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...