I like to wake up at 7am and write in bed whilst I eat breakfast, knowing that there is nothing else I should be doing.
I am trying not to write myself into the film, only suitable portions of myself. Little segments, a finger here or an ear lobe there, or a general observation about human nature which hopefully leads to one audience members going ’ I think I get it…’ The protagonist is a 38 year old man. I enjoy writing like a man. I not sure why. I expect therapy would tell me. ‘Maybe you just enjoy writing something alien enough to you, for it not to be you? I don’t know.’ I have invested inspirational quota time in a lunchtime free gig by Laura Veirs at Rise, and in a microfest called Ausform, which I am reviewing for Theatre Bristol. I am trying to not talk about feelings and talk about feelings, I hate the word feelings, I talk about feelings to everyone, but in doing so I avoid talking about feelings, for these feelings are easily rehearsed lines, anecdotes about feelings, not actually the result of digging deeper to present your feelings to someone important, because what if they are like ‘feelings are stupid feelings. And take off that trilby and red lipstick.’ I am hot desking in a shared office, and feel like some kind of grown up everytime I use their kettle and one day one of the people here will have a birthday and bring in cake.
Also I fucking love lip syncing.