I lied to you.
I’m sorry, but it’s true.
When I wrote the last post, about thinning the herd, I said:
“I’m finally at the stage in this horror script when people are going to start seriously dying”
The truth is, I said that partly to make me feel better; but mostly in case the producer was reading this blog, wondering where his script was.
You see, the point where people start seriously dying is the mid-point and this being an 80 page script, that should be around page 40. Because of the problems dealing with 10 characters in the room – all the fucking time – I was really looking forward to the point when they’d stop FUCKING TALKING.
So hopefully the producer, being a clever chap, would have read that and thought “Hullo, Phill’s halfway through the script. Maybe he will actually finish this fucking thing?”
In actual fact, come Thursday morning I was still on page 26.
The deadline’s on Monday.
That’s ten more fucking pages of ten fucking people fucking talking all the fucking time!
Still, no problem. 54 pages in four days – that’s easy. I think. I’ve done it before anyway, I once wrote a screenplay in three days – a whole screenplay!
A whole shit screenplay as it turned out, but still: 54 pages, 4 days = 13.5 pages a day. I can do that. I can.
Oh wait, that’s not including editing time. That’s just getting to the last page and stopping. I need to go back through, right from the beginning and tidy, prune and hack until it makes sense and is actually good. Okay, so that takes a day, but still: 54 pages, 3 days = 18 pages a day.
I started this script on … oh, the 3rd of November. So I’ve been working on it for … 31 days.
Fuck, that’s less than a page a day.
A lot less.
Ah! Take weekends out. That’s 23 days. Ooh! More than a page a day. Better. But not much.
Um … oh yeah, I wrote some sketches for a TV thing … that’s got to count for …
Fuck it, alright. I’ve pissed away the last month. Balls.
Never mind, here’s my chance to make up for it. I can do this. 18 pages a day. Here we go.
Thursday: 13 pages.
It’s not my fault, there were … um … monkeys. With hats. They wanted me to … shit.
20.5 pages for the next two days.
Friday: 10 pages.
10 fucking pages?
That’s fucking dog shit.
Oh crap, I’m not going to do this. I’ve got to write 31 pages tomorrow. 31! I can’t do it. Jesus, I’ll believe in you if you … no hang on, back in your box beardy … the deadline’s Monday, but no one said when. I can write until 23.59!
An extra day!
15.5 pages a day Saturday/Sunday … I can do that. I can.
Type fast, just keep fucking typing. No more than two words of dialogue per person per scene.
Genius! Look at that page count rack up!
Keep typing. Make something blow up, don’t give anyone time to talk.
Hooray! People are dying!
Stab that one in the neck. What with? What’s on the desk? Tippex? Can you stab someone with Tippex? Fuck it, if I don’t know, no one else will. Maybe the killer deliberately left the top off and the bristles went all hard? Yeah, that could work.
Next one, kill him! Um … just been to the toilet – I could strangle him with a light pull or choke him with Toilet Duck. Fuck it, do both. Yeah, you’re dead, fucker! And your breath smells of disinfectant.
What else? Oh it’s her, I hate her. I’ll kill her with … oh Jesus … index cards? Yeah, death of a thousand paper cuts. Are paper cuts lethal?
After hacking at my face for the last thirty minutes I can conclusively tell you they aren’t – but they do sting a bit.
Yes, I can snap a CD in half and gouge out her eyes!
Oh fuck, the window’s open and the neighbours heard that. Sorry!
Come on, come on.
A fire, some talking fleas, killer magnets, rubber ice cream … chuck ’em all in.
These aren’t things on my desk, by the way, I’m just past the point of ultimate panic and can no longer see.
Ironically, in my quest for weapons to murder with, I neglected to turn round. If I had, I would have seen: a samurai sword, a rope dart, a quiver of Masai arrows, a jo, a bokken and a Gurkha knife – all of which are fairly lethal.
Keep typing, keep typing.
Fuck, it’s Alice’s bath time.
Okay, here we go; bath time, bath time. La, la, la … how much is that doggy in the window? Splash, splash. Here’s the fishy, here’s the froggy … can you kill people with a froggy? Maybe. Plug out, towel down, dry the baby, clothes, milk, bed, shut up – it’s bed time.
Better have some food.
Pizza, tea … back to work.
I’ve lost two hours!
Type, must type!
Stab, slash, burn, maim, chew, Tippex … explain the plot. Who was the murderer? Um … K9? No, that makes no fucking sense. Um … it’s close enough, someone built a murderous robotic dog and …
Oh, I’m finished.
82 pages of … I was going to say glory but … let’s just say 82 pages.
Hmm … it’s only 22.38.
Have I actually put words on ALL the pages?
Yes, apparently I have.