'I'm on the third draft,' I tell her. True. Second draft is the one in the
drawer.
'Doesn't matter,' she says. 'Send it when you can.'
So now committed to spending the next few weeks licking it into shape. Not
exactly looking forward to it. Recall what it was like when I was
writing the first draft: became so engrossed, I hardly saw the light of
day; social life stopped dead, I almost forgot how to speak. Like that
movie where an American family spends thirty years in a nuclear fallout
shelter thinking World War III has laid waste the planet. Very similar,
except my incarceration felt a lot longer.
But it has to be done. Second draft truly dreadful. Can't risk that getting
into anyone's hands. Plot is fine, but characters completely lack
definition. American setting also poorly realised. Might help if I'd
actually been there, I suppose, but I take comfort from the experience
of a friend, who, when he made his first trip to LA, was surprised to
feel no culture shock: he realised he'd seen it all before on
television. Research is overrated anyway, according to Stephen King,
pandering to those who feel that reading fiction is somehow immoral, a
low taste which can only be justified by learning something at the same
time.
So I'll rely on American TV, American friends and the Rough Guide. Kafka
never went to America either, but that didn't stop him writing a book
about it.
Meanwhile, the pilot of Intensive Care - a TV sitcom that tries to do for private
health what St Trinians did for private education - is rejected by a
couple of independent production companies, but is still being
considered by three others, so I live in hope. One rejection letter says
the humour is 'sick', so I feel I've got it about right.
And half a dozen companies express interest in my idea for a comedy drama
series based around a shady company that promises to 'make over'
people's entire lives. A sort of 21st century version of Cinderella,
combining Ground Force, Changing Rooms, Looking Good and Don't Try This
At Home.
Also decide to enter BBC Talent competition and write a script for Casualty:
deadline 31st May. Download sample script, character profiles and all
the last six months' story lines. Last year I reached the shortlist in
the sitcom competition; maybe this year I can go one better. Let's see
now. Time for student nurse Anna to fall in love with Holly, I think, or
for Charlie to lose a limb. Or maybe I could trap the whole cast in a
nuclear fallout shelter for thirty years...
28 May
After the high of a publisher wanting to see The Novel, the lows of the
usual rejection letters.
A BBC reader thinks my radio play about a
family watching Bobby Kennedy's funeral train 'feels rather like The
Wonder Years - it too often relies on narrative interjection,
overstated exposition and a sense of wistfulness for its effect'.
Can't help agreeing, even though I've never seen The Wonder Years.
Which is the depressing thing about rejection letters: they're nearly
always right. Feel a bit miffed, though, when a few days later I
listen to a play that seems guilty of exact same crimes.
Intensive Care now back from all six TV
companies who expressed an interest. Pete Atkin, script editor at Hat
Trick, gives a detailed response. It hurts, but at least helps more
than the usual 'funny moments, but not for me'. There are 'a lot of
enjoyable aspects to it, in particular the individual foibles of the
nurses', but it doesn't 'go on and do anything' and is 'a bit too
dependent on predicament and situation rather than using the
characters and their relationships to generate a bit more narrative'.
Victoria Grew at Alomo comes to the same
conclusion: 'it reads more like a long sketch than an episode of a
long-running series', but then adds 'I do really like your writing'
and asks me to write to her and tell her about myself. I consider this
request for about half a second, then send a long letter by return.
A few days later Makeover, my 21st century take on Cinderella,
comes back accompanied by a letter from her colleague Amy Humphrey.
'Some imaginative moments', 'some interesting characters', but 'the
plot is perhaps a little over-ambitious', 'character motivations are
too confusing', 'too many revelations in the final scenes'.
Interestingly she suggests stretching the narrative over an entire
series, giving the characters more space to develop. The very
opposite, in fact, of what I spent most of April doing: ruthlessly
cutting it from ninety minutes to sixty.
So not a great month. But not bad enough to make me give up and get a
proper job. Bobby Kennedy will be allowed to rest in peace, but
there's a flicker of life left in Intensive Care, so that may go to
re-use another day. And Makeover is still sitting in a few
slush piles, so who knows?
Meanwhile
I am almost done with moving Charlie Fairhead and Co. around Holby
A&E. Only a couple of days to the BBC Talent deadline, which is
cutting it fine, even by my standards, but we are, after all, dealing
with matters of life and death.
Also my first serious attempt at
multi-strand plotting, which is almost as difficult as assembling
flatpack furniture from IKEA. Characters - particularly the
established ones - refuse to go where I tell them. Just when I need
Josh and Colette to have a heart-to-heart I realise she's shocking a
patient out of cardiac arrest and he's seeing to an RTA twenty miles
away. Never mind, there are plenty of incidents: charity bike ride,
injured child, serious skull fracture, paracetamol overdose,
self-inflicted burn, road rage, bankruptcy, divorce, reconciliation -
even a man dressed up as a dog. I bet you don't get all that in The
Wonder Years.
18 June
The fact is, we all have ideas. Every day. And the very next day we've
forgotten them. Except writers. Writers write them down.
Just manage to get my Casualty entry for BBC Talent in the post in time,
so now it's back to The Novel. That's not the title, of
course; it's actually called The Conductor.
'Oh, what's that about?' asks a friend wittily. 'Life on the buses?'
No. It's about a young English choral
conductor who moves to New England and decides to fall in love with
a middle-aged American soprano - the important word being 'decides'.
Love as an exercise in power. It also contains a few twists so
bizarre that a reader of the first draft asked me, 'Where do you get
your ideas?' with an unflattering emphasis on the 'do' and the
unspoken word being 'weird'.
'I don't know,' I answered defensively. 'They just come.'
A lie, of course. Ideas don't just come. Not
to me, anyway. They have to be searched for, winkled out, worked at,
sweated over. Alan Coren was on holiday with his family when he
caught himself hoping that some awful disaster would strike them so
that he would have something to write about in his next column. A
writer of US sitcoms opens a TV listings magazine at random and
stops at the first word that catches his eye, 'car', say. Within a
few minutes he has a dozen ideas: Frasier buys a car; Niles takes
driving lessons; Daphne has a car smash... Another TV writer has the
same method but uses a dictionary. A Hollywood screenwriter writes
any idea he has on a scrap of paper and puts it in a shoe box.
Apparently every drawer and cupboard in Benny Hill's house was full
of unused ideas for sketches.
The fact is, we all have ideas. Every day. And the very next day we've
forgotten them. Except writers. Writers write them down.
My ideas file on my laptop now has over 400 entries, including - let me
see - ah, yes - the film transposing The Magnificent Seven to
a gang-infested council estate; the love story set in the golden era
of Soviet cinema; the thriller about the hijacking of the world's
first ocean-going apartment block; the story of my father's abortive
attempt to emigrate to the South Pacific in the 1930s; the Aga saga
which is actually about an Aga; the sit com set in an employment
agency (slogan 'We're people people') ...
The inspiration for The Conductor was the choir I sing in every
week. I was struck by what a powerful figure of authority a
conductor is. No doubt because this is the only way to perform music
on a large scale, but also because conductors just love ordering
people around. Leonard Bernstein was described as having 'a
pre-Copernican ego; he believed everything revolved around him.'
This kind of power is unnerving. Every week I and my one hundred
fellow singers completely surrender our wills. Gladly.
So I imagined an amalgam of all the conductors I've ever come across,
then applied Stephen King's 'what-if' method. What if my conductor
believed he could persuade people to do - well - anything?
3rd July
Rewrite of The Conductor hits a wall. Or perhaps 'pause' would be a more
musical simile. Or should that be metaphor? Not sure I really know
the difference, though Humphrey Lyttleton on I'm Sorry I Haven't A
Clue does: 'a simile is a figure of speech involving the
comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind,
whereas a metaphor is a system of sending messages using flags.'
Problem is, can't decide how much of my hero's childhood to include, nor
even what kind of childhood he should have. Given that he does
some fairly bizarre things when he's an adult, feel I must provide
some psychological justification. On the other hand don't want to
turn it into a case study of an obscure medical condition, like
Ian McEwan's Enduring Love. Much more interested in how my hero is
redeemed than in how he got to be the way he is.
But where to stop? Already regressed him to eleven years old, but he
was a bit of a psychopath even then, so obviously his problems
started earlier than that. Maybe it was the nasty encounter he had
with a bully when he was eight, or the mysterious neighbour when
he was six, or the alcoholic aunt when he was four. Or maybe his
ex-hippie mother has always been the problem, something to do with
the man with whom she had a passionate but violent relationship
when she was only sixteen.
And where did she come from? London? Too 60s. The North? Too 50s. East
Anglia? Too bleak. West country? Too autobiographical. Wales? Too
poetic. Ireland? Far too poetic. Must go further afield. America?
Yes. And I've always had a thing about Salt Lake City, ever since
earnest besuited young men kept knocking on our door when I was a
youth. Which, because my hero ends up in America, makes his
journey a circle. Very satisfying. And very popular in Hollywood
movies - Well, you have to think of these things.
So that's his mother: a lapsed Mormon, and probably in England to
escape some terrible cultish punishment for having a child out of
wedlock. A single mother, of course. But is she bright? Dim? Does
she smoke? Take drugs? And how did she get on with her parents?
And what were they like? Why didn't they support her when she
became pregnant? Why did they drive her out of the family home?
Obviously something happened to them to make them the way they
were. Probably the way they were brought up by their parents...
Stop! Feel as if I'm disappearing into awful black hole of ridiculous
exam questions. Describe Lady Macbeth's mother. Was Hamlet popular
at school? Did King Lear have any hobbies?
Decide to bring my hero fully formed into the world at age 18.
Next day get an acknowledgement card from BBC Talent competition for my
Casualty script. Shortlisted applicants will be notified by 31st
August, it says. It also gives me a reference: 885C. Instantly
have a silly urge to ring them up and shout like Patrick McGoohan
in The Prisoner, 'I am not a number!'
4th July
Two more TV companies want to see pilot script of
Makeover (TV
comedy drama series: Cinderella meets Ground Force). 'Sounds
interesting', says one. He likes the 'dynamic' between the two
main characters. Wonder if I dare mention Moonlighting as an
inspiration. Decide to take another quick look at it before
sending it off. Must not let it interrupt third draft of The
Conductor.
6th July
Three solid days rewriting Makeover. Three more days lost; will I ever
finish this novel? TV pilot hardly resembles initial concept
now; even cut the scene that gave me the idea in the first
place. But suppose that's what rewriting is all about; can't be
sentimental. Even so, shed a tear in the early hours for the
demise of two characters I'd become quite attached to. They were
conceived, were born, grew, lived their brief lives, died - and
no one knew about them except me.
7th July
See Le Gout des Autres and become transfixed by idea of apparently
insignificant characters turning out to have major thematic
importance. Makeover has one - though one reject letter
complained I had too many revelations in the final scene - and
I'd like to work one into The Conductor, but can't think how.
A
friend solves murder mysteries by always looking for the
character who never seems to have any function, so plainly
something in it.
At risk of spoiling pleasure of those who haven't seen Le Gout
yet:
a chauffeur is occasionally glimpsed learning to play the flute,
but can only manage one note. He's obviously still on the first
page of 'A Tune A Day'. He figures in one or two scenes and
there's a suspicion that he might have a fling with the hero's
neurotic wife, but because he's the kind of insignificant person
he is, it comes to nothing. By the end of the film he's done
nothing, gone nowhere, and there he is, still determinedly
trying to play his one note. And then, in a shot worthy of
Hitchcock, the camera pulls back and we see him as part of a
whole orchestra. And his single note - indeed his whole life -
now makes sense. It is the starting point of a wonderfully
jaunty, life-affirming version of Je Ne Regrette Rien.
Would die a happy man if I could think of just one scene as good.
13th July
Parlous financial state of Ritchie Inc forces me to take on some
proofreading for local publisher. Bit heartbreaking checking
another writer's book, when mine is still unfinished and
unpublished, but take comfort from fact that a collection of
essays on philosophy of logic is unlikely to be a bestseller.
Proofreading forces weird shift of focus from broad transatlantic sweep of
novel to minutiae of misspelled words and misplaced commas. On
face of it, seems trivial, but realise it plays a part. My
changing 'propsition' to 'proposition' is a bit like the
flute-playing chauffeur contributing his one vital note to Je Ne
Regrette Rien.
2nd August
I have been invited to my first book launch party.
I'll just let that sink in.
A book launch. To celebrate the 15th birthday of The Writer's
Handbook, courtesy of Pan Macmillan. My entry into the London
literary scene. At last I'll be rubbing shoulders with
writers, publishers, agents. Who will I meet? Perhaps Martin
Amis, Salman Rushdie, Jeffrey Archer - oh no, he's in prison.
I wonder if I should take along some mss to pass round...
6th August
Back to reality. Another rejection of Makeover, this time
from Parallax, Ken Loach's production company. As usual, I try
to dwell on the encouraging phrases: 'some great ideas', 'some
fun story twists', 'love the trickery of the Ground Force
introduction', 'makeover culture is rich material for a
series', 'great funny dialogue', 'clearly differentiated and
accessible characters'. So not complete and utter rubbish,
anyway.
Unfortunately it also 'starts and develops too slowly', 'stretches
credibility a bit too far', and has 'distracting elements'. In
argumentative mood I read the script again, but am eventually
forced to agree. But two companies still have it, so I decide
not to do any more rewriting. Instead, in what can only be
explained as a fit of madness, I decide to turn it into a
radio play. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
7th August
Realise that Makeover is much too visual for radio as it stands
- about 15 scenes have no dialogue at all - but instead of
doing the sensible thing and giving up, I decide to turn my
heroine into a narrator, despite knowing this will involve a
massive rewrite. Know I keep inventing these distractions in
order not to have to face The Novel, but can't help
myself.
Take a break to pay one of my regular visits to The Writer's Room
at the BBC website. There's an interesting interview with Paul
Abbott, writer of Clocking Off. He started off like a
lot of writers, on soaps. Nicola Schindler of Red Productions
said in a recent article that the best dramas come from soap
writers. I'm not sure I agree; I'm also not sure why soap
writing can't be regarded as an end in itself. It's nothing to
be ashamed of.
Among lots of useful advice, Abbott suggests most aspiring writers
do too little actual writing. They work away at their single
masterpiece, instead of trying out lots of different ideas. I
suddenly panic that I'm not working hard enough and do a quick
count of the projects I've tackled in the last two years. Six
short stories, five novels (all right, no more than a few
pages of notes for three of them), two TV dramas, two TV
sitcoms, one TV comedy drama series, five radio plays, two
articles and ten of these columns. At the end I'm none the
wiser. Is that enough? Or am I spreading myself too thinly?
Before I leave bbc.co.uk I skip to the Eastenders pages and
catch up on Dan's escape from Phil's nasty scheming. I also
discover to my surprise that every character has a horoscope.
Which reminds me. Must check my stars to see if I'm
going to meet anyone important at the book launch party.
14th August
I finally get down to The Conductor after weeks of
procrastination, when a little bird tells me my publisher
has gone bust. Don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Phone Carol to check: dead line. Note also that the current
edition of The Writer's Handbook (snip at £12.99) no longer
has an entry for them. So much for novel-writing.
I expect to be devastated, but in fact feel almost instant
relief. Huge weight lifts from my shoulders. Feel like
running into the street and punching the air. Celebrate by
dumping all my drafts and research notes into a large box
and hiding it in a corner of the office. Have dinner with
some friends and find myself giggling like an idiot
throughout. Now I can concentrate on other things without
feeling guilty.
15th August
Large envelope arrives from the BBC. No longer makes my pulse
race: probably another rejection.
But no, not the usual 'thank you but'. Casualty script no. 885C
(that's mine) has made it onto the shortlist of the Drama
Writer Talent Competition. Well, of course. I knew it would.
Alright, it's only one of a hundred, but as Jenny explains in her
letter (Jenny - what a lovely name, so much nicer than
Carol), at least it's already been passed by two readers.
And they probably received thousands of scripts.
Now all I have to do is wait and see if I am one of the final
fifteen to be invited to an interview/workshop on 6/7 Sep.
If I am, then I must immediately submit an original idea for
a new series. The winning three will be selected on the
basis of their Casualty script and their series idea.
Help! What series idea
17th August
In complete panic. Numerous half-formed ideas swimming round my
head, but can't focus on any. Jenny's letter enclosed a
4-page example proposal, which reads remarkably like a pitch
for MerseyBeat. Characters and concept so clear, they leap
off the page. Panic increases. How can I write with the same
confidence if I don't even know which idea to choose?
Read a book about Morse in the hope of some useful advice from
the scriptwriters, but they're not much help. Julian
Mitchell found thinking of ideas difficult too, but the
actual writing easy; Alma Cullen on the other hand found the
ideas easily: 'pick up any newspaper and you can find at
least four possible plots'.
I pick up a newspaper and fill my head with yet more
possibilities. I trawl my ideas file. Which one to go for?
Which one 'has legs', as they say in Hollywood? Makeover has
been turned down by almost every production company in the
country, so that's out. What about the one set in an
employment agency? The one about Britain's first president?
The one set in a complementary medicine clinic? The private
eye who specialises in missing persons? The one set in a
hotel bar (Cheers without the laughs)? The one about...?
22nd August
In a moment of madness start thinking about The Novel
again.
Maybe I shouldn't let all that research into transexualism
go to waste, after all. Before I can stop it, a great idea
for a TV thriller creeps into my mind...
28th August
Finished first stab at Alternative Therapy series proposal for BBC
Talent. Also made a start on another: The Choir. It's about,
well, it's about a choir. Feel sure I can convince the BBC
not all choral singers are emotionally repressed
middle-class music snobs. Though now I come to think of it,
a lot of them are.
Writing this on the edge of the Scottish Highlands, where I'm
spending a few days with friends. My mobile phone
inexplicably gave up the ghost a few days ago, so I feel
thoroughly cut off.
Alison is a retired teacher and very fussy about English grammar:
her harshest criticisms are reserved for people who use ' I
'
when they should use 'me', and vice versa. In a photo album
I find a clipping from a local paper containing her advice
on the plural of 'lord provost'. As an aspiring hack writer
who has never worried about such finer points I feel
intimidated, until in the evening she declares she wants to
watch ITV's Poirot 'for the authentic sets'. Reminds me of
my late father, who used to sit glued to the TV for hours,
then declare it was all rubbish.
30th August
Nervous about BBC Talent. Whether about getting to the last 15, or
not getting to the last 15, I can't decide. Both options
worry me. If I'm invited to the workshop I'll probably make
a fool of myself. But if I'm not, what shall I do next?
Over late-night drinks Alison tells a heart-rending story about
how her husband never talked about his miserable time at
boarding school, except when he was only a few weeks away
from a painful death by cancer. He thought his parents had
deserted him. Even after they had left him at the school
gates, they rarely visited him. On one of the rare
occasions, his father turned up unannounced on a Sunday and
took him out to a swanky hotel and treated him to a huge
eight-course meal. He was so pleased merely to see his
father that he didn't dare mention the fact he'd already had
a full meal at school. He was certain his father would just
drive away again. When he was deposited back at school he
was immediately sick from over-eating.
Must write a story round that.
31st August
Spend almost the entire day driving the five hundred miles between
the Highlands and home. Return to a small mountain of post,
phone messages and email. Most of the post is junk mail,
most of the email is system messages telling me previous
email of mine has been successfully delivered and most of
the phone messages are from publishing editors asking me to
proofread yet more books on the philosophy of mathematics
and the theory of management.
But the last message is from Jenny at BBC Talent. 'I've been
trying to get hold of you for days,' she says. 'Please call
me as soon as you can. It's urgent.'
Tuesday 11 September
I finish packing for tomorrow's pre-dawn departure for
France, then turn on the TV for some mindless relaxation.
Channel 4 interrupts programming with a news flash.
For some reason I recall the day more than 35 years before,
when as a student I was walking along the Headrow in Leeds
and passed a newsstand: 'US Pres Shot Dead'. I can still
remember how I walked a couple of paces further on, hardly
taking it in, then turned and looked again. Kennedy? Shot
dead? On this sunny day, with the traffic still flowing,
people still walking by?
I can feel it already: today will be like that day. Except that now we have television.
BBC and ITV are already
covering the events non-stop, promptly enough to film the
second plane live as it crashes into the World Trade
Center. I can't quite believe I am watching something
real. The awful thought enters my head that this is a
rather good remake of Towering Inferno. The only things
missing are the screams of the actors as the screenplay
dictates who shall live and who shall die.
Tuesday 18 September
Since my French is not much above ordering steak frites and
biére pression, for the last six days my only source of
news has been CNN. I am now as familiar with the
unblinking gaze and fixed half-smile of the blonde
anchorwoman as I am with the face of my own mother. At the
bottom of the screen the numbers of missing and confirmed
dead scroll by, constantly updated like some ghoulish
stock market index.
More unwanted thoughts creep into my head. It strikes me that
if someone wanted to go missing from his life and be
presumed dead, this would be the perfect opportunity. I
feel ashamed for thinking of story ideas at a time like
this.
Wednesday 19 September
Back in England I watch Martin Bashir front a programme
promising a 'minute-by-minute' account of 'that fateful
day'. It is no such thing, thankfully, given that such a
programme would be at least 24 hours long. Instead it
concentrates on the deeply moving stories of a few
individuals caught up in the terrible events; stories of
fear, courage, self-sacrifice and miraculous escape. They
are, I realise, what people now want: individual stories
that we can readily comprehend. We don't want considered
analysis. The bigger picture is too big, the rationale
behind the attacks too insane. The gaping hole in
Manhattan is a gateway to hell; we would all much rather
not look down it.
Instead the TV coverage becomes like an endless version of 999. We
crave some happy endings. As I write, no doubt the heroes
of the past few days are being contacted by publishers.
Thriller writers are emailing their agents with proposals.
And why not? Stories are a way of coping with tragedy.
They provide meaning where there seems to be none. They
give cause and effect where there seems to be only
randomness. They remind us of our humanity when we seem to
be no better than dogs fighting in the dirt.
Wednesday 26 September
After being sworn to silence by the BBC three weeks ago, I spot photos of the Talent competition winners in Radio Times, so assume the result is no longer a state secret.
The story can be told.
I reached the final fifteen (out of 1400) and was rewarded with a day-long workshop at Pebble Mill, a £250 'advance against future commissions' and a request - well, more of a demand - that I not accept any commission from 'that other lot' without consulting the BBC first.
What with being told not to speak to the press either, it all sounded very serious, as if we fifteen were already on the payroll.
I was interviewed by the head of drama series development and the woman in charge of BBC Talent, who declared themselves 'very moved' by my
Casualty stories. Even my series idea 'had potential', a gentle euphemism, I discovered later, for 'go away and try
again'.
Then their searching questions about my characters' motivations almost floored me. I'd deliberately put my script out of mind for the last two months. Of course, they might simply have been checking I'd actually written it.
At the workshop we all sat in a circle like a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, with Mal Young (head of drama series) and various producers, script editors and writers from
Casualty and Doctors.
Mal asked us to introduce ourselves and name our favourite TV series. Somewhat disloyally, more than half chose US programmes:
Frasier and The Simpsons picked up a couple of votes each and Mal himself confessed he would never miss an episode of
The Sopranos. Perhaps being in charge of drama series is like running the mafia. Only one person chose
Casualty, but she was a BBC employee so that didn't count.
One the producers and script editors told us what they were looking for.
Essentially it came down to the same thing: squaring the circle of providing complete originality within a rigid set of guidelines. A
Casualty producer rather bizarrely claimed that he liked 'humour'. It all reminded me of William Goldman's comment about Hollywood: 'No one knows anything.'
Then we were given a tour of the
Doctors set. Extraordinary how cramped and tacky it was compared with how impressive it looked on screen. Ah, the magic of television.
We were all beginning to wonder when we'd be told about our first commission when the
Casualty scriptwriter brought us back down to earth. He'd had quick success in his early 20s with a short film on BBC2, then nothing for five years. Everyone's faces fell. Even when he'd finally made it to
Coronation Street it had been a disaster. He'd dutifully attended script meetings for a year, but when he'd eventually submitted his first script, he'd been sacked. Our faces fell further.
We were finalists in BBC Talent: surely our futures were assured?
After a weekend of nailbiting, I heard on the following Monday I wasn't one of the three winners. I was reassured that as far as the BBC were concerned all fifteen of us were winners; it was the
Radio Times who wanted the numbers narrowed down to three. Actually I was less disappointed than I expected to be. Maybe I was just exhausted by the whole thing.
The next day I left for eight recuperative days in the French sun. When I returned I was ready to get down to work again. I felt as if I had done no serious writing for weeks. Almost the first thing I saw was a newspaper photograph of the South Shields graffiti: 'Avenge US deaths: kill a muslim now'. I felt instantly weary again.
Evidently the words of Jonathan Swift - written almost 300 year ago - still applied:
'We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.'
Wednesday 10th October 2001
Another invitation from the BBC. Would I like to attend a session at London's Soho
Theatre with a few heads of radio drama and comedy? Takes me all of five
seconds to decide. Feel as if my name has been added to some list, as if
I've solved the first part of a long and complicated puzzle.
Actually the theatre is jammed with 200 to 300 other hopefuls, so the list
obviously isn't short. I only hope I don't look quite as down-at-heel nor
have the same sad, pathetic expression of anticipated rejection as
everybody else. En masse, aspiring writers are a depressing bunch.
The session is chaired by a familiar face from my day at Pebble Mill, Kate
Rowland, creative director, new writing. She's flanked by the
commissioning editor for Radio 4 and the heads of drama and entertainment.
Each gives a little spiel about where they fit in the BBC hierarchy, which
is interesting but not why we're here. What we all want to know is why our
efforts keep getting rejected.
One poor soul actually asks, point-blank. How he expects his script to be
remembered from among the 10,000 they receive each year, goodness knows.
'Well,' improvises Kate, 'it probably wasn't good enough.' 'But,' protests
possibly the next Harold Pinter, 'you gave it second prize in the BBC
Alfred Bradley competition.' Embarrassed looks all round. 'Come and see me
afterwards,' says Kate, 'this one obviously slipped through the net.'
Ah well, I can hear everyone thinking, that's obviously what happened to mine
too.
An elderly gent in a pinstripe suit wants to know if Samuel Beckett would
have become such a brilliant playwright if he had been foolish enough to
follow the BBC script guidelines. Plainly only modesty prevents him from
suggesting that the guidelines are the only things standing between him
and similar acclaim. A querulous voice asks if Radio 4 is inextricably
tied to its time slots of 30, 45 and 60 minutes. 'For example, would you
accept a play if it was only three minutes long?' There's a momentary
hiatus while we all grapple with the concept of a three-minute drama.
Maybe he'd be happier writing commercials.
And so it goes on. An earnest young man wonders why there
isn't a place for two-hour narrative poems. A middle-aged woman in a
pashmina asks if the BBC would be interested in a series of short stories
about a middle-aged woman, 'humorous, of course, but also dark.' A thin
bald man who has been assiduously scribbling notes in an A4 pad throughout
the session, states defiantly that he wrote all six episodes of a TV
sitcom before submitting it - and receiving the usual rejection. The head
of entertainment looks at him as if he might be mad.
Thursday 11th October 2001
Call from Jenny. My Casualty script has been passed to EastEnders with a
strong recommendation from Sally Stokes at BBC Talent. For a moment I'm
confused. I thought we were all going to end up writing for Doctors. Then
I recall at my interview I said something about how I really wanted to
work on EastEnders, but didn't suppose there was much chance. Seems Sally took me
at my word.
Quickly call a few friends so I can casually drop it into the conversation, then
have a celebratory drink. Nursing a hangover the next morning, start to
panic I've burnt my bridges with Doctors. A neighbour comments, 'EastEnders?
That's going to be a bit depressing, isn't it?'
Quite.
As I discovered at the Soho Theatre: writers - we're a depressing bunch.
Thursday 25 October 2001
Chat with Jenny at BBC Talent. Ostensible reason for calling is to
check on the date for the Showcase at the Casualty studio, when the three
winners get to see their scripts realised by a professional cast and crew.
Real reason is to make sure I've not been forgotten. Pathetic.
She mentions she's trying to get everybody an extra ticket. A nice
present for my partner, who as a lecturer in health care is responsible
for nearly all my medical ideas - though most of those she tells me,
despite being true, are so bizarre they would never be believed.
Jenny advises me to wait a few days before complaining to EastEnders
they haven't got back to me. 'In any case,' she adds, 'it's a long
process. Even if they like your script, they have their shadow scheme
and...' Shadow scheme? She moves on before I have a chance to ask what she
means. I imagine following a scriptwriter round with a notebook and tape
recorder, scribbling things like 'Dot Cotton always carries her handbag in
her left hand.'
'Oh,' remembers Jenny, just before she says goodbye, 'expect a letter
from Doctors soon. They've read your script.'
Friday 26 October 2001
Envelope arrives with BBC logo on it. Tear open with trembling fingers.
Scan quickly for word 'sorry', but fail to find it. Instead see 'enjoyed'
and 'invite' and 'submit' and 'commission'. Decide now safe to read
properly. They want me to submit ideas for an episode. Yes!!! Immediately
phone partner and she has a little scream, which must be a bit of a
surprise for her students.
Put phone down and immediately get into mindless panic. What ideas?
Have been working almost non-stop proofreading for an academic publisher
all month. Have done no writing for weeks. Think maybe the academic tomes
will give me some ideas, but difficult to make much drama out of
Organizational Theory and Practice, Gender in Religion, or Gene
Manipulation: a Primer.
Thursday 1 November 2001
Listen to the News for ideas and hear nothing but news of the war. Not
that I object. With no bombs dropping on us and our lives continuing
pretty well as before, we need to be reminded that we are a country at
war. On Newsnight one talking head states his belief that the war is a
mistake, while another claims it is exactly the right thing to do. The
third talking head is Martin Amis - an odd choice, given that he is a
novelist, a writer of fiction - who says that to deal with Bin Laden we
need to be more 'imaginative'. I recall that shortly after 11 September
Woody Allen said that at least it meant the end of the Hollywood disaster
movie for a while, but now I hear that on the contrary video stores report
a sharp rise in exactly those kind of rentals. On Radio 4 a poet deplores
the fact that 'recent wars' seem to have inspired little outstanding
poetry, yet when New Yorkers pinned scraps of paper for missing loved ones
in the subway, many of them did so in verse. And in the afternoon drama
slot I listen to a play - surely pushed up the schedule? - inspired by
Wilfred Owen's First World War poem 'Strange Meeting'.
It all seems to be part of a large need, the need to have our
experiences explained to us. Not for the first time, I start to have
doubts about what I am doing. Should I be wasting what little talent I
have on TV soap operas? Or should I be writing about the only story that
matters?
Friday 9 November
Busy dreaming up ideas for Doctors. The lunchtime radio news mentions
a group of boys who have been expelled from their public school. Their
crime: making ecstasy from a recipe they got off the Internet. Well,
trying to make. I don't want to give the impression that for one moment
one can obtain from the Internet any information remotely useful in the
area of recreational drugs.
For one thing, the boys were hospitalised.
It all reminds me rather sadly of my own youth, when Oz magazine
claimed that the highest high could be got from smoking the charred
remains of baked banana skins. Oh, dear.
Saturday 10 November
Party to celebrate my brother's birthday. Buttonholed by a distant cousin who
says she's taking a break from her teaching job so that she can write
the novel 'I know I have in me'. She's a single mum, so immediately I
slip into 'are you sure you know what you're doing?' mode, which is
actually not so much an indication of cousinly concern, more a euphemism
for 'watch it, I'm the only writer in this family'.
But it turns out she wants to write a children's book. That's OK. No
competition.
Immediately I slip into 'I am the authority on writing' mode and 30 minutes later
she goes away happy in the knowledge that she's been given an insight
into the hitherto closed world of publishing. Now all she has to do is
write the book.
It's the third time in as many months I've had this conversation. A friend's
girl-friend knows - just knows - her idea for a story would be a
bestseller, though even after close questioning no one is any the wiser
about its subject or plot. And the occupant of the office below mine has
a sure-fire hit with a family saga set in Iran. Iran. Right.
Later I get into a drunken conversation with a 25-year old insurance assessor.
I decide to try out on him the Doctors story I've been mulling
over: the one about Internet ecstasy, expelled public schoolboys and
baked banana skins.
"Oh, not the banana skins!" he exclaims. "How do you know about
them? I tried them last week and imagined I could fly."
Hang on a minute. Public schoolboys? Drugs? Flying? Single mothers? Fantasies
of writing bestselling children's books? This sounds horribly familiar.
Still, never mind all that. I've done it. Despite not being able to turn round
without seeing his idiotic, bespectacled face on every bus, billboard
and magazine cover, I've managed to reach the end of this without once
mentioning Harry Potter.
Oh, damn.
Wednesday 21 November
To the cinema to see Harry Potter - Purely for research purposes. How does one write a bestseller?
Plot:
erstwhile ordinary boy faces many trials in order to prevent a
mcguffin falling into wrong hands.
Setting: public school, complete
with inter-house rivalry, silly headgear, sinister out-of-bounds
cellars, peculiar slang and an impossibly complicated and lethal
sporting activity.
Characters:
plucky hero, aided by poor but fundamentally nice best friend, clever
but fundamentally nice girl, stupid but fundamentally nice Oirish boy,
rough but fundamentally nice gardener, fierce but fundamentally nice
mistress and old but fundamentally nice headmaster - all up against
rich and therefore nasty boy, ugly and therefore nasty servant, and
handsome and therefore thoroughly nasty teacher.
In other words,
nothing too surprising. Leave cinema convinced magic must be secret
ingredient. Not the potion brewing, incantation muttering and
broomstick flying Harry and his chums get up to, but more the spell
that Ms JKR has obviously cast over all the world's children.
Resolve to try something similar at first available opportunity.
Sunday 25 November
To Bristol to see the BBC Talent Showcase. A grubby warehouse in an unlit
industrial estate on a cold and wet Sunday evening. Ah, the glamour of
television.
Congratulate Syed, Linda and Paul, the three winners. Am I bitter? Not at all. I
and another failed finalist decide our scripts weren't chosen because
they used too much outside broadcast. Well, stands to reason.
Along with our partners and 70 Casualty fans we are herded into groups and
put in various bits of the set, so we can see the winning scripts done
'live'. A sobering experience, particularly for Syed, Linda and Paul,
given that the cast and crew only had three days to prepare, as
opposed to the usual 8-10 weeks. Derek Thompson (Charlie) reads most
of his lines off a clipboard and an impressionable member of the
public almost collapses at the sight of Ian Kelsey (Patrick) in the
flesh, but otherwise it goes well.
My partner (a lecturer in nursing) points out to the producer that he is
about to be filmed doing an introduction alongside two upside-down and
wrong-way-round chest x-rays. He makes the correction, then asks, 'How
am I?' Partner replies, 'If the bottom one is yours, you're OK; if
it's the top one, you're dead.' Laughter all round. 'You're not a
nurse, by any chance?' he asks. More laughter.
I fume in silence. Next he'll be offering her a job.
I say hello to the BBC people I feel I should say hello to, but Mal
Young (head of drama series) is surrounded by acolytes; all I can
manage is a familiar nod. Remembering Ms JKR I utter a silent
incantation to be sure I'll see him again soon.
Wednesday 28 November
Watch the News with half an eye, when who should appear but Her Royal
Highness on the EastEnders set. All attention is on her and the other
two royals: Queen Mitchell and Queen Fowler. But my attention is on
the slight scouse figure doing the introductions: Mal Young.
All right, not exactly what I intended, but proof enough. Just as I said.
It's all down to magic.
Monday 3 December
Spent most of last fortnight frantically trying to complete my entry for a
TV scriptwriting competition. Yes, another competition. Obviously becoming
a competition junkie, hooked on the excitement of almost winning.
Still, this one was by invitation, so thought I should make the effort. A
month ago a letter arrived from Jessica Dromgoole at the BBC New Writing
Initiative: would I be interested in pitching an idea for a new early
evening animation series?
Well, no, to be honest, not really. I was more flattered than enthused.
Maybe this kind of invitation was a perk of being a Talent finalist -
or maybe they were short of entries. And an animation series? I'd never
considered it. Normally, apart from The Simpsons and Wallace and
Gromit, I can't stand them.
But then I thought, why not? My entry only needed to consist of a one-page
outline, a CV and a sample of work. And the prize was a two-day workshop and
£500. Actual money.
Read some background advice on writing animation on the BBC writersroom
website and discovered that the ruder the concept the more difficult it is
to get funding. That put paid to the first ten ideas.
Then had the most brilliant flash of inspiration. So simple it could be
expressed in a sentence, yet so full of potential it could run for ever. This
was a winner. Only a nincompoop wouldn't snap it up. Checked CV for spelling
mistakes, half-truths and downright lies, then blew dust off medical sit-com
pilot. Spent three days sharpening up the dialogue, giving it more plot and
making it less rude. Put the whole lot in the post with about an hour to
spare.
........Homer Simpson, your days are numbered.
Tuesday 4 December 2001
Lunch with Barry Turner, editor of The
Writer's Handbook, and Jill Fenner, his right hand. Very convivial. Bring
him up to date on my writing career - or lack of it - and he says he'd like me
to do a follow-up to my article for next year's edition. Very flattering. Also
if I get any commissions before the deadline I can do a piece on how to get
into TV. Feel this a bit premature, but by second bottle of wine ready to
write entire 'how to' book.
Leave restaurant slightly worse for wear and pop into Waterstone's.
Surreptitiously rearrange display so that Writer's Handbook more
prominent than Writer's and Artist's Yearbook. Even turn one round so
my name is visible. I know. Pathetic. But that's me. Writing is a
competition and I have to win.
Monday 31st December 2001
In keeping with tradition, spend the last day of the year looking back. 2001:
the highs and lows.
January.
A promising start. My article is accepted for The Writer's
Handbook.
Will soon have my name on 25,000 bookshelves. Continue writing Makeover, my
21st century TV take on Cinderella.
February. Inspired by a photography exhibition,
I write a gloomy radio play about an American family watching Bobby Kennedy's funeral
train go by.
March. Cheer myself up by writing the pilot episode of a very
black and very rude TV sitcom set in an Intensive Care Unit.
April.
A small envelope arrives, i.e. not a returned manuscript. A magazine editor
wants to publish one of my short stories. She's also hanging on to the other
story 'for possible publication in a future issue'. Excellent. Maybe prose
fiction is what I'm good at. Realise Makeover is too longwinded at 90
minutes: ruthlessly cut it to 60.
May. More good news. A publisher wants to see the rest of The
Novel. Actually, feel less pleased than I should. Had more or less let The
Novel die, but now committed to spending the next few weeks giving it the
kiss of life. And as if that were not enough, I enter the BBC Talent
competition as well, which requires me to write a complete Casualty script
in less than two weeks. Rejections arrive: the Bobby Kennedy play is too
'wistful', Intensive Care too 'sick', Makeover too short. Too short?
June.
Just manage to get my Casualty script in by the deadline. Feel sure judges
will love dramatic combination of charity bike ride, savaged child, skull
fracture, paracetamol overdose, self-inflicted burn, road rage, bankruptcy,
divorce, reconciliation and a man dressed up as a dog.
July.
Imminent financial disaster forces me to take on some proofreading. Suspect
I am just looking for excuses not to finish The Novel.
August.
More rejections of Makeover. Decide, in a fit of madness, to turn it into a
radio play. Oh, dear. Hear by the grapevine that my publisher has gone bust.
Feel more relieved than anything. Now I can kill off The Novel with a clear
conscience. Reach final fifteen of BBC Talent competition. TV is obviously
my natural home. Spend a day telling friends and accepting congratulatory
drinks until I fall into a relaxing coma.
September.
To BBC Pebble Mill for a day-long workshop with Mal Young (head of drama
series) and various producers, script editors and writers from Casualty and
Doctors, who tell me and the other Talent finalists what they look for in
series writers: nothing less than complete originality within a rigid set of
guidelines. In other words, the moon on a stick.
October.
Another invitation from the BBC: a session at London's Soho Theatre with a
few heads of radio drama and comedy. I think my name has been added to some
list. The Talent people pass my script to EastEnders with a strong
recommendation, and I receive a letter from Doctors: they want me to submit
ideas for an episode. Cool. As my daughter would say.
November.
To Bristol to see the BBC Talent Showcase, where the Casualty and Doctors
casts perform three of the winning scripts live. I try to maintain an air of
professional detachment, despite being within a few feet of faces known to
millions, but it's no use. I'm thrilled to bits. Decide to enter another
competition. BBC Animation want ideas for a new series. Why not? I'm
obviously on a roll.
December.
Email seven brilliant story ideas to Doctors. Hear that my script has passed
one EastEnders editor: now it's in the hands of the decision-maker. Have
lunch with the editor of The Writer's Handbook. He says he'd like me to do a
follow-up article for next year's edition. Very flattering. 'And if you get
any TV commissions before the deadline,' he adds, 'you can do a piece on how
to get into TV.'
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© Bob G Ritchie 2001
