But Christopher Vogler, in a now famous seven-page memo to Disney
executives, reduces them all to one. Always suspected that about Disney
films. Still, for an easy life his template is the one I shall start with.
Let's see now, there are twelve stages in the hero's journey: ordinary
world; call to adventure; refusal of the call; meeting the mentor;
crossing the first threshold; tests, allies, enemies; approach to the
inmost cave; supreme ordeal; seizing the sword; road back; resurrection;
and finally, return with elixir. My goodness, it fits! Perfectly!
Tuesday 26 February 2002
Email from Ros, new script editor at Doctors: story ideas for the new
series are being considered over next two to three weeks, so I should hear
if any of mine are getting the go-ahead by mid-March.
In a moment of panic open the file on the laptop and give the ones I
sent a quick re-read. Breathe sigh of relief when I realise they're not
that bad. Particularly the one that compares the sympathetic treatment of
a stray dog with the brutal treatment of a family of political refugees,
and the one about the over-anxious mother who thinks her teenage daughter
is starving herself to death for love of a pop singer.
One of the other Talent finalists emails to complain his ideas have
already been rejected. Know I should express sympathy, but actually
can't help feeling a glow of schadenfreude. All the more room for me.
No news from EastEnders, of course.
Friday 1 March 2002
Very disappointed no one has contacted me about taking up Writer
Star!, my brilliant idea for a nationwide primetime TV search for the next
Maeve Binchy or Terry Pratchett. With its start in the drab ordinary
world and its subsequent trials, hope, despair and ultimate return with
the elixir of fame and fortune, it is, I now realise, another perfect
example of Vogler's hero's journey.
Does no one recognise a winning formula when they see it?
Wednesday 6 March February 2002
Email from Ros at Doctors: all my brilliant ideas rejected.
Obviously divine retribution for allowing myself to feel pleased at
failure of other Talent writers. Resolve to treat this as a learning
experience, however. New series started Monday and already set VCR. Will
analyse in detail all episodes: plot, characters, medical theme, turning
points, conflicts, resolution, etc. Feel if I can't crack relatively
straightforward daily half-hour drama, what hope Hollywood?
Sunday 10 March 2002
Unbidden and definitely unwanted idea for a novel comes into my head.
Now, what have I said about writing a novel? Stop it, just stop it.
Monday 11 March 2002
Muse on John Thaw tribute weekend. Surprised no one mentioned
one of my favourite roles of his: as the hero in a now forgotten film
called 'Praise Marx and Pass the Ammunition', the sort of cheap and
cheerful agitprop movie everyone seemed to be making at the end of the
60s. Remember little about it, except a scene in which Thaw attempts to
extract a confession from another character with the aid of an electric
cattle-prod. All right, not exactly Inspector Morse, but plainly seeds
were being sown. Definitely.
Thursday 14 March 2002
Working steadily through Doctors episodes. Watch with finger on pause
button and write out stories. Interesting exercise. Typical plot runs
something like this: Doctor A diagnoses illness of patient X, who
mysteriously refuses to accept treatment. Patient X's relative/friend Y
argues with X but gets nowhere, so asks A to be firmer. Doctor A then has
blazing row with doctor B, who sides with X. Doctor A finally persuades X
to divulge truth, which amazingly reconciles him/her to Y, and A and B
conclude that they both meant the same thing anyway.
A dozen or so of these and my mind inevitably returns to recent
ruminations about story archetypes. Reach startlingly new and original
conclusion. Never mind Kipling's sixty-nine plots or McKee's
twenty-five genres or Goethe's over-generous seven. All drama hinges on
only one essential element: dilemma.
Should diabetic woman risk surrogacy for her adored older sister, or
look after no. 1? Should adored sister admit she lied about having a
hysterectomy, or keep quiet? Should doctor tell diabetic woman the truth
and face nasty patient confidentiality case, or take the easy option? Even
Shakespeare bears me out. Should Cordelia tell Lear the truth about
himself and risk losing her inheritance, or suck up to him like her
sisters? Should Macbeth listen to his wife or to his conscience? Should
Othello obey the voice of jealousy or the voice of love? It is even in the
most famous line in all English drama: to be or not to be.
It is even at the heart of the very small drama of my own life: to
write or not to write. And, unfortunately, of Ros's at the BBC: to buy or
not to buy.
Sunday 17 March February 2002
Watch South Bank Show essay on the novel by Howard Jacobson.
Enjoy his writing so expect great things - well, a couple of decent jokes
at least. Couched in the extraordinarily elliptical wordiness that seems
to charactise every conversation in NW1, his thesis is that the novel is
no less than the main defence of civilisation against barbarism. Like DH
Lawrence, he believes that while scientists, philosophers, historians,
etc. are undoubtedly experts at interpreting the world, they do so from
only one perspective. For true understanding, ask a novelist.
Not sure that sitting slumped in a sofa listening to a bunch of
middle-aged women enthuse about the latest babies-and-shopping saga, or
joining a group of tourists gaping at literary landmarks in Bath does much
to advance his argument, but willing to suspend disbelief for an hour in
hope a little bit of this great ambition rubs off on me.
Unfortunately programme threatens to descend into farce when he
interviews two grandes-dames of the Hampstead Eng Lit scene, Beryl
Bainbridge and Bernice Rubens. Despite increasingly desperate prompting,
poor Beryl never seems quite to understand what Howard is getting at,
while Bernice defiantly declares she couldn't care less about the
importance of novels in the scheme of things, she writes only for herself.
Which doesn't surprise me. Many years ago I met Ms Rubens at a party -
OK, I'm name-dropping, I know, but she's the sister of the brother-in-law
of my then flatmate and I really did meet her, honestly - during which she
told me that I would never be a writer 'until I learnt to hate'. Not
the kind of thing I expected to hear over a glass of Hungarian red and a
cube of cheddar on a toothpick, but it was obviously that kind of party.
She could have been right. In the thirty years since then I still
haven't learnt to hate and I still haven't become a writer.
Friday 22 March 2002
After yet another polite reminder, finally receive email from Helena at
EastEnders: 'I've read your Casualty script and wrote this
about it (just so you know I really have read it). "Stories are clear
and engaging. Male characters more rounded and sympathetic than female -
particularly Ginny and Margaret. Nice blend of drama with comedy and some
very subtle shifts in tone with Denny and Alan. Tendency to tie things off
a little too quickly and neatly (Denny's back story, Margaret's summing
up, Ginny's reconciliation with Brenda) as if writer has run out of room
in which to finish more organically; occasionally 'charity' theme feels a
little too foreground but overall strong and confidently written episode.
Worth considering." And apparently I'm now on a 'long short list'.
However, the new writer scheme is on hold while they review how it works,
so I have another wait in front of me.
Read this through ten times, until finally decide it's good news rather
than bad. Can hardly expect to be offered an episode after one sample
script, can I? So. Back to Doctors. Must think of more ideas. What
if the wheelchair-bound member of a women's reading group is found to be
pregnant? Or better still, what if...
Thursday 28 March 2002
For some reason still thinking about H Jacobson. Recall that a year or
two ago he recounted in an article how the then hugely popular Chris Evans
once asked his Radio 1 audience to phone in with differences between men
and women. A listener duly called: 'women can't write their name in the
snow.' Evans chortled, 'that's a classic.' To which Jacobson's response
was, 'it's the end of civilisation.'
He's right. Writers are our main defence against barbarism.
Monday 15 April 2002
Spend most of the day editing the manuscript of an A-level Physics
textbook. Not quite what I'd planned for my birthday, but beggars, etc.
Then things start to look up. A call from a publisher: how would I like
to contribute a 'getting started' chapter to a forthcoming guide to
writing for stage and screen? Takes me all of half a second to decide.
Of course, in some people's eyes I may not be exactly the best
qualified person, given my singular lack of success so far, but can't let
that stand in my way. Tell myself it's what writers do all the time:
describe things they haven't experienced.
A flurry of emails later and a working lunch in Covent Garden is fixed.
Excellent. Now that's what being a writer is all about. In fact, must make
a note of it for the chapter: the importance of working lunches.
Tuesday 16 April 2002
Mulling over possible approaches to my commission (what a lovely word,
commission, such a comfortingly financial ring to it) while trying to
ignore continuing silence from Doctors script editor re my latest
ideas. Should I base the chapter purely on my own experience, or on those
who have actually broken through? What's more useful: the story of how
Michael Billington saying nice things about one of my stage plays in 1972
led to thirty years of struggle and disappointment, or the story of how
Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern was put on by OUDS and
the rest, as they say, is history?
Should I fill it with anecdotes, or stick to useful names and addresses
and lots of tick boxes? Should I be lighthearted or serious? Encouraging
or discouraging? One authority says that the urge to write TV drama is at
its strongest among the socially maladjusted, those who find it difficult
to cope with real life. Maybe I should just write a list of reliable
sources of psychiatric help.
Doubt that anyone would notice. I have a sneaking suspicion very few
aspiring writers actually read the numerous 'how to' books already on the
market. Or if they do, they take no notice. I should know. Been there,
done that, got the rejection slips.
Thirty years ago, with Michael Billington's encouraging words ringing
in my ears, I dashed off no less than ten radio plays to the BBC - all
written without my reading a single word of advice, or even, as I recall
to my shame, listening to that much radio. I was like nearly every other
wannabe writer: I thought there was nothing to learn. A bizarre
belief, but plainly shared by thousands. How else explain that 90% of
scripts submitted to the BBC New Writing Initiative are so awful they
aren't read beyond page 10?
Friday 19 April 2002
More confident about my ability to write the chapter now. Feel sure I
can offer just that right combination of encouragement tempered by
realism. Getting started? I know all about getting started. I've been
getting started for the last thirty years.
Monday 29 April 2002
To Covent Garden for session organised by
The Writers Guild (oh dear, where does the apostrophe go?). Walk into pub
full of lager enthusiasts watching Sky football and realise I'm in the
wrong venue. Just easing myself back out the door when a bloke at the bar
looks me up and down. 'Just a wild guess, but are you looking for the
writers' meeting?' I nod. 'Through the bar, turn right, past the Gents,
upstairs.' Halfway up the stairs I take in my all-black outfit and
indignantly turn to another lost soul, a middle-aged woman with a shawl
over her shoulders and a battered leather briefcase under her arm. 'What
did he mean, "just a wild guess"?'
Upstairs, eyes eventually adjust to gloom
and smoke, only to find room looks just like the business seminars I
spent the last 30 years trying to avoid: same top table, same rows of
chairs facing it. Actually I lie about the smoke. Even writers, it seems,
have started thinking about their health. Except maybe the stars of the
evening: Alan Plater, David Nobbs and Andrew Davies all sport comfortable
middle-age spreads.
Takes me a moment to realise I'm
actually in the same room as some of my lifelong heroes. Remember
writing pathetic imitation of Plater radio play when I was only 22. And
isn't that Sue Townsend over by the bar? And Bonnie Greer sandwiched
between Plater and Nobbs? Feel overawed already. Know I shan't utter a
word in such company, despite having scribbled a dozen brilliant questions
in the bus.
Theme of the evening ostensibly 'crossing
boundaries', i.e. pros and cons of writing for different media - stage,
TV, film, print - all of which my heroes have done. But actually it's just
another excuse for writers to whinge. Davies confesses, 'I love writing
novels, but I hate writing scripts, really hate it.' Greer says critics
dislike anyone who writes for different media; 'They don't know what
pigeon-hole to put you in.' And Plater recalls how one of his scripts was
'ruined' by a director's rewrite, 'and of course it bombed.'
Resentment homes in on a popular target: TV
script editors. There's a sigh of familiarity from the assembled guild
members: oh yes, they've all suffered at the hands of them. Davies blames
short-term contracts. 'They're all so scared of losing their jobs, they
spend their time trying to second-guess what their managers want.' 'And
now they're even being sent on scriptwriting courses, so they know what to
look out for,' complains another panelist, as if that were somehow
cheating.
Interesting to note that when they speak
about film or TV they tell funny anecdotes, but when they speak about
writing novels, they use the word 'serious' a lot. Know there's
pernicious snobbery in literary circles about TV and film, but didn't
realise writers shared it. Feel there's a useful debate to be had about
this, but it never happens, except when Plater declares TV isn't a visual
medium and Davies disagrees. Plater says 'it's just people in a room
talking.' Davies says the best scene in his Pride and Prejudice was
primarily visual (no, it wasn't the wet shirt scene).
Feel beginnings of a mini-theory coming on.
Suspect all these things - unadventurous script editors, snobbery about
novels, emphasis on dialogue rather than image - symptoms of same disease.
Namely, Eng Lit Syndrome. Publishing, broadsheet arts pages and the BBC
undoubtedly stiff with Oxbridge graduates, all thoroughly steeped in the
great tradition. Shakespeare, Milton, Austen, Eliot, etc, etc. Word,
words, words. Not a decent picture among them. Even Ridley Scott felt the
need to name the spaceship in Alien after a Joseph Conrad novel.
(Or was that irony?)
Feel beginnings of another theory. Must be
the stimulation of being among all these creative people. Best American TV
(ER, West Wing, Frasier) is contemporary, while best British TV
(Pride, Barchester, Way We Live Now) adaptations of classics. Why?
Because if words are what it's all about, then that's when words were
at their best: over 100 years ago for English English; now for American
English. Resolve to explore this more, then maybe try it out on a few
people. Could be an article in it.
Questions continue, anecdotes flow, the
noise from the football fans below threatens to convince us all we could
be having more fun elsewhere. Finally a rather balletic young woman, long
hair scraped back in a ponytail, breathlessly urges us to join the Writers
Guild, because it has a 'wonderful' pension scheme and is a 'wonderful'
opportunity for writers to meet other writers and whinge. Because, she
reminds us, writing is the loneliest profession 'except possibly
lighthouse-keeping.' 'Even that,' she adds, plainly feeling she hasn't
painted a bleak enough picture, 'is probably more sociable.'
About to point out there are no manned
lighthouses in this country any more, but stop myself in time. One
thing I've learnt about writers this evening: none of them likes
criticism. But lonely? Come on. Working 8 hours a day in a room full
of computer programmers; sitting at a supermarket checkout; sailing
single-handed round the world; being a TV script editor - now that's
lonely.
Thursday
9 May 2002
Woke in the early hours with more than the usual feeling of panic. What
did I do yesterday? Oh yes. Like the ghastly grinding sound of the red-eye
commuters changing gear on the hill outside my bedroom window it comes to
me. Have agreed to write a chapter of another forthcoming writer's
guide. Gulp.
Only myself to blame, of course. Always been a bit of an innocent at
working lunches, especially when they take place in the middle of
theatre-land. My host was a bit disappointed not to be able to introduce
me to any famous thespians in Joe Allen's, but softened up by flattering
words and a decent bottle of red, I found that like a lady of easy virtue
I was in any case ready to agree to any proposition put to me.
So now I am to write not only advice on how to make a start as a
dramatist, but also to provide a brief history of classic detective
fiction - from the drug habits of Sherlock Holmes to the drinking habits
of Inspector Rebus, as it were. As has been said a few million times
before, there's no such thing as a free lunch.
(Pause while I look up Rebus in Brewer's. Have a suspicion Rankin
didn't just pick the name out of Yellow Pages. Correct. I quote: "A
hieroglyphic riddle, non verbis sed rebus. The origin of the word has,
somewhat doubtfully, been traced to the lawyers of Paris, who, during the
carnival, used to satirize the follies of the day in squibs called De
rebus quae geruntur (on the current events), and, to avoid libel actions,
employed hieroglyphics either wholly or in part." Well, what do you
know?)
Unfortunately, when it comes to crime fiction I'm no expert. Or perhaps
fortunately - at least I won't be burdened by knowing too much. And I do
have one major problem with detective stories, those in which the puzzle
is the main thing. It's this. Since, in order to maintain the mystery,
most of the characters must be portrayed as equally likely to have stabbed
the vicar in the library, after a while I find I couldn't care less. In
fact, often tempted to use the words of the Marxist Eng Lit critic Dr
Arnold Kettle as he dismissed the whole Virginia Woolf corpus: 'So what?'
Also recall the hour-long Minette Walters programme in which she
admitted after having written over two-thirds of her new novel that she
still hadn't decided who the murderer was. Well, if she hadn't worked
it out how did she expect us to? Makes the recent Frances Fyfield TV
adaptations a nice change. The villain is obviously villainous from the
start. Means we can concentrate on the real mystery, namely why Ms West
addresses her longstanding lover only by his surname.
No doubt Ms Fyfield's novel sales will now go through the stratosphere,
but I'm not hugely tempted to read one yet. May be unfashionable to say
so, but in my experience TV often makes a better job of a novel than
the novel does. Look no further than Morse. Early on in series decided
to read Last Bus to Woodstock - for sentimental reasons as much as
anything, since I live there - but found it dry and impenetrable, with far
too many long sentences, just the sort of novel, in fact, you'd expect
from a man who likes doing crosswords.
Drama seems to lend itself to mystery. Jeffrey Hatcher in his Art
and Craft of Playwriting even goes so far as to claim that 'all plays
are mystery plays'. Not sure why. But plainly some truth in it. Name
almost any play. Hamlet - will he get the evidence to confirm
Claudius's guilt? The Crucible - how many people will die before
this madness stops? Looking for Godot - who the hell is Godot? Even
our oldest dramas are called Mystery Plays.
Which should come as no surprise to present-day TV audiences. The trial
of Jesus Christ? It's nothing less than the world's very first courtroom
drama.
Tuesday 28 May 2002
Almost three weeks since my last entry. Very lax. Actually been too
busy earning money, copy-editing another Physics textbook. Not sure why
I'm getting this kind of work - only just scraped A level, but apparently
that's good enough. Fortunately, still capable of being fascinated by
subject, e.g. did you know that size of electron (things that whizz round
inside every atom) compared with atom equivalent to size of ping-pong ball
compared with distance to nearest cinema? In other words, all matter
(that's you and me and the computer you're looking at) is 99.9% space.
Well, it fascinates me.
Thursday 30 May 2002
Finally put Physics t/b (to bed) - as we say in copy-editing circles -
so now it's back to real work. Moment of panic. Surrounded by
half-finished projects. First draft pilot episode of drama series waiting
for rewrites. Rough plan of film script waiting for inspiration. Idea for
novel about hell waiting for research - yes, I know I said I wasn't
going to write another novel, but this one's going to be good, trust me.
'Getting started' chapter waiting for me to get started. Likewise chapter
on famous fictional detectives. Ideas for Doctors waiting for final
polish - no, draw a line, move on, no more ideas for Doctors. Not
to mention murder mystery set in a conservation area, TV drama about a
liberal turning into a racist, children's story inspired by a sign in a
shop window, radio version of TV sitcom, thriller about a historian
researching the Falklands, comedy about Russian politician...
Feel a bit dizzy. Everything whizzing round inside my head like
electrons in an atom. Must lie down.
Friday 31 May 2002
Finally get started on 'getting started'. Consult Aristotle's Poetics.
Not sure why, but it seems as good a place as any to, well, get started. Anything
that's still being read after nearly two and a half thousand years must
have something useful to say.
Aristotle defined six elements for drama: plot, character, ideas,
language, music, spectacle. In that order. Interesting that most
contemporary authorities on scriptwriting reverse the first two: define
the characters and the plot will follow. Could be right. Remember Elmore
Leonard once saying that he starts a novel by imagining a few weird
people, then watches what happens when he throws them together; only on
page 120 does he start to worry about how he's going to tie up the story.
Most TV dramas, on the other hand, seem obsessed with plot, especially
soaps. Don't imagine EastEnders script conferences waste time with
the finer points of Ian Beale's low self-esteem; they concentrate on
dreaming up more tribulations to put him through. Which makes it all the
more refreshing when they occasionally allow themselves the luxury of
exploring a character in depth - Billie Mitchell's brutal boyhood, Little
Mo's ambivalence towards nasty Trevor, Dot and Ethel talking about
euthanasia.
Truth is, of course, plot and character inextricably entwined.
Can't have a story without people to act it out; can't know what
characters are like until they do something. Trouble is most TV drama
stops there. As if to say first two of Aristotle's elements quite
difficult enough, never mind other four. So, no ideas, no language (unless
you count regional accents), no music, no spectacle.
Personally I miss the first the most. What's the point of telling any
story unless it's about something? A story must illuminate something
larger than itself, something the author feels passionate about. Best TV
plays do this: David Mercer's in the 60s, most of Dennis Potter's,
anything by Jimmy McGovern, even his Brookside episodes.
Feel myself warming to this. Think I may have the first bit of my
'getting started' chapter: the importance of writing what you feel
passionate about. Poverty, injustice, heroism, loyalty, love, betrayal,
loss, the triumph of the human spirit as embodied by the World Cup. If
your writing has no theme, no ideas, it will be empty. Your dramatic
world will be like - and I promise this is the last time I use this simile
- an atom: characters whizzing round like electrons, but in 99.9% space.
Monday 10 June 2002
Still researching Getting Started chapter for upcoming Guide to Writing
for Stage and Screen. Still struck rather speechless by being asked at
all. Flattered, of course, but still surprised. As a writer who can't in
all honesty use the adjective 'successful' yet - or even 'professional' or
'full-time' - I may not be the best person to give advice to others. On
the other hand do have plenty of first-hand experience: been getting
started for as long as I can remember.
Consult a few writer autobiographies in hope of inspiration. Very
entertaining. Unfortunately unhelpful. Every writer's experience, it
seems, is different. They have little in common except a burning desire to
write. Some, judging by the extraordinary amount of whingeing they do
about what a thankless, lonely and exhausting job it is, don't even have
that. They came to writing by a variety of routes: divorce, redundancy,
journalism, you name it. There is no single path to success.
Unfortunately, perhaps, for those who think a couple of years as a
shoplifter is only one step away from a writing credit on The Bill,
or that a lifetime of visiting hair salons guarantees an automatic
invitation to pen an episode of Cutting It.
The sad truth is that there is no 'right' background for becoming a
writer. Being a doctor might be an advantage for an aspiring
contributor to Holby City, but equally it could be a disadvantage. A
doctor might find certain things perfectly acceptable that a prime-time TV
audience would find utterly revolting. Some people believe, on the
contrary, that a good long bout of sickness helps, preferably something
highly contagious and romantic, even life-threatening - without being
fatal, of course. Not sure how this theory arose. Sounds rather Victorian,
akin to their habit of rubbing vinegar into their cheeks to make
themselves appear more 'interesting'. In an earlier age Congreve claimed
to have written his first play 'to amuse myself, in a slow recovery from a
fit of sickness'. Perhaps the solitude and tedium of the sick-bed are
supposed to stimulate creativity. In which case, if I truly desire for
myself the life of a poet, I should immediately cease eating well,
wrapping up warm and in all other respects mollycoddling myself, and
instead start hanging around hospital wards and sewers in the hope that I
may soon come down with scarlet fever or typhoid.
My early life was cruelly free of such advantages. Yes, I had the usual
crop of childhood illnesses, but none lasted long enough for me to get
started on my first script. Writing would have felt too much like school.
Besides which, I was, after all, ill. However, I did have my first
introduction to the world of drama when I was a child. Not the magical
experience at the theatre which many playwrights claim to have had, nor
the gaping fascination with the celluloid world of Saturday Morning
Pictures. Apparently I cried during my first visit to the theatre, when
some tin miners were trapped by a rock fall, and had nightmares for weeks
after seeing a film of Romeo and Juliet - in which they actually
showed Friar John being sealed up in a room with a plague victim.
(Interesting. Trapped. Claustrophobia. That explains one or two
recurring themes...)
No, my first real introduction to drama was at home: as a very lowly
ASM in my brother and sister's toy theatre productions. Apparently I share
this experience with Michael Frayn, who built his own theatre, made all
the characters, wrote all the scripts and acted all the parts. I,
unfortunately - though I used all the emotional blackmail the youngest
member of a family is permitted to use on these occasions - was restricted
to raising and lowering the curtain and playing the part of Messenger.
Perhaps that is why Frayn has become a success and I - so far - have
not.
Friday 14 June 2002
To Valhalla (i.e. Broadcasting House) to interview director of BBC New
Writing for another chapter of upcoming writer's guide. Very nervous. With
hour to go, collect borrowed tape recorder from porter's lodge at Garrick
Club, only to discover it has no mike. Help!
Friday
14 June 2002 (cont'd)
Rush round to John Lewis in hope of buying missing mike
for tape recorder, otherwise may have to start interview with director of
BBC New Writing by asking to borrow one. Not that that should be a
problem. If any outfit has a mike to spare, it should be the BBC.
Luckily helpful youth in hi-fi department comes up with
the goods. And at only £8. I'm in business. Get to Broadcasting House
with ten minutes to spare. Shown to cool sunlit office on first floor by
pretty young woman. Idly wonder if she's the script reader who said I have
'a command of the good old-fashioned virtues of storytelling'. No. Probably
the one who said my characters are 'dangerously close to stereotypes'.
Kate Rowland very charming and helpful, even shows me
how to test for sound level. We sit facing each other on a sofa, the
microphone between us. Feel a bit like Richard to her Judy. In answer to
my prepared questions she tells me a lot I know already, but a lot I
don't. Apparently one of the most common pits into which new writers fall
is that of imitation. Her shelves are currently overflowing with feeble
re-hashes of The Royle Family. Yes, it's brilliant. Yes, it's
changed the face of TV sitcom. But unless a writer has something new
and heartfelt to say about deadbeat families living their lives in front
of the TV set, they shouldn't go there. She and her team of script
readers can see a bandwagon coming before anyone's even thought of jumping
on it.
Mentally search soul for signs of the same crime, but
honestly fail to find any. Can hear no band, can see no wagon. Often feel,
on contrary, like a man on a bike whistling in the middle of a desert.
Other major fault is simply weakness of story. 'I've
just read four scripts,' she says, 'and on each of them I wrote the one
word, "why?"' Again search soul: have recent stories been
worth telling? Hero destroys best friend's new car after discovering he's
raped hero's wife. Man finds God - literally. Woman foils bank robbery and
in so doing discovers love of her life. Philandering man happily
metamorphoses into randy tomcat only to suffer inevitable snip of vet's
scissors. All right, maybe not all about the meaning of life. But remind
myself one of Tom Stoppard's funniest plays about nothing more than a man
being unable to pay his taxi fare.
At end of interview I ask to see the piles of unread
scripts. Not sure why. Masochism, perhaps. She shows me a wall-full. 'Do
you read them all?' I ask. 'We guarantee to read at least the first ten
pages,' she assures me, 'but, frankly, we can usually tell from page one
whether it's worth going on or not.' Apparently over 80% aren't.
With that sobering statistic ringing in my ears I hit
the street. Almost enough to make me think seriously about taking up
accountancy. Trudge towards Oxford Circus tube. Within a hundred yards
that naive optimism without which no aspiring writer could get through the
day takes over. Out with notebook: unstable writer plants bomb in
Broadcasting House....
Wednesday 19 June 2002
To White City to interview Mal Young, the man whose name is always
at the bottom of the scrolling credits at the end of BBC drama series -
last seen sharing a pint with the Queen and the Duke of E in EastEnders'
Queen Vic. He occupies a rather shabby office block opposite Television
Centre - I don't know where the licence fee goes, but it's certainly not
on accommodation. Reception packed with hopeful actors in for an audition.
Schadenfreude at their pale, nervous faces helps to shake off that sinking
feeling I get every time I walk into an office block. Further cheered by
fact every room seems to have a huge TV pride of place. Very homely.
Though bit unnerving conducting interview with Can't Cook, Won't Cook
flickering silently at my elbow.
Doesn't start well. At the top of the questions I'd emailed him
beforehand I'd called him the Head of Drama Series. He takes out his pen
and firmly puts a line through the first word: 'Actually, I'm the
Controller of Drama Series.' Whoops.
I briefly tell him why I'm there and what the book is about.
'Interesting,' he says. 'For some time I've had in mind a book about
writing popular TV drama.'
'Great idea,' I say. 'The market could do with it.'
'Good,' he says. 'How would you like to write it?'
Don't remember too much of the interview after that. Good job I have
the tape recorder going. Actually, he talks so much I can barely get my
questions in. And he's such an enthusiast, hard to resist bursting out
with brilliant new ideas there and then. Do remember one slightly worrying
thing, though. Seems he's keen to move away from the freelance approach to
scriptwriting and more to the US model of staff writers. Immediately
suspect this will mean fewer opportunities, even when he claims they'll be
on 'very generous salaries'. More encouragingly, he claims he doesn't like
to use young writers fresh out of writing school: 'I like writers
who've lived.' Fine. But still can't see him giving me a permanent job
at my advanced age.
Eventually leave after an hour with the feeling I have nothing less
than the future of BBC drama on tape. Not to mention an agreement to
send him a plan for the upcoming book. 'Send me a CV,' he adds, 'it'll
help me persuade BBC Publications you're the man for the job.' Ah, yes,
well, that's where things might come unstuck.
Bump into one of the ladies from Talent in the lift. 'How's the writing
going?' she asks. 'Had all my ideas rejected by Doctors,' I admit.
'Oh, everyone has their first ideas rejected,' she says cheerily. 'Keep
trying. You'll crack it.' Forebear to mention feel no need for Doctors
approval any more, not now I'm about to write a book with the Head -
sorry, Controller - of Drama Series himself.
Monday 1 July 2002
To London's West End for another Writer's Guild jolly. This time a
seminar on team writing for TV series. Not entirely convinced it'll be
that useful, but persuaded by promised presence of three American
writer/producers from 24, The Practice, Law & Order,
Hill Street Blues, Miami Vice, etc. Never know, something might rub
off.
Evening starts feebly, with video clips from a couple of their shows,
then becomes downright embarrassing when we're all shown a marketing promo
for Bad Girls (or is it Footballers' Wives?), two of whose
producers are also on the panel. At least they have the grace to apologise,
but they then spend the rest of the evening giving John Yorke (head of BBC
drama series) a hard time, complaining that the BBC is using its steady
income to muscle in on ratings-driven popular drama when it should be
concentrating on being innovative and risky. Yorke responds, reasonably
enough, that license-payers would soon complain if he put on things they
didn't want to watch.
The Yanks seem bemused by how little power British TV writers enjoy.
Across the pond the lead writer is often a show's producer. Around me
I feel Guild hackles rising. Another difference is how much less attention
US writers pay to character. One of the Bad Girls duo reminds Yorke
that a typical EastEnders character breakdown even specifies the O
levels their mother has. Lucas Reiter (The Practice) says 'we
just sketch the characters roughly, then let them emerge more fully
through the plot.'
The chairman - something to do with The Scriptwriter magazine -
asks every questioner to give their name and occupation. After the eighth
person has declared their occupation to be 'writer', I have to fight a
childish urge to describe myself as a 'viewer'. I want to know what the
panel's own favourite programmes are, but my raised hand is ignored.
Probably a good thing: if asked, I'm about to state, even more childishly, that mine is Big Brother.Audience
evenly divided between those who think writing TV drama series is beneath
them and those who would like to earn the kind of money US TV writers
earn.
The Scriptwriter man is plainly one of the latter. He
assures Jennifer Robinson, VP of the company that produces 24, that
her show should carry a health warning: it moves so fast and contains so
many shocks. Ms Robinson modestly lowers her eyes.
I decide it's time to leave.
Friday 12 July 2002
Finally finish my two chapters for the upcoming Writer's Handbook
spinoff writer's guides. Wittily subtitle the Making a Start chapter
'12 Simple Steps to Becoming a TV Scriptwriter'. Step 1: Be related to
a producer. Seemed funny when I first thought of it - now not so sure.
More satisfied with chapter on legendary detectives. Had to cut over
3000 words, which is usually a good sign. Meant restricting my choice to
Holmes, Brown, Wimsey, Marlow, Marple, Maigret, Ghote, Dalziel/Pascoe,
Morse, Baskerville, Hopkins and Robicheaux, but impossible in a chapter to
include everyone. Sure enough, almost by return receive mild complaint of
omission - obscurely, a Swedish creation I've never even heard of.
Thursday 18 July 2002
Receive my transcribed and edited interview with Mal Young. Thankfully,
the editor has broken up Mal's almost unbroken monologue with the
questions I would have asked if only I could have got a word in edgeways.
Actually, rather chuffed with it. Good punchy stuff from Mal; lots of
useful advice for aspiring writers. It even makes me sound as if I know
what I'm talking about.
Sunday 11 August 2002
Read the Observer News section to get my weekly update on world
events, only to discover a surprising rash of stories about films and
novels. Even in a piece consisting of various worthies' reflections on
the fifth anniversary of Princess Di's demise, Carmen Callil confesses to
being 'in the Minervois writing a book'.
On the Comment pages Cristina Odone muses on why the by all accounts
rather detached record of a Parisienne art critic's numerous sexual
pleasurings is such a hit on the continent, but - excuse the pun - such a
flop in the UK. She comes to no useful conclusion, except to suggest that
our culture prefers its sex 'either glimpsed in soft focus through a
maelstrom of emotions, or enjoyed in secrecy.' Well, speak for yourself,
Cristina.
Even the weekly Profile is of Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting,
presumably to help publicise his latest book, Porno. (Wonder what
that's about, then?) Seems he's still his old excessive self and last week
upset the great and good of Edinburgh, the city of his birth, by
describing it as a 'shortbread Disneyland', a 'cultural desert'.
'Social problems go unchecked, and people don't get the opportunities they
deserve simply because they are not deemed to exist in this paradise.' The
Lord Provost, apparently, declared this 'arrant nonsense.'
In another article, millionaire Hollywood scriptwriter Joe Eszterhas (Basic
Instinct) whips himself over a professional life spent glamourising
smoking: 'a cigarette in the hands of a Hollywood star on screen is a gun
aimed at a 12 or 14-year-old...The gun will go off when that kid is an
adult.' 18 months ago he was diagnosed with throat cancer; much of his
larynx has gone and he has difficulty speaking, so maybe he has a point.
On the facing page Martin Amis gets a hard time from just about
everyone over his characterisation of Stalin's terror: 'There's something
in Bolshevism that is painfully, unshirkably comic...It is not tragedy,
like Lear...It is a black farce, like Titus Andronicus.' Not only does he
commit the sin of attempting to provide a literary interpretation of
the worst genocide in history, but he commits, for some, the even more
reprehensible sin of including personal references, particularly about the
death of his sister. A reviewer dismisses the book as 'the narcissistic
musings of a spoiled, upper-middle-class litterateur who has never
known the kind of real suffering Stalin's victims did.'
Realise both these last pieces are about censorship - self-censorship
in Eszterhas's case. Amis shouldn't write about things of which he has
no direct experience. A bizarre imposition. Wonder if same suggestion
was ever made to Shakespeare. If so, he took no notice, fortunately for
us. Otherwise we'd have no double suicide in Romeo and Juliet, no wife
murder in Othello, no blinding of Gloucester in King Lear, etc. Eszterhas
won't write cigarette smokers into any more of his scripts in case anyone
copies them. By same token I assume he'll be omitting murderers,
wife-beaters, drug-takers, drinkers, liars, procrastinators and men who
don't put the seat down.
Monday 12 August 2002
Going through another writing crisis. After success in BBC Talent
competition and brief flirtation with world of soaps, have gradually
realised I don't like them very much. Of course, failure to get any ideas
accepted may be contributory factor, but can no longer deny manifest lack
of interest in Ian Beale's disastrous marriage, baby Louise's uncertain
future or Doctor Mac's alcoholism. Have nothing but admiration for the
writers: they obviously live and breathe the shows.
Monday
26 August 2002
Try hard not to read article in The Guardian
about Ian Banks (Ian M Banks to his sci-fi fans). Know his success will
depress me for rest of day. True enough. When willpower eventually fails,
learn among other things he earns a basic £250,000 each year - 'more in a
good year'. Gnash teeth. Knew his books were popular; didn't realise
they were that popular. Seems it even troubled him, once upon a time.
Used to ask himself the question: should he try to write 'good' books or
simply entertainment? Now doesn't give a toss. Now realises books that get
good reviews in the Sunday supplements are simply books that entertain
Oxbridge graduates. Insane jealousy begins to fade. Obviously not such a
bad bloke after all. Even decide to take a couple of his books on holiday
with me. Can't be all as creepy as The Wasp Factory.
Tuesday 27 August 2002
Try to put finishing touches to new ideas for Doctors.
Best one is about two thirty-something sisters, one worn down by poverty
and four children, the other a single, successful, childless hi-flier.
Irony (or is it paradox?) is that while careworn mother envies her
sister's freedom almost to point of hatred, latter finds her own life cold
and loveless and wants nothing more than children of her own. Story's
symmetry appeals, but by time I've knocked up a plot that fits into one
day, begin to have serious doubts. All feels a bit formulaic. And what
to do with the husband...?
Second story may be better. Anxious woman in surgery to
renew anti-depressant prescription shows unmistakable signs of physical
abuse. Suspicion falls on brutish husband, but he's more amazed than
anyone. The perp (as they say in US crime novels) eventually turns out to
be 14-year old daughter. (And don't tell me it couldn't happen. I read
it in a newspaper, so it must be true. Or is that too much irony for
today?) Feel happy with story up to discovery. Not so happy with
subsequent explanation why girl did it, nor why mother allowed her to.
Conclude needs more work.
Third story bit outside Doctors format, so
probably waste of time proceeding. Nothing happens in it. No unexpected
plot twists, no emotional breakdowns. Just a patient talking to a doctor.
Or rather, trying to talk. Because that's what it's all about - the
importance of talking. I love it. Only problem is how to make my script
editor feel the same way.
Friday 6 September 2002
Finish reading a stack of crime novels. (What is the
collective noun? A suspicion? Suggestions by email.) Linda Barnes, Walter
Mosley, Val McDermid, Nicci French, Ian Rankin, etc. After having temerity
to contribute a chapter to a book about how to write them, decide to blow
dust off a mystery novel I started three years ago. Time to put my
money where my mouth is. But how do the experts do it?
Unfortunately no easy solutions. Everyone different.
Linda Barnes in hardboiled Chandler/Hammett tradition, except her hero is
female. Mosley more interested in African-American experience than the
puzzle; McDermid procedural; French emotional; Rankin Edinburgh lowlife.
Some go for atmosphere, others for strong characterisation. Some have
plots more difficult to understand than quantum theory, others so simple
even the police could have found the solution by page 10.
All have one thing in common, though. All have
'closure'. May be a few too many bodies along the way, but perp is
always caught or killed - eventually. Good triumphs. Reason prevails.
Normality returns. In that respect, at least, not so very different from
an episode of Doctors.
Right away I see a problem.
Monday
9 September 2002
Feel decidedly low and sluggish, even for a Monday. No
academic copy-editing or proofreading to do. Brain refuses to come up with
any Doctors ideas - except one about a man feeling depressed on a
Monday morning. Day gets any worse I might have to do my tax return.
Phone rings. Laura from the BBC. Instantly sit up
straight. Pulse quickens. Gather she's calling from EastEnders.
Pulse changes up another gear. I've moved from the long shortlist to
the short shortlist. I'm one of only 24 they want to consider for the
next shadow scheme. Pulse now at danger level. Take deep breaths. Relax
steely grip on phone. Would I like to come and 'have a chat' next week?
Would I? Would I? Yes, I hear myself saying, yes, yes,
yes.
Put phone down. Feel suffused with rosy glow. Or is it
high blood pressure? Drift into reverie of scriptwriting fame and fortune,
only to have it come to a speedy end when recall haven't actually
watched a single episode for last three months. Also have embarrassing
recollection of writing in this diary a few weeks ago that I couldn't care
less about soaps any more.
Well, that was then.
Sunday 15 September 2002
Have become EastEnders bore. Have dutifully
trawled through EastEnders website, catching up on storylines and
downloading character profiles. Don't want to commit faux pas of
suggesting exciting new developments for someone who was killed off four
weeks ago. Have watched and re-watched latest episodes ad nauseam.
Partner beginning to wonder aloud what life would be like without a TV.
Monday 16 September 2002
BBC Elstree somewhat disappointing. A seedy 60s office
block surrounded by an industrial estate. And the EastEnders
'floor' is just a long corridor with offices. No sign of Albert Square or
the Queen Vic. No hint of what makes 15 million viewers tune in four
nights a week.
'Tell us about yourself,' suggests Helena, pen poised
over a large A4 pad. The most predictable question but still the one I was
most dreading. How to make 35 years of rejection slips sound like a
well-planned learning curve? Concentrate on the competitions I've won
and hope she doesn't ask point-blank if I've ever had anything broadcast.
Have a gut feeling it wouldn't be a good idea to base our relationship on
an outright lie.
Luckily we soon move onto EastEnders. Confess
I don't watch it every night. Aamina (a script editor who I estimate
is just approaching her 16th birthday) says that if I did they'd think I
was a very sad person and that I should get out more. They fire the kind
of questions I was expecting: which characters do I think need more
development? what storylines do I like? what makes a great episode? And
before I have much opportunity to feel nervous I realise we are actually
'having a chat'. Furthermore I realise I'm sounding enthusiastic. Not only
that. I am enthusiastic. Yes, I want to write for this show.
Yes, yes, yes.
Leave after 45 minutes on a bit of a high. They can take
12 writers on the shadow scheme, so I have a 50% chance. Come down to
earth when I realise odds are probably much less favourable: I must be up
against writers who've at least had stuff transmitted already, so what
hope me?
Wednesday 18 September 2002
Trying to put EastEnders out of mind. Proofing
800-page textbook on sports medicine. Head full of MRI scans of twisted
knees and the proper spelling of words like motoneuron. Phone rings.
'Hi, Bob. It's Aamina.'
Thursday 19 September 2002
After call from EastEnders yesterday, wake this
morning with hangover. Go back to bed and wait for feeling to pass.
Friday 20 September 2002
Browse local bookshop and pick up Writing for Soaps
by Chris Curry. Flick through it and almost put it down again. Find it's
written in that faintly cynical, tongue-in-cheek style favoured by people
who clearly would be writing great literary novels if only the public was
ready for them. We, Ms Curry implies - that is, we serious writers -
know soaps are rubbish, but if millions are stupid enough to watch them,
well, why not take the money?
Getting very tired of this hypocrisy - particularly
because until a couple of years ago I shared it.
Granted EastEnders isn't Shakespeare, as regular
scriptwriter Andrew Collins is happy to admit. But that doesn't mean it's
worthless. Fact, now I come to think of it, there are more than a few
similarities. The Slater daughters cause at least as many problems as King
Lear's; drippy Mark plainly afflicted by the same Oedipus complex as
Hamlet's (with Lisa his Ophelia); Phil Mitchell and his megalomaniac
mother - well, the Scottish couple, who else? While the jealousy and
intrigue that drove Othello to murder are the very warp and weft of almost
every episode.
Nevetheless still seem to spend every day justifying my
pursuit of a job on EastEnders to friends who start by
sniffily claiming never to watch it, then turn out to be unaccountably
more familiar with the characters than I am. Reminds me of the
Writer's Guild seminar a few weeks back: as far as Plater, Davies and
Greer are concerned writing for TV is either torture or farce; real
writing is about novels.
Plainly a view shared by most of my acquaintances, who
'hardly ever watch television'. I imagine them spending their evenings
gathered round a crackling fire, reading passages from Jane Austen to each
other, or discussing the merits of the latest Martin Amis over a fine
claret. Strange then, to find they can all hum the signature tune to Ground
Force and on closer inspection their bookshelves are overflowing with
nothing more demanding than Maeve Binchy and Stephen King.
Thursday 26 September 2002
Letter arrives from Helena at EastEnders. It's
official. I'm on the shadow scheme. Yesss!
A two-day seminar led by Tony Jordan (lead writer - i.e.
God), after which I have a week to produce a scene breakdown for my
episode, then only two weeks in which to produce a first draft. Gulp.
Finally, the official secrets act: 'information relating
to EastEnders characters and storylines is entirely confidential
and should not be discussed with anyone outside the programme.' So if
anyone is reading this in the hope of finding out in advance what's
finally going to happen to Lisa and baby Louise, sorry. From now on, my
lips are sealed.
Tuesday 1 October 2002
My mother died this morning. She was 88. Born at the
beginning of the first World War, survived the Blitz, brought up three
children, unfailingly supportive and cheerful, despite suffering the death
from leukaemia of her 23-year old daughter. She seemed to have hundreds of
friends. At Christmas every room in her house overflowed with cards. When
my father died, she began to write about her experiences during the war.
She told good stories. As one might expect from someone who lived through
most of the last century.
And she wasn't ashamed of admitting she loved
EastEnders.
Monday 7 October 2002
First day of EastEnders shadow scheme. At main
gate see two women young enough to be my daughters hug familiarly. They're
on the shadow scheme too. Right away start to feel old yet at the same
time hopelessly inexperienced. I'm right to. Over lunch discover
that at least half the 12 hopefuls already have plenty of credits between
them. One is helping relaunch Crossroads, another is
storylining for Corrie, a third is writing a new Glasgow soap, a
fourth Hollyoaks. Feel a distinct amateur among all these
professionals. Mood only lifts when find myself next to a man who scripts The
Sooty Show. Feel even better when he confesses a friend exclaimed,
'You mean they don't make that stuff up as they go along?'
Tony Jordan turns out to be a real London geezer - for
15 years he ran a stall on a street market. And even after over 200
episodes he still loves writing for EastEnders. Get distinct
feeling he believes after his first script was accepted he died and went
to heaven.
About scriptwriting he's refreshingly straightforward.
Sweeps aside all theories - hero's journey, 3-act structure, 25
masterplots, all that bollocks - and instead presents us with a technique
so simple even Barbara Cartland could have used it. Test it out on
tonight's episode of EE and there it is. Glaringly obvious when you know.
Tuesday 8 October 2002
Spend morning working on a group exercise: structuring
an old episode from scratch. We get a 1.5-page story document, which tells
us the main event is a football match. But really the episode is about
Arthur Fowler worrying about getting old. Bravely suggest covering the
match in flashbacks from the post-match celebrations in the Vic. 'Great
idea,' says Tony, 'I might have done the same.' Start to feel warm glow,
when he adds, 'Course, it would never get past first draft stage -
EastEnders doesn't have flashbacks.'
We're shown round the external set: the Lot. Someone
asks why there's so much security. 'We had to put it in after a couple
broke in with a photographer,' explains Tony. 'The next day the tabloids
were full of photos of them bonking naked on various bits of the set.'
Begin to realise am crossing into strange new world.
Wednesday 9 October 2002
Take all day to read three months-worth of story
summaries to get to point where episode I'm to write starts. Thrilling but
frustrating. Since my episode isn't scheduled for transmission till
mid-Feb next year, head now full of exciting new stories I can't
breathe a word about to anyone.
Thursday 10 October 2002
Watch tonight's EE with increasing sense of
dislocation. Know at least three characters who will soon be dead.
Bursting to tell partner but she reminds me of oath I have taken and ties
gag round my mouth. Now understand why Tony Jordan confessed he can no
longer watch it.
Wednesday 16 October 2002
Day of 'quartet meeting'. In which I and three of the
shadow writers discuss our proposed scene breakdowns with a script editor
and producer. Feel nervous but not unconfident, and figure I'm
important enough now to drive through the main gate and use the BBC car
park.
Since I have a Monday episode I'm the one who kicks the
meeting off. Proudly pitch my ideas about how I see my episode being put
together, where the focus is, the main story, the characters' journeys,
the climaxes, the pivotal scenes... Getting quite carried away by my
own brilliance when brought up short by producer. Surely my emphasis
is on the wrong story? And don't I give the viewers a big let-down at the
end of my second story? And shouldn't I be making more of...?
Four hours later, drive out of car park feeling
distinctly as if been run over by a bus, to be greeted by half a dozen
autograph hunters huddled on the street corner in a chill wind. Or maybe
they're hoping to be picked as extras. They peer closely through the
windscreen at me. Maybe in a certain light I could pass for Jamie
Mitchell's grandfather, but they quickly decide I'm of no account and turn
away.
After the drubbing I've just endured, I'm inclined to
agree.
Sunday 27 October 2002
Extraordinary article in Observer by Gore Vidal
about events of 9/11. His thesis is that the attack (or something like it)
was anticipated - indeed, provoked - by the US. Not only that, but then deliberately
allowed to happen in order to give Bush a pretext for replacing the
Taliban by a pro-US Afghan regime - the reason being stalled
negotiations over an oil pipeline. Now the Bush coalition is busily
setting about provoking Iraq into doing something similar, so they can put
a pro-US regime in there too.
Meanwhile bin Laden has been quietly sidelined - he
doesn't control any oilfields - and Saddam is being cast as Public Enemy
No. 1, only a short step away from attempting to destroy the entire
Western world. Not sure how a fairly insignificant country like Iraq is
supposed to achieve this, since even at their maddest the Soviets never
attempted it, with a thousand times more firepower at their disposal.
Granted Saddam is a vicious megalomaniac, but he's not stupid. And granted
he's tried to wipe out his Kurdish population, but that just puts him on a
par with Turkey. Oh, but Turkey is pro-US, so that doesn't count.
Sorry, slipping into sarcasm. Last resort of a cynic
faced with the hypocrisy of the world.
Friday 1 November 2002
So farewell, Trevor.
Can't say I'm sorry to see him go. Me and a few million
other EastEnders viewers. Vicious bully, rapist and wife-beater, he
won't be missed. And of course, this being EastEnders and he being
a baddie, he has to go out with a bang. Indeed, a veritable fireball. Now
I know why the Slater house was boarded up when we were shown round the
Lot three weeks ago.
Trevor never worked for me. Always been too much of a
one-dimensional bastard. No end to his viciousness. Even when he
showed some affection towards Little Mo, we all knew it was just some new
twist to his devious nastiness. I kept wondering when we were going to see
some other side to his character. Or at least an explanation. Maybe the
storyliners felt the same. Over the last couple of weeks there's been some
backtracking. Seems Trevor was a thug towards his women because he loved
them and couldn't bear to lose them.
Sorry. Too little, too late. Don't believe you.
Even snake in the grass Steve Owen had his moments: a
touching episode with his mother and selflessly saving Phil's baby from
the burning car in which he was trapped. No such redemption for Trevor.
Just a second or two of self-pity, then he's toast. And taking decent Tom
with him. Double whammy. Still, at least now we know why Tom joined the
cast as a fireman. Teach us to keep our ears pricked. No such thing as
background information in EastEnders - everything is there for a reason.
Sunday 3 November 2002
Finish first draft of my episode. No redundant
characters to get rid of, so no dramatic death scenes. Not even much
heavy conflict, except within the Fowler household, but then that's the
kind of family they are. Pauline's never happy unless she's miserable. My
main task has been to take an almost entirely sympathetic character
(sorry, can't say who he is) and put him through the wringer - thus
showing a darker side to his persona. Realise it's the most enjoyable
aspect of what I've been doing: showing different sides to people. Take
a joke figure and make the audience feel sorry for him. Force an
inveterate liar to say something honest. Make Pauline Fowler laugh.
Maybe that's why Trevor had to go - no one could make
him laugh. Realise it's how Bush and Blair want us to think of Saddam. No
one is allowed to imagine him laughing, except evilly as he orders the
beginning of WWIII. Luckily, it's no big deal if EastEnders has the odd
one-dimensional baddie. In real life, we have to recognise there's no
such thing.
Otherwise the fireball he ends up in may consume us
all.
Wednesday 6 November 2002
With great effort of will have not looked at my EastEnders
draft since Sunday, in vain attempt to distance myself before attempting
rewrites. Nervously read through it, but still sounds depressingly like my
own work. Ideally would like to come upon it by surprise after gap of six
months. Did I write this? Surely not.
Tricky things, rewrites. Difficult to be objective
about something one has sweated blood over. But maybe am worrying
unduly. Recall someone at EE saying scripts typically go through 7-9
drafts before they're signed off. Seems excessive. Imagine every Tom, Dick
and Harry having their say, including the autograph hunters outside the
Elstree main gate. 'Nah, Sharon wouldn't wear pink, not in a million
years.'
However, if going to treat this as a job, must learn
- as the professionals apparently say - to let my babies go. Like
every other scribbler, writing appeals to the megalomaniac in me, making
up for the desperate lack of control I have over my real life. This may be
OK - even desirable - if I were writing a novel or a slim volume of finely
wrought poems, but when it comes to scripting a long-running TV series,
I'd better get used to the idea that it's a collaborative enterprise, or I
won't last long.
The only place I should draw the line, apparently, is
the actors. Recall possibly apocryphal Hollywood story. Self-obsessed star
is becomingly increasingly concerned about less than 100% wonderfulness of
part he's playing. Eventually complains to writer, 'My character
wouldn't say that line.' 'That's very interesting,' replies writer,
'let's have a look at the script.' 'Thanks,' says grateful star. Writer
picks up script and finds problem line. 'Oh no, look,' he says to star. 'Your
character does say that line.'
Friday 8 November 2002
Email first draft to BBC. Say quiet prayer. Now in
lap of Gods, i.e. Aamina, my script editor.
Sunday 10 November 2002
Distract myself from thinking about Aamina sighing
despairingly over my wooden dialogue by watching Anthony Horovitz's latest
Foyle's War. A reviewer has already tipped Foyle as the next Morse,
but in fact he's far better. Morse lived in a cosy world of country pubs,
senior common rooms and multiple body counts. The only believable things
about him were his grouchiness and his hopelessness as a police detective.
Foyle may be a bit liberal for a WWII copper, but at least the world he
inhabits rings true: anti-semitism, chauvinism, mob violence, snobbery,
corruption, police brutality. Particularly like the mysterious factory
supposedly making munitions for the anticipated German invasion, but in
fact making coffins - plainly more profitable than guns - in secret 'so as
not to panic the population'. Excellent stuff.
Thursday 14 November 2002
10am, BBC Elstree. Meeting with Aamina to discuss my
first draft. Driving round M25 feel more nervous than before any of
previous meetings, including my initial interview. But starts well. Aamina
smiles warmly as she greets me in Reception of the building that doubles
as Holby City Hospital (bit disconcerting seeing a sign for Neptune House
on the front and one for Accident and Emergency on the back, with a couple
of ambulances parked nearby). The smile means good news, surely?
Spirits lift even further when she opens by saying my
script is 'really, really' good and lots of other flattering things I
instantly forget in the cloud of euphoria that quickly envelopes me. Then
she spends four hours telling me all the things I have to change.
During a coffee break I realise that the voice I've been
hearing from the next-door office is another EE script editor on the phone
to one of the regular writers. Wall is so thin I can hear every word. I'm
only having my first draft torn to shreds, but he/she is getting the same
treatment on a fourth draft. 'No, that line's not working hard enough.
You're going to have to rethink this whole Sonia/Anthony scene...' But
whereas I, being a new boy, am meekly agreeing with every one of Aamina's
comments, the unheard scriptwriter is plainly not taking things lying
down.
I feel the new spirit of collaboration take hold of me. I
want to pick up an extension and cry, 'We're all in this together. Let
your babies go!'
Thursday 28 November 2002
Finish first draft of second draft of episode 317 of EastEnders.
Aamina's been a bit slow emailing her comments to me from our meeting on
14/11, so I've been relying on my own notes. Even so, I've ended up
rewriting almost every scene. Indeed, four scenes have gone
altogether. Others have been cunningly merged so as to avoid too many
'two-handers' - death by ennui, apparently.
Much of the rewriting has been about getting to 'the
emotional heart', in Aamina's words. She thinks I'm too timid. I think
it's subtlety. But last couple of weeks have taught me a lot of this
kind of writing is about solving purely practical problems. Like how
much dialogue can two people squeeze in between No. 23 Albert Square and
the Vic? (Answer: not much.) And if I want three characters who don't
live together to have a conversation, how do I bring them together?
(Answer: that's what the cafe, the market and the Vic are there for.)
Actually, that's been one of the major problems with episode 317: the
cafe's closed. And since it will be filmed in the middle of winter, there
won't be many daylight hours for scenes in the market either. So in my
script an awful lot goes on in the Vic.
Never mind, if there's one thing I do know plenty about,
it's pubs.
Friday 29 November 2002
Quickly double-check Aamina's comments (actually, they
arrived Wed, but haven't had courage to read them till today in case she's
thought of lots of new ones) to make sure I've incorporated them, then
decide to put draft aside till Sun. Two days isn't much of a gap to
lend 'distance', but it'll have to do.
For relaxation watch Fame Academy. Still waiting
for some perspicacious producer to pick up Writer Star, my idea for
TV competition to find the next Ian McEwan or JK Rowling. Realise it's
unlikely to happen though. Not a lot of visual interest in watching
writers at work. Though BBC tried it recently with a doc about Minette
Walters writing her latest blood-soaked murder mystery. Also vaguely
recall a pair of would-be Hollywood screenwriters videoing progress on
their surefire million-dollar script. One of them hit the comma key on
their PC. The other turned to the camera. 'That's another $10.'
Real reason, of course, is that no one thinks writers
are important enough. Piece in today's Guardian about My Big
Fat Greek Wedding bears me out. Must be the only person in the western
hemisphere who hasn't seen it yet - takes me a moment to realise the film
isn't about the Queen's marriage to Prince Philip - because apparently
it's become one of the most profitable films ever in terms of return on
investment, up there with Star Wars and Gone with the Wind.
As I read on, become increasingly incensed. The
journalist Gary Susman plainly finds it impossible to attribute the
film's success mainly to the script by Nia Vardalos (well, what kind
of lousy article would that make?), instead preferring to emphasize the
parts played by Mrs Tom Hanks (who got hubby to set up the film with his
company Playtone), Gold Circle (who put up half the production money), HBO
(who put up the other half), Joel Zwick (the director) and John Corbett
(the co-star), even congratulating Hollywood as a whole for not putting
out any other romantic comedies as competition. When Nardalos is mentioned
it's mainly to praise her sound business sense in travelling the country
to promote the film by doorstepping Greek ex-pat communities and bridal
shows.
Good script? Yeah, well, I guess that helped.
William Goldman illustrates the same forgetfulness with
Hitchcock's North by Northwest. The film's crop-dusting sequence is
justifiably famous. Who gets the praise for it? Hitchcock. The truth? The
entire sequence was written by the screenwriter - whose name I have
forgotten.
Which only goes to prove my point.
Monday 2 December 2002
By mid-afternoon realise, as has been said before, I'm putting back the
commas I took out in the morning, so finally email second draft of EE
episode 317 to Aamina at the BBC. Append pathetic declaration that I
want nothing more than to write for EE till I drop, but manage to stop
myself before the word 'please'.
Tuesday 3 December 2002
Long liquid lunch with ex-business partner to celebrate completion of EE
317 and discuss Pension Scheme, the idea I had in February for a comedy
thriller about a robbery conducted by OAPs. Fact is, he's a better writer
than I am and I think maybe we could collaborate.
'It's a sort of Ocean's 11 meets Last Orders,' I tell
him.
'Haven't seen either of them,' he says, 'but I like the concept. Your
round.'
Wed 4 December 2002
Stagger into office at 9.40. To find phone message from Helena, EE
Shadow Scheme producer. Surely too soon for feedback. More likely
criticism of my complicated six-hander around the Fowler's market stall or
the red pencil through my throwaway line about Jim Branning's racism. Half-close
ears in anticipation of bad news, so actual words go by in a bit of a
blur. '...calling to congratulate you on your 2nd draft ... what a
good job you've done ... now it'll be handed to the series editor ... well
done ... really good job ... very much hoping it will take you somewhere.'
Call her immediately. We greet each other like old friends. She
reiterates how much she likes my script, but cautions, 'Don't give up the
day job just yet'. Liza - series editor - will have a whole slew of
scripts to read before she decides who to commission. Though apparently
she will almost certainly come back to Helena and ask her opinion, which
Helena assures me in my case will be 'a very strong recommendation'.
Yesss!
Sunday 8 December 2002
Early pre-Christmas drinks with a neighbour and her various friends and
acquaintances. Take pity on chap trying to entertain a baby and an
18-month old. Engage him in conversation. Talk turns to EE, but
frankly bit tired of hearing my own voice on the subject, so quickly
change direction by asking him what he does.
'Funny you should mention TV,' he says, 'I recently had one of my
novels on TV - In a Land of Plenty - perhaps you've heard of it?'
Had no idea I was in presence of genuine literary talent.
Rapidly ask lots of questions to cover embarrassing memory lapse. Who the
hell is he? Now know why celebrities are always being accosted by 'fans',
only to be addressed by the wrong name. Have vague recollection of
slow-moving post-war family epic. 'The hero was a photographer, wasn't
he?' I tentatively suggest.
Tim Pears started out wanting to be a film director, but his first
novel won a couple of literary prizes amid rave reviews - the kind that
say 'I can't praise this novel highly enough' - which wou
