Learning to love my unfinished stories
There’s a writing club in London that meets once a month and I’ve managed to frequent it a grand total of two times over the last six months. Despite my infrequent visits, each session has been an invaluable experience, filled with learning and the opportunity to meet fascinating people. It’s a hands-on workshop where a well-known creative leads the session, shares their insights, and then sets a writing task for the group to complete within an hour. Afterwards, we get to read our work aloud and receive feedback from the group.
During my last visit, the session was led by the renowned screenwriter and film director Richard Kwietniowski, known for his acclaimed short films Alfalfa and Flames of Passion, amongst many others. Following a very motivating talk — one filled with anecdotes and wisdom from his extensive career — he set a curveball of a task: we were to draft the first act of a screenplay titled ‘Blue’ and introduce a central character.
Having never read a screenplay, let alone written one, I was initially at a loss. But with Richard’s pointers on the basics, I managed to draft the following piece:
Blue
Exterior. Bus shelter outside Chinese takeaway. Night.
A single streetlight flickers overhead, casting an unreliable glow on the deserted alley. The rhythmic buzz of the neon ‘OPEN’ sign from the takeaway pulses in the background, piercing the heavy silence.
At the bus shelter, under a digital screen aglow with the blues, reds, and whites of BA Holidays, a figure stands — no name given, an everyman — looking longingly at the advertisement for a romantic getaway to the Maldives, face half-lit, creating an uneasy contrast of weariness and hope. His eyes, the kind that have been through too much, dart around, searching for something that isn’t there.
His hand trembles slightly as he checks his watch – a gift once happily received, now an unwelcome reminder of happier times. It’s late; the oft-delayed 22 bus remains a question, not a certainty.
The figure exhales slowly, breath misting in the air, and looks up at the flickering streetlight, wondering if he could fix it. The cold seems to pierce through his jacket, the kind that’s been worn more for attachment than warmth, and into his bones.
A family passes by the takeaway, the laughter of the two kids — a boy and a girl — remind him of a dream once shared.
Around him, the world is a kaleidoscope of blues — the midnight hue of the sky, the whine of a police car blurring into the night, the teal of a discarded soda can on the pavement, and the neon blue of the takeaway sign. Even the streetlight, seen from the right angle, casts a surreal cyan shade over the scene.
In his pocket, his phone vibrates relentlessly. He ignores it, knowing exactly who it is, unable to face the name, the picture, the excuses, and the memories that come flooding with it.
A couple holds hands as they walk past the bus shelter, the girl curling into the man’s arms. He averts his eyes, his jaw tightening.
He shifts uneasily, the motion slow, heavy with resignation. His gaze settles on a scratched heart in the metal of the shelter next to an initialed declaration of undying love.
Finally, as the distant sound of an approaching bus grows clearer, he lifts his head, squints toward the oncoming vehicle, and whispers to the night:
“Maybe it’s time to stop waiting.”
After having written the above, I was quite content — more due to the fact that I had managed to pen this in an hour, than how good it was — and so I decided to volunteer to read it to the group. My voice trembled at first, but as I read, I grew more confident and by the end, I felt relieved. But what followed was an enlightening critique that reshaped my understanding of writing across different genres.
Richard looked up at me and smiled. “You write prose, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I thought so,” he said. “You crave closure. You’ve told me the whole story in that one act: You’ve written a one-act play instead of the first act of the play. This is common with prose writers when they try to write a screenplay — they want to tell you everything and tend to narrativize everything.”
Richard’s insight was a revelation of sorts. I had never realized that my writing style inherently seeks closure … that it seeks a complete narrative arc. It’s true that I find it difficult to leave a piece half-written; there’s a constant nagging in my brain that’s urging me to finish it, to control the entire narrative until the end.
I can’t end this article here, for example …
… even if I wanted to.
I just couldn’t.
And so, the ask of writing the first act meant that I subconsciously wrote a one-act play — and how could I not? I had to tell my readers — or listeners in that room — exactly what was going on in the central character’s mind. And I felt the urge to give the character closure with that final whisper of: “Maybe it’s time to stop waiting.” I couldn’t leave it to a future imagined act that would never be written once I walked out of that roomful of hopeful creatives.
This desire for completeness is a hallmark of prose and I feel like it’s something I naturally yearn for.
Richard’s feedback made me rethink my approach to writing. Screenwriting, unlike prose, doesn’t need to spell everything out — there’s a lot you can leave to imagination. Unlike prose writers, who like to retain the creative control on the words we’ve cooked and are cooking, it invites collaboration with directors, actors, and the audience’s own interpretations.
As I share this today, a good three months after that workshop, I can’t help but think of the countless ‘first acts’ in our lives that we often treat as one-acts. Those events that we believe need immediate closure, a neat little bow tied around them. Maybe we — and by that I mean, I — need to let go of that urge. To leave the kettle boiling and the words and feelings simmering while the curtain closes on that act, no matter how abruptly it seems to have ended.
It reminds me of the classic Bollywood narrative arc — the quintessential happy ending. Take Shah Rukh Khan’s iconic dialogue from Om Shanti Om, for instance:
In our lives, just like in our movies, at the end, everything is fine. And if it isn’t fine, then it’s not the end yet, friends. Picture abhi baki hai.
This trope mirrors our desire for a complete story, where everything resolves perfectly by the end. But life doesn’t always adhere to this formula. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often leaves threads hanging on the side.
And as I keep reminding myself, the end of life’s first act may feel incomplete, but there’s still much more to write …
… for thankfully, unlike my first screenplay, life isn’t a one-act play.
Some handpicked reads for this week
Read: How to Take the Perfect Nap by Matt Fuchs, TIME.
Why read? Matt Fuchs captures the essence of perfect napping technique (apparently it’s a thing) and how it can boost productivity, brain health, and overall well-being. Ciao folks, going to go get my afternoon siesta now.
Favourite quote: “In a study last year, Horowitz tested his own technology for nurturing sleep-related creativity. As study participants fell asleep, this device verbally prompted them to dream about trees. Post-nap, they wrote more creative stories about trees, compared to control groups. Napping opens up some helpful distance between you and the problem you’re working on, similar to gleaning insights after taking a walk or shower — but napping is ‘an intensified form of mind wandering’, Horowitz says.”
Read: Before we can fix productivity, we have to understand the problem by Matthew Syed, The Sunday Times.
Why read? Matthew Syed explores the real roots of productivity issues in the West, challenging the common focus on technology and instead highlighting the crucial role of energy in economic growth. Focusing on the UK and its upcoming general election, he offers a historical perspective and a call to rethink energy policies.
Favourite quote: “We are an energy-constrained civilisation ... the world is slowly running out of net fossil energy … Productivity will rise only when we move to higher-EROI sources of energy. Everything else is whistling in the wind … The West rose on a tide of cheap energy. It will be history’s greatest irony if it fails because we never grasped the secret of our own success.”
Hi Nishad,
I loved reading this! The deep insight you received from Richard was amazing: "You crave closure." Your writings remind me that we write to discover ourselves.
I look forward to your articles every Wednesday, as they provide an opportunity for me to reflect on my own journey and life. This week, I took a breath and brought out my journal, asking myself, "How am I controlling the narrative, and where can I surrender and trust?"
"To leave the kettle boiling and the words and feelings simmering while the curtain closes on that act, no matter how abruptly it seems to have ended" – this leaves me speechless! Your ability to capture such profound thoughts in your writing is truly inspiring - wow !!
Thank you for sharing your experiences, wisdom and insights. They have a profound impact on my self-reflection and personal growth Nishad !!