The Conversation

So, on a fairly regular basis, I have a conversation in the darkened back corridors of various theatres.  I mean, obviously, because what are backstage corridors if not hives of chit-chat and indiscretion… but no, what I’m referring to here, is the conversation.  Often taking several days to complete, as technical theatre is nothing if not prone to starts and stops, I’ve now had it on so many occasions I can recite it pretty much verbatim.  Different people take it to different stages  – most don’t get much past the third or fourth permutations, very, very few indeed have made it through to the final conclusion, the end of the thought chain.  It’s a conversation that goes something like this:

Technician: “So, you’re a freelance lighting technician, yes?”

Me:  “Yes.  Well, no, I’m a freelance wannabe lighting designer, but in the sense that I’m far too young to have any good odds of success as a lighting designer, and that there ain’t nothing like learning from others on the job, and as you catch me loving this particular theatre which I’m currently working at and lets face it, who wouldn’t, yes, I suppose you could say I’m a freelance lighting technician.  Hello.”

“You work many venues?”

“When I can.  I mean, this venue keeps me pretty well occupied, pays a decent rate and is, as established, pretty damn cool, and besides, what I try to do is work stints in lighting followed by stints in my other job.”

“What’s the other job?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Ah, I see.”

At this ‘ah’ the conversation sometimes stops outright.  About 20% of the time, faced with the sudden, ghastly prospect of having to haul lamps with a writer – a profession, lets face it, renowned for its moaning more than its ability to wire – technicians immediately shy away from any continued exploration of the subject and our conversation returns to safer matters, like how hard it is to find the right end for a ratchett spanner in a hurry and isn’t it great when a play actually uses the revolve and so on.

The remaining 80% move into the next phase of the conversation.  Maybe not immediately, maybe not right there, but in time, round 2 will commence, and it goes like this…

“A writer, really?” quoth our technician.  “What kind of writer?”

“I’m a fantasy writer.”

“Really, really…”  Judicious pursing of lips.  “So like… elves and stuff?”

Here follows my feeble attempts to explain that no, not so much elves.  I mean, sure, I’ll do elves, so long as the elves in question live in Clapham and are addicted to falafal.  Elves questing for magic fridges whose doors swing wide to a new dimension, sure; glowing swords, less so.

At the end of this explanation, and as a sad testament to my powers of speech, another 20% of my conversational participants drop out of the chat, leaving 60% to sweep on through to…

“… So, you hoping to get published?”

“Actually,” I mumble, coiling cable with all the professionalism I can muster, “I kinda already am.  But I mean I can still operate a lighting desk and stuff, it’s not something you need to be worried about if you find yourself standing beneath me when I’m hauling lanterns into precarious positions, honestly, I’m a reasonable techie when I try!”

“Cool, cool.”

Goodbye another 20% of conversationalists, and again, let’s just pause to ask why.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I fully appreciate that there are certain aspects of the CV so far which are, without a shadow of a doubt, ridiculous.  The whole age at which I started scribbling is, was and always shall be, ridiculous, and I am rightly embarrassed.  The fact that I’ve carried on is pretty damn daft and the fact that while continuing to write I’ve also found that working in theatre lighting is a pretty awesome thing, doesn’t really detract from the absurdity of the situation.  I mean, make no mistake, I get the need to fully commit to a career.  But I refer you again to my belief that people who purely commit to writing, tend to go a bit mad with the voices in their head, and those who fully commit to lighting quickly find themselves dreaming of cable, and is this a good thing?  Really?

But back to the conversation.  By now we’re down to a meagre 40% of die-hard conversationalists hanging in there by the skin of their teeth, and at this point several days, if not weeks, have probably gone by between the various rounds of our chat.  We’re now up to…

“So wow, where have you been published?”

“Um, you know, around.  There’s been some translations and stuff.”

“You’ve been translated into other languages?  What is this, like short stories, journals…?”

“No, novels.”

“As in…”

“As in papery things bound with glue…?”

“And you write them?”

“Yeap.”

“And get paid?”

“Yeap.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“No, but seriously…?”

Thankfully, at this point something usually comes up.  A dimmer trips, a light loses data, someone kicks something in the stage left slip and things are left to hang, and once again, 20% of the conversationalists never ever refer back to the chat ever again.  But eventually, and after all this, one fifth of our original chatty partners will come back for the final development of the conversation, the one in which, ironically, I tend to be the partner who shuts things down, and it goes like this…

Technician: “So, you must be, like, famous!”

Me:  “Oh nononono!  I mean, I do okay for myself, it’s been a lot of books and more are coming, so that’s cool and I’m happy.  But I’m a little fish in a big pond and really, I’m not a fan of this fame thing, it doesn’t seem much like fun.  I mean, for a start, its way more interesting to know crap things about famous people rather than ‘so-and-so is a decent girl who works quite hard and doesn’t really get into trouble’, so really, fame just seems to be inviting grief.  No, not famous; chose cake, not fame.  Um… can we change the subject?”

And that, pretty much, is that.

Make no mistake – I quite enjoy the conversation.  I’ve always had a perverse attachment to finding pre-conceptions and kicking them when they’re down.  And as luck would have it, the pre-conception of lighting technicians is of burly men of a certain syntax,  dirty humour and an aversion to classical imagery, rather than… well… me… and so there’s a lot of satisfaction in watching people struggle with their own mindset as to how things should be, faced with how they actually are.  Then again, there’s also a degree of regret that a considerable percentage of people I talk to never actually overcome the mindset and get through the first few rounds of the conversation, merely filing their encounters with me away mentally as a bit bizarre and best not thought about.  I am also aware that I could just end the conversation at round one, either by absolutely denying the writing thing (tricky, considering my scribbler’s compulsion) or by just cutting to the chase and doing a quick download of the life-story so far.  But I must admit, I try to avoid the latter option, as it not only steals away a lot of the narrative suspense, but just seems like a incredibly wanky thing to do.  As a technician, I remain what I am – incredibly junior and inexperienced – and it seems appropriate to the position I occupy to maintain humility in all areas of work, especially if every now and then the writing thing threatens to encroach with a flare of indecent pride.