READ! Read for all you're worth.

Read.

It is just one simple word; it is also an extremely succinct piece of advice. All writers will eventually come across other writers who will offer advice. Murdering darlings or perhaps cutting the first paragraph come up quite often, but nothing else comes up as often as read. You know what though? It's good advice.

It's difficult to do of course. Myself, I'd all but stopped reading except for necessary research and the same scripts that I was learning and reading for the eightieth time. That was until Puck of Pool's Hill. One night I found myself with no phone signal, no internet, no TV and a book that I'd brought with me in a hilarious impulse of optimism. That night I waded through thirty chapters of The Long Earth (Terry Pratchett & Stephen Baxter). For the first time in a long time I was reading for leisure. I'd forgotten why it was so important to read for leisure.

As a writer, what we read stirs our imaginations and ignites our passions. Reading what we find interesting opens our minds and will often provide the push to begin writing something we care about. In a recent blog post a fellow LJMU creative writing student explains that he enjoyed the research for the Fantastic Worlds module. I'm fairly sure that all of us who took that course have similar experiences. When we write about what we really have an passion for or that which challenges us, we tap into something. Even academic writing can become enjoyable. No, I'm being serious. Research makes writing easier, but if it's a topic we have passion for or interest in, the writing is enjoyable.

Quite frankly, the form that the reading takes doesn't matter. You can be reading paperback, eBook, blogs, news websites or comic books. If you make the reading stimulating you give yourself a better chance at being inspired. Just read. If you don't, or just don't make the time? Well, you may find yourself sitting alone attempting to write, but procrastinating by writing a blog that maybe fifty people are reading.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to read The Long War.

WARNING! Tech Content

Okay, I'm going to write about some tech-y stuff today. Why? Because it's my blog and, well, it has quite a bit to do with a writing project that I'm working on.

A few days ago the lecturer who led our Fantastic Worlds module at LJMU, John Sayle, posted this picture with a comment for FW students to take note.

When he posted it, I actually had to think a bit. I am a technology aware kind of guy, and yet, I do feel that a lot of what we're promised is coming either never does, or never will.

Then I was looking at an old talk I gave concerning BT's need to upgrade their infrastructure. For those of you that don't know, BT are the company who own, maintain and lease out the cabling and infrastructure that carries landline telephone/internet services. Sky, Plusnet, Tesco, all of them use BT's infrastructure. That includes Virgin (in areas where Virgin Media do not have cabling).

Seven years ago I was talking, well ranting actually, about how with the increase in traffic to sites like YouTube, and the launch of BBC iPlayer the current (and it still is current) infrastructure was going to need to be upgraded, and soon. Internet usage at the time was increasing at a huge rate and all around experts were claiming that the trend would continue. At that time though BT had not plans to upgrade their infrastructure (or at least no public plans that I could find).

Now, in 2013, I have found myself moving from an area with Virgin Media's cable fibre-optic lines to an area with BT's old copper wires. That's going from Mach 1 to 30mph...or at least it feels like it. It's been a real adjustment, but I've been keeping the faith. After all BT's Openreach programme (part of which is their Fibre roll-out) has been working throughout Wirral. Their website promises that the exchanges near our area will be ready by 2014. This is great news surely?

Well no. You see, BT have kept a few things quiet. They are not upgrading all the cabinets that connect their infrastructure to the houses. Which means that you can't access this new system. Their excuse is a lack of economic viability.

So here I sit with a laptop, a mobile phone and a Nexus 7 tablet (with 4G capability). Of the three internet connected devices, the tablet has the fastest and more reliable connection. What is worse, I pay less for that internet connection than I pay for the home/landline internet connection.

Which makes me wonder...with mobile (cellular for those abroad) companies constantly working to increase and double the capability of their internet connections where does that leave BT?

Seven years ago I suggested that instead of simply 'building bigger pipes' we should find ways of compressing the information down so that more can fit through the existing pipes. Of course, that was rather naive. After all copper wire telephone connections are a Victorian invention doing far, far, far more than they were ever expected to.

Here and now, I think that BT ought to be considering their future very carefully. I've been running tests on all three connections daily for the last four weeks. These are the results:

Virgin Media (through BT): 
Downstream - 2.27Mb/s
Upstream - 0.64Mb/s
Latency - 40ms

O2 3G+:
Downstream - 6.64Mb/s
Upstream - 1.74Mb/s
Latency - 75ms

EE 4G (In Liverpool):
Downstream - 12.24Mb/s
Upstream - 6.49Mb/s
Latency - 70ms

EE 4G (at Home):
Downstream - 6.25Mb/s
Upstream - 3.73Mb/s
Latency - 76ms

So that's a real world testing. On average, BT's infrastructure is already lagging significantly behind.

Here's where things get worse for BT though. EE advertise that their maximum theoretical bandwidth for 4G will be approximately 300Mb/s. Assuming this to be true, and assuming that the advertised bandwidth of BT's new fibre rollout to also be 300Mb/s, there could well be problems for BT and traditional landlines down the road.

You see, BT are now openly admitting that it is fiscally difficult for them to provide 100% coverage to the UK with their new system. Even in my small area of Wirral it may be that we won't see the upgrade. So what happens when, in another five year's time 5G comes along, and mobile providers begin to upgrade their systems again?

All of this boils down to the fact that maybe that little graphic was right. Personally, I think it is. Landline telecommunication is facing a rocky and uncertain future. I certainly don't think I can see a reason for people to stay attached to landline phones. Perhaps all this means that we really ought to think about how true this is:

Besides, when was the last time you saw a phone that looked like the one in the picture?

This is why I keep old bits of writing

For every piece of writing that I actually complete there are close to a dozen projects that end up in my slush pile folder. Really, my slush pile is a mish mash of half written things. Often, I'll get an idea, jot it down and work on it for an hour or two before deciding that it's no good. I'll quickly move in into slush. Abandoned and forgotten, until the next time I decide to explore it's dark recesses.

Tonight, I decided to crack open the musty box that is my slush pile. As usual, the journey made me want to vomit at the awfulness of most of the ideas and juvenile rubbish that lies in the dark corners of this pile. I often think that if a shredder was close at hand the pile would be reduced to mulch in a matter of minutes. Perhaps it's a good thing that's never been the case, I'm not entirely sure. Never-the-less I steel myself many times and cringe as I pass by notes, dialogue and characters that should never see the light of day. Eventually, I find the things I've been looking for. Those few nuggets that have been written with the best of intentions, but have sadly been pushed aside because I just don't have the time. Eventually, the ideas have ended up in slush because they've been cluttering up my desk, or desktop for far too long. They are not bad ideas, just ideas that I never had time for.

Tonight's voyage into the clichéd, juvenile and sickeningly bad beginnings to dreadful projects revealed something though. It's dated February 2011. That was around the time that I'd just finished playing Laurie in Little Women (Carlton Players). I've put it in PDF format here for people to have a look at. It's nothing actually special yet.

It does prove one thing to me though. Some ideas just stick. Sure, they may change form and shape-shift beyond recognition before they are fully realised, but writing ideas do tend to linger and re-suggest themselves many times over. 

I've actually managed to spend nearly an hour putting together bits of scenes I've already written for this project and plugging them into another project that I've nearly completed. In other words, in just an hour I've gone from a project that had been put on the back-burner, to a project that is almost at the editing stage.

This is why I keep old bits of writing. It's why I don't shred my slush pile. It's why I don't ever throw notes or notebooks away.

...and then the ambulance arrived

It isn't often that I have had to use first aid. Of course, it is the type of thing that we learn in the hope that we never need to use it. Mainly when I've been called to administer first aid it's been for minor stuff: cut, grazes, the odd steri-strip here, the odd bandage there. Sure there was the injured ankle that required a bit more, but I've never had to call an ambulance out. I've never had to dial 999...until today.

Yep, what started as a gentle walk up to soul cafe ended in calling out paramedics. You know that thing where you watch accidents happen in slow motion? That is what this was. A woman on a mobile stepped out onto the road between two cars, paying no heed to to poor cyclist who was wheeling down the road. The unfortunate result was that the cyclist hit the brakes and her back wheel left the road flipping her face first onto the tarmac. The pedestrian who caused this walked away whilst Omar (a med student as fate would have it) and I attended to the girl who'd hit the ground.

Having got the girl out of the path of an oncoming car who, having seen this accident insisted on honking his horn the ignorant *&%!, Omar insisted that we call 999 and get an ambulance down. Yes, it was that hard a hit on the road.

Fortunately, Omar and I weren't the only ones taking the time to stop, a waiter from the Italian Club ran out to provide us with paper towels to help stop the bleeding. I do have to wonder why the people who stepped out and caused the accident didn't wait around to see if she was okay.

I digress though. Omar, being very concerned (and slightly impatient) called the emergency services a second time and waited for the ambulance whilst I just talked to the girl about trivial matters (why was my accent not from Liverpool? Where in Spain was she from?).

Then the ambulance came. The paramedics took the girl into the ambulance after locking her bike to a lamppost. That's where the story ends. Omar and I were sent on our way. I don't know if she did indeed have a concussion, or if she was just patched up by the paramedics and sent on her way.

Maybe it's the writer in me, but it feels like the story has ended halfway through. There's no resolution to the story, just that thing I'll occasionally wonder about.

Oh my God! It's going to work!

Generally speaking, I don't get nervous before a show. The exceptions are my own work, or shows that I'm responsible for. When we staged I Remember at the Leverhulme Festival I was pretty nervous bouncing around the stage like a mad man just before the curtain went up. As it turns out my nerves were justified. During the performance the sound completely failed and I was left sitting on a sofa with nothing but a soft toy as a prop. Having felt the lights go up just as the sound cut out I panicked. Apparently it didn't show, but the panic was there all the same. Out of one corner of my eye, I could see a manic scene being played out in the stage manager's corner. Our stage tech was on cans trying to find out what had happened. My friend and fellow actor, Ian Nenna was in the wings trying to work out if he should disregard his cue and step on stage all the same. I spent what felt like ten minutes sitting there with this stupid plush cow in my hands prentending to be sad before I walked off stage. I would later find out that as I did this Ian was about to come onto the stage. In the words of others, when I reached the other wing I began to signal to those in the other wings trying desperately just to get Ian to come on stage. Ahh theatre, I do so love you!

This was not only my production but my script and my first attempt at putting a play on. Actually, the pulling the play together was pretty simple (once I'd roped in a cast). My nerves before the show were more about whether people would like my writing or if I was going to be absolute crap. Technical failures aside, I'm fairly sure it was an okay play. Even the technical faults were forgiven and I was consoled with many times the following week.

Nerves about my own work aside, I don't generally get panicky or worried or nervous about most shows. The shows can be going disastrously and I'll still plod along regardless. I'll add here, that it's not because I don't care about the show. I do. It's because usually I know that the show will go ahead and the show will work. Experience has taught me that the show has to go ahead. So, if the show is going to go ahead anyway there isn't much point worrying.

There is a point though where I'm in the middle of the day and it just hits me in my gut. I know that the show will work. I know that the show is shaping up and will go ahead. It's an ineffable feeling, but it always comes. Usually at the half way point of rehearsals I just know.

It may seem odd, but I don't ever get that feeling with work that I'm responsible for. With Dickens, Drood and the best of tomes I got so nervous about the administrative aspects of the show that my hands were shaking. In fact they were shaking so much that I couldn't tie my bow tie. When acting though, there's no reason for nerves. Your fellow cast will do the best they can and you'll do the best you can. You can't ask more. Everything else? Well, that's in the hands of Thespis.

Every story has already been told

When I first started writing there was a phrase I refused to believe.

'Every story has already been told'

The more I write the more I'm convinced that it's true. For the most I honestly can't remember the last thing In watched that has at it's basis a unique plot. There do exist ways of presenting writing that has never been done, but if you consider only plot, then it's been done before. In fact one book I read on screenwriting broke plots within the discipline down to three points: incident, escalation and resolution. When you begin the apply that to writing it does appear to be true.

For example:

Avengers Assemble
Incident = Tessaract is stolen
Escalation = Loki attacks S.H.I.E.L.D and the avengers
Resolution = a grand battle in which Iron Man risks all to save the day.

It is entirely possible to add more points, but essentially the point holds. Even an epic movie can be broken down to three simple points. It brings to mind the storytelling module I did at University. The tutor told us that all stories can be broken down into 'nodal plot points'. By doing that you only have to remember a few things and then improvise around those points rather than learn an entire story word for word. Even long pieces of literature can be broken down in the same way.

The Lord of The Rings
Incident = The evil Sauron's weapon is discovered.
Escalation = The 'goodies' set off to destroy the weapon plunging the world into war.
Resolution = The 'goodies' destroy the weapon thereby killing Sauron and saving the world.

The Divine Comedy
Incident = Protagonist is sent to hell to teach him a spiritual lesson.
Escalation = Before the protagonist can return home he must journey through purgatory.
Resolution = The protagonist arrives in paradise and learns that there is hope for his soul yet.

If it is true that every story has been told then why is it that writers continue to write. The answer is actually quite simple. Character. We as readers, viewers or audience are drawn in by interesting characters. We fall in love with characters. We are willing to learn about them and eventually we begin to root for them, or hate them and hope that they experience their downfall.

How else is it possible for 'reality' TV (the quotation marks are because it's folly to believe that what we see on TV is, in fact, real in any way) to become popular? How is it that a poorly written book, that destroys one of the most cool and popular monsters in mythology (twilight), becomes popular? People evidentially begin to care about the characters. They want to know what happens next.

Post show blues

I've mentioned before that I've done my fair share if shows. Every show has it's own distinct feeling of course. When you are working with a different group each time how could it not? One thing that I do find in common with all shows though is the post show blues.

When you work with the same people for months on end and then suddenly there's a day where that's over. These people you saw so frequently may still be friends, but you don't always see them that often. It's an odd feeling. It's easy to succumb to a blue moment or two.

The first show I did on Wirral (Little Women, 2011) was great fun. As fate would have it I've worked with most of the people involved in that show again. At the time though I had no way of knowing that. I also had no way of knowing that not all shows generate the same buzz as that one did. For some shows a company builds up and you are all giving your best and thoroughly enjoying yourself. You just feel that this show, and this group of people are special. Of course, these show are only week long performances, and the theatre groups on Wirral are a community. There are names, people that all the groups know of. You get to know people and you do see them again and of course work with them again.

Then I did Puck of Pook's Hill. Fifty-two shows over about ten/twelve weeks. I saw Dan and Fiona more than my family. I spent all my time with them, because there didn't really feel like there was much of a life outside the show. There just wasn't the time to do much of anything else (of course that doesn't include the likes of the stops in alpaca centres, or trips to Whitby abbey, or 'prop' shopping in Leominster).

Sadly, when the tour finished it was back to reality with a bump. For the better part of three months I was buried in Puck and didn't have the time to think of much else. I'll admit, I felt a little lonely. I was back to working solo. I'm back to writing on my own and hitting the phones pitching shows. I know other writers will know how lonely writing can get.

Fortunately, I know of one sure thing to get over the post show blues....another show. I do have to wonder how bonkers I'd be going if I wasn't working on another show right now, or hadn't used the time to catch up with old mates.

Wow, that's a bad post...oh well, the next one will be better. Maybe, perhaps.

Who actually talks like that?

I've been re-reading old scripts today. I suppose that actually, I ought to be running lines some time today in order to be more prepared form this evening's rehearsal. Anyway, my sidetrack into old scripts isn't actually nostalgia or such like. In fact it's more related to looking at dialogue. It occurred to me last night when watching a sitcom. Characters in TV, in films, and even many stage scripts use each others names more often than people do in day to day speech. It occurs to me that, of course there is a reason for this. If you catch an episode of a show that you've never seen before, you have a chance of getting to know the characters.

My observation was that one character was explaining that a second character was 'the dumbest man I've ever met'. Now, that is a perfectly acceptable piece of dialogue, but I'm not sure it is what would be said in a real conversation. More importantly, if you are talking directly to someone you wouldn't necessarily preface the statement with the person's name. After all, they already know you are talking to them. Instead you might just say 'you are the dumbest man I've ever met' or maybe even just 'you dumb fuck'.

Maybe I'm wrong in my observation but I know that I've certainly sat through long conversations where I've never said the other person's name. On one date with a girl we both went two hours before saying 'sorry, what was your name again'. Okay, so those weren't the exact words but genuinely we'd forgotten. We were both awful at remembering names. That said, it could also be a cultural thing. I've noticed that this propensity for littering otherwise realistic dialogue with names seems to occur more in US shows and the more modern and ITV shows. That's not to say it doesn't occur in theatre, it just seems to happen a LOT less. Ditto for film.

I do, of course understand the reason. Even if the reason is one that I've invented in order to explain this (perhaps fictional) issue. You see, by making sure that every character is named or identified in each new scene a new viewer to a show (established, or otherwise) is able to get a grip on the character's names. Hopefully, allowing the viewer (and I'm guessing here) to be able to identify and begin to learn about the characters will draw them into the show. This in turn will hopefully draw new viewers in. In the case of established shows it might also flog more DVDs. I know In only ever came to Big Bang Theory toward the end of season 3 and bought the box set of DVDs as a quicker way to catch up than waiting for one of the endless repeats on E4.

The assumptions for film and theatre though are quite different, the assumption is that people sit and watch a film right the way through, same with theatre. The idea is that you've been watching since the beginning and don't need to hear the characters' names in every scene to remember who they are.

This gets me to wondering. How many shows with big overarching storylines do this? Do they decide not to because coming into the story mid season would cause the viewer to lose out on too much back story. I'm thinking of something along the lines of The White Queen (BBC, based on Phillipa Gregory's books). In that show you have few examples of characters addressing each other using their names. Sure there is the odd occasion and there are of course the use of titles, but from what I can make out character's names are mainly used when said characters are off screen and being referred to by characters on screen.

I should sign off here, mainly because soul cafe, where I'm writing, is going to close soon...that, and I ought to head to Dead Reckoning rehearsals.

If you've noticed the same thing and actually know the reason, or if you thing that I'm talking nonsense do tell me. It'd be interesting to see if it is just me being weird (no change there) or me pulling writing apart and looking at it in too much detail.

Bye for now!

I love that character...time to kill him off!

Yep, I've been working pretty hard trying to finish When Tomorrow Comes. Now that the script is finished I've entered the editing phase. There's a phrase I heard, or read, or was told a while ago. Even before I began a creative writing course. It was killing you darlings. Usually, it refers to that passage that you irrationally proud of, or that sentence that is so beautifully written. We're told that such passages or sentences should be cut, or even removed altogether. In fairness, I'm usually good about cutting stuff. I just don't always get around to the editing thing.

This time though, I've realised that there are no big passages of speech or scenes that I absolutely love. Nope, for whatever reason I'm irrationally proud of one of the characters. He appears in every scene, but on a reading of the script, he doesn't actually do anything. At least, he doesn't do anything important. He's just kind of there spewing out dialogue. Don't get me wrong, some of the dialogue is actually quite interesting, but it doesn't actually move the script along or tell us anything about the characters.

Now, I've acted a part like that. Two actually. In the same play. Lucky Sods (a John Godber play). I played an american waiter, with an extremely dubious and altogether awful accent. I also played a vicar. Now the waiter, he actually didn't do much of anything. In fact, the waiter's only purpose in the play is to allow the actor playing Morris Sod to get a costume change. Seriously, you could cut the waiter's dialogue with Jean and the play would be in no way affected. The vicar serves a slight purpose in showing the audience how Jean and Morris are now always being asked for lottery tips and/or money.

So I guess that actually, that isn't true. Those characters in Lucky Sods don't really do much true, but there is at least a tenuous reason for them to be there. Even if the actor playing them did spend an inordinate amount time in the dressing room playing worms on his laptop. Honestly, you can get a lot of games played when you are on stage for a grand total of four pages. Actually, now that I think about it I'm not entirely sure that I was playing games on my laptop during Lucky Sods. I may have been, but I think that actually it might have been The Bed Before Yesterday...or was that Civilisation III that we were playing in the dressing room?

Anyway I digress. My character, you know the one I started this blog by talking about? Yeah, well he certainly doesn't do anything. So I've decided that he's going to make the ultimate sacrifice. He's going to be killed off in a ridiculous way. I'm not sure what kind of ridiculous way. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd gladly steal the idea! The question is, does he die before or after the interval? I think it may have to be before the interval.

The problem that I face with killing off the character is, of course, that I am actually changing the entire plot of the play and will have to edit all the stuff that come in after the death. Still, it might just liven the play up a bit.

Well, I'm off to brainstorm a bit more...

Character

In the spirit of yesterday's post, I've decided to write about this acting lark. I've worked on a lot of shows since I started. Dead Reckoning (shameless plug: Sept 11th-14th, Gladstone Theatre) is in fact the 51st production I've done. Not all of them have been acting mind you. some have included doing sound, lighting, directing etc.

When I look at them, the majority of the acting roles have been the straightforward one-character show. When I think about it I didn't really put much effort into characters when I first started. In fact, as I go through the history of shows that I've acted in, I think the first one where I actually gave any thought to character was Mill On The Floss (Riverside Players, 2011). I was cast both as Stephen Guest and Mr. Stelling. I think by that time, I'd seen and been involved with enough shows that I was beginning to pick up things that I'd not realised were part of acting. You know things like how a character would stand, or their voice or, well anything really. By no means was it the first time I'd ever done two parts, but it was the first time a director had got me to think about how the two characters would be different from each other. It was on that production that I began thinking more about this acting lark.

Now, I think I'm a different actor to what I was before. It feels like each time I really push myself it adds more to what I'm doing throughout rehearsals. With Dickens, Drood and the Best of Tomes (Off Book, 2012), I began to start thinking about how to reflect the character's personality in their voice and movements. Scrooge, for example I moved my feet in a flat-footed way and spoke in a nasally tone. It was a heck of a lot of fun.

What gets me right now though, is how easy it can be to slip back into doing little work on character for a play. When you read some scripts you just know who this character is and how you want to play him. Sure, you don't always get there to begin with, it can take a while. Jason, in Jason and the Argonauts (Riverside, 2012) for example. I knew he was an absolute idiot. The script was written that way and I just wanted to play the character as almost an inept fool. I'm not saying I achieved it, but that was how the character leapt fully-formed off the page. It made it easier.

Other characters, I've spent page and pages in my journal examining just how I can get better and what little thing I could try in the next rehearsal to create a strong character. Again, I'm not saying I've always been successful, but still, let's not forget the adage: 'you only fail if you stop trying'.

When we really think about it though there are some characters where the temptation to just say the lines and move where the director tells you is awfully big. Twelfth Night (Riverside, 2012) for example. Sure there was a little though that went into Sebastian, but for the most part he's just another character. I really don't think I did as much as I could have done. That's probably not the sort of thing I should say in public. That said, I've learnt so much since doing some shows that I'd love to have another go at them. Lord Darlington in Lady Windermere's Fan, or the very first thing I did on Wirral, Laurie in Little Women (Carlton Players, 2011). Maybe, there's nothing more that I could have done with the parts, but occasionally I do wonder. What if?

Definitions

I suppose I should come clean about this blog. Almost all of these posts have been written during one session on the 12th of August 2013. Yep, I've sat and wrote a stupid amount of blogging stuff for no real reason. I'm not even sure how people will react to this, or if anyone will even read it.

I've done this for a very simple reason. I've only ever run one blog that was moderately successful. That one wasn't even about me or aimed to be read by people I know. What I do remember about that blog was regularity being the key to success. It's exactly that which has caused me to fail at personal blogs in the past.

So, I've written a few posts to be published based on a schedule and appear as if I'm writing them myself live.

All in all it's given me time to think about what this blog is going to be. I know to write a blog and I want it to be for something. So, with that in mind I'm going to try and limit myself to writing about two things.

Acting and Writing.

After all, that's kind of what I do. So in the future you can expect to hear about writing that I find interesting, shows that I've watched and think are worth you going to, and maybe a few plugs for the shows that I'll be acting in...or, you know, the problems I have with rehearsals.

A Stranger Encounter

The first year of Creative Writing, one of our modules was called 'Observation and Discovery'. You know what? The more I think about it the more useful that module was. Sure the residential weekend in Gregynog was wonderful fun with pianos tinkling away and merry old sing songs, but there was more than that. No! I'm not talking about that incident either!



The module was meant, or at least I think it was meant, to get us to become aware of little things that go on around us. Little things that can begin stories, or be used to flesh out characters. Little things that we, as writers, could steal. Yep, we writers steal real-life and put them to work in our fiction.

Wow! That's a lot of preamble isn't it? I know I waffle a lot normally but still. Good job this isn't writing...the edit would cut all of that...and this...and this.

Where was I? Oh yeah. On the train today I had a moment that made me realise there was something other people must have experienced before. That story that you have to know, or have to finish.

On the way back from writing in Liverpool last night (soul cafe...I'm there most Fridays, yes it's very sad I know), there was this couple arguing about how one was worse than the other because they could find a job. I should point out that it was the entire basis of their very loud argument. Neither of them had been able to get a job. The guy thought the woman was lazy because she watched Jeremy Kyle. The woman thought the guy was lazy because he...well, let us just say he...used the bathroom...a lot.

Fortunately for me, they got off the train before I did so I could write the encounter down in the notebook. You see the way it ended was that he grabbed her train ticket off her and ran off the train as the doors were closing shouting that he wasn't going to spend the night with such a cheeky cow. Meanwhile, down the carriage where I was sitting, the lady opposite caught my eye as the argument ended. Her look was as much to say 'thank God for that'.

I mean, sure I've got a story out of it. Unfortunately, it's not a good one. Two chavs arguing on a train about being unemployed...what's interesting about that?

On the other hand, that moment that happened at the end. The one where the lady sitting opposite me caught my eye. No words were said, but we both knew what the other was saying with the look. 'They've been arguing for the last six stops. Thank God they've shut up!'. I don't know if you've ever experienced it, but might there be a story in that. Two people who don't know each other. They've never met. Yet they don't have to speak to know what the other is thinking.

Maybe it won't develop into a story. So many of my daily observations don't develop past an initial 'that's interesting'. You never know though. It might be the one observation that spawns an entire piece of work!

The T.A.R.D.I.S. is nearly empty

Yep, I've got through the super-mix, through the toffees, and I'm working my way through the shrimps and bananas.

I'm talking about sweets in case you didn't guess. The large sugar intake though is merely a way for me to stay close to my desk and write solidly for as long as I can. This past week, I've been working away on scripts.

I've finally stepped away from the sugar rush, stopped writing for the day and am working through the script for Dead Reckoning (shameless plug) and I'm realising just how convoluted thrillers can be. I've not actually watched many thrillers outside of amateur productions. I've been in a few now and it occurs to be just how bafflingly unrealistic these things are.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sure how I'd react in real life if someone was brandishing a garrotte. Maybe that's why I don't write thrillers. I try to write stuff that's realistic. At this point I realise, I can't exactly give the plot away, so I'll try not to actually say much more about Dead Reckoning, but some and see it.

The script has got me thinking though. I remember, three, maybe four years ago, at a festival hearing the comment that you have to be careful when defining something as a farce. The adjudicator informed the company of the show that the definition of farce is believable characters in unbelievable situations. Now, I mainly think of farce as being a comedy. I'm sure a dictionary definition would say the same kind of things; a comedy play with extraordinary circumstances. Here's the thinker, apart from the comic, what is a thriller, if not farcical? After all, when I think thriller, I think: crime, murder, intensity.

Now, I'm not trying to devalue thrillers. I can think of a lot of film thrillers that I enjoy. The thirty-nine steps for example. It's a good thriller, a fantastic comedy, and a wonderful stage-play. Maybe that's the key though. Maybe that's why so many thrillers tend also to lend themselves very well to spoof and parody. Maybe the fact that most of the thrillers that I can think of truly are believable characters in unbelievable situations. Maybe thrillers are farces, just 'straight' farce.

Or maybe, I'm just procrastinating and trying desperately not to try and run lines!

Oh, and the T.A.R.D.I.S.? I was given a T.A.R.D.I.S. cookie jar that was packed full of sugary sweets by my friend Fiona Angwin. It is currently sitting on my desk ready to fuel tomorrows effort at writing! Needless to say, I may have to venture to a sweet shop to restock for next week!

I Remember - Tony's Story

I’d never understood why Michael had loved his little brown cow so much. Of all the stuffed, soft toys that a child could be given, and then learn to love why had it been a fluffy brown cow? Right then it didn’t matter too much to Richard, it could have. What did matter was keeping that toy close; clinging to it as an alcoholic clings to his glass of whiskey. Nothing could be dearer to him in that moment. I remember walking into the room and seeing him there, broken. It’s fair to say I never thought much of him when I met him. Then when he came to me and told me he’d got my daughter pregnant, he knees were knocking like you wouldn’t believe. I’d have been a fool not to have seen that Rachael loved him though. He’d never treated her badly either. For all his faults he never ran. He stayed; he stood and faced his responsibilities. That’s how I knew that even if I never got to like Richard I’d always be able to respect him. That was enough to know that he’d make a good son-in-law.

     Walking into that house had been so hard though. Why should it have been though? I’d been there every day for three years. I paid the deposit for Richard and Rachael to have been able to buy that house. I think it was the mess that made it so bad. Michael, bless him, was at that age where he’d be crawling and running round like a wild thing, never able to settle on one toy. With Richard working all day, and Rachael trying to study for her degree neither of them ever had the time or energy to clear up after their son. Yet somehow they always found some way of spending enough time with Michael. It cuts at me, recalling that. I never spent enough time with Rachael when she was younger. Then, when we lost her mother, it really hurt. I never spent enough time with her. We were not even half of the family that Rachael, Richard and Michael had grown to be. It was a beautiful thing, a real family. How often does anyone see that these days?

     I’d called ahead, but got no answer. Part of me didn’t expect an answer. I was always being hard on Richard for being lazy; he wasn’t, not really. He expected me to give him a hard time I think. He once said, in a good way, that I kept him on his toes. Maybe that’s why he never minded. I remember standing at the door for longer than I should have. I have a key, after Rachael’s mum died; Richard said that I should feel at home in their house as in my own. That’s the sort of man he was. I didn’t use my key often, I didn’t want to on that day either. I stood looking blankly at the brown wood. I rang the bell. When I got no answer I was forced to use the key though. I hesitated of course. Who wouldn’t hesitate? After his loss, I knew all he wanted was to be alone. I felt like an intruder. I’d been through what he was going through, well close enough.

     After closing the door, I remember the silence of the moment. I remember looking at my watch. 1pm. Michael’d usually be up by now, held in his mother’s arms answering the door with a big hug, with a smile so bright it could blind. If you’ve ever walked through a small village at 4am you’ll know exactly the feeling. The silence hurts; it gets you just below the ribs. Of course you never know it’s the silence that causes it; you just know that something is wrong. I took pause. I had no choice. I was about to intrude, to ruin the time alone that Richard so obviously needed.  What was I going to say? I knew he had no intention of leaving that house. I knew that there was no way he would want visitors, but it had been far too long. He’d not even gone to work in days. I didn’t know that he hadn’t but he and I are so alike. If I’d have been him…I wouldn’t have gone either. It’s not like losing a job is as bad as what he was going through.

     Of course, it’s not as if it was a picnic for me. I remember getting angry at myself. Standing between the front door and the living room door of their house, you know it struck me that a lobby is very like a liminal site. Ridiculously philosophical I know, but it’s what I thought. Of all the thoughts that could pervade into my mind at that moment; why was it some obscure reference from my former days as a teacher? Never-the-less I was angry. Why should I have been put in this situation? What right did he have to feel so damn sorry for himself? Why did it fall to me to comfort him? Why did it fall to me to arrange everything? I think that because I found myself so angry in that moment I’d done what I always done. I became snarky.

‘So I let myself in, since you wouldn’t get up and answer the door. What’s the excuse this time? Lost track of time did you?’ The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Opening the door to the living room I saw what knew I would see. I almost instantly regretted what I had said. Richard was hurting. I knew that even before I saw him there. Their couch was only small, a two seater, but he looked lost in it. A stick-thin figure sat there, clutching a fluffy brown cow, so close to crying.

     I’ve always been paternal. ‘Caring to a fault’ was the way I’d been described by my former wife. It hit me hard when she died. I didn’t have time to grieve though. I had a young daughter to look after. A young daughter who knew something was wrong, but not what was wrong. She was lucky in a way. Rachael, I mean. She never knew her mother. I don’t think she ever did. How much does a four year old actually get to know their mother? I knew her so well though. My wife, she made me care. She made me who I am. I suppose, when she died, I had to be maternal as well. My wife would have got a kick out of that. So when I saw Richard clinging to that toy cow, all I wanted to do was comfort him. The anger didn’t seem important any more. His wife had died, I knew how that felt. His child had died. I know how that feels too. Every time I stand up I have to clutch my stomach, or it feels like it might just fall out.

     He didn’t want me though. Richard didn’t want anyone there. If I hadn’t been there I think he would have entombed himself there. Lived out a half-life mourning the loss of the only family he had. I never found that out: what happened to his parents. I’m sure Rachael knew. She told me to drop it when I asked when I was going to meet them. What with Rachael and Richard having a civil ceremony, there was only close friends and myself at the wedding. I never questioned it. Why didn’t I question it? Maybe I didn’t really know him. Tangents, that’s me. My mind wanders. Even if looking back I didn’t know Richard, when I saw him he was broken. I had to help him, even if he didn’t want my help.

     I don’t remember what he said. I remember what happened. What Richard’s actual words were though, I only remember three.

‘It’s my fault’ Richard was so convinced, I could see him snap as he said the words. I could see the agony in his eyes. I don’t think I believed that he blamed himself. Not until he explained it. Richard let Rachael take Michael in the car to get some new nappies. Nappies that he had forgotten to bring home. Trivial. That wasn’t the worst thing, nor was watching him frantically obsessed with tidying up. Every time I grabbed him to get him moving and ready for the funeral, he rushed to pick up a misplaced toy. That’s why I had even gone there. I’d not even seen Richard since the day at the hospital. I had to organise everything. To recall it now, I’m ashamed. I wasn’t able to…I didn’t want to see Richard.

     It took a long time to get Richard up. It took even longer to finally get him to tell me why he felt Rachael and Michael’s death was his fault. When I finally got him to the door, he broke my grip. I turned, looked at his hand. As I’d picked up his coat, well I don’t know if it was his, something had been revealed. A pack of nappies. A full pack of nappies.

     I haven’t seen Richard since then. He won’t see me. I have had to piece together what happened. I saw Rachael on the day she died. I went to their house. Some time before then, Rachael must have asked Richard to bring home nappies. I saw Richard leave. Then I took Michael out to buy more shoes whilst Rachael stayed at home and studied. I spent a wonderful day with my grandson. He was a happy baby. He cried, of course, all babies cry. He smiled more than he cried though. Children look as if they see wonder in everything. Michael did at least. He always had a hug for his Grandpa as well. We fed the ducks; we brought new shoes; we had spaghetti for lunch. Then I took him home. Michael was asleep by the time we pulled up outside Richard and Rachael’s. So I took him up to his bed. I made Rachael a coffee. I said goodbye. I left. Sometime after, Richard must have got home. Michael must have woken up. Rachel must have gone with Michael to get nappies. There was ice on the ground. Something must have thrown her off the road.

     After the accident I planned the funeral. I tried and failed to get Richard there. Then I came to you. Then you asked me to tell you why I’m here. So, how do I help Richard? I need to help him you see. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to think about how I have managed to outlive my wife, my daughter, my grandson. So I’m asking you. How do I carry on? How do I stay sane? How do I not think about the bad that has happened?

My book's in the library!!!!!

Today I learnt that my book is available to borrow from a public library!

About four years ago now, I decided that the rather talented group of poets that I knew deserved showcasing somehow in the form of a book. We were a big group of writers and there were almost a dozen poetry events on Wirral. Whether or not the Wirral Alliance of Poets is still going, well I do not know. I certainly know that the first venue I went to, Bards of New Brighton, is still going strong. Naively I decided to set up a publishing project and put together a book of poems from as many poets who'd agree to be published and help finance the project. Wirral's Winter Words was that first book. I registered ISBNs, set up a publishing company and got to work with this small vanity publishing affair. 

Since then I've learnt a lot about the publishing industry. Silly things like if a distributor orders the books you publish you have no hope of getting paid for the books sold for at least three months. Or how about the idea that big chains make it almost impossible for indy publishers to hack their way into their inventory. Worse still is how much Amazon like to take off you so that they can offer books so cheaply. 

I digress though. The book that I wrote myself and got someone else to edit and check through before greenlighting publishing is available from a public library. That baffles me. Bear in mind I put the book out as a cathartic thing. I wanted a book that I could sell at festivals and face to face (where the author can get more money for their hard work). I also wanted a book I could read from...kind of a 'na nana na na, I have all my poems in a book and I'm not reading them from some tatty piece of paper' thing. 

Here's the baffling part though. I personally posted out every book that got sold. So how does a book make it into a library that I am not aware of?

Who knows...worth puzzling over though! Oh and if by some miracle you feel like taking a look at my book it's here or here I'm also going to post a sample called I Remember - Tony's Story in a bit. Do have a peek.

I should be writing

There's a point during the script writing process that I begin to get really excited about the project. Usually, it'll happen early as I'm putting the story together and imagining which actors I want to play which roles. Generally speaking I never get excited about the writing part of each project. Writing the dialogue is boring, difficult and tedious. It's a normal thing to have got the whole play planned out and to know who each character is and just wish that the dialogue will just appear as if from nowhere. It never does of course, but hope springs eternal. Or rather it did.

Today I've finally been putting pen to paper on a script I've had on my board and been meaning to write 'When Tomorrow Comes'. Oddly though I know exactly where the script is going. I know who the characters are and I'm finding the dialogue easy to write. Sure, I do wonder if that means that the dialogue is absolute tripe, but still the script is forming really easily.

Maybe, this script is coming more easily to me because I've been planning it for so long. I've had the time to mull over all the characters and work out just how I'm going to get person x from a to b. I should say I do this quite a lot anyway, but I often working such things out as I'm beginning to write, not a whole year before I even start writing dialogue.

The Beauty in The Beast - Poetry

 

There is a beast inside that woman.

It Cages her in, and forces her into the dark.

Through the window if it’s home I see:

Her lost, forgotten, silent, and sad frame,

In a sea of the nearly dead.

Forgotten by a son, not her own.

Silent in her isolation, and sadder still,

Without her husband, Lost for years.

A great woman, that’s what she was,

Caring, giving, warm and unique. Fiercely intelligent.

Her mind was as sharp as broken glass.

The photographic memory, The shorthand and long…

They are all gone now. A cloud has rolled in, a device of the beast.

The diaries she wrote, The trinkets she kept,

The heirlooms she treasured. They are all gone now.

All sold or binned, By the son she loves,

As if he were, her own.

Though my name she has forgotten,

and the details slip through her grasp,

When I visit, her eyes, they say: ‘I know that boy!’

And as we talk, the beast and the cloud are beat back,

And she can remember, my weekly visits, and the fun we shared.

One look around, the place called home.

One step into her shoes, reveals that the beast, is not an enemy.

It is a blessing, upon her. And the pain I see, is just my own.

For she knows, that this home is a hotel, all her needs are catered for.

She has no responsibilities, but also no need to fear.

Her life is simple. And the ease is her reward, For a life well lived.

There is a beast, inside that woman.

It makes life painless, and is easing her into the dark.

Not Quite A Vigilante - Part 1

Pete's Journal - 10th April

When I finally opened my hand, my palm was red raw from holding so tight to the pendant hanging from my neck. Why’d he have to go out tonight? He was being reckless. You see, my relationship with Matt is at best, undefined. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time helping him out with no thanks ever being uttered. The rest of the time I sit at this window just watching. Was this the night he wouldn’t return? I took one more deep breath of the cool, damp air and closed the balcony door. I let the pendant fall from the leather thong, slightly aggravating my neck as it’s rough texture dug into the soft flesh. I shut out the world, closing my eyes and muttering a silent prayer. Just keep him safe. Of course, when I welcomed back the world there was Matt. He always stood there, bold as brass with that silly smirk on his face. Why did patrol always do that to him? Smug was an emotion that never looked good on this man. Arrogance though? Well arrogance looked good on him. I never imagined that an arrogant superhero could look good. He did though.

                Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a groupie, or fan, or an excitable kid. Maybe I once was, but not now. Right now I am tech support. At that moment, I was about to get the latest malfunctioning gadget thrown at me with a list of its problems. Malfunctions happened every time he took a long patrol. This patrol was no exceptions: eight hours out and two big break downs.

‘The cameras are all busted up’. Throwing me both his back up and his main pairs of shades I took a look. The casing of the mini-cam and the hinge of lenses attached to both pairs of shades looked as if they’d been struck with a hammer.

‘Let me guess, you ran into a wall again?’

‘No, some smart-arse hit me with a shovel.’

‘Well that’s one pair of shades, what about the second?’

‘Plain old fashioned knuckle duster.’ He was so blasé about it I could hit him, not that he’d feel it. Why was he always like that? Matt stepped off and led me to the kitchen, the brighter lights here always showed traces of his adventures each night. No normal person would notice of course, but somehow Matt didn’t bruise, and his skin rarely broke. I swear it would take a train hitting him to get him bleeding. Not that either of us have tried it out. Matt’s pale skin was slightly blotched just on the left temple. A tiny patch of red stood out under his flowing brown hair. If it hadn’t been for the glasses I’d never have believed that Matt’d been in so many brawls tonight.

                Matt crossed to the fridge, raiding for his usual post-patrol binge of beer, leftover pizza, chocolate and yoghurt. Tossing each item into one blow, Matt spun to the cupboard, grabbed some microwave popcorn and nuked the bag. Finishing the single movement he flowed into the lounge and flopped on the couch. When Matt first came to live here I kicked his arse for a week trying to get him to eat something decent. I've got used to him though. After all, you can’t be too hard on someone when they’ve lost their wife. Maybe that was my artful ability to avoid confrontation though. The poor guy lost his world though; I couldn’t dish out the tough love. So it just became a habit, Matt would go out on patrol, come home, binge and sleep. I just had to hope that sometime soon Matt's stone skin would crack and let him feel something again. Don’t get me wrong, superheroes should be stoic, but I’ve had this unshakeable feeling for too long. Matt doesn’t talk, because Matt doesn’t feel. I put the brakes on the psycho-babble rambling of my caffeine addicted brain and turned my attention to the problem at hand.

                The mini-cams were all but unsalvageable. Matt wouldn’t be able to go out with these, so it was time to rig the back-ups. After all: no cams, no evidence. No evidence, no justice. See, Matt manages to stay on the right side of the law. It was actually my idea. Yeah, technically, he may be a vigilante, but the cameras that I rig to his shades record everything. He never initiates the violence…well he did once, but that was understandable. No hero can be expected to keep his cool in the war against vacuum sealed plastic wrap. Technically, every time Matt uses violence it’s the text-book definition of self-defence. You see, when you can’t feel pain, and for all intents and purposes can’t be injured, well ‘reasonable force’ isn’t too difficult to keep to. The cameras just provide the evidence that the mark was actually criminal. I strolled to my work bench; passing the nearly comatose Matt sprawled over the edge of the couch. How did he fall asleep so fast? I tossed the mini-cams into the waste bin; I’d have to empty that later, and reached for my toolkit and two new cams. It didn’t look like the mounts were damaged too badly. Funny that, the cam lenses and housing were completely shattered, yet the mounts stayed pretty intact. That should have been my first clue.