Reading Between The Lines

Nothing like a deadline eh? Particularly when that deadline is in 24 hours.


Having completed a couple of 24 hour plays in my time where you start at midnight and carry on typing until 6am fuelled entirely by Red Bull, Percy Pigs and fear I thought that 24 hours would be a luxurious amount of time in which to write a new play. And so, feeling a little like a low level secret agent, I diligently got up at 6.50am (on a Sunday as well, saintly) and awaited my instructions; an opening for the scene and videos introducing my actors.


24 hours later, after several discarded false starts, a total rethink at midnight and 4 hours sleep I was furiously proof reading and worrying about the amount of 90s' pop music references that had tumbled out of my tired head and into the script - Let Loose anyone? B*Witched?


All this is in aid of the launch of new Reading based theatre company Reading Between The Lines, the brainchild of Dani and Toby Davies formerly of Bristol Old Vic Theatre school. They've put together an absolutely cracking company of writers, director and actors for tomorrow's Off The Block Writers' Relay and I can't wait to see some old faces and new plays.


If you happen to be in the area then I would highly recommend coming along to the launch, tickets are selling fast but there are still some available here and maybe this time tomorrow you can be like me, driving up the M4 singing along to the Lighthouse Family...

Our Glass House

Right I'm not going to witter on today because there are far more interesting things afoot right now than the fact I've become obsessed with one day getting a writer's hut and spent so long at my desk this week that I actually started watching videos on the NHS about correct posture and back pain. 


Namely the opening of Our Glass House by Common Wealth Theatre. They can explain it much better than I can so here's the blurb: 


"Have you ever had to leave somewhere in a hurry? Had the courage to leave, pack your bags, dance down the side of your house, or leave with nothing, not even the shoes on your feet?

Common Wealth has collaborated with artists, carpenters, writers, illustrators and musicians to transform this council owned house into a world for you to explore. This show is based on real life testimonies from women and men who have survived domestic violence. There is no violence in this piece; we are exploring why people choose to stay and how they eventually leave."

I've been lucky enough to contribute a little additional writing to this project and went to see the finished project on Wednesday. It is a truly unique and very moving experience; one of those nights where a performance stirs you so much you leave shaken and with your brain on fire. 


The stories and statistics I found genuinely shocking and the urgency of addressing domestic violence, just even to try and encourage sharing experiences without secrecy and shame is one of the most startling and vibrant elements of the whole project. 

Aside from being a real technical accomplishment with incredibly intricately crafted design, sound, lighting and choreography the performances are honest and gripping; the whole piece is wrought with powerful stories based on real life testimonies skilfully woven by Aisha Zia, the main writer. 

And what can I say about directors Evie Manning and Rhiannon White who created, lived and breathed Our Glass House from the beginning? I think what they've created is extraordinary and you'll find it hard to find a piece of theatre with more bravery, soul and power. Do not miss. 

Running until 29th April, you can book tickets here. 

The incurable itch for scribbling

An incurable itch for scribbling takes possession of many, and grows inveterate in their insane breasts.  ~Juvenal, Satires


Literary eh? 


I was looking for something that describes my feeling towards writing today as I sit here, feeling vaguely bewildered with a 'to do' list of deadlines I have industriously bought down upon my own head and 'incurable itch' seemed completely, suddenly apt. 


Things I have been scribbling; 


And Then Come The Nightjars at Bristol Old Vic's Ferment was a daunting but brilliant outing for my new play. I was rewarded with overwhelmingly positive audience feedback that was not all written in my Dad's handwriting, including what must be the most politely written criticism I've ever received; "a few less 'fuckings' but perhaps not". Potty mouth aside, Bristol Old Vic have invited me back for some intensive development work on the script in March, hurrah! 


It's also chocs away for The Chocolate Plant which is clattering along with some speed and two imminent outings at the Challenging History Conference and Tobacco Factory's Prototype and, should you wish to, you can keep up to date with all things chocolate on the dedicated blog here. 


This week also saw me trundling off to Cardiff for a meeting with Radio 4, signing up to write for the Writers' Relay gala opening of Reading Between the Lines in Reading (see below) and a meeting with the lovely Evie and Rhiannon from Bristol based Common Wealth Theatre about their upcoming site specific work, House Bound. I'll update with details nearer the time because it's definitely going to be one to watch. 


So if you're looking for me in February or March I'll be right here, scribbling away next to the goldfish, well here or procrastinating on Facebook...

Fermenting As We Speak

Well hello and happy new year and how've you been and all that malarky.  Anyone having a little scroll down would be forgiven for thinking that I am a total slattern and have been in some sort of vegetative state since August but think on, I am Fermenting as we speak! Meaning that after many months and many many redrafts I am thrilled to be presenting my new play, And Then Come The Nightjars, at the Bristol Old Vic as part of this year's first Ferment. 


21st January, 5pm, tickets on sale now from Bristol Old Vic. 


What a ruddy treat. 


For those of you not familiar, Ferment, as recommended by Lyn Gardener, fancy, is a new work/work in progress festival featuring an exciting cavalcade of stuff from storytelling to poetry to tales of Bigfoot and Albania. I'm personally very much looking forward to Tom Phillips' I Went to Albania kicking things off this Wednesday; Tom's a cracking writer and this will be a great chance to hear about his alluring Balkans obsession from the man himself. Not to mention Sleepdogs' latest, The Bullet and The Brass Trombone, having loved their wonderfully dark The Morpeth Carol I'm intrigued to see their 'invisible orchestra'. Well, you know what I mean.  


Besides which there is a long list that's as, well, as long as the programme really of artists' work I've yet to see first hand including Hannah Silva, Saikat Ahamad, Greg Glover and The Devil's Violin Company to name just a few. 


Anyway, back to banging on about my work, you can find out more about And Then Come The Nightjars in my article featured below but don't think I've forgotten about chocolate, The Chocolate Plant has been hibernating a little over the winter but will soon be blossoming forth with an appearance at the International Challenging Histories conference in February and a sneak peak at The Tobacco Factory's Prototype. 


Roll on 2012, you're looking intriguing. 


And Then Come The Nightjars 

In 2001, I was your average rural teenager living a frustrated existence on the edge of Dartmoor. And then Foot and Mouth disease swept the West Country. My overriding memory of that time is of a very definite sense of invasion; suddenly everywhere seemed to have locked gates and new regulations. Kids from farming families disappeared from classes, all events seemed cancelled or suspended, there were disinfectant mats on the roads, angry debates and campaigns in the Western Morning News. But perhaps the most vivid memories for myself and many others were the images of entire horizons, once idyllic, now burning with thousands of slaughtered animals. 

Until And Then Come The Nightjars I’d never written anything about Devon and ten years on the Foot and Mouth crisis still seems strangely under-reported. With barely any artistic response or press coverage, the recent anniversary passed with little note; it was almost like it had been a strange communal nightmare for those who lived through it and perhaps too private or too unreal for those who hadn’t. Yet every time I return home the scars left by Foot and Mouth are still very much in evidence, confounded by the successive traumas of supermarket attrition of meat and dairy prices, a decline in local tourism and a surge in second home-owning. This has been a historic decade for the West Country filled with huge external pressures, which have radically altered the physical, cultural and economic landscape of Devon. 

I was passionate about telling an authentic West Country story far removed from the usual chocolate box period drama; a contemporary story full of the gutsy, contradictory characters and irreverent humour I’d grown up surrounded by. Early on in the writing process, I came up with the title, And Then Come The Nightjars, a reference to the folklore belief that nightjars caused sickness amongst cattle and just one of the ways I wanted to saturate the stage with the idioms, sounds and history of the countryside. 

I came to the Bristol Old Vic with an epic about a community under siege but after many drafts and a strict directive from Sharon Clark that there were to be no cows on stage, what emerged was the pivotal relationship between Michael and Jeff. A farmer and a vet who are by turns colleagues and enemies, they develop a tender and unusual friendship forged in the fire of these historic events. Despite its domestic confines l feel happy that the play remains the epic I wanted to write and what it may have lost in extras and livestock, it’s gained in intimacy and human scale. 

For me And Then Come The Nightjars is a national yet personal story I felt compelled to tell; a vivid and honest story of two ordinary men who live through extraordinary times with occasional dignity and constant humour. 

After a challenging and formative journey with the Bristol Old Vic, I’m delighted to be able to share this work with you as part of Ferment. I hope you enjoy the play and that, as we say in Devon, I’ll be seein’ you dreckly. 

Cadburys and Quakers and Kraft, oh my.

Ah August in Scotland; minus 12, hurricane, inflatable cows, money replaced by ticket stubs, blood replaced by Iron Bru/Guinness/warm crap wine in plastic cups, where would we be without the wonderful ridiculous onslaught that is the Edinburgh Festival Fringe eh?

I'm gonna bang on about it for a little bit now so feel free to skip down...

Sadly but largely for my own good I was only up for a couple of days but managed to see some fantastic new theatre; for anyone heading up don't miss Dream Pill, an amazingly funny and devastating new play from Clean Break about child sex trafficking. Truly breathtaking physical theatre came in the shape of Man of Valour and Shutterland by newcomers Rhum and Clay. When a single actor can create an action film alone on stage without props that has to make you re-think your stage directions, after you've picked your jaw up from the floor that is.

I also accidentally discovered that children's theatre can be a cracking way to soothe a hangover; Hal Chambers' brilliantly innovative Tucked In are doing Tim and Light at the Pleasance which has been getting 4 star reviews all over the shop and bloody lovely it was too.

My absolute favourite show however, has to be the incredible Mission Drift by the TEAM; bold, exciting, surprising, clever, witty, tender, epic, human. Dazzling.

Alright, I've finished now.

Armed with a fat pile of scripts and my brain all on fire I have returned to be locked in my study and would have already finished the first complete draft of And Then Come The Nightjars, were I not fannying about updating my blog, hmmm.

Things are also gathering speed on new Cadbury's/Quaker/Kraft project The Plant with the first interviews to start in September, economics books piling up, a new website on the way and perhaps even a little scratch performance to get the ball rolling! I can feel already I'm going to regret saying this come November...Ah well if people never plunged feet first into things they wouldn't break their ankles. Oh. I wonder what ever happened to my mister man duvet, I may want to hide under it later.

P.S. Scroll down to the bottom of the page if you want to see the toy audience I thoughtfully seated aged 5. That is respect for audience and your craft. That or loneliness. Full house though eh?

All Proud And That

Evening blogettes and nice to see you, I must admit I've been a long way away but I've come back to you...

Alright don't groan, you must allow me a little Coward seepage, I've been immersed for months. But what a few months it has been, culminating in a sell out performance of The Darkling Plain at the Tobacco Factory as part of the glorious Pride Bristol 2011! I've never made over 200 people giggle before, well not at the same time anyway.

I'll admit it's been bloody hard work - why did I write a play with loads of characters requiring that I manage a company of 17 and then suggest also doing a vintage fair with pre-show and intervaltainment to boot? You may well ask but I tell you as I frantically hurtled through the Saturday streets of Bristol being very late and sweating into my rainbow headband, I rounded the corner to see an enormous vibrant parade of joyous people; drag queens draped on a fire engine, couples holding hands, waving flags and banners, whistling and samba drums ringing out bringing Broadmead to a standstill and at the front of the procession I joined some amazing, brave and dedicated people who had all made it happen.

And do you know what? I felt Proud. Extremely proud and privileged to have been a part of such a fantastic festival. Then I went and got my face painted and jumped up and down. As a treat you know.

Oooh and I got to speak at a WI meeting, not bad for a couple of months work eh? You can find out all about it, should you care to at www.thedarklingplainplay.blogspot.com

Flinging myself headlong into the next sleep impairing project schedule, I'm very excited to be working with the marvellous Anna Farthing of Harvest Heritage Arts and Media on my Keynsham project, newly titled, The Plant. I'm going to be delving into over a 100 years of Bristol history to make a live documentary on the transformation from Quakers to Kraft. Can capitalism ever really be principled and can a Plant survive when you sever its roots?

But I haven't forgotten my new play, And Then Come The Nightjars, I shall be finishing my first draft this summer and decorating the study to celebrate.

Right I'm off to get myself a dictaphone and some paint. Ta-ra x

Writer / Dinosaur / Dream Weaver

Well for goodness sake; June has snuck up on me good and proper. It seems only minutes ago it was spring and now we're ankle deep in summer, using the term loosely of course as I do live in Bristol and have yet to be cardigan-less.

All this haring about is largely due to the lovely Pride Bristol who are reviving my 2008 play, The Darkling Plain, at the Tobacco Factory. It's like a strangely enjoyable deja vu to be working on it again and golly, one does slip into the patter terribly quickly! We have a fabulous young cast and crew who I am indoctrinating into the cult of Coward and it really is an honour to be part of Pride. Obviously I trust you'll all be scrambling over each other for tickets so for that and any other queries dearies please visit www.thedarklingplainplay.blogspot.com 

Other activities over the past few months have included:

- arriving late, lost and  - well, 'harassed' would be the polite term but let's be honest - sweaty for a BBC Writersroom workshop last week. It is hard to look writerly and debonair whilst covertly checking you don't smell too much but naturally, I pulled it off.

-Pootling away on the Keynsham project, going to Cadbury World for vital research purposes, feeling a little queasy afterwards.

-Buying some goldfish for my desk.

-Staring at said goldfish for hours whilst working on And Then Come The Nightjars. So far, they have yet to come up with any useful scene ideas, slatterns.

-Pretending to be a T-Rex.

And my nan said 'drama' wasn't a proper degree.