Blog 77 - Playwriter's Workshop

Blog 77 - Playwriter's Workshop

October 2025

As you know, I’ve always professed to be a writer, and as such I’ve got used to my own little world. It’s a place filled with characters whispering in my ear, where I see plot twists lurking in dusty corners and feel comforted by the rhythmic click of words being typed on a keyboard. For years, my world has been populated by the sculpted verse of poetry, the sprawling landscapes of novels, and the tightly packed punches of short stories. I've wrestled with sentence structure, celebrated the perfect metaphor, and agonized over the exact nuance of a character's sigh. It’s a fulfilling, albeit solitary, existence.
But then, life, in its wonderfully unpredictable way, deemed to nudge me towards something entirely new. And let me tell you, it has surprised the heck out of me!
It all started with a bit of unexpected praise. A dear friend of mine recently finished reading one of my short stories. Now, I must confess, I’d poured my heart and soul into this piece. I’d used it as a type of exercise, trying to create a world so vivid that readers could practically smell the damp earth after a rain shower or feel the worn texture of an old wooden table, and to be honest I thought I’d overdone it a bit. So, when my friend’s feedback arrived, I braced myself, ready for the usual constructive criticism.
Instead, they said something that made my writer’s brain do a little somersault. They commented on how the visual picture I’d painted had significantly enhanced their enjoyment of the story. They actually saw it, in their mind’s eye. High praise indeed. It made me puff up with pride, of course. But more than that, it got me thinking. A visual picture. Enhanced enjoyment. Could this story, this creature of the written word, be… more? Could it be seen by more than just one person’s imagination?
The thought of adapting anything for the stage had never crossed my mind before. My experience with theatre was pretty much limited to being an avid audience member, clutching a wilting program and marveling at the confidence of the actors. Plays, to me, seemed like a different breed altogether – I’d never made the connection between the bright theatrical world and the rich tapestry of a novel. Adaptations of books into films or plays have always seemed to fall short. But once the thought had taken root, it refused to leave. It was like a tiny seed that had found fertile ground and started to sprout with astonishing speed. I began to see my short story not just as a series of words on a page, but as a series of actions. The dialogue wasn't just spoken; it was delivered. The setting wasn't just described; it was constructed.
Suddenly, a whole new world of writing began to open up before me. It was a landscape I hadn't even known existed, and I was utterly fascinated. I started researching playwriting, devouring books on dramatic structure, stage directions, and the unique rhythm of theatrical dialogue. I watched plays online, not just as a viewer, but as a writer, dissecting how characters moved, how tension was built, and how silence could be as powerful as a shouted line.
I must admit, it’s a strangely liberating, but very demanding, process. With a novel, I have pages and pages to explore a character’s inner thoughts, to delve into their history, to paint their every emotion with a fine brush. Trying to express those internal monologues as something visual takes real commitment. The written word must portray something that can be interpreted in an action, in spoken dialogue, or in a gesture. It’s about showing, not telling, taken to a whole new level.
My short story, which I thought was pretty much complete, suddenly felt like raw material. The descriptive passages I’d so lovingly crafted needed to be translated into actions or spoken by characters. A character who might have spent paragraphs reflecting on their sadness now had to express that sadness through their posture, their tone of voice, or a sharp, tearful outburst.
And the dialogue! Oh, the dialogue. In a novel or short story, dialogue can be a bit more rambling, a bit more naturalistic. On stage, every word needs to earn its keep. It needs to propel the story forward, reveal character, or build atmosphere. There’s no room for polite fillers. Descriptive paragraphs need to be condensed into set design notes and dialogue needs to be sharp, purposeful, and, most importantly, sound like something a real person would say, even under the heightened reality of the stage.
The whole process is like learning a new language, but one that’s spoken with the body as much as with the tongue. I find myself thinking about the space a character occupies. How do they enter the room? Do they stride in confidently, or shuffle in hesitantly? What are their hands doing? Are they fidgeting, or are they clasped behind their back?
This journey into playwriting feels like a revelation. It’s forcing me to be more concise, more impactful, and more aware of the immediate, visceral experience of an audience. It’s about creating something that can be brought to life by actors, illuminated by lights, and experienced collectively by people sitting in the darkness.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still very much at the beginning of this adventure. There are (Many) moments of doubt, of course, when I wonder if I’m completely out of my depth. But then I remember that initial spark, my friend’s comment, and the exhilarating feeling I had when I opened this new door in my creative life.
So, here I am, a novelist dabbling in drama, a storyteller learning how to tell a story through actions not words. It’s a challenge, but it’s also incredibly exciting. And who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll see my words not just on a page, but on a stage, brought to life by the magic of theatre. It’s a thought that makes this writer’s heart do a very happy little jig.