I read this Varsity article by Michael Campbell, author of Killing Other People, about his experience of giving up his script to the director and how beneficial this has been for the final production. I agree with him, that quite often the way a piece of theatre transforms in the hands of the director can be unbelievable, completely unexpected, and sometimes genius. And there's certainly nothing more irritating for the director than the protective and oversensitive writer sitting at the back of the rehearsal room. But what I found surprising was that Campbell seemed to suggest that to hand the script over for the sake of the final product is some noble and unusual act, something to be shocked by and praised for. He's right, it's not unusual for new writers of the Cambridge theatre scene to remain with their work throughout the creative process and to take on a heavy directing role, but to do this in the world of theatre beyond the bubble of Cambridge students is in reality extremely rare, often because of the very reasons discussed in his article.

In writing and co-directing Coco, I have had a completely different experience to the writer who lets go the minute his pen leaves the page. For me, the play is an artwork that has been meticulously designed to produce what was present in my mind at the very start of the writing process. I always think the job of the playwright is a bizarre one if we look at him or her as a writer, because they are nothing like the writer in the conventional sense; they write with actions on a stage in mind, with dialogue between two real voices in their head. With playwrights who give up their work what’s written upon the page is something that will never actually, ultimately leave the paper. And though I think that the collaborative nature of theatre as an art form is what makes it so different and exciting, and really very beautiful at times, there is a connection between the words on my page and the characters, colours and movement on the stage that cannot be divided if the work is ever going to become the artwork that deserves the title I've given it. By the end of the process my play should produce a similar audience response to that of a painting in a totality of colour, brush strokes, and shape.

The work may still become something incredible in the hands of someone other than its writer, but there is no doubt that it becomes something entirely different, and I would not feel as though my artistic curiosity had been properly fulfilled if I couldn't see the play through to the very end.

The playwright who writes and then stops when rehearsals start has to accept that they are writers only of what lies on the page, not what ends up on the stage; though the play would not be on stage without the writing, nor would it be there without the actors or director. And all that remains of the writer on the stage in the end are the words (and sometimes not even all of these). The directors, actors, and set designers become just as much the writers of the work once this process of transferring the script takes place. The play then becomes fascinating, as the product of several creators, but the writer has not written the play on the stage.

For me my passions lie well beyond the page: they live, sing and dance on the stage. And it is for this reason I write, direct, and even maintain some control in design over most of my work.

Perhaps the fact that so many new writers in Cambridge cling onto their work until the end, isn't just for the sake of security or preventing a dreaded sacrifice of the piece altogether (though it might well be in some cases). Perhaps it is rather because so many playwrights find it difficult to only see themselves as writers, instead seeing themselves as artists in a much broader sense – that's certainly how I feel.

Bethan Kitchen is author and co-director of Coco, week 3's late show at the Corpus Playrooms: Tue 5 - Sat 9 Feb, 9.30pm.

Michael Campbell’s article, A Playwright Lets Go, can be found here.