2000 AD artist runner-up for BP Portrait Award

Mighty congratulations to 2000 AD artist Simon Davis, who's won second prize in the world's most prestigious portrait competition, the BP Portrait Award. The winners were announced last night in London, with Simon getting eight thousand pounds in prize money for his piece, Amanda Smith at Vincent Avenue. Nearly 1,750 artists from around the world submitted to the competition, with 55 works [including Simon's] now on show in the National Portrait Gallery.

Simon's become a noted portrait artist in recent times, but has been working on comics like iconic British weekly 2000 AD for fifteen years. I think I might have given him his first sequential storytelling work, back when I was editor of the Judge Dredd Megazine. If memory serves, Simon approached me for work. Like a lot of artists in the early 90s, he was great at painting but needed to develop his storytelling. Still, there was definitely something there.

I gave him a one-off to illustrate, part of the Plagues of Necropolis series designed to offer newcomers an opening. Simon seized his chance and was soon drawing episodes of warped future western Missionary Man for the Meg. But he blossomed when given the job of illustrating the bullet-riddled adventures of hitmen Sinister Dexter, becoming the definitive artist for the long-running series.

His superheroic version of Tony Blair in B.L.A.I.R. 1 got splashed across the news in 1997, much as the recent appearance of Gordon Brown in Captain Britain made all the papers. Simon's illustrated hundreds, perhaps thousands, of story pages for 2000 AD over the past 15 years. He's among the last of a dying breed, an artist who still uses paints to tell comic strip stories, but class endures. I couldn't be more pleased he'd getting wider recognition at last.

Sometimes, a scribe's gotta do

Having spent most of the past two weeks nurturing my Sharps entry, it's time to do some paying work. Devoting as much time as possible to speculative writing bears results in the long run, but it sure don't pay the bills here and now. This week I shall be knuckling down to work that brings more immediate rewards. As a consequence, I won't be attending the 2008 Edinburgh International Film Festival, which begins Wednesday. Apologies to friends who had work in the EIFF.

Postings to this blog will also be less visible over the coming fortnight. Heading south on Friday to visit in-laws, not back until late Sunday. The following Sunday I'm going down to That Fancy London for more visiting and what not, en route to the 2008 Screenwriters' Festival in Cheltenham. I'm a guest speaker at the festival on Tuesday, July 1st, and probably won't return until late the following day. Between now and then, I hope to be busy. Onwards.

Music Meme Madness [Blame that Lucy]

Got minx Lucy at Write Here, Write Now memed me with the music madness thing. Instructions: "List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they’re listening to." So here they are...

The Bucket - Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra. A cover of the Kings of Leon song, rendered on a dozen or more ukuleles by a loose Kiwi ensemble, often including half of HBO comedy superstars the Conchords. This one's just for fun.

Love Song - Sara Bareilles. The latest in an everlasting line of female singer-songwriters, this stands out because she's written a bouncy pop song about how she doesn't write bouncy pop songs to demand. See, Alanis? That's irony.

Overture - Bjork. From Selma Songs, her tie-in album for the controversial film Dancer in the Dark. Moody, oppressive, full of foreboding and suchlike. Perfect writing music for those moments before the trouble gets all overt. Creepy. Doomy. Aces.

15 - Rilo Kiley. Country rock strangeness [with horny brass] about dubious lust. Much better than Don't Stand So Close To Me by the Police for being witty, not trying to rhyme Nabokov and featuring the line, 'He was deep as a graveyard.' Class.

When I Am Through With You - The VLA. Chosen as theme tune for the cracking TV legal drama series Damages, this sounds better than most things U2 have released since the turn of the millennium. And it's free to download from myspace. Nice.

I'll Kill Her - Soko. Quirky, quirky, quirky. Tells a real story, can't help making you smile. Bitter, twisted and cut as all get out. I know nothing about Soko, but she wins props from me for this ode to odious ex-lovers. Go kill him, girl.

Un Bel Di Vedremo - Puccini. Heart-rending aria from the opera Madama Butterfly, subsequently butchered by Malcolm McLaren in the 80s [shame on you, Malkie]. Provided the soundtrack while I was writing The Woman Who Screamed Butterflies.

I'm supposed to memed seven more bloggers with this, but suspect most people on my blogroll have already been tapped. Still, here goes: I tag James Swallow, Pete Kempshall, Joel Meadows, Paul Scoones, Barry Dewar, Laura Anderson and Stuart Perry.

My favourite James Bond book cover

James Bond is a pop culture evergreen. I suspect most people's first exposure to 007 came via one of the 20+ films made that feature the character. He's an icon who has survived bad parodies, bad actors and bad movies. Sometimes Bond will lapse back into obscurity for a while, such as the first half of the 90s before the film Goldeneye introduced Pierce Brosnan as the new screen Bond. Much like Doctor Who, 007 is a hardy perennial that will always return.

Of course, Bond did not start on celluloid. The character was originated by author Ian Fleming, appearing in more than a dozen books in the 50s and 60s. I'm not sure if I saw a Bond movie before I'd read one of Fleming's novels, my memory of childhood is not that accurate. My older brothers introduced me to a lot of things early in life, including the original Bond novels. They used to buy paperback editions from secondhand book shops, and I read 'em too.

The thing that stood out most strongly about those well thumbed tomes were the covers. My brothers searched out the 1963 Pan Books paperbacks, which reissued all 14 books with specially commissioned covers. Some were better than others [I've always thought the Diamonds Are Forever cover was especially - and ironically - lacklustre], but the best are mini-masterpieces. Above are two I like, and below is my favourite. I'd pay good money to have it as a poster.

That's what he's talking about

After twelve glorious weeks, the BBC's version of The Apprentice is over. [Sad to say, I missed the first week, being on holiday in New Zealand at the time. Swings and roundabouts.] My two favourite candidates made the final, and the immensely likable Lee won through to claim a job with Sir Alan Sugar. A shame for runner-up Clare, but she'll not be short of offers after her efforts. Best of all, the person I wanted to win won, the first time in four series. Nice.

In other news, I've managed to skin my left knee. Again. Did just before Christmas running down Chambers Street in Edinburgh, the first time since my days of flying off bicycles as a boy. Did it again last night, trying to stop a boundary in the annual east versus west Biggar Cricket Club match. Ouch. On the plus side, I scored a boundary for East Biggar before getting bowled, and took two wickets with my slow moving dobbers. Alas, West won. Again.

What else? Finished the third draft of my script for the BBC writersroom's Sharps opportunity. Thanks to Lucy, Lucy and Laura for reading the previous incarnations and offering feedback. The script's come n leaps and bounds thanks to their comments. No idea if it'll get anywhere with Sharps, but that's out of my hands once I stick my script in the post today.

The best thing about writing The Woman Who Screamed Butterflies was it got me writing again. Not that I don't write something almost every day of my life, but this was a new project, one all of my own devising. I've spent most of this year working on speculative efforts based other people's characters, scenarios and creations. The Woman Who Screamed Butterflies was all my own work [with Lucy, Lucy and Laura acting as creative midwives].

Up to now, my most successful script has been Danny's Toys, a quirky tale that came unbidden from my imagination. I'd no idea what to do with the story, and knew it would almost never get made. But I wrote it anyway, just for the joy of writing and because it was a story I wanted to tell. The results got me a good grade for my MA, won a first prize at the Page International Screenwriting Awards in LA last September and placed in the BlueCat Screen Lab contest.

I think The Woman Who Screamed Butterflies might have come from the same place as Danny's Toys. They feel like siblings, quite different but with familial similarities. Both bear the trademarks of my most personal works: tragic tendencies, touches of tyranny, fear and pain, moments of humour and magic realism. I doubt The Woman Who Screamed Butterflies will get made, but I'll proudly add it in my script portfolio. That's what I'm talking about.

Discovered: the fifth Charlie's Angel

If you live in the UK you can now download episodes of fondly remember American TV shows from iTunes, including first season episodes from I Dream of Jeannie, Starsky & Hutch and Charlie's Angels. The pilots for the latter two shows are available for free, so I downloaded the very first edition of Charlie's Angels, just for a laugh.

First aired in March 1976, this hasn't aged well. The pilot is 73 minutes long [not counting the ad break that would have peppered its broadcast], with enough plot to fill 50 minutes tops. TV drama is a hell of a lot faster paced these days. Throw in wafer-thin characterisation, cheesy staging and lacklustre acting - well, this has kitsch value now, not much more. But two faces stuck out.

Oscar-winning actor Tommy Lee Jones plays a supporting role, this callow, youthful incarnation displaying none of the world-weary gravitas he brings to the screen now. But even more surprising is the presence of a fifth Angel. Obviously, there's the three women providing the glamour, and crusty Bosley back in the office for comic relief. But the original ensemble had a fifth member - Woodville.

The character's played by David Ogden Steirs, not long before he joined acclaimed sitcom MASH as Boston stuffed shirt surgeon Charles Emmerson Winchester. In the Charlie's Angels pilot Woodville goes out on assignment with the women, getting in scrapes and offering what assistance he can. His presence is both bizarre and superfluous - so it's no surprise the character didn't become a series regular.

Grud. Wonder who's in the Starsky & Hutch pilot?

Sharps first draft done; weird roast lamb urges

My current shampoo describes itself as Rosemary Mint. It's lovely stuff, even if all I have for hair at the moment is a millimetre of stubble on my planet-sized bonce. However, it does have one weird side effect. The aroma of mint is so strong, combined with a hint of rosemary, that it's making me crave roast lamb. Lamb's never been the cheapest of meats and with food prices soaring, it's madly expensive right now, so my craving go unsatisfied. Such is life.

On the plus side, I've finished the first draft of my entry for the BBC writersroom opportunity called Sharps. Most anyone can enter, so long as they don't have a TV drama writing credit for anyone longer than 15 minutes. That eliminates everyone who's script an episode of Doctors, for instance, or any other continuing drama series. So that makes Sharps effectively an entry level opportunity. As a consequence, I expect there'll be a lot of entries submitted.

Curiously, I'm eligible to submit to Sharps but was also qualified to apply for the BBC Drama Writers' Academy, thanks to my 15-minute radio play. Like everyone else who applied, I got my holding pattern email from the BBC on Friday. All the applicants' sample scripts are being read, expect further communications by Monday July 14th. Nice of them to keep us all updated, I appreciate that. But this does raise a question, one that's been backing my noodle.

Writers' Academy applications closed on May 12th this, and everyone will get a final response by July 16th - nine weeks later. Fair enough, these things take time and there's probably a lot of people in the loop. The Sharps scheme deadline is next Monday, June 16th - but successful applicants chosen for a first stage masterclass will be notified by Friday June 20th, according to the web page.

That's only four days later. Sixty-three days for the Writers' Academy, only four for Sharps? Yikes. Speed reading at its finest, folks!

Less is more, but often means more work

Spent the week writing my entry for the BBC Sharps scheme. It's been challenging because I've chosen to tell much of my story visually, rather than rely to heavily on dialogue. For examples, one of the main characters hasn't spoken yet, and they're in almost every scene. That's forcing me to find other ways of communicating the character's emotional journey, abandoning my usual storytelling crutches. The whole thing could fall flat on its face as a consequence, but I'd rather failure trying something new than retread old habits and tropes.

A lot of TV drama - particularly in continuing series - is akin to radio with pictures. Most soaps you don't need to watch the TV to follow the story. Just listen to the dialogue and sound effects, you'll get 99% of the information you need. Every now and then I'll watch an episode of EastEnders with the sound muted, to study the visual storytelling. Such is the strength of acting and directing, the emotional content of a scene is clearly apparent.

When I read a script professionally, I make sure I read every word of it at least twice. But when I'm reading a script out of personal interest, I've a bad habit of simply skimming the dialogue. Somebody doing that with my Sharps entry may struggle, due to the silent nature of the protagonist. Indeed, there's only five lines of dialogue in the first three pages - and three of those are in Polish.

Writing a script with so much action text runs the risk of filling the pages with black ink. Too much black on a page looks oppressive, potentially off-putting to readers. I contemplated using vertical writing on the script, where the action text is stripped down the page. That's fine for a punchy, kinetic story but my Sharps entry leans more towards magic realism and gothic fairytale than brute force and bullet ballets.

Crucially, I'm trying to strip my script down to the bare essentials. Just offer enough information to create a moving image in the reader's mind, without cluttering the pictures they see. That means writing and cutting, rewriting and cutting again. Less is more, but achieving less means a lot more work. Nobody said writing was easy [if they did, they lied]. I want this script to gleam, to shine - and that takes a lot of extra polishing. Onwards.

Replace 'eye' with 'hit' to rate the film Bullseye

I've just heard the sound of a barrel's bottom being scraped. According to online retailers, the 1990 film Bullseye is scheduled for release this September. Starring Michael Caine and Roger Moore, this piece of excrement is among the most dire feature films released in Britain. Five years ago I wrote a book about the movies of Michael Caine, covering everything from Zulu to The Actors. I watched all 80 movies twice. Bullseye was one of the worst.

It's unspeakably bad, a comedy without jokes, humour or any other redeeming feature. Cheap, tawdy, hapless, hopeless - none of those words encapsulate just how bad Bullseye is. Piss poor probably sums it up best. Unbelievably, John Cleese makes a cameo appearance near the end in a role entitled Man on the Beach in Barbados Who Looks Like John Cleese. That's one of the better attempts at hilarity in this steaming pile of turds. Avoid Bullseye like dysentery.

When I was working on my Caine tome, perhaps only half of the 80 films were available on DVD. The rest I had to hunt down as long out of print VHS tapes from places around the world. Several proved to be pirate copies, recorded off air from obscure cable channels in the dead of night, but flogged as genuine releases on eBay. Since I wrote the book in 2003, nearly all Caine's films have had a DVD release in various regions.

The misguided decision to unleash Bullseye on an unsuspecting public leaves just seven films out of circulation as DVDs. One of these, The Debtors, never got a cinema release after the movie's sole financial backer decided it shouldn't see the light of day - so I'm not holding my breath on that one. That leaves six. Surrender was a late 80s rom-com featuring Caine and Sally Field. It's no great shakes but entertaining enough in a slight way.

Number five? The Marseilles Contract [a.k.a. The Destructors] stars Caine and James Mason in a mid-70s Euro-pudding thriller about hitmen and the criminal underworld. It hasn't aged well, but has moments. Four: Hurry Sundown - a bizarre mess about civil rights in the Deep South, wherein Jane Fonds seeks to seduce Caine by fellating a saxophone. Believe it or not, a clip appears in Austin Powers: Goldmember. A kitsch classic that outstays its welcome.

Three: Zee & Co [a.k.a. X, Y & Zee] - a campfest from the early 70s with Caine locking swording with Elizabeth Taylor in screaming harpie mode. So naff it verges on genius. Two: The Honorary Consul [a.k.a. Beyond the Limit] - a powerful adaptation of Graham Greene's novel somewhat spoiled by the wooden presence of Richard Gere. Caine would have greater success twenty years later in The Quiet American, but this is well worth a look.

But my most wanted Caine film on DVD has to be Gambit, a charming 60s caper co-starring Shirley MacLaine and Herbert Lom. The Coen brothers were contemplating a remark earlier this decade, but opted to make a mess of The Ladykillers instead. Light as a cloud, Gambit is a cheerful confection that deserves to find a new audience on shiny disc, in my humble opinion. Why somebody would choose to excrete Bullseye on to DVD remains beyond my comprehension.

Summer 2008 TV: why should we care?

The new few weeks and months look a particularly barren period on British TV. Summer has long been the silly season, when warm weather attracted people outside and ratings tumbled. Schedulers traditionally filled our screens with repeats and make-weights, burning off shows that couldn't sustain an audience elsewhere in the year. That changed in the year 2000 when Big Brother hit the UK.

The reality TV show was a smash hit, aided and abetted by the absence of any worth watching on the other main channels. Big Brother's popularity grew each year, until other broadcasters felt obliged to launch spoilers, rival reality shows that might steal Channel 4's thunder. [Anyone remember Celebrity Love Island? Try not to, you'll be happier.] But Big Brother's popularity waned as it became a vehicle for wannabes hoping to become Z-list celebrities.

So the prospect of Big Brother 9 filling our screens this summer? Bleurgh. But there's more bad news. Euro 2008 is about to start, a football tournament that will dominate the primetime schedules on BBC1 and ITV for weeks to come. Unfortunately for both broadcasters, none of the home nations have qualified for Euro 2008. There's been attempts to goose audience interest but, frankly, who cares? Unless you love football, there's nothing at stake. Bleurgh.

What does that leave if you don't have cable or a Sky dish, and can't get Freeview where you live? DVDs. This summer I will mostly be watching DVD of TV shows. Just finished the first two seasons of the genius that is Friday Night Lights, and that was preceded by most of The West Wing. Got seasons three and four of The Wire to watch, along with most of Homocide: Life on the Street. But wouldn't mind something more upbeat to offset all the sturm and drang.

It's worth pointing out I'm skint, so spending a lot of money buying boxed sets isn't much of an option right now. But I could subscribe to a DVD rental service like LoveFilm, which offers TV series on DVD as well as films. So, I'm looking for suggestions of great viewing as a Summer 2008 alternative to football and Big Brother. Maybe a desert island DVD selection? Post your eight favourites in the comments section, if you feel the urge...

The agony of establishing unique house styles

Back when I worked as a journalist [shortly before the dawn of time], newspapers had their own style guide. These were strict rules on how copy should be written by reporters. I spent several years at New Zealand's biggest selling paper, The New Zealand Herald. At the time it had a rigid, conservative style, so a quote might appear something like this: 'The economy continues to struggle,' said the Prime Minister, the Rt. Honorable Sir Robert Muldoon.

Style guides were so important the company that owned the paper even printed them into a little blue book. Each new arrival on the reporting staff got given a copy, and was expected to know and apply it to their work. Took a while, but you got the hang of it eventually. Of course, this was several centuries ago when we wrote our stories on manual typewriters and a fresh sheet of carbon paper was preciously guarded. Like I said, before the dawn of time.

Nevertheless, I always recall that little blue book when I start a new writing project. Finding the house style of a particular script or novel is never easy. Not only do you have to channel your own, unique voice as a writer, you also have to discover the vocabulary that suits your story. I spent all of yesterday writing just a page and a half of script for my BBC Sharps entry. It's not that I don't know what happens in my story, that's all planned.

No, most of the day was spent finding the appropriate prose style for my script. This is a highly visual story, where dialogue takes a back seat. Therefore the prose I chose for my action text is crucial to establishing the mood and propelling the plot. On a punchy, violent story I'll go for terse, crisp words. This story's more lyrical, with splashes of magic realism, so it needs a different style, words and phrases that match the tone and intent of my tale.

Where blazing sunlight might have done the job in another script, here I find myself reaching for warming bolts of afternoon sun. When noises might have deafened or drowned out words, this script features a chaotic symphony of sound and fury. Even though I only wrote a page and half yesterday, I woke up this morning feeling more confident about the day ahead, a new house style within my grasp. If only the story came with its own little blue book.

Screen academy drinks offer life snapshots

Three years ago, I'm not sure I'd ever heard of Screen Academy Scotland. The new faculty at Edinburgh's Napier University was running the first year of its Masters in Screen Production Development, and prepping a new MA in screenwriting. Two years ago I'd completed the first half of my part-time screenwriting MA, and the first intake of full-time screenwriting students had finished their two terms of tutorials and modules with just their final projects to write. To celebrate we all went to a hotel bar near the university where drinking, talking and laughter was had in abundance.

Thsi time last year the second helping of full-time screenwriting students reached the same point - and so did the first class of part-timers, including me. Back to the same hotel bar, and a merry time was had by all. Well, another year's passed and I got an invite to revisit that same hotel bar last Friday. It was a chance to catch up with some of my former classmates, alongside the current part-timers and full-timers on the screenwriting MA course.

I'd met quite a few of them before. Several were on the TAPS continuing drama workshop I attended in Cardiff last September [they all got through to the second round, I didn't - such is life]. Plus I was invited back this academic year as alumni speaker to give a student's eye view on the research methods module. On Friday several students told me my talk had been useful, so that was gratifying. If I helped one person pass the highly academic module, it was worth the effort.

Had a fun, raucous time on Friday night and drank three pints of beer in one sitting - something I haven't done for a long, long time. Aside from the obvious sense of deja vu, it gave me a chance to reflect on how far I've progressed over the past three years. I've had a radio play broadcast by the BBC, won an international screenwriting prize in Los Angeles and learned more than I thought possible about writing.

But I've still got so much to learn, and so much I want to achieve. Getting my first TV drama commission, that will be a big breakthrough when it comes. With hard work, inspiration and a little luck that should lead to further TV writing gigs. Hopefully I can use those to convince an agent I'm worth representing. It's not that I expect the agent to get me more work, but not having an agent excludes you from opportunities I'd dearly love to pursue.

What am I doing to achieve my goals? Writing, writing and more writing. Working hard to break through with a particular TV show. Applied to the BBC Writers' Academy, and will spend this week writing the first draft of my entry for the BBC writersroom Sharps initiative. Meanwhile, I'm also trying to keep the wolf from the door with paid writing work. It's a difficult juggling act to pull off. How little money can you survive on? How much longer should I pursue the dream? Well, I ain't nearly near scaling back my ambitions yet.

Sometimes everyone writer feels like giving up. Other times, success feels so close you can also taste it. Right now I'm near the tasty end of spectrum. That could be self delusion but hey, I'm a writer - I make things up for a living. What else did you expect? Right, time to get to work. Onwards.

DC vs Marvel: superheroes on the silver screen

There's an article in The Times today where former Time Out editor Dominic Wells ponders the current success of Marvel Comics' Iron Man, and wonders why DC has had less success with converting its many, many superheroes to celluloid superstars. Among the period quoted in the story - me. [I get everywhere, I do.] Read the full article here.

Legs Akimbo: For Your Thighs Only

There's an interesting article at Print magazine about the prevalence of through the legs cover imagery over the years, with Steven Heller dissecting the uses and abuses of this trend. Back when I was editing 2000 AD [somewhere near the dawn of time, IIRC], the need to come up with a new cover every week meant I wasn't afraid to borrow imagery from other sources as inspiration. Still, at least this article proves I'm neither the first nor last to do so. Here are two racy examples of covers going all legs akimbo...UPDATE: In addition to the legs akimbo trend, you can also find a line of chick lit book covers that favour a knees together approach. Go visit the homepage of author Adele Parks and you'll see what I mean. [Thanks to fellow writer Daniel Blythe for the linkage.]

Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Ringo

If you're a writer, chances are you'll be using most conversations to pitch, however inadvertently. You spitball a story with your partner, seeing how they react to the latest flight of fancy to escape your imagination. You'll be on the phone talking to another writer, discussing what's keeping the two of you busy and what jobs you're currently procrastinating over. Or you'll be having a drink with friends, trading quips and trying top each other's jokes.

It's time like that when inspiration strikes that I always wish I had a pen and paper, so I could capture the lightning in a bottle. Of course, I never do, so end up trying to commit the spark to memory instead - a faulty, misfiring mechanism at the best of times. When I do carry a notepad and pen with me, nothing ever comes that's worth writing down. Sod's law, I guess. Still, sometimes something entirely unrelated will bump the forgotten back into the light.

So it was when I read this entry in Jane Espenson's excellent blog about a close encounter of the Beatles kind. It shook loose a gag about the lost five gospel of the New Testament, the Book of Ringo. Seemed amusing at the time, but I'm no comedy writer, so I guess you needed to be there [or be drunk] to find it funny. Anyway, I highly recommend Jane's blog, full of juicy nuggets, intelligent thoughts and a daily recitation of her rather worrying lunch diet.

Revelations [Danny Stack Memed Me]

Danny Stack memed me on his blog, suggesting I post thoughts on any revelations I've had during my career as a working writer. At first, I didn't think myself qualified to contribute, as I'm still working towards securing my TV drama writing debut. But I've a screenwriting prize, had 18 novels published, a radio play broadcast and been making my living from writer for nearly eight years - so here goes.

1. Don't work with someone you can't trust or respect. You don't have to like everyone, but without trust or respect the job of writing gets that much harder. I had an opportunity to collaborate with a producer last year, a golden opportunity to break into a new area. But a tiny voice at the back of my brain was screaming, 'Run away! Run away!'. The producer was more interested in playing mind games and wielding power than helping anyone - except themselves. After two meetings I walked out and have never regretted it.

2. Life is too short for maybe. You've got to know when to pull the plug on a project. There are producers who will talk the talk, blow smoke up your arse, promise the world - but never actually deliver. All the good will and encouragement in the world mean nothing if they don't one day turn into live opportunities. Strange as it seems, you can die of hope. If somebody really wants to make one of your projects happen, they will find a way.

3. Don't be ashamed of being shameless. Sometimes you simply have to hustle. Pimp yourself, because nobody else will do it for you. That doesn't mean you have to create an entire cult of personality around the Wonder That Is You - shamelessness can easily tip over into crass, relentless self-delusion. But you need to set aside any ingrained reserve and tout your abilities. I struggle with this myself. In New Zealand where I come from, people who promoted themselves too hard were known as skites. But I've realised you mustn't be afraid to trumpet your successes.

4. Over 30 is too old for entry level jobs. On the MA screenwriting course at Screen Academy Scotland, lots of students were over 30. They'd done other jobs but wanted to have a crack at screenwriting, fulfilling a long-held ambition. No problem there. Age brings life experience and a sense of perspective inaccessible to 17-year-old wonder kids. But I've yet to meet any film or TV company that wanted anyone over 30 for an entry level job. Acne good, wrinkles bad. Get used to it.

5. Every new project starts from scratch. The blank page or screen is still blank every time you start a new project, no matter how much success or experience you've had as a writer. My 19th novel gets published this November, but that doesn't make plotting number 20 any easier. The same applies just as much to other mediums. Sometimes I worry there's a finite number of stories in the wellsprings of my imagination, but that's just fear. Dig deep enough, there's always another story you'll want to tell.

6. Be passionate about your stories. If you don't care about what you're writing, why the hell should anyone reading your story care? You've got to be burning to write your tale. It needs to displace everything else in your life everytime you sit down to work on it. Sometimes writing jobs have to be hacked out, but you should always aspire to write better today than you did yesterday. Get passionate.

7. Perserving your voice ain't easy. Finding your unique voice as a writer is a bugger. What makes you stand out from the crowd. What have you got to say that's different from everyone else? Why should we care what you think about anything? But once you've found that voice, holding on to it is even harder. To write TV drama as a newcomer, you'll most likely be working on other people's shows, other people's characters, even other people's stories. Maintaining your own voice in such circumstances is tough - but also essential. It's the only thing that makes you worth employing.

8. Nobody owes you a living. Never forget, you choose to become a writer. So what if you've just finished a post-graduate writing course? Join the hundreds and thousands of others you've done the same. That piece of paper is not a magic key, merely proof you could have in fit-for-purpose assignments on time. So what if you've secured representation from an agent? That's guarantee you'll ever get work. The only thing that matters is your writing, so write.

9. Fight for your work, but choose your battles. Nobody likes a high maintenance writer. You know the sort, people who don't know when to stop arguing or who exhibit a constant need for reassurance. Unless they're a solid gold genius, the high maintenance writer will get cast aside for being too much trouble. As a writer you have to fight against decisions that damage your stories, but pick your battles wisely. Don't sweat the small stuff, save yourself for the most important fights.

10. Don't be passive, make things happen. Among the best advice I ever heard came from Adrian Mead the first time I met him. He visited the MA screenwriting class and encouraged each of us to make things happen. Don't be one of those students who spend their breaks bitching in the cafeteria. Better to buttonhole guest speakers, hustle for opportunities, and always keep writing, keep working to improve your writing.

11. Nurture good sources of feedback. Writers can be blind to their mistakes and mis-steps. All writers need an editorial process, be it formal or casual, workshop or readers' reports. If you find somebody who gives you constructive criticism, nurture that precious gem. They will help you get the best out of any story, or enable you to recognise a tale isn't worth the telling. Be thankful and be appreciative to that person.

12. Listen to and learn from feedback. Too many writers go through the motions of seeking out feedback, yet don't learn from what's being said. If people keep telling you to improve your action text or work on your dialogue, then focus on your action text or give each script a dialogue pass. You will only improve by paying attention to feedback and incorporating the lessons learned into future work. Don't argue or justify yourself - listen.

Pure jam: winning The Weakest Link

Well, the episode of The Weakest Link in which I was a contestant was broadcast last Friday, so I can blog about the experience. [It was meant to be screened last Thursday, but there was some cock-up that delayed it for a day. Apologies to anyone who tuned in last Thursday expecting to see me.] If you missed the show on Friday and live in the UK, you can still watch it online courtesy of BBC iPlayer [thanks to John Freeman at Down The Tubes for the screengrab].

Before going on the show, I had two goals: surviving the first round and not singing. Few people cover themselves in glory singing on The Weakest Link, so keeping my limited range and dubious tuning to myself was essential. Happily, one of the other contestants was a music teacher and only too happy to display her singing talents to the nation. Anyway, on to the show's recording.

You don't meet Anne beforehand, and you certainly don't mingle. They record three shows in a day, so time is precious. Our show was second into the studio on February 27, and recording was already running behind. A problem with the lighting pushed things back further, so it was hustle, hustle, hustle thereafter. The studio felt compared to other TV studios I'd visited, especially once you were on set. Black drapes hung behind the contestants in a semi-circle and the studio lights make the set feel like you're in a vacuum, ramping up the pressure.

One of the hardest parts of being a contestant comes first. You have to stand still for several minutes while cameras capture close-ups of each individual to show while Anne recites the rules. Then comes the moment when you have to recite NATO - your name, age, town of residence and occupation. All nine contestants must do this in sequence, without error or hesitation. It's captured by a camera on a swinging crane, sweeping from one person to the next. Wait until the camera faces you, don't speak before the red light comes on, recite.

To make sure everyone was roughly the same height, several of the contestants had to stand on mini-platforms. I was grateful to be tall enough to avoid that, as it would have been one more thing to distract the attention. Concentration is crucial to doing well on The Weakest Link. Anyway, we'd practised in the green room and, surprisingly, everyone get it right first time. That was about as good as we got as a group.

First round - nine contestants, three minutes on the clock, a thousand pounds up for grabs. We started well, everyone getting their first question right. That should have won us the grand, but Dana on my left banked before her question, breaking the chain. When the questions got round to a contestant called Jim, he blanked on an easy question to which the answer was locket, breaking the chain again.

Everyone else got their remaining questions right, so it didn't take a genius to know who was getting voted off. In the green room before Jim had talked about winning thousands of pounds on an ITV gameshow called Golden Balls. He was obviously a bright guy and serious contender to win our edition of The Weakest Link. Thanks to his lapse and some jump the gun banking, we only won eight hundred and fifty pounds.

It's strange, but you relax when somebody else gets a question wrong in a round. It costs the team money, but takes the pressure off you to get every question right. Everybody else visibly relaxed when Jim duffed his locket answer, knowing they'd been spared the ignominy of a first round exit. In an ideal world, you want to get every question right, but those who do rarely win The Weakest Link - other contestants perceive them as too big a threat.

For the most part, recording continues non-stop during the rounds, to allow the countdown to run its course. When everyone is voting off the weakest link, you have to keep miming as if you're writing a word so the cameras can get coverage of everyone. You've never sure if the camera is on you, thanks to the combination of studio lights and stress. So you keep miming. And miming. And miming.

Only when they have coverage of everyone is there a recording break. When not on set Anne retreats to another part of the studio. The contestants are allowed to step away from their podium. Make-up people dabs away perspiration. You're offered drinks of water, and the chance to sit down. There are no seats on the set, so you sit beside your podium or on the edge of Anne's central podium. At last, a chance to relax.

Bear in mind, you've voted for the person you want off, but nobody knows who's getting the boot yet. So you could be standing next to the person you've shafted, trying to mask the fact you've done the dirty to them. No such problems after the first round, everybody knew what was coming - especially Jim. Filming resumed, with the daunting crane camera swinging round in an arc to record our votes. Flipping those boards over, trickier than it looks.

Jim duly got the votes he deserved, then Anne gets to have her fun. She's fed key facts about each contestant and hones in on these, asking impertinent questions in the hope of eliciting some badinage. The Weakest Link is all about the banter, the give and take between contestants and Anne. Will you make a tit of yourself? Can you make Anne corpse? How on earth will this be edited once it appears on screen?

Bolton radio sports commentator Graham did well with Anne, but roofer James got well ambushed, revealing his stewardess girlfriend's age and nearly suggesting she was a bit rough. I didn't envy him explaining that when he got home. I escaped Anne's steely gaze the first round, but knew it wouldn't be long if I kept doing well. Jim took the Walk of Shame, then it was straight into round two.

Several people got a question wrong this time, but chatterbox Clarice fluffed an easy one that cost the team six hundred and fifty quid. I got both my questions right again. This time there was no escaping Anne. She described me as the Barbara Cartland of science fiction, but didn't take the bait when I mentioned looking for a heroine to feature in a paranormal romance novel I was plotting.

I'd kept my Comedy Facial Hair on especially for the recording, knowing it would make an easy target for Anne's barbed commentary. Sure enough, she made fun of it. Still, better than my receding hairline, bulging waistline or the vile tomato-coloured top I was told to wear on the show. I avoided singing, didn't say anything rude about any member of my kin and kith - it could have been a lot worse.

Clarice got booted for costing the team so much money, denying her the chance to banter with Anne. Clarice had talked nineteen to the dozen in the green room, so it would have been fascinating to see Anne trying to get a word in edgeways if they'd gone head to head. But it wasn't to be. Into round three, and the contestants around me had a collective short circuit of their brains.

I got both my questions right again, but there was nothing to bank everytime it was my turn - a frustrating experience. Brains of Britain, we were not. The team banked a paltry twenty pounds from this round, with Dana getting voted off. She was quite petite, and had forgotten she was standing on a box. When it came time to do her Walk of Shame, she fell off the box and nearly knocked me over too. The Walk of Shame gets recorded twice - once for close-up and once in medium shot. Dana's stumble got edited out of the final programme.

Before Dana departed, Anne got into some lengthy and lewd banter with a contestant called Paul who'd said he was good with his hands. Anne corpsed twice, cracked up by the bawdy nature of his innuendo [and out the other]. That helped keep the mood light and happy, despite the paucity of our collective performance. I'd kept a clean sheet through three rounds - could I keep it up?

We recovered in round four, banking two hundred and fifty pounds, but trainee occupational therapist Helen's time was up. She'd had one question in an earlier round that brough out a classic answer [I'm paraphasing here]: what H was a robber who supposedly stopped people in horse-drawn carriages, telling them to stand and deliver? Helen's answer: henchmen. The correct answer was highwayman.

When we got to the next recording break, Helen didn't know what a henchman was wither - she'd just blurted out the word. Dana and James were just as clueless about the word. I tried to help, but I'm not sure I explained it well enough for any of them. Anyway, Helen went after round four, but I was still on a roll, getting three more questions right in that sequence.

I have to confess, a couple of my correct answers in the show were utter guesses. If you listen to the whole question and give yourself a moment to think, on most occasions the answer will come. There's often plenty of clues in the question, though the construction can be so Byzantine it defies easy interpretation. The worst thing you can do is panic after hearing the first few words of a question. Wait for the whole question - then panic.

Round five and I had another clear round, three correct answers and no passes. But errors were creeping in with other contestants, and we banked only seventy pounds. Roofer James got the boot, though singing teacher Rosie was apparently the weakest link. I'd long since giving up counting who'd gotten the most answers wrong, just trying to concentrate on my own efforts.

Round six brought my winning streak to an abrupt end. I got a question about a 1970s British road safety campaign that proved beyond my ken, as I was a child in New Zealand at the time. Got my second question right, but my third effort was another stumble - what does the G stand for in a skiing event called Super G? Giant, apparently. Never been skiing in my life, so no chance there.

In truth, I was remarkably lucky with a lot of the questions I got asked. Anytime there was a TV-related question, it seemed to come to me. The only New Zealand question fell to me as well, along with plenty of others that fell nicely inside my store of knowledge and life experience. Luck plays a big part in winning The Weakest Link, and I had more than my fair share that day.

Round six was the start of squeaky bum time for me. We were down to four contestants - me, Graham, Rosie and Paul. I'd only gotten one of my three questions right, and had no idea how many the others had gotten wrong - but we banked a puny twenty pounds out of a possible thousand quid. Could I make a great escape? Would my good efforts in previous rounds help me through?

I'd no idea whom I should vote off. I was alone on my side of the studio, while the other three were clustered together. I looked across at them, trying to choose, and thought I saw Paul writing a letter O. Was he voting for Rosie? If he voted for Rosie and I voted for Rosie, she'd get two out of four votes. Even if I got the other two, it'd be a tie. Maybe I might survive. So I voted Rosie.

Only after I'd finished voting Rosie, did it occur to me that writing the letter G for Graham could look a lot like writing the letter O from the other side of the studio. But it was too late to chance my mind - not that you're allowed to change your mind, once you've voted. I held my breath and waited for the result. Being last to reveal their vote from among the four, I knew my fate could be sealed before I even got the chance to vote...

Graham voted for me - the second time he'd do so in the show. Paul voted for Rosie - I'd guessed right, it was an O, not a G after all. Now it was down to Rosie - if she voted me, it'd be a tie. Graham was the strongest link, he'd decide who got to stay and who would have to go. Argh, argh, argh, said my brain. Rosie turned over her board - she didn't vote for me. I was safe. Phew.

Rosie took her Walk of Shame and we were down to the final three. Getting voted off now would be utterly gutting. I fancied my chances in the final round penalty shoot-out of questions, though I'm not sure why. Anyway we had round seven to get through first before the all important final vote. I'd another dodgy round, getting two questions right and two questions wrong.

My brain had a complete spasm on the first question, a really simple one - in American jails, pen is the slang abbreviation for what word? The answer, obviously, is penitentiary. I could have stood there another hour and I doubt that would have come to me. It's not that I didn't know, but I'd tied my brain in knots during the question instead of waiting to hear the whole thing.

In the early rounds, there were longer breaks in recording and you had time to catch your breath. As the show accelerated to its conclusion, the countdown gets shorter and the pressure mounts. Questions that were easy before become mind-boggingly difficult - at least in your head. You're so close to the final, that's playing on your mind too. Graham was sweating for England, they had to keep aiming hairdryers at him. All in all, no shortage of tenseness to be had.

We won forty quid that round, but money was now irrelevant. It was all about who could make the final. Graham had voted for me twice and he was the strongest link. If he voted for me again, my chances of survival were slim. I figured Paul was likely to vote for me, as voting for Graham would have been disingenuous at best. Should I vote for Graham or Paul? I went for Paul, he was weaker than Graham throughout the show. It seemed the right thing to do.

Time to reveal the votes and, again, my fate was sealed before I could say who I wanted off. Graham voted for - Paul! Phew, I could relax. Paul voted for me, but that was irrelevant. I turned over my board for the last time, revealing my vote for Paul. Anne questioned our choices, but Paul had been the weakest from among the three of us, so it was fair and square, no tactical voting.

The final round of quickfire questions has three thousand pounds up for grabs, with whatever you bank getting trebled. But there's only ninety seconds and the questions are a lot harder than before. I only got one of four right, and Graham got one out of five right. We banked forty quid [the only time I banked in the whole show], trebled to one hundred and twenty pounds. Total prize money = one thousand, five hundred and seventy pounds. Nice.

I'd spent the previous seven weeks working on speculative writing, so was well and truly skint. Plus I was flying to New Zealand three weeks after the show, so winning some money - any money - would be a huge help financially. Winnings on The Weakest Link can be as little as eight hundred quid, and have reached close to four grand on certain editions of the show's daytime, non-celebrity incarnation. Our total was a decent amount, but it still had to be won.

As the strongest link, Graham chose to go first in the penalty shoot-out - but couldn't remember the answer to his first question: In what 1964 film in which Peter Sellars plays the American president, does his character say, 'Gentlemen, you can't fight in here - this is the War Room'? The answer was Stanley Kubrick's Dr Strangelove, and I was telepathically screaming it out. Happily, I have no telepathic powers, so Graham had to pass. 0-0.

My first question was something about which Asian city was recently given the most Michelin stars of any city in the world? I must have read an article about this somewhere, as I knew the answer straight away: Tokyo. 0-1 to me.

Graham guessed at his second question about Paris fashion houses, but he guessed wrong. I'd have gotten that wrong too, so breathed a sigh of relief for not having his questions. Still 0-1 to me, but with my second question to come.

Anne started talking about milk, Greek and gatherings of stars in the sky. My brain turned to mush. I latched on to the word milk and blurted out, 'milky way'. Wrong, the correct answer is 'galaxy'. Personally, I prefer a Flake. Still 0-1 to me.

Graham got a nightmare question about Edward the First's wife. He guessed, and got it wrong. I'd been dreading questions about kings and queens from history, nursery rhymes and British geography. Happily, I'd avoided them throughout the show. Still 0-1 to me.

My third question: Jan Garvie recently joined what radio show alongside Jennie Murray? I did my best to surpress a grin. I've had one radio play broadcast and it was part of the show Anne was asking me about, talk about horses for courses. I uttered the answer, Women's Hour. Anne was flummoxed by my New Zealand accent, and we bounced the words back and forth several times before she accepted my answer. Most of that gout cut from the broadcast version.

So, the score was now 0-2 to me, with only two questions left each for me and Graham. Even if I duffed both my remaining questions, he could only tie me and it was guaranteed to go to sudden death. I relaxed a little, the pressure easing. Back to Graham for his fourth question.

It was something about a public school, the correct answer was Winchester, which I'd never even have guessed. Again, I was grateful not to have his questions, as I would only have gotten one from the first four right. Graham knew the answer, so 1-2 to me.

My fourth question was about the inventor of vulcanisation who went on to make tyres for cars. Try as I might, I couldn't remember the correct answer [Charles Goodyear], so had a guess with Pirelli. The other answer in my head was Firestone, but I didn't believe that was right. Anyway, I got it wrong, still 1-2 to me.

Graham's last question was make or break. If he got it right, I had to nail my final question to win, otherwise we were going to sudden death. If he got it wrong, I would win without having to face my final question.

His question revolved around the collective name for a kind of music popularised in Liverpool during the 1960s, also the name for a police show set in the same city broadcast from 2001. Again, my brain was screaming the answer: Mersey Beat.

I felt certain Graham would know it. He was 60, so he would have been a teenager during the 1960s, when the Mersey Beat sound of the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers et al was storming the British charts.

But he couldn't pull the answer from the fathoms of his memory, and suddenly it was all over. I'd won 1-2 without needing my final question. Anne came over, congratulated me and shook my hand, before commiserating with Graham. We were escorted away to do our after show interviews, where I made sure to express my good fortune. Graham answered far more questions than me and got fewer wrong throughout.

After that I was given a cheque for my winnings, put in a car and taken back to Heathrow. It was all over in a trice, leaving me happy but bewildered. I celebrated with a slap-up feed at Cafe Rouge in Terminal 1, entrusted my good news to only two people and have kept it quiet ever since - until last Friday.

All in all, The Weakest Link was a tense but enjoyable experience, made more so by reaching the final and winning. The money has long since departed my bank account, alas, but it's an accomplishment I can still savour. Would I try out for other TV quiz shows? Maybe. There's a lot more money to be won elsewhere, but I doubt my general knowledge is good enough to achieve that.

I was lucky. As I said in my post-show interview, pure jam.

Last time I believe a call from the BBC

Two weeks ago the production team at The Weakest Link phoned to say the episode I'd been a contestant in was being broadcast today - Thursday, May 22, at 5.15pm on BBC1. Well, I've just watched the first five minutes and I'm conspicuous by my absence. Apologies to all those who tuned in hoping to see me winnning/losing/being humiliated [delete as appropriate]. I've no idea when the episode will be broadcast. Sigh. Can't even organise infamy.

Bish-OP vs the Anne-Droid

I'm a contestant on The Weakest Link this afternoon, due for broadcast at 5.15pm on BBC1. It's nearly three months since I went to Pinewood for the filming, and I've managed to forget most of what happened on the day - so I've been kind of looking forward to seeing the finished show. Having watched people make tits on themselves on The Apprentice last night, I'm dreading my on-screen humiliation.

Will try and get some work done today, but I suspect creeping fear will consume most of the hours between now and 5.15pm. It's like spending an entire day in the waiting room of a dentist, knowing there's no escape from the inevitable. Oh well. I'm going down That Fancy London first thing tomorrow and won't be back until late on Monday, but will blog some post-show comments later. Wish me luck.

Moffat to replace RTD as Who showrunner

The mediaguardian website has broken a story that's been rumoured for what feels like forever: Steven Moffat will be replacing Russell T Davies as showrunner on Doctor Who next year. Moffat will take charge as executive producer on the revived show's fifth series, which goes into production next year for broadcast in 2010. [The fourth series is currently being broadcast, while three specials will be screened during 2009 to allow the show's cast and crew a hiatus.]

This is brilliant news, in my humble opinion. Moffat has written most of my favourite episodes since the show returned in 2005: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances; The Girl in the Fireplace; and the BAFTA-winning Blink last year. He's created and been executive producer for several series in the past, and will bring a new perspective to Who. Can't wait to see what Moffat does with the show, just wish we didn't have to wait until 2010 for series five.

Having said that, Davies deserves all the plaudits he's had for reviving Doctor Who. He turned something considered little more than a joke in television into must-see-TV, revived the notion of drama the whole family could watch and brought science fiction back from the dead as small screen genre in the UK.

Getting on The Weakest Link

Last December I applied to be a contestant on the BBC quiz show, The Weakest Link. I'm not sure why I applied - probably a work displacement activity, knowing me. Appearing on television holds no great appeal for me, having been interviewed on various channels at various times. I was once interviewed live on Sky News while standing on one leg next to an open window while snow was blowing in from outside. Grud only knows if I made any sense that day.

The application procedure for The Weakest Link is simple enough. You email an address displayed at the end of the show, and they'll send you a form. Answer some questions about yourself, say when you might not be available to audition, attach a photo and stick it in the post. I'm told it can take months, even years, from that point until you get asked to audition - if you get asked at all. My form went off not long before Christmas last year.

Roughly four weeks later I got a phone call inviting me to an audition in Edinburgh near the end of January. Could I make it? Sure, anything for a day out the house. Working from home can foster cabin fever and it was the dead of winter, so I was happy to embrace the opportunity. The auditions were held in a hotel near Edinburgh Castle, with eight wannabe contestants from various parts of Scotland. I was one of the youngest - lots of self employed people.

We had to produce identification and fill in some forms. Two BBC researchers dealt with us, both chirpy and efficient. Next was a three-minute written quiz, 20 questions. I got 18 right [I think], but had an absolute brain spasm on two questions. One asked about a Mexican kind of break, for which I answered corn instead of tortilla. The other wanted to know which king commanded the sea to part? Good King Wenceslas, I wrote - bad spelling and all.

There are three kinds of questions I can never answer on most TV quiz shows. [On University Challenge there are 300 kinds of questions I can't answer.] Anything about nursery rhymes, British geography or kings and queens - I'm out of my depth. So the king parting the sea question utterly stumped me. [The answer's King Canute, right?] Having finished our written quiz, the researchers staged a mock round of The Weakest Link, with one of them as Anne Robinson.

I got all my questions right, but one of the other people auditioning got everything wrong. She was unemployed and having a bit of a 'mare, so when it came time to put the boot in about why we'd all voted her the weakest link, everyone else held back. Finally, we were interviewed on camera one by one for several minutes, with the researchers asking impertinent questions to test our responses. I did my best to be jovial and self-deprecating.

We were told the team in London would go through all those who'd auditioned and select people for the contestant pool. Even if we got into the pool, there were no guarantees when we might be called for recording of a show, if at all. Each individual episode of The Weakest Link requires a mix of contestants - different ages, backgrounds and occupations, all from different parts of the country. Can't be an easy job finding that mix in nine contestants.

A week or two later I got a letter saying I'd was under consideration, but no guarantees. Still, nice to get that far I thought, and put it out of my mind. A week or two later I got a phone call - would I be available for taping on February 27th? Err, blimey, yes! The Weakest Link is filmed at Pinewood, so it's mean an overnight stay at the BBC's expense, including flights and accommodation. At last, a chance to recoup my license fee.

Next came all the paperwork - rules and regulations, clearance forms, a lengthy health declaration form, etc. For me the most troubling thing were the wardrobe stipulations. I've spent the past 25 years wearing black or white. On The Weakest Link, black is reserved for the host, Queen of Mean Anne Robinson - so no black for me. And no white either. No stripes. Be careful about patterns. Basically, bring three different tops of not too bold primary colours.

In the end I had to go out shopping to find three tops that might fit the bill. I ended up in a nasty tomato-coloured polo neck shirt - bleurgh. Normally my hair is a close cropped number 1 cut, but I'd just started growing it out for a show, so it was looking particularly crap in February. Wonderful. I'd grown some Comedy Facial Hair for the Christmas pantomime, and decided to keep that for the taping. Give Anne an easy target for her sniping comments.

Fast forward to February 26. I flew down to Heathrow, checked into a BBC-approved Sheraton and raced into town for the screening of Jason Arnopp's film Look At Me. Meet loads of bloggers I'd never encountered before, including Jason himself. Schlepped back out to Heathrow and collapsed into bed, bemused a strange whirring and thumping noise. Woke up at three and realised my room was directly above the hotel front doors. Got another five minutes sleep.

Got up at seven feeling tired and grumpy. Got a safety razor from reception and sliced my face to pieces trying to shave. Nearly missed the people carrier transporting all the contestants out to Pinewood. Not a great start, no good omens here. Our show was the second of the day to be taped, so we had about four hours of hanging around. The researchers kept us diverted and stopped us wandering to the 007 stage next door, where the new Bond was shooting.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, I couldn't help but sense the contestants sizing each other up. One guy had been on the ITV daytime quiz show Golden Balls, he seemed a likely winner. One woman talked like a machine gun. One woman wanted advice about getting her baby some modelling work. Everybody was friendly enough, but not too friendly. In a few hours we'd be voting each other off. No point making friendships that weren't going to last.

Eventually we were ushered into a green room where the production team went through the rules one last time. We were encouraged to banter with Anne, make it a good show. Nobody goes on The Weakest Link to win a lot of money. Maximum prize is £10,000 but most winners take home between one and three thousand pounds, usually towards the bottom end of that range. The Weakest Link is all about the interplay between the contestants and the host.

Before we could start the quiz, it was time to film the show's opening. We had to sit round in clusters, talking and looking interested while a camera crew filmed us. No wild hand movements, as this bit appears in slow motion on screen. Suddenly it's all getting very real. I do my best to look animated while my lower intestine ties itself in knots. I haven't eaten for hours but could swallow a raisin by this point. Then it's time to go into the studio...

If you want to see what happens next, watch The Weakest Link this Thursday [May 22] on BBC1 from 5.15pm. I'll post the second half of this blog entry afterwards.

The ghetto's always greener

Most freelance writers will tend to focus their efforts on one medium: novels, computer games, film, television, radio, comics, journalism or another area. That's not to say many of them don't work in multiple areas. Depending on a single medium for your living is dangerous. If that medium is seasonal or prone to ebbs and flows, so will your income be. [The worst thing a freelance writer can do is depend upon a single employer in a single medium. If that goes south, you're sunk.]

Different media offer different opportunities. You can make a very good living writing computer games, but chances are you'll never get to create a new game that gets published. Write a novel and you have a near direct conduit to the imaginations of your readers, but not many authors survive on advances and royalties alone. Get a regular television drama writing gig and hefty five figure payments will follow. But not all TV writing experiences are happy ones.

I like the variety of tackling different storytelling media. Each has its own particular craft and skillset, so mixing and matching provides fresh challenges. You'll learn a trick while writing a novel that can influences your next radio play, for example. Writers have a fount of ideas bubbling up from their imagination, some ideas won't fit their current medium. No matter, file it for later usage.

One thing I notice from talking with other writers is those who focus their efforts in one area often find themselves pining for a change. Write comics long enough and you run the risk of getting burnt out. It's not that you don't have stories to tell, but the prospect of writing them in comics form fills you with dread. Mix it up, shift focus to another medium - novels, computer games, whatever. If you're bored with what you're writing, that will infect your audience.

Cross-pollination is good. Several US TV writers spent the recent strike crafting comics and graphic novels, flexing their storytelling muscles in a different medium. More than anything else, a writer writes. But just because you're a celebrated writer for one medium, doesn't mean you automatically have the skills necessary to excel in another. Every medium is different, taking time to grasp - even great storytellers can stumble outside their comfort zone.

Sometimes a particular medium can feel more like a ghetto. Comics writers often feel they don't get much respect, especially from writers in other fields. For a long time film writers got accused of sneering at TV writers. So-called literary novelists get invited to festivals while pulp fiction scribes are dismissed as hacks. Poets are seen as artists, yet get the worst pay of almost any writers. No matter what ghetto you work in, the next one always seems greener.

Opportunities, and their knockers

There are no shortage of schemes designed to find and nurture new writing talent. Some have pre-requisites built-in that mean not everyone can apply. For example, a recent UK Film Council scheme stipulated only writers with an agent could submit. I don't have an agent, so I couldn't apply - but I didn't take it personally. Some people went on line and cried foul, berating the UKFC for this a restriction. [Some people will always find something to whine about.]

Hell, there was a Channel 4 scheme last year that excluded anyone who had already had a professional radio drama writing credit. I've had a play on the BBC, so I couldn't apply. But that radio credit means I can - and have - applied for the BBC Writer's Academy. Last year you only needed to have passed a Skillset-approved writing course. This year you need a professional TV, film, theatre or radio drama credit. Swings and roundabouts. But opportunities still abound.

The BBC writersroom has unveiled a new opportunity called Sharps. You write a 30-minute TV drama that explores 'the nation's health'. One entry per person, applicants must be aged 18 or over on Monday 28 July 2008, and resident in the UK or Eire. The scheme is only open to those with no previous writing credit for a network television programme over 15 minutes in length. I haven't got a TV drama writing credit yet, so you can be sure I'm submitting to Sharps.

Setting the issue of rules and regulations, there's another issue to consider regarding restrictions. Sharps is remarkably unfettered in this regard. You can write and submit any script you want, so long as it runs roughly 30 minutes and is no longer than 35 pages. Even the brief - 'the nation's health' - is delightfully open to interpretation. The writersroom says it's looking for 'writers with the talent, ideas, insights, and imagination to captivate an audience ... a fresh, surprising, entertaining take on a universal theme.'

Sharps has given me an excuse - and better still, a deadline of June 16th - to write a new spec script. I spent much of the last week fleshing out a one-page series of bullet points into a four-page synopsis. This wasn't just an exercise in plotting and structure, though obviously that came into it. Could I capture the story's tone [tragic] and visual style [sordid cruelty meets magic realism], all the while creating a compelling narrative? Time will tell.

I believe the worst thing any writer can do is second guess what others want. Yes, you should absolutely write within the parameters of a given brief. But within those parameters you should let your imagination run free. Don't just invent another medical precinct drama. Write a story you want to tell, something about which you're passionate. Second-guessing leads to second-hand writing, you try too hard to meet some perceived expectations.

I've been a professional script reader for nearly a year, and the script's I've enjoyed the most are the ones that surprised me. That defied my expectations. Even when the script was not the world's most polished, slick effort, a story with heart that goes places I didn't see coming twenty pages away wins the day. For Sharps I'm going out on a limb. I'd rather write a story that touches my heart than one which merely ticks the right boxes.

Life's too short to waste time producing material that can best be described as 'fit for purpose'. Writing should be imaginative, fresh and original. The best script I've written will almost certainly never be made. But as a calling card for what I can do, it's a good sample and I'm proud of it. I've no idea if my Sharps entry can match that, but I'd rather fall flat on my face trying than contribute another dull script to a pile of predictable dross.

Keeping the faith

There aren't many writers who become an overnight sensation. You'll read the occasional story about a new author who's first novel has won them a six figure contract, making them seem instantly rich. In truth, they spent months - even years - writing the book that won them that advance, and often just as long finding an agent or publisher who'd take them on. Hell, even the phrase first-time author is frequently a misnomer, or what mortals like to call a big, fat lie.

One writer of my acquaintance was taken on a big publisher two years ago. To launch him into the marketplace, they pulled all sorts of misnomers out of the hat, hailing him as a bold new visionary voice. But a cursory search for this author's name reveals he'd already had four other novels published before his so-called first novel. They were franchise fiction, sold thousands and are still in print. But the publisher didn't let facts to get in the way of their hype.

Even getting that contract with a big publisher is no guarantee of success. Yes, you get a nice advance, maybe five figures, maybe even six. But that's split into two or three payments. If you've got an agent, they get a slice. Ditto the taxman. You've spent a year or two honing that novel for a fraction of a nice advance. What happens if it doesn't sell? Most don't. More than 100,000 new books appear each year in the UK. How many new books do you buy a year?

If the book doesn't sell, you won't clear your advance and there will be no royalties. Now you're under pressure. The first novel you wrote to please yourself, but the second has to please your agent, your editor, your publisher's sales and marketing department. Blow it again and there won't be any contract extension. Time to find another publisher, with smaller advances and less prestige. You've gone from being an overnight success to old news without blinking.

You didn't stop being a good writer during that time. Maybe you wrote half a mediocre book, but you've still got talent. Talent is what got you this far, talent is all you have to believe in - everything else is hype. It's great to make a breakthrough, but that's just one step on the ladder. Don't expect the whole world to welcome you with open arms. You want success, you've got to earn it. You've got to graft. You've got to keep the fire in your belly, the hunger to learn.

A few months back I had a little breakthrough in achieving my ambition to become a TV drama writer. But the person who gave me the good news was wonderfully honest in their choice of words. 'You've got your foot in the door. But now there's a very long staircase you've got to climb before reaching the next level.' Three months on I'm still trying to get up that staircase. [Actually, I first typed trying to get up that suitcase, which makes no sense at all. Thanks to Good Dog for pointing this out in the comments!] It's taking time, energy and effort - all for no financial reward. I'm living on hope and faith.

I know I can tell a tale, spin a yarn, weave a story. I've won awards, had 18 novels published with more on the way and made a decent living from writing since going freelance eight years ago. It's only been two and a bit years since I decided to make a concerted effort toward writing for TV drama. I'm not there yet, but I've got my foot in the door. If I want to reach the next stage, I have to write my way there. Nobody's going to hand success to me on a plate.

You've got to earn your chances as a writer. When you get those chances, you've got to make them count. Sometimes it won't work out. Writers get booted off scripts all the time. Hell, I've had rewrites on my work twice. Once the job was done, I compared my last draft with the final draft. The results were instructive. Everything is a learning process, if you're willing to learn. Most of all, you've got to believe in yourself and your talent. Keep the faith.

The importance of character versus plot

I've written a lot of plot-driven stories for various media - script, novels, audio dramas, graphic novels, etc. For the longest time that was where I most easily found work, pounding out page-turning pulp fiction, where speed and excitement trumped heartfelt, emotion-led character pieces. [As one editor memorably put it, I don't have much poetry in my soul.] Lyrical prose and moments built around feelings don't naturally occur in my writing, so I make myself write them.

For example, I'm working on pitches for several different projects at present. Had a lovely discussion with my script editor yesterday about one of them, identifying what was working and what wasn't. I'd gone for a shocking opening, before backtracking to show the events that led up to the climax. But doing that meant I focused more on the plot mechanics of setting up the payoff, instead of writing about the impact of the story's revelations upon its core characters.

Getting your plot right is important, make no mistake about that. But it's the character moments, the human touches that connect with your audience. A beautiful constructed plot machine is just that: mechanical. Alas, that default position has become a habit, something I need to break to write better. Everybody has their own natural tendencies. Many people are shy introverted, not wishing to draw attention. But they can train themselves to overcome that.

It's often said the most important thing for a writer to find is their voice, the unique take on the world that distinguishes their work from every other wordsmith. No two writers share the same background and life experiences [with the possible exception of identical twins], so every writer should naturally tell different stories. The hard part is finding your voice, embracing it, nurturing it - and making the most of it as a storytelling.

I'm fond of tragic, thwarted love stories. I like things to end badly, any victories to be pyrrhic. I'm not afraid of a little magic realism to express ideas or feelings, maybe because I find that easier than having characters talk about their emotions. As a consequence, some of my best writing has a Gothic fairytale quality, as if I expect Tim Burton to be directing the results. Repression will be rife, good people will suffer. Coo, it's a laugh riot in my head sometimes.

UPDATE: Having written the above entry, I go surfing some blogs and discover the whole Character vs Plot debate being argued at Write Here, Write Now. Go check it out.

Listen, you can hear a Small Blue Thing

The delightful Jules Horne has a new play on Radio Scotland this morning, directed by Rosie Kellagher. Small Blue Thing is an eerie tale of childhood possession and the dangers of playing with marbles, starring Clare Waugh, James Mackenzie, Molly Innes and Isla Cowan. If not based in Scotland and would like to listen, you should be able to hear the play after midday on the BBC Radio iPlayer. Just click on the link for Radio Scotland and scroll down until you find Small Blue Thing. That is all.

Happy, proud, exhausted, recovering

Big chunks of the past four months have been a whirlwind of rehearsals, production meetings and stress. The reason? A local am-dram production of the musical Me and My Girl, which I co-directed. In a moment of madness I got cast in the lead, meaning I also had lines to learn, blocking to memorise, songs to sing, dances to dance, even a few moments of tap. It all culminated last week with five performances in a sweltering theatre during the hottest days of 2008 thus far.

On the plus side, I lost two kilos in weight thanks to sweat and stress. And the show was great, a production of which I'm truly proud. During rehearsals it felt like everything that could go wrong did go wrong, yet the cast and crew somehow pulled together to create a joyous five nights of musical theatre. The principles and chorus played a blinder, while all those behind the scenes performed miracles to create a seamless show that entranced and entertained.

Given the choice, I'll never again cast myself in the lead of any show I'm directing. I found it tough enough directing, keeping all the plates spinning. Fortunately our local am-dram group has a plethora of talented people to whom key tasks can be delegated - costumes, choreography, set construction and painting, props, lighting, music, singing. But playing the lead gets in the way of directing, and directing gets in the way of acting - at least it does for me.

Now it's recovery time. The build-up to any show becomes an all-consuming monster, but a musical triples that pressure thanks to the need for acting, singing and dancing. Once the show's over and the stage has been cleared, I tend to collapse for a week after, drained of all energy. I was proofing the manuscript for my 19th novel yesterday and fell asleep twice while sitting up. Nothing wrong with the book, it's a blood-strewn page-turner, just utter exhaustion.

Performed my last post-show ritual yesterday: shaving my head. Most shows require me to grow comedy facial hair, or abandon my close-cropped number one look for something less confrontational. So it was for Me and My Girl, five months of unfettered growth until my hair was the longest it's been for many years. Well, that's all gone now. Think I'll sprout a goatee instead, just for fun. In the meantime, I've no shortage of work to catch up with. Onwards.

Blink wins BAFTA for Steven Moffat

The BAFTA TV Craft Awards were presented over the weekend and best writer went to Steven Moffat for his stunning Doctor Who story Blink. [The creepy one, with the statues that send people back in time - you remember.] If the BAFTA triumph doesn't sound impressive enough, consider the other writers and the projects for which they were nominated: Tony Marchant – The Mark of Cain; Jimmy McGovern – The Street; Heidi Thomas – Cranford. All acclaimed series, all celebrated writers and all beaten by a episode of Doctor Who. Six years ago the very idea was unthinkable, now it's fact.

Miss Teen South Carolina - the Musical

Eight months ago Miss Teen South Carolina became an internet sensation after a clip of her babbling to answer to a beauty pageant question went on YouTube. This particular clip has now been watched 24 million times...

Now some scamps have set those babblings to music, as performed by Danicah Waldo. She might not hit every note she goes for, but that's still quite a voice. Boy, she also captures the clueless, glazed-eye stare of Miss Teen South Carolina. Love it...

Ramsey Street casts a long shadow

Seems BBC1 is having a few problems replacing Neighbours. The Australian soap was a daytime fixture on the channel for decades, screening five days a week after the lunchtime news with each episode repeated later that same afternoon. But rival channel Five gazumped the terrestrial rights, forcing the BBC to look elsewhere for shows to plug the gap. Quiz show The Weakest Link got shifted from BBC2 to BBC1, filling the later afternoon slot, while long-running continuing medical drama series Doctors came forward half an hour.

But that still left a hole in the schedule, temporarily filled by the imported Dick Van Dyke procedural Diagnosis Murder. The BBC bought 130 episodes of a new Aussie soap, Out of the Blue, to replace Neighbours. That launched last week with 1.2 million viewers, but close to half those deserted within a week. Now the BBC has announced Out of the Blue is getting shunted over to BBC2 where the remaining 100+ episodes will be burnt off over the summer. What's replacing it? Back to Diagnosis Murder as a stopgap, until another solution can be found.

The disappearance of Neighbours from the schedules took months to play out, and all sorts of options were contemplated. According to news media reports, the daytime schedulers looked at giving BBC Scotland's homegrown soap River City a run across the whole of Britain. [At present the twice-weekly show's only broadcast to terrestrial viewers in Scotland, though it can be seen nationally via cable, satellite, digital and online at the iPlayer.] High school precinct drama Waterloo Road was mooted as another possible candidate.

In truth, there's not nearly enough Waterloo Road to fill the gap, even if you sliced the 40 episodes of 60 minutes each in half. River City's got more than 500 episodes in the bank and there were rumours of test screenings in parts of England to see how well the show translated to a non-Scots audience, but nothing's been announced yet. For now, daytime viewers can expect to see a lot of Dick Van Dyke.

Truth is stranger than fiction, and less realistic

Been rewriting Families At War, the pilot for a continuing TV drama series I devised and scripted as the final project for my MA screenwriting course last summer. Back then it was 60 pages long in screenplay format, something of a bloated behemoth when you consider most soaps run half an hour [and often less than 23 minutes on commercial channels like ITV].

First of all, I went through the script, looking for places to tighten it up. An assistant script editor at one series who had read the 60 page version felt the storylines were muddled and some of the dialogue was on the nose. [By way of contrast, an assistant script editor at another series who read the same script praised the characterisation and dialogue, saying it had them gripped - go figure.] Anyway, I found ten pages of cuts through simple nicks and tucks.

Next I sent the 50 page version to a professional script reader. Their verdict? Too many characters, too many storylines, not a strong enough focus on the core characters and concept. Couldn't argue with any of those criticisms. Families At War was supposed to focus on two feuding families - one Scottish Protestants, the other Italian Catholic immigrants - in Glasgow during the Second World War. But I overloaded the script with extraneous characters and subplots.

Within two hours I'd identified and removed most of the superfluous material. If I'd any doubts about how inessential those elements were to the script, they were dismissed by the ease with which I could cut them. In no time at all my 60 page version was down to 32 pages. Two more polishes sneaked the page count down to 28, but that included some new material I added to enhance the visual storytelling. Soaps are often dialogue-led, but a few great images speak volumes.

One particular criticism arose from the reader that made me smile. They found a twist at the end of the story strained credibility beyond breaking point. But that twist is based on historical fact. Indeed, it was that fact which first inspired me to write the script. Every story has an internal logic. Just because something happens in real life, doesn't make it credible in a fictional narrative. For example, coincidences are commonplace in life, but less acceptable in drama.

In truth, it wasn't the historical fact that strained credulity, but the context in which I presented it. So I took greater care over the relevant scenes, stripping out a few elements that preceded so twist to make it less unlikely. I also gave myself a little insurance policy, adding four words to the front of the script: Inspired by true events. Families At War is based on carefully researched historical fact, it doesn't hurt to acknowledge that right up front.

It's time to raise the curtain...

Last night was opening night for our local theatre workshop's 2008 musical, Me and My Girl. Four months of rehearsals, lines learned, songs sung, danced choreographed, costumes made, set construction and props sourcing - all culminating in a final frenzy of stress, nerves and excitement. I shared directing duties on the show, but also found myself among the cast, bolstering the ranks of men.

Back when we had auditions, it was a bitterly cold January and four months seemed like all the time in the world to get a musical ready. Last Sunday we had dress rehearsal and quite a few people were despairing after the first run-through. But something magical happens when you run a show twice in one day. Despite all the exhaustion and emotional fragility, the second time of asking is always better than the first. So it was on Sunday.

The band came together, the cast transmorgified into a singing, dancing ensemble of toffs and cockneys, sets opened and closed as required - suddenly we had a show. Despite all the odds that seemed to stack up against us, Me and My Girl has hit the stage and it's a credit to the Biggar Theatre Workshop. I couldn't be more proud of everyone involved or the efforts made.

After the first performance, everyone was buzzing. We'd done it, despite torn ligaments and lost voices. The audience enjoyed it, we had a great time and - best of all - we've got four more performances to savour. When we started, it was the dead of winter. Now Biggar's basking in something of a heatwave. If only we could figure out how to turn off the theatre's heating...

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