Augusta Supple

A fading August afternoon. Wednesday. I’m in my coat. It’s cold. Hands in gloves. Waiting. Standing in the terrace of Nimrod Street.

It’s been a big day. meeting with directors, potential directors, reading scripts submitted by aspiring playwrights, thinking about the Griffin Award.
I had just finished talking to an emerging writer about the director who is interested in working with her on her script, when I arrived for a coffee at the Tropicana. I ring another playwright. She’s lovely and I tell her I love her script. I’ve been reading for three weeks solid. I have started to get emails from playwrights assuming bad news- I delay them with a kind “not yet”. There have been lists of to-do’s. I’ve been spending all my time thinking about playwrights, producing playwrights, directing, dramaturgy. These thoughts swarm. I am simultaneously inspired and honoured by the hugeness of what I don’t know- what I haven’t seen- what I haven’t read of Australian playwriting. And Australia is only two hundred years or so old- at times like these I’m glad I am not Greek. Three thousand years of catching up of playwriting- sheesh! more…