In our first Pilot, we start with Bilal performing a brand new monologue he’s written about Parramatta. We then travel back in time to hear how Kevin and Bilal actually workshopped and edited the piece you just heard.
We record our writing process and then play it all for you to hear, so you can see what it takes to professionally edit a piece of creative writing so that it’s ready to be published, and shared with an audience.
Here’s the draft piece of writing we started with (you can follow along and see what changes we made before Bilal’s performance):
From behind the window, behind the curtain.
I’m looking at all the actors on this unscripted day.
There’s the Starr delivery man who’s still looking for number 92
(we’re 90, and our neighbour is 94)
the cafe worker across the street still looks like my brother (if I squint and age him about... 10 years)
I’m not sure if the play has started yet.
It’s important to tell you where I’m sitting -- you’ll see why.
In our downstairs office, there’s a little nook that’s shaped somewhere between a fish tank and a small car. It’s mostly wood and cushion and glass, and it faces out onto George street.
George, after the king? The Greek place on the corner likes to joke it’s named after their uncle, and I like that a little more.
I don’t think of Parramatta as a museum.
It’s old, sure, as old as anything in Australia can be.
I once heard that the bend in Parramatta’s river (in walking distance from what(ever) I can see outside the window) was a birthing site for Aboriginal mothers… before-
I don’t think of it as a museum
Museums are sad places, (where) (the) visitors snatching bits of people’s lives into their coat pockets, to hold on train rides home and remember years that weren’t theirs.
So no, Parramatta is not a Museum, I’m not a visitor.
Besides, I’m talking about what’s on the other side of the display.
I remembered how to feel.
It’s 3 weeks ago, and I get to see a slice of Parramatta’s opera.
I wonder if this story’s mine or to share.
I am an Observer, mostly unseen. More theoretical than thespian.
And here are our two players. I can see them now.
The man is shorter than me, but more handsome, his eyes dark flints - making sparks at the woman. She hasn’t seen him yet, but he’s watching her, quietly. Is there any other way to look at love(/there’s no other way to look at love)? Like it’s night, and cold, and you’re (hunched over, focused) trying to start a fire.
(The rest of the Draft script can be found here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10A75KGdGAtxYkWofj16xuPUr0b6F76mYblTo8z2g5mc/edit?usp=sharing)
(For a full transcript of the final script go to: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ehaIAcGfObrJR-MlK43vb6feuu2-5UtGWgUcQIzXMhg/edit?usp=sharing)
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