“Now the babies are crying, I must take them out to tea.” —The Letters of Sylvia Plath, Volume II
“April is the cruellest month…”, T. S. Eliot famously wrote. However, that will not be the case for me this time around the sun. This is the month I make my debut as a playwright. Way back in October of last year, I received an email to say a play I had sent for an opportunity was selected along with four others to be performed as a series of shorts. As the months rolled on, plans were made, and our plays are due to stage at Salford Arts Theatre.
The Short List MCR is the official name of the night, spearheaded by Jonathon Carley (The Power of Parker, It’s a Sin, Big Finish) and Rebecca Clare-Evans (Malpractice, Hollyoaks). Planning continues and I read a few books to take my mind off things.
The second volume of her letters is where I find myself this month, and I am stunned to see just how much she and Ted were earning for their poetry. If only I could earn such an amount! The most I’ve received for a single poem is £25. When I was young, being paid to write was not even an atom upon my mind.
Writing is my vice.
I make notes for a verse play I’m writing. I’ve wanted to write one for a while, but I have this idea based on a recurring dream I had when I was younger. My dreams play a big part in my waking life. I start to read some of Eliot’s verse plays.
The dance of ten feet…
I watch Ripley on Netflix. I watch all the documentaries I can find on Sky Arts. I live and breathe Literature. If I don’t learn something new per day, that day was wasted.
I get the rehearsal photos back for my play. Wow, what a thrill. To see professional actors holding my script and nurturing my words:
Allen Ginsberg drops by the door. It’s a doorstop of a book. I place it alongside the letter I wrote for mum. I’ll give it to her when she comes home from the farm.
I watch the Olivier Awards. Operation Mincemeat’s song is SO catchy. “So you dreamt of being a pirate / but you never got to fly…” Hannah Waddingham is a great host. David Tennant looks as lush as ever. I picture myself winning an Olivier for my writing. I picture what I might wear and who I’d bring.
It’s the day of my theatre debut. The first night has completely sold out. I watch on via X. I celebrate with cake and tea. The postman turns up with a bottle of champagne—all the way from Croatia.
At the end of the night, I am officially a performed playwright. It seems everyone has enjoyed themselves.
“So much variety!”
“What a great night!”
The next and final night is almost sold out. This is it and it makes me somewhat sad. I am grateful for the opportunity. I’m told there were industry professionals in the audience. I receive more followers. The audience responded well. I shan’t rest on my laurels. There is more work to be done.
What a cast. What a team. Everyone worked so hard. I receive an exciting email I can’t share. I wonder if my old drama teacher follows the theatre online. I never saw myself writing for theatre, but it all makes sense. I adore Macbeth, A Streetcar Named Desire, An Inspector Calls, Romeo & Juliet, etc. This is just what I needed. I was drowning but I’ve been thrown a rope.
Here’s the comedown. Back to the drawing board. New ideas. New plays. The verse play is slowly rolling along. Rejections come in. I get an acceptance from Eunoia Review after three years of being knocked back. I keep track of my submissions. I am impatient for competition results. I don’t do well in any competitions EVER. I’ve learned that it’s just how it goes when you’re an innovator; you’re not always well received.
I’m turning twenty-seven next month. I never thought I’d make it here. I didn’t plan on being here. How did we get here? Time feels like an age and a minute in the same breath. One day I am playing with imaginary horses and the next I am celebrating my debut as a playwright. I’ve wanted to be a well-loved writer since I was six years old.
I change my Author Bio:
Courtenay is a poet and playwright residing in the North of England. Her plays include: The Change, The Moonchild, and Ever Is Over All. Courtenay’s dramatic work has been staged by The Short List MCR and Salford Arts Theatre. Her poems have appeared in journals such as The Bolton Review and CAROUSEL. She is also the author of four poetry collections, the latest being THE MAGGOT ON MAPLE STREET (Anxiety Press). Keep up with her via Twitter (@courtenaywrites) / https://linktree.com/courtenaywrites
I submit to Anthropocene and get knocked back. That’s somewhere I will get into one day. I have what they need. I introduce my mum to Muji pens (0.5). She leaves notes for me to find on the sofa. I leave her notes to wake up to. We are one great supernova. I get word that a poem I submitted for The London Magazine Poetry Prize didn’t place. I was SO convinced it would win.
I think back to 2019 and our trips to Starbucks. How we would meet up with X in the morning, his newspaper stuffed into his brown leather bag. Y would come in when school was out. We would flirt and he would take me home in his car. I remember that day near Christmas we hugged and I smelled the aftershave on his neck. I spent an hour drying my hair that morning. Now I realise how he used me for female attention until he found a permanent replacement.
May is coming. The flowers are blooming and my nose can sniff out the pollen. I miss Winter. I miss the cold, the falling leaves, the dark nights: the comfort of the non-exposing blackness.
May is coming, and a writer’s work is never done.
Courtenay's Corner 