I don't know why I feel compelled to give advice - I haven't achieved any great measure of success - and yet there's something I find I want to share. If any aspiring writer has somehow stumbled on to my nonsense, there is just one bit of advice I feel I have to give. (Drum roll please).
Write a 15 minute script.
Actually, the main bit of advice I would give is to start writing. Don't waste time thinking how much you'd like to be a writer without actually commiting to put pen to paper in case what you write isn't a masterpiece.
(A cautionary tale: that's mainly how I spent my 20s, and now I'm considered pretty ancient and decrepit at the grand old age of 31, too old for most of the new writing development work that happens in London, cos apparently you stop being interesting at the age of 26. I was fucking tedious at the age of 26. I'm much more interesting now. I digress.)
Anyway, once you've become one of the small minority of would-be writers who actually write, and you've started something - anything - aiming for a 15 minute script is helpful. It's a manageable length. It's good practise for story-telling. And much, much more importantly than either of these things is the fact that once you start looking, there are loads of wee showcases going on looking for short scripts. Which means you might have a chance of getting something put on.
Ok, that was my brief foray into advice. I'm going to stop now.
The reason I'm sharing this, and that I'm slightly excited about it all, is that a script I wrote on my hols (with love and care and attention obviously) is having not one, but two outings.
Performance number one happened last week. A rehearsed reading. It was... ok. Heck. It was quite good. The flaws I mainly knew about already, I think.
But in subsequent revising I have done a couple of things: I've gotten rid of some swearing. It looks fine on the page, but it's hard on the ear if you overuse it. And it loses impact. I've also clarified some of the lines that made perfect sense to me, but got lost in the melee.
The rehearsed reading was interesting in lots of ways. There were five other writers there, most of them more experienced than me. Some of them intimidatingly successful. And yet there we all were, in some tiny fringe venue, just glad to have an audience. Just glad that someone was bringing to life some words we wrote down, some words that mean something.
Hopefully - TBC - which is why I'm being a tad cagey, there is a performance number two happening next week. Once the deal is done, I will be more celebratory.
Deal I mean in a metaphorical sense. No actual money is changing hands. it's just for the, er, glory, or something like that (see above).
Last but not least, a comedy script I wrote last year is having an outing on the actual radio. Ok, community radio, but radio nonetheless.
Now, I realise that all of the above isn't exactly an Oscar nomination, but little bits and bobs like these keep me going, and help me believe I might actually be a writer. So this is good news.
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Monday, 22 March 2010
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
sick as a parrot
Gutted. The footballers' adjective of choice, and the one I have used most liberally in the last few weeks to describe the feeling of not quite getting through to the finals of a live comedy competition.
That is to say, getting very close, final 32 close, but falling at the final hurdle, to use another overused sporting metaphor.
That is to say, writing a lot. And for nothing, because none of it will be staged (not for this, anyhow.)
Damn this genre and its need to be produced to mean anything. At this rate, I'm going to start writing bloody poetry and publishing it on here and then you will all be very sorry indeed. (You really will. I'm terrible at poetry.)
Do I deal with losing out well? No. In this instance I bloody do not. For a number of reasons:
I worked my arse off. I had a really good script. And there was some shenanigans relating to the way it all happened that I am too disheartened to go into, but let's just say it didn't work out as I would have hoped.
So this has been disappointing.
There's something very personal about writing, and when it gets rejected, it's hard not to feel it personally. And when you're emotionally involved with your writing, this is especially the case.
And you have to be emotionally involved with writing if it's going to be any good, don't you? At least a bit. Otherwise why are you writing at all? Why bother if it doesn't have some connection, however small, however tenuous, to some important feeling or thought or moment you have or have had in your life that means something.
That's what I think anyway.
But maybe it's just about writing more funny lines, and that's where I went wrong.
And of course, if you get too emotionally involved, when stuff doeesn't work out, it feels like you've been kicked repeatedly in the kidneys, and that's not great.
And that's the good news.
Not really! There is actually some proper good news. I will write about it imminently...
That is to say, getting very close, final 32 close, but falling at the final hurdle, to use another overused sporting metaphor.
That is to say, writing a lot. And for nothing, because none of it will be staged (not for this, anyhow.)
Damn this genre and its need to be produced to mean anything. At this rate, I'm going to start writing bloody poetry and publishing it on here and then you will all be very sorry indeed. (You really will. I'm terrible at poetry.)
Do I deal with losing out well? No. In this instance I bloody do not. For a number of reasons:
I worked my arse off. I had a really good script. And there was some shenanigans relating to the way it all happened that I am too disheartened to go into, but let's just say it didn't work out as I would have hoped.
So this has been disappointing.
There's something very personal about writing, and when it gets rejected, it's hard not to feel it personally. And when you're emotionally involved with your writing, this is especially the case.
And you have to be emotionally involved with writing if it's going to be any good, don't you? At least a bit. Otherwise why are you writing at all? Why bother if it doesn't have some connection, however small, however tenuous, to some important feeling or thought or moment you have or have had in your life that means something.
That's what I think anyway.
But maybe it's just about writing more funny lines, and that's where I went wrong.
And of course, if you get too emotionally involved, when stuff doeesn't work out, it feels like you've been kicked repeatedly in the kidneys, and that's not great.
And that's the good news.
Not really! There is actually some proper good news. I will write about it imminently...
Sunday, 7 February 2010
not a sob story
I can remember exactly what I was doing this time two years ago, this equivalent Sunday just after my birthday.
It was a beautiful day, sunny and bright. I went to Hampstead Heath. It must have been raining the week before, because it was incredibly muddy - I trashed a pair of boots by bravely tramping through the mud to try and impress... someone. Let's call him Mike.
Mike and me had been seeing each other for a few weeks. It was our fifth date, or thereabouts. He'd never been to Hampstead Heath. We watched the people flying kites - it was windy - and we sat looking out over London. And we kissed. And I thought, this is what other people do. They get together and go for walks on Hampstead Heath and kiss. And now I'm doing it. This is me.
This is what I thought.
And after the heath, we went to a beautiful pub and had a couple of pints of very nice ale. And then, we giggled our way to the bus stop in that happy way you do, when you're with someone you like. And we made our way back to Angel.
It was a perfect day. The kind of day that if you saw in some terrible rom-com you would dismiss as embarrassingly twee and naff and some kind of Richard Curtis view of London and how great it is. (London is great, obviously, but not generally in the way that Richard Curtis makes it look.)
And so there it was, this moment of happiness.
And not just the romance. Work was going well. I'd just had an interview with a big publishing company, and it made me realise that I didn't want to work there. I really loved the job I was in. I worked with people I liked and respected. I felt useful and good.
And when, inevitably, it all came crashing down, when, three weeks later, I found out I was being made redundant, and a week after that Mike said 'meh, not for me thanks' or words to that effect, it was ok.
This isn't a sob story. My woes are pretty paltry compared to most. Who didn't have a shitty 2008 as the ecomomy crashed and burned? I was one of the lucky ones. I found another job. The Mike thing wasn't heartbreak, it was pure bruised ego and bad timing.
But what makes me sad now, as I think about that day on Hampstead Heath, is how difficult it is to feel ok about feeling ok. Because as soon as I feel like stuff might be going well, it scares the shit out of me that some vengeful god will hear and pull the rug from under my feet once again, and find new ways to make me wish I'd never even thought that things were ok. Because it's terrifying to feel ok, because the only way is down. And at least, through the self-pitying, self-indulgent misery, there is the sense that things will be better. They can only be better - they can't possibly get worse.
And so now, as I write this, I think well fuck it, I'm tempting fate but there we are:
Things are ok.
My writing is going well - there's a possibility that something I've written might be staged. I feel less of an idiot than I have for a long time. And that maybe it really is possible that things can change - not be perfect, but be ok.
We shall see.
If you hear, by the way, of unexpected job cuts and freak thunder and plagues of moths in the north London area over the next month, that will probably be my fault. Sorry about that.
It was a beautiful day, sunny and bright. I went to Hampstead Heath. It must have been raining the week before, because it was incredibly muddy - I trashed a pair of boots by bravely tramping through the mud to try and impress... someone. Let's call him Mike.
Mike and me had been seeing each other for a few weeks. It was our fifth date, or thereabouts. He'd never been to Hampstead Heath. We watched the people flying kites - it was windy - and we sat looking out over London. And we kissed. And I thought, this is what other people do. They get together and go for walks on Hampstead Heath and kiss. And now I'm doing it. This is me.
This is what I thought.
And after the heath, we went to a beautiful pub and had a couple of pints of very nice ale. And then, we giggled our way to the bus stop in that happy way you do, when you're with someone you like. And we made our way back to Angel.
It was a perfect day. The kind of day that if you saw in some terrible rom-com you would dismiss as embarrassingly twee and naff and some kind of Richard Curtis view of London and how great it is. (London is great, obviously, but not generally in the way that Richard Curtis makes it look.)
And so there it was, this moment of happiness.
And not just the romance. Work was going well. I'd just had an interview with a big publishing company, and it made me realise that I didn't want to work there. I really loved the job I was in. I worked with people I liked and respected. I felt useful and good.
And when, inevitably, it all came crashing down, when, three weeks later, I found out I was being made redundant, and a week after that Mike said 'meh, not for me thanks' or words to that effect, it was ok.
This isn't a sob story. My woes are pretty paltry compared to most. Who didn't have a shitty 2008 as the ecomomy crashed and burned? I was one of the lucky ones. I found another job. The Mike thing wasn't heartbreak, it was pure bruised ego and bad timing.
But what makes me sad now, as I think about that day on Hampstead Heath, is how difficult it is to feel ok about feeling ok. Because as soon as I feel like stuff might be going well, it scares the shit out of me that some vengeful god will hear and pull the rug from under my feet once again, and find new ways to make me wish I'd never even thought that things were ok. Because it's terrifying to feel ok, because the only way is down. And at least, through the self-pitying, self-indulgent misery, there is the sense that things will be better. They can only be better - they can't possibly get worse.
And so now, as I write this, I think well fuck it, I'm tempting fate but there we are:
Things are ok.
My writing is going well - there's a possibility that something I've written might be staged. I feel less of an idiot than I have for a long time. And that maybe it really is possible that things can change - not be perfect, but be ok.
We shall see.
If you hear, by the way, of unexpected job cuts and freak thunder and plagues of moths in the north London area over the next month, that will probably be my fault. Sorry about that.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
story (again) - some good news
I did a playwriting course in 2008 where I was lucky enough to meet Sir Lord Roy Williams, playwright extraordinaire, and very nice chap.
One of the many interesting things he said was that before he writes a script, he writes the whole story out as if it were a novel first. (This from memory, so I may not be remembering it exactly right, but this was the gist.)
At the time, I remember thinking this seemed a very labour-intensive way of writing a play - to start off in prose before you get to the script. And I thought no more of it.
Until I gave it a try, whilst lounging louchely* on a foreign beach mere weeks ago.
And do you know what? It works. It really works.
This has been my problem: I start writing in order to find out who my characters are, and where they, and what the story is. And this works, to a point. It makes dialogue the starting point, and I feel like the characters come to life from the off. And it works much, much better than when I try some 'A loves B, C is having a sex change, D is taking up darts' kind of plotting.
Because in that 'A does x, meanwhile B does y' scenario of outlining, I get bored. And it feels like I'm trying to get some people to do some stuff for no good reason. And my dialogue goes to shit.
But my approach naturally has some drawbacks: namely, I get half-way in with no idea of where I'm going. (And, as other more sensible writers have pointed out, this is not a good place to be in.)
So I found that by writing something, properly writing it, a story emerges through the prose much more strongly, but in a natural way. That keeps me interested enough to want to write the script for it.
And the proof that this works? Well, I managed to write a wee 15-minute script over a couple of days. When you consider the last 15-minute script I did took about 18 months (in a very torturous route, but still, I'm not even kidding), this is a RESULT of the highest order.
So I'm a convert. That is to say, I'm going to be giving it a go from now on...
And refreshed from foreign climes, I actually have some ideas again, so this is all to the good...
In fact, I think my darts/sex change epic farce melodrama is on course to be better than Pinter. Much better.
(Joke. I can joke again! Thank god for holidays, eh...)
*By lounging louchely I mean, of course, sitting with half the sand on the beach stuck to me because of tons of factor 50 sunblock and gallons of DEET which does absolutely nothing to stop the little bastard mosquitos biting me on the ankle. And looking awkward about the whole thing. But still, you get the point.
One of the many interesting things he said was that before he writes a script, he writes the whole story out as if it were a novel first. (This from memory, so I may not be remembering it exactly right, but this was the gist.)
At the time, I remember thinking this seemed a very labour-intensive way of writing a play - to start off in prose before you get to the script. And I thought no more of it.
Until I gave it a try, whilst lounging louchely* on a foreign beach mere weeks ago.
And do you know what? It works. It really works.
This has been my problem: I start writing in order to find out who my characters are, and where they, and what the story is. And this works, to a point. It makes dialogue the starting point, and I feel like the characters come to life from the off. And it works much, much better than when I try some 'A loves B, C is having a sex change, D is taking up darts' kind of plotting.
Because in that 'A does x, meanwhile B does y' scenario of outlining, I get bored. And it feels like I'm trying to get some people to do some stuff for no good reason. And my dialogue goes to shit.
But my approach naturally has some drawbacks: namely, I get half-way in with no idea of where I'm going. (And, as other more sensible writers have pointed out, this is not a good place to be in.)
So I found that by writing something, properly writing it, a story emerges through the prose much more strongly, but in a natural way. That keeps me interested enough to want to write the script for it.
And the proof that this works? Well, I managed to write a wee 15-minute script over a couple of days. When you consider the last 15-minute script I did took about 18 months (in a very torturous route, but still, I'm not even kidding), this is a RESULT of the highest order.
So I'm a convert. That is to say, I'm going to be giving it a go from now on...
And refreshed from foreign climes, I actually have some ideas again, so this is all to the good...
In fact, I think my darts/sex change epic farce melodrama is on course to be better than Pinter. Much better.
(Joke. I can joke again! Thank god for holidays, eh...)
*By lounging louchely I mean, of course, sitting with half the sand on the beach stuck to me because of tons of factor 50 sunblock and gallons of DEET which does absolutely nothing to stop the little bastard mosquitos biting me on the ankle. And looking awkward about the whole thing. But still, you get the point.
Monday, 28 December 2009
of little consequence
Ah, the blogs I was going to write...
On Pitmen Painters (brilliant) and War Horse (more brilliant in some ways - puppetry, camp nazis - and less in others).
On discovering a proper, actual story in my script a mere 18 months after I started scrawling (yes, I learn quickly).
On finally writing something new.
On exciting theatre plans for 2010. (Very excited about Midsummer coming to Soho. Very.)
On the importance of theatre-going buddies and fellow writers.
On the difficulty of finding any spare energy to tip stuff out of my brain and onto paper and thence to screen.
But instead... Well, work got in the way. Not just in the usual way of keeping me busy. But in a new way of infecting my every waking minute and hour and not, generally speaking, in a good way. Even now, in the midst of Xmas hols.
And there, in a nutshell, is also the reason I haven't been doing this blog as regularly as I could have. Because it would be one long, tedious moan. And I don't really want to inflict that on the world, any more than I am, um, doing now.
Some good news? I'm off on my holidays in a couple of days. A proper holiday. To a far-flung destination. Where my poor tired brain will hopefully recover and regain some cheer. Some much-needed cheer.
In the meantime, can I just wish anyone who has taken the time to read these meagre ramblings a very happy new year. And although I don't do new year resolutions as such, I will strongly attempt to be less moany in 2010. And, who knows, I might even write a review of a play in the opening week, as opposed to the closing week like what I have been mainly doing this year... But I'm not making any promises...
On Pitmen Painters (brilliant) and War Horse (more brilliant in some ways - puppetry, camp nazis - and less in others).
On discovering a proper, actual story in my script a mere 18 months after I started scrawling (yes, I learn quickly).
On finally writing something new.
On exciting theatre plans for 2010. (Very excited about Midsummer coming to Soho. Very.)
On the importance of theatre-going buddies and fellow writers.
On the difficulty of finding any spare energy to tip stuff out of my brain and onto paper and thence to screen.
But instead... Well, work got in the way. Not just in the usual way of keeping me busy. But in a new way of infecting my every waking minute and hour and not, generally speaking, in a good way. Even now, in the midst of Xmas hols.
And there, in a nutshell, is also the reason I haven't been doing this blog as regularly as I could have. Because it would be one long, tedious moan. And I don't really want to inflict that on the world, any more than I am, um, doing now.
Some good news? I'm off on my holidays in a couple of days. A proper holiday. To a far-flung destination. Where my poor tired brain will hopefully recover and regain some cheer. Some much-needed cheer.
In the meantime, can I just wish anyone who has taken the time to read these meagre ramblings a very happy new year. And although I don't do new year resolutions as such, I will strongly attempt to be less moany in 2010. And, who knows, I might even write a review of a play in the opening week, as opposed to the closing week like what I have been mainly doing this year... But I'm not making any promises...
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
btw
Further to my last post, when I was having a little moan about various confusing bits of advice I received, I wanted to clarify that I'm immensely grateful to people who can be arsed to read my random nonsense. I'm just a bit not sure what to do with it all sometimes.
But hell, I need to get a grip. My job is all about frickin' editing. No reason I can't edit my own stuff. Just need a bit of clarity...
Next up, when I have some spare brain, an exclusive review of the latest show in town!
(Not really, it's this, which has been on for a million years, but I'm not going to let that stop me chipping in my two-pennorth. Whatever a pennorth is.)
But hell, I need to get a grip. My job is all about frickin' editing. No reason I can't edit my own stuff. Just need a bit of clarity...
Next up, when I have some spare brain, an exclusive review of the latest show in town!
(Not really, it's this, which has been on for a million years, but I'm not going to let that stop me chipping in my two-pennorth. Whatever a pennorth is.)
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
confused
What not to do when you return to writing a script after several months of not writing:
Don't under any circumstances get over-excited by your own brilliance and show your script to other people. And definitely not to more than one person.
And if you are foolish enough to do these things, don't encourage people to give you advice or comments on what you've written, because they will inevitably provide contradictory and downright confusing advice along the lines of:
'I love your main character don't you think you should change the entire narrative arc because the ending doesn't work...'
AND/OR
'I love the narrative arc but why doesn't your character have a more distinctive voice?'
AND/OR
'Your main character has an amazingly distinctive voice but why don't you set it in Grantham?'
(I don't why I said the last one. Clearly it's not real. Who would give you this kind of advice? Unless, perhaps you were writing a script about the early life of Margeret Thatcher and thought it would be thrilling to set it on Mars in a brave stab at a kind of counter-historical/fantasy genre. In which case it might be sensible advice.)
So when you sensibly haven't shown your script to anyone, and haven't had the remains of your brain power utterly scrambled by bucket loads of advice, you presumably won't feel confused and unsure and generally a bit stuck about where to go next.
I imagine.
Don't under any circumstances get over-excited by your own brilliance and show your script to other people. And definitely not to more than one person.
And if you are foolish enough to do these things, don't encourage people to give you advice or comments on what you've written, because they will inevitably provide contradictory and downright confusing advice along the lines of:
'I love your main character don't you think you should change the entire narrative arc because the ending doesn't work...'
AND/OR
'I love the narrative arc but why doesn't your character have a more distinctive voice?'
AND/OR
'Your main character has an amazingly distinctive voice but why don't you set it in Grantham?'
(I don't why I said the last one. Clearly it's not real. Who would give you this kind of advice? Unless, perhaps you were writing a script about the early life of Margeret Thatcher and thought it would be thrilling to set it on Mars in a brave stab at a kind of counter-historical/fantasy genre. In which case it might be sensible advice.)
So when you sensibly haven't shown your script to anyone, and haven't had the remains of your brain power utterly scrambled by bucket loads of advice, you presumably won't feel confused and unsure and generally a bit stuck about where to go next.
I imagine.
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