Change The Line

It's traditional for writers to think little of actors. It certainly can be frustrating to watch some actors 'not get' your masterpiece, butcher the lines and miss the jokes.

This, of course, makes the assumption that your script if perfect, which it isn't. And that it's funny, which it might not be. And it's also easy to forget that studio sitcom, at least, is really hard on the actors. An actor has less than a week to rehearse half an hour of comedy that will be shot in front of an audience and then broadcast live to millions of people. Half of that rehearsal time will probably be in a church hall somewhere in West London, with tape on the ground showing where marks are. The script changes overnight - and there's no certainty of success. At least with The Merchant of Venice, if it isn't working, the problem is not with the writing.

At the first read-through, the actor is probably sight-reading. They may not have been sent it in advance. They rarely read it in advance once the show is up and running, but that's forgivable. This means that some lines get fluffed. Not as many as you'd think. But an innocuous-looking line that's been pored over for months by the writers suddenly becomes hard to say. Usually, though, it's a mouthful line that's proving to be a problem. Often the second sentence in a speech. Occasionally the third (should you ever stoop to someone speaking for that long uninterrupted).

It doesn't happen in every readthrough, but now and then. The actor fluffs a line. They make a 'bleurgh' mouthful noise. Apologise. Everyone laughs. They do the line again. Fluff it again. Then again, although read wrong, but we're over the worst of it and the scene continues.

I have no idea if anyone else does this, but my policy is normally to change the line. Don't make a big thing of it at the time - or put your hand up and say 'My bad. Chunky line. We'll fix that' and then in the dead of night, change the line. It may be your favourite joke. It may be very easy to say in your mind and with your mouth. You could have been actor if you'd wanted to be. But you chose to be a pasty-faced writer. So get over it.

The actor might get the line right the next day. But probably not. People will be wondering if they'll fluff it again, especially on the night. They'll get nervous. My advice. Lance the boil. Change the line. It's just a line. Think of a new one. If this is Draft 5, most of the other lines aren't original from the first draft, so why be so precious over one? If you huff and puff and demand (privately to the director or producer) that the actor 'get over it' and 'get it right' because 'this really isn't that hard', you will be the loser in this. And let's face it. You're a writer. You're already a big enough loser.

Bits of advice like this will abound at the comedy writing course I'm running with Dave Cohen in London on April 20th and May 4th 2012. More info here.

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.

The Best Man's Speech

Now and then, friends and family ask me for jokes to for best man's speeches. I wish they wouldn't. If they wanted a half-hour story with a sub-plot and a set-piece ending, I could help. But stand-alone wedding jokes? Nope. Can't help. I can't even suggest they jokes from the great joke writers of our day (I'm thinking Milton Jones or Steven Wright) because I know they won't credit them and that would be annoying.

So in this situation all I simply give it two pieces of advice that I know they won't appreciate and will probably ignore, but know they'd thank me if they took it. And this advice is not about the jokes specifically but the audience and their expectations. Expectations are everything. This theme crops up many times in Jonathan Lynn's excellent book about the rules of comedy (that you should definitely read) so it must be important.

Expect expectations
The first thing is to point out that the audience is mostly made up of the bride and groom's family. The father of the bride speaks first. At least half the room know him. Then groom stands up. Half the room know him too. And then the best man stands up. Most people in the room do not know him. What's more, they are worried about the speech and the possibility of rudeness and offence (always on behalf of others, you understand). Know your audience. What are the expecting? Meet their expectations so they don't worry, but delight them so they enjoy it. And they'll enjoy it if you keep it clean. Seriously. It's not prudishness. It's just basic audience dynamics.

The second tip is related to the first. If you want to delight your audience, finish early. End before the audience want you to. (The phrase is "Quit while you're ahead" but I'm trying to make it sound like fresh advice that I just thought of) If you do this, your audience will applaud more eagerly and with greater joy and probably remember your speech as being funnier than it actually was. They are happy. You will be happy. That's the main thing.

Endings
I mention this because recently, I've been writing one or two scripts and had notes about the ending. One or two of these notes say 'can we have an extra joke at the end'? (Notes which say 'can we have more jokes please' are annoying but ultimately worth having because it reminds you do your job and write funny bits. If you don't want to write funny stuff you're on the wrong floor.)

The temptation is to keep coming up with extra joke and epilogues and more bits and extra pay-offs for running jokes - until you end up with two or three pages of this stuff with jokes and bits that the audience frankly don't care about all that much. Once the hero has succeeded - or failed in a pleasingly comic way - wrap it up fast. With in a page or two. Give the audience the chance to catch their breath. Pay off a running joke. Then cue music and roll the credits. You'll be finishing the show a split second before the audience are wanting you to and they will cheerful about it.

But listen at me prattling on. Actually, there was this one best man's speech I heard about in which... oh yeah. Quit while you're ahead. See ya.

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.

The God Particle

It's no coincidence that many great British sitcom actors of our age tend to be theatrical stars rather than movie stars. The likes of Paul Eddington, Nigel Hawthorne, Penelope Keith, Peter Bowles and Felecity Kendall were rooted in the British theatre. Sitcoms, especially studio audience ones, are probably more like theatre than any other medium. The tone and tempo are similar - and the audience are asked to buy the contrivance of a set, which never quite passes for 100% real. Reality is heightened, time is compressed and then there is the sound of audience laughter - which you really do not get in real life. At least, I don't.

This link with the theatre poassibly explains why I've had a lot of fun writing a play called The God Particle. Apologies for the shameless, thinly disguised promotion of it on this blog, but there it is. Come and see my play. It's on at St Peter's Church in Fulham on 4th & 5th Feb. Details below.

So What's It About?
It's a romantic comedy about a vicar and a quantum physicist who are brought together by circumstances, and they bicker and argue about life and religion like Maddie and David from Moonlighting. It's all based around a quotation by one of my favourite writers, GK Chesterton who said "The point of having an open mind is the same as having a open mouth: to close it on something solid." This sounds witty but is it true? The scientist would argue not. What is it to have an open mind? Does that mean never believing anything? The play looks at all that. With jokes.

Ticket info
The Saturday night 8pm show is already sold out. There are three other shows, though, at 5.30pm on Saturday 4th February (book here), and 4pm (here) and 8pm (and here) on Sunday 5th February. There is one more date in Burford, Oxon on 18th Feb (here).

Central Character Needs Work

I've been working one particular sitcom idea for a few of years. It's a silly, jokey, studio-based show, rather than a searingly satirical non-audience piece. More Black Books than The Thick of It. The show has slowly moved around from one thing into another, losing one of the main characters and shifting focus, even though the tone has remained the same.

But all of the above has happened at such a slow speed that I've failed to notice that the key character is not clear enough. This has been pointed out to me by an exec (they're not all bad) and I've failed to properly address this, even though the script is on draft 6. If I'm honest, I have to admit that the comedy at the moment comes too much from the situation and the jokes - and not the key character at the centre of the show is based. We want to root for the guy - but we don't know how to because we don't know who he really is and what he really wants.

Some shows get away with this. I'd cautiously suggest that even one of my all time favourites, Seinfeld, has this failing. Jerry Seinfeld's character isn't quite sharp enough or focussed enough - but Elaine, George and Kramer cover that up well, as does a set of stand up at the beginning and the end. By the time the show was established, none of this seemed to matter. But they got lucky. (FYI Genius = luck + hard work + experience).

Anyway, before Christmas hits, I shall be asking myself these questions about my central character, which you may like to ask yourself of your characters that aren't quite working:

What does he want? Why? What does he think he wants? What does he actually want? How does this differ from what he actually needs? And what he gets?

What stops him from getting what he wants? How do the other characters stop him from getting what he wants? How is it ultimately his own fault?

How does he see the world? How does the world see him? How do the other characters see him? How does this differ with how we, the audience, see him?

If you don't answers for most of these, you've got a problem. So, if it's really not working, let's think the unthinkable:
Should he be a she? How does that change things?
Should he be something else completely?
Should he be deleted altogether? (I've already scrapped one character without replacing them - and it made it better).

Answer all of the above without resorting to tedious backstory. Backstory is comic death (because it's all reported) and doesn't move things forward. In sitcoms, characters need strong drives and clearly-defined quests and achievable goals - so that we know whether they are succeeeding or not. Whether they achieve them or not is up to you. But the more specific and defined the goal, the easier it is to understand. And if the audience isn't confused or baffled at any point, you stand a fighting chance of making them laugh. And that's what it's all about.

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.

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?

It's all good, really

Today was a rotten day. I woke up feeling groggy and slightly flu-ey and generally under the weather. I felt up to some clerical work and emails just after lunch. A project I've been trying to get through a well-known broadcasting corporation has been delayed again. (other broadcasters are avaialable. At least I hope so).

Then the real fun began. I tried to arrange for a faulty dishwasher at my church hall to be fixed - for I am Church Warden (seriously) and this sort of holy order falls to me.

The dishwasher has a problem closing but is still under warranty, or so I thought. I checked the website of the vendor, by the name of B&Q. I don't know what that stands for. I'm so tired and bored, I can't even think a joke for that (two adjectives beginning in B&Q. Leave comments.) Clearly the idea that one of their products might malfunction is alien to them since there's no information on their website. I phoned a well-hidden number. Ring ring ring ring. Eventually a battery of questions - and then a suggestion I ring the branch where the thing was bought. I didn't buy the dishwasher as it happens. It was bought by the previous church warden. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring...

I got in the car, realise I was nearly out of fuel, stalled the car, briefly panicked that I'd run out of fuel in a diesel car, which is a real nusiance. Then got going again, refuelled and went down to B&Q in delightful Wandsworth.

And this was where creatively the lousy day was almost redeemed. I walked into B&Q and wondered around looking for someone who could help me - for ages. At one point, it felt like the only member of staff there was the security guard trying to prevent £1m+ worth of good from being stolen. In my foul and furious state, I reckon I could have taken in him on. But that would have made me a common looter (well, a middle-class looter, but a looter nonetheless).

Eventually I spoke to a member of staff, who guided me to a desk where someone was unable to help, who took me to his boss, who asked me questions I simply couldn't understand, who then got the duty store manager, who ultimately said he couldn't help. He explained that the dishwasher was used in a commercial setting (apparently churches are commercial, which is news to me, given the state of our accounts). This meant Indesit wouldn't fix it. That was that. I said that the buyer said at the time that it was for church use. He asked if I had proof. I had none.

I walked away, furious and before I said anything that would bring the church into disrepute. Driving home I realised I had proof - all the delivery notes were addressed to the church. I couldn't go back. I was broken. Finished. But I realised that if I hadn't been so tired and angry, the situation I had been in had comic potential. The eerie lack of staff, the chronic indifference to my plight and the kafka-esque levels of service. All funny now you look at it.

And that is why I mention this mildly dull anecdote. Not because it's especially funny, but because it's an interesting starting point for a storyline. Or a sketch. Or a scene. Or a moment. Back in April, I wrote this about changing the battery on a burglar alarm. This one will go on the list too. It's logged in the memory. That's because sitcom writing isn't just about imagining situations - but experiencing them first hand. And then turning them up to 11 on the screen.

Plus it gave me something to write about on this blog. It's all good, really.

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.

Write You Write Upon a Star

Ok, that title doesn't really make sense. It's late. Cut me some slack. Anyway,on with the blog.

Over the last few years, I've had the chance to work on my own shows, where I came up with the original ideas (eg Hut 33, Think the Unthinkable). I've also worked on shows like My Hero and My Family, which were long-running, established shows with a clear separation between cast and writers. But I've also worked on shows that are 'vehicles' for other people. Happily, that vehicle has proved not to be a hearse in the case of Miranda Hart and Milton Jones. (Given my success with 'Mi's, maybe I should try and work with Micky Flanagan.)

So how does writing in this situation work - when you are non-performing writer, and the writer/performer star of the show is in the room? Maybe a few words of advice jump out at me.

Firstly, remember you are not the most important person in the room. The reason the show exists is because of 10-30 years work of building up a persona/character that someone else has put in. In my case with Milton Jones, for example, I began working with him in 2003 on The House of Milton Jones. He had won Perrier Best Newcomer in 1996 and been nominated for a Sony Award for The Very World of Milton Jones. When I sit in a room with Milton, and David the Producer, it is obvious who the most replaceable person in the room is.

Instinct
But this is not about status. This is about trusting the star to know what works for them. Before I worked with Miranda on her Radio 2 sitcom, she had done dozens of different stage shows, and 'been' Miranda hundreds of times in various media, and therefore has a very strong sense of what is likely to be funny for her and what won't fly. Sometimes, it can be explained. Often, it's just instinctive. In the past, I've found myself arguing a joke to Milton saying 'It's the same structure as that other joke you do' and Milton calmly and graciously says that he's not crazy about it, and I retreat. Ultimately the star will win the battle off what ends up in the script, since their name is in the title, they're in front of the crowd and the lights. And if they're heart is not in the joke, they won't make it work anyway.

Sometimes, it works the other way - in that you toss in an idea, the star thinks its hilarious, and you can't quite work out why or how. And then they do it on the night - and it's hilarious. They make it work. Whichever way it works out, remember they get the blame if it goes wrong. Nobody really watches the credits. The only people who care who 'wrote it' are other writers, and that's so they can say '[sigh] Why didn't they ask me?'

The point is the star has a nose for what works for them and what doesn't. So embrace that reality, rather than fight it. If they don't like the joke or scene or idea, drop it.

Your Perspective
But the flipside of this is to not be too intimidated. You have a perspective on the show that is genuinely valuable and necessary - purely by dint of not being the star. And what's more, they hired you so they must care what you think just a bit.

The fact is that you don't see the show through the eyes of the performer but more through the eyes of the audience, which is helpful. You're also not seeing things through the eyes of the producer, who's not just looking at the show, but dozens of other things off camera. So you can spot things that might not work or not make sense or would be better done another way or a different order. Exploit that perspective to make the show better - probably in ways that will never be noticed or fully appreciated.

Your job is to help the star to shine - and this will happen best if all the characters, scenes and jokes are firing on all cylinders. You're a wing man. No, not a wing man. You're a mechanic tinkering with the engine and sending the star out in the car for lap after lap. And yes, the one in the car gets most of the money, all the applause and has to hold up that dreadful trophy that looks like it was designed by a man going through a mid-life crisis. But... I can't remember where this metaphor's going on.

The point is they're the star and you're not. So get over it. And it you don't like it, go off and write your own show. And then in 10-30 years time, you'll know what it's like to be pestered by snarky know-all sitcom-geeks who don't get what you're trying to do. Easy.

What's It All About?

A while ago, I was asked to write a slightly tongue-in-cheek article about the ingredients of a successful sitcom. The result of that is here. In short, a successful sitcoms needs characters, conflict, confinement and catastrophe. Crucial to success is also casting. And a catchphrase is nice too, if you can bear it.

I'm happy to stand by this. It is true. And it's possible to have a perfectly good and successful sitcom with those ingredients.

But a great sitcom has another ingredient. It's a certain je ne sais quoi. Or a certain something, as the French say. The show needs a philosophy, an attitude or a stance. It needs to capture something about the human condition, or the times in which we live. These are the shows we still want to watch on Dave or UK Gold. The hairstyles may date, and the cultural reference points change, but the show says something.

So What?
I've been thinking about this recently as I've been doodling on a few new ideas for sitcoms, and thinking of characters that seem interesting and funny, and scenarios and situations that feel fresh and fertile. But I keep asking myself the question 'So what?' It's a good question to keep asking yourself because somewhere along the line, someone is going to ask you that question - a comedy executive or a commissioner. They ask questions like 'Why would I watch this show?' or 'What's this show really about?' There's no point getting cross or rolling your eyes. They may not know why they're asking that question. They may have read in a manual that it's a good question to ask that sounds plausible. Or they may realise that good shows are about something.

The Office
The Office was about funny characters, and had good stories, conflict, confinement and all that. It was very recognisable and felt fresh. But it felt like it was about something. About being trapped in a dead-end job and feeling powerless to do anything about it. Or about the lunatics surrounding you. Tim (Martin Freeman) was really the eye of the story and one sensed that he could see his life and chance of happiness slipping through his fingers. It infused every episode. And when Tim did something about it, and finally said something to Dawn, and David Brent himself seemed to change after the love of a good women, the show was, essentially, over.

Just Jokes
If you've only got jokes, you ride or fall by every joke. And when the jokes misfire, as they will surely do now and then, the audience may realise there's nothing underneath, and that the whole thing is artifice. They already know it is, and are willing to suspend their disbelief - because a really good show is about more than characters and jokes. Look at the great sitcoms, and you'll see they're not just confined characters coping with catastrophes: Only Fools and Horses, Yes Minister, The Good Life, Steptoe, One Foot in the Grave, Dad's Army, Reggie Perrin. The list goes on and on. Great shows that said something, and still say somthing.

Friends isn't about Friends
One of the most successful shows of recent times is Friends, which is a multi-billion dollar industry in its own right. It's about six friends. That's it. Well, not quite. The creators of the show spotted there was a strange post-college, pre-family time of life when twenty-somethings relied on friends and hung out with each other, and were wanting to form close-knit groups that functioned like families. They were right. The show captures that, without ever saying it. They also thought that Monica and Joey would be the 'hot couple' for the show, which shows they didn't get everything right.

But you don't need to get everything right at first. You start with a fairly good idea of where the show is and what it's about, and with a bit of luck, an open mind, a good cast and following wind, you might just make a great show.

Hut 33
It is clearly absurd to make a leap to this largely ignored radio sitcom what I wrote, but I can only speak from experience. When I had the idea of setting a sitcom in Bletchley Park during World War Two, it would have been easy to have written a show about boffin odd-balls like Alan Turing doing daft things. Like a 1940s Big Bang Theory. But I felt that would become fairly tiresome fairly soon. And so I wondered about other themes that emerged during World War Two - and remembered my wife telling me that one of the main reasons for social reform after the war was how our nation were forced to work alongside each other, rich alongside poor, elites alongside outcasts. And both sides were pretty appalled.

And so I wondered whether throwing two characters together from different ends of the spectrum could work. Hey presto, we have a posh, highly-educated, elitist Oxford Professor (Robert Bathurst), and a self-taught, working class, Marxist Geordie (Tom Goodman-Hill) Both saw the world through completely different eyes. And both were right. And both were wrong. And it made writing the show a lot easier than writing Enigma jokes. After all, did you hear the one about the German and the Enigma Machine? Me neither.

It's All Lies

Writing dialogue is very personal. Some writers have very distinctive styles that span all the different characters in a show. There are the fast-talkers of Aaron Sorkin's worlds, be they West Wing, Sportsnight or Social Network. There the imaginative comic similes of Richard Curtis and Ben Elton's Blackadder series.

Everyone has their own style, but it's worth thinking about how dialogue works more generally and how we can write it better for individual characters. Two things to mention here without going over what I wrote about dialogue here:

Length
Sometimes I read scripts in which one character talks and talks and talks. A character walks in and tells you what they did that day - and the other characters stand around listening. And then another character talks and talks and talks. Our lives are conversations. We say a sentence or two, and then someone else talks for a little bit. The conversation goes round the room, being filtered and remixed by the various characters and perspectives in the room. That's when it starts getting interesting.

This is the kind of dialogue I'm talking about. It's not uncommon to read this kind of mildly predictable and slightly stererotypical/sexist scene (which I've just made up as I've typed it. It's not real dialogue from something I'm working on.)

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
You don't wanna know. It was a nightmare. A total and utter nightmare. The buses were slow - as they always are on our road. The tube was down. Well not down. But stop start all the way into work. And when I got in Wendy was off sick. As usual. That's the fourth day out of the last eight working days. Honestly, the rest of us struggle into work. Why can't she? Then the big meeting started. The Boss droned on and on. Something about targets and marketing. Wasn't really listening because I was thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for the St Albans incident.

Okay. It's not very funny, is it? But hey, most scripts (including mine) aren't very funny. But reading it, it doesn't ring true. He's not having a conversation. He's just talking. And talking. And talking. SHUT UP, STEVE! I now do not care about your life, Steve. You're not a real person, Steve.

So, let's break it up to make it at least mildly humourous and believable. Then we might care. At the very least, how about something like this:

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
You don't wanna know.

MAVIS
You're right. What's on TV tonight?

STEVE
(ignoring her) Nightmare. The buses didn't move. The tube was stop-start. And when I did get in, guess what?

MAVIS
They gave you a hand-gun and licence to kill?

STEVE
If only. Wendy.

MAVIS
Off sick? Again?

STEVE
Thank you! The fourth day out of the last eight working days.

MAVIS
But who's counting. Oh hang on. You.

STEVE
(sarcastic smile) The rest of us struggle into work.

MAVIS
Passing round your germs. She should be more considerate and come in.

STEVE
Anyway, the big meeting started. The Boss droned on and on. Something about targets and marketing. Wasn't really listening because I was thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for...

MAVIS
Not paying attention in meetings?

STEVE
... the St Albans incident.

MAVIS
Ah yes. Well, that's in the hands of the police now, isn't it?

Okay, it's nothing special and all very smart-arse, but you get the idea. Get your characters talking to each other. Like they do in real life.

It's All Lies
The other thing to bear in mind, however, is that people frequently don't say what they mean. Quite often say the opposite, or filter it - often because of the opinion of the person standing in front of them. They lie. They delude themselves. The things they say are for their own ears, to reinforce the lies that they're trying to drum into their heads, or block out the noise of the stark reality around them.

How could that scene go with the addition of standard lying and self-delusion? Something like:

INT. KITCHEN. DAY.

MAVIS IS COOKING AT THE HOB, STIRRING A SPOON IN A SAUCEPAN

MAVIS
So, how was your day, Steve?

STEVE SLUMPS INTO A CHAIR.

STEVE
Fine. Great. Perfect.

MAVIS
Good. What's on TV tonight?

STEVE
(ignoring her) The buses didn't move. The tube was stop-start. And when I did get in, guess what?

MAVIS
They gave you a hand-gun and licence to kill?

STEVE
If only. Wendy.

MAVIS
Off sick? Again?

STEVE
I know. She's got some medical condition. It's sad. Really sad. And she's good. When she's actually around.

MAVIS
Ooh, you hate her.

STEVE
I do not. I don't hate anyone. It's just she's, you know, not been around much recently. And I just think missing four days of the last eight working days should require a doctor's note or something.

MAVIS
Could she bring in a blood sample, maybe, to be independently monitored?

STEVE
(sarcastic smile) The rest of us struggle into work.

MAVIS
Passing round your germs. She should be more considerate and come in.

STEVE
Anyway, the big meeting started. The Boss give his speech about targets and marketing strategy...

MAVIS
You have no idea what he said do you?

STEVE
I was distracted by thinking about my next meeting when I knew that I was going to be bollocked for...

MAVIS
Not paying attention in meetings?

STEVE
No. The St Albans incident.

MAVIS
Ah yes. Well, that's in the hands of the police now, isn't it?

From this we learn that Steve isn't as nice as he'd like to think he is. And no as good as his job as he's like to think he is. And that Mavis realises this. Now where getting somewhere.

How Much Should I Write?

Previous posts and comments have thrown up yet more questions. Let's start with this one:

When should I stop rewriting my script?
In the last post, Dave Cohen sagely advised caution before sending out scripts, and urged writer to hold off sending it out until it was really and truly ready. A while ago, I made the point that this is especially true for script competitions. It is generally worth holding back until you really are sure that the script is as good as it can be - bearing in mind it can still be better and will need to be rewritten depending on casting, rehearsal and technical considerations.

And so when to stop? How do you know when it's good enough to send? You don't know. And yet you do.

If you're sending a script out 'to give a potential producer a rough idea of how the show might look', it's not ready.

If you're sending a script out 'even though the ending still doesn't quite work, but since I'll have to rewrite it anyway, I'll do it then', it's not ready.

If, when rewriting it, you're painfully aware that you're not making it any better, but just changing the words, it might be ready. Put it away. Leave it for a few days - longer if you can - and return to it. You'll see bits that aren't right straight away. Try and explain the plot simply to a spouse or long-suffering friend. If you can do that, it might be ready.

Then Dave said that maybe it's time to stop work on that and start on the next episode. Good idea. But Griff says:

There's a danger of getting to the point when you're saying to producers "I've written the first twelve episodes and a Xmas special" and they start scanning the room for exits. So I guess however many episodes you've actually written, only ever send one out and let the others be your dirty secret?

So:

Should I write more than episode?
Let's take a step back here. One script takes ages. Or at least it should. Working nine to five, five days a week, coming up with a storyline and getting it right could take a week. Maybe longer. The first draft will take a week. Maybe two. Then drafts 2 and 3 might be another week or two. That's a least a month of solid work before it's worth sending to anyone. And then do it again? On spec? Does anyone really have time to take longer than that for free? It's well worth having outlines up your sleeve for future episodes. While you wait for responses, work up two or three of those, maybe into longer scene-by-scene breakdowns. Doing this will reveal whether your show has legs, and whether the characters really are working, or will demonstrate that some of your characters are not generating interesting stories.

If you really have nothing else to do, and no children to read stories to or no hobbies to pursue, you could start to write another episode. But it's likely the first script will, if it is progressed at all, require seismic thoughts and rethinking, so a second script might not be of much use, or be better started from scratch much later.

If I were a producer and someone sent me a script with a note saying 'I've already written six episodes', my heart would sink because I'd assume that the writer thinks that writing sitcom scripts is easy, and not extremely time-consuming. The alternative is that this writer has spent months of their own time, unpaid, writing these episodes - at the exclusion of all other things and human relationships. And this would be a worry, because comedy is all about all those other things and those human relationships.

Is that harsh? Or fair? Bad advice? Do leave comments.

Where should I send my Script? Part 3

I've run a few sitcom course with the highly-experienced comedy writer Dave Cohen. We do plan to run some more in the autumn so look out for dates. But in the meantime, Dave's got some useful thoughts following up some recent posts here on the blog. And it's probably the best advice of the lot.

So here, in a sitcom geek first, is a guest post from Dave Cohen:

Hello, thanks for having me. Recently James posted two excellent pieces attempting to answer the question ‘where should I send my script’. And there were several very helpful suggestions, all of which I would broadly agree with. He did however, overlook one very important option, which is this:

Don’t send it. Hang on to it. Seriously. Okay, look me in the eye, or at least stare at the following questions on the screen and answer them honestly: is your script brilliant? Does it leap off the page? Is it absolutely stuffed full of brilliant gags? Are they made even funnier because they give us an hilarious insight into our leading character or characters’ flaws? Does the plot flow, with twists and turns that are entirely believable, and again determined by the actions of your lead character?

I’m not trying to bring you down here, I’m just being realistic. I’ve done it myself, sent out a spec script to a friendly producer, knowing deep down that there were problems with it. I’m sure I thought it was as good as I could make it, I may have even thought it was great, but I always knew there were one or two flaws that would give the producer an excuse to say ‘sorry, not this time.’

So why, you may ask with some justification, is there so much mediocre comedy on TV? The answer is that, once upon a time, the writer of that mediocre show sent out a script that was so brilliant, leapt off the page, stuffed full of gags etc etc, that the script got made, and the writer was successful. It’s never easy to get a commission, especially these days, and you have to put yourself in the producer’s shoes. If they have to choose to push one script, and it’s between your pretty good one, or the mediocre one by the person with a proven track record,they’ll usually choose the latter.

Brilliant scripts don’t happen very often. Micheal Jacob, who was for many years the BBC’s TV script editor, reckoned only a few of the thousands he read were really good. I can’t claim to have anywhere near the experience of Micheal but I’ve read hundreds of new scripts and not many have made me go ‘wow’. Depressingly, the best script I’ve ever read was about four years ago, by a successful working writer, and it still hasn’t been made.

So why don’t we write brilliant scripts? Almost invariably, the answer lies in one word: preparation. Before even a word of the script is written, there is so much groundwork required to make your show work. This is the most difficult, and most creative period in writing your show. It’s difficult because you’re starting with nothing, and you don’t know where your characters are going. The urge to start writing a script gets stronger as each day passes.

It’s a horrible dilemma. No working writer is ever 100% satisfied with the script they hand in, but the reality of a deadline concentrates the mind. Fake deadlines you set yourself are just never quite terrifying enough. But if I was allowing myself three months of spare time to create a spec script with new characters, I would expect to spend at least two thirds of that time in preparation.

When I’ve given in to that urge to start writing before having an absolutely clear sense of what the show is about, my script has not been good enough. Some people argue that it is only when you start writing the script that you begin to see where the characters are going. Very well, start writing: but make that script be part of the research you can use… when you begin writing the brilliant script.

Thanks Dave. Do leave comments below.

Writing those lines that, you know, the audience laugh at...

... what are they called, again? Oh yes. Jokes.

I like jokes. I like laughing. Out loud. I quite like smiling. And I quite the like feeling of having spotted something really subtle. But I think I like laughing the best.

I fully appreciate that some people don't like laughing. Somehow, some of them are TV critics. It's understandable to some extent. Most comedies wouldn't seem all that funny when played on a preview disc at 11am in a brightly lit lounge on a Tuesday morning. Also, some critics simply consider laughing to be beneath them. AA Gill is one, as I pointed out here. Let us remind ourselves of why he liked TV series Lead Balloon:

This series is part of a new trend of comedy shows that don't make you laugh; you just nod your head and mutter, "That's really funny." It's a Darwinian improvement on the tyranny of the set-up-gag guffaw, and I approve of it. Laughter is ugly and common.

Thanks, Mr Gill. I'll bear that in mind for all your futures reviews about comedy.

I mention all this because I'm in the throes of writing another radio series with Milton Jones who, apart from being a most delightful and kind human being, writes some of the best jokes in the English-speaking world.

The show we write for Radio 4 is called Another Case of Milton Jones which can you sample/buy here. In general, it is a show that will go anywhere or do anything for a joke. But the show has a strong narrative, as well as some regular characters, and it's far from a case of connecting up a series of Milton Jones' superb one-liners, although they are extremely useful to have in the armoury.

Writing the show is always a bit of a work-out for me. I have to be at the top of my game to keep up with Milton, joke-wise, but my main skill is seeing beyond the next joke, to the next scene, and all the way to the end, shaping the story and ensuring the whole thing makes sense, so that when the Czech Grandmaster is trapped inside a cage made of Twiglets and fed to an angry mob of penguins, we know why it's happening, and therefore why it's funny. (Confusion is the enemy of comedy)

Odd Conversations
During the course of writing the show, Milton, the producer David Tyler, and I end up having bizarre conversations about jokes, working out specifics about what colour or which animal is funniest, whether a scene should take place in Mexico or Panama, and what words should be omitted. It takes hours. We ensure that each script is given our full attention for two whole days (with the script having been broadly written and reworked before we start that process). Some days we're there for 12 hours, meaning some scripts after given 24 hours of careful attention from three of us. And then Milton has another pass at the script, filling in gaps, and deleting stuff he's only 50/50 about. In short, it takes ages. But at the same time, it's great fun because at the end of it, we've got some really funny jokes that make us laugh in the room - and we're excited about telling them to the audience so they can laugh too. This is comedy, remember.

Let us note, then, that writing comedy is hard. It's not just a question of natural ability. It's natural ability plus graft. The British love the idea of an effortless genius. It's broadly a myth. There was of course Peter Cook. But that was it. The rest of us just have to take our talents and work our guts out.

Writing Jokes
In the process of the above, however, there are a few things that crop up when trying to write or polish a joke that I pass on to the possible benefit for reading several. Three things as a starting point.

Clear a space - make sure the joke isn't being compromised by things around it. The audience are expecting jokes. Don't give them the jokes they expect. But at the same time, don't confuse them or make their life harder. Earlier, I mentioned about whether to set a scene in Mexico or Panama. In the room, we might say 'Oh, let's not do Panama. They'll be expecting a joke about a hat or a canal, and we're not doing those jokes. Can't it be Mexico?' It's all about expectation and stereotype. These can help you when they're part of the joke, but they can get in the way if the joke's about something else. Remove words in the set-up to the joke that are in themselves funny-sounding, if they're not the joke. In short, clear a space for your joke. No distractions.

Rhythm and Bounce - make sure the joke is sayable and has a natural rhythm to it, (unless of course the joke is about jarring words, or expectations). Shakespeare's so memorable and easy to say because of the iambic pentameter. He did okay. Discordant, jerky sentences tend not to work. Let us not forget some of the all time great one-liners from Blackadder eg. 'Your brain, for example, is so minute that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough in side to cover a small water-biscuit'. 'Water biscuit' much funnier than 'cracker', which is shorter, but not as nice in that spot. Also, cracker can mean other things, lik Christmas cracker, and a cracker is also a sort of joke. Delete cracker. Use water-biscuit. Think about rhythm and flow. Say it out loud. If you can't say your line, why should the actor be expected to?

Zing and Sting - make sure the funny bit is at the end, so it zings. Sounds silly, but I watch plenty of comedy where the funny bit is drowning in a soup of words around it. The funny line, the punchline, the pay-off, should come last, so the audience can then laugh. They won't laugh if you're still talking. They're very polite. They'll wait 'til you've finished, by which time the laughter will have dissippated. This is the bit our American friends are really good at. (I always say that 'American English is the natural language of sit-com' Discuss)

Also, make sure it is actually a joke. Some lines feel like jokes, because of their shape, clarity and rhythm, but, on inspection, there's nothing there. It's an ersatz-joke. It's just someone talking. It may get a laugh, but it doesn't help you. Cut it. Or turn it into a joke. Or use it as a set-up to a new joke.

Some would say all of the above is against the principles of 'naturalism' that you get in comedy now. Shaky cameras and people mumbling, stopping and starting. It's quite fashionable at the moment. But that kind of comedy hides the fact that when that stuff is done well, you don't notice that jokes are clear and the lines are sayable. You're thinking 'people don't talk like this in real life' because it's all flowing well and you're too busy enjoying it.

All of the above takes time, especially if you do it on every line in every scene. But that's okay. You're a writer. It's what you do. And always remember - it beats real work.

Where should I send my Script? Part 2

Given the enormous interest in the last post (largely thanks to a RT by Mr Linehan), I thought it might be worth following up some specifcs questions that arose.

The producer works for a company that says it doesn’t accept unsolicited scripts. Should I send it anyway?
It’s up to you. If you do, it would be unreasonable of you to pester them with phonecalls and emails subsequently for feedback. I would says there’s no harm in sending it. But, given their pre-stated policy, don’t expect anything back. Personally, saying you don’t accept scripts is a bizarre policy for a comedy company to have, given that scripts are where the jokes/money come from. But given there are tens of thousands of sitcom scripts floating around the UK at the moment, and thousands more generated every year, you have to draw the line somewhere. (Also, as someone has helpfully commented, send the script to a particular person, not a company.)

Should I send my script to agents?
Yes. You can. You probably should – especially if you feel you’re running out of options. But my experience is that agents tend not to get involved if you don’t have ‘stuff going on’. Many are good-hearted and want to encourage new writers, but they have to make a living like the rest of us. But agents are, by no means, a magic wand. Their good allies, and not bored by contracts and money, but tend not to get you sitcom work. (Some get you day-rate gag-writing work, but that's an area I'm not all that familiar with.)

Isn’t it all about relationships with producers?
Yes it is. One or two tweeted that they thought that writing sketches for shows was the way in – and this is the tried and tested formula. The likes of John Sullivan, Richard Curtis, David Renwick and Andy Hamilton to name a few started this way. In one sense, a sitcom is a series of sketches, so getting the craft of economic funny writing is probably the best foundation you can have. And through it, you develop relationships with producers, with whom you can develop longer narrative scripts. But many writers have had other routes into sitcom. I believe Simon Nye wrote a novel that he was persuaded to turn into a sitcom, and he happened to be brilliant at writing sitcom. Lee Mack has come through live performance. But sketch comedy is the best way for most, I think.

Should I send an electronic or hard copy?
I’d say hard copy. My reasoning is thinking about it from their point of view (or mine!) If I get an email, I have to print it out myself at my expense. And then put it down somewhere where I’ll remember to read it. Most likely, I'll fail to print it out, and then the email disappears off the bottom of my list, and it’s all forgotten. (I’ve forgotten to read plenty of scripts this way from people whom I know personally and like (Sorry)).

I shouldn’t bother asking where you can send them a script first out of politeness. It’s just more admin. If a script is already printed out and sitting on a table, it might get picked up and read very quickly. Especially if the first few pages are actually proper funny – which is rare. And if it ain’t funny, it goes in the bin and their day continues. We’ve all had scripts thrown in the bin. The solution is to send it someone else, or write another one.

Is it worth sending to producers as well as BBC Writersroom?
Yes. I know one of their readers very well and he knows stuff and can spot funny. You can send it to BBC Producers too – one or two – but try the Writersoom. They are mandated and paid to find new talent and encourage it. That might well involve you.

Should I send a pilot ‘set-up’ episode or a typical episode?
Send a funny episode. The debate about whether to write Ep 1 as a set-up or whether to do it in the first five minutes and then move on, or just write a typical episode is not something to worry about at this stage. Really and truly. When you are sending a script to a producer, you are primarily showing what you can do with a half-hour script. The odds of the script being turned into actually TV are truly tiny. There are so many hoops to jump through first. A script is a calling card – in the hope of developing a relationship with a producer. They get sent hundreds of pilot episodes, and plenty of typical episodes – but they don’t get sent many funny, fresh, original versions of either. It really is all about the funny at this stage. The cold-hearted planning of how you can take over the world with your sitcom comes later.

Could I send a script to you, Sitcomgeek?
I’d rather you didn’t. Sorry. I do get asked now and then. Reading a script properly – as I would like my script to be read – takes half an hour. Then you have to read it again. Think about it. And then write something useful. That’s probably a 3-4 hour job. No offence, if I’m giving away my time for free, I’d rather give it my three-year old daughter (whom I only invoice occasionally) There are script reading services available at relatively low cost. You could try the excellent and experienced writer Dave Cohen, or the delightful Hayley McKenzie.

I’m not getting anywhere at all. What should I do?
Write something else. If you’re a writer, you’ll like writing for it’s own sake – and that is the thing that gives you pleasure. But given the lack of manufacturing and an increasingly graduate population, an awful lot of people want to be writers. It’s hard work out there, and it can be slim pickings at times. And if you’re pitching a sitcom to BBC2, you’re competing with Paul Whitehouse, Steve Moffat and Ricky Gervais. You’re in with the big boys. Quit whining, and turn that into something funny. (I hasten to add I regularly ignore my own advice and whine with the best of them.)

Please feel free to ask other general questions about sitcom, industrial or scriptorial – maybe on the comments below or via twitter – and I’ll try and get to them via the blog over the coming weeks.

Where should I send my Script?

This is a question I get asked a lot. You can send it in to script competitions. No harm in that. (I write about that here) You can send it nebulous corporations who have a public service remit and will genuinely read it eventually. Better than leaving it in a drawer. I shouldn't bother sending it to an agent (unless it's a movie script or novel).

But for sitcom, I give the same answer every time. Send it to a producer who makes programmes you like - and whom you think will 'get' what you're trying to do. Print it out, put it in an envelope, spell their name correctly, write a polite covering letter that doesn't make you look like a nutjob, a stalker or a precocious 12-year-old (even if you are, hide this fact). Then wait.

If it's really good, they'll call you. Really and truly. Most scripts aren't any good, including those written by experienced professionals. So if you've written something that isn't even broadcastable, but shows promise and talent, they'll call, email and contact you somehow eventually.

Bear in mind they have work do, a job in hand and it doesn't really involve you - but they need shows to produce, and every time they open and envelope, they fear the worst, but hope for the best.

If you don't hear back ever, and you've sent it three different producers, maybe, just maybe, the script isn't as good as you thought it was. In which case, do what all decent writers do: do it again. Rewrite, edit, change, delete, type, scream, delete, type, read, simmer, pause, read again, edit then send. If you're not prepared for any of the above, may I recommend another job?

Any producers on the receiving end, please feel free to confirm or deny any of the above, but that's my experience and recommendation.