Always Freewriting

We all have regrets.  They may be large or small.  Normally they live on in a box tucked away on the upper shelf in the back of your mind.  Festering slightly but largely forgotten about and too far out of sight to cause any day to day trouble. But every now and then you search out a ladder, climb it to the highest rung and forage around on tip toes in the depths of your brain for the box that you know will make you feel rubbish but you can't help yourself.  Like a wound itching beneath one of those old school brown plasters. It would be nice to incinerate these boxes of regret.  Blast them into a furnace bubbling away at the ends of the Earth never to resurface. But you can't.  One of my biggest fears in life is that when I get older (if I get that much older) I get alzheimers and these regrets play on vividly in my mind.  On a loop that might suggest they're happening right now.  In this second.  Of this time.  Looking out through my eyes as they are at that great

The house lights went down over an hour ago and the audience has long fled into the London night.  The cleaners shuffled their vacuums along as quickly as possible past the lengths of banked seating and the ushers have downed their nightcaps and headed off home for bed. He is the only remaining soul in this ancient theatre. He pads through the stalls towards the stage looming out of the half-light infront of him.  With an effortless bound he lands on it and sends a small cloud of dust into the stale air.  Velvet curtains part as he pushes his way through them and he finds himself amongst a stage strewn full of set pieces, left for organisation in the morning.  Here he sits and watches the theatre flies.  The rigging of a spotlight catches his eye and he jerks his head around the space working out a way to get up there.  Up there to where he can sit and survey his stage.  His audience.  His theatre.  Or he could just sit down here and wait for the mice to wake up.  The theatre

I have come inside to feel the silence. Eighty seven people sit within twenty metres of me - I know because I counted them. And yet all the noise they make pales in comparison with the World outside the huge glass windows. Thirty five panes of rectangular glass make up the fifteen arched windows in this main reading room of the New York City Library.  Vintage marble lets in brief glimpses of monstrous glass and concrete beasts lurking on the boundaries of itself.  They bend and reflect light off their polished exteriors and offer no warmth or protection.  It is only from deep within this library, a vessel of precious words, that I sit and watch the beasts marching down 5 th Ave and feel safe surrounded by solid oak and tons of ink. The relentless roar of yellow cab traffic can’t permeate the walls of books and the snap of cameras stops within this gentle lit room.  I am quite totally alone in the midst of a crowded room.  A silent humanity sitting at the heart of

I've managed to complete a first draft of The Film. It is currently 11 pages short of a full length feature but I'm really pleased with what I've managed this week and I have until the first week of June to refine it and add those missing scenes. I haven't been keeping to the rest of my promises regarding this blog and 750 words but the important task has been almost completed and I can't quite believe it to be honest. Can't wait for people to read it.  Even more importantly I would love for someone to actually see it. But for now it is living in my brain on a loop of visuals of seagulls and a small girl hiding under Brighton pier the day long.

Some days you can feel as though you're on top of everything and it all makes completes sense.  The goalposts to a job being completed are clearly signposted and you can tick them off as you progress. Other days you can feel as though you're sinking and no matter how many goals you tick off a few more appear on the horizon and nobody warned you they'd be there. I set myself goals and these are added to what everyone else has decided I need to do.  So they multiply and the list gets longer and falls off one page onto two and suddenly you're staring at a tunnel of objectives and no light to shine on them for clarity. It's deeply frustrating and I'm the sort of person who needs set targets to reach.  If you change the targets it's like you've personally attacked me and ruined my day for fun.  I know that's not what actually happens but it definitely feels personal sometimes. I have 2 new pieces of work to hand in on Monday that weren't menti

I have a week off work and in that time I will try my hardest to do the following things: Write at least 10 pages every day of The Film Write a blog every day Write my 750 words every day They're listed in order of importance and it's quite typical that in order to write anything worthwhile and that I'll be vaguely satisfied with I have to complete them in the opposite order: Write my 750 words every day Write a blog every day Write at least 10 pages every day of The Film The first warms me up, the second makes me feel like I've done something tangible and the last will help me creep closer to completing the longest piece of work I've ever done.  At the moment The Film feels mammoth, epic and slightly impossible.   But 10 pages a day is fine.  Or it will be once I drag myself off the sofa where the sun has trapped me nicely.  Thought for the day; why is it always a glorious sunny day when you have work to do alone at a keyboard in a quiet roo

After the hideousness that was pitching 4 weeks ago I had to do it all again last night and I was absolutely dreading it.  Since I signed up to my Masters I have been worrying about the 19th March.  On Honeymoon in October I vividly remember counting down the months until I had to pitch my entire film to strangers.  On Sunday I had about an hour's sleep and during that hour I had a dream about it all going wrong. Well...last night was The Pitch. And I think it went well.  It could have been better (everything could always be better in my pessimistic brain) but I communicated the genre, character needs and story line in a coherent fashion and got positive feedback afterwards.  They could picture it on the big screen and thought the characters were well developed.  There were questions over who the intended audience is and as soon as I started searching for an answer I proved their point that I have a problem in that area. But if I work on it more (always more, more, more) 

I've been so slack.  Slacker than a pair of middle aged pants around the ankles of a slack jawed tight rope walker.  I've been writing a few pages here and there and thinking many writery thoughts in my head.  But it feels as though I haven't been doing enough and this is my eternal problem. So here I am writing something tangible and bankable and making you read it because it will make me feel as though I've actually done something with my day.  As opposed to all the stuff I really have done with my day which is very impressive actually I'll have you know. It's just not in the general theme of writing or anything I might enjoy doing.  And in other news it's been a stunning day in London town.  Almost makes me happy to be here. Almost.

I've noticed that he lands on my roof towards the latter part of an evening.  Always when I'm thinking about turning the last lamp off and heading to my bed.  Black wings descend and bump against thatch and I know he's arrived, above me in the gloom of night.  From the glow of a hastily lit candle I dare not move, paralysed to the stair that only leads me higher towards him.  I can't go up but I don't want to go back into the cold empty downstairs.  I begin to tread gently but in line with my step the grip and rip of claws echoes down from his height.  I stop, he stops.  I start and he begins again.    Crawling between cold sheets I pull the duvet up beyond my head and curse the unlucky star that watched my birth and sent this crow.  He lands when I least want him to.  When strength dwindles to nothing and I forget my own name.  This crow of doom feeds on the bleak within and vultures at my thoughts.  The night will be shadow filled and nightmare ridden.  Tom

Sitting on the train is something I spend the majority of my week doing.  Some days I hate it and count the stations off with frustration and rage that I've chosen this way to travel to work.  Other days I'm indifferent and the countryside slips away infront of me until I'm at Charing Cross without realising I even boarded.  But days like this morning I actually enjoy it and relish every second spent before arriving in London.  Leaning my head against a finger print heavy window staring at fields and terrace houses listening to music and drifting off to sleep between stations.  Dropping in on loud conversations between giddy (there is no other word to sum them up) fifteen year olds heading for school.  Drowning out a business man angrily whispering into his mobile by turning my iPod up a fraction.  Noting that the woman sitting next to me is trying desperately hard not to lean on me though the Southeastern train carriages aren't designed with the width of the human bo

I live with a nutter. He thinks he's a ninja from the good old days when you could sink a cutlass in someone and watch them cry blood for mercy.  He thinks his food should be served at the same time every day and will think nothing of screaming at the top of his lungs should you be a few minutes late.  He goes out without telling me.  He comes in when he wants.  And normally with dirty boots spreading mud all over the cream carpets. But does he care?  No.  Because he is the boss and we should all quake before him. But sometimes, when there's a draught from the window or rain's thundering down the chimney, he shows his true colours.  The ninja of the household becomes one giant soppy pussycat.  And all the mud stained carpets in the World couldn't make me love him any less. - Photo by me, 2011, the ninja of the house

The list of things that I have to do are mounting up and I just don't know when I'm supposed to do them.  The weekend was a wash out in terms of writing.  I feel physically blocked from starting the new film and yet I have to feel confident in what I'm doing before the second pitch from hell in 4 weeks now. 4 weeks!  So today is a day of new starts.  A day of looking at my hand scribbled list of chores and tackling it straight on.  No shirking away from the point or finding less important jobs to do first.  I will not stare out of the window for the next 5 hours and then wonder why I feel like I haven't achieved anything at the end of the day...as usual.  It is not a usual day. With all of this motivational talk I feel like jumping out of my chair and doing a sprint of the office.  High fiving all of my colleagues and whooping down the halls. But that would be a distraction putting off the second that I have to turn back to my screen and create something worthwh

I live in a flat within an Edwardian house in sunny Kent.  We bought it 5 years ago when we were the first people to see it and fell in love with it too fast to notice that there was no room in the kitchen for normal appliances. In those 5 years we've seen quite a few people come and go from the rest of the flats around us.  Only 2 out of 6 of the flats are owner occupied and the rest are rented out. I have trouble remembering people's names at the best of times and needless to say I have trouble keeping up with who is in the same house with me.  Friday night at 02:00 someone was walking around above our flat with moon boots on.  I think they then played a full game of basketball followed by squash and a communal shower with at least 14 other people. That's when it struck me as odd that I can live in a house and not really know who's around me.  Footsteps in the hall are anonymous and when we pass each other in the car park we're all smiles and waves but we ca

I still haven't made a start on the new version of the film I have to hand in at the end of June.  Right now I just feel sick when I think about it and in my head I jump from scene to scene in a random order as if I'll never pin it all down correctly. The odd truth is that as soon as I start it I know it will become clear and I'll stop worrying quite as much.  I've freewritten around the key moments and can see it in my mind but need to commit to 'Final Draft' and just start writing the script.  No more notes or outlines.  The new story has been planned to death and before I lose the thread I should just type it. I think I might need to bribe myself.  If I manage to complete the first 20 pages by the end of Sunday then I can have sushi for dinner one night next week.    Isn't it ridiculous that in order to make yourself do the thing you love you have to trick yourself into actually doing it?

When I sit down to a few hours writing the first thing I do is plan what music I'm going to listen to while I work.  It might be a bout of procrastination ahead of focusing but I find it incredibly difficult to write fluidly when all I can hear are my fingers stumbling across the keys.  If the man is on the sofa next to me then I'll have ear phones in but it's best when I'm alone and can put the stereo on with one artist's album influencing the tone of my mood and ultimately the energy of what is produced on the page. I used to listen to a lot of Enya (seriously you can hear it in each page of every airy fairy thing I wrote at uni)because you can tune out quite fast to it.  Then I tried to write to Counting Crows but they are my ultimate most favourite band in the world and that was a clear mistake.  I would often come to my senses around track 8 of 'August and Everything After' and realise that I'd been singing for the past 40 minutes and written

Every now and then we all need to treat ourselves.  I'm not talking about 5* holidays spread over 3 months in a tropical climate where a butler will crawl on his hands and knees to serve you a freshly brewed cocktail underneath your antique lace awning...though that would be nice. I'm talking about a Chinese take away on a Sunday night.  A walk in a sun soaked park just as all the Spring flowers are beginning to wake up.  Starting to think about booking a week's break in September to some cheap self-catering place in the sun.  Dressing up like it's your birthday and ordering the cheapest item on the menu to try and make it all feel special...and offering to do the restaurant's washing up for a year if they'll throw in desert. The special treats make all the hard work worthwhile.  And if they don't then it's time to look for a new point of view because something clearly isn't working.  - Photo by me, 2008 New York 

It's a beautiful day today.  A day for putting the washing outside to dry.  Pulling the wellies on and marching across a Kentish field in search of a pub garden.  A day for weeding the patio and cleaning the windows.  Shaking out the curtains and chasing the cat round the garden. A day for doing anything other than writing at least ten pages of script...No motivation left at all.

You walk down down a hallway and something catches your eye.  A large door looms in the distance.  You're sure you've never noticed it before but there it is.  Looming. You approach it slightly slower than before.  You weren't expecting to see it, can't be certain what's on the other side.  Light shines from beyond it but who knows what, or who, waits behind it.  You push it open slowly and walk through. A courtyard is revealed bathed in harsh sunlight.  Sticks warn against entering an arch on the other side so you look around to find the next obvious exit.   Finding a gap in the wall you push through and wonder who else has passed through these ancient walls.   There is a lack of anyone else around and yet you feel that you're following someone.  Someone wants you to carry on pushing through these unexpected doors and archways.  So you do. Climbing higher and higher.  Passing through great corridors of history and tradit

I'm in the middle of planning my best friend's Hen night and it's got me thinking about how many days of my life I can actually remember.  Odd I know.  I don't remember the majority of the hen that she threw for me as I rather predictably drank too much and was very ill by the end of it.  But until the drink flowed we had the best day ever running round Brighton in teams on a scavenger hunt, eating fish and chips by the seafront and generally catching up with my best friends in the whole World (apart from 1 who had to be in San Fran for silly work but I did think about her while I was dashing down side streets laughing all the way).  I also don't remember most of my actual Wedding day.  Snippets of emotions, the man looking at me as we exchanged vows and shock at the whole thing actually happening.  Before the day took off, my most amazing Bridesmaid had to stitch ribbon onto velcro that had arrived with the flowers, made me cups of tea and looked after my mini

It is on me.   Around my neck and on my bones.   If I breathe in deeply I can feel it tightening warm fingers around my throat.   It is there and I’m always aware of it.   I know that people look at it.   They want to touch it with their own warm hands but it won’t let them.   It belongs to me and no-one else.   Sitting in this glade of purple fox gloves and shy daisies I feel it radiating in the space around me.   Light pulsating against the beams of sun and if I watch the grass and moss and trees they seem to bend towards the metal against my neck.   A huge bumblebee sways his large body from side to side with the help of undersized frantic wings.   He wants to fly to the orange globe burning in the sky but it’s out of reach.   A smaller but no less powerful gravity is forcing him into a section of the forest and he just flies and flies and pushes himself to find the warmth and energy coming from this glade. She sits and stares at the sun and the flowers and feels safe with

I live for the moments in time where there is nothing in particular to worry about.  Since I was eight I have been a chronic worrier and I regularly used to be told off at school for pulling the face of anxiety.  So when I suddenly realise that I'm not worrying about anything it is a bit of a sun-breaking-through-the-clouds event.  I last had that moment on our mini honeymoon to Florence in October.  We'd just conquered the Duomo and were sitting on a bench opposite it looking back up at where we'd been.  The man had to take his shoes off because his feet were so hot from the 460 stairs we'd just climbed and a local walked past chuckling away in Italian.  He just kept pointing at the shoes and us and the sky and generally having a very good laugh at us stupid tourists. Sitting there, leaning on the man I had nothing at all to worry about. I'm pretty sure the moment evaporated 5 minutes later as we tried to buy ice cream from a lady who saw us coming but for a

This morning I'm honoured to be featured on another blog, Canopy & Stars , writing about my stay in a gypsy caravan when the man proposed to me.  Very appropriate that it's been published today given it's the day of romance and gestures and lovey dovey hand holding.  Clashes slightly with how today has gone so far (he forgot it was Valentines day and we left for work shouting at each other in the street as this is officially the 11th year running that he has forgotten and for some reason I was surprised he hadn't remembered and I didn't mean to make him feel bad *deep breath*). We'll have forgotten all about it by the time we get in later and until then I'll be dreaming of an unforgettable weekend at The Old Forge in Dorset.

I had a bit of a moment this morning where everything started to make sense and I almost smiled. The day started in a gloomy fashion at 06:00 and I knew I was in a mood because yesterday I felt odd and out of sorts all day. I made the man a cup of tea, made his lunch (I'm so domesticated) and fed the cat. I got dressed in the dark, caught the train in the dark and was almost at London Bridge by the time the World started to illuminate itself. I found a colleague on the train and we caught a bus together for what is normally my 20 minute walk and got into the office at 08:59 which in my book made me early. My Inbox has been full of pretty dull emails all day and at lunch time I went to Boots to buy some hair dye.  Seriously my life does not get more thrilling than this. But I took 20 minutes out from the intense excitement and logged into an amazing freewriting website ( 750words.com ) that I found last week. During my race to get to 750 words and fulfill my daily quote of typ

  Kev and Nigel are two Emperor penguins.  They sit and stare at the audience.  Kev is intent and almost aggressive in his stance.  Nigel is more fidgety and bored.  He gets up and wanders out of Kev’s eyeshot. Kev                        Nigel.  Nigel?  Nigel                      Yes Kev                        Where did you go? Nigel                      I was behind the rock Kev                        Don’t do that again.  Stay where I can see you Nigel                      Sorry mate.  Wasn’t thinking Kev                        No I know your weren’t.  But you need to keep sharp.  Stay with me right here Nigel Nigel                      All right mate calm down Kev                        You know we can’t afford to be split up these days Nigel Nigel                      All right Kev.  All right . Kev                        What did you see behind the rock? Nigel                      Well I only just got round it when you started call

This week has been hard. It seems to have just been one long downward spiral which should've meant I woke up this morning feeling beyond hope.  Especially after the 4am nightmare where I drowned and then woke up in a hot sweat. But I woke up a lot more cheerful than I have been all week.  It's freezing cold and the 2 mile walk to the office from Charing Cross was painful but I got in and have found myself smiling all day.  Smiling when a client meeting was cancelled even though I got here early to do a lot of printing for it.  Still smiling after I can't book any rooms for a few more meetings I've scheduled for my boss this afternoon.  And I'll hopefully still be smiling at 17:28 when something urgent happens as it has a habit of doing last thing on a Friday. This weekend I will be trying hard not to stress out about how many words I've written (0) or how many weeks I have left until the film from hell is to be pitched again (38) or when it has to be compl

I like to kid myself that one day I will blossom into an immaculately groomed lady. I will wear Louboutin heels with aplomb, knee length  Erdem silk dresses with grace and  Holly Fulton  necklaces with attitude.  That day will come and I will be fabulous.  I think I've been watching too much 'Sex and the City' recently.  And reading too many Vogues.  And losing grip of my reality which sees me typing at this hideous keyboard wearing a black New Look (no link needed!) skirt with hem starting to drop (I haven't found time to resew it).  Black fuzzy tights because I'm cold.  A pink long sleeved top and grey furry jumper because again I'm cold. Vogue I ain't.   - Photo by Frank Horvat for Vogue France  

The night crawls on bended legs and searching fingers at the foot of my bed.   I can hear it wheezing and muttering in its hollow soul.   I can smell its presence and jealousy and hate.   It reeks of cold and damp and Victorian evenings swirling in fog.   I try not to make a single noise.   Any utterance would trigger its awareness and I would be its prisoner all alone in my single bed. I cannot see it.   This sense is deprived.   Cut off from neurons racing down my spine.   Black dilated pupils roll around scared sockets and settle on no physical thing.   Between parted lips I am aware of a sour aftertaste.   I have been kissed in my sleep by the mutant lurking in the corner and now it has had that first fatal taste there is no escape. My hands know that in painfully close proximity a light switch aches to be flicked.   To banish the intruder beyond the walls of my bedroom and into the world to find someone else…anyone else. But my arms are paralysed.   They refuse to mov

Last night was our practice pitch session.  YIKES.  I'm pleased it was only a practice run as it was shocking, painful and just plain horrendous. The pitch itself wasn't too bad.  Three minutes to do an 'elevator pitch' where you get across your story to someone (anyone) and include major plot points, title, themes, genre, main characters and story arcs.  Ideally not in that order. I rattled through my film pitch mentally ticking off key points as they hit the air and when the iPhone called time on me I sat back and breathed.  I'm pretty sure I smiled to myself in a 'job done' kind of way (not in a smirky born-to-do-it kind of way I hasten to add!). That's when the pain started and it didn't end for twenty minutes.  She (the script consultant Lady who was amazing and knows her stuff though it almost killed me to take it all in last night) saw me coming.  She knew exactly where the plot holes were even though I hoped and prayed that I'd done

The pier stood in the sea and let its legs get wet.  It stared out at the dirty ocean and wondered when the sun would show its face.   It had been a cold night and the sky had been laid bare without a blanket of cloud to protect it.   The moon began its slow descent out of its comfy chair and lumbered off to its bed while the sun hid beyond the horizon and thought about climbing the ladder to his deck chair.   For a few moments the pier stood alone considering the day ahead. At least the pier thought it was alone...underneath its dripping beams and supports a huddled figure lay blinking under a ragged beach-towel.   What had once been techni-coloured stripes were now mere suggestions of a beach holiday in the sun and ice cream cones from singing vans.   This towel seemed to have soaked up the memories and the good old holidays and forgotten them over the years, discarding them among the pebbles and shells that made up the shore line.   Its final memory was wrapped around a small

Yesterday I sat at my Grandma's kitchen table for five hours.  Out of those that time, one hour was spent staring out of her back door at squirrels and wood pigeons in the garden.  Another thirty minutes was spent with the neighbour's cat, Teddy, who decided to investigate the kitchen and my legs and the very warm boiler I was working next to. In the remaining three and a half hours I managed to write about seven pages which translates to roughly seven minutes on screen. That takes me to seventeen pages total and I have to hand in one hundred and ten pages by June.  I ideally want to have completed a first draft by March (yeah right) and then I'd have a few months to edit and wrestle with it. At the moment I'm preoccupied with several beats I need to try and hit or at least aim for in terms of Act I, Act II, Mid point, Act III, climax and a resolution (or not if I want to puzzle an audience). I've got my story laid out and I'm happy with the structure but

It's frustrating when all you can see are the problems in a situation.  No matter how hard you try, the short term worries and panic end up clouding the view... (Photo by me, 2009) But if you risk a few crows feet and squint the bigger picture can appear.  A more positive longer term.  You breathe deeply, reassure yourself that eventually the problem will make sense and hunker down to make it all work out okay.  (Photo by me, 2009)