Writing
Nora
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Nora is a piece I wrote as an exploration of feminism in Henrik Ibsen's 1879 play, A Dolls House. I wrote a monologue placing Nora, the protagonist, in a 21st century setting, adjusting certain aspects of the narrative, while maintaining key components of her character, situation and motivations. By doing this I hoped to expose how many of the issues addressed in the original play are still very relevant to modern women, despite progress in gender equality.
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(It’s early afternoon. A woman enters the stage from the front door of a house. She places a suitcase in the boot of a car and slams it shut. She turns to look at the house behind her for a few seconds before going to sit in the driver's seat and turning the ignition - she changes her mind, sitting still then picking up her phone and fiddling with it. She is more scared of making the phone call than of driving away, but she feels that it is something she has to do. She taps the screen a few times and we hear the automated voicemail message: She takes a breath away from the phone, then begins)
Hey, uhm...it’s me. Just wanted to let you know that. Well...I’m leaving. I’ve already left actually.
It’s not that I expect you to understand why. But I think it would be unfair not to explain. You at least deserve the chance to try to understand why.
It’s not you, it’s - wait, no - I was going to say that it’s not you, it’s me, but that’d be a lie. I’m pretty sure it is your fault, even though you’ve been perfectly lovely, actually. It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong to me, but...maybe...no.
You’re just a product of a society that was built to keep women like me out of the way.
Maybe I’m just...some fool who couldn’t hack domesticity. And maybe I could go off and find a way to do the research I want to do and still come home everyday to be Your Wife. I’ve considered it, I really have; there are ways I could do it but -
But I don’t think that would work. Marriage was something I’d always been told to want, but with every ‘family’ event I get dragged to I realise - this isn’t my family.
There are always the same questions: Can we expect a baby? When are we going to get a new addition? If they actually cared what I said, I’d tell them all about how that’s not what I want, how the thought of bringing someone into this world who’s 50 percent you makes me shudder. I’d tell them that no, we can’t expect a baby; I’d tell them how every time you’ve suggested we try I’ve lied about when I’m ovulating then checked I took my pill.
But they’re not asking me, they’re asking Your Wife. So I just smile and you laugh and say “oh maybe when work calms down” - which it never will, by the way, because that is literally all that you care about. These people don’t care about me, just the idea of me.
So maybe you’re still thinking, ‘why didn’t you say so?’ and ‘we can talk it out!’, but I need you to understand that that won’t work. No. Instead I am going to give you my perspective, and this way, you can’t butt in, like you have done all along.
I’ll start from the beginning.
I was finishing school, getting good grades and applying for uni, and a teacher asked what I wanted to do so I said ‘I dunno, physics’ and she looked a bit dazed and gave me a nice reference.
Then suddenly I’m in a lecture hall, and it’s full of all these men, all these boys who seem to think that the world owes them something, so I keep quiet and work hard. And I really, really enjoy academia. I graduate - a first - and while I’m looking for a PhD and working at the newsagents I meet a nice boy. He takes me home to his parents and they love me. And then it’s a year later and we live together. Well, I live with him; it was me who had to move.
It’s a year later. No PhD in sight because I had to cancel the interview to go to an ‘important family event’.
More time passes. Sometime between then and now we got married, and now while you jet off on work trips every week, I work part-time on the reception at your dad’s firm. I answer phones and make tea. I came so, so close to doing something that made me happy, only to be cut off by you at the last minute.
Last week you came home from work early and I heard you talk on the phone. You mustn't've realised I was in the next room because some of the things you said then were…
If you’d cheated I might have made my peace and moved on. But what you said hurt more. You laughed at my ambition and voiced my fears as if they’d come true. Which made me realise they were. I’m not going to achieve anything here, not with you. So I’m doing something about it. I am going to find a job; I am going to find a way to do that research; and I am going to do that without you.
You can BS me all you like by saying that we have to make sacrifices for those that we love. What sacrifices have you made? You chose the house we live in, and you chose the car that I drive. I chose what pants I put on this morning.
You clung onto me and I mistook that discomfort for love. You built a house for yourself and placed me in it because you’d seen something similar in a posh magazine. I’m not a woman, I’m a status symbol; a watch you strap on your wrist when you want to look respectable at work dos. Time is up; I’m not doing it anymore. You can tell people that you let me go if you want to. But you can live with the knowledge that it was me who walked away.
(There’s a ‘click’ sound as she puts the phone on the passenger seat. The stage fades to black and we hear the car start again)
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Ben
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'Ben' is a piece I wrote as an exercise in character and narrative. Based on Harold Pinter's 1957 play, The Dumbwaiter, I looked at the character of Ben, using a gap in the narrative at a key point in the play to explore the character and widen my understanding of his outlook, outside of his interactions with Gus, the only other character in the play. This encouraged me to think carefully about how a character can be developed.
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(He drops the speaking tube and steps back a pace. He scratches the back of his head and paces around the room, emphasising how small it is. The speed at which he paces slowly increases until he stops abruptly and begins speaking.)
He’s not the type to ave a laugh, Wilson. Met ‘im a few times, never for long, always about a job.
But what do I know, maybe he goes home to his wife an’ kids an’ is quite a joker. If he has a family that is - ‘s not a very family friendly line ‘o work this, no christmas parties or that sort of thing.
Gus tried to organise one once when we were on a job in...where was it? Cardiff. Most definitely Cardiff. Anyway, Gus brought all these Christmas crackers ready to celebrate the festive season only Wilson called right before he ‘ad time to pull any, so he was right mardy on the way to the next location. That was around the time he started gettin’ inquisitive.
Doesn’t do to ask too many questions in this business, I’ll tell you that for free. Does not do well at all. An’ for the past couple o’ jobs he’s been badgerin’ me all about ‘who lived ‘ere’ first’ an’ ‘wha’ d’ya think the poor bugger did to get in this mess’. Not that I’m not curious - I am - but it does not do well to be askin’ questions like that. Not well at all. E’s a good partner, Gus is. Tenacious. Takes guts for a young’un to stay in this business this long - not that there’s much else ya can do. Not many transferable skills in this industry. But he can’t keep goin’ on as he is if he wants to keep his job. Wilson catches wind an’ -
He waves his hand along his neck to signify a slit throat
I dunno what I’d do if I had to get assigned a new partner. Gus...well he ain't perfect but he’s sure as hell reliable. Not ‘ad a job go wrong in all the time I’ve worked with ‘im. There’s not much to be proud of in this work, but I can say honestly that we’ve always been quick an’ we’ve always been professional. Sometimes we leave a mess but tha’s hardly the fault of our workmanship. Some people fall apart more easily, ya know?
I wonder, at night when I’m driving and Gus is asleep, about how I’m knitted together. I like to think tha’ I’d hold it together, fall like an oak an’ be done. None of this screaming an’ cryin lark. But I don’t know. An’ I don’t like not knowin’ things. Gus’d fall apart quite easily I reckon. Cares too much.
He goes quiet and looks back at the speaking tube. Then he gets out his gun and fiddles with it. He’s professional and knows what he's doing, but this time something is off
He Addresses the bathroom door from where he stands in the center of the room
Hope we get a nicer assignment next time, eh Gus?
(There’s a knock at the front door. It swings open, revealing Gus. He looks disheveled. Then, full blackout.)