"Three Stories" by Three's Theatre Company - The MAC, Belfast

Three’s Theatre Company has returned with yet another cracker of a show. They are quickly establishing themselves as producers of reliably innovative, experimental and entertaining theatre.

“Three Stories” has some similarities to their previous shows I have watched Date Show and Date Show: After Dark.

The silent headphones have returned – the different colour of headphones – red, blue or green, indicating which story the audience member will listen to. This has become the trademark distinction of Three’s Theatre Company. That with each production you attend, there will be three different stories going on at once, so no one audience member will have the same experience.

But as with the previous productions, where audience members were walking around on a site specific tour (The Bullitt/ The MAC), with “Three Stories” we were all in the same room in the MAC watching the same dance piece.

One large triangle in the middle of the floor indicated the dancers’ space. On one edge, was the blue-headphone wearing audience, the other – the red, and the other – the green. Meaning that each of the three colours was watching the performance from a different angle.

The dancers had choreographed this show in just 3 days. Their dancing was mesmerising. Strong, beautiful, energetic, fast, slow, beautiful, sad, happy. It was full of energy, emotion and vivacity.

3 writers were asked to watch this performance and put their own words to the dance. I was fortunate to listen to “Connections” by Colm Doran. There was something very intimate about sitting in this space, cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, in a totally black space save for one spotlight, watching these beautiful dancers and hearing the words of Colm Doran’s writing in my headphones.

I marvelled at how he interpreted the dance, how he was able to conjure up stories immediately. How he could see the young children playing, or the lovers parting, or the sadness and loneliness. He spoke of the young child learning to walk, then moved through the stages of growing older, trying to become successful in the world. He talked of trying too hard and having too much ambition. He talked of remembering times of being lost and never wanting to forget it. All these beautiful observations he made and more.

This performance felt like a soothing balm. It was peaceful, comforting, fascinating and mesmerising.

Yet again another wonderful performance from Three’s Theatre Company. I look forward to their next production! 

Having a GYST day (Getting Your Sh*t together)

After the manic week that was: 20,000 words – aka one quarter of a novel, I had to make a few changes. I was knackered – not physically, but mentally. And because I went straight back to work on the Monday, there was no time to surf the sofa and draw breath.

Added to this fact, work was also full-on. There is no-one to cover me when I’m off, so all that happens when I return from a week of annual leave, is that I have a week of work to catch up on. I was exhausted.

I usually set aside Saturday and Sundays for writing but I knew for a fact I couldn’t go straight into writing on Saturday. My mind was still reeling from the previous two hectic weeks.

That’s when I decided a GYST day was in order. That’s short for GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.

It’s a day when you tidy up all the loose ends that are leftover. All the small jobs that you have neglected for weeks because you’ve been so busy. All the little tasks that jump into your head and nag at you to do and you’ve had to keep putting them off. 

I’m talking about things like:

- Order some groceries in

- Take a stock of your money situation

- Hoover

- Chuck out those clothes to the charity shop

- Order a new set of headphones to replace the dodgy ones

- Get on top of the laundry

All boring jobs but jobs which, when completed, will clear your head.

How on earth can you sit down to write when your mind is swirling with all the odd-jobs that need done? How can you concentrate on the characters and listen to what they’re up to when your head is full and chaotic?

So, Saturday was allocated as a GYST day. This meant I didn’t have the GUILTS about not sitting down to write. But I did use the day productively.

When I had the place cleaned, food ordered in, things prepared for the week ahead, I was able to soak in the tub and then relax in a nice clean home.

It meant that today, when I sat down to look at my writing, my head felt calm and free from any distractions. I was able to spend some time on plotting, looking back at the 20,000 words I’d just written and projecting ahead as to where I can go from here.

In her book “The Artists Way ~ a course in discovering and recovering your creative self” Julia Cameron refers to this GYST idea as an unblocking tool (although she does not use the exact acronym – but the idea behind it is the same). 

She gives the following unblocking tasks to do: 

- Clearing: Throw out or give away 5 ratty pieces of clothing

- Any new changes in your home environment? Make some.

- Mend any mending.

- Repot any pinched and languishing plants.

- Create one wonderful smell in your house – with soup, incense, candles, whatever.

I like to think that the GYST day reminds me of the phrase ~ “Out with the old and in with the new”.

ie. Once you have a good clear-out day (GYST day), you are ready to listen for new ideas coming in to your writing and onto the page.

What I learned from my 20,000 word challenge

Last week I set myself a challenge of writing 20,000 words in one week. That’s roughly a quarter of a novel. Here are some of the ups and downs of that journey, plus any notes I have learned from doing it.

Why I set myself the challenge

I had already started to write my fourth book and had about 10,000 words down so far. I had spent a lot of time on plot and had separated my novel into four parts. I happened to have a lot of annual leave to take, so I decided to book a week off.

I figured that if I could write 2,500 each morning and then relax for the rest of the day, then it would be a mix of using my time productively and getting a bit of chill out time too.

The challenges I faced

Full of energy and bravado on the second day, I decided to post a photo of my whiteboard and show Facebook and Instagram how I was getting on with my challenge.

This was kind of a mistake.

Once I had put the challenge ‘out there’ in the land of social media, it made me somehow accountable.

Of course I knew that no-one would follow me up on it and ask, ‘oye! Wrote those words yet?’ But I would know.

On the other hand, the whiteboard thing was a good idea. I couldn’t believe the amount of support and lovely comments I was getting each day (to the same bloody picture of the same board with white laminate on it). And it did help to spur me on in the end.

A manic phase

Initially, I felt quite manic. I felt like I had loads of energy and this 2,500 word thing was a doddle. I told myself that come on Rose, I’m sure there’s a hoard of full-time authors out there, writing 2,500 words every day easy-peasy. I had dreams of one day joining the full-time author elite, living in my ivory tower, scribbling out pages and pages of words that tumble down like Rapunzel’s hair. I mean, I know that full-time authors obviously work their socks off, but allow me a fantasy here!

Then things got busy

Not only was I was writing 2,500 words each morning (which takes a couple of hours) but then I was spending the afternoon plotting. I’d be making notes for tomorrow morning’s chapter so that it wouldn’t be such a shock when I hit the blank page at 9am.

After the plotting, I’d catch up on social media and then in the evening, there would be something of a social nature – dinner with a friend, going to see a dance production, going to the cinema.

I began to see how a full-time author could fill their time in rightly and I still love the thought of it. Aside from the worry of ‘when’s the next pay cheque coming in?’ I could quite easily settle into a routine.

Nanowrimo

Through my social media time, I also realised I had timed my 20,000 word challenge nicely with Nanowrimo. All over Twitter, a ton of writers were working on the 50,000 word challenge for the month of November. It felt like a lovely comforting vibe that we were all in this together. (Except of course now, I have bowed out and they are all still writing).  

 

Hitting a slump

Towards the end of my week, when I was around the 15,000 word stage, I hit a bit of slump. I started to think about having to go back to work on Monday. I started to feel like I needed a real, proper, rest. One where I could just lie on the sofa all day and watch unnecessary crap on YouTube and order a massive Dominoes pizza.

But there was the whiteboard. The damn whiteboard staring back at me, whispering that there was just another 2,500 in the morning, and another 2,500 the morning after that, and then I’d be done. I told myself that after this I would take a break for a while. That I’d step away from the manuscript for a good week or so and then come back to it with fresh eyes.

Pressing on

So hey ho! I pressed on, and by jiminy, I did it! I shared my news on Facebook and everyone was delighted for me. I took a lovely stroll around the park and enjoyed the fresh autumnal day. And later I sent all the chapters for my sister, who likes to read them for me and make any proof-reading notes that jump out at her.

Even though I was really pleased at myself for completing the challenge, even though I was glad to get all those words down in one go, would I do it again?

I’m not sure.

Yes, there is a positive in gaining momentum. I did get really into the story and I did feel like I got to know my characters really well.

I am pleased with where this story is going and I am excited about writing in a different genre of psychological thriller instead of chick-lit.

BUT I don’t think it helped my mental health a lot. I would be quite prone to depression and looking back, I’m not sure it was such a good idea to pile so much pressure on myself. I knew at the time that I felt too manic, and I knew that eventually, what goes up, has to come down. I almost buckled myself in, waiting for the downer.

And it came.

After the initial euphoria of reaching my goal, then came the mild irritation. The queue at the shop that was too long. The way that only one staff member was dealing with about 12 of us.

And then the return to work. When you take a week of holiday, all that happens is that when you return, you have one whole week’s worth of work to catch up on. And of course, because of my challenge, my batteries were already low. I had no extra energy to draw upon.

This week I could feel myself getting down, tired and irritable. All signs that my body is scolding me for not looking after my mental health.

Maybe next time I would set myself smaller goals.

And maybe one day I’ll actually get to write full time.

Because is my fantasy still there, of the Ivory Tower and the words tumbling down each day? Hell, yeah!

Beware the Negative Nancy's!

   

Just the other day, someone asked me “How’s the writing going?”

Me, thinking that he was genuinely interested, proceeded to tell him how I was getting on with book #4 and what my plans were to publish it when complete.

The ‘someone’ (let’s call him ‘Negative Nancy’ from here on) then proceeded to swamp me in a load of negative ‘advice’. He said how unrealistic my plans were, how difficult it is to achieve what I wanted to achieve and how that it was highly unlikely that I would reach my goal.

Flummoxed, I was too shocked to respond to his negativity.

I began to wonder why exactly he had asked me how the writing was going.

Was he genuinely interested in what my plans were?

Why was he picking up the first opportunity to try to swamp my dreams with his negativity?

Why ask?

I have yet to understand what the reasoning is behind this.

Maybe people feel the need to protect you from potential disappointment.

Maybe people feel the need to warn you in case you get your hopes too high.

Maybe some people have just no idea about visualisation.

If you are going to spend the time to sit down and write a novel of approx. 80,000 words in length, you NEED to believe that it is going to succeed.

You HAVE to believe that it is going to be the best book you’ve ever written, that it will get the publisher that it deserves and that it will sell well.

YOU HAVE TO DREAM BIG otherwise you won’t have the mental capacity to sit down and write the damn thing.

STAY AWAY FROM NEGATIVE NANCY’S.

Negative Nancy’s do not have the mental capacity to dream big.

They are constantly living in fear, looking over their shoulder, wondering when it will all go wrong.

And Negative Nancy’s want to drag you down in the ditch with them.

RISE ABOVE THEM. Ignore the negativity and DREAM BIG.

You NEED to dream big to give you the mental capacity to put the work in!

Theatre script - "Home~Work"

A friend reminded me about this short play that was put on in the Black Box a couple of years ago. It was fun to read back through it and remember how the actors breathed life into it on the stage. I thought I'd post the script here so do feel free to have a nosy :) It's about a woman, who works from home, noticing another woman who lives across the road. The other woman also works from home. But it seems her work is slightly more interesting than hers, given the number of males coming and going from her house every day...

Home ~ Work

By Rose McClelland

Part One – The Neighbour

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-40)

Twenty minutes. I watched them that afternoon. 

Beer belly man left, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. And five minutes later, another guy turned up. Five minutes! I began to wonder did she not give herself time for a quick shower, or a quick change of her knickers for that matter. No, five minutes later client number two arrived. He wasn’t bad looking to be fair. A bit of rough and ready if you like that kind of thing. (I like that kind of thing). A builder-type. In his thirties. He arrived in a white van. It even had the name and phone number of the company sprawled across the van. ‘No job too hard’, the van bragged. (Quite). ‘Busty Boilers’. (Top anonymity here). I was half-tempted to open the door and call “Yoo-hoo! Over here!’ He would look around and I’d be all jokey and flirt and say, “Want it for free over here mister?” but then I thought about it and I thought, I’m in my pyjamas and I’ve no make-up on. Probably not the best look. I also thought – say he’s paying her fifty quid for a quick 20 minutes, I’d need at least a meal and a glass of wine to warm me up. I would even stretch to a boojums and a can of coke but it’d still take longer than twenty minutes. And time was clearly of the essence for him.

While Mister Builder was in, I did the dishes and tidied the kitchen. I couldn’t resist the pull of the window though. The magnetic draw of the drama was too much.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Mister Builder bounced out, a spring in his step too. I began to wonder about her services as a professional. Clearly she was very good at what she did if the smile-o-meter was anything to go by. Twenty minutes for a shag and a smile. You had to hand it to her. Last date I went on, it took him three hours to build up the courage to kiss me and then when I discovered he kissed like a frog on a heart attack, it felt like a terrible waste of an evening.

Oh! There’s client three! My word. Tall. Slim. Nice clothes. Very fancy car. This guy was seriously a catch! I began to feel a little jealous. Three times action in one lunch break compared to my [….. pause as though counting…] in how many weeks. [Shrugs shoulders]. Okay, months.

Very intrigued about tall guy. What on earth was he doing paying for sex? Surely he could have anyone?

Then again, I reasoned with myself, say fifty quid for twenty minutes – end result – a shag. Probably tons cheaper than dinner, wine, movie – repeat for at least three dates before she feels it’s okay to have sex. It’s a maths game.

And if we’re still talking maths, she’s had a total of five clients in one lunchtime. Say fifty quid a pop – that’s £250 for one lunchtime’s work.

I think I’m in the wrong job.

I wanted to meet this ‘Lady of the Night’. I wanted to find out ‘why’. Why did she end up in that job? What lead her into it? Did she have a drug problem? Did she have childhood issues? But of course how could I do that without being nosy? I couldn’t exactly say – ‘Oh, I live across the way from your house – I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar – oh and by the way – what is it that makes you want to work from home as a prostitute?’ Not a very polite opening gambit is it?

Hmm.

However, I did think we had a lot in common. She worked from home, I worked from home. Both of us slobbed around in our pjs (except when she was in her dressing gown). Neither of us had to deal with office politics. Or the commute in the rain. Or getting out of bed before five to nine. So much in common.

But then my entertainment ended. She moved out.

I saw her load all her stuff into a van bit by bit. There was a man helping her. Builder type. I wonder did she pay him in kind. They loaded up the van. She took one last look at her apartment, and she got in her car and left. She looked a bit desolate; like a bird being shoved out of the nest too quickly.

The cul-de-sac seemed very quiet after she left. My friend joked that I should set up a new Lady of the Night business. ‘After all, there’s a gap in the market now’, he laughed.

But then I decided my skanky days of working from home in my pj’s are over. I think I’ll go back to office work. I think I’ll get new high heels and fancy suits and doll myself up in make-up. I think I’ll have a nice routine structure of 9-5. Plus, there’s plenty of men to eye up in the coffee dock. Who knows, maybe one of them will take me out for a quick boojums?

Part Two – The Client

(Monologue - to be performed by an actor aged 35-50)

Twenty minutes. That was the slot she allocated me. It was her special deal, she said. 

Twenty minutes for fifty quid. I suppose she assumed I was one of her cheap-skate clients. The builder types. With the Sun newspaper rolled under one arm and a can of Special Brew in the other. But I wasn’t her typical client. Money isn’t an issue for me. It’s time. I don’t need a three hour slot. I’m in a rush.

I get a six thirty flight most mornings. Meetings from eight thirty onwards. Meetings as late as eight at night. Client dinners. Head hits pillow. Then it’s up an’ at ‘em next day all over again. I employ a lot of people. I generate a lot of tax. I’m not a waster you know.

Okay, I’m being defensive, I know. Look, it’s the biggest cliché in the book. Lonely hotel rooms. Stressful hours. No time to socialise.

But really, don’t judge me.

I’ve no wife. No kids. No girlfriend tucked away that I’m cheating on. I’m just a single guy. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just away from home a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’m lonely.

Some might say I’m a good looking guy. Tall. Nice clothes. Nice car. I suppose I appear a ‘catch’. But I’m never in the same place long enough.

I’ve tried the online dating thing. Do you know how hard it actually is to get a date off one of those things?

You send her a message. She replies. You get a bit of banter going. And then she suddenly stops. Blocks you. For whatever reason, I don’t know.

Or say you actually get to the stage where you arrange a coffee date. You keep the banter going. You walk on thin ice. You make sure you don’t say anything which she’ll misread or suddenly block you for.

And then, just before the coffee date, she suddenly cancels. Claims a sudden cold. Or a sudden important meeting. Or the death of her pet hamster. Or just doesn’t bother contacting at all. So you’re sat in a coffee shop, wasting valuable time.

The list goes on. Say she does turn up. She’s two stone heavier than her picture. Or ten years older. Or just the same, but less… sparkly.

Once in a while, a miracle occurs. She turns up. She looks good. There’s good banter with her. But that’s it – just a coffee. Do you know how many dates it takes to wine and dine a woman into bed? And how much money? Too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to do it, if I was in the same town for long enough. But I’m not. One week it’s Belfast. The next it’s Dublin. Then it’s London. Sometimes even New York at times. What do I work at?
Er… client confidentiality here?

So in Belfast I now see Sasha.

London; it’s Tanya.

Dublin; it’s Eva.

Yes, it’s weird. Yes, it feels strange. Especially when they remind you that time’s up. That’s harsh. Do you know how much pressure it puts on a guy to perform on time?

It’s a bit like the time I went to a counsellor. Just when we were chatting great and I thought we were getting on well, she looked at the clock and said, “Well that’s the time up for today”. I was in the middle of a big confession. It felt like a slap in the face. I never went back to her after that.

But I do go back to Sasha.

And Tanya.

And Eva.

I did ask Sasha once if she wanted to be my ‘only one’. My courtesan – I think is what it’s called.

She laughed in my face. “Your girlfriend, you mean?”

Well no, I said. I explained the terms. She’d come with me. Accompany me to each town. Be there on my down time.

“That’s a girlfriend”, she persisted.

“Well if you want to call it that”, I told her.

“And sit around all day waiting for you? No thanks”. She said it with a smile to show me she was joking. But I liked that about her. A bit of spark. She wasn’t afraid to argue back.

I’m working on her. One of these days she’ll succumb and be my one and only.

Part Three – The Escort

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-35)

Twenty minutes, I told him. It’s just fifty quid for twenty minutes. They always take the twenty minutes option. Even if it’s one hour for one hundred, they’ll still take the twenty minutes. Suits me grand. It’s easier to get them in and out again (pardon the pun). If I can bunch three or four clients into one lunch time, then that’s me done for the day and I can relax.

It’s like I’m in actress mode, I tell myself. All actresses have to perform. My performance is just a slightly different genre.

Sometimes I take a drink to relax myself. Or a tablet. But generally I depend on my acting skills to kick in.

Stage One – Meet and greet. Big smile, pretend I’m delighted to see him (no matter what he looks like).

Stage Two – Initial set-up. Get him comfortable, ask him what he’s looking for. This is my “pretend I’m a physio” role – pretend he’s just here for a massage.

Stage Three – the actual act. This is the hardest part (oh dear, there I go with my puns again). But this is the part that’s a blur. I’m on auto-pilot. My head is fuzzy. I’m thinking – fifteen minutes top, then it’s over. I’m thinking money.

And then it’s over.

Stage Four is easy – taking the money – bye bye, do come again. (puns, how many?) And it’s done.

I only have to do four of these a day and that’s two hundred pounds made. I only work two days a week. Two days a week – lunchtimes only. It means I have a lot of time off.

Of course I don’t tell people about my job. I’m only telling you because …. well, you’ve sussed me out.

And I know you’re judging me. That’s okay. That’s why I don’t tell people.

Oh, I know what you think. That I must be on drugs. Or have childhood issues. Or how I must be a homewrecker.

You’re probably worried your boyfriend is seeing me on the side. I’m sure he’s not. The guys that come to me are the guys who can’t get it elsewhere. I like to see myself as a sort of ‘sex worker’. I’m releasing tension. I’m preventing sexual assault.

But the truth is, I couldn’t bear an office job. I’ve done it before. The long hours. The horrible commute. The standing in the pouring rain waiting for a bus at seven in the morning. The office politics. The bitchiness. The griping.

When I was too stressed in my office job, the doctor told me I was depressed. Depressed/ Stressed – whatever. He gave me pills and sent me on my way. I retreated home to my safe sanctuary. The pills made me feel like I was sinking down through the carpet. A bit like in Trainspotting. Maybe I do fit the druggie prostitute stereotype after-all.

Anyway, off sick, I hatched a plan. I’ve had fuck buddies in the past. I know how it works. Home, quick shag, they disappear. They might re-appear. Same cycle. I might as well get paid for it.

And the hours are fantastic. The perks of the job. Roll out of bed by eleven a.m. Quick shower. No commute. Finish work by two. Rest of the day to myself. Stress free.

Of course there are the down-sides. Say I’m at a party and someone asks me what I do, I can’t say, “Oh, I work from home as an escort!” Because they’d judge me. Like you might be doing now.

So I say I’m a legal secretary. That shuts them up because it’s so bloody boring.

The other downside is that I can’t have a boyfriend. Apart from the obvious – he’d be jealous of four men a day trooping through his living room, I honestly wouldn’t have the energy to have sex with him. It’d be like a busman’s holiday.

And then of course there’s the future career prospects. I’ve no pension. The minute the wrinkles or sagging appears, my career is over. And then when I do try to get a job in my local Tesco’s, my CV is non-existent.

Don’t get me wrong – of course I get jealous. When I scroll through Facebook and I see the perfect lives and the husbands and the two point four children and the hidden sub-text of security and pension and unconditional love – yeah, of course it looks nice.

But it’d be good if I could get one of those courtesan jobs. One of my clients has suggested that recently actually. He’s good looking too. Tall. I don’t have to do the blurring out thing when I’m in stage three with him.

But I think he was joking. I joked back with him. I said I’d cost him a fortune. Fly me to every town with him? Wait for him all day and be available with he’s ready? Next he’ll be wanting me to do his Tesco shop for him and bear his two point four children. I was joking with him but of course, secretly I was delighted. Holding my breath in fact. Perhaps if I put up enough of a chase, he’ll finally seal the deal.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep slapping on the wrinkle cream and enjoying my daily lie-in.

(END)

"Home~Work" was performed in the Black Box theatre, Belfast. 
It was directed by Colm Doran and performed by Vicky Blades, David Paulin and Mary Frances Loughran.

The Man Who Fell to Pieces - Tinderbox Theatre Company - Theatre review

Oh. My. God. I have just returned from the theatre and I am a hot mess. I don’t think I’ve ever been moved to tears as much as this whilst watching a play.

‘The Man who fell to pieces’ is a play about depression. It is emotional, touching, raw and powerful. Somehow, it also manages to be funny.

We are only ten minutes into the show and already the tears are running down my cheeks. It’s the part when John, who is having difficulties communicating his feelings to his fiancé Caroline, share a tender dance. I can feel the pain between them. The music, beautifully composed by Katie Richardson, adds to the emotion, making the atmosphere in the theatre palpable. I can see several audience members hastily trying to wipe a tear from their eyes.

I meanwhile, am a hot mess. The tears are flowing effortlessly and I’m completely absorbed in this wonderful play.

All four actors are incredible, the music is beautiful and the set is clever. The physical theatre, the dance and the words that this production uses to describe depression are very cleverly put together.

And did I mention the humour? How can the tears be tripping you one minute, and the next you’re laughing out loud.  

One in four suffer from depression. Surely that means that almost everyone is affected by it – if not directly themselves, than by a family member or loved one.

Having suffered from depression myself, maybe this is why this play resonates so powerfully with me. Because how can you explain what’s going on in your head when on the outside, you appear fine?

That’s why the physical theatre and dance worked so well with this show. The framed pictures of him collapsing represents his mind collapsing. The bag of bits on the kitchen table a metaphor for his scattered mind.

But let’s not forget that humour, the typists in the telesales office, with their pretend typing and their ridiculous masks. The overbearing boss with his head inside an expanding picture-frame.

When we’re hearing about the writer, how he walked those streets for miles, how he felt like if he didn’t stop walking, he would surely jump, his courage and bravery astounded me. The tears were back. How can someone use such incredible pain, pain that we normally hush hush away, and create something so beautiful? Something that will surely touch many people’s lives.

Afterwards, when the lights had gone up, the atmosphere in the theatre was visible. It was as if people couldn’t move, as if they needed to sit for a while and digest what they had just seen. People sat on, people talked, people hugged. There was a shared connection.

I am truly privileged to have watched this production.

I wonder if this will return for a third time. I wonder if it will go on tour around UK and Ireland.

I do hope others get to experience this very special piece of theatre.