I’m just starting to write a new book. For any of you who have ever undertaken this kind of creative work you’ll know that I am currently going through the usual pre sit down and do it stage. The kind of thing where you look to see if the seat will actually be comfortable enough, should you have another cup of tea before starting, and trying out the title on people?
Mostly this is a security blanket of ticks and gestures before you start. You know that the idea works for you, kind of, and you have no idea, ever, if it will ever work for anyone else. It isn’t the money, because if you had any sense you would never write thinking about money as your main priority, because if you did you would go crazy before you went broke.
The reason for writing is because you think you have something you want to share with people you have never met, nor will ever meet. It can be very disconcerting when you do meet someone who has read your work, even when they like your stuff. I encountered this when I was commissioned for a screenplay in my early thirties. The executive producer had paid my agent my initial fee, I had written the first draft and submitted it via the agent. A little while later the production company called me in to discuss the first draft. I admit to a great deal of trepidation, and although my agent, friends and family reassured me, I was convinced that I was about to be eviscerated by the executive producer, who had a reputation for being arrogant, tough and unhelpful. We sat down in the portly gentlemen’s vast London office. We were all very polite to one another, myself, my friend Dave, who was producing with me, and the two executive producers, the one who talked a lot and said nothing, Michael, and the other one, also called David, who talked very little but said a lot.
Michael went through various pleasantries, reiterating that he had never made a film before, loved Coronation Street, the long running British TV soap, and that he loved this project. Always a bad sign, that vote of confidence. It’s a bit like the sports franchise owner saying that they will always stand behind their chief coach, immediately before they sack him. He waffled a bit more, all very vague and generalized, and no help at all to me, the writer. In that capacity you need very specific script notes or you’re in trouble. I pressed him a bit for some specifics. Finally, after it had become a bit heated in the room, he rounded on me and said, “Well it is supposed to have comedic elements, it needs to be 35% funnier.” I turned to my colleague David, and he returned my incredulous stare. Their David, the second Executive Producer, also raised an exasperated eyebrow. But such was the balance of power within that company at that time, that we all pretended this was a very fine and specific script note. Michael asked me how long the re-write would take. I had been thoroughly briefed on the correct response to such a question from agents and fellow professional writers, who had cautioned me against the speed with which I handed in my work. So I responded that it would be about six to eight weeks, thinking I could actually do it in three to five. I received assurances from everyone that they would leave me alone to do my work as I told them it became almost impossible for me to do this work if I could feel their hot breath too close to my shoulder.
I retired to my small writing room. I have always favoured the return to the womb type environment, and started to do the re-writes. The comment, make this script 35% funnier was playing on my mind. Did it mean that I should add some additional humour on every third page, or should I do what is usually done in a re-write, do a little and talk about it a lot? It’s very surprising how often a writer finds out that the person who’s meeting with you to discuss your script hasn’t actually read it, having left this irksome chore to a spotty 18 year old undergraduate. Having once been that person myself I knew how true it was. I decided to fastidiously work on the notes that both the David’s had delivered and hope for the best on the Michael comedy front. I’ve always believed funny comes from situations rather than shtick.
After three weeks I was still struggling along with the screenplay, it was proving tough. The telephone rang, it was Michael. He had broken his word and rung me several weeks early. “Sorry about that.” he said in that somewhat plumy voice only English public school types can ever manage, “but I simply couldn’t wait to hear how it’s going?” I hardly paused, “It’s going fine, I’m about half way there.” I responded, “Really?” he enquired, “Yes.” I said, “It’s about seventeen and a half per cent funnier.” There was a pause in the conversation. I don’t remember much more about it, except that he cancelled the film very shortly thereafter. But I do think my joke was pretty good.
Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far in the UK, and of course, to add to my writing woes, I developed an overnight cold. Now I can hardly breathe, my nose is running like a leaky faucet and I’m too hot. Guess what, I just wrote ten pages, more than 2,000 words. I wish I could understand how this all works.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Writing
I’m just starting to write a new book. For any of you who have ever undertaken this kind of creative work you’ll know that I am currently going through the usual pre sit down and do it stage. The kind of thing where you look to see if the seat will actually be comfortable enough, should you have another cup of tea before starting, and trying out the title on people?
Mostly this is a security blanket of ticks and gestures before you start. You know that the idea works for you, kind of, and you have no idea, ever, if it will ever work for anyone else. It isn’t the money, because if you had any sense you would never write thinking about money as your main priority, because if you did you would go crazy before you went broke.
The reason for writing is because you think you have something you want to share with people you have never met, nor will ever meet. It can be very disconcerting when you do meet someone who has read your work, even when they like your stuff. I encountered this when I was commissioned for a screenplay in my early thirties. The executive producer had paid my agent my initial fee, I had written the first draft and submitted it via the agent. A little while later the production company called me in to discuss the first draft. I admit to a great deal of trepidation, and although my agent, friends and family reassured me, I was convinced that I was about to be eviscerated by the executive producer, who had a reputation for being arrogant, tough and unhelpful. We sat down in the portly gentlemen’s vast London office. We were all very polite to one another, myself, my friend Dave, who was producing with me, and the two executive producers, the one who talked a lot and said nothing, Michael, and the other one, also called David, who talked very little but said a lot.
Michael went through various pleasantries, reiterating that he had never made a film before, loved Coronation Street, the long running British TV soap, and that he loved this project. Always a bad sign, that vote of confidence. It’s a bit like the sports franchise owner saying that they will always stand behind their chief coach, immediately before they sack him. He waffled a bit more, all very vague and generalized, and no help at all to me, the writer. In that capacity you need very specific script notes or you’re in trouble. I pressed him a bit for some specifics. Finally, after it had become a bit heated in the room, he rounded on me and said, “Well it is supposed to have comedic elements, it needs to be 35% funnier.” I turned to my colleague David, and he returned my incredulous stare. Their David, the second Executive Producer, also raised an exasperated eyebrow. But such was the balance of power within that company at that time, that we all pretended this was a very fine and specific script note. Michael asked me how long the re-write would take. I had been thoroughly briefed on the correct response to such a question from agents and fellow professional writers, who had cautioned me against the speed with which I handed in my work. So I responded that it would be about six to eight weeks, thinking I could actually do it in three to five. I received assurances from everyone that they would leave me alone to do my work as I told them it became almost impossible for me to do this work if I could feel their hot breath too close to my shoulder.
I retired to my small writing room. I have always favoured the return to the womb type environment, and started to do the re-writes. The comment, make this script 35% funnier was playing on my mind. Did it mean that I should add some additional humour on every third page, or should I do what is usually done in a re-write, do a little and talk about it a lot? It’s very surprising how often a writer finds out that the person who’s meeting with you to discuss your script hasn’t actually read it, having left this irksome chore to a spotty 18 year old undergraduate. Having once been that person myself I knew how true it was. I decided to fastidiously work on the notes that both the David’s had delivered and hope for the best on the Michael comedy front. I’ve always believed funny comes from situations rather than shtick.
After three weeks I was still struggling along with the screenplay, it was proving tough. The telephone rang, it was Michael. He had broken his word and rang me several weeks early. “Sorry about that.” he said in that somewhat plumy voice only English public school types can ever manage, “but I simply couldn’t wait to hear how it’s going?” I hardly paused, “It’s going fine, I’m about half way there.” I responded, “Really?” he enquired, “Yes.” I said, “It’s about seventeen and a half per cent funnier.” There was a pause in the conversation. I don’t remember much more about it, except that he cancelled the film very shortly thereafter. But I do think my joke was pretty good.
Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far in the UK, and of course, to add to my writing woes, I developed an overnight cold. Now I can hardly breathe, my nose is running like a leaky faucet and I’m too hot. Guess what, I just wrote ten pages, more than 2,000 words. I wish I could understand how this all works.
Mostly this is a security blanket of ticks and gestures before you start. You know that the idea works for you, kind of, and you have no idea, ever, if it will ever work for anyone else. It isn’t the money, because if you had any sense you would never write thinking about money as your main priority, because if you did you would go crazy before you went broke.
The reason for writing is because you think you have something you want to share with people you have never met, nor will ever meet. It can be very disconcerting when you do meet someone who has read your work, even when they like your stuff. I encountered this when I was commissioned for a screenplay in my early thirties. The executive producer had paid my agent my initial fee, I had written the first draft and submitted it via the agent. A little while later the production company called me in to discuss the first draft. I admit to a great deal of trepidation, and although my agent, friends and family reassured me, I was convinced that I was about to be eviscerated by the executive producer, who had a reputation for being arrogant, tough and unhelpful. We sat down in the portly gentlemen’s vast London office. We were all very polite to one another, myself, my friend Dave, who was producing with me, and the two executive producers, the one who talked a lot and said nothing, Michael, and the other one, also called David, who talked very little but said a lot.
Michael went through various pleasantries, reiterating that he had never made a film before, loved Coronation Street, the long running British TV soap, and that he loved this project. Always a bad sign, that vote of confidence. It’s a bit like the sports franchise owner saying that they will always stand behind their chief coach, immediately before they sack him. He waffled a bit more, all very vague and generalized, and no help at all to me, the writer. In that capacity you need very specific script notes or you’re in trouble. I pressed him a bit for some specifics. Finally, after it had become a bit heated in the room, he rounded on me and said, “Well it is supposed to have comedic elements, it needs to be 35% funnier.” I turned to my colleague David, and he returned my incredulous stare. Their David, the second Executive Producer, also raised an exasperated eyebrow. But such was the balance of power within that company at that time, that we all pretended this was a very fine and specific script note. Michael asked me how long the re-write would take. I had been thoroughly briefed on the correct response to such a question from agents and fellow professional writers, who had cautioned me against the speed with which I handed in my work. So I responded that it would be about six to eight weeks, thinking I could actually do it in three to five. I received assurances from everyone that they would leave me alone to do my work as I told them it became almost impossible for me to do this work if I could feel their hot breath too close to my shoulder.
I retired to my small writing room. I have always favoured the return to the womb type environment, and started to do the re-writes. The comment, make this script 35% funnier was playing on my mind. Did it mean that I should add some additional humour on every third page, or should I do what is usually done in a re-write, do a little and talk about it a lot? It’s very surprising how often a writer finds out that the person who’s meeting with you to discuss your script hasn’t actually read it, having left this irksome chore to a spotty 18 year old undergraduate. Having once been that person myself I knew how true it was. I decided to fastidiously work on the notes that both the David’s had delivered and hope for the best on the Michael comedy front. I’ve always believed funny comes from situations rather than shtick.
After three weeks I was still struggling along with the screenplay, it was proving tough. The telephone rang, it was Michael. He had broken his word and rang me several weeks early. “Sorry about that.” he said in that somewhat plumy voice only English public school types can ever manage, “but I simply couldn’t wait to hear how it’s going?” I hardly paused, “It’s going fine, I’m about half way there.” I responded, “Really?” he enquired, “Yes.” I said, “It’s about seventeen and a half per cent funnier.” There was a pause in the conversation. I don’t remember much more about it, except that he cancelled the film very shortly thereafter. But I do think my joke was pretty good.
Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far in the UK, and of course, to add to my writing woes, I developed an overnight cold. Now I can hardly breathe, my nose is running like a leaky faucet and I’m too hot. Guess what, I just wrote ten pages, more than 2,000 words. I wish I could understand how this all works.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Today
The poem, Leisure, by W.H. Davies was brought to my attention a little earlier today, just as I was on the run to see how my extremely pregnant daughter was getting on. There is no news on the expected arrival yet, but the poem does put life’s entire journey into a better perspective.
We are all so busy running and jumping through hoops that we don’t pause to look at or smell the roses right in front of us. While I was waiting on news of my daughter I was eating lunch with my grandson, the wonderful Archie, with his grandmother, Val, from his father’s side.
We sat outside in the little park café. The sun was ablaze, the air was succulent with the juice of Summer, young mums were cajoling their ankle biting kids to eat, keep clean, avoid table tops with their heads, stop peeing on the lawn, sit up straight, speak clearly, wipe their noses, eyes, chins, mouths, in fact anything that came into contact with anything else.
Grandparents smiled indulgently as their kids dealt with the grandkids, and all was as it should be. If only every day was like that part of today!
We are all so busy running and jumping through hoops that we don’t pause to look at or smell the roses right in front of us. While I was waiting on news of my daughter I was eating lunch with my grandson, the wonderful Archie, with his grandmother, Val, from his father’s side.
We sat outside in the little park café. The sun was ablaze, the air was succulent with the juice of Summer, young mums were cajoling their ankle biting kids to eat, keep clean, avoid table tops with their heads, stop peeing on the lawn, sit up straight, speak clearly, wipe their noses, eyes, chins, mouths, in fact anything that came into contact with anything else.
Grandparents smiled indulgently as their kids dealt with the grandkids, and all was as it should be. If only every day was like that part of today!
Poetry
W. H. Davies
Leisure
WHAT is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Daughter
Today’s blog is cut short because my very pregnant daughter, Georgia, has just rung. Need I say more?
Bye for now, updates will be forthcoming..
Bye for now, updates will be forthcoming..
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Changes
The leader of the Scottish Labour Party, Wendy Alexander has just resigned. It’s an honorable thing for her to have done. There has not been a great amount of honor in her behavior up to now, but at least she has fallen on her sword, and lived up to the rules of her own party and Parliament, at last!
This is one of three examples of sleaze permeating the arrogant upper reaches of our political elite. It used to be said that the Tories always had sex scandals, whereas the Labour party were more inclined to financial scandals. Now sleaze seems to be universal and has no boundaries.
There has always been sleaze within any political system but there used to be an attitude within British politics that if you were caught in the full glare of public exposure you, the exposed, would hold your hands up, and in the old fashioned world, said, “it’s a fair cop gov.” You then vanished into an obscure retirement from public life, either to a remedial career in charity, if you were a Conservative of independent means, or to a career as a non-executive director of a series of small public companies on the make if you were Labour.
Now there appears to be no shame, even recognition of having done anything wrong, by those discovered with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. They are pried from office with media enhanced pickaxes, like barnacles from the political ship of state.
Talking of pooh stuck on the shoe of the world, President Mugabe has won his election in Zimbabwe. He would do so as he was standing against no one in his sham election. This proves that you can beat yourself.
The only present hope for the people of Zimbabwe is that the current meeting of African leaders taking place in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt, will mandate the use of extreme sanctions to drive Mugabe and his regime from power. His country is landlocked and his lifeline flows direct via South Africa. If that country turns off the tap he will be forced out. On the down side this will unfairly affect the already downtrodden citizens of Zimbabwe who have done nothing wrong. Therefore the least bad consequence is for the African states to quickly invade Zimbabwe and drive this wicked regime into the dustbin of history.
This is one of three examples of sleaze permeating the arrogant upper reaches of our political elite. It used to be said that the Tories always had sex scandals, whereas the Labour party were more inclined to financial scandals. Now sleaze seems to be universal and has no boundaries.
There has always been sleaze within any political system but there used to be an attitude within British politics that if you were caught in the full glare of public exposure you, the exposed, would hold your hands up, and in the old fashioned world, said, “it’s a fair cop gov.” You then vanished into an obscure retirement from public life, either to a remedial career in charity, if you were a Conservative of independent means, or to a career as a non-executive director of a series of small public companies on the make if you were Labour.
Now there appears to be no shame, even recognition of having done anything wrong, by those discovered with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. They are pried from office with media enhanced pickaxes, like barnacles from the political ship of state.
Talking of pooh stuck on the shoe of the world, President Mugabe has won his election in Zimbabwe. He would do so as he was standing against no one in his sham election. This proves that you can beat yourself.
The only present hope for the people of Zimbabwe is that the current meeting of African leaders taking place in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt, will mandate the use of extreme sanctions to drive Mugabe and his regime from power. His country is landlocked and his lifeline flows direct via South Africa. If that country turns off the tap he will be forced out. On the down side this will unfairly affect the already downtrodden citizens of Zimbabwe who have done nothing wrong. Therefore the least bad consequence is for the African states to quickly invade Zimbabwe and drive this wicked regime into the dustbin of history.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Soldiering
Soldiering is a brave but bloody business. In the British army the general female to male ratio is one in ten, but in Iraq and Afghanistan that ratio rises to one in five.
In the last week the first British woman soldier killed in action in the Afghanistan conflict, Corporal Sarah Bryant, was buried as were her two male colleagues. She was killed, alongside three male Territorial Army special forces, in a large roadside explosion east of Lashkar Gah, in the south of Afghanistan. The three men who died were from 23rd Special Air Service Regiment, which is one of two Territorial Army (Reserve) SAS units.
This article is not the personal stories of any of these soldiers. I am not comparing their fate or their bravery but only the consequence of their gender.
It is noticeable that even in these days of legally mandated sexual equality there was a huge, some would say disproportionate reaction to the death of Sarah Bryant. It’s obvious that the first reason for this reaction is that there hadn’t been a previous female soldiering fatality.
However, there is another reason, which, I believe relates to the fact that there is an inbuilt, almost primal fear harbored deep within us for the fate of our women in combat. I use the word “our” specifically because we clearly appear to be identifying with these women in a very personal and emotional way, that we don’t employ when contemplating male combat casualties.
Our unspoken fear includes the very real regarding what an enemy might do to a captured woman. This includes the prospect of sexual attack that no one wishes to contemplate. The truth is that this can and does sometime happen to some captured female combatants as it does to female citizens who just happen to get in the way.
Other countries have long had female soldiers in their ranks, but very few have them in their front lines, undertaking combat roles. Sarah was on an intelligence related mission in a war that knows no front lines or safe areas. The men who died with her were there to guard her.
Another reason for male reticence regarding female combat soldiers is that most women do not have the necessary physical strength. Those that have utilized women in combat under extreme situations have found these women to be as good or better than their male counterparts.
The American military, like the British, have an increasing number of their women in certain types of combat roles, now flying fighter jets and other military aircraft, that were formerly an exclusively male preserve.
It is hard not to feel defensive of our women in these situations but we have to understand that women serving on the front line and suffering the awful consequences is an inevitable consequence of sexual equality.
In an idealized world there would be no need for female combat soldiers, but in that world there would be no war.
In the last week the first British woman soldier killed in action in the Afghanistan conflict, Corporal Sarah Bryant, was buried as were her two male colleagues. She was killed, alongside three male Territorial Army special forces, in a large roadside explosion east of Lashkar Gah, in the south of Afghanistan. The three men who died were from 23rd Special Air Service Regiment, which is one of two Territorial Army (Reserve) SAS units.
This article is not the personal stories of any of these soldiers. I am not comparing their fate or their bravery but only the consequence of their gender.
It is noticeable that even in these days of legally mandated sexual equality there was a huge, some would say disproportionate reaction to the death of Sarah Bryant. It’s obvious that the first reason for this reaction is that there hadn’t been a previous female soldiering fatality.
However, there is another reason, which, I believe relates to the fact that there is an inbuilt, almost primal fear harbored deep within us for the fate of our women in combat. I use the word “our” specifically because we clearly appear to be identifying with these women in a very personal and emotional way, that we don’t employ when contemplating male combat casualties.
Our unspoken fear includes the very real regarding what an enemy might do to a captured woman. This includes the prospect of sexual attack that no one wishes to contemplate. The truth is that this can and does sometime happen to some captured female combatants as it does to female citizens who just happen to get in the way.
Other countries have long had female soldiers in their ranks, but very few have them in their front lines, undertaking combat roles. Sarah was on an intelligence related mission in a war that knows no front lines or safe areas. The men who died with her were there to guard her.
Another reason for male reticence regarding female combat soldiers is that most women do not have the necessary physical strength. Those that have utilized women in combat under extreme situations have found these women to be as good or better than their male counterparts.
The American military, like the British, have an increasing number of their women in certain types of combat roles, now flying fighter jets and other military aircraft, that were formerly an exclusively male preserve.
It is hard not to feel defensive of our women in these situations but we have to understand that women serving on the front line and suffering the awful consequences is an inevitable consequence of sexual equality.
In an idealized world there would be no need for female combat soldiers, but in that world there would be no war.
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