A Room in a House - How to "Build" a Character

You, my dear actor, are a designer. After many arduous competitions with other incredible constructors and architects, you have been chosen to decorate a beautiful room in a house.

The foundations of the house are already there. The blueprints of the building were drawn centuries ago by the most famous builders of their time. Everyone knows what the house is supposed to look like, in theory. It has been copied again and again all over the world, with the same white walls and pointed roofs. On the outside, there are dozens of replicas of the exact same house.

On the inside, there is a common understanding of where each room is supposed to be: the kitchen is on the left, next to the living room. The bathroom is connected to the main suite. There is a garden outside the house that reaches out to the street, where you can say hello to those passing by.

However, each room can be decorated in its own original way. How you choose to decorate is up to you. But how do you do that, exactly? You have been given an empty box, and it is your job to fill it and present it in a way that feels uniform with the rest of the house. So how can you make this room truly yours?

The first thing you need to know is what the room is for. What is the purpose of the room? What's the reason it was put there?

To answer that, it's important to know what kind of house is being built: A modern apartment? A cottage in the woods? A Victorian manor? Your "guests" need to be able to tell this just by the interior design, so that's what you'll need to focus on when choosing your furniture.

It always helps to do research into the setting. This is not just about the inside of the house — the time and location where things take place, the political issues of the time, the kinds of clothing worn — but also the house's history. Who created the blueprints? Most writers — oops, sorry, "architects" — bring in messages and conflicts from their own life into their creations, so it's vital to understand what lessons or themes they wanted to present at the start.

When you're focusing on one room, try to summarize its purpose in one sentence: the kitchen is where you eat, the bedroom is where you sleep, the basement is where you hide the secrets. Each room has a meaning, both for the guests and for the house itself, and this helps give you a straightforward direction for what you're here to do.

If you're decorating the living room, you have a big task! This is the first thing that guests will see. First impressions are very important. It sets up the shape of the house, connecting to each and every other room. This is your main space, the lead, where guests will spend most of their time — so it needs to show the house's purpose immediately. Sometimes, there's a monologue printed on the wall or an "I want" song playing on the radio that spells it out plainly for you. Regardless, the designer still has to know what these goals are, and the house's structure follows along the pursuit of those goals.

Remember: your room has to be interesting, not beautiful. It doesn't matter if it's good or bad, evil or saintly, logical or insane. Every home has its eccentricities. Sometimes there's a broken antenna on the old TV, but that's still a part of the house. It needs to be there at that specific angle for the signal to work. You don't have to clean it or fix it. As long as it's possible to peek through the window into someone's life, people will be curious to walk in. Open your doors. Let guests see into every dusty nook and cranny: especially the ones that aren't so pleasant.

On top of all this, there is a very important question that people forget to ask themselves:

Why?

You know the living room has a sofa, a carpet, a coffee table, a shelf, and a TV. That's fine — anyone can shove the cheapest furniture they find at IKEA in a reasonable arrangement and call that a living room. However, if you really want to take up space, create something genuinely appealing that people will actually call home, you have to ask what those things are trying to achieve.

You need a coffee table because you need an easy place to put things down. That's straightforward enough — but maybe, you know that there was once a fight in the living room. The coffee table might've once been made out of glass, but now it has been changed to a harder wood to keep people safe. Maybe there are still fragments of that fight embedded in the floorboards, that you scrub and broom but they never go away. Do you want to seem simplistic, contained, and keep to minimalistic decorations? If so, you put a basic white vase right in the middle of the table — but it's left empty, because you've never received a bouquet from a friend before. Or maybe you want to appear gentle and caring, placing a little crocheted runner with embroidered blue flowers? Those flowers could be forget-me-nots, so guests never forget what actually happened to the original glass table.

You must see the same types of little choices in your own house. You surely have a charger you always keep next to the couch because one time someone needed it and it's now a permanent fixture; a slight stain on your bedsheets because your best friend spilled wine on it and you were never able to wash it off; a lightbulb that went out and you spent months trying to find the replacement but never could. It's not the best, or healthiest, decision to replicate your room exactly, but it always helps to take some inspiration from your own experiences to have ideas.

There is so much you can do with a simple space just by asking yourself what caused things to be the way that they are. When guests only catch one small glimpse, they don't need to have the complete story of someone's life, but they at least need to understand why the room is there, and why it's decorated the way it is. As the designer, you get to decide what parts of the story you want to show. You create the meaning behind every decision.

But importantly, a room does not exist on its own. Even the most amazingly decorated living room is useless if it has no hallways to connect to. You have to ask yourself: how does your room relate to the rest of the house?

What do you give to the neighboring rooms? Perhaps your space brings warmth from the fireplace, perhaps you complete each other like a bedroom and a walk-in closet. Perhaps it offers rest after a long journey through the house, or perhaps it disrupts the calm and forces guests to rethink what they’ve seen so far. Maybe colors bleed through the doorways, or noise might echo through the walls. In many ways, every room both shapes and is shaped by the ones around it.

Contrast and parallel are both important to consider. Some rooms are built to complement one another: the warm kitchen next to the lively dining room, the quiet study tucked away near the library. What do they offer each other, at the end of the day? What they agree on, what they learn from each other, and what they represent? Still, it's important to know what makes them different — what makes them distinct from each other? If they are too similar, you might as well take down the walls and turn them into just one larger room. If they are separate, there must be reasons why. What makes them separate?

Other rooms are deliberately placed to oppose each other, but even extremes still have things in common. The attic is upstairs with the most important family memories, open to a gorgeous sunroof. The basement is dark, shadowed, and grimy, left behind with pipes and rats. Despite being on the literal opposing side of the house, they are fundamentally similar — they both are dusty. They see the house changing while they stay stagnant, left forgotten behind closed, trapped doors.

Look closer, and you may find similarities hidden beneath the surface: perhaps both rooms serve the same purpose in different ways, or perhaps they were designed by the same hand, reflecting the same fears or hopes. There's still a lot they hold inside that is functionally the same, even if architects act upon them differently.

Some rooms transform dramatically as the house ages. The nursery becomes a bedroom, the workshop becomes an office, and the kitchen gets updated with a brand new fridge. These rooms undergo renovations to help reach those overarching goals. As a designer, it's important to ask yourself where the room starts when the house's doors are first opened, and how it changes as the guests go through it. Furniture moves, walls are repainted, and windows are opened that were once shut tight. How do you want the room to end up, and in what state is it in after the guests have left?

Other rooms remain mostly the same. Their role is not to change, but to give the rest of the house context. A stable room can act as a reference point — a place that shows how much everything else has shifted. Even without transforming or going through an arc, it can influence the transformation of the spaces around it. It serves its purpose, and that's never a bad thing.

Sometimes you're not tasked with decorating the living room, or the kitchen, or the evil basement. Sometimes you're just a storage closet. That's okay! It's just as important as any other room, and all these guidelines still apply. The house was built to include that storage closet for a reason. If you know those reasons well, you can still do the same kind of work. Even if the guests are with you for less time, they'll notice if you put effort into making it a very impactful and interconnected storage closet.

At the end of the day, the house does not belong to the designers alone. It belongs to the people who walk through it, the construction company, the team that set the land, the people who bought the paint, and the engineers who fixed the pipes.

You are not building the entire house. You are not even defining the walls that surround you. But within the small box you have been given, your decisions can give a very different impression of the house as a whole. Think about who passes through your door, what they bring, and what they should take away with them when they leave.

So ask yourself these questions, be creative, and put on a show. Most importantly of all, have fun! People will notice, and they'll have fun with you! Nobody will remember old blueprints or any nitpicky little flaws — they'll remember the rooms that felt alive.

Written by Ana Clara Martins, a dedicated Writing & Marketing Committee member!

You can find Ana Clara on Instagram: @anaa.logy

Speak it like Beckett

December 17th.

Today I have lost the ability to speak to people. I opened my mouth but I could not find the words. Nothing was adequate.

My father made me an omelette. I could not thank him. Our eyes passed each other by and waved while my mouth kept twitching. At one point I opened wide, teeth out, silent. Dad laughed and brought me another chunk of the yellow-black, overdone slop. I could not eat it but finished it anyway. “Hhmphg,” I grunted. Dad turned to me and asked: “It was that good, huh?” Another grunt. Nothing was adequate.

I went up to the tree that grew through the middle of the living room. Maybe, at least, I could get myself to say something here, address it to the branches. Somebody had left a massive softcover copy of Samuel Beckett’s Collected works floored blunt on the roots. I saw it and I finally, for the first time that long morning, knew what to say. “Samuel Beckett’s collected works,” I told the tree. The tree said nothing. Maybe it was just that sort of day, and my family’s deranged living symbol had also lost its ability to speak. Who else?

I picked up the book. It was surprisingly light. Light meant smart and quick and easy. This Beckett would teach me how to speak again.

I went back to face my father. My vocal chords redirected all the formed sounds back into my lungs. U-turn cop-out. Nothing was adequate.

My middle part of the day was spent on the park bench peering at the Beckett pages through a polka-dot scarf.

December 18th.

It’s been a week or maybe a month and a week since I have lost my ability to speak. Beckett’s helping.

In the morning, the woman at the grocery store, with her usual look of profound pity, asked me if I wanted a plastic bag. I thought of the usual pictures of dead leather-shelled turtles. “It was a little child that fell out of the carriage, Ma’am,” I told her. “Oh god, oh god oh god, what happened?” She said, pitying me or maybe the little girl. I left the store carrying the milk, carrots and bananas I had bought cradled precariously in my hands.

The middle part of my day was spent on the park bench helping the wind flip the pages of Beckett’s collected works.

December 19th.

Yesterday I lost my ability to speak.

Beckett teaches that one does not have to speak. I can be A, or perhaps B, from the Act Without Words II.

My father made me an omelette today. It was burnt and smelled of pinched needles. I sat down on the chair and demonstratively crossed my legs. In my shirt pocket I found a carrot and a banana. I put the banana back in my pocket and chewed on the carrot. It tasted like metal. It had soaked in the stench of the room. The message I wanted to communicate to my Dad was this: it is alright, I do not need the omelette, you can sit down and relax and not work so hard. My father frowned and pushed the omelette towards me. I kept chewing the carrot. Snap and crunch.

“Yes I know, it’s a little burnt, but you have to eat… you haven’t been yourself,” Dad crooned.

After a while, he reluctantly shuffled the plate back away from me. His eyes searched mine. His mouth opened to speak, but stopped short. His hands threw the plate vigorously onto the floor, where it smashed against the roots. The tree would be happy; the tree would feed, burnt or not.

Beckett’s words twirled and pranced around in my skull.

Nothing was adequate. Tomorrow I would have known what to say.

I spent the middle of the day periodically wiping fallen leaves and dust off Beckett’s collected words.

December 20th.

I woke up some time ago and found I could not speak. This did not last very long. After months of studying Beckett I am able to speak like him without quoting him directly. The key is to imagine the person I am talking to is not really there, and the words I am saying are addressed to Beckett, while He is testing me on the adequacy of my interpretation of his collected works.

Several times people have gotten up in a fury over my conversation.

“Nobody talks like that,” they say, lips taut. But I know somebody talks like that. And I know, as well (and this is something He teaches) that words and patterns create universes, and sooner or later the power of my unique form will convince my co-conversationalists that there is a world beyond “everybody”, a specific place where how I speak is the law of things. Speech and motion and their repetition are what makes life, and saying that my speech does not correspond to reality is to simply be outdated. As I speak, I update what is possible and what is real. In this I follow Beckett and his collected works. His characters never spoke “realistically”, instead they birthed patterns of words, and words make logic and logic builds an understanding of the world.

I spent the middle part of my day peeling bananas and throwing the peels down to feed the park grass. I did some reading too.

December 21st

Beckett teaches that my father is not my father, but a father. He is also a signifier, or a variable. A,B,C, maybe D or X or 23 or Dad. He is a signifier who has attributes and lines. One of those attributes is that today he has made me an omelette. Another is that he, along with Beckett, will die tomorrow. 22nd of December, Beckett’s death day. I don’t feel much connection to him. Or my father for that matter. Like his characters, I now feel like I have nothing to do with anyone else. I am adequate for nobody.

The worlds I have spoken into existence have all disappeared the very next second. I am increasingly certain, however, that most ideas are best explained by  well placed picture words. A couple words that do not try to explain but let you feel the presence of the things described, invoked; this is how you plant the seeds of ideas. Beckett may have had something to do with that thought.

The middle part of my day was spent wondering where the later parts of my days go.

22.12.

Here I note, in some attempt to calm my scurrying thoughts, the case of the matter. I found this diary just now, the evening of the 22nd of December, in my room, on my bedside table. It does not belong to me.

My own father has been dead for 7 years. I have not read a page of Samuel Beckett in my life. Maybe I have seen Waiting for Godot staged in a park some summer, but I’m not sure -- that may have been me imagining someone’s retelling of that event. Whatever. What disturbs me more is this, on my table. Whoever wrote this is definitely not me, so how did it get here? We bear one similarity, me and this time-addled author. We both have a tree growing through the middle of our living room. The parallels end there. I will ask around, then try to forget. But right now, there is such silence. I feel like my breath has been vacuumed out of me. I am starting to think the earth might be uninhabited.

Written by Yan Nesterenko, a dedicated Writing Committee member! 

You can find Yan on Instagram: @n_strenkyn

Performance v.18

FINAL_FINAL_LAST_VERSION_Performance_v.18.docx

"Performance"

INT. SOUNDSTAGE - EMPTY SET

Curtains open.

White lights fade in, revealing a bare stage. The back and side curtains are pulled up, letting the audience see into the wings. Ropes swing by the side of the set. A ladder creaks. There is nobody there, but the full technical equipment of the theatre is exposed, vulnerable.

Backstage, there is a low rumble. Conversations echo through the wall and increase in volume quickly with manic energy. The tension builds. Someone yells. Something clangs against the floor. A switch flicks on and off and on again. A distant piano plays a song off-tune. Noise, noise, noise,

And suddenly, silence.

The first backstage door swings open.

THE SKILL walks in through stage right with a solemn look. He wears a feathered hat and historic clothing. He walks center stage, downstage.

There is a moment of quiet as he stares into the audience, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

THE SKILL
(Dramatically.) All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages–

A laugh is heard from stage-right, and THE SKILL flinches.

THE PASSION walks in through the second backstage door with a confident smile. He wears a glamorous modern suit, sparkling in the stage lights.

THE SKILL turns towards him, annoyed.

THE SKILL
What? What is it?

THE PASSION walks forward, standing stage-right. THE SKILL steps back.

THE PASSION
Nothing, nothing. (Beat.) I just… find it silly. Don’t you think that monologue is a little outdated?

THE SKILL
It's Shakespeare.

THE PASSION
Exactly. Why are you doing that dumb posh voice?

THE SKILL
(Offended.) I'm not doing a voice. This is the character. I'm playing a role.

THE PASSION
Isn’t ‘As You Like It’ a comedy? You sound waaay too serious.

THE SKILL rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

THE SKILL
The character, Jaques, is supposed to be cynical. He is a philosopher. His overindulgence in melancholy is intentional. He stands apart from the world in order to understand it.

THE PASSION
That doesn’t sound very comedic, I’ll be honest.

THE SKILL turns to fully face him.

THE SKILL
(Frustrated.) Then go complain to Shakespeare’s grave. ‘As You Like It’ is a traditional classic. It’s great. You just have poor taste.

THE PASSION
My taste is great, it’s just a lot more modern. So, you know, it actually applies to my life. I don’t really care for stories that aren’t relatable.

THE SKILL
Old stories are just as relatable! The themes and ideas are still there, even if the words themselves can be somewhat out of style. I’m just honoring the text.

THE PASSION
No, you’re obeying it. There’s no honor in that.

THE SKILL stiffens.

THE SKILL
Excuse me?

THE PASSION
You heard me. You’re obeying, not honoring.

THE SKILL
This delivery is just… It’s just how it’s always been performed, okay? All actors before me have echoed the author’s voice, to convey the correct message. It’s just how it always is. I won’t change it.

THE SKILL adjusts his clothes with a stubborn arrogance. He steps forward elegantly to return to his monologue, but THE PASSION quickly pulls him back. They split the stage half-and-half.

THE PASSION
Yes, sure, but enough time has passed. Things change. You’re preserving the text, not the thought behind it.

THE SKILL
The thought is the text, that’s the point. You can’t honor a performance without understanding what it was originally meant to achieve, and the writers’ intentions can only shine through in their words. Meaning doesn’t exist without form.

THE PASSION
I disagree. For starters, most of Willie’s old plays were for the common folk, not the wealthy. He'd be rolling in his grave if he heard how pretentious you're sounding.

THE SKILL puts his foot down, pushing THE PASSION a bit farther away.

THE SKILL
Will you stop critiquing my accent? I know what I'm doing.

THE PASSION
Do you? Sounds to me like you're just copying better actors...

THE SKILL pauses, visibly upset at the comment.

A beat.

For a moment, it looks like THE PASSION’s face reveals a glint of regret; a sudden sadness he isn’t voicing.

Just as THE PASSION goes to step forward — perhaps to apologize — THE SKILL takes a step upstage in a dramatic faux reverence.

THE SKILL
(Sarcastically.) Well, then, oh, great director. Show us how to do it right. Please, enlighten us with your amazing ability.

THE PASSION pauses for a brief moment, before he walks forward defiantly, a dance-like flow to his step. He looks off to the side with a flame in his eyes, gesticulating vaguely in the air as he talks. He glances right at the audience, even directly locking eyes with some front-row audience members. He has an ambitious charm.

THE PASSION
Life is like a play with no script,
and everyone follows along in their roles.
We come into the world, and eventually leave it;
but in between, we force ourselves to put on masks.
We pretend to know where to go, what to do,
but we all play seven roles–

THE SKILL rushes forward, dropping his face in his hands.

THE SKILL
Stop, stop.

THE PASSION
What now?

THE SKILL
You got it all wrong. That isn’t the monologue. At all.

THE PASSION
Yes, it is.

THE SKILL
No, you’re just babbling some vague ideas.

THE PASSION steps forward, looking ahead as he delivers his monologue. He gets lost in his thoughts as he speaks.

THE PASSION
But that's what it feels like, isn't it? We all live our lives in a performance. The world is a stage, while everyone else is watching and judging. People are born, they grow, they fear, they change, they fail, they learn, and then they die at the end. The idea is the same, right?

THE SKILL paces behind him, disappointed.

THE SKILL
You’re doing a disservice to the original text. There’s so much value, so much history, in the original choice of words. You can’t just improv your way through them because you feel like it.

THE PASSION turns back around.

THE PASSION
(Resolutely.) Yes, I can. It’s how the text makes me feel, so that’s how I’ll say it.

THE SKILL
If everyone bends the text into whatever they believe in, it becomes arbitrary. Theatre isn’t here for you to overwrite nuance with your own worldview, just so you can, what, feel seen? Characters aren’t supposed to be your mirrors.

THE PASSION walks towards him.

THE PASSION
But how am I even supposed to perform a role I don’t see myself in? What’s the value of speaking words I can’t believe in? It’s not acting if you’re just reading the text.

THE SKILL
Actors are vessels. We carry fictional worlds, stories, morals, so much larger than ourselves. It’s not acting if you’re just being yourself. Then it’s just reality.

THE PASSION
Well, I think–

THE SKILL
No one cares what you think. This is about the story, not about you.

THE PASSION steps back at THE SKILL’s confrontation, in surprise and offense. He turns away in frustration, facing the audience for a moment before slowly walking away stage-left in anger.

THE SKILL
Theatre isn’t about your own indulgence. You have to understand the craft, the insight, the versions of stories told before… You can’t get so lost in your own delusions, in the beating in your chest, that you forget the message you’re actually trying to tell. The audience will leave empty-handed. You can have all the fantasies you want, but without effort, without structure–

THE PASSION, lost in his thoughts, stops at the stage’s edge.

THE SKILL
–You’ll overstep without knowing the way forward. You’ll just fall into the pit.

THE PASSION pauses at the edge off to the side of the stage, just before the orchestral pit. He looks down into the dark pit. He sighs, before sitting down right at the ledge and letting his legs swing.

THE PASSION
But, if actors speak what they don’t believe, the stage becomes a lie. And you know the audience can sense that, too.

He looks up at the audience as he speaks. THE SKILL moves closer.

THE PASSION
There’s no point in living so systematically, so performatively, you forget to actually live. Why do you think every theatre production is so different? People’s experiences are all unique to them.

THE PASSION turns quickly towards THE SKILL, and he freezes, embarrassed for getting caught in his interest.

THE PASSION
You can read all the books about theatre guidelines and memorize all the little key terms, but there’s no rules or laws to real emotion.

THE PASSION turns back forward, while THE SKILL mumbles to himself, tired of the discussion. He pulls out a small notepad from his pocket and begins to flick through the pages.

THE PASSION
I’d rather fall than not have spoken at all. And yeah, sure, okay. Characters aren’t mirrors, but our job is to make them feel real. They’re fragments of us, in one way or another, just as we take fragments of them into ourselves.

THE PASSION waits for a rebuttal, but THE SKILL stays quiet.

Instead, THE SKILL walks forward and sits down beside him. He takes a pen out of his pocket and clicks it.

THE PASSION looks back at him, confused.

THE PASSION
What are you doing?

THE SKILL
Tallying.

THE PASSION
(Disillusioned.) … Really?

THE SKILL
Yes. This is the… 18th time we’ve had this argument.

THE PASSION
(Scoffing.) You really never change tradition, do you? We keep going in circles, and still you never actually listen to me.

THE SKILL
I can listen to you just fine. You literally never shut up about your feelings.

THE PASSION
How can I be quiet? (Sighing gently.) There are so many beautiful things to feel.

THE SKILL
Too many, maybe.

THE PASSION
I won’t be silent about my excitement when given a spotlight.

THE SKILL flicks through his notepad a few more times, before putting it back in his pocket.

THE SKILL
I’m afraid I’ll never properly understand you, but I…

He hesitates, as if he couldn’t believe he was admitting this.

THE SKILL
I don’t dislike you.

THE PASSION
(Prickly.) You act like you do.

THE SKILL
(Softer.) Of course I do. A performance feels safer, doesn’t it?

THE PASSION looks up suddenly, in concern. There is a deep understanding in his eyes as they share a look. THE SKILL looks back down, flustered.

THE SKILL
But I’ve studied enough to know your importance. There’s not much point in writing a story if there’s nothing to write about. You matter just as much.

THE PASSION takes a moment to process this, looking away. He smiles to himself sweetly, before a sudden realization pops into his head.

THE PASSION
(With sass.) …I know what you’re trying to do.

THE SKILL
Do you?

THE PASSION
You’re trying to get me to admit that I still need your technical knowledge, that my excitement can’t flourish anywhere without your little structures and rulebooks.

THE SKILL grins to himself.

THE SKILL
Oh, hm, am I?

THE PASSION
Yes, you are! You’re always like this. If you’re trying to get me to confess that I need you, then I have bad news.

THE SKILL scooches closer, leaning over THE PASSION.

THE SKILL
I’m not trying to do anything; you already wear your heart on your sleeve. We both know you would be nowhere without me. I can read between the lines just fine.

THE PASSION grins madly, a sneaky tone in his voice.

THE PASSION
…Oh?

THE SKILL
What?

THE PASSION
So you say… there’s meaning between the lines? It’s almost like–

THE SKILL pulls away, embarrassed.

THE SKILL
Don’t.

THE PASSION
It’s almost like… you can tell the meaning… without the text.

THE SKILL
Stop that.

THE PASSION
It’s like the feeling matters more than the form, or something. Woaaaah, that’s crazy.

THE SKILL
(Chuckling.) Your understanding of comedy is very twisted.

THE PASSION
And still, you laugh.

The two share a small laugh, before THE SKILL gets up. He extends a hand to THE PASSION, who takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up.

THE SKILL turns to the audience, smiling fondly.

THE SKILL
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances…

He turns towards THE PASSION, and loses track of his thoughts.

THE PASSION
But we keep forgetting the script, don’t we?

THE SKILL laughs quietly to himself. He takes a deep breath.

THE SKILL
Let’s go from the top.

BLACKOUT.

Written by Ana Clara Martins, a dedicated Writing & Marketing Committee member!

You can find Ana Clara on Instagram: @anaa.logy