The Path of the Freelance Writer

To write for a living.

That’s the dream for most writers, isn’t it?

To sit around at home in your pyjamas all day, making stuff up for money.

Just enough money to pay the mortgage and put food in the fridge, you understand. No-one’s asking to retire to the Bahamas and live out their days polishing their BAFTAs and being fanned with palm fronds whilst drinking cocktails through curly straws.

Well, you might be. Personally, I quite like it here in my little house.

We all know that launching a career as a freelance writer is extremely difficult.

But putting aside the issue of being good enough, of learning the craft and developing the required skills to a professional standard, there are practical challenges to be faced that can sometimes be taken for granted.

In the beginning, you need the energy, motivation and discipline to be able to come home from work and sit back down to start work again. Writing scripts, or novels, that no-one’s asked for or even knows about.

Not only that, you need to invest time and energy in learning about the industry, networking, making contacts and persuading people to read the results of your hard work – whilst all the time, working on new ideas, developing new projects and writing new material.

And of course, rather than being paid to do any of these things, you have to be prepared to actually pay money – to travel to networking events and meetings, to subscribe to trade papers or online writer’s sites and, well, the volume of tea and biscuits invariably required per writing session doesn’t come cheap these days.

Christ, you have to really really want to do this job to put in the supreme effort it requires to get anywhere.

I guess that’s why so many writers hate the question “why do you want to be a writer?” Because there is no rhyme or reason to it. I can’t imagine anyone going to the lengths it takes or making the sacrifices required without that weird internal and inexpressible drive to do it.

But you do. You stay up late, sacrifice weekends and time with your friends and family, and sit at your computer until your eyes turn red.

Until, at some point, you’re rewarded. Things start taking off a bit. The ground shifts.

Maybe you get a few low paid commissions. Maybe you get a couple of bits and pieces into development.

Maybe you start having more meetings, pitching more ideas, working them up to go into commissioning rounds.

Then it gets really tough.

Suddenly, there’s so much to do – you could easily fill a 40 hour week with just your writing career – but you still can’t give up your day job because pitches and meetings are rarely paid, and even your commissioned work isn’t going to cover the mortgage.

Bearing in mind payment for writers is generally delivered half on signature of a contract and half on delivery, you might have been working on something for months by the time the contract is negotiated and finalised – and you might work on it for another six months before the final draft is delivered.

Then there are the agent’s fees, VAT on agent’s fees, income tax, national insurance contributions, pension contributions, student loan repayments, all those little things that chip away at what you get to actually keep.

John August said, in his excellent and highly recommended article Money 101 for Screenwriters, “you’re never so broke as when you first start making money”.

Never a truer word was spoken.

Because the fact of the matter is, in that awkward transition period from spec writer to commissioned writer, you may simply not have the time to spend 40 precious hours per week working for someone else.

The pressure is really on now. You’ve been paid to do something and you know you better damn well deliver the goods, on time, and to a high standard, or you might not get paid for anything else.

So what do you do?

Only you can decide. You might be the sole provider for your family. You might have large debts to consider. Your own personal circumstances will inevitably impact on the decision you make.

Maybe you reduce the hours you work at your day job. Maybe you switch jobs to something with more opportunity for shift work or flexi-time. Maybe you go the temping route so that if you need time off for a meeting or a last minute rewrite you can simply call in and say you’re not available. Either way, you’re likely to be earning less than you were in your stable full-time employment.

I’ve personally found freelance script reading work to be an enormous help. Not just because of the obvious opportunity it gives you to read lots of scripts, think about what makes them work, or not, and write endless one page synopses – but because it’s work that you can do outside of office hours as and when you can fit it in (usually late at night). Freelance script reading work meant that I could reduce my day job to three days a week, giving me four days in which to manage the rest of my workload – the reading, the writing and the meetings.

But the amount of time and effort required for a reading job is, in the beginning, fairly extreme in relation to the amount you can earn from it so you might not feel it’s the path for you.

There are other freelancing opportunities out there of course, I know several writers who have paved their way with teaching, journalism, copywriting or web design, for example. But to imagine you can step into this sort of work, which are careers in themselves, is insulting to the people who’ve worked as hard to get a foothold in those industries as you have to get a foothold into the screenwriting industry.

There’s no quick fix to ease the transition during this difficult and crucial time period. A period which might last several years.

Until one day, eventually, finally, your writing income overtakes your income from other sources and becomes the primary way you earn your living. What a feeling! What a happy, glorious day that is!

But even as the champagne cork pops, there’s no resting on any laurels to be had, because what about next year? And the year after that? There are no guarantees. Ever.

Before writing can become the only way you earn your living, you need to make sure you’ll have enough work coming in to keep you afloat for at least a year. And the only way to do that is to keep generating more work for the future.

It means that just when you think you’re working at maximum capacity, you have to find the next gear and make time and space for more. You have to chase every last opportunity like it’s the only one you’ve got, and do everything you can to deliver the best work you can in the time you have available. Because the more boomerangs you chuck out into the wilderness, the more likely it becomes that one will come back to you. And it might be the one you need to take you to that next level.

In the meantime, I guess the only answer, really, is good old fashioned graft. Screwing your courage, and your backside, to the sticking place – and bloody well getting on with it.

This is not a moan or a grumble. It’s a reality check.

As far as I’m concerned, writing is the best job in the world. Even at four in the morning when I’ve been working for eighteen hours straight, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do. I thank my lucky stars for every single boomerang I catch on its way back.

And of course, the truth is, the more the work starts coming in, the better it gets. The more you enjoy what you’re doing and the less like graft it really feels.

But it’s not the life for everyone. If you’re not prepared to keep pushing yourself, keep moving things up a gear, you’re wasting your time.

This is the path of the freelancer. It’s the path you chose.

Roll up your sleeves.

One Page Outlines

I seem to be having a lot of conversations about outlines at the moment – by which I mean a one page selling document designed to generate interest in your project from producers.

Some people call them treatments, but to me a treatment is that much lengthier document detailing your story, and generally running to ten percent of your total page count, i.e. a 12 page document for a feature, though it can be anything up to 30 or 40 pages.

Potatoes, potartoes.

Whatever you call them, I’ve been reading a lot of them.  If you’re planning on entering a script into this year’s Red Planet Competition, or gearing up for the next radio commissioning round in spring, you’ll probably be starting to think about writing one of these too, and as the same points keep coming up over and over again, I thought it might be useful to write some of it up here for anyone else who’s interested in how other people go about tackling them.

Obviously, this is just my opinion.  You can do it any way you like.  There isn’t a standard way of writing these things.  There aren’t any Rules.  But based on the notes I’ve received on my own projects, this is how I’ve come to decide is the best way for me to approach it.

Title – Nice Big Bold Letters

A radio sitcom by Michelle Lipton

I like to say what it is right at the top underneath the title so that whoever you’re giving it to knows what they’re reading before they start.  I think it makes a difference to how you think about it as you go through the outline if you know it’s a one-off play, a long-running drama series, a three part serial, a sitcom or what have you.  It especially helps to know whether it’s a comedy or a drama, and if it’s a specific genre, that helps too.

Logline

AN INTERESTING CHARACTER has a GOAL, in the way of which are various OBSTACLES which he overcomes/does not overcome and ultimately LEARNS SOMETHING.

This is a very formulaic approach to writing a logline, but it works.  Telling your story in one sentence is not an easy thing to do well, and it might well take longer to get this right than it does to write the rest of the outline.  But it’s worth it.  It not only narrows your story down to its essence and keeps it clear in your mind what your story is really about, it helps a producer coming to your outline cold so they know what they’re being offered.

Look at it from the producer’s point of view.  You’re busy working on loads of different projects in different stages of development.  You’re honing pitches to take to commissioners, giving notes on drafts of scripts, dealing with casts and budgets and technical or practical problems on projects already in production, you’ve got media, marketing and press to deal with, agents and contracts and legal departments to worry about – and on top of all that, you’ve got a mountain of new material to wade through to decide which projects you want to put into development next.  Some of these will be from agents, some will be from writers you already know or have worked with before, and some will be from writers you’ve never heard of who’ve dropped you a polite email asking if you’d like to look at their outline…

There is every chance that the project you, the writer, is developing and trying to sell, will be too close to another project already commissioned or in development for them to be able to take it any further.  A producer might also have preferences about which genres or types of stories they’re personally interested in.  If they can tell right from the off that this is a project they’re interested in because they’ve read a good logline summing it all up right at the start, they’re going to read the rest of your proposal with a more open mind. 

Synopsis

The main body of the outline.  A few paragraphs that set out your story in more detail with a beginning, a middle and an end. 

A beginning.

A middle.

And an end.

I cannot stress this enough. 

Imagine again that you’re the producer.  No matter how well written and engaging and punchy and pithy the pitch is, if you don’t know what the story is – if it raises more questions than answers – if you can’t get a grasp of WHO the story is about and WHAT happens – you haven’t really got anything.  And you really don’t have time to respond to every individual submission asking for more information or for points to be clarified.

A lot of people seem to think that by leaving off the ending you’re engaging interest and curiosity and the desire to know more.  You’re not.  You’re just not telling your story – and it’s reasonable for the producer to then assume that, actually, you don’t know your story. 

Essentially, you’re trying to sell something. It needs to be a tangible and substantial proposition.   Would you buy something if you didn’t really know what it was?

If it’s a series idea that doesn’t have just one self contained story, you’ll need to give a sense of what the series is about, the characters who populate it, and raise some suggestions for episode storylines.  It just needs to be enough that someone who’s coming to it completely fresh can grasp what it is you’re offering them.

If the idea is a comedy, the writing should be fresh and funny.  If it’s a drama, it should be dramatic.  Sell the emotion, or the comedy or the horror of the story.  Give them a sense of what it will feel like to read the script/watch the film/listen to the radio play.

One final thing to note which is absolutely crucial and is the single, most consistent question that comes up every single time without fail: 

HOW IS THIS RELEVANT TO TODAY?

Whether your story is set in the past, the present or the future, you will be asked this question. 

You might think it’s obvious how your story is relevant to the modern world – it might be set in the modern world – but you still need to say why today’s audience would be interested in this story. 

You might put this information in the body of your synopsis, “In a world not so different from our own, where fear and suspicion rules the streets and the threat of a terrorist attack seems to lurk around every corner…”

Or it might come at the end as you finish off (see below).  Do it however you like, but if you don’t put something in there somewhere that suggests how the story relates to the concerns of today’s world, expect to be asked.

Finishing

I personally like to finish with a more punchy salesy line, going back into pitch mode after the synopsis.  Maybe give a little more detail about the format, maybe its relevance to the modern world, maybe something on the theme.

You might end up with a sentence that goes something along the lines of:

TITLE is a 6×30m sitcom for BBC Radio 4 that takes a satirical look at today’s celebrity culture and asks, just what is so great about being famous? Even for five minutes.

Ok, so none of my examples here are particularly great, but you get the drift.  And this is the point – it takes a lot of fine tuning and careful word selection to make sure that you’re using language as economically as possible to get across the most information possible.

It’s not easy.  There’s a lot to get across in one page - and ideally you want to keep it as short as you can.  But it is achievable.  It takes a long time and a lot of practise to get comfortable with writing them, and if you can get feedback on them before sending them out that will help you gauge how successfully your idea is coming across. 

Whether you decide to approach them the same way I do, or find your own way – mastering these sorts of selling documents will give you a skill that stands you in good stead for your whole career, whichever avenue you choose to go down.

Writing for Radio: Insight

The fantastic Mr Fox (or “John” to his friends) is a theatre writer currently dipping a toe into the world of radio.  Luckily for us, he’s just the generous sort of chap who’d offer to share a few insights, gleaned from a recent meeting with a top-notch radio producer at the BBC.

So for what sort of ideas producers are looking for, how far to develop them before submitting them to the commissioner, and when to go about doing both, take a look at his excellent notes below.

Thanks John!

What producers and commissioners are looking for:

• Contemporary, event plays that get people talking, story-driven, stand-out drama and comedy drama.
• Nothing TOO grim for the Afternoon Play slot, although they can do issue-based “serious” stuff.
• Historical stuff tends to be difficult to get commissioned, and if it is, it tends to be proper historical, i.e. set more than 100 years ago.
• If it is going to be set in the past it has to have a very definite relevance to now.
• In fact, ALL ideas have to have a very definite relevance to now.
• The “hook” of the idea is VERY important – why will someone listen? What elevates the idea and makes it stand out?
• BBC7 are looking for 30 minute, one off, sci-fi dramas (but they’ve done a lot of spaceship plays, so something a bit “different” would be better).
• Having said that, if it’s good, they will produce it. It really is that simple.

Some general pointers:

• It’s best to send producers ideas in January and at the end of the summer as the two commissioning rounds are in March and September.
• More tends to get commissioned at the first round and the September round fills in the gaps.
• It’s REALLY worthwhile sending ideas to a producer before you work it all out in detail as they’ll know if an idea has already been done/is about to be done, which saves you a lot of time developing something that will never be commissioned.
• This is also the reason why the first part of the RAP commissioning system asks for so little detail – if the commissioner already has another similar idea on the go, there’s no point in doing loads of work on the pitch.
• Unlike TV and film, radio DOES regularly produce completely new writers and writers new to radio (but who may already have had TV or theatre productions).
• In comparison to TV and film, radio is a fairly quick and painless process, with relatively few re-writes requested and not too many heads giving their opinion.
• Each department/area (BBC NI, BBC Scotland, BBC North, etc) has a designated number of slots “guaranteed”.  In BBC NI, they tend to submit just above this number in the hope that most of what they are submitting will be accepted.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly:

• Chocolate buns make first meetings with producers roll along very nicely.

John Fox has staged productions at the Edinburgh Festival, The Gate and The Young Vic.  He currently has a handful of ideas in with a couple of different radio producers so best of luck to him with getting them through the next commissioning round.

If you’re in the mood for more radio goodness, there’s also a great set of articles on Writing for Radio by Martin Smith over at Twelve Point which are well worth a look:

Part One: Writing for Radio – the medium, the message and the method

Part Two: Writing for Radio – what producers really want

Part Three: Writing for Radio – what radio slots want, what works on radio and how to submit

If you’re interested in radio comedy in particular, do make sure you check out Jason Arnopp’s blog post on breaking into radio comedy and making it onto Radio 4’s Recorded For Training Purposes writing team.

Recording For Training Purposes has an open door policy and is currently accepting submissions.  You can read about what they’re looking for and how to submit ideas here on the Writersroom Opportunities Page.  Deadline is 2 October 2009.

That should keep you busy for a while.

I’m off to find myself a chocolate bun.

Finding Your Legs

So you’re developing an idea for a returning TV series. You’ve outlined your premise and you know who your characters are.

The next test, as we all know, is to check the mileage of the idea. Whether it’s got “legs”. Nevermind have you got enough stories to fill series one, what about series seven?

So you sit down to brainstorm some ideas for episode stories and find they come pretty easily.

Great!

No problem, you think. This is a piece of cake.

And off you go to write up your six, or eight, or thirteen sentence outlines for each episode, feeling happy that you’ve tested your idea and found it to be Good.

BUT

You knew there was going to be a but-

What about the serial?

Ok, not all TV series have serial storylines. Some are completely self-contained. But they’re few and far between. Most series have some sort of serialised element running through them. It’s probably even in your original outline.

The office politics. The love interest. The big promotion. The whatever-it-is. 

And it’s just as important to make sure you’ve got enough story beats for your serial stories as you’ve got episodic stories. In fact, maybe even more so.

If your idea is strong, guest stories shouldn’t be a problem. But what are you going to hang them on? And how will they play out in the world you’ve created? How will they impact on the lives of your characters? Will it all fit together?

Plus, each main character will have their own storyline. Their own concerns and problems and challenges to work through across the length of your series. Which guest stories effect which people, and how? Maybe they don’t. Maybe that means you need to change which guest stories you’ve decided to use. Maybe it just means you need to play your episodic storylines in a different order.

And, crucially, how will each of those serial stories work across a whole series?  Will they arc?  Will the characters change? Does the story have enough beats to stretch it across that length of time without becoming repetitive?

Not each serial storyline will necessarily play out in every episode. But at least one of them will. Which one?

It’s not always as easy as it sounds.

But it is definitely something worth bearing in mind when you sit down to write your next series proposal.  Making sure you’ve got a sentence for each episode’s serial as well as the story of the week before deciding you’ve got enough material to create a viable series will save a lot of work further down the line.

Christopher Vogler on Midpoints

Here’s another little snippet of screenwriting advice in this series on screenwriting books from Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey.  Make of it what you will:

“Act Two is a long stretch for the writer and the audience, up to an hour in an average feature film.  You can look at the three-act structure as a dramatic line stretched across two major points of tension, the act breaks.  Like a circus tent hanging on its poles, structure is subject to gravity – the waning of the audience’s attention in the time between these peaks of tension.  A story that has no central moment of tension may sag like a circus tent that needs an extra support pole in the middle.  Act Two is an hour-long chunk of your movie, or a hundred pages of your novel.  It needs some kind of structure to hold it in tension.”

“The words crisis, critic, and critical come from a Greek word that means “to separate”.  A crisis is an event that separates the two halves of the story.  After crossing this zone, which is often the borderland of [literal or metaphorical] death, the hero is literally or metaphorically reborn and nothing will ever be the same.”

“The simple secret of the [crisis] is this: Hereoes must die so that they can be reborn … In some way in every story, heroes face death or someting like it: their greatest fears, the failure of an enterprise, the end of a relationship, the death of an old personality.”

“Here the fortunes of the hero hit bottom in a direct confrontation with his greatest fear … The [crisis] is a black moment for the audience, as we are held in suspense and tension, not knowing if he will live or die … Our emotions are temporarily depressed so that they can be revived … The result of this is a feeling of elation and exhilaration.”

“Why do so many stories seem to have two climaxes or death-and-rebirth ordeals, one near the middle and another just before the of the story?”

The hero comes through the first ordeal, the “crisis”, committed to change.  The second ordeal, the “climax”, tests whether he has sincerely changed and what he has learnt from his experiences.  The climax is often the final, decisive confrontation with the villain, and the danger is usually on the broadest scale of the entire story when the stakes at their highest.

CBBC Masterclass

We interrupt our scheduled programme to bring you this:

The wonderfully talented Kulvinder Gill, who was shortlisted for the recent CBBC Masterclass, has generously written up his notes and offered to share them with those of you looking to hear more about what happened next…

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WRITING EXERCISE

The CBBC Masterclass officially kicked off midday on Tuesday 28^th July but for the 18 participants, it really began a week earlier when we were asked to complete a writing exercise to a strict deadline.

We were given a half page brief setting out the premise for a possible new CBBC series, with short two-line character biographies of a pair of protagonists and asked to write a scene showing them meeting for the first time. We could create one additional character of our own but were only allowed a maximum of two pages to write “the most inventive scene possible”.

A week to write a two-page scene may not sound that difficult – but speaking personally, the context of the drama and the specific character requirements made it hugely challenging.

MASTERCLASS BACKGROUND

The writers at the Masterclass came from a wide age range – early twenties to late forties – and with a varied creative background:  there were some scriptwriters but also novelists, playwrights, an illustrator and at least one actor-performer.

The Writersroom were out in force – led by Kate Rowland (Creative Director, New Writing), Paul Ashton (Development Manager) and Katherine Beacon (Project Manager at BBC Writersroom North). From CBBC, there was Anne Gilchrist, (the outgoing controller of CBBC), Steven Andrew (CBBC’s head of drama and acquisitions) and Sarah Muller (Head of Development).

We were later joined by Jo Ho, the creator and writer of the new CBBC series BO AND THE SPIRIT WORLD.

The Masterclass began with a sandwich lunch and introductions, during which I managed to speak to Paul Ashton. He mentioned that the Writersrooom had received more entries for the CBBC competition than the Sharps competition the previous year, which surprised him as the Sharps brief was a lot more open. 

BRAINSTORMING EXERCISE

After the food, Kate Rowland moderated a brainstorming session on children’s television. She started off by asking each of us to chose our favourite kids show and explain why.

This was followed by a more general discussion on what kids shows need. Some of the suggestions we came up included: imagination, fear, surprise, irreverence, lack of adult supervision, villains, wish fulfilment etc.

We then broke up into smaller groups to choose 3 shows that define children’s drama with the reasons that made them classics. The results were all pooled together at the end – some shows like DOCTOR WHO, were chosen by more than one group.

The earlier list of requirements for a good children’s drama grew to include strong characters, emotional range, action packed, realistic issues – and even the inclusion of a good theme song! Finally, we attempted to relate all these “factors” to current children’s TV output. 

PITCHING EXERCISE

After the brainstorming session, Sarah Muller spoke about the growing importance of pitching. As part of the commissioning process, shortlisted producers and writers will be called in for a pitch meeting and Sarah outlined what CBBC look for in a short 5 minute pitch:

• What  is your story about
• Story Arc
• Characters
• Who is it for e.g. 6-12 age-group
• Genre
• Anything personal that connects you to that world is good.

We all then had a go at pitching our story in 30 seconds – although a lot of us did over-run.

The key lesson from this session was that being able to describe the idea – what the story is about – in one sentence, 30 seconds, is an essential skill that all writers need to master.

FEEDBACK ON ORIGINAL SCRIPTS

After the pitching session, we separated into smaller groups again, to receive feedback on our submitted scripts. One advantage of receiving individual feedback in a small group setting is that it allowed for common issues to become readily apparent.

For example, all the scripts in our group were guilty of having too many characters. Another common mistake was not allowing the kids to drive the action – they need to be at the centre.

The importance of the first ten pages was emphasised again – scripts need to hit the ground running, in terms of both action and being emotionally bold.

The advice to “be bold” was mentioned more than once.

JO HO – BO AND THE SPIRIT WORLD

The feedback groups all merged again to listen to screenwriter Jo Ho talk about her experiences of getting BO AND THE SPIRIT WORLD commissioned and produced by CBBC. The series is about Bo, a modern day British Chinese girl who is transported to the magical spirit world of ancient Chinese myths and legends, where she embarks on a quest to save her grandmother – and indeed the universe!

Jo started out as a writer-director of short films – and she believes it’s easier to get money for shorts if you are a hyphenate writer-director. Jo also said she taught herself to write by obsessively studying episodes of THE WEST WING and BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER.

BO AND THE SPIRIT WORLD was commissioned from a one-pager – and was originally pitched as a CBBC version of HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, a high concept which chimed with what the CBBC were looking for at the time.

The subsequent development process involved expanding the one-pager to a treatment, then a bible and a pilot episode. Jo mentioned that her original draft of the bible was so detailed it was like a novel, but with the help of CBBC development staff, it was reduced to a smaller, more commercial document of approximately 25 pages.

Each episode has a mystery or story of the week along with serial elements that feed into an overall story arc. But Jo said that that the most important thing was that audiences had to care about the characters.

BO AND THE SPIRIT WORLD was originally planned as a 13 episode series, but cutbacks reduced it to 10. It will be Jo Ho’s first broadcast credit – she wrote 3 episodes out of 10 plus dialogue polishes on all.

Jo praised CBBC as being a very progressive and ambitious department.

CBBC SEMINAR – ANNE GILCHRIST

The final session was a CBBC talk by Anne Gilchrist and Steven Andrew.

Anne started by saying that there were advantages for writers partnering up with a producer and director. She then listed the key points that CBBC look for when presented with series proposals through the e-commissioning system. (CBBC commissions 3-5 new shows each year.)

• A4 sheet – CBBC initially look for the series idea presented on one page.
• Relevance – the idea needs to be relevant to the target audience i.e. 6-12 for CBBC. The 6-12 audience age, does not mean that the characters have to be between 6-12 but there has to be a young sensibility. The idea can be multi-layered but has to look at the world through children’s eyes – not stereotypes, but recognisable types
• Affordability – think about the size of cast, where it’s set, and any SFX.
• Characters – realism, not 2D characters, e.g. if the story has a bully, make them an atypical bully i.e. still recognisable but also interesting. Children need to be at the centre of the idea. CBBC are looking for ideas with substance and that are empowering.
• Complementary – for example, if CBBC already have a TRACY BEAKER, they will not be looking for another series set in a care home. Look analytically at the schedule and try to work out what is missing.
• Talent – if you have someone famous, performing or writing talent, mention it on the initial A4 sheet.
• Humour – necessary to give light and shade to the work and also useful as punctuation. CBBC can take the audience to the edge of their seats – but not over them – hence no killing. CBBC can’t make people watching uncomfortable – despite the myth of families watching together, kids usually watch alone.
• Episodes and series arcs – you must assume the audience will not be loyal and watch all the episodes. Therefore, you need self-contained episodes but with some serial elements.
• Editorial guidelines – there are rules on what children can see. Be aware and careful of imitative behaviour
• Story – make the story really clear. It doesn’t have to be worthy but has to have a point. CBBC are not looking for stories about relationships.

CBBC SEMINAR – STEVEN ANDREW

Steven Andrew began his talk by reiterating a distinction he made at the CBBC Q&A back in June – namely that there are two sorts of writers: those who will write anything in order to get on to television – and those who genuinely have something to say. It’s the second type that producers are always looking for.

With this in mind, Steven asked the writers at the workshop to consider some questions:

• What is your script really about?
• Can that only happen in this story or any other stories?
• What is it you really want to explore?

Steven Andrew stressed the importance of writers being passionate about their work.

Steven also presented a PowerPoint slide with a declaration of the CBBC goals – a sort of mission statement.

CBBC wants to:

• Expand the imagination of the next generation.
• Aspire to create unmissable storytelling
• Promise shows that are as magical as fresh snow, as thrilling as a ride at Alton towers and as exciting as the anticipation of Christmas.
• Leave a legacy of magical memories to carry forward into adult life

Steven’s advice to writers wanting to write for children was to:

• Start late – make it exciting
• Put children at the heart of the story; make them the main protagonist.
• Surprise
• Push the story – so that audience asks questions
• Get the audience to desire what happens next

Steven illustrated this with clips from an episode from a CITV show called THE WARD (formerly known as CHLDREN’S WARD) created by Paul Abbott and Kay Mellor.

The clips were from a 1996 episode written by Russell T. Davies that went on to win a BAFTA Children’s Award for Best Drama. Steven said that although the episode was over a decade old, he thought it could still be broadcast today without it appearing dated.

The storyline dealt with the subject of internet grooming in chatrooms – a boy was being lured to a meeting in a park (in order to buy a rare comic) by a man pretending to be another schoolboy .

Steven asked us all to guess how the episode ended – and I don’t think anyone got it right. Although the boy escapes – just – so does the man, and the bleak final shot has him in the park, walking another child he has lured, back to his car. That’s a hard-hitting ending for TV drama in general, let alone  a children’s drama.

To sum up: for me, the single most important piece of advice during the day was to BE BOLD!

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Thanks Kulvinder!  And congratulations on being shortlisted!

McKee on Exposition

First up in this series of posts looking at advice offered by screenwriting books, Robert McKee’s Story has this to say on the subject of handling exposition:

“Exposition means facts – the information about setting, biography and characterisation that the audience needs to know to follow and comprehend the events of the story.

Within the first pages of a screenplay a reader can judge the relative skill of the writer simply by noting how he handles exposition.  Well done exposition doesn’t guarantee a superb story, but it does tell us that the writer knows the craft.”

“Skill in exposition means making it invisible. As the story progresses, the audience absorbs all it needs to know effortlessly, even unconsciously … In other words, dramatise exposition.”

“Dramatised exposition serves two ends: Its primary purpose is to further the immediate conflict. Its secondary purpose is to convey information.”

“No-one ever tells someone something they both already know unless saying the obvious fills another and compelling need.  Therefore, if this information is needed, the writer must create a motivation for the dialogue that’s greater than the facts.”

“Convert exposition to ammunition … when [the] story is thick with conflict, the characters need all the ammunition they can get. As a result, the writer has little trouble dramatising exposition and facts flow naturally and invisibly into the action … when stories lack conflict, the writer is forced into ‘table dusting’.”

“You do not keep the audience’s interest by giving it information, but by withholding information, except that which is absolutely necessary for comprehension.  Pace exposition … save the best for last … [and] create the desire to know by arousing curiosity … with a hunger for information, even the most complicated set of dramatised facts will pass smoothly into understanding.”

Screenwriting Books

Somewhere along the line it seems, reading books about screenwriting became something you’re supposed to be ashamed of.

I can’t remember the last time I went to a screenwriters’ event and didn’t hear a derogatory remark about Robert McKee. Scorned and scoffed at for his over-complicated diagrams, the fact that none of the several screenplays he’s sold have ever been produced, and his insistence that you must never, ever use voiceover, flashbacks or dream sequences – it doesn’t seem to matter that none of these things are actually true.

Except for the thing about the diagrams. I’ll give you that one.

But the details don’t matter anymore. It’s like he’s become a joke – or at the very least, a punchline. At one recent event I went to, the keynote speaker’s obligatory dig at McKee was followed by such sycophantic chortling from the audience, I found myself wondering why.

I’ve read Robert McKee’s Story. Yes, some of it is over-complicated and not all of it is presented very accessibly, but much of what’s in there is good, solid writing advice.

I’ve also read Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, based on an internal memo circulated in the Disney Story Department which, in turn, was based on Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces which I’ve read as well.

I’ve read Aristotle’s Poetics, and Vladamir Propp’s Morphology of the Folktale. I’ve read Christopher Booker’s Seven Basic Plots, Syd Field’s Screenplay and Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat.

I’m a screenwriter. I read books about screenwriting. It’s ok. IT’S ALLOWED.

I’ve also read hundreds of scripts, produced and unproduced, amateur and professional, as well as memoirs and biographies that contain screenwriting advice like William Goldman’s Adventures in the Screen Trade and Which Lie Did I Tell, and Russell T Davies recent The Writer’s Tale.

These, however, are more acceptable ways to take an interest in my profession so I’m not required to apologise for them.

Most of the so-called “how to” books say pretty much the same thing, they just use different words to describe it, and it’s by no means necessary to read all of them – or even any of them. Unless you really want to or, as was my case, you’re writing a thesis comparing classical narrative theory to modern day screenwriting advice. (I wouldn’t recommend the latter – it’s really hard work, it takes bloody ages and, you know, who cares?)

But having read all of these books, and many more besides, I can tell you that I personally found every single last one of them to have had something useful to say on the subject of screenwriting. To deny this fact or to suggest otherwise seems to me to be just ever so slightly arrogant.

We have brains in our heads. We are capable of forming our own opinions based on the gathering and analysis of information. If we read something we disagree with, we can ignore it. If we read something that makes sense to us, we can assimilate it into our knowledge base.

We do it every day when we read the newspapers. I hope.

No-one is saying you must take an interest in the advice these books are offering. But why shout another writer down for it? Is it right to suggest that they have nothing sensible or useful to add, just because you personally didn’t take anything from it? Of course not.

So if another writer has made you feel bad or naive or silly or amateur for reading screenwriting books – don’t listen to them. It doesn’t matter if they’re famous or very experienced or simply just opinionated. Visit your local library and make your own mind up before you decide whether they have anything useful to say.

Or don’t. It’s up to you.

But to prove my point, I’m going to post a few extracts or summaries of passages from well-known screenwriting books over the coming days and you can decide for yourself whether you think any of the advice is helpful or if you think it’s worth reading more, before you go throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

I won’t comment on the books I choose, or the authors who wrote them.  I’ll leave it up to you to form your own opinion.

McKee on Exposition

Vogler on Midpoints

Taking the Next Step

Script editor Hayley McKenzie is compiling up-to-date lists of theatre companies and television production companies who accept unsolicited scripts on her blog which is a helpful shortcut and faster alternative to trawling through resources like the Writers and Artists Yearbook.

You’ll still need to do your homework, visit the website of each company to find out what sort of work they’re interested in and whether your project is suited.  But if you’ve got a good script sitting on your desk, isn’t it time to put it on someone else’s?

What’s stopping you? 

Lack of time? 

Why not set aside a couple of hours this weekend to have a nosy around the interweb and work out which of them are up your street? 

Motivation? 

I don’t believe you.  You care enough about your writing career to be spending time reading a writing blog, don’t you?  You’re motivated enough to have written a bunch of scripts, sent them out for feedback, rewritten them, polished them and gotten them as good as they can possibly be.  Well then. 

Not sure you’re ready?

Have you submitted a script to a competition or writing scheme this year?  What about last year?  If the script was good enough for that, then you’ve already deemed it good enough to show producers.  What’s the difference? 

Fear of taking the next step…?

I double dare you.

With a cherry on top.

Writing for Radio: Practicalities

My last post about the Radio 4 Commissioning Process got a huge response, one I wasn’t expecting at all, but I’ve done my best to answer any questions that were asked both in the comments section and by email.  This radio lark is all pretty new to me too but I’m happy to share what I’ve learnt so by all means feel free to ask away if there’s anything you want to know that I haven’t covered. If I don’t know the answer I shall just say so.

There are loads of us dipping our toes into the radio pool at the moment huh?

I’m not at all surprised.

It seems like a lot of writers are finding that, at the moment, most of the continuing drama series and soaps are just completely swamped. More and more experienced writers are returning to the CDS and soaps as work dries up elsewhere.  There’s just not room for everyone. 

But if the goal is to earn your living solely from your writing, this is a lovely way to do it.  Best of all, it actually feels like an attainable goal. 

To help me get to grips with the writing process a bit more, I spent last week working on a recording of a radio drama series up in Manchester and that’s it now, I’m officially a Radio Evangelist. It was absolutely brilliant.

The series we were recording started life as a TV series which went round the houses before being adapted for radio.  There’s the possibility of further radio series in the pipeline, and also the possibility that it could now move back to TV. 

The cast were all TV actors you’d recognise if you passed them in the street.  It was a really good cast.  Let’s not forget, the decline in TV drama has just as much impact on all other areas of production, not just writing staff, so there are a lot of experienced and talented people looking for work.  I was surprised by how many radio series the cast had done or had lined up for the next few months.  This is good for radio -  quality aside for a moment, high profile actors in your radio series gives it that extra boost of potential. 

The writer was there and had a say in how things were done.  She was shown respect and it was generally acknowledged that she knew the script better than anyone and her opinions should be listened to. How many TV writers have you heard say that?

Anyway, here’s some of the things I learnt that relate specifically to writing:

Radio budgets are extremely tight.  People say budgets don’t mean anything on radio because you can be anywhere, space, the desert, the future, the past, and it’s not a problem.  This is partly true but radio dramas don’t get big budgets.  Good actors cost proper money.  The fewer characters you use, the better actors you’ll get.

The actors may as well have had cameras pointed at them - they acted the whole lot out as they would have done for the screen, the only difference is they’ve got the scripts in their hands and they’re in jeans and t-shirts instead of costume.

We recorded the whole thing on location at a house, and not in a studio, which is a far cheaper albeit slightly more time consuming option.  It seems that quite a few producers choose to record on location, partly because of the money aspect (studios charge per day which can be costly), but also because it gives a more authentic sound world. 

Being on location meant we mostly used spot fx (sound effects and background noise recorded on the spot during a scene, e.g. closing a door or making a cup of tea) as opposed to being put on later in the edit, and the sound effects do all the work.  Wildtracks were recorded for shopping centre scenes, cafe scenes and office party scenes.  This involved all the actors just milling around making background noise (turning taps on, pouring drinks, taking lids off of butter tubs, reading the paper, placing orders). You don’t need to say, Oh look, we’re in a cafe, because it’s crystal clear from the background noise.

Actors are amazing.  They can lift a scene right up.  They can alter the meaning and emotion of a sentence or layer it with added meaning and emotion just by using their voice. So don’t overwrite.

The microphones are extremely sensitive and can pick up all the different sorts of sounds and even slight movements – someone getting to their feet, someone sitting down.  Sitting down and lying down and standing up all alters the way the actor’s voice sounds.  You can hear someone being stopped in their tracks, surprised.  Even a change in breathing can speak volumes.

You don’t need to be heavy handed explaining anything, it’s all there. You can almost write it just as you would for the screen. 

Think of the microphone like the camera.  Think about where it needs to be.  If you’ve got a character coming down the street, talking on the doorstep, going inside and then carrying on the conversation, that’s two, probably three, scenes.  It doesn’t matter too much, but it helps the producer work out the schedule and saves time on the day. 

If you’ve got a character having a conversation half through an open car window and half inside the car, can you do the whole lot just one way?  The less time you spend moving the microphone around, the more time you’ve got to concentrate on getting the best acting and emotion out of the scene instead of focusing on practicalities.  Don’t sacrifice drama for practicalities (if the conversation starts outside but then turns and suddenly the characters don’t want to have this conversation in public anymore, that’s different) but consider when and where it really matters.  Give your script the best chance of becoming something really special.  

Voiceover is a great tool and it’s more acceptable on radio to hear the inner thoughts and feelings of a character. It feels sort of like a cross between TV and a novel.  But the same rules apply, don’t be heavy handed and don’t just use it for exposition. Voiceover works best when it contradicts or contrasts with the rest of the scene.  If we know a character has a secret the other characters don’t, then you’ve got all that subtext in the scene – the drama is in what’s not being said. 

You can control what information is being revealed and when.  This is a great dramatic tool. Use it.

Use dramatic irony. Use surprise. Set up expectations and then subvert them. These are the same skills you’re using when writing for the screen, and this is no different. It’s just good writing. 

You can use poetic language to create images in the listener’s mind.  Flex your writing muscles.  Use different styles of writing.  And dialogue is King.  Differentiate how characters speak and the sorts of vocabulary they use to tell the audience everything they need to know about that character. If you can’t see the characters, how they sound becomes even more important.

If you’re working with a radio producer at the moment, it’s not a bad idea to ask them whether they’ve got any recording time coming up and offering to lend a hand. If you offer your services for free they’ll probably bite your hand off.  Seeing it for yourself helps so much and really enables you to get your head around the process, especially if this is your first time writing for radio.

There were two of us helping out last week and we swapped roles depending on our requirements.  As a Broadcast Assistant you time each take with a stopwatch, mark on the script what was covered in each take and keep a record of how long each take was as well as any technical notes. You also mark any points at which dialogue falters or gets repeated. All this just makes life easier in the edit, as well as enabling you to work out how long your episodes will come out which is vital. 

You can also do Spot FX, all those things the actors can’t do themselves because they have their hands full, because of the position of the microphone or because of the direction the sound is coming from. Opening doors, running taps, delivering drinks to a table like a waiter would etc.  At one point I had to say, “Ok” and shuffle off towards the door – my first acting role (since that unfortunate incident we must never speak of at the school play…) It’s fun, and it’s a really useful experience.

If you missed it from the comments section on the last post, there’s a really good article by Izzy Mant about writing for radio on Twelve Point for anyone interested in reading more (you have to be a subscribed member of Twelve Point to access it). 

And don’t forget, apart from listening to radio plays on iPlayer, there’s also the BBC Writersroom script archive which has radio drama scripts coming out of its ears.  They also have a few radio comedy scripts if that’s your thing.