Schedule, schmedule!

Have you heard of the "I/You/He" sequence? It's a sort of jokey way of expressing the perils of subjectivity and self-justification. Thus: I am a conoisseur of fine wines, You like a drink or two, He is a howling alcoholic.
And it was this sequence which occurred to me this week when a client company conspired to blow its own delivery schedule apart by expanding the workload it had assigned me. In this case, it went something like: I am focussed, You are single-minded, He is a stubborn uncooperative hack who won't amend his schedule.
Well, it wasn't a question of "wouldn't", it was a question of "couldn't". As in, there's no way you can stick two extra days' work into a five-day schedule on Monday and still expect to get everything you wanted on Friday. Asking every five minutes whether I'd made any progress yet didn't, by some mysterious process, seem to make it any better.
As it happens, I did get the work done on time, by the skin of my teeth, after working late every night.
But will I get paid on time?
Well, you've read this blog before. You guess. Grrrrrr....

Shall Ye Touch Pitch And Be Not Defilèd?

Before I start, please note that I got the slanty thing over the "e" right.

Pitching! Yes, next Friday the Wordmonger is off to Lunnon Town to pitch a museum  script in person, doing all the things the actors will have to do and performing to an audience of clients and designers and producers and aaaaaagggggghhhh.

I'm nervous as hell.

And yet I rather like to be involved in the pitch process - certainly the actual pitch meeting, although I almost never am. It's a chance to look the client in the eye without the intermediation of the production company. That way, you get the straight feedback you need to improve the work, not the edited highlights plus whatever biases the producers and designers bring with them.

I am, however, slightly unnerved on these occasions by something my father once said to me. "The thing is, Wordmonger Junior," he said, "you're like a lot of people; you want to be a performer but you're afraid to perform." and he was right. I know that this is going to be the best way to sell my idea - and I know that nobody else can do it for me.

But I am, as I may have mentioned, nervous as hell.

The answer may be gin. Actually - the answer is always gin. I may need to start asking different questions...

Doctor Who and the Adaptation of Doom

So! The Doctor has faced Daleks, Cybermen, Silurians and John Barrowman's libido - and now he faces the greatest peril of all...Hollywood.
They're going to make a movie of Doctor Who. OK, so it's the Harry Potter I team lined up for the gig, but still...this is my childhood Saturdays they're rewriting.
More than that, though, there's no place for Russell T Davies on the team and that's...just...daft. It was his vision - his blend of terror and comedy and camp and magnificence and tragedy and redemption that brought the whole damn' thing back from the dead. Good grief, they're not using Steven Moffat either, so the film won't have the ability to make me think deep philosophical thoughts and require a change of underwear at the same time. 
This was a franchise revived - sorry, fans of David Tennant and Christopher Ecclestone, but it's true - by writers. Writers just like me, although only in the same sense that sharks are fish just like minnows. I hope to God the Hollywood boys read the TV scripts carefully because, otherwise.... I shall just say "Paul McGann" and leave your quivering, terrified minds to fill in the blanks.
Not a happy hack. Not at all.

They Also Serve...

...who only stand and wait. So said John Milton - and who knew he'd done so much AV scripting? Yes, it's been a while since I posted here but then not a lot has been going on save for the occasional gnawing of fingernails. I mean, I've not starved, but I've certainly dieted. Also, I kind of... you know... forgot to post. Sorry.


Now, however, there is writing happening. There are AVs for two or possibly three museums, an animation bible and pilot script, theoretically six episodes as a production writer on another animation and interesting possibilities with (adopts echoing Kenny Everett delivery) The B...B...C...


And yet still the order of the day seems to be 'hurry up and wait'. Wait for contracts, wait for briefings, wait for payments (yes, that again) and wait, above all, for bloody ages.


Spoke too soon! Even as I type this, my Mac has pinged its e-mail ping and I see that a briefing has arrived. It may be helpful, it may be feeble, it may be gibberish. But you know what it definitely is? It's work. Farewell depression, auf wiedersehen idleness, adieu online crosswords - and hello a return to being a productive member of society.


Now, when some advertising work comes in, we'll know the recession is over. Which reminds me - I must send my book (portfolio, to you non-advertising types) to the woman who runs the cattery we use, since it turns out she also runs a small marketing agency. It'd be great to get some work off her, as it's likely to be the only way we can continue to pay her cattery fees. I mean, £135 for a week for two cats? Puh-lease...


Oh God. There goes the phone. It's another museum client. I'm starting to miss underemployment already. Must dash...

Home, Sweet Home

Working from home is one of the best - and worst - things about being a writer. If you are office based then, these days, you may well feel a frisson of pleasure at those occasion when you get to work from home, but then you probably only do it once a week or so.


On the plus side, my commute is very, very short...about 8 feet, or maybe 20 if I stop off at the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The dress code is very relaxed, as are the break times and refreshments policy, plus I never have to argue with anyone about what goes on the radio. I can look at what I like on the internet, I can feed the cats during the day and there's nobody to shout at me if I decide to stop writing and watch Top Gear reruns on Dave for a bit.


But... today, I am not alone. I have a convalescent son with me, demanding toast and hot water bottles. This is why I'm blogging, not writing the animation pitch I can't concentrate on. And even when I am alone... I'm alone. Sure, I can talk to the cats, but we all know that's just a cover for talking to yourself. I mean, Woody is a 10-month-old crossbred black semi-longhair; when I ask him about vision notes, am I really expecting an answer? No (I should ask his littermate Jake, who's a piebald shorthair and has a good eye for classic cinematography).


The fact is, you go a bit funny, working on  your own. I'm looking forward to this afternoon's client meeting (many thanks to poorly son's grandparents for invalid-sitting!) not because it will move the project forward but because I'll get to talk to a real adult human being.


Discipline and structure, that's the thing. And it's a paradox, because the very advantages that working at home confers - freedom, flexibility, personal space - are the very things that drive you mad if you're not careful.


Thank God I've kept my sanity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must rally the Imperial Guard, or Wellington will take the ridge and the east flank will be lost. Onward, mes braves!

Enemy Agents

Excitement at Wordmonger Towers! There's a faint, faint chance of some more TV animation work - my first love and original calling.


How has this potential wonder potentially come about? Because I have an agent again. As of the middle of last year, this marvellous person has been shoving my dusty TV writing credits under people's noses and is starting to get some sneezes of interest.


So - agents. Good things, clearly, especially when they're as patient and hard-working as mine. 


Why, then, do we always see them portrayed as monsters on TV and in books? Joey's agent in Friends, Frasier's agent in Frasier, Rob Long's agent in Conversations with my Agent (read it; this is an order) - all ghastly beyond all measure, but why? Is Hollywood crammed with self-destructive ingrates? Yes, I know, but I mean specifically on this issue.


Is it that they make writers think about money? That they take a commission? That no gig ever goes perfectly and we blame the person who set us up with it? 


I dunno. All I can say is that I shall be working like a dog on my pitch tomorrow, not least to repay the hard work put in by the Steadfast Agent. Nice woman, I shan't tell you who she is or you'll all be trying to sign up with her.

Fear the Void!

Well, dearly beloved, it's been a while, hasn't it? What with family visits and deadlines and, you know, not having anything worthwhile to muse about...


But here's a writer's topic if ever there was one: writer's block. I don't suffer this myself, perhaps because I rarely stray into the realms of High Art, but I do find myself - as this morning - struck down with Blank Page Panic.


It's a hard one to explain. Partly it's down to the usual writer's problem of wanting to do anything - anything - rather than actually write, but there is a definite drawing in of breath before you hit the first key. Even if you know where you're headed with the piece, even if you had the first five paragraphs all blocked out in your head ages ago...when it comes to actually putting things down on paper, confidence ebbs.


Do you get this? I'd love to know how you feel when confronted with a blank page? Worse still, do you get writer's block - or do you even believe in it?


I'll leave you to mull the issue over; I've got to write this script.


Well, as soon as I've finished this cup of coffee...

The Joy of Text

I've been spending quite a bit of time lately on graphic panels - those flat boards with words on that explain what a museum exhibit actually is. And, do you know, it's a pleasure. 


Because, when you're writing plain text, there's just you and your ability to string a sentence together. You don't have to write for characters, you don't have to set it to music or make it run to 30 seconds. You just have to make it clear, concise and understandable to a bright 11-year-old. Which, since I happen to have a bright 11-year-old to hand, isn't that hard.


It's rather like writing history essays at school; there's you, your vocabulary and a big pile of facts to communicate. You have to structure it and make it clean and clear... and that's it.


If only everything were that simple. Mind you, if everything were that simple, I'd be out of a job...

Good things come to those who wait

In case you cared, one of my three debtors has coughed up, one has processed the paperwork so I'll get paid next week, and the other is getting things sorted.


I smile benignly on the human race...until the next time.

Doin' it for the money

Now, I’m not one of those who claims that writing is every bit as exhausting as road-mending or coal-mining, or as nerve-wracking as surgery. There’s no comparison. But it is work, frequently challenging if not difficult, and you have to care about what you’re doing. That’s just basic professionalism.

Every so often, though, I meet friends doing similarly non-manual jobs who equate not wearing a suit with not really working. And I think this attitude also prevails among some clients.

“You creative types!” they laugh – or at least they do once I’ve exaggerated them for comic effect. “Why, you rise at noon, chew your quill, stare out of the window at the daffodils and let your minds fly free with the wild birds! Surely such a life is its own reward, untramelled by care for material things!”

To which I reply, “Dear Sir, following my reminder of the 5^th inst., my invoice number 201 remains unpaid. If this remains the case…”

Here’s the thing, though; as a group, we writers don’t help ourselves.

I can’t put my finger on the exact quote – the book’s in the loft - but Stephen King said something along the lines of, if you’re only writing for the money, don’t be a writer. Well, fair play to him. He wrote when he had nothing, and still writes now he’s got plenty.

But too many of us miss the word “only” out of that sentence of his. There’s a feeling among the poetry groups and writing circles that (a) they could do what we do but (b) they don't because it would be prostituting their art.

Can we please ditch this 19^th-Century consumptive-poet crap and get back to something more intellectually honest? How about the 18^th century Grub Street hack, James Ralph, who said…

“[The author] is laugh'd at if poor; if to avoid that curse, he endeavours to turn his Wit to Profit, he is branded as a Mercenary.”

Testify, Brother James, testify. Yes, we are prostituting our art. But art it is, and we create it to a high enough standard to get paid for it - we take a pride in doing so. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a street to walk.

American Gothic Revisited

Manly Wellman sounds like a pseudonym. He was actually a writer of – what? Modern American folktales or fairytales, I suppose – little slices of American Gothic, the best known of which were set in the Appalachians and featured Silver John.

I was reminded of them by a very well-written role-playing game blog called Grognardia (if you ever played these things, I commend it to you).

I hadn’t read “The Desrick on Yandro” since I was 12 or so, but when I re-read it online it still made me grin and shiver in a ratio of about 3:1. If you’re 12, or liked being 12, give it a go; you can find it here along with the rest of the short stories. 

Well, I did say I was going to talk about my likes and dislikes. But I think it’s worth saying what’s so good about these stories from a writer’s point of view – and here it is…

They’re short. Seriously, they say what they have to say, take their bow and exit. Crisply written in a convincing (to me) Appalachian idiom, with real people drawn in a few bold strokes, they don’t suffer from novella bloat, that disease of the literary short story that makes it swell up and try to be a baby novel.

Someone should try and adapt these for TV or, maybe even better, radio. H’mmm…wonder what the rights are going for…?

Dead languages and deadlines

Weird job. I'd been tasked with finding a translator who could do some Latin dialogue for a museum soundscape up in Northumberland. The one I found was excellent but also had a teaching post to honour, so when the deadline got too tight I found myself dusting off 'O' Level Latin, hitting the online dictionaries and doing a few lines of translation myself.

Oddly, though, I found myself mentally recasting the characters after I'd done the translations. The gruff NCO whom I imagined demanding the presence of the carpenter in English became an arrogant junior officer when he did the same in Latin. Conversely, the patrician lady who wanted a new floor in English became a sort of upmarket Essex gangland wife in Latin.

What was wonderful was the way the Latin made sense again after all these years - so logical and rational without being mechanistic. That said, all my translations may turn out to be gibberish. I can hear the chalky ghosts of Latin teachers long departed muttering "...wouldn't be the first time, boy..."

And best of all - the producer can't possibly demand amends because he doesn't know any Latin!!!!


Bwahahahahaha....

The Money-Go-Round

Does anyone in this game ever get paid on time? This, I'm afraid, may get a little bit ranty - apologies in advance...

Right now, I've got three big invoices outstanding. One's for some voice work, one's with a production house, and one's with a design company I did some work for last year. Yes, last year.

The VO payment is late because "the account exec forgot to bill the client so we couldn't pay you last week and then only one person can issue artist payments and he's away so we can't pay you this week..." So that's two weeks overdue.

The production bods say they didn't get my invoice in the e-mail. Odd. The CC copy came through to me fine, I had their address right, they've had a statement and a reminder and not got in touch...but nothing happens until I actually ring up their accounts person. And that's three weeks overdue.

And the designers can't pay me until their client pays them, which doesn't happen until the copy is approved, which doesn't happen until the client has actually looked at the copy...which was delivered in December. Correction, was amended in December. It was delivered in August. So that's either three or six months overdue, depending on how charitable you feel - in my case, not even slightly.

And everybody does it. Everybody. Miss a copy deadline and you'd think you'd killed the family hamster. Round the invoice up by a penny instead of down by a pound and they sue. But if they happen to pay a writer a month late, even though their own salaries go into the bank like clockwork... Pffft, what's the fuss about?

And all these things and more I can't actually say to these clients because, well, because I need the work.

I'd say "I need the money" but what's the use?

Ah well... I've got some invoicing to do...

It begins...

Welcome!

I'm a writer. Not a would-be writer, an actual one, actually getting paid (late) for writing all kinds of things, from recruitment ads to museum audiovisuals to - oh please, let it happen again soon - TV scripts. I also do the occasional voice-over.

But I'm not touting for work.

Not here, anyway. I've got a real website with my real name on it for that.

You see, writing is the kind of job that ends up sending you to the therapist. You work with other highly unbalanced types like advertising execs and actors, and since insanity is catching.... Unfortunately, only Russell T. Davies and Stephen King can actually afford therapists on a writer's earnings.

So on this blog, I'm going to ramble on about my professional life, my likes and dislikes, the various loons I work with and for and, on bad days, why I wish I'd listened to my mother and been a lawyer instead. That way, I get to share and rant about my feelings, but blogspot.com gets to pay for it. Trust me, that's as close as most writers will ever get to seeing a BUPA shrink.

I shall try not to be self-indulgent. I shall try to avoid believing that my opinions actually matter. Above all, I shall try not to get sued for libel. This last I shall achieve by anonymising the heroes (yes, there are some) and villains of my professional life through the cunning use of sobriquets - so don't expect to see any names you, or your lawyer, will recognise.

I hope you enjoy reading it. I hope you comment on it. I hope you click on the ads and earn me shiny copper pennies. I'm a writer. I need 'em.

And so...onward!