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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"Two hander, thirty characters, of all different ages and genders, usually handed to two young men."

Hilarious.

"Up to six characters a scene, all represented impeccably. I'll see if the production I saw is still running."

Marlowe laughs.

"Oh, please do. That would be..."

Hilarious.

"The seductions are absolutely hysterical. There's nothing like a middle aged balding man playing a dazzling young woman. And there are honestly heart wrenching moments too- there's a young man who walks into a river with Stones in his Pockets, hence the title. The audience honestly cries sometimes. It's wonderful- artfully sustained borderline hysteria throughout, and when the tension finally snaps it's not in the direction you expect it to go and you're just thrown."

"I'd like to see that."

"I'll see what I can do."

There's so much theatre out there. Kit clearly needs to see all of it.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

And it is.

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