by Paul Ashton
then the script will necessarily be good.
Don’t worry if you get lost or stuck along the way – so long as you
know where you are going, you can get back on track.
Don’t think you can go off on major tangents or make a fundamental
change to the story on a whim – if they are necessary, you should
think and work them through first.
QUESTIONS
Some questions should always be in your head, but especially at this stage:
Is it the story I want to tell?
Am I telling it in a way that suits the story?
Is it the right form?
Is it coherent and whole?
Does it always feel like it’s going somewhere?
Am I using clichéd, familiar and predictable ingredients?
Have the characters taken on a life of their own?
Does it ever feel like the story is ‘getting away from me’?
220 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
Does it feel clear in my head even if it appears unclear on the page?
If unclear, is it engaging intrigue? Or confusion and incoherence?
REALITIES
Writing a script can feel like a marathon – a monumental journey of endur -
ance where you hit ‘the wall’ at some point but hopefully have the training, the
preparation and the desire to get through it to the end. When you reach that
finish line it can be a thrilling, relieving, satisfying moment.
But unfortunately it is just a fleeting moment. Writers are not one-off
fun-runners. They are obsessive–compulsive and run every marathon there
is to run. So enjoy the moment. But remember to wind down, train down,
soak your tired muscles, eat well, sleep well and be prepared to have to go
back to it before long.
Actually, it’s not quite like a marathon – because in writing it’s rather
like running a marathon and then having to retrace parts of the route. And
if you’re really unlucky (or ill-prepared), you may have to run the whole damn
thing again from beginning to end.
The chances of you writing a finished script first time round for any
medium, no matter how well you prepare or how hard you work, are very
slim. Paul Andrew Williams describes how writing the actual script of his
film London to Brighton took more or less a weekend and that he didn’t
really rewrite it as such. But the story, characters, world, tone and ideas
were writing themselves in his head long before. And in that time before,
he also made a short film which was a literal precursor, creating the world,
char acters and tone and using actors that would go on to be cast in the
feature-length film.
However you wish to frame it for yourself, the writing and rewriting
will happen – no matter which you do before the other. I would argue that
Paul did all his rewriting somewhere in his head and in his preparation,
before writing the actual script very quickly. Also, he’s a director and always
planned to shoot it very low-budget so he wasn’t writing a calling card script
as such – he was preparing the blueprint to make a film. And although the
script wasn’t endlessly rewritten, the final film went through a kind of
rewrite in production and editing. So there’s different ways of skinning the
proverbial cat. But it’s still a cat and it still has skin.
THE END 221
REWRITING
TV and film writers like Paul Abbott have long asserted that ‘writing is
rewriting’. Yet in debunking contrast, theatre director Dominic Dromgoole
has argued that great scripts aren’t endlessly rewritten – they are just
written.
So who is right? What is the real truth? Is ‘development’ and ‘rewrit -
ing’ necessarily a bad thing? Can writers really just write a play? There is
no right answer and there is no real truth: there is what works for you and
what doesn’t work for you; there is what suits you and what doesn’t suit
you. And there is what other people ask and expect when they pay you
money to write something. But when it’s just you, the writer, telling a story
you want to tell, and not under commission, then it’s simply up to you.
It is true that over-developing things in rewrites can ruin them – just
as under-developing them before they are written can ruin them. If only
there were a simple truth, life would be a lot easier (and, it is true, many of
us would be out of jobs). But there isn’t.
Perhaps at the heart of Dromgoole’s questioning the value of a bloated
development industry is the fact that theatre never suffered with out one
before – and the bloatedness seems self-serving, capitalising on the vain
aspirations of the many who want to be ‘writers’ rather than really helping
great theatre or film or TV get made. When I had the ‘literary’ role with a
regional new writing theatre company it wasn’t my job to interfere with
scripts, it was my job to find good writers with plays to showcase and help
get them on. So I have much sympathy with his argument. Shakespeare and
Chekhov and Beckett and many a great writer didn’t need a script editor.
However, that doesn’t mean they didn’t rewrite. Although Shakespeare
wrote fast, he did rewrite some of his most popular plays in repertory once
they had been produced and he could see whether or not they worked. I
think writing and rewriting happens in the head as much (if not more) than
on the page (or under the supervision of a script guru). You may have
rewritten your story any number of times before you commit it to paper.
Of course, there are some differences between theatre, radio, film and
TV. I don’t think ongoing development suits a lot of theatre and radio.
Generally speaking, the narrative construction and the number and length
of scenes are usually far less logistically complex in theatre and radio than
in film and TV. In theatre you can try things out in the rehearsal room – in
222 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
radio, film and TV you pretty much can’t. Film and TV is so expensive to
make that you have to feel absolutely sure and happy that what is written
is worth scheduling and preparing and shooting. Get that wrong and it will
be a costly mistake, whereas in theatre you can revisit the play and even
lose whole scenes without great financial implications, while sound design
and effects in radio mean that it generally costs no more to record any one
scene than any other. The deciding factor is the numbers of actors and how
long you need to get it the ‘take’ you want. There are no crane or aerial
shots, night shoots, remote locations or massive crews to keep the whole
thing going. You can do much on a bare stage or in a radio studio, but there
are no blank cheques in film and TV.
REWRITING YOUR SIGNATURE
So what impact does any of this have on your signature calling card script?
Well, less than if you’re writing an episode of Casualty, which must be
storylined, scheduled, budgeted and shot on time – all of which is an unavoid-
able logistical headache.
With signature scripts, however, that aren’t written to tight briefs and
commissions, you should rewrite as much or as little as you feel is needed.
Nobody expects it to be perfect. In fact
, I think the industry is slightly sus -
picious of perfection. They want a strong story and voice, and if that’s rough
round the edges and raw at its heart, fine – better, even. Producers like
having something to work with rather than something cast in aspic.
TIME AND SPACE
Whatever you do, when you have finished what you think is a complete
draft, you should put it to one side for a couple of weeks at the very least,
do other things. Spend time with family, friends or all those neglected
household chores. You need to give yourself the space to come back to the
script as fresh as possible.
This is much harder than it sounds. Often writers are itching to take
a look. I have asked writers to take a couple of weeks away, come back
fresh, and see if the space has given them a useful new perspective. And
often they come back within a couple of days having already done a rewrite
they say they are totally satisfied with. And they have missed the point.
THE END 223
The point is: give yourself some time and space. It’s not a race. It’s not a
sprint.
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE
The near-impossible thing is putting aside our subjectivity – taking an
objective look – in part because it is precisely their subjectivity that makes
the best writers and their work stand out. But you can try fooling yourself
into taking what you believe to be an objective look.
First, you should read your script as you think a random reader might.
Print out a clean copy and read it at speed, without taking copious notes or
making on-page edits. Do it as if it were a job. Get up, have breakfast, brew
a coffee, get settled and read it straight through. This is the closest you’ll
get to a ‘blind’ read.
Second, ask yourself all the questions you think a reader might ask.
What’s is about? Who’s it for? What’s unique? Why tell this story now? Is it
coherent? Does it feel distinct? Does it ring true? Is it clear? What does the
story feel like? Make notes not on what you might tweak or change, but on
what the script does and does not achieve as it stands. Ask yourself what
existing work an objective reader might it compare it with – and how it
might stand up to that comparison.
Third, know yourself and be honest with yourself. Some writers (for no
necessarily bad reason) by default assume that what they have written is
great and find it hard to accept what others see as problems and weak -
nesses. Other writers believe by default that what they have written is crap
(even if it isn’t) and find it hard to accept it might be good. In truth, the
former can tend to be the unsuccessful writers who don’t understand why
their work isn’t being accepted, while the latter may have an intrinsic
critical eye and sense of dissatisfaction that stands them in good stead,
because they always wish to better their work. But the point is that what -
ever your natural instinct, you need to consciously counter it and assume
the opposite so that you can feel your way towards objectivity.
FEEDBACK
Tricky. If you have people you can trust to be honest, constructive, intel -
ligent and helpful without it damaging your relationship, then use them.
224 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
If not, then don’t. Friends, family and partners tend not to be useful because
they can struggle to be objective about you – or honest with you.
Beware script feedback services unless one comes highly recom mended.
No feedback can be truly objective, we all carry personal tastes and opi -
nions with us.
Writers’ groups can be usefully supportive if you can find one close to
home. But beware the failed, bitter rival among the members – the writer
whose life is a sour invective against not only the industry that fails to
recognise their genius, but also other writers who dare to compete for that
industry’s attention. Avoid these people. They can’t help you.
If you’re brave and have access to willing friends (or even profes
-
sionals), the best thing you can have is a private reading. Get in some food
and wine of an evening, read the script through, and talk it over. What you
hear and don’t hear in a reading can be worth reams of ‘feedback’. But don’t
cast yourself in the lead role – you need to sit back and listen and hear and
think and take notes rather than be wondering how to deliver a line.
It’s true that although this can work brilliantly well for theatre and
radio, it might work less well for film and TV simply because the formats
don’t lend themselves easily to a reading. So if you’re doing a reading of a
screenplay, you need someone really good to read the ‘action’ at pace.
THE RED PEN
You should learn to love the red pen. I reckon that for most great writers
there is a moment where they come to realise, often after a struggle, how
liberating it is to be able to wield the red pen and not be afraid to do
whatever it takes to make their script work.
Only when you’ve done what you can to stand back and see the forest
for the trees should you hunker back down and go through the script line
by line, tree by tree. Make sure you have the time and space and concen -
tration – if you don’t, wait until you do. It’s hard to do it in snatches. Ready
yourself and do it properly.
Always print out a clean hard copy and use a coloured pen. Don’t sit
and read on a computer screen – because you will start tinkering straight
away. Save making the on-screen edits for another day.
THE END 225
RECLAIM YOUR SUBJECTIVITY
The greatest danger is that you get so lost in rewriting and tinkering that
you edit your voice and personality out of the script. This is fatal. You need
to reclaim your subjectivity and reaffirm what it is that is you about this
story and the way it’s been told.
Nobody can tell you what is instinctively right: it’s your story, and only
you can do that. Whenever it’s starting to feel like it’s no longer your story,
whatever the reason, then you need to put the script aside and ask yourself
again what makes it yours – and then go back and see what it is that has
thrown you off course.
IS IT REALLY FINISHED?
A script is never finished unless it has finished being made. Stage plays
change over the course of a run and then again in new productions. Radio,
TV and film changes in the edit right up until the final locked-off version.
So it’s not so much that the script is never finished, rather that your writing
of it can come to a conclusion – whether or not it is made.
Unless your calling card is produced, then perhaps it will never be
truly finished. But don’t rewrite it and tinker with it interminably. Get
yourself to the point where you’ve done what you can and then see how the
world reacts to it. And if you get back a great note or piece of advice, then
tinker away. But in the meantime – start something new.
HOW FINISHED DOES IT NEED TO BE?
As I’ve said, nobody expects perfection. We can embrace rawness, rough -
ness, i
mperfection and even a right old mess so long as there are things in
there that genuinely excite and engage us. You need to stop writing at some
point but the script doesn’t need to be ‘finished’. As I once heard TV writer
Tony Grounds say, it just needs to be ‘ready to be read’. And if someone
comes back excited about the possibilities of working with it and/or working
with you, then your script has done its job with a flourish. It may never be
made, but it will have been well worth the hard work of writing it.
A writer I know well who has some brilliant original calling card
scripts for TV and film lives in eternal hope that they might one day be
226 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
made. He fully appreciates and accepts that they probably won’t. But those
scripts have helped him get an agent, get on to a TV development scheme
I put together, and consequently earned him some fantastic commissions
for high-end, prime-time TV shows and more. They have helped him become
a real, successful, proper writer.
It all started with a great calling card script.
CODA
So you’ve ‘finished’ a script. You’ve done all you can to get it right. It’s ready
to be read. You should feel satisfied and excited. You deserve to feel pleased
with yourself.
But I’m afraid it doesn’t end there. You’ve been through the beginning,
middle and end, and arrived at the end of this journey as a writer. Yet it’s
only one script, one journey – one stage. The final word is that there are more
marathons to come and although you need to rest and recover, you can’t sit
still for too long.
STARTING OVER
Just about every great ending is a beginning too, and that’s no less the case
for you. Great writers don’t stand still, they keep moving. They write more.
They can’t help it. There are stories to tell and things to say and ideas to
realise. The mark of a real writer is the next thing, and the next thing after
that, and the next thing after that. They are always starting over.