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...

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Always Freewriting

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