A dark stage.
Silence.
The audience watches as the stage lights rise to reveal a Supporting Character seated in a chair. She’s busy with her embroidery, ignorant of the attention now paid to her.
Nothing happens.
Minutes pass. The Supporting Character becomes increasingly uneasy with the prolonged silence.
She looks up from her embroidery and squints into the darkness, suddenly aware of the hundreds of eyes transfixed upon her — all waiting for her to take some kind of action.
Her hands sweat. Her muscles twitch. She glances offstage to see if anyone is coming to save her.
But nobody is.
The stage is hers to command.
She gulps, turning away from the audience and craning her neck back to stare into the dark void above her — where she knows her tormentor is hiding.
Her eyes meet mine.
“Please,” she says to me, “Please, don’t make me do this!”
The unwilling protagonist.
Whenever I begin to write a new play or story, I usually have some idea of how to begin. Oftentimes, I’m able to sit down and begin writing a scene because I can so clearly see it in my mind that the words pour out of my brain and onto the keyboard with little effort. Sometimes it’s the first scene, other times it isn’t. Wherever I decide to begin, I can usually trust myself to have a vague notion of where a scene must go when I begin writing it.
In the case of Charlotte Collins: The Play, I had no idea what would happen when I finally sat down to write.
It was early in the summer of 2018. I’d already spent some weeks teasing out potential ideas and story arcs, but I didn’t have a concrete plan or storyline. Still, one night I felt compelled to sit down and write, so I sat down and began writing.
I began with Act One, Scene One.
I wrote the stage directions: “The lights come up to reveal Charlotte Collins, a former supporting character. She is seated and busy with her embroidery.”
That was it. I didn’t know what was meant to happen next. Anything was possible. At that moment, the world was my protagonist’s oyster, and I was the server handing her the horseradish.
But instead of dressing that tasty mollusk and tossing it back with relish, Charlotte turned to me — her eyes piercing through the veil that separates the fictional world from ours — and begged me to reconsider.
Please. She seemed to be saying. I don’t want this!
I couldn’t believe it.
My own leading lady was trying to tap out before she'd even begun her adventure!
me: "sit down, Charlotte. we're gonna have a chat."
Conversations with the imaginary.
“Now, now, Charlotte,” I said sweetly, tapping lightly at my computer screen, “It’s a sequel to Pride and Prejudice — who doesn’t want that?”
“If that’s your aim, why isn’t Lizzy serving as your protagonist?” Charlotte asked.
Because everyone thinks you’re 100% miserable with Mr Collins and they wanna know if they’re right. (I didn’t say this out loud, of course. Good manners, and all.)
I replied, “You’re an interesting character and we want to know more, that’s all. Now please, face the audience again. This long pause is getting awkward for them.”
“I don’t want to,” she said stubbornly, stomping a slippered heel on the floor.
(Who knew Charlotte could be so feisty? I certainly didn’t!)
I pushed further. “Please, Charlotte? It’s a romantic comedy! It’ll be funny!”
“You mean it will be funny at my expense,” she muttered.
“I mean… yeah,” I conceded. “But the audience is going to have a great time. Won’t that make you feel nice?”
“Absolutely not!”
Evidently, being a fictional character in the literary canon for over two hundred years had made Charlotte wise to the twisted machinations of writers. I couldn’t fool her. She knew being a protagonist wasn’t just about having more “stage time.” In a romantic narrative, being a protagonist means taking risks, suffering instability, and accepting change.
And plain, sensible, level-headed Charlotte had made the very deliberate decision in Pride and Prejudice to marry Mr Collins precisely so she could avoid such disruptive occurrences.
Unfortunately for her and fictional characters everywhere, the disruption is what makes it entertaining.
I wasn’t going to relent.
“Charlotte, dearest, I promise I won’t let anything that bad happen to you.”
She shook her head.
“What if I bring you to a gorgeous location and introduce you to interesting people?” I asked.
“I’ll simply refuse!” she said.
(The cheek.)
But I had one more ace to play.
“What if I throw in a sexy Scottish guy… in a kilt?”
try refusing THIS^^
I would swear on every holy scripture that exists — this made her pause. But the lapse in her defiance was short lived.
“I have absolutely no business being the protagonist of a romantic comedy,” she continued, increasingly agitated. “You know that, and Jane knew that — which is precisely why she didn’t write a Pride and Prejudice sequel about me! In fact, how can you presume to have the license to write this kind of work at all?”
“Well, you see, we have this thing called 'public domain' —”
“I absolutely refuse to partake in any capacity except that for which I was written — the supporting character,” said Charlotte with finality.
(Poor thing.)
“Charlotte, I’m sorry, but you are the protagonist,” I told her.
But the safety of delusion had taken hold of her. She forced herself into a state of self-assured calmness, saying, “Lizzy will come into the picture eventually. And when she does, I’ll just shift the responsibility of carrying the narrative back onto her shoulders. She has the experience, after all. And I must say, I believe everyone will be much happier for it. You’ll see.”
She turned away from me and continued her embroidery, trying her best to look confident.
But she knew better.
Because I knew better.
I turned away from the computer and looked upwards at my Muse, who’d been watching the entire exchange.
“Well?” I asked.
My Muse smiled devilishly.
"Give her hell,” she said.
I cracked my knuckles and started typing.
And that’s how I began writing Charlotte Collins: The Play.
Written by: Grace Abele
Editor: Peter Giordano
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