Blog 84 - How hard can it be?

Blog 84 - How hard can it be?

October 2025

Well, folks. Take a very deep breath with me. On the spectrum of crises, which I subject myself to on a daily basis in the name of creativity, I usually hover somewhere around "Did I use enough semicolons?" or "Will anyone care about the third book in my niche fantasy series?" But today, my friends, I have achieved a whole new level of self-inflicted panic.
I have completed it! My very first piece of stage writing; A full-length, Five-act play—is officially finished, packaged, and submitted to the theatrical world for their appraisal. And now that the euphoria of hitting 'send' has evaporated, I am left with only one thought rattling around the empty auditorium of my brain:
Oh my God, what have I done!
I admit, I am profoundly nervous. I have never written a play before. My natural habitat is seated firmly behind a laptop, conjuring worlds that exist purely on the page, safe and sound. I am unsure as to how this new theatrical venture will be received, but the time for second guesses has passed. The script is out there, in the hands of people who know words like "dramaturgy" and "blocking" and probably have strong opinions on the correct use of stage directions.
It's one thing to sit and write a book or a short story. Deep down you know that it will never really see the light of day—or, if it does, it will be absorbed privately, perhaps by a handful of niche readers. You write what you enjoy, hoping that it will resonate with one or two souls out there who appreciate a good turn of phrase and a compelling plot twist. It’s a quiet transaction, a low-stake bet in the grand scheme of public scrutiny. But a play? That’s a whole different kettle of fish.
You write a play with the full, arrogant intention of it being seen. It is built to be a communal experience, a public spectacle where the smallest flaw will be illuminated by harsh stage lighting, and the awkward sentences I usually get away with will be uttered, live and loudly, by Actors, who are either professional enough to attempt to breath life into my words or will scoff at it before casting it aside as they are unwilling to subject the audience to its dribbling prose.
But let’s not get ahead of myself, as you may know from previous blogs, my journey started, as many foolish literary journeys do, in a state of utter naivety. I looked at my existing body of work and decided that, surely, I could adapt one of my short stories for the stage. Why not? How hard could it be?
You might have read it if you follow this blog: the Gothic-tinged, slightly spooky little number called "The Whispering Well."
In my mind, it seemed the perfect choice. It had a neat handful of characters, only two distinct locations (the ruined well and the inside of an old pub), and, crucially, quite a lot of existing dialogue. Perfect material for the stage, I thought. Flushed with confidence and absolutely zero understanding of the mechanics of theatre, I began.
I spent the next month translating narrative description into stage directions, learning the terrifying difference between "She walked quickly toward the door, her heart pounding," and the concise, un-poetic precision of: [ROSE crosses SR to the door, hesitates.] Suddenly, every movement was a command, not a suggestion. Every conversation had to serve a purpose right now, because nobody pays fifteen pounds to watch people sit and think. However, despite all this, a few weeks later, my stage play debut was finished. It looked beautiful, bound neatly in a digital PDF, adhering strictly (I hope) to the proper formatting guidelines.
But then came the inevitable question: What was I going to do with it? For a writer, the creation is 90% of the battle; the submission is the terrifying 10% where you actively choose to expose yourself to professional rejection.
For novels, the submission process is often slow, shielded by months of waiting time and the impersonal nature of agent correspondence. For a play, if you’re submitting to an open call, the process feels terrifyingly efficient. I did some manic online searching (fueled mostly by coffee and self-doubt) and found a regional theatre that was actively asking for new writers to submit new material for consideration. They had an open submission window, a clear set of guidelines, and a deadline that was rapidly approaching.
And fool that I am, I sent it in!
I typed out the covering letter, attached the PDF of "The Whispering Well," pressed 'send,' and immediately wished I could claw the internet back into my computer. I have sealed my fate. Oh, the folly!
In the immediate aftermath of submission, I’ve had time to truly reflect on why this feels so different from sending out a short story or novel. When I write prose, I am the creator. I control the lighting, the internal monologue, the pacing, and the entire sensory experience. If a character needs to reflect on the nature of time for three pages, so be it! The reader can put the book down, grab a cup of tea, and come back whenever they feel like it.
In theatre, the audience doesn’t care. They want to be entertained. They are trapped there in the dark, and my script is the only lifeline. I have to earn their attention every single second. My characters aren’t just speaking dialogue; they are using their bodies, their voices, and the very air in the room to create temporary reality. Did I give the actor enough stage time to realistically cross the room while delivering that line? Is that monologue too long? Does the audience need a ten-minute interval just to recover from the sheer horror of the tension I built in Act I? (Probably not, but I sure hope so.)
The truth is, while I spent weeks perfecting the words, I’m only now realizing that a script is just a sophisticated blueprint. It’s not the finished product. It’s a recipe that relies entirely on the skills of dozens of other people—directors, actors, designers, and crew—to bring it to life. And those people are going to read my blueprint and decide if it's worth the enormous effort and cost of construction.
So, here I sit, staring blankly at the wall, half expecting a call from a stern theatre manager asking if I’ve ever actually been to a play before. Will they like it? Will they think the dialogue is clunky? Will they immediately notice that I forgot to specify where exactly the light switch is in the Pub set? I don’t know. I’m not sure whether there’s a terrifying beauty to it or I’m just being paranoid.
The truth is that even if "The Whispering Well" quietly sinks without a trace into the slush pile of theatrical submissions, I have achieved something monumental. I wrestled a short story into a new form. I learned a whole new set of rules (and probably broke half of them). And most importantly, I finished the damn thing.
For any fellow writers out there thinking about making the jump from prose to performance, be warned: The confidence is intoxicating, but the submission is a massive, humbling slap in the face. But Do it Anyway! There is nothing quite like the panic of knowing you’ve laid your words literally bare on a stage.
Stay tuned, and I promise to update you all the moment I hear a peep! Or the moment I manage to stop hyperventilating, whichever comes first.