Habits of Highly Effective Writers #1: Reading

If you want the year ahead to be a better year writing-wise, consider changing some of your habits.

I’ll be making some suggestions over the next series of blog post. Ignore, use, abuse and plunder them. One size never fits all. They are a little brusque and that is deliberate. But I hope they are practical.

As we proceed, you will note only one of them is actually about actual writing.

But for now let’s start with the bedrock of writing: Reading.

Read More Books

Writers are readers. This is a given. You want to write words. Why should anyone read your words if you’re not prepared to read anyone else’s?

Ideas comes from books. An argument can be carefully constructed with facts and evidence, unlike on the internet where facts seem to get in the way. Writers are interested in ideas. Stories and characters are about ideas, after all. Characters incarnate ideas and perspectives.

The written word also expands our minds since it is a very flexible medium. The writer has total control over what the reader experiences, and therefore the reading experience can take you places hitherto unexplored.

Moreover, published books show how the written word should be written. You learn so much about the art of writing just by reading. So, that's why I say again: Read more books this year.

How to Read More Books

If you find it helpful to set a target, do that. Make a list. If you're the competitive type, compete against yourself. Write a list of the books you read last year, and then try to read more books this year.

Don’t just read more books. Read fewer books if you like. But try and read better books. Some trash is fine, and might be educational or inspiring. But read a few classics. A class was invariably written decades and centuries ago, and has subsequently been declared a classic. This means you will be looking through a clear, reveal window of a time when people were the same, but they thought very differently. Look through some new windows this coming year.

Read More Widely

If you read mostly fiction, read more non-fiction. I’m the other way around, and have to make myself read more fiction. I’m glad I have. And I read plenty of novels that I liked. And plenty that I didn’t like. I even gave up on a few of them, but I’m glad I started them and gave them a hundred pages before bailing.

What happens if don’t need to read books to the end?

Nothing. Nothing happens. You don't have to read books to the end.

If you’ve ever written a book, you might be more inclined to do so given you know how much work has gone into that book. But slogging on to the end of a book can just be a waste of time. Sometimes it’s worth it. I would probably have given up on A Gentleman in Moscow half way through if my wife hadn’t insisted it was worth continuing. I’m glad I did, although I maintain the book is still at least 50 pages too long, if not 80.

A few years ago, I gave up on Gilead after a hundred pages (nothing was happening and I was assured that nothing was going to happen) and I'm fine with that.

It's not just taste about pace. Sometimes books are just too long or poorly edited. Non-fiction is often guilty of being too long, especially in books about ideas (rather than biographies). Perhaps there is a need to deliver perceived value, but often the thesis is set out clearly in the first eighty pages, and thereafter there is a law of diminishing returns. I’ve been recommending The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt to everyone over the last five years, but even I would admit that 90% of the value of that book is in the first 120 pages or so.

Warning: Don’t Let Your Pile of Books Get Too High

A big pile starts to feel like homework.

Try to buy only a book or two ahead. It’s exciting to get a new book, and that’s when you want to read it most. If you’ve got a stack of nine books, you’re not going to get to this new one for a few months, and the fire of excitement may have dimmed. You might not even remember why you bought the book. Make a list of books you want to read and buy them as you go.

Beat the Amazon Algorithm

Amazon is a never-ending flowing river of books, and the algorithm is smart, but pretty soon, you’ll reading similar overlapping books if you just rely on their recommendations. Avoid this. Here's how:

Ask your friends in person or social media for book recommendations, especially asking for books that surprised them or that they encountered randomly. What was their favourite book of last year? Or ever? Ask people you don’t know very well for book recommendations, as you might get some outliers that way, and you may end up reading a book that changes your life, or opens up a whole new area for you.

Get recommendations from magazines that review books, or weekend newspapers. You don’t even need to read the review, or prejudge it based on the reviewers comments, but these book sections just bring new books to your attention. You might stumble across a new book about oak trees, quantum computing or the Raj that you suddenly want to read. This is the kind of book that would otherwise not have entered your echo chamber. Buy it and read it, remembering you don’t have to read to the end.

Browsing Books

You might want to browse a book first, or check it out. You can often read the first chapter of a book using Kindle Samples on Amazon. You get the first part of the book sent to your kindle or Kindle App for free. I use this function a lot, especially with non-fiction. Usually I’m checking the book is about what I think it’s about. I’m also making sure the writing style doesn’t grate with me for whatever reason.

Alternatively, pandemic permitting, go to an actual bookshop. Remember those? Have a good look around. But also make an arbitrary rule to pay special attention to books with, say, red or blue covers. Go to a section you never normally go to. Mix it up.

You’ll find an even more esoteric collection in second hand bookshops, charity shop or bric-a-brac stores. Pop in and see what they’ve got. It might only take five minutes to have a flick through their book section. The book might only cost 50p. What have you got to lose?

Writers read. If you want to improve your writer and have more to write about, read more and read wider.

If you have a sitcom script needs a polish before sending off to the BBC Writersroom or an agent or producer, I've produced a PDF of 7 Things You Can Do To Improve Your Script Right Now. Get it here.

Derek

Everyone's talking about Derek so let's talk about Derek. But let me begin with a proviso straight off. This sort of show isn't my sort of thing at all. No great surprise to you I'm sure, given I had a hand in writing two series of Miranda. At the moment, there does seem to be quite a lot of comedy that's high on atmos and pathos, aiming to tug the heart strings rather than tickle the ribs. I'm thinking about programmes like Him and Her, The Cafe and Roger and Val Have Just Got In. These shows have found a devoted audience and critics seem to like them, but they're not for me. My saying they're rubbish or inferior would be like disliking raw fish and criticising a chef for serving sushi. You get the idea. (I do dislike raw fish, by and large)

So, to Derek. And I'm sure you can smell the elephant in the room. Is it right or moral? Is Ricky Gervais mocking people who clearly have severe learning difficulties? Despite previous comments and tweets by Gervais which were either thoughtless or intentionally provocative, I don't believe Derek is mean-spirited. Quite the opposite in fact. Derek is portrayed as being so kind and good that he's almost being held up as an example to the rest of us.

If anything the show is rather thoughtless with regard to the elderly who are treated as props. It seems odd that a show can take place in a nursing home and for no single elderly character to have a more than one or two meaningful lines. But the show's about Derek, not them. I understand that.

Flaws and Quests
Overall, though, we have a comic problem. In a comedy, lead characters need to have flaws on their character and clear quests. Moreover, these character flaws need to interfere with and frustrate their clear quests. The characters need to deserve their sufferings and trials because they don't listen to advice or they're proud or a snob. If Captain Mainwairing would only listen to Sergeant Wilson, he wouldn't make such a fool of himself. If Basil Fawlty weren't such a ludicrous snob, he might find he is much more calm and relaxed. If David Brent wasn't so sure he was a very good boss and a natural comedian, people might actually start to like him.

Derek has flaws, and they're not his fault, and so comedically it's hard to generate comedy stories, scenes and moments. It's okay for bad things to happen to Derek's friend, Dougie the Caretaker, played by Karl Pilkington, because he's mean about the old people and doesn't respect human life. In fact, he's saying the elderly have no quality of life - when his own is clearly lived in a small, dull bubble. It would have been nice to see this character called on this - and we do see that he fixed that picture he wanted to throw away. But it cost him nothing.

Now clearly, I'm banging on about formulaic comedy and lots of people would like to see something different or new or experimental. And that's fine. But most comedy is formulaic underneath, although it's often well disguised. In fact, it's unclear whether this is a comedy drama, or just a drama. Either way, characters needs quests, drives, flaws and set-backs.

Casting
The other problem for me was the casting. Ricky Gervais is obviously brilliant in The Office - and Extras. He also does a great job in Ghost Town, which is a lovely movie that works well for him. I didn't feel he carried this one off so well - partly because he's already bringing baggage to the part. And if the audience are watching baggage, they're missing the jokes. Others may feel differently, but I would have cast someone else in that part. Gervais clearly has an eye for casting because he's found another fantastic female lead in Kerry Godliman. But Gervais' performance made me feel uncomfortable, and that's not a good start. It also reminded me of the character with the wig and glasses Andy Milman plays in When the Whistle Blows - the sitcom within Extras. This is not a good thing.

Some have criticised the mock-doc format. It's true that the format didn't really add anything, but it's a ubiquitous shooting style now, so this didn't bother me one way or the other.

My other criticism would be that nothing really happened in the first ten minutes. I get that it was slow and going at its own pace, but it felt like the show was treading water. There was probably time to set up the old lady dying and Derek's relationship with her. There was probably time for Dougie the caretaker to get his comeuppance. But as with all of these things it is worth noting that Ricky Gervais makes more money in a day that I do in a year. He clearly knows what he's doing. But that's my boringly technical analysis of his show.

Why It's Usually Okay to Make Jokes About the French

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman go into a pub. The Englishman says something conventional and unremarkable - or slightly stuck-up. The Scotsman in some way demonstrates he is thrifty. The Irishman demonstrates he has misunderstood the entire situation and everyone laughs at him.

Okay, so it’s not a joke, but it’s the format of a joke. Is it anti-Irish? Not really. It's a format. The Irish are not an oppressed and exploited minority - any more. There would have been a time when the joke would have been inappropriate. But we're okay with it now. Why is that?

Stereotypes
Jokes and comedy often rely on stereotypes because they are short-cuts. Sometimes they're cliched, sometimes very current. Sometimes they are sweepingly generalised, and other times they are specific. But the format is clear. When someone starts to tell a David Beckham joke, you know that it's a joke about a stupid person. It has been assumed David Beckham was stupid. I’m not sure he is. He is softly spoken and has a fairly high pitched voice, but stupid that makes him not. I note that he’s considerably richer than everyone who reads this blog combined so he’s not that stupid. But because he's a multi-millionaire with a popstar wife, no-one feels that sorry for him, so it's probably okay. But we'll come back to this.

Here’s a standard European joke:
In Heaven, the mechanics are German, the chefs are French, the police are British, the lovers are Italian and everything is organized by the Swiss. In Hell, the mechanics are French, the police are German, the chefs are British, the lovers are Swiss and everything is organized by the Italians.
(EU Joke Book Vol III Page 321 Paragraph 2b)

It seems harmless enough. What’s the joke? That the Germans are efficious, the British are poor cooks, the Swiss are unromantic and the Italians are a shambles. There are all stereotypes, that are broadly accepted as being true - true enough for the joke to be funny - even though there a notable exceptions. But no-one minds too much because we're all of similar status.

There are those who say that it's not okay to joke about nationalities and stereotype in this way - and apply some sort of EU/UN standard to joke-telling. They say "Why is okay to joke about Americans when it's not okay to joke about Nigerians?" We all know that this issue is complicated, but there is a way through. It's okay to make jokes about Americans and the French. And there's a good reason not to make jokes about Nigerians, as we shall see.

No-one really knows how comedy works. There's not a 'Grand Unified Theory' of comedy that I've found convincing, or a 'Standard Model', but in this area of joking about 'people groups' and all that, I think there three categories of joke.

1. A Joke told between Equals.
This is essentially banter between colleagues, brothers and friends - about each other and not designed to cause offence. If anything, it comes from a place of respect and affection and based on the fact that there is general parity.

eg. Jokes about the French by the English - and vice versa. Let’s be honest. The French and the English are not all that different. We’ve had a bumpy relationship over the last thousand years, but for the last hundred years, we’ve been on the same side. We’re large, industrious, wealthy countries and we’re not afraid of each other. Not really. So a joke about the French obsession with food or lack of personal hygience is probably fine. It’s worth watching Flushed Away. There is a French character – a Frog! Who’d have thought it? – voiced by Jean Reno. There are some very funny jokes at the expense of the French, but they’re clearly not meant to wound.

But there would be circumstance in which anti-French jokes would be unacceptable. Imagine you're in a class of English teenagers and there is a French exchange student. The English teenagers tell a series of jokes again and again at the expense of the French student. Is that appropriate? Probably not.

2. A joke told by the Righteous Weak against the Unrighteous Powerful.
We're veering towards satire here. These are, for example, jokes by left-wing broke students against a right-wing privileged government. Some of these jokes will be justified - others less so. Cameron, as Prime Minister and an old Etonian, is fair game. No-one's going to feel too sorry for him on this front because he's had things his own way for most of life. That said, he's suffered tragedy recently with the loss of his six-year old son who suffered from cerebral palsy and a form of epilepsy. It's hard to see how a joke about that could ever be justified comedically or even satirically. You are certainly unlikely to carry an audience with you on that one.

We encounter problems here because this sort of comedy, against the powerful, will delight the less powerful and offend the friends of the powerful. Moreover, comedy of this nature, satire in particular, is intended to offend. It's exposing hypocrisy or cold-heartedness or other vices. Those affected or mocked will be offended by the accusations. This is why, ultimately, offence is very poor indicator of whether a joke should have been told or not.

3. A joke told by the Oppressor against the Oppressed.
This is comedy used to humiliate, oppress and marginalise. This is why it’s inappropriate for an Englishman to tell Pakistani jokes – even though there are 160 million Pakistanis in Pakistan and they have nuclear weapons. They are powerful, but in Britain they are a minority and frequently get a rough deal from those who are simply prejudiced. It would be irresponsible to make jokes about Pakistanis, perhaps even valid satirical ones, if we were increasing injustice and their overall suffering of a group of people.

Jokes can be told about a minority by members of that minority. Is it okay to tell a string of Jewish jokes? If you’re Jackie Mason on a West End stage, yes. The jokes are told from within a community with affection. If you’re a skinhead and leading a fascist rally, no. The jokes are being told to humiliate, oppress and encourage hatred.

The Teller
The added complication comes when the person telling the joke is a fictional character, especially one who is either confused or unsympathetic. We are not being invited to agree with his views (eg Alf Garnett or David Brent). The tricky bit is when stand-up comedians do this kind of material and are assuming that we are assuming that they can't possibly mean what they're saying. This is more dubious in my opinion.

The fact is every joke takes place within a context - socially and dramatically, and it can make the world of difference what the context is. Some of stuff is really hard to figure out. eg. Animated characters get to be much more visceral and offensive than live action characters (see South Park & Family Guy) But whether we should prevent people from saying things we think are beyond the pail and simply too offensive is a separate question.

Myths - #2 The Big Idea

Let's take a moment to dispel another myth about breaking into writing. The myth in question that it's all about the new, clever, original idea for a show - an idea that's never been done before and is so self-evidently brilliant that the originator of this idea will be showered with script-commissions.

There are numerous problems with this notion, mostly because it isn't true. And you can tell when someone's falling for it, because they are very protective and secretive about their idea. They will ask you to sign some sort of agreement before sending it. They are paranoid about having the idea stolen because they think they've hit a magic formula that will act as a wand, opening locked doors and ensuring success.

The idea is an attractive one because it feels like it's just a question of coming up with the right idea, rather than spending years and years learning a craft. We see dumb luck all around us - especially on the internet, where one small idea goes global very quickly. One three minute song is the beginning of a pop career. But lots of decent web ideas fail. Lots of pop songs don't lead to successful long careers. The Big Idea myth is the writing equivalent of this.

You can also tell when someone has bought into this myth when they tell you their idea - and you tell them that their idea has already been done. They often get angry at this point, because you're raining on their parade. They are being confronted with the stark reality that it's not ideas that create success but the execution of them. But as Cromwell said to Charles the First, it's all in the execution.

For Example
I've been working on a show that might well go into production at some point soon - and was explaining the premise to a fellow writer. I explained the overall idea of the show, and said it's a bit like [insert name of successful show here]. There is an overall resemblance in terms of place and tone. I went on to explain a key dynamic/relationship within the the show. And he said 'Oh, you mean like [insert name of another successful show] here'. This hadn't occurred to me, but it was correct. If I'd been a more inexperienced writer, I'd have been crushed, or worried by this relevation. Or offended by this friend's suggestion of similarity to another show that I hadn't spotted.

Come on, it's 2012. Humanity have been telling stories and writing them down for about four thousand years. If it's not in the Bible, or a one of Jesus' parables, it's in the Gilgamesh epic, or Homer probably did it, or Ovid. It'll be somewhere in the Arabian Nights stories, and/or Chaucer and/or Shakespeare. And they'll be two successful movies and nine unsuccessful ones about the same thing. Who cares?

Hut 33
A while ago, I wrote a sitcom for Radio 4 set in Bletchley Park. It was only after I started writing it that I realised that the set-up of the three main characters was exactly the same as ITV's Only When I Laugh, which I used to watch growing. It's a working class man (James Bolam/Tom Goodman Hill) against a posh man (Peter Bowles/Robert Bathurst) with a peacemaker stuck in between (Christopher Strauli/Fergus Craig). Only When I Laugh was in a hospital. Hut 33 was in Bletchley Park during World War Two. This didn't bother me at all.

The fact is an idea will not open doors. A decent script might open a few. A really good script and a bag full of ideas might open some more over time. But there's a misapprehension that it's possible to come up with a silver bullet of an idea that guarantees success as a writer. It's a myth.

How to Succeed as a Writer
If you want to be a writer, you do need to come up with good ideas, sure, but then you need to show that you can write them. If your idea show promise, and your execution looks good, you need to show that you can write several episodes of that idea. And you need to be able to following through on that and be able to write.

Ultimately, there's no substitute for just bashing away at a script, and rewriting it, and then writing more and more. But if you need a bit of help, and you want to write comedy and sitcoms, consider coming to a day-long course with me and the highly experienced comedy writer Dave Cohen (sorry, another plug) on April 20th (for Radio Comedy) and/or 4th May (for TV Sitcom). More details here. I'm not promising we'll tell you everything there is to know, because nobody knows that, but we might be able to point you in the direction - and help you learn from our mistakes. Plus you might meet a kindred spirit and form a writing partnership. Or help you feel like you're not wasting your time. Maybe see you there.

Myths - #1 The Oxbridge Conspiracy

Recently, Sam Bain wrote an excellent article for the Guardian about the reality of being a writer with a show in production. It made me laugh out loud several times – and I particularly enjoyed the comparison of turning up to filming being rather like having to stand next a photocopier for seven weeks in case there's a massive paper jam.

Rather than discussions and questions about the nitty-gritty of turning a good script into a great TV show, the comments beneath the article made very depressing reading. Reactions ranged from “Oh, poor poor you, having to do this for a living” to “you only get to do this because you went to right school or university.” The debate descended into a sad discussion of paranoia that the comedy industry is a closed shop, and that the door has been firmly locked from the inside by people who went to Oxbridge. This is a myth, as I will argue shortly and briefly.

But in time I hope to address a number of myths that circulate about ‘breaking in’ to the industry. These myths have power firstly because there is a grain of truth in all of them, but secondly because they are easy scapegoats for failure. If you’ve written a script and no-one’s biting, it’s easier to blame a conspiracy than admit that the script isn’t much good.

This self-delusion takes place at all levels. Writers who don’t make a living from it believe one set of myths to explain why they’re not making a living from it. Writers who do make a living from it believe another set of myths to explain why they’re not making as much money as they’d like to from it. Wealthy writers believe another set a myths about why critics don’t like their work. The list goes on.

So let’s take a look at these starting out myths beginning with:

Myth #1 It’s all about where you went to college
One can look at the Pythons, the Goodies, the Mary Whitehouse Experience and a long list of Oxbridge alumni and assume that your career is decided the day you’re rejected from Oxbridge. (I was rejected by Cambridge. At least twice. Seriously. And I applied because I wanted to be in The Footlights.) It’s easy to think that Oxbridgers not only have an advantage but rule the roost in comedy.

In my experience, my university education has made almost no difference to my career progression. I’ve had shows rejected down by production companies, BBC TV, BBC Radio, ITV and Channel 4 for some pretty spurious reasons. None of them were related to where I went to college. (I believe my own set of myths for these failures, one of which being that all executives are idiots, which simply isn’t true. Some are, maybe most, but not all. Besides exec idiocy isn’t always harmful and sometimes works in your favour).

The industry doesn’t favour Oxbridge-types. It favours good writers (and tolerates plenty of bad ones). The reason Oxbridge-types seem to be favoured is because good writers tend be fairly intelligent people who read a lot of books, try new things and encounter a wide spectrum of people – and learn to see the world from their point of view. This is simply university life.

I just said “my university education has made almost no difference to my career progression “. This is only half true. For three years, I did read lots of books, try news things (not that many to be honest), and encountered lots of different people. My horizons were broadened. But at university, I also met other people who wanted to do comedy and so we put on sketch shows and revues. We had mixed success, but learnt through success and failure. So by the time three of us did Edinburgh in 1999 as Infinite Number of Monkeys, it was our third Fringe, we had done about a hundred performances over the previous three years and were not totally clueless. And we were nominated for best ‘Newcomer’ and that opened a few doors.

Oxbridgers, then, do have one advantage – a tradition of comedy and a bit of structure which means they can start doing comedy earlier. This means failing quicker and therefore succeeding faster. It means time on stage performing your own material in front of other human beings who will let you know very quickly how well you’re doing.

Malcolm Gladwell’s “I takes 10,000 hours to get good at stuff” theory is pretty obvious, isn’t it? In which case, spend three years reading some books, trying new things and meeting new people. Write about them, put on a show with them and hey presto, you just went to Oxbridge.

You could also try going on a day-long course or two with Sitcomgeek and the highly experienced comedy writer Dave Cohen (yes, this is a plug) on April 20th and 4th May. More details here.

Why you should read Jason Arnopp's blog

On a wet Sunday afternoon, it seems unlikely that I'm going to write anything better and more helpful than a few posts I've found on Jason Arnopp's excellent blog. In fact, on a warm Tuesday afternoon with a following wind, I'm still unlikely to write anything better that these posts which are really good.

I've worked with Jason on a radio sketch show - and he wrote some hilariously demented sketches. But he also writes a bunch of other stuff and written about writing. He's written a very good piece on how stories can go wrong called "Five Ways to Kill Audience Satisfaction" here.

There's another post about attitudes to scripts, breaking into the business and luck called "Your Script is Not a Lottery Ticket" here. I particularly like the bit where he says "Don't succumb to that deeply weird Scriptwriter Quirk which compels you to sling an imperfect script into a competition 'just to get something in'."

And if you're starting out in the writing business, there's an excellent post called 'Eight Ways to Annoy People whose help you want.' Here. It's brilliant and sadly very true.

It was also through following Jason on twitter that I came across this post about a letter a rookie magician wrote to Teller, from Penn and Teller, my favourite part of which is this:

Love something besides magic, in the arts. Get inspired by a particular poet, film-maker, sculptor, composer. You will never be the first Brian Allen Brushwood of magic if you want to be Penn & Teller. But if you want to be, say, the Salvador Dali of magic, we'll THERE'S an opening.

I should be a film editor. I'm a magician. And if I'm good, it's because I should be a film editor. Bach should have written opera or plays. But instead, he worked in eighteenth-century counterpoint. That's why his counterpoints have so much more point than other contrapuntalists. They have passion and plot. Shakespeare, on the other hand, should have been a musician, writing counterpoint. That's why his plays stand out from the others through their plot and music.

It applies to comedy just as much. Cheers, Jason. Keeping feeding my writing soul.

What I Learnt in Casting

I have recently spend many days in casting for a show. This is a fairly new experience for me. I've done some casting before, but this amount casting this many parts is new to me. Without dwelling on the details of the show and the people we saw, here are some comments about what the write can gain from casting - and some things to look out for.

The Joy of the Jokes
One of the most exciting things about casting is hearing dialogue read aloud by someone who knows what they're doing. A script that has been sweated over and tinkered with for weeks, months, or even years, is finally being taken for a brief test drive, by someone who at least knows how to drive, even if they're not the Formula One star you'd been hoping for. Even though you, the director or producer are reading in other parts, just hearing it read aloud is a wonderful experience. You hear some of the jokes, which is a relief, but the process also exposes hitherto hidden flaws: lengthy dry patches without jokes; lines that are funnier than was first thought; and bits that just sound wrong or confusing. After a few days of various actors reading in different parts, my writing partner and I found there were already enough issues raised to produce a new draft of the script. This made the script stronger. Rejoice.

The Refinement of the Character
Seeing and hearing a decent actor read a part will help you define the voice. Sometimes, you think a character should be played posh, but when you hear it read posh, or very posh, the character becomes insufferable and you've learnt something. Or an actor reads a part in a completely unexpected way that sounds wrong, but it's good to hear it that way because it confirms what you already thought about that character. Or opens up a new direction. This is hard to conceive because lots of writers have a very fixed idea in their head of what a character should look like and sound like - and they can expend much energy arguing for someone who most fits that brief, even if they're not the funniest or the best. In reality, another actor might breathe life into that part and make it more interesting, much as a writer would hate to admit this.

One for the Back Pocket
You often see actors who are funny and interesting but not right for the parts on the table. But you need to remember these people, because you might need them in the future. When you're writing a one-off part, or even a new character, in a future episode or a different show entirely, your writing partner or director might say "Hey, remember that actor we saw? With the odd hat? Who did that thing? They really had something about them. Could this character be right for them?" And then you're creating a part that you're pretty sure will be brilliantly executed which, in the chaotic throes of a TV series, is a useful short cut to the funny.

The Stars Are In The Sky For A Reason
Writers are drawn to unknowns. For several reasons. One is that unknowns have less experience and therefore more likely to do what they are told, and perform the show as written. (Writers like that). If/when the show does become a success, the script stands a greater chance of shining because critics are less like to attribute the success to a new actor (Writers are obsessed with critics, even though they think they're idiots). Writers are not attention seekers, and tend to think less of people who seek the limelight. Stars are very happy with attention, and writers tend to think less of them for this. But let's be clear about this. Stars are often stars because they're really good. And when they audition, they tend to sparkle. An experienced star brings more than just their name and reputation to the show. They bring so much more.

Overall, the casting process is a useful reminder to the writer that, much as they would hate to admit, comedy is a collaborative process, especially in television. An good actor brings experience and insight to this creative process which I hope, in our better moments, we would acknowledge. The best shows are usually a happy accidents of teamwork, rather that the ruthless execution of one person's vision.

Send in Reinforcements

I finally got round to watching Sky 1’s Spy the other night. I had all six episodes on my Sky+ box and was assuming I would begin with episode 1. But decided not to. There are number of reasons for this. The main one is that first episodes are often, sadly, full of set-up and backstory, which normally fights against the comedy, and I didn’t want to sit through that. I wanted to get to the funny.

But secondly, I was putting the show to the test – can you pick up the show from episode 2? Or 3? If you can, have a proper sitcom, which is about regular characters in repeating scenarios. You can, of course, have story arcs, but they have to be very slow and cleverly explained by a character in a line or two near the start of each episode; or you can 'cheat' and use a voiceover by Ron Howard (Arrested Development), or a whimsical Gordon Kaye sitting in his café talking directly to camera (Allo Allo).

Let us remember that confusion is the enemy of comedy. An audience that is baffled won’t laugh. You can baffle an audience if you like – that’s called a mystery or a thriller – but it won’t be all that funny.

Now, I had an unfair advantage on this show. I’d heard some months earlier about this show and what the premise was, but I put it out of my mind, and put on Episode 2. What I found was nice, zippy dialogue, quite a lot of jokes, some good characters and some brilliant performances - most notably for me, the consistently fabulous Tom Goodman-Hill, as well as the ever-brilliant Darren Boyd. Robert Lindsay and Rosie Cavaliero were funny too.

But, sadly, I was a bit confused, which slightly got in the way. The show opened with a session of mediation. Darren’s son lives with him, but the son’s mother is trying to get custody. The son is ice-cool and old before his time (cards on the table – I find this super-smart portrayal of children really tiresome, but now’s not the time). The son was hypercritical of his father, and his father seem to play this down and shrug off the criticism. So it wasn’t clear why the son wasn’t just living with the mother which would be more normal.

The biggest problem was there was no sign of any affection between the son and the father. At all. Why was the father trying to keep his high-maintenance son around when he was such a cold fish? I was confused. And this got in the way for me. Maybe these questions were answered in Episode 1 – but if so, that’s cheating. It all has to be in there in Ep 2. As well as 3, 4, 5 and 6.

Send in Reinforcements
For the first two series, I’d say, begin every episode assuming the audience haven’t really seen the show, or have completely forgotten what happened before. It’s a fair assumption. After all, their lives don’t revolve round your show. Only yours does. By all means, stick in jokes for hardcore, die-hard fans, but bear in mind that even after several series, lots of viewers (myself included) can’t remember names of most of the characters, and, when explaining a show, describe their favourite characters as ‘You know, the short one’, or the ‘dappy one’ or ‘the guy with the shirts’.

The key is to make sure each character is doing and saying stuff in character from the start of every episode – not doing neutral, uninteresting things that anyone could be doing. Rebuild characters each week. Clarify relationships. Use props and visual cues to reinforce. It may feel cartoony and clunky, but you can pull it back if you need to. But if it’s not in the script, it won’t be in the show – and it won’t be clear and they won’t laugh. And that, friends, is your job as a comedy writer.

Tone
There were some other bits of confusion which, for me, got in the way. The show was, at times, cartoonish. I love cartoonish (eg. Black Books). But at times, it was much more nuanced and played straight. So it felt lumpy. I couldn’t quite work out how seriously to take some bits so again, I was a little confused. I’m sure that’s fixable in Series 2, if there is one. (It would seem harsh to recommission Trollied and not this show)

Also, for some reason, Robert Lindsay’s character looked exactly like Alan Sugar. Identical. It was weird. I kept wondering if that was intentional which, again, got in the way for me. His interplays with Darren Boyd were very funny, though. But it’s worth noting that if something isn’t a joke, but looks like a half-joke, get rid of it. (For on that stuff, see here)

In the end, I watched episodes 2, 3 and 6. Another highlight for me was a cameo from Dominic Coleman in the last episode as a judge who’d just got back from travelling round Indonesia. Again, it stretched credibility, but he was hilarious.

Opening Schtick
The other thing I really liked, that is worth learning from, is that after the opening credits each time, Darren Boyd would press a button to enter MI5 and there’d be a different joke about it each time. Lovely, clear and funny which really set the show up and made you feel like everything was going to be alright – and that is no small thing.

The Big Readthrough

Yesterday was weird day. But readthroughs are weird.

Just to clarify our terms, a readthrough is when a cast sit and read a script aloud to a bunch of TV execs to see if there's a show there. They can be hastily assembled, rough-and-ready affairs to see if the script is up to much. Or they can be more polished, semi-rehearsed events in which the show is being essentially pitched as a possible contender for a pilot or TV series. Yesterday was more the latter than the former, which was fairly exciting.

The exact details don't much matter for the purposes of this blog post. But it's worth noting one or two things that the sitcom writer has to deal with on such an occasion - and I'd be interested to hear the experiences of others in the comments section below.

So, I showed up at 10am for a day with the actors - and a director - building up to a formal readthrough in front of the powers that be at 4.15pm. It sounds like a long time, but in no time at all, it was 3.30 and the hour was nearly upon us. And so, it sounds daft, but the script really needs to be as tight as possible because there simply isn't time to make all that many changes on the day, or 'find it in rehearsal'. There is no time to rewrite sections or pages. Only time to tweak lines, cut bits out or throw in extra jokes.

We read the script once at the start, and there were some notes, and tweaks, nips and tucks - and questions from the cast about certain lines that weren't clear. Your job as the writer is to listen, not be defensive and focus on making the show as good as it can be. This may mean sacrificing your favourite joke because it's in the way of some other jokes that have plot attached to them. Remember that the shorter, sharpier and snappier the readthrough is, the funnier it will appear to be. It's better to be 26 minutes and really funny, than 32 minutes with fog patches.

After reading the script once and feeding back, we then marched through the script more slowly, stopping and starting and trying to fix other bits that don't quite fly. I did my best to ensure I was making suggestions via the director, who is in charge of all this stuff on the day.

The temptation is to change things again and again and again - right up until the final moment. It's best to avoid this. By the readthrough moment, the actors' scripts will be covered in crossings out, new lines and changes. Too many will be confusing, create errors in the readthrough and completely ruin the atmosphere you've been trying to create. As the hour approaches, it's better to commit to what you have and be done with it. Endless changes 'til the very end will undermine confidence and that might create unease in the cast - who might start to panic. I've seen panic (not yesterday, mind) and it ends in either actors starting to get louder and bigger; or going faster and faster; or going quieter; or inserting swearing that wasn't there before. It's not pretty, and usually not funny.

And then, it starts. And it ends. And there's nothing else to be said.

If you've written the script as well as you could, and stuck to your guns and offered the show that you want to write, you've done well. And it's now out of your hands. The show will be commissioned or turned down for a boatload of reasons that will never be explained to you. The official line may be 'Well, it was just so funny, we simply had to have it'. The actual reason may be that something fell out of the schedules and one of your cast is flavour of the month. It really doesn't matter. And you can't control this bit, so go home, have a curry, sleep well, lie in, wake up - and think of a brand new show.

Should I do a free show at the Edinburgh Fringe?

A while ago, I posted about the benefits of putting on a show at the Edinburgh Fringe (here). I was thinking about this over the weekend after I'd suggested doing Edinburgh to some fledgling funny folks on Friday. The Free Fringe, I said, since it really is what it says on the tin. Free for performers to put on shows. It was pointed out, however, that producers were reluctant to scout at these shows and venues.

This got me thinking. It is undoubtedly true that the Pleasances and Udderbellys get a lot of attention from press, wider media and talent scouts. The reasons for this are obvious. There is greater screening and filtering for these venues, and so the overall quality is higher. That is not to say that every show at these big venues is superb, crafted and hilarious. Far from it. But producers are lazy, just like writers - and don't work all that hard to unearth new talent. Unlike writers, producers are very busy and hard-working and when you only have three or four days to 'see stuff' and find new talent, it seems like a more promising pool to fish from.

So why do a show at a Free Fringe venue?
So why do a show at a Free Fringe venue? Or a very cheap, unrecognised one? Here's the thing. Producers are in town for a few days at a time. But fellow performers are in town for a month. Impressing your peers in Edinburgh is as important as impressing the industry. Let's be honest, you're first outing at Edinburgh is unlikely to be picked up a producer at Big Talk or Objective and thrust onto E4. The main reason for the show is unlikely to be all that good. It may be fresh, have flashes of brilliance, and be sporadically hilarious - or consistently amusing without ever quite taking off. But bear in mind that there are a few dozen comedians and writers who are a little less fresh, with a few more years experience who are about to generate more frequent flashes of brilliance which are more consistently hilarious.

But other performers at your venue might see your show - and like it. And tell other people about it and bring you some audience. Or tell someone who has a 'best of' show that you could do a spot at, at which a producer might be in attendance. Equally, you might see someone else's ramshackle show, and like bits of it and realise they are good at things that you're aren't so good at. And that you could help them. You might work well together either now or in the future. They might do well, get some interest but want some help and could pull you on board. You might join forces, pool resources and come back the following year with something better, leaner and stronger.

The Loneliness of a Long Distance Comedian
The reality of writing and performing is that it is a lonely business - especially if you're not a gigging stand-up comedian - but for one month in Edinburgh, you're surrounded by similar people to you and this can be rather a nice thing. You feel like you belong. Okay, after a fortnight, the novelty wears off and everyone's tired, broke and angry. But you'll have forgotten that by November and be back next year, invariably with something better. After doing that for a three or fours years, maybe you'll finally be that an overnight success we keep reading about. And when those opportunities come, you'll be able to handle them and make the most of them.

The Business of Getting an Agent

I was listening to the UK Scriptwriters' Podcast the other day and was interested in their discussion about agents. It was very interesting and I recommend downloading it and having a listen. I realised this is something I'd never mentioned on this blog before. So, briefly, here are a few thoughts on agents with sitcom specifically in mind.

How I Got An Agent
Firstly, I got an agent via a very odd route. I was a temp at the agency, filling in for someone and typing letters. I was writing bits and pieces for radio shows and a bit of TV (Smack the Pony and Rory Bremner) and had, unwittingly, built up a CV that was interesting to an agent. When they asked if I, as a writer, wanted representation, I was genuinely surprised and agreed pretty much on the spot.

The reason I was so happy to get an agent was not primarily because it made me look and feel like a proper writer (although it did), but because I hate talking about money and asking for more of it. I am quite capable of getting angry about not being paid properly (see here) but when confronted with the issue face-to-face, I immediately say everything's fine and that I don't really need the money right now. I'll say anything to make that conversation end.

Having an agent was brilliant because I had someone on my side who would ask for more money, chase it up and pore over contracts - and understand them. An agent, then, is a wonderful ally in a lonely business; someone who is looking out for your interests. And I've stuck with the same agent for my whole career as I like being represented by her - and I like the way she operates on my behalf. Sometimes people can use their agents to be unpleasant and unreasonable so that they themselves don't have to be, hiding behind them to get more money in a rather nasty way. I'm not into that at all - and want my agent to be my genuine representative in discussions about money, rights and conditions.

Why do you want an agent?
For those trying to break into the industry, it's worth asking yourself why you want an agent. I understand that it's very hard to get a novel published without an agent. Publishers, it seems, now use agents to sift manuscripts and do not take unsolicited work. I couldn't comment on movies and drama.

But sitcom and comedy generally doesn't work like that. Agents are not the key to getting work or getting noticed. If you want to break into the industry, there are plenty of routes. Write for open-door shows on Radio 4 (eg Newsjack) or television. Send sketches to producers who make sketch shows. Put on comedy shows, make them good and then put them on in Edinburgh, and try and get them noticed. Write a really good sitcom script - and keep rewriting it until you're really happy with it, and then send it to producer who makes programmes you like. If the production company says they don't accept unsolicited scripts, I would ignore that. But don't plague them with calls either. In short, write funny and show it to people.

You'll notice an agent doesn't feature in any of the above. And the fact is that if you're a really good comedy writer, it is only a matter of time before you will succeed. Good sitcom scripts are rare. If you write a good one, you will get meetings and some interest, although it make take ages to come anything. When it does, an agent will be a great help, in terms of taking care of money and contracts. They will also be much easier to get by that stage. They may also be able to set up introductions to new producers or contacts. But pinning your hopes on getting an agent as the 'way in' is misguided when it comes to writing comedy for TV and radio.

Finding You Work
Some agents get their writers short-term jobs on panel games and entertainment shows - mine doesn't, but then I've never asked her to because I'm hopeless at that sort of comedy writing. I'm a narrative guy. And my agent understands that and is always on the look-out for opportunities in that area. And that's what an agent will do for you - help you. But they don't make or break you. You and your jokes will do that.

That's my take on agents. I'd be very interested to hear the views of others.

Scripts are Like a Flowing River

The other day, without thinking, I described the script of a show to a producer as being like a flowing river. I’m not ensure what – or who – possessed me to say such a pompous thing, but I’ve been thinking about what I meant ever since. (That’s pretty much my modus operandi – speak first, ask questions later). But I think I meant that a script is a moving, flowing thing.

The Block of Ice
A script is not a big impenetrable block of ice, or glacier, that cannot be altered or change. This is an easy trap to fall into . When you lock yourself away to finally write that darned script, you can emerge some days or weeks later, squinting in the natural light, clutching something that is, in your considered, unbiased opinion ‘perfect’.

It isn’t.

Even Hemingway said ‘the first draft of anything is shit’. Hemingway said that. Not a hack writer who cranked out prose by the yard. Hemingway. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1954. First drafts are shit.

This is a really important lesson to learn. Your first draft isn’t very good. Yours and mine. With experience, your first drafts tend to get incrementally better. I like to think my first draft now, having been writing professionally for twelve-ish years, is equivalent to a second draft ten years ago. No great achievement as my second drafts ten years were also atrocious.

But one can be seduced by this improvement. Writers do tend to get better and better as they get older (especially novelists). The trick is to do just as many drafts as you did when you were starting out, but this way, you end up with better drafts all the way along the long – and the quality of your work improves.

Sometimes you read or watch the work of a highly successful pro and you wonder whether they felt their first draft was already pretty good and therefore the script didn’t get the love and attention it needed. This can easily happen when writers become executive producers of their own show, or become very powerful. Lines are left unedited. Gaps that need jokes go unfilled. Sequels are very very long and baggy. The quality declines, even though the writer is better and more experienced than they were twenty years earlier.

So, a script is not a block of ice. It has to be pulled around, to ebb and flow at its own pace and find its way from the source to the ocean.

The immaculate script you produced in dimly lit isolation often doesn't seem so clever in the cold light of day. After a little while, plot inconsistencies come to the surface, motives seem muddle, and the set-pieces aren’t as funny as you remember – and turn out to have been done by David Croft thirty years ago, better.

Recently, I’ve just burned through four drafts of a script in less than a month. I thought draft 1 was very clever. But it wasn’t really. It was a perfectably respectable start to the process – like an undercoat on the wall before the proper paint goes on – but it only got good on Draft 3. But if the script is produced (it's just a pilot script for now), I’m sure the script will change significantly several times – once after its been cast and we work out where the jokes really are, then again during rehearsal, followed by tweaks, nips and tucks all the way through shooting, one or two of which might quite big difference to the story, plot or tone.

The Splurging Spray
Given that the script never seems to be finished, the writer can make a different mistake, in which they have no real confidence in any draft at all, starting with the first. Maybe they lock themselves away and produce that draft, but rather than clutching it with ill-advised certainty, they toss it to the producer with a shrug, saying ‘the show should be this sort of thing’. If the script is written with this approach, the temptation is to see the first draft as a splurging spray, some of which may hit the target, but most of which will not. This is a bad way of writing.

Given that most writers are highly strung and care passionately about every single word on the page, this is a less common problem, but it can happen. The first draft is written quickly, or in fits and starts, and then offered around with excuses like ‘I can’t make the ending work, but the beginning’s not right either, so when that’s fixed, I’ll do a new ending’. The obvious – and correct – response to this is ‘So fix the beginning, then the ending and show that to me when you’re done’.

I have mentioned this before – here. It can come about in those starting out because of lack of confidence, when ultimately the writer needs to just ‘man up’ and write what they think is funny to the best of their ability. But it can happen in more seasoned professionals too. All the lines are essentially placeholders, because the real lines, real jokes, real script will emerge in further drafts – and rehearsal. This approach is a high risk strategy, and is either cowardly, hubristic or lazy. The draft you are writing now is the most important draft. And if has to be perfect. And then you'll have to do it again.

Herein lies the dilemma of the writer – to write as if the first draft is the final one, firm in the knowledge that it will probably change beyond recognition, except, in my experience, it is surprising how much of the first draft survives. The first formation or phrasing of a joke you think of is often the best. Little routines sometimes tumble out right first time. Some set-pieces and exchanges can sail through untouched. But then other parts of the script (usually the beginning and the end) are sweated over and endless rewritten. It can be hard, gruelling, exhausting work. But it’s not done down a coal-mine or slum. It’s usually done with a Macbook, Spotify and some hot coffee, so it’s really not that bad.

The script is, ultimately, a flowing river. It can change course with some effort if need be. Changes cause ripples and waves, but it can cope with them. The script is not a babbling brook that easily changes course, or a spray that mostly misses the target. Nor a block of ice that can only be chipped at. Or cracked and broken.

By the way, Jason Arnopp has written a lovely blog post here about the freedom of Draft Zero. I've often done Drafts Zeros and can testify that they are a Good Thing.

Stand Up and Deliver by Andy Kind

Let's be honest. There aren't all that many books out there about comedy - certainly not British comedy. So when one comes along, it's always worth a look. Andy Kind has written a nice one called 'Stand Up and Deliver'. Not a blindingly original title, I guess, but it does the job. It's about his first year doing stand-up comedy and appears to be a brutally honest account of that year, the euphoric highs, and the chronic lows.

Again, let's keep it transparent. I know Andy a bit, although I've never seen him do stand-up. But here's the thing. I read the book and it made me laugh. Out loud. Quite often. This is a good thing, and therefore a good book. The book isn't a Stewart-Lee-style skewering of the comedy industry and the huge flaws within the stand-up circuit, new act nights and all that stuff. Andy deals with all these things in a very jokey way, with loads of gags thrown in. Like all these things, some hit, some miss. But the hit rate is pretty high. It made me think Andy could cut it in a writers room, gagging up scripts and throwing ideas in. Maybe he's more suited to that than stand-up. But not having seen his stand-up, I couldn't say.

The only other thing that me be bothersome for some is that Andy is a Christian, and is honest about that in his book. The book's publisher is a Christian company. None of this concerned me as I'm a fellow God-botherer. To leave it out, though, would be less than honest of him, and the book is nothing if not honest.

Overall, the book is well-worth a look, especially if you're dabbling in stand-up or live comedy performance. You can get hold of it and read other reviews over here.

Everything Happens for A Reason

The last forty hours haven't been good for me. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Really. But like my escapade to B&Q last week, I find myself being constantly blown off-course and distracted by the tedious minutiae of life.

The long and the short of it is that my wife has tonsilitis and has been, to use a cricket metaphor, knocked for six. Looking after her is the easy bit. I have two girls, aged 3 and 1, who need looking after and that's been the main task in hand for the last couple of days. It's been fun. Kind of. When I haven't been thinking about all the work I haven't been doing, and the scripts that haven't been started and the other scripts that haven't been finished.

This simply means that in the evening I put the kids to bed. Have dinner. Put my wife to bed. And then work. Except last night I had to attend a PCC meeting because, as I have said before, I'm a church warden. Meetings must be held. Fetes must be planned. Pews must be arranged to be fixed. And so forth.

The Dishwasher. Yes, really.
So last night saw me frustrated, tired and about to start work at 11pm when the dishwasher started winking at me. With a light I've never seen before. And a fault called F11 flashing on the screen. Something was wrong with it.

Let us pass over a number of observations here - and potential for sitcom storylines and scenes. At first, I couldn't find the manual. Had no idea where we kept manuals. Guessed right fairly quickly. Found a bunch of manuals for all manner of appliances past and present, and turned the right page and got to work. Let us pass over the fact that my heart sunk at mere sight of the instructions, which were optimistically written. Let us briefly note that, despite comedy stereotypes and my expectations, the instructions were right to be optimistic. I followed them. Washed out various components. Refitted them. Didn't get wet. Pressed the button to restart the programme. And it worked. Hey presto. Call me Dwayne the Drain. I have troubleshot the problem.

Here's what I thought as I saw the dishwasher was faulty. I thought "For this to work in a sitcom, the malfunction of that dishwasher has to have been my fault". I needed to have ignored the careful instructions of my wife, or tried to fit too much in, or gallantly tried to fix the washing machine next to it despite the protestations of a housemate. In real life, things just break for no reason. But they don't half way through a sitcom. I am the protagonist in my life. If there's a problem that gets in the way and needs fixing - and it's not another person - it should be my fault, or at least another character's fault.

I was watching Downton Abbey on Sunday night and noting how carefully plotted it was - and that every single thing was done for a reason. Nothing just happened. Even more masterful is Modern Family in which a dozen characters move in and out of each other's lives and nothing simply happens or goes wrong that isn't the result of one character doing something in character.

Why is now the worst time for this to happen?
Sometimes, when I'm bashing storylines with people, one of the questions I ask is 'Why is now the worst possible time for this thing to happen?' So let's say our hero has had a run-in with a dry cleaner and his suit is ruined. Why is now the worst possible time for that to have happened? He has to go to a wedding. Great. Escalation. Our character has a quest. But whose wedding? Why are they getting married now? Why does he have to wear that suit? Why couldn't he get it cleaned earlier? Or somewhere else? Why does he have problems getting another one? And crucially - how has our protagonist brought this on himself? The wrecking of the suit somehow needs to be the fault of the protagonist. Or a lead character.

I'm tired. It's late. I have to work. The dishwasher is now broken. Why? What did I do wrong? In real life, things just break. Not in sitcom - where everything happens for a reason.

The Value of Comedy Courses

So let's deal with the money issue head on: I'm British - and therefore unable to discuss money without acute embarrassment. I'm a writer - and therefore find money an irritating necessity. I'm a human being - and therefore intrinsically greedy. I have kids - and therefore I can justify any paid act as being for their benefit. And I'm a farmer's son - which means I'm frankly lucky to be paid to do anything at all which doesn't involve shovelling cowpats off the diary yard.

Interest Declared. Now Moving On...
With all that in mind, I'm running a comedy writing course with Dave Cohen (Have I got News for You?; Horrible Histories and much more besides), like I did earlier this year. It costs some monies. The first one, on 4th Nov, is about writing Comedy for Radio, which is something I have a fair amount of experience of, having written stuff like Think the Unthinkable, Hut 33, co-written Another Case of Milton Jones and Miranda and script-edited Recorded for Training Purposes. The second one, on 11th Nov, is specifically about sitcom, primarily for television, which, again, I have some experience of (Miranda, My Family, My Hero and those radio sitcoms - as well as a bunch of stuff in development). More details about the course, bookings and Dave Cohen here.

Hang On, A Minute...
A few blogs ago, I questioned the value of writing courses. I was referring mainly to year-long, academic, university-type courses that take ages to teach you everything. I stand-by my statements, not just because I'm proud and pig-headed. I really do think writing is best learnt through, well, reading, writing, rewriting, failing, rewriting, listening, improving and, most of all, living a life that gives you stuff to write about, so that it has that essential honestly and truthfulness about it, even if the entire thing is invented.

Just One Day?
So if year-long courses are to be avoided, what can be achieved in a day or two? Quite a lot. Most of all, it's the compressed downloading of lots of experience, hints, tips and ideas. One or two key bits of advice could make a massive difference and save you days, if not weeks or work that was either unnecessary or needed to be undone. There's no cast-iron secret formula to sitcom we can let you in on. There kind of is. I sort of wrote one here that obviously isn't so secret. And then I slightly unpicked that article here. But talking these things through for a few hours can be really stimulating, useful and lots of fun. (Well, 'fun' to the likes of you and me who want to hear writers and directors talk over DVDs with the commentaries. Most normal people don't want to analyse comedy for hours on end.)

Well, there it is. Bunk off work and join us for the day for some really practical tips about writing comedy and sitcom, as well as some useful industry info - and who knows you might be a Galton and meet a Simpson who's as serious about writing comedy as you.

And what venue could be more fitting and comedic than London's hottest canal museum?

Why You Should Seriously Consider Writing for Newsjack

After leaving university, I applied for a number of jobs - mostly in advertising and copywriting. I had no idea that I could be a professional comedy writer, although in a way, I must have done subconsciously. I remember being asked in one interview 'Where do you see yourself in five years time?' I answered 'Writing a sitcom for television'. Now, I know there are no right or wrong answers in interviews, but that is a very wrong answer. I should have said something like 'Spearheading an award-winning campaign that changes the way people think about washing powder' or something. But I didn't. The truth came out.

And so I moved to London to do some work experience at a magazine, which I broadly hated. But one lunch time a week, I would turn up to a writers meeting for Week Ending - the open-door Radio 4 comedy show that was, frankly, on its last legs. Nonetheless, in the evenings, I would try and write some topical sketches and after about six weeks, succeeded in getting a few jokes or a sketch on. Can't really remember. I've got it on a cassette somewhere.

It was a really good experience - even though the actual show itself felt way past its best. It taught me to work hard, work fast, turn over ideas, read the newspapers, rewrite, accept failure and, above all, write jokes. These are all key lessons that can be learned 'on the job' (if by 'job' you mean unpaid writing). I also met some other people in my position and was able to swap stories, experiences and contacts, and overall began to 'feel like a writer', which is no small thing.

And so to Newsjack
That's why I would urge all aspiring comedy writers to seriously consider writing for Newsjack, a new series of which starts a week today. I don't work for the show - and never have, but I do know that they read everything they get. And not only that, they want every sketch they are sent to be hilarious. It often doesn't feel that way stuck at home, and hearing another show broadcast in which your work isn't broadcast, but it is true. They want funny. And they can spot funny. And if you're sketch isn't spotted, the likeliest reason is that it's not as funny, or well-executed, as you thought.

I worked on Recorded For Training Purposes, and my approach was the same. I wanted each sketch I was sent to be really funny, fresh and original - and ideally not about Sat Navs, Phone Call-waiting menus and TV producers pitching terrible programme ideas to TV execs, which were topics covered by about 33% of all sketches.

Read the shows instructions carefully - and follow them. It's all here. Think about every sketch you send in - before you send it in. Lots of people don't do this and just send it off unfinished, half-written or too long. (Some thoughts on that sort of thing here)

Ask yourself, is the sketch original? Is it one idea written well, with a nice twist at the end? If so, good. Or is it two ideas whammed together and not really about either? If so, bad.

Is it short/edited so that it's just funny after funny, so that the studio audience is laughing out loud every few seconds? Is the set-up as crisp and quick as it could be?

Does it end properly? THINK OF A PROPER PUNCHLINE - one that is surprising rather than cliched or convenient. Your sketch stands a much better chance of being used if it ends properly, since a script editor won't have to take up precious time thinking one up for you. (Some thoughts on writing jokes here) Also bear in mind the audience are much happier with traditional punchlines than you might think.

Is the sketch easy to read? Don't worry too much about exact formatting, but make sure it's easy to read (see here).

And so, if you can bear to spend the time on it, give this a go with both barrells. Even if you're not interested in topical comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you're not interested in sketch comedy, you'll benefit from it. Even if you fail to get a single joke onto the show, you will have benefited from the overall experience, and had a good work out. You may find the task to be thankless, largely unpaid and virtually impossible. If so, welcome to the world of comedy writing.

More info at various links here, mostly by Dan Tetsell who used to script edit the show.

A Dynamic Duo

I've never been a great movie buff. I've always been more in sitcoms. In some ways, the two forms couldn't be more different. Movies are about characters who go on a journey and are changed by their experiences. Sitcoms are about characters who remain unchanged by their experiences - and that's why they're funny.

Occasionally a movie throws up some comedy characters that are funny in an enduring way. The most obvious example would be M*A*S*H, which began life as a film (based on a book) and become a far more successful comedy, running for many years.

Recently, I've stumbled across another example which contains a cast of superb comedy characters that feel more sitcom-based than anything else. Adrian Cronauer (Robin Williams) and Lt. Steven Hauk (Bruno Kirby) from Good Morning, Vietnam. This, for me, is an underplayed relationship in the film which inevitably has to be about the war and all that stuff. Also, Robin Williams is stunning in the film and almost obscures the film with his fast-talking.

But the dynamic of the movie is very sitcom. Cronauer is brilliantly funny, anti-establishment, modest and junior; and Lt Hauk is painfully unfunny, pro-establishment, totally unaware and senior works brilliantly well. You can imagine them in dozens of alternative situations week after week in which they clash over anything and everything. Imagine them co-presenting a radio show; or doing the entertainment for the Colonel's daughter's birthday party. I'm smiling just thinking about those things.



It's worth noting that sitcoms - in order to be successful - need these crackling and fizzing relationships between characters who just drive each other crazy. When it works, and you're writing it, the characters just talk in your head. As the writer, you just feel like the guy noting it all down.

If your show doesn't feel like it's heading in this direction, put on the brakes and rethink. And take a moment to be reinsipired by something great. And then go back to your situation and rewrite, rething, replot and replan until these clashing characters emerge.

Sitcomminess - Second Hand Reality

Two wonderful things have happened. The first is that I am on holiday. And the second is that I have wi-fi where I'm staying. Holidays tend to exclude internet usage, which is annoying, but not this time. This is an expected bonus. Hence, this blog post on something that occurred to me the other day, that bothers me about sitcoms. It's 'sitcomminess'.

Sitcomminess
Sitcomminess is the thing that people who hate sitcoms hate most about sitcoms. It's that they're so darm, well, sitcommy. It's chance encounters, and wacky neighbours, and dinner parties that go wrong and have hilarious consequences. It's fake, false and phoney.

My argument against this is that the audience are smart, and realise it's a sitcom, and recognise that the show is a contrivance. Audience laughter is does not happen in everyday life, and real life sets are more realistic. The audience know it's not real. And they're fine with it. Critics usually seem not fine with it, or have to apologise for finding a sitcom with a laugh track funny (as most did with Miranda). But overall, the audience realises that a sitcom is not real. The only question is whether or not they buy into it, believe the characters, and want the hero to succeed.

The Realm of the Unreal
But sometimes, even for the most ardent sitcom fan, things can teeter over into the realm of the unreal. I was made aware of this phenomenon a few weeks ago. It reared its head the other day when I was watching a sitcom that is aimed at kids, and I couldn't work out why I didn't like it. Apart from not being a child, obviously. And I worked it out, I think. The show felt phoney: it was aping American culture and reference points in a way that didn't feel natural or honest. Overall, the show felt like it was written by someone who's main experience of life was American television. And therefore, I found myself watching a comedy based on other comedies - rather than reality. As a result, we're watching second-hand reality.

Second-hand reality can still be funny. You can get away with it sometimes. But you're jumping from joke to joke, and there's no reality/empathy to tide your through the bits where the jokes aren't sizzling which, in a 28 minute BBC episode, they won't and can't the whole time. Besides, you need light and shade. Yes, lots of jokes, funny scenes and set-pieces. But also quieter bits, reflection and moments of empathy and emotion which ideally resolve with a joke. Watch Only Fools and Horses. That's a masterclass in how much emotion and comedy you need. Apart from anything else, we won't buy a character if we don't emotionally care about him. So this really is vital.

How does this happen?
This is easily done. It crops up in scenes when you realise you are leaning too heavily on a trope that has no basis in real life. You can attach your character to a lie detector if you want, but don't spend long doing it, as the audience will stop believing it after a while. They've never seen one of those lie detectors before - because they don't really exist. Just on TV. Police line-ups are fine. They happen. But not lie detectors. You get the idea.

It comes about partly through lack of research, understanding or interest in the subject matter. The writing is cynical, as a result, and feels like it's been done by numbers. The only way to avoid this is to do the research, talk to people and listen to stories and experiences. I've been have had my eyes open very wide by some research I've been doing for a sitcom. What you find when you talk to people and read books is a treasure trove of stories that you just couldn't make up, that feel extreme but authentic and grounded in reality. This keeps sitcomminess at bay.

And so three rules of thumb, then:
1. Make sure your show is about something. It needs to be be based on a truth and have a central core to it. More on that here.

2. If you're starting out, I'd suggest avoiding film studies, media and writing courses. I've just met a 16-year-old girl who is about to do A-Levels in English, Film Studies and Sound Engineering (or something). Doing English is fine, but overall she'd be much better off doing two other A-Levels that are about something. And going off and doing stuff. And then making movies. Otherwise, her experience of everything will be through film. And the films she makes may well be derivative of other films. (She may of course go on to win an Oscar aged 23. But I doubt it.)

3. Be brutal on what you've written. If it feels tired and trope-like, delete it, change it, cut it, hide it and rewrite it. If it feels like it's been done before, it probably has. How could it be done differently? How could you create something new and fresh? Change the location, the setting, the motive... anything. Just avoid sitcommy, second hand reality.

Fringe Drawback #1

There are plenty of thing wrong with the Edinburgh Fringe. I glossed over them in the last post, and I propose to gloss over most of them in this post too. I merely mention the one that is of the most interest to regular reads of this blog, and comedy writers in general.

The drawback in question is this: The Fringe does not reward good comedy writing as much as good comedy performance. If you're a theatre-type, there are Fringe Firsts for well-written plays, and that's all fine and large, as Bertie Wooster would say. But the big comedy prizes are undoubtedly skewed towards the writer/performer, and the vast majority of comedy shows are by and starring writer/performers. Every now and then you get a bunch like The League of Gentleman, which contain a non-performing writer, but this kind of arrangement is the exception, rather than the rule.

This isn't necessarily a good or bad thing. But it is a thing. Okay, probably a bad thing. I guess it happens because the Fringe is ultimately a complete free-for-all - an unsubsidised Hayekian arts festival. No attempt is made to link writers with performers, or performers with writers (and nor should there be).

The result of this is there are dozens of shows put on by performers/actors who aren't really writers. And they struggle to make the standard hour-long format work. Writing a show that lasts half an hour is pretty hard. Writing a show that lasts an hour is very difficult. Stagecraft and experience will get you so far, but it won't quite paper over the cracks. My experience of the dozens of Edinburgh shows I've seen is that the good shows tend to be a brilliant performer making ordinary material sparkle. Sometimes you get a brilliant performer with brilliant material (eg Bill Bailey (see last post) and these types often win the big fizzy liquid prize). But the Edinburgh comedy shows I see are normally okay, but could do with a major rewrite, and serious edit and some extra jokes.

Impact on Television
All of the above, however, does have one big consequence. Producers and commissioners who are looking for the next big thing, they keep seeing writer/performers. This has coincided with a shift towards writing/performing in television terms, and therefore the panel game, sketch show and chat show where comedians talk to other comedians who have been made famous by panel games and sketch shows.

There are dozens of suitable candidates for a seat on the next panel game. But the next Great British Sitcom seems elusive. It's easy to forget that the vast majority of great British sitcoms are written by writers with no interest in performing themselves. I'm sure Clement and Le Frenais, John Sullivan, Esmonde and Larbey, Galton and Simpson, Carla Lane and the like would have run a mile from an Edinburgh show of their own. And yet Edinburgh is a huge engine room of comedy in Britain today. It has also been forgotten that the great comedians of the past had writers and often didn't write much of their own material.

I have no solution to this problem. The BBC do have The Writers Room and are doing their best to encourage new writing. But my advice to writers would be to keep writing scripts, but if you come across a comedian or funny actor, grab them, write for them and make them a star. It seemed to work for Richard Curtis.

Happy Fringe-ing.

Fringe Benefits and other crap puns with 'Fringe' in the title

And so the internationally acclaimed fringe festival that has been out of control for years has kicked off again. It's over three weeks long. Everyone knows that's too long. It's unsustainable, but staggers on, consuming the life-savings of comedians, theatre companies and entrepeneurs. From a distance the entire enterprise is preposterous and bewildering.

Until you get there.

I've never taken drugs. Seriously. Had one puff of a cigarette and coughed. Never been into booze either. But Edinburgh is a drug - and it's taken me years to kick the habit. My first trip to Edinburgh was for my sister's wedding was in 1993, I think. Just after I left school. I went to see Moray Hunter & Jack Docherty do a two-man show, having seen them on Absolutely. Even though I was huge fans, the show itself was pretty ordinary. It was a fitting start to my Edinburgh experience - hype, expense, excitement and mild disappointment.

I was determined to take my university revue (Durham) there. They had performed at the Fringe in 1994, I think - a show called Toilet Humour which contained the wonderful Alex Macqueen (Thick of it, Inbetweeners et al). And so my rag-bag revue did a show in 1996 called 'The Usual Sketches' at St John's Church Hall (which has been re-branded several times since then) Somehow we broke even. We returned sharper, tighter and funnier in 1997 and did Massive Deja-Vu at The Gilded Balloon and lost a fortune. But had fun. (Hugh Laurie came to see our show.) Then I returned in 1999 with two members of that revue with a show called Infinite Number of Monkeys, which was nominated for Perrier Best Newcomer. Then another show in 2000, Infinite Number of Monkeys Do Gravity, and then a shorter run in 2001, Infinite Number of Monkeys: The Complete Works. (All above starred the artist currently known as Tim FitzHigham who has been a fringe staple for most of the years since.) Then there was a sketch show in 2002, or maybe 2003, called Innocent Bystanders containing Alex Macqueen again, a duo now known as Domestic Goddi and the now-retired Sports correspondent, Jonny Saunders (from Chris Evans's Breakfast Show).

I recall all above with fondness. I have ignored in my mind the hours spent giving out flyers and promoting the various shows. I have ignored the stress, the rain, the resentment at the success of others less 'worthy', the dreadful things I ate and the awful reviews. I remember only things like regularly standing next to a nice young Kiwi chap called Brett who was promoting a little music double-act bizzarely called Flight of the Concords. (What happened to him? Back in NZ now, probably. Just sad.) I remember frisby in the park, a few full houses, some good reviews, a Perrier Newcomer nod and seeing Bill Bailey for the first, second and third time at the George Square Theatre. (I got in free the first two times with my Gilded Balloon pass. To ensure I got in a third time, I bought a ticket with my own money.)

Since 2003, I have only really visited Edinburgh during the fringe a few times. I've planned and plotted plenty of new shows to take up, even to the point of creating show titles, making enquiries and setting up accounting spreadsheets full of wildly optimistic numbers. My wife, rightly, rolls her eyes, knowing full well that professional and personal commitments - and lack of thousands of pounds to lose - will prevented my return with a show of my own anytime soon. But I still get withdrawal symptoms.

In Praise of Edinburgh
There is plenty to be said about Edinburgh - mostly in favour, actually. It forces comedians to write new material annually. Annually! A new hour of material! Most American comedians would look at that as suicidal. For them, it's mostly honing an act over several years, aiming to get a six minute set which will land them a slot on The Tonight Show. And yet the British, and quasi-British, comedians rise to challenge. Similarly, sketch groups throw themselves together to create something that is frequently dreadful, but occasionally inspired. Somewhere, I have a flyer for a show by a new sketch group called 'League of Gentlemen'. It happens. And Edinburgh is often the catalyst.

Finding an Audience
In Edinburgh, new comedians, sketch-groups and theatre troupes alike will find an audience. It may be small, but it will be people they don't know personally. Hundreds of thousands of people turn up to Edinburgh with an open mind looking to see 'stuff'. This is an astonighly rare phenomenon. Put on a comedy show in London, a city of 8 million people, and you will find a far smaller group of people willing to try something new. Almost every London comedy sketch show is only really watched by friends, and friends of friends. In Edinburgh, you get to find out if you really are funny. It can be an expensive, painful experience, but those tend to be the ones we learn from the most.

There's plenty wrong with the fringe, and future posts will, no doubt, bring these up. There's plenty of good new developments too. It is stupidly commercialised in places, but then there's a Free Fringe things, which are a splendid development.

I'm heading up there myself in a week to be part of a BBC panel thing (here) so these shortcomings will be glaring obvious and blog-worthy. But until then, I am saluting the daft vortex of lunacy that is Edinburgh Fringe.

May your venues be full, may your audiences be merry and may your hangovers be short. (And two out of three's not bad.)