I was listening to the UK Scriptwriters' Podcast the other day and was interested in their discussion about agents. It was very interesting and I recommend downloading it and having a listen. I realised this is something I'd never mentioned on this blog before. So, briefly, here are a few thoughts on agents with sitcom specifically in mind.
How I Got An Agent
Firstly, I got an agent via a very odd route. I was a temp at the agency, filling in for someone and typing letters. I was writing bits and pieces for radio shows and a bit of TV (Smack the Pony and Rory Bremner) and had, unwittingly, built up a CV that was interesting to an agent. When they asked if I, as a writer, wanted representation, I was genuinely surprised and agreed pretty much on the spot.
The reason I was so happy to get an agent was not primarily because it made me look and feel like a proper writer (although it did), but because I hate talking about money and asking for more of it. I am quite capable of getting angry about not being paid properly (see here) but when confronted with the issue face-to-face, I immediately say everything's fine and that I don't really need the money right now. I'll say anything to make that conversation end.
Having an agent was brilliant because I had someone on my side who would ask for more money, chase it up and pore over contracts - and understand them. An agent, then, is a wonderful ally in a lonely business; someone who is looking out for your interests. And I've stuck with the same agent for my whole career as I like being represented by her - and I like the way she operates on my behalf. Sometimes people can use their agents to be unpleasant and unreasonable so that they themselves don't have to be, hiding behind them to get more money in a rather nasty way. I'm not into that at all - and want my agent to be my genuine representative in discussions about money, rights and conditions.
Why do you want an agent?
For those trying to break into the industry, it's worth asking yourself why you want an agent. I understand that it's very hard to get a novel published without an agent. Publishers, it seems, now use agents to sift manuscripts and do not take unsolicited work. I couldn't comment on movies and drama.
But sitcom and comedy generally doesn't work like that. Agents are not the key to getting work or getting noticed. If you want to break into the industry, there are plenty of routes. Write for open-door shows on Radio 4 (eg Newsjack) or television. Send sketches to producers who make sketch shows. Put on comedy shows, make them good and then put them on in Edinburgh, and try and get them noticed. Write a really good sitcom script - and keep rewriting it until you're really happy with it, and then send it to producer who makes programmes you like. If the production company says they don't accept unsolicited scripts, I would ignore that. But don't plague them with calls either. In short, write funny and show it to people.
You'll notice an agent doesn't feature in any of the above. And the fact is that if you're a really good comedy writer, it is only a matter of time before you will succeed. Good sitcom scripts are rare. If you write a good one, you will get meetings and some interest, although it make take ages to come anything. When it does, an agent will be a great help, in terms of taking care of money and contracts. They will also be much easier to get by that stage. They may also be able to set up introductions to new producers or contacts. But pinning your hopes on getting an agent as the 'way in' is misguided when it comes to writing comedy for TV and radio.
Finding You Work
Some agents get their writers short-term jobs on panel games and entertainment shows - mine doesn't, but then I've never asked her to because I'm hopeless at that sort of comedy writing. I'm a narrative guy. And my agent understands that and is always on the look-out for opportunities in that area. And that's what an agent will do for you - help you. But they don't make or break you. You and your jokes will do that.
That's my take on agents. I'd be very interested to hear the views of others.
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Scripts are Like a Flowing River
The other day, without thinking, I described the script of a show to a producer as being like a flowing river. I’m not ensure what – or who – possessed me to say such a pompous thing, but I’ve been thinking about what I meant ever since. (That’s pretty much my modus operandi – speak first, ask questions later). But I think I meant that a script is a moving, flowing thing.
The Block of Ice
A script is not a big impenetrable block of ice, or glacier, that cannot be altered or change. This is an easy trap to fall into . When you lock yourself away to finally write that darned script, you can emerge some days or weeks later, squinting in the natural light, clutching something that is, in your considered, unbiased opinion ‘perfect’.
It isn’t.
Even Hemingway said ‘the first draft of anything is shit’. Hemingway said that. Not a hack writer who cranked out prose by the yard. Hemingway. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1954. First drafts are shit.
This is a really important lesson to learn. Your first draft isn’t very good. Yours and mine. With experience, your first drafts tend to get incrementally better. I like to think my first draft now, having been writing professionally for twelve-ish years, is equivalent to a second draft ten years ago. No great achievement as my second drafts ten years were also atrocious.
But one can be seduced by this improvement. Writers do tend to get better and better as they get older (especially novelists). The trick is to do just as many drafts as you did when you were starting out, but this way, you end up with better drafts all the way along the long – and the quality of your work improves.
Sometimes you read or watch the work of a highly successful pro and you wonder whether they felt their first draft was already pretty good and therefore the script didn’t get the love and attention it needed. This can easily happen when writers become executive producers of their own show, or become very powerful. Lines are left unedited. Gaps that need jokes go unfilled. Sequels are very very long and baggy. The quality declines, even though the writer is better and more experienced than they were twenty years earlier.
So, a script is not a block of ice. It has to be pulled around, to ebb and flow at its own pace and find its way from the source to the ocean.
The immaculate script you produced in dimly lit isolation often doesn't seem so clever in the cold light of day. After a little while, plot inconsistencies come to the surface, motives seem muddle, and the set-pieces aren’t as funny as you remember – and turn out to have been done by David Croft thirty years ago, better.
Recently, I’ve just burned through four drafts of a script in less than a month. I thought draft 1 was very clever. But it wasn’t really. It was a perfectably respectable start to the process – like an undercoat on the wall before the proper paint goes on – but it only got good on Draft 3. But if the script is produced (it's just a pilot script for now), I’m sure the script will change significantly several times – once after its been cast and we work out where the jokes really are, then again during rehearsal, followed by tweaks, nips and tucks all the way through shooting, one or two of which might quite big difference to the story, plot or tone.
The Splurging Spray
Given that the script never seems to be finished, the writer can make a different mistake, in which they have no real confidence in any draft at all, starting with the first. Maybe they lock themselves away and produce that draft, but rather than clutching it with ill-advised certainty, they toss it to the producer with a shrug, saying ‘the show should be this sort of thing’. If the script is written with this approach, the temptation is to see the first draft as a splurging spray, some of which may hit the target, but most of which will not. This is a bad way of writing.
Given that most writers are highly strung and care passionately about every single word on the page, this is a less common problem, but it can happen. The first draft is written quickly, or in fits and starts, and then offered around with excuses like ‘I can’t make the ending work, but the beginning’s not right either, so when that’s fixed, I’ll do a new ending’. The obvious – and correct – response to this is ‘So fix the beginning, then the ending and show that to me when you’re done’.
I have mentioned this before – here. It can come about in those starting out because of lack of confidence, when ultimately the writer needs to just ‘man up’ and write what they think is funny to the best of their ability. But it can happen in more seasoned professionals too. All the lines are essentially placeholders, because the real lines, real jokes, real script will emerge in further drafts – and rehearsal. This approach is a high risk strategy, and is either cowardly, hubristic or lazy. The draft you are writing now is the most important draft. And if has to be perfect. And then you'll have to do it again.
Herein lies the dilemma of the writer – to write as if the first draft is the final one, firm in the knowledge that it will probably change beyond recognition, except, in my experience, it is surprising how much of the first draft survives. The first formation or phrasing of a joke you think of is often the best. Little routines sometimes tumble out right first time. Some set-pieces and exchanges can sail through untouched. But then other parts of the script (usually the beginning and the end) are sweated over and endless rewritten. It can be hard, gruelling, exhausting work. But it’s not done down a coal-mine or slum. It’s usually done with a Macbook, Spotify and some hot coffee, so it’s really not that bad.
The script is, ultimately, a flowing river. It can change course with some effort if need be. Changes cause ripples and waves, but it can cope with them. The script is not a babbling brook that easily changes course, or a spray that mostly misses the target. Nor a block of ice that can only be chipped at. Or cracked and broken.
By the way, Jason Arnopp has written a lovely blog post here about the freedom of Draft Zero. I've often done Drafts Zeros and can testify that they are a Good Thing.
The Block of Ice
A script is not a big impenetrable block of ice, or glacier, that cannot be altered or change. This is an easy trap to fall into . When you lock yourself away to finally write that darned script, you can emerge some days or weeks later, squinting in the natural light, clutching something that is, in your considered, unbiased opinion ‘perfect’.
It isn’t.
Even Hemingway said ‘the first draft of anything is shit’. Hemingway said that. Not a hack writer who cranked out prose by the yard. Hemingway. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1954. First drafts are shit.
This is a really important lesson to learn. Your first draft isn’t very good. Yours and mine. With experience, your first drafts tend to get incrementally better. I like to think my first draft now, having been writing professionally for twelve-ish years, is equivalent to a second draft ten years ago. No great achievement as my second drafts ten years were also atrocious.
But one can be seduced by this improvement. Writers do tend to get better and better as they get older (especially novelists). The trick is to do just as many drafts as you did when you were starting out, but this way, you end up with better drafts all the way along the long – and the quality of your work improves.
Sometimes you read or watch the work of a highly successful pro and you wonder whether they felt their first draft was already pretty good and therefore the script didn’t get the love and attention it needed. This can easily happen when writers become executive producers of their own show, or become very powerful. Lines are left unedited. Gaps that need jokes go unfilled. Sequels are very very long and baggy. The quality declines, even though the writer is better and more experienced than they were twenty years earlier.
So, a script is not a block of ice. It has to be pulled around, to ebb and flow at its own pace and find its way from the source to the ocean.
The immaculate script you produced in dimly lit isolation often doesn't seem so clever in the cold light of day. After a little while, plot inconsistencies come to the surface, motives seem muddle, and the set-pieces aren’t as funny as you remember – and turn out to have been done by David Croft thirty years ago, better.
Recently, I’ve just burned through four drafts of a script in less than a month. I thought draft 1 was very clever. But it wasn’t really. It was a perfectably respectable start to the process – like an undercoat on the wall before the proper paint goes on – but it only got good on Draft 3. But if the script is produced (it's just a pilot script for now), I’m sure the script will change significantly several times – once after its been cast and we work out where the jokes really are, then again during rehearsal, followed by tweaks, nips and tucks all the way through shooting, one or two of which might quite big difference to the story, plot or tone.
The Splurging Spray
Given that the script never seems to be finished, the writer can make a different mistake, in which they have no real confidence in any draft at all, starting with the first. Maybe they lock themselves away and produce that draft, but rather than clutching it with ill-advised certainty, they toss it to the producer with a shrug, saying ‘the show should be this sort of thing’. If the script is written with this approach, the temptation is to see the first draft as a splurging spray, some of which may hit the target, but most of which will not. This is a bad way of writing.
Given that most writers are highly strung and care passionately about every single word on the page, this is a less common problem, but it can happen. The first draft is written quickly, or in fits and starts, and then offered around with excuses like ‘I can’t make the ending work, but the beginning’s not right either, so when that’s fixed, I’ll do a new ending’. The obvious – and correct – response to this is ‘So fix the beginning, then the ending and show that to me when you’re done’.
I have mentioned this before – here. It can come about in those starting out because of lack of confidence, when ultimately the writer needs to just ‘man up’ and write what they think is funny to the best of their ability. But it can happen in more seasoned professionals too. All the lines are essentially placeholders, because the real lines, real jokes, real script will emerge in further drafts – and rehearsal. This approach is a high risk strategy, and is either cowardly, hubristic or lazy. The draft you are writing now is the most important draft. And if has to be perfect. And then you'll have to do it again.
Herein lies the dilemma of the writer – to write as if the first draft is the final one, firm in the knowledge that it will probably change beyond recognition, except, in my experience, it is surprising how much of the first draft survives. The first formation or phrasing of a joke you think of is often the best. Little routines sometimes tumble out right first time. Some set-pieces and exchanges can sail through untouched. But then other parts of the script (usually the beginning and the end) are sweated over and endless rewritten. It can be hard, gruelling, exhausting work. But it’s not done down a coal-mine or slum. It’s usually done with a Macbook, Spotify and some hot coffee, so it’s really not that bad.
The script is, ultimately, a flowing river. It can change course with some effort if need be. Changes cause ripples and waves, but it can cope with them. The script is not a babbling brook that easily changes course, or a spray that mostly misses the target. Nor a block of ice that can only be chipped at. Or cracked and broken.
By the way, Jason Arnopp has written a lovely blog post here about the freedom of Draft Zero. I've often done Drafts Zeros and can testify that they are a Good Thing.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Stand Up and Deliver by Andy Kind
Let's be honest. There aren't all that many books out there about comedy - certainly not British comedy. So when one comes along, it's always worth a look. Andy Kind has written a nice one called 'Stand Up and Deliver'. Not a blindingly original title, I guess, but it does the job. It's about his first year doing stand-up comedy and appears to be a brutally honest account of that year, the euphoric highs, and the chronic lows.Again, let's keep it transparent. I know Andy a bit, although I've never seen him do stand-up. But here's the thing. I read the book and it made me laugh. Out loud. Quite often. This is a good thing, and therefore a good book. The book isn't a Stewart-Lee-style skewering of the comedy industry and the huge flaws within the stand-up circuit, new act nights and all that stuff. Andy deals with all these things in a very jokey way, with loads of gags thrown in. Like all these things, some hit, some miss. But the hit rate is pretty high. It made me think Andy could cut it in a writers room, gagging up scripts and throwing ideas in. Maybe he's more suited to that than stand-up. But not having seen his stand-up, I couldn't say.
The only other thing that me be bothersome for some is that Andy is a Christian, and is honest about that in his book. The book's publisher is a Christian company. None of this concerned me as I'm a fellow God-botherer. To leave it out, though, would be less than honest of him, and the book is nothing if not honest.
Overall, the book is well-worth a look, especially if you're dabbling in stand-up or live comedy performance. You can get hold of it and read other reviews over here.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Everything Happens for A Reason
The last forty hours haven't been good for me. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Really. But like my escapade to B&Q last week, I find myself being constantly blown off-course and distracted by the tedious minutiae of life.
The long and the short of it is that my wife has tonsilitis and has been, to use a cricket metaphor, knocked for six. Looking after her is the easy bit. I have two girls, aged 3 and 1, who need looking after and that's been the main task in hand for the last couple of days. It's been fun. Kind of. When I haven't been thinking about all the work I haven't been doing, and the scripts that haven't been started and the other scripts that haven't been finished.
This simply means that in the evening I put the kids to bed. Have dinner. Put my wife to bed. And then work. Except last night I had to attend a PCC meeting because, as I have said before, I'm a church warden. Meetings must be held. Fetes must be planned. Pews must be arranged to be fixed. And so forth.
The Dishwasher. Yes, really.
So last night saw me frustrated, tired and about to start work at 11pm when the dishwasher started winking at me. With a light I've never seen before. And a fault called F11 flashing on the screen. Something was wrong with it.
Let us pass over a number of observations here - and potential for sitcom storylines and scenes. At first, I couldn't find the manual. Had no idea where we kept manuals. Guessed right fairly quickly. Found a bunch of manuals for all manner of appliances past and present, and turned the right page and got to work. Let us pass over the fact that my heart sunk at mere sight of the instructions, which were optimistically written. Let us briefly note that, despite comedy stereotypes and my expectations, the instructions were right to be optimistic. I followed them. Washed out various components. Refitted them. Didn't get wet. Pressed the button to restart the programme. And it worked. Hey presto. Call me Dwayne the Drain. I have troubleshot the problem.
Here's what I thought as I saw the dishwasher was faulty. I thought "For this to work in a sitcom, the malfunction of that dishwasher has to have been my fault". I needed to have ignored the careful instructions of my wife, or tried to fit too much in, or gallantly tried to fix the washing machine next to it despite the protestations of a housemate. In real life, things just break for no reason. But they don't half way through a sitcom. I am the protagonist in my life. If there's a problem that gets in the way and needs fixing - and it's not another person - it should be my fault, or at least another character's fault.
I was watching Downton Abbey on Sunday night and noting how carefully plotted it was - and that every single thing was done for a reason. Nothing just happened. Even more masterful is Modern Family in which a dozen characters move in and out of each other's lives and nothing simply happens or goes wrong that isn't the result of one character doing something in character.
Why is now the worst time for this to happen?
Sometimes, when I'm bashing storylines with people, one of the questions I ask is 'Why is now the worst possible time for this thing to happen?' So let's say our hero has had a run-in with a dry cleaner and his suit is ruined. Why is now the worst possible time for that to have happened? He has to go to a wedding. Great. Escalation. Our character has a quest. But whose wedding? Why are they getting married now? Why does he have to wear that suit? Why couldn't he get it cleaned earlier? Or somewhere else? Why does he have problems getting another one? And crucially - how has our protagonist brought this on himself? The wrecking of the suit somehow needs to be the fault of the protagonist. Or a lead character.
I'm tired. It's late. I have to work. The dishwasher is now broken. Why? What did I do wrong? In real life, things just break. Not in sitcom - where everything happens for a reason.
The long and the short of it is that my wife has tonsilitis and has been, to use a cricket metaphor, knocked for six. Looking after her is the easy bit. I have two girls, aged 3 and 1, who need looking after and that's been the main task in hand for the last couple of days. It's been fun. Kind of. When I haven't been thinking about all the work I haven't been doing, and the scripts that haven't been started and the other scripts that haven't been finished.
This simply means that in the evening I put the kids to bed. Have dinner. Put my wife to bed. And then work. Except last night I had to attend a PCC meeting because, as I have said before, I'm a church warden. Meetings must be held. Fetes must be planned. Pews must be arranged to be fixed. And so forth.
The Dishwasher. Yes, really.
So last night saw me frustrated, tired and about to start work at 11pm when the dishwasher started winking at me. With a light I've never seen before. And a fault called F11 flashing on the screen. Something was wrong with it.
Let us pass over a number of observations here - and potential for sitcom storylines and scenes. At first, I couldn't find the manual. Had no idea where we kept manuals. Guessed right fairly quickly. Found a bunch of manuals for all manner of appliances past and present, and turned the right page and got to work. Let us pass over the fact that my heart sunk at mere sight of the instructions, which were optimistically written. Let us briefly note that, despite comedy stereotypes and my expectations, the instructions were right to be optimistic. I followed them. Washed out various components. Refitted them. Didn't get wet. Pressed the button to restart the programme. And it worked. Hey presto. Call me Dwayne the Drain. I have troubleshot the problem.
Here's what I thought as I saw the dishwasher was faulty. I thought "For this to work in a sitcom, the malfunction of that dishwasher has to have been my fault". I needed to have ignored the careful instructions of my wife, or tried to fit too much in, or gallantly tried to fix the washing machine next to it despite the protestations of a housemate. In real life, things just break for no reason. But they don't half way through a sitcom. I am the protagonist in my life. If there's a problem that gets in the way and needs fixing - and it's not another person - it should be my fault, or at least another character's fault.
I was watching Downton Abbey on Sunday night and noting how carefully plotted it was - and that every single thing was done for a reason. Nothing just happened. Even more masterful is Modern Family in which a dozen characters move in and out of each other's lives and nothing simply happens or goes wrong that isn't the result of one character doing something in character.
Why is now the worst time for this to happen?
Sometimes, when I'm bashing storylines with people, one of the questions I ask is 'Why is now the worst possible time for this thing to happen?' So let's say our hero has had a run-in with a dry cleaner and his suit is ruined. Why is now the worst possible time for that to have happened? He has to go to a wedding. Great. Escalation. Our character has a quest. But whose wedding? Why are they getting married now? Why does he have to wear that suit? Why couldn't he get it cleaned earlier? Or somewhere else? Why does he have problems getting another one? And crucially - how has our protagonist brought this on himself? The wrecking of the suit somehow needs to be the fault of the protagonist. Or a lead character.
I'm tired. It's late. I have to work. The dishwasher is now broken. Why? What did I do wrong? In real life, things just break. Not in sitcom - where everything happens for a reason.
Monday, 19 September 2011
The Value of Comedy Courses
So let's deal with the money issue head on: I'm British - and therefore unable to discuss money without acute embarrassment. I'm a writer - and therefore find money an irritating necessity. I'm a human being - and therefore intrinsically greedy. I have kids - and therefore I can justify any paid act as being for their benefit. And I'm a farmer's son - which means I'm frankly lucky to be paid to do anything at all which doesn't involve shovelling cowpats off the diary yard.
Interest Declared. Now Moving On...
With all that in mind, I'm running a comedy writing course with Dave Cohen (Have I got News for You?; Horrible Histories and much more besides), like I did earlier this year. It costs some monies. The first one, on 4th Nov, is about writing Comedy for Radio, which is something I have a fair amount of experience of, having written stuff like Think the Unthinkable, Hut 33, co-written Another Case of Milton Jones and Miranda and script-edited Recorded for Training Purposes. The second one, on 11th Nov, is specifically about sitcom, primarily for television, which, again, I have some experience of (Miranda, My Family, My Hero and those radio sitcoms - as well as a bunch of stuff in development). More details about the course, bookings and Dave Cohen here.
Hang On, A Minute...
A few blogs ago, I questioned the value of writing courses. I was referring mainly to year-long, academic, university-type courses that take ages to teach you everything. I stand-by my statements, not just because I'm proud and pig-headed. I really do think writing is best learnt through, well, reading, writing, rewriting, failing, rewriting, listening, improving and, most of all, living a life that gives you stuff to write about, so that it has that essential honestly and truthfulness about it, even if the entire thing is invented.
Just One Day?
So if year-long courses are to be avoided, what can be achieved in a day or two? Quite a lot. Most of all, it's the compressed downloading of lots of experience, hints, tips and ideas. One or two key bits of advice could make a massive difference and save you days, if not weeks or work that was either unnecessary or needed to be undone. There's no cast-iron secret formula to sitcom we can let you in on. There kind of is. I sort of wrote one here that obviously isn't so secret. And then I slightly unpicked that article here. But talking these things through for a few hours can be really stimulating, useful and lots of fun. (Well, 'fun' to the likes of you and me who want to hear writers and directors talk over DVDs with the commentaries. Most normal people don't want to analyse comedy for hours on end.)
Well, there it is. Bunk off work and join us for the day for some really practical tips about writing comedy and sitcom, as well as some useful industry info - and who knows you might be a Galton and meet a Simpson who's as serious about writing comedy as you.
And what venue could be more fitting and comedic than London's hottest canal museum?
Interest Declared. Now Moving On...
With all that in mind, I'm running a comedy writing course with Dave Cohen (Have I got News for You?; Horrible Histories and much more besides), like I did earlier this year. It costs some monies. The first one, on 4th Nov, is about writing Comedy for Radio, which is something I have a fair amount of experience of, having written stuff like Think the Unthinkable, Hut 33, co-written Another Case of Milton Jones and Miranda and script-edited Recorded for Training Purposes. The second one, on 11th Nov, is specifically about sitcom, primarily for television, which, again, I have some experience of (Miranda, My Family, My Hero and those radio sitcoms - as well as a bunch of stuff in development). More details about the course, bookings and Dave Cohen here.
Hang On, A Minute...
A few blogs ago, I questioned the value of writing courses. I was referring mainly to year-long, academic, university-type courses that take ages to teach you everything. I stand-by my statements, not just because I'm proud and pig-headed. I really do think writing is best learnt through, well, reading, writing, rewriting, failing, rewriting, listening, improving and, most of all, living a life that gives you stuff to write about, so that it has that essential honestly and truthfulness about it, even if the entire thing is invented.
Just One Day?
So if year-long courses are to be avoided, what can be achieved in a day or two? Quite a lot. Most of all, it's the compressed downloading of lots of experience, hints, tips and ideas. One or two key bits of advice could make a massive difference and save you days, if not weeks or work that was either unnecessary or needed to be undone. There's no cast-iron secret formula to sitcom we can let you in on. There kind of is. I sort of wrote one here that obviously isn't so secret. And then I slightly unpicked that article here. But talking these things through for a few hours can be really stimulating, useful and lots of fun. (Well, 'fun' to the likes of you and me who want to hear writers and directors talk over DVDs with the commentaries. Most normal people don't want to analyse comedy for hours on end.)
Well, there it is. Bunk off work and join us for the day for some really practical tips about writing comedy and sitcom, as well as some useful industry info - and who knows you might be a Galton and meet a Simpson who's as serious about writing comedy as you.
And what venue could be more fitting and comedic than London's hottest canal museum?
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
It's all good, really
Today was a rotten day. I woke up feeling groggy and slightly flu-ey and generally under the weather. I felt up to some clerical work and emails just after lunch. A project I've been trying to get through a well-known broadcasting corporation has been delayed again. (other broadcasters are avaialable. At least I hope so).
Then the real fun began. I tried to arrange for a faulty dishwasher at my church hall to be fixed - for I am Church Warden (seriously) and this sort of holy order falls to me.
The dishwasher has a problem closing but is still under warranty, or so I thought. I checked the website of the vendor, by the name of B&Q. I don't know what that stands for. I'm so tired and bored, I can't even think a joke for that (two adjectives beginning in B&Q. Leave comments.) Clearly the idea that one of their products might malfunction is alien to them since there's no information on their website. I phoned a well-hidden number. Ring ring ring ring. Eventually a battery of questions - and then a suggestion I ring the branch where the thing was bought. I didn't buy the dishwasher as it happens. It was bought by the previous church warden. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring...
I got in the car, realise I was nearly out of fuel, stalled the car, briefly panicked that I'd run out of fuel in a diesel car, which is a real nusiance. Then got going again, refuelled and went down to B&Q in delightful Wandsworth.
And this was where creatively the lousy day was almost redeemed. I walked into B&Q and wondered around looking for someone who could help me - for ages. At one point, it felt like the only member of staff there was the security guard trying to prevent £1m+ worth of good from being stolen. In my foul and furious state, I reckon I could have taken in him on. But that would have made me a common looter (well, a middle-class looter, but a looter nonetheless).
Eventually I spoke to a member of staff, who guided me to a desk where someone was unable to help, who took me to his boss, who asked me questions I simply couldn't understand, who then got the duty store manager, who ultimately said he couldn't help. He explained that the dishwasher was used in a commercial setting (apparently churches are commercial, which is news to me, given the state of our accounts). This meant Indesit wouldn't fix it. That was that. I said that the buyer said at the time that it was for church use. He asked if I had proof. I had none.
I walked away, furious and before I said anything that would bring the church into disrepute. Driving home I realised I had proof - all the delivery notes were addressed to the church. I couldn't go back. I was broken. Finished. But I realised that if I hadn't been so tired and angry, the situation I had been in had comic potential. The eerie lack of staff, the chronic indifference to my plight and the kafka-esque levels of service. All funny now you look at it.
And that is why I mention this mildly dull anecdote. Not because it's especially funny, but because it's an interesting starting point for a storyline. Or a sketch. Or a scene. Or a moment. Back in April, I wrote this about changing the battery on a burglar alarm. This one will go on the list too. It's logged in the memory. That's because sitcom writing isn't just about imagining situations - but experiencing them first hand. And then turning them up to 11 on the screen.
Plus it gave me something to write about on this blog. It's all good, really.
Then the real fun began. I tried to arrange for a faulty dishwasher at my church hall to be fixed - for I am Church Warden (seriously) and this sort of holy order falls to me.
The dishwasher has a problem closing but is still under warranty, or so I thought. I checked the website of the vendor, by the name of B&Q. I don't know what that stands for. I'm so tired and bored, I can't even think a joke for that (two adjectives beginning in B&Q. Leave comments.) Clearly the idea that one of their products might malfunction is alien to them since there's no information on their website. I phoned a well-hidden number. Ring ring ring ring. Eventually a battery of questions - and then a suggestion I ring the branch where the thing was bought. I didn't buy the dishwasher as it happens. It was bought by the previous church warden. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring...
I got in the car, realise I was nearly out of fuel, stalled the car, briefly panicked that I'd run out of fuel in a diesel car, which is a real nusiance. Then got going again, refuelled and went down to B&Q in delightful Wandsworth.
And this was where creatively the lousy day was almost redeemed. I walked into B&Q and wondered around looking for someone who could help me - for ages. At one point, it felt like the only member of staff there was the security guard trying to prevent £1m+ worth of good from being stolen. In my foul and furious state, I reckon I could have taken in him on. But that would have made me a common looter (well, a middle-class looter, but a looter nonetheless).
Eventually I spoke to a member of staff, who guided me to a desk where someone was unable to help, who took me to his boss, who asked me questions I simply couldn't understand, who then got the duty store manager, who ultimately said he couldn't help. He explained that the dishwasher was used in a commercial setting (apparently churches are commercial, which is news to me, given the state of our accounts). This meant Indesit wouldn't fix it. That was that. I said that the buyer said at the time that it was for church use. He asked if I had proof. I had none.
I walked away, furious and before I said anything that would bring the church into disrepute. Driving home I realised I had proof - all the delivery notes were addressed to the church. I couldn't go back. I was broken. Finished. But I realised that if I hadn't been so tired and angry, the situation I had been in had comic potential. The eerie lack of staff, the chronic indifference to my plight and the kafka-esque levels of service. All funny now you look at it.
And that is why I mention this mildly dull anecdote. Not because it's especially funny, but because it's an interesting starting point for a storyline. Or a sketch. Or a scene. Or a moment. Back in April, I wrote this about changing the battery on a burglar alarm. This one will go on the list too. It's logged in the memory. That's because sitcom writing isn't just about imagining situations - but experiencing them first hand. And then turning them up to 11 on the screen.
Plus it gave me something to write about on this blog. It's all good, really.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Why You Should Seriously Consider Writing for Newsjack
After leaving university, I applied for a number of jobs - mostly in advertising and copywriting. I had no idea that I could be a professional comedy writer, although in a way, I must have done subconsciously. I remember being asked in one interview 'Where do you see yourself in five years time?' I answered 'Writing a sitcom for television'. Now, I know there are no right or wrong answers in interviews, but that is a very wrong answer. I should have said something like 'Spearheading an award-winning campaign that changes the way people think about washing powder' or something. But I didn't. The truth came out.
And so I moved to London to do some work experience at a magazine, which I broadly hated. But one lunch time a week, I would turn up to a writers meeting for Week Ending - the open-door Radio 4 comedy show that was, frankly, on its last legs. Nonetheless, in the evenings, I would try and write some topical sketches and after about six weeks, succeeded in getting a few jokes or a sketch on. Can't really remember. I've got it on a cassette somewhere.
It was a really good experience - even though the actual show itself felt way past its best. It taught me to work hard, work fast, turn over ideas, read the newspapers, rewrite, accept failure and, above all, write jokes. These are all key lessons that can be learned 'on the job' (if by 'job' you mean unpaid writing). I also met some other people in my position and was able to swap stories, experiences and contacts, and overall began to 'feel like a writer', which is no small thing.
And so to Newsjack
That's why I would urge all aspiring comedy writers to seriously consider writing for Newsjack, a new series of which starts a week today. I don't work for the show - and never have, but I do know that they read everything they get. And not only that, they want every sketch they are sent to be hilarious. It often doesn't feel that way stuck at home, and hearing another show broadcast in which your work isn't broadcast, but it is true. They want funny. And they can spot funny. And if you're sketch isn't spotted, the likeliest reason is that it's not as funny, or well-executed, as you thought.
I worked on Recorded For Training Purposes, and my approach was the same. I wanted each sketch I was sent to be really funny, fresh and original - and ideally not about Sat Navs, Phone Call-waiting menus and TV producers pitching terrible programme ideas to TV execs, which were topics covered by about 33% of all sketches.
Read the shows instructions carefully - and follow them. It's all here. Think about every sketch you send in - before you send it in. Lots of people don't do this and just send it off unfinished, half-written or too long. (Some thoughts on that sort of thing here)
Ask yourself, is the sketch original? Is it one idea written well, with a nice twist at the end? If so, good. Or is it two ideas whammed together and not really about either? If so, bad.
Is it short/edited so that it's just funny after funny, so that the studio audience is laughing out loud every few seconds? Is the set-up as crisp and quick as it could be?
Does it end properly? THINK OF A PROPER PUNCHLINE - one that is surprising rather than cliched or convenient. Your sketch stands a much better chance of being used if it ends properly, since a script editor won't have to take up precious time thinking one up for you. (Some thoughts on writing jokes here) Also bear in mind the audience are much happier with traditional punchlines than you might think.
Is the sketch easy to read? Don't worry too much about exact formatting, but make sure it's easy to read (see here).
And so, if you can bear to spend the time on it, give this a go with both barrells. Even if you're not interested in topical comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you're not interested in sketch comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you fail to get a single joke onto the show, you will have benefited from the overall experience, and had a good work out. You may find the task to be thankless, largely unpaid and virtually impossible. If so, welcome to the world of comedy writing.
More info at various links here, mostly by Dan Tetsell who used to script edit the show.
And so I moved to London to do some work experience at a magazine, which I broadly hated. But one lunch time a week, I would turn up to a writers meeting for Week Ending - the open-door Radio 4 comedy show that was, frankly, on its last legs. Nonetheless, in the evenings, I would try and write some topical sketches and after about six weeks, succeeded in getting a few jokes or a sketch on. Can't really remember. I've got it on a cassette somewhere.
It was a really good experience - even though the actual show itself felt way past its best. It taught me to work hard, work fast, turn over ideas, read the newspapers, rewrite, accept failure and, above all, write jokes. These are all key lessons that can be learned 'on the job' (if by 'job' you mean unpaid writing). I also met some other people in my position and was able to swap stories, experiences and contacts, and overall began to 'feel like a writer', which is no small thing.
And so to Newsjack
That's why I would urge all aspiring comedy writers to seriously consider writing for Newsjack, a new series of which starts a week today. I don't work for the show - and never have, but I do know that they read everything they get. And not only that, they want every sketch they are sent to be hilarious. It often doesn't feel that way stuck at home, and hearing another show broadcast in which your work isn't broadcast, but it is true. They want funny. And they can spot funny. And if you're sketch isn't spotted, the likeliest reason is that it's not as funny, or well-executed, as you thought.
I worked on Recorded For Training Purposes, and my approach was the same. I wanted each sketch I was sent to be really funny, fresh and original - and ideally not about Sat Navs, Phone Call-waiting menus and TV producers pitching terrible programme ideas to TV execs, which were topics covered by about 33% of all sketches.
Read the shows instructions carefully - and follow them. It's all here. Think about every sketch you send in - before you send it in. Lots of people don't do this and just send it off unfinished, half-written or too long. (Some thoughts on that sort of thing here)
Ask yourself, is the sketch original? Is it one idea written well, with a nice twist at the end? If so, good. Or is it two ideas whammed together and not really about either? If so, bad.
Is it short/edited so that it's just funny after funny, so that the studio audience is laughing out loud every few seconds? Is the set-up as crisp and quick as it could be?
Does it end properly? THINK OF A PROPER PUNCHLINE - one that is surprising rather than cliched or convenient. Your sketch stands a much better chance of being used if it ends properly, since a script editor won't have to take up precious time thinking one up for you. (Some thoughts on writing jokes here) Also bear in mind the audience are much happier with traditional punchlines than you might think.
Is the sketch easy to read? Don't worry too much about exact formatting, but make sure it's easy to read (see here).
And so, if you can bear to spend the time on it, give this a go with both barrells. Even if you're not interested in topical comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you're not interested in sketch comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you fail to get a single joke onto the show, you will have benefited from the overall experience, and had a good work out. You may find the task to be thankless, largely unpaid and virtually impossible. If so, welcome to the world of comedy writing.
More info at various links here, mostly by Dan Tetsell who used to script edit the show.
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