Why teenagers shouldn't necessarily be encouraged to write!

When I was about 17, a school friend and I spent some time trying to write a play. This was in the mid-1960s, the heyday of the so-called “Theatre of the Absurd”, led by the great Samuel Beckett and the now-sadly-forgotten N. F. Simpson, and our production was intended to be very much in that vein. The curtain would rise to reveal a nondescript middle-aged couple watching television. On one side of the stage there would be a staircase ascending into the darkness. It would become apparent that the couple had never ventured up these stairs, nor did they display any curiosity as to what might lie at the top. The audience would be able to hear, though not to see, what was being broadcast on the TV, which would be of a distinctly surrealist character, during which the couple would exchange desultory and inane dialogue.

Every so often, other people would enter the stage. They would be generic types; a policeman, a poet and so forth, and each of them would have a different motive for wanting to climb the stairs. The couple would, of course, ignore them.
So far, so good, you might think. They trouble was, we had no idea of what should happen next, let alone what denoument (if any) there should be. Now it’s all very well for the audience not to be sure what might be found at the top of the stairs (in fact, usually in this sort of play, they’d be no wiser at the finish than they were at the start), but surely the authors ought to have at least some notion of what it all meant? Was the staircase perhaps a religious allegory, or what? And we simply hadn’t a clue.

So in the end we gave up, and our play duly took its place in that great gallery of abandoned projects, known to some as “the round filing-cabinet”. It was to be joined there some months later by a very different, though equally derivative, aborted production; a play for Easter, to be entitled “The arrest of Jesus, as performed by the cast of Z Cars”. Looking back, I’m inclined to believe that this latter effort was rather better, but before people start to have thoughts about mercy-killing, I’ll end by saying that that is (or to be more exact, might have been) another story.

P.S. Thought for the day:- “Youthful vanity and dullness, determined to write, will almost certainly write in the dominant form of their epoch” (C. S. Lewis; “The Allegory of Love”).

Mow Cop: The False Tower

I could see from my bedroom window
a stone tower, stark,
on a rocky outcrop.
It was all of two hundred years old
built to give
the family in the big house
a romantic vista.

(Their money came from coal mines
but they liked to pretend
they were mediaeval)

Today the best view is from
the council estate
as is only right and proper:

"These are the children of the men
that hewed the coal
that raised the cash
that built the tower on Mow Cop".

The family is long gone
of the big house, nothing is left.
Only the folly remains.

The Shadow

Where am I? More to the point, who am I? I must approach this problem logically, scientifically.

I have just come to full consciousness, and I find I am standing in a wood. The sky above is black, and there is a moon, so it must be night-time. How did I get here? I have no idea.
   The moon is full, and I must have good night-vision, because I can see my way through the trees. There is a path, and I walk along it, since it must presumably lead somewhere. All around me I an hear the faint night-noises of the wood. I make as little noise as possible. I am interested to observe that, despite the darkness and my loneliness, I am not afraid. I suppose I can speak, but there is no point in doing so, since there is no-one to talk to. I wonder what language I would be speaking? I have no way of telling.

After I have walked for some time, the wood gives out, and I find myself on open grassland. There are signs of cultivation, so I must be near a human settlement. Some sheep are dozing on the grass: they see me and run away, bleating. I wait for a while, in case dogs or a shepherd may be roused and come to investigate. Nothing happens, and I resume my walk.
    Finally I can see a village. There is no-one in sight. What shall I do when I eventually meet someone? Should I knock on a door? Do I ask them where I am? Will they understand what I am saying? What if they attack a stranger who suddenly appears? I must go cautiously.
 
Ahead of me is a tall, blank wall. The moon is shining so brightly that it casts my shadow on it. Is that really me? those ears, that jaw?
     Now at last I understand. I am not a man. I am a werewolf.
   
           AAAAAAARRRRR!