Due to some mental health issues, I haven’t been able to write up a film/TV newsletter for Frank-22 this week. Instead, I’m posting something different.
Since January, I’ve been attending a writers’ group in East London. I realised around New Year’s that I needed a nice change to suit a bunch of less positive changes that were inevitably heading my way. I thought this group would help me come out of my shell and meet like-minded people who love to write. Not only have I achieved this, but my writing has also improved as a result. Having an audience in mind is imperative when creating anything, at least in the later stages, and being a part of this group helps me take my writing more seriously. I even wrote a poem for the group a few weeks ago, and one member encouraged me to submit it to publishers. I did so, and it’s now being included in the upcoming November issue of Wishbone Words.
In lieu of a newsletter, which was going to focus on Bridgerton season 3 part 2 (better than many people are claiming) and Under the Bridge (a brilliantly dark and frustrating missing persons drama with Lily Gladstone), I thought a recent piece written for the group could take its place. I might make this a regular thing, maybe once every other week, but we’ll see how it goes.
Below is my piece Dream Girl, which is an exercise in practicing good dialogue. Lots of the members are repelled by dialogue (for good reason), but as someone who studied Film Production and has written a fair few screenplays, I relished the challenge. This is partially inspired by Haruki Murakami (specifically The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle), who navigates sexually somnambulant worlds in his work.
I had to leave. The flat was too small.
Fragments from my nightmare cut across my eyes. Naked elbows, fleshy thighs, freckled shoulders. Maybe it’s good to have sex dreams once in a while. Aren’t they meant to be great?
The eyes in my mind: sharp turquoise, hanging under a thick red fringe.
Problematic because my girlfriend Rosa, asleep in our bed at that early hour, had brown eyes and an open brunette parting.
It was a dream. It was a dream. Why did I feel so guilty?
At around six in the morning, I was walking along the Victoria Embankment and veered to the wall – resting my jacketed elbows and leaning over to watch the Thames.
Yes, this was nice. That distinct lilac blue would hold in the air for the next half-hour or so. I needed this. I needed—
Another pair of elbows rested next to mine. I returned to tensing every muscle I could.
‘Hey,’ the woman said.
I didn’t turn, didn’t even speak. I just smiled politely. But she edged closer.
‘Do you always come out so early?’ she said.
‘I don’t.’ I still protested my right not to turn.
‘Spur of the moment, then. London’s radiantly pretty in the mornings, don’t you agree?’
‘Hm.’
A nice silence followed…
‘Don’t talk much, do you?’
‘I tend to prefer it,’ I snapped.
‘I gathered as much last night.’
What?
I was obliged to turn at this point. ‘I don’t know what you’re—’
Like a new key is a rusty locket, this woman’s appearance penetrated my mind and turned and turned and turned.
The red fringe sprouted to wildly organised curls.
And her eyes: bright turquoise, blending beautifully with the colour of the air.
‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, motioning to leave. ‘Please excuse me.’
‘Awwwwh,’ she stretched with a pantomime smile. ‘You don’t remember? I thought I was astonishingly unforgettable.’
She wore a short-sleeved shirt, appropriate for the warm weather, and her naked elbows were littered with freckles. I peered down to the thighs of her jeans, to a certain repetitive motion once made with them—
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘I don’t know you, I don’t know you…’
I pushed away. If I was quick, I could be back at the flat in ten minutes. Nine, maybe.
But she followed behind. Near to my ear.
‘Well, of course you know me,’ she purred. ‘We met in your dream.’
Whatever force propelling me forwards dissipated immediately, and I froze in that absurd statement. She curled around my figure, feline but predatory, and examined closely – into my dull grey eyes. I… I did know her.
‘There he is,’ she smiled. ‘Now, what are we doing today? I could murder a coffee. It really is despicably early…’