Over dinner earlier, R quizzed me about my plot ideas for the coming 24-hour playwriting competition. I shelled out my most kerang busuk* smile, and told him I was planning to take it easy- to take it as it comes.
*Malay for foul-smelling oyster. An English equivalent is sheepish, but that will ruin my shell-oyster pairing!
He gave me a hard-boiled look, and I scrambled for an excuse (failed), because I have been told numerous times that coming up with premise and plot ideas is no picnic. Not without practice anyway.
(Also, if you fail plot, you fail everything. No excuses!)
I was a broken premise generator. R, though, was like a faulty vending machine, serving endless bite-size portions of plot and premise, coins not required.
Name me an object, he said, and I will come up with a story.
Salt shaker. Handphone. Creme brulee. Tea-bag. Stirrer.
How do you do it? I asked.
And that’s what I must do.