grandchildren. They often ask my mum if there’s any sign of me getting married, which she doesn’t particularly like. I tell her to take no notice. Tell them to mind their own business, I say. But Mum won’t. She’s dying for me to get engaged to Tim. Or anyone at this stage. I’ve a horrible feeling she has a mother-of-the bride dress picked out and Dad has already written a wedding speech. It’s probably gathering dust in the garage along with the gardening tools he never uses.
Anyway it’s great to have the house to myself for once. I sit down at the computer all set to write. I feel very businesslike. Switching on the computer I wait for inspiration to strike.
And wait . . . and wait . . .
Then I stand up.
I need a strong black coffee. Now. After all no serious writer can work without coffee. What was I thinking? As I wait for the kettle to boil I sit back down again. Eventually I start writing SCENE ONE. I feel a rush of blood to the head as my fingers tap the keyboard. The words flow and keep flowing. God, I wish I’d started writing my script a long time ago.
At scene two I’m stuck.
Again.
I stare at the screen blankly and try to concentrate. Something is missing. I really need a cat. No serious writer writes without a sleeping cat nearby.
Right. No more excuses. I seriously am going to write all day today because I don’t want to end up like all those people out there who always say they’d like to be a writer, if only they could find the time. Those same people, unsurprisingly, are the very ones who find time to sit in the pub, watch endless TV, gossip for hours and go for long drives in the country. I admit that up until now, I’ve been one of those people. Not any more though. Today I turn over a new leaf.
I write SCENE TWO. It looks impressive on the computer screen. But what happens next? Suddenly I’m away again as my imagination takes over. Characters come to life as I write about a violent father and his terrified young son. The father is extremely drunk and he’s accusing his son of stealing money from under his bed. The son is cowering in the corner and the father undoes his thick leather belt. The child begs for mercy . . .
Oh God, I’m not enjoying this at all. It’s horrible and brings back memories of when I was in school and sometimes the headmaster would cane me. That was before corporal punishment was banned. I feel kind of gloomy and depressed writing this stuff but I reckon the film will be huge, especially in the States. Because Americans love all this kind of stuff, don’t they? I mean Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes was a roaring success and that can’t have been much fun to write.
I press on. The father is yelling at his son and using a lot of F words and I’m actually beginning to feel downcast. The more I write the gloomier I become. By the time the drunken father starts beating the living daylights out of his son the tears are welling inside my eyes. And when the boy cries out in terror, they start streaming down my cheeks.
Enough. God, I can’t stand writing this kind of depressing stuff. I wish I could write something funny instead. Something that would have cinemagoers rolling around in their seats. If I keep writing this morbid stuff, it’s going to destroy me. Oh God, what am I going to do? Isn’t there some easier way? How does one become funny?
I’m trying to think of the last really funny film I saw. I can’t think of one. Tim finds most films funny, especially if they’re crude, for instance that vulgar scene in American Pie with the apple tart? He squealed like a pig when that scene was shown. When Tim thinks something is hilarious he squeals. I forgot to mention that earlier. He squeals and his whole body starts to shake.
Still at least he sticks around unlike the rest of my exes. In school I could never get anyone to like me even though most of my friends had boyfriends.
People used to call me ‘Pudgy’. I blame my mother. You see my
Anyway it’s great to have the house to myself for once. I sit down at the computer all set to write. I feel very businesslike. Switching on the computer I wait for inspiration to strike.
And wait . . . and wait . . .
Then I stand up.
I need a strong black coffee. Now. After all no serious writer can work without coffee. What was I thinking? As I wait for the kettle to boil I sit back down again. Eventually I start writing SCENE ONE. I feel a rush of blood to the head as my fingers tap the keyboard. The words flow and keep flowing. God, I wish I’d started writing my script a long time ago.
At scene two I’m stuck.
Again.
I stare at the screen blankly and try to concentrate. Something is missing. I really need a cat. No serious writer writes without a sleeping cat nearby.
Right. No more excuses. I seriously am going to write all day today because I don’t want to end up like all those people out there who always say they’d like to be a writer, if only they could find the time. Those same people, unsurprisingly, are the very ones who find time to sit in the pub, watch endless TV, gossip for hours and go for long drives in the country. I admit that up until now, I’ve been one of those people. Not any more though. Today I turn over a new leaf.
I write SCENE TWO. It looks impressive on the computer screen. But what happens next? Suddenly I’m away again as my imagination takes over. Characters come to life as I write about a violent father and his terrified young son. The father is extremely drunk and he’s accusing his son of stealing money from under his bed. The son is cowering in the corner and the father undoes his thick leather belt. The child begs for mercy . . .
Oh God, I’m not enjoying this at all. It’s horrible and brings back memories of when I was in school and sometimes the headmaster would cane me. That was before corporal punishment was banned. I feel kind of gloomy and depressed writing this stuff but I reckon the film will be huge, especially in the States. Because Americans love all this kind of stuff, don’t they? I mean Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes was a roaring success and that can’t have been much fun to write.
I press on. The father is yelling at his son and using a lot of F words and I’m actually beginning to feel downcast. The more I write the gloomier I become. By the time the drunken father starts beating the living daylights out of his son the tears are welling inside my eyes. And when the boy cries out in terror, they start streaming down my cheeks.
Enough. God, I can’t stand writing this kind of depressing stuff. I wish I could write something funny instead. Something that would have cinemagoers rolling around in their seats. If I keep writing this morbid stuff, it’s going to destroy me. Oh God, what am I going to do? Isn’t there some easier way? How does one become funny?
I’m trying to think of the last really funny film I saw. I can’t think of one. Tim finds most films funny, especially if they’re crude, for instance that vulgar scene in American Pie with the apple tart? He squealed like a pig when that scene was shown. When Tim thinks something is hilarious he squeals. I forgot to mention that earlier. He squeals and his whole body starts to shake.
Still at least he sticks around unlike the rest of my exes. In school I could never get anyone to like me even though most of my friends had boyfriends.
People used to call me ‘Pudgy’. I blame my mother. You see my
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