurate, but clumsier way to describe the modern adaptations
of amphitheatre design might be a ‘theatre-in-the-half-round’, something I
discussed in the previous section. A modern theatre is often a compromise
between the participatory theatre of theatre-in-the-round and the built-set
DHVWKHWLFWKDWLQÀXHQFHVWKHRWKHUW\SHVRIWKHDWUHVSDFH+HUH\RXJHWD
little bit of both. The audience is still very close to the dramatic action,
but there’s also a set to provide that extra theatrical thrill.
TWENTY INTERESTING LOCATIONS FOR A PLAY
Recently, I asked a group of writers to come up with one or two

interesting locations where a potentially interesting play might be set.
Given twenty seconds to think, they came up with the following. Not all
are brilliant, but they give you some indication of how far you can go.
The suggestions included a forest; a jungle; next to a freeway; on a boat;
the front or backyards of a home (as distinct from the over-exhibited
living rooms we see in many plays); a cemetery; a farm gate; a desert;
DVZLPPLQJSRRODFDYHDFU\SWDFOL൵IDFHDEHDFKDQRSHQDUHD
surrounded by fences, boundaries and borders; a riverbank; a lighthouse;
under the pylons of the world’s largest bridge; the top of a mountain; a
deserted railway station at midnight; another planet.
The implications of this spontaneous list should be clear: that theatre
space is best used when there is a dialogue between interior and exterior
space; that materiality (rocks, concrete etc) is powerful when it is sugges-
tive of human will, intention and ambition (hence the suggestive power
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highly suggestive, being itself a type of metaphor for the human soul.
Many books on play writing deal with space at the end of the book,
if at all. This is surprising, because ‘space’ is the only thing that is unique
WRWKHDWUHDWOHDVWZKHQFRPSDUHGWR¿OPUDGLRDQG798QOLNHWKHVH
three media, theatre uses live space to tell its stories. If you can’t under-
stand and use space properly, then you may be a wonderful story-teller,
but you’re not a playwright, because your story doesn’t need to be—or
can’t be—told in theatre space.
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R൵HULQJUHDVRQVZK\\RXVKRXOGLJQRUHWKHLGHDRIDµVHW¶DQGWKLQNLQ-
stead of ‘theatre space’. But if it turns out that your play requires a built
set, then ask for it. If the play is good enough, you’ll get it. Making dif-
¿FXOWGHPDQGVLVSDUWRIWKHMRERIDWKHDWUHDUWLVW$GLUHFWRURQFHWROGPH
WKDWKHORYHVSOD\VZKHUHDW¿UVWKHKDVQRLGHDKRZKHFDQVWDJHLW6HW
everyone—actors, stage designer, director, sound and light designer—a
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best plays of the post-war period is Wolfgang Borchert’s Draussen Vor
'HU7ĦU. (The Man Outside).
It starts with a man on a wharf about to suicide.
(The wind is moaning. The River Elbe slaps against the pontoons.
It’s evening. The Undertaker. The silhouette of a man against
the evening sky.)
He jumps, and the scene changes to... the bottom of the Rhine River.
Where else? This is what I call an exciting spatial challenge.
87
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CLASSICAL STORY SHAPE: A DEFINITION (OR TWO) OF
‘STORY’
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in prose or verse, designed to interest or amuse the hearer or reader”, and
“A narration of events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing,
or such events as a subject for narration.”
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value of dramatic theory—even the theory contained in this book—is to
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a writer seeking to learn the craft of how stories are made. Why? Because
a story is a complex historical and cultural construction, and is the sum
of many things—an entertainment, a meditation on some deep truth, a
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LVLPSRVVLEOHWRSUHFLVHO\GH¿QH$OO,FDQGRLVR൵HUDVHWRIGHVFULSWLRQV
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— A story is a game, which uses the inner muscle of the imagination.

— A story is about the audience that watches and listens, even as it pretends
to be about the characters in the story.
— A story is a set of encoded meanings with relatively clear implications
about ‘how to live’— or how not to live, how you might live and
how others live.
— A story is a cosmic statement of humanity’s place in the universe.
— A story is a narrative pattern, using recognised mileposts and markers
(eg beginning, ending, climax.)
— A story is an agreement between teller and audience to abide by certain
rules and conventions, depending on the story form, style or genre.
— A story is a meditation on things almost too deep, or high, for words.
(If you doubt this, see King Lear and its unbearable ending.)
— A story is a chance for an audience to dream about something (love,
lost opportunities, sex, or their painful childhood.)
— A story is a deliberate agreement to fantasise about something (“What

if...?”)
— A story is a deliberate attempt to stir up the audience’s fears about some-
thing it is already deeply anxious about (whether it knows it or not.)
— A story is a chance to air and debate social, political, moral and ethi-
cal issues.
— A story is a reminder to its audience that we are social beings who
live in a society.
— A story is an invisible arrangement of incidents in an aesthetically
pleasing manner.
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has just enough of a ring of classical authority to allow me to throw a
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— A story is a structured unleashing of the imagination, using symbolic,

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more powerful than other ‘structured unleashings’ (eg teaching,
therapy, game playing, sermon, speech or dreaming.)
All the above raise big issues that a humble, practical dramatist’s
workbook like this cannot hope to answer, so I’ll simply suggest that you
must decide for yourself what a story is, because the only thing that really
PDWWHUVLVWKDW\RXPDNHDZRUNLQJGH¿QLWLRQIRU\RXUVHOIDQGWKHQget
writing, as soon as possible.
NARRATIVE LEVELS IN A STORY
7RKHOS\RXVHHWKHULFKQHVVWKDWDVWRU\FDQR൵HU,VXPPDULVHEHORZ
an analysis by J.L. Styan, from his book, “The Dramatic Experience”.
Styan lists six levels to narrative, and uses the example of King Lear,
to illustrate.
The level of plot and narrative. At its ‘simplest’, King Lear is a story
of a domestic quarrel which has implications for the family and state. The
interest for the audience is, “What will happen?”
The level of the psychological. The interest here is our speculation
as to basic personality, motive (“Why did s/he behave like that?”). We
watch as several characters, not least Lear, grow in their understanding
of themselves through the course of the play.
The level of morality. This level recognises that good and bad exist
as realities, even though the sophistication of the play doesn’t reduce
characters to simple ‘goodies’ and ‘baddies’. For the audience, the play
becomes an allegory about confronting such realities.
The level of the philosophical. For Styan, this level of the play is a
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constantly being stimulated by Shakespeare as he studs each incident with
meanings much bigger than could be contained by mere plot.
The level of the poetic. Styan considers this level to be a dirge or la-
ment on humankind’s ambiguous position, somewhere between angel and
animal, which is communicated by the play’s powerful images, linguistic
rhythms and musicality.
The level of the dramatic pattern, as Styan calls it, where the audience
responds on the aesthetic level to the play’s coherent tying of meaning to
a tight dramatic structure.
To Styan’s list, I would add the following:
The level of the sensual. Humans live as sensual beings, however
dulled they may sometimes be. In Lear, the role of the senses is strong.
There is much for the ear, the eye and every other sense to relish, not to
mention the visceral revulsion in Gloucester’s eyes being gouged out.
The level of the social and political. A play is often a statement about
the deliberate, intentioned organisation of society, whether political or
not. In King Lear, the role and power of politics and the dominant group
is obvious.
The level of the physical. A play will often deal with the impact of
living on our physical selves. Comedy is frequently a celebration of the
FROOLVLRQRIERGLHVDQGPDWWHU3HRSOHIDOORYHUGRQ¶W¿WWKURXJKGRRUV
Their lives, energies and imaginations are constantly at war with the
material world, and it shows on their damaged bodies.
The level of the metaphysical. A play is ultimately about ‘what im-
plications this story has for our own inner lives.’ Styan partly deals with
this in his poetic and philosophical levels, but there is a point at which
a description of this function as ‘philosophy’ is not adequate. This is the
OHYHODWZKLFKDSOD\EHFRPHVDPDQGDODVRPHLQGH¿QDEOHWKLQJEH\RQG
words, but which allows us to brood on multiple meanings and implica-
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our consciousness but our other ‘selves’—our intuition, our instinct and
our dreaming self.
Having discussed these various levels of a rich play, how do we go
DERXWHQVXULQJWKDWRXURZQSOD\VKDYHWKHVHOHYHOV"7KH¿UVWVWHSLVWR
know that the levels exist. The second is for us as writers to apply these
levels to each major character (and each major relationship), asking very
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‘mesh’ levels together (as indicated in the following brackets). Here are
several questions you could apply to almost any major character:
— What physical life does he lead? (This question explores the relation
between the social and the physical.)
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the moral and the physical selves of a character.)
— What does he dream of at nights? (The social/conscious meeting the
intuitive/unconscious.)
— What does he do for a living—and to what extent is this a sign of his
success/failure in the economic and social world? (This question
explores the idea of ‘the job as symbol of the character’s social
position’, involving consideration of a range of levels—economic,
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— What is his Achilles heel? (Is he, emotionally-speaking, a child? Does
he lack compassion? This weakness or ‘lack’ would have clear con-
sequences in the character’s public or private life.)
— How does he see human life? As a game? A mad farce? A pointless
routine? A joyful romp without consequences? (Whatever way that
this character sees life would have clear implications for how he treats
himself and all those around him.)
Many more questions could be asked of the major characters in

your play. Chapter 15 provides you with the opportunity to ask, literally,
hundreds of such questions.
CLASSICAL STORY SHAPE
+HUHZHJHWTXLWHEDVLF6KDNHVSHDUHGLGQ¶WVWDUWR൵E\ZULWLQJKing
LearDQGQRUFDQZH$QRUWKRGR[EXWQRWVLPSOHVWRU\µVKDSH¶LVR൵HUHG
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And remember, our job as storytellers is to know this narrative pattern so
well that we can do anything with it—turn it around, leave parts out, skip
back and forth, or reverse the order.
I should also state at this point that I use the words ‘plot’ and ‘story’
interchangeably. Some theorists will try and convince you that the two
DUHYDVWO\GL൵HUHQW)RUH[DPSOH(0)RUVWHU¶VQRWLRQLQKLVArt of
the Novel) “Story is when a King dies, and then the Queen dies. But plot
is ‘The Queen died, and the King died of grief.’ ”
The problem to me with Forster’s tempting distinction is that his
‘story’— ‘The King dies, then the Queen dies’— is not even a story. It is
a quasi-statistical register of births and deaths (which is, admittedly, part
of his point.) Story, like plot, is imbued with human motivation, intention,
morality etc…or it is nothing.
Having said that, however, there is one distinction between the two
words that I personally use and recommend: the word ‘story’ implies that
the ordering of events is symbolic—of something deep and important to
human life and experience, and therefore we’d better pay attention to the
story or else we’ll be the poorer for it. ‘Plot’ on the other hand has the
implicit and highly useful notion built into it of structural ordering. That
is, ‘plotting’ is the art and craft of putting these symbolic events into a
certain order, and this order makes for the communication of a rich and
powerful set of meanings relevant to our human existence. Without the
ordering of the symbolic story elements, the meanings would be less clear,
and less convincing.
With that in mind, let me outline a generic story shape.
1. THE BEGINNING
2. DISTURBANCE
3. 1ST MAJOR ACTION/PROBLEM/DILEMMA BEGUN
4. COMPLICATIONS OCCUR; involving SURPRISES and TWISTS
5. REVERSAL
6. NEW ACTION/NEW DECISIONS/NEW REACTIONS (Change of
direction)
7. TURNING POINT (for good or ill)
8. NARRATIVE CLIMAX
9. EMOTIONAL CLIMAX, CLIMAX OF MEANING
10. ENDING.
I repeat: The above is NOT a strict order. In fact, it’s amazing how
ÀXLGHDFKHOHPHQWLV/HW¶VH[DPLQHVRPHRIWKHVH
1. BEGINNING
The beginning of a story. Not as clear-cut as it sounds. The job here

is not necessarily to ‘start a story’. First, we usually have to introduce a
world—and the humans who populate it. The world that we bring into
being might be a very ordinary one—a backyard in suburbia, a city, a

family grouping for some social ritual such as Christmas. That is, it might
be something we know. It might be telling an audience, “This world is
quite familiar to you. It is really your world.” (In fact, it is not, because
the very act of placing it in a theatre space makes it more unreal, more
concentrated and allegorical.)
On the other hand, it might be something we’ve never seen before:
a place that’s clearly exotic, a man who clearly is not ‘one of us’. It
may be a country that never existed. The past is a bit like that. So is
the future.
Try not to be too ordinary, both in the establishing of your world
and its social or geographic location. While it’s true that audiences
often like seeing their familiar world on stage, given a choice between
the suburban living room they just left and Shangri-La, they usually
choose the latter.
More important, however, than the social place in which the story will
take place is the set of relationships, power systems (who’s in charge), the
atmosphere and the emotions, tensions, beliefs and values of the characters
who inhabit this world.
Thus, having established the world, what you need to do, as quickly
as possible, is to disturb it.
2. DISTURBANCE
7HFKQLFDOO\ , GH¿QH WKH 1DUUDWLYH 'LVWXUEDQFH DV change or the

threat of change to the established Status Quo. But there should probably
be an inherent instability in almost any play opening, regardless of the
Disturbance to follow. But if there isn’t, the Disturbance should get the
changes moving nicely. If you think about many of the suggested ways
you can start your play which I outline below, you’ll notice how many
of the suggested options are volatile, unstable things. Stability is hoped
for, or assumed by the characters, but the audience assumes and hopes
for ‘something to happen’—that is, imminent change.
7KH'LVWXUEDQFHLVRIWHQWKH¿UVWPRPHQWRIH[FLWHPHQWDQGLQWHUHVW
for an audience, quite apart from the attractiveness and inherent interest
you’ve created by showing the world as it currently is (i.e. the Status Quo).
,W¶VFHUWDLQO\WKH¿UVWPRPHQWRIUHDORUKHLJKWHQHGGUDPDWLFLQWHUHVW7KH
point of a disturbance is that it forces change upon the old world of the
play. By ‘old world’, I mean the world you spent a few pages setting up
at the start of the play.
Here is a quick list of disturbances that are useful—
²$VWRUPIRUFHVDJURXSRIWUDYHOOHUVWR¿QGUHIXJHLQDQHZZRUOGZKLFK
is much stranger than the old world they left behind. (eg The Tempest)
— A new pupil arrives. Drama loves new characters. What makes the bril-
liant play by Eugene Ionesco so wonderful is that a normal event—the
DUULYDORIDQHZSXSLODWKHU¿UVWSULYDWHOHVVRQ²EHFRPHVDZHLUGO\
sado-masochistic relationship whose ending I won’t spoil. (Ionesco’s
The Lesson)
— A visitor from the past returns. (A big favourite of Ibsen: Hedda Gabler,
The Pillars of Society, The Master Builder)
— A newcomer arrives in town, in the apartment block, or in the family.
(Entertaining Mister Sloane)
— A relationship is in trouble, or simply appears so unstable that explo-
sion is imminent. (Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?)
— A political threat must be dealt with, arising from the return of a far-
too-popular leader. (Julius Caesar)
²$NLQJPLVXQGHUVWDQGVD൵HFWLRQEHWZHHQKLVZLIHDQGKLVEHVWIULHQGDQG
ZURQJO\FRQFOXGHVWKDWWKHWZRDUHKDYLQJDQD൵DLU. (The Winter’s Tale)
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man in particular. (Hamlet)
— A competent but unpredictable king surprises his retinue with a bizarre
succession plan. (King Lear)
²$URPDQWLF\RXQJPDQIDOOVLQORYHDW¿UVWVLJKW(Romeo & Juliet)
²$UHDOHVWDWHR൶FHLVDERXWWREHEURNHQLQWRGlengarry Glen Ross)
The latter example is a good instance of the notion that simply the
threat of change (to what is, in that play, an unstable, volatile and nasty
world) shows that exactly when a disturbance occurs can vary. Sometimes
a disturbance can be delayed—and the Disturbance in Glengarry Glen
Ross is really about setting up Act 2, not Act 1. But beware! The longer
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yourself. Action is much easier to write than ‘glorious inaction’, a la
Beckett. (Even with Beckett, there is lots of sub-surface action despite
an apparently static surface—quite apart from the fact that it’s held
together by mesmeric, musical language.) Alternately, you may have
WR FRPH XS ZLWK ZKDW DUH HVVHQWLDOO\ PDJQL¿FHQW FKDUDFWHU VNHWFKHV
DV'DYLG0DPHWGLGLQWKH¿UVWDFWRIGlengarry Glen Ross. Act II of
that play opens with a burglary having been committed. It’s almost a
one-act play in itself.
So try and disturb the setting as soon as possible. But there are other
possibilities: You can disturb the action—
— Just before the play starts. The best writers (eg the writer of Hamlet)
often begin the play with a disturbance that has happened before the
events that are recounted in the play.
— Years before the play starts. This is the great Norwegian dramatist
Henrik Ibsen’s method, and useful for all societies and cultures that
enjoy guilt as part of their evening’s entertainment. A ‘dark secret’ may
haunt the characters. You can often sense this in an Ibsen play. The
setting and character relationships look normal, even domestic... but
something isn’t quite right. (See Chapter 15 for more on the concept
of The Guilty Secret.)
— Through a series of graded disturbances. The pastor in Rosmersholm
always avoids going round by the bridge. (“Why?” the audience asks.)
But today, to the maid’s astonishment, he’s taken that path! Two shocks,
and all within a few pages of the play’s starting. Shakespeare does this,
also. There are several disturbances implicit or explicit in Hamlet: the
murder of the king, weeks before the play opens; the appearance of
the Ghost; the immense shock (to Hamlet) that not only is this ghost
that of his father, but this ghost has a special job which only Hamlet
can do. And then there’s the matter of Claudius marrying his mother.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
(William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.2)
— Within a few pages of the start of the play. Either the disturbance
should happen then, or there should be a sense that “something is going
to happen.” Give the audience a reason to keep watching by planting
clues and hints that all is not well.
3. THE FIRST MAJOR ACTION/PROBLEM/DILEMMA BEGUN
I’m a fan of causality, as long as it’s rich and powerful. ‘Causality’

is the idea that if something happens to disturb the peace in a story, then
an action should take place based upon that disturbance.
Having decided that his wife is unfaithful, Leontes banishes her and
sets out to have his treacherous friend killed. (A Winter’s Tale)
Having fallen in love with Juliet, Romeo will take steps to meet her.
(Romeo and Juliet)
Having let a stranger into his past, the Master Builder will now reap
the consequences and the change in all his relationships— troubled wife,
ardent disciple and ambitious employee. (The Master Builder)
Early on in your writing you need to practise the narrative logic of

causality. “Because A happened, then so will B, and C.”
There are problems with causality, however. They include—
— The reaction being too simple and obvious.

— It can all happen way too slowly. (I’ve read writers’ work where the
logical ‘next step’ to a disturbance doesn’t start until after interval—
assuming the audience will hang around that long.)
— Not enough story strands being inter-woven. Occasionally, you
hear criticisms of ‘linearity’ in writing. Without entering that
complex argument at this point of the book, I will say that all play
writing and performance is linear, because the moments of a play
are experienced by the audience over time. Time is a sequential,
linear phenomenon. This is not to say that the play’s meanings
are received in this manner. Personally, I don’t much use the word
‘linear’. I prefer the even uglier word, “multi-linear”, because it’s
a truer indication of how many strands a rich play sets loose. A
hundred strands or threads can be operating in any half-decent
play. (Chapter 22 will go into more detail on this, especially on
what I call Thread Technique.)
So, what is a major action? Put simply, it is the action which domi-
nates a play and its characters. But there are many types of actions. To
understand this, we need to revisit what ‘plot’ is—or could be. In its most
basic meaning, ‘plot’ is that exact sequence and order of events that drive
a story to its rightful and necessary conclusion. After the event, it all seems
clear. But for writers involved in plot-making, the creation of a rich plot
involves widening the conception of plot as much as possible. Thus—
PLOT IS—
— What a character does.

— What a character wants to do.
— What a character wants to happen.
— What a character wants not to happen.

— What a character fears will happen.
— What a character is working to make happen.
— What a character is working to avoid happening.
— What a character chooses to do.
— What a character chooses not to do.
— What a character spends time planning.
$OOWKHVHPD\FRQVWLWXWHWKH¿UVWPDMRUDFWLRQRI\RXUVWRU\<RXZLOO
notice one thing about the above list, however. They are all quite active
traits. Usually a central agent (hero, protagonist, central character) gets
RXWRIKHUFKDLUXVHVH൵RUWDQGPDNHVWKLQJVKDSSHQ7KDWLVZK\,FDOO
these type of actions ‘active’ traits. A character is creating situations, doing
things, driving events, or trying to.
But this is not all. Plot is also—
— What happens to a character.

— What almost happens to a character.
— What is about to happen to a character.
— What should have happened to a character.
— What a character wants to happen to him or her.
%XWWKHUHLVDWKLUGDUHDRISORWZKLFKPD\FRQVWLWXWHWKH¿UVWPDMRUDFWLRQ
Plot can also be—
— What happens to a relationship.

— What happens within a relationship.
²:KDWH൵HFWWKHUHODWLRQVKLSKDVRQRWKHUV
Thus, when a character falls in love with another, that is plot (or a
SDUWRILW$FRXSOHIDOOLQJLQORYHPD\EHWKH¿UVWPDMRUDFWLRQRIWKH
play. When a character falls out of love with another, that is plot. When
characters are growing closer to each other, or growing apart, that too is
plot. Remember, however, that it’s usually not enough for two characters
to say “I love you”, or look lovingly into each other’s eyes. They need a
joint action. For example, they may be practising their dancing—but the
true dance is that of courtship and love. There is an inner action (‘getting
to that place of deep connection called love’) to match the outer action
(that is, ‘practising for the dance contest’) and the intertwining and tension
between these two actions creates what we call ‘plot.’
<RXFDQRIWHQ¿QGZKDW\RXUPDMRUDFWLRQLVE\FRPSOHWLQJDVHQWHQFH
that begins with “To”. Thus, major action might be any of the following—
— Single-mindedly pursuing an objective, whether good or bad. (Richard

III) (To win the crown.)
²7KHGULYHWR¿QGRXWWKHWUXWKDVWRZKDWKDSSHQHG(Oedipus Rex) (To
search out the truth.)
—The need to destroy a person. (Othello) (To physically or spiritually
destroy Othello.)
— Preparing for an action, such as a robbery. ($PHULFDQ%XৼDOR (To
carry out the robbery successfully.)
— Waiting fruitlessly for someone who never appears. (Waiting For
Godot) (To wait for a man called Godot.) In this play, the marvel-
lous non-actions and ‘things to do while we wait’ are a triumph of
dramatic and linguistic invention, and do not invalidate traditional
dramatic principles.
When a groupLVLQYROYHGWKHQWKHPDMRUDFWLRQLVPRUHGL൵XVHG
— Friends/family get together after a period of separation. Various

agendas, private grudges may be pursued. (Hotel Sorrento, Absent
Friends) (To carry out the reunion successfully, against all the odds.)
It’s worth mentioning at this point that a great play is usually the
result of a wonderful and almost unbearable tension between the literal,
forward-moving drive of the main action (To kill the king, wait for Godot
etc) and the ‘sideways pull’ of such things as sub-plot, comic relief, char-
acter insights, asides, lazzi and other comic by-play etc.) To put it another
way, the true movement of a play occurs when overwhelming forward
momentum meets irresistible lateral (sideways) diversion.
While I’m on the subject of plot and action, let me continue to digress
for a moment, and explain how easy a major action is to think up. It’s all
a question of the “Ws”.
WHERE, WHY, WHEN, WHO.... THE “W” WORDS
,W¶VFXULRXVKRZVRPDQ\PDMRUDFWLRQVLQERWKSOD\VDQG¿OPVDUH
based on words starting with W. Even in smaller structural units like the
play scene or the movie sequence, the “W” words are often useful.
Here are some examples, with the movie or play that illustrates this.
WHEN
:KHQZLOOWKHERPEJRR൵"7KHPRYLHSpeed)
When will the blackmailing letter arrive? (Ibsen’s A Doll’s House)

When will it happen? (The assassination scene in Julius Caesar)
When will Joseph be found out for the rogue that he is? (School for
Scandal)
WHY
Why did that boy blind six horses? (Equus)

Why did she come back? (The Pillars of Society, The Master Builder)
WHERE
:KHUHLVWKHKLGGHQVHFUHWWUHDVXUH"0RUHXVHIXOIRU¿OPVWKDQSOD\VDV
‘the search for the material object’ is more central to what, in my view,
DUHWKHFUXFLDOSDUDGLJPVRI¿OP7KDWLVLIWKHDWUHXVHVµWLPH¶DQGµVSDFH¶
DVLWVPDLQPHGLDIRUVWRU\WHOOLQJWKHHTXLYDOHQWFRRUGLQDWHVIRU¿OP
are ‘time’ and ‘place’. It’s why the idea of ‘locations’ are so crucial for
¿OPZULWLQJ
WHO
Who murdered the dead woman in the library/vicarage/conversation pit?

(Nearly every whodunnit ever written)
WHAT
What will happen? Will Salieri really succeed in destroying Mozart?

(Amadeus)
Knowing that stories often work on a ‘W-principle’ will get you into
a way of thinking whereby you conjure up stories that are imbued with an
urgent central narrative question. In one sense, a story can be reduced to a
single question (Will Hamlet succeed in solving the mystery of his father’s
death?) But one question leads to many others. What will Hamlet do, now
that he’s been given his assignment by the ghost? What will his strategy
be? What dangers does he face? In fact, it’s not going too far to say that
every scene of your play will be driven by a question central to that scene.
(For example, your character wants X in this scene.) When the question
has been ‘answered’ (“Bad luck, he doesn’t get it.”) then the scene is over.
4. COMPLICATIONS OCCUR
Life, love and stories rarely run smoothly. No sooner is a decision

made, than a complication occurs. A few examples from Hamlet and Mac-
beth will show you how many complications you can build into an action.
— An action may prove to be wrong in timing. Hamlet cannot kill the

king at prayer, as the rat will go straight to heaven.
— An action may prove to be wrong in morality, causing the character
WRTXHVWLRQLWDV+DPOHWGRHVIRUPXFKRIWKH¿UVWKDOIRIWKHSOD\
— An action may be ill-prepared for. Hamlet certainly wasn’t ready for
the mission his ghost-father gave him.
— Even if a character has no doubts as to the morality of it all, an action
may require many steps in order to be successfully accomplished.
Hamlet must train the Players so that his testing of the king will be
H൵HFWLYH
— An action may have to be tested, checked. Hamlet must establish the
truth behind the ghost’s claims.
— An action may need a plan to carry it out, as Macbeth and Lady
Macbeth realise.
²$QDFWLRQPD\EHGL൶FXOWWRFDUU\RXWHYHQZKHQWKHSODQLVDJUHHG
on. Look at the shocking farce that is the murder of Duncan.
— An action may simply have to be delayed while other matters are
attended to. This is useful, as it allows other plot threads to be woven
in, and keeps the audience in a pleasant state of impatience.
5. NEW ACTION/NEW DECISIONS/NEW REACTIONS (Change

of direction)
Once an action is carried out, for example, the murder of Duncan in

Macbeth, then it’s a whole new ball game. It’s now a question of conse-
TXHQFHVRIFRYHULQJXSRUFKDQJLQJIURPDQR൵HQVLYHVWUDWHJ\WRRQH
of defence.
I can’t emphasise strongly enough the importance of the notion of
CHANGE OF DIRECTION. A change of direction can occur in a host
of ways, large and small.
²$FKDUDFWHUFDQFKDQJHKLVKHUPLQGDQGWKXVFKRRVHDGL൵HUHQWJRDO
to achieve. Colin in Emerald City decides he’s sick of art, and in a
mood of bitter determination decides, to become a populist writer

and earn lots of money.
— Events can turn against a character. Shakespeare uses this repeatedly.
7KRVHRQWKHDVFHQGDQWLQWKH¿UVWKDOIDUHXVXDOO\UXQQLQJIRUWKHLU
lives in the second.
— Fortunes can change. A character may be rich and powerful at the start
of the story, but by halfway, she’s lost everything.
— Morality may change. A good man may decide that it’s not worth it,
and simply move in another moral and wickedly delicious direction.
²$V,¶YHDOUHDG\LQGLFDWHGUHODWLRQVKLSVFDQGH¿QLWHO\FKDQJH,QIDFW,
have a personal rule that for every scene that a couple or partnership
is in: One scene per relationship stage. This means that if character
A and B are getting on famously, you have only one scene to show
that at work. By the time of the next scene, it’s changed (however
VOLJKWO\WRDQHZSRVLWLRQIRUH[DPSOHVXVSLFLRQLVVWDUWLQJWRD൵HFW
their relationship). This rule-of-thumb works far more often than not.
In this way, no scene is ever a simple repeat of the previous scene.
Something is always going on. Change is always happening.
It’s important to realise this: that a change of direction means that the
plot has developed. If you’re ever stuck, and are asking yourself, “How
can I develop my plot?”, simply consider making the various actions,
fortunes and fates go in an opposite GLUHFWLRQ,QWKH¿UVWKDOI)UHGLVRQ
top of the world. In the second, it’s his partner. I’d even go so far as to
VD\WKDWLI\RX¶UHZULWLQJDWZRDFWSOD\DQGWKHUH¶VQRVLJQL¿FDQWFKDQJH
of direction in several ways, then you probably don’t have a second act
at all. Your second act is simply more of the same, an extension of what
\RXZHUHWU\LQJWRGRLQ\RXU¿UVWDFW
SURPRISES & TWISTS
A good story has both surprises and twists built into it. A ‘surprise’ is,
not surprisingly, that which comes out of nowhere. A few thoughts on this,
EDVHGRQZKDW,¶YHQRWLFHGLQZRUNVWKDWXVHGUDPDWLFVXUSULVHH൵HFWLYHO\
— The disturbance is usually a surprise— eg surprise visitors, surprise

news, (“Guess what? I’m giving away my kingdom to my daughters!”)
— The disturbance-as-surprise usually takes the play to a new level of
tension and danger.
— Every major character needs to have a surprise built into his/her par-
ticular journey. The more important a character is in the play, the
more surprises—or the bigger the surprise—they must experience.
Look at how many surprises Hamlet experiences.
— A surprise happens to a character. It is controlled by others, by events,
by things outside the character’s control. It is a very useful structuring
device for destabilising the character.
²0\RZQVOLJKWO\FOXPV\GH¿QLWLRQRIDµGUDPDWLFWZLVW¶LVcatastrophe
based on inadequate foreknowledge. You knew there was a traitor in your
midst, but you didn’t realise it was... you. (See Oedipus Rex, for how
this twist actually works to create the play’s eventual climax, a sign of
KRZPDOOHDEOHDQGXQ¿[HGVWUXFWXUDOFRPSRQHQWVDUH A twist often has
a karmic/poetic justice element to it. Sometimes characters deserve the
twist of the story that makes it come back to haunt them. The direction
of a narrative twist is usually inward toward the people who most matter
to you. The search for the killer of Oedipus’ father turns progressively
closer to Oedipus’ own circle—until it stops with Oedipus himself.
So, a twistLVVRPHZKDWGL൵HUHQWIURPDVXUSULVH$WZLVWLVµPXFKPRUH
or much less than what was expected.’ If nothing is expected, then it is a
surprise. If a killer walks in your door, then it’s a surprise. But if you already
know there’s a killer on the loose, and your mother enters, and it turns out
that she’s the killer, that is technically known as a ‘twist’ (quite apart from
it being a personal disappointment to you.) It’s not a surprise. After all, you
knew there was a killer, but you weren’t expecting it to be your own mother.
That’s the rub. There’s often an element of karma or poetic justice to the
twist, where the evil that men do comes back to haunt them. Or to put it more
ironically, think of the phrase, “Let no good deed go unpunished”. You do a
favour for someone, you even love them for a while—and they enter your
life and proceed to ruin it. (See Chapter 3 and The Woman from the Past.)
NARRATIVE TWISTS AND THE TWO MAIN TYPES OF DRAMATIC

TURNING POINT
0\SHUVRQDOGH¿QLWLRQRIµWXUQLQJSRLQW¶LVVLPSOHa turning-point
is that still, (often quiet) moment of recognition on the part of a major
character. The nature of the recognition is often deeply personal and
KXJHO\VLJQL¿FDQW³7KLVLVWKHPRPHQWVKHUHDOLVHVWKHLUPDUULDJHLVD
sham.” Or, “this is the moment that the banker realises his most trusted
secretary has been lying to him.”
The structural truth is that twists and turning-points often end up in the
same phase of a play. Sometimes they are part of the same beat. A twist
in the narrative direction of the play creates, in turn, a new direction to
the story... and the moment where the old direction stopped and the new
direction started—that is the actual moment of the turning-point. The
example below from A Doll’s House FRQ¿UPVWKLVDQGLW¶VVRPHWKLQJ
I’ll return to shortly.
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7KH ¿UVW W\SH RI WXUQLQJSRLQW LV ZKDW , FDOO WKH ,QIRUPDWLRQDO
Turning-point . This is where the twist in the story is provided by way of
information—often from the malefactor herself. In the following excerpt,
from David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross, Levene talks himself into
trouble, by mentioning something that only someone who’d robbed the
UHDOHVWDWHR൶FHWKHSUHYLRXVQLJKWZRXOGNQRZ
WILLIAMSON: How do you know I made it up?

LEVENE: (pause) What?
WILLIAMSON: How do you know I made it up?
LEVENE: What are you talking about?
WILLIAMSON: You said, ‘You don’t make something up unless it’s
sure to help.’ (Pause.) How did you know that I made
it up?
LEVENE: What are you talking about?
WILLIAMSON: I told the customer that his contract had gone to the
bank.
LEVENE: Well, hadn’t it?
WILLIAMSON: No. (Pause.) It hadn’t.
LEVENE: Don’t fuck with me, John, don’t fuck with me... what
are you saying?
WILLIAMSON: Well, I’m saying this, Shel. Usually I take the contracts
to the bank. Last night, I didn’t. How did you know
that? One night a year that I left a contract on my
desk. Nobody knew that but you. Now how did you
know that?
Essentially, this type of narrative twist/turning-point involves infor-

mation. It can be in something a character learns about herself. It may
be something she learns about others. It may be something she has never
been told before—till now, and it hits her with devastating consequences.
The second type of turning-point I’ll call the Intuitive Turning-point.
This is probably the more useful type of twist for theatre writing. (It’s
DPD]LQJKRZRIWHQWKH¿UVWW\SHWKH,QIRUPDWLRQDO7XUQLQJSRLQWLVXVHG
LQUHDOLVWLFGHWHFWLYH¿OPVDQGWHOHYLVLRQVKRZV,QWKHVHFRQGW\SHWKH
characters seem to “leap” beyond the logic of the situation, as in a crucial
moment in May-Brit Akerholt’s translation of Ibsen’s The Master Builder,
when Solness’s past suddenly comes back to him, in all its power:
SOLNESS: All this you told me must have been something you
dreamt.
Hilde makes an impatient gesture.
Oh... Wait a moment.... There is something mysteri-
RXVVRPHWKLQJED৾LQJDWWKHERWWRPRIDOOWKLV
I must have had such thoughts in my mind... I must
have wanted such a thing to happen... desired it to
come about... have a yearning for it... Could that be
the reason for it?
The Intuitive Turning-point is a type of ‘light-bulb moment’ for the

FKDUDFWHUZKRH[SHULHQFHVLW,Q6ROQHVV¶VFDVHKHVD\VLQH൵HFW³,VHH
now, clearly, who I really am, or might be, and what I’ve been doing all
these years.” The light-bulb has switched on in his mind and memory,
and nothing will be the same again.
One of the greatest twists in dramatic literature actually combines
both types of turning-points.
Helmer, in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, ZKHQWKUHDWHQHGZLWK¿QDQFLDO
and social ruin, opens the letter written by his potential blackmailer:
HELMER: (by the lamp) I hardly dare. We may be ruined. You

and I. But—I’ve got to know.
He rips open the letter, skims through a few lines, glances at an
enclosure, then cries out joyfully.
Nora!
Nora looks enquiringly at him.
Nora! Wait—better check it again—Yes, yes, it’s true.
I’m saved, Nora. I’m saved!
NORA: And I?
HELMER: You too, of course. We’re both saved. Both of us.
Look. He’s sent back your note!
+HOPHU¶V ¿UVW VHO¿VK UHVSRQVH²³,¶P VDYHG´ WULJJHUV D W\SH RI

‘intuitive explosion’ in her. But for the intuition to occur, it needed the
FOXPV\DSSDOOLQJOLQHRIWKHKXVEDQGWRWULJJHUWKHUHDFWLRQLQWKH¿UVW
place.
You’ll notice that the words ‘turning-point’ and ‘twist’ are used (al-
most) interchangeably in the above discussion. As I said above, where a
narrative twist happens, usually a turning-point immediately follows. But
GRQ¶WJHWREVHVVHGZLWKRYHUFRPSOLFDWHGGH¿QLWLRQVDQGµPDSSLQJV¶RI
these narrative phenomena. Do you really think that Ibsen sat at his work-
desk, thinking to himself, “Now, we really need a good twist or turning-
point here.” If you’re not sure of this, consult Inside Ibsen’s Workshop:
Notes, scenarios and drafts of problem plays, edited by William Archer for
the meandering, trial-and-error nature of his drafting. For, like most major
artists, Ibsen worked and created primarily with his intuition, which made
KLPZULWHDQGUHZULWHWU\LQJGL൵HUHQWZD\VRIZULWLQJDQGSORWWLQJDOPRVW
blindly, hoping not to ‘reason problems out’, but to discover. For all true
form is discovered. That’s the reason I give you these components. They
are there to feed your conscious mind. Then, one day, your unconscious
mind, fully-primed with narrative potential and theoretical possibilities,
will ‘intuit’ a new solution to your narrative and structural problem. When
that happens, this chapter will have done its work.
But there’s no denying that the true value of this wonderful twist in
A Doll’s House engineers one of the great turning points and climaxes in
modern theatre... which brings us to the next component of linear writing.
6. TURNING POINT, REVERSAL and the EMOTIONAL CLIMAX
As I’ve just discussed, there is more than one type of turning point.
One of the two theories of scene form, which I’ll be discussing later, states
that “the climax of every scene is a turning-point, so that the climax of a
scene always results in the reversal of whatever was being striven for or
fought over during that scene.” This might mean that if two characters,
$DQG%DUH¿JKWLQJRYHUVRPHWKLQJDQG$LVTXLWHGRPLQDQWWKHQWKH
climax is that moment where B wins.
7RUHSHDWP\GH¿QLWLRQRIDWXUQLQJSRLQWThe still, (usually quiet)
moment of recognition on the part of a character. The turning point is
usually a moment of great pleasure for the audience, after which events
start moving toward or away from a character. One of the best turning
points in modern theatre is in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. In that story,
John Proctor, has been accused of consorting with witchcraft and other
heinous things, but after a bit of 17th century plea bargaining, it looks
OLNHKH¶OOJHWR൵DVWKHDXGLHQFHZDQWVKLPWR)RUWKH¿UVWWLPHLQWKH
play, the audience can breathe freely. The mood among characters and
audience is one of relief. The hard work has been done and compromise
has been made on all sides. John Proctor will publicly admit that he was
involved in witchcraft, and is therefore spared from public hanging. There
just remains one small detail; a small matter of paperwork.
DANFORTH: Mr. Proctor, I must have good and legal

proof that you—
PROCTOR: You are the high court, your word is good

enough! Tell them I confessed myself: say
Proctor broke his knees and wept like a
woman; say what you will, but my name
cannot—
DANFORTH: (With suspicion) It is the same, is it not? If I

report it or you sign to it?
PROCTOR: (He knows it is insane) No, it is not the

same! What others say and what I sign to is
not the same!
DANFORTH: Why? Do you mean to deny this confession

when you are free?
PROCTOR: I mean to deny nothing!
DANFORTH: Then explain to me, Mr.Proctor, why you will

not let—
PROCTOR: (With a cry of his whole soul) Because it is

my name! Because I cannot have another in
my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies!
Because I am not worth the dust on the feet
of them that hang! How may I live without
my name? I have given you my soul; leave
me my name!
Reversal is not simply ‘not getting what you want’. It may also be
the temporary frustration of that want; or, worst of all, you get the exact
RSSRVLWH&KDUDFWHUVDQGUHODWLRQVKLSVFDQVX൵HUUHYHUVDOVLQVHYHUDONH\
areas: fortune (that is, wealth, material prosperity etc); morals (from ‘good
guy’ to black-hat-wearing ‘bad guy’); values and beliefs.
As I indicate below, reversal is built into both scene structure and
play structure. A good scene climax often reverses the whole momentum
of a scene. (For example, she enters the room planning to sack him; but
by scene’s end, she is the one who has lost her job.) And as the section on
climax and resolution indicates, there is often a balancing tension between
these two, frequently involving reversal.
7. NARRATIVE CLIMAX & CATASTROPHE
The narrative climax is simply that scene or moment in the play

ZKHQWKHIRUFHVZKLFKKDYHEHHQLQFRQÀLFWIRUPRVWRIWKHSOD\HJ
armies, relationships, business partners, lovers, warring Veronese clans)
have their decisive moment. After this moment, one of them has lost,
and that’s the end of the story. Antony loses, and suicides. Hedda Gabler
can’t have what she wants, and makes sure that the man who wants to
enslave her won’t either. She picks up a gun. In Glengarry Glen Ross,
WKHWUXWKKDYLQJFRPHRXWDVWRZKREXUJOHGWKHUHDOHVWDWHR൶FHWKHUH
is a Detective awaiting the culprit at play’s end.
The important point to make about the idea of climax is that it usu-
ally involves its equally important partner, catastrophe. Catastrophe
is that moment where the worst consequences occur, whether for the
central character or his/her antagonist. What’s often overlooked is that
catastrophe almost always involves destruction. The destruction might
be the physical elimination of the hero or the villain, whether by death,
VDFUL¿FHH[HFXWLRQDGXHOLQ'RGJH&LW\RUDQDFFLGHQW,WPD\PHDQ
the removal of someone, even by the more genteel method of arrest,
¿ULQJVRPHRQHIURPDSRVLWLRQRUWKHLUIRUFHGUHVLJQDWLRQ:KDWHYHU
happens, it involves the death of something or someone. I don’t mean
that someone must always die; it may be their hopes, their illusions, and
their self-delusions that are catastrophically and completely destroyed
(especially when the full truth comes out).
Needless to say that destruction can also involve relationships. When
the truth comes out, Nora (in A Doll’s HouseZDONVRXW:KHQWKH¿QDO
showdown occurs in True West (by Sam Shephard), what’s really killed
is the brothers’ relationship. What’s also interesting about the climax
and catastrophe of a play is often how noisy it is. The climax is often
the loudest, most violent (physically and emotionally) part of the play.
Things get ruined, plates are broken and lives are shattered.
Don’t misunderstand this point as being a ‘plea for more noise in our
theatre climaxes’. A great climax can also be chillingly quiet. I’ve seen
productions of The Crucible where John Proctor’s decision is made in
an atmosphere of unbearable quiet. Perhaps that’s the real point—either
your climax should be brutally and acoustically violent, or the dramatic
stakes so unbearable that the characters are rendered speechless in their
KRUUL¿HGNQRZOHGJHRIWKHFRQVHTXHQFHV0D\EHLWFDQEHERWK
In other words, in a good climax, there is a tantalising tension be-
tween the noise of destruction/catastrophe and the silence of fear and
decision, as the full consequences of what’s just happened become clear
WR DOO 7KH H൵HFW RI D FDWDVWURSKH VKRXOG SUREDEO\ EH DZHLQVSLULQJ
reminding us of our littleness in the face of bigger realities. In other
words, a climax and its accompanying catastrophe should be scary. Both
characters and audience should feel fear, amid a range of emotions.
And the worst part of a climax should be uncertainty. We simply don’t
know which way it will go. Will these people survive this showdown?
Will that relationship hold, or will one of them go mad under the strain?
The descriptions of these components of story might appear rather
simple, even obvious, but it only looks simple and obvious to those who
don’t have to create it. I remember, many years ago, not being sure what
a ‘climax’ really was, let alone how it applied to the play I was trying
to write. I then came across a very useful statement from Marsha Nor-
man (who wrote the Pulitzer Prize-winning ‘night Mother). What she
said, in essence, was—A play is about one major character who wants
something, and at the end of the play, he or she either gets it, or doesn’t.
That’s when the audience knows to go home.
Putting aside the ‘one major character’ idea (which probably is too
simple) the useful aspect is that last part: the climax is when he or she/
they/the group get what was wanted—or not. Iago gets what he has spent
the whole play working for, and he pays the price in a triple catastrophe:
the death of Desdemona, Othello and Emilia, his own wife—and, in due
course, himself. Romeo and Juliet don’t get what they want, and their
only compensation is to die together. John Proctor doesn’t quite get what
he wants, which is to live in harmony and peace in the community. But
he gets something else instead, which is not just his integrity, but the
return to love and feeling between him and his wife.
This brings us to the next type of climaxes.
8. EMOTIONAL CLIMAX, RESOLUTION, AND THE ‘CLIMAX

OF MEANING’
It’s not enough for lovers to die, for armies to be routed, for a person’s
goals to be achieved or end in failure. Those things may have driven the
SOD\WRLWVWHQVLRQ¿OOHGFOLPD[EXWWKRVHDFWLRQ¿OOHGFOLPD[HVDUHRIWHQ
followed by two other climaxes, which I call the emotional resolution,

and the ‘climax of meaning.’
In The Crucible, once it is inevitable that Proctor will die, then there
is a crucial scene where Proctor and his wife, Elizabeth, resolve the things
that blocked their own love. This is done, and Proctor goes to his death.
,QWKH¿QDOPRPHQWVZKHQVKHLVEHLQJEHJJHGWRJHWKHUKXVEDQGWR
reconsider, she refuses, saying, “He has his honour.” That is what the
play was ultimately dealing with; not witchcraft or the evil that good
&KULVWLDQPHQGR-XVWKRQRXU+DYLQJRU¿QGLQJLQWHJULW\GHVSLWHWKH
menace of the witch scare (main plot) or your own human frailties
(emotional plot).
Incidentally, television series usually work this way. First, the main
plot (which generated most of the outer, social and surface action) is
resolved, then the emotional (usually by resolving where the major re-
ODWLRQVKLSVRIWKHVWRU\DUHDQG¿QDOO\WKHFOLPD[RIPHDQLQJ+DVDOO
WKLVH൵RUWVHUYHGDQ\SXUSRVH",Q79KRZHYHUWKHFOLPD[RIPHDQLQJ
LVRIWHQDOLJKWµSD\R൵¶WRDUXQQLQJJDJRUDPLQRUWKLUGSORWWKUHDG
often character or situation-based.
9. ENDING
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discussed. Occasionally, however, there is a moment which actually
reverses the whole thrust of the play and even the story’s climax. Some-
thing may happen in the closing moments (or seconds) which threaten to
undo the good or bad work that constituted the climax. Paranoid thrillers,
vampire movies, and some operas work like this. In the movie, Three
Days of the Condor, Robert Redford’s character has spent most of the
PRYLH¿JKWLQJWKH&,$KLVIRUPHUHPSOR\HUV+HGHIHDWVWKHPDWWKH
end, and not only gets out of it alive, but is about to take his story to the
New York Times, so the whole world can learn about this villainy at the
heart of U.S. government. But the last words of the nasty CIA boss are,
“How do you know they’ll print it?” Redford freezes. The fear in his
face tells us they probably won’t. “They’ll always get you in the end”
is the real climax of meaning here.
Similarly, when all is lost, and Lohengrin (in Wagner’s opera of the
same name) has to take the next swan back to the land of the Holy Grail,
he leaves. But then something unusual (even for a Wagnerian opera)
happens: when the swan has delivered Lohengrin to a waiting boat, it
then returns... and turns into a young boy with a big sword, whom we
suspect will turn into a great hero even mightier than the one who just
left. In a moment, the tragic fatalism has turned into symbolic redemp-
tion. The story has been turned on its head. That is what a ‘climax of
meaning’ usually does.
111
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
NARRATIVE TYPES: OR KNOWING WHAT STORY YOU’RE
WRITING
I hope you’re getting interested in the shapes of stories, as you’ll

need to become fascinated if you’re going to be a playwright. Stories are
shapes. They are patterns, but not formulas. A formula is predictable. A
pattern is something that emerges, without you being able to guess it, but
LQUHWURVSHFWLWZDVERWK¿WWLQJDQGGHVLUDEOH8OWLPDWHO\DVWRU\SDWWHUQ
resembles one of the patterns of human life. That is, it resembles “one of
the ways you could live.” Or it resembles a way you would dread to live.
In my view, most plays fail because their mythic pattern is not clear.
0\RZQSHUVRQDOGH¿QLWLRQRIP\WKLVWKLVA myth is a non-judgmental
pattern of human behavior. (By ‘non-judgmental’ I mean that, although
some myths are quite stern in their morality, moral judgment—as distinct
from moral warning—is not the chief purpose of the myth. Its purpose
is not to condemn so much as to understand, and even evoke pity for the
KXPDQVX൵HULQJLQYROYHG)RUHYHU\IRUPRIKXPDQEHKDYLRUDQGH[-
perience, there is a myth and its accompanying narrative, complete with
variant endings. Where no myth about human behavior and its meanings
exists, or its pattern is badly expressed, the play usually fails on some level.
In this chapter, I’d like to interest you in some of these ‘story types’.
7KHPDLQGL൵HUHQFHEHWZHHQDµVWRU\W\SH¶DQGDµP\WKLFSDWWHUQ¶LVWKDW
a story is not always the same as a myth. A story is always about human
behavior, but a myth asks questions about the meaning of human behavior,
most importantly by examining the consequences of that behavior. For
example, a Faustian bargain (Type 13 in the following list of 32 Play
Types) invites a certain narrative pattern (making deals with some enemy
RUµRWKHU¶IRUH[DPSOHEXWLWVWUHDWPHQWLVQRWDOZD\VP\WKLF$¿OP
FRPHG\PLJKWVSHFL¿FDOO\DYRLGDVNLQJWRXJKTXHVWLRQVRIWKHFKDUDFWHUV
or the larger meaning of their actions, preferring to concentrate on the
character’s comic attempts to achieve a goal or escape their predicament.
The list that follows is not particularly systematic, or even complete.
, DP FRQVWDQWO\ DGGLQJ WR LW , KDYH VRPHZKDW DUWL¿FLDOO\ VHSDUDWHG
‘types’, knowing full well that a rich play may well be a combination of
several story types. Its chief purpose is to make you aware of what type or
types of story you are dealing with. Many writers I work with have little
idea of the larger thematic resonances of their story, or even that many
others have written similar types of stories. In one sense, a book could be
written about how to write each of the following play types—but given
the limitations of this chapter, even knowing what narrative area you’re
working in will assist you to gain greater consciousness of the imagina-
tive task ahead of you.
It is in that spirit that I give you a ready-made list of ‘play types’.
You may be able to add more to this list. I hope you do. If you add even
one more, then the aim of this chapter is achieved, for my real hope in
this chapter is that it changes your thinking about stories and their use
in stage plays, and that you end up being much more aware about these
narrative patterns and what, structurally, needs to happen in your play.
32 PLAY TYPES
As I’ve explained, this list of play types is meant to be a guide only.

Some of them are not plot-based, so much as character and even set-
based. Remember what I said earlier: our big job as dramatists is not just
WR¿QGDQDUUDWLYHIRUPEXWDWKHDWULFDOIRUPDVZHOO0\FODVVL¿FDWLRQV
are home-spun, but you’ll see what I’m getting at. You’ll also notice a
crucial thing: the best plays belong to several categories.
Type 1: GOAL-ORIENTED PLAY. This is where one person

(the Protagonist) strives for a goal. A very common type of play.
Eg: Richard III. They often end up losing the goal in the second
half of the play.
Type 2: SOCIETY ON DISPLAY. This is where a society, or

part thereof, is dramatized, and its nature, tensions and crises
IRUPWKHVWX൵RIWKHVWRU\([DPSOHVLQFOXGHThe Government
Inspector (Maxim Gorky), Quartermaine’s Terms (Simon Gray),
Bartholomew Fair (Ben Jonson).
Type 3: SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH. Where there is a hidden

truth that must be uncovered. For example, much of Ibsen,
Oedipus Rex (Sophocles), Equus 3HWHU 6KD൵HU DQG PDQ\
detective stories.
Type 4: SHARED DANGER/CONSPIRACY. Where characters

are under equal threat from someone or something. Eg, Ten
Little Niggers, (Agatha Christie), Glengarry Glen Ross (Act II)
(David Mamet).
Type 5: NARRATOR-DRIVEN PLAY. Where a narrator reveals

what happened. Eg, AmadeusLQIDFWPXFKRI3HWHU6KD൵HU¶VZRUN
Type 6: MEMORY PLAY. This often uses a narrator, and the
memories are those of that narrator. Eg, ... and a nightingale
sang (C.P. Taylor), The Price (Arthur Miller).
Type 7: DEADLY GAME PLAY. Where a type of duel is going

on between the characters, usually involving the highest stakes
of all: physical survival. Eg, Sleuth $QWKRQ\6KD൵HUDay of
the Dog (Daniel Damiano).7KLVW\SHRIWHQXVHVDVLQJOH¿[HG
set; see Type 11 below.)
Type 8: BRAVE NEW WORLD. Characters are in a new land,

or world. Eg, The Tempest (Shakespeare), 1841 (Michael Gow),
Our Country’s Good (Timberlake Wertenbaker), Royal Hunt of
the Sun 3HWHU6KD൵HU Too Young for Ghosts (Janis Balodis).
Type 9: COMING OF AGE PLAY. This play usually involves a

\RXQJSHUVRQLQDGL൶FXOWWUDQVLWLRQWRVRPHWKLQJDSSURDFKLQJ
maturity. Eg, When I Was A Girl I Used To Scream And Shout
(Sharman Macdonald), Brighton Beach Memoirs (Neil Simon),
Dags (Debra Oswald), Away (Michael Gow), A Hard God (Peter
Kenna).
Type 10: FAMOUS PERSON PLAY. The life, or incidents from

the life, of a famous person. Eg, Einstein (Ron Elisha), Shad-
owlands (William Nicholson), Tom & Viv (Michael Hastings).
Type 11: SET-DRIVEN PLAY. This is where the set plays a big
LQÀXHQFHRQWKHSORWDQGWKHFKDUDFWHUV(JPXFKIDUFHLQFOXGLQJ
Taking Steps. Ayckbourn, the author of that play, in particular
seems to enjoy the challenge of having a story unfold within an
idiosyncratic and highly restrictive set.
Type 12: CROSS-OVER PLAY. At the start of the play, character

A is on top, and B isn’t. This position soon changes. It also applies
to classes and relationships. In Act I, one relationship is thriving,
but declines in Act II, while another relationship, initially in trouble,
gradually prospers. Eg, Absurd Person Singular (Alan Ayckbourn),
The Perfectionist (David Williamson), Benefactors (Michael Frayn).
Type 13: FAUSTIAN BARGAIN PLAY. This is where a deal

is struck, or some type of corruption is entertained or actively
engaged with, resulting in the eventual ruin (or near ruin) of all.
Eg, Faust (Goethe), All My Sons (Arthur Miller), Emerald City

(David Williamson), The Cherry Orchard (Anton Chekhov) in
its own idiosyncratic way; also Antony and Cleopatra (William
Shakespeare).
Type 14: TOWERING FIGURE PLAY. This type of play has a

central character that towers over the rest. This puts great pressure
on the writer to create such a giant. The type is littered with failed
examples. Some that work are John Gabriel Borkman (Henrik
Ibsen), Tamburlaine (Christopher Marlowe), American Days,
Breaking the Silence ERWKE\6WHSKHQ3ROLDNR൵
7\SH,112&(1&('(6752<('7KLVLVZKHUHWKHFRQÀLFW
in the story results in the destruction of the most valued, most
innocent member. Eg, The Wild Duck (Ibsen)
Type 16: THE TRAGEDY OF A GOOD PERSON. A story type

that proves that the meek don’t necessarily inherit the earth.
Eg, Death Of A Salesman (Arthur Miller), Julius Caesar (with
Brutus as the ‘tragically good’ character), The Philanthropist (by
Christopher Hampton, using a lighter touch).
Type 17: COMIC DISASTER PLAY. Where disaster is set up

(unintentionally) by the characters, and relentlessly played out.
Eg, Relatively Speaking (Alan Ayckbourn), Caravan (Donald
MacDonald) much of the work of Georges Feydeau.
Type 18: THE UNUSUAL RELATIONSHIP. Where two people,

YHU\GL൵HUHQWVWULNHXSDFORVHUHODWLRQVKLSLQYROYLQJVRPHIRUP
of love. Eg, Driving Miss Daisy (Alfred Uhry), Luv (Murray
Schisgal), The Odd Couple (Neil Simon).
Type 19: THE VISITOR. Here, the visitor is often from the past,
EXWQHHGQ¶WEH5HJDUGOHVVWKHLUH൵HFWLVXVXDOO\FDWDVWURSKLF
whether comic or tragic. Eg, The Man Who Came To Dinner
(George S. Kaufman), The Nerd (Larry Shue), The Pillars Of
Society, Master Builder (both by Ibsen). The Visit of the Old
Lady (Friedrich Dürrenmatt). The visitor might, in allegorical
terms, be someone’s conscience or muse, or might be sinister, as
in Disappeared (Phyllis Nagy), a play about people who vanish
and is dominated by a mysterious stranger who seems to know
way too much about the people who have disappeared.
Type 20. DOCUMENTARY PLAY/VERBATIM THEATRE.
Where characters, closely drawn to real life, tell their stories
ZLWKOLWWOHRUQR¿FWLRQDOµGUHVVLQJXS¶(JAftershocks (Paul
Brown), The Laramie Project (Moisés Kaufman). There are also
HOHPHQWVRIWKLVVW\OHLQ6DUDK'DQLHO¶V¿QHSOD\Masterpieces,
DERXWSRUQRJUDSK\DQGLWVH൵HFWVODUJHDQGVPDOO
Type 21. TRAPPED IN LIMBO. This is an often leisurely type

of play, for big casts, relying on amazing wit, insights, and a
big social view. A superb example is the Scottish writer Robert
David MacDonald’s Chinchilla, about Diaghilev and his circle.
Also Shaw’s Heartbreak House.
Type 22. TRAPPED IN HELL. Here the characters are trapped,

but like it far less. A sense of desperation pervades. The play is
basically about character, rather than ‘tight plot’. Eg, Gorky’s
The Lower Depths, and of course, Sartre’s Huis Clos.
Type 23. LOCKED-ROOM PLAY. A rather old-fashioned type,

much beloved of mystery writers, but it may be useful in show-
ing any society that is trapped and under pressure. Egs, Simon
Gray’s Quartermaine’s Terms, and David Edgar’s Ball Boys (set
in a tennis locker room). It has obvious (or possible) connections
with Type 22.
Type 24. PLAY-WITHIN-A-PLAY. This type uses both the plot

and conventions of theatre, ‘getting a show on’, or other aspects
of this. Examples include Kafka Dances (Timothy Daly), A Life
In The Theatre (David Mamet), and the greatest example of all,
Six Characters in Search of an Author (Luigi Pirandello).
Type 25. THE DISRUPTED RITUAL. A ritual may be any for-

malised set of behavior with symbolic and social meanings. Ex-
amples would be sermons, lectures and other social conventions.
Often, however, this ‘type’ will start a play, but the convention
is abandoned once the story is set up. This happens in Wendy
Wasserstein’s The Heidi Chronicles. It also happens midway
through Macbeth, when Banquo disrupts Macbeth’s feast with
devastating results. Scanlan by Barry Oakley treats its theatre
audience as a group of undergraduate English students, and the
whole play is in the form of a university lecture on literature. Its
sole character is an emotionally dysfunctional lecturer whose
personal crises end up ruining the lecture—but making the play

come alive, the more the lecture is ruined.
Type 26. THE GAME-WITHIN-A-PLAY. There should be more

of this sort of play, as theatre loves the physicality of games and
sport. The need for this sort of physicalised story-telling is one
RIWKHLQÀXHQFHVGULYLQJPXFKµDFWRUGHYLVHG¶ZRUN7KHJDPH
need not take up the whole play, however. Think of the wrestling
match in As You Like It. Games can be played realistically, though
the ‘symbolic game’ is also useful. My own play, The Don’s Last
Innings has a man play a game of cricket in his living room with
leg-breaks supplied by his wife, and the relationship between the
game of cricket and the darker game of marriage becomes very
clear to the watching audience.
Type 27. FAMILY/SOCIAL GATHERING PLAY. A group has

come together for a purpose: weddings, funerals, birthdays, din-
ner parties, family reunions, book clubs. Alan Ayckbourn and
the New Zealander Roger Hall between them have covered just
about every social ritual devised in Western civilisation. The hard
WKLQJZRQ¶WEHZULWLQJWKHSOD\WKHUHDOGL൶FXOW\ZLOOEHFRPLQJ
up with a fresh, untouched ritual. Examples: most of their plays,
plus Dimboola, by Jack Hibberd.
Type 28. FAMILY/SOCIAL GROUP IN DECLINE. This type

does not automatically follow from the previous one—but it
often does. Outstanding theatre can result, such as in O’Neill’s
Long Day’s Journey Into Night, but it can also result in dreary
‘kitchen sink’ realism, where characters trade self-pitying ac-
cusations and insults.
Type 29. WAITING PLAY. Where the act of waiting becomes a

dramatic thing in itself. Eg, Waiting For Godot. Waiting domi-
nates other plays, too, such as The Lower Depths (Maxim Gorky)
and $PHULFDQ%XৼDOR(David Mamet).
Type 30. REMOTE LOCATION PLAY. Where an outsider visits,

at probably great personal cost to him or herself. A good example
is the American play Border by Elizabeth Wray, where a woman
turns up at a garage near the Mexican border. Nick Parson’s Dead
Heart is set in the arid, remote center of Australia. Danger, arid-
ity and isolation also feature in Jack Hibberd’s great A Stretch
of the Imagination, but in this case, the isolation is as much an
internal metaphor.
Type 31. THE LIVING ROOM PLAY. To write this type is often
an act of theatrical suicide, as there is nothing more dull than an
‘ordinary’ play set in that deadest of spaces, the ordinary living
room (from which most theatre goers have escaped to watch
something far more interesting.) In Chapter 6, I discussed how
SRRUO\WKHDWUHGHDOVZLWKLQWHULRUVSDFH6X൶FHWRVD\WKDWLI\RX
must set your play indoors, and in a living room, then extraordi-
nary things should happen there. Examples: Little Murders (Jules
)HL൵HU Abigail’s Party (Mike Leigh), and the living room play
to end all living room plays, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
(Edward Albee).
Type 32. THE FLASHBACK PLAY. For reasons too compli-

FDWHGWRJRLQWRKHUHWKHDWUHGRHVQRWGRÀDVKEDFNVKDOIDVZHOO
as many playwrights seem to think. But it’s also true that one
of the best modern plays, Death of a Salesman (Arthur Miller),
XVHVÀDVKEDFNVFHQHV7ZRSUHFRQGLWLRQVQHHGWRH[LVW²DULFK
non-literal dramatic language and a ‘spiritual instability’ in the
world of the play. If the language is too realistic, too everyday,
DQGWKHHPRWLRQVWRRFORVHGWKHÀDVKEDFNVWHQGWRIDLORUDW
best, simply look awkward.
In providing you with this working list, my aim has been to encourage
you to get your own structural antennae working, and get a feel for play
types and the narrative patterns that usually accompany them. If you’re
writing a particular ‘play type’, for example, you could do a lot worse
than study other plays of a similar type. The writers who’ve done it all
EHIRUH\RXPD\KDYHVRPHFOXHVDQGWHFKQLTXHVWRR൵HU
Doubtless, there are more types of plays. As I’ve said, a rich play
RIWHQ¿WVLQWRVHYHUDO2XUMREDVFUHDWRUVLVXOWLPDWHO\WRWUDQVFHQGWKHVH
types, or subvert their inbuilt expectations, so that what looked like a
predictable journey becomes strange and wonderful.
I’ll return to story and dramatic structure later in the book, but now
it’s time to tackle one of the biggest challenges of all: dramatic language.
119
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE (I): THE BASIC CONCEPTS & THE
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEATRE AND FILM DIALOGUE
If I had to nominate the ‘primary event’ that makes theatre unique,

I’d say it is this: Gesture (verbal and physical) in space that stands, how-
HYHUWHPSRUDULO\IRU¿FWLRQDOUHDOLW\Note the wonderful paradoxes in
WKLVDWWHPSWDWDGH¿QLWLRQ,ILWLV¿FWLRQDOKRZFDQLWEHUHDO"$QVZHU
Because the audience and the players have made a prior agreement to
treat the space and the performance as real, even though it is not.) In any
case, what does ‘real’ mean? (Answer: Fictional reality is an imaginative/
cultural agreement to use reality as a metaphor for something else.) Thus,
while a story you write may be set in a fast-food kitchen in L.A., the plot,
characterization etc make it clear that this is not the ‘real Los Angeles’ but
your highly individual interpretation of that city. “L.A. as a Kingdom of
the Wandering Dead”, for example. Is this fair to L.A.? Who knows? It’s
up to your play to make the dramatic argument for that.
But back to drama. What is the ‘gesture’ that I referred to? The answer
to this is the basis for the next three chapters. Both dance and theatre share
the use of physical gesture to express meaning, but only theatre uses the
verbal gesture—language—as a primary and sustained carrier of expressive
meaning. (I exclude opera from this comparison, for, in many basic ways,
opera is theatre. It has a gestural richness that our overly-conversational
theatre could well emulate; for as I try and explain in the next three chapters,
theatre language is not conversation, even when it pretends to be.)
Language is one of the primary impulses of drama. Not sets, costumes,
rich characters or even powerful story. If the language is dead, so is the play.
If the language is weak, so is the character. This chapter deals with the unique
nature of dramatic language. But to understand this uniqueness, we need
to compare it with other forms of language from media other than theatre.
“Why bother?” you may ask. “Why not just get straight down to the
job of writing exciting dramatic language?” The reason is simple. In your
playwriting career, there may be several damning assessments made of
your plays. Many of them relate to your use of language. I’ll give a few
of the brickbats that may be tossed your way:
“Your language is very undramatic.”
“This feels more like a TV script.”
³7KHGLDORJXHLVIXQFWLRQDOWRR¿OPLF´
“The dialogue is realistic, but uninteresting.”
If you’re lucky, you’ll be told these things to your face. If you’re
not, you’ll never be told them. Your play will simply be rejected as “not
quite right for our theatre.” There are some unique features to dramatic
language. I spent several years writing in ignorance of them. This chapter
might save you a few such years of bad writing.
CHARACTERISTICS OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
There are four characteristics of dramatic language that need to be

understood, whether that language is spoken or written.
They are—
1. DIRECTIONALITY
This refers to the direction that a sentence goes, either by accident

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of many phrases.
“So anyway?, he went down the shop?, and when he got there, I wasn’t
there?, so he just went crazy?”
Directionality is a cultural code that is inserted or added to spoken

language. Even where the language is common, the directionality may be
TXLWHGL൵HUHQW:KHQDQJU\WKH(QJOLVKWHQGWRJRµGRZQ¶LQWKHLUYRFDOGL-
rection, whereas the Welsh go up. This brings us to the second characteristic.
2. EMOTIONAL INTENSITY, ENERGY & TEMPERATURE
Words contain emotion, because emotion is one of the primary

meanings conveyed by language. As we compare the following examples
from various media, note how some of the language is quite ‘cool’ in its
temperature and its emotional intensity. Some of the examples in the pages
that follow are extremely energetic, others less so.
3. STRUCTURE & FORMALITY OF LANGUAGE
Language is structured, so that complex meanings can be conveyed.

Some of the structures we’ll look at are highly ordered, while others ap-
pear to be random, even chaotic.
4. RHYTHM & MUSICALITY
Music and language are closely related. The rhythms and lyricism of
language are used in varying ways in the examples we’ll look at.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE NOVELIST
No one example can represent the rich diversity of language that

makes up the four centuries of the English novel. But the following excerpt
(from John Berger’s G.) will usefully illustrate the point I wish to make.
“He lay on his back beside Leonie, holding her hand, his eyes
shut. She no longer saw secret promises in his face. She knew
what he promised and the secret involved the two of them. With
her hand he wasn’t holding, she touched his face. She followed
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down the side of his nose, past the corner of his mouth, which
twitched when she passed it, to his chin. By touching his face in
this way she could make her feeling of familiarity more natural
and destroy a little of its mystery. She could localise the feeling
RIIDPLOLDULW\LQZKDWVKHIHOWLQKHU¿QJHUWLSV$QGWKXVVKHZDV
less overwhelmed by it.”
Let’s analyze this passage using the four tools I outlined. In terms of
directionality, it’s clearly ‘downward’. To prove this, simply read the pas-
sage out loud to yourself. The voice drops at the end of every sentence,
and often at the end of phrases. It is quite cool in its temperature, being
a highly introspective piece of writing. This is not atypical of the novel.
As a form, the novel is at its richest when it examines a small aspect of
human life in minute detail, placing every action or thought under a mi-
FURVFRSH7KHODQJXDJHLVGHVLJQHGWREHUHÀHFWLYHDOPRVWPHGLWDWLYH
:RUGVZRUWK¶VGH¿QLWLRQRIDUW³DUHFROOHFWLRQLQWUDQTXLOOLW\´VSULQJVWR
mind. The language is quite formal and elegantly constructed. Its rhythms
are gentle and subtle. The sentences are long, the phrases helping to extend
the meaning. The sentence ending is delayed, a bit like the way a Wagner
orchestral piece delays its cadence or resting points. There is a rich verbal
music at play here.
THE LANGUAGE OF FILM AND TELEVISION
Here is an excerpt from the opening of Annie Hall, by Woody Allen.

ALVY
(Sighing) Annie and I broke up and I— I still can’t get my mind
around that. You know, I— I keep sifting the pieces o’ the relation-
ship through my mind and— and examining my life and tryin’ to
¿JXUHRXWZKHUHGLGWKHVFUHZXSFRPH\RXNQRZDQGD\HDUDJR
we were... tsch, in love. You know, and-and-and... And it’s funny,
I’m not— I’m not a morose type. I’m not a depressive character.
I-I-I, uh, (Laughing) you know, I was a reasonably happy kid, I
guess. I was brought up in Brooklyn during World War II.
CUT TO:
INTERIOR. DOCTOR’S OFFICE. DAY.
MOTHER
(To the doctor) He’s been depressed. All of a sudden, he can’t do
anything.
DOCTOR
Why are you depressed, Alvy?
MOTHER
Tell Doctor Flicker. (To the doctor) It’s something he read.
DOCTOR
Something he read, huh?
YOUNG ALVY
The universe is expanding.
DOCTOR
The universe is expanding?
YOUNG ALVY
Well, the universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it
will break apart and that would be the end of everything!
MOTHER
What is that your business? (To the doctor) He’s stopped doing
his homework.
YOUNG ALVY
What’s the point?
It (almost) goes without saying that this passage is very funny. But
WKHUHDVRQVZK\LWLVIXQQ\DUHWKHVDPHUHDVRQVLWLVKLJKO\H൵HFWLYHDV
dramatic writing. Note the informality and spontaneity of Alvy’s opening
speech. It is not so much dialogue as a record of a conversation, which
LVKRZLWDSSHDUVLQWKH¿OP,WVHQHUJ\LVUHOD[HGGHVSLWHWKHOHJHQGDU\
tension of its protagonist and authorial mouth-piece. There is a feeling
that Alvy is using language to work out the problem. The novel excerpt,
on the contrary, uses language as the FXOPLQDWLRQRIUHÀHFWLRQ (on the part
RIWKHDXWKRU7RRYHUVWDWHWKHSRLQWVRPHZKDWWKHQRYHOLVWUHÀHFWVDQG
WKHQH[SUHVVHVWKDWUHÀHFWLRQLQODQJXDJHZKHUHDV$OY\XVHVODQJXDJHWR
try and work out what the hell he means. It’s as if he is speaking in order
to discover, rather than speaking with full knowledge (and consequent
composure).
:KHQWKHÀDVKEDFNFRPHVLQWKHGRFWRU¶VR൶FHWKHUHLVDVLPSOLFLW\
here as well. There is an informal functionality. The language is designed
to convey simple statements of meaning: “He’s stopped doing his home-
work.” That is its main function. Not to convey emotion, or the struggle
of an inner state so much as to state facts or judgments: Alvy has been
depressed. The universe is expanding.
THE LANGUAGE OF THEATRE
Look at this excerpt from Road by Jim Cartwright. Brenda, a thin,

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At the back, Carol in bra and knickers is ironing her dress.
1. BRENDA: Where you goin’?

2. CAROL: Out.
4. CAROL: Out.
6. CAROL: The pub.
7. BRENDA: That’s better. What time you be back?
8. CAROL: Whenever.
9. BRENDA: What time you be back?
10. CAROL: Whenever.
11. BRENDA: What time?
12. CAROL: Eleven, twelve-ish.
13. BRENDA: That’s better. Are you still seeing that lad?
14. CAROL: I’m not answering any more questions.
15. BRENDA: There you are then. Don’t bring anyone back here the
night.
16. CAROL: As though I would.

17. BRENDA: You would. You would. I’m sick of the sound of it down
here.
18. CAROL: What do you mean?
19. BRENDA: You know.
20. CAROL: Look leave me alone, I’m ironing this.
21. BRENDA: Well speak then.
22. CAROL: Look why should I eh? You’re nothing to me.
23. BRENDA: I’m Mother.
24. CAROL: You’re my mother so what?
25. BRENDA: I’m your mother and I brung you from ...(she indicates
with her hand)... that to that!
26. CAROL: Ay ay well I’m leaving soon. So thanks an’ all that, but
there you are.
27. BRENDA: Ay here I am and there you are so let’s have something.
28. CAROL: What?
29. BRENDA: Respect and money.
30. CAROL: I’ll give you your money Monday morning and your
respect’s down the bog.
31. BRENDA: Pissing young git.
32. There is the sound of someone shouting and laughing. They both get up.
33. CAROL & BRENDA: (together) SHUT IT!
34. They look at each other and laugh. They go back to ironing and sitting.
35. BRENDA: Have you had ‘owt eat?
36. CAROL: I’ve had a warmed-up pastie from dinner.
37. BRENDA: Well get summat else.
38. CAROL: What else? There’s rock all in, but shrunk carrots, Sugar
3XৼVDQGVRPHVSLWRUVXPPDWLQDVDXFHU
39. BRENDA: Don’t exaggerate.
40. CAROL: Uh.
41. BRENDA: Anyway get summat down you before you go out.
42. CAROL: You get summat down you.
43. BRENDA: You get summat down you.
48. CAROL: You get summat down you. You’re the one who’s goin’
to be issed up and lying in it.
49. BRENDA: Shove it you little tart.
50. CAROL: You shove it.
51. Carol turns the dress over, spits on the iron, carries on.
52. BRENDA: So you’re goin’ down the boozer are you?
53. CAROL: Yeah. Are you?
54. BRENDA: I might go down if somebody coughs up.
55. CAROL: Are you still going with that ragman?
56. BRENDA: No.
57. CAROL: Why not?
58. BRENDA +HVQRWWHGRৼGLQ¶WKH+HRZHVPHDQ¶DOO
59. CAROL: Eh?
60. BRENDA: Yeah like you all do, every one of yous. I s’pose you’re
skint an all.
61. CAROL: Well I’ve got some but I need it for tonight.
62. BRENDA: Well give it me.
63. CAROL: No.
64. BRENDA: Yes.
65. CAROL: No.
66. BRENDA: Yes.
67. CAROL: No.
68. BRENDA: Yes.
69. CAROL: No, you mouldy old slag.
70. BRENDA: Yes, you young pig.
71. CAROL: Cow!
72. BRENDA: Sick!
73. CAROL: Oh God, you’re crude. How could I have let you bring
PHXS)OLQJPHXSPRUHOLNH,ZDVÀXQJWKURXJKWKH
years!
74. BRENDA: Listen her romanticising. You’ve done all right out of
my bones you lot.
75. CAROL: You’re nothing but bones anyway. Why don’t you eat?
76. BRENDA: Because I don’t. Because I don’t. I do anyway. I get
enough.
77. CAROL: You’d rather swill ale. Wun’t you? Look at you. Your
skin’s like ham. There’s veins showing all over you.
You’re hung in your old clothes. You never wash, you
never change. You never... never... (She can’t bring her-
self to say it) I’m like I am because of you and you’re
like you are because of who knows what rot. (She puts
her dress on. It is very short) Is it short enough for you?
78. BRENDA: Ask men.
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of this scene in production is electric. The reasons are obvious. It is intense.
It is white-hot, with a near-manic energy. The musicality and rhythmic vital-
ity of the piece are obvious. The repetition of the lines, “You get summat
down you” take the piece well away from the cosy quasi-satirical realism
of the earlier Woody Allen excerpt. It is more colloquial, more vulgar than
WKH$QQLH+DOO¿OPH[FHUSWZKLOHLWVOLQJXLVWLFIRUPDOLVPVUHSHWLWLRQV
inversions, motivic fragments etc) approach the considered language of the
novel. And crucially, the direction is “up”. By this I don’t just mean that the
language is excitable and angry. Look at Carol’s line (No.73):
73. CAROL: Oh God, you’re crude. How could I have let you bring me
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You need only say it to yourself to understand how the actress would
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This is, of course, not the only way to write theatrical language, or its
only form. There’ll be lots of times when you have to write cooler, more
meditative language, that is situated low down in the body and the theatre
VSDFH%XWLI\RXQHYHUWUDLQ\RXUVHOIWRZULWHELJH[WUDYDJDQWHQHUJ\¿OOHG
language, you’ll never really master writing for theatre. It’s that simple.
Once you know how to write “big”, you can always go down in scale,
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WKHGLUHFWLRQDOH൵HFWRI\RXUZULWLQJ%XWLI\RXGRQ¶W¿UVWSUDFWLVHWKHVH
techniques in a very direct manner, you’ll never reach the point where
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To put this whole point bluntly, I am encouraging you to get very
‘operatic’. Don’t treat theatre language as an exercise in social realism,
or gentle exercises of literature, or banally functional TV dialogue, or
HYHQVKRZR൵OLQHVRIZLWXQOHVV\RX¶UHDQ2VFDU:LOGH*RIRUEURNH
Write very big, and unruly. Let your language be an excitable, volatile and
almost untameable thing. Shakespeare’s ‘dialogue’ is like this. So is the
badly-behaved language of Mamet, Molière, Caryl Churchill, Jack Hib-
berd, John Romeril, Stephen Sewell, John Patrick Shanley, Sam Shepard
DQG6DUDK.DQHDQGPDQ\RWKHU¿QHWKHDWUHDUWLVWV
7KHWKHDWULFDOODQJXDJHRIWKHVHZULWHUVLVXQSUHGLFWDEOHDQG¿HU\
It is a weapon of great power. In the next chapter I’ll be discussing some
VSHFL¿FWHFKQLTXHVWKDWZLOODOORZ\RXURZQWKHDWUHZULWLQJWRJDLQLQ
power. This ‘power’ principle has been understood for centuries, both in
music and drama. When the Emperor said to Mozart, “Too many notes”,
he was expressing his distaste at Mozart’s rich extravagance. Think of
Arthur Miller. Why else do audiences queue round the block for the major
plays of this writer? It’s not because Miller’s plays are full of ‘themes of
VRFLDOVLJQL¿FDQFH¶,W¶VEHFDXVHWKH\¶UHH[FLWLQJWRKHDUWRZDWFKDQG
experience in theatre space.
Remember: audiences don’t mind intensity, emotion, excitement, char-
acters at white-heat speaking strongly physicalised language. They don’t
mind that in the least. It’s very rare that an audience says, “I’m sorry, I won’t
watch this. It’s too exciting.” But they’ve been known to say the reverse.
21 CHARACTERISTICS OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
Having looked quickly at language in a few narrative forms, we can

now state some principles that tend to govern the use of language in drama.
1. Dramatic language moves in a clear directional way. There is an impulse

for it to be projected in some direction. The direction of that line can
change by the moment, but there is always a movement in one or more
directions. “You get summat down you!” the women in Road scream
at each other. There’s no ambiguity here. (A hint in passing: Practise
GLUHFWQHVVEHIRUHDQ\WKLQJHOVH2QFH\RX¶YHOHDUQHGKRZWR¿UHDOLQH
of dialogue at another character like a bullet, gentle ambiguity is easy!)
2. Dramatic language is packed with a dynamic energy. This is true, even
in quiet moments, when ‘nothing is happening.’ In that case, the
energy simply goes down into the bowels of the character, so that,
like Hedda Gabler, she turns the whip of her language onto herself.
3. Dramatic language is highly rhythmic. A critic once called David
0DPHW¶VODQJXDJHDVGU\DQGFULVSDVDMD]]GUXPVROR7KDW¶V¿QH
for David M. You, however, may be more of a cellist, or a frustrated
rapper. Simply let the music and rhythms of your own language have
space and time to develop.
4. Dramatic language is lyrical. I believe that the true ‘voice’ of a char-
acter is discovered through big speeches where, without the writer
even realising it, subtle rhythms, tones and motifs emerge through
the simple act of letting the sentence run.
5. Dramatic language is often incomplete. The incomplete sentence is a
great tool of the dramatist. It allows the actor to do some of the work
in his body and not just his voice. It also makes the audience do some
of the detective work. “What was he about to say?”
6. Dramatic language is “in the moment”. There is a golden principle in
drama: “Let the emotion dominate the language.” If you reverse this,
\RXKDYHWKHUHÀHFWLYHODQJXDJHRIWKHQRYHO<HVWKHUHDUHWLPHV
when this will be needed in your play, but they are infrequent.) Let a
character be seen to be in the grip of an emotion that is so strong— even
ZKHQVXSSUHVVHG²WKDWLWD൵HFWVWKHYHU\ODQJXDJHWKDWLVEHLQJXVHG
7. Dramatic language is verbal music, with its own phrase characteristics,

syntax and punctuation. In the next chapter, I give a complete list of
the dramatist’s punctuational ‘tool kit’.
8. Dramatic language is clear. Sometimes a character simply has to say
what she wants. “Give it to me”, says Brenda in Road. She means it.
9. Dramatic language is ambiguous, or at the very least, resonant with
several possible meanings. Sometimes, a character cannot say what
he wants or needs. He may have no idea. This produces the imagina-
tive miracle of sub-text.
10. Dramatic language is sub-textual. Below the surface of the spoken
words lies the true life of the character. The true meaning of a char-
acter and his language rarely lies on the surface. Mamet has a useful
rule in this regard, that no character should ever say what s/he wants,
unless that is the best way to get it.
11. Dramatic language is imagistic. See later in the chapter for this. It’s
this skill that merges the poet with the dramatist.
12. Dramatic language is a complex set of hints that give an audience
insight into the fragmentary nature of a character’s personality.
Writers who explain everything that makes up a character and her
inner life end up robbing the audience of their role, which is to be the
most active interpretive agents in the whole of the theatre space. If the
audience is deprived of this supreme function, they end up with no
work to do. Having no work to do, they exercise their sleep function.
13. Dramatic language is motivic. A stage character often hangs on to
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assistance, they are lost. Think of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, with Big
Daddy ruminating on the notion of ‘mendacity’. Think of Maggie
obsessing on those ‘no-neck monsters’, the visiting children.
14. Dramatic language is underwritten. When Carol in Road asks if the dress
is short enough, Brenda simply says, “Ask men.” (Line 78). Brenda does
not say, “Why are you bothering asking me, as if I’m the expert when
the ones you should be asking are men, because they’re the ones you’re
dressing up to impress.” That is called over-writing. “Ask men” says it all.
15. Dramatic language is reluctant to express itself. The best information
is that which the character is reluctant to impart, or is only giving
away under pressure from another character, or from within. Dramatic
language is sometimes a struggle between the self and the soul, to
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16. Dramatic language is direct,QDQLQWHUYLHZ0DPHWR൵HUHGDIXUWKHU
thought, that the whole of the world opens its mouth to say exactly
what it wants—except for bad playwrights. You will immediately
notice how both of Mamet’s statements contradict each other! It
really depends on the context as to which truth operates, and when.
17. Dramatic language is confessional. Without meaning to, every time a
character opens her mouth, she is revealing to others and the audience
what is really going on inside her.
18. Dramatic language is unique to a character. No character should
really talk the same, because no one else has his soul. Consider this
causal chain: A certain inner life creates an emotional life, which in
turn struggles both to express the tumultuous state of those emo-
tions as well as to try and deal with them. Or, to put it another way:
FKDUDFWHUVVSHDNGL൵HUHQWO\EHFDXVHWKH\KDYHGL൵HUHQWHPRWLRQDO
lives from any other characters in the play. This uniqueness creates
a corresponding uniqueness in sentence-length, vocabulary, word
order, grammar, and even punctuation.
19. Dramatic language is usually very, very brief. Think of it as a fast
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one back, even faster. Note well: the true ‘default’ length of a line of
theatre dialogue is just that: one line. Even less, where possible. Any
PRUHKDVWREHIXOO\MXVWL¿HG7KHUHLVQRWKLQJZRUVHLQWKHDWUHWKDQ
constant three-line exchanges between characters. But this three-line
porridge texture is a standard feature of the work of many new writ-
ers. Make the exchanges quick, so that the energy being transferred
from one character to another is not lost.
20. Dramatic language is occasionally very, very long. Long speeches,
H[WHQGHGVHQWHQFHVDQGRWKHUYHUEDOµRXWEXUVWV¶DUHDOZD\VMXVWL¿HG
in circumstances of pressure. This means that where great pressure
is being exerted on character A by character B, the pressure may
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emotionally-laden meanings. Randolph Hearst, the newspaper
baron can teach us here. “News is what the other guy doesn’t want
printed.” A longish speech is exciting because a character has been
resisting the telling of it for two pages. Whatever a character doesn’t
want to say or reveal is precisely what an audience wants to hear.
(See also Point 15 above.)
21. Dramatic language creates larger formal structures. Look at the
‘mini-structures’ created in Road:

2. CAROL: Out.
4. CAROL: Out.
6. CAROL: The pub.
The tension is heightened with each repetition, because energy is not

released. Whether in real life or the theatre, asking someone a question
creates tension, through the expectation, uncertainty or even fear of the
answer. Whether it’s a simple question or a complex one, tension is cre-
ated. It’s an incomplete act requiring completion by the other person or
character who must answer the question. If in the exchange above, Carol
KDGDQVZHUHGWKHTXHVWLRQWKH¿UVWWLPHVKHZDVDVNHGVKHZRXOGKDYH
dissipated the energy—and the theatrical interest.
The ‘energy principle’ in the short exchange of Brenda and Carol

works as follows:
Line 1 raises the energy (there being none previously).
Line 2 is a partial answer, and only partly reduces it.
Line 3 raises it further, not just because it is a question, but because

it is a repeated question. (Repetition tends to increase spatial energy.)
Line 4 lowers the energy hardly at all. Her answer is no match for
the insistent force of the question. (Strangely, in life and drama, repeated
questions retain their power, where as repeated answers often don’t.)
Line 5 raises the energy still further—and the actor will make sure
of that, if only to make the next line work.
Line 6 takes the full force of the energy of the previous line at its
peak, absorbs it, delivers it at full pitch, and lets the energy dissipate in the
space and the silence. But not for long, as Brenda has another question!
Without understanding the use of energy here, you will never be able
to create the crucial linguistic structure called the ‘build’. This is where
tension and energy are used to create invisible structures like Brenda and
Carol’s exchange. A build is a very exciting thing. It can go for a page or
more, achieving such an unbearable tension that the audience is all-but
screaming for relief. It is usually so grateful that it listens like mad to the
next part of the play. (I examine the ‘build’ in more detail in Chapter 14.)
,W¶VWLPHWRORRNDWVRPHVSHFL¿FWHFKQLTXHVWRLPSURYH\RXUDELOLW\
to write powerful dramatic language.
133
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DRAMATIC LANGUAGE (II): S Y N TA X, P U N C T U AT I O N,
RHETORIC AND OTHER TOOLS OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
In the previous chapter, we looked at the general nature of dramatic

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EMOTION AND DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
Emotion is the key that opens the door to the inner lives of charac-
ters in drama. Emotion belongs to the inner life, but for it to dominate
the drama, it must also dominate the language. Thus, every linguistic
aspect—syntax (sentence structure), word order and punctuation—
must serve to let the emotion communicate directly, with power and
ÀH[LELOLW\
Let’s put this another way: the easiest way to create exciting theatrical
language is to have the emotion so strong that it is in danger of wrecking
the language itself. The feelings and passions aroused are so powerful
that meaning itself is threatened.
There are two simple steps to this.
First, decide the nature of the inner life. Decide its dominant emo-
tions. Second, choose those linguistic devices that most directly express
those dominant emotions.
For example, let’s say a woman is driven by anger. Your creative job
is how to express that anger linguistically. You could write lines like, “I’m
really, really angry!”, but for reasons I’ll go into in the chapter on acting,
the audience will not believe her.
Here are some practical ways that you might ‘build anger into the
language’ of her scene:
— Toy with word order (syntax), which tells the audience that the emotion
LVVRVWURQJDQGVRGHHSWKDWLWLVD൵HFWLQJHYHU\SDUWRIKHU
— Use punctuation to express the inner chaos. This, along with a mixed-up
word order, will show that the emotion is in charge of the character,
rather than the reverse.
— Show the character struggling with the power of her own emotions.
Make it uncertain as to which force will win: emotion or reason;
rationality or incoherence.
— Use incomplete sentences. Only calm people speak in measured sen-

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— Most importantly of all, let her talk about anything but anger, so that
the volcano of anger inside her can keep building and threaten to erupt.
THE VIRTUOSITY OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
Dramatic character is not just a production of ‘some deep emotion’.

Character is, above all, the creation of a language. Romeo and Juliet
without the heart-stopping, ecstatic poetry would simply be sentimental.
Mamet’s real estate salesmen without their soul-dead profanity would just
be a B-grade movie. Remove the dialectical irony from Caryl Churchill,
and you’d be left with propaganda. To create a powerful dramatic char-
acter, you don’t just make the emotion powerful. You also set out to do
astonishing things with the English language.
Consider the following.
“I was driving to Las Vegas to tell my sister that I’d had Mother’s
respirator unplugged. Four bald men in the convertible in front
RIPHZHUHSLFNLQJWKHVFDEVRৼWKHLUVXQEXUQWKHDGVDQGÀLFNLQJ
them onto the road. I had to swerve to avoid riding over one of
the oozy crusts of blood and going into an uncontrollable skid.
I manoeuvred the best I could in my boxy Korean import but my
mind was elsewhere. I hadn’t eaten for days. I was famished.”
This character is interesting. He’s got my attention. The world is larger-

than-life, and so, by extension, is the speaker of these words. What play is
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Dot” by Mark Leyner, Picador, 1992). But the extravagant language of this
writer is more innately dramatic than the realism of many modern playwrights.
THE MUSICALITY OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
It may be objected that violently emotional language is simply one way

to go in writing theatre dialogue. What is seen as highly emotional language
is simply emotion that is on the surface. The alternative is to bury the emotion,
and submerge the undercurrents in a more self-conscious linguistic texture.
Consider the following lines from Samuel Beckett:
that time you went back that last time to look was the ruin still
there where you hid as a child when was that (eyes closed) grey
day took the eleven to the end of the line and on from there no
no trams then all gone long ago that time you went back to look
was the ruin still there where you hid as a child that last time not
a tram left in the place only the old rails when was that
In this excerpt from his short play That Time, Beckett dispenses with
the idea of character as a sociological ‘type’. The language with its many
motifs (that time, still there, all gone etc) becomes a direct meditation on
human experiences such as memory, loss, reiteration and recovery through
ODQJXDJH,W¶VDGL൵HUHQWGUDPDWLFH[SHULHQFHIURPSOD\VZLWKDVWURQJ
and immediately recognisable social surface. Beckett does not ask his
audiences to socially identify with the characters. His dramatic language
triggers deep emotional and psychological responses in its audience. Its
PHDQVDUHPRUHGLUHFWWKDQVD\DVRFLDOFRPHG\ZKLFK¿UVWVHHNVWRSODFH
the audience in the middle of its social landscape (e.g. upstate New York).
In essence, Beckett says that none of that matters. If you feel the same way,
then all you need to do is create a dramatic language that is as musical,
imagistic, linguistically-controlled and mesmeric as his. Simple really.
Another way to see theatrical language is as a type of verbal opera,
where the inner rhythms of sentences and the lyrical, imagistic power of
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of realistic plot and socially-recognisable characters. If you accept my
view that the purpose of drama is to dramatize the inner life more than the
social outer layer, then language which speaks directly to a non-rational,
pre-conscious imaginative self is crucial.
THE SPATIAL IMPLICATIONS OF DRAMATIC LANGUAGE
Dramatic language is meant to exist in theatre space. The theatre space

is real, as is the audience watching. But exactly how dramatic language
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)RUH[DPSOHZK\GRHV6KDNHVSHDUH¶VODQJXDJHVRDUDQG¿OOWKHDWUHVSDFH
ZKHQPRVWRIKLV(OL]DEHWKDQFRQWHPSRUDULHVGRQRW",FDQRQO\R൵HU
what I hope will be some insights into this vast mystery.
The most important thing to realise is that dramatic language has a
‘temperature’. Look at the white-hot, claustrophobic intensity of Crave
in Chapter 1, compared with the Ayckbourn example, also in that chapter.
6DUDK.DQH¶VODQJXDJHLVµKRWWHU¶PRUHYRODWLOHOHVVFRQWUROOHG,WVH൵HFW
in theatre space can also be described as hotter. Ayckbourn’s language is
cooler, more controlled, slower, partly because the heat is turned inward,
by the character who is in danger of emotionally imploding, so to speak.
Which brings me to a second important principle:

Generally, the fewer the words, the cooler the theatre space. In other
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distance between characters that the theatre space seems to amplify, then
you simply write fewer words. Harold Pinter understood this. Many have
commented on what they call the ‘Pinter menace’, that is a sense of threat and
fear in the atmosphere of many Pinter plays. But this is usually attributed to
VRPHXQVSHFL¿HGSV\FKRORJLFDOµWULFN¶LQ3LQWHU¶VZULWLQJ7KHH[SODQDWLRQ
is much simpler: Pinter chills the space by ¿OOLQJLWZLWKVLOHQFHIt is the
coldness of the theatre space that creates the feeling of strangeness in his
work. German theatre does it all the time; and they learned it from Strindberg.
THE WRITER’S PUNCTUATIONAL TOOL-KIT
Punctuation in drama is not like punctuation in literature. It’s even

less similar to life. Imagine someone is writing a report for his boss. He
will make his punctuation ‘correct’, according to current usage. It will aid
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,W¶VGL൵HUHQWIRUWKHDWUH3OD\ZULJKWVWHQGWRVHHSXQFWXDWLRQDELWOLNH
a marital aid. It’s there to heighten the impact, rather than calm things
down. Punctuation is an energy-raiser, a stimulus to imagination, a device
to raise merry hell. It’s not there to smooth things over. Smoothing things
over, whether in sex or theatre, makes for sound sleep.
Another, less excitable way to see punctuation is as a type of linguistic
WUD൶FVLJQDOIRUWKHDFWRU$VHULHVRIGDVKHVPD\EHVD\LQJWRWKHDFWRU
“Go fast here”. A series of dots may be slowing him down.
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²'ൺඌඁൾඌ
Interrupted energy is exciting. To have an actor rushing toward a
point, only to pull up short makes for a suspenseful moment. The audience
wonders what was going to be said, or better still, it tries to work out the
end of the sentence. A crucial factor comes into play with fragments of
language and uncompleted sentences. No example is needed—I hope—at
least, if you’re like me—and if you’re reading this book I think you are—
I mean, like me—or enough at least to be interested in the topic—then
your own writing—your own thinking—will be full of it. Enough said.
'ඈඍඌ(අඅංඉඌංඌ
Davies, in Pinter’s The Caretaker, speaks frequently in a type of
halted or semi-paralysed English:
DAVIES: Well, I… I never done caretaking before, you know… I
mean to say… I never… what I meant to say is… I never
been a caretaker before.
This dot-drenched language is easy to parody (and in my humble

opinion wears out its welcome even in Pinter), but there are times when
‘making the audience wait’ for the character’s words makes for suspense-
ful, exciting theatre.
7ඁൾ&ඈආආൺ
The comma extends the sentence. To use a musical term, it ‘delays
the cadence’, and prevents the energy in the sentence from petering out
too soon. This excerpt from Tom Stoppard’s Jumpers uses the comma to
mark the inner phrases (and thus the performing contours) for the actor:
GEORGE: — if I may so refer to an old friend for whom punctuality

was no less a predicate than existence, and a good deal
more so, he would have had us believe, though why we
should believe that existence could be asserted of the
author of ‘Principia Mathematica’ but not of Bertrand
Russell, he never had time, despite his punctuality, not
to mention his existence, to explain, very good, keep to
the point, to begin at the beginning: is God?
3ൺඋൾඇඍඁൾඌൾඌ
'UDPDWLFODQJXDJHµLQSDUHQWKHVHV¶LVTXLWHXVHIXO,WLQGLFDWHV¿UVW
to the actor (and then, the audience) that there is another level, another
LQÀHFWLRQRI PHDQLQJSRVVLEOH ZKLFK KHOSV WR FUHDWHWKHQHFHVVDU\ LO-
lusion of character complexity. Edmond, in David Mamet’s play of the
same name, is talking to his wife, who is visiting him in jail, where he
languishes as a murder suspect:
EDMOND: Yes, but I do want to tell you something… I didn’t mean

to. But do you want to hear something funny?… (Now,
GRQ¶W ODXJK« , WKLQN ,¶G MXVW KDG WRR PXFK FRৼHH
(Pause) I’ll tell you something else. I think there are
just too many people in the world.
(එർඅൺආൺඍංඈඇආൺඋ඄
$QDFWRUWROGPH\HDUVDJRWKDWWRKLPWKHJRRGSOD\VµOHDSR൵WKH
page’. I spent some time puzzling over what he meant, before realising that
he was talking about the way that good dramatic language has something
‘locked’ inside (energy, tension, rage, comic frenzy, innate physicality
etc) which can be sensed even on reading. The exclamation mark, by its
very nature, contains a locked-up energy which even the reader can see is
straining for release. A brief but powerful moment from Stephen Sewell’s
The Blind Giant is Dancing illustrates this:
ALLEN: I didn’t send that balance sheet to you!

ROSE: Why are you so convinced of Wells’ guilt?
ALLEN: I never intended to use you and I haven’t!
ROSE: So you love me!
ALLEN: Yes!
A word of warning: the exclamation mark can be over-used, espe-

cially if the dramatic stakes do not justify it. To avoid this, simply raise
the dramatic stakes of your scene/play (i.e., more is at stake; more to be
ZRQDQGORVWE\HDFKFKDUDFWHUDQGWKHQ¿QGWKHODQJXDJHWKDWkeeps those
stakes high. Desperate people do and say desperate things.
"4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ0ൺඋ඄
As I indicated earlier in the book, simply asking a question creates
tension. Shakespeare knew this. The opening of Hamlet, already tense
and exciting, is made more so by the number of questions.
In a more introspective sense, a character who questions himself is
already on a higher plane of awareness. He is a ‘bigger’ character, simply
by the act of self-questioning.
CAPITAL LETTERS
An example is Sam Shepard’s A Lie Of The Mind, where Beth, beaten
to a brain-damaged state, declares her love:
MIKE: This guy tried to kill you! How can you still want a man
who tried to kill you! What’s the matter with you! He’s
the one who did this to you!
BETH: HEEZ MY HEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAART!!
)ඎඅඅ6ඍඈඉඌ
Be careful with full stops. A full stop, by its very nature, tends to stop the
energy dead in its tracks. Sometimes, however, that very abruptness and cur-
tailing quality is what you want to express the particular dynamic of your lines.
Then again, there are always the amazing and dynamic speeches from
David Mamet’s Oleanna:
JOHN: They’re going to discharge me.

CAROL: As full well they should. You don’t understand? You’re
angry? What has led you to this place? Not your sex.
Not your race. Not your class. YOUR OWN ACTIONS.
7ඁൾ&ඈඅඈඇ
7KHFRORQLVXVHIXOZKHQ\RXZDQWWRFUHDWHDVSHFL¿FIRFXVZKLFK
says to the other character (or audience): “Listen very hard to what I am
about to say.” An example is from my play, The Moonwalkers, where
Joseph is, in his own spaced-out way, trying to assist a woman’s search
for understanding of the relationship between fertility and the universe.
-26(3+ $VKRUWOLVWRIHৼHFWV2QHWKHJUDYLWDWLRQDOHৼHFWRQ
ÀXLGVIURPDWHDFXSWRDNLQJWLGH7ZRWKHYDULDEOH
light shining on the earth from raging light to utter
darkness. Three: the electrical charging of atoms, espe-
FLDOO\LQDVWRUP)RXUWKHHৼHFWRQWKHKRUPRQHVDQG
the endocrine system of the female body. It’s all there.
There are other punctuation signs such as the semi-colon; but despite
\HDUVRIH൵RUW,¶YHSHUVRQDOO\QHYHUIRXQGDGUDPDWLFRUOLQJXLVWLFXVH
for the semi-colon; it’s one of the failures of my professional life; I wish
you better luck.
THE TEN MOST COMMON DIALOGUE PATTERNS
/LNHDOODUWIRUPVWKHDWUHLVµDUWL¿FLDO¶,WLVEDVHGRQFXOWXUDODQG
KLVWRULFDORSLQLRQVZKLFKFKDQJHVLJQL¿FDQWO\RYHUWLPH,I\RX¶UHQRW
sure of that, just look at 18th century drama and see how ‘old’ the language
feels.) The following common, contemporary dialogue patterns are those
ZKLFKDUHH൵HFWLYHLQWKHHDUO\\HDUVRIWKHst century. In a century, or
less, they will also feel old; but for now, study them and use them to the
extent they serve your creative purposes.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟$ඇඌඐൾඋ
The Q & A is probably the most common pattern in all drama. The
ability to ask a question—and receive an answer is fundamental to human
experience and society. It’s one of the reasons the ancient Greeks added a
new character to their tragic drama. Look again, at the wonderful moment
from Jim Cartwright’s Road:

2. CAROL: Out.
4. CAROL: Out.
6. CAROL: The pub.
Be careful of Pattern 1. It is the most realistic—and over-used—of

all the patterns. It’s my belief that this pattern is used far too much in
American theatre. If you accept my view that theatre is more about mystery
than about solutions, then relentlessly answering every question is not
always the best way to go. See it this way: if the answer is obvious, don’t
even bother to say it. In the above example, however, Jim Cartwright is
simply using the pattern to show a mother and daughter in a grim, daily
domestic battle. Notice, also, the dramatic stakes involved. In other words,
beware of the Question-and-Answer when it is simply casual, where there
is nothing emotionally invested in the exchange.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ
A question, by nature, raises the tension level in most human encoun-
ters. It is intrinsically dramatic.
JACK: I love a good metaphor.

LINA: Is that a proposition?
JACK: Would you like one?
LINA: Just the one?
JACK: Your bed or mine?
This pattern plies question upon question. A question makes the

audience work and ask itself—“What is the answer?” “Why won’t she
give him a direct answer?” A direct answer can sometimes kill that
mental detective work on the part of the audience. Notice in the above
example, how the relentless questioning can show a type of ‘contested
power’ between the characters, even if it’s playful, as in the above ex-
ample from my play Derrida in Love. (For more on contested power,
see Chapter 13 on Texture.)
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟1ඈ5ൾඌඉඈඇඌൾ
This Pattern is very useful when you wish to show the status or power
of a relationship.
FAY: Who do you think you are, coming in here, treating me

like your personal slave?
No response.
Do you think I don’t care?
No response.
Do you think I don’t know what’s been happening?
No response.
ANSWER ME!… Please.
Sometimes, the powerful person is the one who does not answer.
1RWLFHKRZWKHµQRUHVSRQVH¶SURYLGHVDUK\WKPLFQHDUPHVPHULFH൵HFW
on both page—and theatre space.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ4ඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟'ංൿൿൾඋൾඇඍ$ඇඌඐൾඋ
This is a very useful pattern, because it creates complexity and richness.
ALAN: What do you think I am? Do you think I like being treated
like that?
BOB: So much misery. So much unhappiness.
It’s not simply the fact that ‘two characters are not on the same
wave-length’. One of the characters (Bob) is, in fact, on the M-Level, the
Metaphysical, while the other, Alan, remains on the E-Level, that of the
Psychological. So many nuances, levels and subtleties are possible with
WKLVVLPSOHGHYLFHZKHWKHUXVHGEULHÀ\RULQDPRUHH[WHQGHGEHDW6HH
Chapter 17 for more on how to mix these levels in your writing.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ6ඁඈඋඍඊඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟අඈඇ඀ൺඇඌඐൾඋ
Unbalanced texture is our friend. Unbalanced texture gives both
freedom to the actors, and mental space to the audience.
LINA: Derek—just out of curiosity—Are you in love with me?

DEREK: Well yes, I am, if by that you mean, “Do you feel, without
DQ\TXDOL¿FDWLRQRUDYDJXHVHQVHRIQRWEHLQJORVWLQ
a void that’s only...How do I put this—
LINA: Forget I asked.
In the example above, the lop-sided nature of the exchange (where

one character hardly says a word) is another way to stop the question-
and-answer from becoming predictable.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ/ඈඇ඀ඊඎൾඌඍංඈඇ๟ඌඁඈඋඍൺඇඌඐൾඋ
This pattern is the reverse of the previous one.
ALAN: Do you think, if I tried really hard, and didn’t say a

single word, and smiled at everyone, you’d let me come
to the meeting with you?
BETTY: No.
There are two ways to ‘see’ characters who speak more than other char-
acters: either they have a lot of power—or they have very little power at all.
(Curiously, the former tends to be the American choice; the latter tends to be a
more British characteristic.) Either the character is talking because he is weak,
or because he is strong, and his dominance of the conversation is his way of
showing that he is in charge. Or not. Pinter uses both approaches. So can you.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ$ඌඌൾඋඍංඈඇ๟5ൾൻඎඍඍൺඅ
It’s a little-known fact that human conversation is not innately the-
atrical, let alone dramatic. Unless conversation is invested with either
dramatic stakes (in the more realist modes) or irony, paradox and wit (in
the less realist, more modernist theatrical modes), the more dangerous it is
to have your characters ‘just talking’. It’s a peculiarly American problem,
I think, because of the strong humanist focus in our theatre writing. At its
most banal, it comes across simply as ‘nice people talking about ordinary
things’. It’s usually not enough to engage the audience.
So, at the very least, raise the dramatic stakes of every engagement.
MIRANDA: You said I was perfect!

JACK: You are. Your essay is not!
This is more than ‘just talking’. Each character has an investment in

the situation. Each has something to lose. It’s a power play. One character
asserts with vigor, and the other rebuts it, with even more energy and force.
That way, conversation stays dramatic.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ$ඌඌൾඋඍංඈඇ๟$඀උൾൾආൾඇඍ
7KLVSDWWHUQDOVRR൵HUVDZD\RXWRIWKHFKDUDFWHUVµMXVWWDONLQJ¶WR
each other.
MIRANDA: I’m, like, so dumb! So stupid! So jackass ignorant!
JACK: You are, my sweet. But so are my enemies. You, on the
other hand, have more than just me as a friend. You
have me, my total authority and scholarly integrity, all
working for you. On your side. As your ally.
&RQÀLFWLQGLDORJXHQHHGQRWDOZD\VEHWKH¿UVWDXWRPDWLFUHVSRQVH
Sometimes, if a character asserts that something is true (as in the above
example), your second character can surprise by agreeing with her.
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ6ඍൺඍൾආൾඇඍ๟4ඎൺඅංൿංർൺඍංඈඇ
Statements are a little dull, dramatically speaking. They usually need
some ‘edge’ to them. One way is to make your other character qualify or
DGGQXDQFHWRWKHEDOGVWDWHPHQWWKDWWKH¿UVWFKDUDFWHUPDNHV
JACK: I think I’ve got it, you know. The rights, for translation.
LINA: For Derrida’s book?
JACK: I spoke to him. In person.
LINA: In Oslo.
JACK: Copenhagen.
LINA: At the dinner.
JACK: The forum.
LINA: You ran into him at the lift.
JACK: The escalator. I told him: “I’d love to translate that
book of yours.”
This type of linguistic exchange is innately paradoxical, and can be
ERWKFRPLFDQGVHULRXVLQLWVH൵HFWGHSHQGLQJRQWKHQDUUDWLYHFRQWH[W
3ൺඍඍൾඋඇ2ඉංඇංඈඇ๟&ඈඎඇඍൾඋඈඉංඇංඈඇ
Like the last couple of patterns, an opinion is not innately dramatic.
It needs more.
LINA: We should get an answering machine. In case we’re out.

JACK: I have a theory: No one ever calls when we’re out of
the house.
LINA: Not that you’ll ever prove it.
JACK: A theory doesn’t need to be proven. It needs to be
expressed.
In this case, if you have one opinion, then try ironising that single opin-
ion by even more opinions. Stoppard does that frequently in his later plays.
A word of warning regarding all these patterns: Like all devices,

the more they are used, the more obvious they become. Any device can
HDVLO\ZHDURXWLWVZHOFRPH&RQVLGHUXVLQJDQ\RUDOORIWKHPEULHÀ\
and, perhaps, just once, as part of a rich array of linguistic devices in
your work.
A dominant theme of this book is the need to blend two contrasting
HYHQFRQÀLFWLQJDHVWKHWLFVWKDWRIKXPDQLVPDQGPRGHUQLVP([SHUL-
menting with the above ten basic dialogue patterns will almost certainly
create that exciting blend in your writing that makes an audience both
aware of the linguistic formalism, and glad that it’s at the theatre to
experience it live.
TEN WAYS TO ANSWER A QUESTION
I’ve already stated that theatre dialogue is not ‘real’. In fact, it is

the very artificiality and formal patterning of language that is most
useful in writing theatre dialogue. But some patterns are more use-
ful than others. And some are more innately dramatic and theatrical
than others.
As the previous section shows, I believe that the question is a fun-
damentally dramatic tool of language. But there are so many ways you
can deal with a question, even beyond the Patterns I discussed above.
Look at these ten ways a simple question from one character can
be dealt with by a second character.
1. Respond with another question.
MIKE: What are you even doing here?

JULIE: What right do you have to be asking me that?
2. Answer the question (preferably emphatically and with emotion.)

JULIE: I’m cleaning up the mess you just made!
3. Refuse to answer the question, and instead, respond with an assertion

or a judgment.

JULIE: You’ve got a hide like a rhino, you know that? No, make
that two rhinos!
4. $QVZHUDGL൵HUHQWXQDVNHGTXHVWLRQ
JULIE: In case you were wondering, I’m cleaning up the

appalling mess you just made in that sales pitch.
5. Make no answer/no response/silence.

(Beat)
Look, I’m sorry. Okay?
She says nothing.
6. Do an action-in-response.

She starts tearing up the documents.
What the hell are you doing?!
7. Give a ‘shaggy-dog’ answer.

JULIE: Well, it’s funny you ask that, considering how just now,
in that room, not to mention all the other times I could
also mention, but why not, for argument’s sake just stick
to the last two hours, ‘cause knowing how dumb you
are there’s not much chance of you...(etc)
8. Attempt to answer/interrupted response.

JULIE: Look—
MIKE: I thought they told you to go home?
JULIE: I started to, but—
MIKE: And don’t give me any of that, “Please can you spare
VRPHVHOISLW\IRUPH"´VWXৼ
JULIE: I was only going to say that—
MIKE: Because, right now, I’m all out of sympathy for you.
JULIE: WILL YOU LET ME SPEAK FOR A MINUTE?
9. The unanswerable question/the answer falters.

JULIE: I don’t...Where do I start?... Considering how much it
all meant to us both... What can I say?
10. Give a rhetorical answer (especially useful when dealing with a literal
question, as in this case.)

JULIE: It’s strange, don’t you think—how, whenever it’s your
fault, you always start going on at me, as if I’d done a
really bad thing? Have you noticed you do that?
RHETORIC & RHETORICAL PATTERNS
Rhetoric is contemporary theatre’s secret weapon. It is used far more

than most of us realise. It was devised by the Greeks and developed further
by the Romans, as part of their civil debate. Both societies knew that words
are weapons. Language and its ordering (via word-order, phrasing etc) can be
just as convincing to listeners as the content the words and sentences deliver.
The study of rhetoric in contemporary theatre writing is worth a book
in itself, but I’ll just mention a few rhetorical devices you can use in your
work, using examples from both theatre and life.
Bdelygmia (A tirade or litany of abuse.)
OSWALD: What dost thou know me for?

KENT: A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats, a base,
proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound,
¿OWK\ ZRUVWHGVWRNLQJ NQDYH $ OLO\OLYHU¶G DFWLRQ
taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable,
¿QLFDOURJXH
(From King Lear)
Martyria (a moment of emotionalised personal testimony.)
Michael: Do you really think I’d do that? Me—who’s been a good

friend to you—and I say this calmly, despite the fact that
my heart is breaking, yes, Mary, it is. I tell you the truth.
I’ve always loved you, and I’m not going to stop now.
(FOLSVLVWKHFRPSUHVVHGH൵HFWFDXVHGE\GHOLEHUDWHRPLVVLRQRIRQHRU
more words.)
GORDON: You want a friend? Get a dog.

(from Wall Street)
(SHPERO\LQVHUWLQJDGL൵HUHQWWKRXJKWLQWRWKHPDLQLGHDZKLFKHQGV
up reinforcing that main idea.)
LINA: Derek—just out of curiosity—Are you in love with me?

(from Derrida in Love)
$QDSKRUDRU/LWDQ\(൵HFWUHSHDWLQJWKHVDPHLGHDWKURXJKRXWDOLQH
Why should the white man be running all the stores in our com-
munity? Why should the white man be running all the banks in our
town? Why should the whole economy of our community be in the
hands of the white man?
(Malcom X)
Hyperbole (Over-the-top exaggeration.)
Give it to us yesterday—and that’s not fast enough!
(Malcom X)
Antimetabole (To reverse words, usually to reverse the meaning.)
Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do
for your country.
(John F. Kennedy)
Antonomasia
The deliberate mis-naming of something so that the person or thing is

LGHQWL¿HGZLWKWKDWQHZUHSUHVHQWDWLRQ7KLVUKHWRULFDOWHFKQLTXHLVXVHG
a lot in sit-com writing and social comedy. It’s fun to play, fun to hear,
and it usually creates an instant laugh.
JACK: Take as an example, my Mata Hari of a girlfriend.
Pragmatographia (A vivid, image-generating evocation of a person or event)
ENID: Young boys in Athens, everywhere. Looking from the

dark of doorways with brown eyes and white teeth. A
young people’s city with the past crumbling everywhere

in it. The statues of gods and goddesses with their noses
FKLSSHGDQG¿QJHUVPLVVLQJ
The last example brings me to one of the best ways to create rich
theatre language: by use of the techniques of imagistic writing.
IMAGISTIC WRITING
What I call ‘imagistic writing’ is one of the supreme gifts of lan-

guage to the theatre. Look at the following short speech from Salonika
by Louise Page.
ENID: Young boys in Athens, everywhere. Looking from the

dark of doorways with brown eyes and white teeth. A young
people’s city with the past crumbling everywhere in it. The
statues of gods and goddesses with their noses chipped and
¿QJHUVPLVVLQJ%R\VZLWKZKLWHZKLWHWHHWKZKRVPLOHGDW
me—wondering to pick pocket or not. Young men already
older than my father was allowed to be.
This beautiful moment comes out of quietness, and takes the audience
deeply into the inner life of Enid. This is not simply a travel description
of Athens. Enid has responded deeply to what she saw, and she has a
deeply personal reason for speaking. Her father was killed in Salonika.
The present is merging with the eternal past.
There’s a great deal of rich writerly technique in this apparently
‘simple’ speech. Nearly every linguistic device that goes to create imagistic
writing is present here.
—Imagistic writing uses the sense of sight, in particular that of colour.
The very mention of “white”, for example, will have the audience
imagining their own version of white.
—Imagistic writing uses, not just colours and sight, but intensities of light.
“The dark of doorways… brown eyes… white teeth”.
—Imagistic writing uses the sense of sound. Sound is implied by the
city being described. There’s an acoustical component that our mind
recognises when, for example, we hear of a “past crumbling.” Think
of the storm and thundering built into Lear’s line on the heath: Blow,
winds, and crack your cheeks.
—Imagistic writing uses the sense of touch. Statues crumble. We’ve all held
something in our hand and felt it disintegrate and crumble. Good imagistic
writing calls on our sensual memory to make the moments come alive.
—Imagistic writing uses nature, culture and civilisation as its metaphorical
building-blocks. Often there is a dialectical opposition, a paradox, an
imperfection. Monumentalism is fragmented (with chipped statues).
Nature is stunted or dying. There is a ‘canker in the rose’, or the
buildings may be crumbling before our very eyes.
—Imagistic writing uses VSHFL¿FLW\,PDJHVWHQGWREHLQWHQVHO\VSHFL¿F
To write, “The statue had parts missing” is too abstract, too general.
2XUDWWHQWLRQLVIRFXVVHGRQWKHQRVHVWKH¿QJHUV6LPLODUO\WKHLPDJH
of people in doorways is made memorable because it is not the young
boys who are looking out from doorways, it is as if their brown eyes
and white teethKDYHDOLIHRIWKHLURZQ7KHWHFKQLTXHRIVSHFL¿FLW\
has a lot in common with the movie camera that pans in for a close-up.
It is as if the mystery of lives are revealed in their tiny, incomplete
details. Thus, imagistic writing uses an almost cosmological sense
of the “whole”, ironically by showing its opposite. Note the sense
of perfection contrasted with imperfection; completeness contrasted
with fragmentation: gods and goddesses with their noses chipped.
—Imagistic writing uses the rhythms of poetry, such as word repetitions
(white, white teeth) and motivic repetitions (“everywhere... everywhere”)
—Imagistic writing has a cast of (epic) characters with implicit dramatic
stakes. In the speech quoted above, danger lurks in every dark
passageway: are the smiling boys just friendly—or are they potential
thieves and assassins?
Imagistic writing is writing which creates images in the audience’s

heads. In one sense, the play ‘stops’, while a type of imaginative dreams-
cape is created inside the minds and imagination of the audience. This has
its dangers, however. Do too much of it, or for too long, and the audience
will no longer concentrate on the on-stage action, for the simple reason
that there is no on-stage action to focus on! Use it sparingly, however,
and it is immensely powerful.
HEIGHTENED LANGUAGE
Heightened language is a type of ‘elevated’ language that lifts realistic

language onto another plane. The plane of meaning and response that such
language speaks to may be an emotional level, or some metaphysical or
symbolic level, where the audience is aware that ‘something bigger’ than
social reality or individual psychology is being dealt with.
The opening of Michael Frayn’s Benefactors has such an instance of

heightened language.
DAVID: Basuto Road. I love the name!

JANE: Basuto Road. How I hate those sour grey words!
DAVID: Basuto Road, SE15. And at once you knew when it was
built and what it looks like. You can practically smell the grey
lace curtains in those little bay windows. Don’t you think?
JANE: You look back in life and there’s a great chain of cloud-
shadows moving over the earth behind you. All the
sharp bright landscape you’ve just travelled through
has gone grey and graceless.
DAVID: Basuto Road. But when you think how fresh and hopeful
that must have sounded once, back in 1890! There’s the
whole history of ideas in that one name.
-$1( 7KHUHLWLVRQWKHER[¿OHVDOODORQJWKHVKHOI²%DVXWR
Road, Basuto Road, Basuto Road. Grey-faced reproach-
IXOZRUGVVKX৾LQJWRZDUGV\RXRXWRIWKHVKDGRZV,
look away— and there they are again, running down-
wards on the chest where he keeps his old drawings—
Basuto Road, Basuto Road, Basuto Road.
Coming at the opening, this passage launches the audience directly

into the spiritual level of the play. That is, Basuto Road is not just an ad-
dress. It is a kingdom of the imagination, a world that stands for a larger
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LQYHVWDJUHDWGHDORIH൵RUWDQGDFWLYLW\
You won’t notice from this small excerpt, but the entire opening scene
of this play starts in this heightened manner, and over the next couple of
PLQXWHVJUDGXDOO\ÀRDWVGRZQOLNHDEDOORRQRQWRWKHVROLGHDUWKRIUHDOLVP
at which point the story starts. It’s clever writing. Frayn has acted on the
principle: open the audience’s imaginations up, and then follow with the
VWRU\WKDW¶VVHWRQSODQHWHDUWK²VSHFL¿FDOO\LQWKLVFDVHDVXEXUERI/RQGRQ
The way to see heightened language is as one of the ‘tools’ available
to us in order to make the play live on more than just a realistic level. It
is a tone in the linguistic palette. Just as with imagistic writing, if we use
LWWRRPXFKLWORVHVLWVH൵HFWRUVLPSO\WXUQVLQWROLWHUDWXUH
THE NOTATION OF LANGUAGE
If language is a type of displaced music, then, like music, it has its own
notation. Sometimes the notation is simple—a full-stop here, a comma there.
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&DU\O&KXUFKLOORIWHQFUHDWHVWH[WXUHVZKLFKFUHDWHYHU\VSHFL¿FDQG
detailed instructions to the actors. For example, when one character starts
speaking, Churchill marks the point at which she should be interrupted
by the next speaker (usually indicated by a /). At other times, a character
continues speaking right through another’s lines, as Jake does here:
JAKE: No, it’s just... I’m in a spot of bother with the authorities/
but it’s no problem. I’m sorting it/
SCILLA: What have you done?
JAKE: /out, it’s more what the sorting might lead to.
(from Serious Money)
The point to this ‘notation’ is to encourage you to think both richly and
ambitiously. It’s not just a matter of “A asks a question, and B answers.”
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can. In fact, the two often appear together.
CREATING DIALOGUE DIRECTIONS
Here is a rough list of the types of spatial and dialogue directions you
can create in your plays.
1. The most common direction of all—a two-way channel. Character
A talks to character B, who replies.
2. Character A talks directly to the audience

3. Character A talks to B, who does not respond.
4. Characters A and B talk to each other, but A also talks to the audience.
5. &KDUDFWHUV$DQG%¿UHOLQHVDWHDFKRWKHUZKLOH$DOVRDGGUHVVHV&
6. &KDUDFWHUV$%DQG&DUHDOOZRUNLQJR൵HDFKRWKHU
7. Characters A and B are both talking at each other, while C is dealing
ZLWKVRPHWKLQJRUVRPHRQHR൵VWDJH
8. Characters A and B are talking to each other and to character C, who

ignores both of them and deals directly with the audience.
Many combinations are possible, and the list above is not exhaustive.
The spatial richness of theatre can be increased by having a variety of
dialogue directions operating, and these can be happening simultaneously.
A lot of things happening at once can make for very exciting theatre.
When you are writing your scenes, ask yourself how you can increase this
simultaneity. It’s often just a matter of bringing more plot on, and more
characters on at the one time. This helps with the problem of endless two-
header scenes; for one of the things to avoid in play writing is a play that
is full of scenes where only two characters appear who talk to each other
and then disappear, only to be replaced by another two characters that do
the same. A succession of two-header scenes is a sure guarantee of dull-
ness—unless the dramatic stakes are very high—and maybe not even then.
CAUSALITY IN DIALOGUE
One of the best ways to train yourself to write powerful dramatic

language, is to practise causality. This is where one character says some-
thing that provokes or causes a second character to respond as a direct
FRQVHTXHQFHRIZKDWWKH¿UVWFKDUDFWHUKDVVDLG. ‘Provoking’ a character

to speak creates great focus. When the provoked character speaks, it is in
GLUHFWUHVSRQVHWRWKH¿UVWTXHVWLRQ.HHSLQJGUDPDWLFODQJXDJHIRFXVVHG
is the best way to keep the audience’s attention also very focussed. Look
at the following, from Pinter’s The Birthday Party.
MEG: Was it nice?

STANLEY: What?
MEG: The fried bread.
STANLEY: Succulent.
MEG: You shouldn’t say that word.
STANLEY: What word?
MEG: That word you said.
STANLEY: What, succulent—?
MEG: Don’t say it!
STANLEY: What’s the matter with it?
MEG: You shouldn’t say that word to a married woman.
STANLEY: Is that a fact?
MEG: Yes.
STANLEY: Well, I never knew that.
MEG: Well, it’s true.
STANLEY: Who told you that?
MEG: It’s true.
For such a ‘casual’ conversation, the above passage creates the illu-
sion of characters who are intensely aware of what the other characters are
saying (and relishing the sexual energy in play). Additionally, such writing
trains the actors playing these roles to listen intently to each other. Actors
who listen to each other intently are a gift to theatre—and to your play.
LINK WORDS IN DIALOGUE
A useful technique that is easily acquired is the art of repeating words

from one dialogue line to another, a technique that’s often called ‘link
ZRUGV¶7KHODVWZRUGRI0HJ¶VOLQHEHFRPHVWKH¿UVWRI6WDQOH\¶V,QWKLV
case, the word is literally that—word.
MEG: You shouldn’t say that word.
STANLEY: What word?
This technique also keeps the moment focussed. The fact that what
Meg and Stanley are focussing on is trivial and absurd (because other
things are going on beneath the surface) is the very point of the exchange.
EBB AND FLOW IN DIALOGUE
The above Pinter excerpt also usefully conveys another important

feature of good dialogue. Put simply, lines are not the same length because
WKH\DUHVXEMHFWWRWKHSOD\ZULJKW¶VLQQDWHIHHOLQJIRUGUDPDWLFÀRZ)HHO
how there is a ‘back and forth’ motion between the characters’ lines, a
natural give-and-take.

STANLEY: What, succulent—?
MEG: Don’t say it!
STANLEY: What’s the matter with it?
See it this way: in any exchange between two characters, at least one
of them will be reluctant to speak, because such reluctance creates good
dramatic tension. (The audience thinks, “Why is she not saying more?”) The
character that is reluctant to speak will naturally speak less, thus creating the
imbalance in rhythm and line-length. This imbalance causes the energy to
be ‘bounced’ from one line to the next. To put it even more simply, uneven
line-lengths are one of your technical tools to keep an audience engaged
moment-to-moment, because unpredictability (where an audience isn’t
sure what it’s going to hear next) keeps everyone sharp and listening hard.
AMBIGUITY IN DIALOGUE
Causality is a very direct technique. It must be balanced by others,

especially those techniques that emphasise ambiguity. Look at the follow-
ing, from Stephen Sewell’s The Blind Giant is Dancing:
LOUISE: I’m Mrs Fitzgerald. I wanted to see the woman having

DQDৼDLUZLWKP\KXVEDQG
A slight pause.
ROSE: What do you see?
I’ve always thought this a marvellous start to a scene. It’s both

focussed and ambiguous. There’s no doubt about the action and purpose
RI WKH VFHQH EHFDXVH WKH ¿UVW OLQH KDPPHUV LW LQ %XW 5RVH¶V DQVZHU
lifts the atmosphere beyond the literal. Reading the section earlier in this
chapter (“Ten Ways to Answer a Question”) shows you how many choices
you have in dealing with a question.
THE ART OF UNDERWRITING
Overwriting is the bane of theatrical dialogue. It does more harm to

theatre than a thousand government taxes. To master the art of underwrit-
LQJ\RX¿UVWQHHGWRXQGHUVWDQGWKHGLDEROLFDODFWRIRYHUZULWLQJ:KDW
is overwriting? It is not just a matter of ‘too many words’. Overwriting
is the putting into language of feelings, emotions, thoughts, actions and
ideas that can be expressed in other ways.
Let’s look at how an audience receives information from a play. It
is not simply through dialogue. Let’s look at an example, from the early,
EDGZRUNVRI7LPRWK\'DO\+HUHLVWKH¿UVWYHUVLRQ
VERSION 1:
1. JAN: Are you in the mood to go out tonight?

2. MICHAEL: Go out? Where were you thinking of?
3. JAN: I’m not sure.
4. MICHAEL: Well, I’m not sure either.
5. JAN: So—do you want to go out or not?
6. MICHAEL: Maybe. I’m not sure.
7. JAN: Can you think of somewhere?
8. MICHAEL: You know, the problem with you is—
$WWKLVSRLQWWKHPDQXVFULSWWKDQNIXOO\EUHDNVRৼ
Let me give two versions of how you might eliminate the overwriting
in this excerpt.
VERSION 2:

Why keep so little? Because in dramatic terms, the full excerpt is
simply ‘treading water’, or just talking for the sake of talking. It is like a
batter blocking a ball back, with no intention of playing a scoring stroke.
Version 2 simply gets to the point. There is a useful rule-of-thumb I learned
that often applies: Go from high point to high point.
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VSHFL¿FLQWHQWLRQWKDWLVDFWHGRQ0LFKDHO,QH൵HFWVKHLVVD\LQJ³,ZDQW
an answer from you.” Whether she is just looking for a surface answer
(“Let’s eat Thai”) or something deeper (“Show me you love me!”) depends
on the story and context. Michael’s line (8) raises the exchange to a new
level of emotional intensity and sub-textual meaning. So the reasoning
behind Version 2 is, “Why wait? Let’s get to the real drama behind the
social banter.”
VERSION 3:

MICHAEL doesn’t answer.
5. JAN: (So—), do you want to go out or not?
This version is useful if you want to rev the tension up before Mi-
FKDHOOHWVÀ\ZLWKKLVOLQH9HUVLRQFUHDWHVDFROGHUPRUHYLFLRXV
picture of Michael. Version 3 allows the audience to see that there may
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entered Michael’s inner life.
Note also that I’ve bracketed the word “So”. The reason is important.
We are writing characters whose rich and complex inner life is one of the
main reasons for seeing the play. An inner life consists principally of a
thought-life and a feeling-life. The simplest way to convey the illusion of
a thought or feeling-life is simply to have a character “think” a response,
instead of answering it. Deleting the word “So—” will allow the actor to
feel a whole range of responses (Irritation; confusion; impatience) that can
then be channelled into the very clean and direct line: “Do you want to go
out or not?” That line will now have a great deal of energy and focus. To
put it all another way: If the start of a line prevents the actor from feeling
or thinking something, then cut it.
Don’t misunderstand my approach to overwriting. I’m not advocating
an austere, relentless realism. There will be times when you want to tread
water, to have characters go all cagey and circle each other warily. At other
times, you will want to create a rhythmic texture that uses such repetitions
as I’ve shown here. Or you may want to have a build that requires more
indirectness and parrying on the part of the characters. The context will
determine how much overwriting you use. But the audience should be
aware of the context: for example, if a character is speaking little because
he is guilty about something, make sure that’s clear (or clear enough to
be surmised by the audience.)
A SUMMARY OF UNDERWRITING TECHNIQUES
In a rich play, language shares the theatrical space with other as-
pects—physicality, gesture, action, sound and lighting. To allow room
for these other aspects, try the following.
— Have a character think a line instead of speaking. Version 2 above is

an example of this.
— Have a character do an action instead of speaking. Have them answer with
their bodies instead of their tongues. A character who tries to leave a
scene is saying, “I don’t want to answer you” as surely as if she spoke it.
— Have a character miss a link in the chain of reasoning, and skip to the
next part. British TV is good at this.
DETECTIVE: You killed him, didn’t you?
SUSPECT: (Yes, I did.) He was always on at me, “Do this, do that!”
Notice how much more interesting it is if the words in brackets are
left out. The actor can act the “Yes, I did”, and the audience can do the
work of ‘joining the dots’ of the story.
²+DYHDFKDUDFWHUVSHDNRQO\µWKHLPSRUWDQWVWX൵¶7KLVLQWURGXFHVDQRWKHU
XVHIXOSULQFLSOHWKDWWKHEHVWGLDORJXHLQ¿OPDQGWKHDWUHLVthe line
as culmination of a thought. This means that a chain of reasoning is
set up, but only the crucial part of the line is spoken. See much of your
dialogue as the culmination of a powerful and complex thought-life.
— Suggest a powerful emotion, and let that emotion do the work. (See
next point.)
— Make the emotion too strong for words, or at least too strong for full, measured
sentences. “I really think we should... Oh, God!” is more emotionally pow-
erful and suggestive than “I really think we should just calm down and look
at the situation as calmly and honestly as possible.” Seeing the actor unable
to complete the sentence and trying to calm himself is more interesting.
— Front-cut and end-cut. I use this term to describe how the true essence
of a line can be found by cutting away from the front and back of the
dialogue. Imagine a line like this: “You know, when all’s said and
done, I really think that the problem is that I can’t stand being in the
same room as you. I really can’t. I’ve felt this for a while, and I’ve
¿QDOO\ZRUNHGXSWKHFRXUDJHWRVD\LW´
The real essence of this over-wrought line is: “The problem is, I don’t
like you.” He may illustrate this startling observation with something even
crueller: “I can’t (even) stand being in the same room as you!”
— Overwrite in order to illustrate character. The character who spoke the

DERYHOLQHPD\EHDQLQGHFLVLYHZD൷HUZKRKDV¿QDOO\ZRUNHGXS
WKHFRXUDJHWRVSHDNRXW7KDW¶V¿QH%XWXVHLWVSDULQJO\
— Ask a friend to underline for you what s/he considers only to be the es-
sential, and only put back what you feel is crucial for rhythm, texture,
FKDUDFWHULQIRUPDWLRQRUFRPLFH൵HFW
— Ask an actor friend to get rid of as much dialogue as possible. They’ll
gladly oblige. They’ll also help you get rid of ‘false notes’ in your
dialogue. Actors are very good at picking the lines that don’t ring true.
They often don’t know why, but their ear for dialogue is often superb.
DISCORDANT DIALOGUE
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³8QOHVV\RXKDYHWZRFKDUDFWHUVZKRZDQWVRPHWKLQJGL൵HUHQW\RXGRQ¶W
have a scene.” This is nearly always true. Simple opposition between char-
acters is the easiest way to learn how to write powerful theatre language.
It teaches you to become and stay focussed. It forces you to concentrate
on one issue/problem at a time.
But once you’ve done that, you’re then ready to do really interesting things.
CONCORDANT DIALOGUE
Theatrical dialogue doesn’t always need to be oppositional, confron-

tational and full of discord (“Get out!”, “No!”, “Get OUT!”, “NO!!”). It
can also be concordant.
A passage from May-Brit Akerholt’s translation of Ibsen’s The Mas-
ter Builder will give you an idea of how concordant dialogue can work.
,QWKLVH[FHUSWWKHFRQÀLFWLVVHFRQGDU\WRWKHVSLULWXDOLQWR[LFDWLRQ
being worked up between Solness, the master builder, and Hilde, his
passionate devotee:
SOLNESS: Have you ever read any of the old sagas?

HILDE: Oh, yes! In the past— when I enjoyed reading— then
I...
SOLNESS: In the sagas there are tales about Vikings who sailed
to foreign lands and burned and plundered, killed men,
and...
HILDE: ... and captured women...
SOLNESS: ... took them aboard their ships...
HILDE: ... and sailed back to their homeland with them...
SOLNESS: ... and behaved like the most wicked of trolls toward
them.
HILDE: Oh, that must have been exciting!
SOLNESS: To capture women?
HILDE: To be captured!
The danger with having too much of your theatrical language built
around confrontation, is that, at its heart, oppositional dialogue is built
around morality. “You’re a son-of-a-bitch!”, “No, I’m not.” What writers
sometimes call “exciting dialogue” is often just a series of angry, moral
exchanges. But as we’ve seen, theatre works best when it is working on
multiple levels. In the above example, there is eroticism, imagination
and myth at work. Just as with Shakespeare, Ibsen’s work is constantly
reaching toward the metaphysical. Note how the shared vision is assisted
by the push of both characters. Great ‘acting waves’ can be built up by
exchanges such as these. They are theatrically very exciting. (For more
on the Acting Wave, see Chapter 14.)
PARALLEL DIALOGUE
Rather than have two angry characters shout at each other, you can
FUHDWHDVXEWOHUDQGULFKHUGUDPDE\EXU\LQJWKHSDLQDQGFRQÀLFW:KHUHDV
concordant dialogue has the characters share in the vision being created,
SDUDOOHOGLDORJXHDOWHUQDWHVWZRFRQÀLFWLQJYLVLRQVDVLQWKHIROORZLQJH[-
change from my play The Don’s Last Innings. A man is obsessed with the
myth and memory of a famous Australian cricketer, and each night replays
WKHGHDGPDQ¶V¿QDOLQQLQJVLQDEL]DUUHVSRUWLQJDQGPDULWDOULWXDO
MARJORIE: I’ve never drunk twenty cups of tea in one day.

JOHN: Larwood was a better bowler than Grimmet.
MARJORIE: Once I had nineteen though.
JOHN: Though I’m biased. Clarrie and I didn’t really get on.
MARJORIE: I counted them. I was waiting for you to stop practising.
JOHN: I think it was because we played for the same State
side. I always kept him out of the limelight.
MARJORIE: Do you think I got poisoned?
Marjorie brings the parallel memories to an end, with a direct ques-
tion. But for those few moments, the audience gets an insight into the
inner worlds of each character.
LISTS AND LITANIES
The litany is a fascinating linguistic construction: half of it stays the

same, and half of it changes. For example, the following is a litany:
JOHN: When I see you, I’m speechless. When I see you, it’s
all I can do not to cry out with joy.
The structure is this:
When I see you...

(This phrase provides unity and a ‘binding’
to the whole, through repetition.)
.... I’m speechless.

(This phrase provides variety, and brings
fresh new information to the moment.)
Peter Kenna’s play A Hard God ends magically, not least because it
invokes the ancient verbal/religious formalism of the litany.
MAGGIE: Hail Mary, full of grace,

The Lord is with thee,
Blessed art thou among women….
7KHSUD\HUIDGHVRৼWRDPXPEOHDQGULVHVDJDLQIRUWKHVHFRQGSDUW
Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners now
and at the hour of—
(She pauses. Her lips cannot frame the words ‘our death’. With a great
HৼRUWVKHPRXWKVWKHPVLOHQWO\DVWKHOLJKWVGLH
The list is another great device. It itemises a reality (for example,

material reality, emotional reality etc). It is virtuosic writing, but, like most
devices, should be used sparingly. A particularly bold example is from Life
and Limb by the American playwright Keith Reddin (New Dramatists).
TOD: I am not ignorant of the facts embracing the situa-

tion. I read Time, Life, Look, Reader’s Digest, Boy’s
Life, True Confessions, Field and Stream, Guns and
Ammo, Harper’s, Saturday Evening Post, The New
Republic, Captain America, Holiday, Superman,
Batman, Yale Law Review, American Medical Jour-
nal, Muscle Man, Detective, Redbook, Bazaar, Jazz
Magazine, Photoplay, National Geographic, Bicycle
Monthly, Stars and Stripes, Ibsen Quarterly, Theatre
Arts, Screaming Eagles, Total Surgery, The Mirror,
The Sun-Times, The Washington Post, the Examiner,
The Daily Planet, Publisher’s Weekly, Variety, Shoe
News, Locksmith, Douche Bag, Norwegian Fic-
tion, Abortion Review, Girdle Gazette, Stamps for
Champs, Language, Juggs, Pussy Prose, The Catho-
lic Layman Digest, Laces and Races, Up Bosco Bou-
levard, Pens, Chicago Review, American Realism,
Cocks and Socks, The Shadow, Junior G-Man, The
Boston Glove, Clit, the Yellow Pages… The Kenyon
5HYLHZ 0DUW\U RI WKH 0RQWK &URVVZRUG 6WLৼ -DLO
Bait Quarterly, Pig Latin, Shazam, The Mirror, the
Paris Herald-Tribune, Inseam News, Hemorrhoid,
and Newsweek. (Pause.) So I know whereof I speak.
You want a Life Saver?
LINGUISTIC AND SPEECH FLAWS
As I’ve already explained, characters are made theatrical and dra-

matic more by rich and powerful language than by anything else. But the
history of theatre is also full of characters who ‘talk funny’ for reasons
quite unrelated to poetry or tragic power. A character may have a physical
speech defect, or a moral defect, or simply be in the grip of a world-view
that makes it impossible for him to speak otherwise.
+HUHLVDOLVWRISRVVLEOHÀDZVDQGPDQQHULVPVWKDWPD\EHXVHIXOLQ
drawing up your character.
— Stuttering.
— Spoonerisms and other malfunctions of word order.
— Lisp.
— Unusual rapidity or slowness of speech.
— Malapropisms, such as Sheridan uses (with Mrs. Malaprop).
— Clichés and favourite expressions. Ibsen has the dull, unimaginative
Tesman (Hedda Gabler’s husband) say, “Eh?” as a stock response
to widely varying situations. Beware of over-doing this, however.
— Pretension in choice of language (Think of Malvolio here.)
— False modesty in the use of language.
— A voice quality unusual for its thinness, thickness, breathiness, harsh-
ness, loudness, softness, a sing-song quality or a monotone state.
Don’t misunderstand this. I’m not advocating that your characters

be a hospital of the walking-wounded, containing every speech defect
known to man and beast. There may, however, be some occasion where
a vocally defective character serves your play. It is particularly useful,
however, in comedy or in plays where a wild and extraordinary world
is created (hopefully that is true for every play you write!) For example,
LQDWRUSLGZRUOGVRPHFKDUDFWHUVPD\EHWRROD]\HYHQWR¿QLVKDVHQ-
tence. A sexually sated woman may speak in velvety tones that reek of
over-indulgence (again, funny, but also possibly sad and interesting).
A stutter may be more than just a physical mannerism; it may well be
symbolic of a crippling anxiety. It’s not just a matter of letting the act-
ing do all this. You have to create the inner life of your characters, and
the voice is one of the principal bearers of that inner life. You don’t just
create a character. You’re also creating a body, a soul, and a voice that
expresses these.
You’ll notice I haven’t included the notion of accent. In some plays,
LW¶VDVXSHU¿FLDODVSHFWWKDWLVXVXDOO\RYHUVWUHVVHG³He talks like a cop
from New Jersey.” 7KHUHDUHGHHSHUDQGPXFKIXQQLHUÀDZVDQGLGLRV\Q-
crasies than the accents of social demographics.
THE JOY OF JARGON
Theatrical language is not written solely to be ‘clear’. Sometimes

obfuscation is the very point you wish to make. A character who speaks
vaguely, without clarity, purpose or reason may be communicating noth-
ing of value in their actual words. But a lot is being communicated about
the person herself.
Take this example, from a Pinter sketch, Trouble In The Works.
WILLS: They’ve just taken a turn against the whole lot of them,
I tell you. Male elbow adaptors, tubing nuts, grub
screws, internal fan washers, dog points, half dog
points, white metal bushes—
FIBBS: But, not, surely not, my lovely parallel male stud
couplings.
WILLS: They hate and detest your lovely parallel male stud
FRXSOLQJVDQGWKHVWUDLJKWÀDQJHSXPSFRQQHFWRUV
DQGEDFNQXWVDQGIURQWQXWVDQGWKHEURQ]HGUDZRৼ
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without handwheel!
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WILLS: And without handwheel.
This is an excursion into incomprehension, a linguistic rapping that

relishes its detailed obscurantism. It’s also funny, because both jargo-
nauts believe passionately in the importance of their tools and their vital
importance to the world of industry. As Fibbs’ despair rises, so does the
audience’s laughter.
Perhaps this is the real secret to writing powerful theatrical language.
The real strength of dramatic language lies in the fact that it is a trick (on
the author’s part.) This trick consists in fooling people that language is
a rational thing, capable of communicating clear, uncomplicated mes-
sages to its intended audience.
7KHWUXWKLVTXLWHGL൵HUHQW/DQJXDJHLVDPXOWLOD\HUHGFRGHRI
which only the surface meaning is clear. For as long as we humans
stick to the surface meaning—in such situations as a business meeting,
or deciding the shopping list—then all is well (or at least clear). But
as soon as one enters an arena of the imagination, such as a theatre
space, language bears its fangs and reveals itself to be many things—a
mesmeriser, a shaman, a healer with soothing words, a virtuoso show-
R൵DPDJLFLDQDVHGXFHURIWKHVHQVHVDQGDFRQYH\RURIGHHSWKLQJV
that requires something more than the rational mind to understand its
many levels.
Let’s put it this way: We go to theatre for many reasons. One of
them (whether we know it or not) is to be dazzled and put under a spell
by language. Pinter understood this, even in a two-minute revue sketch.
The tricks and arts of the trade that I’ve shown in this chapter have the
VDPHHQG7KHDWULFDOODQJXDJHLVQRWUHDO,WVDUWL¿FHDQGULFKQHVVLVWKDW
of a sophisticated engine, whose nature must be understood if we are to
take our audience anywhere beyond the clear, rational and strictly literal.
167
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DRAMATIC LANGUAGE (III): MODERNISM AND ITS TECHNIQUES
7KLV FKDSWHU GHDOV ZLWK VRPH WHFKQLTXHV VSHFL¿F WR PRGHUQLVP LQ
particular, six aspects of language that are central to modernist dramatic
technique. These should also be of interest to writers whose technique is
founded on individual psychology and ‘representation’ (that is, showing
PRUHRUOHVVVRFLDOO\LGHQWL¿DEOHSHRSOHLQUHDO¿FWLRQDOQDUUDWLYHVLWXDWLRQV
This should not be misunderstood, however. The techniques are not
separate from linguistic and dramatic technique covered in the previous
two chapters. As I’ve said repeatedly in this book, our job as writers is
to blend the dominant aesthetics of our time—humanism and modern-
ism—into an exciting and formidable expressive tool.
This chapter should also provide further evidence of a central part of
my approach: that is, that language creates characters, who then re-create
language to suit the needs of the (dramatic) moment. For the ‘secret’ of
DFKDUDFWHULVXVXDOO\IRXQGLQOLQJXLVWLFPHDQV¿QGLQJWKHULJKWSKUDVH
searching out the verbal motif that is expressive on many levels—psycho-
logical, physical, rhythmic) and once found, the character’s ‘secret lan-
guage’ becomes the means whereby the deep secrets of self are uncovered
and sought to be expressed. See it this way: if a character can express her
innermost thoughts, she can understand them. As the proverbial old lady
said, “How do I know what I think (or feel) until I hear what I say?” That
is a quintessential dramatic condition. The dramatic character owns his
VRXORUDWOHDVWXQGHUVWDQGVLWZKHQKHFDQ¿QGWKHULJKWZRUGV2QO\
then can he ‘own’ both the words, and his soul. But ownership does not
come easily. Part of the psychological struggle (and joy for the theatre
audience) is “how to express what I feel”. The struggle is, at times, so
strong that language itself is in danger of being demolished. As I’ve said
before, the inner life should be so strong that it is in danger of wrecking
the only means (physical or verbal) to express that inner life. Emotion
GRPLQDWHVODQJXDJH(PRWLRQZUHFNVODQJXDJH%XWODQJXDJH¿JKWVEDFN
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS REPETITION
One of the greatest dramatic and linguistic weapons the writer has at
her disposal is the power of repetition. Beckett is one of its great exponents.
But Beckett, along with Ionesco, the greatest of the modernists, did not
discover it. It is centuries old. It is a basic musical stylistic resource. The
basis of Western music’s ‘theme and variation’ lies in the same aesthetic:
that some things are repeated and give the work unity, and others are
varied and give the work variety.
Think, too, of Shakespeare’s use of language when Romeo learns

his fate:
Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say ‘death’,

For exile hath more terror in his look,
‘Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment’…
:HPLOGHUZULWHUVVFKRROHGLQWKH¿OPGULYHQµ3HRSOHGRQ¶WWDON
like-this’ aesthetic, would have stopped there. But not Shakespeare:
There is no world without Verona walls,

But purgatory, torture, hell itself:
Hence banished is banished from the world,
And world’s exile is death. Then ‘banished’
Is death mis-termed. Calling death ‘banished’,
7KRXFXW¶VWP\KHDGRৼZLWKDJROGHQD[H
And smilest upon the stroke that murders me…
Having warmed up, Shakespeare pushes on, reaching its peak with this:
… And sayest thou yet that exile is not death?

But Romeo may not—he is banished.
)OLHVPD\GRWKLVEXW,IURPWKLVPXVWÀ\
They are free men, but I am banished.
Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden means of death, though ne’er so mean,
But ‘banished’ to kill me? Banished!
(It’s worth noting, in passing, that this word was fairly new in Shakespeare’s
time, and moreover, was pronounced ‘bani-shed’ with an emphasis on the last
V\OODEOH7KHH൵HFWLQSHUIRUPDQFHLVGHYDVWDWLQJIXUWKHUHYLGHQFHIRUP\YLHZ
WKDW6KDNHVSHDUHLVWKHRQO\GUDPDWLVWZKRFRPSOHWHO\¿OOHGWKHDWUHVSDFHWR
its maximum. Even a great writer like Beckett ‘scaled down’ the cosmos of
theatre space until it was airless and of a near-terrifying claustrophobia. In
6KDNHVSHDUH¶VFRVPRVWKHUHLVDLUHDUWKIUHHGRP²DQGWKHYROFDQLF¿UHRI
language that appears spontaneous but hits several levels of meaning at once.)
For an example of Beckett’s use of motivic repetition, see the excerpt
from That Time in Chapter 11. Caryl Churchill, however, uses repetition in
a more literal way, in her play A Mouthful of Birds, but disperses it so that
WKHH൵HFWLVERWKUHSHWLWLYHDQGFKRULF1RWHDOVRWKHXVHRIOLWDQ\WHFKQLTXH
Excuses: III.
LENA: I can’t come in for a perm, my sister’s been kidnapped.
<9211( ,FDQ¶WJRWRWKHGLVFRWKHDUP\¶VFORVHGRৼWKHVWUHHW
DOREEN: I can’t come to dinner, there’s a bull in the garden.
DEREK: I can’t play tonight, my house has blown down.
'$1 ,FDQ¶WVHHWKHELVKRSWKHYHVWU\¶VRQ¿UH
PAUL: I can’t meet the deadline. The chairman’s been struck
by lightning.
MARCIA: I’ll have to see the dentist another time, my aunt’s
gone crazy.
LENA: So I just stayed in all day.
By ‘choric’ I mean the distribution of lines in such a way as to tempo-

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This brings me to the second use of language.
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS CHORIC CONSTRUCTION
In the rich theatrical aesthetic of the 21st century, an actor is both char-
acter and performer. This might be temporary and situational (for example,
if a character momentarily imitates another character in the play) or it might
be embedded in the play’s very structure. The latter is the case with Sarah
Kane’s play Crave. The play uses four performers. They do not represent
¿[HGFKDUDFWHUVVRPXFKDVDµ¿[HGVWDWHRIPLQG¶,WLVDVLIWKHUHDUHIRXU
voices (A, B, C and M) inside a single personality or mind. At various times,
performer/voice A is in despair or exultant, then its B’s turn etc. Its total ef-
fect is highly musical, as linguistic motifs, ideas and sentiments are shared
URXQGFUHDWLQJDQH൵HFWVRPHZKHUHEHWZHHQVFDWVLQJLQJDQGDVWULQJTXDUWHW
C My grief has nothing to do with men. I’m having a

breakdown because I’m going to die.
A Long before I had the chance to adore all of you, I

adored the bits of you I could see.
B The woman with dragon eyes.
A Blue into green.
C All blue.
A I don’t have music, Christ I wish I had music but all I
have is words.
B Du bist die Liebe meines Lebens.
A Don’t cut me out.
B Something inside me that kicks like a bastard.
C A dull ache in my solar plexus.
B Gag for a fag.
M Have you ever been hospitalised?
A Pain by association.
C I need a miracle to save me.
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS DECONSTRUCTION
I recently saw a physical theatre performance by an Australian

performance group which was both spectacular and illuminating. The
show was built on a single theme: sport. Apart from the usual brilliant
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stood out. For a few minutes, the performers became ‘temporarily
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there are many!) A welter of language, all the familiar banalities of the
race track, pool and sporting arena were tossed into a cook-pot, and
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5$&(&$//(5$QGWKH\¶UHRৼDQGUDFLQJKH¶VGURSSHGLWKH¶VGRQH
his lolly, just two laps to go, the ball’s in the air, it’s long
and high, if it’s straight, she’s turning, a good run, it’s
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fair go, ref!, he’s sin-binned, but it’s way too late, as the
full-time hooter sounds, and she’s gone for gold,and the
winners are grinners…
The above excerpt, reconstructed from scribbled notes, gives only a
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even to Australians. But that is half the point and the pleasure. Words
were dispersed, tossed in the air, chopped, mangled and diced till even
the familiar clichés had a ring of strangeness. It was as if the audience
was being taught to listen—as well as see—all over again. Surely that’s
the idea of theatre, to aesthetically educate even as it entrances. Had
the clichés been presented realistically, in social realist fashion, no such
transformation of understanding would have occurred.
This technique has a link to the fourth linguistic feature of modernism:
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS DEFAMILIARISATION
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the familiar cliché is placed in an unfamiliar context, is it still a cliché?
The point I am suggesting here is that the art of ‘making an audience see
anew’ is easily brought about when familiar language is stripped of the
social/emotional context it usually occurs in.
The great French-Belgian dramatist Eugène Ionesco knew this. His
¿UVWSOD\La Cantatrice Chauve (usually translated as The Bald Prima
Donna) has the matriarch of a ‘typically English’ family sitting around
sprouting clichés of language (and language-learning):
MRS . SMITH: Goodness! Nine o’clock! This evening for supper we had
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English salad, and we had English beer to drink. The
children drank English water. We had a very good
meal this evening. And that’s because we are English,
because we live in a suburb of London and because
our name is Smith.
On and on she goes, creating an over-explained reality that is so
RUGLQDU\DQGEDQDOWKDWLWLVLQH൵HFWUDWKHUPDG6LPLODUO\ODWHURQLQ
the play when Mr and Mrs Smith have a conversation about people, all
of whom are called Bobby Watson.
MRS. SMITH: You know, don’t you, they have a boy and a
girl? What are their names?
MR. SMITH: Bobby, and Bobby—like the parents. The uncle of Bobby
Watson, the older Bobby Watson is rich and he’s very
fond of the boy. He may be given charge of Bobby’s
education.
05660,7+ 7KDW¶GEH¿WWLQJ$QGWKHROGZRPDQ:DWVRQ%REE\
Senior, she could be asked to look after the education
of Bobby Watson, the daughter of Bobby Watson. And if

that happened, the mother of Bobby Watson—Bobby—
she could remarry…. Does she have anyone in mind?
MR. SMITH: Oh, yes. A cousin of Bobby Watson.
MRS. SMITH: Who? You don’t mean Bobby Watson?
MR. SMITH: Which Bobby Watson are you talking about?
MRS. SMITH: Bobby Watson, the son of old Bobby Watson, who’s the
other uncle of the Bobby Watson who just died.
MR. SMITH: No—It’s not that one. It’s another one. It’s the Bobby
Watson, the son of old Bobby Watson who’s the aunt of
the Bobby Watson who just died.
MRS. SMITH: You don’t mean Bobby Watson the salesman?
Say something often enough and it starts to lose its reality—and
gain a new one. That can be done simply by putting a familiar word or
SKUDVHLQWRDGL൵HUHQWFRQWH[W(LWKHUDSSURDFKZLOOFUHDWHDQH[KLODUDW-
ing disjuncture of the familiar and the strange. Try it yourself. When
the policeman makes love, does he use the language of Eros or of the
custody room? On the night of the weatherwoman’s wedding, what
does she dream of?
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS FETISH
If humanist writers sometimes hang on too grimly to the verities

of personal psychology, modernist writers have a similar clenched de-
pendency: language. Language is either a tool of temporary release, or
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I’ve earlier referred to, Peter Handke’s Ride Across Lake Constance,
look at how a simple object (a ring) becomes an object of fetish, obses-
sively dwelt on in a way that far exceeds the worried self-questioning
of personal psychology.
GEORGE: When you made that gesture with your hand I suddenly
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Ah, rings! Look at that, rings! Indeed: rings! And then
I saw the rings again, and when what I thought and
what I saw coincided so magically, I was so happy for
a moment that I couldn’t help but put the cigar box in
your hand. And only then I noticed how ridiculous I had
seemed to myself speaking all that time about kidneys
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on end when I spoke about them. And only when I saw
the rings and thought: Ah, the rings!, and then cast a
second glance at the rings, did it seem to me as if I were
no longer confused.
But the subject cannot be left at that. A moment later, it returns:
JANNINGS: You’re right, let’s talk about rings!

GEORGE: There’s nothing left to say about the rings.
(Jannings remains silent.)
Irrelevant.
JANNINGS: Me?
GEORGE: The rings.
JANNINGS: And?
GEORGE: And what?
JANNINGS: And?
%XW*HRUJHLVQRW\HW¿QLVKHGZLWKWKHVXEMHFWDV-DQQLQJVSXOOVWKH
ULQJVIURPKLV¿QJHUV
GEORGE: As though made for me! (Pause) As if they had always

belonged to me! (Pause) They were made for me (Pause)
And they have always belonged to me!
(He holds the rings in the light so they sparkle. He caresses them
and touches each individually with his lips. He plays: points with
the ringless hand at something, then points with the ringed hand at
the same thing; places the ringless hand on his heart, then places the
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WKHQZLWKWKHULQJHGRQHWKUHDWHQVVRPHRQHZLWKWKHQDNHG¿QJHU
then with the ringed one. He is intoxicated by the idea of ownership.)
I can’t even imagine my hand without rings anymore! I

can’t myself—me myself—myself me—I can’t myself—I
can’t imagine myself without rings anymore! Can you
imagine me without rings?
(Jannings makes no reply.)
Note the obsessive, super-aware, hyper-conscious dynamic of

this scene. It is both obsessive and close to the psychological
state of fetishism. It’s focussed—and runs the risk of dullness.
Its monomania is its strength and its weakness.
DRAMATIC LANGUAGE AS METATHEATRE
Meta-theatre is a type of theatre where the characters say, more or less,

³,VWDQGRXWVLGHWKHWKHDWULFDODUWL¿FHRIZKLFK,DPRQO\DSDUW%XWNQRZLQJ
this gives me some small control, or, at the very least, ironic distance.” The
characters play their part, but are fully aware that their role is only a small
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This technique is by no means unique to modernism. A technical
‘cousin’ from the humanist theatre is the theatrical convention I call
‘Performative States’, whereby a character temporarily assumes or enacts
DGL൵HUHQWUHODWLRQVKLSWRWKHDXGLHQFH)RUH[DPSOHLQ-RKQ2VERUQH¶V
The Entertainer, Archie Rice performs to the theatre audience, (mis)
treating them as a vaudeville audience. In Wendy Wasserstein’s The Heidi
Chronicles, Heidi starts the play by addressing the ‘students’ in the theatre
audience, making it clear that she is at her old school on Speech Day. (I
examine Performative States in detail in the next section.)
But modernism takes this technique much further, because the
theatrical convention is stripped of its social trappings. In Samuel Beckett’s
Rockaby, a Woman (W) is surrounded by the all-pervasive presence of her
alter-ego, her recorded voice (V.)
W: More.
(Pause. Rock and voice together.)
V: till in the end
the day came
in the end came
close of a long day
when she said
to herself
whom else
time she stopped
time she stopped
going to and fro
all eyes
all sides
high and low
for another
another like herself
another creature like herself
a little like
going to and fro
all eyes
all sides
high and low
for another
till in the end
close of a long day
to herself
women else
time she stopped
time she stopped
going to and fro
all eyes
all sides
high and low
for another
another living soul
going to and fro
all eyes like herself
all sides
high and low
for another
another like herself
a little like
going to and fro
till in the end
close of a long day
to herself
whom else
time she stopped
going to and fro
time she stopped
time she stopped
(Long pause.)
W: More.
In the above example, the Woman stands outside the very process by
which she is dominated. Language is a tool of psychological torture and
metaphysical speculation. The character observes the verbal punishment,
then asks for more. She is both the tortured, the torturer and (in typical
Beckett fashion) the paralysed observer. Again, however, Shakespeare is
the great prototype of this type of theatrical technique. Hamlet is both the
architect, the wrecker and observer of his fate. He is probably theatre’s most
super-aware character, running a modernist commentary on the play even as
it proceeds, even to the extent of staging (and directing) his own show in the
middle of Shakespeare’s. (The man will do anything to catch his stepfather.)
These multiple functions of language reinforce a central view in the aes-
thetic of this book: that dramatic characters are both characters within a story as
well as standing outside of it. The multiple functions can be summarised thus:
the character as driver/creator of the action

the character as a principal performer in the action
the character as chief victim of the action
the character as delayer of the dramatic action
the character as perceptive commentator on the action
the character as participant in other characters’ actions
the character as planner/architect of possible actions
the character as center (the ‘star’) of his own action.
This multiplicity of character function, which combines the best of

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options open to the contemporary playwright.
PERFORMATIVE STATES
I’ve already indicated that we have long since lost our naïve belief that
“we are not in a theatre” when we see a play. My theory of ‘Performative
States’ extends that to the dramatic characters themselves.
Modernist theatrical practise relies upon the audience’s knowledge
that ‘we are watching a play/performance’ in order to achieve much of its
formalist power. In other words, it is only through our knowledge that we
DUHZDWFKLQJDSHUIRUPDQFHRUSDUWLFLSDWLQJLQDVRFLDOQDUUDWLYHDUWL¿FH
that we can fully experience the power of contemporary theatre. The fact
is, however, that the dramatic characters should also have this knowledge.
By this I don’t just mean that characters should be puppets of an authorial
consciousness like Pirandello, whose aesthetic as well as his dramatic
characters constantly remind us that ‘this is just a theatrical performance’.
By performative states, I mean an array of conventions, narratives
and procedures which place the dramatic character into a context that is
both larger than him/her, and requires a performance from that character
which cannot help but reveal the inner life. (And as I’ve said several
times in this book, revealing the inner life of characters to an audience is
the primary task of theatre, to which even such powerful and ‘theatrical’
elements as dialogue and story are subservient.)
7KHVHSHUIRUPDWLYHVWDWHVUHO\RQSODFLQJSHRSOHLQ¿FWLRQDOLVHGDQG
formalised situations where even though they are narrative characters, they
must do something, read something, create something. They must use the
rules of one form (for example, lecture, letter writing or performance itself)
to successfully accomplish the dramatic moment that they are confronted
with. In having to perform they must stand outside their own performance
as characters. They become meta-characters.
Put simply, they are characters who perform. The performance might
be social, emotional, intellectual or physical. The point is that the character
is required to do something beyond the spontaneous act of simply ‘being’.
Here are 20 Performative States
1. The Rehearsal. To me, this is the quintessential performative state.

The character who must rehearse something (a proposal, a speech, a
convoluted lie) is engaging in the act of ‘character self-creation’. An audi-
ence feels privileged by the intimacy of seeing a character trying to form
herself even under the pressure of imminent performance. The character
comments on the quality of her rehearsal even as she tries to perfect it. It
makes for highly accessible meta-theatre, partly because the nearness of
the performance makes for great dramatic stakes.
2. The Performance. Here, a character must perform in some way.

It might be a musical/entertainment performance, like Archie Rice’s
vaudeville act in John Osborne’s play, or it might be grounded in social

realism, such as when a character must now perform the speech that he
has previously rehearsed.
3. The Art of the Phone Call. This might seem a dated theatrical conven-
tion, but it depends on how it is used. The dullest phone conversations are
when we hear (or can completely imagine) the other end of the conversa-
tion. Thus, rather than show one conversation, and both parties, create some
VSDWLDOIRUPDOLVPE\KDYLQJWZRRUWKUHHGL൵HUHQWSKRQHFRQYHUVDWLRQV
4. The Epistle. Letters used to be part of the Scribean well-made play

aesthetic; at least I thought so until I saw The Beauty Queen of Leenane
by Martin McDonagh, which has a very long letter read out straight to the
audience, unedited, without apology. Apart from occupying a crucial place
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DWPRVSKHUHDGL൵HUHQWWRQHWRWKHVSDFHIURPWKHGRPLQDQWUHDOLVPRIWKH
rest of the play. That is because epistolary (letter) style is more formal-
ist, more distanced in tone and language. It is cooler. It’s why shocking
events can be told using a letter, and there is a subtle balancing of heat
(the events being told) and chill (the linguistic formalism of the letter’s
words and sentence structure.)
5. The List. This is a personal favourite of mine. One of the easiest ways
to materialize a physical universe is to list it. A character in search of the
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6. The Schedule/Timetable. If the material world can be itemised,

the spatial universe can be measured. Time is the measuring rod of
the otherwise intangible space. Simply have your character attempt to
measure ‘space through time’. In Chapter 24, I quote from my play, Kafka
Dances, which uses the schedule technique of ‘Let me tell you how I live
each day’, as part of the anxious social performance of courting.
7. The Diary/Journal. A diary or journal can also be a useful way of

revealing the ‘hidden self’ of a character to an audience. A diary is a
strange coalition of the mundane world (“What I Did Today”) with the
psychological/ metaphysical (“Why I Did that Crazy Thing”). Even if the
events being described are literal and mundane, diarising them could make
an audience feel that it has been given a privileged access to the inner life
of a character. The authority of the written word, when delivered in theatre
space, gives the audience the feeling that it is witnessing an uncensored
but true revelation of feelings, motivations and the labyrinthine move-
ments of a soul at its most exposed. It goes without saying (I hope) that
a diary as a ‘playing convention’ can be overused. As with all of these
Performative States, the trick is to know when to stop. Only the context
(and the advice of others) will guide you on that.
8. The Incomprehensible Explanation. Pinter’s early sketch (discussed

in Chapter 11) shows the power of this. There’s nothing more linguisti-
cally and theatrically exciting than seeing/hearing words ‘unleashed’,
especially if they stand on the edge of sense and rationality. (Most theatre
audiences don’t go to experience order, calm and rationality; ask the
ancient Greeks with their various bedlamic myths as to what makes for
the most exciting theatre.)
9. Interrupted Form. Despite the anxieties (theatrical and social)

of the contemporary age, we’re lucky to be writing in an age of such
super-awareness. It allows us to write at a sophisticated level, if we can.
Leaving forward-plodding scene writing to the occasional daytime TV
soap writers (or rather, their producers), the American writer David Ives
creates a wonderful dislocation in his short play Sure Thing.
BILL: Excuse me. Is this chair taken?

BETTY: Excuse me?
BILL: Is this taken?
BETTY: Yes it is.
BILL: Oh, sorry.
(A bell rings softly.)
BETTY: Excuse me?
BILL: Is this taken?
BETTY: No, but I’m expecting somebody in a minute.
BILL: Oh. Thanks anyway.
BETTY: Sure thing.
(A bell rings softly.)
BETTY: No, but I’m expecting somebody very shortly.
BILL: Would you mind if I sit here till he or she comes?

BETTY: They do seem pretty late…
BILL: You never know who you might be turning down.
BETTY: Sorry. Nice try, though.
BILL: Sure thing.
(Bell rings.)
The play continues, returning to the start, somehow making progress

EHIRUHVX൵HULQJPRUHLQWHUUXSWLRQVGHWRXUVDQGSRVVLEOHSORWGLUHFWLRQV,W¶V
fascinating, because it transfers a clichéd social convention (the pick-up)
into a play of comic formalism. It is both accessible and demanding. It richly
VDWLV¿HVP\RZQDHVWKHWLFGHPDQGWKDWWKHDWUHEHQRWHLWKHURUEXWboth.
10. The World as Read RU WKH 5HDGLQJ/HFWXUH7KH ¿UVW XQLYHUVLWLHV

in the 14th century used reading aloud as their basis of knowledge. Now,
in this age which doubts its own theatre, the aesthetic of ‘reading aloud’
has returned with a vengeance. Words have a peculiar authority when
read aloud in theatre space. It gives an audience an intimate access to a
character’s thought-life and feeling-life. Possibilities are many: a character
reads a thesis/manifesto he has prepared; a character delivers his lecture
to other characters or to the audience; three characters (at once?) deliver
WKHFRQYROXWHG0LQXWHVR൶FLDOUHFRUGRIWKHSUHYLRXVFKDRWLF$QQXDO
General Meeting. (See also Performative States 6 and 7.)
11. The World as Heard. As demonstrated earlier in this chapter, Samuel

Beckett’s Rockaby uses a long audio sound-track to which the only stage
character sits and simply listens. At the end of which, she simply says, “More”,
and the audio performance continues in the dark and claustrophobic space.
12. 7KH:RUOG2ৼ6WDJH. This convention is underused (as a form-creating

GHYLFHLQERWKKXPDQLVWDQGPRGHUQLVWWKHDWUH8VXDOO\WKHZRUOGR൵
stage is simply a device of plot (“Don’t go in there!”) or atmosphere, (“The
%ROVKHYLNVDUHRXWVLGH´%XWWKHXVHRIR൵VWDJHLVWKHFORVHVWWKHDWUHJHWV
to the multi-locational aesthetic that music (the close performance cousin
of theatre) uses quite happily. Think of the double and triple choruses of
the 17thFHQWXU\9HQHWLDQV*DEULHOOL0RQWHYHUGLHWF6SDFHLV¿OOHGIURP
two or more directions. There’s nothing more exciting. Even the austere
PHGLHYDOFKXUFKNQHZWKLV¿OOLQJXSLWVFROGFDWKHGUDOVZLWKPXOWLSOH
stages for the Devil and God to do their work.
13. Exits and Entrances (or Theme & Variations) What are simply con-
ventions in traditional theatre (entering, exiting, sitting down, crossing
the stage etc) when raised to the level of a Performative State, can have
a formalist life of their own. Farce uses it as the basis of much of its narrative
reinvigoration (that is, new character brings new plot) or chaotic deconstruction
(“Oh, God! Here comes my husband!”). Modernism formalises it, and strips it
RILWVLPPHGLDWHQDUUDWLYHFRQWH[W2ULQWHQVL¿HVLW
LIGHTS.
'RRUÀLHVRSHQ²GD]]OLQJOLJKW
No one is there.
BLACKOUT.
LIGHTS.
Man 2 standing
by black
window—
hat, trenchcoat,
sunglasses.
Looking out sideways.
Puts hand inside coat, feeling in inner
pocket.
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No one there.
Man 2 turns to
face front.
BLACKOUT.
This excerpt is from Richard Murphet’s Quick Death. It uses ele-

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make a story—or rather, many stories. Each aspect (gun, door, shadow,
light, hat etc) becomes a motif in what is essentially a theme and varia-
tions structure. As a form, the theme & variations has existed in Western
music for at least four centuries. In Murphett’s play, the elements are not
given a single narrative function, but instead are fused into playful free
association. The individual elements are ‘interrogated’ (by being put in
GL൵HUHQWFRQWH[WVVRWKDWWKHLUXQLTXHQDWXUHPD\EHSHUFHLYHGHYHQDV
these same elements are used in the service of the entire play. You will
also notice how it uses the Interrupted Form of Performative State No.9
by its series of ‘false starts’ and ‘returns to the beginning’.
14. Simultaneity and Multiplicity. As a young writer I heard a very

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on stage at any time. (How fashionable theatre aesthetics can be!) A few
years later, he had learned enough to unleash a variety of multiple and
simultaneous events in his productions. Multiplicity (many things hap-
pening) and simultaneity (where they happen at once) are vital ingredients
of any live performance. It’s exciting to ask the audience to watch many
WKLQJVDWRQFH,W¶VRQHRIWKHVXUH¿UHZD\VWR¿OOWKHWKHDWULFDOVSDFH
with energy. Put it this way: One phone call? Probably boring. Six phone
calls (at once)? Probably much more interesting.
15. The Mime. The mime is a banquet for the eyes. It is useful because it
gives the over-talked-to ears a rest, and makes the audience use its eyes. Both
senses (eyes and ears) are uncertain and distrusted mechanisms of informa-
tion gathering—it’s well known that people believe less than half of what
they hear or see—and the use of them in theatre makes for a delicious sense
of uncertainty on the part of the witnesses (audience) using those senses. So
consider using the mime as a scene in itself. It might even start your play.
16. The Character Aside. This technique involves ‘indirection’: instead of

speaking to another character, lines are spoken directly or indirectly to the
audience, and away from the other characters. The character aside has been
a stock device of traditional theatre. Its job was to befriend the audience
and subtly keep it up to speed on the intricacies of the plot. Nowadays,
while it can still be the ‘audience’s friend’, it can also become a way of
weaving complexities into what would otherwise be a simple truth.
17. The (Double) Monologue'HVSLWHWKHEHVWH൵RUWVRI6WULQGEHUJ1RsO

Coward, Joyce Grenfell, Alan Bennett, Spalding Gray, Peter Ustinov and
Samuel Beckett, the monologue is not an innately exciting or powerful theatri-
cal convention. But put two monologues together, and something very exciting
happens. I ‘discovered’ the power of this Performative State when I heard two
rather dull monologues from young writers. I asked them to ‘splice’ them—in
increasingly-tiny splices that kept interrupting each other—resulting in a form
like an inverted pyramid. By the end, each part had been atomised into single
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18. The Play-within-a-play. In one sense, every one of these rituals is a
performance-within-itself, but some plays start with what the audience
thinks is the ‘real play’. Pirandello does this, as does Tom Stoppard, who
starts The Real Thing with another play, and Jumpers with a piece of circus.
19. The Ensemble. As this chapter has shown, a group of actors on stage
need not just be a socialised group of characters, existing only in terms of
the play’s story. An ensemble can be a chorus, a set of meta-performers,
ZKRSHUIRUPLQDQGRXWVLGHRIWKH¿FWLRQDOVHWWLQJRIWKHSOD\2QHRI
the great modern uses of ‘the ensemble as performers’ is Max Frisch’s
Biedermann und die Brandstifter (Known in English as Herr Biedermann
and The Arsonists) where the Fire Brigade acts as a mock chorus, intoning
in poetically-scanned horror at the events to come. It is hilarious.
20. The Ritual. I have left the ritual until last, though it’s probably the
most creatively fruitful of all. A ritual is any activity which has a series
RIVLQJOHDFWLRQVDQGZKLFKWRJHWKHUDVVXPHDQDJUHHGDQGVLJQL¿FDQW
meaning. Time is important to a ritual (fast, slow); order is important
(there is a pattern); meaning is crucial (‘this ritual allows us to grieve,
and for that we hold it sacred’). Traditionalism allows the ritual to
proceed, but modernism disrupts it. (Let’s not forget, however, that the
greatest use of the ‘disrupted ritual’ was made not by Strindberg but
by Shakespeare. Think of all the interrupted ceremonies in his plays;
banquets that go wrong, masked balls that go badly; performances
that get stopped.)
The ritual is one of the supreme Performative States in theatre. And

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The Physical Ritual: Here, the material world is subjected to an

order—and then that order is changed. Any act which has or-
der, regularity and an invested meaning can be used theatrically.
Shaving, dressing, walking; whatever uses the human body in a
structured or repetitive way.
The Emotional/Psychological Ritual: any ritual involving per-

sonal psychology (for example, self-talk, personal coaching,
declarations of states of mind etc.) In an age of super-awareness
of psychology, the need for self-knowledge creates many ‘mini-
ULWXDOV¶VXFKDVD൶UPDWLRQVDQGRWKHUSXEOLFVWDWHPHQWVRILOO
health (“Hi, I’m Jack, and I’m an alcoholic.”)
The Relationship Ritual: any invested pattern of action involv-

ing relationships (eg. meeting, falling in love, breaking up, try-
ing to break up or trying to make up.)
The Social/Group Ritual: any ritual involving a group (of workers,

friends, relatives, parents-to-be, newly divorced fathers drumming
to retain their sanity; the list is endless.)
The Professional Ritual: In this ritual, you’re doing anything

from gossiping at the water-cooler to asking for a raise. It’s the
basis of much sketch comedy, but it can extend well beyond that.
The Religious Ritual: One of the greatest plays of the modern

era, Angels in AmericaE\7RQ\.XVKQHUVWDUWVR൵ZLWKDQDQ-
cient ritual, the Jewish funeral. In that play, the act of ritualising
what we are about to see places the play into the realm of the
epic, the tragic and the sacred… which is where theatre came
IURPLQWKH¿UVWSODFH
How should you use rituals in your writing? As always, it depends on

the story and the tone of your play. But there is a ‘method’ in approaching
ritual. It goes like this:
a. Examine the order of the ritual, that is, the sequence

and ordering of actions involved in the ritual. What
DFWLRQLVGRQH¿UVW":KDWKDSSHQVQH[W"/LVWWKHDF-
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b. Analyze what meanings are given to this ritual and

the order of events.
Armed with this knowledge, decide if your expressive purposes are

best served by simply transmitting the order (without messing around
with the sequence of events) or by transforming such an order (eg. doing
the whole ritual in reverse.)
I implied at the start of this chapter that ‘language as impulse creates
character’. For maximum expressive richness, however, this modernist
aesthetic needs to come into vigorous encounter with its exact opposite:
that is, that a particular and particularised dramatic character creates a
ODQJXDJHVSHFL¿FWRKLPKHUVHOI
A major aim of the book has been to unite the humanist psychologi-
cal aesthetic with the meta-theatre and formalism of modernist theatrical
H[SHULPHQWVDQGHQTXLULHV7KDWWRPHLVWKHFKLHIEHQH¿WRIWKH3HUIRUPD-
tive State. It allies modernist performance to humanist narrative. It stops
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making the element of live performance central to the scene itself. Best of
all, it socialises and ‘grounds’ an otherwise (potentially) sterile modernist
piece; and it unleashes an aesthetic of ‘body theatre’ into an otherwise
too text-bound and theatrically conservative piece of humanist theatre.
It is precisely this ‘clash of aesthetics’ which to me is the challenge—
and joy—of 21st century play writing.
187
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ELAINE: She’s right.

COLIN: Melbourne has its quota of shysters.
(/$,1( 6\GQH\LVGLৼHUHQW0RQH\LVPRUHLPSRUWDQWKHUH
COLIN: Why more so than Melbourne?
ELAINE: To edge yourself closer to a view. In Melbourne all views
are equally depressing, so there’s no point.
COLIN: (laughing) I’m not convinced.
And later:
COLIN: I want to do “Coastwatchers”.
ELAINE: “Coastwatchers” is a turkey.
COLIN: (angrily) How can you say that? It hasn’t been written
yet!
ELAINE: Colin, it’s a turkey!
COLIN: All right, I’ll do it myself.
ELAINE: Produce it?
COLIN: Yes!
ELAINE: Don’t be ridiculous, Colin. What experience have you
ever had in production.
COLIN: It’s about time I learned.
This excerpt from the Sydney-based David Williamson’s Emerald City

uses both the ‘language’ and texture of social realism. By ‘social realism’ I
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characters in a social realist world. (The term, incidentally, has nothing to
do with the old Marxist aesthetic of “socialist realism,” R.I.P.)
This, for good and ill, is where much mainstream international theatre
has traditionally resided. Its strengths are its accessibility, its clarity and
its social placing of both story and characters.
This play works well because it shares several fantasies (and vices)
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and covetousness in Sydney/Babylon; mid-life crisis and the search for
meaning and happiness. Also, it’s funny.
But many plays that fail also use this texture. They tend to fail by not
being funny enough or by not having high enough dramatic stakes. I’ll
return to social reality and the alternatives, but for the moment, I’d like
to point out two aspects of this texture.
First, social power is contested. In the excerpt above, Colin and Elaine
DUHWXVVOLQJ²DW¿UVWSROLWHO\WKHQLPSROLWHO\RYHULVVXHVRIDHVWKHWLFV
money, art and power.
Second, because power is contested, the WH[WXUHPXVWUHÀHFW the more-
or-less equal struggle between the characters. Thus, each character has
about the same amount of words, time to speak them etc.
There is a crucial principle at work here: when power is being contested
between two parties of equal strength, then each needs about the same number
of lines in order to dramatically demonstrate how equal the power struggle is.
As I said, I’ll return to social reality—and its alternatives—later. It’s
time to wipe the space clear.
2. THE TEXTURE OF SILENCE
Theatre does not need words (at least not as many as most of us
writers use). Here’s a riveting opening from Stephen Sewell’s The Blind
Giant is Dancing:
Blackout. Fade up the sound of a glass wind-bell. A slight pause:

someone pushes their way through a bead curtain. Another pause:
a moan in the darkness.
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a man trying to rise. Fade up lights on a second man—GRAHAM
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with blood. He is moving.
7KHXQLGHQWL¿HGPDQPRYHVWRDQRWKHUIROGHU:+,7(PRDQV7KHUH
is a sudden tingling of the wind-bell as a gust moves it.
WHITE: (feebly) Help me…
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forward. A sudden tingling of the wind-bell as a gust moves it.
WHITE: Help… help…
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SDSHUV²ORRNVDWLWEULHÀ\WKHQSXWVLWLQKLVSRFNHW
WHITE: Help…
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pocket. Quickly and without ceremony, he stands over WHITE, puts
the pistol behind his ear and shoots. WHITE’S body leaps into the
air. Blackout. A phone rings.
Here, Sewell is not a ‘writer’, but a composer: of sound, of silence;

he is a choreographer of symbolic movements (fear, death, theft etc). The
words are functional (that is, they have a narrative job) and culminating
(that is, they emerge as the peak of the actor’s action, which in White’s
case is, ‘to save my own life!”) It’s sparse, powerful, horrible and yet
compelling. (It also used the technique of ‘tabula rasa’, which put simply
means, “totally darken/empty the space, and then let minimal but power-
ful/symbolic actions and words emerge.”)
Here’s another example where silence and words form a textural

partnership:
SALLY: How can I be HAPPY when our…

RAY: I know…
SALLY: Our daughter…
RAY: I know...
SALLY: Then SAY it
RAY: It depends what you mean by disappeared.
SALLY: I mean missing… maybe dead.
RAY: No.
SALLY: We have to come to…
RAY: No.
SALLY: …terms with the fact that she MIGHT be.
RAY: I have to go. You’ll be alright.
SALLY: I’ll be alone.
RAY: There are the neighbours.
(from “Lifehouse” by Pete Townshend)
The texture of the print may be close (for reasons of economy) but
the actual ‘spatial result’ (in the theatre) would be one of chill, sparseness
and immeasurable depth. It uses what I call the Iceberg Principle: to keep
most of the emotions and possible reactions (that is, ‘what I’d say/feel in
that situation’) UNSTATED and beneath the spoken surface of the play.
The words occupy about 15-20 %, but 80% of the play’s many meanings
at this point lie underneath the social/verbalised surface.
I hope it’s becoming clear what I mean by ‘dramatic texture’. It is
WKH FRPELQHG H൵HFW RI ZRUGV DFWLRQV DQG JHVWXUHV RQ WKH KHDYLQHVV
or lightness, speed or slowness of the theatrical space. Texture is also
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the speed they’re spoken at, the inner rhythms of language, the number
of ‘theatrical events’ happening at any one time etc.
It’s surprising how the texture of many writers’ work (especially their
un-produced scripts) is so homogenous. In other words, every page looks
the same. And yet, many textures are available to the playwright. In the
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DQGYRODWLOHLVWKHWKHDWULFDOµÀRZ¶
3. THE TEXTURE OF VIRTUOSITY (via Multi-directionality)
One of the hardest things to do, technically, is to demonstrate power

and stature. It’s all very well to have a character enter, but how do you
show greatness, genius, demonic presence and other larger-than-life
attributes? It’s not enough to write, “Fred enters. The others cower in
his animal-like presence. He’s a very scary guy.” Power, genius, spiritual
grandeur and brilliance have to be dramatically demonstrated. Language
is one of your best allies.
5R\0&RKQD:DVKLQJWRQODZ\HUDQGSROLWLFDO¿[HULVRQYDULRXV
SKRQHVZKHQ-RHHQWHUVKLVR൶FH
ROY: (hitting a button) Hold (To Joe) I wish I was an octopus,

a fucking octopus. Eight loving arms and all those suck-
ers. Know what I mean?
JOE: No, I…
ROY: (gesturing to a deli platter of little sandwiches on his
desk) You want lunch?
JOE: No, that’s OK really I just…
ROY: (hitting a button) Ailene? Roy Cohn. Now what kind
of a greeting is… I thought we were friends. Aiy…
/RRN0UV6RৼHU\RXGRQ¶WKDYHWRJHW«<RX¶UHXSVHW
You’re yelling. You’ll aggravate your condition, you
shouldn’t yell, you’ll pop little blood vessels in your
IDFHLI\RX\HOO²1RWKDWZDVDMRNH0UV6RৼHU,ZDV
joking… I already apologised sixteen times for that,
0UV6RৼHU\RX«:KLOHVKH¶VIXOPLQDWLQJ5R\FRYHUV
the mouthpiece with his hand and talks to Joe) This’ll
take a minute, EAT already, what is this tasty sandwich
here, it’s (He takes a bite of sandwich) Mmmm, liver or
some… Here.
(He pitches the sandwich to Joe, who catches it and returns it to the
platter.)
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\RXLWZDVQ¶WDYDFDWLRQLWZDVEXVLQHVV0UV6RৼHU,KDYH
FOLHQWVLQ+DLWL0UV6RৼHU,«/LVWHQ$LOHQH<287+,1.
I’M THE ONLY GODDAMN LAWYER IN HISTORY
EVER MISSED A COURT DATE? Don’t make such a big
fucking… Hold. (He hits the hold button.) You HAG!
JOE: If this is a bad time…
The scene continues and spirals upwards toward its main point:
Roy wants to hire Joe as his assistant. But before we get to that, sev-
eral techniques are spectacularly at work here. Most important for
our purposes— there’s multi-directionality. A character dominates
the space not by yelling, but by controlling several possible spatial
directions at once. Roy is talking on the phone; he is throwing sand-
wiches nonchalantly to a nonplussed visitor, Joe; and he is carrying
on a conversation with Joe about a range of things. He also juggles
several phone calls at once.
In this one scene (from Angels in America, Part 1 by Tony Kushner)
a major character’s brilliance, malevolence, cynicism, nonchalance,
cunning and sense of humour are all demonstrated for us to see and
hear. His complete ease in the use of power is also hinted at—something
which is crucial for the plot. But there is a paradox here, regarding the
use of power. For sometimes a powerful character speaks a lot, and the
‘victim character’ (Joe, in the example above) says almost nothing.
Note the amazingly unbalanced texture. Power is not contested here.
Roy rules supreme, and the texture embodies this. The printed page
is lop-sided in favour of Roy’s text, and that imbalance will translate
directly to the theatre space. But this is not the only way to demonstrate
brilliance and virtuosity. (In other words, it’s not a matter of showing
brilliance, control and power by ‘having that character talk a lot.’ It’s
not that simple. The words need to be witty, ironic, caustic, showing
ÀH[LELOLW\²ORRNDWKRZTXLFNO\5R\FDQFKDQJHGLUHFWLRQ$WRWKHU
WLPHVKRZHYHU\RXVKRXOGDSSO\DFRPSOHWHO\GL൵HUHQWWHFKQLTXHWKDW
is, where the controlling and powerful character says almost nothing
(Pinter’s favourite method.)
4. THE TEXTURE OF CLAUSTROPHOBIA
Just as power has its own textures, so does powerlessness, pain and
confusion.
A: Dr This and Dr That and Dr Watsit who’s just passing

and hought he’d pop in to take the piss as well. Burn-
ing in a hot tunnel of dismay, my humiliation complete
as I shake without reason and stumble over words and
have nothing to say about my “illness” which anyway
amounts only to knowing that there’s no point in any-
thing because I’m going to die. And I am deadlocked
by that smooth psychiatric voice of reason which tells
me there is an objective reality in which my body and
mind are one. But I am not here and never have been.
Dr This writes it down and Dr That attempts a sympa-
thetic murmur, watching me, judging me, smelling the
crippling failure oozing from my skin, my desperation
clawing and all-consuming panic drenching me as I
gape in horror at the world and wonder why everyone
is smiling and looking at me with secret knowledge of
my aching shame.
Look at how ‘airless’ and claustrophobic this texture is. A few minutes
of this and the audience will be screaming for relief. And that’s precisely
the point. One of the greatest compliments that can ever be paid to your
writing is when actors tell you that your writing gives the audience the same
experience as the characters; that is, what the characters are going through,
the audience is also experiencing. (Not as common a compliment as you’d
think, given our theatre’s tendency to talk about feelings rather than linguisti-
cally demonstrate and physically embody them.) But it’s happening in this
play (Sarah Kane’s Psychosis 4.48) too. The language works to make the
audience experience the same inner pain and turmoil as the character herself.
The next two textures are, in my view, highly problematic.
5. THE TEXTURE OF TV REALISM
Rather than give an example from a fellow writer and ruin a friend-
ship, I’ll dig into my own murky past, with an early, traumatic encounter
with the industrialised narrative machines of the TV industry. In Episode
1,147 of the Australian soap-opera Neighbours, Josh has a problem:
KATY: You’re going to have to tell Rosie about us, Josh.

JOSH: Why?
KATY: Because it’s not fair to Rosie. It’s not fair to me either,
Josh.
JOSH: Look, I didn’t plan to get into this mess!
KATY: That’s not the point! We’re in it now whether we like

it or not!
Out on Josh looking concerned.
(Ad break No.3)
I quote as verbatim as my traumatised memory allows me. You see what’s

going on here, though, don’t you? Several principles of television ‘drama’ are
operating simultaneously: a character says exactly what s/he thinks; a character
leaves nothing unsaid; the plainest verbal formulations of common social/
emotional situations are to be encouraged. Nothing fancy, please.
So why is this excerpt recalled from deep memory, and why is it
relevant? Because many plays are still being written like this! They give
social realism a bad name by turning it into something banal and com-
monplace. Almost every American playwright, successful or not, has started
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plays, even in the mostly-realist American theatre world, are not about simply
replicating reality. It’s also not good enough to engage in a slightly more
sophisticated version of TV Realism: the art of Reportage.
6. THE TEXTURE OF REPORTAGE
Again, I’ll not break the fragile spider’s web of trust and friendship
that links all writers by naming names or plays. For purposes of illustra-
tion, I’ll reproduce the type of linguistic texture I’m talking about, which
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favourite of some British and Australian writers.)
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looking for her dog.
JENNY: So I go there. Just near the airport. Number 49 in a row

of brown houses. All look the same. All with the same pot
plants and metal-green letterboxes. The same painted
concrete, only this one’s peeling more than most of
them. I knock on the front door. A brass knocker. Cheap.
Kmart, I think. I wait. I’m uncertain if she’s heard me
or not. I start to go, but then the door slowly opens. An
old Greek woman. “Yes?” I tell her, “I’m looking for
Fido.” A plane roars overhead. We stare at each other.
“Who Fido?” she says. Another plane. I panic. I want
to cry.
'HVSLWHWKHµORRNDWPHVX൵HULQJ¶WRQHRILWQRWLFHKRZFRROKRZ
patronising, how distant—and how safe this writing actually is? Under the
guise of coming from a character with a Hamletian super-awareness, and
sensitivity, the writer is actually producing a piece that’s as linguistically and
emotionally ordinary as a piece of sales-catalogue journalism. In dramatic
terms, it’s a cop-out. Perhaps that’s the point, or even the intention. Call
me deviant, if you like, but I don’t think that theatre’s linguistic glories
are achieved by mimicking the temperature and rhythms of journalism,
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In my view, theatre language is all about the juggling of two contradic-
tions: an emotionalism that is so powerful that it is in danger of wrecking
the very language the characters use to express and deal with their inner
lives; and second, a linguistic formalismZKRVHYHU\DUWL¿FLDOLW\LVWKH
thing that makes it so theatrically brilliant.
In the following excerpt (I Dream Before I Take The Stand) by
Arlene Hutton, what could have been a mundane, seen-countless-times
exchange between a detective and the woman he is questioning here
becomes something quite heightened and poetic. Note the varied use of
Question-and-Answer, as well as its even more interesting cousin, the
Question-answered-by-a-Question.
HE: So you were walking through the park that day on

your way to work?
SHE: I already said that.
Pause.
HE: What were you wearing?
SHE: A skirt and a top.
HE: What colour was the skirt?
SHE: It was a print.
HE: What colour?
SHE: Black and red.
HE: And the top?
SHE: What?
HE: What colour was the top?
SHE: Black.
HE: Just black?
SHE: What do you mean?
HE: Just black?
6+( ,WKDGDOLWWOHUHGÀRZHURQLW
HE: The fabric?
SHE: A decoration.
HE: Where?
SHE: In the center of the neckline.

HE: A rose?
These two linguistic techniques, seen here in embryo (that is, because
they are allied to a still-realist narrative conception) could be the spring-
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together—and answer none of them (except with more questions)—and
you’ll achieve a ‘hyper-realism’ similar to the following:
LAMB: Well, actually, I never became a boy scout proper. I was

a wolf cub, of course, but I never became a boy scout. I
don’t know why, actually. I’ve forgotten… to be frank.
But I was a cub.
CUTTS: Do women frighten you?
GIBBS: Their clothes?
CUTTS: Their shoes?
GIBBS: Their voices?
CUTTS: Their laughter?
GIBBS: Their stares?
CUTTS: Their way of walking?
GIBBS: Their way of sitting?
CUTTS: Their way of smiling?
GIBBS: Their way of talking?
CUTTS: Their mouths?
GIBBS: Their hands?
CUTTS: Their legs?
GIBBS: Their teeth?
CUTTS: Their shins?
GIBBS: Their cheeks?
CUTTS: Their ears?…
LAMB: Well, it depends on what you mean by frighten.
(From The Hothouse, by Harold Pinter.)
7. SHARING THE THEATRE SPACE.
When theatrical language is not brilliant, it has to make way for what
is. If the language is not sexy, seductive, mesmerising, formalistically
dazzling or irresistibly funny, it has to leave room for other things. Those
‘other things’ may be music, song, dance, movement, image, mime, act-
ing...and silence. (It’s amazing how easily you can edit your own writing
once you eliminate those lines which a) can be acted; b) can be assumed by
the audience; c) can be felt/thought by the actor (and thus the audience).)
So let’s end this smorgasbord of textural delights with an example
from a still great play A Stretch of the Imagination by Jack Hibberd. Note
how theatre space is ‘shared’ between (wonderful) words and suggestive
actions.
MONK: The organ of pleasure.

(He laughs sardonically.)
A doctor measured me once.
Two pints.
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straightens up.)
Nitrogenous waste.
(Pause.)
Good for the legumes.
(He walks across to the table, creakily climbs the chair and raises the
sun umbrella which is weathered and bizarrely tattered. He descends.)
The excerpt goes on… as I easily could. But I hope I’ve whetted
your appetite—not to simply produce one of these textures in your next
SOD\EXWWRWU\WKHPDOO,W¶VWKHDJHZHOLYHLQ7KHSDJHVKRXOGUHÀHFW
the heterogenous, mixed, fragmented, bustling and excited spirit of our
times. Ignore it at your literary peril.
199
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
ACTING AND THE ART OF WRITING GREAT ROLES FOR ACTORS
In Chapter 7, I discussed the ‘spatial axis’, which explains how energy

is released through the conventions of performance. I’d now like to show
you how complex—and exciting—the task of writing for actors can be.
Let’s put it simply: writing for actors is near impossible. What I mean
is, writing parts that use them to the full is something that you can only
aspire to. It rarely happens in theatre, old or new. Actors will tell you that
“Shakespeare uses every part of me”, but rarely does anyone else.
As writers, we tend to ‘dumb down’ our actors, forcing them to use
only a fraction of their intelligence, a part of their hard-won technique,
a small portion of their emotional awareness, and hardly any of their
tremendous physical and nervous energy. Is it any wonder that dull theatre
often results?
The aim of this chapter is simple: to teach you how to work actors to
death, for the greater glory of the art and the delight of the paying customers.
To do this, I’ll need to show you how multifaceted acting really is.
ACTING IS...
Acting is not ‘one thing’. It is the simultaneous existence of many

individual phenomena. I am not just acting as a writing mentor here. Re-
gard this section as a vital key to being produced. The best acting parts
attract the best actors. Ergo, your work gets produced.
Acting is energy.
A major theme of this book. Your story is the ‘excuse’ to unleash a

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WKHDJUHHGXSRQ¿FWLRQRIµFKDUDFWHU¶DQGµVWRU\¶WKHDFWRULVUHOHDVLQJ
and shaping energy for the attainment of meaning. Your job is to create
roles which have tremendous energy built into them. The energy may be
physical, emotional, nervous, psychological. How do you do this? If you
remember that stories work best when characters lose control of their fates,
you can then create powerful energy by having characters lose control
of situations, desperately attempt to regain control, lose it again etc. This
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Acting is a physical challenge.
Actors love challenges—often until they actually get one! Then they
get scared. They worry they can’t do it. They come to the theatre every
night not being sure if they can get through a scene of especially complex
or strenuous physicality. But they do. And in the process, they discover
that physical challenges can make for exciting theatre. Laurence Olivier,
the master actor, used to create extra physical challenges for himself (for
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I’d like to think that our actors don’t have to do this, because the ‘high
parapets’ are already built into the action of our plays. The implications
then, are simple: where is the exciting, strenuous and demanding physicality
in your play? Or do people just sit around and chat, occasionally getting
up to pick up a phone or exit? If ‘story’ deals with those situations when
‘life gets out of control’ (see Chapter 8) where, in your play, is physicality
also out of control?
Acting is a testing of the mind and the intelligence.
The best actors are usually very intelligent on one or more levels.
There’s either a brilliant, rational intelligence, or a deep, intuitive ‘know-
ing’ that allows them to perform the conscious and unconscious levels of a
dramatic role. What if one of your characters was intellectually brilliant?
What if another was emotionally (even preternaturally) aware? What if
a third character possessed the stupidity of a sheep? We often make the
mistake of pitching our characters in the middle-range of possibilities:
for example, making our characters “moderately intelligent”, “moderately
ambitious” and (as a result) only moderately interesting. Macbeth is not
“moderately ambitious”. He is right at the end of the spectrum. He lies
at the extreme end of the Ambition Scale. There’s a lesson here: Making
our characters stunningly intelligent, stupid, aware/unaware is all part of
the process of pushing characters to points of extremity. At such extreme
points, the acting becomes very exciting.
Acting is a verbal challenge.
American theatre tends to be very ‘talky’, but it is not always talk

of a tremendously high order. We admire wit without feeling a need to
reproduce it. Why should the British (Stoppard etc) have all the good
lines? Somewhere between the wise-cracking of the American aesthetic
and the occasional ‘aren’t I clever’ complacency of Stoppard lies an area of
fruitful exploration by writers interested in an international audience. Put
simply, we need to create characters whose language is more memorable
than the social reality we are constantly straining to duplicate. Brilliant
language creates brilliant acting.
At another level, this aspect of acting requires a textual variety. For
example, where is the wonderful big speech in your play (that instantly
becomes a staple of every actor’s audition repertoire)? Where is the
sustained duologue that pushes an otherwise ordinary scene to new
heights? (See Chapter 14 for more on this.)
Acting is a multiple challenge.
Imagine an actor who is on the phone, dealing with a crisis, while

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enters. In this scenario, the mind and body are working at fever pitch, and
doing so simultaneously.
Acting is a character journey.
Depending on the story and the aesthetic, if a character exists as a

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notion of a character journey will be useful both for actors and audience.
An actor tends to read a part (and then interpret it) in terms of its emo-
tional and psychological meanings. To assist both, we can create a linear,
causal progression (for example, showing how a good man turns bad), or
we might simply plant ‘clues’ as to what’s going on in the inner life. The
important thing is to create the illusion of richness and depth. (The later
chapters on character will have much more to say on this.)
Acting is a test of the performer in ‘live time’.
In real life, things go wrong. In the fragile real time of performance,

many things should go wrong. If they don’t, it could be that the play is
a lifeless mechanical thing requiring rote actions of such simplicity that
failure is unlikely. See if you can create ‘areas of risk’ in your writing.
For example, what if your writing was so quick and driven that it takes
tremendous breath control to deliver your powerful, passionate sentences?
What if it took a mastery of voice/body/timing/technique to make your
language ‘work’? (It does with Pinter, a writer requiring acting of the
highest order.) Such demands will terrify many actors—but make many
more of them want to do your plays.
Acting is a demand for scenic complexity.
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in a single page? Too much? Tennessee Williams didn’t think so: Actors
don’t think that such complexity is too much either. They love playing
his characters. It’s the very complexity, the almost operatic display of
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Acting is a triumph of intensity.
As I’ve already said, it’s rare that an audience says, “I’m not going to
watch this, it’s too exciting.” Even in a comedy, the focus on something
that’s badly wanted should raise the tension and the atmosphere enough
to drive the play along. Whatever the dramatic want or need is, make it
urgently wanted. Which brings me to the next, related point.
Acting is the expression of an insuperable will.
When all else fails, have one or more of your characters pursue a goal
with ferocity. If Richard III can do it, then we can do likewise. Perhaps we
in the audience respond to the idea of wanting something badly because
it helps us give life a purpose? To Buddhists, most American drama
must seem like a Festival of Craving, something they warn against.
But Buddhism has yet to produce a Shakespeare, and until it does, the
yearning, the intense longing and striving will and should continue, at
least on stage.
Acting is a claim to metaphysical existence.
Ultimately, however, great acting is making a metaphysical statement;

and the great writers know it. Here’s one of the great moments in Mac-
beth, when Macbeth learns of his wife’s death. It is partly a psychological
response, but even more a metaphysical ‘reaching’ for the Truth behind
the truth. It is as if Macbeth is commenting not just on his wife’s death,
but on all our coming deaths.
MACBETH: She should have died hereafter;

There would have been time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
But on a lighter note...
Acting is play.
Playfulness is not just linguistically linked to theatre. It’s part of its

very being. Where is the lightness in your work that contrasts with the
darkness? Where is the dancing, fantasising element that contrasts with
the more solid, realistic elements in the play? The aspect of playfulness
should not be restricted to ‘only comedies’. Look at the grotesque, bizarre
and wonderful posturing and self-dramatisation of George and Martha in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Acting is stillness.
Don’t so overwrite that there’s no silence or stillness. Stillness is

theatre’s way of suggesting such crucial elements as mystery, depth, paradox
and feeling. One of the easiest ways to create the illusion of a Feeling Life
in the character is to simply have him/her speak fewer words (a modernist
ideal in itself). Having fewer words to deal with allows the actor to suggest
more, or simply do nothing, and feel. (I discuss this more in the next section.)
Acting is activity.
After a moment of silence, let the actor’s body start moving again. It’s
very important to give the (actor’s) body a plot. That is, what happens to a
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body. A good actor will look for a trajectory of physicality, from beginning
to end. You can help her by making ‘what happens to the character’s body’
more explicitly part of the plot, at least with some of the important characters.
Acting is negotiation and quick thinking.
Characters who have to change tactics, review their plans and make
quick decisions—all these make for exciting acting. When the narrative
situation changes, let this unsettle, shock and disturb the characters, forcing
them to quickly change some or all of their approach. Urgency of response
never hurts the dramatic tension. (But see next point.)
Acting is the experience of being ‘in the moment’.
This is a term much discussed, often in acting books or acting schools.

All I will say on it is that the most important implication for us as writers is
this: create text where the actor/character is forced to listen, especially to
what the other character is saying. Make every moment matter, especially
if your dramatic world is dark. Even if the momentum is increasing and
time is of the essence, make listening and ‘getting the answer right’ of
maximum importance. In this way, the dazzling technical combination of
speed and depth can be achieved.
The question of depth brings us back to the important topic of under-
writing, and how to achieve it when you write for actors.
THE FOUR MODES OF ACTING AND HOW TO CREATE THEM

THROUGH UNDERWRITING
There are four ways or modes an actor can act:
1. He can speak.
2. He can think.
3. He can feel.
4. He can use his body.
You will notice that only one of these actually involves words! Yet we
writers insist on giving so many lines of dialogue that all the other modes
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I discussed over/underwriting in Chapter 11, but one more thing needs
to be said. Using more words than necessary is sometimes a stylistic decision
that yields brilliant results (think of Oscar Wilde), but in most cases it has
DUXLQRXVH൵HFW7KHZRUVWUHVXOWRIXVLQJPRUHZRUGVWKDQ\RXQHHG²RU
overwriting, for short—is that LWQXOOL¿HVPRGHVDQGDERYHIn other
words, if you want to kill an actor’s ability to think, feel and use his body
IRUH[SUHVVLYHH൵HFWWKHQVLPSO\JLYHKLPPRUHZRUGVWKDQWKHGUDPDWLF
situation and stylistic context require. It’s that easy: you can make even
the best actor look like a complete acting-beginner, simply by overwriting.
There is another bad result of our writerly obsession with just words:
it robs the audience of its main function: to work it out for itself. An
audience does not become an audience until it has started thinking and
questioning. Before they start thinking and feeling, they’re just a bunch
of tired people at the wrong end of a long day.
Take the following line:
JACK: The thing is.... I don’t know how to say this, but....
(Picks up a letter) It’s all in here.
Look out how these simple few lines makes an audience work hard:
JACK: The thing is....(1) I don’t know how to say this, but....
(2) (Picks up a letter) It’s all in here. (3)
With (1), you have the power of the XQ¿QLVKHG VHQWHQFH There’s
nothing like it for arousing an audience’s curiosity: What was he going
to say? Why did he stop? What’s he hiding?
With (2), you get the audience feeling clever that it picked up the
early signs of something else going on under the surface (or subtext).
Even the slower audience members are onto it by now, and will be ‘play-
ing detective’ (“What’s he hiding?”) (Remember: an audience that asks
itself a question has become an audience. The question that each audience
member asks himself can vary, but as long as they are asking themselves
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With (3), you not only have a change of acting mode (from the verbal
to the physical) but a promise of plot: “If you watch this letter, you’ll see
the solution to the narrative puzzle.”
Now, let’s look at all the acting joy you’ll create in this same example:
JACK: (A) The thing is....(B) I don’t know how to say this,
but.... (C) (Picks up a letter) (D) It’s all in here. (E)
With (A), you have the chance to create silence. From Chapter 1 on,
I have stressed that modern theatre is a sharing of words with something
else (silence, body, gesture, sound, space, and music). Simply by leav-
ing more silence in your work, you’ve become modern. But you’ll also
have given the actor one of the best ways to create the illusion of depth.
See it like this: the silent, still actor can create the illusion that he has
a rich thought-life and feeling-life, both of which are vital in creating
the belief in an audience that “Here is a character worth emotionally/
imaginatively investing in.”
With (B), you give the actor the chance to ‘change gear’, that is to
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giving the next lines even more power, especially the “It’s all in here”
line, which shares its climax with the physical action of picking up a
letter.) Incidentally, there’s a good argument to say that Line (B) doesn’t
even need to be said at all, because it can be acted (i.e. thought and felt).
With (C), you have given the actor the chance to start moving around
(if he hasn’t already done so.)
With (D) and (E), you have allowed the actor to extend the moment.
By thus freeing the actor, you will have turned from a Writer-as-Control-
Freak into a Writer-as-Enabler, who actually trusts your fellow artists to
know as much about their craft as you do about yours.
The fascinating thing about the above example is that the majority of
WKLVGUDPDWLFPRPHQWLVQRW¿OOHGZLWKZRUGVThere is more silence in the
above example than there is verbal sound. There’s space for other artists
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job in theatre. They’re more likely to do your play.
STEVEN BERKOFF AND THE ART OF ACTING
Some years ago, I had the chance to see the wonderful British actor,
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The whole evening was exhilarating, but one of the texts he performed was
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An actor goes for a walk in the park, and during his walk passes colleagues,
friends, enemies and others. Here is a sample from this wonderful, sparse text:
ACTOR: Greetings. Hello, John. Hello Richard, and how are you?...
Hello Mike?... How are you? Working?.. Really, that’s good.
What are you doing?... A play... How very nice... See you...
Have a nice day you... Hello Pete... How are you? I’m doing
well, too. Working? You are?... That’s great. Bastard. He
couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag... The slag... Still, I’ll
show them... Those out there... the faceless ones... the ones
in the chairs... The ones who say “Thank you. We’ll let you
know”... They haven’t the guts to get out there...
That is the start of Actor, WKHWH[WWKDW6WHYHQ%HUNR൵ZURWH,ZLOO

try and recreate from memory the richness of movement, voice, body and
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Actor walks. (A mime-like walking on the spot)

ACTOR: Greetings. Hello, John. Hello Richard, and how are you?...
Actor puts a big, ‘social smile’ on his face.
Hello Mike?... How are you? Working?..
Actor, displeased at the answer he hears, lets the smile turn lemon-sour.
Really, that’s good. What are you doing?...
Actor’s face gets hopeful again.
A play... How very nice...
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See you... Have a nice day ਙou...
Actor resumes walking. Smile drops.
Hello Pete... How are you?
Actor gestures.
I’m doing well, too. Working? You are?...
Actor stops; grimaces.
That’s great.
Actor recoils in disgust.
Bastard. He couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag...
Actor delights in his venom; resumes walking.
The slag...
Actor walks.
Still, I’ll show them...
Actor walks.
Those out there... the faceless ones... the ones in the chairs...
Actor gestures theatrically.
The ones who say “Thank you. We’ll let you know”...
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They haven’t the guts to get out there.
Actor resumes walking.
I hope the lesson from the above example is clear: if the implications
of the text are clear enough, eliminate as many stage directions as pos-
sible, so you leave the actor lots of room to explore possible physical and
emotional responses to your text.
WRITING SUBTEXT FOR ACTORS & AUDIENCES
Of all the great theatre topics, subtext would have to be the most
mentioned—and under-analyzed—of them all. As a young writer
yearning to write rich and wonderful theatre, I was desperate to learn
the mysterious art of this thing called ‘subtext’, something critics often
spoke about in connection with the great writers of Western theatre. Actors
would speak of the rich, nuanced subtext of Chekhov, or the fascinating,
bizarre and unpredictable life under the surface of many of Tennessee
Williams’ characters. But no one ever seemed to go further than a token
or retrospective acknowledgement of the importance of subtext. No one
seemed to be able to show a young writer ‘how to do it’ for himself. This
section, therefore, is all about making sure you are never in the same
predicament that I was all those years ago.
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encompass all the following subtextual types: Subtext is any meaning
conveyed by the actor, additional to and implied by the words them-
selves. It may or may not have been intended by the author, but that’s
not the point. The fact that it can be done using any of the resources
of theatre (action, word, image, body, space etc) means that it deserves
some detailed attention.
I. NEEDS, WANTS
1. Single-direction subtext.
The most direct and basic subtext of all. Character A wants something
from Character B. David Mamet once said in an interview that “A character
should never say what he/she wants unless that’s the best way to get it.”
,W¶VWKH¿UVWTXHVWLRQDQDFWRUZLOODVNRIDZULWHUZKRVHZRUNWKH\DUH
rehearsing: “What does my character want?” Spell it out to yourself and
build it into the writing long before you have to haltingly explain it to a
perplexed actor in the rehearsal room.
2. Double-Direction Subtext.
In most scenes with two characters, both should probably have an

LQWHULRUQHHGRUZDQW7KHFKLHIGL൵HUHQFHEHWZHHQ([DPSOHVDQG
here is that with Example 2 you have, potentially, doubled the subtextual
richness of your scene. In general, the best theatre technique occurs when
the subtextual need is buried in the soul of the other character. There’s a
beautiful scene in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, where Lopakhin and
Varya meet for the last time. It is their last chance for each to indicate the
depth of their love for each other—and they fail.
LOPAKHIN: Where are you going to now, Vavara Mikhailovna?

VARYA: I? To the Rogulins. I’ve agreed to look after the house for
them... to be their housekeepr, or something.
LOPAKHIN: That’s at Yashnevo, isn’t it? About seventy miles from here.
Pause.
So this is the end of life in this house...
VARYA: (examining the luggage) But where could it be? Or perhaps
I’ve packed it in the trunk?... Yes, life in this house has come
to an end... There won’t be any more...
LOPAKHIN: And I’m going to Kharkov presently. On the next train.
I’ve got a lot to do there. And I’m leaving Yepikhodov here...
I’ve engaged him.
VARYA: Well!...
LOPAKHIN: Do you remember, last year about this time it was snowing
already, but now it’s quite still and sunny. It’s rather cold,
though... About three degrees of frost.
VARYA: I haven’t looked.... Besides, our thermometer’s broken.
Every moment presents itself as an opportunity for each character to

say, “Don’t go! I love you!” But no one says what he or she most feels.
Instead, they fuss with luggage, mention other people, and even talk about
the weather!
3. Outward-directional subtext.
In Example 3, Character A might be dreaming of Moscow, while all

that Character B can think of is his lost fortune. Remember: if a character
can speak freely about it, it is probably not true subtext. Subtext is that
feared or longed-for thing that is too painful, or too precious to bring out
into the open.
4. Combined Inner & Outer Subtext.
In Example 4, Character A is explicitly craving an external, probably

material goal quite unrelated to Character B, while all that Character B
might want is to have A fall in love with him.
II. POWER
5. The Subtext of Conspiracy I
Example 5 creates wonderful theatre. Think of Iago manipulating

Othello. Or Moss setting up a gormless Aaronow in Glengarry Glen Ross.
In the latter example, Moss is so skilful that before Aaronow knows it,
he’s been set up as an Accomplice Before the Fact, and is thereby forced
to help Moss in a planned burglary.
6. The Subtext of Conspiracy II (or the Holmes-Watson Principle)
Subtext often moves from Example 5 to 6, in a single scene. In fact,

LW¶VQRH[DJJHUDWLRQWRVD\WKDWWKHPRYHPHQWIURPLJQRUDQFHWRKRUUL¿HG
knowledge is one of the great pleasures for an audience. The dramaturg
Keith Gallasch calls it the Holmes-Watson Principle. It goes like this: “The
audience should know less than Sherlock Holmes, but more than Watson.
Ideally, the audience should be somewhere in between.”
In fact, it is the movement from the Watson position to the more
enlightened Holmes position that constitutes the chief movement of this
type of dramatic scene. In the example above, from Glengarry Glen Ross,
the audience has realised something is wrong about 30 seconds before the
SHQQ\¿QDOO\GURSVIRUWKHHPEDWWOHG$DURQRZ
Incidentally, there are traps in this type of ‘setup subtext’. If the
Watson character (i.e. the character kept in the dark, or being consciously
manipulated) is too slow on the uptake, and the audience has understood
the situation well in advance, then the audience is likely to dismiss the
Watson character as being too stupid for them to care about; unless he’s a
comic character whose ignorance (perhaps based on vanity, like Malvolio
in Twelfth Night) is the audience’s chief source of pleasure.
7. Consensual Subtext.
This is one of romantic comedy’s chief subtextual pleasures: the knowl-

edge of all the characters and the audience that “everyone knows what’s
going on. Isn’t it fun!” Like the example here from Much Ado About Nothing:
BEATRICE: I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick;

nobody marks you.
BENEDICK: What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?
BEATRICE: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet
food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must
convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.
The fun continues, with both of them claiming not to love anyone,
least of all the other now speaking.
8. Triangular Subtext
It’s a curious thing about 3-character plays: all the 3-actor plays I know
use power as an essential part of the narrative and dramatic structure. In
other words, if at the start of the play Characters A and C are in partnership
(or collusion) against Character B, then the next major plot shift involves
a shifting of the power structure so that, for example, Characters A and
B are now in league against Character C (as in the above illustration).
III. KNOWLEDGE
Characters who keep secrets from each other do the art of drama a great
favor. For secrets provide some of the best techniques of subtext available
to a playwright. The greatest master of the subtext of knowledge is probably
Henrik Ibsen. Reading all his plays will teach you all you need to know
about how held-back knowledge (i.e. secrets) can be used dramatically.
9. Concealing the Truth
,Q([DPSOH&KDUDFWHU$LVGHVSHUDWHWKDW&KDUDFWHU%QRW¿QGRXW
the truth about something. Think of Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. There
are plenty of moments where Nora, thinking aloud, dreads the prospect
RIKHUKXVEDQG¿QGLQJRXWKRZVKHREWDLQHGWKHPRQH\WRNHHSWKHP
¿QDQFLDOO\VROYHQW
But it’s not enough just to complain about a situation. Action must
be taken.
10. Hiding the Truth by Creating a Diversion
In this case, Nora insists that Helmer play the piano for her while
she dances. She practically drags her husband to the piano, and dances
the Tarantella as he plays. Playing and watching her dance frenziedly, he
is both amused and amazed. He says to Nora, “You’re dancing as if your
life depended on it!”, and she replies, “It does!” In every production of
A Doll’s House that I’ve seen, this moment gets a very big laugh, for it’s
funny, mad and sad. A truly modern moment.
Incidentally, Subtext of Knowledge is very easy to create in your
work: Let Characters A and B tell a secret to each other, and then have
one of them say, “But whatever you do, don’t tell Character C!” A mo-
ment later, Character C enters, and the audience is aware of the power of
subtext created by withholding knowledge.
IV. PAIN
The subtext of pain is a more subtle area of subtext than knowledge.

Whereas knowledge has an obvious solution: “Let the truth come out”,
pain often has no end in sight, partly because the characters in your play
may be only partially aware of the nature of the problem. There are two
ways you can use pain to create a subtextual level to your writing.
11. Shared Pain: No Solution.
In Example 11, the characters are ‘united’ by common misery, even

LIWKHVROXWLRQPD\EHFRQWHVWHG7KLQNRIWKH¿OPCitizen Kane in the
memorable collage showing the deterioration in Kane’s marriage. The
subject of their relationship is never raised, but every word in this col-
lage is about nothing but their relationship.
12. 6LQJOH3DLQ6ROXWLRQ2൵HUHG
Example 12 is a more dramatically active type of subtext—and is

probably easier to write. Think again of the example from Citizen Kane.
Kane’s wife makes an early attempt to connect with Kane—but she is
UHEX൵HG([DPSOHGLVFXVVHGDERYHIURPThe Cherry Orchard, is also
worth citing in this context, where each character intermittently tries to
take the bull by the horns by letting the truth emerge. Each fails, only to
give the other character a chance—and have that character fail also.
13. Sharing Private Pain in Public: Chekhovian Subtext.
There is a wonderful type of ‘Ensemble Subtext’ that Chekhov em-

ploys, where each character is alone in his or her private world of pain,
and each speaks of that pain—and no one listens. Sometimes they even
actively resist listening, as in this example, also from The Cherry Orchard.
EPIHODOFF: There is a morning frost now. Three degrees and frost.

And the cherries are in full bloom. You know, I don’t approve
of our climate. I don’t. Our climate never lives up to its prom-
LVH$OORZPHGHDU<HUPROD\$OH[HHYLFKWRRৼHUDQH[DPSOH
Just two days ago, I bought myself some new boots, and yet,
despite that, they’re squeaking constantly... I wonder what I
should oil them with?
LOPAKHIN: Please stop. You’re such a bore!
IV. AUDIENCE KNOWLEDGE
14. Audience’s Knowledge of the Situation
,Q6WHSKHQ3ROLDNR൵¶VSOD\Breaking the Silence, the patriarch of

the family, an inventor, rules his family with a Tsar-like benevolence and
eccentric indulgence, unconcerned by a bunch of Bolsheviks running
around outside and shouting threats of “Revolution!” But he is wrong; for the
Bolsheviks can’t be dismissed so easily, a fact the audience is well aware of.
$QRWKHU ORYHO\ H[DPSOH LV D VKRUW VFHQH IURP 1RsO &RZDUG¶V

Cavalcade, where a couple are enjoying a wonderful honeymoon on
a ship. Leaning against the ship’s railing and looking blissfully out to
sea, the couple speak of their dreams, their future life together and the
wonderful joys awaiting them. The love-struck couple embrace, then
move away, revealing the name of the ship printed on the lifesaver that
was hanging on the railing: It is the Titanic.
In both examples, history is about to ambush them all, and only the au-
dience knows what’s coming. The characters live on in blissful ignorance.
THE ACTING WAVE (The ‘Build’)
What I will call the Acting Wave is one of theatre’s most exciting—and
rarely discussed—devices. Any actor will recognise it, and many writers actu-
ally use it, without being quite sure about the nature of this spatial phenom-
enon. The Acting Wave is an extended beat between two or more actors, where
FRQÀLFWLVXVHGWREXLOGDQLQYLVLEOHULVLQJHQHUJ\VKDSH%RWKDFWRUVµULGH¶
WKLVZDYHDGGLQJFRQÀLFWXSRQFRQÀLFWWRFUHDWHDSRZHUIXODQGLQWHQVHH൵HFW
Let’s look at a moment from Eugene O’Neill’s great play, Long Day’s
Journey into Night. In this excerpt, Tyrone is arguing with his son, Jamie,
about the future of the ailing Edmund.
1. JAMIE: What did Doc Hardy say about the kid?

2. TYRONE: It’s what you thought. He’s got consumption.
3. JAMIE: God damn it!
4. TYRONE: There is no possible doubt, he said.
5. JAMIE: He’ll have to go to a sanatorium.
6. TYRONE: Yes, and the sooner the better. Hardy said, for him and
everyone around him. He claims that in six months to

a year Edmund will be cured, if he obeys orders.
7. (He sighs—gloomily and resentfully.)
8. I never thought that a child of mine—It doesn’t come
from my side of the family. There wasn’t one of us that
didn’t have lungs as strong as an ox.
9. JAMIE: Who gives a damn about that part of it? Where does
Hardy want to send him?
10. TYRONE: That’s what I’m to see him about.
11. JAMIE: Well, for God’s sake, pick out a good place and not some
cheap dump!
12. TYRONE: I’ll send him wherever Hardy thinks best!
13. JAMIE: Well, don’t give Hardy your old over-the-hills-to-the-
poorhouse song about taxes and mortgages.
14. TYRONE: I’m no millionaire who can throw money away! Why
shouldn’t I tell Hardy the truth?
15. JAMIE: Because he’ll think you want him to pick a cheap dump,
and because he’ll know it isn’t the truth—especially if
he hears afterwards you’ve seen McGuire and let that
ÀDQQHOPRXWK JROGEULFN PHUFKDQW VWLQJ \RX ZLWK
another piece of bum property!
16. TYRONE: (Furiously) Keep your nose out of my business!
17. JAMIE: This is Edmund’s business. What I’m afraid of is, with
your Irish bog-trotter idea that consumption is fatal,
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more than you can help.
18. TYRONE: You liar!
19. JAMIE: All right. Prove I’m a liar. That’s what I want. That’s
why I brought it up.
20. TYRONE: (His rage still smouldering) I have every hope Edmund
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<RX¶UHD¿QHRQHWRWDONZLWKWKHPDSRILWRQ\RXUIDFH
21. JAMIE: Not after I wash my face.
22. (Then before his father can react to this insult to the Old Sod,
he adds dryly, shrugging his shoulders).
23. Well, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s up to you.
The lines are numbered in order to show the arrangement of the Acting Wave:
SOME FINAL TIPS ON WRITING FOR ACTORS
1. Rarely use adverbs.
I dislike the word ‘never’. But it’s probably advisable in this case.
Giving an actor a script with the following line should illustrate this:
STEVE: (angrily) Get the hell out of here!... (furiously) Now!... GO!
As I’ve explained in the chapter on syntax and punctuation, you can
JHWDOPRVWDQ\H൵HFW\RXZDQWE\WKHZRUGV\RXXVHRUKRZ\RXSXQFWXDWH
or order them. Adding the adverbs above is a bit like saying to the actor,
“You’re not smart enough to understand the words I’ve written, so I’m
adding these adverbs to help you.”
2. Give the actor(s) a thought-life and a feeling-life.
As already discussed, the two are not the same. The thought-life is
that part of a human being which thinks, plans, strategizes and generally
approaches life on a rational basis (however irrational the thinking might
be to outsiders). In order to give the illusion of thinking to a character,
you need to create a plot which destabilises that character, forcing her
to reconsider her plans, adopt new tactics and react (quickly) to evolving
and unpredictable situations. Let some of your characters think using their
intellect and their intuition; but this can only happen if your plot is fast,
unpredictable and surprising.
The feeling-life, on the other hand, is that part of the psyche or soul
which responds on the feelings and emotions level to the plot events of
your play. As I’ve indicated earlier in the chapter, a character’s emotional
life does not have to be consistent or predictable. Contradictory emotions
in the same character, emotional ‘gaps’ where something is missing in
the character’s soul, things that don’t add up to an easy psychological
picture—all these help make characterising a role a delicious challenge
for an actor. I’ve always found that the best actors like the intellectual
and instinctive challenge of ‘making a character add up’. If you spell it
RXWWRRFOHDUO\D¿QHDFWRUJHWVERUHG%XLOGSDUDGR[LQFRQJUXLW\DQG
inconsistency into the emotional make-up of a character—and the actor
will probably be fascinated by the psychological ‘detective work’ she
will have to do. If you make the emotions deeply felt, that’s even better.
A character should probably not be fully in control of his emotions. Not
only should they be puzzling to himself, and hard to control, but also not
easily understandable to outsiders. In this way, you’ll have set the best
actors a problem worthy of their talents.
3. Realise what we writers “own”.
We own the lines we write. We own the physical actions we give to

our actors (He tears up the letter.) We own, and have control over the exits
and entrances of our actors/characters. But we do not own the thoughts
and feelings that actor/characters are meant to have to motivate their say-
ing of a line. Thus, keep acting directions to a minimum. A line like the
following would be treated with the contempt it deserves:
JANE: (thinking of the last time she spoke to her long-dead

mother) What would you like to do today, darling?
Not only is such a detailed thought and action (the last moment with
a long-dead relative) impossible to act or communicate clearly to an
DXGLHQFHDQDFWRUPD\ZHOOKDYHDEHWWHUHPRWLRQDOIRFXVWRR൵HU,W¶V
enough that we control the spoken lines. We don’t need to control an ac-
WRU¶VWKRXJKWVDVZHOO$OOZHFDQGRLVR൵HUhints and possibilities to our
actors, and let them use their wonderful acting instincts and intelligence.
4. It’s easier to act against the text than with it.
The words “I love you” are very hard to act as a simple, direct state-
ment. But the words, “I hate you”, when acted with love— are much
easier. Think of the Beatrice and Benedick example previously. One reason
that audiences love these two characters is that, despite the often hilari-
ous insults, the audience knows that these two characters are addicted to
each other. They cannot keep away from each other, and only pride and
YDQLW\LQZLVKLQJWKHRWKHUWREHWKH¿UVWWRVD\³,ORYH\RX´VWRSVWKHP
from instantly falling into each other’s arms. By writing lines that go in
the opposite direction of where the plot is leading them, Shakespeare
has created rich, funny, wise and paradoxical subtext which delights the
audience and the actors who play these roles. By learning such techniques
from the best writers, you’ll have the interest of the best modern actors
in playing your characters.
Enough said. Why aren’t you home writing?

221
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
CHARACTER (I): CHARACTER AS SYMBOL
As an enthusiastic young writer, I began writing plays because my

imagination was intoxicated by the mysterious space known as ‘theatre’.
It seemed to me to be a magical arena where strange, inexplicable acts
took place whose power I could feel, but did not fully understand.
So I began to write plays, hoping I could reproduce some of the magic.
%XWWKHPRUH,ZURWHWKHOHVVPDJLFDOWKHSURFHVVDQGWKH¿QLVKHGUHVXOW
began to feel. I then assumed that writing was a much more rational and
logical process and began several years of play study. Now, a bit older
and wiser, with more knowledge and only slightly less intoxication, I’ve
returned to my earlier position. Theatre and play-making are acts of con-
juring, using realism and its techniques, but ultimately transcending them.
Getting lost mid-piece, as I often did, I assumed my mess-ups were
due to my inexperience as a writer. I now believe, however, that this
IUDJPHQWHGDQGGL൶FXOWSURFHVVVNHWFKHVGUDIWVIDOVHVWDUWVVSHFXODWLYH
endings) is crucial and is itself the actual process that others eventually
call good writing.
The fragmented process is most necessary with regard to charac-
WHU ZKLFK WR PH LV WKH VRXO RI WKHDWUH 7KHDWUH PRUH WKDQ ¿OP LV DQ
exploration of character. Or, to put it better, theatre is about revealing,
not the richness of character, but its essential mystery. Human beings are
mysteries, hardly explicable to themselves, let alone their friends and fam-
ily. Theatre characters should be doubly so. Who really knows the great
theatre characters? Hamlet, Iago, Blanche, Willy Loman; these are not
rounded, explicable characters, far less “people I’ve met”. Essentially, a
stage character is a symbol. A symbol of not just the play itself, but of us,
or rather, our inner life.
A play exists in order to allow us to dream. A play itself is a dream,
a fantasy, a rumination, a brooding, whether malignant or benign. Stage
characters are incomplete symbols of a more-or-less complete picture;
the complete picture being the writer’s vision of his/her world. The func-
tion of character is to provide a rich but incomplete portion of the whole.
This is not to say that characters should be thin and two-dimensional.
What I am suggesting here is that at the heart of the great characters is an
insoluble mystery. A puzzle. “Why is Hamlet like that?” “What makes
Iago tick?” I don’t believe it’s our job as writers to fully explain charac-
ters to our audience—the psychological strip-tease that Brecht derided.
Our fundamental job is to create characters so strange, misshapen and
incomplete that they will not leave the audience’s imagination alone, and
LW¿QGVLWKDVWDNHQWKHPKRPHDQGHYHQGLVWXUEHGWKHLUVOHHS
How is this done? For such a seemingly esoteric conception of character,
the steps are surprisingly clear and practical. Here are eighteen of them:
1. Give characters an inner life that is powerful, chaotic, at odds with their
outer life, and most importantly, an inner life they do not understand.
2. Give this inner life a power over them they cannot control.
3. Make their language the means whereby they wrestle with their
inner lives.
4. At the very core of them, have them galvanised by the contradictions

of their own nature. Why not? Real people are.
5. Give them a limited understanding of themselves, and—fatally—others.
6. Give them a dramatic goal that is at odds with their fragmented nature,
or accords with only one aspect of it.
7. When creating them, think of the human personality as a kaleidoscope.

There is not one personality, not even two or three sub-groups (a la
Freud), there is not just a Jungian shadow. If you think in terms of
the kaleidoscope, then a particular interaction with one character
will bring out certain colours of the personality; an interaction with
another will bring out other colours.
8. To express these many selves without confusion to the audience, or

GL൵XVLRQRIWKHGUDPDWLFGULYHHVWDEOLVKDKLHUDUFK\RUµZKLFKVHOI
dominates’. That said, however, give some of the ‘lesser selves’ a
voice, a beat, a moment in the play, however partial and temporary. It
may be an insight, a thought, an action considered and then withdrawn.
Anything that will indicate to an audience that here is a powerful,
GULYHQVHOILQSHUSHWXDOUHÀHFWLRQRQLWVRZQQDWXUH
9. To this end, study how Shakespeare writes “parenthetically”. In

Hamlet especially, a single observation, a clear line of action, is inter-
cut with others but without derailing the main thrust of the speech. As
I showed earlier, Mamet literally writes parenthetically, thus indicating
to the audience that this character is aware of his own complexities.
10. Create a story that, the longer it proceeds, the more contradictions
it exposes—in the world of the play, and the characters themselves.
11. Create a ‘character dilemma’ that gives two options to a major character,
ERWK¿QHDQGERWKWHUULEOHDQG\HWRQO\RQHFDQEHFKRVHQ
12. Think of your plot as being the set of contradictions that put great
pressure on one or more of the fragments of the characters’ personal-
ity or nature.
13. Widen the character’s ‘existential spectrum’—that is, what he or

she most conceives to be a personal hell and heaven; and then let
the character experience both during the course of the play (whether
through action, imagination, dream, foreboding, yearning or desire.)
14. Give them a thought-life, and this thought-life is taken very seriously
by them, even if it is expressed lightly.
15. Give them a feeling-life, where the range, intensity and history of
their emotions is as wide and deep as most people believe theirs to be.
16. Think of a plot that draws on the character’s experience in any or all
of the following thirteen levels of experience— physical, biological,
social, professional, emotional, sensual, sexual, intellectual, aesthetic,
ethical, moral, philosophical and spiritual.
17. Make them fail to live up to their own ideals.
18. Make them momentarily successful in living up to their own ideals.
$QG¿QDOO\FUHDWHD5RVHEXGIRU\RXUPDMRUFKDUDFWHUVDQGWKHQ
consider abandoning it. Rosebud, as we know, scatology aside, was Citizen
Kane’s lost sled, the symbol of the only existence Kane ever had in which
he experienced love. Personally, I suspect that while Rosebud was a good
narrative “puzzle-solving” device to get them out of the movie house with
a sense of completeness and satisfaction, its writers themselves may have
blushed at its very neatness (not to mention its inherent sentimentality). A
symbol exists because it means one and many things. A symbol that neatly
explains everything is no symbol—it’s just a plot device. The strength of
the symbol lies in how much we are fascinated by what we know of these
characters, and yet, days, even weeks after the performance, are still puz-
zling over their fragmented, contradictory, volatile and unstable natures.
In this and the next chapter, I’ll go into more detail about the ways
of making a rich and powerful dramatic character.
CREATING THE CHARACTERS VIA THE ‘SPECTRUM OF

POSSIBILITIES’
2QHRIWKHSOHDVXUHVRID¿QHSOD\OLHVLQWKHSKLORVRSKLFDOµIDLUQHVV¶
that a writer gives to the range of characters she creates.
,PDJLQHDKRXVHKROG¿OOHGZLWKGL൵HUHQWW\SHVRISHRSOH1RWRQO\
DUHWKHLUOLIHVW\OHVGL൵HUHQWEXWWKHLUOLIHSKLORVRSKLHVFDQGL൵HUDOVR
When you draw up the characters in your play, try and place them on
a spectrum, representing the range of possible human responses. For
example, let’s say that one of the key themes of your play is the notion
of ‘hope’. Character A might be an embittered cynic who believes that
‘life is hopeless’, whereas Character B might be optimistic to an almost
delusional degree.
In the case of those two characters, the Spectrum of Possibilities
might look like this:
THE EXTREME THE EXTREME

'LEFT' 'RIGHT'
The Nihilist/Cynic The Hoper-against-Hope
Here are some general possibilities, regardless of the play you are
writing:
7KH$৽UPHU
The Enthusiast
The Disappointed Idealist
The Utopian Dreamer
The Near-Sociopath
The Sentimentalist
The Impotent but Frustrated Observer
The Pragmatist
The Opportunist
The Frightened
The Broken
There are more possibilities than these of course, but I hope the
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character’s social surface, and you may have found the basic drive that
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Incidentally, there is one important exception to this Spectrum: where every
character is almost exactly the same. Imagine a house full of rogues, as in the
occasional Mamet play, or in the works of Ben Jonson. But even then, there
DUHFOHDUGL൵HUHQFHVRIRXWORRNDWWLWXGHSKLORVRSK\DQGSV\FKRORJLFDOPDNH
up. Making characters ‘clones’ of each other is a Modernistic technique that
is occasionally useful, but it’s often fraught with danger. You’ve been warned.
CREATING THE CHARACTER TRIANGLE
There is a simple version of the Character Spectrum, which may

seem more suitable to your play and the world of your characters. It’s the
Character Triangle.
THE AFFIRMER
THE DESTROYER THE PRAGMATIST
Here, you have a basic triangle of responses operating. Imagine your

SOD\LVDERXWVDYLQJWKHIDPLO\EXVLQHVV7KH$൶UPHUWULHVWRVDYHWKHEXVL-
ness, citing how it’s kept the family together all these years. The Destroyer
confesses that he has always hated both the business and his family, so the
demise of the business will be a release and a joy. But the Pragmatist, like
ham-in-the-sandwich, is stuck between the intensely felt and uncompromising
YLHZVRIWKH¿UVWWZRFKDUDFWHUVDQGDFWVUHDFWVDQGYDFLOODWHVDFFRUGLQJO\
See whether this Character Triangle works for your story and your play.
NINE APPROACHES TO CREATING A CHARACTER
Approach 1: ESTABLISH LEVELS OF HUMAN EXPERIENCE
In an interview, the actor Michael Caine once said that when he

played a character, he wasn’t really playing the character; he was play-
ing “you”—the members of the audience. That is not the whole story, of
course, but it’s as good a place as any to start in our investigation of the
techniques of character creation.
In previous chapters, I’ve indicated how to create a character through

the creation of a language, vocabulary, rhythm and syntax unique to that
character. That primary creative impulse must, however, be balanced
against other creative imperatives.
7KH¿UVWLPSHUDWLYHLVto create a character who lives on multiple levels
of human experience. A character is, among other things, a symbol of ‘how to
live’—or how not to, or how one might if one had the chance. To live fully,
even within the terms of your story, characters must experience something
of the range of emotions, thoughts, feelings, passions, beliefs and values
that are part of the inner and outer life of the average audience member.
To be a worthy representative of the audience means then, that the
characters represent the audience’s imagination, energy, interest, ideas,
ideals, hopes and anxieties about itself. To adequately represent the audience
in the story requires that we writers create characters who live on as many of
the following levels as possible. Here are some of those levels—
— the emotional. John Osborne considered that the primary role of the-
atre was to provide the audience with an “education in feeling”. To
do this requires us to create characters capable of a great depth and
breadth of feeling. And if not, that may well be part of that character’s
story—and tragedy.
— the intellectual. Characters don’t just have feeling-lives. They have
thought-lives. This doesn’t mean they are egg-heads or Gitanes-
smoking intellectuals. Characters who think—badly, cleverly,
sophistically, loosely, speciously, vaguely, densely, laterally, or in
an overly-literal manner—create an audience that will also think.
— the physical. Characters have bodies, which are the result of how a
life has been lived, what thoughts have preoccupied them, as well as
what, genetically speaking, they were born with. Emotion shapes a
body. So does vice. Even virtue has its physical impact on the body
(clean or unmarked skin, for example). Theatre characters are, by
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(ambition, some sexual lack, a massive moral confusion etc) it will
have made its impact on the character’s body. This aspect is related
to the next level of experience.
— the spiritual. By this I don’t just mean High Anglican and other forms
of clericalism. Rather I mean that inner life which encompasses the
fantastical, the imaginative, the ethical and moral. It is often the
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“What I’m capable of being Vs What I’m forced to be”) that creates
the true story behind a particular character. Philosophy and values are
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by that character emphatically stating, “What I believe in”, “What I
live by”. And there are many variations: “Why I’m a physical wreck.
Why my life has been ruined.” It’s not going too far to say that char-
acters are the physical embodiment of their values and philosophies.
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the character’s philosophy.
— the sensual and sexual. Having bodies, those bodies don’t just think, imag-
ine or act badly. They feel. They are human animals, who are attracted or
repulsed by other human animals. It is visceral, instinctive and animal.
— the social. Human animals, however, must live on the surface. Even
Beckett’s characters have a social surface to their lives, even if it is
mostly distant, ruined, fragmentary and poorly remembered. In plays,
characters usually have a network of relationships, social, familial
and emotional. In fact, an early part of a writer’s character-sketching
can be simply summed up by, “Who does this character love?” This
alone might begin the important task of merging the various human
levels discussed here.
— the professional. The most explicit expression of the social is often
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in the world. In some plays—not to mention cultures—what a person
does for a living is crucial as a mark of that person’s rank or status.
In other plays, it may be less important, or be satirised, dismissed,
ironised or made an object of contempt.
What should be done with these levels of human experience? You

might use them to draw up a detailed portrait of individual characters. But
in the actual play writing, you should only use what assists in creating
a rich inner life. A character’s job may be banal or even irrelevant. Her
attitude to the job may be crucial, however, to what’s going on inside her.
Approach 2: THE NEEDS OF THE STORY
Once you’ve got a sense of a character and how he lives and why, you
then need to ask what his contribution is to the story as a whole. This is
where the more functional role of characters comes in. A character is not
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A human being is not just a collection of philosophies and character traits.
To become drama, that philosophy and personality has to do something
that expresses its inner nature. A certain type of character, having that
particular nature, chooses an action because that is who he is.
However, there’s an even simpler level to start from. You can simply
say, “My story needs a villain. Who will it be?” But there are lots more
‘story functions’ than a villain. Let me list them—
— The Protagonist. This character may be the driving force of the story.
Sometimes it’s the title character. To start your story, decide who is
the dominant force in the play. The character that ‘proposes’ (and
carries out) the largest, most ambitious course of action is usually
the protagonist.
— The Antagonist. This type of character ‘opposes’. An antagonist is not
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principal character’s intentions is an antagonist, whether the protago-
nist is a saint or a devil.
— The Demonic or Monstrous Enemy. I’m not talking Lucifer here. I’m
talking of an opponent so implacable that the play is dangerous simply
by her presence. Allied to this is often an impressive array of skills that
make the opponent so dangerous. They are often things like an acute
psychological insight, a brilliance of verbal expression, a dexterity in
strategic thinking, or a radiantly charming manner.
— The Ambivalent Enemy. Enemies are not always implacably opposed to
each other. Even Shakespeare’s antagonists can be highly ambivalent.
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bivalence toward Julius Caesar (and consequent tactical ineptitude)
is the cause of his downfall. Remember, a play is not just action,
movement, colour and the clash of swords. It is also a meditation on
invisible but felt realities. Ambivalent characters often take an audi-
ence deep into its own inner life.
— The Companion. Sometimes a character stands alone, like a Titan. Other
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is not the only way to create powerful relationships in theatre. The
sharing of deep feeling between characters is also useful. Think of
theatre’s soulmates like Hamlet and Horatio, Romeo and Mercutio,
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— The Shadow, or The Other Road Taken. Sometimes a character
might be one’s Jungian Shadow, that ‘other self’ without whom the
protagonist is incomplete. Butley, in the play of that name, looks at
his young protégé with envy and pain, as the protégé will take the
same career path as Butley but will make none of the older man’s
mistakes. Enobarbus tries to advise Mark Antony, but fails. Think
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that he will have to kill a part of himself if he is to free himself of his
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life: the wild woman, Hedda Gabler, and a more sober and sensitive
alternative to Hedda, who will protect him from himself. The whole
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where ‘the alternative lives’ that a character can live are played out,
aspired to, imagined or simply regretted.
— The Observer. The contribution of an Observer to a story is full of dangers
to the liveliness of the play you are writing. By its nature, a dramatic
character who simply ‘observes’ will either kill the audience’s curiosity,
RUEHDUDWKHULQDFWLYHHYHQLPSRWHQWFKDUDFWHU6RWKHPRVWH൵HFWLYH
way to create a dramatic Observer character is to vigorously establish
a character’s attitude to the dominant through-line. For example, Cas-
sius’ job is to promote the conspiracy against Caesar, whereas Mark
Antony’s job is to oppose the conspiracy as soon as he learns about
it. New writers have a tendency to create characters without any clear
relationship to the major action of the play. The great playwrights can
teach us here, however. An Observer might be witty, as in Oscar Wilde’s
plays. Wilde creates characters who observe the action as much as
they participate in it. It is Lord Goring’s super-awareness, and Ernest’s
clever-naive alertness that make the comedy such a conscious and joy-
ous experience. That’s one alternative. Characters who are not directly
engaged in the action, should be full of insights, or, if all else fails,
be very funny. Ibsen, on the other hand, likes to give his characters a
fatal illness. Dr. Rank is dying, and Judge Brack is morally cancerous.
And even Shakespeare kills Enobarbus, the loyal observer of Antony.
— The Observer as Narrator. Narrators can be highly useful in plays. They
are also quite dangerous. A narrator can very quickly take an audience
into a play’s story, but they may also prevent that audience from feel-
ing deeply. A narrator is a type of narrative tour guide, who is there to
clarify the experience we are having. But they can get in the way of
the play. Ideally, the play should be so direct, so immediate, so clear
and so powerful that it doesn’t need any intervention by anyone trying
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here. He uses narrators frequently, but they usually have one saving
grace: they are morally implicated in the action. Salieri is tortured by
his guilt, as is the Doctor in Equus. There’s a lesson there: if you must
have a narrator, torture her. Let her be wracked by guilt, doubt, and a
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— The Victim. Stories have victims. In one sense, every character is at the
center of his own tragedy. But some are more victimised than others.
And some are guiltier than others. Your Victim can be innocent and
idealistic, like Hedvig in The Wild Duck; rather pathetic, like Honey
in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; pathetic but guilty as hell (like
many of Ayckbourn’s inadequate males). They may be too sensitive
for their own good, like Sarah Daniel’s central crusading character
in MasterpiecesRUHQQREOHGE\WKHLUVX൵HULQJDV0DUN$QWRQ\DQG
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the cause, death or irreparable loss are the unhappy lot of your Victims.
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mense physical, verbal and spatial energy. If the protagonist decides on
something and goes for it, that creates energy. But even greater energy
can be created by another character moving in the opposite direction. It’s
a case of ‘unstoppable character meets immovable character.’ A character
may be a ‘villain’ simply because she opposes the plans and actions of the
others. Ultimately, one character will be more ‘in the wrong’ than the rest,
but this should not stop you from creating a rich series of moral/philosophi-
cal positions. Or, to put it another way: rarely is a villain completely bad,
and no good character is wholly good. Why should they be? Are you?
Approach 3: THE CHARACTER’S DEFINING ‘WANT’

The easiest way to create a dramatic character is to ask, “What does that
character want?” It’s important, because rather than getting lost in a sea of
rich, colouristic details that may ultimately be more suited to a novel, you
should establish a quite basic conception to your major characters: that each
PD\EHGULYHQDQGGH¿QHGE\RQHZDQWRUGHVLUH7KHZDQWPD\EHH[SUHVVHG
in terms of a ‘story objective’. Richard III’s desire is to capture the kingdom
for himself. Hilde Wangel, in The Master Builder is driven by the obsession to
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want’ is usually a combination of spiritual and material ends. In other words,
the material objective (money, power, a kingdom, possession or destruction
of a person) usually stands for something deeper that the character truly wants
(recognition by others, fame, the feeling of a purposeful life etc).
Approach 4: WANTS Vs NEEDS
Sometimes, a character may spend the whole play pursuing a material

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wanted something else instead. Imagine a story where a person spent
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gave him no pleasure when he got there. It’s the story of Citizen Kane.
Approach 5: THE FAUSTIAN BARGAIN
Citizen Kane reminds us that sometimes dramatic characters are

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that the second ‘good’ is of dubious value. Wagner’s Ring cycle is initially
based on the premise of a character who, failing in love, exchanges love
for power. Richard III also alludes to that. Faust himself exchanges his
own soul for a temporary power and vast knowledge. There are worse
ways to shape a character than to ask this basic question: “What is the
character prepared to lose her soul over? Has she already done so?” And
if you’re feeling optimistic, you can ask, “Will she get it back?”
Approach 6: CHARACTERS AS SYMBOLS OF REDEMPTIVE

STATES
Some stories are creation myths. Others are “End of the World” stories.
Others are “Decline and Fall” narratives, such as Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s
Journey Into Night, where the family members struggle against their inevitable
demise as emotionally functional characters. In passing, it’s interesting to note
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their stories to be “redemptive”. In theatre, however, we writers often have

the choice as to whether our characters will be redeemed (in any sense.) On
the other hand, don’t automatically reject this option simply because you
may not have been in a church for several years.
It’s worth knowing that other metaphysical states are also interesting.
Here are six:
— A character who lives in his own personal hell, and even occasionally
enjoys it. George and Martha in Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of
Virginia Woolf? are examples of this.
— A character who has given up hope of redemption, or tries one last
time. Butley, in the British writer Simon Gray’s play of the same
name, is a case in point.
— A character who lives in a type of limbo, where nothing matters, or
life is happening elsewhere. The climax of Christopher Hampton’s
The Philantrophist, has Philip, its central character, realise that his
life is a dreadful void.
— A character who is so unaware that he hardly knows he has a soul.
Such a benighted creature is Tesman, Hedda Gabler’s husband. No
wonder she kills herself.
— A character who knows that he has lost his soul. Many of Arthur Miller’s
male protagonists have this spiritual curse, often as a result of some-
thing that happened years before the play starts. Shakespeare, having
a more dynamic and ‘present tense’ conception of narrative, usually
has his characters lose their soul before the audience’s very eyes. Lady
Macbeth’s spiritual decline is one of the great dramatic achievements.
— A character who lives in the past, and sees the past as ‘paradise lost’.
Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire is a good example of this.
— A character who lives for the future, and looks forward (usually in
vain) to a utopian future. The Doctor in Uncle VanyaLVSDUWO\GH¿QHG
by this. In fact, Chekhov’s greatest characters are either living in the
past, or looking forward to something that will never arrive, such as
the sisters getting to Moscow, in Three Sisters.
Approach 7: CHARACTERS WHO WANT SOMETHING
When in doubt, be simple. A strong dramatic character can be cre-

ated by someone wanting something very badly, and then pursuing it with
energy and focus.
A character doesn’t always know what he wants, let alone what he most
needs. So characters who are self-delusional (as in nearly every Chekhov
play), or pumped up with a near-mad pride (as in some Ibsen plays), all
these make for powerful character drives. But the drive doesn’t have to be
consistent or smooth, for part of our human psychology is its maddening
inconsistency. Say one thing; do another. Believe X, but preach Y.
Given that the economics of contemporary theatre usually demand

small casts (and by the way, you should occasionally feel free to break
that convention, especially if the story and your dramatic world are amaz-
ing), in a play with very few characters, the interactions between the few
characters you have will need to be rich, complex, nuanced and multiple.
Start with each having one ‘want’ of each other; then see what more you
can give the relationships.
Try and have the outside world weigh down on some or all of your
characters. The world can be an oppressive, heavy thing, so showing the
burden of life, or that dealing with the pressures of living in society is not
necessarily a negative thing. It may well be recognised as Truth by the
audience, most of whom will have lived long enough to know that society
and reality can put immense pressure on the individual.
Approach 8: CHARACTERS WHO HAVE TO CHOOSE
The role of choice is an underestimated part of the craft of new

writers. But to choose is to establish our basic humanity. Animals don’t
exercise choice in the way that humans do, so it’s no wonder that the role
of choice is crucial in stories. From Adam and Eve onward, choice has
been a powerful force in narrative and character creation.
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ways:
— A character has already made a fateful choice. For this character, the
role of consequences is important, as the past will come back to haunt
her. Be careful of this, however. For reasons too complex to go into
here, our culture is less responsive to guilty secrets being the driving
force of a play’s plot. It creates what the dramaturg and writer Keith
Gallasch calls the ‘Buried Child Syndrome’, where a supposedly
dreadful secret props up a story to the point where the audience is
kept waiting all evening for the details of the secret to emerge. Far
better to deal with the consequences of a secret being told. That’s far
more interesting. (I’ll return to this topic in Chapter 20.)
— A character is on the brink of making a fateful choice. Nero in Racine’s
Brittanicus is a case in point. Racine shows Nero at that dramatically-
potent moment in his life when he made the conscious decision to
turn from a sensitive, morally balanced person into the notorious
evil-doer who burned Rome.
— A character makes a fateful choice in the course of the play, the con-
sequences of which only gradually become apparent. Used literally,
it’s more a thriller technique. “Why did she pick that motel to stay
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useful for plays. A common use of the technique is to have a fateful
choice made by the end of Act I, and the consequences of that choice
will dominate Act II of that play. The central characters in Emerald
City and The Perfectionist do this.
— A character makes a fateful choice at the climax of the play. In this use
of choice, the whole play has been building up to the big scene where
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the precise nature of the big decision isn’t clear until almost the mo-
ment she has to make it. But with John Proctor in The Crucible, it’s
clear from at least midway in the play that it’s all building up to one
question: “Will you give up your integrity and sign the false confes-
sion, thereby saving your life?” His decision not to do this, marks
the major climax of that play.
— A character who is unable to choose2FFDVLRQDOO\\RX¿QGWKDW\RXU
central character or relationship is unable to choose, but that spiritual
paralysis may also make for a dramatic paralysis. But not always.
Madame Ranevsky in The Cherry Orchard refuses to make a decision
about the fate of the estate and the cherry orchard. What happens in
these plays is that life swirls around them regardless.
Approach 9: ESTABLISHING A CHARACTER’S UNIQUE

LANGUAGE
I’ve discussed this in the previous chapters, but it’s worth reiterating.
Unless you’ve found a way for a character to own a personal language,
the chances are that you’ve not created an interesting character. As we’ve
discovered in the chapter on theatrical space, language is one of the most
powerful tools to create an exciting space for the play to operate in. By
‘unique language’, I don’t mean things like accents or idiosyncracies of
speech or vocal delivery. Dramatic language is the highly-personalised
expression of what’s in the character’s soul, and what emotions live there.
Having looked at general approaches to the creating of character, it’s
time to examine some very practical techniques.
237
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CHARACTER (II): CREATING A POWERFUL CHARACTER JOURNEY
One of the great triumphs of play-making lies in its ability to create

characters whom an audience can temporarily believe in. That’s quite an
achievement, for ‘character’ is invisible. It is the picture of an inner life
that cannot be seen. But as we all know from our experiences in the world,
the invisible nature of people soon makes its presence felt in the material
world. X turns out to be a liar. Y soon reveals herself to be indecisive. Our
job as dramatists is, ultimately, to create characters of such richness and
depth that an audience ends up feeling privileged to have gained access
to them. Exactly how that is achieved is the aim of this chapter. You can
learn a lot about plot. You can learn many ‘tricks’ and techniques to use
in theatre dialogue. But the creation of a successful dramatic character
is probably the least ‘teachable’ of all the techniques discussed in this
book, partly because characterization is a combination of many things. It
includes the following—
— Having a story rich enough for a deeply-layered character to emerge.

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— The peculiar amalgam of your own inner life with the imagined inner
life of the character you’re trying to create, so that the character ‘is
you’, and is also ‘not you’.
²$FKDUDFWHUZKRLVDEDODQFHGFRPELQDWLRQRIWKHVSHFL¿FZKLFKFUH-
ates the character’s uniqueness) and the representative (which gives
audience members the feeling that in some way the character is also
speaking on its behalf).
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acter is the closest thing to the writer’s inner self, of which only a part is
analysable, let alone teachable. But being an optimist at heart, I will put my
thoughts as clearly as possible, and let life experience and your therapist
do the rest. Or even better, let it all come out in the writing.
If you’re lucky, of the most scathing and frequent comments you will
hear about your work is, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t care about any of your
characters.” It is a judgment that your play has almost completely failed
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you’re lucky”, because in our international theatre’s strange tribal culture,
a writer will often not be given valuable advice on the grounds that it will
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be produced, so I’ll assume you’re as committed to hearing the full truth
as I am. Get the truth, and cry later.
Assuming that this damning judgment will be made of at least one
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SHOULD AN AUDIENCE CARE FOR YOUR CHARACTERS?
There are many responses that an audience can have to your characters.
The following table will illustrate this.
To explain this table another way:

There are characters whom the audience is meant to fall in love with.
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can you root for this character and want her to succeed in ways that are
meaningful for her?” Shirley Valentine (from Willy Russell’s play of the
same name) is such a character. (AFFECTION)
In other styles, especially social comedy, there are characters
whom the audience is meant to like and warm to, and feel that they are
representative of some nature or virtue the audience believes it also
possesses. The response is, “I like him”. “She’s nice”. (EMPATHY
WITH APPROVAL)
There are also characters whom the audience recognises as being
a fantasy of the way they would also like to live. How many of us have
watched an Oscar Wilde play and thought, “I wish I could talk like that”?
(ENJOYMENT WITH APPROVAL)
Some plays have characters whom the audience enjoys and partly
wishes it could live like—but knows that it’s socially or morally impos-
sible to do so. Joe Orton’s subversive comedies are examples of this.
(ENJOYMENT WITHOUT APPROVAL)
There are characters whom the audience is meant to admire and ap-
prove of (at least initially) but not necessarily like. Brutus, for example.
(ADMIRATION, APPROVAL)
There are characters whom the audience is meant to like and warm
to, but about whom they don't necessarily say, “This person is me”. Pity
is more likely to be the result, especially if bad things happen to that
character. (SYMPATHY)
There are characters about whom the audience is meant to realise
that “there but for the grace of God go I”. These characters are close
enough to the audience’s likely reactions for the audience to feel impli-
cated in the character’s actions. Arthur Miller’s tortured protagonists
are examples of this. (UNDERSTANDING, QUALIFIED EMPATHY)
There may also be characters whom the audience is meant to un-
derstand, but without necessarily or completely identifying with them.
(UNDERSTANDING WITHOUT APPROVAL)
Finally, there may be characters whose motivation the audience is
meant to understand, but a type of moral or personal repulsion is part of
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and she’s damned good at it. In other words, a type of attraction/repul-
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the above. My purpose is simply to make you think about the nature of
your character’s relationship with the audience.
Having, I hope, clearly given you more options than simply wanting to
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— Give a character great ideals. A character who is spiritually-ambitious is

often very compelling, partly because we know that life, personality,
temperament and human weakness all get in the way of idealism. But
we all wish to be better than we are, more noble, wiser. This technique
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know themselves to be.
— Give a character ambitious objectives. Whether the goals are material,
emotional, physical or intellectual, try making the desired goal some-
thing that an audience would wish to achieve or can at least admire.
— Consider making major characters those who are driven by some ideal.
Ibsen’s major characters tend to be either unreformed or failed ideal-
ists; their paradox is that they are leading a ‘life-lie’… and they know
it (or the play’s plot forces them to confront it).
²2QDVLPSOHUOHYHOJLYHDFKDUDFWHUVRPHVLJQL¿FDQWYLUWXHNLQGQHVV
generosity, a great capacity for love etc). The trick is to give this sort
of virtue an active, magnanimous ‘larger than life’ quality. ‘Passive
goodness’ is unremarkable. “Dynamic goodness” is not.
— Give a character great intelligence. Barry Oakley once complained of the

‘ocker conspiracy’ in some British and Australian theatre (especially
from the 1970s and 1980s), where, in the name of ‘powerful theatre’,
writers have a tendency to populate their plays with stupid, red-neck
characters, often for political reasons. Intelligence is not the same as
awareness. A brilliant man might be morally or emotionally unaware.
— Give a character great energy. An audience tends to watch the point
of maximum energy. Make sure they are following the character you
want them to. It’s no good having a dull-but-decent central character
as the desired center of your play, if at the same time, the Devil is
performing cartwheels at stage left.
— Make a character face great risks. Even a morally-reprehensible char-

acter can become compelling to watch if we see her taking great risks
to get what she wants. We admire the skill, if nothing else.
— A last suggestion: If your character is without any of the fantasy-feeding
virtues, charms and ideals that an audience responds to, then make
sure as hell that they’re funny.
It goes without saying, however, that which of the above techniques
you use depends on the type of character you’re creating.
CREATING ROUNDED, FULL CHARACTERS
One of the best ways I know for creating richness and ‘roundness’ in
a character is to draw up a diagram like the one below. Try and address
each of the ‘arrows’ in this diagram. First, you can simply write down
your views about what risks, ideals and objectives each major character
has. Then, once you’ve got them clear in your mind, sketch some dialogue
lines or some dramatic action that communicates these attributes.
WHO CARES IF THE AUDIENCE LIKES THE CHARACTER?
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DQGLWVUHOHYDQWSULQFLSOHVZKLFKLQGLFDWHVDGL൵HUHQWDSSURDFK$IWHU
all, I’m not teaching a single ‘method’. As I said earlier, I reserve the right
to be complementary, and even contradictory.
As the lower, ‘cooler’ part of my table showed, drama is not just
a device for moral improvement. It’s often simply about showing the
monstrous and the demonic in us, but without demonising it or giving
the wicked characters a moral lobotomy.
Try any of the following—
— Create a character who is ‘everything we hate about ourselves’.

— Create a character who is incapable of changing, or has not the least
desire to. There’s no moral redemption for Scarlet O’Hara.
— Create a character who is carrying out our secret fantasies. Rowan
Atkinson’s comic character Mr. Bean often does things we wish we
could do, but would never get away with.
— Create a character who has brought the practise of a vice (lust, gluttony,
OD]LQHVVHWFWRWKHOHYHORID¿QHDUW,QWKHLUYDULRXVZD\V)DOVWD൵
Oblomov (from Goncharov’s novel), and the characters in the French
¿OP/D*UDQGH%RXৼH (who eat themselves to death with the pODQ
and concentration worthy of a string quartet.)
— Create a character who is so breath-takingly audacious in his practise of
villainy, that amid the repulsion one has to also admire him. Richard
,,,9ROSRQH7DUWX൵HDQGORWVRI+ROO\ZRRGFULPLQDOVDUHH[DPSOHV
of this. There is a delicious complicity going on with the audience.
7KH\DUHLQH൵HFWVD\LQJWRWKHDXGLHQFH³:DWFKPHGRWKLVQDVW\
thing. I dare you not to admire me and my skill!” Turning the audi-
ence into voyeurs makes them complicit in the act. “You watched,
so you’re an accessory” is the message the audience gets and obeys.
The key to much of the above is size. A big, grandiose, extravagant
FKDUDFWHULVDSSHDOLQJQRPDWWHUKRZPDQ\ÀDZVRUPRUDOIDLOLQJV7KH
reason is that a character, beyond any resemblance to sociological accuracy
is a symbol of the life force. Giving a character great energy, even great
joy while wreaking moral havoc, reminds us of the paradoxical nature of
life: that we can’t help but be wreckers, no matter how well-intentioned
we started out.
CHARACTER GROWTH: SOME COMMON PATTERNS
When a character changes, due to the pressures of your play’s plot,

then you are making an aesthetic statement about the relationship between
life and art. You are telling the audience that “the unpredictability and
FKDQJHDELOLW\ZKLFKZH¿QGLQ/LIHLVDOVRWREHIRXQGLQZKDWKDSSHQV
to my characters.”
There are several options facing you when you starting thinking about
‘how characters change’.
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that your characters have no choice but to adapt or die. Rarely does a rich
and interesting character feel (to the audience) to be in control of events.
%&ඁൺඋൺർඍൾඋංඇ7උൺඇඌංඍංඈඇ
At least one of your characters might be on the cusp of a crucial

change in her life, needing only the impetus of some event to start her
R൵RQDFKDUDFWHUMRXUQH\RIJUHDWVLJQL¿FDQFH6KHPD\QRWKDYHHYHQ
realised how much she was (secretly) wanting or needing this change.
But once the catalyst for change appears (marked as (D) for Disturbance
in the diagram below), then the change may proceed with a pent-up fury.
C. Character Unable to Change
Occasionally, you can create a very interesting character who acts

against the overwhelming human imperative to change—by refusing all and
any change. No matter how much pressure other characters or Life puts on
him, he can’t or won’t change. Quartermaine, the central character in Simon
Gray’s Quartermaine’s Terms is such a character, and it’s central to a major
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'&ංඋർඎඅൺඋൻൾඁൺඏංඈඋ²&ඁൺඋൺർඍൾඋ/ංඏංඇ඀ංඇඈඋඋൾඏൾඋඍංඇ඀ඍඈ3ൺඌඍ
Circular behavior is where a character returns to the same point where

she was at the start of the play. It may be that she is living in the past, and
is unable to break free of it. Or it could be that a lack of courage makes
her unable to make those necessary changes that will either free her or
allow her to move to a fresh, new stage in her life.
A note of caution regarding circular behavior. Seeing a character go

through the journey of an entire play, only to revert to former behavior can
be frustrating for an audience. There is something deep inside the average
audience member which wants to see change; and a permanent change, if
possible. A friend once expressed his irritation with a play where most of the
characters reverted to type by asking, “Why did that writer ask me to spend
two hours watching her characters when all they did at the end was revert to
what they were before?” As Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? shows,
reversion to type or returning to somewhere near where the characters started
can be exhilarating, if done well enough, because, in that play, the characters
have gone through an exhilarating and exhausting ‘ritual of cleansing’.
(&ඁൺඋൺർඍൾඋ)ඈඋർൾൽඍඈ&ඁൺඇ඀ൾ%ඒ(ඏൾඇඍ6ൾඅൿ඄ඇඈඐඅൾൽ඀ൾetc..)
Sometimes a character is brought so low by the events of the play

that there is only one more direction—and that way is ‘up’.
When this Turning Point and/or Climax followed by a subsequent

change of direction occurs depends entirely on the context of your plot,
but simply knowing it—or discovering it during the writing—will allow
\RXWR¿QGWKHWUXHDUFRIDFKDUDFWHU7KHGLDJUDPDERYHDVVXPHVWKDW
you reserve this great change for the major climax of the play. But it can
happen earlier, for example, as an Act 1 climax.
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:KLFKWDNHQDWWKHÀRRGOHDGVRQWRIRUWXQH
(Julius Caesar)
There’s no doubt that in much Shakespearean drama, a rising-and-falling

shape is in use, whose principal function is to dramatize the rise and decline
of the (Tragic) Hero’s fortunes, especially his hold on power. Macbeth rises
WREHNLQJ²RQO\WRIDOOLQWRGLVJUDFHDQGGHDWK%UXWXV¶VULVHDQGIDOOUHÀHFWV
KLVSUHVFLHQWLQVLJKWDVKH¿QGVKLPVHOIKRXQGHGWREDWWOHDQGGHDWKE\WKH
inexorable rise of Octavius. But Shakespeare’s artistry is such that this simple
XSGRZQGLUHFWLRQLVQXDQFHGDQGFRPSOH[L¿HGE\PDQ\RWKHUGLUHFWLRQDO
energies. Indeed, it was my admiring but bewildered sense that “So much
LVKDSSHQLQJ´LQ6KDNHVSHDUH¶VSOD\VWKDW¿UVWSURPSWHGPHWRZDUGPDQ\
of the ideas of this book. But what also helped me was Freytag’s Pyramid.
Gustav Freytag was a German playwright and novelist who in 1863

formulated the concept known today as ‘Freytag’s Pyramid”, for a long
time one of the few graphic representations of dramatic structure available.
Freytag’s Pyramid is essentially the same as Francis Fisher Browne’s
more rounded version, shown here. As important and true as this model
is, its inability to be a complete dramatic model should be obvious. As I
will show in Chapter 20, when a character’s arc is falling, it’s usually bal-
anced by a ferocious counter-attack. In other words, the more a character
IDOOVE\ORVLQJVRPHWKLQJYDOXDEOHWKHPRUHVKH¿JKWVWRUHVWRUHZKDW
is being taken away from her.
Something similar happens in the George Bernard Shaw classic,
Pygmalion. -/6W\DQVKRZVKRZWKHUHDOFKDUDFWHUMRXUQH\RIWKHµÀRZHU
girl-turned-Duchess’ is not a simple ‘rise to glory’, but instead is two
clear trajectories reminiscent of the Freytag/Fisher Browne tragic shape.
In other words, the true shape of Pygmalion is closer to the ‘Crossover’

shape I describe in Chapter 22.
I hope this chapter has given you a taste of the ‘invisible structures’
available to you when you write. Many fellow-writers tell me they feel
some of the sort of shapes this chapter describes. But there was a time
when I didn’t know such directional energies and shapes even existed, let
alone have any feeling for them. If you’re in that situation, a little conscious
study will soon train your instinct. For playwrights are not born; they are
made, and practise improves our dramatic and structural instincts.
249
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
CHARACTER (III): MORE CHARACTER TECHNIQUES
In this chapter, I’ll deal with some character techniques that you might
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CENTRAL CHARACTER, CENTRAL RELATIONSHIP OR GROUP?
A play often fails because the writer hasn’t made a fundamental choice
as to which of the following is the most important. In my experience, a
play is either dominated by a central character, or it’s dominated by the
progress and journey of a central relationship. Less frequently (and harder
WRSXOOR൵DSOD\PLJKWEHGRPLQDWHGE\DFHQWUDOJURXSZKRVHYDULHG
goals, aspirations, values and natures make up the real content of the play.
Deciding which of these three is the real center of your play may well
solve a lot of character and structure problems.
WHO IS DRIVING MY PLOT? WHOSE STORY IS IT?
When beginning a new story, writers sometimes ask themselves: “Who

is driving my plot?”, as well as “Whose story is it really?” Very often, the
DQVZHUVLQYROYHWZRGL൵HUHQWFKDUDFWHUV,DJRGULYHVDQGFRQWUROVWKHHYHQWV
in Othello, but the audience’s chief emotional and imaginative investment
is in the central relationship of Othello and Desdemona. It is ‘their story’,
to put it far too cutely. In Hamlet, on the other hand, the answer to both
questions would be the same: Hamlet is (mostly) driving the story, and it
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WKH ¿UVW KDOI ZKLOH DQRWKHU FKDUDFWHU RU JURXS GULYHV WKH VHFRQG KDOI
indicating that a change of power, status or personal fortunes has occurred.
GIVING A CHARACTER THE “R-E-M” TREATMENT
Writers and actors are practical if nothing else. We quickly learn

ZKDW¶VZURQJZLWKRXUZRUNDQGWU\DQG¿[LW2QHRIWKHTXLFNHVWPHWKRGV
I’ve discovered for checking that my characters have a ‘workable richness’
is what I call the REM levels.
A rich dramatic character needs to be convincing on at least three
levels:
The R level is the level of Realism. The material of plays is people.
People and the lives they lead are the ‘clay’ we use to shape stories. There
needs to be a level of realism on which to understand the character and the

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DXGLHQFHQHHGVWRNQRZLVZKDWUXOHVRIRUGHURUGLVRUGHUJRYHUQWKLVR൶FH
The E level is the level of the Emotions)RUPRVWSHRSOHWKH¿UVW
(and sometimes last) door of entry to the inner life is the level of emo-
tions, in particular that of love. In Hollywood’s eyes the only inner life
we possess is the capacity for love. Like most truisms, it is both true and
incomplete. There are many emotions, and understanding on what emo-
tional level your characters and story are operating is crucial. This involves
knowing, in every scene, at any moment, what is going on emotionally
between characters.
The third level, M, is the Metaphysical. When the story is working
on some level of agreed reality, and there is also an emotional logic and
relationships of genuine richness, then a third level tends to open up. This
is the level at which the audience recognises ‘something much bigger than
themselves’. One of the reasons for the Nobel Prize winner Patrick White’s
JUHDWQHVVDVDGUDPDWLVWGHVSLWHVRPHUHDOÀDZVLQGUDPDWLFWHFKQLTXH
is that almost every moment of a White play is dominated by a universe
much, much bigger than the world the characters actually inhabit. In
Season at Sarsparilla, it is as if the cosmos looms like a thundercloud
over the petty world of suburbia. The characters lead tiny lives, but they
are in a large universe which somehow lifts them up to its own level. The
universe is not reduced. Instead, the characters are enlarged.
This level has some very clear implications for us as dramatists. A
hotel is never ‘just a hotel’, a room is never ‘just a room’. Look at Sartre’s
Huis ClosDQGQRWLFHKRZDURRPFDQEHPDGHERWKUHDOLVWLFUHÀHFWLYH
of the bourgeois world of Sartre’s time) and metaphysical (they are in
hell, after all!).
CHARACTERS AS THE EMBODIMENT OF VICE AND VIRTUE
Ultimately, we aim for a moral complexity so rich and tantalising that

our characters cannot leave our audiences’ imaginations alone. They go
away from our plays still brooding on the contradictions of the characters’
inner lives that we created. The audience is fascinated, repulsed and held
by paradoxes and contradictions. But before these paradoxes can be set up,
there is a simpler level of approach that you can take. This is where you
see a character as being, above all, the embodiment of a virtue or a vice.
For those who have not read Thomas Aquinas lately, I list the traditional
seven deadly sins. They are indolence, anger, lust, envy, vanity, avarice
and despair. The latter is sometimes interpreted as decadence, although
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Similarly, the principal focus of a character may be any of the tradi-
tional virtues—hope, courage, love, loyalty or honesty. More important
than showing an “honest man”, however, is establishing that character’s
relationship to that virtue. Even the attempt to be honest creates a center
to the character, on which many rich nuances of meaning can be overlaid.
Moral consequences may be inverted; for example, where honesty pro-
duces a dishonest result. Above all, rather than a simple moral sermon, you
need to produce an inventive, insightful interplay of the relevant virtue and
its minor-key vice. (Honesty Vs dishonesty, to use this example again.)
An audience is not necessarily wanting you to make a strong, dogmatic
statement on behalf of honesty. Simply showing the two states in a close
dialectical encounter with each other is the real point of it all. But try and
make it an intense encounter. A fanatically honest (or dishonest) man is
more likely to make riveting drama. A mildly honest man probably won’t
(unless his ‘mildness’ or tepidness is the very point of the story.)
THE DEFINING ANECDOTE
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PDUNVWKDWFKDUDFWHUIRUDOOWLPH,QUHDOOLIHZHSD\DWKHUDSLVWWR¿QGRXW
what that is. In drama, the characters often know it already! For example,
quite early in The Cherry Orchard, Lopakhin the merchant mentions an
anecdote of his early years:
“ Madame Ranevsky—I remember it as if it happened yester-

day, she was such a young girl then and so slim—took me to
the washstand in this very room, the nursery. “Don’t cry, little
peasant”, she said, “it won’t matter by the time you’re wed.”...
Little peasant... It’s quite true my father was a peasant, but here
I am wearing a white waistcoat and brown shoes. A dirty peasant
in a fashionable shop... Except, of course, that I’m a rich man
now, rolling in money.”
Use this technique sparingly. If used clumsily, it is obvious, sentimen-

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Fatal Attraction. Glenn Close’s character is stalking her lover (Michael
Douglas) after their one-night stand. The audience is given to understand
that her father died of a heart attack when she was young, and this is the
real reason that she reacts so violently to being dumped. Her father’s lack
of love apparently makes her burn cars, boil a pet rabbit and terrorise an
entire family. Without any disrespect to the writer, when an anecdote is

used awkwardly, the subtle Chekhovian technique risks being turned into a
sensationalised psychological parody. The real function of the anecdote set
in the past is to ‘place’ the character in a still-to-be-resolved psychological
context and make more emotionally powerful her situation in the present.
EMOTIONAL HISTORY IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN SOCIAL

HISTORY
Social history is often over-rated. It’s usually much less important

to the real truth of a character than emotional history. Put it this way: the
audience couldn’t care less what school your character went to, but they
may want to know what she felt about going to that school. The ‘history
of a character’s feelings’ (another form of the inner life) is what matters.
THE CHARACTER JOURNEY
A character journey is that progress of thoughts, feelings and emotions

that emerge within characters during the course of a story. The plot is the
excuse for the character journey. It’s the context, the occasion for the inner
life to be revealed. The character journey often involves change for good
or ill: “A proud woman learns to be humble.” At other times it may simply
be the exhibiting of what is truly inside a character. Remember, our job is
not to demonstrate a moral thesis (eg, that the proud can be made humble)
but simply to show what is happening under the character’s skin, within
her mind and inside her heart. The simplest way to clarify this is to ask
this simple question: “What is the character like at the start of the story,
and how has she changed by the end?” The story may not always require
that she change—it depends on the nature of the story—but the question
is often useful. A related question to ask yourself is: “In every new scene
that this character is in, can I give her a new emotional state or position to
be in?” Your plot has to move quickly enough for such a rapid emotional
progression to occur, but there are worse ways of writing than going fast.
THE RELATIONSHIP JOURNEY
For some odd reason, this concept is much less known or discussed
than that of the character journey. (See Chapter 18 for a fuller discussion
RIWKLV%ULHÀ\WKHµUHODWLRQVKLSMRXUQH\¶LVWKDWVSHFLDOGLUHFWLRQWKDWD
particular relationship takes during the course of a play. If your play has
a central relationship rather than a central character at its core, then the
relationship probably has to develop fast, if only because an audience can
XVXDOO\JXHVVZKHUHWKHUHODWLRQVKLSLVKHDGLQJ,¶GR൵HUWZRWKRXJKWV
on how to deal with the relationship journey. First, make it go fast, and
even miss a stage or two. For example, a couple have just met. The next
scene, they’re in bed. The conversation is bound to be interesting. Second,
try the technique of “New scene equals new stage of their relationship.”
Another way to put this principle is: “In every scene of the play, A and
B’s relationship is at a new stage.” In one sense, you can go slow and
deep with characters, but because a relationship is much more of a pat-
WHUQHGD൵DLU\RXRIWHQQHHGWRWUHDWWKHGHYHORSPHQWRIUHODWLRQVKLSZLWK
economy and speed.
CHARACTERS AND THEIR ‘EMOTIONAL PALETTE’
Actors love playing Tennessee Williams. He not only writes with a

unique poetry and music, but the parts are ‘big’. What makes the parts
big, in my view, is a particular way of writing his characters’ inner lives.
It’s made up of two things. First, his characters are emotionally unstable,
suggesting that there’s a lot going on down there, it’s volcanic and on
the move. Second, his characters are usually emotionally responsive.
They respond with speed and huge emotional energy to a threatening
dramatic situation, which means that they are at the mercy of their own
inner lives. (A good condition for a dramatic character.) Look at Maggie
in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, and see the way she oscillates from anger,
to pouting, to malicious glee, to pleading... and all within a single page
RIWKHVFULSW<RXFDQGRDORWZRUVHWKDQHPXODWHWKLV¿QHGUDPDWLF
technique. Simply list six or seven major emotions that your main char-
acters are prey to. If they don’t have an emotional palette of at least six
or so emotional ‘tones’ (moods, states), then they probably aren’t major
characters. And if your story doesn’t force more out of them, your plot
is probably under-developed.
CHARACTERS AND THE SPECTRUM OF POSSIBILITIES
Among other things, a character is a symbol of ‘how one might live’.

To make this type of vicarious symbolic experience a rich one, let’s revisit
what we discussed in the last chapter, something that I originally called, in
Chapter 15, the ‘Spectrum of Possibilities’. Let’s say that you are writing
a play, and are toying with a central thematic idea, which is ‘How a human
being learns to feel’. To fully embed this idea in the characterization, you
should consider a range of characters. In this theme alone, you have at
least seven possible attitudes to this central thematic question.
— A character who has never felt much at all in her whole life;
— A character who has lost the art of feeling;
— A character whom the story forces to ‘learn’ (again) how to feel;
— A character who has consciously decided not to feel emotion or sensation;
— A character who has too much feeling;
— A character who has more or less a ‘correct’ balance of feeling in his
emotional makeup;
— A character who, in the course of the story, loses her capacity for feeling.
Thus, with any spiritual, imaginative, intellectual, moral or emotional
quality there is usually a spectrum of possible attitudes that various char-
acters can take. As a speculative exercise you might ‘position’ each of
your characters somewhere along this spectrum. This doesn’t mean that
they shouldn’t move toward or consider other possibilities during the play.
I raise this idea because many scripts I read claim to deal with some big
thematic idea but hardly explore the idea in any breadth, let alone depth.
Characterization is the soul of drama, because drama, above all, is con-
cerned with dramatising the inner life in all its complexities—emotional,
imaginative, speculative, intellectual, ontological, moral and philosophi-
FDO7KLVKRZHYHULVQRWD¿QHVWDWHPHQWEXWDQDUWLVWLFLPSHUDWLYH:H
have no choice but to create a richness and depth for an audience to brood
on and take away—and keep brooding on.
,R൵HUD¿QDOTXLWHVLPSOHWHFKQLTXHZKLFK\RXFDQXVHWRJDLQDFFHVV
to the mysterious depths of your characters. It is this: let the character
talk. Let him talk, and talk, and talk. Fill up pages with his ravings, his
thoughts, opinions, attitudes, emotional outbursts and other linguistic
sputtering. In the early stages, make no attempt to put the character ‘into
a plot’. Simply let him talk. About many things, but most of all, about
himself. Let the word “I” start every second sentence. Discover the secret
that in drama, characters are constantly confessing, even if no one else
is present (except the audience.) Their inner lives are bubbling over and
VSLOOLQJRXWGHVSLWHWKHLUEHVWH൵RUWVWRFRQWDLQWKHÀRRG'DYLG0DPHW
once said that he never starts a play until he has at least one hundred pages
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exploratory pages.
255
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
CHARACTER (IV): THE RELATIONSHIP JOURNEY
This chapter should probably be called an exploration of the Bleed-

ing Obvious, but experience of reading many writers’ work persuades me
it’s less obvious than might be assumed. Actors, directors and writers are
always talking about the ‘character journey’. Even critics get in on the
act. Think of Dorothy Parker’s scathing comment on a Katharine Hepburn
performance: “She ran the gamut of emotions from A to B”. This may
have been the fault of the writing as much as the acting, and the judgment
is predicated on the notion that a dramatic character begins at a particular
point, and by the permutations and pressures of story is forced to several
QHZSRVLWLRQVDOOPDUNHGE\GL൵HUHQWHPRWLRQDOUHVSRQVHVDQGVWDWHV
But so is a ‘relationship journey’, and for some reason it’s much less
talked about and analyzed, even though a relationship journey in plays
is as common and necessary as a character journey. Hence this chapter.
I apologise if the following is too obvious to be discussed. We clearly
haven’t met, and I haven’t read your work, for in the majority of my fel-
ORZZULWHUV¶ZRUN,¿QGWKHUHDUHELJSUREOHPVLQWKHFKDUDFWHUVWKDWFDQ
be traced to a failure to understand the notion of the relationship journey.
Thus, if this is too obvious for you, please accept my apologies, and I’ll
buy you a drink at your next opening night.
Like most journeys, the relationship journey is marked by phases,
which I identify below. I’ll also indicate what I think are the basic techni-
cal aspects involved in the writing of these phases. There are, however,
H[FHSWLRQVDQGTXDOL¿FDWLRQVWRWKHVHSKDVHVZKLFK,¶OODOVRDGGUHVV
1. The Collision of Strangers
In many stories and plays, characters do not set out to meet each other.
They encounter each other accidentally, and do not always welcome the
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E\DVXUSULVLQJGHJUHHRIFRQÀLFW%XWWKHUHDUHDOVRRWKHUWKLQJVIDWH
coincidence, danger and threat. One way to see dramatic characters and
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A meets will be the one person s/he most ... dreads, but who is, in ret-
rospect, the most necessary to his/her spiritual survival.” (Notice that I
write ‘spiritual survival’ rather than ‘physical survival’; while plays can
deal with matters physical, its supreme achievement is putting onstage
characters whose soul, mind or psyche is at risk.)
6RPHWHFKQLFDODVSHFWVRIWKLVSKDVHKLJKFRQÀLFWOHDGLQJWRVRPH
turning point moment, where you give the characters (and the audience)
a reason for this relationship to continue. (I’ve seen/read so many plays
where I know the audience would ask “Why would s/he ever see this other
person again?”) It’s also in this initial phase that the social reality of the
characters (and the play) is sketched in: where they come from, what sort
of town it is etc. You don’t go overboard, but explain enough to give the
opening encounter some reality and bite.
2. From Strangers to Friends
As I said, characters often need a reason to return or come back into

contact with each other. They usually need some motivation in order to be
still trying to deal with each other. (It's one reason why the over-worked
‘family play’ is trotted out; families don’t need a reason to re-encounter
HDFKRWKHU%XWVWUDQJHUVGR7KHUH¶VDQRWKHUEHQH¿WWREULQJLQJDVWUDQJHU
into the world of a play. Put simply, they bring the audience in with them.
The audience follows the stranger in. The audience thinks, “I’m a stranger
(to this world/story) too. I’ll follow her and see what she learns.” The
word ‘learns’ is crucial here. You’d tell a stranger things that an insider
would already know. But the most important thing about this phase is
that friendship or closeness should not be won easily. When a character
VWDUWVR൵KLVMRXUQH\LQDSOD\KHLVXVXDOO\ZHGGHGWRWKHSV\FKRORJLFDO
state he has been living in. Just because a stranger arrives is no reason
for him to think, “Oh, I’ll change my life, because she (the stranger) has
challenged me to.” In other words, the stranger is still being resisted, even
at this second encounter.
Technical aspects of this phase: as indicated, a great resistance to
change in at least one of the characters; a diminishing of the social context
(that is, the reason for the return visit/encounter) in favour of an emphasis
on the personal/psychological encounter. In other words, they get more
personal. Thus, more (and deeper) character information comes out. The
FRQÀLFWLVKHLJKWHQHGDVHQVHRIRQHRIWKHFKDUDFWHU¶VSHUVRQDOGLOHPPDV
is hinted at and starts to have a life of its own. (See it like this: the arrival
of character B presses buttons in A that he didn’t even know still existed;
chaos is starting to foment inside A, and the foment is highly unwelcome.)
The turning point of this phase is more permanent than the turning point
of the previous phase. In fact, it’s probably closer to a ‘breakthrough’
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and important start to happen inside the soul of the character who resists.
3. From Friends to… (Lovers/Soul Mates/Second Self.)
I use the word ‘friend’ very advisedly. It’s often the wrong term for
the types of dramatic relationships that are possible in plays. In real life,
GRIULHQGV¿JKWDVPXFKDVWKHDYHUDJHGUDPDWLFUHODWLRQVKLS"3UREDEO\
not, and that’s because in real life, friends exists on the social surface,
and/or share deep personal unanimity. But in plays, a ‘friend’ is closer
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dealing with deep, nasty, hidden, private, volatile and painful things that
the dramatic character would rather remain hidden. Hence there’s usually
PRUHFRQÀLFWLQSOD\VWKDQUHDOOLIH%XWIRUDOOWKHUHVLVWDQFHWRFKDUDFWHU
change, it still occurs, and eventually the relationship of A and B has
become important to each other. In this vital phase, lots of things start to
happen: the characters may start to enjoy each other’s company (instead
of just pretending to, as before). They may start to need each other (for
business, personal, sexual or psychological reasons). The relationship
may become co-dependent and even addictive. It’s at this point that a
FKDUDFWHU¿QDOO\µFRQIHVVHV¶WKLQJVDERXWWKHWUXHVWDWHRIKHUVRXODERXW
what she really wants from life and the other character; and at this phase
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FHUWDLQO\¿UVWH[SODLQHG
Technical aspects of this phase: this phase, being so big and important
for the characters (and the play) sometimes takes more than a single scene
(unlike the previous two phases); risk should be involved for one or both of
the characters; (that is, “If I do this, I will lose x, y and z, which are beloved
traits that I’ve held onto for so long.”) Crucially, whatever has attracted
HDFKWRWKHRWKHUVKRXOGDSSHDUSHUKDSVIRUWKH¿UVWWLPHDVKROGLQJRXW
the possibility of salvation on a much wider level for one or both of the
characters. And what marks the climax of this phase is not a turning point
(though there may be one in the scene), and not a breakthrough (as with
the previous phase) but culmination. In other words, for at least one of
the characters, this journey into further closeness is a solution and end-
point for him/her. It seems like all his/her troubles are over. (That’s why
WKLVSKDVHRIWHQPDUNVWKHHQGRIWKH¿UVWSDUW²VRPHWLPHVHYHQWKH¿UVW
act—of a full-length play.)
4. The False Honeymoon
This phase is often marked by delirium, or at the very least, an ex-

citement, an enthusiasm. For in this phase, one or both characters in the
relationship think that their problems have been solved. Thus, they ap-
ply new energy to resurrected old plans, or think up entirely new plans.
Humour, sexiness (whether the relationship is sexual or not) and bursts

of energy mark this phase.
Technical aspects of this phase: Brevity also marks this phase, for
delirium can’t last forever, in life or drama. It’s also here where your
language is most expansive, visionary, utopian, or just plain excited.
Don’t work too hard on giving the audience lots of reasons to doubt the
future viability of the relationship: the audience’s own intelligence will
know this. Let them enjoy this ‘honeymoon’ phase while it lasts, for we
all know how long that usually is.
5. Problems (Re-)Develop
This phase is (sadly) where life meets art. What seems such a great
idea (that is, the previous phase) starts to be questioned (and this time, it’s
by both characters and audience). Weaknesses in the relationship become
obvious. The strategy of one or both is starting to fail. Some of the pres-
sure that marked earlier phases is starting to return.
Technical aspects of this phase: Try and have at least one of the
characters hang on to the utopian dream which made them enter this
relationship. (In a sense, all dramatic relationships are utopian dreams,
founded on beliefs/attitudes that the plot will put such pressures on as to
render them unworkable.) Related to this, keep them pushing for what
they want, even in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary.
6. The Crisis Grows
And the evidence should be mounting. Let crises grow at an ex-

ponential rate (that is, where the rate of increase keeps increasing). Let
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be thought of in response to the Hellish visions and horrible events that
are looming. Let the Old (the person she was) reappear along with the
New (the person she is trying to be.)
Technical aspects of this phase: rapid escalation of plot and the prob-
lems that plot brings; nasty surprises; a rapidity of events the characters
FDQ¶WNHHSXSZLWKDZLOGVHQVHRIFRQÀLFWEHWZHHQFKDUDFWHUVDVWKH\WXUQ
on each other; generally, this phase should not be too long and drawn out. It
should feel like a fast climb up a very steep hill called the Hill of Tension.
7. Showdown/Decision Time
And at the top of this hill lies … a narrow plateau called Suspense.
What will happen to the characters? What will happen to the relationship?
At this phase, the central interest is who will win/lose and what this will
do to the relationship.
Technical aspects of this phase: the scene where this phase occurs
can be a mixture of quiet (suspense) and loud (tension, fear, hysteria,
violence). The scene often involves a decision. And the decision appears
WREH¿QDOVSHOOLQJWKHHQGRIWKHUHODWLRQVKLSRULWVUHOHDVHLQWRDµOLYHDEOH
health’ and future viability.
8. Ending/Beginning
The fascinating thing about this phase is that it often reverses the
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(or even that they were almost perfect), something happens to qualify or
reverse it all. The relationship may have ended formally (or emotionally,
VH[XDOO\SURIHVVLRQDOO\SV\FKRORJLFDOO\HWFEXWWKHUH¶VRIWHQRQH¿QDO
meeting, and at this last meeting, something new happens: it might be a
breakthrough into understanding on the part of a character; it might be the
release of forgiveness; it might be the hope of resurrection (for a character
or the relationship itself.)
Technical aspects of this phase: it tends to reverse the previous phase,
or at the very least, to qualify it or render it meaningless. The phase is one
of the shortest of all the phases; probably even shorter than the honeymoon
phase. There is either a twist or there is a reversal involved. There’s the
Chinese Curse Twist: “May you get what you want” (and it proves to be,
not heaven, but hell itself.) There’s the ‘Wants Vs Needs’ Twist, that is,
where a character who got want she wanted in the previous phase now
gives it up because she goes for what she actually needs.
I’ve been necessarily general, because there are so many things you
can do with this general pattern of ‘relationship journey’. For example,
you can miss out a phase. You can alter the order, or revisit a phase (mak-
ing the journey as unpredictable as life itself). If it’s a short play, you can
situate the entire play within one or two phases. At the very least, you
can go fast with this pattern. (I’ve sat in plays where the audience knows
the relationship journey from the second scene onward.) The point of this
pattern is not to impose it upon your play, but to know it exists, so you can
transform it into something volatile, unpredictable and strange—which
is how we often see love and life itself.
261
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
THE ART OF TITLES
This chapter should really be called “the luck of titles”. There are
many titles I wish I’d thought up and would kill a close relative to obtain.
Other titles leave me cold. It’s subjective, but not quite. There’s almost
DQDUWWRLW7KHUH¶VGH¿QLWHO\VRPHOXFN/HDYLQJOXFNWR\RXDQG\RXU
fortune cookies, I’ll concentrate here on exploring the art of creating a
title for your play.
A very bright and hard-headed theatre manager once told me, “The
job of a play’s title is to get people into the theatre.” From her point of
view, the title was the big come-on. It pulled people in, because something
about the title attracted them. To understand the basis of this attraction,
I’ll state some principles involved in the creation of titles.
THE TITLE IS A CONCEPTUAL WORLD
Ideally, a play title is the declaration of a conceived world. The writer

is saying, “I have created a world, and this is what it’s called.” It is often a
central poetic symbol, such as with one of the great plays of the last century,
The Glass Menagerie. The central poetic symbol is usually some state of
near-paradise that humans desire. Achieving and maintaining that state,
however, is a fragile and delicate task, as that play demonstrates. Humans
long for many things: freedom, truth, honour, peace, a state of unconstrained
and intense love, healing, transcendence and release from the many bondages
and restrictions that living brings. When you create a title like The Glass
Menagerie, or The Wild Duck, or The Cherry Orchard, you are appealing
to that human desire for ‘the ideal state of being’, however brief, however
fragile. The paradise may not just be hard to attain; it could irrevocably be
lost. (The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore). This search for a central
SRHWLFLPDJHLVZRUWKWKHH൵RUW,WPD\QRWRQO\EULQJ\RXDZRQGHUIXOWLWOH
but could also provide you with the entire conceptual framework in which
your story takes place. Often the two are linked. A play might lack a good
title, but that lack of a powerfully-imagistic title might indicate you have
not yet found the ‘imagined unity’ that great plays tend to have.
THE TITLE ANNOUNCES A METAPHYSIC
The best plays usually announce their metaphysical nature right from
the start. The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Though a novel, this title
is not just a paradox, or an outright contradiction, it is an invitation to a

spiritual adventure. The title of this novel promises that a mystery of life
(existence, or ‘being’ itself!) will be illuminated. Don Juan in Hell is an-
RWKHUH[DPSOHRIWKLV6RLV-RKQ5RPHULO¶V¿QHSOD\The Floating World.
THE TITLE ANNOUNCES A SPECIFIC EMOTIONAL WORLD
I once looked up a huge catalogue of American plays, searching for

a particular play. It had “heart” in the title. I never found the play because
there were nearly a hundred plays which also had “heart” in the title. While
these playwrights could be accused of being unoriginal, they were all onto a
general truth: that an audience is attracted to the invisible, the transcendent
and the emotional, rather than the banal, the mundane, worldly or literal.
Given a choice between a play called, Heaven Knows and The Kitchen
Sink, I’d go to the Heaven show. I already have a kitchen sink.
THE TITLE RARELY ANNOUNCES PLOT
An audience, I believe, is not necessarily attracted to plot as such—at

least in the title. But if some aspect of plot is present in your title, it is
usually an announcement of form or a promise of a particular type of pat-
terning. Thriller writers know this. The Bourne Conspiracy. The Ipcress
File. Their titles are often good not because they trumpet “Conspiracy!”
but because they announce that fear, terror and death has a pattern. It is
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LVWKHFRPELQDWLRQRIPDWWHUNH\V¿OHVSDSHUVJLYHQPDOHYROHQWLQWHQW
(by evil plans and diabolical organisations.) The Devil is in charge of the
¿OLQJFDELQHW1RRQHLVVDIH
THE TITLE SELLS A FANTASY ... OR A FEAR
The playwright Stephen Sewell believes that all plays deal with either
VH[RUGHDWK7LWOHVVRPHWLPHVR൵HUDSURPLVHRUDWKUHDWFatal Attrac-
tion, Primal Fear, Basic Instinct, Primal Attraction, Basic Fear, Primal
Instinct ... You get the point. Dark is aligned with light. Opposites attract.
The fantasy repels. The fear attracts.
THE TITLE OFFERS EXOTICA
Northern Lights, A Tuscan FuneralDQGPDQ\PRUHDOOR൵HUDQDXGL-

ence the chance to take an imaginative journey to somewhere far away. An
exotic location is also a fantasy, but this fantasy is not an inner one. It has
DQDGGUHVV*RRJOH0DSVFDQ¿QGLW([RWLFDWLHVKHDYHQWRHDUWK:KHQ
it’s November and raining sleet in Pittsburgh, Tuscany sounds pretty good.
THE TITLE HAS A SENSUAL IMPACT
Chocolat. The Tempest. The Waves. Clouds... all these deal with the
poeticising of the natural world, so that it aligns humanity, nature and
sensory experience. Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow also does this. When
nature is used evocatively the sensual impact of the title can be both
beautiful and powerful.
THE TITLE ANNOUNCES A CENTRAL CHARACTER
The character may be one of legend or history, as in Julius Caesar. Or

it might be a pairing of couples: Daphnis and Chloe, Venus and Adonis.
An advantage with either sort of titles is that they focus the audience’s
attention, so it knows what (and whom) it should be on the lookout for.
THE TITLE JUXTAPOSES OPPOSITES
Placing unlikely qualities or incongruous states in close relation to

each other may also make a good title. Lloyd George Knew My Father.
Stalin In Love. The Silent Woman. 7KHVHWLWOHVR൵HUHLWKHUYR\HXULVPLQWR
the great and powerful, or a transformation of two contradictory states,
real or perceived.
THE TITLE PROMISES A RITUAL
The announcement of a ritual can make for a good title, especially

since we know that drama has a tendency to upset rituals, no matter how
well planned. The Bourgeois Wedding, Pentecost, Season’s Greetings.
In these plays, rituals are overturned, sacraments are rendered ugly and
profane, temples are desecrated. All good fun, and highly promising for
the audience.
THE TITLE MAY BE IRONIC
,QVLJQL¿FDQFHan English play by Terry Johnson, is a play of ideas

DERXW WKH LPDJLQDU\ PHHWLQJ RI KLJKO\ VLJQL¿FDQW SHUVRQDOLWLHV RI WKH
mid-twentieth century, Albert Einstein and Marilyn Monroe among them.
Throughout the play, there is a central search for meaning, value and sig-
QL¿FDQFH8OWLPDWHO\DWWKHSOD\¶VFOLPD[DQDWRPERPEH[SORVLRQWDNHV
WKHWRUWXUHGFRQFHUQVRIWKHFKDUDFWHUVWRDQHZOHYHORILQVLJQL¿FDQFH
THE TITLE HAS A DOUBLE MEANING
Breaking The Code by Hugh Whitemore is a play about the brilliant

mathematician, Alan Turing who broke two codes: the Nazi ‘Enigma’
communications code, as well as the code of conduct considered proper
for men in Britain in the 1940s. The title promises several things at once.
Taking Steps by Alan Ayckbourn is a farce using a set of many steps, as
well as characters who need to take action to clean up their lives.
THE TITLE HAS MUSIC AND POETRY
There is often a strongly lyrical bent to titles. They scan. There is a

rhythm. They feel good to speak. They sound well. A Man for All Seasons.
Timon of Athens. Not to mention A Streetcar Named Desire. There is a
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YRLFHPD\GURSRQWKH¿QDOZRUGEXWWKHLPDJLQDWLRQURFNHWVVN\ZDUG
THE TITLE JUST SOUNDS GOOD
Alan Ayckbourn simply liked the grammatical phrase, Absurd Person

Singular. It has no real function or even any deep meaning in his play.
He stored the title away, and later matched the play with its title. A play
GRHVQ¶WDOZD\VQHHGDPXOWLOHYHOWULSOHPHDQLQJV\PEROLFDOO\XQL¿HG
and richly resonant title. It can simply ‘feel right’. Its very casualness or
modesty may belie a wonderful, inventive story.
SIZE MATTERS
7LWOHVFRPHLQVHYHUDOµVL]HV¶,Q¿OPDQGWKHDWUHQRZDGD\VWKHPRVW
common type of title is the single-word title. Beethoven. Juice. Fishgirl.
Ransom. Bliss. Furious. Luv. Sleuth. Frenzy. Loot. Amadeus. Arcadia.
7KH\ LQVWDQWO\ HYRNH HLWKHU DQ HQLJPDWLF RU ODUJHUWKDQOLIH ¿JXUH RU
some desired state or condition. (“Care to visit Arcadia?” “Yes, please.
Two return tickets.”) There’s also a modern, don’t-waste-time quality to
these one-word titles. Get to the point. Tell us what you’re selling.
The next size up is the two-word title. They may be a double-act: Troilus
and Cressida. Tristan and Isolde, or on a more modest level, Lettice and
Lovage. It may combine the incongruous: Kafka Dances. Juxtaposition,
irony and the pairing of odd couples (whether real people or intangible
qualities) is common for these titles. Paradise Lost. The Governor’s Family
(‘The’ doesn’t really count). My Vicious Angel'H¿QLWHO\DWKUHHZRUG
shoe-size here. But the rhythm and imagistic power of the second and
third word illustrate the attractiveness of the well-chosen two-worder.)
With the medium-length title, musicality, the striking image and the
promise of a form are very common. There is nearly always a rhythm
with a very clear pulse. You could almost notate their rhythms. Love In A
Cold Climate. A View from the Bridge. The Private Visions of Gottfried
Kellner. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole,
Aged 13 ¾. The True History of the Kelly Gang. When I Was a Girl I
Used to Scream and Shout. There is a past, or another country, a ritual,
DQXOWLPDWHWUXWKRUDGH¿QLWLYHIRUPWKDWLVSURPLVHG7KHNH\ZRUGDV
always, is ‘promise’. Good titles promise something. It’s then up to the
play to deliver. But by that time, the audience is already inside the theatre.
:LWKWKH¿QDOVL]HWKH,PPHQVHO\/RQJ7LWOHZHVWDUWJHWWLQJDELW
silly—or even spectacular, depending on your point of view. The Persecu-
tion and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat, as Performed by the Inmates
of the Asylum of Charenton, under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade ...
If there’s any more to this title, I’ve forgotten it. Most know it as Marat/
Sade. The long title is a poster-maker’s nightmare. Imagine putting all
those letters up outside a theatre in Broadway. But the very bizarre length
is its own mad publicity. And publicity doesn’t hurt a play. Who is Harry
Kellerman and Why is He Saying These Terrible Things About Me? also
attracts, not least because of the length of its paranoid comic focus.
$¿QDOWKRXJKW&RQVLGHUURDGWHVWLQJ\RXUWLWOHV$VN\RXUIULHQGV
“Would you go and see a play called ... (your title here)?” If they appear
shocked, hesitate, or just look embarrassed, you have your answer. Keep
working on the title. Redrafting a title isn’t half as hard as redrafting the
SOD\LWVHOI7KHQDJDLQLI\RXQHYHUKDYHWKHOXFNWR¿QGWKHSHUIHFWWLWOH
for your piece, then the search isn’t hard; it’s impossible. In the absence
of luck, try the above suggestions. But write the play anyway. The title
may well come late in the writing, when you’ve all but given up hope.
Life, or a long walk, might supply you with one.
267
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SOD\ZULJKWVLW¶VPXFKPRUH,¶GGH¿QHLWDVIROORZVA play is the visible
and invisible form that results from the releasing of energy into physical
space where that energy is derived from a narrative and social context.
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An example might illustrate the use of energy in its theatrical context:
ABBOTT: So let’s see, we have on the bags—we have Who’s on

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third.
COSTELLO: Are you the manager?
ABBOTT: Yes.
COSTELLO: You’re going to be the coach?
ABBOTT: Yes.
COSTELLO: And you don’t know the fellow’s name?
ABBOTT: I should.
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ABBOTT: Yes.
COSTELLO: I mean the fellow’s name.
ABBOTT: Who.
COSTELLO: The guy on First.
ABBOTT: Who!
COSTELLO: The guy on First base.
ABBOTT: WHO!!
COSTELLO: THE GUY PLAYING First BASE!!
ABBOTT: WHO’S ON First !!!
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ABBOTT: That’s the fellow’s name!
COSTELLO: That’s whose name?
ABBOTT: Yes!
COSTELLO: So go ahead and tell me.
ABBOTT: That’s it!
COSTELLO: That’s who?
ABBOTT: YES!
A graph of the scene would look like this: (Numbers indicate the line
spoken from Abbott & Costello’s dialogue.)
This famous sketch usefully teaches us about theatrical energy, even

on the ‘micro-level’ of a single scene. The principles are the same when
applied to whole acts and whole plays. The ‘energy’ I speak of can be
verbal, physical, or emotional/psychological energy.
The energy comes from a character wanting something, and/or being
denied the attainment of that want. In other words, the energy can also
come from one character resisting the ‘want’ of the other. How much
energy depends on you and the type of story you’re writing. But its raw
material is people, who live in some form of society. The story of that so-
ciety and its individuals combine to create the energy that drives your play.
This chapter deals with how to release energy in the service of dra-
matic structure. As you’ll see from this and other chapters, I’m a fan of
diagrams, especially if those diagrams clarify an essential truth. The job
of this book is to show you, as clearly as possible, how plays are really
made. Many writing books are written by people who do not write them-
selves, and who have not had to face the structural and formal problems
of play writing. The job of this chapter is to clarify the fundamental
structural impulses that create and shape a play. Naturally, I run the risk
of over-simplifying. But if I don’t show the simplicities of structure, the
complexities will have no context, and will simply overwhelm the new
writer. We’ll start with the shaping of energy.
SHAPING ENERGY
As I said, a play is an excuse to release energy. By ‘energy’ I mean

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situation (in which an audience is made to believe, however temporar-
ily) is ‘set loose’ in an enclosed theatre space. In a good play, the energy
builds. It gets more tense, more exciting, more paradoxical, problematic,
dangerous, wilder, more comical.
The growth of energy looks much more like the second, jagged line
EHORZWKDQWKLV¿UVWWRRVPRRWKOLQH
The great plays start at a very high point. (Think of the tension of the
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is allowed to enter. But once the new dramatic information has entered
(in the form of new characters or sub-plots), it once again resumes this
inexorable building of energy.
In general, the energy of a two-act play looks much more like the
VHFRQGLOOXVWUDWLRQEHORZWKDQWKH¿UVWXQUHDOLVWLFDOO\VPRRWKOLQH
ACT I ACT II
ACT I ACT II
Notice how, after an initial build, the play may drop, then start building
DJDLQDVFRQÀLFWDQGSORWGHYHORSPHQWRFFXU)XUWKHUGHOLEHUDWHGLSVRIWHQ
occur. There is usually a decline in energy after the climax of the act. It’s
one of the things that tells an audience “the play’s action has culminated.
*RDQGJHWDFR൵HH´,I\RX¶YHHYHUVDWLQDWKHDWUHZKHUHWKHDXGLHQFH
didn’t realise that Act I had ended, then you’ll know the reason. The confu-
sion in the audience was caused because the writer hadn’t produced that
decline of energy, or else the director had ignored it.
Occasionally, the energy may rise suddenly at the end. An odd array
RISOD\V¿OPVDQGRSHUDVGRWKLV3XFFLQLDQGRWKHUQLQHWHHQWKFHQWXU\
operas often have a sudden melodramatic rush of energy. So does Pinter.
So do thrillers, and even vampire movies, of all things, when in the time-
honoured fashion the vampire comes to life again at the end of the movie.
RISING AND FALLING ACTION
This next section is a bold, even foolhardy, attempt to explain the

‘complete’ dramatic experience. It might make sense to you, or it might
not. I cannot write a book on playwriting without attempting an overview
like this, and so I’d rather fail, than not try at all.
So here goes ...
/HW¶VVWDUWZLWKDZRUNLQJGH¿QLWLRQRIGUDPDWLFIRUP“Dramatic
form is the use of plot to achieve a volatile and theatrically exciting growth
toward meaning(s).”
9DULRXVLQFLGHQWVGLVWXUEDQFHVDQGFRQÀLFWVSURGXFHWHQVLRQDQGD
rise in energy. A noble has decided he wishes to take over the kingdom by
force. A family or a conservative, backward-looking society is destabilised
by the arrival of a visitor from overseas. The rise in energy that comes from
disturbances like these produces not just a narrative crisis (in the story that
is happening on stage) but a deep psychic disturbance in the audience that
is watching. They begin to become emotionally involved. They vicariously
share in the torment of the play’s characters as they try to respond to the
play’s increasing instability and emotional upsets. The audience’s very
QHUYRXVV\VWHPEHJLQVWRVKRZWKHH൵HFWVRIWKLVLQYROYHPHQWZLWKWKH
story and its characters. The play’s increasing sense of chaos or crisis or
impending doom—even the increasingly noisy acoustic as the narrative
bedlam grows—all these things produce a pressure on both characters
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ZD\RUDQRWKHUWKHVWRU\¿QGVDUHOHDVH³(QRXJK´FULHVWKHDXGLHQFH
“Enough of this torment that I can’t stop watching!”
It is at that moment that a theatrical miracle occurs and something
quite transcendent happens. What results is meaning. Or, rather, multiple
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and gives way to something higher than anger. Peace may break out. Ac-
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enter the picture. Understanding certainly will. Real love may emerge.
The true nature of things may become apparent, and all involved may
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releases, there is usually a decline in energy when it does. But by the
time this loss of energy occurs, it doesn’t matter. In fact, the audience is
grateful. It can settle into a contemplation of the deeper truths that your
story is really concerned with.
Here’s a simple example to explain the description I’ve just given.
In A Doll’s House, by Henrik Ibsen, Nora has a secret that will bring dis-
grace upon her husband, given the conservative Norwegian atmosphere in
which they live and work. The play’s rising energy and tension come from
a very clearly motivated impulse: to keep the secret from the husband.
After desperate actions and counter-actions, the attempt to suppress the
truth fails. The theatrical energy declines simply because Nora stops the
useless struggle to stop the truth emerging. When she does, and gives both
herself and the audience a break from the nervous tension, something quite
PDUYHOORXVKDSSHQV0HDQLQJEHJLQVWRÀRZHUDOPRVWRUJDQLFDOO\IURP
WKHFKDRVRIWKHEHVWODLGSODQVRIKXVEDQGDQGZLIHDQGWKHODVW¿IWHHQ
PLQXWHVRIWKHSOD\WDNHSODFHRQDKLJKSODWHDXRIJUHDWVLJQL¿FDQFH
What emerges and grows may best be described as ‘the true meaning
of the lie by which both Nora and her husband have lived’. The elaboration
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VHHDFKDUDFWHUXQGHUVWDQGDSURIRXQGWUXWKIRUWKH¿UVWWLPH7KXVLQVWHDG
of a manically driven linear search in order to stop the truth coming out, a
multi-linear growth begins from the moment that truth emerges. That is,
understanding is deepened, and the contradictory and paradoxical nature
of their relationship is made clear. Meaning is rich and multi-faceted, and
has its own tension, because now, another crisis has to be faced.
It may be summarised thus (and applies to many plays): “Now that
we know the full truth, what are we to do?” Nora’s startling action once
WKHWUXWKÀRRGVRXWVKRFNHGLWVDXGLHQFHVDFHQWXU\DJRDQGVWLOOPDNHV
exciting theatre. In other words, the plot made sure that there was a growth
toward meaning ... and then beyond.
BASIC STRUCTURAL MODELS
I see dramatic structure in two basic ways.

BASIC MODEL 1: ACTIVE
In what I call the ‘active’ model of structure, a character has a goal

or objective. Most of the play is spent pursuing that objective. It could
be represented thus:
BASIC MODEL 2: PASSIVE
The ‘passive’ model of structure is where things happen to an indi-

vidual or a group. A group exists in a certain state (or status quo), whether
tense, dangerous, mild, pleasant, banal or stultifying. That’s just the way
it is. Then, something (or someone) comes along (which in Chapter 8 I
called the ‘disturbance’), and pretty soon that world starts to get mightily
shaken up. Repercussions abound. It’s as if someone has thrown a very
big rock into a pond. For the rest of the play, the shock waves resonate.
A play is usually the combination of these two basic designs, some of

which I indicate below. I don’t favour one structural model over another.
It all depends on a host of factors. You should not see these models and
designs like pre-moulded patterns into which you simply ‘pour’ your
story. It’s much more complex than that. The true form of your play has
to be discovered. But the more narrative patterns you know the quicker
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,PDGHHDUOLHULQWKLVERRN\RXKDYHWZRIRUPDOLPSHUDWLYHV²¿QGLQJD
QDUUDWLYHIRUPKRZWRWHOOWKHVWRU\DQG¿QGLQJDWKHDWULFDOIRUPKRZ
to tell the story in theatre space). These structural models may help you.
They are not theoretical. They are all derived from great plays. It’s the
best way to learn.
VARIATION 1:
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announce the dramatic goal quite openly at the start of the play.
Writers sometimes wait too long before having their characters an-
nounce their dramatic objectives. It’s a delicious thrill for an audience
to feel that they are privileged witnesses to “the only way this can end.”
I’d suggest you try one of two things: either announce the dramatic goal
quite openly, or else instantly (from page 1) create the conditions that will
make the dramatic goal inevitable.
Which brings me to the next variation.
VARIATION 2:
An alternative to just announcing the dramatic goal or objective

straight-out is to create such an unstable situation that the audience feels
that the situation is untenable, and “something is going to have to give”.
That’s what Shakespeare does with Julius Caesar. With Caesar’s ambition
causing fear and loathing, an unbearable pressure is evident from the very
start. It’s only a matter of time before the obvious solution is suggested.
(The D stands for the narrative disturbance or the catalyst which pushes
WKHDOUHDG\KDOIGLVSRVHGFKDUDFWHUWRWDNHDVSHFL¿FDFWLRQ
VARIATION 3:
With Variation 3, things start getting interesting—or at least complex.

This sort of dramatic model invests each character with a type of individual
destiny. They are the makers of their own plot. Each character is both
part of a group, and quite separate from that group. Their values, ideals,
aspirations and basic natures are diverse and incompatible. Sometimes
one character drives the plot more than others. At other times, there is
a big event that pushes all of them to the brink and beyond. The cherry
orchard must be sold. The drive to escape a small town and get to Moscow
LVPDWFKHGE\WKHGL൶FXOWLHVLQDFKLHYLQJWKDWJRDO
Sometimes, as in Simon Gray’s Quartermaine’s Terms, a central
character stands as the still point around which the other characters swirl,
like unsteady planets. At other times, most of the characters are equally
paralysed, as with Gorky’s Lower Depths, or Mamet’s $PHULFDQ%XৼDOR,
or Ayckbourn’s Absent Friends. Events act on these characters to the point
where you start to feel that a cosmic statement of human incapacity is
being sketched out. Regardless, such plays remind us of a rough truth in
playwriting: that characters should either do a lot, or have a lot of things
happen to them. Or both.
VARIATION 4: THE DETECTIVE SHAPE IN FICTION
Any play in which the search for a past truth is so important that it be-
comes a crucial part of the plot is, in essence, a detective story. The search for
‘what really happened that day’ is the simple engine that has driven many great
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7KHEHV+DPOHWQHHGVWR¿QGRXWWKHWUXWKDERXWZKDWKDSSHQHGWRKLVIDWKHU
$ULVWRWOHEXLOWWKH¿UVWJUHDWGUDPDWLFWKHRU\VXEVWDQWLDOO\IURPWKHSUDFWLVHRI
Oedipus Rex<RXGRQ¶WKDYHWREHLQORYHZLWKGHWHFWLYH¿FWLRQWRDSSUHFL-
ate that the search for truth is not just ‘a part of the plot’. It’s fundamental to
the mixed blessing we humans know as consciousness. To be conscious is
a privilege and a curse. We know we are alive, but not why—or the reasons
are, at the very least, disputed. The search to understand lies at the heart of
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$QRYHOWHQGVWRDSSURDFKWKLVVHDUFKIRUWUXWKTXLWHGL൵HUHQWO\IURP
a play. I’ll explain it this way. Imagine an iron bar, on which were written
all the events of a story, from the very beginning to its end. Thus, letter
µ$¶ZRXOGEHWKHYHU\¿UVWHYHQWWKDWFDXVHGWKHVWRU\WRKDSSHQ,QGHWHF-
tive stories, it is usually an initiating crime or ethical treachery (adultery,
kidnapping, incest, cheating, a disappearance etc). The last event in time
LVOHWWHUµ=¶WKHHYHQWWKDWFOHDUVLWXSDQGJHWVWRWKHIXOODQG¿QDOWUXWK
emerging. (For reasons of space and nervous energy, I won’t enter the
problematic area of asking if truth can ever be fully known.)
A detective story tends to enter around the middle of the story. Let’s call
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task is to establish the events surrounding the murder (where, when, who).
This involves a backward movement into the past, and with this backward
movement, a fundamental plot mechanism has been established. That is, a
detective story consists of the tension between movement into the past, and
movement into the future, with only very short and moody transit stops in
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murderer is arrested at ‘Z’, and the last piece of the puzzle at ‘A’ is exposed.
Thus, a search for what happened is a deliberate drive into the past.
But the actions taken to establish this truth are a movement into the future.
Every time the investigating detective makes an appointment with a wit-
ness, asks a question, or visits a crime scene, it is an action that takes her
into the future because it eats up time. The only ‘present’ time in this sort
of story is the brief rest between plot and information. And you can always
tell these moments, because it’s usually the end of a day, and saxophones
are playing somewhere, and the detective is drinking too much. But it’s
only a matter of time before that telephone rings again.
VARIATION 5: THE DETECTIVE SHAPE IN THEATRE
The most marked feature of the detective shape in stage plays is the
use of compression. As the diagram below shows, the forward thrust of
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‘detective plays’, the drive to suppress the truth is every bit as strong as
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Doll’s House comes because Nora tries to suppress what must inevitably
come out. Arthur Miller learned enough from this technique to produce
KLV¿UVWLPSRUWDQWSOD\All My Sons.
A WORD OF WARNING ABOUT THE DETECTIVE SHAPE
By writing a play where a search for truth is involved, you can learn
a lot about how to release information to an audience. At the very least,
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¿OPVKDYLQJEHFRPHWKHQDWXUDOKRPHIRUVXFKSORWSDWWHUQV
But as I’ve already mentioned in Chapter 15, too obvious a use of
the detective shape can produce what the writer and dramaturg, Keith
Gallasch calls the “Buried Child Syndrome”. This is where there is a
terrible, dark secret buried nearby (literally, as in Sam Shepard’s play
Buried Child). It is meant to produce a gothic revulsion in the audience at
the dreadful secret that is so shameful it cannot be told. Sadly, I’ve seen
two productions of Buried Child where the ‘terrible climax’ of the play
produced not awe but laughter. It’s as if the audience was saying, “Is that
what all the fuss was about?”
:K\WKLVLVVRGHVHUYHVDFKDSWHUWRLWVHOI6X൶FHWRVD\WKDWPRGHUQ
audiences are becoming less-attuned to ‘the structuring of guilt’ which so
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a sense of Original Sin. But the way to get under a modern audience’s
skin is to deal principally in consequences. That is, don’t get obsessed
with the drive to suppress the truth. It creates such huge pressures of
expectations about the nature of the truth, that the eventual revelation is
bound to be anti-climatic. Instead, let the secret out (even by hints) quite
early, so that the consequences of knowledge start to play havoc in the
lives of the characters. It’s all about consequences, and what characters
do to themselves, rather than what Truth is supposed to do to characters.
MORALS AND ETHICS AS PLOT-BUILDING DEVICES
Audiences bring their moral baggage to every show. You’d often

prefer they left it at the door, but mostly they don’t. When appraising a
character in a play, the audience’s initial point of reference is a surpris-
ingly simple one. “You’re nice. I like you.” “I don’t like you.” “You’re
nasty.” “You’re likeable.” Audience reaction gets more complex as the
play wears on—for example, the ‘likeability’ has to quickly translate into
a set of virtues and behavior that the audience can admire—but rarely
does an audience respond, even initially, to a play without some moral
and ethical element built into that response.
Your job as a writer is not to pretend this moral response to story and
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own purposes. Some of these purposes are shown below.
Plot is not just what a character does. It’s also what happens to a char-
acter. Character A can ‘do things’ to character B, but character B can also
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The tragic notion, after all, is that no matter how perfect a person is, there
is always one thing that will bring him or her down.
The diagram above might be called the ‘Tragedy of a Good Person’.
Imagine a story where a person set out to do good (represented by the star in
the above diagram), but a decisive event turns him in the reverse direction. This
pattern applies both to tragedy and comedy. Coriolanus’s bruising encounter
with the people embitters him, and he turns savagely, vowing revenge on
all of Rome. In Emerald City by David Williamson, Colin, the aspirational
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stage of self-recognition, where the previous evil or excess is corrected, or
at least stopped. Colin accepts that he is neither a great artist nor a comfort-
able populist, and looks elsewhere for the solution. Coriolanus desists from
sacking, and returns to face certain death at the hands of Rome’s enemies.
The diagram below shows how a character may have entirely worthy
goals, ideals or ambitions, but she simply chooses the wrong way to go about
it. A poor choice of tactics, or a misreading of people, a lack of awareness, or
a blindness to bigger issues, all may ruin the worthiest of objectives. Willy
Loman’s heart is in the right place, but he lacks astuteness, he misreads situ-
ations, he is psychologically maladroit, and he cannot achieve his current
goal because he is haunted by previous failures in his life.
Moral Worth Vs Action Taken
With the next diagram, we reach a unity of means and ends. A char-
acter sets out to be evil, and chooses the appropriate means:
8QOLNHSUHYLRXVSDWWHUQVZKHUHJRRGZDVLQWHQGHGWKHHYLOH൵HFWKHUH
is exactly what was planned for. It’s up to society to do the correcting, if
any. Once, traditional morality demanded that evil people be punished, that
the killer get a slug in the guts, and that innocent people go free. But we
have lost our moral simplicities. Friedrich Dürrenmatt asked, “Is tragedy
possible after Auschwitz?” He was challenging the simple redemptive
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derstandable reasons. Nor is it simply a matter of easy moral inversion—
which Hollywood also sometimes indulges in—whereby good is bad, and
bad is good. It’s mostly a matter of accepting numerous shades of grey.
Moral complexity or moral suspension are the two highest ethical aims
of much of the last century’s literature, and the trend is sure to continue.
0RUDODYRLGDQFHLVDFRSRXW-RH2UWRQVXEYHUWVVRWKDWWKRVHZKRÀRXW
traditional morality escape with the loot while those who are decent go
to jail, but it’s done for a reason. His plays are about the theatricalisa-
tion of individual freedom. Oscar Wilde’s plays suspend our impulse to
moralise because Wilde feels that there are things far more important in
life than duty, reason, decency and subservience to convention. No judg-
ment is intended here: It’s your own decision as to what morality your
world consists of.
I’m simply indicating the dynamic/dramatic shapes possible. It’s up
to you to decide on the morality—and the consequent structure— of the
story you are dramatizing.
HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHAPE TO USE FOR YOR PLAY?
As the last paragraph implies, there is a potential dilemma awaiting

you in attempting to use these narrative shapes. Even at this point, you
may be thinking, “These narrative shapes and patterns are very interest-
ing, but how do I know which shape to use for my play?” Generalisation
LVGL൶FXOWEXW,¶GVXJJHVWWKLVCreate (or use) the shape that brings the
Protagonist (central character) or central relationship into danger (moral,
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By ‘exponential’ I mean where the rate of increase itself increases.
Let’s say that in your story, the central character runs into what she has
most feared and danger is now surrounding her at the end of Act I. Act II
might open with the danger still high (to remind the audience of the threat
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But this period of release (from the danger) was only temporary. When her
dilemma returns, the threat is twice as dangerous as before. Or not. The
truth is, it takes a while—and maybe a few drafts—before you recognise
which pattern best suits your story. That’s why it’s important to know what
options are, theoretically, possible. As I’ve already said, the true form of
your play has to be discovered. Surveying the possibilities will help your
creative subconscious to eventually choose the right shape.
CREATING PLOT FROM LUCK AND MISFORTUNE
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of timing. When you and your audience have agreed to identify a particular
character as ‘bad’ (when seen in the context of whatever ethical world you
create in your story), you are making a pact with that audience whereby
you show them ‘one way that people live’. A myth (as distinct from a
legend) has this tendency. As I said earlier, a myth is a non-judgmental
pattern of human behavior, with a story that dramatizes that behavior. No
purple-veined moralising is entered into. The Greek myths simply say,
“This is one way that people behave.” So do the gods. For every aspect
of human behavior there is a god.
Sometimes the gods smile on you. Examine the diagram below.
Imagine a story where two characters (C1, C2) each started from about the
same position. Imagine that C1 got everything (money, power, fame) that
she desired. Imagine that C2 got precisely the reverse: poverty, disgrace
and humiliation. You’ve just created a pattern. It won’t be a simple pattern
EHFDXVH¿UVWLWZRQ¶WORRNVLPSOH,WZLOOEHJRYHUQHGDQGPRGL¿HGE\
other patterns and a host of other factors that will turn your play into the
complex thing that it aspires to be. Second, even if it did turn out a bit
simple, the audience probably won’t mind. They actually go to the theatre
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of human experience.
Michael Frayn, in his play, Benefactors, creates just such a pattern.

The men in that play (C1 below) decline in various ways, as the women
(C2) go from strength to strength.
The next diagram shows a similar ‘crossover’ pattern, but it has a new
balance at the end. It’s more complex, and probably more interesting, as
‘good fortune’ is always relative, and a type of queasy ambiguity is both
common and palatable to our western consciousness, which never quite
accepts its good luck and happiness.
Crossover + New Balance
It should be clear by now that these dramatic patterns cannot create a

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This is especially true of the diagram below. This ‘decline and fall’ shape can
be the basis of a great play, such as Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey
Into Night, where the family sinks irrevocably into a state of permanent loss
and self-injury. But what makes this play quite unpredictable and exciting
is the furious violence of the characters’ attempts to stop the ineluctable
decline. Their humanity is revealed in their sometimes splendid, sometimes
tawdry attempts to escape the emotional quicksand they are trapped in.
The next diagram returns us to an earlier argument in this chapter, re-

garding how to dramatize evil. As dramatists, we have to be honest and say
that very often vice triumphs, both in life and literature. Brecht’s Arturo Ui,
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Serious Money keep on making serious money. Once, as in Ben Jonson’s Vol-
pone, the rogues went to jail. Now it’s less simple, because life is less simple.
Morality ‘Appears’ to Triumph

In your story, evil may indeed triumph. In doing so, you may deny
your audience the easy option of believing that it’s a fair and ordered
world. Your audience may go home disturbed and angry that your story
allowed ‘that son of a bitch’ to get away with it. They may in fact get so
angry that they do something about the son of a bitch your play was based
RQ,Q\RXUSOD\WKHHYLOKHURPD\ZDONEXWWKHUHDO¿JXUHMXVWPLJKWGR
time. To allow a dramatic character to go unpunished may indeed become
the deepest form of outrage against evil that we as writers could make.
You decide.
285
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC STRUCTURE (II): THE TECHNIQUES OF SCENE
WRITING & PHASE WRITING
Having looked in the previous chapter at those phenomena that build

the play as a whole, it’s time to go very small, and examine the techniques
that you will need to write a scene. You can’t write a play until you can
write a scene. You can’t write a scene until you can write a phase. These
are what we’ll examine in this chapter.
I’m not going to examine the techniques of building an ‘Act’ until
later in the book. There is a lot of misconception about the whole notion
of a dramatic ‘Act’. When a writer puts Act One or Act Two on his or her
script, what does it mean? I’ve read plays where ‘Act One’ is ten pages,
DQG$FWLVHLJKW\,¶YHDOVRUHDGSOD\VZKLFKKDYH¿YHRUVL[$FWVEXW
the whole play is only twenty-seven pages long! The best thing I can say
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LQJ\RXUZRUNDVDVLQJOHXQL¿HGZKROHQHHGLQJQRLQWHUYDODQGHQGLQJ
after about an hour or slightly more. There are many reasons why I would
recommend this general approach.
— The longer your play, the harder it is to make it succeed artistically

and theatrically. Long plays require a technical skill that eludes most
writers who’ve been writing for less than ten years or so.
— Writing an ‘Act Two’ is not twice as hard as writing an Act One. It is
ten times as hard. There are complex and subtle dramatic problems
involved in the writing of a second act. These are beyond most
developing writers. Even many experienced dramatists fail in their
second acts. Even David Mamet, after years of excellent but shorter
work, rejoiced that with Glengarry Glen Ross KHKDG¿QDOO\ZULWWHQ
a ‘Second Act’.
— The whole concept of an ‘Act Two’ may be unnecessary and even a bit
dated. Audiences no longer require a two-act play with interval. They
no longer weigh the value of their theatre by the pound. There’s an
LPSDWLHQFHLQVRFLHW\WRGD\DQGVRPHRILWLVMXVWL¿HG$WOHDVWKDOIRI
WKHµWZRDFW¶SOD\V,VHHDUHUHDOO\RQHDFWSOD\VZLWKDFR൵HHEUHDN
down the middle. A real two-act play should be of such culminating
narrative power that an exhausted, exhilarated audience needs time
to recover before taking on the imaginative challenge of the second
half. In that case, an interval becomes both a structural necessity and
a moment for physical and mental recovery.
— Your work is more likely to be produced if it is brief and powerful,

than if it is long and ordinary. Both theatre companies and audiences
like short work. Compared to twenty years ago, there is much more
opportunity for short work to be performed.
Thus, if you have a choice between writing a long piece or a short

SLHFH¿UVWJRIRUWKHVKRUWSLHFH7KHVNLOOV\RX¶OOOHDUQLQWKDWVKRUWHU
play will help you write the longer one.
THE CLASSICAL SHAPE OF THE SCENE
In one sense, no scene is the same as any other. The unique combi-
nation of characters, relationships, place in the story, and position in the
rising scale of the play’s dynamics all mean that, to some extent, a good
scene is a unique and highly idiomatic event.
But this is not the whole truth. The fact is, there is a generalised pat-
tern to theatre scenes. The diagram below indicates this general pattern.
Just as a play’s plot is the narrative ‘excuse’ for the release of energy,
so is a scene. Whatever story is in your scene becomes the opportunity
to release energy. How high the energy goes depends on the emotions
involved in that scene.
A scene can start quite soft, ‘low’ (in energy), and quite muted in tone.
Alternatively, it can start very strong, with powerful emotions and high
energy. (If the latter, it tends to drop before rising again.) A complication
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pushes the energy to a high point (sometimes called a climax), at which
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depending on where you end your scene.
This may appear quite complex, but in fact it’s very simple, at least
in broad outline. Imagine this—a man enters, and quite suddenly tells
his lover that he is going to leave his wife for her. The man’s enthusiasm
for his new life pushes up the energy of the scene. But the lover, taken
aback, replies that she doesn’t want this, at least not yet. This sudden
UHYHUVDOIRUWKHKXVEDQGFDXVHVWKHHQHUJ\WRGURSEULHÀ\%XWWKHQKH
gets angry. They both get angry, and the discussion shifts to their own
relationship, and bitter, vicious things are said. By the end of the scene,
something startling has happened: the man and his wife have not broken
up; he and his lover have.
THE SCENE ISSUE
The concept of the ‘scene issue’ will be useful. A scene issue is that
idea, issue, point of view, opinion or state of mind that will be focussed on
and argued over during the course of the scene. Mamet’s view on scenes
is useful here. In an interview, he suggested the following: “Unless you
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That’s not the whole story by any means—and personally, I disagree with
its blanket prescriptiveness, but it’s valid for many types of scenes you’ll
want to write. Man wants to leave wife for his lover; lover doesn’t want
KLPWR7KDW¶VWKHLVVXHWKH\DUJXHDQG¿JKWRYHU
THE INITIAL ISSUE Vs THE REAL ISSUE (or Scene Premise)
You can create a good scene by leading with a ‘fake’ issue. In the scene
above, the audience would think that ‘leaving the wife’ is the real issue of
the scene. But it soon changes. The real issue of this scene is whether the
man and his lover will stay together. When that issue is decided, the scene
is over. Everything else is probably either atmospherics—or over-writing.
BEGINNING AND ENDING YOUR SCENE
There is usually a brief narrative set-up to a well-written scene. Poor

writers often take a page or more to get their scenes going. You can set the
scene very quickly. It’s often good technique to do it in the very ¿UVWOLQH
itself. A scene from Stephen Sewell’s play, The Blind Giant is Dancing
begins with a woman saying, “I’m here to see the woman who’s sleeping
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Far better that than a page of unfocussed chat.
The question of how to end your scene is more complex. Put simply,
I’ll suggest that there are three possible points at which you can end a
scene. They are marked on the diagram on the page 286 (*1a/b, *2 and *3).
1 shows you where you can leave the scene as early as possible. Here,
the energy is at its peak, and the acoustic/narrative intensity of the scene is
still at its peak when the lights change. In this option, you’ve left the scene
at the climax of the narrative for this scene, when the energy is strongest.
2 is that moment after the spoken dialogue of the scene has ended,
and the energy is starting to dissipate. There is a brief moment before
the lights fade or the new scene starts, and in this moment you may have
your character stand there so that the audience can guess at her emotional
VWDWHDIWHUWKHFRQÀLFWRIWKDWVFHQH:HLQWKHDXGLHQFHFDQRQO\JXHVV
what she’ll do next.
3 is that moment when the character actually starts to carry out ‘what
she’ll do next’. For example, you may have her pick up the phone and say,
“Give me the manager of operations.” Given the context of the scene, the
audience will now know what the next stage of the plot will be. With this
new plot, the interest and the energy are on the rise again; so get out of
the scene as quickly as you can.
EIGHT FEATURES OF THE SCENE CLIMAX
Depending on your story, a scene climax can be many things.
—It might be the clearest statement of one or more of the parties’ opposi-
tion to each other. (e.g. “Did you hear me? I want you out! NOW!”
He exits.)
—It might be the acoustically noisiest part of the scene.
—It might be the most emotionally devastating moment of the whole scene,
where a character’s heart and soul are broken right in front of us.
—It might be when the scene issue is clearly decided, one way or the
other. (He’s won; she’s lost; scene over.)
—It might be when what is at stake in the scene (honor, self-worth, a job,
DORYHUDNLQJGRPLVGH¿QLWLYHO\ORVWRUZRQ
—It might be when a dramatic action or intention (eg to win her heart)
has been achieved.
—It might be when the truth is fully out in the open.
—It might occur between two characters when the action of the scene takes
their relationship to a new stage; for example, they’re now deeply
committed to each other; or even in love.
TWO TYPES OF SCENE CLIMAXES
One type of scene climax is where the main issue or action of the scene
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WRWHOOKHUIULHQGWKDWVKH¶VJRLQJWRKDYHWR¿UHKLP6KH¿QDOO\UDLVHVWKH
courage, and sacks him. The scene is over. For want of any better term, in
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EUHDNWKHQHZVRIKLVVDFNLQJLVFRQ¿UPHGLQWKHFOLPD[+HLVVDFNHG
The second type of scene climax is a Climax of Reversal. Here, the
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goes wrong, new information is learned etc, and by the end of the scene,
the person who is out of a job is not him, but her. The action of the scene
(to break the news of his sacking) is reversed in the eventual climax (She
learns that she is to be sacked instead.)
The longer the scene, the less likely that you can structure it as a simple
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ZLWKVHYHUDOPLQLFOLPD[HV6KHWHOOVKLPWKHEDGQHZVKH¿JKWVEDFN
VKHFRQ¿UPVWKHQHZVDQGUHIXVHVWRZDYHUKH¿JKWVEDFNDJDLQWKLVWLPH
PRUHH൵HFWLYHO\DQGVKHEHJLQVWRZDYHUQRZLW¶VKHUZKRLV¿JKWLQJIRU
her survival, until at a crucial moment she realises he’s been acting under a
false premise. She produces her ace card (maybe some piece of information),
DQGKHLVGH¿QLWLYHO\EHDWHQ+HOHDYHVDQGVKHEUHDWKHVDVLJKRIUHOLHI
Experiment with such unstable structures, as it’s very exciting for an
audience. They like not knowing the outcome of a scene until near its end.
SUBTEXT AND THE SCENE
I dealt with this subject in Chapter 14, but it’s worth revisiting, if
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the structure of a scene. Another of David Mamet’s wise dictums is useful
here: “Characters should never say what they want unless that’s the best
way to get it”. Subtext is like an iceberg: nine-tenths below the surface, and
only one-tenth on top. It’s not going too far to say that a scene really gets its
formal shape and power from the gradual rise, iceberg-like, of subtext to the
surface. It’s a very exciting thing to sit in the audience and feel subtext get
closer to breaking the surface. You’re watching the character for that moment
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DQGLW¶VDOORXWWKHUHRQWKHVXUIDFH\RX¶YHJRW\RXUFOLPD[³6KH¿QDOO\
knows the truth!”) and the scene is over (not to mention the relationship.)
THE ART OF SCENE CONTRAST
A rarely-discussed aspect of play writing is the problem of scene

contrast. If every scene of your play has the same general length or num-
ber of characters or emotional dynamic, you quickly create a predictable
quality to your play. Predictability ends up putting an audience to sleep.
There are lots of ways that you can contrast your scenes:
— A noisy scene can be followed by a very quiet one.

— A long scene could come straight after two very brief scenes.
— The energy arcs of each might vary in direction, length and intensity.
²7KHVFHQHVPD\VRXQGGL൵HUHQWO\6FHQHIXOORIPXVLFDQGUHFRUGHG
VRXQGH൵HFWVVFHQHLVQHDUVLOHQWZLWKMXVWWZRFKDUDFWHUVZKLVSHU-
ing to each other.
— A scene for one character is followed by an ensemble scene, for all
six of your characters.
— If your play is full of exits and entrances, you might like to vary this
convention by having a scene where characters are ‘discovered’ in
the middle of an action. It will take the audience by surprise, which
is no bad thing.
— A scene in one style might be followed by a scene in another style.
For example, scene 3 of your play may be a dream sequence, while
scene 4 is highly realistic. Or a scene where there is a lot of spoken
text may be followed by a scene where there is absolutely none. The
characters may simply dance.
— A night scene could be followed by a day scene. After a very darkly-
lit scene, a blast of bright lights can jolt an audience back into close
attention. The movies can teach us here; or Shakespeare can.
— The texture of the scene may vary. For example, Scene 6 is a page-
long speech by a single character. Scene 7 might use the A-B-A-B
exchange typical of two-actor scenes.
2QWKLVODVWSRLQWUHPHPEHUWRNHHSWKHVWDJHµWUD൶F¶RI\RXUVFHQHV
moving around. Mix character combinations around. For example, char-
acter A and B, then A and C, then B, C and D, then D and A. If several
character combinations never meet in your play, it’s often a sign that
there’s something under-developed in your plotting.
PHASE WRITING: The little-known structural secret of scene writing
It’s well-known that you can’t write a play until you can write a scene.
But what’s much less well-known is that the ‘hidden structure’ of scenes
is not made up of beats, or even scene drives, or character intentions. A
great scene gets created by the momentum of phases.
To understand this, let’s return to Glengarry Glen Ross, David
Mamet’s Pulitzer Prize-winning play. It’s got some of the clearest use of
phase writing you’ll encounter.
While all the scenes in that wonderful play are dominated by phase
writing, Scene 2 is particularly phase-dominated.
Scene 2 starts in a Chinese restaurant, where the bitter realtor Moss is
trash-talking with his more compliant, but fatalistic work-colleague, Aaronow.
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Phase 1:
MOSS: Pollacks and deadbeats ...

AARONOW: ...Pollacks...
MOSS: Deadbeats all.
After more illustration of the lamentable humans they must deal with
in real estate, Moss gets to the point:
Climax of Phase 1A:
MOSS: It’s not right.

AARONOW: It’s not.
MOSS: No.
Pause.
Having established the moral justice for their complaints, Moss moves
to broaden his and Aaronow’s outlook:
(Incidentally, note how, strictly-speaking, it’s not a new phase that
develops here now, but a continuation of the old. That’s why I’ve called it
Phase IB. Why is it not a new phase? Simple: because technically a new
phase changes the direction of the scene, usually by revealing information
that changes the situation. I’ll have more to say on the technical nature of
the phases below. For now, let’s return to this wonderful scene.)
Phase 1B:
Moss continues bad-mouthing the useless, lonely, time-wasting clients

who want to talk but never buy, as well as the exploitative bosses who make
Moss’s and Aaronow’s life a hell-on-earth. While doing this, Moss also
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0266 /RRNDW-HUU\*UDৼ+H¶VFOHDQKH¶VJRLQJLQWREXVLQHVV
for himself, he’s got his, that list of his with the nurses...
see? You see? That’s thinking. Why take ten per cent? A
ten per cent comm... why are we giving the rest away?
What are we giving ninety per... for nothing.
Climax of Phase 1B:
Eventually, Moss gets to his real point, which will change the situ-
ation completely:
MOSS: Someone should stand up and strike back.

AARONOW: What do you mean?
MOSS: Somebody...
AARONOW: Yes?
MOSS: Should do something to them.
AARONOW: What?
MOSS: Something. To pay them back.
Pause.
Someone, someone should hurt them. Murray and Mitch.
AARONOW: Somebody should hurt them.
MOSS: Yes.
Pause.
AARONOW: How?
MOSS: How? Do something to hurt them. Where they live.
AARONOW: What?
Pause.
0266 6RPHERG\VKRXOGUREWKHR৽FH
Note here the crucial technical requirement of a phase climax. That

is, a phase climax usually involves new information which suddenly
(and often explosively) turns the scene around and radically changes the
atmosphere. This happens here, for now the mood gets more sombre...
Phase 2:
... and the darker natures of each man ruminate on the fantasy of
revenge and personal enrichment.
AARONOW: What would we get for them?

MOSS: What would we get for them? I don’t know. Buck a
throw... buck-a-half a throw... I don’t know...
In this second phase, the concept of stealing the leads (commercially

valuable information on clients and their addresses) is explored—partly
on a ‘what if?’ basis, and partly serious. The possibilities of the idea are
H[SORUHGE\ERWKPHQZKLFKSHDNVDWWKHSRLQWZKHQ0RVVFRQ¿UPVWKDW
the idea has moved from a possibility—to a Plan.
Climax of Phase 2:
For Moss has already found a buyer of the stolen leads.
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MOSS: Is that what I said?
AARONOW: What did he say?
MOSS: What did he say? He’d buy them.
Phase 3:
Serious horse-trading now begins, with Moss dangling numerous

carrots before a wide-eyed Aaronow, before he drops another bomb-shell:
Climax of Phase 3:
MOSS: You have to go in. (Pause.) You have to get the leads.
Moss has adroitly put to Aaronow that he—Aaronow—should be the

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Phase 4:
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brooding and darkly comic. Having dangled the carrot before a tempted
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MOSS: ...If you don’t do this, then I have to come in here...

AARONOW: ...you don’t have to come in...
MOSS: ...and rob the place...
AARONOW: I thought we were only talking....
MOSS: ...they take me, then. They’re going to ask me who were
my accomplices.
AARONOW: Me?
MOSS: Absolutely.
AARONOW: That’s ridiculous.
MOSS: Well, to the law, you’re an accessory. Before the fact.
AARONOW: I didn’t ask to be.
MOSS: Then tough luck, George, because you are.
Climax of Phase 4:
7KHIRXUWKSKDVHFOLPD[QDLOVWKHKDPPHULQWKHFR൶QRISRRU*HRUJH
Aaronow, and ends the scene brilliantly:
MOSS: ....You tell me, you’re out, you take the consequences.
AARONOW: I do?
MOSS: Yes.
AARONOW: And why is that?
MOSS: Because you listened.
A SUMMARY OF TECHNIQUES USEFUL FOR PHASE WRITING
²'L൵HUHQWFKDUDFWHUVWHQGWRGULYHHDFKSKDVH)RUH[DPSOH&KDUDFWHU
A might dominate Phase 1; while B dominates the second phase.
— Each phase tends to have a GLৼHUHQWtexture. For example, Phase 1
might be dominated by Character A telling a long, rambling and
apparently meaningless anecdote. But then the situation changes,
and Phase 2 might be dominated by Character B reacting to what
she realises is going on. (It’s true that the above example from
Glengarry Glen Ross has a similar ‘sliced’ texture throughout,
but such relentless back-and-forth horizontal texture is only really
H൵HFWLYHZKHQWKHGUDPDWLFVWDNHVDUHKLJKDQGWKHUHVXOWLQJZULW-
ing is irruptive and brilliant. We playwrights tend to overuse this
texture, as if it’s the only one we have! See Chapter 13 for more
information on texture.)
—New and surprising information (or ‘the reveal’) is the most commonly-
used way of bringing in a new phase. Have one of the characters
‘drop a bombshell’ (in informational terms) on the other character.
The resulting phase will show the reverberation of that bombshell
on the other character(s).
—The more phases you have, the longer the scene can be. To put it another
way, if you can legitimately create another phase, you’ll have bought
yourself more time in the scene; and, as already stated, revealing (ex-
plosive/shocking) new information buys you a new phase, whereby
the reaction to that new information can be dramatized.
—The arrival of a new character—or his/her exit might create a new phase.
—Most scenes have between two and three phases. A short scene may
only have one.
—Finally, beware of making your phases as long as Mr. Mamet
does in this scene—or else, write as brilliantly as he does here.
Generally, a phase length of approximately one page to one-
and-a-half pages is about right as an ‘average’ length. (But see
the next point also!)
—The lengths of the phases should not be too similar. As the section on
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refreshed by contrasts, even in the length of the scene’s phases.
SIXTEEN WAYS TO IMPROVE YOUR SCENE WRITING

Here are some general principles I’ve learned over the years. I’ve
sometimes had to write very badly to learn them, so with luck, you can
absorb the principle without having to ruin a scene.
1. Keep your scenes as short as possible. It takes a highly skilled writer

to make a long scene work on the many levels it should.
2. If you must have a long scene, then you need to learn the art of the
“build”. This is where energy rises in an inexorable but unpredictable way,
despite any necessary and temporary relaxations of tension.
3. Either make your scene energy rise fast, or have it change direction
(via plot complications, reversals etc).
4. If possible, force as many scenes into your plot as possible. It takes

JUHDWSUHVVXUHR൵\RXWKHSOD\ZULJKWEHFDXVH\RXFDQUHO\RQWKHGHYHO-
oping momentum of plot to build your play. But see the next suggestion
on ways to avoid the danger of the ‘short TV scene’.
5. The shorter the scene, the more quickly you need to build its energy.
,I\RXUµDUF¶RUHQHUJ\FXUYHLVWRRVKDOORZRUµÀDW¶FKDQFHVDUHLWZLOO
IHHOPRUHOLNHD79RU¿OPVFHQHWKDQDWKHDWUHVFHQH:K\"%HFDXVHWR
WHOOVWRULHVH൵HFWLYHO\LQVSDFHWKHWUDMHFWRU\RIHQHUJ\QHHGVWRFXUYH
KLJKHUDQGGRVRIDVWHUWKDQ¿OPRU79)RUPRUHRQWKLVDVSHFWUHUHDG
the chapter on writing for theatre space.
6. &RQVLGHUKDYLQJ\RXU¿UVWOLQHFUHDWHWKHµVFHQHLVVXH¶ZKHWKHUUHDO
or fake. If it’s the major issue of the scene that you start with, then it’s
probably going to be a short scene.
7. Consider what has gone on immediately prior to the scene you’re

writing. Make sure you’ve got real scene contrast in some way.
8. Put at least two changes of direction (eg, status/power of a character,

fortune, information learned, emotional temperature etc) in the scene
unless you’re writing a very short scene. The longer the scene, the more
changes you need.
9. Related to the previous point, consider—even before you write your

scene!—working out what the phases of your scene are likely to be. You
FDQDOZD\VFKDQJHWKHPLQWKHDFWXDOZULWLQJEXW,XVXDOO\¿QGWKDWLI
I know what my phase climax is, then the actual writing seems to have
more momentum and force.
10. If there is a central relationship in your play, then regard each scene
WKH\ DUH LQ DV D VLJQL¿FDQW GHYHORSPHQW LQ WKHLU UHODWLRQVKLS7U\ WKLV
principle: New scene means their relationship is at a new stage. In drama,
it’s quite rare for a relationship to need more than one scene to show its
current emotional state.
11. Try and get your scene to advance any or all of the following: plot,
character growth, relationship growth, what the audience learns or the
spiritual atmosphere of the world the characters inhabit.
12. 'RQ¶WIRUJHWWKHQRWLRQRIWKHµHPRWLRQDODIWHUH൵HFW¶/HW¶VLPDJLQH
that two business partners in your play have a huge argument. A real
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of this row, even if the next scene is a few days later. In dramatic terms it
is ‘immediately after’, or close enough to. The audience will expect you
to take account of that row, given the last thing they saw was these two
characters being furious at each other. To show them being good pals, as
if nothing happened won’t make sense to an audience. Hint at or show
the chilling of their relationship.
13. Remember the William Goldman principle, that writers should “enter the
scene as late as possible, and leave as early as possible”. What this means is
that you should consider starting your scene as close as possible to its climax.
14. Avoid constantly starting your scenes with characters being ‘discov-
ered’ doing something. That belongs both to TV and 19th century theatre
(the two forms often being quite similar in several ways.) It’s much more
dynamic and theatrically exciting to have characters enter theatre space,
with the force that comes from them knowing what they’ve got to do. Or,
to put this point another way, vary how you start your scenes: sometimes a
character enters full of energy and intention, and other times two characters
should be in the middle of an intense and involving action.
15. Write your scenes with a sense that at any moment, one of the charac-
ters is wanting to leave the scene. Generally, when power or status shifts
in a scene, the weakened character either doesn’t want to be there (in
which case he’ll be trying to exit the scene) or else he desperately needs
the stronger character to stay, and does whatever he can to keep her there.
If this status changed a couple of times in the scene, you’d have a volatile
and exciting scene on your hands. For, as I explained earlier, a character
ZDQWLQJWRH[LWFUHDWHVDUHDOWHQVLRQDVZHOODVDGDQFHOLNHÀXLGLW\WR
the character’s movements in space. If nothing else, your director will
thank you, for making her job so much easier.
16. Use the ‘starts-to-go-stops’ technique. It’s relatively simple to get

a character to enter a scene. They simply do so with a clear intention of
what they are doing or want to do. But getting characters to exit is much
harder. A technique I’ve found to be useful is to have a character go to
leave, turn, deliver a line that is summatory in some way, and then exit.
Getting a character to leave like this, in two attempts, often works more
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XQLQWHQWLRQDOO\FRPLF²ZKLFKLV¿QHVRORQJDV\RX¶UHZULWLQJDFRPHG\
299
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC STRUCTURE (III): THE TWO-ACT PLAY & OTHER
THEORIES OF NARRATIVE & DRAMATIC FORM
In this chapter, I will address several approaches to form-creation that

I have either invented or stumbled upon. Their methods vary, but their
SXUSRVHLVWKHVDPHWRDVVLVWWKHZRUNLQJZULWHUWR¿QGZKDWLVWKHWUXH
shape of his or her play.
A word of warning: true form can only be discovered. It cannot be
imposed. This means that all the following techniques are only useful to
the extent that they force you to make some initial decisions about story
and design. They are not ready-made templates just waiting for you to
‘pour’ the materials of your play into so that a perfectly-shaped play will
emerge. A pattern or approach is useful when it asks you to test the nar-
rative and spatial potential of your play against it. You can usefully ask
µ'RHVP\VWRU\QDWXUDOO\¿WWKHRVFLOODWLQJVKDSHRIWKH3ORW6QDNH´EXW
you should never force \RXUVWRU\WR¿WWKDWVKDSH,WZLOOHLWKHU¿WRULW
won’t. The techniques of multi-linear form will either be suitable for your
work, or they won’t be.
As I said, the true form of your play has to be discovered, not forced
into shape. Your developing instinct for form will create a growing feeling
that “this is the right shape of this play.” In retrospect it may accord with
any of the following approaches, in which case a conscious knowledge
of these approaches will have quickened the process of discovery by your
own unconscious.
%XWPRVWLQIXULDWLQJRIDOOWKH¿QDOSOD\ZLOOKDYHDVLPSOLFLW\DQG
rightness of form that will make you wonder, “Why didn’t I see it right
from the start?” You didn’t ‘see’ the shape of your play because it wasn’t
there to see! A rich play develops in fragments, in momentary bursts of
inspiration, in leaps, bounds and lurches. There’s nothing smooth about
play creation. It’s messy and sometimes frustrating.
So, if any of the following approaches ease your creative frustration,
I’ll be delighted.
A. THE PLOT SNAKE
The Plot Snake was devised by Allen Tilley in his book, Plot Snakes
and the Dynamics of Narrative Experience (University Press of Florida,
1992). It is a theory of story shape that deserves to be better known. Put
simply, it goes as follows: A plot is a process of change; this change forms
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7KHVH ÀXFWXDWLRQV DUH WKH ZD[LQJ DQG ZDQLQJ RI WKH VWRU\¶V HQHUJLHV
The energies form a shape that looks like a snake; hence the ‘plot snake’.
To illustrate this, Tilley uses the fairy tale of Cinderella, dividing the
story into six phases:
1. Initiation. A new condition or situation is introduced into the

existing world of the story. (This accords with the linear theory
of ‘status quo/disturbance’ discussed in Chapter 8 of this book.)
In Cinderella’s case, her mother dies and she is victimised by
her step-mother and step-sisters, working long hours as a me-
nial housemaid. But Cinderella remains cheerful and accom-
modates herself as well as she can to this generally undesirable
position. (In this initial phase, there is usually a certain amount
of optimism, even if the initial disturbance is ‘bad’). Many Ini-
tiations are actually optimistic and exciting things: a new op-
portunity, a new friend, the promise of a new relationship, a
lover or friend from the past etc.)
2. Burnt Fingers. In this phase, a setback occurs. A ball is an-

nounced, but Cinderella will not be permitted to attend. Her
hopes have been raised, only to be dashed. In this phase, even
if the Initiation was positive, the tone is clearly one of setback
or reversal, and a temporary lowering of optimism. But a way
out is soon found…
3. Temporary Binding. In this phase, a clear recovery emerges, re-

sulting in a temporary binding or restraining of the plummeting
energies of the story. Cinderella’s fortunes rise when her fairy
godmother appears, and by a series of miracles enables her to
attend the ball, looking radiant and beautiful. (This is often the
halfway point of a story, and is characterised by a return of con-
¿GHQFHDUHQHZHGHQHUJ\DVZHOODVDIDOVHGHOXVLRQWKDW³DOO
is again right with the world.”) In other words, there is a pre-
carious tension to this phase. It is temporary (as, in Cinderella’s
case, it will end at midnight). The victory is uncertain, even hol-
low. In one sense, it is a false victory, as the oppositional forces
of the story (Cinderella’s circumstances, her wicked relatives)
have not been at all defeated. But to the audience, this third
phase is a highly welcome one, as it gives them a respite from
the fears and tensions of the story.
4. Infernal Vision. In this phase, all seems lost. Not only did Cin-
derella’s happy experience at the ball (meeting and dancing
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the palace marks a series of downward-spiralling events whose
momentum is frightening and dispiriting to both character and
audience. (If you’re unsure of this, read this tale to children, and
VHHWKHH൵HFWRIWKLVSKDVHRQWKHP1RWRQO\GRHVVKHKDYH
to leave at midnight, but when the love-struck Prince calls on
every house in the kingdom looking for her, she is hidden away
in the cellar working like a slave. Her hopes of being loved and
her worth rewarded seem certain to be dashed. It’s her darkest
hour.
5. Final Binding.7KHWXUQLQJSRLQWWRZDUGWKLVGH¿QLWLYHDQGFOL-
mactic phase begins when the Prince, almost as an afterthought,
asks if there are any other women in the house. The step-sisters
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and the Prince recognises his new love. The energies of the
story that were released in the initial moments (the invitation
to an exciting and potentially life-changing royal ball) were
bound and shaped into an optimistic world order (at least for
Cinderella).
6. Termination. This is where the promise contained in the Final

Binding (of love, happiness etc) begins to be carried out, and
the future (happily ever after) seems assured.
Tilley’s snake is based on a simple premise: that when the story moves
into darker regions of chaos and disorder, the narrative ‘line’ moves down.
When order is restored, the line moves up.
What relevance does this have to playwrights working on a play
that is much more complex than Cinderella? Disregarding the rather
IRONV\QDPHVJLYHQWRWKHYDULRXVSKDVHVIRUH[DPSOHµEXUQW¿QJHUV¶
WKHJUHDWYDOXHRIWKH3ORW6QDNHOLHVLQLWVÀH[LELOLW\,WFDQEHDSSOLHG
to micro-structures (the shape of an individual scene) as well as to such
big picture issues as the entirety of a play’s narrative shape, the ethical/
PRUDOÀXFWXDWLRQVRIDQ$FWRUWKHFRPSOH[LWLHVRIDVLQJOHFKDUDFWHU¶V
‘character journey’. Its beauty is that it makes clear what threatens to
become lost in details and complexity. To playwrights, it is a gift, in that
it can prevent us from getting lost in a forest of potentialities, and being
unable to see the structural wood for the trees.
Years of writing and dramaturgical experience have taught me (and
other writers I speak to) that a broad overall pattern—a sense of “I know
or I think I know where this character/Second Act is going.”—will do
wonders for your play, as well as possibly saving your sanity! The pattern
is not ‘simple’ any more than any other aspect of play writing is simple.
In any case, the Plot Snake may not be right for your play.
But you should at least pose the question before disregarding it. It
is quite possible that it works on at least one level of your play-making
(eg. scene construction, character arcs, act shape or overall play-shape.) It
can be surprisingly useful in another area of play-making: the relationship
journey, which I looked at in more detail in Chapter 18. In the course of
the play you are writing, it would be hard to imagine at least one dramatic
relationship not going through a pattern similar to the Plot Snake. So keep
an open mind about it until you’ve clearly proved to yourself that it’s not
right for any aspect of your play. Remember that if ‘story’ is a symbolic
narrative of human experience, then ‘plot’ is the temporal ordering of the
events or incidents of that experience. And the ordering of events and the
H൵HFWRQWKHFKDUDFWHUVWKDW7LOOH\DQDO\]HVGRHVLQP\YLHZULQJWUXHWR
what humans go through at some point in their lives.
B. MULTI-LINEAR WRITING AND THREAD TECHNIQUE
Theatrical art in the 21st century is riven with aesthetic divisions, not
least in the area of ‘text’ and ‘linearity’. To many writers and theatre art-
ists, the latter is anathema. The idea that a work could be both linear and
innovative is, in the eyes of some theatre theorists, a contradiction in terms.
But to me, it’s no contradiction. Nor is it a contradiction to the gen-
eral theatre-going public, whose overwhelming preference (when it even
thinks about such things) is for straight-forwardness, clarity and ‘a great
story’. But as I’ve constantly tried to show in this book, innovation can
go hand-in-hand with great story-telling.
Hence, a look here at ‘linearity’. In one sense, the word is meaning-
less for theatre writers. The idea that a story goes forward in one line
of narrative development is absurd. Every play over ten minutes long
has between thirty and forty threads which make up their true form. To
understand that, I’ll illustrate how simply one thread operates, using a
classic play of the last century.
As we all know, Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman tells of the decline
of a fading salesman. If that’s all Miller’s play dealt with, it would truly be
a linear experience. But it also deals with Willie and Linda’s relationship. It
H[SORUHVWKHIDWKHUVRQH[SHULHQFHWZLFHZLWK%L൵DQG+DSS\$SDUDOOHO
‘success fable’ in the character of Bernard (when young and in mid-life) is
SOD\HGRXW:LOO\¶VWRUWXUHGLQQHUOLIHLVSOD\HGREOLJDWRZLWKFRQVWDQWÀDVK-
backs to the Uncle Ben and “what might have been” in Alaska. And crucially,
there is a mystery in the story: What happened in Boston all those years ago?
I’ll call that story thread the Mystery Woman thread. This thread is
present from the very start of the play:
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grass and trees and the horizon.
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are set up, the mystery returns:
From the darkness is heard the laughter of a woman. Willy doesn’t

turn to it, but it continues through Linda’s lines.
It is motivically referred to a few minutes later (as part of another

story thread):
LINDA: It seems there’s a woman…

She takes a breath as…
BIFF: (Sharply but contained) What woman?
LINDA: (Simultaneously)… and this woman..
1RWHKRZ%L൵LVGUDJJHGLQWRWKLVWKUHDG7KDW¶VDFUXFLDOSRLQWHU
for later. Not long after this, Bernard, once a studious nerd the Loman
boys always used to laugh at but now a successful lawyer, asks Willy a
crucial question:
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By now, two mysteries have developed (the Mystery Woman, and

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yet clear to what extent these mysteries are intertwined.
Soon after this, the Woman motif is again picked up by another rela-
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HAPPY: That’s why I can’t get married. There’s not a good woman in a
thousand. New York is loaded with them, kid!
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man days.
THE WOMAN, now urgently: Willy, are you going to answer the door!
The Woman’s call pulls Willy back. He starts right, befuddled.
It’s wonderful writing here. While the complex relationship of Willy

and his sons is being tended to, Willy is replaying ‘that encounter’ with
the Mystery Woman in Boston. There’s only one scene left to play, and a
few minutes later, disaster arrives, on schedule:
.QRFNLQJLVKHDUGRৼOHIW7KH:RPDQHQWHUVODXJKLQJ:LOO\IROORZV
her. She is in a black slip; he is buttoning his shirt. Raw, sensuous
music accompanies their speech.
WILLY: Will you stop laughing? Will you stop?
THE WOMAN: Aren’t you going to answer the door? He’ll wake the
whole hotel.
WILLY: I’m not expecting anybody.
The knocking continues, forcing Willy to open the door. It’s his young
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I’ll be blunt here. I don’t believe in linear writing; but I do believe
strongly in what I’ll call multi-linear writing. Five minutes’ analysis of
Death of a Salesman would provide ample evidence that it’s the symphonic
weaving together of between 30-35 narrative threads that makes for its
undisputed dramatic power.
You don’t have to write (or wish to write) like Arthur Miller to ac-
knowledge the usefulness of multi-linear writing. I’ve detected this tech-
nique in playwrights as diverse as Ionesco, Mamet, Tennessee Williams,
Beckett, Ibsen and others. If anything, its compositional antecedents lie in
Bach, Beethoven and Wagner and the German musical aesthetic of organic
through-composition using motifs that both unify and transform the work.
To put this less exaltedly, you can create rich lines of multi-linear
development from any of the following:
The political climate. (A vital thread where your play has a

political level to it.)
The group morale. (Important where there is a group or col-
lective of some sort; what happens to them as a group is a big
part of the meaning of the play.)
The stated goals of each character. (Each character goal is
a thread, where you simply ‘develop’ it by asking yourself,
“What happens to his/her goal?”)
Each character’s hidden agenda (if any). (Useful for contrast-
ing with the previous thread, their stated goals.)
Each character’s life on the ‘social surface’ (Job, professional
status, wealth. Not as extraneous as you might think; even that
most spiritual of plays, King Lear, uses this level to measure
the decline of its chief victim, Lear.)
A character’s beliefs, philosophy, values, ethics and morals.
(This thread is especially useful if the play puts pressure on
those morals or her philosophy.)
A character’s true inner need (which will gradually/suddenly
emerge during the play—and may well provide the ending to
your play.)
A character’s ‘transactional want’ of another character. (Put
simply, what a given character wants from another. It can use-
fully contrast with their real and belated need from that same
character.)
A joint-action. (Two characters who want the same thing cre-
ate a strong line or thread of action for the play.)
A love, passion, or just plain co-dependency. (In drama, most
relationships are co-dependent; characters become addicted
to each other. Whether in love or hate, they really get under
each other’s skin. Put simply, every relationship is a dramatic
thread in itself.
Anything that you, the playwright, think is capable of change
and development.
For each of these threads you can use the story shape of Chapter 8,
and ask yourself such questions as:
1. What is the status quo of this dramatic line/thread?

2. :KDWGLVWXUEVWKLVWKUHDGDQGVHQGVLWR൵LQDQHZGLUHFWLRQ"
3. What further develops this thread?
4. What is the climax of this thread?
Linear writing is often attacked by modernist theorists because a) it is

predictable; b) it moves from beginning to middle to end in that order, and c)
it has dominated Western dramatic writing from the ancient Greeks onward.
While we can do nothing about our Western heritage (short of a facile rejec-
tionism), we can do something about a) and b). Multi-linear writing should
never be predictable. Predictable writing is an indictment, not of the technique,
but of the writer. (There’s hardly more than a handful of dramatic writers in
England, America or Australia who use it with a more than average skill.)
Most importantly, the beauty of the technique is that it doesn’t have to be
used in any temporal or narrative order. Stories can go forward, backward or
sideways. The recognisability of the dramatic threads provides unity, regard-
less of what the playwright does with time and narrative order.
C. FRAGMENT WRITING AND THE CREATION OF CHARACTER
The Plot Snake and Multi-Linear Writing are useful tools in the
creation of plot. The following technique, Fragment (or Moment) Writ-
ing, was devised by me during a period when I was looking for a way of
building a play with little outer plot but much ‘movement of character’.
I came up with the following method.
A word of warning: While what follows is an attempt to bring a rich
character into being, it is highly unlikely that you will need all of these!
Regard them as ‘prompts’ to your creative sketches. Some (or many) of the
following will be perfect for some of your characters. The rest you should
forget about, at least for that play or character. In other words, if one of
the many suggestions below doesn’t almost immediately give you a good
line or a strong creative impulse, then move on to the next suggestion.
Why Fragment Writing?
I’ve come to the conviction that a theatrical character is a kaleidoscopic

and composite collection of ‘fragments’. These fragments are the collection
RIWKHPDQ\VHOYHVWKDWZHDVKXPDQEHLQJVDUH7KH\DUHQRWVLPSOL¿HGLQWR
OLJKWDQGGDUNHJRRULGRURWKHU)UHXGLDQVLPSOL¿FDWLRQV3HUVRQDOLW\LVD
process of sedimentation, whereby layers of life experience are piled on top
of each other. But this ‘sedimentation’ requires careful explaining. In human
personality, at least as expressed in dramatic terms in theatre, this layering
is both multi-layered and transparent—that is, each layer is immediately
accessible at any one moment, and can be brought up instantly, at will.
Creating Character through ‘Moments of Action or Language.’
In dramatic terms, character life can only be expressed in one of

two ways:
I. Through language (what the character says).

II. Through action (what the actor’s/character’s body does).
The purpose of each of the many prompts below is to stimulate you

to create either a moment where s/he speaks, or a moment where s/he acts.
This method helps you to create fully-dimensional characters, and
prevents an over-simplicity of character conception. For example, it is
not enough to make a general and abstract observation such as, “My
PDLQFKDUDFWHULVDYDFLOODWRU´7KLVYDFLOODWLRQKDVWR¿QGLWVZD\LQWR
the character’s language and his/her dramatic actions.
Although there is an emphasis in fragment writing on language, you
should keep in mind that there will be crucial character aspects that are
best revealed in physical and bodily actions—ie, what they decide to do,
choose to do, wish to do, try to do, need to do, pretend to do, or are unable
to do. (Though even here, there will be much spilling over into language.)
To put it all another way, unless a character’s soul, mind and many
selves are represented in vital, dynamic and actable language, then that
character doesn’t exist, in theatrical terms. It’s simply a statement of
good intentions.
So let’s start...
The Process of ‘Fragment Writing’
Here, I want you to create moments that are an instinctive response

on your part to the language formulations I have begun. Some will not be
suitable for the character you’ve nominated... but many will be. You will
notice an emphasis on the “I” and the “You”—the two main character-
directions. (“I” creates spatial and psychological verticality; “You” creates
horizontality, as I discussed in Chapter 7.)
The sketches you can create from this method are mainly focussed
in three areas of character life. They are—
I. WILL, INTENTION: The will, the intentions of that character.

II. EMOTIONS (SELF): The emotional, inner life of the character.
III. RELATIONSHIPS: The lived relationships relevant and crucial to
the play.
Remember that the aim is to provide you, the composer of these moments,
with a huge storehouse of linguistic fragments that will allow you to build the
many layers of character needed to create the rich play you want. A word of
warning, however: from using these fragments, I’ve found that they create
real dramatic moments only when used in the context of a VSHFL¿FVWRU\That
LV,¶GVXJJHVWWKDW\RXRQO\GRWKHIROORZLQJH[HUFLVHZLWKDVSHFL¿FSOD\\RX
are writing. They are of little value as a ‘general writing exercise’. They were
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So use them only when you already have your basic plot, at least in outline.
The fragment writing that results in response to the following questions will
help you make the story much more than ‘basic’. It will, in fact, introduce
the problematic dynamics of modernity (in its self-questioning and relentless
probing) and add humanist character richness and depth to your narrative.
Steps in the Process.
1. Concentrating on one character at a time, write the character’s name

at the top of your sketching page (or laptop).
2. Write a few general observations about this character, her place in

the plot, what happens to her etc. (For simplicity, I will refer to this
character as ‘her’; the process works equally well for male characters,
however.)
3. ,QGLFDWHEULHÀ\DIHZUHOHYDQWsocial details of the character—eg, job,

who each is married or partner to, social position etc.
Now, the creative work starts—but remember, if no ‘great line’ comes
fairly quickly, you should move on to the next moment, and see if that
sparks an idea for a line or dramatic action.
I. WILL, INTENTION
4. Give her a moment of confusion about her goal.

5. Give her a moment of confusion about the achievability of her goal.
6. Give her a moment of confusion about the ethical rightness of her goal.
7. Give her a moment of uncertainty about her goal tactics. (“Which

are the right ones?”)
8. Give her a moment of considering other goals.
9. Give her a moment of considering other ways to achieve her goal.
10. Give her a moment of joy in the achievement of her goal.
11. Give her a moment of fear that she will never achieve her goal.
12. Give her a moment of renewed purpose and energy in the pursuit
of her goal.
13. Give her a moment of despair. (“I’ve failed.”)
14. Give her a moment of realism about her goal, or let another character
try to do this.
15. Give her a moment of stubbornness and dogged pursuit of her goal.
16. Give her a moment of awareness of the costs (to herself and others)
of the pursuit of this goal.
17. Give her a moment of mixed feelings on the achievement of the goal.
18. Give her a moment of determination to continue to pursue the goal.
19. Give her a moment of panic that the goal has escaped her.
20. Give her a moment of deadness on achieving the goal. (“It doesn’t
matter anyway.”)
21. Give her a moment of exultation at the achievement of the goal.
II. EMOTIONS (SELF)
22. Give her a moment of anger.
23. Give her a moment of rage.
24. Give her a moment of yearning for peace in her life.

25. Give her a moment of self-pity.
26. *LYHKHUDPRPHQWRIGRXEWDERXWKHUVHOI%HVSHFL¿FDVWRZKDW

she’s doubting in herself.)
27. Give her a moment of self-despair.
28. Give her a moment of self-abasement.
29. Give her a moment of self-accusation.
30. Give her a moment of self-applause.
31. Give her a moment of self-advertisement.
32. Give her a moment of self-centeredness.
33. Give her a moment of self-assertion.
34. Give her a moment of self-communing.
35. Give her a moment of self-complacency.
36. Give her a moment of self-conceit.
37. Give her a moment of self-reproof.
38. Give her a moment of self-respect.
39. Give her a moment of self-restraint.
40. *LYHKHUDPRPHQWRIVHOIVDFUL¿FH
41. *LYHKHUDPRPHQWRIEHLQJVHOIVDWLV¿HG
42. Give her a moment of self-seeking.
43. *LYHKHUDPRPHQWRIVHO¿VKQHVV
44. Give her a moment of self-tormenting.
45. Give her a moment of being self-willed or obstinate.
46. Give her a moment of blaming the other person.

III. RELATIONSHIPS
47. Give her a moment of hatred for another character.
48. Give her a moment of intense love for the other character.
49. Give her a moment of passionate desire for the other character.
50. Give her a moment of longing for the other character.
51. Give her a moment of great need of the other character.
52. Give her a moment of missing the other character.
53. Give her a moment of being irritated by the other character.
54. Give her a moment of being impatient toward the other character.
55. Give her a moment of being patient toward the other character.
56. Give her a moment of falling in love with the other character.
57. Give her a moment of enjoying the company of the other character.
58. Give her a moment of acknowledging her enjoyment of the company

of the other character.
59. Give her a moment of tolerance of the other character.
60. Give her a moment of tenderness toward that other character.
61. Give her a moment of intimacy with the other character.
62. *LYHKHUDPRPHQWRIÀLUWDWLRXVVH[LQHVVZLWKWKHRWKHUFKDUDFWHU
63. Give her a moment of idealistic intensity with the other character.
64. Give her a moment of companionship with the other character.
65. Give her a moment of shared pain with the other character.
66. Give her a moment of shared loneliness with the other character.
67. Give her a moment of shared pleasure with the other character.
68. Give her a moment of shared frustration with the other character.
69. Give her a moment of shared excitement with the other character.
70. Give her a moment of shared strategic excitement (eg, as they plan
something together).
71. Give her a moment of laughter, joy with the other character.
72. Give her a moment of peace with the other character.
73. Give her a moment of fun, happiness with the other character.
74. Give her a moment of anger toward the other character.
75. Give her a moment of rage toward the other character.
76. Give her a moment where she lies to the other character.
77. Give her a moment where she tells the painful truth (about herself)
to another character.
78. Give her a moment where she tells a few ‘home truths’ to another
character (which are painful to that other character.)
79. Give her a moment of self-pity.
80. Give her a moment of intellectually hitting the other’s wavelength.
81. Give her a moment of intellectually missing the other’s wavelength.
82. Give her a moment of emotionally striking a chord with the other
character.
83. Give her a moment of emotional incompatibility with the other

character.
84. Give her a moment of recognition of how interesting/likeable the

other character is (that is, a turning point moment, which brings them
closer together.)
85. Give her a moment of recognition of how (emotionally or morally)

beautiful the other character is. (That might well make a turning point
moment, which cements the relationship, and tips them into deeper
commitment on some level.)
86. Give her a moment of recognition of a deep truth about the other
character (that is, a turning point moment, which imperils their
relationship.)
87. Give her a moment of recognition of how appalling the other character
LV7KLVFRXOGZHOOSURYLGHDGL൵HUHQWW\SHRIWXUQLQJSRLQWPRPHQW
ZKLFKPLJKWGH¿QLWLYHO\SDUWWKHP
88. Give her a moment of social awkwardness with another character.

I hope it’s clear what the purpose of such linguistic ‘prompts’ is: to
stimulate your powers of invention to the point where the character seems
to have a rich, powerful and independent existence and inner life regard-
less of the needs of the play’s plot. But as I’ve already said, this type of
character sketching will work best in stories and plays where character
richness and depth is more important than the mechanics of plot. (And
surely that’s a majority of plays?)
D. A THEORY OF THE TWO-ACT PLAY
This section is dangerous territory. It tries to give an overall theory

of ‘the two-act play’ when plays are so changed by their content and
FKDUDFWHUL]DWLRQWKDWJHQHUDOLVDWLRQEHFRPHVH[WUHPHO\GL൶FXOW
But after many years of watching other writers’ work (and sometimes
my own) failing miserably, I’ve developed some observations that may be
useful to other writers (not to mention new writers) seeking to understand
the secret life of a play as it’s actually happening ‘out there’ with a live
audience in theatre space.
I will have more to say on the structure of the two-act play in the
next chapter. For now, my chief interest is in describing the phenomenon
of the two-act play, and how an audience experiences it. As I’ve already
warned, the attempt to sum up, will inevitably produce generalisations.
But—as I’ve also said earlier—theatre writing is hard, and so many plays
fail, especially in their second acts, that if this book doesn’t attempt an
overview, it won’t be doing its job.
An apology for the informal, even slightly folksy, terminology I use
below. There is enough opaque jargon in the world without my adding to
LWWKHWHUPVRILGHQWL¿FDWLRQDUHPHDQWWREHFOHDUVLPSOHDQGSUDFWLFDO
Here, then, is a charting of what I think the experience of a two-act
play is really like.
A… Start
The play starts: quietly or noisily; it doesn’t matter. A world is pre-

VHQWHGD¿FWLRQDOV\PEROLFPLUURURIVRPHSODFHRUWLPHWKDWWKHDXGLHQFH
has either lived through or can imagine doing so.
B… Disturbance/Setting of Dramatic Stakes
6RPHQDUUDWLYHGLVWXUEDQFHRFFXUVWKHZRUOGLVWKUHDWHQHG7KH¿F-
tionalised world might have been threatened from the start, as with Hamlet;
or it may take some time before it ‘gets dangerous’. It depends on the
story and the type of play it is. It’s one reason why B is a moveable feast.
C… Unfolding of First Major Action. Driving Act I
Soon after the Disturbance, a ‘line of action’ emerges, usually as

a direct and causal result of the Disturbance. As a result of a Ghost ap-
pearing, Hamlet must investigate. The First Major Action can usually be
LGHQWL¿HGE\WKHVLPSOHGHVFULSWRUµ7R¶7RPXUGHUWKHNLQJ7RGLVFRYHU
the reason for the Ghost’s appearance.)
D… Setting up the ‘Rush/Breakthrough to Interval’
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that”), reversed (“We’re going in the wrong direction!”), or brought to ful-
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Thus, there is usually a change of direction in some way (plot, a character’s
goal, a character’s fortunes etc). But the audience is experiencing a rapid
increase in tension (as they watch the characters going through hell.) The
tension grows to the point of being unbearable (we hope); something has
to give. It does. A dam bursts (but not till the next scene).
E… Last scene before Interval
The last scene before Interval from the author’s point-of-view, in-
volves orchestrating the plot so that a clear Turning Point and/or Climax
is achieved. But from the audience’s point-of-view, it is a release of the
XQEHDUDEOH WHQVLRQ WKDW WKHLU LGHQWL¿FDWLRQ ZLWK WKH SOD\¶V SORW DQG LWV
characters has produced. The longed-for release from the ‘enjoyable dis-
comfort’ that an audience feels at this point in the play, is both a blessing
and a curse: “Thank heavens, that Hamlet has found out the truth about
his father; but, look what he’s now got to do!”
In other words, the last scene before Interval both culminates and
H[WHQGV,WFXOPLQDWHVWKHOLQHRIDFWLRQIRUH[DPSOHµWR¿QGRXWWKHWUXWK
about X’) but now that the truth is learned, it sets up a terrible duty to follow
through. (“Now that you know about X, what are you going to do about it?”)
This type of scene used to be called the “Obligatory Scene”, either because
it was the necessary encounter between dynamic forces of opposition, or

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to achieve. (Imagine Macbeth without the murder of Duncan. I know that
LQ6KDNHVSHDUH¶V¿YHDFWVWUXFWXUHWKLVPXUGHULVWKHFOLPD[QRWRI$FW,
but of Act II; but in practical terms, it’s that ‘crossing the Rubicon’ moment
that often marks a good ‘last scene before Interval.’ (It’s no coincidence that
productions of the Scottish play will often give the audience a break here.)
Crucially, the last scene before Interval promises something. In pure
showman’s terms, it says to the audience, “Come back after the break,
and see whether the new/extended objective will be achieved. Come back
and see what Hamlet does about his wicked step-father.” Satisfaction is
achieved (“At last, we know the truth!”), but the story is so set-up that
the latter part will deal with consequences. Following ‘what happens as
a result’ gives the audience a reason not to go home, but to stay, get some
fresh air, have a drink, then return to watch until the end.)
Talking of which…
F… Interval
'HVSLWHWKHRIWHQSHULORXVVWDWHRIWKHDWUH¿QDQFHVDSOD\¶V,QWHUYDO
does not exist simply for the bar-takings. (Although when I started work-
ing in theatre, one theatre I worked at refused to produce plays without
intervals, so desperate were they for the beer and wine sales!)
Above all, an Interval has a structural function. You can do lots of
good narrative and structural things with an Interval. For example, you can:
a) Make time elapse between Act I and II (anything from one

hour to 10 years.) This allows the Interval to play a part in
the plot, especially if you can legitimately make something
happen during the Interval. (Think of the crucial burglary that
takes place in Glengarry Glen Ross; the audience re-enters to
YLHZWKHGHEULVRIDZUHFNHGUHDOHVWDWHR൶FH
b) 0DNHDKLJKO\VLJQL¿FDQWFKDQJHRIORFDWLRQ,¶OOQHYHUIRUJHW
the breath of fresh air (literally) that was produced in Willy
Russell’s Shirley Valentine when in Act II he took the audience
out of that dingy English kitchen straight to a Greek island.
Just be careful, however, of having the most interesting thing in the

plot happen during Interval when the audience is outside drinking and
can’t see it. Some things should be seen; others don’t have to be.
G… First scene after Interval
If ever a playwright had freedom, it’s in that period after interval,

when, with an audience happy from having stretched its legs and downed
a few slugs of their preferred alcohol, they resume their seats, happy to
take whatever comes.
And ‘whatever comes’ can be surprisingly varied. Because an audi-
ence has been distracted (by the interval) from the play, they don’t neces-
sarily demand that the main plot resume immediately. Thus, you can have
any of the following:
i) A set-piece scene, where an ensemble that the story has

SURPLVHG¿QDOO\JHWVWRJHWKHU&RPHG\ZRUNVUHDOO\ZHOO
after interval.
ii) A long speech, related more to a central character (or re-
lationship) than the plot. Thus, if you needed a moment
where the central character does his/her ‘big speech’, this
is a very useful moment for it to happen. It might be a ‘let’s
pretend this is a public lecture’ type of speech, or it might
be a more personal ‘stream of consciousness’ inner mono-
logue. (Chapter 12 looks at all the Performative States that
you could try out at this point in the play.)
iii) A sub-plot which has not been given its due weight in Act
I; this could be the time that this plot line ‘catches up’.
5HJDUGOHVVRIZKDW\RXFKRRVH\RX¶YHJRWDERXW¿YHPLQXWHVEHIRUH
the most dangerous time in the whole evening starts…
H… Motoring Act II or Keeping Hope Alive
6RPHWLPHEHWZHHQ¿YHDQGWHQPLQXWHVDIWHU$FW,,VWDUWVDFKDQJH
begins to take place in the audience. They have settled into their seats,
have had the moderately interesting Act II start, and any hopes (or fears)
RIDEHWWHU$FW,,DUHEHJLQQLQJWREHFRQ¿UPHGDWSUHFLVHO\WKHWLPHZKHQ
WKHDOFRKROLVVWDUWLQJWRNLFNLQDQGWKHLUFRQFHQWUDWLRQLVVWDUWLQJWRÀDJ
It’s at this point that many plays fail. Why is this so? Answer: Be-
cause a play is a narrative machine, with an invisible framework that is
designed to run through space and time, using long connective lines that
pull individual scenes together with an unstoppable momentum.
I’ve indicated these ‘connective lines’ in the diagram on page 314.
I’ve called them “1st Wave”, “2nd Wave” etc.
A ‘wave’ is not necessarily the plot: it is usually the result of plot. It
is the movement toward meaning (and its resultant release of tension.) The
wave is usually a product of many individual thread-lines of development
(involving character, relationship growth etc) but all the individual threads
tend to be pulled in the direction of this forward-movement. To put it as
simply as I can (while still being helpful), the wave is usually made up
of a combination of the following:
the major action. (To kill the king.)

the fortunes of the central character or relationship. (That is,
how well the Protagonist is ‘winning’ in the business of life,
success, prestige, happiness or material prosperity, etc)
the (spiritual) health of the world or of the Protagonist. (He
may have just got the job/kingship, but the means to that end
are so morally destructive, that, despite appearances, he has
never been so unwell.)
Note how contradiction and paradox is built into the culmination of

a wave. A woman can get the job she’s been striving for, but to the audi-
ence, she is spiritually/morally/emotionally dead because all those things
died in the attainment of her goal.
If that is true, then why is this a ‘dangerous period’ for the play and
its audience? Because in many badly-written plays, the 1st Wave has not
been set up; in many well-written plays, it is the 2nd Wave that has not
been established. Thus it’s at this point in the evening that the chickens
come home to roost, and the play collapses as a coherent narrative whole.
All this may seem a bit arcane, general or just confused to many
writers whose plays have not (yet) failed. And certainly most audiences,
when bored, don’t sit there thinking, “Oh dear, that 2nd Wave is late start-
ing!” (Audiences are not that clever, sadly; for if they were, they’d force
us writers to write better, and throw some of the work back in our faces.)
All an audience knows is that it’s becoming bored.
What can be said of these waves? Here are a few practical rules of thumb
I’ve discovered (and some of them I had to write a whole, bad play to realise):
If the 1st wave moves toward positivity (for example, happi-
ness, success, wealth, goal-attainment etc), then negativity
kicks in with the 2nd wave. (For Macbeth, his 1st wave, despite
the qualms, is mostly positive: he’s got the kingship; but for
him, the 2nd wave is ‘the beginning of the end’, as he (and Lady
Macbeth) see the kingship ebb away from them.
The reverse also applies: if the 1st wave was negative, the 2nd is
mostly positive.
No wave is unambiguous, even for the obsessed characters who
drive the action. Macbeth is aware of his evil even as he does
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of the 2nd Wave, but for most of the other characters, and the
DXGLHQFHZLWKTXDOL¿FDWLRQVWKHnd wave is a ‘good thing’,
and much longed-for.
As can be seen from these observations, the principal relation-
ship between the 1st wave and the 2nd is one of reversal. When
trapped in the deadly Forest of the First Draft, think simply: “If
1st wave Good, then 2nd wave, Bad.” You can nuance it all later!
A useful principle that is rarely discussed is something I personally

GLVFRYHUHGLQZULWLQJDSDUWLFXODUO\GL൶FXOWSOD\,FDOOLWWKHQHHGWRkeep
hope alive, especially in the middle of Act 2, when the audience is tir-
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scenes. For example, if in your play, the main couple are struggling to keep
their relationship alive, then one (or both) need still to be working to that
end (or at least be thinking they are.) Or, if your Protagonist has a Great
Dream, then she should still retain hope that it can be achieved, despite the
worsening situation and growing opposition (from other characters) to her
Dream. For when hope dies (in the Protagonist, or the main relationship
etc) then the play is more-or-less over. At the very least, ‘hope’ (in some
way) should last until J, the Climax of the entire play.
I discuss the impact of these waves in the next section below, in case
you’re not confused enough. For the time being, see it this way: if your 1st
Act consisted of ‘the play going in one direction’, then driving the 2nd Act
mostly consists of going in the reverse direction, and starting it before the
alcohol, tiredness and narrative confusion has put the audience to sleep.
I… Vital Turning Point
There is often a feeling of desperation in the writing of Act Twos. It’s

my view that writing a two-act play is not twice as hard as writing a one-
act play—it’s ten times as hard, partly because of the huge ignorance of
PDQ\ZULWHUVRIVXFKGL൶FXOWDQGKDUGWRH[SODLQFRQFHSWVOLNHWKHµZDYH¶
So if you’ve been lucky enough to have created a new direction to
your second act, then you’ll soon need to turn even that direction around.
Macbeth keeps his hopes alive even as his fortunes ebb away, and he might
MXVWKDYHSXOOHGLWR൵ZHUHLWQRWIRUWKHIDFWWKDWWKHWUXHHQHUJ\RIKLVOLIH
(Lady Macbeth) suicides. It’s at this moment that he sees he is doomed, and
produces the great epiphany of “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.”
)URPWKDWPRPHQWWKHSOD\KDVWKHLQHYLWDELOLW\RIDULWXDOVHOIVDFUL¿FH
Even so, the outcome should still be in doubt…
J… Climax Scene
,W¶VDWWKHFOLPD[WKDWWKHRXWFRPHLV¿QDOO\GHFLGHG7KHSOD\ZULJKW
Marsha Norman, in a letter to fellow playwrights, once stated, that “a play
is about a character who wants something, and the climax is where he or
she gets it or not. And that’s how the audience knows when to go home.”
That statement is a bit dogmatic and doesn’t always apply, but often it
does, and it’s mostly a very wise insight. A goal is decided once and for
DOO2UDZLVKLVJUDQWHGRQO\IRUKLPWR¿QGWKDWLW¶VQRWWKHKHDYHQKH
hoped for: it’s actually a living hell.
But this discovery is usually held over until the next moment…
K… Resolution… and the 3rd Wave
As I said earlier, the interesting thing about a resolution is how

RIWHQLWUHYHUVHVWKHFOLPD[RUOHVVRIWHQFRQ¿UPVLW,ZRQ¶WGZHOORQ
this aspect of the theatrical experience, because if you’ve managed all
the danger points up to here, you’re in no need of advice now. Except
maybe one thing: Western theatre had its origins in sacred ritual, and it’s
possibly a shock to realise that the great endings have a spiritual element
to them. Something of greater (moral, emotional or spiritual) value has
to return—or if absent up till now, enter the play in order to remind the
humans that there are bigger things than their own vain, petty strivings.
In other words, the true power of a climax and its resolution is the
contesting and ultimate triumph of something transcendent. It need not
EHVSHFL¿FDOO\IDUOHVVFOHULFDOO\UHOLJLRXVEXWLWVKRXOGSUREDEO\EH
something that is agreed to be, more or less, sacred. What is held sacred
nowadays? Many things: love, unity, the power of the deserving individual
RYHUWKHJURXSWKHSRZHURIWKHJURXSRYHUWKHVHO¿VKLQGLYLGXDO7KHSRHW
Les Murray once said that many people still recite poetry, however badly,
because there are some occasions they still hold sacred. And poetry—a
form of theatre, if you will—is the verbal blessing given to the social
occasion. It’s entirely your business to decide what, to you, is sacred.
But whatever it is, it’s your job as a playwright to show it operating (or
struggling to appear) at the climax and resolution. Perhaps that is what
the 3rd Wave really is: the return of something that should never have
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so much to be taught, as reminded. The 3rd Wave of a play reminds the
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in John Proctor’s case in The Crucible) worth dying for.
321
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC STRUCTURE (IV): UNIVERSALISMS, DRAMATIC
TONE AND FINDING THE TRUTH OF YOUR PLAY—AND ITS
ENDING
If you are as inexperienced a theatre writer as I was when I began

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come onto your personal ‘radar’. It didn’t enter mine for quite a few years.
But the whole point of a book like this is to bring things to your attention
before they emerge as fully-blown writing and artistic crises. To me, a crisis
is a problem without a solution. And just because you’ve not previously
thought about something doesn’t mean it’s not a problem in your writing.
SHAPING THE TONE OF A PLAY
The concept of ‘tone’ is almost never discussed in most books on

play writing, for a very good reason. It’s barely understood by theatri-
cal practitioners and playwrights, let alone the general audience. I don’t
speak from a high place here. It’s taken me over a decade to get even a
preliminary understanding of what ‘dramatic tone’ is, how it works in
SOD\VDQGKRZ,FDQXVHLWWRULFKH൵HFWLQP\WKHDWUHZULWLQJ
Even so, the following discussion is still quite basic. I’ll start by
GH¿QLQJµWRQH¶KRZHYHUVLPSOLVWLFDOO\³7RQHLVWKHpsychological and
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WLRQVLPSO\PHDQVWKDWWKHH൵HFWRQWKHDXGLHQFHLVEH\RQGWKHVLPSO\
verbal. The audience in a theatre space ‘feels’ things (in its heart, soul,
and sometimes, quite literally, in various parts of its body.) Tone creates
DSV\FKRORJLFDOH൵HFWYLDWKHDWUHVSDFHWRFUHDWHDIHHOLQJLQWKHDXGLHQFH
that ‘something important is being said about the world and human life’,
but it is more elusive than the concept of ‘dramatic theme’. (The latter is
a set of key ideas that are dramatically explored; in its cruder form it’s a
simple ‘message’ that the play wants to communicate.)
But tone is both more subtle and more profound. It is a dominant
tonality. It is a mantra. It is a key-note. To the Pythagoreans, each planet
had a central tone or pitch, and one only had to discover it in order to
learn the mysteries of existence. Tone is, if you like, a ‘dominant key’
for the audience to internally hum along to as the play proceeds. When
people meditate or chant, they choose, quite literally, a musical pitch to
sing with. This is quite close to the received experience of a good play.
(“This play is set in the key of E minor.” Tennessee Williams would have
understood that notion.)
If you think this is fanciful, consider this: is the tone of A Midsummer

Night’s Dream ‘lighter” than King Lear? The answer is, of course, yes. Can
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To me, it is almost as deep an experience as Lear, but there is more air,
more poetic lightness of image, more obvious musicality in the Dream.
It is dream-like, a meditation on a ‘fancy’, a whim of the imagination,
whereas Lear is the ruthless working out of a nightmare.
I hope it is clear what ‘tone’ refers to: that complex mixture of
language, imagination, morals and a quasi-musical conception, in order
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Musical thinking is crucial. Think of what the scholars and actors call the
“Othello music”, where extraordinary language and the glistening-black
moral world combine in a spectacular and visceral dramatic tone.
,I\RXUKHDGLVVZLPPLQJKHUH¶VDQRWKHUOLIHMDFNHW¿OOHGZLWKV\Q-
onyms you can cling onto: Another word for tone is ‘atmosphere’, but that
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that what is being created is a sub-verbal tonal region where feelings, emo-
tions, ethics, morals and cultural beliefs are touched on and ‘played with’
by the playwright using the performed play as his or her sounding board.
For practising playwrights, the most crucial question is not how
to describe dramatic tone but how to create it in our play. Or to ask the
question another way: “How can I create/enrich the dramatic tone of my
play?” To answer this we need to ask what actually creates the metaphysi-
FDOOHYHOWKDWHVVHQWLDOO\GH¿QHVDSOD\¶VWRQH,¶OOVXJJHVWWKHIROORZLQJ
things create a play’s tone:
The moral/ethical state of the dramatic world helps to create

tone.
The quality and nature of the main dramatic relationships
helps to create the play’s tone.
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a room full of self-loathing characters should not only speak
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malice, bitterness and, yes, loathing.)
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exist in.
HEAVEN OR HELL… AND THE DRAMATIC TONE
The last point needs explaining. In Chapter 15, I discussed how

characters can live in a quasi-metaphysical state that is beyond the purely
social. “I’m in Heaven”, Fred Astaire used to sing, and he wasn’t exag-
gerating. For ‘metaphysics’ is the attempt of human consciousness to
bring meaning to its state of knowing. If God didn’t exist, He probably
would have had to be invented, for as soon as one becomes conscious,
one realises that “there’s something more” to human life. And in Western
culture, drama has been one of the prime areas where the big questions of
human life, consciousness and meaning are explored.
:KDWWKDWPHDQVLQSUDFWLVHLVWKDWRQHRIWKHHDVLHVWZD\VWRGH¿QH
both a character and the play’s tone is to position the dramatic character
in any of the following metaphysical states: Heaven, Hell, Limbo or Pur-
gatory. (For those who haven’t read the Christian medieval theologians
lately: Limbo is a place/state of waiting, without pain, but without feeling
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as bad as Hell, except there’s an eventual end to it. Heaven and Hell are,
I hope, self-explanatory. For more on this, read Saint Thomas Aquinas,
RU¿QGKLVZHEVLWHRQWKHLQWHUQHW
Some of Arthur Miller’s characters live in a Hell-on-earth (think of
Quentin, in After the Fall). Gogol’s bunch of cellar-dwellers in The Lower
Depths exist in a type of limbo-verging-on-hell. Sartre’s obnoxious trio
(in Huis Clos) live, literally, in Hell.
In other words, I’m suggesting that the ‘dramatic tone’ of a play can
EHGHHSHQHGRUHYHQGH¿QHGE\NQRZLQJWKHW\SHRIPRUDOVSLULWXDOZRUOG
\RXDUHFUHDWLQJIRU\RXUFKDUDFWHUVRUWKHSOD\LWVHOI7KH\PD\GL൵HULQ
one sense, every dramatic character is the center of his/her own spiritual
universe, and in each character’s view, all the other characters revolve
around him/her. With such an outlook, you can see how one character
might live in a self-created Hell, while another lives in a state of ‘deluded
Paradise’ (think of Madame Ranevsky in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard:
according to her, life is wonderful and the cherry orchard will never be
cut down.)
A director once told me that what he most looked for in a play was the
creation of a dramatic world. Thinking about it years later, I’m convinced
he was talking about tone and its hints of a metaphysical world.
TWO BASIC TONAL PATTERNS
The plays of mine that have ‘worked’ with an audience, and the plays
of others that I’ve seen hit the mark, seem to belong to one of two basic
‘tonal patterns’, that is, where the story, characterization and language
work to create one of the following tonal patterns.
I know what you’re thinking now as you read this: “Not only do
I have to create this elusive thing called ‘tone’. I now have to create a
tonal pattern!” I never said play writing was easy, but fortunately you
don’t have to ‘choose a pattern’. The logic and truth of the story tends to
choose the pattern for you.
The above diagram shows how a play might start at a low ebb (of
morals, luck, fortune, material prosperity, happiness etc). For the charac-
ters, this is a ‘bad’ situation. Some struggle occurs, and, despite setbacks,
a relative victory is arrived at by the end of Act I. The victory might be
one (or several) of numerous things: wealth, position, status, love (“He’s
won the love of his life.”) What’s interesting about this position is that it’s
unstable. It’s not only going to be contested (during Act II) but by its very
QDWXUHWKHUH¶VXVXDOO\DÀDZDZHDNQHVVLQWKHYLFWRU\$QGWKHDXGLHQFH
often knows this even better than the character(s).
Incidentally, it’s a good feeling for an audience to go out to interval
on this ‘high’. Even if the victory is to be short-lived, it makes for a nice
IHHOLQJLQWKHDXGLHQFHDVWKH\KHDGIRUWKHFR൵HHEDU:KHQWKHDXGL-
ence returns for Act II, there’s often an inevitable ‘honeymoon’ period,
where the elation of the pre-interval phase is maintained. But it isn’t long
before something goes wrong, and the rot starts to set in. In other words,
we’re back in the Bad state that started the play. (Or things might even
be worse than at the start.)
From here, you have a choice: you can tell the audience that “life
is bleak”, and let things slide and slide to the point of no-return. Or, you
FDQ KDYH WKH FKDUDFWHUV VWUXJJOH IRU WKH ¿QDO YLFWRU\ KRZHYHU SDUWLDO
weakening and ironic. It’s up to you—or rather, it’s up to the story and
what it demands.
The other pattern is even darker:
What Pattern 2 shows is a story where, at the start of the play, things are
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money to go round etc.) Alternately, things might be really bad. (The town
is in a slump; the marriage is dreadful; he’s been unemployed for months.)
Regardless of your point of departure, things very soon get worse.
'HVSLWHWKHFKDUDFWHUV¶EHVWH൵RUWVE\WKHHQGRI$FW,WKHWRZQPDU-
riage/company is in a huge mess. When the audience returns for Act II,
they watch a titanic struggle to recover something or return to the Good.
Where it goes after that is, again, up to you. Things can sink back into
oblivion, or they can reach a plane of relative peace and even well-being.
Once again, it’s up to you and what you feel the story demands.
Can you actually write in accordance with the several patterns shown
and discussed in this chapter? The answer is complex. You write from
instinctual impulses, but I strongly believe that the instinct can be trained.
No one is born a playwright: you become one. And since I also believe
that a play is more than a spewing out of words and scenes in any order
that your feverish brain commands, it follows that there’ll be times when
you have to become very conscious in your play-making. How do you
write freely without self-censoring and inhibition, and yet be aware of such
dynamic patterns as outlined in this chapter? Simple (if that’s the word):
You write at white-heat, but then edit and re-shape with the coolness of
several cucumbers. It’s at this point that the above diagrams and ‘rules
of thumb’ might be helpful. It might only need the application of one of
these patterns for the play to fall into its true shape.
UNIVERSALISMS & HOW TO USE THEM
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was competent. The story was interesting. The acting was quite good.
But “something was missing”, they will think to themselves as they
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semi-successful theatre I’ve come to the view that the element most often
missing-in-action is that of the Universalism.
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regardless of life-style or nationality, can understand and respond to, either
because they have already lived through it, or because one day it could
happen to them. We’ve all been in love. We’ve all hoped and yearned for
some desired ‘thing’ to happen in our lives. We’ve all lived in fear. We’ve
all experienced a wide range of sorrows and joys.
Some of us have been robbed, burgled or attacked in the street. The
rest of us can imagine what that’s like—and we don’t want it to happen
to us. A Universalism can be something that you want to happen in your
life; and it can be something you would dread to happen in your life.
With this in mind, I’ve listed below a sample of Universalisms.
Primary Stage Universalisms: Beginning
Restlessness & boredom

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Injustice/unfairness
Innocence/ignorance
Secondary Stage Universalisms: Middle
Illusory/temporary escape
Revenge
Loss
Betrayal
Greed/desire
Delusionary Joy
Pride/ambition
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Hatred
Tertiary Stage Universalisms: The Ending
Love
Grief
Forgiveness/compassion
Wisdom (real/ironic)
Maturation
Understanding
Peace & acceptance
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The discovery of purpose & meaning
I’ve listed the above Universalisms into a rough Beginning-Middle-

Ending pattern because I believe that the deepest levels of a play’s mean-
ing can be understood in terms of its progression from one Universalism
to the next.
The way to use Universalisms in your writing is to ask yourself:
“What is the dominant Universalism that governs the world of my play,
especially at its beginning?” Let’s say you are writing about a married
couple who once were in love. When your play starts, they are restless and
bored with each other. You create dialogue, linguistic interchanges, spatial
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to happen’ kicks in. Now, while this plot-based sense is absolutely correct,
what’s also kicking in is a sense that ‘they can’t stay in this Universalism
forever’. So a new character enters the story, to whom (for example) the
wife is very attracted. In other words, the plot is the excuse/reason for a
change of Universalism. This change of Universalism also changes lots
of other things, not least the spatial and dramatic tone of the play.
By the way, I’m not saying that only one Universalism should be in op-
eration in each major phase of your play. Ideally, it can be a number of them.
The point is that if you can create a ‘map’, however basic or tentative (but
probably based on your knowledge of people and how they tend to behave in
such situations), then you will have made sure that the play’s world possesses
not just Truth (“Yes, people in that situation would behave that way”) but Uni-
versality (“That is how I fear/hope that I would behave in that situation.”). The
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Having a sense of “Which Universalism is my story/Act 1 dealing
with?” is probably a good way to work. It’s much better than the often
useless question “What is your play about?” This latter question is not just
irrelevant for a large part of the creative process; it’s potentially destructive.
You can’t write ‘with a theme/primary message in mind’. But you can create
a story, relationships and linguistic interchange where the whole is a type of
meditation or rumination on a ‘state we all know and have lived through’.
Aristotle’s Poetics is famous for its summation of Greek dramatic and
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following: “A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by
causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be. An
end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing,
either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is
that which follows something as some other thing follows it.” A more use-
less piece of dramatic advice can scarcely be imagined. Many analysts and
commentators have puzzled over exactly what Aristotle was getting at. My
initial reaction was that it was a rather silly, even meaningless ‘attempt at
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greatest value of the Poetics comes from Aristotle’s description of important
narrative elements like Reversal and Recognition. Lately, however, I’ve
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is a level beneath stories—a level that I now describe as a Universalism.
FINDING THE UNIVERSAL SOCIAL & FAMILIAL STRUCTURES
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and time. Flaubert said that “All great Art is provincial”, referring to the
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people or groups living in a particular place and time. But a hard truth must
now be told. Much American drama is boring and unsuccessful because
it only focuses on place and time. In other words, without the symbolic
power of a Universalism, a story may end up being, not provincial but
parochial. That is, the story and the world of the play has no meaning un-
less we, the audience, also happen to live in that same town or city. I’ve
seen many plays, especially the unproduced ‘plays-in-development’ which,
like the Flying Dutchman, travel endlessly from one theatre Conference
to another, never really improving because the play never achieves the
sort of symbolic power that a Universalism gives to a play.
Group-Based Universalisms: Family
A portrait of the parents

Father & son
Mother & daughter
Father & daughter
Mother & son
Siblings
Cousins & distant relations
When you write a play which has at its center the dominant relation-
ship between, say, a mother and her only son, you are writing a group or
family based Universalism. The audience understands that some truths
and insights about this relationship will be a part of the play’s ideas and
meanings. If it is not, then you may have missed a good opportunity to
remind your audience of some important truths. It’s important to remem-
ber that simply having a Mother/Son relationship in your play doesn’t
of itself guarantee any deep connection with an audience. You have to
actually do something with that relationship. For example, imagine that
there is a complex love-hate relationship between the Son and his Mother.
Imagine, that they are rivals in some weird way, and that each delights
in undermining the other. In other words, you need to emotionalise this
universal relationship, or give it a particular psychological twist. In that
way you create a story where the audience is allowed to ‘meditate’ on the
complexities of mothers and their sons. In this way, your story has the
potential to make a strong connection with every member of your audience.
Group-Based Universalisms: Pseudo-Family
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The almost-a-brother
The almost-a-sister
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a real family. This is not to imply that a real family can’t be dramatized
successfully; if that was the case, then King Lear would be a failure. But
the power of the pseudo-father or mother shouldn’t be forgotten. Think of
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QLVWLVRQHRIWKDW¿OP¶VEHVWFKDUDFWHUV<RXGRQ¶WKDYHWRDFWXDOO\EH
someone’s father to play that role—for good or ill. In fact, a woman who
is ‘like a sister’ to another character raises many interesting psychological
questions which you can explore in your play.
THE UNIVERSALISM OF A CHARACTER’S AGE & DEVELOPMENT
I’m no behavioral psychologist, but I’ve seen enough of people to

know that we all share many psychological features in common. One of
those features is the common tendency to ‘act the same way’ when we are
at the same age. For example, teenagers have many behavioral aspects in
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The following are broadly accepted stages of human development:

00-10… childhood (Child)
10-20… adolescence (Apprentice)
20-35… young adulthood (Warrior)
35-65… mature adulthood (Leader)
65-90… old age (Sage/Fool/Prophet).
Nothing astounding in the above, except that it is incomplete as a

description of the human life-stages. What is much more interesting is
the social and psychological roles that a person tends to play at each
stage of their life, especially if the mind is not in sync with the body.
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the decision of a character’s age should not be made casually. I once
asked a young writer I was working with, “How old is this character?”
He answered, “She could be 35. Or maybe 48. Or even 52. I don’t re-
ally mind, or care.”
His answer wasn’t based on a statement of principle, or an aesthetic
of ‘Deliberate Ambiguities’. He was simply unaware of the huge sig-
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character. See it like this: Age is a symbol, like many things in dramatic
writing. It stands for something important in human experience. A char-
acter’s age is a mile-post in his or her long journey to death. A character
stands for the audience—not only those of similar age, but also those
who are still to become that age. There’s nothing accidental about the
decision of a character’s age.
A character may be on the cusp of transition from one stage of life to
another, so that she is clinging to the previous stage, while time and the
play’s plot drag her kicking and screaming into the next life-stage. Or,
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but pretending that he is still “as young as ever”, i.e. in the delusional
grip of the youthful fantasies that a previous life-stage gave him. So think
carefully about the (physical) age of each of your important characters.
It matters, especially to the audience, which tends to look at characters
on stage in terms of “Which character represents my own age and life-
stage?” You can, of course, make the audience think of much more than
a simple demographic equivalence. But knowing this common tendency
in people will allow you to use it—or work against it.
MIXING UP THE UNIVERSALISMS
Contradiction often lies at the heart of rich characterization. Human

beings are not robots. They are not even consistent to their own beliefs.
They do not always act their age. We are walking contradictions. A char-
acter preaches one thing—then does exactly the reverse. Or a character
with extraordinary cognitive intelligence has the emotional age of a child.
One of the ways you create richness in character creation is by ‘mixing
up the Universalisms’. The following table lays out a picture of more-or-
less natural human physical and psychological development.
TABLE 5
THE NATURAL ORDER
PHYSICAL MENTAL THE SOCIAL &
DEVELOPMENT DEVELOPMENT PSYCHOLOGICAL
RESULT
Body of a child Mind of a child A natural childhood
Body of an Mind of an A natural (albeit typical
Adolescent adolescent troubled) adolescense
Body of a Mind of a A natural early adulthood
young adult young adult
Body of a Mind of a A natural adult maturity
mature adult mature adult
Body of an Mind of an A natural old age --
old person old person and death
What Table 5 shows is normal human development, and the resulting

psychological and social result. So what, you say? Well, when it gets less
‘normal’, it gets a lot more interesting—at least to us dramatists.
Look at the next table:
TABLE 6
THE UNNATURAL ORDER - CHILDHOOD
RESULT
Body of a child Mind of an adoles- A manipulated neurotic child
cent
Body of a child Mind of an adult A Precocious child, old
before her time; perhaps
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resenting it.
What Table 6 shows is just two possibilities (there are more) that
might make for interesting characterization. The principle should be
clear: simply put the wrong mind in the right body (or vice versa). Give
a character a younger or older mind, temperament and psychology than
she would normally have.
Here are some possibilities for characterization of adolescence and
early adulthood.
TABLE 7
THE UNNATURAL ORDER -
ADOLESCENCE & EARLY ADULTHOOD
RESULT
Body of an adolescent Mind of a child The Hermit, Isolate
Body of an adolescent Mind of a child The Nerd, Greek
Body of an adolescent Mind of a child The Abused Child
Body of a young Mind of a child A Mommy's Boy
adult (male)
Body of a young Mind of a child A Daddy's Girl
adult (female)
Body of a young adult Mind of a child An Idiot Savant
Body of a young adult Mind of an adolescent A Puer Figure/Eternal Boy
Body of a young adult Mind of an adolescent A 'Young fogey'
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(such as the idiot savant, a description often criticised and replaced by
such clinical terms as Asperger’s Syndrome.). For dramatic purposes, it’s
probably better to bury the freakish inside the normal. What this means is,
if a character is labelled as having a clear psychological or medical condi-
tion, it makes the audience withdraw from that character. That character
is no longer ‘one of the audience’. The audience response tends to move
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an audience’s response. When an audience can only feel pity (probably
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out of imaginative engagement with your play is increased.
Here are some patterns of dramatically-interesting behavior in mature
adulthood.
TABLE 8
THE UNNATURAL ORDER: MATURE ADULTHOOD
PHYSICAL MENTAL THE DRAMATICALLY
USEFUL RESULT
Body of an adult Mind of a child A comic child, perhaps
incapable of real
adult relationships.
Body of an adult Mind of an adolescent A neurotic character,

constantly searching for a
lost youth or to be loved.
Body of an adult Mind of an old person A person already old;
perhaps a sentimentalist or
nostalgist. Perhaps a person
who's already given up.
The obvious should be stated: that these tables are guides only.
They are not comprehensive. Their real value perhaps lies in giving
you a clue as to how you can have another, interior level of character-
ization that belies predictability. In any case, a major idea of this book
is that all character and psychological traits must be supported and
demonstrated by language. 6R ¿QG D ODQJXDJH IRU HDFK FKDUDFWHU DQG
only then should you determine his/her psychology. As I’ve said else-
where in the book, language creates psychology; and not the reverse.
WRITING A GREAT ENDING TO YOUR PLAY
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It’s as if all the weaknesses and problems in our writing get saved up for
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the play’s energies seem to evaporate and peter out. I’ve seen it happen to
my work. I’ve seen it happen to the work of many other writers.
The truth is, however, that a bad ending doesn’t happen all by itself.
It’s usually prepared long in advance, just as a good ending is. Knowing
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between a play that is produced—and a play that never sees the light of day.
THE BUTLEY PROBLEM: ITS POSSIBLE ENDINGS
A possible solution to this intractable problem might lie in a play I

saw whose ending I greatly admired. The play is Butley by the British
playwright Simon Gray. Butley is a brilliant but burnt-out professor of Eng-
lish at a British regional university, His best days are over, and he spends
his time being cynically witty, acting unprofessionally in his supervision
of research students, while generally avoiding every opportunity to do
his job. Problems and threats to his position are mounting, and when it’s
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LQWKHSOD\$QHZSXSLODUULYHVDQG%XWOH\LVR൵HUHGDFKRLFH,QIDFW
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Before I explain what actually does happen in the play, I’ll explain
what does not KDSSHQ,¿UVWVDZWKHSOD\ZLWKWKHODWH$ODQ%DWHVLQ
one of the greatest performances of his career. There is a record of his
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D¿OPLQLWVHOI:KHQ,VDZWKHSOD\,ZDVVWUXFNE\WKHULJKWQHVVRIWKH
ending, and how satisfying it was. It stayed with me for weeks afterward.
Analysing it later, I realised that there must have been many options and
possible endings confronting the writer when he came to the ending of
his play. I’ve listed them below.
1. THE BLEAK, HOPELESS ENDING
In this possible ending, Butley would sink into hopelessness. He

would drink even more than he had previously (which was a lot). He
would fatalistically do nothing, only sit and wait for his dismissal and
ruin. He might even slash his own wrists. Fortunately, none of those
things happened.
2. THE HOLLYWOOD ENDING
I’ll never forget my irritation on seeing the movie Ruthless People.

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LVEHQWRQSUR¿WVUHJDUGOHVVRIWKHFRVWWRWKHWRZQDQGLWVSHRSOH:KHQ
he is defeated, there is no insight, no recognition that he’s acted badly. The
phone rings: he is saved! Hollywood is usually better than that. In this case,
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3. THE VAMPYRIC/ABSURDIST ENDING
In this possible ending, Butley would have begun to damage the new
pupil just as he had with his former, star pupil. Vampires always return
to their essential nature—and resume feeding on the life and soul of their
human victims. This is also exactly what happens in Ionesco’s play The
Lesson, which I discussed in Chapter 4. In that play also, a new pupil
arrives, and the audience has a strong belief that the Professor will do to
the new pupil exactly what he did to the old—i.e., he will destroy her just
like the previous pupil. That play’s ending was vampiric and Absurdist;
but the ending ‘worked’ because the whole play was Absurdist. For an
essentially realistic play like Butley to suddenly leap to the Absurd would
be to betray the trust the audience had placed in the reality and truth of
the author’s world that he had so painstakingly created.
4. THE REALISTIC ENDING
This is the actual ending to the play. When toward the end of the
play, a new pupil arrives, and Butley is given the chance to repeat all
the errors and bad behavior he had shown to a former pupil. He starts a
familiar pattern (of bad behavior); but suddenly, he stops. Butley tells the
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simple description like this of the play’s ending does not really do justice
to its subtlety and nuance. You’ll have to read it or see it for yourself. I
hope the point is clear: Butley has no idea of his future—but the past is
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Space prevents me from exploring some of the many complex issues
surrounding the joint working of a play’s Climax and Resolution—that’s
for another book. For now, I’ll give a few ideas here about some of the prin-
ciples and techniques that could help to strengthen the ending of your play.
Here are six.
The Ending is built not on plot but on transcendence.
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point of a play’s ending is to place or return the play to a state of
transcendence, beyond the pettiness (or the anger, the pain) that
made up so much of the play. Think of the wonderful ending of
Wit, the Pulitzer Prize-winning play. To say that “she dies at the
end” is absurdly simplistic. It’s true that the protagonist of Wit
does indeed die at the end; but it is much more than a simple
death; it is a movement to transcendence, above the pain and pet-
tiness of human life. The audience, despite being in the presence
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The Ending is the replacement of one transcendent value by a morally-

superior one.
This is probably the most important principle to understand when

it comes to a play’s ending. Human beings regard love as morally
superior to hatred. Equally, forgiveness and reconciliation are
morally superior to anger and vengeance. (Shakespeare thought
so too, for it’s his usual choice of tonalities to end on, especially
in his comedies.) As I explained earlier in this chapter, there are
many morally superior transcendent values which are also pow-
erful Universalisms that audiences respond to, and recognise the
‘rightness’ of such an ending. The most morally superior endings
are: Love; grief (especially when allied to an acceptance of loss);
forgiveness and compassion; wisdom (real or ironic); maturation
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of the few consolations of an unhappy, tragic ending); peace and
acceptance; freedom and release (e.g. from pain, or an abiding
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meaning. You decide which is best for your play’s ending.
The Ending often creates a feeling of ‘time to start over’.
As the ending of Butley indicated, sometimes a false life has to

be stopped in order for a truer one to resume—or to commence.
Starting over gives a powerful message to the audience: it tells
them that OLIHFDQEHUHFWL¿HGhowever costly it might be. Shake-
speare repeatedly leaves his audience with a feeling that a new
age (narratively embodied by kingship or marriage) has arrived.
Hinting at ‘the life we will lead tomorrow’ may be enough to
create a satisfying feeling in your audience of conclusion, heal-
ing and restoration. Embedding it in a clear dramatic (rectifying)
action, or in a new, healthier relationship will consolidate your
ending even more.
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$V,H[SODLQHGLQ&KDSWHUDSOD\¶VFOLPD[DQGLWV¿QDOUHVR-
lution can work in tandem to qualify and nuance the multiple
meanings and impressions you want to leave with your audience.
See it like this: if she wins in the Climax of the play, she loses
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these working together, you create one of modernity’s gifts to
our culture: the condition of Paradox. When you have paradox
present in your play’s ending, it’s very likely to be a rich conclu-
sion, because paradox is so central to our Western, rationalist
way of thinking. We are less of a religious faith-based culture
(and certainly less so than a century ago). What has partially
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the truth of your play. And they will accept this truth because it
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cal presence of other meanings and counter-motifs. Every rich
ending I can think of has a paradox at its core: Linda loses her
husband Willy Loman, but her last words are almost a song of
freedom, not least for Willy. Blanche is heading to an asylum,
but the sense of kindness and sorrow, release and transcendence
at her exit is astonishing—and paradoxical.
7KH(QGLQJLVWKHODVWVHFWLRQWREHµ¿[HG¶
Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth—or rather, the anxious re-

hearsal room—the world premiere of your play is arriving, and
the problem of the play’s ending is not yet solved. This is a com-
mon occurrence. Most plays need time, or even a second season,
before the perfect ending to the play emerges. It won’t make you
feel better to know this, but at least you’ve been warned. And by
then in the rehearsal period, you’ll have a lot of help in getting
the ending right. If anything I’ve said in this chapter helps, I’ll
be pleased. I’ll have a lot more to say on the realities of theatre
production in later chapters. For now, it’s time to take a trip in a
red phone box—into the Future.
339
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC STRUCTURE (V): NEW FORMAL POSSIBILITES FOR
THE 21ST CENTURY
To say that this brief chapter is speculative is an understatement. Not

VDWLV¿HGZLWKWKHXVXDODIWHUWKHHYHQWDQDO\VLVWKDWPRVWERRNVRQZULW-
ing indulge in (even Aristotle’s Poetics is a retrospective grab at dramatic
theory), in this chapter I go even further. As if my bravery or foolhardiness
knew no bounds, I will attempt to describe the nature and style of plays
still to be written.
As I stated at the outset, my primary concern is to blend two aesthet-
ics: humanism, with its tendency to represent¿FWLRQDOUHSUHVHQWDWLRQVRI
humanity in stories that ‘stand for something important’) and modernism,
with its interest in formal enquiries that are independent of any need for
‘pictorial humanism’. (If you’re still a little unsure of all this, see it like
this: theatrical modernism is very like the aesthetic of abstract expres-
sionism in painting, where painters like Jackson Pollock sought to create
painterly forms that didn’t have to present things like trees, still life or
human faces. The interest was in painterly patterns, colors, textures and
forms ‘for their own sake’.)
But it’s not just other art forms that can teach us how to write, or
how to be artists. Art is often a meditation on what is known. And since
we belong to the Western tribe of rationalists, from whom measurable
knowledge is crucial to our understanding of life, I propose, in this chap-
ter, to examine some concepts of modern science, to show how creatively
useful they will be (and in some cases, already are) for the writing of those
yet-to-be-written works of the 21st century.
Concept 1: NON-LOCALITY
,W¶VZHOONQRZQWKDWWKHEDVLVRIRXUVFLHQWL¿FNQRZOHGJHKDVPRYHG
from Newtonian physics to quantum physics. In the world that Isaac
Newton imagined, the world operated according to rational rules of cause
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Paul Pearsall, in his book, Making Miracles (Prentice-Hall, NY,
1991), examines quantum science for its new principles. For Pearsall,
non-locality is the central assumption of quantum mechanics, a branch
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HYHQWVRXWVLGHRIDVSHFL¿FWLPHDQGSODFH)RUH[DPSOHDPDQLQRQH
URRPPD\EHD൵HFWHGE\WKHDFWLRQVRIDZRPDQLQWKHQH[WEXLOGLQJ$
EXWWHUÀ\PLJKWVKDNHLWVZLQJVLQWKH$PD]RQDQGEHIRUHORQJWKHUH¶VD
tsunami hitting the east coast of Japan. Events can interact strangely on
each other without needing to be in the same place and time-zone. There
is a strange unity to the world, and that unity is not created by cause and
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7KDW¶VQLFH\RXWKLQNEXWKRZGRHVLWD൵HFWP\ZULWLQJ",FDQWKLQN
of two possible ways:
Create a narrative where simultaneous localities occur. (Char-

acter A speaks in one location, and is answered or echoed by B
in another. Weird you think? Actually, I’ve seen this in theatre
already, and it’s very exciting.)
Allow coincidence to play a bigger role in your plotting. (Movies
already use a lot of coincidence, but they either do it for comic
H൵HFWRULQWKULOOHUVDQGGUDPDVWKH\KRSH\RXGRQ¶WQRWLFHKRZ
many coincidences there are; for example, ever wondered why
villains always leave their car keys in the ignition, making it easy
for the hero to escape?) The type of coincidence I’m talking of
here is much more formalised: it’s all about using coincidence
thematically and formally, so you end up saying to the audience,
“Look at how the universe really operates!”
Concept 2: MICROSCOPIC REALITIES
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of many sub-realities. I touched upon this in the chapters on character,
where I described the many levels to a character: the physical/biological,
the sensual, sexual, psychological, emotional and cognitive.
Instead of just a causal, mechanistic world where reality can always
be explained, what about messing reality up a little? For example, what if
a character who only thought and spoke in images met up with a character
who expressed his reality mathematically (or through some other form of
intellectual abstraction)? What ‘rules for determining my reality’ would
operate in each of the characters? At the very least, their language and
V\QWD[ZRXOGEHPDUNHGO\GL൵HUHQW
Concept 3: SIMULTANEITY
Simultaneity is a statement about time. When two psychological

realities operate at once in a dramatic scene, you are telling the audience:
“Reality is multiple. Accept it or go mad.” You can do the same with time.
In the plays of the future, I can imagine any of the following occurring:
2QH FKDUDFWHU WDONLQJ DW D GL൵HUHQW VSHHG WR DQRWKHU DQG \HW
both making very clear sense.
'L൵HUHQW VFHQHV SOD\LQJ DW GL൵HUHQW WHPSRV 0RGHUQLVWV OLNH
Shakespeare do this already, but I can imagine a theatrical aes-
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tempos or speeds are part of the play’s structure.
Scenes which challenge the notion that ‘time always marches
forward’. If science no longer accepts this, why should drama-
tists? Imagine a theatrical scene (or whole play) which started
R൵LQµQRUPDOWLPH¶WKHQDWLWVKDOIZD\SRLQWVWRSSHGDQGSUR-
ceeded to go backwards. Shocking? No. Just challenging. But
not impossible. Such a thing was, in fact, done by Alban Berg
in his 1914-1922 opera, Wozzeck in the orchestral interlude of
Act Two. It goes forward, then, at the half-way point the music
goes backward to its starting point! Theatrical modernism has
a lot of catching up to do, compared to its musical counterpart.
Concept 4: A NEW RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN TELLING AND

SHOWING
Beginners in play writing are often advised, “Don’t tell us; show us!”
What the advisers mean is that generally, it’s better to dramatically show or
demonstrate (in dramatic action) an event/emotion/fact than simply ‘talk-
ing about it’. (And we’ve all slept through plays where all the characters
do is talk about their feelings and what they’d like to do.)
The truth is, however, this ‘rule’ is often misleading and wrong. For ex-
ample, a one-person show lives by the very opposite of that rule: “Don’t show,
tell.” The one-(wo)man play relies on an intimate ‘confessional relationship’
ZLWKWKHDXGLHQFHLQH൵HFWWKHDXGLHQFHEHFRPHVWKHVHFRQGFKDUDFWHUWRZKRP
secrets must be told. In addition, as no other character will enter, there does not
exist much chance for the dramatic acting out of facts and other plot information.
It’s not just in single-cast plays that the concept of ‘telling an audience’ is
vital. David Bordwell, in his book, Narration in the Fiction Film (University
of Wisconsin Press, 1985) compares two ways of communicating with an au-
dience. Mimetic narration presents a spectacle: it represents a scene; it shows
something to the audience. But what he calls a diegetic style of narration is
much more direct: it speaks directly to the audience (often quite literally); it
tells them a story and gives them plot information without having to re-enact it.
At the risk of encouraging a rash of inept, expository-heavy and over-
explained theatre, I will venture to say that, in this super-conscious age, a
new relationship can be found between the telling and the showing. Our
DJHLVWRRDZDUHRIWKHDUWL¿FHRIWKHDWUHDQGVWRU\WHOOLQJJHQHUDOO\WR
treat either as ‘real’. Theatre and stories are at their best when they are ar-
WL¿FLDO7KH\WKULYHDVFRQFHLWVDVPHWDSKRUVZKLFKVWDQGIRUUHDOLW\UDWKHU
than earnestly trying to be reality. To sound Wagnerian (a true modernist
in his time) the art-work of the future will have a shifting, unsettled and
unsettling relationship to the audience, requiring more of them, bringing
them in close to the action only to distance them again.
Concept 5: ENERGY AND THE RULE OF CHAOS
One of the principles of physics, old and new, is that energy, once
created, is never destroyed. It just goes somewhere else. But what about
theatrical energy? What happens to the spatial energy that is created
by a strong exchange between two pumped-up characters? Put simply,
the energy is maintained and increased by resistance. Character A says,
“Yes”; B says “NO!” Unstoppable force meets immoveable object. And
as the discussion in Chapter 7 on the spatial axis shows, the energy can
be sent in various directions, there to be received by an audience willing
to return the energy in the form of concentration. (Actors will tell you
that an attentive audience gives great energy to the performance space.)
But what is new about this? It applies equally well to traditional the-
atre. It is a question both of degree and kind. To truly represent the modern
world, chaos has to be built into your work in many ways: the chaos of
language (as a character struggles through the constrictions of language
to express a truth that is almost beyond words to express). The chaos of
character, where, instead of a character existing in a good/bad dualism,
he operates from a multiplicity of ‘selves’. (“Who are you tonight, Geof-
frey?”) The chaos of form, where no sooner is a plot issue settled than it
is subverted by new meanings.
To adopt this unsettling, restless aesthetic involves rejecting Platonic
LGHDOLVPWKDWLVZKHUHWKHUHDUH¿[HGVWDWHVVXFKDVµJRRGQHVV¶RUµWKH
ideal relationship’. In the writing of the future, even desired states such as
goodness will be simply waiting stations in a journey to another destina-
tion. The secret of chaos and its control lies in perpetual (self-)contradic-
tion.$FKDUDFWHUZLOOQRVRRQHUDUULYHDWKHUVHOIGH¿QLWLRQRIµWKHGHVLUHG
moral state’ than she is starting to qualify and contest it. If the stars and
the universe are in constant motion, why aren’t we? The fact is, we are.
It’s only dull theatre and soap-opera TV (with its need to reassure us of
the permanence of ‘universal values’) that tells us the opposite.
Does this mean that theatre must always be frantic and restless, like a
PHGLHYDOYLOODJHD൷LFWHGZLWK6W9LWXV¶'DQFH",W¶VWUXHWKDWHQHUJ\QHYHU
stops, but movement may. See it like this: a character who is completely
still is not without energy. The energy goes ‘down’ into some psychic
space within the character. The more profound the character, the deeper
WKHLQWHUQDOµSV\FKLFZHOO¶WKDWWKHFKDUDFWHUSHHUVLQWR,¿UVWGHYHORSHG
this idea while watching a performance of Beckett’s Endgame. It was as
if the characters were throwing (verbal) stones into the empty-but-endless
abyss of their own psyches, and waiting forever for the echo to come back
to them. Mostly it didn’t. There, in brief, is the modern condition.
Concept 6: THE STRUCTURE OF MIRACLES
Life is mysterious. At times we wish it weren’t so. But if we were cursed

HQRXJKWRJHWDOOWKDWZHZDQWHGZH¶G¿QGWKDWSDUWRIWKHEHDXW\RIOLIHKDG
vanished along with the uncertainties. For the secret of life consists of the fact
that life is secret, mysterious and can’t be fully understood. That is its ‘mean-
ing’. Having achieved consciousness (a million years ago), the human creature
ZDQWVWR¿QGDFRQVFLRXVQHVVEH\RQGLWVRZQDPHDQLQJWKDWZLOOH[SODLQKLV
her own meaning. Even if we discovered it, would our consciousness recognise
it? Or would it simply regard it all as a product of its own awareness?
What I am suggesting here is that ‘not knowing’ is both fundamental
to human life and theatre, and it is the old/new role of theatre to allow its
stories to become vehicles for meditating/wondering on life’s mysteries.
A ‘miracle’ is simply an event that cannot be explained by logic, (current)
science or common sense.
In other words, the dramatic work of the future will (I hope) build
P\VWHU\DQGDSSDUHQWPLUDFOHVLQWRLWVYHU\¿EUH%\WKLV,DPQRWDUJXLQJ
for a type of deus ex machina where, at play’s end, all stand around in awe
at life’s sacred unfathomability. (Maeterlinck and others have already been
there and done that, and have the Symbolist T-shirt to prove it.) What I am
suggesting is that playwrights ‘build’ non-rational events into their work:
think of the non-rational language of Ionesco; the irrational violence of
Shepard; the hysteria-beyond-the-psychological of Sarah Kane.
In your writing, ask yourself, “What is there in this work of mine that
is non-rational, intuitive, subliminal, inexplicable, mysterious?” If there
is simply ‘something else’ to a particular relationship; if there is a strange
and too-frequent-to-be-accidental coincidence or synchronicity in your
plot, you may well be on the right track.
Concept 7: THE STOCK-TAKING OF TIME AND MATTER
It’s well known that a principle aesthetic concern (almost a cliché by

now) in modern dance is ‘to investigate/interrogate space’. This slightly
pretentious notion (at least in its usual verbal formulations) has at its
heart a very 21st century concern: that the materials of an art form must
be explored every bit as much as the content those materials express.
What are the materials of theatre? The humanist outlook says that “Plays
are about people and the lives they lead”. Knowing people involves knowing
human psychology. That is useful, but as the book has tried to indicate, it’s
incomplete. Modernist aesthetics demand that we investigate other materials
equally vital to the creation of contemporary theatre: space, time and matter.
The Investigation of Matter
What is the nature of physical matter? In my view, matter is sys-

tematised, organised and collated by a fearful human consciousness in
RUGHUWRVWDYHR൵WHUURUVERWKSK\VLFDODQGPHQWDO%HFNHWWNQRZVWKLV
Look at Winnie’s itemising of the material state of her world in Happy
Days. For a character to simply state the contents of her material universe
URRPR൶FHFXSERDUGDQ\VSDFHVKHRZQVEHJLQVWKLVSURFHVV³.QRZ
me, know my wardrobe” is the dictate here. A character is the sum of his
wallet. A woman pours her soul into her purse, and the following tips out
from a single purse (as witnessed by Paul Sheehan in The Sydney Morning
Herald, of 16th Sept, 2002):
“Notes and coins totalling $272.60; two credit cards, six plastic
membership cards; a cheque book; a mobile phone (containing
an unknown number of stored phone numbers); a plastic card
holder with three bank cards; two doctors’ bills (for Medicare);
D)O\%X\VFDUGDUHVWDXUDQWPDWFKER[¿YHSD\VOLSVEXVL-
ness cards; a mini-spiral notepad; an ear piece for mobile phone
(still in sealed plastic bag); a glasses case containing one pair of
glasses; an address book; a hair brush; 30 owner’s business cards;
a newspaper clipping with address of antique shop; 10 pens; a free
breast-screening coupon; a prescription; a tax invoice statement; a
health brochure; a receipt for an Afghan war rug; two dry-cleaning
discount coupons; a family history society membership booklet.”
On a broader level of space-cum-matter-investigation, consider the

following, from Beckett’s one-time employer, James Joyce in the later
pages of Ulysses:
In what directions did the listener and narrator lie?
Listener, S.E. by E.; Narrator, N.W. by W.; on the 53rd parallel of latitude,
N. and 6th meridian of longitude, W.; at an angle of 45o to the terrestrial
equator.
In what state of rest or motion?
At rest relatively to themselves and to each other. In motion being each

and both carried westward, forward and rearward respectively, by the
proper perpetual motion of the earth through everchanging tracks of
neverchanging space.
In what posture?
Listener: reclined semi-laterally, left, left hand under head, right leg extend-
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ULJKWDQGOHIWOHJVÀH[HGWKHLQGH[¿QJHUDQGWKXPERIWKHULJKWKDQGUHVWLQJ
on the bridge of the nose, in the attitude depicted on a snapshot photograph
made by Percy Apjohn, the childman weary, the manchild in the womb.
Womb? Weary?
He rests. He has travelled.
In this excerpt, the material, spatial and geographic world are trav-
elled, measured and delimited, right down to a photography shop in
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Name, in order to tame.
The Investigation of Time.
Time can be investigated (that is, creatively explored) in any number

of ways:
Like matter, it can be itemised, literally. I stumbled upon this

in my play Kafka Dances, when the newly-energised Franz
Kafka seeks to re-order his spiritual universe. To do this, he
starts with the temporal:
FRANZ: I’ve drawn up a plan for our married life. She’s right. I can be
anything I want: Writer, shopkeeper, insurance agent, factory man-
ager, husband, father, lover, human being. It simply needs organisa-
tion. And lists… Tell me what you think: 6.05am, rise, exercise and
wash, with optional ten-minute period for Hebrew, violin or dancing
practise; 6.30, breakfast with Felice, plus conversation appropriate
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HYDQWSDSHUVGRFXPHQWVDQGIUXLWIRUOXQFKOHDYHIRUR৽FH
The speeding up or slowing down of an action. (Even in tra-

ditional theatre, think of how comedy uses slowed-down and
diverted time to milk the audience for laughs, as, for example,
when a shy male proposes marriage to a woman, and does so at
a tortuous pace.)
A permanent state where time is never what you’d expect. For
example, Japanese Noh theatre stylises its time: everything
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your average busy Western social comedy. A Noh performance
I once saw involved a child crying. The parent went to attend
the child. This simple action, amazingly, took 30 minutes, but in
that time, the facial gestures and hand movements of the actor/
parent changed slowly but surely to many ambivalent states:
was the hand being raised to help the child or to kill it? Is that
slowly-changing mask the face of a loving parent or a rage-
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down the ordinary social tempo of an action revealed its many
hidden facets.
The overlay of several simultaneous tempos (as discussed
above in the section on simultaneity.)
In short, even as theatre tells a story, it can be holding a mirror to

other phenomenological aspects of our universe: time, matter and space
(geographical, astronomical or internal). A story that you thought was
simply about a lonely woman and her lover can end up being a much big-
ger statement about the nature of the universe we all live in. A great play
has the spaciousness of astronomy and the forensic integrity of science.
We could do worse than start with these disciplines if we really want our
SOD\ZULWLQJWRUHÀHFWPRGHUQLW\DQGLWVEHJXLOLQJFRPSOH[LWLHV
347
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
DRAMATIC STRUCTURE (VI): A THEORY OF EVERYTHING
In this chapter, I’ll attempt the impossible. I’ll try and put all the
previous structural theories into an over-riding general theory, against
which you can examine your developing playwriting.
This theory is misnamed, of course. It can’t include absolutely ev-
erything. It won’t change your life, or help you to start your car in the
morning, but it may give your work two extra dimensions—ambition, and
comprehensiveness. The desire to say and be everything, in a single work,
or, to paraphrase Mahler’s words, “to put an entire world into every work.”
But this is not a cosmological statement. Principally, the theory that
follows is a statement of form. I have found it useful not just for multi-
linear structural analysis, but also when clarifying problems in less linear,
modernist texts.
/HWPH¿UVWVWDWHZKDWIRUPLVnot. It’s possible to parody multi-linear
structural principles like this: “Start with a central protagonist (main character).
That protagonist has a goal. To achieve this goal, the protagonist develops a
plan. In carrying out the plan, s/he meets obstacles, both inner and outer. A
FKDQJHRIGLUHFWLRQLVXVXDOO\LQYROYHGDVLVFRQÀLFWKLJKVWDNHVDQGZKHUH
appropriate, comic relief. After much struggle, the goal is achieved (or not),
and the protagonist has learned a great deal in the meantime.”
The problem with this linear theory is not that it’s untrue. Years ago
I remember desperately holding on to such truths in order to learn my
dramatic craft. The problem is that the description is incomplete, and ulti-
mately, external to drama. That is, it describes things not uniquely related
to drama and its relationship to an audience. The struggle described above
could also be said of many things in life: relationships, career paths, even
the search for a bank loan.
In expounding the following, I owe a debt to Francis Fergusson’s great
book on theatre, The Idea of a TheaterZKLFK¿UVWLQWURGXFHGPHWRWKH
concept of theatre as ritual. In this book, Fergusson wrote about Greek
drama and its merging of theatre and religion, resulting in the ritualising
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1. PURPOSE
2. PASSION
3. PERCEPTION.
The central character has a driving purpose. In the carrying out of this
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DQGWKRVHKHD൵HFWV$WWKHHQGRIWKLVVX൵HULQJJUHDWDQGGHHSLQVLJKW
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individual ‘who caused all the trouble’, but on the place of humankind in
the world, in the universe. Form meets character to create a cosmology.
(Hollywood—and much theatre— used to treat cosmology as a given; but
both, fortunately, are changing)
8VLQJ)HUJXVVRQ¶VPRGHODVDEDVLV,R൵HUWKHIROORZLQJIRXUSDUW
formal theory. My four phases rely on the unfolding or revealing of four
states of being. This ‘being-ness’ relates not to personal psychology but
to the state of the world that the characters live in.
These four states or levels are:
1. THE ORDINARY
2. THE EXTRAORDINARY
3. THE ASTONISHING
4. THE TRANSCENDENT.
Let’s take them one by one.
LEVEL 1. THE ORDINARY
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some ‘equivalence to reality’. That is, life is fairly normal. The world
of the play is fairly close to the world the audience has come from
before sitting down to watch the play. Characters may not be mirror
images of either the audience and our society, but there is a degree of
correspondence. Where there is little or no correspondence— eg, in
plays set on Mars, or set on an enchanted island, like The Tempest, the
playwright is simply upping the ante, putting more pressure on his pen
to treat the abnormal as normal. The next three phases still apply. In
other cases, like Molière’s great comedies, the Ordinary has already
been disrupted for some time by the Extraordinary. (eg, even before
WKHSOD\VWDUWV7DUWX൵HKDVEHHQGHVWDELOLVLQJWKHKRXVHKROGIRUVRPH
time with his religious dictates.)
LEVEL 2. THE EXTRAORDINARY
Very soon (or much later, in a bad play) the ordinary world is dis-
rupted. The world is hijacked by an event, a character, or a situation. The
H൵HFWLVVRPHWLPHVLPPHGLDWHDQGGHHSDQGDWRWKHUWLPHVLWJURZVDQG
seeps into the root structure of the play like poison. In Ibsen, characters
return from other countries, or the past, to disturb the unstable-but-bearable
bourgeois life of the characters. In Shakespeare, an Iago works his poison
PHWKRGLFDOO\DQGH൵HFWLYHO\2UDQHPRWLRQOLNHDPELWLRQVWDUWVWRZRUN
its dark magic on a good man like Macbeth. In Wagner (a dramatist who
should be studied by playwrights) Tristan and Isolde decide to die, but
instead, they drink a love potion which instantly, ecstatically, reveals to
them (and the audience) the tired mirage known as ‘the real world.’
One simple precept tests whether or not your play has moved into
this second stage of the Extraordinary: ie, that after the initial disturbance
(of a character, incident etc) then nothing will be the same again. Things
have drastically changed, even if they seem to remain the same in the eyes
of some of the characters. If things are not deeply altered, or if they do
proceed as before, except with ‘a bit more tension’, then it is highly likely
that your play has not reached this second level of being.
APPLYING THE 4-PLATEAU THEORY TO THE TWO-ACT PLAY
LEVEL 3. THE ASTONISHING
I have sat and even slept through many theatrical evenings where play-
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and accordingly, for the rest of the evening, have kept their plays on the
previous level, that of the Extraordinary. But the great dramatists are not
VRHDVLO\VDWLV¿HG+DYLQJUHDFKHGDOHYHORIVLJQL¿FDQFHDQGWHQVLRQ
danger and emotional intensity) with the Extraordinary, they proceed to
amaze both characters and audience with a series of incidents, events or
developments that take the play to an even higher level.
At this amazing level, high comedy, grotesquery and tragedy often mix in
a dazzling display of drama. As the climactic battle approaches, Richard III is
becoming more and more grotesque; the mad comedy of Mark Antony trying
to kill himself; events whirl around the head of Karsten Bernick, the central
character (and villain) of Ibsen’s Pillars of Society, occurring at a dazzling
and near-comic speed; while in Equus the savage ritualism and psychological
pain of the boy’s revelations are nearing the peak of their intensity.
It’s my belief that Shakespeare extends this third level as long as
possible, in the process slightly shortening the fourth, as well as also
delivering the fourth transcendent level in a few choice moments at
crucial points during the third. eg: Macbeth’s “tomorrow and tomor-
row” speech, or Horatio’s heart-breaking farewell to the dead Ham-
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and ritualistic endings.
Which brings us to the last level.
LEVEL 4. THE TRANSCENDENT, or the Triumph of the Metaphysical
This level is not just where the play’s summatory meanings occur, or
ZKHUHWKHUHODWLRQVKLSVUHDFKWKHLU¿QDOGHVWLQDWLRQEHLWFRQVXPPDWLRQ
or death. It’s a lot more than that. This level is where the play transcends
the materiality of its own origins, and rises above the grimy, bloody, sor-
did level that so much of the story was probably stuck in. At this point,
usually after the narrative climax, a new world is often announced (as in
many of Shakespeare’s plays), or the old is abjured (as in The Tempest),
or a more just and fairer state is promised (involving restoration of some
sort), or else, at the very least, awareness has been gained, at much cost. To
understand, to ‘know thyself’ is Oedipus’ reward for his mostly-admirable
H൵RUWV2FFDVLRQDOO\DYLVLRQRIKHOOLVWKHUHZDUGDVLQ,EVHQ¶VGhosts)
for the character’s strivings. It’s not just a matter of plot or the notion of
a character’s journey. To become more conscious is a constant goal in our
lives. To achieve it is to become supremely human.
7KDWWKHQLVP\YLHZRIGUDPDWLFIRUPDOEHLWYHU\EULHÀ\H[SUHVVHG
Where does it leave us writers? Let me be cruel for a moment, or
rather, let me be as cruel as an average audience, and ask this: How often
do we see anything like the above set of creative ambitions in American,
British or Australian theatre? The reasons are complex; to put it perhaps too
simply, I’d say that the basically rationalist, English-speaking cultures of
those three countries avoid metaphysics and transcendentalism. Or rather,
humanist theatre creates a transcendentalism-of-sorts in the sentimental
ending. And the modernist aesthetic often creates a grotesque, or Gothic
HQGLQJ1HLWKHULVVX൶FLHQW
Regardless of which aesthetic you come from, getting to this fourth
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dozen or so plays I’ve written. The failure rate is very high. Amazing work
LVDPD]LQJO\KDUG7KXVLIDQ\RIWKHIROORZLQJVSHFL¿FVXJJHVWLRQVKHOS
you in reducing your own failure rate, then I’ll be delighted.
Here are nine ideas to start you thinking.
1. Make your Ordinary world as unstable, as emotionally volatile as

possible—
2. Or else, get it disturbed as quickly as possible.
3. Make the impact of disturbance (the bad news, the unexpected visi-
tor, the psychic shock, the sudden realisation) as large and deep as
possible. Let its implications grow like a shock wave, and make it
wreak havoc on young and old, innocent and guilty.
4. Push your characters to the limit. The British critic Kenneth Tynan
said that characters should be driven to desperation. Better that than
the middle-class chat-show which sometimes passes for character
development in our theatre.
5. Imbue the world of the characters with size, stature, and moral com-
plexity, so that when this world totters it’s also a shock (and a threat)
to the theatre audience watching it. A world full of idiots, or of social
stereotypes, or of ‘typical’ people with nothing to lose is not worth
dramatising—or watching.
6. Make one or more of the characters close enough to the audience’s own
view of itself so it can identify with these characters. This is not so the
audience can ‘like them’. It’s really to give the audience no easy option
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being able to say “Thank goodness I’m nothing like them!”
7. Methodically estimate every horrible thing (inner and outer) that can
happen to the characters... and then make it happen! That’s called
plotting.
8. Make the events of the play so fast that a type of Bergsonian comedy
emerges (ie, characters turned puppet-like, or machine-like by the
speed of events). As I indicated above, Shakespeare does this. The
irony is that characters are rarely so human as when their humanity
is turning grotesque and parodic.
9. Decide what level of transcendence is available, possible and desir-

able for your characters and the world of your play. Many are pos-
sible—peace, forgiveness, reconciliation, a healing, an understanding,
the releasing power of truth, justice returning, the painful vulnerability
of honest and open love, or the full human stature of accepting total
responsibility.
353
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
UNDERSTANDING THE AUDIENCE (II): THE TWO LARGEST
AUDIENCES FOR THEATRE
Something happens to us as we age. We change. It doesn’t just hap-

pen to us in thousands of small ways, on a daily basis. Underneath the
surface, major changes are happening which we sometimes do not notice
until others—or Life—point it out.
In this chapter, I want to raise an area that’s rarely examined—the
multiple and diverse nature of our audiences. We blithely speak of ‘the
audience’, as if it’s a single monolithic unit, having only one response,
and acting in unison. The truth is much more complex. Some plays (for
example, David Mamet’s Oleanna) actually set out to divide their audi-
ence; other plays try to unify them in the same set of feelings and responses
(the hard-working Broadway musicals come to mind here.)
There are lots of ways you can work on an audience, but in this
chapter I want to raise a more fundamental point: that there are two basic
audiences in our contemporary theatre culture.
AGE 35: THE WATERSHED YEAR IN HUMAN DEVELOPMENT
I’ve already said elsewhere in the book that I’m not a behavioral
psychologist. The following observations are just that: observations, based
upon many years of studying audiences. Feel free to agree or disagree.
Here is my basic position.
As we grow and become socialised by the many experiences that
life and our society gives us, we absorb them and use them to form our
tentative views about the world.
/LIHEHIRUHLVH[FLWLQJSDUWO\EHFDXVHLW¶V¿OOHGZLWKH[SHULHQFHV
that are totally new to us. Our bodies change massively in our teens and
twenties. We are learning how to live, how to love, how to learn, how to
JHWDMRELQD¿HOGWKDWH[FLWHVXV,W¶VIXQH[FLWLQJDQGVFDU\
Fortunately, the nervous system of a young man or woman is amaz-
ingly strong, compared with older people. Younger people can undertake
the extraordinary ‘apprenticeships’ needed (in life, love, learning, work,
play, sex) to gain mastery in the ways of the world, and they can do this
because in most cases their nervous system is extremely strong. The nerve
endings in our bodies are more robust at this age. They are thicker and
stronger. All this has been medically proven. This means that not only can
the younger person take more sensory stimulation without damage—but
they actually demand it! In other words, having a stronger nervous sys-
tem means that a younger audience wants a theatrical experience (true
with their music also) that pushes their nervous systems to the limit; and
because the limits of their nervous systems are higher, they accordingly
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After the age of 35, however, in most cases, we’ve gained some
mastery of life’s rules; we’ve partnered, and our career path, while
still insecure, is at least a little clearer, the on-going revolution in work
notwithstanding. This is not to imply that all problems are over, or even
solved. But gradually, over time, we become less addicted to the sensual,
social, physical and intellectual levels that so excited us in our optimistic
twenties, when so much was new, fresh and amazing—partly because
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seen in my mid-twenties were an extraordinary experience for me, which
nothing has since recaptured. It was as if I were being shown a brave new
world, that had such characters in it.)
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our tastes start to change. While we still enjoy entertainment as much
as ever, we also start looking for a depth that once we might never have
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less astonishes us, because we’ve seen a lot of it before. It’s not that it
gets stale. It’s just that it now needs to be saying more than the obvious.
Talking of the obvious, I should state what I hope is also obvious
to you: that this watershed age of 35 I am discussing here is only ap-
proximate. It’s not as if every human being, at midnight on the eve of
their 35th ELUWKGD\ VXGGHQO\ ¿QGV KLPVHOI WUDQVIRUPHG LQWR VRPHWKLQJ
unrecognisable. Life is much more cunning and subtle than that. But by
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from the person we were during our twenties. Or perhaps we have added
OHYHOVWRRXUDOUHDG\FRPSOH[QDWXUH0\RZQYLHZLVWKDWHYHU\¿YHWR
seven years we add another thin layer of ‘self’ to our psyche. It does not
replace the previous levels—it adds to them. In any case, the layers are
QRWHYHQO\VWUDWL¿HG,W¶VPRUHOLNHWKRVHMDUVRIVDQGRUGL൵HUHQWFRORXUHG
beans you see in stores—all neatly arranged in horizontal levels. But then,
Life comes along, and shakes the jar up, and like a kaleidoscope, you see
bits from all the levels at once. From your childhood. From your twenties.
Pieces from everywhere, still on display for all the world to see.
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has implications for us as writers for those audiences. The older we get,
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THEATRICAL TASTES OF THE TWO GENERATIONS
What follows is necessarily general. My only suggestion is that you

test this against your own experience and insights. If I am even half-right,
then it’s something worth considering, as there’ll be implications for your
theatre writing. What I’ve discussed below I’ve also summarised in the
Table on pages 357 and 358.
Theatrical Forms
Under 35: Younger audiences prefer their theatre to be short, sharp, furi-
ous and intense. Their tastes run from short, sitcom-like plays to very
demanding ninety-minute plays. I’ve seen young audiences sit riveted
by works about important themes as well as laugh themselves silly
at a crazy-slight comedy. But the crucial aspect to realise is that they
usually prefer it in one sitting, without an interval. They will socialise
after the show, rather than during it.
Over 35: Older audiences, on the other hand, having usually seen a lot
more theatre in their life-time, tend to grow out of a preference for
the bedlamic. They prefer a story that is coherent, nuanced, full of
rich interconnected levels of meaning. They have also grown beyond
an immature rejection of multi-linear narrative, because they have
learned that reality (which is the basis of realist narrative) has much
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audiences sometimes see it as.
In the case of audiences over 35 years of age, they also like the
long one-act play which may run up to ninety minutes. But they are not
against an interval, especially if the work was written with an interval
in mind. Older audiences have no abiding interest in short work, not
least because the younger writers who tend to dominate this form also
tend to concentrate on the concerns of the young adult years (love, sex,
dating, romance, anxiety, self-esteem). The taste of under-35 audiences
regarding play styles and other formal aspects is surprisingly wide. They
like theatre that is short, disruptive and chaotic, hybrid in its selection
of theatrical techniques. Equally, they will also accept a very conserva-
tive play if it is dealing with very serious themes. (For more on that,
see below).
Philosophy
Under 35: Few would claim that being young is easy. Even in times of
peace and plenty, the pains and strains of growing up in American
society are real. What young adolescents go through in a single
year (say, from ages 16-17) in physical, psychological and social
terms is more strenuous and demanding than a decade’s worth of
mid-life development. No wonder younger people’s mood swings
wildly. Mine did. One minute I was on top of the world. The next,
I felt I was in hell. This creates a preference for certain philosophi-
cal trends and fashions. Younger audiences like stories and plays
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and Brutalist. If anything, the philosophy of the young has darkened
in recent years and become more pessimistic. When I began writ-
ing in my late 20s, the dominant ‘young’ philosophy of the time
was Surrealism. In the new 21st century, the Gothic predominates,
making the earlier Surrealism seem almost innocent in comparison.
Over 35: Older, over-35 audiences are calmer, but often sadder and wiser.
7KHLUSKLORVRSK\ZKLOHJHQHUDOO\RSWLPLVWLFDQGOLIHD൶UPLQJLV
also very accepting of the role of the Tragic. Being statistically
closer to life’s end, they know that even good things come to an
end. A quite realistic story will move them, especially if, to quote
from the Alcoholics’ Anonymous prayer, it involves them having
the courage to accept what cannot be changed.
Aesthetic
Under 35: As I’ve indicated in the last paragraph, the under 35-audience
LVERWKPRUHHFVWDWLFDQGPRUHSHVVLPLVWLF7KLVLVUHÀHFWHGDOVR
in their aesthetic, which is closely tied to their preferred philoso-
phies. Thus, a Gothic philosophy (which accepts that life is/can be
a brutal, hellish, random and nasty business) creates an aesthetic
which allows those dark and brutal elements into the stories and
plays of this age group.
Over 35: But the calmness—even resignation—of older audiences cre-
ates an aesthetic which allows for more balance, and a more nuanced
and textured response to life and the stories which tell this audience
about what it is to be alive. Like all the aspects described here, this
is something you can either cater to—or subvert.
TABLE 9: THEATRE UNDER 35 VS THEATRE OVER 35

A COMPARATIVE TABLE
Characterization
Under 35: People under 35 years of age haven’t lived that long. It’s
not their fault. It’s actually one of their great strengths. But it
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people from the outside. Understanding both people and the world
even less than older people (who may also be mistaken), younger
people see life as a type of circus, a freak-show and a wonderful
carnival of incidents. In other words, they are voyeurs—espe-
cially if they’re by nature introverted. Because in most cases they
haven’t progressed to the highest levels of society yet, they have
a particular interest in outsiders, in fringe dwellers, in marginal
characters. Their response to life is visceral, and that’s how they
like their drama.
Over 35: Older people have progressed further up (and down) the
many ladders that society puts in front of us. Because theatre
is an expensive art-form, its audience tends to be more affluent
than the norm. So plays which deal with affluence, power, status,
materialism have a particular resonance for older people, either
because they have achieved all this—or because they wanted to.
Being less interested in theatre effect, they prefer stories that
allow them to ‘be on stage’, and therefore prefer a vicarious
relationship to the characters in the drama (i.e. ‘That woman
on stage is me’).
Relationship to money & power
Under 35: As I implied in the previous paragraph, younger people are

usually less wealthy than their parents, so their relationship to money,
status and power is more ambivalent. Plays which mock the wealth
that many people aspire to can be especially attractive, not least be-
cause it questions materialism, and caters to the strong idealism that
we so often have when we’re young.
Over 35: With age usually comes some wealth, success, status and mate-
rial goods, which allows older people to have a more nuanced, less
rejectionist approach to the materially good things in life. It’s an unfair
world, and the meek don’t always inherit the earth. People over 35
have learned this, and can tolerate a great amount of criticism of the
life they have achieved. Outright mockery is not tolerated (because
it’s seen as a shallow reading of life’s complexity), but legitimate
questions are usually welcomed.
Comedy & Comic Forms
Under 35: I’ll make a provocative statement: that younger audiences prefer
comedy to truth. What this means is that exaggeration, grotesquerie
and cynical/satirical impact have their own truth and power, and are
preferred to comic styles which are more sober and ‘fairer’ to all
sides of the question.
Over 35: With older audiences, however, comedy tends to be less impor-
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mysteries of human life. Where comedy is most enjoyed, it is either
because it is one of those very clear theatrical genres (for example,
farce) or because it is allied to a broader dramatic intention than
simply ‘being funny’.
Politics
It’s a broad truth that many people get more politically conservative
as they age. This is not innately a good thing in itself—any more
than the opposite tendency, which is for young people to be more
politically radical than their elders. I’ve yet to see a play written by
a young writer which was not on the political liberal/Left in some
way. It might be a near-anarchist hard left position, like Fatboy by
John Clancy, or it might be more on the soft left, socially progressive,
let’s-improve-the-system position. Being left-wing or liberal is so
common among playwrights that a British theatre director recently
asked, only half in jest, “Where are all the right-wing plays?” What
it means for us theatre writers is that we need to be aware of these
tendencies, even if only to subvert them. I’ll have more to say on
the political and social beliefs of our audiences in the next chapter.
Use of theatre space
Under 35: It is not possible to generalise on a single ‘type’ here. Plays

for a younger audience may be quite conservative in their use of a
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Kane play I discussed in Chapter 1 is a good example of the latter.
A designer would be excited by the chance to create something ‘out
of nothing’. A tabula rasa approach tends to excite contemporary
designers. They will often say to us theatre writers, “You create the
world (of your play), and I’ll create the theatre space for it.”
Over 35: 7KH \RXQJ LQÀXHQFH WKH ROG²HYHQ ZKHQ WKH\ DUH UHVLVWHG
7KHDWUHGHVLJQHUVDUHEHJLQQLQJWRD൵HFWERWKWKHSOD\VWKDWROGHU
audiences watch, as well as the older audiences themselves. But at
this historical moment, it’s still possible to say that the majority of
plays for older audiences are ‘locational’ in some way. That is, they
create a built world, which is more socialised than symbolic. It is not
‘anywhere’, it is a place you could actually visit in your car. Google
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August, Osage County is both a symbolic world, and set in a real place.
This didn’t prevent the many U.S. and international productions of
the play from relishing in the multi-level set possibilities that came
from setting the play in a house in rural Oklahoma.
Dramatic/Spatial tones
Under 35: I discussed the notion of ‘theatre tone’ and ‘temperature’ in

Chapter 23. Wherever I speak about ‘spatial tones’, or ‘spatial tem-
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that it’s not widely understood. Re-read that chapter if you’re still
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spatial temperature. Very chilly; or very hot. They like to be blasted
with intensity because, as I’ve said, their nervous systems can take it.
Over 35: Older audiences generally prefer a more nuanced, usually calmer
manifestation of dramatic and spatial tones. In particular, they prefer
the tone to emanate from the realism and psychology of the story,
rather than as a manifestation of a theatrical phenomenon in itself.
Preferred theatre ideologies
Under 35: It’s tempting to say that ‘all young people are modernists’.
But it’s not that simple, because what modernism ‘is’ changes every
decade. When I was falling in love with theatre in the 1980-1990’s,
the dominant and progressive theatre ideologies were Absurdism,
Surrealism and the Carnivalesque. Since at least 2000, the dominant
theatre aesthetic has been the Gothic, in any of its forms.
Over 35: It’s fair to say that the dominant and preferred theatre ideologies
of our current audiences at the start of the 21st century are Realism,
Naturalism and Humanism. Like it or not, that’s what the vast majority
of the successful plays for this generation are based on. As I’ve said
before, feel free to change or challenge this; but it helps if you know
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Preferred theatres
All theatres have ‘house styles’. A house style is created by the plays
that they tend to produce, based on a single style or a mixture of
aesthetics and commercial needs. Some theatres produce only one
type of play. Others produce a ‘balanced season’, full of variety in
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Florida, asking me if I had a play with a pro-family, Christian theme
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produce. Do they cater for an older audience? Or a younger one? Are
they trying to appeal to both? Some theatres will only produce new
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How they use plot
Under 35: Ingenious and intricate plotting does not tend to be either
characteristic or strongly desired by the under 35 audience and their
writers. This does not mean that work enjoyed by younger audi-
ences is plotless. What excites younger audiences is an audacious,
bold or bizarre world (often a Gothic one) where whatever happens
is extraordinary. Sensational incident is more important than inter-
connected incident, and the ‘logic’ of plot is not as important as the
spectacular and sensory impact of that plot. Additionally, Performa-
tive States (covered in Chapter 12) have a more structural role than
in work for older audiences. Finally, it’s worth noting in passing that
younger writers and their audiences tend not to need a narratively
satisfying ending to their theatre. It can simply stop. I’m tempted to
say that endings, to a young audience, have less impact than starts
and middles. They’re much closer to the start and middle of their own
lives in all its strangeness and excitement, and there is little need to
understand what life and its stories mean ‘as a whole’. This is not
an encouragement to younger writers not to bother with their play-
endings; simply a suggestion to concentrate on making the world of
the play amazing, and let the ending look after itself.
Over 35: With the older generation of theatre-goers, on the contrary, I’d
suggest that an interest in the power, meaning and aesthetic perfection
of a play’s ending is paramount. It’s not simply that older audiences
have experienced more of life (and they have); it’s also true that they
have usually seen a lot more theatre than younger people. They are less
impressed by ‘tricks’, or claims that ‘This theatre work is re-inventing
the wheel’. Fashions and ‘innovations’ recur, almost cyclically, so a
concentration of richness and coherence of meaning is probably more
important than any alleged ‘newness of message’. And it’s in a play’s
ending that meaning, or ‘What it all adds up to’, is most on display.
Use of the Fs
Under 35: The love of sensational impact and excitement in our younger
audiences is clear, but what’s not so clear are the implications for
us as theatre writers. I’ve already discussed the role of F-Buttons
(covered in Chapter 5), so I’ll state what I believe to be the dominant
buttons that excite younger theatre audiences: they are the buttons of
Fury, Frenzy, Fatalism, Fear, and yes, our reliable companion called
(euphemistically) Desire. In milder work, the Frisson button is use-
ful, too, especially when allied to the weird/funny agonies of love,
sex, courting, dating and marriage. Young audiences tend to oscillate
between agony and ecstasy in several aspects of their emotional and
social lives; this makes them highly receptive to a theatre dynamic
which does much the same.
Over 35: Contrary to the beliefs of some younger people, older folk don’t
stop living or enjoying their lives once they reach maturity and be-
yond. But the sensations are both less intense and less histrionic in
their expression. What replaces sensation and nervous intensity is a
deepening sense of the sadness and the tragic in life. Thus, stories
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a response in older audiences. But so does Fun.
Use of the ‘R-E-M’ levels
Under 35: This 3-level narrative theory of mine is discussed in Chapter

17, but it’s worth re-stating that, in general, a dynamic, sense-based
theatre is the natural preference of younger audiences. This means that
more emphasis is placed upon the E (Emotional) and the M (Meta-
physical) than the R (Realistic). The desire, when young, to ‘make
a great noise’—to see the world, conquer the world, challenge the
world, or at the very least, to understand the world—all this creates
a quasi-metaphysical ambition in the young audience for theatre that
‘makes us see the Big Picture’.
The big exception to this general trend is in the area of comedy, where
what I call ‘social comedy’ is of fundamental importance to people under
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generation. In this case, the R-level in characterization is crucial: the detail
of the characters’ lives, where they work, what they do on weekends,
their fashion-sense, political views and attitudes to money—all this detail
allows an audience to see itself on stage, and to have its concerns dra-
matized. Thus, a (probably dark) comedy might be set in New York, and
deal entirely with the lives, loves and loneliness of a group of ambitious
young men and women who have all the money they want, but hardly
much else. That’s probably a Metaphysical statement in itself, but it’s
clothed in much social, emotional and realistic detail.
Over 35: The situation for older audiences is a little more complicated.
In the best mature theatre, there is a rich blend of R, E and M, but in
practise, there tends to be more focus on R and E. This means that real-
istic detail tends to be important because older audiences have learned
that everyday reality is complex and worth taking seriously. Equally,
psychological detail (the E-level) and the fascinating complexity of
humans and their intricate and often-contradictory behavior—this
tends to be a vital part of the plays that older audiences enjoy.
Relationship to reality
Under 35: Younger audiences enjoy plays that have an obviously complex
relationship to reality, and not just because they’ve had fewer years of
it. The 20th century has acculturated us to accept multiple realities. Even
when there is a ‘clear’, everyday reality, the aesthetic preference of
younger audiences is for plays that ‘do something to shake up the reality’.
The plays of Sarah Kane, and Caryl Churchill, for example, tend to be
DUWL¿FHVWKDWGRQ¶WUHÀHFWUHDOLW\VRPXFKDVWUDQVIRUPLWVHYHUHO\SDUD-
doxicalise it, or even make its reality grotesque, Gothic and monstrous.
Over 35: Generalisation is not really possible here, for it depends on the
story type, the theatrical genre and many other factors. The only
half-valid thing I can say is that, in general, older audiences prefer
more realism in their narrative worlds, along with characters (and
their authors) who take that realism seriously.
Relationship to morality & ethics
Under 35: In general, younger audiences have a preference for theatre work
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of worlds which live entirely without it. This is not to imply that audi-
ences under 35 have no interest in morality or ethical questions. In
fact, if anything, it’s the reverse. A burning desire to change the world,
which we all tend to have when young, usually translates into a desire to
challenge and ‘interrogate’ the moral norms which make up the world;
plays which deal with urgent moral questions—even by presenting
abnormal or anti-morality—are often appreciated by these audiences.
Over 35: Rightly or wrongly (with no pun intended), older audiences tend
to believe that they have worked out the fundamental moral principles
by which people and society should live. But this does not mean
that the moral basis of this type of theatre is unquestioned. On the
contrary, the ‘moral point’ of many plays for this audience actually
shows the inadequacy of such moral principles, and how life, time
and circumstances intervene to throw up “more mysteries than are
dreamt of in (our) philosophies”, as Hamlet almost says.
Use of dramatic language
Under 35: If there is one area of contemporary theatre that divides its audience,
LWZRXOGEHLQHDFKJHQHUDWLRQ¶VXVHRIGUDPDWLFODQJXDJH7KHLQÀXHQFH
of contemporary Modernism is strongest in the work for younger audi-
ences. In this aesthetic, theatrical language does not exist to ‘serve’ the
plot or the characterization (except obliquely, even incidentally); rather,
it is the plot. It is the quintessential theatrical experience. One look at
the Sarah Kane excerpt I discussed in Chapter 1 will show you that the
quintessential modernist expression is the explosion of language in theatre
space. This creates the ‘micro-events’ that make up the larger forms of
more progressive contemporary theatre. The use of language as a primary
formative element in the work is both deliberate and self-conscious. By
self-conscious, I mean that the writer actually wants you to be aware
of the primary, structural role that language takes. In keeping with this
outlook, the word ‘dialogue’ is rarely used in discussions of this type of
theatre, for what is usually called ‘dialogue’ is the servant of other, more
prioritised aspects, like story, plotting and characterization.
Over 35: Plays and theatre works for our older audiences tend to follow
the traditional, humanist values: that language or dramatic dialogue
exists to serve the plot, reveal the inner lives of the play’s characters
and be the keeper of the play’s secret meanings. As I indicated ear-
lier in the chapter, if the dramatic language used is more realistic in
nature (i.e. closer to ‘how people really speak’) this is not because
older audiences are more conservative (though they often are), but
because older audiences have learned that reality is a much more
complex and dangerous phenomenon than younger people have yet
experienced, and are thus more willing to accept ‘realistic dialogue’
as the bearer of a play’s multiple meanings.
Textures
Under 35: Related to the previous area (dramatic language), the use of
OLQJXLVWLFWH[WXUHVLVDOVRPDUNHGE\JHQHUDWLRQDOGL൵HUHQFHV7RD
young writer—and her audience—a texture is not one governed by
reality or ‘what people would say in that situation’. On the contrary,
it is reality. The texture chosen actually helps to create the reality.
To put this another way, just as language is at the heart of Modern-
LVWµUHYLVLRQLQJ¶VRLVWH[WXUH,WLVDQH൵HFWZRUWKH[SORULQJIRULWV
own sake. (Revisit Chapter 13 for the many varieties of spatial and
dramatic textures that are possible.)
To an older, realism-preferring audience, the textures of younger
SOD\VPD\RIWHQVHHPDUWL¿FLDODQGµVKRZ\¶DQH൵HFWIRULWVRZQ
VDNH%XWLW¶VZRUWKQRWLQJWKDWDQLQWHUHVWLQDSSDUHQWDUWL¿FLDOLW\
is really an interest in intensity. $QHZH൵HFWRUDQHZWH[WXUHKDVD
special intensity of its own.
Over 35: This generation of writers—and their audience—tends to regard
texture (like dialogue itself) as the ‘servant’ of other realities. It is
a means to an end, rather than an end in itself. The textures that are
FKRVHQDUHWKRVHWKDWÀRZµQDWXUDOO\¶IURPWKHPRUHUHDOLVWLFEDVLV
of the characterization or the story. It blends in. It’s not meant to be
noticed. There may still be great textual variety, but that is an end-
result of other factors at work.
Role of the audience
Under 35: Each generation of theatre audiences demands a theatre that is

relevant to its concerns. There is a vital, quasi-journalistic aspect of
contemporary theatre—that it deal with urgent and important social
issues. Young people don’t just want to change the world; they also
have an intense desire to learn about the world. This means that
younger audiences are often happy to play almost any role that the
show demands of them: whether it’s to sit and listen quietly, or to
participate, answer back, sing along with, or even to be insulted. I’ll
QHYHUIRUJHWP\¿UVWYLHZLQJRI2ৼHQGLQJWKH$XGLHQFHby the Aus-
trian Peter Handke. The last twenty minutes of the show consisted
of the cast lining up and hurling insults at the audience en masse. A
furious wall of sound, invective and blasphemous fury resulted, as a
previously docile audience was made to feel guilty for being part of
a bourgeois and decadent society. Great fun all round. Only some of
the more senior members of the audience looked as though they’d
chosen the wrong show that night.
Over 35: The quasi-Romantic desire that every work of art ‘contain a
whole world’ (as Mahler said) changes as an audience ages. It doesn’t
diminish so much as deepen. A volatile, intense and sensually-charged
theatre work that may appeal to younger audiences will later become
a quieter, more nuanced work which leaves an older audience free to
make up its own mind. Older audiences don’t want ‘calmer’ theatre:
they want deeper theatre, which allows them to be immersed in a
rich story, which, in turn allows a complex (and subtle) combination
of mind, spirit and feelings to merge into the play’s total meaning.
3XWOLNHWKLVLWVRXQGVVLPSOH%XWLW¶VYHU\GL൶FXOWWRDFKLHYH7KLV
whole book is devoted to achieving that richness and depth—and
appealing to every audience wanting to come to theatre.
THE ZEITGEIST, THE AMERICAN SELF—AND HOW IT’S

CHANGED
An audience goes to see stories that are mostly about itself. It’s the
UHDVRQZK\LQDPRGHUQSOXUDOLVWVRFLHW\GL൵HUHQWDXGLHQFHVIRUWKHDWUH
exist. (It’s also the reason that most plays are set in the age in which they
are written.) But the contention of this chapter is that an audience is not
just demographically or racially created (the New York gay audience,
for example, as compared to an elderly, Jewish Florida audience). As the
SUHYLRXVVHFWLRQWULHGWRVKRZD\RXQJDXGLHQFHWHQGVWRZDQWGL൵HUHQW
things from its theatre compared to an older audience.
There is, however, another factor involved which further complicates
the picture: the Zeitgeist. This is German for ‘the spirit of the times’. Each
GHFDGHKDVLWVRZQÀDYRU%HLQJ\RXQJGXULQJ:RUOG:DU,,ZDVQRWWKH
same thing as growing up during the 1960s and 1970s, when such conten-
tious issues and traumatic events as the Freedom Marches, the assassina-
tion of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Malcom X, as well as
the Vietnam War, the Cold War, the Watergate scandal, and the corruption
of Vice-President Spiro Agnew: all these things galvanized and divided
the country. The type of person who emerged from the 1970s was a very
GL൵HUHQWLQGLYLGXDOIURPDYHWHUDQRI+LWOHU¶V:DU
John Cawelti, has written an astute analysis of how Zeitgeist myths
have changed in the USA. Writing in The American Self, in a chapter
entitled, “Pornography, Catastrophe, and Vengeance: Shifting Narrative
Structures in a Changing American Culture”, Cawelti delineates three
dominant myths of much of the 20th century. They are: the myth of proper
VH[XDOLW\WKHP\WKRIH൵HFWLYHLQGLYLGXDODFWLRQDQGWKHP\WKRIUDFLDO
temptation and conquest.
%ULHÀ\HDFKP\WKPD\EHH[SODLQHGOLNHWKLV
The myth of proper sexuality is where characters adhere to the tradi-

tional values of chastity before marriage, and eventual commitment to the
goal of settled society, i.e. marriage and domesticity. Those who disobey
these injunctions are, in narrative and social terms, punished.
7KHP\WKRIHৼHFWLYHLQGLYLGXDODFWLRQ refers to those stories where an
individual can solve large social and political problems, if he shows both
courage and initiative. Thus, characters as diverse as Sherlock Holmes
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The third, ‘traditional myth’, according to Cawelti, is the myth of ra-
cial temptation and conquest. This narrative pattern shows a (white) male
RUIHPDOHZKR¿JKWVDJDLQVWVRPHDOLHQWKUHDWEHLWUDFLDOQDWLRQDOLVWLFRU
even inter-galactic. Such popular genres as the spy story, adventure story
RUWKHZHVWHUQDOO¿WWKLVPRGHO
But starting some time during the 1960s and continuing after that
decade—like my Under 35s V Over 35s divide, there is no exact starting
point—a new set of myths began to emerge, and these new myths both
challenged and replaced the old.
The new myths are:
The myth of erotic liberation and enslavement. This new myth ex-
plores the exciting but dangerous element of liberated sexuality. It has
produced a number of narrative consequences: the erotic thriller, where the
H[FLWHGPDOH¿QGVKLPVHOIDYLFWLPWRDVH[XDOO\UDPSDQWDQGPDQLSXOD-
WLYHIHPDOH7KH¿OPFatal Attraction is one example among many); the
‘liberated female’ manifestos and novels like Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying
and Fifty Shades of GreyDQGHYHQWKHYDVW¿HOGRIZULWWHQDQGLQWHUQHW
pornography stand as an expression of this released social impulse.
The myth of catastrophe. 7KLVLVUHÀHFWHGLQGLVDVWHUPRYLHVOLNH
The Titanic and its much earlier precedents, The Towering Inferno or The
Poseidon AdventureRUWKHQHZµIXQ¶VFL¿¿OPVOLNHWKHTransformer
series. Buried deep within these narratives is the eternal Romantic (and
youthful) hope for complete transformation, astonishing change and
ultimate transcendence.
The myth of the violent avenger. This myth should be obvious, years
DIWHU&DZHOWL¶VDQDO\VLVZKHQZHVHHWKHRXWSRXULQJRIYLROHQFHLQ¿OPV
or literary expressions of it (for example, American Psycho by Bret Easton
(OOLV$QGDFUXFLDOSDUWRI*HUPDQLQÀXHQFHGPRGHUQLVPLVLWVHPRWLRQDO
histrionic, sexual and psychological violence. It’s not for nothing that
European modernism is also sometimes called Brutalism.
An important question needs to be asked: How new are these ‘new’
myths? The dangerously sexual female of erotic thrillers seems very close
to the Lulu character of the early 20th century German playwright Frank
Wedekind’s plays (Pandora’s Box and Earth Spirit). And the myth of
FDWDVWURSKHFRXOGEHWUDFHGEDFNIURPWKHVFLHQFH¿FWLRQRI-XOHV9HUQH
and H.G.Wells, and even all the way back to the destruction allegories
of Sodom and Gomorrah, or The Flood depicted in the Bible. The ‘hope’
inherent in catastrophe narratives—for complete transformation, aston-
ishing change and ultimate transcendence—is also remarkably close to
the aesthetic and theoretical cravings of Richard Wagner for a total and
transformative ‘art work of the future’.
But this is not the point—and value—of Cawelti’s analysis. He states
that it is impossible to know how ‘permanent’ these new myths are. They
may well be transitional myths on the way to other narrative and mythic
positions. For example, the release of sexuality and its narratives may
ZHOOEHWKHPLGSRLQWRIDQHYHQWXDO¿[HGQDUUDWLYHSRVLWLRQEDVHGRQWKH
equality (real and conceptual) of the sexes.
Our job as creative artists is to respond to the myths that dominate
our time—assuming we can’t invent new ones for our times. (Only rarely
does an author do that: think of Wilde’s Dorian Gray, or Beckett’s ‘eternal
tramps’ (itself a response to Chaplin’s famous and nostalgic anti-modernity
tramp character.) Personally, I prefer to blend ‘old myths’ with new. Thus,
DFKDUDFWHUZKRLVGRPLQDWHGE\WKHP\WKRI(൵HFWLYH,QGLYLGXDO$FWLRQ
may be married to another character who, at heart, believes only in the myth
of Catastrophe. Or both myths may be at war—within the one character!
2XUWDVNDVWKHDWUHZULWHUVLVQRWMXVWµWR¿OOWKHDWUHVSDFHZLWKRXUVWR-
ULHV¶,¶GVD\LW¶VPRUH2XUWDVNLVWR¿OOWKHDWUHVSDFHZLWKVWRULHVthat need to
be told now, at this point in our history. A director once told me that she likes
plays which ‘shame’ a community. She advised me: “Find what a community
is most ashamed about—and then write about that.” This is another way of
saying “Address the Zeitgeist”. Deal with what has to be dealt with now. This
does not mean, however, that every single play you write has to be an Emile
=RODOLNHUHVSRQVHWRWKHÀDPLQJXUJHQF\RIWKHODWHVWVRFLDOLVVXH³-¶DFFXVH´
A warning, however: If your ‘task’ as a playwright can be reduced
to one single function, chances are you’re not suited to theatre writing.
Theatre writing is both topical and ‘eternal’ (check out the chapter on the
Universalisms). For every Liberal Anxiety (see the next chapter) that a
good play may deal with, it’s also dealing with many issues relating to
the timeless, unchanging nature of human experience.
So, how do we know ‘what’s important for this age’? The truth is,
we don’t. Some problems are so stark and obvious (for example, the
Cold War during the 1950s) that every man and his dog were aware of
the perilous nature of the Zeitgeist. (It’s no accident that so many nuclear
DOOHJRULHVHPHUJHGDWWKLVWLPHHVSHFLDOO\LQWKHSRSXODU¿OPVFUHDWXUHV
from another planet, invasions from outer space, gigantic insects and
mutant beings. In most cases, however, we are too busy living in the age
to fully understand it.
That said, however, there might be some ways we can be alive to

‘what’s really going on in our society’:
x Read widely, especially those views which explain either your

own social and political positions—or those of your opponents.
x Read newspapers and journals, especially if you are young. I

was shocked to learn that the greatest dramatist, cultural analyst
and challenger of the 19th century, Henrik Ibsen only read the
daily newspapers of his time. He had no great library of ten
thousand books, as Aldous Huxley had (another great artist and
cultural critic). Ibsen’s ‘antennae’ were so acutely developed
that he could tell what new issues and social phenomena were
shattering and epoch-making—and which were not. This brings
me to my next suggestion:
x Work out ‘what bugs you’—and see if others share this irritation
or complaint that you have. Some irritations are simply eccentric
and subjective. Others are more fundamental, and allow us writ-
ers to carry out one of our most noble functions—to speak to an
age. “As a writer, your duty is to warn”, an actor once warned
me. Even if it’s only half-true, it’s worth thinking about.
At a theatre where I was the dramaturg, we once received an unusual

request from a writer, who, not having been produced in quite a few years
wrote a pleading letter to the Artistic Director of the theatre. The writer, in
H൵HFWVDLG³7HOOPHZKDW\RXZDQWDSOD\DERXW²DQG,¶OOZULWHLW´$VLW
happened, the Artistic Director at the time had no burning issues that she felt
needing addressing. “That’s what writers are for.” She continued, saying,
“Writers should always write about whatever they want to.” I was about to
FRQJUDWXODWHKHURQWKLVÀH[LEOHDSSURDFKWRZULWHUVZKHQVKHDGGHG³%XW
just because it obsesses them, doesn’t mean we have to produce it.”
All we as writers can do is to decide what obsesses you, the individual
who is living on Planet Earth at this time of our history. Remember, in one
VHQVHDµWKHDWUHZULWHU¶LVVLPSO\DSHUVRQZKRNQRZVKRZWR¿OOWKHDWUH
space with all the elements (language, body, voice, sound, image etc) that
make up the contemporary experience we call ‘modern theatre’. I’ve writ-
ten plays because I’ve been asked to, on a theme or plot I didn’t choose.
Equally, I’ve written plays where I expressed something of urgency and
importance both to me and the times I live in. At other times, I write simply
to entertain, for it’s a noble and good thing to entertain. To bring joy and
pleasure to your fellow citizens and theatre-appreciating members of your
VRFLHW\LVDJUHDWDQG¿QHWKLQJ%HFDXVHWKHUHLVQRone reason to write,
there is also no one play (or play type) that will emerge from your laptop.
Mozart was one of musical history’s best ‘tradesman musicians’.
He played and wrote music for a living. Much of his work was commis-
sioned or written for a paying audience. But Mozart’s last three sympho-
nies (Numbers 39, 40 and 41) were never commissioned by anyone. He
worked harder on them than on any of his previous symphonies. He set
DQGVROYHGQHZWHFKQLFDOFKDOOHQJHV)RUWKH¿UVWWLPHLQKLVOLIHKHGLG
musical sketches to work out some of their complexities, especially with
the 41st Symphony.) These symphonies are, by far, the most loved of his
many symphonies. Sometimes you have to say to yourself, “This play is
for me. I’m writing this play because this is one of the plays I know I was
born to write.” And damn the consequences.
SPEAKING TO BOTH GENERATIONS: SOME TECHNIQUES
As this book attests, at heart I’m a synthesist, who prefers to speak

to a large and inclusive audience. Most playwrights are. Few writers (the
occasional misanthropic German/Austrian writer excepted) willingly
limit their audience.
Here are some ways you can have your work connect with both
generations:
Create a group of characters who straddle both generations. A writer
in her twenties I was working with came to see one of my plays in pro-
duction. She liked the play, but had one criticism. “I wanted to see one
more character of my own age”, she said. This comment reminded me of
a basic attribute of audiences: they relate most to characters their own age.
The younger the audience member is, the truer this statement is. When we
are young, we cannot really imagine generations older than us; but when
we get older, we can at least remember being in our twenties, and what it
felt like! Thus, if it suits the style and plot of your play, consider having
a broad spectrum of character ages. But don’t distort the play simply for
this consideration. A good enough play will still speak to all generations.
Justify age by a fascinating & surprising world-view. What I mean
here is that you can make an audience think very hard about age and life-
VWDJHE\FUHDWLQJFKDUDFWHUVZKRHLWKHUÀRXWWKHQRUPRUZKRMXVWLI\WKHLU
(outlandish) behavior. Remember a principle expressed earlier in the book:

Philosophy creates character. Imagine you’re creating a young character
ZKRMXVWL¿HVDFDXWLRXVIHDUEDVHGSKLORVRSK\ZRUWK\RIDSHUVRQPXFK
older than her. Give her a philosophy that’s full of insights, nuances and
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LPSUHVVLRQV PLJKW KDYH MXVWL¿HG 6LPLODUO\ DQ µROG¶ FKDUDFWHU ZKR DFWV
bizarrely, behaving in a way more often encountered in a twenty-two year
old person, makes for a potentially fascinating dramatic character if it’s part
of a norm-challenging world-view. Let him state his provocative philosophy.
Don’t hold back. Let him challenge our predictable, cautious comfort zones.
Merge the characterization & writing techniques of one age group with
that of another. Just because you are writing a play for, say, three characters
aged 50 years and over, doesn’t mean that you need to have a ‘standard’
way of writing for them. Don’t say to yourself, “All my old characters will
be written the same way”. Chapter 23 showed you how you can mix up
the Universalisms, by putting a young mind in an old body, or vice versa.
One of the many reasons that Yasmina Reza’s work is internationally
successful is because she uses predominantly Under-35 dramatic techniques,
but gives them to characters who are usually much older. Life X 3, and God
of Carnage, DUHHVVHQWLDOO\WKHVDPHVW\OHRISOD\VEXWWKH¿UVWSOD\KDV
younger characters (in their early 30s) while the second play creates older
characters—but all the characters in these plays behave in the same (self-
ish) way, and the writing style is very similar, regardless of character age.
Perhaps our real job— as writers, ‘warners for an age’, narrative
WHFKQLFLDQVDQG¿OOHUVRIWKHDWUHVSDFH²LVWRZULWHWKHVWRULHVDQGSOD\V
that excite us, and leave the judgment of society and history to others.
Ultimately, you the playwright are your own ideal audience. Despite all
WKHDQDO\VLVRIWKLVFKDSWHU\RXU¿UVWWDVNLVVLPSOHdelight yourself. There
DUHPDQ\DXGLHQFHVDQGDJRRGSOD\ZLOO¿QGLWVRZQGHGLFDWHGDXGLHQFH
373
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
UNDERSTANDING THE AUDIENCE (III): LIBERAL ANXIETIES,
HOW TO WIN A PULITZER PRIZE AND OTHER MYSTERIES
OF MODERN THEATRE CULTURE
The audience goes to the theatre in order to worry. Strange as it sounds,

it’s true. Not all the time. Sometimes they just like a break, where they prefer to
ODXJKRUIHHOVRPHWKLQJLQWHQVHO\%XWDWRWKHUWLPHVWKH\IXO¿OWKHLUUROHDVD
great audience by engaging on many more levels than ‘just’ being entertained.
When a demanding but great play comes along, it tends to attract an audience
worthy of the play, and it is prepared to do all the emotional involvement, the
imaginative investment, the socio-political thinking and the complete engage-
ment that characterise a rich play speaking to a fully-involved audience. But
before an audience can become fully involved, it has to know it is dealing
with a play worth getting involved in. This is where you, the writer, need to
understand how to involve them. Apart from all the other techniques that this
book describes, one approach is especially important: the Liberal Anxieties.
)LUVW D GH¿QLWLRQ$ /LEHUDO$Q[LHW\ LV ³any anxiety which stems
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& intellectually-interested enough to want to see theatre that claims to
be making big statements about the world.”
7KLVGH¿QLWLRQRIPLQHVHHNVWRH[SORUHWKHSDUDGR[LFDOQDWXUHRI
much of our modern audience. It accepts the fundamentally elite position
of much of our theatre. In one sense, theatre is a celebration of surplus
income. Theatre is expensive; much more expensive than going to the
multiplex or hiring a movie on-line. Even in Europe, with a much longer
tradition of culture and ‘going to the theatre’, it’s only a minority which
actually does so on any regular basis. But that minority tends to be elite in
VRPHZD\¿QDQFLDOO\VRFLDOO\LQWHOOHFWXDOO\DQGVRPHWLPHVSROLWLFDOO\
In an ideal world, nearly everyone would go to the theatre because on
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All the time. Without exception. When I was growing up in the 1970s, many
utopian theories of art and theatre were preached: that theatre should speak to
the masses; that we should shame the bourgeoisie who actually went to theatre
and appeal to the masses who didn’t; that we should write only for minorities
(racial, religious etc). But times have changed, and more sober realities have
been accepted: that it’s the minority who love theatre and naturally go to it. In
the USA and Europe that minority is a big minority. But it’s still a minority.
As playwrights we beat ourselves up unnecessarily about this. A local
JURXSRISRHWV,NQRZLVKDSS\LI¿YHSHRSOHWXUQXSWRKHDUWKHPUHFLWH$SDUW
from the economic need to have theatre pay for itself, shouldn’t we treat those
audiences that come to our theatres as precious and valued? Giving them a
wonderful theatrical and imaginative experience will naturally build the theatre
audience. It’s well known in theatre circles that “word of mouth” (what audi-
ences that have seen a show or play say to their friends and acquaintances)
is easily the strongest builder of audiences for a show. And I’ve already said
WKDWDZRQGHUIXOSOD\ZLOO¿QGDZRQGHUIXO²DQGODUJH²DXGLHQFH
So we shouldn’t worry about audiences, but instead, make our work
brilliant, and—paradoxically—seek to place even more demands on our
faithful audience. We can do this by understanding and using the Liberal
Anxieties in our work. Earlier I said that nowadays theatre is a celebration
of surplus income. It can be more. It can also be a celebration of surplus
intellect and moral imagination. It’s our writing of plays that exploit the
Liberal Anxieties that help our theatre to be more than just diversions and
escapist entertainment; for, as noble as those aims are, theatre can do more.
TYPES OF LIBERAL ANXIETIES
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PRUHLPSRUWDQWWRGHVFULEHWKHW\SHVRI/LEHUDO$Q[LHWLHVWKDWÀRXULVKLQ
our contemporary culture. There are many.
$IHDUIRUWKH,QGLYLGXDOLQWKHPRGHUQZRUOGDQGWKHHৼHFWRQKLVKHUVRXO
The fear that the individual is being somehow ‘lost’ is fundamental to

American theatre. It’s the basis of most of the great plays, like Death of a
Salesman, The Crucible, Glengarry Glen Ross. America was founded on
the vital myth of freedom for the individual, so stories which dramatize
the potential loss of this freedom will always have resonance. This idea
is also a fundamental tenet of being young—i.e. the fear that you will
lose a ‘self’ that has hardly developed—and, incidentally, accounts in
part for the renewal of interest in the Gothic. The latter is simply a more
melodramatic and sensually intense form of the ancient American fear:
that the very thing we created our nation for is in danger of being lost.
A fear that how we earn our living is what will kill us—if it hasn’t already
This is a fundamental tenet not just of Death of a Salesman, but also

of the American ‘business play’. I’d suggest that it’s the basic driving
force of Mamet’s best plays. It’s also an extension of the previous Liberal
Anxiety. If society doesn’t kill the fundamental ‘you’, then the work that
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GRLVDULFKVRXUFHIRUQDUUDWLYHV¿OPVDQGSOD\V
The fear that our freedoms are being eroded
This is the fundamental fear behind many plays with a political im-
SXOVH$¿QHEXWOLWWOHNQRZQSOD\H[HPSOL¿HVWKLVBack of the Throat
by Yussef El Guindi tells the story of an Arab-American who is visited
by two FBI agents who grill him within an inch of his life, tainting him
with suspicion simply because of his Arab heritage. Written in the years
RIWKH*HRUJH:%XVKSUHVLGHQF\DQGLQWKHSRVWZRUOGLW¶VD¿QH
example of how a play can be both topical and epic.
The fear that the individual will always be beaten by the State—and its
institutions
,PDJLQHDUULYLQJKRPHRQHQLJKWDQG¿QGLQJ\RXUSDUWQHUWDONLQJ
WRWKH&,$7KH\ZLVKWRXVHWKHWRSÀRRURI\RXUKRXVHWRFDUU\RXW
surveillance on your neighbours—whom (you soon learn) are suspected
of being Russian spies. You’d previously got on very well with them;
you’d shared meals, picnic, even Thanksgiving with them. The C.I.A.
advise you, when you next meet your neighbours, to ‘act as if nothing
has changed’. As if you could! But this ‘story’ actually happened to an
ordinary couple in London. It wasn’t the C.I.A. that called on them; it was
the British equivalent, M.I.6. The pressure on the couple who were caught
up in this espionage trap was extraordinary. The woman died not long
after her neighbours were arrested and charged with espionage. Imagine
that happening to you. Hugh Whitemore did, and created a compelling
play, Pack of Lies, which dramatizes this Liberal Anxiety: If the State and
its powerful mechanisms behaved like that in the case of this ordinary
couple, what could they do to me?
The fear for the individual trapped by history
This is a favourite Liberal Anxiety of British playwrights, for the

British have a longer history to be weighed down by than other English-
speaking countries. In plays which explore this Liberal Anxiety, history
(or tradition) and its burdens, weights and responsibilities verge on being
a character in itself, and certainly History weighs heavily on the other
characters in those plays. A good example of being trapped by history
occurs in the story of Alan Turing, as told by Hugh Whitemore in his play
Breaking the Code. Turing was a brilliant mathematician who played a
VLJQL¿FDQWUROHLQWKHHDUO\GHYHORSPHQWRIWKHFRPSXWHU+HZDVDOVR
involved in the Second World War against Hitler, and his genius was
instrumental in helping a remarkable group of people break the ‘unbreak-
able’ Enigma code by which Hitler’s navy received its battle orders. But
this extraordinary achievement was overlooked when, after the War, he was
arrested and charged with the crime of homosexuality. The circumstances
of Turing’s arrest were almost farcical; but the consequences were serious.
Turing was charged, lost his security clearance, and was given the choice
of imprisonment or chemical castration. He chose the latter, and soon died
of arsenic poisoning, apparently in suicide. That this should happen to a
war hero who helped to shorten the War’s duration is just one of the tragic
ironies that abound in this play.
Interestingly, recent research has shown that Alan Turing probably
did not commit suicide, but was probably poisoned by the chemicals he
worked with. But this does not lessen the power of the Liberal Anxiety that
pulses throughout this play. Had Turing lived now, the forces of tradition
and history would probably not have punished his homosexuality at all.
But the lesson of ‘what history can do to you’ remains a powerful message.
In a certain sense, this Anxiety is also part of the enduring appeal
of Tennessee Williams and his plays. His greatest characters operate
from delusion, ruin and loss. They live in the past because they cannot
endure the present, and cannot even imagine the future, except in wildly
unrealistic terms.
Our fears of—and fascination with—modernity and its technology
Part of the reason for the international success of Sarah Ruhl’s Dead
Man’s Cell Phone is the chord that the play struck, especially our love of
the convenience, mystery and aura that surround our modern technologi-
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he has just died.) The woman gradually enters the dead man’s life, living
vicariously through him and his strange family. Beyond the interest of
the writing, lies a fascinating Liberal Anxiety. While we sometimes take
modern technology for granted, every new development reminds us of
the excitement of technology’s complexity and its possibilities for the
future. But deep within us a fear also resounds—or perhaps it’s simply
a question: Has the highly technological life that we lead, and take for
granted, obscured other aspects of life? In gaining so much (technological)
control, have we lost something else, perhaps having to do with feelings,
moral balance or a sense of what constitutes healthy living. Put more
simply, it might just be a fear that we are losing something valuable in
our pre-technological life that gives plays like this an extra edge, and an
additional reason for seeing them.
The fear that we are losing an institution that once helped us become strong
A good example of this Anxiety is the play August, Osage County.

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melancholy for the loss of the family as something that binds us, heals us
and strengthens us. The fear and loathing and celebration of the family—all
of these simultaneously— is quite marked in this play. This Liberal Anxiety
is extremely interesting, for it is both a fear for the institution and a fear
of that same thing. It’s not a new fear: plays like Ibsen’s A Doll’s House
as well as Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? both exploit this deep
ambivalence in the Western imagination about the predominant place that
the family holds in our lives.
The fear that evil can never really be killed
Some time ago now, the British writer and translator Christopher
Hampton dramatized the novel The Portage to San Cristobal of A.H. by
George Steiner. In both the book and the play, a secret American-Israeli
mission into the central American jungle has one aim: to capture a now
very old Adolf Hitler who has apparently been hiding out for decades in
South America (as many ex-Nazis actually did.) The story has a bizarre-
but-fascinating ‘What if?’ premise: What if Hitler had survived the War?
How would he defend his crimes? That’s (partly) what the book and the
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section, the story is just the pretext; an ‘excuse’, so to speak, for a deeper
philosophical discussion. Even beyond the work’s discussion of the re-
current nightmare that was Nazism, there is a deeper theme: our fear that
Evil can never truly be killed.
The fear that ordinary people, a fellow citizen, even your neighbour, can
commit unspeakable evil
Ariel Dorfman’s play Death and the Maiden dramatizes this Anxiety.
Set in an un-named country in South America, a man brings home a new
acquaintance he’s just met. The woman recognises this stranger by the
sound of his voice: she is convinced that it’s the man who tortured her in
prison during the recent period of military dictatorship. During the night,
she overpowers the stranger, ties him up and subjects him to questioning
and punishment. What follows is a feverish, unpredictable inquisition,
where ideas and philosophies are contested with great personal urgency.
The best productions I’ve seen of this play have tended to rely on more
than just the melodramatic question (“Will the woman kill her former
torturer?”) There are two more issues in this play: How can she even be
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for personal revenge? This layering of complex questions, one on top of
the other, gives us a clue as to the best use of Liberal Anxieties in our
writing: It’s not the answers to the questions that matter—it’s enough to
raise complex, disturbing questions and let the answers prey on the minds
of our intelligent audiences.
The fear of The Other
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made you feel like no other? The only problem is that you are already
married. A dilemma worthy of soap opera perhaps? But it gets worse:
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love of your life turns out to be a spy for a hostile government. But that
is not all: the love of your life is not a woman even though she lives
and dresses as one—but a man! Astoundingly, you have not discovered
this, even though you have made love many times (in the dark) with her.
This astonishing mix of improbabilities actually happened to a French
diplomat serving in China in the 1950s, and became the basis for David
Hwang’s 0%XWWHUÀ\In this play, everything is exotic (politics, sexuality,
gender, race) and nothing can be relied upon. But beyond that, the play
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make the audience feel that this situation could happen to them, given
the right circumstances. The audience becomes implicated and cannot
distance itself from a bizarre situation. In this way, the exotic “Other” is
not separated from the audience’s inner lives, but is a part of ourselves
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The fear that you, too, will have to make terrible choices in your life
My own play, Kafka Dances, was initially written from a deep desire
to ‘create a fantastical dream life on stage’. The play tells the story of the
great writer Franz Kafka and his attempt to marry the same woman—twice.
(It was a true story, too.) Apart from my love of Kafka’s writings, I had
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that one of the reasons that audiences in many countries responded to the
play was because it raised a terrible fear, disguised as a choice: it was the
horrible fear that a person of great intelligence and imagination (Kafka)
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choice that most people understand and probably fear that they will also
have to make in their own lives. Without knowing it, I’d embedded a
Liberal Anxiety in the play. It also taught me another valuable lesson:
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The fear that we can never actually know the truth
The origins of Western theatre, especially Greek tragedy, begin with

mystery, awe and doubt. Beyond its stories of gods and heroes, Greek
tragedy is a meditation on the complex and unsolvable mysteries of life.
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seemed pre-determined; at the very least, life and its meanings could not
be completely understood. Greek theatre emerged as a religious response
to the impossibility of ever fully knowing let alone understanding why
things happen the way they do. A contemporary play which is also imbued
with awe and mystery is the play Doubt by John Patrick Shanley. In this
Pulitzer-prize winning play, set during the 1960’s when things seemed
clearer—or we were simply more naive—the play’s events turn on the
ambiguous relationship between a Catholic priest, a young black boy,
and the nun who suspects the priest of acting ‘inappropriately’ with the
boy. Like several of the plays discussed in this section, things are not as
clear in Doubt as they seem. And this is exactly as it should be. For in
telling stories to society, an artist’s job is not to give a simple, clear-cut
message (“Too much technology is bad for us”, “Our government will
always/often hurt us in these three ways...” or “Beware of possible child
molesters”.) It’s much more subtle and nuanced than that. It’s more about
raising a question, or simply an area of social or political life that allows
an audience to brood on, to mull over, long after the play has ended.
At its deepest or highest moments, our theatre becomes a dream-space,
something to meditate on, and this gift to our audiences through the subtle
use of Liberal Anxieties is one of the great strengths of modern theatre.
HOW TO WIN A PULITZER PRIZE
Prizes are nice. A contemporary novelist I won’t embarrass by naming

once said that “No one cares about prizes—except the writer who wins.”
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mercial theatre that dominates the USA. Prizes are one more reason for
an audience to fork out hard-earned dollars on a ticket to the show. Prizes
can be great morale boosters to you, the writer. They have an uncanny
habit of arriving just when you were feeling low. They get you and your
play some much-needed attention.
Acting as your Career Manager, I’ll show you the secret plan. There are
four ‘simple’ steps, in my view.
Step 1: Become (or remain) an American citizen.
The Pulitzer Prize is only awarded to U.S. citizens. There is nothing

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Step 2: Before starting your play, understand the following paradigm:
Liberal Anxiety + Journalistic topicality + Narrative ‘angle’ = 1

Pulitzer Prize.
The above paradigm requires explanation.
Liberal Anxiety: This aspect has already been discussed earlier in the
chapter. Many of the examples discussed above are Pulitzer Prize
winners. Unlike other plays you will write, you probably should know
from the get-go what Liberal Anxiety your play is dramatising. It’s
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Journalistic topicality: Some ideas and themes are more apposite than
others. There is often a feeling that a play’s time has come because
the idea that the play dramatizes is urgently needed at that time. This
was the case, I believe, with Angels in America by Tony Kushner. All
over the world, not least in the U.S., there was a feeling that ‘these
things needed to be said’. Thus, I’d suggest that you ask yourself:
“What is crying out to be dramatized now?” A more recent example
of that urgency would be the Pulitzer Prize-winning play Ruined by
Lynn Nottage, set in the Democratic Republic of Congo, a play that
dramatizes contemporary African horrors in the light of history, sexual
politics and Western responsibility.
Narrative ‘angle’: This may be nothing more than ‘the great twist that
makes the play’s story special’. For example, the play The Mountaintop
by Katori Hall has both an interesting narrative ‘angle’ (the last night
on earth of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.) as well as a twist that I won’t
reveal if you’ve not seen the play. (It involves the character who visits
Dr King.) Or it may be that there is a special moment that makes the
whole intellectual journey more than just an interesting play of ideas.
Such a play is the Pulitzer Prize-winning Wit by Margaret Edson,
whose transcendent ending helped to make it an international success.
Step 3: Complete the paradigm for your play—at least in outline.
Let me rush to explain, lest this be seen as facetious or even cynical.

In testing the above paradigm for your play I am not asking you to ‘pre-
construct’ it. But it has been a constant tenor of this book (and the later
chapters on Working Methods emphasise this) that plays should be more
thought-through, sketched and mulled over than is often the case. The
purpose of consciously thinking about the possible relevance and use of
my paradigm is to prepare your unconscious creativity for possible new
levels of meaning, which will (or won’t) emerge in the actual writing of
the play. But just thinking about adding other elements to your work may
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helped to prepare you for the next Step...
Step 4: Write the play, completely forgetting (for now) the paradigm in
Step 3.
Here, you write the play that you are burning to write. You let your
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If any elements of this ‘Pulitzer Paradigm’ emerge in the writing, they are
likely to be organically connected to the whole of the play (which was
the point of Step 3). If they are not, there is still time to coolly review
and decide whether any new elements are still needed. (As the chapter on
‘threading’ shows, it is surprisingly easy to thread extra and enriching mo-
ments into your work, no matter how ‘seamless’ it appears.) Furthermore,
it’s possible to become too precious about your writing (e.g. “My writing
can’t be changed.”) As this book stresses, theatre writing is a collaborative
and co-operative art. Changes happen all the time, not least in the writ-
ing of the developing drafts you will do. Or as George S. Kaufman said,
echoing Dion Boucicault, “Plays are not written; they are re-written.”
And he won a Pulitzer too.
MOTHERHOOD STATEMENTS—AND THEIR HERESIES
Doctor Johnson once said that “People need not to be taught, so much
as reminded.” He was implying that a lot of the ‘wisdom’ that comes from
received cultural products (like books or plays) does not contain new or
original thoughts but instead deals with ideas that people already knew
but had perhaps forgotten. The thoughts were not new, but they were still
important—and in ‘reminding’ people of them, the writer is perform-
ing an important creative and civil duty. While this still applies today,
it’s also true that our age is more sceptical, more disruptive and more
questioning—at least in its literary and artistic tastes. Leaving the job of
telling people only what they want to hear to more conservative (or lazy)
cultural artefacts, I’ll suggest that one of the great imaginative services
you can do for a modern theatre audience is to question something that
the audience has previously taken for granted, or regarded as eternally,
universally and incontestably ‘true’. In other words, you can attack a
‘motherhood statement’.
As you probably know, a motherhood statement is an assertion about
something that, on face value, no one could argue with. For example, the
statement that “Motherhood is a good thing” is probably the most basic of
motherhood statements. But what if it wasn’t a good thing? What would
you have then? You’d probably have a story. Or you might have an appall-
ing but extraordinary character. Or you might have Phaedra, who killed
her own children and became the basis of several great Greek tragedies
(some of them lost). Racine, one of the greatest French dramatists, was also
fascinated by this story. Phaedra’s story is shocking, irrational, fascinating,
exceptional—and heretical, because it implies that a basic tenet of faith
(the goodness of mothers) does not necessarily always apply.
Another motherhood statement is of a political nature: “Democracy
is always good for society”, a belief that was at least partially behind
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a fascinating discussion where the playwright Tom Stoppard discussed
a favourite play of mine. The play is a Swiss-German play called, in
English, The Visit of the Old Lady, by Friedrich Dürrenmatt. In that play,
a wealthy old billionairess, Claire Zachanassian, returns to the Swiss vil-
lage she grew up in, and where she met Alfred, the love of her life. The
locals are delighted to see this local-girl-made-good, and spend much
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the old town, which like many small communities, is desperately in need
of development and prosperity. Claire returns, to great acclaim, and she
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they must execute Alfred, her ex-lover who jilted and rejected her many
years ago. The townsfolk are outraged. But a few days pass, and they get
to thinking about Claire’s proposal. Then a few more days pass, and they
are seeing ‘the pros and cons’ of her shocking demand. Eventually, the
majority decide that it would be good for the whole community if Alfred
‘took one for the team’ and allowed himself to be executed.
This dark parable about ‘community’ is fascinating and entertaining in
its own right. But Stoppard went further: he contended that this play was
positing the shocking proposition that ‘democracy is not always a good
thing’. In other words, Stoppard was drawing attention to the inadequacy
of unchallenged, universal beliefs—or motherhood statements.
I could go on, but I’ll simply leave you with some more fundamental,
‘unassailable beliefs’ that may not necessarily be always and in every case
true. Here are some more motherhood statements:
—that people are, by nature, good

—that most couples, at heart, really love each other
—that parents naturally love their children and usually know what’s best
for them
—that the world, on balance, is a fair and decent place
—that virtue will usually bring rewards
—that those closest to you and whom you love are trustworthy
See what I’m getting at? If ever you are stuck for a story, simply con-
sider a motherhood statement that has always slightly irritated you—and
imagine its reverse. People that imagining with characters, and you’re
halfway to a powerful (and shocking) story. Or you could consult a book
of proverbs or sayings, which are replete with motherhood statements.
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trustworthy—and see what happens when you imagine a world where the
opposite of that ‘universal truth’ applies.
It may be heretical to think like this, of course. But it may also make
great theatre. At the risk of putting it too simply, I’d suggest this: Find a
motherhood statement, and let your story, characterization and the play’s
arguments and ideas prove—however temporarily—the opposite of what
is generally believed. Alternatively, you may just like to assert what the
intended audience would least like to hear about the conventional truth.
It may be uncomfortable for some audiences, but many will thank you.
They may even compare you to George Bernard Shaw, or Oscar Wilde, or
even Joe Orton, all of whom spent their careers playing devil’s advocate
and provocateur to generations of theatre audiences.
385
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WORKING METHODS: HOW TO START WORK ON YOUR PLAY
As a playwright, dramaturg and writing teacher, I’ve met many people

who had a deep and genuine love of theatre. One of the dreams of their
lives was to write a play. Some succeeded. Some failed. Others didn’t
even start. For them, their dream remained a dream.
This chapter is all about turning the dream of “writing that play”
into reality.
HAVE A PLAN
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worth achieving is probably ambitious. If it’s ambitious, it will probably
take a while to achieve. If it takes a while to achieve, it will need a plan.
Is it your intention to write a play? Or is it “to write a fantastic play,
the like of which no one has ever seen before”? The higher the ambition,
the more work it will take.
To get a writing plan going, you need to do three things:
First, you need to establish a creative goal for yourself. (e.g, to write
a short play, using an idea you’ve had for a while.) The idea probably
needs to be a good balance of “very exciting” versus “very achievable”.
Second, you need to work out the steps involved in achieving this
aim. Breaking down a complex play into viable steps is very liberating.
Finally, you should establish the amount of time you think it will take
to achieve the goal... and then double it. In my experience, most things
take much more time than originally anticipated. Ask yourself, “Am I
prepared to take twice or three times the length of time to complete this
creative project.” An honest answer may save you a great deal of time.
THE WRITING PLAN IN DETAIL
1. THE IDEA
It’s not enough to want to write. The best plays come from a burning
desire to have something to say. But what does it mean to ‘have some-
thing to say’? The phrase is often misunderstood. Having something to
say does not mean that you have a neat, containable ‘message’ and all
the play has to do is deliver it like some sort of literary postman. The
best playwrights do not deliver a message. They deliver a world, or a
world-view. They show ideologies in action, but don’t preach them, and
rarely moralise over them. Most of all, the world they show is unique in
some way, with its own special oxygen. The characters who populate that
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they live. Try separating Vladimir and Estragon (Waiting for Godot), or
Caliban and Ariel (The Tempest) from their worlds. Perhaps the clearest
expression of ‘having something to say’ that I can propose to you is that
you really do have something to say when the characters and their world
are quite original and special.
There is, however, another type of ‘idea’ that is less exalted but more
achievable for writers. That is the relative originality of the story idea.
Its basis is often the ‘what if?’ speculation. Imagine a boy who blinded
six horses with a metal spike. “What?!” you think. What if Tchaikovsky
didn’t die of cholera but was actually ordered to kill himself to prevent
a sexual scandal? What if you woke up one day and found you’d turned
into an insect?
Each of these three speculations has a quality of outrageousness, of
a violation of some order (moral, aesthetic or natural). These ideas have
an ability to jolt. One does a double-take on hearing them. “He turns into
a what?!” (Sadly, all three ideas have already been used.)
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in all the right places for them. The tabloid newspapers regularly print
small ‘news’ items which claim to be true: “Man Buries Grandmother in
Junkyard Rubbish”, “Woman Sleeps With Six Bishops”, “Strong Man
Promises to Eat a Toyota Corolla.” It’s a mad, fantastical world out there,
and the tabloids—and now, the internet—have it covered. Admittedly, it’s
the grotesque and bizarre, but is it any sicker or sillier than the story of a
woman who plots revenge by having a man’s children killed and served
up to him in a casserole? William Shakespeare quite liked that one. And
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than another story about a dysfunctional marriage.
An aside: How do you know if you’ve got a great idea? I’d suggest
four ways to test it.
x Does it excite you and make you want to write it?
x Have you seen it before? (This is not a comment on the quality

of the idea so much as on the ‘market problem’ that someone
may have already written the story idea—and had it produced.)
x Is it rich in paradoxes? I think we live in an age that is not

so much interested in the bizarre novelty of an idea as in its
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ture of the universe we live in. So examine your idea. Is it full
of contradictions, ironies, paradoxes and other states of self-
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our era? I’m not talking ‘topicality’ here (which quickly dates)
but something that is mysteriously true to the Zeitgeist (spirit
of the age.)
Let’s assume, then, that you’ve found an idea that excites you, makes
you laugh out loud, and pumps creative adrenalin through your veins.
What next?
2. INTENSIVE READING, RESEARCH AND SKETCHES
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ent types of research.
There is informational research. Let’s say you’re writing a play set in
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research, like the journalist who spent six months on a Toyota assembly-
line exposing its harsh conditions. The ritualism and intricacy of how a
car assembly-line actually works was one of the many fascinations of his
book. Far too often, an audience leaves a play thinking, “There wasn’t a
single thing there I didn’t know already. I learned nothing I couldn’t have
read in a two-page magazine article.”
There is also emotional and psychological research. This is an area
where the failure is often quite spectacular. The range and depth of emo-
tions is often inadequate to the human reality of the situation. To achieve
the illusion that ‘this character is richly human’ you need to provide that
character with a range of emotions, or a deeply symbolic state of being.
Both require that type of imaginative speculation: “What does she feel?
What is it like being inside her? What does she dream of? What do her
nightmares consist of? What is the secret language of the self that only
she can use?”
There is also narrative research. As writer, you’ll be searching for
the best way to tell the story, and how to tell it in theatre space. You’ll
read works where a similar plot problem was solved. You’ll notice how a
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The above research is important, but its principal value is to prompt
a rich collection of sketches. What is a ‘sketch?’ Put simply, a sketch is
either an inspiration or a speculation. It is a fragment of language that
you’ve suddenly thought of that is perfect for one of your characters. It
may be a joke. It could be an action that your main character does. You
just thought of it, and you’re very pleased with yourself
But a sketch is also a deliberate speculation. “What if instead of her
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ers, not one.” As a playwright, you are there to shape material, but often
you need lots of material before you can start cutting, shaping and honing.
Research and sketching are most useful when they—
—attempt to clarify the dramatic ideas that your characters are
embodying. (“I think this play is really dealing with …”);
—result in a wonderful line (or ten) of powerful dramatic language;
—give you ideas about how to clarify the plot and the major dra-
matic actions.
Language sketching is a very useful tool. You simply get the characters
talking to each other. To establish the true nature of a dramatic relationship,
verbally unleash the two characters on each other. Write for page after page.
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him talk about himself. Use the “I” word frequently in his ramblings. (“I
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on for pages. Eventually his true voice will emerge. You’ll throw away
ninety per cent of it, but the ten per cent you keep could be the key to the
whole play. David Mamet once said in an interview that he never starts a
play before he has about a hundred pages of dialogue between characters.
There are worse things to do with your time. There must be, because when
I’m watching plays I often feel a lack of sketching and deep preparation
in the play. Many playwrights obviously don’t sketch enough. Their ideas
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thinking isn’t deep or insightful. The language isn’t crystalline and symbolic
enough. All of these problems come from either a rushed writing process
or a lack of sketches—which is probably the same thing.
Remember what a sketch is: a sketch is an inspiration. Let your pen or
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fragments of dialogue. You’ll need the best of them later. But a warning:
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wildly and freely, but ultimately the ‘great lines’ will be at the service of
a range of other things—plot, use of theatre space, the play’s tone, or the
larger meaning of the play itself.
3. THE SCENE BREAKDOWN
Theatre is narrative exploration using time and space. (Movies,

on the other hand, tend to use time and place.) The scene breakdown is
\RXU¿UVWDWWHPSWWRFRPPLWWKHZRUOGRI\RXUSOD\DQGLWVFKDUDFWHUWR
the disciplines of time and space. All experience in the theatre is linear,
in the sense that all time is experienced that way. The audience receives
Moment A, then B, then C. This is not to say that the plot must be equally
chronological, from A to B to C. (The plot could well go backward, or back
and forth in time.) But in attempting to put your world and its story into
VRPHWHPSRUDODUUDQJHPHQW\RXDUHSXWWLQJWKDWVWRU\WRLWV¿UVWFUXFLDO
test: can the story be told in time and space.
'RQ¶WEHFRPHWRR¿[HGDWWKLVHDUO\VWDJH+DYHDYHU\IUHHZKHHOLQJ
approach. Say to yourself, “I’m going to need a scene where they meet.
I also need one where they break up.” Then let scene possibilities arise
as you think of them. What are the scenes of great potential in the story?
:KLFKDUHWKHPRVWSDVVLRQDWHDQGHPRWLRQ¿OOHG":KLFKDUHWKHQRLVLHVW"
Which are the gentlest? Which are the most painful? Are there any funny
scenes that suggest themselves in your central relationship or the story?
Do you need a scene where the central goal of the play is announced? If
so, do you then need a scene where this goal is achieved—or lost?
Think not only in terms of what the story needs but also what theatre
needs. Theatre is a spatial event. Remember that you have two formal
SUREOHPVWRVROYH²¿QGLQJWKHnarrative form (getting the story right),
DQG ¿QGLQJ WKH theatrical form (making it exciting in theatre space.)
Theatre needs colour, movement, brightness, intensity, sensuality, noise,
confusion, and a host of varied spatial arrangements—to name just a few.
So ask yourself a crucial question: “How can I make this story intensely
theatrical?” Where is the noisy scene? Where is the quiet one? Where is
the ensemble scene, where all characters are present? Where is the scene
where only the central character is present? And what about a scene where
no words are spoken? (An action-only scene; a mime or other highly
physical activity.) Where is the scene which is sound only? (No words;
music only; the natural sounds of your invented world.) Where is the scene
ZKLFKKDVDÀRRGRIH[FLWLQJODQJXDJH"<RXGRQ¶WKDYHWRZULWHLWDWWKLV
stage. You simply have to realise the potential for a scene of this type.)
Once you’ve brainstormed and collected lots of scene possibilities,
then one day you sit down and decide on an order. It’s that simple. Write
the plot out on a single line and put it on a small card, then toss the cards
LQWKHDLUDQGH[SHULPHQWZLWKGL൵HUHQWRUGHUV2UWU\WKHPEDFNZDUGV2U
alternate past and present. Remember, if you’re going in ‘correct’ temporal
order (from earliest point in time to latest) you will probably need to go
YHU\IDVW,QWKHDEVHQFHRIPDQLSXODWHGWLPHZKLFKSOD\VZLWKGL൵HUHQW
time periods, you need to use the one card left to you: speed. Theatre time
tends either to be manipulated or to be compressed (by speed.)
Once you’ve got an order (or disorder) that you like, the next step is
easy, as you’ve already done most of the work.
4. SORTING THE SKETCHES
This step is a very happy one, as it’s where you realise how much
great material you’ve already got. If you’ve sketched properly, that is, if
you’ve allowed the idea enough time to have simmered lots of thoughts,
ideas and great dialogue lines, then this step is harvest time, where you
reap all that you’ve sown. Simply sort all the ideas and sketches into
their scenes, based on the working Scene Breakdown that you’ve already
established. It’s a great feeling to realise you’ve got thirty pages of ideas
for the opening scene, especially when your instinct tells you that the
scene will only need to be about three pages long. It turns the next step
into a very unpressured one.
5. WRITING THE FIRST DRAFT
You’re probably wondering, “Why bother sketching? Why not just

sit down and write the play?” If that urge is very strong, then do so. There
was a time when I simply loved the experience of writing for three hours
without a break. Most of it turned out to be rubbish, but that wasn’t the
point. I was writing. Did that make me a playwright? Yes and no.
You see, plays are the product of a concentrated, distilled imagination.
Various scenes of the play may have been written fast and furiously, but
there is also another part of you that needs to be very cool and conscious.
At least a third of even professionally-produced plays we see on stage
are either a) overwritten; b) under developed in terms of plot or formal
organisation; c) too long; d) an untheatrical realisation of a not-very-
H[FLWLQJLGHDHDOORIWKHDERYH,IH[SHULHQFHGZULWHUV¿QGLWKDUGWR
get it right, there’s a lesson there for you. Give the idea time and lots of
creative speculation and planning. By all means, write fast and furious—
but review cooly, using all your God-given brains to double-check that
what you’ve written is as good as you think.
:KHQWKHWLPHFRPHVIRU\RXWRVWDUWZRUNRQWKH¿UVWGUDIW\RX
should be feeling pretty pleased with yourself. After all, you’ve already
done half the work, and got most of the sketches. You thought up the
great opening image two months ago, and you’re now just putting it in
its rightful spot. Of course there will be some pressure— the delightful
SUHVVXUHRIFRQFHQWUDWLQJRQJHWWLQJWKHµÀRZ¶ULJKW7KLVLV\RXUELJMRE
LQWKLV¿UVWGUDIWVWDJH*HWWLQJWKHPRPHQWVWKHEHDWVWKHIUDJPHQWVLQWR
DÀRZWKDWLVVHDPOHVVDQGVPRRWK%XWLI\RX¶YHDOUHDG\SXWWKHPLQWRD
very approximate order (subject to your instinct being in agreement with
that ordering), then half the job is already done.
$V,VDLGDLPIRUÀRZWKDWLVZKHUH\RXFDQ¶WWHOOZKHUHRQHVNHWFK
ends and another sketch starts.) Go for momentum, for moving to the
next point. Don’t linger. Throw out the sketch if it doesn’t contribute to
the growth of whatever form you’ve realised is making the scenes work.
Aim for compression. Don’t let the scene stay at the same pitch of ten-
sion. If it’s not building in excitement, fear, dilemma, comic angst etc,
then it’s probably sagging and losing interest. If you feel that the scene
is going somewhere (even if you’re not sure where) then go with it. You
can always cut it later.
6. DO SOMETHING ELSE
Plays are the products of a feverish but organising intelligence. The

emotion is switched on, but so is the brain. Having written at white-heat
(or at least with an exhilarated excitement; why else would you do it, if
you weren’t excited?) then you need time to cool down. You also need
time to say hello to your spouse/friends/lover, pay the bills, work and
resume a life. There is also a great creative reason to take a break after
FRPSOHWLQJD¿UVWGUDIW<RXDUHFUHDWLYHO\H[KDXVWHG,I\RX¶UHQRWWKHQ
you haven’t poured your energy, intelligence and excitement into the script.
So take time to recover, but also take the time to completely forget about
the play. Even if it’s only for a few weeks, it’s a good idea to grow a bit
distant from your play. Why? Because when you return to the piece, you
are much more likely to see what’s good about the current draft and what
isn’t. You’ll see what was wonderful, and what is not.
%XWWKHUH¶VDSUREOHPKHUH,QWKHHDUO\GD\VRIZULWLQJLHWKH¿UVW
ten years) you are still training your dramatic instinct. So how can you be
sure that what you’ve written is as exciting as you felt it was when you
were writing it? The simple answer is, you can’t be sure. That’s why you
should get a second opinion. Go to the professionals. Get an assessment
IURPDQ\R൶FLDORUVHPLR൶FLDORUJDQLVDWLRQ,W¶VDQH[FLWLQJH[SHULHQFH
WRKDYHWKHVWUHQJWKVRI\RXUSOD\FRQ¿UPHGDQG\RXUWUXVWLQ\RXURZQ
developing instinct grows accordingly) as well as the weaknesses pointed
RXW$NHHQZULWHUGRHVQ¶WPLQGLIWKHSUREOHPVLQDVFULSWDUHFODUL¿HG²
HVSHFLDOO\LIWKHDVVHVVRUWKURZVLQVRPHLGHDVDVWRKRZWR¿[WKHP
So get an assessment from a professional organisation or an indi-
vidual, even if you have to pay him or mow her front lawn in gratitude.
Join the professional associations like the Writers Guild of America or
the Dramatists Guild of America. Enter your play in one of the great U.S.
play conferences, like the Valdez Last Frontier Theatre Conference, or
the Omaha Conference, or the Eugene O'Neill. You’re not a writer till
you say you are, or until you’ve got the membership card that proves it.
If you can’t believe in yourself enough to join a professional association,
why ask others to believe in you (or your work)?
7. THE SECOND (AND THIRD, AND FOURTH) DRAFT
Having got the great advice which allows you to see your play more
clearly, you can then settle down and do the rewrites. As I’ve already
mentioned, George S. Kaufman, echoing Dion Boucicault, said that plays
are not written; they’re rewritten. As a man who had sixteen Broadway
hits, he should know. Plays are hard work, no matter how exciting they
are to write. You’ve got to love the rewriting. Why shouldn’t you? With
HDFKUH¿QHPHQWRUHGLWLQJ\RX¶UHJHWWLQJWKHSOD\FORVHUWRLWVLGHDOVWDWH
You’re also getting the play closer to production. Unless you’ve already
rashly sent it out before it was ready. I’ll deal with that tragic state of af-
fairs in the next chapter.
%\WKHWLPH\RX¶UHDW\RXUIRXUWKRU¿IWKGUDIW\RXPLJKWEHJHWWLQJ
creatively stale, or just plain sick of the work. In this case, put it down for
a while. Unless they’re about ultra-fashionable trends, most plays don’t
date as quickly as you might fear. There’s often a period of several years
in which your play can be written and still feel as if it’s been written yes-
terday. So be patient. Let the work get rich and powerful, so it can realise
its own wonderful potential. You’ve really no choice in this. Half-baked
work rarely gets produced by the very best theatre companies.
Occasionally an established writer lets a turkey through, of course,
and it gets a reasonable audience, who go away disappointed. But it’s
QRWDQRSWLRQIRUDQHZZULWHU²XQOHVV\RX¿QGWKDW\RXUZRUNLVEHLQJ
produced only because you’re a new writer. (It happens, but unless your
work is good, next year there’s a whole new crop of equally (un)talented
young ‘uns, and at the age of 25 years old you’re consigned to history.)
Anyway, isn’t your aim to write wonderful, amazing theatre? Once
you recover your love of the play, and your energy has returned, start
on the next draft. Or the one after that. Be a bloodhound. Each new and
improved draft brings you closer to the fox.
393
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
THE MARKETPLACE (I): GETTING YOUR PLAY PRODUCED, NET-
WORKING AND WRITING FOR THE WORLD THEATRE MARKET
When all’s said and done, playwrights really have only two questions:
“How can I become a better playwright and artist?”, and “Where and how
can I get my plays produced?” All craft development, career advice, the-
atre workshops and script development have as their aim the satisfactory
answering of one of these two fundamental questions.
Your task, then, is twofold: to develop your artistry, while also sharp-
ening your awareness of the realities of theatre production in today’s world.
0RVWRIWKHERRNKDVEHHQFRQFHUQHGZLWKWKH¿UVWWDVN7KLVFKDSWHUZLOO
deal with the second.
Before that, however, some background is needed. American theatre is
young. It’s been young for over two hundred years, and will remain so for a
good deal longer. The reasons for this are complex, and have to do with a range
of things this book can’t cover: the place of theatre in the USA; the ‘adolescence’
in Jungian terms of the country and its culture—an aspect shared with several
RWKHU(QJOLVKVSHDNLQJFRXQWULHVWKHVWDWXVRI¿FWLRQDOLVHGLPDJLQDWLRQDQG
intelligence in the country’s dollar-value-system; the relative cultural innocence
of the average American theatre-goer; and not least, the sporadic or even hostile
attitudes and policies of some Administrations to the arts, especially its funding.
But for all that, artists still create, because that is what we do. But we need
to be aware of the climate we work in. If American society is young, American
professional theatre is even younger. There is much to celebrate, and much to
be wary of. We have a world-famous theatre heritage to be proud of and critical
of. We have commercial theatre as well as numerous fringe theatres, actor-
driven groups and other art-generating theatrical activity. We have a diversity
RIZULWLQJDFWLQJDQGSHUIRUPDQFHVW\OHV&UXFLDOO\DVWKH¿UVWFKDSWHULQWKLV
book indicates, we have a lively, timely and on-going debate about the type
RIWKHDWUHZHVKRXOGEHZULWLQJDWRSLF,VKDOOUHWXUQWRLQWKH¿QDOFKDSWHU
These things we can celebrate and be rightly proud of. American theatre
culture has enriched our society and helped to turn it into a great nation. But this
is no time for complacency. An awareness of the realities of theatre in America
LVDOPRVWDVLPSRUWDQWDVDUWLVWLFGHYHORSPHQW$V,ZDUQHGLQWKH¿UVWFKDSWHU
European and non-American work is increasingly being staged in the USA.
With all that in mind, let’s deal with the big question: How do you
become established in theatre so that your work is produced, and even
earn good money from it?
There is no one single answer to this question. Rather, there are many
factors that you should be aware of. First, should we even rely on playwrit-
ing exclusively for our income? I’d broaden this question: should we rely on
DQ\WKLQJIRUDQH[FOXVLYHLQFRPH"$Q\VXEXUEDQ¿QDQFLDOH[SHUWZLOOWHOO
you never to put all your eggs in one basket. Diversity is strength. Variety
LVWKHVSLFHRIOLIHDQGVRXQG¿QDQFHV,NQRZZULWHUVZKRUHO\RQZULWLQJ
for all their income. Some live comfortably, but many of them are stressed
DQGRYHUZRUNHG(YHQLQ(XURSHPDQ\¿QHDUWLVWVOLYHIURPRQHJRYHUQ-
ment funding application to the next, and given the increasing parsimony
(even bankruptcy) of many European governments, it can be a demoralising
existence, suitable only for those who thrive on uncertainty and overdrive.
Even more miserable are some writers writing the shows you see on
television. Some television shows are wonderful, and are equally won-
derful to write for. (The growth of quality American television in the last
two decades is a story in itself. So is the proud TV tradition of the BBC
and ITV in England.) But other shows are not so wonderful, and in these
cases, the writers decided to become regular earners in writing, but in the
process they may well have stopped being creative artists. They write at the
beck and call of producers, rather than their own inner creative instincts.
Rather than write a story they are passionate about, they become profes-
sionally interested in the ‘professional, craft challenges’ of the writing
job at hand. They are like lawyers for hire. In some cases, they will have
IRUJRWWHQZKDWPDGHWKHPZDQWWRZULWHLQWKH¿UVWSODFHWKRXJKPDQ\
RIWKHPKDYHVRPHZKHUHDQXQSURGXFHGVWDJHSOD\RUDQXQPDGH¿OP
VFULSWWKDWWKH\RFFDVLRQDOO\GXVWR൵DQGJD]HDWZLVWIXOO\
If only so that you can avoid both wistfulness and having to dust, I’ll
cheer you up by saying that I strongly believe that you don’t need to be a
full-time theatre writer to have a career in theatre. Believe it or not, a few
hours of part-time writing per week can allow you to create work of power
DQGVWDWXUHKDYHDOLWHUDU\UHSXWDWLRQDQGHYHQGRYHU\ZHOO¿QDQFLDOO\
I know lawyers who write. Doctors who write. Poets who milk the
cows in between writing sessions. Many of America’s best playwrights
DOVRWHDFKDWRQHRIWKHJUHDWXQLYHUVLWLHVWKDWR൵HUWKHDWUHDQGGUDPDVWXG-
ies. Unless you are a monomaniac, these activities are not interruptions.
They are activities; a part of life; intellectually stimulating; a break from
writing; ‘grist for the mill’. In many cases, these jobs are easier ways to
HDUQ \RXU PRQH\ HVSHFLDOO\ ZKLOH \RX DUH GHYHORSLQJ DQG ¿QLVKLQJ D
SDUWLFXODUO\GL൶FXOWSOD\$QGLQWKDWVHQVHPRVWSOD\VDUHGL൶FXOW
For theatre writing is very exciting, but it is often very hard. It requires
concentration, and a well-developed ability to think and plan ahead. You
QHHGWREHDEOHWRGHOD\\RXUGHVLUHIRUJUDWL¿FDWLRQ-RXUQDOLVWVVHHWKHLU
work in print the next day. Television writers have only to wait a few
PRQWKV%XWQRYHOLVWV¿OPZULWHUVDQGSOD\ZULJKWVNQRZWKDWLWFDQEH
¿YH\HDUVRUPRUHIURP3DJHRU6FHQHWRERRNODXQFKRURSHQLQJ
night) and the free champagne. Seen like this, the champagne isn’t free.
You paid for it in sweat and tears.
Table 11: A SUMMARY OF WORKING METHODS YOU CAN USE

(or How to make progress even if it doesn't feel like it.)
The method . . . . . . and its implications for you the writer
1. Almost every project needs research This is where you learn more about the
world
2. Create 50 pages of individual char- At this point, becasue the character - and her
acter sketches therapist. See what she says
3. Create 50 pages of relationship Just let the characters talk to each other: see
sketches what hidden agendas are there
4. When not writing much, read 1-2 Treat other artists with respect and enjoy
new plays every week/month what they do
5. When not writing much, work on 'RQ
WIRUJHW¿OPWRR,W
VHQMR\DEOHEXW
\RXUWLWOHV¿OHVWRU\LGHDV¿OHHWF GL൵HUHQW
6. For each impotant character, cre- And don't worry about 'where it goes in the
ate 1-2 big speeches play'
7. Let your main character(s) talk . . . Language creates character: that's the impor-
and talk tant theatre principle to remember
8. Reduce your story idea to 2-line Don't be precious; tell people: how else
pitch (that startles, amuses etc) will youget your future team excited by the
work?
9. Deliberately expand your stylistic Always study what excites and fascinates
options by study of other plays you
10. Seriously study your theatre market Establish a future home for your premieres
...
11. . . . & nominate the "target Meet the artists who run them. Get to them
theatre(s)' for your project
12. Have 2-3 plays/projects for each Visit your favourite/targe theatre(s) regu-
theatre whos space you like larly. Update and review yoru projects for
them
13. Develop the 'creative team' Keep meeting new artists, including over-
seas ones
14. Fit the story into the Plot Snake or 0RVWVWRULHV¿WWKHVHPRGHOVLQVPDOORU
the 4-Plateau theory large ways
15. Develop a bullet-point plotting . . . This strengthens causality, connective plot-
ting
16. . . . & then allocate each plot point Remember that short scenes can refresh the
to a scene audience and boost your play's momentum
'HOLEHUDWHO\ZULWHGL൵HUHQWVFHQHV The smaller the cast size, the more you'll
LQGL൵HUHQWSHUIRUPDWLYHVWDWHVVW\OHV need a break from the few horizontal pat-
WHUQV\RXUFDVWLQJVL]HR൵HUV\RX
18. Write for 3-4 years ahead! Plays are expensive and complex; they take
time
19. Develop an 'export strategy' . . . Where do you want to be produced?
then . . .
20. . . . visit the export market It's the best form of tourism --and may be
taax-deductable
21. Cultivate a 'stable' of directors: 'one Work out what directors are especially
director for each project' JRRGDWR൵HUWKHPSOD\VWKDWEXLOGRQWKLV
strength
22. Have a circle of actor friends who A private reading can only point out the
will (for good wine) do a private read- SUREOHPVWKH\FDQ
W¿[LWIRU\RX
ing for you
23. Have a monthly ('by the end of this A small step taken is still a step forward
month, I will . . . ') work plan
24. Have a simple & easy weekly work Writing is not a replacement for a happy life;
plan (1-2 simple actions each week) it's an addition to it
All this might seem to imply that you have no hope of earning good
money from playwriting in the U.S. or elsewhere. This simply isn’t true.
It works like this: Write a play for a small theatre company that only has
one season of a few weeks, and you’ll probably earn only a few thousand
GROODUVPD\EHOHVV7KLVLVDOUHDG\DVPXFKDVPDQ\¿UVWQRYHOLVWVHDUQ
Write for a big state theatre company or a very prestigious and established
New York theatre (like Manhattan Theatre Club), and it might very well
be the start of a long and lucrative career.
You’ve probably heard the statement, “In theatre, you can’t make a
living, you can only make a killing.” Getting a regular income from theatre
is not easy—but theatre is not a regular job. It’s closer to agriculture. You’re
a type of literary farmer. You grow something. The market either wants
it, or it doesn’t, in which case it returns the crop to you in an envelope. If
it wants it badly enough, the harvest check is bountiful, and Bob’s your
uncle, as my uncle used to say.
If the harvest check turns out not to be so bountiful, or if it’s slow in
coming, or doesn’t turn up at all, there are still many things you can do.
Here are eight ideas:
1. Try and choose activities that educate you as well as paying you.
When learning to write, I lobbied my local public radio station to al-
low me to do a whole range of things, none of which I was then much
TXDOL¿HGIRU8QGDXQWHG,EHJDQZULWLQJUDGLRIHDWXUHVDERXWFXOWXUDO
theatrical and historical things I was passionate about. This helped to
enculturate me—a persistent artistic problem with new writers. I also
translated German radio plays, and thereby got to know a vastly dif-
ferent dramatic aesthetic from the local scene in Australia. Naturally,
I also wrote radio plays which were broadcast on public radio, which
allowed me to work closely with actors who taught me a great deal
about how to write for them.
2. Be able and willing to diversify. Who says you are only a playwright?
,QP\YLHZDQGH[SHULHQFHSOD\ZULWLQJLVWHQWLPHVDVKDUGDV¿OP
ZULWLQJ:LWK¿OPWKHKDUGWKLQJLV¿QGLQJDSDUWLFXODUµDQJOH¶WR
the story which makes it both acceptable, (because it’s already half-
familiar) and yet new (via one or two truly ingenious plot twists.) Or
as Hollywood says, “Make it new—but not too new.” Another hard
WKLQJLV¿QGLQJWKHVL[RUVL[W\PLOOLRQGROODUVWRDFWXDOO\PDNHWKH
¿OP7KHUHDUHPRUHIDFWRUVLQYROYHGRIFRXUVH:K\D¿OPLVRQ
balance, easier to write than a play is a fascinating and enlighten-
ing subject, but sadly beyond the scope of this book. (Other than
WRVXJJHVWWKDWD¿OPLVDJUHDWO\DVVLVWHGDQGHYHQFRFUHDWHGE\
RWKHUPHGLDIRUH[DPSOHWKHUROHRIPXVLFLQPRGHUQ¿OPLVKXJH
DQG E ¿OP¶V JUHDWHU UHOLDQFH RQ UHDOLVP DQG LI \RX¶YH UHDG WKLV
book closely, you’ll know that stories which UHÀHFW social reality are
easier to write than stories which symbolise that reality.) I say this,
of course, without wishing to down-play the extraordinary narrative
DFKLHYHPHQWRIPDQ\¿OPV
3. So write your play, then forget all about it for a while. Go and write
WKDW¿OPLGHD\RX¶YHKDGIRUWZR\HDUV2UWKH79VLWFRP2UWKH
UDGLRSOD\2UWKH¿UVWQRYHO%HWKHRQHLQWHQZKRDFWXDOO\IROORZ
through with their plans, dreams, ideas and pipe-dreams. Write it.
Just do it, with or without sports shoes.
4. Choose exciting but realistic initial goals. To help you turn a pipe-
GUHDPLQWRDVHULRXVFUHDWLYH¿UHVWDUWZLWKRQHRIWKHVHSURMHFWV
• 7KHVKRUW¿OP+HUH\RXKDYHWRVLWLQ¿OPVFKRROFDIHWHULDV
and learn to pitch by interesting student directors in your idea.
Have a two-minute verbal spiel, a two-page summary of your
story, a run-down of the characters, and a great twist to the plot.
Appeal to the ambition of work-hungry directors who will
KXVWOHWKHLUZD\LQWRRQHRIWKHPDQ\VKRUW¿OPFRPSHWLWLRQV
with your script. But keep the copyright and ownership of it.
• 7KHIHDWXUH¿OP$V,MXVWLQGLFDWHGWKHFUXFLDOWKLQJKHUH
is the idea and its narrative execution; that particular piece
of narrative speculation or “What if...?” that makes the

average gal-in-the-street say, “Excuse me?” Go from a
one-paragraph sketch of the idea, to a one-page summary,
to a ten-page synopsis, to a twenty-page scene breakdown,
to a thirty-page treatment. At this point, stop for breath, and
apply for funding (if any such schemes exist in your area)
or simply start looking for creative collaborators. If none
HPHUJHVNHHSJRLQJDQGSURGXFHWKH¿UVWGUDIW([HFXWLRQ
is just as important as the idea itself (and ideas are not really
protected by copyright laws). Pay the rent while you work
on the screenplay, one or two pages a night. Or binge at the
weekends. It doesn’t matter. Producing the draft is crucial
to your developing artistry—as well as your disciplines and
work-habits.
• The brilliant pitch for a sitcom. You either love TV or you
don’t. TV writing can’t be faked. Creative opportunities are
growing, most particularly in the cable and pay-TV channels.
,I\RXULGHDLVJRRG\RXVKRXOGGHYHORSLWVX൶FLHQWO\VRWKDW
you are not separable from your idea (except upon receipt of
a large box of cash.) Develop the idea as fully as possible.
After all, at this point in your career, you are not just sell-
ing a story idea. You’re selling yourself as a writer-for-hire.
And move to Los Angeles. There’s no way around that. Los
$QJHOHVLVWKHFHQWHUIRU¿OPDQGWHOHYLVLRQ,UHFHQWO\KDG
WKHJUHDWSOHDVXUHRIVHHLQJWKH2൵%URDGZD\SOD\Red by
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you can master more than one writing genre or medium.
• The ten-minute play. Modern theatre likes the fast, furious
and brief. When I began writing, there was simply no inter-
est in short work. Things have changed. Your ten-minute
play may be grouped with six others in a professional or
FRRSSURGXFWLRQDQGRQFHPRUH\RX¿QG\RXUVHOIZLWKD
respectable artistic credit. If you’ve got the idea, or simply
WKH LPSXOVH WKHQ ZULWH LW:KHQ \RX¶YH ¿QLVKHG NHHS D
lookout for producing agencies and opportunities, whether
professional, fringe or group-driven. It won’t start a career in
itself—and can even be something of a dead-end, especially
if that is all that you write. But it’s an option for the writer
VWLOO¿QGLQJKLVKHUPDQ\YRLFHV
• The one-act play. This creative possibility is obviously more
demanding than a ten-minute piece. Unlike the ten-minute
VL]HDPLQXWHSOD\LVWRRORQJWREHÀXNHGRUWREHD
one-joke story. Real artistry has to be shown. Craft skill is
needed. Theatrical technique is obligatory, the more virtuosic
the better. Go for rapid development of the situation. Many
new one-act works I see are dreadfully over-written and
excruciatingly slow in their plot development. Frequently,
they are an excuse for literature or sit-com slickness. Go for
power, passion and the clearest statement of the truth as you
see it. Don’t have a preconception about how long the play
should be. Write it as if every second mattered. If it’s good,
you’ll still win the audience—and the awards.
5. In direct contradiction of the previous advice, consider choosing a
PDJQL¿FHQWO\RYHUDPELWLRXVJRDO%XWEHDZDUHWKDWLWPD\WDNH\RX
WHQ\HDUVWRSXOOLWR൵0RVWµIXOOOHQJWK¶SOD\VWDNHDIHZ\HDUVIURP¿UVW
VNHWFKHVWR¿UVWQLJKW,I\RX¶UHSDWLHQWWKHZRUNZLOOJURZZLWK\RX
6. Work for the theatres you wish to write for. I was a very incompetent
theatre usher for a time, and got to see A Doll’s HouseWZHQW\¿YH
times in a row. If Quentin Tarantino can work in a video store, you
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JLYH\RXDJRRGIHHOIRUWKHSXEOLF¶VVRXOLQDOOLWVPDJQL¿FHQWÀDZV
and occasional imperfections.
7. Get professional. Put “Writer” on the passport. Get your WGA mem-
bership card or join New Dramatists or whatever is thriving in your
area. In other words, join whatever writing associations you can. Put
your hand up for whatever the script development organisations are
R൵HULQJ*HWWKHVFULSWVRIWZDUHWKDWWKHSURIHVVLRQDOVXVH-RLQLQ
the strikes, meetings, boycotts and other agit-prop lobbying that the
Guild may ask for, so that the conditions you write under get better.
There’s a lot of work to be done.
8. Get a life—and a lover/spouse/soul-mate, and good friends and family.

Have children, who remind you that life can be a much more joyful
H[SHULHQFHWKDQWKHFXUUHQWGUDIWRI\RXUXQ¿QLVKHGSOD\
Crucially, don’t give up—unless giving up would give you much

more joy than staying with it. You can’t write for opening night. Cocktails
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FKLOO\RX"2UGRHVLWIUHH\RX"/RRNDWLWWKLVZD\\RX¶YHJRW¿YHPRUH
years to become a wonderful dramatist before the press, the public and
the profession get to judge you. Isn’t it better that the judgment is one of
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THE INTERNATIONAL MARKET FOR AMERICAN PLAYS
Is there an international market for American theatre work? An odd ques-

tion, you might think, given the international outlook of this book! (And no
one would dream of questioning whether there is an international market for
$PHULFDQ¿OPV%XWLQP\UHJXODUWUDYHOVLQWKH86,DPFRQVWDQWO\PHHW-
ing playwrights who have never considered seeking international markets for
their theatre work. For many U.S. playwrights, New York (or even Chicago,
Houston or San Francisco) is the only Mecca they dream of visiting.
The idea of writing for the international theatre market also deserves
a book in itself, so this brief section can hardly be more than the barest
of introductions.
As I said, many American playwrights have not even considered being
produced internationally. But if an Australian playwright like me can be
produced in Europe and the USA, why could not the reverse occur? To
succeed however, it requires more than the great luck of having a ‘New
York theatre hit’ (which tends to set in train its own international export
and production opportunities). If you’ve not had a play which has taken
R൵VSHFWDFXODUO\LQ1HZ<RUNWKHQ\RXFDQEHJLQE\XQGHUVWDQGLQJWKH
international theatre scene.
I’ll discuss the question of ‘how to appeal to international theatre
audiences’ in the next section. For now, I’ll just say one thing: Don’t
be deterred by occasional pessimism you may hear about ‘the future
of theatre’. For as long as I’ve been writing, I’ve heard how theatre is
‘dying’. Maybe it is, at least in its current form. I don’t know. In any
case, there are several types of death available to theatre. There is the
death of a thousand cuts, which is what successive government admin-
istrations have done to the arts, national endowment funding and public
culture in many more countries than just the USA. There is death by
over-subsidy, as is the case in Germany, where an over-emphasis on
director-driven ‘conceptual theatre’ has created work that is obscure,
self-conscious, ponderously intellectual and subtly contemptuous of its
audience. And the public responds, by staying away in droves, which is
another form of death.
There is also death by popularity, as in Israel where the fact that
almost 90 per cent of the population goes to theatre means that it has to
stay accessible, popular and create a political and social consensus that
is not artist-driven. There is death by aggrandizement, as in England (or
rather, in London’s West End) where a range of factors has combined to
produce a theatre that is increasingly reliant on tourists to sustain itself. I
EHOLHYHWKDWWKHZRUNRIWKH%ULWLVKWKHDWUHKDVÀXFWXDWHGPDUNHGO\ERWK
in quality and quantity. The so-called New Wave of British plays of the
mid-1990s was, in my view, mostly a triumph of marketing rather than
of real artistic quality or innovation.
0RUHVHO¿VKO\\RXVKRXOGDVN\RXUVHOIWKHIROORZLQJTXHVWLRQ³,V
there an international market for my work?” If that question interests
you—and it should—then read on.
AMERICAN PLAYS THAT SUCCEED INTERNATIONALLY
I’ve probably seen almost as much American theatre outside the USA
as within its borders, so in at least one sense I’m an expert in ‘What type
of American theatre travels well, and succeeds internationally’. I’m not
talking about the Broadway musicals which are increasingly designed
and manufactured by corporate concerns. If you are lucky enough to
hold stock in one of those companies that create mass-market musicals,
I wish you well. But that is not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking
about the plays that are mostly the product of a unique, single imagination
(a.k.a. the playwright.)
Generally, the American plays that speak to international audiences,
don’t do so because of the actual stories they tell. It’s not just about ‘a
great story’. In fact, the story is almost an ‘excuse’ to create a certain type
of spatial and imaginative tone (or tonality). It is my view that the magic
of internationally successful American plays relates to four principal nar-
UDWLYHWRQHVHDFKRIZKLFKFUHDWHVDSDUWLFXODUDQGVSHFL¿FVSDWLDOWRQH
I list these four types below.
In each of the types, you’ll notice that I use the word “enchanted”.
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DV ³WR FKDUP GHOLJKW HQUDSWXUH RU EHZLWFK OLWHUDOO\ RU ¿JXUDWLYHO\´
The most successful American plays coax their audiences into an almost
complete belief in the narrative world that the characters belong to. It’s a
state of grace, a fantasy; a type of Paradise-on-earth that audiences long
to enter and feel they ‘belong to’. But that’s not the only type of enchant-
ment that is possible.
Enchantment based on hopes and desires
An enchanted dramatic world is where the world of the play is so

¿OOHGZLWKORYHKRSHRUKXPDQ\HDUQLQJWKDWZHLQWKHDXGLHQFHORQJIRU
the characters to succeed, no matter how unlikely. The plays of Chekhov
and Tennessee Williams have this enchanted quality. It’s related to our
still-strong cultural need for redemption narratives, where characters
strive for a morally, ethically and aesthetically superior state, and we in
the audience are rooting for them, hoping they will succeed.
But such optimistic states are not the only type of enchanted world
available to you, as an American playwright.
Enchantment based on fears and dread
In Chapter 27, I said that an audience goes to the theatre in order to

worry. That statement is especially true when we consider the ‘dark’ enchant-
ments possible to us as theatre writers. Here, then, without further apology
RUTXDOL¿FDWLRQDUHWKHIRXUW\SHVRI$PHULFDQSOD\VZKLFKVHHPWRKDYH
special appeal internationally. I’ve occasionally added a musical, or a non-
American play to give you a better idea of the play styles I’m describing.
1. The Exotic and Enchanted

By ‘exotic’, I mean the appeal of a place (or time) which is
special, unique, and far removed from our own bustling mo-
dernity. It brings out the desire to travel in us—physically or
metaphorically. Or it makes us wish our world was as interesting,
or as simple or as fair as the world that this type of play evokes.
Examples include A Streetcar Named Desire, and the musical
6RXWK3DFL¿FThe British play Amadeus is an invitation to ‘get
close to the mystery of human genius’ with its endearing and
funny look at Mozart, the man-child and genius. Sarah Ruhl’s
play In the Next Room (the vibrator play) while being funny,
warm and generous in its characterization, also speaks up for
generations of women denied the happiness of sexual enjoyment.
It might be thought that the plays in this category come close to
being ‘easy fantasies’: “Just lie back and let it wash over you!”
But there’s usually an integrity (of varying sorts) underlying the
IDQWDV\WKDWMXVWL¿HVWKHH[RWLFDDQGZLVKIXO¿OPHQW7KHSOD\
Equus could easily have gone in another direction and become
a bleak, brooding message verging on despair. But the greatest
character in the play, the Doctor investigating the strange boy,
stands as a representative of our deepest longing to understand
DQG¿QGVROXWLRQVYLWDOWRKXPDQKDSSLQHVVDQGVSLULWXDOSXUSRVH.
2. The Familiar and Enchanted

In one sense, it’s much easier to create enchantment when you are
visiting magic kingdoms (The King and I) or never-never-lands
(Brigadoon). But when you are visiting a place and time that is
already very familiar to the audience, you will encounter more
GL൶FXOWLHVLQHYRNLQJHQFKDQWPHQWLQ\RXUGUDPDWLFZRUOG2QH
of the best rejection letters I ever received was from a director
who ‘passed’ on the chance to direct one of my earlier, rather
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'HSWK LQ D SOD\ ,Q IDFW WKH ¿UVW KHOSV WR FUHDWH WKH VHFRQG´
May you be blessed with such insight in a rejection letter. For in
this simple sentence, my rejectionist director had taught me that
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deep and magical dramatic worlds. Such a wonderful controlling
image is Laura’s love of her delicate glass animals in The Glass
Menagerie. With this single master-stroke, Williams lifted the
play out of bleakness, urban familiarity and ordinariness—and
onto the level of the Metaphysical that I’ve spent so much time
describing in this book. Other examples including Elizabeth
(JOR൵¶VEHDXWLIXOThe Swan, with its bold image of desire and
imagination. Or David Auburn’s Proof, where mathematics lifts
the play above its mundane and psychologically wounded milieu.
But perhaps the greatest master of the central image that lifts a play
out of its familiar, melodramatic or banal milieu is Henrik Ibsen.
In play after play, a central image lifts the play to a point where the
audience knows it is dealing with the secret mysteries of life. Some-
times the enchanted, symbolic image is a wild duck hidden in the
attic. Other times, the whole household is the image, as in A Doll’s
House. Perhaps Ibsen’s greatest achievement is to make characters
themselves more symbolic than real—and get away with it. Hedda
Gabler, John Gabriel Borkman, or the Rat-Wife in Little Eyolf are
more metaphysical creations than ‘real’. But who said theatre was
a realistic medium? This gives us all a hint: when characters are
¿UVWFRQQHFWHGLQWRWKHLUµPHWDSK\VLFDOLQWHQVLW\¶WKHUHVWIROORZV
naturally. Often we ‘create’ this level last—or more likely, simply
impose it on the play. But what if “to live the ideal life” (as Gregers
Werle says in The Wild Duck) formed our ¿UVWpoint of characteriza-
tion? What would happen? We might end up with an extraordinary,
enchanted character—and a central image for the whole play.
3. The Gothic and Enchanted

By Gothic, I mean those plays whose world-view is fundamen-
tally infernal. Life is a hellish trap, where Heads you lose, and
Tails—you still lose. The Gothic has become increasingly impor-
tant in our cultural world, probably because after the violence and
obscenity of the 20th century and its wars and depredations, the
metaphor of ‘the infernal’ is vigorous and hysterical enough to be
a suitable artistic response to our recent history. But the Gothic
also acts as an appropriate human response to life’s puzzles and
pain, especially when experienced by a group that knows nothing
of the 20th century—the young. To young people, the Gothic is
the principal aesthetic response to the madness of growing up
in our complex civilisation. The Gothic—best understood as an
infernal, pessimistic and nightmarish vision of human life—is
more than a consoling fantasy for life and its troubles. It’s very
exciting as a narrative world in itself. In the last thirty years
young audiences in particular, in various media have adopted it
as a type of banner of identity: when life is mad and inexplicable,
there’s less to explain, and a lot to enjoy.
The notion of ‘enjoying the dark world’ is crucial to understanding

how to use this tonality in your play writing. Rather than it being
a bleak, philosophical response to unsolvable dilemmas and hor-
rors (as European playwrights have tended to do) the ‘American
response’ to the Gothic has been to treat it as a narrative device or
an approach to language and characterization. Your play doesn’t
have to be about vampires to be Gothic—and literal vampires are
probably best left to the graphic and special-FX world of comics
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of dramatic language that suggests emptiness and a deep void.
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an audience recognises as allowing the creation of characters
who live, talk and act ‘on the dark side’ of life. Examples include
Border (Elizabeth Wray), August, Osage County (Tracy Letts),
$PHULFDQ%XৼDOR(David Mamet), and even The Crucible (Ar-
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deals with the highly Gothic subject of witchcraft. Most of Sam
Shepard’s early plays also have a Gothic quality. Remember that
in theatre, language creates the Gothic before plot does. Study the
way these plays use language to ‘chill’ the theatrical space, making
possible and plausible the dark events of their plays.
4. The Machiavellian and Enchanted

Niccolò Machiavelli was an Italian historian, politician, Renais-
sance writer and political theorist living in Florence at the turn of
the 16th century. His failures and successes in serving and observing
his political masters (including the fabled Medici family) contrib-
uted to his lasting contribution to Western literature: The Prince.
This book is a study not of morality, but of political behavior. It
is a study of Renaissance politics based, not on what leaders and
people in power should do, but on what they really do, especially
what they should do if they wish to retain their political power.
No one—except perhaps Shakespeare—has provided us with so

many insights into the true nature of politics and political thinking.
In politics, Machiavelli argues, it’s more important to be successful
than to be in the right. Might makes right. He is not arguing that
deception and trickery are good in themselves; rather, they are
H൵HFWLYHWRROVLQWKHµUHDOZRUOG¶ZKHUHVHOILQWHUHVWLVSDUDPRXQW
In theatre writing, the principle of Machiavellian plotting is

simple: nothing is as it seems. But doing it is harder than it
seems. It’s at this point we need to discuss an important and re-
lated principle of plotting, which I call the Temporary Certainty.
Understanding this will help us understand how to make your
plotting ‘Machiavellian’.
Machiavellian plotting and the ‘Temporary Certainty’
Imagine two guys are eating dinner in a restaurant. Nothing special.

A chill-out dinner after work. The meal is over. They’re both relaxing, and
PRXWKLQJR൵DERXWRQHWKLQJRUDQRWKHU,WVRRQEHFRPHVDSSDUHQWWKDWRQH
of them in particular has something on his mind. Let’s call him Moss. He’s
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who is in danger of being sacked from his job. (We learn that both of them
ZRUNLQWKHVDPHUHDOHVWDWHR൶FH$PLGDOOWKHEDQWHURSLQLRQLVLQJDQG
racial abuse, it’s clear that both men blame Mitch and Murray, who own the
real estate business they work for, for all the problems the two are having.
The precious ‘leads’ (potential clients’ names and addresses) are not fairly
GLVWULEXWHGDQGLQDQ\FDVHWKHERVVHVSUR¿WPRUHWKDQDQ\RIWKHP$SHULRG
of boss-bashing follows, but gradually a theme emerges, subtly introduced
by Moss: “Somebody should do something” about this unjust situation.
Aaronow agrees, but starts to wonder where this conversation is heading.
For his part, Moss has a simple solution: someone should break into their
RZQR൶FHDQGVWHDOWKHOHDGV$DURQRZVWDUWVJHWWLQJYHU\IULJKWHQHG
You may already have guessed where this scene comes from. It’s the
wonderful second scene of Act 1 of David Mamet’s Pulitzer Prize-winning
Glengarry Glen Ross, which I discussed in Chapters 8 and 21.
Here are the Temporary Certainties of this scene:
Temporary Certainty 1: Two average guys talking. Both in real

estate. By the end of this phase, it’s clear that they blame their
bosses for their predicament.
Temporary Certainty 2: More blame of Mitch and Murray. But

by the end of this second phase, Moss has resolved that these
two guys should be punished, and Aaronow tentatively agrees.
Temporary Certainty 3: Moss is taking control now, in steering the
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WKHUHDOHVWDWHR൶FH´$QGLW¶VJRLQJWRKDSSHQWKDWYHU\QLJKW
Temporary Certainty 4: Aaronow is now panicking, and to his

amazement, Moss then brilliantly manoeuvres Aaronow into
an illegal situation (Accessory before the Fact): If Moss has
to steal the leads himself and he is caught, then he will name
Aaronow as his accomplice. But then Moss plays his ace: if
Aaronow steals the leads himself (and then gives half to Moss!)
he’ll probably succeed because “No one will suspect you”.
There is a great coda to this scene, as a defeated and trapped
Aaronow asks why he is being set up in this way. “Because
you listened” Moss replies.
I hope it’s clear from this example what a Temporary Certainty is.
New information brings about a new situation. With each new situation or
certainty, the audience thinks to itself, “Oh, so that is what’s really going
on. Now I understand!” But the audience’s certainty about the situation
is only temporary, because the next piece of new information changes it
yet again. The audience then re-settles into the new situation—until the
next round of information changes the situation again...
See it like this: Character A plays a card (say an 8 of Spades). So
Character B plays a Ten, which tops the 8 card. Character A looks defeated,
EXWLW¶VDEOX൵KHSXOOVRXWD.LQJRI+HDUWVRQO\WR¿QGWKDW&KDUDFWHU
B tops this with a superior Ace.
As I discussed in Chapter 21, the Temporary Certainty and Phase
:ULWLQJWHQGWRZRUNWRJHWKHU6SHFL¿FDOO\WKH\FRPELQHLQWKLVZD\D
phase is a series of ‘beats’, but it is dominated by a single driving impulse:
for example, “to put even more pressure on the other character”, or “to
lull her into a false sense of security”.
Most phases have a Phase Climax (usually new and surprising in-
IRUPDWLRQZKLFKVLJQL¿FDQWO\FKDQJHVWKHVLWXDWLRQ,Q0DFKLDYHOOLDQ
plotting the rule is this: the character who has the secret knowledge holds
the power. New Information creates both the new Temporary Certainty
as well as the climax of the old phase, and the response to this new infor-
mation helps to drive the next phase—until still more new information
changes that as well.
AMERICAN PLAYS WHICH DO NOT SUCCEED INTERNATIONALLY
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wrights or play examples are given here. It is not my intention to name-and-
shame. Theatre is hard enough without artists criticising each other. But I’ve
seen examples of most of the following four types in various regions of the
USA and at American theatre conferences. The plays may receive a local
production, but rarely make it to New York, let alone the big wide world
beyond. Frequently, the plays that are workshopped in those Conferences
tend never to receive professional productions. This is not really the fault of
the Conferences. It usually stems from the technical and cultural immaturity
of the playwright. This immaturity reveals itself in several ways, including
a preference for the following four unsuccessful play types:
1. The Familiar & Unenchanted
“Write about what you know” would have to be one of the most use-
less pieces of writing advice ever given to young writers—and it is given
frequently. The problem with young writers is that they are young and
have much less life-experience than writing often needs. In any case, the
GH¿QLWLRQRIµZKDW\RXNQRZ¶LVYHU\XQFOHDU'RHVWKLVOLWHUDOO\PHDQWKDW
you should write only about the family you grew up in, the marriage you
personally lived through, or the only home town you’ve ever really known
well? I prefer the view of the British playwright Howard Brenton who once
told an audience that “Writers should write about whatever excites them
and they personally strongly respond to.” A writer’s need to understand
a world will give her all the ‘knowledge’ she will need. In the USA, this
Familiar-and-Unenchanted play type often appears as a well-meaning work
DERXWDG\VIXQFWLRQDOIDPLO\LQDVSHFL¿FUHJLRQ6DGO\DOWKRXJK)ODXEHUW
said that ‘All great art is provincial’, it’s not enough just to set a play in
a particular province or region; otherwise, all American theatre would be
of the quality of A Streetcar Named Desire. The purpose of Place (a town,
DUHJLRQHWFLVQRWWRUHÀHFWWKDWUHJLRQEXWWRsymbolise it. That is, the
writer has to make that place symbolic of a place in the human imagina-
tion. For example, imagine saying to yourself: “This town my play is set
in resonates with the craziness/loneliness/madness that I feel permeates
much human life”. A play like that would remind its audiences that the
greatest plays are deep allegories of human experience, inner and outer.
If an audience wanted social accuracy, it would watch a documentary.
The problem of an American play being too familiar or too ordinary is
QRWFRQ¿QHGWRWKRVHSOD\VVHWLQDQ\VSHFL¿FUHJLRQRI$PHULFD,URQLFDOO\
it’s also a problem of many New York-based plays, which assume that
New York is enough of an Enchanted World to be interesting in its own
right. Thus, I’ve seen many plays (some produced, others not) which are
little more than sit-com drafts, but with the ‘allure’ of being about life in
New York. While I love New York as one of the great cities in the world,
it’s not enough for a play just to come from New York. It also should be
EULOOLDQWDQGR൵HUGHHSLQVLJKWVLQWRWKHP\VWHULHVRIWKHKXPDQPLQG
heart and soul. The setting or place becomes the great focusing agent for
that deep examination.
2. The Exotic & Unenchanted
%\µ([RWLF¶,PHDQDZRUOGWKDWLVGLVWDQWDQGGL൵HUHQWLQVRPHZD\
from our own. It might be geographically distant (e.g. a play set in the
tropics or the icy north). It might be from an earlier period (e.g. the 19th
century). A play might be racially, culturally or nationally distant (e.g. a
play about a French rural family). Of course, one person’s exotica is an-
other person’s familiarity. A play set in Alaska might be exotic to a New
York audience—but it’s the norm for an Alaskan (or Canadian) audience.
I’m sorry to criticise this type of play, for it’s often the work of a cultur-
ally ambitious writer—which is very praise-worthy. The desire to examine
a world beyond that of your own everyday world is probably the mark of a
¿QHDUWLVWRQKLVZD\WRPDWXULW\$WKHDWUHZULWHUZKRKDVLPPHQVHFXULRVLW\
is a very good thing. Being interested in other places, other worlds or other
ways of life and thought should be natural and satisfying for a developing
playwright. The problem comes when all the emphasis is on the Exotic at the
expense of the Enchanted. Without the deep allegory—i.e. the feeling that
a particular play is telling us something important about life—the audience
will watch ‘from a distance’. It will watch the characters but not identify with
them. It won’t say “Those characters are me”. Remember that an audience
LVDOZD\VVHO¿VKVRWRVSHDN,WKDVWKHFKRLFHRIHQJDJLQJZLWKDSOD\RU
walking out. Every member of an audience asks herself: “What’s in it for
me, if I engage with this play?” If a play is about ‘those strange people in
that far-away country who have no connection to human life, let alone me’,
then the audience will be reduced to watching; to simply being voyeurs. The
reasons why Exotic plays fail are complex, but I’ll have more to say later
LQWKLVFKDSWHURQZKDW,FDOOWKHµ'RXEOH'LVWDQFH(൵HFW¶)RUQRZ,¶OO
MXVWVD\WKDWWKHSOD\VWKDWDUHYHU\GL൵HUHQWDQGGLVWDQWIURPDQDXGLHQFH
tend to fail because the dramatic language chosen by the playwright fails.
Exotic worlds need more of a metaphysical level to their dramatic language
than most other play types.
3. The Gothic & Unenchanted
This type is a favourite of American theatre conferences. As I’ve dis-

cussed elsewhere in the book, the Gothic is strongly in fashion in theatre in
the USA and beyond. It will remain fashionable for many years to come,
especially with new writers. Gothic plays that fail tend to do so for the
same reason as the previous failed genre does: the language is not up to
the task. American theatre’s great strength—and its greatest danger—is
its realism. The default position of many American playwrights is a type
of ‘everyday social realism’, that is where people speak naturally and
casually, in much the same way as people do in real life. But this often
creates an ordinariness in the language; and when that same language is
called upon to support a more extreme, stylised dramatic tone such as
the Gothic, failure tends to result. To the audience, this linguistic failure
looks philosophical, because they conclude that the writer has deliberately
created a bleak, hopeless world, that’s also a little bit boring. The truth is
that the writer often did not intend this. It just happened as a result of his
use of an overly-realistic dramatic language.
4. The Machiavellian & Unenchanted
This last failed type usually appears when the theme and plotting
is all about business, capitalism and related areas of American life. The
plotting is busy and full of dastardly machinations by characters in sharp
EXVLQHVVVXLWV,QRWKHUZRUGVWKLVW\SHLVUHDOO\DµEXVLQHVV¿OP¶EHLQJ
performed in theatre space. Once again, however, the failure is principally
one of dramatic language, but it’s also a failure of characterization tech-
nique. Plotting alone doesn’t create the special spatial atmosphere we call
‘dramatic tone’. Like all the other failed types, if the dramatic language
LVQRWVXEWO\V\PEROLF¿OOHGZLWKµVRPHWKLQJHOVH¶LQFOXGLQJZRUGVWKDW
reveal a character’s inner life without her knowing it), then all the plotting
in the world will not make up for the lack of a dramatic language with its
own mysterious power and inner life.
But how does one create dramatic language that possesses its own
mysterious power and inner life? Many years ago, as a beginning play-
wright, I asked myself the same question—because no one else I asked
seemed to know.
CREATING AN ‘ENCHANTED WORLD’ IN YOUR OWN WRITING
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Geniuses like Shakespeare and Chekhov understood instinctively how to
create magical, enchanted worlds. The rest of us have to consciously develop
it in our craft. But as I’ve said earlier in the book, a playwright’s develop-
ment is more learned than born-that-way—even in Shakespeare’s case.
Here are ten ways that will help you create a tone of enchantment
in your plays.
1. Unless you are creating demonic or Gothic enchantment, realise that
creating principal characters with a capacity or proven ability to
love is one of the best ways. This may sound sentimental until you
realise that, in Western culture—especially the English-speaking
ones—‘love’ is seen as the doorway to the sense of metaphysical
mystery that creates a feeling of grace and enchantment. Love is not
just sexual or romantic love. In drama, love is closer to a belief that
‘this other person is my Second Self. He/she is that one person in a
thousand who instinctively understands my secret, buried soul that I
keep hidden from all others. But when I am with him/her, something
mysterious, wonderful and imaginatively-freeing is happening.’
2. Let your major characters aspire to morally-superior states of be-

ing, or ways of life—even if they know they fall desperately short
of achieving their ideals. Give them a version of ‘Heaven on earth’,
however unlikely-to-succeed or self-deluding it might seem. Aspi-
rational characters stand for that capacity for hope which so drives
us in our own lives.
3. Let your major characters be linked to an idealised hope for a better,

greater community. A character who believes in society, and wants
to belong will help to create a delicate tenderness of ideals which the
audience’s ethical sense will try to ‘protect’ (by rooting for her, and
imaginatively and emotionally investing in her.)
4. As I discussed in Chapters 23 and 25, let your ending aspire to the

Transcendent. One of the great Chekhovian moments is in Uncle
Vanya, when Sonia says, we must work, “without ever knowing any
rest”. This is not a bleak, dutiful injunction. It is a hope for the char-
acters and the entire generation it was written for: there is a future,
DQG LW LV SRVVLEOH WKDW RXU KRQHVW H൵RUWV FDQ LQÀXHQFH WKDW IXWXUH
Sonia concludes, “And then—we shall rest!” It’s a sublime moment
in modern theatre. Equally, when Nora leaves her husband Helmer
at the end of A Doll’s House, after a moment’s despair he suddenly
remembers a crucial phrase she spoke: “The greatest miracle of
all...?” In this moment, Redemption is possible. A light has been
lit in the darkness. He is pointing the way upward, to the stars, for
himself—and us.
5. If you are creating a Gothic world, where dark forces reign, try and
OLQN WKLV E\ VSHFL¿F GLDORJXH KLQWV WR D PRUHRUOHVV conscious
feeling on the part of some or all of the characters that ‘we are in a
type of Hell’. We are ‘cursed’ with knowledge and awareness of our
situation—perhaps the supreme truth that the Expulsion from the
Garden of Eden has to teach us. Or use the motivic writing technique
that I discussed in Chapter 11. I once heard the British writer Shirley
Gee discuss a very useful technique related to motivic writing. She
said that she consciously explored the major key words or ideas of
her play—and then made sure those very words went into the mouths
of every important character in that play she was writing. Thus, a
play about ‘hope’ would have that word (and its variants) used by
every major character in the play. If you use this technique subtly,
the audience will feel a deep philosophical unity to the play without
being aware exactly how that unity is created. After all, this technique
was good enough for Shakespeare. He uses the word “honest” or
“honesty” forty-nine times in Othello, as well as the word “lie” and
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6. Understand that magic and enchantment are linked to a deep desire

in the audience to see plays that help them meditate, ruminate and
speculate about Life and its possible meaning. When you create an
enchanted world (whether happy or miserable) you are giving an
audience a reason to hope—or a reason to fear and worry for their
own lives.
7. %HIRUHJHWWLQJWRRKHDYLO\LQYROYHGLQSORWWLQJ¿UVWWU\WRSDLQW\RXU
plot in broad emotional and psychological tonal ‘colors’. A direc-
tor once told me of hearing August Wilson discuss plotting in these
terms: “First, throw in some greed,” Wilson said. “Then mix in some
jealousy. Then stir in some betrayal...” If you can see your plotting as
an ‘excuse’ to paint in vivid, intense emotional/psychological colors,
you’ll be helping to create an enchanted world. The director Terry
Clarke once asked a writer friend of mine, “Tell me what your play is
about in four qualitative nouns.” The director was asking my friend to
pin down her play by its spiritual qualities. She answered, “It’s about
hope. Longing. Dread. And fear.” Without realising it, she was already
half-way along the path to creating a metaphysical, enchanted world.
8. 5HDOLVH WKDW QDUUDWLYH WRQHV KDYH DQ H൵HFW RQ WKHDWUH VSDFH )RU
example, a bitter, claustrophobic and emotionally destructive rela-
WLRQVKLSVKRXOGKDYHWKDWVDPHH൵HFWRQWKHWKHDWUHVSDFHWKDWWKH
audience is watching and feeling. (See next suggestion.)
9. Understand that language is the best way to help create an intense

VSDWLDOH൵HFW$ZDUPJHQHURXVUK\WKPLFDOO\H൵XVLYHODQJXDJHRQ
WKHSDUWRIVRPHRUDOORIWKHFKDUDFWHUVZLOOKDYHDVLPLODUH൵HFW
on theatre space. The reverse also applies: a tight, austere character
should have a dramatic language (in his rhythms, syntax, word choice,
RYHUDOOSKUDVLQJDQGµPXVLF¶WKDWUHÀHFWVKLVLQQHUOLIH
10. Finally, related to the last point, ask yourself, “What temperature
do I want for my theatre space—at least for this play I’m writing?”
A ‘chilly’ temperature or atmosphere is created not just by ‘cold-
hearted characters’. More importantly, it’s created by a sparse use
of dramatic language, where silence rules more than words. If you
WKHQ¿WWKHVSDWLDOWHPSHUDWXUHWRWKHSV\FKRORJLFDODQGHPRWLRQDO
world that your characters live in, you’ll be very close to getting the
VSHFL¿FHQFKDQWHGH൵HFW\RXZDQWIRU\RXUSOD\
The above discussion should not be misunderstood. I’m not suggest-

ing that a rich dramatic world can be conjured up simply. There are many
reasons why, for example, The Crucible has been an internationally suc-
cessful play which can’t be reduced to a single factor. There’s no doubt
it’s an Enchanted World, full of hope, fear and an awful sense of doom, as
well as being infused with a personal urgency. But the play is also techni-
cally brilliant. The maintenance of tension, the creation of ‘dramatic build’
(such as in the scene where Proctor renounces his confession) and the near
IDXOWOHVVFRQWURORIDKLJKO\DUWL¿FLDOµDUFKDLF¶ODQJXDJH²DOOWKHVHDUH
also factors that contribute to the play’s brilliance and allegorical power.
As I described early in the book, both the British and the French
have worked out how to conquer Broadway. But what you, the American
playwright have, is a strength that is non-transferable. I’ll call it Ameri-
can Reality; the deep intuition of what makes for American life in all its
richness and depth.
That can’t be learned—although it can be simulated. Such a simula-
tion is the play I described in the opening chapter. God of Carnage is an
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surface’. European writers are adept at a conceptual approach to art which
LVDUWL¿FLDOLQERWKDJRRGDQGEDGVHQVHIRUPDOLVWDQGKLJKO\VW\OLVHG
As I keep saying in this book, the problem for American theatre writers
is a fascinating one: the cultural appetite of modern theatre audiences has
EHFRPHPRUHVW\OLVHGPRUHLQWHUHVWHGLQDUWL¿FHH[FHVVDQGJURWHVTXHULH
My advice to any American writer would be to blend any European
writing style that interested him or her, but to fuse it with that deep sense
of ‘being American’—the one thing that no foreigner can fake (except
EDGO\RUDUWL¿FLDOO\
$¿QDOWKRXJKWRQWKLV7KHZRUGµHQFKDQWHG¶LVDOVRUHODWHGWRWKH
word ‘chant’, or to sing. This gives us another clue to creating enchanted
worlds: when the world of your play has a certain music, it will be on its
way to being enchanted. Shakespeare understood this when he writes, in
The Tempest, of the enchanted island with its “fearful noises”. But such
spatial-musical thinking is not just related to ‘traditional’ ways of writing.
Over a century ago the radical musical modernist Arnold Schönberg had
KLV¿UVWJUHDWPRGHUQLVWZRUNXVHWKHRSHQLQJSKUDVH³,IHHOWKHDLURID
GL൵HUHQWSODQHW´WRDQQRXQFHKLVQHZPXVLFDOZRUOGWDNHQIURPDSRHP
HQWLWOHGVLJQL¿FDQWO\Transcendence.) When your play is ‘singing’ with
something human, intense and almost tangible—whether it’s love, yearning,
awe, dread or soul-sickness—your dramatic world will truly be enchanted.
AMERICAN PLAYS & THE ‘DOUBLE DISTANCE’ EFFECT
Plays exist in order to speak to their audience. The audience is usually

composed of people from the same demographic, nation and life-style as
the characters on-stage. But this need not always be the case, especially
if this next section is understood.
In Chapter 15 I mentioned how I once heard the actor Michael Caine
say that whenever he played a character, he wasn’t playing a character
as such, but was “playing you”, the members of the audience. Caine was
trying to represent the audience in the story, by having comprehensible
motives, understandable human emotions and generally responding the
way he believed most members of the audience would to the narrative
situation. This is the Vicarious response to characters and plot that I’ve
discussed earlier in the book. Although it’s not the only response an au-
dience can have, it’s probably the most powerful, because an involved
DXGLHQFH¿QGVLWVHOIµRQVWDJH¶ZLWKWKHFKDUDFWHUVWDNLQJVLGHVDQGHYHQ
wanting one character to prevail over the others.
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When an audience feels uninvolved or remote from a play or its char-
acters, it is experiencing ‘distance’ from the theatrical spectacle. When
two or more factors combine to move the audience away from a play, a
UDUHO\GLVFXVVHGSKHQRPHQRQ,FDOOWKH'RXEOH'LVWDQFH(൵HFWRFFXUV
I’ll try and itemise how distancing works.
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A modern audience that sees a play set in the past is experiencing

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audience to ‘think modern’ (and prefer modern work) is denied.
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$SOD\VHWLQDQRWKHUFRXQWU\FUHDWHVDVLQJOHGLVWDQFLQJH൵HFWRI

Place or Geography), even if the audience believes it knows that foreign
country very well.
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A play set in a culture or ethnicity far removed from the lived, social
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But if you write a play where everything is ‘foreign’ to the audience

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distance from the audience. Does this mean that we shouldn’t have more
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cultural or social experience? Not necessarily. Imagine a play set in the
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according to my theory should fail. Many that I’ve seen with this much
distance from the modern audience actually do fail. But some don’t: One
of them is called The Crucible. And this is my point: you either have to
write as brilliantly, as urgently, as emotionally intensely as Arthur Miller
did in that play—or you have to work out how else you can make your play
speak with as much directness to modern audiences as that play does. As
we know, The Crucible is based on a ‘pretext’: its historical plot is really
an allegory on the modern political culture of group-think, convention
and fear that allowed the McCarthyist period to prosper. That is just one
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is ‘brought back’ into this play. If you’re creating a play that has several
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Crucible LQWHQWO\DORQJZLWKHYHU\SOD\\RXFDQ¿QGWKDWXVHVWKHVDPH
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THE ART OF NETWORKING: A guide for the meek, the puzzled and
the perplexed.
This chapter started out as a lesson in ‘The Business’, before taking an

important detour into some successful play types. We need to return now to
the Business. For theatre is an industry, which many people rely on for their
OLYLQJ+HUHLVWKH¿UVWWUXWK,KDYHWRR൵HUDERXW6KRZ%XVLQHVV7KHPHHN
do not inherit the earth, at least not in theatre. I wish it were otherwise. The
beauty of the biblical injunction is that it helps to keep us human and good.
But it’s quite possible to be inhuman, even monstrous in your behavior,
and write powerful art. (Look at playwrights like Christopher Marlowe or
Ben Jonson; or such musicians as Richard Wagner and Carlo Gesualdo.)
So in the absence of others proclaiming you an evil-but-fascinating
genius, you will need to develop some networking skills, either to get your
work produced or to simply survive as a practising artist.
%XW¿UVWDGH¿QLWLRQ³$JRRGQHWZRUNHULVVRPHRQHZKRNQRZV
KRZWRH൵HFWLYHO\VHOOKLVKHUZRUNLQWKHSXEOLFDQGFRPPHUFLDODUWV
HQYLURQPHQW ZLWKRXW VLJQL¿FDQW GDPDJH WR KLVKHU LQWHJULW\²RU WKDW
of others.” There are many reasons why you should become a good net-
worker. You’re not being cynical or manipulative when you stay behind
WRPHHWDQLPSRUWDQWDFWRURU$UWLVWLF'LUHFWRU<RX¶UHD൶UPLQJ\RXUIDLWK
in yourself and your right to be there. We need to network, so we can get
to know everyone likely to be important in the production of our plays.
Because that’s the aim of networking: to meet those people and develop
those professional networks that will get your plays produced.
HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR NETWORKING SKILLS
Here are some lessons I’ve learned over a couple of decades.
Learn to be consistent, in word & deed.
When meeting some of the many people who will help you get your
plays produced, always be careful what you say. If you promise to do
something for them (e.g. send them ‘that book we spoke of’, then do it.)
Understand the G-E-E Principle.
Until you are rich and famous—and many playwrights have become
both of those—there is no adequate way to pay people for the help they
will give you along the way; apart from actually paying them. If you are
too poor to pay for some professional help, then you need to understand
what I call the “G-E-E’ Principle, as in ‘Gee whiz!” If a senior or more
successful artist helps you, then pay them in Gratitude. I’ve often helped
new or struggling fellow writers, only to never hear from them again;
QRWHYHQDQHPDLOWRVD\µ7KDQN\RX¶6XFKDFWLRQGRHVQ¶WR൵HQGPHLW
puzzles me. When a fellow-artist has helped you, this is the beginning
of what you (should) hope is a longer relationship, based on respect and
consideration. Constantly thanking people who help you in your career
or your writing will ensure they keep on doing so.
But that is not the only way you can ‘pay’ people. Paying your
KHOSHUVLQ(QWKXVLDVPLVDOVRYHU\H൵HFWLYH*LYHQWKHFKRLFHEHWZHHQ
spending an unpaid hour helping Writer A, who complains about the
hardships he’s faced and is generally miserable to be with; and Writer
B, who is not only grateful for you spending your time with her, but is
bubbling over with enthusiasm and joy at being able to ‘talk writing’
ZLWK\RX²,¶GFKRRVH:ULWHU%DQ\GD\7KH¿QDOZD\\RXFDQµSD\¶
WKRVHDUWLVWVZKRKHOS\RXLVWKURXJKEHLQJYHU\YHU\(൶FLHQW,I\RX
promise to follow up on something that interested the person helping
you, then have that information emailed to him or her by the next day,
if possible. What you said you’d do, you not only did—but did it with
DGPLUDEOHVSHHGDQGH൶FLHQF\3UDFWLVLQJWKHWULSOHJLIWRI*UDWLWXGH
(QWKXVLDVPDQG(൶FLHQF\LQ\RXUGHDOLQJVZLWKWKRVHZKRKHOS\RX
will have people falling over themselves trying to make your path to
production much easier.
Applaud the success of others.
Writers are not natural ‘allies’ to each other; actors, directors and
producers are our real allies. But this does not mean that artistic com-
radeship and generosity should not be applied between writers. Quite the
reverse. Try and make it a principle not to criticise other writers, even/
HVSHFLDOO\LIWKH\ZULWHGL൵HUHQWO\IURP\RX6HQG\RXUZULWLQJµULYDOV¶D
congratulatory note when they succeed. They’ll be shocked, and you’ll
have done something to help reduce their own natural writerly paranoia
and competitiveness. I did this not so long ago with a note to a fellow
ZULWHU²DQGVKHQRWRQO\WKDQNHGPHEXWWROGPHWKDWWKLVZDVWKH¿UVW
time another writer had ever congratulated her.
Ban bad-mouthing & go for the positive.
This is closely related to the previous tip. Lose the ‘chip on shoulder’
& ‘anger toward the world’ because the road to production can be much
longer than you initially realized. Remember this: No one gets what they
think they deserve. That’s life. Full of luck (deserved and underserved).
Grace, generosity and modesty will not only help you cope with the in-
evitable setbacks—they’ll ensure you remain a pleasant, decent person.
Enjoy the journey you’re on.
7KLVLVDOVRLPSRUWDQW3HUVRQDOO\,¿QGWKDWµ2SHQLQJ1LJKWV¶DUH
not half as much fun as the pleasure I had in writing the play, or the fun
of working with a wonderful bunch of actors in bringing the play to life.
Loving every step is vital. For example, “Today, I have to read that book
that is vital for the political background to the new play I’m writing.”
What could be more enjoyable? Sometimes there will be tasks that are
OHVVWKDQSOHDVDQWEXWHYHQDGL൶FXOWWDVNFDQEHEURNHQGRZQLQWRVWHSV
that make the task more achievable, if not more enjoyable.
Accept that things always take longer than hoped, and you’ll need help
along the way.
At the time of writing this book I am also immersed in the writing of

a play whose main role is one of the hardest to write that I’ve ever written.
It’s being written for a major actor—a Star, in other words. The closer I am
to ‘getting it right’, the more demanding become my personal dramaturgs
and script advisers. It demands in me a very unfashionable contemporary
virtue: Humility. I don’t know everything. I’m not Shakespeare. I over-
write like the next guy. Being tough enough and humble enough to take
the good advice I am given is one of a playwright’s most important skills.
Not to mention Patience: For things always take longer than you think.
But time should be seen as your ally. It gives you a chance to improve
the work upon which you will be judged.
Build relationships for the long-term.
Know that your success depends on many others (see the G-E-E
Principle above.) Always remain loyal to the people who helped you
get where you wanted to. It all comes down to what might be called the
First Principle of Artistic Behavior: Be generous to others. Unless you
DUHDJHQLXV1HZVÀDVK7KHUHDUHQRJHQLXVHVFXUUHQWO\DOLYHLQZRUOG
theatre.) Be or become a very pleasant person to be around. It’ll help you
in more areas than just your theatre work. Work on being the best artist
that you can be. And the best human you can be, as well. I’m no saint,
but because I’ve been generously helped to become a good theatre writer,
I’ve decided that fairness dictates that I return the favor and help others
wherever possible. That’s why my personal motto is: “Artists help each
other; the rest are businessmen.” What’s yours?
I’ve many more career tips, which I discuss in Chapter 33, so I’ll
R൵HUD¿QDOWKRXJKWKHUH5HPHPEHUWKDWDVORQJDV\RXDUHGULYHQE\
DQHHGWRFUHDWHDQGWUHPHQGRXVMR\LQVRGRLQJWKHQ\RXZLOO¿QGDQ
audience—and a market—for your work. But knowing some of the above
PLJKWVDYH\RXWLPHLQ¿QGLQJWKRVHSHRSOHZKRZLOOKHOS\RXUHDOLVH
your dramatic vision—and kick-start your theatre career.
INTERESTING A THEATRE COMPANY IN YOUR PLAY; or The Pitch

and the Sell Letter.
Once upon a time, when seeking to be produced by a theatre company

whose shows I enjoyed, I did what any enthusiastic young playwright would
do. Having written a play that I felt was right for that theatre, I’d proceed
to send an enquiry letter and then wait for them to invite me to submit the
entire script for their consideration. But no more! Even if I was entering the
theatre world now, I would not advise anyone else to do what I once did.
,QVWHDG,¶PJRLQJWRR൵HUVRPHXQXVXDODGYLFH,I\RXZDQWDWKHDWUH
company to get interested in you and your work, don’t show them the
script— at least for as long as possible, and only at the strategically right
moment. I’ll return to this point below.
For now, there are many better and smarter ways of getting a theatre
company interested in your work, whether you have a production track-
record or not. Here are some of those ways:
x Decide which theatres you love and want to write for—wheth-

er they are in your home city or not.
x See as many shows produced by those theatres as possible.
x Meet as many of the relevant personnel from those theatres as
possible.
x Ask their advice (see below) rather than ask them to read your
work.
x Get involved in some way with a couple of your favourite theatres.
x Be or become the sort of artist or person they would like to
have associated with their theatre.
x Most importantly, seek to interest them in the idea, even be-
fore they have asked to read the script.
It’s the last point I want to spend some time on.
WRITING THE KILLER ‘SELL LETTER’ TO A THEATRE

COMPANY THAT DOESN’T KNOW YOU.
There will be many occasions where the town or city you live in does
not have a theatre company right for the type of work you want to write.
Even—or especially— if you live in the great theatre city of New York,
there’ll be many occasions where you need to meet a wonderful director
ZKRP\RXEHOLHYHZRXOGGRDEULOOLDQWMREDWGLUHFWLQJ\RXUXQ¿QLVKHGSOD\
Some years ago I decided to ‘create’ an American theatre career for
myself. I’d had some American productions, but nothing of extraordinary
note. In Europe, however, I’d had many productions, which I’d done noth-
ing to get. That is because in Europe, due to the government-subsidized
nature of the funding, the arts are run by the artists. In the USA, the vast
phalanx of agents, managers and associated people are a vital part of what
is essentially a commercial theatre. It’s one reason why it helps to have
an (American) manager/agent on your side.
I had none, however. But I set out to get one. I wrote over two hun-
GUHGDQG¿IW\OHWWHUVWROLNHO\DJHQWVDQGPDQDJHUV,UHFHLYHGYHU\IHZ
responses, even though I had a fairly impressive production track-record.
I eventually decided that there was something wrong with the letter itself.
So I rewrote the letter, to look like this:
Dear Ms X,
We haven’t met, but I’m an Australian playwright who has the luck
and privilege of being one of the most internationally-produced
Australian playwrights. I’ve worked with Oscar-winners Geof-
IUH\5XVK&DWH%ODQFKHWWDQGKDYHMXVW¿QLVKHGDSOD\ZULWWHQ
VSHFL¿FDOO\ IRU WKH UHFHQW 2VFDU1RPLQHH -DFNL :HDYHU ZKR
performed it to great success in Sydney, Australia.
I’m currently working on a play for four actors based on the amaz-
ing but little-known true stories of a Jewish man who in the last
days of World War II was taken in by a German couple, who hid
him in their attic. But the amazing twist to this story came when
the couple decided, for economic reasons, to lie to the Jewish
man, and trick him into believing that the War was still continuing.
As soon as I heard about this story I decided that I had to write it.
I think it has huge international potential. I’m going to be in Los
Angeles next month, and was wondering if you had 20 minutes
WREULHÀ\PHHWZLWKPH)URPHYHU\WKLQJ,¶YHUHDGDERXW\RX
I’d be honored and delighted just to meet you.
For your information I enclose a fuller Biog at the end of this letter.
Timothy Daly
You may have read the above Sell Letter and thought, “Well, that’s
all right for him. He’s worked with these stars. I haven’t!” But a great
Sell Letter can still be written, even if you have very few credits or Star
Connections to your name.
A week later, I got a reply from an extraordinary Los Angeles-based
woman, who soon after became my producing partner. The rest of this story
is still being made. But I hope you can see the point I am making—that it
all depends on what you say in your letter. Let’s examine the ‘structure’
of the Sell Letter I wrote:
Mr X/Ms X,
Paragraph 1: We haven’t met, but .... (in this short paragraph, you put a
combination of Background and Boasting. Sum yourself and your
writing up in the most succinct and impressive way you can, indicat-
ing any prizes, awards, fellowships—anything!—that you’ve won in
WKH¿HOGRIOLWHUDWXUHRUWKHDWUHRULI\RX¶YHDUHDOO\LQWHUHVWLQJMRE
outside theatre, don’t hesitate to mention it, especially if it has some
bearing on the play you’re writing.
Paragraph 2: I’m currently working on a play/story about... (Some plays
and their plots pitch better than others, so choose the most pitch-
able play you have. This crucial second paragraph is the paragraph
that contains the Killer Pitch, the single-sentence summary (or two
sentences at most) that contains something startling, and something
incongruous and/or bizarre.
Paragraph 3: I’ll be in L.A./New York next month. (The aim of this Para-
graph is simple: State what you want from him/her, and indicate how
easy and undemanding their granting of your request is! If you’re only
asking for 10 minutes of their time—that might be possible. If you are
asking them to read—unpaid—a 90-page script, that could mean that
your letter is immediately dispatched to the ‘Too Hard File’—usually
a round, metal container under someone’s desk.)
$¿QDOVXJJHVWLRQ'RQ¶WJRRYHUDVLQJOHSDJH*RRGDQGVXFFHVVIXO
theatre people are busy. A one page letter should contain enough tantalis-
ing information to get their attention.
GETTING A MEETING WITH SOMEONE FROM A THEATRE

COMPANY THAT DOESN’T KNOW YOU.
There will be times when you need to take a big step and go out and
meet someone who is important to your theatre career. Such a request
might be made in your initial letter to them. But if you can get a meeting
with someone on the creative, artistic side of the theatre—in fact, with
anyone professionally connected with the theatre—then try not to belabor
them with the story of your play. (Unless the story is so amazing that your
listeners can instantly ‘see’ the evening you’re interested in creating for
their theatre.) The word ‘interest’ is crucial: Seek to interest them in the
idea behind the play, or your sense of ‘the evening I have in mind’. The
story of your play is simply one aspect of the wonderful theatrical experi-
ence you’re working on giving the audience.
This pre-talk is vital. In some European, British and Australian the-
atres, many progressive theatres will only ZRUNZLWK\RXLI\RXKDYH¿UVW
pitched/discussed/excited them with the concept of the theatre evening
you have in mind. All over the world, theatres that are committed to new
work—i.e. the theatres that will welcome you—are less interested in
µ¿QLVKHG¶SHUIHFWVFULSWV²PRVWO\EHFDXVHWKRVHVFULSWVDUHnot perfect,
and more importantly, even if well-written they are not innately suited to
WKHVSHFL¿FWKHDWUHFRPSDQ\WKH\DUHR൵HUHGWR
Finally, don’t be heart-broken by rejection. If you treat everything in
life— especially creativity, invention and play writing—as a delightful
game, you’ll enjoy the journey toward your artistic goals so much more.
,¶OOKDYHDORWPRUHWRVD\LQWKH¿QDOFKDSWHURQKRZWRHQMR\WKHJDPHRI
Life and Art. But for now, with the next chapter, it’s time to look at how
the theatre industry works from the inside—when they produce your work.
423
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
THE MARKETPLACE (II): WHAT TO DO WHEN YOUR PLAY IS
SCHEDULED FOR PRODUCTION
The great day has arrived! You got home from work, threw the keys
down and checked the message machine. There’s a message from someone
connected to Young & Hungry Theatre Company. You’d sent them the
enquiry letter—then the script—so long ago you hardly remember. But
you listen anyway to the message they left. They love the work you sent
them. They ask if you have an agent. They ask you to come in and talk to
them. You are delirious with joy. And why not? You’ve worked hard for the
day when such promising news as this arrived by telephone. (Good News
tends to arrive by phone. Bad News comes usually by post. Or not at all.)
You turn up at the theatre company, trying to keep your palms from
sweating. You meet the company dramaturg, or the Manager, or the As-
VLVWDQW'LUHFWRU7KH\JLYH\RXLQVWDQWFR൵HHVLW\RXGRZQSUDLVHWKH
play, and generally make light conversation (which only makes you more
tense.) In reality, they are waiting for The Person Who Really Makes All
The Decisions to enter the room. This P.W.R.M.A.T.D. (or Artistic Director
IRUVKRUW¿QDOO\HQWHUVDQG\RXWDON7KHGUHDPFRPHVWUXHZKHQWKH3
word (Production) is mentioned. Or the S word. Artistic directors Schedule
work. This means he wants to produce your play in May of next year,
because that’s when the main actor involved can do it (they’ve already
checked that). And without this particular actor, you wouldn’t even be
WKHUHKDYLQJEDGFR൵HHZLWKDQ\RIWKHP
6RWKHGUHDPKDVFRPHWUXH<RXU¿UVWSOD\RUVL[WKLVDERXWWREH
SURIHVVLRQDOO\SURGXFHG<RXU¿UVWFUHGLW$JLJ$WODVW$GUHDPFRPH
true; a fantasy; a home run, all in one! You can’t wait to get home and tell
your mother, your partner, your workmates and your landlord.
I’m not going to ruin the pleasure by listing all that can go wrong from
this moment on—like the Main Actor who takes the traditional theatre
saying too literally, and breaks a leg two days before Opening Night; or
the chosen director who Schedules a mid-life crisis in the small hours
LPPHGLDWHO\SULRUWR\RXU¿UVWGD\RIUHKHDUVDO)RUHYHU\IHDU\RXPD\
have, there is an anecdote where it really happened. I once had an actor
pull out one week before Opening Night of my play The Private Visions of
Gottfried Kellner. The season was saved when my then dramaturg went on
in his place—and gave a wonderful performance—despite almost having
a nervous breakdown in the process. I hope that never happens to you, but
if it does, you’ll realise that’s what theatre is: full of people with highly
talented, highly sensitive natures who can behave in all manners from the
saintly to the demonic. But, given that most people are not in theatre for
the money, you’re likely to experience behavior that is, at the very least,
highly expert and professional. Often, it’s exemplary.
FINDING AN AGENT
,W¶VWLPHWR¿QGDQDJHQW,QP\YLHZWKHEHVWWLPHWRJHWDQDJHQWLV
when you’re hot and have a hit on your hands. That’s when they make the
call to you. But if that hasn’t happened, the next best situation to be in is
when you’ve written a work that is about to be produced, professionally
or otherwise. The original caller from the theatre company probably asked
if you had an agent. You most probably answered, “I’m about to get one.
I’m meeting a couple next week.” Soon after this conversation occurs,
you should lift the phone and dial the Writers Guild or New Dramatists,
or your playwright friend, and ask for their list of agents.
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catches a good agent. The books of some of the longest-established agents
are closed. But they open, from time to time. If they think you’re brilliant
HQRXJKWKH\¶OOGH¿QLWHO\RSHQ%HZDUHRIDWUDS6RPHDJHQWVZLOORQO\
UHSUHVHQW\RXIRUWKHSXUSRVHRIWKDW¿UVWSURGXFWLRQ7KH\WDNHWKHEDLW
but swim away from the hook. You need an agent to assist you in good
and bad times, not one who will simply throw a standard contract at you
and never talk to you again.
When you deal with an agent, you are preparing yourself for a long-
term professional relationship. The crucial word is ‘professional’. Some
younger agents have lots of enthusiasm, but have a lot to learn. On the
other hand, some older agents are tired, and may be about to retire. It’s
best to talk to other writers. Ask who represents them, and what it’s like
being represented by that agency.
Before you decide which agent you’ll go with, however, ask yourself
one question: “Do I need an agent?” The answer to this question depends
on the country. American writers probably need an agent because in the
USA it’s the middle-men and women who run what I’ve already said is
mostly a commercial theatre. Simply getting an Artistic Director’s atten-
tion can call for professional intervention (for example, the agent probably
already knows many Artistic Directors in many cities.)
,Q(XURSHDV,PHQWLRQHGLQWKHODVWFKDSWHULW¶VDYHU\GL൵HUHQWVLWX-
ation. European arts are run by artists; or rather, they are run by Cultural
Politicians. The average Artistic Director of even a small provincial theatre
has often got there as much by her networking and political skills as by
her directing ability. This is not a criticism. It’s just how it works there.
On the other hand, I’ve experienced a great openness in Europe to foreign
artists, especially in France. And they’re not half as anti-American as ru-
PRUZRXOGKDYH\RXEHOLHYH%XWWKHWKHDWUHVFHQHGRHVZRUNGL൵HUHQWO\
there. Artists tend to deal with fellow-artists quite directly, and don’t seem
to hide so much behind a wall of professional protection (management,
secretaries, “Agency Submission Only” etc). But once you’ve got the
GLUHFWRU¶VDWWHQWLRQ\RX¶OO¿QGWKDWWKHDWUHLVDPRVWO\ZHOOUHJXODWHG
industry all over the world. Contracts are quite standard and unsurprising
(thanks to the various Writers’ and Dramatists’ Guilds), and, once you
are known, most theatre companies deal with writers on a personal basis
rather than through their agents. But if you’re getting more than half a
dozen enquiries per week about your plays—any fewer enquiries you
can deal with yourself— the secretarial services of an agent can be very
XVHIXOHVSHFLDOO\ZKHQ¿HOGLQJUHTXHVWVIRUDPDWHXUULJKWVRISOD\V\RX
wrote ten years ago.
When I began writing, one of the main reasons I wanted an agent was
EHFDXVHLWZDVFRQ¿UPDWLRQWKDWI truly was a writer. If you don’t need
VXFKEROVWHULQJWKHQGRQ¶WEHSXWR൵E\DODFNRIDJHQF\UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ
It’s quite common not to have one. At one American theatre Conference
I went to recently, I was the only writer there who had American man-
agement—and I am a foreigner. But many of the writers there had been
produced professionally. For over the years, you’ll develop lots of contacts,
professional and personal relationships that make theatre life and work so
wonderful. And it’s a rare writer in theatre who gets so many productions
WKDWWKHSDSHUZRUNJHWVLPSRVVLEOH%XWLI\RXJHWLQWR¿OPZULWLQJRQWKH
other hand, think again about such Lone Rangering. You don’t just need an
DJHQWIRU¿OPZULWLQJ²\RXQHHGDODZ\HU7KHFRQWUDFWVDUHELJJHUWKDQ
the Bible, so it’s best to get a good entertainment lawyer for such things.
Despite my quibbles, let’s assume that you’re going to get an agent.
The best agent is one with whom you get on personally. You probably
even like her. A good agent should share your belief in yourself and your
talent. But they’re not there to nurse you, or become your best friend. It’s
their expertise in contracts and the marketing of your plays that is of most
importance. You can fall in love later. Especially if, rarest of all, they have
a career plan for you. Nowadays, I don’t have an agent. I have a manager
(and now, almost a friend) who’s also my producing partner. She plans
my career in alignment with my creative impulses.
WHY DO PLAYS GET REJECTED?
I’m sure you’ve walked out of a theatre one night, having seen a show
that was mediocre, or worse. You wondered why that play was produced,
HVSHFLDOO\FRQVLGHULQJWKDW\RXURZQIDUVXSHULRUVFULSWZDVR൵HUHGWR
them and rejected only six months previously. If you’ve already begun to
write plays, you will have experienced the exquisite torture of rejection.
A letter arrives whose very blandness seems to imply, “You are extremely
untalented. Why did you send us your rubbish?”
Rather than develop paranoia and depression, you might be better
R൵WKLQNLQJDERXWZK\VRPHSOD\VDUHSURGXFHGDQGRWKHUVDUHQ¶W+HUH
LVP\8QR൶FLDO/LVW
Reason 1: Not very good.
Most rejected plays are not very good. Nearly all, in fact. Many have
wonderful potential, but most theatre companies haven’t the time (and
some haven’t the interest) to carefully nurture and develop work until
it realises its full potential. If you’re lucky enough to receive an honest
answer (as distinct from a bland pro forma letter), some weaknesses may
be pointed out that you can work on.
Reason 2: Wrong for a particular audience.
Occasionally, a good play is considered as not right for the audience

that goes to that theatre. Sometimes the play is not wild/crazy/imaginative
enough. Other times— a dreadful thought— it’s too wild, too imaginative.
Subjectivity is everything. Cautious Artistic Directors are often trying to
second-guess their audiences. In doing so, I believe that they can under-
estimate them, and end up feeding them the same bland, homogenous
diet. A ‘house style’ emerges to which the same audience comes, which in
turn reinforces the original message: “Not right for my audience.” I know
writers it’s happened to. They went elsewhere with a highly original play,
and got it produced— in some cases to great acclaim.
Reason 3: Cast too large.
Theatre operates under economic pressures. They have to make a

SUR¿WRUDWOHDVWPDNHDUHVSHFWDEOHORVV:DJQHULDQVL]HGGH¿FLWVDUH
the privilege of European arts festivals. The small-to-medium companies
WKDWZLOO¿UVWSURGXFH\RXUZRUNFDQQRWODVWZLWKRXWDEDODQFHVKHHWWKDWLV
not too cancerous. I once believed that you should never minimalize your
ZRUNVLPSO\WR¿WDWKHDWUH¶VHFRQRPLFFRQVLGHUDWLRQV%XWZLWKPRUH
experience, I can often see several ‘versions’ of a play (the one-woman
version, the two-man version) all buried within the play-world that I’ve
FUHDWHG%XWWKLVVRUWRIWKLQNLQJPD\UHTXLUHDÀH[LELOLW\RIDSSURDFKWKDW
you’re not yet ready for. So, if you feel that your play is not naturally right
for a small cast, then write it for the big cast you think the play needs. It’s
worth seeing what sort of plays and play ‘sizes’ a particular company does.
<RXPD\QRWLFHWKDWWKH\QHYHUGRVKRZVZLWKPRUHWKDQDERXW¿YHDFWRUV
,I\RXUSLHFHKDSSHQVWRKDYH¿YHFKDUDFWHUVRUOHVV\RXXVXDOO\GRQ¶W
have a problem; or at least, the rejection won’t be based on your cast size.
Reason 4: Cast too small.
You wouldn’t think this might be a problem, but it can be. Indeed, a
play can be too small for the theatre space it’s been written for. At a cer-
tain level of production, and with the most prestigious theatre companies
working in the biggest theatres, their problem is that most work they get
is far too small (in imaginative conception, use of stage or ‘production
values’) for the big theatres they work in. As I’ve implied in this book,
it’s the small thinking and lack of artistic ambition in many playwrights
that is a big factor in today’s problems.
If your work is organically large, and tries to do sensational things in
DELJVSDFHZLWKDFDVWRIWZHOYHWKHQJRIRULW<RXPD\¿QG\RXUVHOILQ
the biggest theatre in your state, with royalties to match. Alternatively, your
ELJFDVWSOD\PLJKW¿QGDSURGXFHULQWKHDFWLQJLQVWLWXWLRQVDQGGUDPD
schools attached to universities who are always looking for large-scale
work for their Third Year students to work on. It helps if you went to a
particular institution and can use the alumnus card in your favor.
Reason 5: Don’t have/can’t get the actor.
A good-but-not-brilliant play which acts as a ‘vehicle’ for a very

popular actor will often attract big houses. Without that particular actor,
the production might not have happened at all. The more commercial the
theatre, the more this principle applies. “We’ll schedule this play if X
agrees to do the main role.” All you can do is wait and see what happens.
Personally, I’d rather be rejected because Mel/Christopher/Cate couldn’t
do the part rather than because the play was no good. (This might be the
UHDVRQWKDW0HO&KULVWRSKHU&DWHUHMHFWHGLWEXWDWOHDVW\RX¶GQHYHU¿QG
that out!)
Reason 6: I personally didn’t like it.
The subjective taste of the resident artistic director is both the strength
and weakness of most theatre companies. Personally, I think that the
structure of one supreme, governing A.D. is wrong for healthy theatre,
but that’s another story. There’s nothing much you can do about this
problem. He’ll either like it, or he won’t. She’ll either fall in love with
your play, or she won’t.
Reason 7: Programming Balance.
This is where a company says to you, “We really like your play on
the Irish Potato Famine. But we just did a play on that very same subject
last year.” With my part-Irish background, I’d say you can never have too
many plays on the Potato Famine, but many theatre companies disagree.
Here are some other ‘balance problems’ that theatres are wary about:
— not too many one-person shows. (Saves money, but looks cheap.)
— not too many comedies, farces. (Makes the theatre look like an entertain-
ment center or a commercial producer, having nothing to say about
the big issues. Could lose subsidy or benefactors—if it gets any.)
—not too many Jewish plays. (They love theatre, and lots of them go, but
the ideal of theatre artists is to speak to all sectors of the community.)
—not too many serious, social-issue plays (they win awards, but unless
they’re excitingly done, they look like the Discussion Plays that they
often are, and they can often fail to bring an audience.)
—not too many large cast plays. (This will bankrupt all but the biggest
companies.)
²QRWWRRPDQ\RYHUVHDVKLWV%XWWKLVGHSHQGVHQWLUHO\RQWKH¿QDQFLDO
resources of the company. Some are so cash-strapped, they are on a
permanent drip-feed to Broadway and the West End.)
—not too many plays about minorities or poor people that don’t much go
to theatre. (But here, I’m getting satirical; and, in fairness, there are
wonderful exceptions to even this.)
There is always a need for diversity of voices in the theatre we see.

But as I’ve implied, the companies who most worry about balance often
end up with the least-balanced and most homogenised repertoire of all. But
that’s not your problem as a playwright. After you’ve made your protest
to the funding authorities, the writing guilds, your neighbour, your local
&RQJUHVVPDQDQGDQ\RQHHOVHJRDQGZULWHWKHSOD\WKDWPRVWH[HPSOL¿HV
your aesthetic. Make it brilliant, and dare them to produce it.
429
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
LIFE IN THE REHEARSAL ROOM: WORKING WITH ACTORS,
DIRECTORS AND DRAMATURGS
In this chapter, I’ll introduce you to some friends. One of them is a

dramaturg. The other is a director. These people are the artistic collabo-
rators most important—after you, the playwright—in the complicated
process of getting your play to production stage.
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perspective. Occasionally I meet a writer or director who claims not to
need a dramaturg. The resulting work of these directors or writers usually
gives the lie to such claims. In fact, it’s fair to say that at least some of
the plays that we see on stage are produced before they’re ready. There
are several reasons for this:
—:ULWHUVVLPSO\GRQ¶WJLYHWKHLUSOD\VWKHWKUHHWR¿YHRUWHQ\HDUVLW

usually needs. Obsessed with Being Scheduled, we ignore the artistic
needs involved, and rush our work to the theatre companies. If you’re
lucky, they’ll reject it without reading it. You can then resubmit it two
years later when it’s ready.
— Theatre companies often accept work from playwrights with high
reputations who will attract an audience. They then hope that the
work will somehow improve in the months between scheduling and
actual production. They may stack a weak play with popular actors
and hope that no one, including the critics, notices that the play just
doesn’t work. It sometimes works: Critics are fooled, or worse, decide
not to make a fuss. After all, the public turns up and appears to go
away quite happy. But deep down, everyone knows it wasn’t one of
those special, magical nights at the theatre.
— Worst of all, both parties (theatre companies and writers) occasion-
ally conspire against their own best interests. The clever writers
work slowly and carefully, using trusted script advisers. But many
playwrights believe so stubbornly in the inviolability of their original
ZRUN WKDW QRWKLQJ LV DOORZHG WR FKDQJH LW 1R DFWRU FDQ LQÀXHQFH
it. No dramaturg can question its structure and tiresome length. No
director can suggest changes to make it clearer, more theatrical or
more powerful. According to the writer, the work is perfect as it is.
Occasionally, theatre companies—despite their power to produce
or not to produce—sometimes cave in, and refuse to challenge the
best playwrights to rewrite to their very best. The chance for another
unforgettable evening in the theatre is lost. Again. I’ve seen it all

over the world, with some surprisingly famous playwrights and their
half-cooked plays.
Related to this, I’d have to say that the concept of ‘the writer’s vision’
is frequently misunderstood. As a writer myself, I know that the original
vision that gives birth to a new play may be nothing more than a line of
dialogue, or a single image. The originating vision is often useful for
giving you a feel for the tone of your new play, but the work has hardly
EHJXQ6RPHWLPHV\RXKDYHWRH[SDQGTXDOLI\²RUDEROLVK²WKHVSHFL¿F
details of that original image. Of itself, an image doth not a play make.
The real work of play-making has yet to be done.
WHAT DOES A DRAMATURG DO?
So let’s get back to our friends—the people who can help us make our
work as wonderful as it should be. It’s quite well known what a theatre
director is. But a dramaturg? It has to be one of the ugliest words in the
dictionary. It’s not even in some dictionaries. But its job is one of beauty.
Put simply, a dramaturg is that person who helps you get the play writ-
ten—or helps you perfect it.
7KHRUHWLFDOO\WKHUHDUHGL൵HUHQWW\SHVRIGUDPDWXUJDSURGXFWLRQ
dramaturg (who may assist in a play’s production); a company dramaturg
(a type of literary manager who reads lots of scripts and makes recom-
mendations to the artistic director.)
But for playwrights, the only dramaturg that matters is the play-
building dramaturg, the one who meets you once a month, and works at
a table with you, scene by scene, as the play gets written. This person was
WKHRQH\RX¿UVWVSRNHWRDERXW\RXUSOD\<RXLQWHUHVWHGKHULQ\RXULGHD
She was excited. You may have got funds to pay her, or she simply did it
because the play sounded so wonderful that she freely gave of her own
time to work with you. (Such saints still exist in theatre everywhere.) You
PHWKHUHYHU\WKUHHRUIRXUZHHNVERXJKWKHUFR൵HHDQG\RXGLVFXVVHGWKH
scenes that you’d written and rewritten. She inspired you with the power
of your own idea. She criticised weaknesses, and went into raptures when
your writing started to make the play soar. She soon got to know your writ-
ing technique, in all its talent, tricks and laziness. In short, she challenged
\RXWREHWKHZRQGHUIXOZULWHU\RXKRSHG\RXZHUH6L[W\¿YHFR൵HHV
ODWHUWKHZRUNLVUHDG\:KHQLW¶V¿QDOO\VFKHGXOHG\RXNQRZKRZPXFK
you owe this woman. With any luck, she’ll be in the programme, and may
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You may be thinking, “But don’t directors do all that anyway?” The
answer, quite simply, is an emphatic “No.” Some used to, especially early
in their careers, and one or two still do. A few directors will spend a lot of
WLPHLQWKHPRQWKVEHIRUHSURGXFWLRQWU\LQJWRKHOSWKHZULWHU¿[SUREOHPV
in the play before it’s too late. Even if they succeed, they usually don’t
enjoy it much. Why should they? Directors are usually not very skilled at
SOD\EXLOGLQJDQGWKH¿[LQJRIVWUXFWXUDOSUREOHPVLQDSOD\$GLUHFWRU¶V
great skill—and most of his training or experience—is in producing a
play that is already complete and wonderful. It is the very completeness
RIWKHSOD\DQGLWVULFKYLVLRQWKDWVRLQVSLUHGWKHPLQWKH¿UVWSODFH%XW
given the laudable culture of promoting new work in the U.S., a lot of
directors are working on a lot of new plays. But they are often not very
good at bringing a new play to perfection.
So, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to work with a skilled dramaturg.
Ideally, a good dramaturg will be a writer himself. If he is not a writer,
then he will have such a knowledge of writing that he can get you out of
problems you’ve written yourself into. At the very least, he will have an
immense knowledge of play structure. (As this book tries to show, most
play problems are structural, but in a complex way, involving an organic
fusing of character, language and form.)
2QDVLPSOHUOHYHOWKHGUDPDWXUJZLOOEHWKDWYLWDOµ¿UVWDXGLHQFH¶
OLVWHQLQJDQGUHDGLQJIRUWKHOLNHO\H൵HFWRI\RXURZQZULWLQJRQWKHDXGL-
ence. The experienced directors and dramaturgs can tell very accurately the
OLNHO\H൵HFWRI\RXUSOD\LWVVWRU\FKDUDFWHUVDQGODQJXDJHRQLWVIXWXUH
audience. They tend to know a lot about acting, too, and can recognise
EDGZULWLQJDPLOHR൵
On a micro-level, the dramaturg will show you how to edit your own
work—or even do some of it for you. I’ve already mentioned that over-
writing is one of the biggest problems in new and developing plays; but
many writers are so inexperienced, or so close to their own work that they
cannot edit their own plays. Every line is ‘precious’. A strong dramaturg
will challenge such self-indulgence.
On a human level, a good dramaturg will encourage you when you
IHHOGRZQDQGWKLQNWKDWWKHSOD\ZLOOQHYHUEH¿QLVKHG7KH\SUREDEO\
like you personally, and think that not only are you talented, but that this
particular play will make an evening of rich and powerful theatre. They
keep you happy, energised and on schedule. Until your belief in yourself
as a theatre artist is very strong, the value of having a trusted adviser-
cum-supporter can’t be underestimated.
Up to eighty or ninety per cent of the problems and challenges of a
play can be solved by ‘table work’, where writer and editor/dramaturg work
periodically on the developing script. Ideally, both will be quite experi-
enced. Working this way will allow a subsequent workshop or rehearsal

SHULRGWRVLPSO\¿QHWXQHWKHVFULSW&XUUHQWWKHDWUHSUDFWLVHZLWKQHZ
SOD\VLQYROYHVWXUQLQJDOPRVWWKH¿UVWKDOIRIDWKUHHIRXUZHHNUHKHDUVDO
SHULRGLQWRDIUDQWLFZRUNVKRSSLQJLH¿[LQJRIWKHSOD\WKHUHE\OHDYLQJ
an ulcerous week or two for actual rehearsal. Working slowly, carefully
and patiently with your favourite dramaturg will add years to everyone’s
life—not to mention the play’s life.
,¶YHSUREDEO\PDGHWKHGUDPDWXUJRXWWREHDVXSHUKXPDQ¿JXUH
ZKRZLOOÀ\LQDQGUHVFXH\RXUZRUNIURPGLVDVWHU,WGRHVQ¶WKDSSHQOLNH
that, for the reason I alluded to above: many new writers haven’t the skills
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Given this, not even Super(wo)man can help. To some extent, though,
such incapacity is natural. A true theatre artist is constantly expanding his
RUKHUNQRZOHGJHDQGJRLQJLQWRXQNQRZQDUHDV$OPRVWE\GH¿QLWLRQ
you will not know how to write the play that you’ve already begun. It is
partly this challenge that is exciting you, quite apart from the potential of
the story or its characters. In other words, writing is an exhilarating leap
into unknown waters. The more technique, structural knowledge and craft
skills you have, the better. But even then, it will be immensely challeng-
ing. That’s why you should always travel with a friend.
A dramaturg, then, isn’t Superman. They’re simply guides and trusted
advisors. In fact, they’re a bit like you. They love theatre. They love the
excitement of writing, of discussing ideas, or brain-storming possible plot
solutions. It often hardly feels like work. But, as I’ve said, they’re usually
indispensable for the writer. Without them, the play may not have been
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How can you meet and work with such people? You simply ask
around. You join the professional organisations, and gradually come to
NQRZDQGEHNQRZQ6RPHRIWKHPPLJKWHYHQKDYHR൶FLDOGUDPWXUJLFDO
and mentoring schemes—or be interested in pioneering such a scheme
for your area.
The individualist in you might be thinking, “Why not just write the
SOD\":K\DOOWKLVKHOSR൶FLDODQGXQR൶FLDO"´,ZRXOGDQVZHUWKDW\RX
should always follow your instincts, and if your instinct says to sit down
and write the play in a single burst of passion and body-heat, then go for it.
:KHQ\RX¶YH¿QLVKHGLI\RXGRQ¶WOLNHWKHUHVXOWWKHQVHHNKHOS,W¶VQRWD
sign of weakness. All artists are helped by each other. It’s not humiliating
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In fact, it’s a liberation to think this way. You’re free to learn, to roam and
explore, taking what you need from all-comers.
WHAT DOES A DIRECTOR DO?
Having made your play so wonderful that a director falls in love with
it, and wants to direct it, you can relax for a while, and enjoy your triumph.
It is a triumph, for many more plays are written than are produced. To
have not only written a good play, but a play that excited a director is no
small achievement. Drink two glasses of good wine, then keep working.
You probably achieved your artistic and theatrical triumph because
you understood what a director’s job is, and gave her a script that allowed
her to do the job properly. Let me summarise what a director does. (In
brackets, I will indicate what implications these have for you, as a writer.)
— A director shapes emotion and passion in the form of energy. (Were

you passionate, mad and angry enough to write this piece, or was
it simply ‘something interesting’ you wanted to try? The best plays
seem to have a need to be written, and are bursting with a desire to
communicate.)
— A director tries to direct a piece that speaks with power and urgency
about contemporary life. (Could your play only have been written
now? Or is it something that could easily have been written ten or
twenty years ago?)
— A director attempts to physicalize your work. (For him to be able to
do this, your play needs to be bursting with an energy, a physicality,
WKDWVLPSO\FDQQRWEHFRQWDLQHG7KHOLQHVDUHMXPSLQJR൵WKHSDJH
The work is dying to be moved.)
— A director wants to communicate your story to strangers. (The strang-
ers are the audience who will see the play. Your work will need to be
both powerful and yet have an intense clarity, so that both qualities
DUHFRPPXQLFDWHG'XHWRWKHLQÀXHQFHRIOLWHUDWXUHRQWKHDWUHZULW-
ing, new work can sometimes be novelistic, obscure, allusive and
elusive. Playwrights often forget that the best theatre writing is both
very clear and very mysterious. See Shakespeare for more on this.)
— A director directs a play because it is innately theatrical and uses the
theatre space in a powerful and idiomatic way. (Is your play simply
WHOHYLVLRQZULWLQJLQGLVJXLVHXVLQJEULHIDQWLFOLPDFWLFTXDVL¿OPLF
scenes? Is it really a misplaced television script, relying on ‘locations’
for the story to be told properly?)
— A director is interested in the sensuality of theatre. (Where is the great
aural and visual richness in your work? Is the sound-world of your
play ravishing? Where are the scenes of great visual beauty?)
— A director is interested in directing great acting. (Where are the big

acting moments and challenges in your play that will make for ex-
traordinary theatre. Maybe your play is simply too small to excitingly
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—$GLUHFWRUZDQWVWRDৼHFWSHRSOHLQWHQVHO\ (Exactly where and what
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ishing ideas you’re provocatively proposing? Is it in the amazing
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you’ve created?)
— A director wants richness. (Richness is not necessarily complicatedness.
Richness is where an apparently ‘simple’ story has such paradoxical
complexity that the telling of the story reveals more and deeper layers
of meaning and ironies.)
The director of your play is most concerned with the realisation of

your work in space and time, because that is where theatre operates—in
space and time. She will try and spatially realise your story, and make
sure that the temporal telling of it is as fast or slow as it needs to be. If
she is lucky, you will already have thought in these terms, so her job is
simply to realise your own spatial and temporal intentions. She will be
eternally grateful, for you will have relieved her of other onerous duties
(script editor, play doctor and workshop director) and let her do what she
does best: be a director.
THE REHEARSAL PERIOD
Let’s assume that your play has been scheduled to open in a month.
Current practise gives you between three and four weeks in the rehearsal
room. But that fourth week of rehearsals might be shortened by previews,
dress rehearsal, technical rehearsals (where the actors run through the
play while the lighting and sound cues are perfected). To give you an
idea of what you’re in for, here is a description of the general ‘shape’ of
the rehearsal period, though I should warn you that a rehearsal period can
vary wildly in how the time is used. Every single rehearsal period of my
RZQSOD\VKDVKDGDGL൵HUHQWµÀDYRXU¶DQGXVHRIWLPH7KHIROORZLQJ
therefore, is necessarily general.
Week One, Day 1
If ever you’re going to be happy as a playwright, this is it. Day One,

when your play script (that went out to the actors a week ago) seems
complete, almost perfect (though you’d never admit this), the sun is
VKLQLQJDQGWRWRSLWR൵VRPHRQHHYHQPDNHV\RXDFR൵HH7KHDFWRUV
arrive, mostly on time, even the one going through a messy divorce.
Most everyone is happy: the actors are overjoyed to be in work again.
The director is doing what she does best (instead of spending most of her
time doing what she does worst: that is, writing sponsor appeals to raise
more money for the theatre.)
After the greetings, hugs and hand-shakes, everyone eventually sits
down in an untidy circle or at a large, paint-chipped table: the director, the
dramaturg, the stage manager, the lighting designer, the sound designer, the
stage/costume/props designer(s), the theatre company’s publicist (who’d
prefer to know precisely what he’s selling to the unsuspecting public), the
actors, and, of course, you, the playwright. You wouldn’t miss this if your
lung was being operated on the next day. Because this is the Company
Read, where everyone who should know about the next work is there and
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Everyone is introduced. The reading is begun. The stage manager
or director reads the stage directions, and the actors start ‘working’. Not
very hard, in your view. Some have hardly read the piece; others are still
marking their lines with yellow high-lighters, and worst of all, they laugh
much louder at their own reading mistakes than at your carefully-crafted
jokes. I used to be moderately depressed at this until I realised they were
helping each other get comfortable and in a good working mood.
<RXJHWWRLQWHUYDO<RXVWRSIRUFR൵HHDQGWKHDFWRUVUXVKRXWWR
do clerical tasks (phoning their agent, contacting their divorce lawyer, or
getting measured for costumes.). Act Two resumes, and if there are any
problems of structure or overwriting, they’ll be apparent even in this initial
read-through—to all but you. No matter; the enthusiasm of the group and
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WKHIDPLOLDUZKL൵RIWKHKRPHVWDEOH7KH\¿QLVKWKHWULXPSKDQWRUWUL-
XPSKDQWO\EOHDN¿QDOVFHQH$VLOHQFH$QGWKHWKXQGHURXVDSSODXVHRI
QLQHSHRSOHHUXSWVDOODURXQG\RX%OLVV<RXU¿UVWVLWWLQJRYDWLRQ³:KR
needs the new lung, I’ll die now, happy and complete!”
You look modest as people murmur vaguely encouraging things, and
others crack jokes to relieve the tension of ‘What next?’ But the director
has already thought of that. She has a Plan. Some even have a Plan For
7KH:HHN'LUHFWRUV¶SODQVIRUWKDW¿UVWZHHNWHQGWRYDU\DJUHDWGHDO
Some immediately bring out blue pencils, “I think we might lose that
last bit, don’t you? We’ll talk about it.” Others start structurally analys-
ing Scene 1 into its constituent phases or sections. But some—to your
immense frustration—continue to sit around that table for the next three
days, talking about the play, what it’s doing, and what’s really going on.
This ‘inaction’ used to irritate me. But experience soon taught me that
this was a crucial period for the actors and director. The actors are trying
to link their intuitive responses to the play with all they know about art,
life and theatre. But the director, most important of all at this time, is (as
WKHSOD\ZULJKW1LFN3DUVRQVRQFHSHUFHSWLYHO\SXWLWWU\LQJWR¿QGDQG
communicate the controlling idea of the piece. Not a single ‘message’
but a sense of a dramatic ‘world’ and what laws and principles govern it.
After a surprisingly early lunch, a model of the stage design will be
wheeled in, and the designer will explain how the play will work. All
gather round, staring at a little painted wood, paper and cardboard model.
Most ask a question or two, even you (who has hardly spoken all morn-
ing, being either too nervous, stunned or exhilarated.) You probably don’t
fully understand the set. And the designer has to spend a fair bit of time
explaining why there’s a Doric column in the middle of the living room.
It’s a strange aspect of theatre etiquette that only rarely is the set chal-
lenged. Even those actors who must work with it and who, days or weeks
ODWHUWHOO\RXFRQ¿GHQWLDOO\WKDWWKH\ZHUHKRUUL¿HGDWWKHYHU\VLJKWRI
it. The reason is, of course, that actors, like writers, have little power in
this regard. The design is actually not entirely the stage designer’s. More
usually, it’s the product of a consensus between director and designer, and
much of the challenging and re-designing has already occurred weeks
before the rehearsal—or should have.
Rest of Week One
6RRQHURUODWHULQWKDW¿UVWZHHNWKHDFWRUVJHWXSDQGVWDUWµPRYLQJ
the piece’. That is, they start walking around, scripts (and sometimes cof-
fee) in hand, getting a feel for how the play works in the theatre space.
If problems have already been detected (following another actors-only
read-through next morning), you may be called aside and shown the
nature of the problem. You give a cheery wave to the actors (some of
whom already seem a fraction less friendly) and rush home to rewrite
the scene in question.
For the actors, however, it’s time for some straight talking. The play
is subjected to much ‘table reading’ (by the actors), much trying out of key
scenes, and much honest appraisal of what seems to be (not) happening.
And since you’re at home, frantically rewriting Scenes Two, Three and
Four-A (2nd Version along with an “Optional 3rd Version which I thought
we might also try”), you won’t hear the rising chorus of anguish— not
least because the director is protecting you. The last thing the theatre
company needs is a Traumatised/Paralysed Writer, who’ll be of no use to
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The week thankfully ends, somewhere between guarded optimism
and a growing sense of the work still to be done. Weekend holidays are
cancelled and everyone tries to get lots of sleep. They’ll need it.
Week Two
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,IWKHSOD\QHHGVVLJQL¿FDQWUHZRUNLQJWKHVHFRQGZHHNEHFRPHV+HOO
On Earth, even for unbelievers. If the play was ever funny, it no longer
seems so. Repetition killed the laughs days ago. Now, it’s a matter of
actors getting deeply into the nature of the character(s) they are playing
on top of learning the lines—even as you change them. For it’s a sad
characteristic of most new theatre, regardless of the country of origin,
that the ‘World Premiere’ of a play is both a workshop of the play and a
production of it—all in 3-4 pressured weeks. You’ll be there, doing what
\RXFDQPDNLQJFR൵HHEULQJLQJWKHUHZULWHVRUPHUFLIXOO\VWD\LQJDZD\
either because the actors have discovered a way to ‘make the scene work’,
or because it’s too late and/or it’s beyond repair, and “we’re going with
what we have”. The play is already out of your hands.
Week Three (and, God-willing, Week Four)
Perhaps your play was never really ‘yours’ to begin with? As the
originator of a creative vision (or just a story) that eventually became a
play, you know what made you write the piece. But that may not be the
reason the actors and company are producing the work. For a production
is a statement of collaborative intent. Many agendas (see Chapter 5 on
‘Audience’) are at work in the public performance of what was once a
very private, personal story. But don’t complain—unless you’re one of
those rare writers who believes that there’s only one thing worse than not
being produced. For the rest of us, the Production Week is a fascinating
DQGH[FLWLQJSHULRG<RXDWWHQGLQFUHDVLQJO\H൵HFWLYHUHKHDUVDOVOHDGLQJ
up to a ‘Tech Run’ where the play stops and starts so the lighting and
sound cues can be organised. (Advice: Don’t attend these rehearsals unless
VSHFL¿FDOO\UHTXHVWHG7KH\¶UHIUXVWUDWLQJIRUDOOFRQFHUQHGEXWIRU\RX
WKHQHZZULWHU\RX¶OOEHEHZLOGHUHGDQGTXLHWO\KRUUL¿HGE\WKHZD\WKH
subtle elegance and rhythmic poise of your writing is constantly interrupted
by the shouts of people on ladders and in lighting boxes. And don’t expect
words of comfort or praise from these technicians; lighting designers have
theatre’s most phlegmatic sensibilities. They’ve seen everything, literally.
Just be glad that you’ve got such a competent professional to make your
literary dreams look and sound so good.)
$IWHUWKH7HFK5XQXVXDOO\FRPHVWKH'UHVV5HKHDUVDOZKHUHLW¿QDOO\
looks much like the play you wrote, even if it’s substantially changed in
the rehearsal period (which it probably has). You may have Done Some
Publicity (newspaper, radio interviews) where you practise talking intel-
ligibly about the play. The purpose of publicity is obvious: you’re there
to interest total strangers in spending their money on a ticket to your play.
6RGRQ¶WEHWRRSRQWL¿FDWLQJHVRWHULF²RUVHOIDEDVLQJ0DNHWKHWRQH
of your interview sound a bit like the tone of the play—whatever it is. If
it’s funny, be funny yourself. If it’s bleak, grim or tragic, try and give the
impression that the play is topical/important/based on a fascinating and
provocative paradox/whatever you can think of in the over-lit blur of the
recording studio. Practise talking about the play to your neighbour or his
dog. Prepare notes of key ideas you want to get across in the interview, but
don’t read from them, except for the crucial facts (starting time, address of
theatre etc). But most of all, give some energy to the interview. The world
is already too full of authors who mumble and murmur their way through
interviews and book readings. It’s an odd fact that theatre is an extrovert’s
EXVLQHVVWKDW¶V¿OOHGZLWKLQWURYHUWV0RVWDFWRUVQRWWRPHQWLRQZULWHUV
are introverted. The gestures and exuberant foyer-language are just for
show (pun intended). So if you can learn to sound as fascinating as your
play is, the interview will one day become one of the pleasures of the job.
WORKING WITH ACTORS: THE WRITER IN REHEARSALS
I’ve learned a few things over the years on how to work—and not
work—with actors. I’ve been privileged to work with some extraordinary
DFWRUV2VFDUZLQQHUV*HR൵UH\5XVK&DWH%ODQFKHWWDQGWZLFH2VFDU
nominated Jacki Weaver amongst them. They’ve taught me much of what
I know about how to write for actors.
Here are some suggestions on how to work and deal with actors when
you’re present at rehearsals.
1. Accept the fact that you are probably the least experienced person
in the rehearsal room. Be professional, friendly, open to ideas—and
don’t talk too much. (More on that below.)
2. Don’t try and coach actors in their parts. In fact, you should rarely
even advise them directly. Talk via the director. Address a concern
to the director— in private, if necessary. Actors can get perplexed if
there are too many cooks working on the stew. Instead of stopping
rehearsals to discuss a problem, simply make detailed notes and go
over them in detail afterwards with the director.
3. Listen to the actors. They are not the enemy. They are paid to help
make your play wonderful. Generosity, energy and big-heartedness
are common attributes of the American actor.
4. Understand that by about halfway through the rehearsal period,

each actor will be much more expert and knowledgeable about their
individual roles than you are— even though you wrote the play. An
actor tends to study his part so thoroughly that he is able to point out
inconsistencies, gaps in the psychology and other problems. Most of
them you’d never even thought of before. You should welcome this,
and change as much as practicable in the limited time. If you can’t
change much, take many notes. You may never again have an actor
who knows the part so well.
5. /HWWKHDFWRUVXVHWKHLULQVWLQFWVHVSHFLDOO\LQWKH¿UVWIHZGD\V$F-
tors are wonderful at sensing problems—in dialogue, psychology
and the actability of certain passages. Use their radar, then go home
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6. Don’t talk too much, especially in the discussion on your play. You’re
there to listen. You’re not there to defend the work. Analysis of a
problem is not a personal criticism of you. As far as possible, leave
your anxieties at home, and take careful notes of what is said. You’re
there to be objective, especially about your own work. Besides, writ-
ing down detailed notes looks much better than sitting there trembling.
If you lower your head and work the 2B pencil, you might even look
highly professional, no matter how much you’re inwardly quaking.
7. Realise that it’s probably going to be a tough period for all concerned.
Rehearsals of new work are often quite challenging experiences.
Suddenly a scene is found to be unplayable in its current version.
Or a speech is too long. Or a story-twist doesn’t make sense. If this
LV\RXU¿UVWSOD\LW¶VOLNHO\WREHDQDJRQ\HFVWDV\H[SHULHQFHZLWK
SUREDEO\DORWRIWKH¿UVW7KDW¶VEHFDXVH\RX¶UHQRW\HWUHOD[HGHQRXJK
to realise that “It’s just a play”. The fear and egotism of the young
writer emerges: “It’s not just a play. It’s MY play!” Relax. You’ll be
writing more after this.
OPENING NIGHTS, REVIEWS AND OTHER DELIGHTS
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in and hope. You watch the show, but can’t tell if it’s any good, as it’s
all a rather numbing experience. You feel like you felt on your wedding
day, where everyone but you seemed to be having a wonderful time, and
maybe you were too, but you were too dazed to feel it.
You smile and blush your way through opening night. It will be years
before you realise that opening nights are ‘your night’, where the one
person who is most meant to enjoy it is you, the writer. But that lesson
is years ahead.
The pain and pleasure of opening night is nothing to the reviews, how-
ever. It’s an exquisitely torturing experience to open a paper (or nowadays,
WKHSDSHU¶VZHEVLWHDQG¿QG\RXUVHOIDQG\RXUZRUNGLVVHFWHGOLNHDODE
rat. It’s the closest you’ll come to feeling what a politician goes through.
7KHUHLQDIHZFROXPQVLVD¿QDOGH¿QLWLYHMXGJPHQWRQ\RXWKHSOD\
its strengths (if there are any), its faults (there’ll always be those), and
any other details about the evening that you’d rather not have mentioned.
As I said, it’s torture. There’s only one thing worse than opening night
and the reviews. And that’s no opening nights and reviews. We live in a
paradoxical creative world. Writers are intensely private people, but we
work in an industry which needs (no, insists) that the most private inner
world be put on display for the entertainment of the paying public. You
may distance the world from your inner life by, for example, writing a play
that you are less intimately connected to. There is a good chance, however,
WKDWWKLVSOD\ZLOOKDYHQR¿UHDQGQRSRZHU$V,VDLGHDUOLHUWKHEHVW
plays have a need to be written. Your job is to transmute your inner life
into tellable stories. Not direct autobiography, but transformed experience.
Life will give you the experience, but this book, I hope, will give you the
skills to transform that experience into useable theatre craft— and artistry.
441
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
21 YEARS—21 LESSONS
At the time of writing this chapter, I’ll have been in theatre for twenty-
one years. To save you making some of the mistakes I made, I’ll give you
a rough summary of some things I’ve learned—about the art, craft, career
and aesthetic politics of writing—over the last two decades. Naturally, for
HYHU\µOHVVRQ¶WKHUH¶OOEHDQH[FHSWLRQRUTXDOL¿FDWLRQEXW,KRSHPRVWRI
the following precepts ring true, or that your own experience has proven
a glorious exception:
1. You cannot control your career; you can only control the growth of
your art.
No one can really control the growth of ‘reputation’, for reputa-
tion is mostly what others think of you. And reputation largely
LQÀXHQFHVRXUFDUHHUV:KLOH\RXFDQDWWHPSWWRLQÀXHQFHWKDW
it’s not fully controllable, except by doing great work. Even then,
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(Talk to actors, if you’re unsure of this.) So the only solution is to
move on, and keep your own artistic development ‘on schedule’.
The growth of how much you learn and when—this is totally un-
der your control. What others think of you and your work, is not.
2. Your task is to sound like no one else.

Ultimately, your job is not to be the next Sam Shepard or Sarah
Kane. Imitation is death. Our job is to develop a ‘voice’ with-
out lapsing into mannered idiosyncrasy and endless repetition.
That’s where craft (the science and technique of story-telling to
strangers) comes in. When allied to a powerful imagination, it’s
a formidable creative combination.
3. Don’t get obsessed with retaining ‘your voice’

Strange as it sounds, we writers often think that we need to keep
VRXQGLQJOLNHWKHZD\ZHGLGLQRXU¿UVWSOD\RURXU¿UVWVXF-
cessful play. Rather than getting stuck in one way of thinking,
sounding or writing, you should feel as free as a bird to expand
the writing in any way that feels right to you. You’ll be surprised
at the number of people, even critics, who will implicitly or
explicitly tell you what your writing should sound like, feel like
or be like. The problem is even worse for painters and other
visual artists, as their galleries would much prefer them to have
a consistent type of work to sell to the public.
4. You’re in this for the decade.

I think it takes about ten years before you have developed the
type of artistic maturity and technical skills needed to write the
plays that are worth seeing. Anything else is usually beginner’s
OXFNµFROODERUDWLYHH൵RUW¶ZKHUHWKHDFWRUV¿[XS\RXUPHVV
RUDKDOI¿QLVKHGVKRZ$OOWKUHHKDYHKDSSHQHGWRPH7KH\DUH
probably in the process of happening to you. Pencil in ten years
of ‘apprenticeship’ in your private diary, regardless of whatever
marketing success, beginner’s luck or audience support comes
your way.
5. Most projects (including plays) will take from 3-10 years.

If you’re lucky, the play will be written and produced within 3
years. If not, then see time as being on your side. It might bring
out the deeper, more profound side of you. In theatre, ‘interpret-
ing the times’ is generally felt to be more important than simply
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own case, a play I began sketching eight or nine years ago is
coming to fruition. (More details when the contract is signed.)
I once would have been shocked by the length of time this and
other projects have taken. Now I’m glad I was saved from the
‘premature success’ of a unripe piece.
6. Know your artistic ‘biography’—even retrospectively.

Related to the last point is the need to know who/what you are,
as a writer, and where you’re going to. It’s not easy, because
\RX¶UHLQWKHPLGGOHRIDFRPSOH[OLIH\RXUVDGL൶FXOWSDWK
(your artistic growth), juggling time, bills, a personal life and
other challenges. It’s why an annual stock-take might be useful. If
you don’t know where you’re going, then knowing where you’ve
been, what you’ve done right or wrong and what you learned
from it all is a good second best. Again, in my own case, I’ve
realised that over the past twenty years I’ve taken a radical step
forward (in artistic style) and then spent a period consolidating it
with safer, more realist works, in preparation for another riskier,
more experimental stage full of the usual traps and snares. That’s
been my path. What’s your path been?
7. Be prepared to lose whole plays.

As a complete outsider to theatre, I decided that I would rather
‘lose’ whole plays (for example, by going with less-than-favour-
able production conditions or accepting the ‘wrong’ actors for a
role) than lose the chance to work with professionals and com-
panies I admired. I always had another idea or new play to work
on next month. Thus, I once accepted the wrong actor—and an
inappropriate stylistic conception—because I was sure I’d learn
a lot. I did. The play failed, however. But to me, learning the art
was always more important than having the perfect production
ingredients for every play. Call me stupid. Call me anything.
Which brings me to…
8. $OZD\VWDNHWKH¿UVWSURGXFWLRQR൵HUHG
A decade ago, fresh from the success of one of my plays, the
director I was working with (without telling me) passed on a
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The director thought “we can do better than Festival X”. So she
knocked it back. To this day, the play has never appeared in that
city, which is a loss for me, if not the city in question.
9. The ‘We’ve Had That’ Syndrome.

Film is obsessed with the perception of novelty and ‘what’s new
in society’. (Read Walter Benjamin and his Art in the Age of
Mechanical Reproduction for more on the notion that, in popular
music, the perception of newness is more important than the
reality.) I once believed that theatre was spared this addiction
to newness, ‘what’s hot’, and ‘what we’ve never seen before’.
But it isn’t. There’s a faddishness to theatre that belies its high
art pretensions. Knowing if the idea/topic of your play is, in any
sense, timely, topical, new (or at least seems so) is important if
you’re keen on it being produced.
10. Most plays don’t need to be written; or at least, don’t need to be seen.
Related to the previous point, in the absence of a fashionable
ÀDYRXURUFRQWHPSRUDQHLW\WR\RXUZRUN\RXFDQDOZD\VJRIRU
‘personal urgency’. By this I mean, the work was of vital impor-

tance for you. It had to be written, regardless of consequences
(one of which might be, “has never been produced.”). Generally,
I’ve found that the plays of mine that had a personal, urgent drive
in them did better (in several ways) than those written from a
sense of calculation; (“They’ll like this one; It’s right up their
alley.”) Which, again, leads me to…
11. The Art of Second-Guessing.

Trying to ‘guess’ what directors will like is a fruitless exercise.
As one director reminded me recently, theatre directors are more
interested in what you’re passionate about. If you’re excited by
a story, it’s more likely that they will be. So don’t second-guess;
don’t respond to agendas, try and set them instead. Naturally, it
goes without saying that…
12. Subjectivity is rife; or, the aesthetic Cold War.

7KHDWUHLV¿OOHGZLWKSHRSOHZKRµORYHWKHDWUH¶%XWWKHLUGH¿QL-
WLRQRIWKHDWUHPD\EHYHU\GL൵HUHQWIURP\RXUV,Q&KDSWHU
I went to great lengths to explain the on-going aesthetic ‘Cold
:DU¶ EHWZHHQ KDUGHGJHG RYHUVHDVLQÀXHQFHG PRGHUQLVW GL-
rectors and their foes, the playwrights—those realism-addicted
‘psychologists posing as writers’ (as one director put it to me).
My view is that only a synthesis will make for powerful theatre
that lasts.
13. American theatre is an entertainment disguised as an art-form.

It’s sad (maybe), but true: it’s often more important that a show
make money than that it be ‘artistically good’. (A big debate in
itself as to what ‘good’ means.) The theatre industry (the agents,
or a director with a stake in a touring show) has a vested and
XQGHUVWDQGDEOHLQWHUHVWLQSUR¿W7KXVSOD\V²HVSHFLDOO\HYHU-
green plays which have already pleased the public but which
the actors themselves often know to be of dubious artistic merit
(badly written, poorly-conceived or executed, clumsy, obvious,
sentimental—you name it); these plays get multiple productions
because they ‘do the business’. Shocking? No. Reality. I was only
shocked because 20 years ago I entered theatre writing thinking it
KDGµKLJKHU¶DLPVWKDQMXVWSUR¿W,IHOWWKDWWKHDWUHZDVDQDOPRVW
spiritual place, having to do with the national imagination and
its soul. Actually, it does that as well, but I’ve also learnt that
commercial success matters. And on the subject of success...
14. You can’t make a living from theatre… You can only make a killing.
So goes the old theatre saying. It’s true and untrue at the same
time. My rough estimate (based on experience) is that you need
DJRRGVROLGµKLW¶HYHU\\HDUVRUVRWRVWD\¿QDQFLDOO\YLDEOH
Otherwise, it’s up to your ingenuity—and frugality. Personally,
I’ve always tried to choose work that helped me grow artisti-
cally—for example, teaching, script analysis, working for public
radio by providing radio plays, radio features and translations
of works that I loved and knew were enriching me as a creative
artist.
15. Agents Are Evil. Except in the USA. Even then.

For a long time, I was convinced that agents were not all that
good for writers. They don’t get you writing jobs—at least not
in theatre. You get them yourself. And theatre is such a regulated
industry that they do little in the way of hard, contractual work.
7KH µVWDQGDUG FRQWUDFW¶ XVXDOO\ DSSOLHV ,W¶V GL൵HUHQW IRU ¿OP
ZULWLQJ,WKLQN²DVVXPLQJWKDW¿OPRI\RXUVHYHUJHWVXSLQWKH
¿UVWSODFH,ILWGRHV\RXGRQ¶WQHHGDQDJHQW\RXQHHGDJRRG
entertainment lawyer. The contracts can be as big as the Bible.
The ‘evil’ in agents? They lull you into thinking that you don’t
have to do it all for yourself. Basically, you do. As I mentioned
earlier, I originally got an agent because I needed someone who
ZRXOGFRQ¿UPWKDW,ZDVDZULWHU1RZDGD\V,NQRZWKDW3HU-
sonally, I think a manager is better value than an agent, because
the former thinks strategically. She will tell you (as mine said to
PH³,ZDQW\RXWREHDW;SRVLWLRQZLWKLQWKHQH[W¿YH\HDUV´
16. No one wants you to succeed.

This might sound bitter. On the contrary, I’m usually accused
of seeing life, literature and art through rose-coloured glasses.
The point I make here is that the world is not waiting for you to
“win one for the Gipper.” Your success (in any sense) is a product
of will, hard work, cheerfulness, great discipline, tenacity, and
objectivity, as well as a talent capable of growth and develop-
ment… and great luck. (I once heard the great actor Lee Marvin,
say in an interview, “Having a career is easy. You just need twenty
lucky breaks.”) So get ready for those lucky breaks and know
that the world will make room for your success just as it did for
mine and countless others.
17. Generosity is All.

If there’s one commodity that’s occasionally in short supply in
our highly-competitive theatre world, it’s generosity. We writers
have often come from a tough background—of rejection, money
ZRUULHVDUWLVWLFGL൶FXOWLHVSURGXFWLRQSUREOHPVIDLOHGZRUN
or non-production) and we have the scars to prove it. As I sug-
gested in the last chapter, try to practise generosity, even with
your playwright rivals.
18. Comedy Doesn’t Win Prizes—except with the audience.

Play competitions have an unfortunate tendency to reward the
‘worthy’ play over the ‘lighter but brilliant’ piece, even when the
latter eventually ends up proving to be a huge success with the
theatre-going public. This is because in competitions of literary
or dramatic ‘merit’, the journalistic impulse (a play’s topicality,
social critique or largeness of socio-political ambition) tends to be
prized more than the deeper and more subtle aspects of dramatic
art (richness, mysteriousness, ambiguity of theme.) This means
that ‘serious dramas’ (however bleak, even boring) often win
prizes over less overtly political plays, not to mention brilliant
comedies. This is a pity. But don’t let play competitions, critics’
opinions, or anything else break your heart. I’ve been on judging
panels that have made some very poor decisions. (The strange
psychological laws operating on a typical judging panel are worth
a book in itself.) Never write for a competition (unless that’s a
XVHIXOSVHXGRGHDGOLQHWRKHOS\RXµ*HWWKDWSOD\¿QLVKHG¶IRU
play competitions are such a lottery of agendas—personal, politi-
cal, aesthetic—all of them ultimately subjective, that unless you
treat it as a lottery with about the same arbitrariness of selection,
you might get seriously disappointed by the results. Unless you
win, of course. As I said, comedy rarely wins prizes— except
with the audience.
19. Parochialism is death.

In many smaller regions of America, where theatre hangs on
grimly (via fund-raising and the huge workload of the theatre’s
RYHUZRUNHGSHUVRQQHO\RX¶OO¿QGDQXQGHUVWDQGDEOHEXWLQVLGL-
ous form of parochialism. Its causes are complex, but its results
are this: Arkansas writers are mostly (sometimes exclusively)
produced in Arkansas; Alaskan writers are mostly (sometimes
exclusively) produced in Alaska… And so on. You get the pic-
ture. It can breed a subsidy-supported and false sense of accom-
plishment. That is, the standards can be below what even local
DXGLHQFHVH[SHFWDQGEHQH¿WIURP,¶YHEHHQDWDIHZWKHDWUH
conferences in various parts of the world, where a closed-borders
mentality is very strong. It breeds protectiveness of the ‘local
product’ without rigorous enough adherence to the quality the
theatre and its work is funded for. Audiences, even in regional
areas, may be culturally young— but they are not stupid. Inferior
work lays a trap that time will spring. Being locally-produced
ZLOOQRWVDYHLW,I\RXUSOD\FDQ¿QGPXOWLSOHSURGXFWLRQV\RX
might be able to make some decent money for all the hard work.
This means that it’s better to do one play every four years that
gets four productions, rather than four plays a year that get only
one. The latter is a sure recipe for an early (artistic) death.
20. International Theatre is globalized.

)RU WKH WUXWK LV ZH¶YH DOZD\V EHHQ LQ D ¿HUFHO\ FRPSHWLWLYH
global market, where your pet project is up against the best that
WKHZRUOGKDVWRR൵HU,VDLGDVPXFKLQWKHRSHQLQJFKDSWHU
And this was true years before any Free Trade Agreement was
UDWL¿HG<RXDUHFRPSHWLQJZLWKWKHEHVWWKDW%ULWLVK)UHQFK
Australian, German and American theatre have already created.
But don’t let that stop you— See next point.
21. The Serious Joy Of It All.

When it comes down to it, play writing is a seriously joyful
activity. Much of my career machinations, part-time work and
FDVKÀRZLQFRPHFRQWUROKDYHEHHQWRHQJLQHHUDOLIHWKDWRQDQ\
objective reckoning is close to wonderful: the chance to dream
stories up, write them and see them performed. It reminds me
why I gave up the day job all those years ago. If any of these
µOHVVRQV¶ SULQWHG KHUH DOORZV \RX WR FHOHEUDWH \RXU RZQ ¿YH
WHQ¿IWHHQRUWZHQW\\HDUVLQWKHDWUHZULWLQJWKHQ,¶PGHOLJKWHG
for you. Celebrate it. Open that bottle, and pour a glass for me
while you’re at it.
449
&ඁൺඉඍൾඋ
BECOMING A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST
There’s a culture of support for new playwrights in the USA, which I

support and heartily approve of. I spend half my life encouraging, teaching
and working with younger writers in numerous countries. But ‘young’ is
not necessarily rich, complex and artistically mature—which is what the
best art tends to be. All that takes time. My view is that it takes at least ten
years before the real artist in you has even begun to mature. To a 24-year
old writer that feels like an eternity. The hardest thing to teach a young
writer is not playwriting, but patience. Craft skills are easy, compared to
the alchemical process required to turn a young, passionate life into rich,
passionate art. Many plays need to be ‘lived with’, often for years, until
the intuitive inklings of the young writer’s brave new theatrical world
FDQEHUHDOLVHG6RPHWLPHVDVKRUWSOD\FDQEHÀXNHGDQGHPHUJHLQD
near-perfect state in a few weeks. It’s happened to me. If that happens to
you, whoop for joy, and realise what a gift you’ve been given.
Becoming an artist is really all about two things—the drive to pursue
one’s original vision, and then developing a theatrical voice and a technique
that serves that vision. As I’ve already indicated, the initial vision— of
a play, an idea, a story, a character, or a new theatre aesthetic— is likely
to be fragmentary. It will require lots of thought, sketching, trying out,
false starts, theoretical speculation (and even posturing) until the Real
meets the Ideal.
As for the ‘theatrical voice’, I said in the previous chapter that you
should make no attempt to consciously develop one. Simply write to your
GHHSHVWLQVWLQFWVDQGLPSXOVHVDQGOHWFUDIWVNLOOVLQÀXHQFH\RXRQO\DW
WKHSRLQWZKHUHFRPPXQLFDWLRQVX൵HUV,QWHQVLW\LVDOO1RFUDIWFDQKHOS
you if you don’t write at something approaching white-heat.
THE CULTURE OF SUCCESS
There’s a culture of success in America that I love—but I do so

guardedly. Let me explain: in contrast to the dominant attitude in parts of
Europe, the U.K. and Australia, success in America is genuinely applauded
by those who are ‘less successful’ (and I put that term in quotes for reasons
I’m about to explain.) American artists who are yet to achieve what they
call success tend not to envy and resent their more successful peers to
the extent that artists in other countries do—except perhaps at the very
highest levels, where egos, money and status complicate the rosy picture.
But the whole notion of ‘success’ has been misunderstood, even in

$PHULFD7RWKHDYHUDJH$PHULFDQDUWLVWVXFFHVVLVGH¿QHGLQYHU\QDU-
row terms: ‘Making it in Hollywood’, or ‘Opening in New York’. I’m
sorry to say this, but the world is a whole lot bigger than New York. Not
to mention Hollywood.
THE TEN LEVELS OF SUCCESS
,W¶VWLPHZHGH¿QHGDOLWWOHPRUHSUHFLVHO\MXVWZKDWµVXFFHVV¶LVIRU
an artist working in contemporary theatre.
The First Level of Success consists in actually carrying out the intention
of writing. If I had a dollar for every person, from the plumber to my
neighbour the poet, who told me they’d “love to write a play”, I could
take several of the Rockefellers out to dinner and come home with
spare change. In other words, those who actually start writing have
already achieved more than many who simply dream about doing it.
As the shoe ad says, “Just do it”. You’re never ‘ready’ to start. Only
starting will help to make you ready.
The Second Level of Success consists in ¿QLVKLQJwhat you started. Now,
sometimes there is a good reason for abandoning a work midway
WKURXJK%XWHYHQWXDOO\VRPHWKLQJKDVWREH¿QLVKHGKRZHYHUURXJKO\
and tentatively. Even if there’s a touch of self-delusion (where you
forget for a moment the long weeks of redrafting that will be involved.)
The Third Level of Success consists in revising what you thought you’d
¿QLVKHGIt was the 19th Century Irish playwright Dion Boucicault
who said that “Plays are not written, they’re rewritten.” The thought
that a play is often rewritten numerous times might be depressing to
consider, until you realise several things: a) you are doing what you
love; b) the work is getting better; and c) on Opening Night, none
of it will matter. Remember that the true form of your play often has
to be discovered—in the actual writing itself. No amount of scene
breakdowns or plot options can replace the act of trying the new ideas
out in fully (re-)written scenes. In my own case, I often feel like a
blood-hound on the scent, and that I’m closer to catching the elusive
hare with each foray into the writing wilderness. I once sealed a play
commission by a single answer: To the question, “Are you a quick
writer?”, I replied, “No, but I’m a quick re-writer.” And that’s the
truth: each re-write is quicker than the last.
The Fourth Level of Success consists in sending your work ‘out there’. If
Erle Stanley Gardner, the creator of the Perry Mason series, could
collect over three hundred rejection letters, then, out of sheer self-
respect, we should be trying to gather at least half that number. For
a while in my own career, I could only measure my progress by the
increasing generosity of the rejection letters.
The Fifth Level of Success consists in writing more than one work. I once
met a young writer who had sent his work to the best theatre company
in his home state, and was waiting to hear back. The answer seemed
a long time coming, so I suggested he “Start work on Opus 2”. He
UHSOLHG³,¶PRQO\JRLQJWRZULWHDVHFRQGSOD\LIP\¿UVWLVSURIHV-
sionally produced.” I’ve not heard of the writer since. My aim was
QHYHUWRKDYHP\¿UVWZRUNSURGXFHGor else. My aim was to live a
life of creative delight by working in theatre, in any way possible. In
some cases, I’ve ‘trashed’ whole plays for the chance to work with an
actor I admired. In one case, I knew that he would drastically distort
my original vision of the work, but the chance to watch his acting at
close range was irresistible. That way I learned so much about the
intricate and intimate dynamics of the one-person show I was writing
for him, the ‘loss’ of my original conception of the play was well worth
LW%HVLGHV,NQHZ,KDG¿IW\SOD\VLQPH<RXKDYHWRR,¶PVXUH
The Sixth Level of Success consists in being produced by a group containing
no more than one member of your immediate family. In other words,
when you are being produced by almost anyone/any group, no matter
how ‘amateur’, student or non-union, then you have already reached a
level of success that the ‘wannabes’ of this world can only dream of.
The Seventh Level of Success consists in being produced by a recognised
professional theatre company. Incidentally, by the time this happens,
the ecstatic novelty of “A Life in the Theatre” may have long-since
ZRUQR൵,¶YHEHHQSURGXFHGDOORYHUWKHZRUOGEXWWKHRQO\JHQXLQH
XQFRQWUROODEOHH[FLWHPHQWFDPHIURPP\YHU\¿UVWSURGXFWLRQ$IWHU
that, it was either ‘business’, or just deeply satisfying and pleasurable
(which is easier on the nerves anyway.) In any case, I think our aim
should be to love what we discover ‘on the page’, because loving the
act of writing is important—if we wish to keep writing.
The Eighth Level of Success consists in being produced outside your re-
gion. Everywhere I travel, whether in the USA, Australia or Europe,
there is a strong level of ‘regional protectionism’, whereby local
writers are encouraged and even protected. All other factors being
HTXDOLWLVWKHORFDOZULWHUZKRZLOORIWHQEHSURGXFHG¿UVW7KLVLV
important and good, but when that same local writer wishes to be
SURGXFHGRXWVLGHKHUKRPHUHJLRQVKHZLOO¿QGWKDWWKHVDPHIRUFHV
that promoted her career will now be working to block it. For every
region has its local writers who deserve support ahead of the out-of-
town newcomer, no matter how good she is.
There are four solutions to this problem:
1. Get famous. Theatre is a social event that loves the frisson of the
new, and the “hot”. Become a name that people recognise. This is
one solution, but it’s not necessarily the best. For a start, you don’t
have a lot of control over your career. So many other factors are at
play. But there’s an even better way than simply ‘setting out to get
famous’. It’s where you set out to become an extraordinary artist.
Doing this might give you access to the second solution...
2. ,QHYHU\UHJLRQ¿QGVRPHRQHZKRFDQEHDQDGYRFDWHIRU\RXDQG
your work. In an ideal world, this would be your agent, but agents
are not always the best advocates for your work. My own experience
is that an agent will respond to the career you currently have; but a
manager will help you plan and actually achieve the career you most
want. Additionally, depending on which country you’re wanting to
work in, fellow-artists are sometimes much better at helping you in the
GLUHFWLRQ\RX¶UHZDQWLQJWRJR6R¿QGWKHGLUHFWRUZKRVHFRPSDQ\
you enjoy, and whose aesthetic you (mostly) share. Let them do the
lobbying for you. You should concentrate on writing brilliant plays.
3. Write brilliant plays. It’s easier for someone to push a play by an

unknown writer when it’s brilliant and amazing.
4. +DYHVRPHWKLQJWRR൵HUWKHQHZUHJLRQVWDWHFRXQWU\WKDW\RXZDQWWR
work in. Get your local theatre to work on exchange seasons (involv-
ing your work), or sharing productions. Let the theatre professionals
talk to each other, while you do what you do best—write. But if neces-
sary, go to the new region yourself and start talking to fellow artists.
The Ninth Level of Success consists in being produced outside

America. At the time of writing this book, theatre in Europe and the rest
of the English-speaking world is in a healthier condition than in the USA.
Like most of the other success levels, this Ninth Level of Success is
not entirely in your control. But there are things you can do to help. You
can visit the country, and get to know the like-minded artists working
there. European theatre (unlike America) tends to be run by artists, who
give the clear impression of enjoying meeting other artists.
I’ll give you an example. The Festival of Avignon is one of Europe’s most
prestigious theatre Festivals. Did you know that the Festival presents over a
thousand plays, which run, not for a day or two, but for a whole month? That’s
right. Almost every one of the plays runs for a month, and tens of thousands of
French people go. Most of the plays are in French, but the number of English-
language productions increases by the year. Despite that, I’m one of only two
Australians to have had work featured there. Hardly more Americans have
done any better. It’s usually for want of trying. As I’ve said previously, the
world is bigger than New York. Paris, alone, has over three hundred theatres,
and a thousand theatre companies looking for (often new) work. You could
GRDORWZRUVHWKDQ¿QGLQJDWUDQVODWRUZKRORYHV\RXUZULWLQJ
A word of warning: playing the ‘career game’ (like getting produced
in France, Germany or New York ) should be seen as a game, an adven-
ture. It should never occupy more than 20% of your time. At least 80%
RI\RXUWLPHVKRXOGEHVSHQWRQKDYLQJVRPHWKLQJWRR൵HUWKHELJZLGH
world—like a brilliant play.
There are some things you can do to reach this Level, even if you’re
several levels ‘below’. One thing is very simple indeed: you can get your
play published. Even self-published, if you have to. Why? Of all the many
productions of my plays around the world, only a handful have come from
people actually seeing the shows. I’ve had theatre companies contact me
from Alaska, Moscow, South Africa and elsewhere, all interested in a play
of mine that they had found on the internet and then ordered the script of.
The implication is clear: Get your play published. Even self-publishing
is better than no publishing—unless your play is produced in New York,
London, Berlin or Paris. These four centers are really the only cities in
the world where people (especially theatre directors) regularly go in order
to see theatre and buy it for their theatre.
The Tenth Level of Success is one that you may not wish to have. At this
OHYHO\RX¶UHVRIDPRXVVRSXEOLFD¿JXUHWKDWHYHU\WKLQJ\RXGRLVDQHZV-
paper event. All your successes and all your failures are fodder for someone’s
newspaper article or blog copy. It can be a blessing. It can also be a curse.
One of the biographies of Samuel Beckett sums it up nicely. Its main title is
Damned to Fame. Yet the paradox is, when writers think of “success” it’s
usually only this Tenth Level they are thinking of! Everything else is ‘fail-
ure’. I hope I’ve shown you how ridiculous this type of limited thinking is,
and how little it relates to the realities (and pleasures) of the artistic journey.
BECOMING AN ARTIST
Theatre is hard. You have to love doing it. Love getting it right. It’s
not a career, it’s a calling. It’s not a phase of life, it’s a way of life. Lots
of plays might need to be written, rewritten, stored, kept in aspic, or even

trashed in the cause to write the astonishing theatre you know you’re
FDSDEOHRI0\SHUVRQDOGH¿QLWLRQRIDQDUWLVWLVVLPSOHAn artist is a
professional imaginer. And once you’ve stretched your own imagination,
you can then stretch that of others.
But don’t starve or punish yourself for The Cause. If it takes years
to realise your own potential, then you may as well be comfortable along
the way. Get an income, a day job, a love life, a child or two who will
remind you what joie de vivre really is. All these will teach you things that
you will end up giving back to others in the form of stories and theatrical
works of art.
Try and keep following the stories, styles and genres that give you
tremendous joy. If, for example, you love thrillers, then swallow lots of
them whole. It may be that you were always wanting to write one—without
even knowing it. It’s the inner self from which your deepest art comes, and
it often has its own agenda. Every now and then it tells you. Satisfaction
and excitement make up its binary code. When you’re loving the play
you’re working on, then that’s the one you should stay with.
Don’t try too hard to succeed. The greatest success is that of art and
the joy that your own imagination gives you. If public acclaim is what
you need, there are probably easier ways, such as feeding the poor, or
cleaning up the nation’s river system. If commercial success is what you
PRVWZDQWWKHQWU\DOVRZULWLQJIRU¿OP2UWKHVWRFNH[FKDQJH,QERWK
cases, the hard bit is raising the money, even more than writing the scrip(t).
Your greatest duty, however, is to train your imagination in the ser-
vice of telling theatre stories. It’s a private duty, and a public gift. When
it succeeds, you’ll probably get lots of money. But it will only happen
if you look not outward, but inward. In his diary, Franz Kafka wrote a
telling piece of advice to himself: “Remain at your desk. The world will
come to you.”
It did for him, and it may yet for you, in ways you’ve hardly begun
to dream about.
455
,ඇൽൾඑ
A.
Abigail’s Party 117
Absent Friends 275
Absurd Person Singular 113, 264
Acting Wave 161,215
Actor 206, 207
Actors, Acting 35, 43, 52, 56, 69, 76, 77, 136, 138, 141, 151, 158, 160,
169, 183, 187, 190, 199-206, 208
A Doll’s House 43, 82, 98, 103, 104, 213, 234, 272, 277, 377, 399, 403, 410
Adverbs 217
Aesthetic, developing your own 12, 15, 17, 18, 24, 26, 35, 46, 144, 170,
176, 182, 302, 339, 356, 427
After the Fall 323
Aftershocks 115
Agents 419, 424, 425, 444, 445, 452
Angels in America 184, 192, 380
After the Fall 323
A Hard God 113, 162
Albee, Edward 117, 232, 245, 377
Allen, Woody 122, 126
A Lie of the Mind 138
A Life in the Theatre 115
A Lie of the Mind 138
A Life in the Theatre 115
Amadeus 114
A Man For All Seasons 264
Ambiguity 128, 156, 282, 446
$PHULFDQ%XৼDOR97, 116, 275, 404
American Days 114
American reality 412
Amphitheatre 85
A Mouthful of Birds 169
and a nightingale sang 113
An Enemy of the People 21
Angels in America 184, 192, 380
Annie Hall 122, 126
Antony and Cleopatra 82, 114
Arcadia 264
Archer, William 104
Aristotle 276, 328, 339
A Streetcar Named Desire 232, 264, 402, 407
Artaud, Antonin 22
Arturo Ui 283
As You Like It 116
A Tuscan Funeral 263
Auburn, David 403
Audience 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 21, 23, 24, 25, 30, 31, 36, 38, 40, 42, 67-50,
51-68, 73, 75, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 87, 89, 93, 94, 95, 99, 105,
107, 116, 119, 127, 128
August, Osage County 361, 377, 404
Australian theatre 11, 241, 351, 421
Avignon Festival 453
Ayckbourn, Alan 20, 21, 82, 113, 114, 116, 135, 230, 264, 275
B.
Bach, Johann Sebastian 305
Back of the Throat 375
Ball Boys 115
Balodis, Janis 113
Bartholomew Fair 112
Basic Instinct 262
Beckett, Samuel 24, 31, 40, 72, 94, 135, 167, 169, 174-176, 179, 182,
227, 305, 344, 369, 453
Beethoven 264
Beethoven, Ludwig van 23, 305
Benefactors 113, 150, 282
Bennett, Alan 182
%HUNR൵6WHYHQ
Biedermann and the Arsonists 183
Blanchett, Cate 12, 419, 438
Bliss 264
Bochert, Wolgang 86
Border 117, 404
Breaking The Code 264, 375
Breaking the Silence 114, 215
Brecht, Bertolt 18, 22, 24, 84, 221, 283
Brigadoon 402
Brighton Beach Memoirs 113
British theatre 16, 20, 58, 63, 72, 142, 194, 200, 206, 232, 241, 333, 351,
360, 375, 400, 402, 408, 411, 421, 447
Brittanicus 234
Brown, Paul 115
Browne, Francis Fisher 246, 247
Buried Child Syndrome 234, 278
Butley 228, 232, 333-335
C.
Cage, John 59
Caine, Michael 225, 413
Caravan 114
Career 11, 16, 119, 354, 380, 383, 393-399, 416, 419, 421, 425, 441-447,
449-453
Cartwright, Jim 123, 140

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof 129, 253
Catastrophe 101, 106-107, 368-369
Causality 22, 95
Causality in dialogue 154, 156
Cavalcade 215
Cawelti, John 368-369
Change of direction 91, 100, 246, 315, 347
Chaplin, Charlie 369
Character dilemma 223
Character growth 243-248, 297
Character journey 31, 78,
Character techniques 249-254
Character triangle 225
Characters 18, 30, 52, 59, 63, 96, 107, 130, 152-154, 176, 202, 221-235,
237-248, 249-254, 255-259, 279-280, 307-313, 330-333, 359, 371,
372, 414
Chekhov, Anton 24, 61, 114, 208, 209, 214, 232, 233, 251, 323, 401,
409, 410
Chinchilla 115
Choric construction 73, 169-170
Christie, Agatha 50, 112
Churchill, Caryl 40, 127, 134, 151, 169, 283, 364
Citizen Kane 214, 223, 231
Clancy, John 360
Clarke, Terry 411
Claustrophobia 169, 193
Climax 33, 56, 73, 87, 91, 92, 101, 104-107, 108-109, 206, 232, 234, 246,
257, 264, 271, 278, 287-290, 291-297, 306, 315, 316, 319, 320, 335,
337, 350, 406
Close, Glenn 251
Clouds 263
Comedy 16, 31, 42, 43, 55, 58, 80, 85, 89, 111, 135, 148, 164, 184, 202,
211, 229, 239, 279, 298, 317, 346, 350, 352, 355, 360, 364, 446
Complication 32, 91, 99, 287, 296
Concordant dialogue 160-161
Coriolanus 73, 228, 279
&RZDUG1RsO
Crave 20, 169
Crossover shape 247, 282
D.
Dada 22
Dags 113
Damiano, Daniel 113
Dancing at Lughnasa 31, 66
Daniels, Sarah 115
Danny and the Deep Blue Sea 31
Daphnis and Chloé 263
Day of the Dog 113
Dead Heart 82, 117
Dead Man’s Cell Phone 376
Death and the Maiden 377
Death of a Salesman 82, 114, 117, 303, 304, 374
'H¿QLQJZDQW
Delblanc, Sven 25
Derrida in Love 140, 147
Derrida, Jacques 22
Detective shape in novels 275-276
Detective shape in plays 277-278
Dialogue 23, 39, 43, 77, 81, 119-131, 133-165, 167-185, 204-206, 254,
288, 327, 365-366, 388, 390, 411, 430, 439
Dialogue directions 151-154
Dialogue Patterns 139-144

Die Frau von früher 46-48, 67
Dilemma 91, 95, 223, 256, 281, 378, 391, 404
Dimboola 116
Dionysian 66, 356
Directionality 71, 120, 121, 191, 192,
Directors 428, 433-435
Disappeared 115
Discordant dialogue 160
Disturbance 22, 32, 91-95, 101, 244, 271, 273, 274-275, 300, 315, 349, 351
Don Juan in Hell 262
Dorfman, Ariel 377
'RXEOH'LVWDQFHH൵HFW
Doubt 379
Douglas, Michael 252
Dramatic energy 77, 267-271, 287, 288, 290, 296, 298, 342-343, 433,
Dramatic language 23, 50, 57, 70-71, 119-131, 133-165, 167-176, 187-
197, 235, 365-366, 388, 404, 408, 409, 412
Dramatic stakes 30, 64, 107, 138, 140, 142, 149, 154, 177, 188, 298, 315
Dramatic tone 61, 67, 128, 151, 178, 184, 195, 287, 321-325, 327, 409,
Dramaturg 430-432
Dream Play 24
Driving Miss Daisy 114
Dürrenmatt, Friedrich 114, 280, 382
E.
Earth Spirit 369
Edgar, David 115
Editing 392, 431
Edmond 82, 137
Edson, Margaret 381
(JOR൵(OL]DEHWK
Einstein 113
Elisha, Ron 113
Emerald City 100, 114, 188, 234, 234, 279
Emotion 47, 52, 53, 56, 57-58, 60, 63, 64, 66, 69, 70, 71, 76, 78, 90, 92
Empathy 238, 332
Enchantment 399-405, 409-413
Endgame 343
Endings 36, 87, 92, 108, 111, 221, 285, 288, 305, 320, 321, 327, 333-337,
351, 362, 363, 381, 410
Entertaining Mister Sloane 93
Equus 98, 112, 229, 350, 402
Ethics 278-280, 322, 365
Existential spectrum 223
Expressionism 22, 339
F.
Family 31, 67, 88, 92, 93, 97, 116, 171, 231, 256, 271, 282, 328-330,
376, 377, 407, 408
Fantasy 48, 54, 60, 64-65, 221, 239, 240, 242, 262-263, 293, 401
Fatal Attraction 251, 262, 368
Fatboy 360
Faustian bargain 111, 114, 231
F-Buttons 47, 62-68
Fear of Flying 368
)HDWXUH¿OP
Feelings-life (of a character) 63, 218
)HL൵HU-XOHV
Fergusson, Francis 347-348
Feydeau, Georges 114
Fifty Shades of Grey 368
Film 18, 22, 26, 33, 40, 42, 43, 44, 46, 57, 61, 64, 65, 79, 84, 86, 98, 103, 11,
122-123, 126, 159, 181, 185, 214, 221, 232, 271, 278, 280, 296, 341,
369, 370, 388, 395, 396, 397, 398, 399, 409, 424, 433, 442, 445, 454
Film dialogue 122-123, 159, 168
First draft 319, 390-391
Fishgirl 264
Fitzgerald, F.Scott 45
Fixed-set play 80, 113,
Flaubert, Gustave 328, 407
Fool for Love 82
Formalism 126, 144, 162, 178, 180, 185, 195
Fornès, Maria Irene 22
Fragment writing 305-313
Frayn, Michael 112, 113, 150, 282
French theatre 15, 16, 84, 171, 382, 412, 447, 453
Frenzy (F-Button) 66, 138, 363,
Frenzy 264
Freud, Sigmund 19, 22, 222, 306,
Freytag, Gustav 246-247
Friel, Brian 31, 66
Frisch, Max 183
Furious 264
G.
Gallasch, Keith 211, 234, 278
Gardner, Erle Stanley 451
G-E-E principle 414-415, 416
Gee, Shirley 411
Generational writing 355-372
German theatre 16, 26, 67, 72, 136, 369, 400, 447, 453
Glengarry Glen Ross 93, 94, 102, 106, 112, 210, 211, 285, 291-295, 316,
374, 405
God of Carnage 15, 372, 412
Gorky, Maxim 30, 112, 115, 116, 275
Gothic 67, 278, 351, 356, 361, 362, 364, 403, 404, 409, 410, 411
Gow, Michael 113
Gray, Simon 112, 115, 232, 245, 275, 333
Gray, Spalding 182
Grenfell, Joyce 182
Guindi, Yusef El 375
H.
Hall, Katori 380
Hamlet 65, 70, 71, 93, 94, 99, 101, 138, 176, 195, 221, 222, 228, 249,
270, 276, 315, 316, 350, 365
Hampton, Chrisopher 114, 232, 377
Handke, Peter 72, 172-173, 367
Happy Days 344
Hastings, Michael 113, 115
Heartbreak House 115
Heaven Knows 262,
Hedda Gabler 71, 93, 106, 128, 163, 229, 232, 403
Heightened language 70-71, 150-151, 195
Hibberd, Jack 116, 117, 129, 197
Holmes-Watson principle 211
Hotel Sorrento 97
How the Other Half Loves 82
Huis Clos 30, 115, 250
Humanism 17-26, 144, 167, 339, 361
Hutton, Arlene 195
Huxley, Aldous 370
Hwang, David 378
I.
Iceberg principle 191, 290
Ideas for plays 42
I Dream Before I Take the Stand 195-196
Imagistic writing 148-150, 151, 261, 265
Inge, William 278
,QVLJQL¿FDQFH263-264
International market 16-17, 67, 188, 200, 237, 372, 376, 381, 399-409, 447
Interval 95, 228, 315-317, 355
Ionesco, Eugène 50, 93, 167, 305, 335, 343
,:DVDQ,Q¿QLWHO\+RWDQG'HQVH'RW132
Ibsen, Henrik 21, 22, 24, 40, 43, 80, 93, 94, 98, 103-104, 112, 114, 160-
161, 212, 213, 229, 241, 272, 349, 350, 377, 403
J.
John Gabriel Borkman 82, 114, 403
Jonson, Ben 112, 225, 283, 415
Journalistic topicality 366, 380, 387, 446
Joyce, James 22, 345
Juice 264
Julius Caesar 40, 71, 73, 93, 98, 114, 228, 246, 263, 274
Jumpers 137, 183
Jung, Carl Gustav 22, 222, 228, 393
K.
Kafka Dances 11, 115, 178, 265, 345, 378
Kane, Sarah 20, 127, 135, 169, 193, 343, 360, 364, 365, 441
Kaufman, George S 114
Kaufman, Moisés 115, 381, 392
Kenna, Peter 113, 162
King Lear 21, 65, 87, 88, 89, 91, 93, 147, 305, 322, 329
Kushner, Tony 184, 192, 380
L.
/D*UDQGH%RXৼH243
Language notation 151
Leigh, Mike 117
Lettice and Lovage 264
Letts, Tracey 404
Leyner, Mark 143
Liberal Anxieties 373-380
Life and Limb 162-163
Life X 3 372
Lifehouse 190
Linear writing 18, 22, 95, 201, 272, 299, 306, 347, 389
Link words 155, 159
Lists 162-163, 169
Litany 147
Little Eyolf 403
Little Murders 80, 117
Lloyd George Knew My Father 263
Long Day’s Journey Into Night 116, 215-217, 282
Loot 264, 280
Love in a Cold Climate 265
Lulu 369
Luv 114, 264
M.
0%XWWHUÀ\378
Macbeth 99, 100, 116, 200, 202, 232, 246, 316, 318, 319, 349, 350,
405-406,
MacDonald, Donald 114
Mackerel 80
Major Action 91, 95-97, 229, 315, 318
Mamet, David 40, 62, 82, 94, 112, 115, 116, 127,128, 129, 134, 137, 139,
160, 223, 254, 285, 287, 290, 291-296, 305, 353, 374, 388
Marat/Sade 265
Marketplace 15-17, 387, 393-396, 399-404
Marlowe, Christopher 114, 415
Masterpieces 115, 230
McDonald, Sharman 113
Metaphysical 57, 89, 141, 150, 161, 176, 178, 202, 232, 250, 261-262,
322-323, 350, 363, 364, 402, 403, 408, 410, 411
Miller, Arthur 15, 16, 22, 24, 40, 61, 105, 113, 114, 117, 127, 232, 239,
277, 278, 303, 304, 323, 404, 414
Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow 263
Modernism 15, 16, 17-26, 50, 144, 167-176, 181, 183, 361, 365, 369
Molière, Jean-Baptiste Poquelin 127, 348
Moment writing 33, 43, 103, 105, 128, 147, 149, 156, 251, 256, 272,
288, 306-313
Monteverdi, Claudio 180
Morality 16, 89, 99, 100, 111, 161, 280, 283, 365
Mother Courage 84
Motherhood statements 39, 52, 381-383
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 63, 98, 127, 371, 402
Much Ado About Nothing 211
Multi-linear writing 302-306, 355
Murphett, Richard 181-182
My Vicious Angel 265
Myth 69, 111, 161, 179, 231, 281, 304, 367-370, 374,
N.
‘Night Mother 107
Nagy, Phyllis 115
Narrative disturbance 92-95, 274-275, 315
Narrative form 39, 41, 69, 112, 389
Narrative levels 88,
Networking 415-418
Nicholson, William 113
Noh theatre 346
Norman, Marsha 107, 320
Northern Lights 262
Novel writing 39, 44, 121-122, 123, 126, 128, 231, 276, 395, 396, 397, 433
Nowra, Louis 31
O.
O’Neill, Eugene 30, 116, 215-217, 231, 282
Oakley, Barry 241
Oblomov 243
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Oedipus Rex 97, 101, 112, 276, 350
Olivier, Laurence 200
One-act play 94, 285
Opening night 395, 399, 417, 439-440, 450
Orton, Joe 239, 280, 383
Osborne, John 63, 174, 178, 226
Oswald, Debra 113
Othello 64, 70, 71, 97, 107, 210, 249, 322, 411
Our Country’s Good 113
Overwriting 156-158, 431, 435
P.
Pandora’s Box 369
Paradise Lost 265
Parallel dialogue 161
Parsons, Nick 82, 436

Pentecost 263
Performative States 174, 177-183, 362
Perry Mason 451
Phase climax 293, 295, 297, 406
Phase writing 291-296
Physicality 54, 58, 71-72, 79, 116, 138, 158, 187, 200, 203, 433
Pillars of Society 93, 98, 114, 350,
Pinter, Harold 41, 50, 136, 142, 154-155, 164-165, 179, 192, 196, 201, 271
Pirandello, Luigi 116, 177, 183
Plateau theory 258, 272, 349-351
Play readings 43, 75
Play types 29-33, 1112-117, 407-409
Plot Snake 299-302
Plotting 18, 32, 39, 50, 56, 69, 82, 88, 91-109, 111-117, 134, 203, 212,
218, 223, 234, 241, 243, 244, 249, 252, 254, 262, 271, 273-277, 278-
283, 287, 291, 296, 299, 392, 308, 316, 318, 319, 327, 335, 341, 352,
362-363, 389, 404, 405, 411
3ROLDNR൵6WHSKHQ
Pollock, Jackson 339
Post-modernism, see Modernism.
Primal Fear 262
Proof 403
Proscenium arch 84
Protagonist 31-33, 112, 228, 230, 281, 318, 347
Pseudo-family 329
Psychology 18, 21, 22, 26, 28, 38, 159, 167, 172, 183, 331-333, 344,
361, 439
Psychosis 4.48 135, 193
Puccini, Giacomo 271
Pulitzer Prize 29, 107, 291, 336, 379-381
Punctuational Tool-kit 136-139
Pygmalion 247
Q.
Quartermaine’s Terms 112, 115, 245, 275
Question in dialogue 131, 140-146, 195
Quick Death 181
R.
Racine, Jean 84, 234, 382
Ransom 264
Realism 60, 65, 116, 126, 127, 134, 151, 158, 178, 188, 194, 196, 221,
249, 361, 364, 366, 397, 409, 444
Reddin, Keith 162
Redemptive states 231-232, 280
Reed, Rex 19
Rehearsal 43, 177, 208, 331-337, 423, 429-430. 434-439
Rejected plays 120, 425-428
Relationship journey 30, 252-253, 255-259
Relatively Speaking 114
R-E-M levels 249-250, 363-364
Repetition 73, 126, 131, 149, 158, 162, 167-169, 441,
Resolution 108-109, 320, 335-337
Reveal 295
Reversal 32, 91, 104-106, 259, 287, 289, 296, 300, 319, 328, 337
Reza, Yasmina 15, 372
Rhetoric 71, 77, 127, 146-148,
Rhythm 43-44, 54, 70, 71, 75, 89, 121, 126, 128, 135, 141, 149, 156, 158,
160, 167-169, 187, 191, 195, 226, 264, 265, 412
Richard III 97, 112, 202
Road 123-127, 140
Rockabye 72
Romeo and Juliet 66, 71, 93, 95, 108, 134, 168-169, 229
Romeril, John 127, 262
Royal Hunt of the Sun 113
Ruhl, Sarah 376, 402
Russell, Willy 239, 317
S.
Sartre, Jean-Paul 30, 116, 250, 323
Scanlan 116
Scene breakdown 389-390, 397, 450
Scene climax 106, 288-289
Scene contrast 290-291, 297
Scene issue 287, 288, 296
Scene premise 287
Schimmelpfennig, Roland 47, 67
Schisgal, Murray 114
Schönberg, Arnold 413
School for Scandal 98
Season’s Greetings 263
Sell letter 418-421
Serious Money 151, 283
Sets 29, 73, 79-83, 85, 86, 112, 113, 117, 119, 264, 360, 361
Sewell, Stephen 82, 127, 138, 156, 189-190, 262, 288
Shadowland 113
6KD൵HU$QWKRQ\
6KD൵HU3HWHU
Shakespeare, William, also see individual plays 15, 21, 24, 25, 31, 36,
40, 61, 63, 65, 66, 71, 72, 81, 82, 89, 91, 100, 127, 135, 161, 169,
183, 199, 200, 202, 219, 228, 229, 232, 246, 336, 341, 349, 350,
386, 404, 410, 433
Shanley, John Patrick 31, 127, 379
Shaw, George Bernard 247, 383
Shepard, Sam 41, 67, 82, 127, 138, 278, 343, 404, 441
Shirley Valentine 239, 316
Shue, Larry 114
Simon, Neil 16, 25, 113, 114
Simultaneity 154, 182, 340, 346
Six Characters in Search of an Author 115
Sketching your play 94, 306-313, 371, 387-389, 390-391
Sleuth 113, 264
Social realism 60, 81, 127, 150, 178, 187-189, 194, 201, 397, 409
Spatial axis 76-78, 342
Spatial energy 131, 230, 342
Spatial tones 361
Spectrum of possibilities 200, 223, 224-225, 253-254
6SHHFKÀDZV
Speed 98
Starting work on your play 385-391
Starts-to-go-stops technique 298
Status Quo 23, 92, 273, 300, 306
Steiner, George 377-378
Stockhausen, Karlheinz 26, 59
Stoppard, Tom 137, 144, 183, 200, 382-383
Story 18, 23, 24, 30, 38, 39-40, 41, 42, 49-50, 55, 57, 68, 69, 78-79, 89-
109, 111-112
6WRU\GH¿QLWLRQ
Story objective 231
Story shape 91-109
Story types 112-117,
Strindberg, August 22, 24, 136, 182, 183,
Structural models 273-283
Styan, J.L. 87-89, 247
Subtext 187, 205, 208-215, 219, 289-290

Success 15-17, 43, 66, 67, 194, 372, 376, 381, 401, 407, 416, 417, 442,
445, 449-453
Summer of the Aliens 31
Surprise, audience 56, 143, 290
Surprise, narrative 92, 93, 101-102, 258
Surrealism 60, 356, 361
Symbolism 22
Sympathy 239, 332
T.
Taking Steps 113, 264
Tamburlaine 114
7DUWXৼH243, 348
Taylor C.P. 113
Television writing 26, 43, 81, 103, 108, 122-123, 185, 194, 394, 395,
398, 404, 434,
Temporary Certainty 66, 405-406
Ten-minute play 398
Texture 41, 71, 72, 130, 134, 141, 151, 187-197, 291, 295, 339, 366
That Time 135, 169
The American Self 367-370
The Bald Prima Donna 171
The Blind Giant is Dancing 82, 138, 189, 288
The Bourgeois Wedding 263
The Bourne Conspiracy 262
The Caretaker 137
The Cherry Orchard 114, 209, 214, 235, 251, 261, 323,
The Crucible 105, 107, 108, 234, 320, 374, 404, 412, 414
The Don’s Last Innings 117, 161
The Entertainer 174
The Floating World 262
The Glass Menagerie 64, 261, 402
The Government Inspector 112
The Governor’s Family 265
The Heidi Chronicles 115, 174
The Hothouse 115, 174
The Iceman Cometh 30
The Ipcress File 262
The King and I 402
The Laramie Project 115
The Last Tycoon 45
The Lesson 48-50, 93, 335
The Lower Depths 30, 115, 116, 275, 323
The Master Builder 93, 95, 98, 103, 114, 160-161, 231
The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore 261
The Moonwalkers 139
The Mountaintop 380-381
The Mousetrap 50
The Nerd 114
The Odd Couple 114
The Perfectionist 22, 113, 234
The Philanthropist 114
The Picture of Dorian Grey 369
The Portage to San Christobal of A.H. 377
The Previous Woman 47
The Price 113
The Private Visions of Gottfried Kellner 265, 423
The Real Thing 183
The Ride Across Lake Constance 72, 172-173
The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 3/4 265
The Silent Woman 263
The Swan 403

The Tempest 65, 93, 113, 263, 348, 350, 386
The True History of the Kelly Gang 265
The Unbearable Lightness of Being 261
The Visit of the Old Lady 114, 382
The Waves 263
The Wild Duck 114, 230, 261, 403
The Winter’s Tale 65, 93
Theatre designs 84-85
Theatre space 22, 41, 65, 69-73, 75-77, 81, 84, 85, 86, 129, 135-136, 169,
179, 180, 187-194, 196-197, 267, 269-271, 298, 313, 321, 369-361,
365, 369, 412, 427, 433, 436
Theatrical form 41, 42, 69, 274, 355
Thought-life (of a character) 57, 158, 159, 180, 205, 218,223,
Thread technique 97, 99, 108, 302-306, 318, 381
Three Days of the Condor 108
Thrillers 39, 42, 43, 108, 234, 262, 271, 278, 340, 368, 454
Tilley, Allen 299-302
Timon of Athens 264
Titus Andronicus 65
Tom & Viv 113
Tonal patterns 323-325
Tone 21, 61, 67, 128, 151, 178, 184, 195, 253, 287, 300, 321-325, 327,
361, 401, 409, 410-413, 430
Too Young for Ghosts 113
Townshend, Pete 190
Traitors 82
Trouble in the Works 164-165
Turning point 33, 91, 102-106, 246, 256, 257, 301, 312, 315, 319
TV realism 193-194
Twist 56, 91, 101-106, 259, 380, 396, 397, 419, 439
Two-act play 100, 270-271, 286, 313-320, 347-352
Tynan, Kenneth 351
U.
Uhry, Alfred 114
Ulysses 344-345
Unbalanced texture 141, 192
Uncle Vanya 141, 192
Underwriting techniques 156-160, 204-208
Universalisms 67, 325-333, 336, 370, 372
Ustinov, Peter 182
V.
Valdez Last Frontier Theatre Conference 392
Vampire movies 108, 271, 335, 404
Venus and Adonis 263
Vicarious relationship to audience 18, 25, 52, 54, 253, 271, 359, 376, 413
Volpone 243, 283
W.
Wagner, Richard 23, 108, 121, 231, 305, 342, 349, 369, 415
Waiting for Godot 30, 97, 116, 386
War Horse 16
Wasserstein, Wendy 115, 174
Wedekind, Frank 369
Welcome the Bright World 82
Wellman, Mac 22
Wertenbaker, Timberlake 113
When I was a Girl I Used to Scream and Shout 113, 265
Whitemore, Hugh 264, 375
Who is Harry Kellerman and Why is He Saying These Terrible Things
About Me? 264, 265

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 80, 93, 117, 203, 230, 232, 245, 377
Wilde, Oscar 127, 204, 229, 239, 241, 280, 369, 383
Williams, Tennessee 15, 61, 202, 208, 253, 305, 321, 376, 401
Williamson, David 21, 113, 114, 188, 279
Wilson, August 411
Wit 336, 381
Working methods 381, 385-392
Wray, Elizabeth 117, 404
Z.
Zeitgeist 367-371, 387
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21ST CENTURY PLAYWRITING

A MANUAL OF CONTEMPORARY TECHNIQUES

A MANUAL OF CONTEMPORARY TECHNIQUES

A SMITH AND KRAUS BOOK 2019

21st Century Playwriting

Manufactured in the United States of America

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that the

Typesetting, layout and cover by Elizabeth E. Monteleone

For information about custom editions, special sales, education and

Printed in the United States of America

Advisor and friend.

I’ve learned my craft from hundreds of actors, writers and directors.

Gateway 1: Becoming a Modern Playwright

Gateway 2: Getting Started

Gateway 3: The Basics of Theatre Space—and its Audience

Gateway 4: Understanding Stories and their Patterns

Gateway 5: Getting Familiar with Theatrical

Gateway 6: Writing Characters for Actors

Gateway 8: Becoming a Modern Playwright 2

Gateway 9: Contemporary Theatre Writing as an Art,

We met, and she tentatively agreed to work toward production of the

On March 22, 2009, an extraordinary event occurred. A play opened

even a perverse pride in its marginality; an audience horror at a contro-

THE AESTHETICS IN ACTION: An example of each aesthetic

C: He needs to have a secret but he can’t help telling. He

DIANA: Have you got him to sleep?

like that. Like little cherubims.

And soon the real point of this chit-chat emerges:

DIANA: I wouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t blame her. Not as long

At the risk of over-simplifying the debate, I’ll suggest that much of

MODERNISM AND HUMANISM: A COMPARISON

Both humanism and modernism are philosophies, even theologies,

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Jungian psychology, the analysis of linguistics (semiotics, Derrida etc), the

Modernist theatre does not tend to interest itself in writing dialogue

In modernist writing, the notion of character is very ambivalent. At

that a character is a) knowable, even partially; b) governed by certain

THE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES OF EACH

No theatre aesthetic is ‘perfect’, or even complete. At its most satis-

RECONCILING MODERNISM AND HUMANISM

Our aim as playwrights should be close to that of Shakespeare’s:

Playwrights—the majority of whom are humanists writing in a style

HOW TO USE THIS BOOK: A SUGGESTION

1. THE SINGLE-SET, ‘WAITING PLAY’

A character—or, better, a group—is in a room. They’re waiting

2. THE TWO-HEADER PLAY or The Relationship Journey

Two characters meet. They connect. Things start to happen

3. THE NARRATOR-DRIVEN PLAY or Welcome To My World

4. THE ‘PROTAGONIST’S JOURNEY’ PLAY

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover

An example of the fourth and last play type is supplied to us by a

I am determined to prove a villain…

To make this goal possible, he develops—

To set my brother Clarence and the King

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

An initial period of success.

CRAFT TOOLS YOU WILL NEED

TEN SKILLS USEFUL FOR PLAY WRITING

3. THE MASTERY OF HUMAN PSYCHOLOGY

More than anything, plays are galvanised by the mesmeric power of

5. MASTERY OF NARRATIVE FORM

Plays are full of stories, because ‘stories’ are metaphors of how to

Audiences generally have a much stronger and more conscious

6. DEVELOPING A STRONG FORMAL(IST) INSTINCT

Timothy Daly - 21st Century Playwriting, A Manual of Contemporary Techniques-Smith & Kraus (2019)

Timothy Daly - 21st Century Playwriting, A Manual of Contemporary Techniques-Smith & Kraus (2019)

7KH LQÀXHQFHV RQ PRGHUQLVP KDYH EHHQ PDQ\ 6WULQGEHUJ ODWH

An initial period of success.