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Aug. 12th, 2006 08:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceNote to self: shouldn't try to draw generalities from an isolated specific, as many Americans rise up to tell me, and quite right too. It was late, I was tired; we all have our lists. I may draw up one of my own, in penance.
Meanwhile, a reluctant observation: I was right to be wary of the smoked black halibut. It does retain the silky texture of that fish, but it was much more salted than smoked: almost too salty to eat, indeed, and very little smoky flavour at all. Or indeed anything else, coming through the salt.
Still, the fennel risotto was good, and so was the soup. More lemon than lamb, but that is perhaps how it should be, with the base stock just a bass note.
Today I shall do the washing-up and get back to the play. I did sneak a page yesterday in snatches, but mostly I did quite a lot of thinking, and I think I see my way clear through to the end now. A plot seems to have arisen, as plots do; that's reassuring, that it's not just a mood piece. I've written a lot about people with Aids and their carers, and a lot of the short stuff has just been tonal; it's why I haven't managed to write the novel yet, that I can't find a story that can overcome the setting. I can do it in genre - ghost stories, crime stories, done that - but it's not what I want for this book. No matter, it'll come. Meantime, the play is a halfway house: long enough to need a plot, a process, it can't just be a meditation, but short enough to keep it singular. And, I think, quite subtle. Perhaps 'internal' is the word: there's the bloke in the bed and half a dozen people round about, and the story is entirely their own, it doesn't look beyond that room. Which is what I want. One of the problems this throws up, necessarily, is that they then don't have to tell it; they know already. Finding ways to make things clear to an audience, when you've only got dialogue to play with and you don't want all that "as you know, Bob..." explication: ah, well, it enlivens my days. 'Specially when much of that explication would be unreliable anyway. The whole thing's turning into an exercise in misdirection, which is easy on the page and easy in movies, where you can direct the audience's attention against the flow of action, point out what his hands are up to while his eyes look elsewhere and his voice runs on; I'm not at all sure how to tag that on a stage, for an audience that can't get close-ups and has to keep up with the pace.
Meanwhile, a reluctant observation: I was right to be wary of the smoked black halibut. It does retain the silky texture of that fish, but it was much more salted than smoked: almost too salty to eat, indeed, and very little smoky flavour at all. Or indeed anything else, coming through the salt.
Still, the fennel risotto was good, and so was the soup. More lemon than lamb, but that is perhaps how it should be, with the base stock just a bass note.
Today I shall do the washing-up and get back to the play. I did sneak a page yesterday in snatches, but mostly I did quite a lot of thinking, and I think I see my way clear through to the end now. A plot seems to have arisen, as plots do; that's reassuring, that it's not just a mood piece. I've written a lot about people with Aids and their carers, and a lot of the short stuff has just been tonal; it's why I haven't managed to write the novel yet, that I can't find a story that can overcome the setting. I can do it in genre - ghost stories, crime stories, done that - but it's not what I want for this book. No matter, it'll come. Meantime, the play is a halfway house: long enough to need a plot, a process, it can't just be a meditation, but short enough to keep it singular. And, I think, quite subtle. Perhaps 'internal' is the word: there's the bloke in the bed and half a dozen people round about, and the story is entirely their own, it doesn't look beyond that room. Which is what I want. One of the problems this throws up, necessarily, is that they then don't have to tell it; they know already. Finding ways to make things clear to an audience, when you've only got dialogue to play with and you don't want all that "as you know, Bob..." explication: ah, well, it enlivens my days. 'Specially when much of that explication would be unreliable anyway. The whole thing's turning into an exercise in misdirection, which is easy on the page and easy in movies, where you can direct the audience's attention against the flow of action, point out what his hands are up to while his eyes look elsewhere and his voice runs on; I'm not at all sure how to tag that on a stage, for an audience that can't get close-ups and has to keep up with the pace.
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PS
Date: 2006-08-13 09:56 pm (UTC)Re: PS
Date: 2006-08-13 10:10 pm (UTC)I've tried acting and directing (for stage and film) and I know I wouldn't trust me. Mind you, the actors, directors and producers I've known were a lot better at it than me.
It has been said that all writers suffer from a god complex, but I don't think that quite catches it.
Morpeth waves back. Either that, or I've had too much to drink.