no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

Marlowe is not, and has never been, a continuous writer. He's too full of energy for that, too quick and hurried with that impossible perfectionistic streak. Instead, he writes in episodes of fevered inspiration countered by episodes of staring and thinking.

Tonight, he is in the latter.

He is sitting in his chair, leaning it back with his leg braced against the table to keep from toppling. Hands linked behind his head, eye bright and sharp and far away.

On the table, there are papers. His play, scattered here there and everywhere, and Darren's letters.

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"It's a good play, even if young William stole my line."

"I hate Geoffrey. I've had to stipulate in my contract that he doesn't stab me."

And it's so fucking romantic, he can hardly stand it.

A sharp, wicked grin.

"Sounds perfectly delightful."

"You are insane, you do know."

"All geniuses are."

"And modest," he quips immediately.

He shudders.

"I had to play modest at school. I think I can safely say that after the first ten minutes it really, really grates."

"You're right. To hell with modesty."

He's running a finger absently up the spine of the book he didn't even really begin reading, watching Marlowe instead.

From the age of six to twenty-three.

It was very, very tiring. Not to mention it didn't help with his natural inclination to keep his thoughts to himself.

Or at the very least, off his face.

"Especially when you aren't going to be kicked out because you ignore it."

"They joys of adulthood. Owning your own life."

If any one is going to be thrown out here, it's Darren.

He snorts.

"Or something akin to that."

"Or something akin to that," echoes Darren, but a lot more cheerfully.

He feels sorted.

"Any thoughts on what you plan to do with aforementioned play?"

"I'll sort it out. I don't really want to think about it. Probably something with Roland Bart."

Darren's been reading Roland Bart the last couple of days.

Amused,

"Sure."

("It’s an old trick that our friend the corpse used in his Romeo and Juliet play.")

And if there is something faintly dark about that amusement, something still held back, well.

It's Marlowe.

Edited 2007-12-01 09:19 (UTC)

"I'm going to stay in the bar the next few days. I think."

Barring interventions by Pucks, Satans and Le Chiffres.

Now he looks pleased.

"Good."

"I thought we might see a play."

Like he mentioned.

That he did.

"Anything particular you have in mind?"

"There's a good company in Montreal putting on Ten Lost Years. I don't think you'll ever have seen anything quite like it."

Which is always just exciting.

"Not hard," he points out, but he's smiling as he says it.

"Don't I feel cultured. Ten Lost Years is... well, it's by Barry Broadfoot. Historical context- in the year 1929 there was a drought, crop failure, economic recession, general starvation, etcetera. It lasted ten years. We call them the dirty thirties, and the Great Depression. This is a collection of first hand stories about the time, stitched into a play. It's sort of like looking at a patchwork quilt, whereas your plays are frescoes. Does that make sense?"

Carefully,

"Very."

A quilt, instead of....

Hmm.

"Little scenes that aren't really the same thing but bleed into each other. A woman here complaining about being unable to wash the dust out of her clothes and then a father talking about going to get welfare and then a scene in a welfare office of a screaming argument, and then a man and woman getting married, to find out they both were widowers with nine children who'd accidentally swindled each other and then another monologue about a woman whose husband died in a coal mine."

He was in Ten Lost Years once.

"Sounds utterly fascinating."