Promises to the film

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?

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Tuesday Mornings

The fog had crept across the garden all morning, soaking into the space between tired daisy heads and trampled grass. It had stealthily stroked everything it passed and left a cold trace of moisture clinging to the underside of oak leaves, pampas grass and rhododendron blooms. Up in the sky the sun was battling to break through the thick cloud cover and every tentative shaft of light was being batted away by this endless trail of fog. Two red wellie boots jump from an open doorway into this scene. Determined thuds on the back door step and with a second’s pause to contemplate which direction to run in they are off, racing into the gloom adding a jolt of colour and noise. A second pair of boots join them, more slowly this time and in a gentler colour way of navy blue. The door is closed behind these boots and a voice calls out to slow the red boots down. A warning not to fall in the puddles, be careful of the tree roots, don’t go further than the stile at the en...

Chipping away

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....

Starting Fresh

It's been a while. And I definitely feel rusty. But hopefully it won't take long for my brain to catch up with my fingers and type something more interesting than the weekly shopping list for Ocado. Or Lidl depending on how much money is in the bank that week. With two little boys running round calling me mummy (artistic license at work here ~ my youngest is 7 months and not running or calling me anything) life has certainly changed from when I last wrote. But after 5 years of almost constant change I suddenly find myself back sitting in the same spot at work where I always used to sit doing the same tasks I always did just as though the last few years never actually happened. Except they definitely did. I have the scars to prove it and also as soon as I get home I don't throw myself on the sofa and exclaim dramatically that I'm so glad the week is over and isn't it wonderful to have nothing to do. I run upstairs to give lots of hugs and cuddles ...

Always Freewriting

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