Always Freewriting

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)

This week I've been concentrating on a TV pilot I've written as part of my Masters.  I had a tutorial on Tuesday where I walked aways with 2 pages of scribbled notes and a head full of ideas. I normally leave those meetings in a state of panic, never sure where to start or how to take an axe to a draft of work that has taken me weeks but now needs refinement.  I let the panic rage for 2 days but as always it's started to settle and today I'm looking at my pen pot of red biros and highlighters and wondering if I should just start tackling the great reshape.  The structure is almost there but the characters need condensing.  I need to cull at least 3 peripheral voices and make the survivors more distinct.  I need to cut my slug lines down from poetic theatrical essays to 2 lines of action.  I need a tagline (I should've had this before I started writing) and a definite genre - not the 3 that I'm interchanging at will.  But most of all I need a definite reason

I have several (hundred) unfinished stories sitting around in notebooks half forgotten about.  I really need to dig them out and complete them.  They're barely even started.  This is one of them - enjoy... The circus tent appeared suddenly overnight.   It now stood demanding everyone’s attention on the cusp of the hill.   Swathes of yellow and red canvas stretched towards the sun and as the summer’s evening drew near a thin melody wound its way down the cobbled streets into the village and piped its way through windows, doors and straining ears.   The haunting note of a single flute evolved into the heartbeat of a drum.   With every second it grew more decisive and urgent until the villagers found their eyes wandering up to the vision staring down on them from the normally privileged position of only a few sheep and the occasional fox... Bruce Davidson, Clown and Circus Tent, 1958