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I haven’t had much time for my blog in a while because it’s been a crazy couple of weeks with Porte Parole. Sexy béton II: Justice, opened yesterday to a near-packed house. Here’s a great photo from the play: it’s from one of the key scenes, in which the families bereaved / injured by the collapse of the Concorde overpass meet to discuss possible legal action.
Paul Stewart and France Rolland. Photo: Kirk Wight
I blogged at Porte Parole today about how the play sheds light on the absurdity and cruelty of the law. Read it here.
A frustrating weekend working on a story that did not work out. It had an OK beginning but I could not give it a satisfactory ending… What exactly is the point of writing? Montreal just had an election and the mayor was re-elected despite obviously having awarded millions in contracts to crooked Mafia companies. That is more important than writing. World leaders will convene in Copenhagen to try and hammer out a deal on climate change. That seems more important than writing. The war in Afghanistan is not going well. That’s more important than writing.
Writing is navel-gazing and time-wasting.
But I did at least have an epiphany. I keep reverting to writing about the same type. To be blunt, a loser. The plot-line revolves around this person wrestling with / acknowledging / suffering as a result of his insecurity.
I need to stop writing about this type. He has outlived his usefulness.
Instead, I need to write about somebody who confidently speaks in a booming voice, finds a missing cat, saves the girl who fell down the well, learns to shoot a gun, confronts a gangster, can raise his leg over his head. Somebody a bit more heroic. Somebody who would not sit around second-guessing the utility of writing.