Wednesday, 23 September 2009
As a caveat, I should point out that this person isn't part of my facebook network or on my bloglist, so they won't ever get to read this and I will do everything I can not to reference directly any of the things that are galling me to the point of apoplexy.
Because, what do you know, it's about a new 'writer'. This writer is a company director, who was personally advertising for collaboration on their 'nearly finished' script - they put themselves out there. I sent them my rate card, which anyone will tell you is the cheapest in the business - I sent them my CV, which is quite clearly very comprehensive in terms of experience. They replied, very professionally, that an editor wasn't what they were after right now, they needed a collaborator, a writer.
I casually replied that I'd done a fair bit of the old writing thing myself and pointed him again to my CV; (At this point I should mention that in the last few months of putting myself out there as a consultant, I actually enjoy any new stuff coming in from other people - its been a long time and, good or bad, there's always an energy and a buzz in any writing, and with it only being a few months, I'd forgotten the unforgettable - that there's an inverse ratio between arrogance and talent with unsold writers).
They sent me the script, with an attached note that having read my CV they doubted that I'd be suitable to judge it appropriately, but they'd let me have a look anyway. I should have known at that point; the snooty attitude to mainstream drama with a huge audience, the twisted prejudice that a serial dramatist just bangs the stuff out on the day... I've heard it before.
Maybe it was bloody-mindedness on my part, maybe, as I said, I'm still freshly back and loving other people's work, maybe its the months I've spent in my own very dense writing, missing the weekly collaborative meeting and the pints afterwards, but I read it...
And do you know what? It was BLOODY BRILLIANT. Sharply observed characters, an astonishingly original idea, dialogue that damn near set fire to your eyes as you hurtled from one rattling revelatory page to the next, poignant heart-breaking relationships that simultaneously described the nature of the individual AND the human condition as a whole. Breath taking.
But it wasn't, was it? What I did in that last paragraph was the most basic stupid trick in the book and this person couldn't even muster anything even that obvious. It was poorly typed, misspelt nonsense with such bad characterisation that you couldn't even say it was stereotyped. The single dramatic incident happened off screen and was an accident, the relationships between characters were paper thin, laid out in the first five pages and didn't change throughout. The sole nod to drama was the idea that someone in peril and pain was a bad thing, which it is, but its not drama, especially if its an accident. It bore no relation to reality, everyone spoke like puppets and not a single issue was resolved.
Anyway, there is a writing lesson here. which is vent your spleen in a neutral space, throw up all the crap and THEN write the real stuff. Because I will have to reply to this person at some point and if I'd done it in the last half hour, he'd have got this, and I'd have been ashamed of my poor writing.
Sadly, I think that's something this person wouldn't understand
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
The overheard lines, the silent confrontations laden with volume-speaking body language, the facial tics and postures are all your meat and drink; observe them with a keener eye than any anthropologist. It's all free material. Get out there once in a while, but get out there with your senses honed
Monday, 14 September 2009
Anyway, what I have been meaning to write for a few days is how much the writing of comics and the writing of television have proved mutually beneficial, specifically how comics-writing has helped my television. I can't remember where I stole this from but I once read somewhere, 'the comic writer's job is not to get in the way of the pictures'. Much as I love Neil Gaiman's prose, movies and general imagination, I do find that sometimes with his comic work, he provides the narrative in his words and doesn't leave the artist enough to do in terms of story-telling. And I've been just as guilty of it; fans of Vinyl Underground (both of you) know that I peppered the action with huge chunks of historical background (and believe me you should have seen it before it was edited. By and large though, both narrative captions and fat speech balloons get in the way of the images and this has been a valuable lesson in telling onscreen drama. Can I tell that story in a picture instead of expository dialogue?
The other great lesson you learn from comics is scenic structure - the very nature of the left hand/right hand page means timing your reveals to the left hand splash, it means placing an image or a phrase in the bottom right hand panel of the right hand page that makes you want to turn over to see that splash.
It makes you structure a location inside the confines of page count rather than natural duration, thereby condensing and compacting the information to the optimum method of story-telling, a lesson every TV writer should take note of, not just for a cleaner purer script, but also because of the production demands - if you've ever actually had to plan a shooting schedule script for a script, you'll know that all too often the writer is often either spending too long in one room or haphardly moving from one location to another for no other purpose than visual effect.
You also have to write 'non-consecutive dialogue'. The confines of the panel structure mean that sometimes 45 seconds has clearly passed between one panel and the next and you have to make the character's response seem natural despite this gap; this means cutting out extraneous conversational normalities to get to the salient point. While I'm not saying this works on the screen, the discipline involved is a good way of shedding extraneous fat from your dialogue.
This panel structure also helps you choose exactly which killer camera angle, still image you want the audience to respond to, something TV and movie script writers often ignore.
So in short, I'd recommend this as a small experiment. Take a vital scene from your script and try blocking it out in three comic pages, starting on a left hand, five to six panels for the first two pages and a splash page for the third. See just how little dialogue you can get away with, think of the most dramatic images you can to convey your ten to twelve snapshots of the script, and the best 'turn the page reveal'. I think you'll be surprised.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
In other words, the recycle bin of my brain had been fighting with the smart stuff, and eventually the smart stuff won through. As a result, my creative side is tired exactly when it should be, about nine o'clock, unlike last night where it kept me awake and kept awaking me. The balance is preserved and perfect and I feel sated with expelling words, like the opposite of a good dinner.
Monday, 7 September 2009
There's an optimum number of words you can spill in a day; if you don't cough enough out in a given timespan they sit like bloated otters in your gut and weigh you down in indolence. Heave up just the right amount and both brain and body hit a synchronicity of exhaustion that drops you into a happy void of contentment.
But push it just that step too far and over-write and its all The Red Shoes and crazy and the fingers are too fast for the mind which then overtakes the fingers and so on , into a vicious arms race of inspiration and industry... and thats the point where you need to reach for the bottle to stem the flood of opinions and objections and musings and mullings or you'll quite simply just Roald Dahl pop...
and its in those moments (and I speak from experience of trying many other soporifics) that you find yourself reaching for the liquid anaesthesia to quell the barmy ceaseless flow of verbiage...
so lord today, too many pages done and a leap of editing to do tomorrow, please let blessed liquor lethe do her work and club me into blissful wordless oblivion.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Thursday, 3 September 2009
These days though, the worst abuse you can heap on a story is 'Well, I saw that coming'. People want the twist, the character turn, the sudden reveal (as long as its earned). This of course makes our life harder and harder, because not only do we have to find those twists and turns and subversions, but as our audiences grow ever more cynical and story-savvy, we have to be able to make them convincing but invisible. It's no longer enough to set up the unpopular, ugly, scruffy character as our perp, only to find it was the golden boy what dunnit after all.
Whatever your opinion of The Bill as a whole (and please don't express it here, cause obviously I'm emotionally attached), watch an episode and see how week upon week they pull this off, usually to great effect. Three ad breaks in an hour, and just before each there's a neat plot twist where it turns out everything we believed in the last fifteen minutes has been turned upside down. It's incredibly difficult to achieve, especially given the self-imposed narrative strictures of the police p.o.v. and the limited guest cast budget.
But that's not the homework; the homework is to observe how startling it can be to totally break the rule of Subversion of Expectation - the film I've chosen to demonstrate it is 'A Room For Romeo Brass', Shane Meadows' second major feature. I'm not going to give any spoilers out here, just recommend you watch it with a writer's eye and enjoy the sheer ballsiness of Meadows' refusal to kowtow to such a fundamental dramatic law and pull it off (Although he does cheat ever so slightly with one character, but I would still argue that their action is 'expected', just not in the manner in which it plays out).
And now I'm going to take a stab at my own small act of subversion by hitting a deadline tomorrow.
Enjoy 'Romeo Brass' and don't have nightmares
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
The apathy's understandable... 'ten thousand words till my next rejection or a marathon session of Powell and Pressburger?" can often seem like a simple choice, but you have to learn to fight that. The laziness, I can't do anything about, apart from to remind you a) how much you hate your day job, b) How galling it is when you see all those 'talentless hacks' out there ruining great ideas (i.e: the ones who've got the gig instead of you) and c) DO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER OR NOT, YOU BONE IDLE BUGGER?
But, assuming that your indolence isn't down to laziness, and its either apathy or that occasional and unavoidable blank space in your imagination, that's not an excuse not to be writing.
That piece you're working on and can't seem to get past the next line? Go back to the beginning and read it. It's quite frightening the number of writers I've come across who don't actually read their work more than once - if that - before delivering. If you don't start re-writing by page 3 then you're probably an arrogant son of a bitch who'll never sell a word (or make millions mimicking John Sullivan and praying no-one notices).
Dig out all the old notebooks (You do carry a notebook everywhere you go don't you? Please dear god tell me you do... and no, a dictaphone doesn't count). Marvel at those nonsensical jottings and see if any shapes and structures or characters and coves crop up.
If that doesn't work, how many manuscripts, novels, poems, well constructed shopping lists have you got sitting in the graveyard of your files? Open them up, look through them, edit them or bin them.
Remember that writing is just as much about deleting as it is about filling the page with verbage. Knocking ten pages off a script can be ten times as productive as adding ten words to it. Some people imagine that writing is racking your brain to find the next word or sentence. Sometimes its about racking your brain to eliminate all the possibilites bar the perfect phrase. There's no shame in finishing an eight hour day, looking at your work and thinking 'brilliant - I just deleted 5000 words'
Alternatively of course, you could just write your blog :-)
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
So today, I'm back to the keyboard - I don't say 'coalface', I don't say 'grindstone' cos lets face it... at its best, writing is typing things out that you love, at its worst, its yelling like a primadonna because you can't think of a more interesting word for 'yellow'. There's no grind, there's no digging of coal, at no point do you fear that the million tons of earth above your head will kill you, let alone look at the antique shearing tool in your hand and worry that the safety guard may be loose.
Of course, I trivialise... at its very best writing is like soaring above the planet in a chocolate-and-meat eagle, punching the air as you go, while Marilyn Monroe, the Countess Bathory, Lorelei Gilmore and Trevor McDonald* all perform unspeakable sex acts on you. At its very worst its like taking a bath in Windsor Davies wee while the Chuckle Brothers, Peter Andre, Ricky Gervaise and Dan Brown mock and point at you for being stupid as you bang your head to bloodpoint on the cold white enamel.
Anyway, today's point is quite brief, but it's important. In my many years of working in comics/graphic novels, I've realised that artists, by and large, spend enormous amounts of time indoors. looking at photo-reference, working thru the night, driving themselves slowly insane as they try and get a particular pencil line right. Writers on the other hand, while used to the long weird hours of hearing half a dozen voices in their head, always find the time to get out and about and get 'the craic'.
And that's because 'the craic' (or I, as a non-Irishman, prefer to call it - 'basic enjoyable human interaction') is what fuels our fires. I need the several hours of solitude at home to get the pages filled and do the slog, but both the honing and the thinking for the next day comes when I'm out and about. Six to eight hours at the desk on my own is all I can take, because after that the voices all start to sound like me... get out to the pub with the laptop and I start to hear other timbres and nuances, I hear new stories and fresh speech patterns, observe human behaviour in every giant gesture and writ-small nuance.
And that's why this is slightly off-kilter and a tad unfocussed.
I'm in the pub. And I'm working. And that's important.
*Yes I know its 'Sir'... but I make him feel common.