You know how they say:

“Opinions are like assholes — everybody’s got one.”

Well, in a reading or feedback session?
Everybody’s got five (at least).

And that’s the thing.
Everyone will have something to say.

(even me lol)

But that doesn’t mean you have to listen to everyone.
You’re the playwright.
You get to decide what stays and what goes.

So here’s how I filter feedback like a pro:

Does It Still Tell the Story You Want to Tell?

Feedback can pull your play in a thousand directions.
People will start writing their version of your play in their heads.

Admittedly, I’ve done it too.

Because we all bring our lived experiences into the space,
and sometimes that leads to big, bold, entirely different suggestions.

But here's the deal:
Only you know the story you're trying to tell.

Hold on onto that.

Let your play speak from your truth.
Even if your truth is messy, confusing, or unresolved.

Don’t let feedback dilute your true intention
of writing this story in the first place.

Is It Valuable?

Some feedback will sound like this:

• “I think the play should end here.”

• “Maybe cut down your stage directions?”

• “Could the walls be green instead of blue?”

• “Your character’s name should be Barty Crouch the III.”

Now ask:

• Does this note help clarify the story?

• Does it challenge me in a good way?

• Or is it just someone projecting their own preferences?

You don’t owe your play to anyone’s aesthetic taste.

There’s a reason you made those writing choices.

Is the reason dramaturgical?
Does it serve a purpose?
Even if the purpose is that that’s your signature.

Keep What Resonates, Throw Away The Rest

Feedback is not a checklist.
It’s a buffet. One that doesn’t end until you end it.

And like every buffet, you only take what you want,
what you can finish. Because you know if you get greedy,
you won’t be able to ever finish it.

If five people give the same note, sure, that’s worth considering.
If one person says “cut the ending” but that’s your favourite part? Ignore them.
Or if they have given a valid reason,
revise it on your terms.

But do note: in readings/feedback — DON’T defend your work.
Just listen. And take note.

You’re not fragile for rejecting feedback.
You’re a playwright with taste.
Your own taste.

Write Everything Down But…

Yes, in feedback, I write everything down.
Anything people say (that is valuable),
I write them down.

Then,
I ignore the play.
I ignore the feedback.
For a few days, weeks, or maybe even months.

But while I’m “ignoring it”, my brain is doing the filtering for me.
It’s remembering the feedback that resonated more,
and forgetting all the other noise.

When I’m ready to revisit the work, to edit,
I will read through the feedback a few times.
(Usually my handwriting is so shitty, that I have no idea what I wrote)

Then I put my notebook away,
and I write.

What’s valuable would’ve stuck.
What isn’t wouldn’t evaporated itself away.

So the next time you’re in a feedback session,
remember all these things.

It will save you from crashing because of your imposter syndrome.

I totally get you. I’m the same. ;)

We all have those ideas and those plays that really never went anywhere. Maybe I finished it, maybe I didn’t. Maybe it stayed as just an idea. Maybe I’ll revisit it in due time. Who knows? These are all questions I refuse to answer.

And this is normal! If an idea is just not working, don’t force it to work.

It just means it wasn’t meant to be. You need some kind of gusto, some fiery burning passion in the story you want to tell. And if it’s, as the youngins say, sending you. Just scrap it and don’t think about it. Trust me.

And to inspire you, here’s 5 of them:

1. 31 Years in 56 Minutes

What’s it about: A man goes for therapy for the first time ever and his entire life is laid out in front of him — transparent, raw, and painful.

How far I got: 15 pages

Why I stopped: It was going anywhere. It was kinda uninspiring.

Probability of restarting: 5%

2. Dinner at Chows

What’s it about: A multi-racial family drama (I forgot the core idea. It’s been so long)

How far I got: The family tree lol

Why I stopped: Drawing the family tree tired me tf out and I didn’t actually have an idea. I had a concept. So it didn’t quite go anywhere.

Probability of restarting: 40% — once I find an idea

3. Aunty Flora

What’s it about: A grandmother who’s living her life out, struggles with loneliness and reconnecting with her daughter, tells her life story to her grandson who’s here for a visit.

How far I got: 4 pages

Why I stopped: Lack of structure — I didn’t know where it was going.

Probability of restarting: I actually forgot about this play. Now I think about it, I may try to bring it back. So… 70%?

4. The Flood

What’s it about: A family gets stuck on a roof during a flood. Horrifying secrets are revealed when the human psyche is pushed to the brink because of circumstances.

How far I got: Been writing since 2019. I’ve had 2 public readings. Many edits, many feedbacks, up to Draft 9.

Why I stopped: I needed to take a break from it after the last feedback I got. It was REALLY good feedback but it needed me to go in an reengineer the whole play.

Probability of restarting: 100% I’ve been cooking it for a long time in my brain, dormant but never forgotten. I’m waiting for a lightbulb moment.

5. Love, Sex, and Corporate Slavery

What’s it about: A compilation of vignettes about the truth behind relationships in multiple settings and how it’s fragility is so grey.

How far I got: 18 pages (pretty much 80% complete, since it’s physical theatre based)

Why I stopped: No real reason. Just pivoted to something else cos that was more exciting for now.

Probability of restarting: Hinges if I get invited for a festival. If I do, I will complete it. Won’t take long or much.

So if you’re struggling with an idea, scrap it! WHO CARES! Unless it’s a commission, then please complete it.

If not, tell the story YOU want.

Don’t be stubborn. Or do… Whatever.

Ryan Craig, British Playwright said,

“What would be the point of starting, if you knew the end?”

I think about this quote sometimes.
And how sometimes, I revel in this feeling.

Sometimes I structure my plays, and have an inkling of the ending,
sometimes I don’t. And sometimes, I refuse to think of the end.

When we watch theatre, we’re going on a journey.
We’re letting the characters unfold the plot for us.
We’re living up our chances to every single syllable and movement.

So why can’t we write like that?

Not saying you should.
But this is something I do sometimes.

Sometimes I know where I want the story to go.
Other times, I just have a visual of the beginning
and I let the characters dictate the story.

Here’s an example:

In We Are Gathered Here Today In Loving Memory of John Paul Parker Smith, I had an idea of the first visual in my head. So I didn’t know what this story is about, I just had the dramatic question: Will Christopher move on from his mothers death?

Would he? Wouldn’t he?
How would he?
What would he try?
Who else are in the story?
Do I introduce a best friend?
A narrator?

I sincerely had no idea.

So what I did was:

Write. Simply put.

I started with the first scene, then figured who would be the person Christopher would really want to interact with in this moment. Then I progressed and progressed until I got to the end of Act 1. And I thought… this is something.

Then I had a reading with friends and asked them: What do you think the ending is?

Then I evaluated if I liked their suggestions or not.

So I proceeded to

write some more.

And I finished Act 2. And I was extremely happy with it.
Deep down, I had my reservations about the end.
But I needed to hear it out loud before I made drastic changes.

So I organised another reading with a different bunch of friends.

And my god, the feedback. It was painful, but it was golden.

So then I…

proceeded to rewrite and rewrite.

And I ended up writing up a whole new act between the 2 I already had. From 2 acts, it became 3 — my instincts were right, so I rewrote the entire ending to end in a completely new way.

And I loved it!

Would I have known that the play was heading towards this direction? Absolutely not.

And I’m glad I let the characters tell me what they wanted to do, where they wanted to go, what they liked, what they disliked.

Because if I had structured it before I let them help me unfold the story,
I wouldn’t have gotten here.

Would it have been better? Don’t know.
Would it have been worst? Don’t know.
Would it have been different? Most definitely.

But I like this new ending.
And that’s all that matters.

But it isn’t like that for everything.

For POLY, I knew the endings of all of the plays.

Specifically for Polygraph and Polyamory.
So I wrote towards that.

But for Polygon, I knew the ending —
but the characters decided to take me in a whole different direction.
And one that I didn’t think I would explore.

The ending changed. And it was better.

So what I’m saying is:

You don’t need to know the ending to begin writing.
There is no hard and fast rule in writing.

Some people write the end first,
some people write the turning point first.

Everyone has their own processes.
Find yours. Evolve yours.
And when you feel like it, change it.

Not every play you write needs to have the same process.

Let yourself be stubborn.
Rules are meant to be broken.

So break them.

Dear me,

Nobody is going to tell the stories you want to tell.
And that’s okay.

I know you feel like you’ve lost the writers in your life.
Let me tell you now: that’s a good thing.

All you really need is to learn how to tell a structured story.
Learn the rules — so you can break them with purpose.

You have wild ideas.
Don’t lose them. They are going to be your superpower.

And don’t for a second believe that you’re not a writer.
Or that you’re not a good one. You are.
You just need a little faith in yourself — the kind you always give to others, but rarely give to yourself.

You have a distinct voice.
Some people will find it very disturbing.
Some will find it immensely beautiful.

But one thing’s for sure: people will feel something.
And that means you’re doing something right.

It’ll take time for you to fully step into the title playwright. And that’s okay too.

But with every draft, every full stop, every reading, every weird little video you make or post you write, you’re believing in yourself a little more than you did the day before.

It’s a journey. Enjoy it.

One day, you won’t even realise the power you hold
in the worlds you build,
in the stories you shape,
and in the lives you quietly shift.

So keep going. Believe you can.

Lean into the stubborn.
Use it.

xx

Like most theatre people, I have a day job.
I work in advertising.
Yes. You know what that means.
And if you don’t: it means I’m overworked. My brain is fried. A LOT.

But here’s the thing — I don’t know if I’d have the same gusto for writing if I didn’t have a day job.

Sure, I can’t write every single day.
But would I even have the fire to write at all?

The Money

Let’s get the obvious one out of the way.
Having a stable income is a game-changer.
It lets you invest back into your art with workshops, theatre tickets, books, streaming (National Theatre at Home isn’t cheap), even things like Substack subscriptions, domain names, and better tech, or more tech.

Financial stress can kill creativity.
Money gives you choicesss.

The Release

Work can be soul-crushing.
Which makes writing feel like vengeance.
For me, every script says:
“F*ck you, I’m creative too.”

Context: I work as a strategist — a role often referred to as a “failed creative.”
So when I write, I’m reclaiming something.
Writing becomes proof. An outlet. A rebellion.

The Material

When you work with people, real, chaotic, flawed people, you’re gather material.
I cannot count the number of times someone’s personal drama has made me think,
“This sounds like a great show.”

You also get character inspiration on a daily basis.
Mannerisms. Power dynamics. Office politics. Assholes. Kind souls. Annoying f*cks.
The more people you’re exposed to, the richer your character building becomes.

The Network

Like it or not, your day job is a built-in audience.
Colleagues come to shows. They tell their friends.
Someone knows someone who knows someone.
It helps! Especially if you’re building a brand as a writer-performer-creator-everythinger.

They might even subscribe to your weekly newsletter. Hehe.

The Time

This one sucks.
Having a demanding job leaves you with very little time to write.

You’ll stretch your waking hours. Cut your sleep.
Write half-drafts on lunch breaks.
Subpar posts mid-work to destress.
Take a weekend just to hear yourself think.
And possibly cry.

But ask yourself honestly:
If you had 8 free hours, would you really write for all 8?
Or would you scroll, snack, and spiral?

Sometimes, having less time makes you focus.
It forces your writing to matter.
Because every second is precious. You make the most out of it.

I know I do.

Final Thought:

Having a day job doesn’t make you a better writer.
But it also doesn’t make you a worst writer.
It can make you a more grounded, more resourceful, more resilient one.

So no — it’s not ideal.
But it might be secretly giving you the fight.

Get a job. Or don’t. Do whatever you want.
JUST WRITE!

There is nothing, NOTHING, quite as weird as sitting in the audience, watching something you wrote... especially if you weren’t part of the rehearsal process.

You don’t know what’s about to happen.
You don’t know how it’s been interpreted.
You don’t even know if it’s going to be good.

All you can do is sit, wait, and pray your name looks nice in the programme.
And sweat profusely.

And if it’s bad?

You freeze.
Do you leave?
Do you stay and act unfazed?
Do you tell yourself, “Well... someone might like it”?
Or do you pretend to like it because after all, people did put in so much effort.

Because when it’s bad, and you feel it’s bad, you genuinely don’t know what to do with your face. Or your soul.

But if it’s great?

Oh, you bask. Mother, do you baaaask!
You soak in the lines landing, the audience laughing, the gasps you didn’t expect.

You let yourself feel justified.
Maybe even, dare I say, proud.

That feeling? No drug comes close.

But here’s what no one tells you:

Watching your own show is never just about the show.
You’re almost reliving the writing.

You remember the day you wrote that monologue.
You remember the anger you felt when that scene poured out.
You remember where you were sitting when that line hit you out of nowhere.

Sometimes you cry, not because it’s emotional, but because you made that.
Sometimes you laugh, alone, because only you know the subtext that didn’t make it into the staging.
And sometimes you cringe, cos GOD DID I WRITE THAT SHIT?!

It’s weird.
It’s intimate.
It’s a little out-of-body.

Especially when you didn’t direct it.
It makes it feel both yours and not yours at the same time.

But here’s the truth:

No matter what changes were made, no matter how it landed, just remember:
You did that.
You put something into the world.
You gave it a life.

This play is here, because of you.

So sit there. Squirm a little. Cry a little.
But oh my god, enjoy the shit out of it.

Simon Stephen, British-Irish playwright said,

“When you get a formless hunch,
the most important thing to do is just leave it alone.”

When we get a genius idea, our instinct is to quickly act.

Write it down.
Flesh it out.
Start the draft.
Turn it into something immediately.

But here’s the truth: an idea is only brilliant… if it stays brilliant with time.

If it’s a truly good idea, it’ll haunt you. It’ll cling to your brain for weeks. Months. Maybe even years.

And you MUST let it.

Let it simmer. Let it boil. Let it steam. Let it do whatever it needs to do. It may be quiet, it may be noisy, but let it just be in the background.

When you’re in the shower.
When you’re commuting.
When you’re eating.
When you’re watching a movie.
When you’re about to fall asleep.
When you’re dreaming.
If the idea keeps showing up? You’ve got something golden.

I have a musical I’ve been quietly holding in my head for five years now. I know the opening scene. I can almost hear the orchestration. But I haven’t written a single word down.

Why? Because I know, in my gut, the time isn’t quite right. Not yet. It’s still cooking. The characters are developing, the plot is thickening, the scenes are shaping.

So the next time you get a wild, wonderful idea…

Don’t rush, don’t panic. Don’t open a new Google Doc just yet.

Let it roast. Let it grill. Let it deep-fry.

If it’s still there after all that, if you can hear the characters, see the scenes, feel the tension in your body, then it’s finally time to sit down and write.

Because that is when the time is right.

Not everyone writes the same way. Some of us spiral, some of us plot.

Some chase structure. Others chase vibessss.

Take this 1-minute [fun] quiz to find out what kind of chaos (or craft) drives your writing.

The Results:

Mostly A - The Architect

You love a strong foundation. Structure excites you, outlines calm you, and you probably have a colour-coded system for your characters arcs. Nothing wrong with that! You don’t write accidentally chaos, you deliberately design it. Just remember: perfection in form doesn’t mean rigidity in spirit. Let surprise in.

Strength: Clarity, logic, pacing
Watch out for: Over-planning and under-feeling, maybe even burnout

Mostly B - The Intuitive Storm

You write by your gut. You chase the ideas sparks, not steps. And when it hits, god does it hit! But when it doesn’t, you drown in the fog. You’re a feeling-first writer with magic instincts. Honour them, but don’t be afraid to rein them in from time to time.

Strength: Emotional resonance, raw power
Watch out for: Losing your way mid-draft because too many things possible

Mostly C - The Slow Cooker

You marinate. You stew. You let ideas simmer until they’re ready to fall off the bone. You’re not slow, you’re precise. And when you finally write, it lands. But don’t let your process turn into a prison.

Strength: Depth, layered storytelling, long-haul clarity
Watch out for: Paralysis by overthinking

Mostly D - The Serial Rewriter

You live in the edit. You bang out the first draft FAST. You write, then rewrite, then rewrite the rewrite. You love the craft of refinement, you bask in it. But beware: you might be using rewriting as a way to avoid letting go. Sometimes, “done” is better than “perfect.”

Strength: Craft, polish, obsessive care
Watch out for: Endless loops of rewriting and perfectionism

Mostly E - The Dreamer (and Procrastinator)

Your taste is impeccable. Your ideas are divine. But starting? Who she???? You’ve got visions for days and folders full of half-thoughts. The world needs to see what’s in your beautiful mind. But first, you need to get out of it.

Strength: Imagination, vision, voice
Watch out for: Fear of failure and losing ideas to limbo

Again, this is just a fun quiz, it doesn’t define you.

What you actually do, defines you.

So go forth and write!

Here’s a history of it:

• I had an idea one day in 2019.

• A family trapped on a roof during a flood.

• The play was called The Flood.

• I wrote Act One. Then shelved it. Because… life.

• Then came The Tulis Group — a group of writers in Malaysia.

• There, I started a musical called The Bookshop Café.

• Then COVID hit. Couldn’t workshop the musical. Needed singers. Not ideal.

• So I pivoted. I returned to The Flood.

• Finished Act Two.

• And thus began the readings, the workshops, the rewrites.

  

• In 2024, I submitted it for a playwright residency because it was the most “complete” play I had. It had history. Rewrites. Scars. Heart.

• I didn’t get selected.

• But the programme director sent feedback. Really good feedback.

• And now… I’m stuck.

  ---

Why?

Because I told myself this next draft would be the last one.
It’s been years. I want to move forward. Let it go. Let it live.

Everyone who’s read it remembers it. They say it’s rich. Emotional. Unforgettable.
Which is exactly why it’s terrifying. The staaakes!

There’s pressure now.
Because even though it’s just a handful of people — I feel like they’re waiting.
Across Malaysia. Singapore.
They’re waiting.

And the final draft is the one that will enter the world.

But here’s the thing:

I know what to do.
The story is clear.
The characters are clear.
The plot is clear.

I just need to sit and write it.
But I can’t force it.

Because if I force it, it won’t be right.
It won’t feel right.
And I won’t be able to write.
And I want this one to be right.
(see what I did there? lol)

So I wait.

For a flash.
For a shift.
For that thing I can’t ignore.

Because The Flood is always there.
It just sits at the back of my mind. Every. Single. Day.

Honestly, it’s exhausting. But necessary.

Raj, Sheila, and Leila — hang in there.
It’ll be worth it.

When I return to you, I’ll be better.
Wiser. Sharper. Braver.

And the version I write will be the one that can finally carry you to shore.

I don’t know when I’ll write it.
But I will.

Eventually.

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writing confessions, and all the mess in between.

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Developing your own style can be… difficult.
And comparing yourself to other writers? Also difficult.
Everyone has their own thing:

“It’s very Sarah Kane.”
“This screams of Chekhov.”
“So Ibsen.”
“Totally Tennessee Williams.”

Why do we do that?
Does it help? Or is it limiting?

And more importantly:
When do you say, “This is my style”?

Do You Want to Be Known?

That’s the real question.

Do you want someone to read your play and go,
“Ah, this is so [insert your name here]”?
Do you want to be recognisable?

Because that’s how you begin to carve out your own “genre”,
your own voice, your own weird, stubborn corner of the theatrical universe.

Theatrical disobedience, as I say.

How I Started Finding My Style

There are some things I kept doing, over and over, without realising it… until I did.

1. Rhythmic, back-and-forth dialogue

I write scenes where characters volley one-word replies.
Fast. Violent. Sometimes playful. Always emotionally loaded. And purposeful.
It’s become one of my subconscious signatures. And now I claim it.

2. Unpredictable structure

I hate being able to predict endings. And I usually always do.
So I write in ways that twist, fracture, and subvert.
Sometimes it’s disgusting. Sometimes violent.
Sometimes there’s kink, fourth walls, fifth walls, sixth dimensions.
(I don’t even know what those mean — but lets just say, I go there.)

3. Neo post-dramatic realism (?)

(i don’t think that’s a real thing)

I’m obsessed with plays that aren’t quite realism… but also kinda are.
They blur the line.
They feel too wild to be real. But just real enough to hurt.
Some of my plays are grounded. Others feel like they exist outside gravity but still don’t float like how you’d expect. I like that contradiction.

4. Patterns, objects, and food

I use recurring motifs to ground my chaos:

• In AFTERTASTE, it’s the fig flatbread.

• In John Paul Parker Smith, it’s the pie.

• In POLY (Polygraph), it’s the airplanes.

If you haven’t read my article on patterns:

These anchors help the audience hold onto something amidst the madness.

Why?

Give Them Something to Hold Onto

Even if your play is weird, wild, and boundary-breaking,
audiences still need something to hold onto.
Not because they’re simple, but because they’re searching.
For meaning.
For structure.
For a sign that they know what they’re doing, even if the world feels unhinged.

Think about religion. Think about God.
People look for meaning in chaos.

So give them something.
An object. A motif. A line. A pattern. A feeling.
A word.

These are just some of the things I do.
There’s more. Always more.

But this? This is the start of what makes something Ian Skatu style.

And it took me a while to get here.
But I know this is not just it. I’m still developing my style.

So don’t stop writing.
You will find it.

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writing confessions, and all the mess in between.

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Let me be specific:
In Malaysia, I strongly advocate for playwrights to become producers.
I don’t know how it works in the rest of the world. But here?

We have lots of actors. Honestly, throw a stone…

What we don’t have enough of are producers. Producers who will read your script, believe in it, and do all the hard, boring, money-grabbing, risk-taking stuff to put it on stage.

So what happens?
You write. You wait. You hope.
And nothing happens.

I was a producer before I was a playwright.

People would often ask me to produce their scripts.
And I’d hesitate.

Not because I didn’t want to.
But because I had other priorities. And well, I didn’t want to lol.

There were always other shows I wanted to do.
And honestly?
Sometimes I just didn’t connect with their script.

That’s the reality.
We don’t have producers who are just producers.
Because producing takes serious time, energy, and business sense.
Not to mention — money.
And let’s be real, not everyone wants to do that.

So here’s the truth:

If you want your work to live outside your Google Drive…
you’re probably going to have to produce it yourself.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Being a playwright-producer is power.

It means:

• You know how to write within your limits.

• You know what you can afford, so your writing is tighter.

• You build worlds that are doable, not just dreamy.

• You set creative and logistical guardrails that help your story actually happen.

You don’t need to be perfect at budgeting.
You don’t need to love excel sheets.
You just need to take ownership of your work’s life beyond the page.

The good news?

You’re not alone.
We’re all figuring it out.
And trust me — the moment you see your script come alive
because you made it happen, it changes everything.

So, playwrights:
Don’t wait to be picked.
Pick yourself.

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writing confessions, and all the mess in between.

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Short answer?
You can write one. But it may not be your decision if it stays.

Let’s be real: whether or not there’s an intermission is rarely up to the playwright. The director might cut it. The producer might hate it. The venue might be chasing you out fast. So if you’re writing an intermission, don’t treat it like it’s sacred. Treat it like a suggestion.

But if you are considering one, ask yourself:
Why now? What’s it for?

Is it to mark a big time jump?
A shift in location?
A tonal reroute?
Or do you just feel like your audience needs to breathe because what just happened was toooo damnn muchhh.

(And honestly, if your first act ends in emotional chaos, a breather might be a gift.)

So... why bother writing one at all?

Sometimes, that 15-minute pause does a lot of work.

It gives your audience space to reflect.
To chat. To theorise. To feel.
Sometimes, that’s the moment when they whisper to their friend, “Wait, do you think she’s actually dead?”

And just like that, they’re invested.
You’ve made them part of the story.

Sure, some audiences will leave at intermission. That’s life. But they paid for the ticket anyway, so kthanksbye!

But the ones who stay? They return to Act Two with their own theories, expectations, and emotional stakes. And why? Because you gave them time to process.

And yes, sometimes it's practical, too.

Maybe your first act is super long? Maybe it’s like a puzzle? Maybe it’s an avalanche of words?

Or maybe your audience just needs a toilet break or just a brain break?

Don’t underestimate the value of a strategic pause.

Final thought:

You can write in an intermission. But you should think about what you want the purpose of the intermission to be, as a playwright.

But again, don’t be precious about it.
Because once production begins, it’s no longer yours.

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Enjoy a dose of my playwriting process,
writing confessions, and all the mess in between.

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If you’ve ever read Elinor Fuchs’ Visit to a Small Planet, this will sound familiar.

In it, she says: treat the play like a planet. Ask:

• How does time work here?

• What rules govern this world?

• What do people value?

To be honest, I’ve never read it. But I learnt it. (I know I should)
But when I learnt Small Planet, the question was:
What is the currency of your play?

Money isn’t the only thing that has value.

Every play runs on something.
Something your characters want. Deeply.
Something they’re willing to trade for, fight for, destroy for.

Maybe it’s power.
Maybe it’s forgiveness.
Maybe it’s approval, or peace, or a single text back.

Whatever it is — that’s the currency.

Good characters are desperate for it.

A deeply cut, emotionally charged character must be craving something.
Freedom. Recognition. Love. Pain. Validation. Escape.
The currency is what they’ll cry for.
Lie for. Walk into fire for.
And they almost are always too stubborn about it.

If you know what the currency is, everything else: the dialogue, the actions, the betrayals will start to make sense.

Because everyone is either trying to get it, trying to keep it, or trying to pretend they don’t care about it.

For example:

• In Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, the currency is illusion — keeping/destroying it.

• In Wicked, it’s perception — how you’re seen = how powerful you are.

• In POLY, it’s truth — one wins over the other with answers.

• In AFTERTASTE, it’s desire in the most horrible way.

If you can name the currency of your play,
you can start building scenes where the transaction is clear.
Where the stakes feel truly earned.
Where characters aren’t just talking — they’re trading. Sometimes, to the death.

So ask yourself:
What are your characters fighting for?
And are they willing to pay for it?
By any means possible.

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YOUR PLAY DOESN’T LIVE IN YOUR HEAD!

It lives in the mouths of others.

Until you hear it out loud, in real time, with real humans — you don’t really know the power of what you’ve written.

That jokes you write? Might not land.
That monologue? Could go on for a bit too long.
The pacing? Could be reaaaally draggy.
The world of your play? Could be really confusing to others.
That scene you thought was devastating? Might just feel... fine. Just. Fine.

So here’s what you do:

Step 1 - Gather Friends

Writers, actors, or random non-theatre friends (because they’re your audience), or experts in the subject matter of your play. For example, if you’re writing a medical story, get your medical friends.

Step 2 - Print It Out. Read It Out.

If you can get physical time, that’s always better. Screens are great, but sometimes paper is better. Sorry sustainability.

Having your friends gather and read together helps to understand the general consensus, the energy of your play vs the energy of the room, how human’s shift as a group about how they feel.

Step 3 - Watch. Listen. Cringe. Learn

DON’T pay attention to your script. Really watch people, listen to them, listen to what they’re saying. Notice the moments people start checking their phones or looking at their watches, note that down. Note the laughs, the gasps, the yawns.

Step 4 - Shut Up

When it’s time for feedback, take it all in. If it’s clarification they want, provide the clarification. But, and I cannot emphasise this enough:

DO NOT DEFEND YOUR WORK.

If they don’t get it, they just don’t.
It’s a note. Note it down. Ask why, and write it down.

Resist the urge to explain or over-explain because if they’ve missed the point, they’ve missed the point. Like a staged show, they’ll most likely just watch it once and never again. So you have one shot. And if you’ve lost it… now you know what to do.

And it doesn’t take much to have a reading.

It doesn’t need to be a fancy workshop. You don’t need to book a studio. Do it at home. In the great outdoors, anywhere. You don’t need dramaturgs, grants or a hashtag.

You just need friends who have valuable things to say.

Will it be awkward? Fuck Yes.

Will it help you? More than any solo rewrite ever will.

Because something magical happens when your words hit the air.
You feel the rhythm. You spot the dead weight.
You see your characters move.
Even in someone else’s voice, they start to become real.
Because how you read it will be different than how they will.

So force your friends.
Bribe them with snacks.

And if they complain about it, just say “Ian made me.”

But whatever you do: Get it out of your damn head and into a room.

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Hot take: you don’t need to know your character’s childhood trauma unless it’s in the play.

You don’t need a spreadsheets of their birthdays, blood types, or how many times they’ve had sex, or god forbid — astrological charts (unless that’s literally plot-relevant).

As a playwright, your job isn’t to be their biographer.
It’s to write the moment. The now. The urgency of what’s unfolding.

But Ian, you said “make your characters real”.

Yeah, but reality doesn’t come from excessive lore. Reality comes from clarity of action. What happened for your character to be doing this? And does the audience see/hear what happened?

Every line, every silence, every gesture needs purpose.

So, leave room.

Let actors and directors ask the juicy questions.
Let them dig, interpret, layer.

That’s the magic of collaboration.
That’s the magic of theatre.

Being overly prescriptive can actually create distance and box actors in.

As someone who used to act a lot, I never wanted a full character sheet. Neither would I prepare a full character sheet. I wanted space to find them, not be told who they were.

I mean… I am stubborn. So…

Ask yourself this:

Is this detail important to the story onstage?
If yes — write it in.
If not — trust the team to find meaning in the gaps.

You’re not lazy for not writing a 10-page character bible.
You’re writing the story that matters and letting the rest to be discovered in the room.

So stop wasting time. Or using this an excuse to not get to the meat of your script.

Just write what matters.

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Have you ever felt the deep desire to write something,
but halfway through (or even when you’ve finished it),
you just know it’s going to be shit?

Sometimes it’s necessary.
Even if you know it’ll never see the light of day.
Not now, not ever.

You just had to get it out of your system.

I have that one play.

Well, more specifically it’s a musical.
Though it was a short 10-minute musical that I was
initially wanting to submit for Short+Sweet,
I decided that it was too nasty.

In the sense that it was extremely trite,
painfully literal, and disgustingly emotional.

Without it being nuanced.

I just had to get it out of my chest because
it felt like therapy for me. But I know that
writing isn’t therapy. But it can be therapeutic.

And that’s okay!

Sometimes, it’s necessary.

By writing, you inevitably learn new things —
About yourself,
about your voice,
about your process,
about your technique.

So not everything would have gone to waste.

It just made you a better writer.

In this play…

I wanted to bring paintings in a gallery to life.
And I did!

Honestly, I used great elements and had really great lines.
But… overall it was nothing.

Would I revisit it again?

<insert link to plays that got scrapped>

Short answer: no.

But, I did use certain elements in my other plays.
And that was great.

So the next time you’re writing,

And you get stuck or you think it’s a terrible idea.
Don’t be too quick to dismiss it.

Finish it if you can.
Make the ending shitty.
Make it gross.
Make it ugly.

It doesn’t need to be staged/published,
it just needs to be written.

Because even in the mess, there are lessons.
And those lessons make you better.

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You have absolutely no idea how many formats I’ve gone through all my life.

I’ve done:

• Microsoft Word templates

• Celtx

• WriterDuet

• Final Draft

• Copied formats from friends and mentors

But I never really found one that truly worked.
Not for me. Not for my aspirations.

I Want to Publish — Eventually

Most playwriting formats are space-consuming.
Great for rehearsals, but terrible if you ever want to publish your script as a book.

And I do.
One day, I want to see my play beautifully laid out in an actual book.

So I began experimenting.
Tweaking. Writing. Rewriting.
Reformatting.
(Read: furiously typing on my keyboard at 2am.)

The Format I’m Sharing With You

I’ve finally landed on something that works for me.
And maybe it’ll help you too — if not in writing, then in finding your own format.

Here’s what it does:

• Maximises space (less pages, more punch)

• Still gives actors space to take notes and doodle (guilty!)

Read more

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The thing is, we don’t remember characters because they’re nice. We remember them cos they’re broken. Because they want something so badly, and the world keeps getting in the way.

A good character isn’t just deep — they’re stubbornly rich.

They push. They fall. They claw their way through conflict with conviction or delusion (sometimes both). And the more they fight, the more we care. Because we love seeing people suffer.

As the German’s say: schadenfreude.

So, how do you write one?

1. Give them a want so strong it’s almost embarrassing.

The kind of want that drives every decision. Even the messy, self-destructive ones. Love. Power. Escape. Belonging.

Let them want it in a way that feels desperate, specific, and deeply human.

2. Put them at war: internally and externally.

A character’s richness comes from the collision between what they want and what they fear, what they say and what they can’t admit.

Make them contradict themselves.

Make them fight against forces bigger than them: people, systems, history, guilt, even their own damn shadow.

3. Let them get derailed.

The play starts with a very strong want. Then something throws them off. That’s the turning point.

But here’s the trick:
they must either try to get back on track or change tracks with just as much force.

But whatever they do, their new goal has to be just as strong as the original. Think Little Mermaid and wanting to be where the people are.

4. Make them painfully unaware of themselves.

Some characters know exactly what they’re doing and why. Others are lying to themselves until they are truly forced to confront it in the final scene. Both are valid.

But make sure you, as the writer, know the truth beneath the truth.

5. Make them BEG for it.

Satisfaction is boring. What we really want is to watch someone earn it, mess it up, or realise they wanted the wrong thing all along. This just adds colour and depth to your character.

Bonus tip: Want ≠ Need.

Your character might want revenge. But what they need is forgiveness.
They might want to win. But what they need is to be seen.

Let that tension live in every line, driving the plot and the character development to depths that just makes your play that much more interesting.

Stubbornly rich characters aren't just dramatic — they’re alive.
They don't wait for permission to move. They demand the play to happen.

So write them like they're real.

Then make them try, fail, beg, win, lose, fight.

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Well… yes.
My endings suck.
At least in my dirty drafts.
And sometimes, even in my early ones.

After a lot of introspection (and frustration), I’ve figured out why:

When I’m reaching the end of a play, I’m always in a rush to finish it.
It’s like I’ve run a marathon and I just want to skip to the end and collapse at the finish line.

No flourish. No finesse. Just get me there.

Because, let’s be honest, it’s a dirty draft.

I know I’m going to come back and edit the hell out of it later.
So I throw on a rushed ending.
Something functional. Maybe clunky. Maybe incomplete. Definitely incomplete.
A placeholder.

Not quite intentional, but always at the back of my mind.

But here’s the thing:

I’ve learned that endings, real, meaningful, earned endings,
don’t come from first instinct.
They come from editing.

That’s where I shape it.
Where I pay attention.
Where I treat the ending with care. With respect. With patience.

I nurture it.
I earn it.

And only then do I type that last ‘Blackout’.

So when I edit, I ask myself:

1. Have I earned this moment?
   Did the play build toward this, or does it feel like a shortcut?
   Did I call back a moment? Did I bring the play full circle?
   Is this familiar? Is it foreign?

2. What emotional note am I leaving the audience with?
   If you’ve read my plays, you know I hate closure. I hate definite endings.
   So I always ask myself, what could audiences hypothesis from this ending?
   Then I play out all the possible scenarios. And if there are a number of
   possibilities, and I’m happy with that, that’s my ending.

   
   

3. Does this ending honour the characters?
   Or did I just push them into a resolution to wrap things up? Do they
   really feel this way? Or did I just manufacture a moment?

4. Is there one image, one line, one beat that lingers?
   Sometimes you don’t need a twist,
   sometimes you need something memorable.
   What is that thing?

5. Did I end the play, or just stop writing?
   There’s a difference. Ask yourself. Really ask yourself.

   ---

And if you’re still unsure about the ending,

You know what I like to do.
Gather a few friends, have a reading.
Ask them for their thoughts.

Send your script to others, ask them what they think.
Ask them what they feel.

Sometimes when we’re too close to our writing, we become blinded by the scene or the moment that sometimes, doesn’t make sense to the whole play. And that’s okay.

So the next time you write,

Remember, your first draft’s ending doesn’t need to be perfect.
You will get there.
I promise.

Just. Keep. Writing.

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Often times, we think plays = themes, dialogues, characters, and plot.
But what about space?

And no, I’m not just talking about set design,
not just stage directions.
But space as dramaturgy — space that holds meaning or creates it.

Where is your story happening?
Where is it being told? Or what is it telling?
And how does that affect how your audience receives it?

Space as Place

Where a show is performed matters.
From large proscenium theatres to black boxes, to storerooms (yes, I’ve done that before)

For example you’re telling a story about Indigenous people, and the theatre sits on Indigenous land,
what does that mean for your story?
What energy does that space carry?
What history is beneath the cement floor?
And what does it ask of you as the writer?

Does your play need to acknowledge the space?
Or interact with it? Or even resist it?

Dramaturgy isn’t just what happens on stage.
It’s everything that surrounds it.

Space as Time

Space can alter the rhythm of a play. In large empty spaces that echoes, pauses are deafening — it stretches, he holds time… and a lot of it.

In tight spaces, there’s a level of discomfort, making every second feel like eternity.

The length of a walk, the distance between the audience entrance to its exit — the actors entrances and their exits. It becomes a fibre of dramatic texture, often heightening moments.

In a show I produced The Human Exhibit: Mentalhealth, when audiences entered, we closed the shutters — signifying a trap in time and inducing claustrophobia and the fear of being stuck.

Which leads me to…

Space as Power

If a character only exists upstage — what does that mean? What if they only ever appear in a tower, and nowhere else?

Ask yourself:

• Who is centred?

• Who is pushed to the edges?

• Who doesn’t even appear, but is heard?

And why?

Space can be a metaphor for:

• Status

• Hierarchy

• Class

• Vulnerability

• Rebellion

• Ego

• and more.

Proximity to the audience amplifies what you, the writer, intends.

Think about a courtroom, a confession booth, a public square, a bedroom. Who speaks loudly? Who stays silent? Who gets seen first?

Proximity can create intimacy or discomfort.

Space as Psychology

When I was writing the first draft of The Woman Who Was Afraid to Touch the Sun, I was very prescriptive — I wanted the audience in the round — four sides, surrounding the action.

Why? Because I wanted them to reflect off each other.
To see someone else’s reactions.
To realise they were being seen too.
To feel, in subtle and sometimes uncomfortable ways, that they were part of the room, and not separated from the main, very real, issues that the show tackles.

One side experiences everything, one side starts hearing before they can see, one side to see only a slit at first, and one side that only gets a projected screen.

That’s the subtext in staging.

I wanted the audience to feel what the characters feel —
unsure, gaslighted, lost, stuck.

Space changes how we feel seen, exposed, hidden,
complicit to what’s going on on stage.

Space as Character

This is a fun one for a writer — how we see space in relation to our characters.
Is the space one of them?

Staging a show:

• On a staircase could be metaphor for transition, a risk, a choice to make (up or down).

• A house — safety, comfort, extremely personal, drawing you in.

• A hoarder’s apartment becomes a pressure cooker, uncontrolled but intended chaos.

How then do you let your characters respond to the room.
And how does the room respond back? Not literally… or does it?

Don’t just think staging, think dramaturgy of space.

So when you’re writing, ask yourself:

• What does the audience need to feel physically? (Claustrophobia? Exposure?)

• What does the space make possible? (Interruptions? Intimacy?)

• Who sees what? Who misses what?

• Could this play only be done in this space? Why?

Sure, a lot of this may be a directors job or a producers job.
But don’t forget, as playwrights, you have the power.
Communicate your intention.
Then have a conversation with the creative team.

So let the shape of the room,
the history of the walls,
and the gaps between bodies influence your script.

Because space is never neutral.
And when you invite it into your writing process,
it will give something back.

And it may even surprise you.