The adaptation written and performed for the dedication of Julia’s writing room flourished into being last week and has now disappeared. Theatre is like blossom, brief but captivating (at best). Despite its transience, it lifts our spirits, gives us hope and ideally contains fruits of future possibilities. Above all, it’s not purely decorative.
Dennis Potter famously talked about seeing the branches outside his writing room window, knowing them to be filled with the last spring blossom he’d see. He called it the ‘blossomest blossom’. I have a blossom tree outside my window and my dad was a coal-miner but I’ll end the comparison there, if only for the sake of my modesty. My blossom tree, a commual one, is on the brink of bursting forth and reminds me of all I have to do now that March is marching on. Today I’m going to listen to some of the verbatim recordings for Here Come The Girls in prepartion for a meeting with my co-writer, Beth Coverdale. We’ll have the task of selecting and composing the young women’s words. Not all the interviews have been transcribed yet and not all the interviews done, so there’s text still to be generated. It’s strange to be waiting for words, rather than generating them ourselves. But like the blossom, we know they’ll come.
