Remember my journey through the world of scriptwriting...?

Dear Mum (and other family and friends),

You might remember a month ago I submitted a script to the BBC Writersroom – I kept a diary of my progress (from ‘One Day’ in April through to ‘Walking into the sunset’ in May).  

Well, I have some rather encouraging news...

Before you jump up and down, clapping your hands, and scream “Your script is going to be made into a radio drama! YOUR SCRIPT IS GOING TO BE MADE INTO A RADIO DRAMA!” --- It isn’t.

 I received an email t’other day from the Writersroom informing me they won’t be taking my script any further.

However...

The email informed me that they received a whopping 1900 scripts. They read the first 10 pages of each script and, from these 10 pages, decided which scripts would continue to the next stage.

Only 20% of received scripts were put forward to stage 2. And mine was one of them!

Which means just 380 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means 1 in 5 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means I’m not a total lost cause when it comes to writing a half decent script.

You might’ve guessed, I’m very excited!

Yes, that is the end of that venture. You won’t be hearing my name on Radio 4 any day soon.

But I’m one step closer to making a good stab at it...

Lovely Sweet, not Hideous Kinky

Dear Mum,

This time last week I was lolling in the Moroccan sunshine, a mirage of orange juice sellers ready and willing to quench my thirst and a host of unrecognisable coins tinkling in my pocket.

Now I am penniless and shivering, the joy of my short lived city break embodied in a Moroccan scarf wrapped tightly about my neck and a fading henna tattoo.

I am remaining faithful to my New Years Resolutions and I have ticked Resolution Number 6's box in Arabic. This was my first trip to Africa and I felt oddly anxious. (I know you felt the same, having recited the ‘I-know-you-know-this-but-I’m-your-Mother-and-it’s-my job-to-say-it’ speech).

Fortunately for me, my travelling companion was my roommate from uni; a seasoned traveller and bona fide African, her parents residing in Kenya.

Swathed in maxi dresses we floated about the city, Nat’s golden tresses catching the amber light as it ricocheted off the red buildings, my pale (and uninteresting) skin letting our glamorous selves down by almost conducting the sunlight, like a living solar panel, blinding all passersby into donning their sunglasses.

(One friend once called me ‘whiter than white.’ After the initial ouch I accepted this as a truth, the proof of which is in all photographs as I tend to blur into one white blob – the sort of image of which is sent into cheap magazines on pages dedicated to paranormal activity).

We were made to feel very welcome by the Moroccan natives and particularly by the Marrakechi men. No doubt this was simply because men carry out the vast majority of business in their culture and upon witnessing two European faces (punctuated by Nat’s golden hair and my freckled, sweating, pink and peeling face) money signs materialise in their eyes, like the cartoons of yore.

In the context of the souks their flattering sales techniques was very successful. We had cash to spend and wanted to stock up on souvenirs. Where better than the Aladdin’s Caves that line the mini malls of Jemaa el Fna?

Flattery was an excellent prologue to our spending. It’s certainly nice to be appreciated.

While some salesmen simply asked us to just look at their stock, others complimented us on our outfits. This had us hook, line and sinker.

One chap, Abdul, called us sisters. “Goodbye, sisters! You’re welcome back to Marrakech anytime.” He was charming (and a totally hunk) and we did return to his stall… twice. Nat bought three leather bags from him.

This was largely down to his beautiful goods, partly due to his beautiful face (and arms), and most definitely because he made us, his sisters,  feel so welcome. He even offered to buy us tea! What’s not to like?

If we weren’t eager to make a purchase, we would assure the salesmen “Maybe we’ll have a look later.” A frequent reply to this was “later alligator.”

Others simply took note that we were English and croaked “Lovely Jubbly!” Whilst this was not a particularly appealing call (the image of Delboy pulling dodgy TV’s out of his yellow car’s boot not being on the top of my holiday wish list) it did make the two of us giggle like schoolgirls.

We were puzzled when the younger salesmen would attempt to attract our attention by yelling “Hey Lady Gaga! Lady Gaga!” or “Shakira! Shakira!”

On the one hand, both are influential women, both attractive, both talented. But as neither of us shimmied down the alleyways, neither bellydancing with hips that don’t lie and neither dressed in meat outfits, these nicknames were somewhat defunct.

Similarly, a food salesman telling us that his cuisine was like Sainsbury’s’ delicacies meant we both recoiled. No offence to the food connoisseur, and no offence to Sainsbury’s, but we were on our holiday and wanted to leave everything British behind us.

(Apart from, perhaps, a cup of tea. Ideally with Abdul).

Yet these were all enjoyable sales pitches. Similar declarations would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears in Lord Sugar’s boardroom. But for two young women looking for a good time in a foreign country we relished these situations.

We were at a scarf souk with a salesman who was determined for us to “Relaxxxxx!” and rest our bags on a side table. If we so much as nudged one of the bags he would order us to “Relaxxxx!” before returning the container to its original position.

We stood, bagless, and he draped beautiful scarves over our shoulders. If it hadn’t been 35◦ I would have bought more.

He took quite a liking to Nat and told us he would buy her for 5,000 camels. We both smiled indulgently.

If this happened in the UK I would have no problem throwing the guy a dirty look.

Indeed, when men in European countries toot their horns (I know I’m stereotyping, but as a rule they tend to be in vans), perhaps blowing kisses or licking their lips as they pass by, I have no problem in flipping the bird in their direction.

Oh dear, I sound like Samantha Brick. 


I must highlight this is not a regular occurrence. But I importantly never pander to their lusts or make use of their flattery by encouraging them to buy me a train ticket. 

But when the tables are turned, and men are flattering you so that you will give them money for a taxi ride, or scarf or leather bag, I confess I really enjoy it and I do indulge them.

Especially if they’re Moroccan.

Hit the Road Jack

Dear Mum,

I felt very smug yesterday, watching TV from the comfort of my home. I’m inclined to think toward the end of the river pageant the Queen herself was thinking that an inside viewing with a lap blanket and a hot toddy would have been preferable.

The Duke of Edinburgh, on the other hand, looked like he was having a jolly good time and it was lovely to see the Queen light up when the warhorse bucked on top of the National Theatre.

It was clearly a well organised affair and with the highest security, especially with the top seven members of the Royal Family amassed and shivering on their royal barge.

I’m confident there is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service whom the Royal Family can always depend upon.

Someone who respects Her Majesty immensely, who will do anything to protect Her Majesty, whether wrestling a gobby protester bursting in on a royal meeting to the floor or holding an umbrella over her bouffant in drizzly rain.

Someone ruthless, streetwise and not distracted by the rears of any Duchesses or, more probably, Duchesses’ sisters.

Someone like Jack Bauer.

There are occasions where I wish I was Jack Bauer. Situations in which sense and logic are non-existent, where being polite and patient achieves bugger all.

When setting up a savings account, for instance.

I applied online for a high interest saving account and, almost a month after applying, received a letter requesting proof of identity.

Their list of acceptable ID documents included the usual examples – passports, driving licences, utility and credit card bills. This same letter pointed out “We would recommend, for security reasons, that you do not send original documents.”

Sensibly, therefore, I photocopied my passport and a credit card statement.

A week later, I receive a letter in which the photocopies were returned because “Photocopy document was not acceptable”, the same letter shortly after repeating “do not send original documents.”

What do they suggest? A photograph of these documents? A hologram? A video of me on my hand and knees, holding up my passport as I beg “Pleaaseee let me bank with you!!!”

The letter I received does not include ANY telephone number or contact email address, making the writers of this letter elusive and slightly suspicious.

It is occasions like this, when writing a letter which effectively gives a literary middle finger, does not make one feel better. And when “Dear Arsewipes” is probably not going to get the banking bozos on my side when they first open my letter.

These are the situations in which I wish I was an employee of CTU, the Counter Terrorist Unit and former employing body of Agent Jack Bauer.

My first move would be to hack into the bank’s system and tick the “Applicant has sent proof of ID” icon.

“I can’t get into their system. There firewall is like nothing I’ve seen before,” the slightly geeky but highly competent data analyst would say.

“Can’t you try getting around it?” I’d breathlessly insist.

“They’ve got security measures in place. Our system might be jeopardised if I hack into their trunkline.”

“Then get me an address.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“I need it NOW, Chloe!”

“I’m going as fast as I can.” (There is a long pause while Chloe trawls through data, satellite images flashing across her screen).

“Dammit, Chloe!”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

With Chloe on comm., I’d climb into my white Toyota Yaris (this might be a fantasy but I can be a bit of a nervous driver so best stick to a car I’m familiar with) and put my foot down to the bank’s head office, wheels skidding around sharp corners, driving through red lights, never being stopped or running out of petrol.

I’d park up (in my fantasy I’m very good are parallel parking) and knock out the first security guard.

I’d bark “WHERE ARE THE ONLINE SAVINGS TEAM?” to the second, who’d nervously reply “Third floor.”

I’d run upstairs and burst through the third floor door. Ten heads would turn towards me, cries and hands to mouths as they glimpse my anger, panting heavily, sweating profusely. Someone not to be messed with.

“Bring up your applicant records.” I’d say to the nearest individual and I’d tell them to enter in my name.

My record pops up on their screen.

“Tick the ID box.”

“I can’t” the employee would say, “I need to see your passport.”

“I don’t have time for that. You’ve wasted enough of my time. If I’m going to start making some interest on my savings, you’re going to have to tick that box dammit.”

“But my boss... he’ll kill me.”

I need leverage. I pull a picture of Her Majesty from the wall.

“Tick the box or I’ll smash this.”

“...You wouldn’t...”

“Just try me.”

“But, it’s her Jubilee. Surely even you wouldn’t go that far.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’ve been put through enough thanks to your organisation. If you tick the box I promise I won’t do anything. I’ll leave the picture safely on the wall and we can forget about this whole affair.”

There is a pause as we stare at one another. I don’t blink. 


They slowly move their mouse, the cursor circling the screen. They tick the box.

I carefully place the picture of Her Majesty on their desk and back out of the room.

“You weren’t really going to smash that picture, were you?” I hear through my earpiece.

“Of course not. But thankfully my bluff worked. Put the kettle on, Chloe, I’m parched.”

Reading Between the Times

Dear Mum,

In September 2011 I blogged about the new-fangled and trendy way to read, books apparently having failed the reading public and requiring a new model replacement.

The Kindle. The arch nemesis of the book. The Moriarty of machines versus the comfy traditions and security of Sherlock.

Some eight months have passed since writing this blog, I have reviewed my reactions and attitudes toward the Kindle.

I throw my hands up. I’m waving my white flag of surrender, my white flag actually being a paperback book...

I did download the Kindle application onto my computer.

I’ll give you a minute while you peel yourself off the floor.

I have downloaded a couple of books – one written by my hairdresser’s Dad, a book of Horace’s Satires for an exhibition at Bateman’s, and ‘Three Men in A Boat’ after visiting the Writing Britain exhibition at the British Library.

This is because they were all FREE. I might have strong opinions and resent the digital reader but I’m strapped for cash and recognise the need to curtail the spending of cash.

Reading them on a computer was not the most comfortable. I would much rather have read all of these texts on paper, thumbing the pages, folding down corners that particularly take my fancy, inspecting the cover in contemplation as I pause the story to enjoy a cup of cha.

I am about to go on a four day holiday (AT LAST!) and am anxious about my chosen novels (Hideous Kinky and The Midnight Palace) weighing down my cabin luggage. And will those two novels be enough?

I admit a Kindle would solve my packing problems.

BUT the Kindle editions of books that parade in Waterstones windows are just as expensive as the paper edition. I bought a second hand edition of Hideous Kinky from Amazon and the Kindle edition is more expensive than the price I paid.

Plus you don’t have the joy of plucking tomes off of the shelf, smelling that crisp new book smell, nor glimpsing the front cover that peeks up at you tantalisingly between the kaftans and dresses that are folded (not so neatly – I’m not the best packer) in your suitcase.

Furthermore, a friend’s Kindle broke - something books don’t tend to do, never snapping down the spine and falling in two or disintegrating between one’s fingers.

I am, therefore, unmoved in relation to the Kindle. We are not amused. However...

Queen Victoria’s private diaries have recently been digitalised, meaning the great British public now have access to the innermost thoughts of one of the country’s greatest monarchs.

I find this exceptionally exciting.

In fact, I find a great many historical documents and manuscripts published online fascinating. Caxton’s edition of ‘The Canterbury Tales,’ for example, or Shakespeare’s Quartos.

What a privilege! To read these significant and compelling texts from the comfort of your own home with a coffee in hand.

I can accept that reading an illuminated manuscript, or academic book, or historical document on a digital advice is pretty wonderful.

Of course, it cannot quantify the joy of reading the original but most of us don’t have access or funds for such opportunities.

And reading such fiction on these devices is like attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace in your pyjamas with last night’s dinner spilt down the front. Unspeakable. I would shudder if the ghosts of Shakespeare and Chaucer materialised in my bedroom to witness this.

I encourage you all to read ‘The LibraryBook,’ which includes stories, accounts and anecdotes from a varied host of writers and personalities, describing their own experiences with books and their adopted parent; the library.

Bali Rai writes “No e-reader will ever replace the beauty of a fully formed 3-D book. Technology has its place, but it would not even exist without books and libraries.”

Well said, Bali! Bravo bravo! But alas! Our libraries are being shut!

With more and more digitals texts threatening the printing of literature along with funding cuts closing these book sanctuaries, readers are to be disappointed.

Are we facing a future where books are forgotten entities available only to those in the know, like the Cemetery of Forgotten Books?

The Woman’s Library is a case in point. Facing a skeleton service, pilgrims have to carefully plan their voyage to the shrine, knowing its future is pretty bleak. After last week’s blog you’ll realise I think this devalues all that women have achieved.

But I would say the same of any fading library. It is sad for both the authors who can share their love for print with the public and, more importantly, readers who can revel in rich realms of fictional fantasy free of charge, whatever their age or race or sex – a universe of worlds at their fingertips all with a tiny plastic library card.

Along with sketches from Sesame Street and the Chuckle Brothers theme tune, my nostalgic memory of childhood is headed by Arthur’s wise words: “Having fun isn’t hardwhen you’ve got a library card.”

Pure poetry for the soul...

***

Please sign the petition to save The Woman’s Library. You can read more here. It doesn’t take long and is a worthy cause!

A Blog of One’s Own

Dear Mum,

After the security of my script diary I drew a bit of a blank with what to blog about next.

It was a bit of a shame to disrupt my script diary with that rant of a blog about Samantha Brick but, like I said, I couldn’t sleep with all of this feminist babble whizzing about my head. The room span.

I think perhaps I ought to clear up a bit more about this subject, though I’m not quite brave enough to approach it. I will endeavour to keep this short and succinct.

I hope I don’t frighten anyone off with my feminist rants. I do not intend to, and I certainly don’t aim to encourage intolerance or make any assumptions about the strengths/weaknesses of the sexes, as several of my feminist uni lecturers certainly did.

(Although I must confess when helping out in your class, Mum, a group of six year old boys persisted in exclaiming “boys are better than girls.” You’ll be pleased to hear I upheld my end of the debate).

I have thus far lived a comfortable, largely prejudice-free (I have faced some opposition to my state education) existence.

I don’t have any cause for complaint, which I think is the root of my feminist attitude.  

I thought we’d moved from simplistic, belittling attitudes toward women. The past one hundred years has seen daughter/wife/spinster instead become Woman, no longer defined by her marital status.

My eyes were first opened to the trials of women by my degree. I shan’t bore you with the details but if anyone wants to hear more about whether or not Austen’s heroines were lucky in marriage please pop the kettle on and I’ll be right over.

More recently ‘Mad Men’ has exploded onto the scene and I am the only person in the world who cannot watch the programme.

I realise it’s different, it’s a refreshing concept, the costumes are fabulous, Jon Hamm is a dish and it offers wonderfully dramatic moments. (I do remember January Jones shooting pigeons in her garden, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth).

But I personally find the sexist attitudes, double standards and derogatory treatment of women unbearable. Ridiculous, I know. I’m not a 1950’s housewife. And thank heavens for that, because I clearly wouldn’t make a good one.

I find it best not to watch it. That way I’m not rolling my eyes and tutting at the fictional entertainment (I know it’s not real life – BUT, importantly, it once was!) and ruining if for those watching it with me.

Then there are magazines. I’m not a massive magazine reader. I find them quite patronising – “10 ways to achieve the impossible”, “6 utterly obvious suggestions to improve your situation” and “5 ways to wear a blouse”.

I can think of just one, which has worked well for me so far, thank you.

Then there are the adverts. Forgetting that the women are all slim, high-cheekboned Amazonians, more often than not they look evocative and desirous. And I don’t think it’s desire for a slap up cooked breakfast.  

Their heads thrown back – but not in “I just heard a brilliant fart joke and can’t stop laughing” way, as this is often accompanied by them touching their lips – perhaps with their arms behind their head, or looking moodily into the camera.

How does this appeal to women???

I can’t be faffing around, leaning alluringly against graffiti walls in a brand’s new maxi dress, my lips in a permanent pout. It doesn’t look comfortable. And, frankly, she looks like a bit of a cretin, a bit puzzled by the camera.

This is not to say I think women should be straight and stony faced, constantly wearing a dark coloured over coat, keeping their mouths firmly fastened. Far from it.

I was required to wear a uniform in my summer job, 2011. This consisted of an ankle length black skirt and a black blazer, my feet, hands and face offering tiny flashes of skin.

It was very hot, very uncomfortable and VERY unattractive.

One woman in her 60’s told me I looked ridiculous and a bit unhappy and proceeded to repeat this to my supervisor.

Where is the middle ground? We’re not in a Dickens novel!

So, to conclude, I am a modern feminist who has lived a wonderfully unprejudiced life. As a result, hearing of the past gets be hot and bothered and glimpses of lingering sexism makes me want whack the TV/magazine/sexist individual with a high heel shoe.

But, fortunately, I have a blog of my own to express these concerns in a more civilised and articulate fashion. 

Walking into the sunset...

Dear Mum,

Well... ‘A Fear of Buttons’ (inspiration taken from a blog a few months back) has been signed, sealed and (hopefully) delivered - my debut as a scriptwriter.

In typical form, the printer ran out of ink on the day that I sought to print the script. Having advised Pippa to get her dissertation bound at least 24 hours before her hand-in day for fear of fire, flood or an exhaustive queue at Rymans, fate decided to play an ironic trick on me.

Panic ensued. I called Dad to assist. After a couple of attempts he managed to get it sorted.

It then failed once more, the black type gradually fading down the pages like a Deluxe colour chart, ranging from ‘Vivid Slate’ to ‘Pale Pewter.’

I copied and pasted the section I needed into a new document and emailed it to Dad.

This was an error. He very kindly printed off the last 12 pages which were saved in the new document; page 27 now being page 1, page 28 being page 2, page 29 being page 3, and so on. Bugger.

Like a child lovingly adding final touches to a project, I then had to cut white label stickers into tiny 0.50 cm x 0.50 cm square pieces and scrawl miniscule page numbers inside these perimeters before clumsily pushing them down onto the wrong printed page numbers.

I don’t mind telling you it is not a work of art. I mean the script, not the improvised numbering system – though this is also no work of art, the black smudges being notable proof of this.

It is not a life-changing script. It is no Richard Curtis.

But then I am not Richard Curtis. I am Lucy and I’m hoping a little piece of me can be found in that script. It is meant to be both amusing and touching. Both simple and subtly complex. Both serious and mocking.

I don’t anticipate anything to ever come of it. No doubt I’ll read it in a few months time and cringe at it. But it was a wonderfully fun exercise; coming up with characters, taking inspiration from the language of those around me, tying ideas together.

It has also made me think that, perhaps, I should just start writing a novel. As said in ‘One Small Step’ I do have a strong idea but I don’t feel ready to seriously broach this yet. So, a bit like Ian McEwan biding his time with ‘Atonement’ by first penning lesser novels, perhaps I should think about writing something else in the mean time... 

One giant leap for me

Dear Mum,

The photographs of family and friends that line my walls and shelves have been privy to a one woman show this weekend.

Their silence as I took my bow implied they were very severely underwhelmed by my script and its performance – I’m realistic, doubting their silence was reflective of their wonder at the spectacle.

I performed in my pyjamas, hair unwashed, no make-up on. It’s not a surprise they didn’t seem impressed. I didn’t bother changing my voice for different characters. I didn’t even try with the special effects – a dog barking being substituted by a weedy ‘woof’ whispered by yours truly.

Their reactions were not, however, my chief concern. The mission of this exercise was to time my script as if it were being presented.

As I paced my bedroom floor, stopwatch in hand, I was elated to learn that the script’s performance took 29 minutes and eleven seconds.

Scripts for the BBC Writers Room are meant to be at least thirty minutes in length. As previously mentioned, I did not have the facilities for sounds effects and I did not hugely worry about dramatic pauses etc. At times I also slightly rushed the dialogue, anxious to be sure about the length and flow of the piece (as discussed last week).

And yet I have produced 29 minutes of dialogue. The relief! It was celebrated with a vodka lime and lemonade and an embarrassing dance to ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ around my bedroom. Friends and relatives continued to look unimpressed.

This week requires a huge trip to the post office – sending endless forms to banks and a tetchy letter to the student loans company. Plus, of course, the script – with the required cover sheet, properly formatted, secured by a bulldog clip, all just as the BBC Writers Room specifies.

Trying to not think about the costing of this trip (cheers, Royal Mail, for the new costs of postage – let’s just say you won’t be getting a Christmas card from me this year) I am feeling both excited and anxious about posting the script off.

It will be read again and again and again before then. Sorry friends and family who look at me from the surrounding photoframes. You’ve not heard the end of this yet...