It's All Lies

Writing dialogue is very personal. Some writers have very distinctive styles that span all the different characters in a show. There are the fast-talkers of Aaron Sorkin's worlds, be they West Wing, Sportsnight or Social Network. There the imaginative comic similes of Richard Curtis and Ben Elton's Blackadder series.

Everyone has their own style, but it's worth thinking about how dialogue works more generally and how we can write it better for individual characters. Two things to mention here without going over what I wrote about dialogue here:

Length
Sometimes I read scripts in which one character talks and talks and talks. A character walks in and tells you what they did that day - and the other characters stand around listening. And then another character talks and talks and talks. Our lives are conversations. We say a sentence or two, and then someone else talks for a little bit. The conversation goes round the room, being filtered and remixed by the various characters and perspectives in the room. That's when it starts getting interesting.

This is the kind of dialogue I'm talking about. It's not uncommon to read this kind of mildly predictable and slightly stererotypical/sexist scene (which I've just made up as I've typed it. It's not real dialogue from something I'm working on.)

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
You don't wanna know. It was a nightmare. A total and utter nightmare. The buses were slow - as they always are on our road. The tube was down. Well not down. But stop start all the way into work. And when I got in Wendy was off sick. As usual. That's the fourth day out of the last eight working days. Honestly, the rest of us struggle into work. Why can't she? Then the big meeting started. The Boss droned on and on. Something about targets and marketing. Wasn't really listening because I was thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for the St Albans incident.

Okay. It's not very funny, is it? But hey, most scripts (including mine) aren't very funny. But reading it, it doesn't ring true. He's not having a conversation. He's just talking. And talking. And talking. SHUT UP, STEVE! I now do not care about your life, Steve. You're not a real person, Steve.

So, let's break it up to make it at least mildly humourous and believable. Then we might care. At the very least, how about something like this:

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
You don't wanna know.

MAVIS
You're right. What's on TV tonight?

STEVE
(ignoring her) Nightmare. The buses didn't move. The tube was stop-start. And when I did get in, guess what?

MAVIS
They gave you a hand-gun and licence to kill?

STEVE
If only. Wendy.

MAVIS
Off sick? Again?

STEVE
Thank you! The fourth day out of the last eight working days.

MAVIS
But who's counting. Oh hang on. You.

STEVE
(sarcastic smile) The rest of us struggle into work.

MAVIS
Passing round your germs. She should be more considerate and come in.

STEVE
Anyway, the big meeting started. The Boss droned on and on. Something about targets and marketing. Wasn't really listening because I was thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for...

MAVIS
Not paying attention in meetings?

STEVE
... the St Albans incident.

MAVIS
Ah yes. Well, that's in the hands of the police now, isn't it?

Okay, it's nothing special and all very smart-arse, but you get the idea. Get your characters talking to each other. Like they do in real life.

It's All Lies
The other thing to bear in mind, however, is that people frequently don't say what they mean. Quite often say the opposite, or filter it - often because of the opinion of the person standing in front of them. They lie. They delude themselves. The things they say are for their own ears, to reinforce the lies that they're trying to drum into their heads, or block out the noise of the stark reality around them.

How could that scene go with the addition of standard lying and self-delusion? Something like:

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
Fine. Great. Perfect.

MAVIS
Good. What's on TV tonight?

STEVE
(ignoring her) The buses didn't move. The tube was stop-start. And when I did get in, guess what?

MAVIS
They gave you a hand-gun and licence to kill?

STEVE
If only. Wendy.

MAVIS
Off sick? Again?

STEVE
I know. She's got some medical condition. It's sad. Really sad. And she's good. When she's actually around.

MAVIS
Ooh, you hate her.

STEVE
I do not. I don't hate anyone. It's just she's, you know, not been around much recently. And I just think missing four days of the last eight working days should require a doctor's note or something.

MAVIS
Could she bring in a blood sample, maybe, to be independently monitored?

STEVE
(sarcastic smile) The rest of us struggle into work.

MAVIS
Passing round your germs. She should be more considerate and come in.

STEVE
Anyway, the big meeting started. The Boss give his speech about targets and marketing strategy...

MAVIS
You have no idea what he said do you?

STEVE
I was distracted by thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for...

MAVIS
Not paying attention in meetings?

STEVE
No. The St Albans incident.

MAVIS
Ah yes. Well, that's in the hands of the police now, isn't it?

From this we learn that Steve isn't as nice as he'd like to think he is. And no as good as his job as he's like to think he is. And that Mavis realises this. Now where getting somewhere.

How Much Should I Write?

Previous posts and comments have thrown up yet more questions. Let's start with this one:

When should I stop rewriting my script?
In the last post, Dave Cohen sagely advised caution before sending out scripts, and urged writer to hold off sending it out until it was really and truly ready. A while ago, I made the point that this is especially true for script competitions. It is generally worth holding back until you really are sure that the script is as good as it can be - bearing in mind it can still be better and will need to be rewritten depending on casting, rehearsal and technical considerations.

And so when to stop? How do you know when it's good enough to send? You don't know. And yet you do.

If you're sending a script out 'to give a potential producer a rough idea of how the show might look', it's not ready.

If you're sending a script out 'even though the ending still doesn't quite work, but since I'll have to rewrite it anyway, I'll do it then', it's not ready.

If, when rewriting it, you're painfully aware that you're not making it any better, but just changing the words, it might be ready. Put it away. Leave it for a few days - longer if you can - and return to it. You'll see bits that aren't right straight away. Try and explain the plot simply to a spouse or long-suffering friend. If you can do that, it might be ready.

Then Dave said that maybe it's time to stop work on that and start on the next episode. Good idea. But Griff says:

There's a danger of getting to the point when you're saying to producers "I've written the first twelve episodes and a Xmas special" and they start scanning the room for exits. So I guess however many episodes you've actually written, only ever send one out and let the others be your dirty secret?

So:

Should I write more than episode?
Let's take a step back here. One script takes ages. Or at least it should. Working nine to five, five days a week, coming up with a storyline and getting it right could take a week. Maybe longer. The first draft will take a week. Maybe two. Then drafts 2 and 3 might be another week or two. That's a least a month of solid work before it's worth sending to anyone. And then do it again? On spec? Does anyone really have time to take longer than that for free? It's well worth having outlines up your sleeve for future episodes. While you wait for responses, work up two or three of those, maybe into longer scene-by-scene breakdowns. Doing this will reveal whether your show has legs, and whether the characters really are working, or will demonstrate that some of your characters are not generating interesting stories.

If you really have nothing else to do, and no children to read stories to or no hobbies to pursue, you could start to write another episode. But it's likely the first script will, if it is progressed at all, require seismic thoughts and rethinking, so a second script might not be of much use, or be better started from scratch much later.

If I were a producer and someone sent me a script with a note saying 'I've already written six episodes', my heart would sink because I'd assume that the writer thinks that writing sitcom scripts is easy, and not extremely time-consuming. The alternative is that this writer has spent months of their own time, unpaid, writing these episodes - at the exclusion of all other things and human relationships. And this would be a worry, because comedy is all about all those other things and those human relationships.

Is that harsh? Or fair? Bad advice? Do leave comments.

Where should I send my Script? Part 3

I've run a few sitcom course with the highly-experienced comedy writer Dave Cohen. We do plan to run some more in the autumn so look out for dates. But in the meantime, Dave's got some useful thoughts following up some recent posts here on the blog. And it's probably the best advice of the lot.

So here, in a sitcom geek first, is a guest post from Dave Cohen:

Hello, thanks for having me. Recently James posted two excellent pieces attempting to answer the question ‘where should I send my script’. And there were several very helpful suggestions, all of which I would broadly agree with. He did however, overlook one very important option, which is this:

Don’t send it. Hang on to it. Seriously. Okay, look me in the eye, or at least stare at the following questions on the screen and answer them honestly: is your script brilliant? Does it leap off the page? Is it absolutely stuffed full of brilliant gags? Are they made even funnier because they give us an hilarious insight into our leading character or characters’ flaws? Does the plot flow, with twists and turns that are entirely believable, and again determined by the actions of your lead character?

I’m not trying to bring you down here, I’m just being realistic. I’ve done it myself, sent out a spec script to a friendly producer, knowing deep down that there were problems with it. I’m sure I thought it was as good as I could make it, I may have even thought it was great, but I always knew there were one or two flaws that would give the producer an excuse to say ‘sorry, not this time.’

So why, you may ask with some justification, is there so much mediocre comedy on TV? The answer is that, once upon a time, the writer of that mediocre show sent out a script that was so brilliant, leapt off the page, stuffed full of gags etc etc, that the script got made, and the writer was successful. It’s never easy to get a commission, especially these days, and you have to put yourself in the producer’s shoes. If they have to choose to push one script, and it’s between your pretty good one, or the mediocre one by the person with a proven track record,they’ll usually choose the latter.

Brilliant scripts don’t happen very often. Micheal Jacob, who was for many years the BBC’s TV script editor, reckoned only a few of the thousands he read were really good. I can’t claim to have anywhere near the experience of Micheal but I’ve read hundreds of new scripts and not many have made me go ‘wow’. Depressingly, the best script I’ve ever read was about four years ago, by a successful working writer, and it still hasn’t been made.

So why don’t we write brilliant scripts? Almost invariably, the answer lies in one word: preparation. Before even a word of the script is written, there is so much groundwork required to make your show work. This is the most difficult, and most creative period in writing your show. It’s difficult because you’re starting with nothing, and you don’t know where your characters are going. The urge to start writing a script gets stronger as each day passes.

It’s a horrible dilemma. No working writer is ever 100% satisfied with the script they hand in, but the reality of a deadline concentrates the mind. Fake deadlines you set yourself are just never quite terrifying enough. But if I was allowing myself three months of spare time to create a spec script with new characters, I would expect to spend at least two thirds of that time in preparation.

When I’ve given in to that urge to start writing before having an absolutely clear sense of what the show is about, my script has not been good enough. Some people argue that it is only when you start writing the script that you begin to see where the characters are going. Very well, start writing: but make that script be part of the research you can use… when you begin writing the brilliant script.

Thanks Dave. Do leave comments below.

Writing those lines that, you know, the audience laugh at...

... what are they called, again? Oh yes. Jokes.

I like jokes. I like laughing. Out loud. I quite like smiling. And I quite the like feeling of having spotted something really subtle. But I think I like laughing the best.

I fully appreciate that some people don't like laughing. Somehow, some of them are TV critics. It's understandable to some extent. Most comedies wouldn't seem all that funny when played on a preview disc at 11am in a brightly lit lounge on a Tuesday morning. Also, some critics simply consider laughing to be beneath them. AA Gill is one, as I pointed out here. Let us remind ourselves of why he liked TV series Lead Balloon:

This series is part of a new trend of comedy shows that don't make you laugh; you just nod your head and mutter, "That's really funny." It's a Darwinian improvement on the tyranny of the set-up-gag guffaw, and I approve of it. Laughter is ugly and common.

Thanks, Mr Gill. I'll bear that in mind for all your futures reviews about comedy.

I mention all this because I'm in the throes of writing another radio series with Milton Jones who, apart from being a most delightful and kind human being, writes some of the best jokes in the English-speaking world.

The show we write for Radio 4 is called Another Case of Milton Jones which can you sample/buy here. In general, it is a show that will go anywhere or do anything for a joke. But the show has a strong narrative, as well as some regular characters, and it's far from a case of connecting up a series of Milton Jones' superb one-liners, although they are extremely useful to have in the armoury.

Writing the show is always a bit of a work-out for me. I have to be at the top of my game to keep up with Milton, joke-wise, but my main skill is seeing beyond the next joke, to the next scene, and all the way to the end, shaping the story and ensuring the whole thing makes sense, so that when the Czech Grandmaster is trapped inside a cage made of Twiglets and fed to an angry mob of penguins, we know why it's happening, and therefore why it's funny. (Confusion is the enemy of comedy)

Odd Conversations
During the course of writing the show, Milton, the producer David Tyler, and I end up having bizarre conversations about jokes, working out specifics about what colour or which animal is funniest, whether a scene should take place in Mexico or Panama, and what words should be omitted. It takes hours. We ensure that each script is given our full attention for two whole days (with the script having been broadly written and reworked before we start that process). Some days we're there for 12 hours, meaning some scripts after given 24 hours of careful attention from three of us. And then Milton has another pass at the script, filling in gaps, and deleting stuff he's only 50/50 about. In short, it takes ages. But at the same time, it's great fun because at the end of it, we've got some really funny jokes that make us laugh in the room - and we're excited about telling them to the audience so they can laugh too. This is comedy, remember.

Let us note, then, that writing comedy is hard. It's not just a question of natural ability. It's natural ability plus graft. The British love the idea of an effortless genius. It's broadly a myth. There was of course Peter Cook. But that was it. The rest of us just have to take our talents and work our guts out.

Writing Jokes
In the process of the above, however, there are a few things that crop up when trying to write or polish a joke that I pass on to the possible benefit for reading several. Three things as a starting point.

Clear a space - make sure the joke isn't being compromised by things around it. The audience are expecting jokes. Don't give them the jokes they expect. But at the same time, don't confuse them or make their life harder. Earlier, I mentioned about whether to set a scene in Mexico or Panama. In the room, we might say 'Oh, let's not do Panama. They'll be expecting a joke about a hat or a canal, and we're not doing those jokes. Can't it be Mexico?' It's all about expectation and stereotype. These can help you when they're part of the joke, but they can get in the way if the joke's about something else. Remove words in the set-up to the joke that are in themselves funny-sounding, if they're not the joke. In short, clear a space for your joke. No distractions.

Rhythm and Bounce - make sure the joke is sayable and has a natural rhythm to it, (unless of course the joke is about jarring words, or expectations). Shakespeare's so memorable and easy to say because of the iambic pentameter. He did okay. Discordant, jerky sentences tend not to work. Let us not forget some of the all time great one-liners from Blackadder eg. 'Your brain, for example, is so minute that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough in side to cover a small water-biscuit'. 'Water biscuit' much funnier than 'cracker', which is shorter, but not as nice in that spot. Also, cracker can mean other things, lik Christmas cracker, and a cracker is also a sort of joke. Delete cracker. Use water-biscuit. Think about rhythm and flow. Say it out loud. If you can't say your line, why should the actor be expected to?

Zing and Sting - make sure the funny bit is at the end, so it zings. Sounds silly, but I watch plenty of comedy where the funny bit is drowning in a soup of words around it. The funny line, the punchline, the pay-off, should come last, so the audience can then laugh. They won't laugh if you're still talking. They're very polite. They'll wait 'til you've finished, by which time the laughter will have dissippated. This is the bit our American friends are really good at. (I always say that 'American English is the natural language of sit-com' Discuss)

Also, make sure it is actually a joke. Some lines feel like jokes, because of their shape, clarity and rhythm, but, on inspection, there's nothing there. It's an ersatz-joke. It's just someone talking. It may get a laugh, but it doesn't help you. Cut it. Or turn it into a joke. Or use it as a set-up to a new joke.

Some would say all of the above is against the principles of 'naturalism' that you get in comedy now. Shaky cameras and people mumbling, stopping and starting. It's quite fashionable at the moment. But that kind of comedy hides the fact that when that stuff is done well, you don't notice that jokes are clear and the lines are sayable. You're thinking 'people don't talk like this in real life' because it's all flowing well and you're too busy enjoying it.

All of the above takes time, especially if you do it on every line in every scene. But that's okay. You're a writer. It's what you do. And always remember - it beats real work.

Where should I send my Script? Part 2

Given the enormous interest in the last post (largely thanks to a RT by Mr Linehan), I thought it might be worth following up some specifcs questions that arose.

The producer works for a company that says it doesn’t accept unsolicited scripts. Should I send it anyway?
It’s up to you. If you do, it would be unreasonable of you to pester them with phonecalls and emails subsequently for feedback. I would says there’s no harm in sending it. But, given their pre-stated policy, don’t expect anything back. Personally, saying you don’t accept scripts is a bizarre policy for a comedy company to have, given that scripts are where the jokes/money come from. But given there are tens of thousands of sitcom scripts floating around the UK at the moment, and thousands more generated every year, you have to draw the line somewhere. (Also, as someone has helpfully commented, send the script to a particular person, not a company.)

Should I send my script to agents?
Yes. You can. You probably should – especially if you feel you’re running out of options. But my experience is that agents tend not to get involved if you don’t have ‘stuff going on’. Many are good-hearted and want to encourage new writers, but they have to make a living like the rest of us. But agents are, by no means, a magic wand. Their good allies, and not bored by contracts and money, but tend not to get you sitcom work. (Some get you day-rate gag-writing work, but that's an area I'm not all that familiar with.)

Isn’t it all about relationships with producers?
Yes it is. One or two tweeted that they thought that writing sketches for shows was the way in – and this is the tried and tested formula. The likes of John Sullivan, Richard Curtis, David Renwick and Andy Hamilton to name a few started this way. In one sense, a sitcom is a series of sketches, so getting the craft of economic funny writing is probably the best foundation you can have. And through it, you develop relationships with producers, with whom you can develop longer narrative scripts. But many writers have had other routes into sitcom. I believe Simon Nye wrote a novel that he was persuaded to turn into a sitcom, and he happened to be brilliant at writing sitcom. Lee Mack has come through live performance. But sketch comedy is the best way for most, I think.

Should I send an electronic or hard copy?
I’d say hard copy. My reasoning is thinking about it from their point of view (or mine!) If I get an email, I have to print it out myself at my expense. And then put it down somewhere where I’ll remember to read it. Most likely, I'll fail to print it out, and then the email disappears off the bottom of my list, and it’s all forgotten. (I’ve forgotten to read plenty of scripts this way from people whom I know personally and like (Sorry)).

I shouldn’t bother asking where you can send them a script first out of politeness. It’s just more admin. If a script is already printed out and sitting on a table, it might get picked up and read very quickly. Especially if the first few pages are actually proper funny – which is rare. And if it ain’t funny, it goes in the bin and their day continues. We’ve all had scripts thrown in the bin. The solution is to send it someone else, or write another one.

Is it worth sending to producers as well as BBC Writersroom?
Yes. I know one of their readers very well and he knows stuff and can spot funny. You can send it to BBC Producers too – one or two – but try the Writersoom. They are mandated and paid to find new talent and encourage it. That might well involve you.

Should I send a pilot ‘set-up’ episode or a typical episode?
Send a funny episode. The debate about whether to write Ep 1 as a set-up or whether to do it in the first five minutes and then move on, or just write a typical episode is not something to worry about at this stage. Really and truly. When you are sending a script to a producer, you are primarily showing what you can do with a half-hour script. The odds of the script being turned into actually TV are truly tiny. There are so many hoops to jump through first. A script is a calling card – in the hope of developing a relationship with a producer. They get sent hundreds of pilot episodes, and plenty of typical episodes – but they don’t get sent many funny, fresh, original versions of either. It really is all about the funny at this stage. The cold-hearted planning of how you can take over the world with your sitcom comes later.

Could I send a script to you, Sitcomgeek?
I’d rather you didn’t. Sorry. I do get asked now and then. Reading a script properly – as I would like my script to be read – takes half an hour. Then you have to read it again. Think about it. And then write something useful. That’s probably a 3-4 hour job. No offence, if I’m giving away my time for free, I’d rather give it my three-year old daughter (whom I only invoice occasionally) There are script reading services available at relatively low cost. You could try the excellent and experienced writer Dave Cohen, or the delightful Hayley McKenzie.

I’m not getting anywhere at all. What should I do?
Write something else. If you’re a writer, you’ll like writing for it’s own sake – and that is the thing that gives you pleasure. But given the lack of manufacturing and an increasingly graduate population, an awful lot of people want to be writers. It’s hard work out there, and it can be slim pickings at times. And if you’re pitching a sitcom to BBC2, you’re competing with Paul Whitehouse, Steve Moffat and Ricky Gervais. You’re in with the big boys. Quit whining, and turn that into something funny. (I hasten to add I regularly ignore my own advice and whine with the best of them.)

Please feel free to ask other general questions about sitcom, industrial or scriptorial – maybe on the comments below or via twitter – and I’ll try and get to them via the blog over the coming weeks.

Where should I send my Script?

This is a question I get asked a lot. You can send it in to script competitions. No harm in that. (I write about that here) You can send it nebulous corporations who have a public service remit and will genuinely read it eventually. Better than leaving it in a drawer. I shouldn't bother sending it to an agent (unless it's a movie script or novel).

But for sitcom, I give the same answer every time. Send it to a producer who makes programmes you like - and whom you think will 'get' what you're trying to do. Print it out, put it in an envelope, spell their name correctly, write a polite covering letter that doesn't make you look like a nutjob, a stalker or a precocious 12-year-old (even if you are, hide this fact). Then wait.

If it's really good, they'll call you. Really and truly. Most scripts aren't any good, including those written by experienced professionals. So if you've written something that isn't even broadcastable, but shows promise and talent, they'll call, email and contact you somehow eventually.

Bear in mind they have work do, a job in hand and it doesn't really involve you - but they need shows to produce, and every time they open and envelope, they fear the worst, but hope for the best.

If you don't hear back ever, and you've sent it three different producers, maybe, just maybe, the script isn't as good as you thought it was. In which case, do what all decent writers do: do it again. Rewrite, edit, change, delete, type, scream, delete, type, read, simmer, pause, read again, edit then send. If you're not prepared for any of the above, may I recommend another job?

Any producers on the receiving end, please feel free to confirm or deny any of the above, but that's my experience and recommendation.

Rookie Errors No. 231 - Bagginess

I learnt a lot about writing sitcom for television on the fondly-remembered, critically-disliked sitcom, My Hero. I wrote six episodes in all, over three series. And this was done under the tutelage of some wonderful, kind and patient men who had made an awful lot of comedy between them ranging from May to December, through Game On to Vicar of Dibley and Alexei Sayle's Stuff.

Each draft of each script was read by the producer, exec producer, director, script editor and show creator. All these notes and thoughts were collated, interpreted and fed back by the producer, Jamie Rix, as truly delightful a human being as you could hope to meet.

The Baggy Draft
I remember one time I was having trouble with a draft of a script - so I sent in a draft that was very baggy indeed. Scripts for half an hour of telly are normally about 6000 words for me. Ideally a shade under. If you're playing around and have the luxury of time, a slightly longer script of 6500 is okay. (For radio, I tend to write slightly long, knowing that there isn't time to rewrite on the day, but there is time to make cuts, even before the recording itself). Let's cut to the chase. This draft of My Hero was c. 9000 words, and I sent it in.

My reasoning was simple. There were lots of options on the script. Lots of ways to go. A number of possible funny routines. And ultimately, I didn't know what I was doing. And they did. So I was turning it over to them to decide where the funny was. In way, I was being humble and unpretentious.

They were perfectly nice - but profoundly unimpressed. And immediately I realised what an idiot I had been. It was never said out loud, but could and should have been pointed out, that I was being paid good money to write a script and decide where the funny was, what the story was and 'which way to go'. They suggested that I wasn't clear on what the story was and exactly what this episode was about. And they were right. I had no idea. And I'd abdicated my responsibility to write the darned show. I wasn't being humble and unpretentious. I was being lazy and spineless. And therefore unprofessional.

The iciness in the room thawed. They were gentle with me. More so than I deserved. But the moment stayed with me.

With My Other Hat
And now I experience this bagginess from the other side. Not often. But sometimes. I get sent things that are way overlength for the show I'm script-editing - either a sketch or script or whatever - with an accompanying email saying 'I wasn't really sure what worked best, so I put it all in so you can decide'. Whenever I read that email, my heart sinks.

The first reason it sinks is I recall my own shame of doing this. And how it demonstrated my inexperience and laziness. I'm not saying that's why all people do this, it's sometimes just sheer lack of confidence and a desire to 'show your working' - and is essentially a quest for approval.

It also makes my heart sink because I realise that this is going to be noticeably more work for me. I'm going to have to read a longer draft - twice - think about it for longer, feedback on more script, and ultimately think about 'which way to go' which takes up time and brainspace. Then the rotten part of my heart kicks in and I think 'Hey, I'm not being paid to this. The writer should decide which way to go' and then the good part of heart feels bad, but ultimately agrees. And I'm tired, cross and feeling guilty. Maybe other script editors are more patient, magnanimous and understanding. But that's usually my reaction.

I'd rather read a tight script where the wrong choice has been made, and it's been seen through and slaved over, than a baggy script where every choice and no choice has been made - and I'm effectively reading a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book.

So, my advice is don't turn in hopelessly long drafts. Decide. Work out what the episode/sketch is about and stick to it. If it isn't working, fix it. If it still isn't working, talk to your script editor/producer in advance and ask for help before the deadline. This means - hey - not leaving it all to the last minute.

But don't, please, send in overlong drafts. (Unless you're a successful novelist, obviously because they you have carte blanche to write an 800 page children's book.)

PS. Sorry this post is longer than usual. I couldn't decide whether to include the My Hero anecdote at the top or not, so I left it in. But you can skip over it if it's boring. Or just read bits. (Annoying, isn't it?)