In the name of writing a play I have:
Done all of my washing and ironing. And then some washing that, if I were to be totally honest, could have waited.
Compiled the order in which everyone should (ideally and for maximum enjoyment) read every Virginia Woolf novel.
Caught up with the Guardian theatre blog.
Read a lot of twitter.
Lamented my lack of biscuits.
Spent time working out what is the best (free) App to use for dictation.
Read the internet. Yes, all of it (or something like that)
More productively, though, I have:
Written the first five minutes of the play.
Read things that confuse me about hedge funds.
Written lots of notes on to lots of separate pieces of paper.
Dictated several random half-thought-monologues.
Typed up three pages of other random-half-thought-monologues and lines.
Thought, decided, then re-thought and re-decided exactly who my characters might be.
Told real-life people about the play. Thus making it even more pressing that I actually finish the bloody thing.
Drunk coffee, walked through London with my music on and just thought.
In many ways this is the exciting bit. There’s still the endless possibility. It also means the release of pure joy that won’t come again until I can see the end of this draft. And that, as far as understatements go, is nice.
Next week, though, I’m making myself be more disciplined – I’m going to try and eliminate things like reading the internet in its entirety and replace them with solid page counts. So, erm, twenty pages in the next week? We’ll see.