“Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.”
-Virginia Woolf
If you have ever enjoyed my work, do enjoy my work, and / or would like to support me in my continued journey as a writer, then you can make single donations over on my Ko-Fi. Any money donated will go towards bills, an iPad (this will improve my output), and being able to pay competition fees. For the price of a coffee, you can help me on my journey!
If you’re not convinced of my spoils, see the play below, first published by The Bolton Review. It is a modern-day satirization of the rivalry between Keats and Byron.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
BRYON: Thirty-three. Upper class. Poet.
SKATE: Twenty-five. Middle class. Poet.
London. 1999. Spring.
BRYON and SKATE are standing a few feet apart in the side room of a pub. BRYON is flipping through a document. SKATE has his hands in his pockets.
BRYON: This is terrible, my friend.
SKATE: We are not friends, and you’re dead wrong. This is the best thing I’ve written in years.
BRYON: You’re delusional.
SKATE: You’re a snob.
BRYON: You’re…
SKATE steps closer.
SKATE: Go on. Say what you want to say.
BRYON pauses for a moment.
BRYON: Not worth thy breath.
SKATE: Thy breath?! You really are a snob.
BRYON: Should I call you a turd instead?
SKATE: I would like that. It makes you normal.
BRYON: Fine. You are a massive, great, stinking turd.
SKATE smiles.
SKATE: Thank you. Truly.
BRYON: You’re welcome.
SKATE: Why don’t you like it?
BRYON: It’s clichéd. You should push yourself a bit more.
SKATE: What’s that supposed to mean?
BYRON gives SKATE the document.
BRYON: Think outside the box. Your use of metaphor is derivative and juvenile.
SKATE: It might not be to your taste, but I speak for the regular folk.
BRYON: It’s too cockney.
SKATE: Snob.
BRYON sighs loudly.
BRYON: Is that the only insult you know? I must remember to get you a thesaurus.
SKATE: You’ve never liked me.
BRYON: That isn’t true. I am quite fond of you.
SKATE: Then why do you say such horrible things?
BRYON: They are prescriptions, not daggers.
SKATE: I don’t understand.
BRYON: I am not insulting you. I am commenting on your work because I believe in the sustainability of the arts. If I don’t think something is very good, then I will say so.
SKATE: So you’re a doctor now?
BRYON: Of sorts.
SKATE: Really. I thought you were a History teacher.
BRYON: You stick in the mud.
SKATE: Isn’t that too common of an insult for you? Too (air quotes) cockney.
BRYON: I would never use air quotes.
SKATE: Can I see what you’ve written recently?
BRYON: I don’t have it.
SKATE: (Pointing to a folded paper in the front pocket of BYRON) So what’s that then?
BRYON hides the paper.
BRYON: School work. It’s nothing.
SKATE: Which is it? School work or nothing?
BRYON: You want revenge.
SKATE: Not true!
BRYON: Come on.
SKATE: Ok. Maybe a little. Are you going to show me?
BRYON: Never.
SKATE: That’s not fair. You tore my heart out and spat on it. Let me do the same.
BRYON: I did not spit on it.
SKATE: You come in here and litter your filthy ego across my work, but you won’t let me see a glimpse of yours? Not even a letter?!
BRYON: You won’t understand it. It will fly right over your head.
SKATE roars.
SKATE: Do you really think so little of me?
BRYON: It’s. I—
SKATE snatches the paper from BYRON’s pocket. BRYON tries to take it back.
BRYON: Give me that, you insolent—
SKATE: That is no way for a scholarly gentleman to talk to a fellow.
SKATE flips to a particular page. BRYON waves him on.
SKATE: ‘Bryon’s poetry is nothing that one would expect of a man of such nobility. While he believes himself to be a God of English poetry, his verse is one of poor form and utter stupidity.’
BRYON: Nonsense. They have no taste.
SKATE: Now I know why you didn’t want me to know.
BRYON: Go on. Get it out of your system.
SKATE: Do you want me to laugh?
BRYON: No.
SKATE: Then I won’t.
SKATE hands the paper back to BRYON.
BRYON: I handle my critics with grace and a splash of humour. You lose your mind.
SKATE: I do not!
BRYON: I heard from a good friend that you called the Editor and threatened him with violence if he didn’t retract the review.
SKATE: It was a moment of madness. He said some terrible things about work that means more to me than anyone will—
SKATE clutches his heart. BRYON looks concerned.
BRYON: Are you ok?
SKATE collapses on the floor.
BRYON: Help! We need help here!
SKATE goes limp.
BRYON: I did it. I shot the arrow.
Courtenay's Corner 