David Eldridge’s plays, which include Market Boy, Under the Blue Sky and The Knot of the Heart, have been staged at many of London’s major theatres, from the National to the Almeida. As his latest, In Basildon, opens at the Royal Court, he talks to Matt Trueman about the playwright’s lot…
You originally hoped to be a director. What brought about the shift to writing?
New writing had a shaky period in the late ’80s. It wasn’t barren – there are loads of great plays from the period – but it felt like the energy was more with directors. I thought I wanted to go to the RSC and be a director, but when I was at university, I lost faith in that idea. I kept thinking, if you’ve got something to say or a story to tell, why not just say it or tell it? Why use something else and bend it or subvert it as a means of doing that?
What one thing do young writers need to remember above all else?
That there’s no right way to write a play. No two writers are the same. Often, if you look at a writer’s career, they’ll have written plays in different ways. In the last 15 years, theatres have got into trouble when they’ve pedalled the idea that by encouraging writers to go on this attachment, do this workshop, learn this structure, take these notes and so on, they can form the perfect writer and the perfect play. It doesn’t work like that: writers need treating in as bespoke and individual a way as possible.
So do you think playwriting schemes are redundant?
No. You can learn things from notes, workshops and readings, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s just a small part of the learning curve. The real growth spurts for a writer come from productions of their plays. When you see a work tested in front of a living, breathing, paying audience, that’s how you really learn.
Can you learn from other people’s work?
Absolutely. See as much live performance as possible: plays, opera, dance, stand up comedy, live art. Anything that’s live. It’s also important to read a lot of plays, because you learn about dialogue both as a function of action and as it exists on the moment. Read all of Pinter, all of Ibsen, all of Strindberg. Read Edward Bond and Robert Holman. Educate yourself.
What do you know now that you wish you’d known at the start of your career?
You have to be a little existentialist as a writer, in that you have to realise that, finally, you are alone. There’ll be this whole web of collaborative relationships that will bring your play to life, but ultimately you have to take responsibility for it yourself. Your name’s on the front and you have to stand and fall by it.
What about getting that break that artists all need? How should young writers approach literary departments?
It’s good to know where you want to work. Rather than printing 10 copies of a play and sending them everywhere, think about where you’d like your play to be on. Theatres can get a bit defensive when you say, “That’s a Royal Court play; that’s a Hampstead play,” and they try and break out of boxes and redefine themselves all the time, but certain theatres have certain interests, styles and pre-occupations.
That said, some writers get hung up on networking. They think that if you know someone that’s got an “in” somewhere, you’ll be alright. That’s total bollocks. At the end of the day, the overriding thing is to make sure your work is as good as it can possibly be. That’s the best way to ensure that you’ll get noticed.
In Basildon runs at the Royal Court, London, until 24 March. Buy tickets.
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