on being a struggling artist
To those of you who were involved in the play reading the other night, it was awesome, and thank you. To everyone, I am now in a complete quandary. While the reading didn't fulfil my worst fears (i.e. the play is actually okay, and not impossibly long or dull) it did lead me in a completely different direction to the one in which I've gone with the second draft, which I've just handed into the Royal Court. Which means I have to go on to writing a third draft, and that this play shall be my eternal albatross. (At least until I get to writing the play which is actually about mental illness). Ah well...

Excuse the random bloggyness, but so much of my life is a tad rubbish at present that I wanted to do an happy post: I love my job. Or rather, I love my internship (I love the money I gain from receptionisting). I get to read scripts, most of which are bloody dull/awful but my opinion is actually valued, occasionally I come across something really good and it means my day is vaguely improved, my colleagues are nice and understanding about my general weirdness, coming to work basically in fancy dress is fine, I get tea and coffee and some stationery, I have something to do during the day and I am in the company of people with whom I don't mind going to lunch (this is such a blip in the past 7 years or so, it is absolutely awesome). Plus I have the pleasant knowledge that I am, in my pathetic and small way, working in theatre. And I get champagne sometimes.