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The Playwright's Woman
The Playwright's Woman
The Playwright's Woman
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The Playwright's Woman

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In late Victorian London, playwright Kevin Francis Darley struggles with both poor reviews and writer’s block. He begins a dalliance with the mystical spirit absinthe and meets – and falls immediately in love with – an enigmatic young woman from his homeland. She inspires and enlivens him, but the man who knows Kevin better than any other cannot help but be wary of the profound and disturbing change that he sees in his friend.

A Gothic short story; 5,400 words.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherR. J. Creaney
Release dateJan 21, 2012
ISBN9781465943606
The Playwright's Woman
Author

R. J. Creaney

A hungry young writer; hoping to be the next [insert name of suitable fair-to-middling speculative fiction author here].

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    Book preview

    The Playwright's Woman - R. J. Creaney

    The Playwright’s Woman

    A short story by R. J. Creaney

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright © 2012 R. J. Creaney

    Cover design by R. J. Creaney.

    ‘Aerofoil’ font created by Denise Chan. Textures by http://sirius-sdz.deviantart.com and CG Textures.

    http://rjcreaney.wordpress.com/

    * * *

    K.F. Darley

    34 Upper Cheyne Row,

    Chelsea,

    London,

    ENGLAND

    Dear Mother,

    I write this letter nomn It is with particular compunction that I write this letter. My latest play, The Innermost Chamber, has been truly ravaged in the news-papers. It pains me to see how they completely missed the subtle but biting satire and the social commentary of the piece, and I very much doubt that anyone noticed my homage to Beaumarchais! It is like Styx, Dammed all over again – I cannot tell which play of mine the critics seemed to detest more.

    The Times referred to it as a ‘three-hour long exercise in brazen affectation’. Roth from The Athenaeum thought that it was ‘decidedly lacking in freshness, and with a conspicuous over-reliance on outmoded theatrical conventions’. All of them suggested that relatively decent production values and acting were let down by a poor script. Some of the boys down at the Bishop’s Elbow had read a few more reviews, but declined to divulge me as to what they said – out of mercy, surely. Old James Grey (always a good chap) bought me an ale; I suppose because he felt sorry for me.

    Those reviewers are wind-bags, to a man. I went to terrible pains to write that play – it took me seven and a half months to pen altogether

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