ANDREW BISS

Following on from my post over the argument as to whether plays should be considered literature, I suddenly remembered that I actually have a monologue from one of my plays published in an anthology entitled “ Monologues from Literature .” What other proof do you need? All right, I will admit that at the time the editor contacted me to ask whether I thought it would be “okay” to include it in there. Still…it’s in there, and the title of the book spells out very clearly and unambiguously what it contains. I just checked, and it’s in there, right opposite a monologue from Emily Bronte’s "Wuthering Heights." There! I’ve single-handedly ended the argument. Right?

I’ve been dreaming a lot this week. In the literal sense, that is, not the aspirational one (although I may have indulged in a bit of that, too). Now, there are few more groan inducing things in life than hearing someone else jabber on about the dream they had the night before. It comes just above being forced to wade through other people’s holiday snaps, and right below having to hear someone subject you to tales of the latest cute thing their toddler (or cat) learned to do last week. Don’t worry, I shan’t be relating any of my dreams here (even if I could still remember them). However, what struck me as quite bizarre about one of them was the incredible amount of literary detail it had. I was reading from some strange book (just telling this bit, I promise), and it was full of curious, quite frightening admonitions that were fascinating to read. I remember thinking at the time (in my semi-conscious state) that if I could just remember them when I woke up I could put them to great use...

I’ve been adding my (rather grumpy) five cents to an initially interesting, but ultimately pointless discussion in The Guardian ’s theatre blog today, over whether plays are/can/should be considered “literature.” I’m too lazy to retread my thoughts on the matter here, but check it out if it sounds like an interesting topic of conversation.