Title: The Last Letter
Concept statement: A contemporary psychological drama about memory, truth and reconciliation that explores how people rewrite the past to avoid responsibility. The play follows a daughter confronting her estranged father after his sudden return, and examines how memory, denial and guilt shape family narratives.
Dramaturgical intentions:
Characters:
Setting: A small, cluttered kitchen in an inner-city terrace house. Mid-afternoon, late autumn. A battered wooden table centre stage, two mismatched chairs, a noticeboard with faded Polaroids and a sealed envelope pinned to it. A kettle, mug, and a box of old receipts sit on the table.
Script (10–12 minutes)
Scene 1 — the door opens (Lights up on JESS at the table, sorting mail. She’s methodical. The sealed envelope on the noticeboard is visible. Kettle whistles offstage. There’s a knock at the door. Jess freezes, then walks to open it. MICHAEL stands in the doorway, coat damp, hands empty.)
MICHAEL (soft, tentative) Jess.
JESS (cold) You could've called.
MICHAEL I didn’t want to— I thought I’d come by. See how you are.
JESS You left a long time ago. How are you… coming by now?
MICHAEL (small laugh) I don’t get to explain the timing. Only to ask—can I come in?
JESS (steps aside) You’re on the mat. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that.
(Michael steps in, looking around. He touches the noticeboard; Jess snatches his hand away.)
JESS (guarded) Don’t touch that.
MICHAEL You keep so many things. Polaroids, receipts, a sealed letter—what’s that one?
JESS (stares) Don’t.
MICHAEL (soft) I left a lot unsaid. I thought—maybe I could say some of it now.
JESS You left a lot unsaid by leaving.
MICHAEL I know. I know that. But I’ve been… trying.
JESS (incredulous) Trying what? To avoid us? To avoid you?
MICHAEL (earnest) To be honest. To make things right where I can.
JESS Right. (laughs without humor) You show up with no explanation, and I’m supposed to accept a tidy apology?
MICHAEL (sits, careful) I’m not asking for tidy. I’m asking to talk. Please.
(Jess looks at him, hesitates. She sits opposite, keeps her distance. A long beat.)
Scene 2 — memory and accusation (Jess takes the sealed envelope off the board, fingers it but doesn’t open it. She speaks like one assembling facts.)
JESS When I was ten, you missed my recital. You said—on the phone—that you had to work. You sent five dollars for chips and a postcard. You weren’t there when I cried in the dark. Mom said you had to go. She said men leave sometimes. She told me to be brave.
MICHAEL (voice cracks) I wasn’t at that recital because—I was trying to get steady work. I thought if I could give you more later, it would make up.
JESS Make up. (mocking) Make up what? Ten years?
MICHAEL I thought—if I could make money, you'd be better off. I was ashamed. I left because I didn’t know how to stay without hurting you more.
JESS Hurting me more by being here and lying? Or hurting me more by leaving and letting Mom be everything?
MICHAEL You think she did everything right?
(They both fall silent. Jess uncaps a mug, scalds her fingers—no, she breathes through it. Flashback monologue: Jess becomes younger in memory, softer.) hsc drama individual project script writing
JESS (softly, memory) She used to hum in the kitchen, even when the rent was due. She’d fold my drawings and hide the bills in a magazine. She said we were fine because we smiled at the right moments.
MICHAEL (looking at her) I remember her humming. I remember promising things, and failing.
JESS You promised to come back for my twelfth birthday. You sent a postcard instead. A beach photo. It said "Wish I was there." You were never there.
MICHAEL I thought I was protecting you. From my anger. From the nights I couldn’t sleep. I thought leaving would keep me from being… from being what you remember.
JESS What I remember is her crying into the sink after you’d left. Your chair empty. The way she put your jacket back on the peg because it was heavy with you, even when you weren’t there.
MICHAEL (whispers) I’m sorry.
(He reaches toward the sealed letter. Jess clutches it.)
JESS You think a sorry opens this?
MICHAEL What’s in it?
JESS Maybe the truth. Maybe Mom’s last words. Maybe nothing. Maybe— (looks at him) —maybe the truth about why you left. I kept it sealed because I didn’t want to choose which hurt to believe.
MICHAEL (pleading) Open it. If it helps.
JESS No. I don’t need you to tidy everything up. I need you to mean things without disappearing when they’re hard.
MICHAEL Then let me mean them now.
Scene 3 — confession, choice (Michael stands, paces. He looks older, exhausted. Jess watches him like she’s measuring whether to fall. He begins a confession, uncomfortable but necessary.)
MICHAEL It wasn’t only shame. I was— I had started drinking more to silence the nights. I thought I could hold down a job, but it took everything. Then a man at the job said there was work down south—temp work. I thought if I left for a while— I could come back with savings. I never wanted to leave for good. I told myself I’d write. I told myself I’d be strong. The money never came, Jess. The calls got harder. I was embarrassed to admit I couldn’t do it.
JESS You lied.
MICHAEL I lied. I lied because I was scared of who I’d become if I stayed. I became worse away than I feared I’d be here.
JESS You left me to be raised by quiet apologies.
MICHAEL I know. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t know what I expect—maybe the chance to tell you the truth before… before I lose the courage to even tell it.
(He stops. Silence. The kettle clicks; the house seems to breathe. Jess studies him—searching for authenticity. A faint offstage VO of MOTHER humming, as memory, swells briefly.)
JESS (soft) Why now?
MICHAEL I got ill. Not— (searches) —not something immediate. A scare. It made me see things differently. I could have ignored it. I could have kept running. I thought—what if I die without saying anything? What if you die with the versions of me that are half-truths?
JESS (skeptical) So you come back, announce the possibility of your mortality, and expect a clean table?
MICHAEL No. I come back and hand you the mess. I ask if you want to talk through it with me. I can’t sign away my mistakes. I can only— (simple) —try.
(Jess looks at the sealed letter again. She lifts it, fingers trembling. She can open it now. She hesitates, then tears the envelope. Inside: a single, faded photograph of Jess as a child at the beach, smiling; on the back, scrawled in her mother's handwriting: "For when you need to remember she laughed." There is no explanation of Michael’s absence.)
JESS (voice small) It’s… her. She wrote this.
MICHAEL (whispers) She gave it to me the day she— I asked her to give something if things went wrong. She told me then—what I couldn’t hear: that she wanted you to keep something that wasn’t shaped by my leaving.
JESS So she knew it would hurt.
MICHAEL She knew some things would hurt. She wanted you to remember laughter. Not the calendar of absences.
(Jess holds the photo like a relic. The silence stretches. She looks up.)
JESS You left me the choice: keep the wound sealed, or open it and let it hurt.
MICHAEL And I left you more than choice. I left you with a life. I see that now. I only ask—can I be part of it, even in a small way? Title: The Last Letter Concept statement: A contemporary
JESS You can’t replace the years.
MICHAEL I don’t want to. I just—if you let me, I’d like to be here sometimes. If you say no, I’ll understand.
(Jess breathes. The kettle finally stops. She folds the photo into the envelope and hands it to him.)
JESS You can come by. Once a week. No grand plans. No promises you can’t keep. If you lie— if you disappear again— I’ll put this back on the board and seal it forever.
MICHAEL (quiet relief) Once a week. I can do that.
JESS (guarded) You will have to meet her ghosts, too.
MICHAEL I know. I will.
(They sit in an uneasy truce. Light fades to a dim wash as the offstage humming returns, softer. The sealed letter—now open—lies on the table between them like a small island.)
End.
Director/Performer notes
Use this package for your written submission and performance. If you want the script adapted to a different theme, length, or a multi-character piece, tell me which changes and I’ll revise.
HSC Drama Individual Project (IP) in Scriptwriting requires you to write an original, complete play for live performance. Your script must be designed for the stage—not film—and clearly communicate a sustained theatrical concept to a live audience. 1. Mandatory NESA Requirements
To avoid penalties or being disregarded by examiners, you must strictly follow these formatting and length rules: Running Time: Approximately 15 minutes. Page Count: 15 and 25 A4 pages Typography: Times New Roman, size 12 font double spacing Components: You must submit the script, a 300-word rationale documenting your process. 2. Script Structure & Conventions
A professional-standard HSC script should include specific sections in this order: Drama HSC Scriptwriting - Pears - WordPress.com
Subject: Nailing Your HSC Drama IP Script – You’ve Got This
Hey everyone,
If you’re working on your HSC Drama Individual Project for Script Writing, you already know it’s equal parts creative thrill and pressure cooker. Here’s a quick post to help you stay focused, original, and on track.
1. Start with what haunts you.
The best HSC scripts come from genuine curiosity – not just “what the marker wants.” What’s a question you keep asking? A conversation you wish happened? A world you’ve never seen on stage. Write that.
2. Structure is your friend, not your cage.
You don’t need three acts, but you do need shape. Rising tension, a turning point, a consequence. Even a 10-minute play needs a beginning that hooks, a middle that twists, and an end that lands.
3. Dialogue > monologue.
Show conflict through what characters don’t say. Subtext is your secret weapon. Listen to how people actually interrupt, evade, repeat themselves. Your script should feel alive, not like a speech.
4. Read your scenes aloud.
If it sounds clunky when spoken, rewrite it. Your IP will be performed (at least in your head), so trust your ear.
5. Keep the logline tight.
Try to sum up your script in one sentence: “Two siblings fight over a dying plant that holds their only memory of home.” If that sentence excites you, keep writing.
6. Don’t over-explain.
Stage directions are for what we see/hear, not the character’s therapy session. Trust your actors and director to find the meaning.
7. Steal like an artist – then transform.
Love Chekhov’s pauses? Sarah Kane’s raw edges? Thornton Wilder’s direct address? Borrow their technique, not their plot. Then make it yours.
8. Know the marking criteria.
Seriously – go read the rubric again. You need:
9. Feedback is gold – but don’t chase everyone’s opinion.
Get one or two trusted readers (teacher, peer, mentor). Ask them: “Where did you get bored? Where did you get confused?” Fix those spots.
10. Finish the draft. Even a messy one.
You can’t polish a blank page. Get to “The End” first, then revise like a surgeon.
One last thing: The HSC markers read hundreds of scripts. The ones they remember feel urgent – like the writer had to write them. So write the thing only you can write.
Good luck – and break a leg (on the page).
––
Got a logline you want feedback on? Drop it below. 👇
70% of the script is one character talking while the other says "Uh-huh."
Most students hate the logbook. Band 6 students love the logbook. It is free marks. Characters:
The logbook is where you prove your working process. Markers cannot see you struggling; you must show them through photos, drafts, and reflections.
Do not start with the character waking up. Start late.
Characters:
Setting: A dusty, half-empty bedroom. One cardboard box labelled "KEEP," another labelled "GOODWILL." A single chair. A phone on the floor.
Time: Now. Late afternoon.
(The stage is empty for 3 seconds. Then, ELLIOT enters carrying a small, ugly ceramic bird. They hold it like a holy relic. They don’t sit. They just stand in the middle of the room.)
ELLIOT (to the bird) You’re not even pretty. You’re lopsided. The beak is chipped. I think that’s actually paint from a different project. Mum made you in Year 9 art. She got a D. She kept you anyway.
(Elliot places the bird carefully into the KEEP box.)
The thing about moving is – everyone says “you get to start fresh.” As if fresh is a gift. Fresh is just another word for empty. No one tells you that the emptiness makes a sound. It’s not silence. It’s a low hum. Like a fridge when there’s nothing inside.
(Elliot picks up the phone, scrolls, puts it down again.)
I texted them. “Hey. Moving Saturday. Come say goodbye?” Three dots. Nothing. Three dots. Nothing. Finally: “Sorry dude, work.” Work. Since when does Jake have work? Jake’s job is vaping behind the sheds and quoting The Office.
(Elliot starts pulling things out of the GOODWILL box – a scarf, a CD, a broken watch.)
This scarf. Zoe knitted it for me. Took her three months. She cried when she gave it to me. I wore it once. It’s itchy. It’s the colour of vomit. But she cried. So I said “I love it.” That’s the problem, isn’t it? We spend so much time saying the thing that keeps the peace, we forget what the truth sounds like.
(Elliot holds the scarf up to their face.)
Truth: I’m terrified. Not of the new school. Not of the new house. I’m terrified that six months from now, I’ll be standing in some other dusty room, and I won’t remember the sound of Jake’s laugh. Or the way Zoe says “wait, wait, wait” before she tells a story. Or the crack in the ceiling above my bed that looked like a horse.
(Elliot shoves the scarf into the GOODWILL box. Then hesitates. Takes it back out. Holds it.)
Mum says “you’ll make new friends.” Mum means well. Mum also has seventeen unopened boxes from the last move. Mum drinks tea and stares at the wall and calls it “resting.”
(Elliot wraps the scarf around their neck. It’s too hot for it. They don’t care.)
I tried to write a goodbye speech. For assembly. You know, senior year, leaving mid-term, “Elliot’s moving again.” I wrote: “Thank you for letting me pretend I belonged here.” That was it. That was the whole speech. Mrs. Patterson said it was “too honest.” She suggested a joke instead. So I wrote: “What do you call a moving van full of regrets? My life.” Everyone laughed. I wanted them to laugh. But I also wanted someone – just one person – to say “that’s not funny.”
(Elliot sits down on the floor. Not the chair. The floor.)
Here’s the real speech. The one I’m not going to give.
(Elliot looks directly at the audience. Not breaking the fourth wall – inhabiting it.)
“I have lived in four different towns. I have been the new kid four times. I have learned four different ways to say ‘where’s the bathroom?’ and four different lunch table hierarchies. And every single time, I leave a version of myself behind. Not a ghost. A draft. An almost-finished thing that never got submitted. I am made of drafts. Half-written letters. Unsaid goodbyes. This year, I thought maybe I’d get to finish something. Maybe I’d get to be the person who stays. But the boxes are packed. And the bird is in the KEEP box. And the scarf is around my neck. And that’s it.”
(Pause. Long one.)
I’m not going to read that. Because if I read it, it becomes real. And if it’s real, then I have to admit that I’m not just moving houses. I’m moving out of the version of myself that almost, finally, started to breathe.
(Elliot unwraps the scarf. Folds it. Places it gently in the KEEP box. Next to the bird.)
I’ll keep the itchy scarf. I’ll keep the lopsided bird. I’ll keep the crack in the ceiling that looked like a horse. I’ll keep all the drafts.
(Elliot stands up. Picks up the GOODWILL box. Carries it to the edge of the light.)
And I’ll leave the rest for someone else to find.
(Elliot pauses at the edge. Doesn’t turn back.)
Tomorrow I’ll learn a new way to say “where’s the bathroom.” I’ll learn a new lunch table. And maybe – just maybe – this time, I’ll finish the draft.
(Blackout.)
END.