I’ve been told I don’t blog frequently enough by Martyn Deakin. Martyn’s an excellent writer and all round decent bloke. He’s someone I both like and respect. You should hire him. Seriously, go do it now.
And, you know, he’s right … but he can fuck off.
I’ve been busy, I’m not here for your entertainment. It’s not my job to fill your worthless lives with diverting tidbits, nor to regale you with (largely imaginary) tales of …
Right, apparently it is my job to do all that. Apparently that’s what being a writer is all about.
Okay, so a funny thing happened to me today on my way to the secret writing island …
Actually, it didn’t. I had a lovely flight and had many an interesting conversation including ones about ‘the first ever genital piercing’ and ‘how to wake someone up with a spoon’.
I also had a lovely meal on the plane of creamed tomato soup with chive créme fraiche and coriander micro cress, followed by braised cheek of beef with horseradish mashed potatoes, cumin-scented hispi cabbage and red wine jus and topped off with a lovely lemon-curd-filled lemon cheesecake with raspberry couli .
That’s really not important, but it was yummy and I felt the need to share. The words, not the meal itself. I’m a bit Joey in that respect, I don’t share food under any circumstances.
Anyway, here I am, ensconced on my secret writing island and ready to roll up my metaphorical sleeves.
My sleeves are metaphorical because it’s too damned hot for real ones.
And so begins the new regime.
If you’ve been following along, you’ll know I’ve decided to draw a line under the work I’ve done to date* and to pursue new career paths. Largely in the hopes of actually making a decent film. Or failing that, to know for certain the film is shit because of my script and not because of adventures it’s enjoyed on the torturous road to production.
The plan was to withdraw, write in isolation for a year or so until I had some scripts I wasn’t embarrassed of, and then make my triumphant return in a burst of technicolour splendidness.
I lasted about three days, snapped, rang up a director I know and asked him if he wanted to work on a new project with me.
Happily he does. Even more happily, he likes the idea and now all I have to do is write it. And be awesome. The former is well within my capabilities, the latter … well, we’ll see.
Oh, and then we have to try and make the fucking thing.
That’s probably the tricky part, but we’ll jump off that bridge when burns it down around us.
The beauty of the idea is it’s easily scalable. Five or six actors, one location (ish) and no special effects. It can be shot for pennies or for well, it’s all pennies I guess. This film could be made for thousands of pennies or billions … we’ll have to wait and see. It could even be split up and shown as webisodes if all else fails. The important thing is control, to execute the idea to the best of my ability as opposed to the best of people who haven’t got any.
Best of all, it’s an idea I want to write. Done well, it’ll be a complete and utter sci-fi head fuck with a very sweet and heartwarming tale at its core. Done badly, it’ll be … well, it’ll fit in with my back catalogue, if I’m brutally honest.
And there you go, that’s where I am. Warm, happy and full of cheek. Braised cheek.
How are you?
* save a few hangover projects which are still in development – four at last count, although a fifth may just have lurched back into life and punched its way out of the grave. Much to the horror of Aunt Nellie who was kneeling on said grave, paying her respects at the time. Poor Aunt Nellie, she may never recover from the indignity.