Casualty, Cars and Crisis Points; a Three Day Storywriting Workshop with John Yorke

Free stationary, coffee, and John Yorke; Nope, I can't think of a better writing prize either!

I still remember how excited I was when I got the email. “You’ve won!” it said, “a three day story writing course in London with the former Controller of BBC Drama Production, John Yorke, who’s worked on Eastenders, Casualty, and Waterloo Road.” I went in with sweaty palms. Then John asked everyone what car they drove and laughed at how telling of my character a Peugot 106 was. I relaxed into my chair; this was going to be a fun few days.

It was all to promote John’s new book, Into the Woods; a Five Act Journey into Story. For a free course it wasn’t bad. We all met at the main office of Penguin Books, John’s publisher. I was a little worried when the receptionist had no clue who I was, but as the others slowly crept in, I was relieved to meet the wonderful people I’d be sharing my prize with, seven of us in total. We got our free journals (I claimed two…) and moved to an intimate office in a busy media building, which was kitted out with coffee, biscuits, and later a spread of wraps.

Once the computer technician had made his hundredth trip to hook up the power point, we were ready to begin…

John started with 25 tips on writing drama, which went over a lot of stuff I’ve covered before, such as hit the ground running, have a concrete goal, reveal character in action, but a few things stood out. I liked his definition of how not to write on the nose, that the more interesting emotion is the one your character is hiding. The best part was debating the inciting incident of Star Wars (and John, if you’re reading, it’s when the droids arrive, okay?).

The ten questions crib sheet was one of the best tools; a list of points needed for an interesting story that works. I could spend a whole post describing them, but effectively they pin-point a protagonist, give him a goal, set him against an opponent and a series of obstacles until they learn something and change. I’ve struggled to create believable change before, but John’s definition just made sense.

It was interesting to hear John’s thesis, one which sets his book apart from the many other screenwriting ‘how to manuals,’ about the way we as humans perceive the world, and how that process of perception has been translated into the way we tell stories. It was also helpful to talk about five act structure, which gives an extra two acts to three act structure to prevent the dreaded sagging middle section. It was also a great way to study TV drama.

John used to run the BBC Writer’s Academy, and we had a little sample of what that might be like when we had to break episodes of Eastenders, Casualty, and Holby City. In other words, we had to analyse the episode using the ten steps, and write a better version. It was intense, but made me realise the potential of continuing drama to produce an exciting story.

Our final task, on the final morning, was to use all our knowledge to break a documentary about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge into a feature film, cast it, and give it a title, all in two hours. We had to work fast to make it exciting and create believable change, but I think Mary and I had a winner, if only our appalling title, Mrs Robling’s Bridge, hadn’t let us down.

My journey into the woods introduced me to some wonderful people, and their business cards are now stored readily with my thought provoking notes. I can’t thank John enough, and a shout out also goes to Ingrid from Penguin for keeping everything afloat; thanks! I leave with respect for continuing drama, and a new found urge to continue my quest as a professional story geek.

You can read more about John Yorke on this page from the BBC Press Office  and on the Company Pictures website.

Check out the following link for his book, Into the Woods; a Five Act Journey into Story.

How to Make Your Monologue Dramatic; Emerging Writer’s Workshop Two

I’ve written a few monologues before, but all have read like a sprawl of thought slammed onto the page, poorly written and certainly not dramatic. Thankfully, Angela Street showed me and the rest of her Emerging Writer’s Workshop how to make a more engaging monologue through three simple steps, giving us the confidence to rewrite our attempts.

1. Is your central character doing something to someone?

This forms the basic action of the scene; what your character is doing. The prisoner struggles to persuade the interrogator of his innocence. The boyfriend tries to apologise to his girlfriend. A patient struggles to hide their pain and convince a loved one of their comfort. It’s much like a scene in any film or play, except the character cannot just be retelling a story, or else they are a narrator, saying what happened instead of trying to achieve a goal.

Before the class had even begun, Angela tasked us with writing a monologue inspired by bits of fluff and glitter left on the floor by an earlier art and craft session. I was a bit nervous as we only had a few minutes, and ended up writing a fantasy story about a father’s mistake.

Was I too late? Did I not say the words in time? These stars; her ashes, poor little ashes are all that remains of her. I didn’t believe, I didn’t want to believe, and my imaginative lack the chain that choked her life away. Is this how they all end, in a puddle on the floor, from long life or from the likes of me, a disbeliever, chanting with refuses of, “they don’t exist.” Such childishness. She was right, and Christ she’ll be back soon. Could I say I spilled some art and craft kit? Perhaps a sign, yes for Aunt Jude’s birthday – but what sign? Do I have time to make one? Or will she know? She knew a lot; she must know how fairies reach their end.

Rather than addressing the audience, this is just the father’s internal thoughts. If he spoke to us as if a friend, for example, it could work, but only if he tried to do something to that friend, perhaps justifying an action, such as to hide the dead fairy and conceal the truth.

2. Why is your character saying it now?

In Dial M for Murder, Tony decides to kill his wife Margot because of the secret affair he discovers she had with Mark, who is now right under his nose. A character must act for a reason. Perhaps they have witnessed something shocking, or need to borrow money after losing a job, and must turn to a parent without appearing to be a failure. My attempt seems obvious; he’s just killed a fairy by accident, but why? If he hasn’t believed in fairies his whole life, why is this the first to die? Are they in a new house near fairies? Or, has he had the time to play along with his daughter’s ideas until a new project at work stole his attention, repressing his imagination to the point that he no longer played along with her beliefs?

3. Who is your character speaking to?

You might have already done this when considering your character’s basic action, but you need to know who your character is speaking to. It could be a radio show, a board-room meeting, or an alien communicating with the mother-ship. It could be anything, so long as one character is doing something to another. In my example, I could put someone in the room with him, such as his daughter, and have him conceal the truth and make up excuses on the spot, or it could be him telling a friend about the situation. In the latter example, he needs to be doing something other than telling. Perhaps his daughter came in and he made out he’d spilt an art and craft kit, and allowed her to use the glitter/fairy entrails to finish the birthday card she’d started to make her fairy friend, and Dad is now struggling to justify his actions to a friend, trying to make out that he was protecting her from a painful truth.

I recently heard a great monologue on a radio play called, The Interrogation, which started with a husband telling the story of how he lost the trust of his wife after an accident hurt his child, and how he now felt like a stranger in his own home. What made it work was how it revealed the husbands violent outbursts towards his wife and how he didn’t want to admit he was a bad man.

1. Is your central character doing something to someone? His basic action was to justify his violence to the audience and himself.

2. Why is your character saying it now? His estrangement had bubbled to the point of him striking his wife.

3. Who is your character speaking to? This was a little vague, though I could imagine he was talking to a friend, or perhaps this is the argument he later tells the police.

These three steps have already given me an idea on how to rewrite my monologue. It’s all very new to me, but underneath are the same principles of storytelling, though this form seems more about how the words themselves are actions; tools in your characters’ arsenal to get what they want. Hopefully, practice with the characters I’m currently writing will not only reveal more about them, but hone my dialogue skills as well.

You can find out more about Angela Street and her writing workshops on her website.

Subscribe to Radio 4’s Drama of the Week to listen to future episodes.

Down at the Farm; A London Short Film Festival Weekend

I couldn’t resist a weekend of short films, lectures and networking opportunities, but what really sold this London Short Film Festival (LSFF) event was combining all this with a countryside camping weekend at the Quadrangle farmhouse and barn near Shoreham, Kent. I saw great films, met wonderful people, learnt more about producing a film, and left feeling validated as a professional screenwriter, filled with the confidence to go forth and make a film, not tomorrow, but today.

The LSFF runs every January, but this was their first time Down at the Farm. They’d invited about thirty farmhands to camp from Friday to Sunday afternoon, and really looked after us, with many IPA’s included as networking drinks, and all our locally sourced, top notch meals for a little extra, which kept us going through the back-to-back line up of films and talks.

In the first talk, Valentina Brazzini and Tristan Goligher from London film production company, The Bureau, mentioned how you have to love the project you are working on. This is something I remembered from my MA. Not only do you have to have something to say, you have to have passion for the project, and be able to defend it. When I pitched my latest feature film to David Pope of Advance films, I discovered a part of my story that I wasn’t passionate about, couldn’t defend it, and realised it didn’t match what I wanted to say.

You also have to be able to identify your projects weaknesses and counter them before they become a problem. Jamie Stone spoke about his latest film project, Orbit Ever After, a magnificent sci-fi love story, all made for a measly fifty thousand pounds. Instead of ignoring the projects weaknesses, Jamie developed new, shoe-string budget in-camera special effects and demonstrated them in his pitch with the BFI, which secured him the funding.

Roger Hyams from the London Film School discussed how short films don’t have to be narrative based. At first, I was a little uneasy as I’m passionate about storytelling and felt Roger wanted to see more art house pieces, but I left realising the scope of short films. He said that a film can be like a poem, with the example of a film about the New York Elevated Train, which was a succession of train images, glorifying the filmmaker’s joy of trains. He spoke about La Jetée (which I saw the following day and loved), a huge narrative set in a dystopia after world war three, but told in about thirty minutes through a succession of still images. It really only worked as it fit the film's idea of memories and images, but showed how you can think outside the box about which form works best for your piece. 

It was great to hear from Polly Stokes, Producer and Development Editor at Film4, who said they would like feature films, specifically genre pieces, such as comedy and sci-fi, as quite a lot of new writers write straight dramas. One of the best pieces of advice was how shorts are best as simple, beautifully expressed single ideas, such as the short, Talk, which follows a lonely man who wants to find someone to talk to. It made me reassess my shorts, which I find are quite complicated as there are often several ideas and possible themes at work.

Michael Caton-Jones, director of films such as The Jackal and Rob Roy, showed us his essential short, a 1936 documentary called Night Mail, which he said was a simple film that became something else when explored, which I often find in poetry. I felt it was like a war-time army going into battle, a very serious, well-oiled machine with honour. The best thing was how Michael said that film is not a visual medium, but an emotional one, that film isn’t about showing a story through pictures, but expressing emotion through picture and noise.

I got valuable tips on pitching to industry professionals when I pitched with David. He said it’s important to give your job title up front, as, for example, if I say I’m the screenwriter and he’s the financier or studio executive, he can relax, as he knows he won’t do business directly with me. When I pitched, I kept swapping between detailing the story and the characterisation of my protagonist, but he said that next time I should just tell him the story, because if it’s well written, the characterisation will come out naturally. I need to let the story speak for itself.

The final talk on producing got me thinking about forms, permissions and wages; all the practical stages of producing a film. This, along with seeing Jamie’s film and the films of Steve Oram, who was unafraid to make the films he liked making, made me realise that it isn’t impossible to get a project on screen. I’d started this weekend worried that everyone else would be more professional and successful than me, but I left feeling a part of this short film family, and confident that if I wanted to get a project produced, that I could do so. It’s actually quite easy to get hold of cameras in today’s world, and there are lots of people to collaborate with. Time and money are often excuses used to mask fear of failure, but in the end, it doesn’t matter what happens so long as you make the films you’re passionate about.


The next LSFF takes place in January 2014, but there are events throughout the year.

The next big short film festival on the calendar is Encounters in Bristol. I hope to be there. If you're interested, check it out, here.

Theatre Writing South West – The Art of Adaptation Workshop

The Salisbury Playhouse was buzzing with creative minds during Saturday’s latest workshop from Theatre Writing South West. Both new and established creatives came for a series of lectures and workshops on developing and adapting stories, with a networking event, and hot drinks and lunch bundled into an intense, yet highly rewarding and informative day.

Playwright Nell Leyshon gave a speech about the benefits of developing stories across multiple formats, and discussed the different features of novels, radio and theatre.  She put emphasis on working out what kind of a writer you are, whether you write alone or devise ideas with others, and suggested no play be entirely written in a vacuum. She encouraged writers to think about their scenes visually, for example, she uses A3 charts with boxes for key theatrical moments, which she adds to in later versions. Her session ended with the group considering the challenges of adapting the short story, Ashputtel to the stage, which revealed a bad habit of writers using narration and other non-visual cheats to get out of problems, and once again emphasised her point on developing more story through visuals.

The Playhouse’s creative director, Gareth Machin, spoke on his keenness for new writing, which he feels will allow him to stage something more modern about the issues of today. He favours unique pieces that stand up on their own, and gets excited when he has to adapt moments that are seemingly impossible to stage.

A session of speed-networking had delegates darting between tables and discussing what they’d like out of theatre and skills they can offer. It was great not just for finding out about initiatives, like pop-up venues and fringe theatre groups, but for working out what it really is you want out of theatre, and discovering useful skills you might not have thought you had.

It was interesting to hear from Paul Milton, creative director at the Everyman theatre in Cheltenham, and his challenges staging Nick Dark’s adaptation of Laurie Lee’s, Cider with Rosie. Paul was unable to show the darker side of the original piece as his hands were tied by the Lee family. These restraints are often something we don’t consider as writers, and perhaps emphasises Nell’s point that adaptations require more collaborative development.

The day closed with Rebecca Manson-Jones and her work-in-progress adapting Henrik Ibsen’s, An Enemy of The People into a modern day setting (which I was interested to hear was the inspiration behind Spielberg’s Jaws). Her final advice on writing a compelling story made for a nice close; “Show me a story with people affected by the world in which we live.”

I got a much needed confidence boost after hearing from all these passionate, creative people. Nell reassured us not to take writing so seriously; we don’t necessarily need any formal training, just the willingness to write every day. With people willing to collaborate, opportunities for performances in theatres and pop-up venues, and producing theatres keen to support new writing, it’s certainly an exciting time to be a part of the theatre scene.

You can find out more about Theatre Writing South West on their blog page

When Writing Meets Directing; How Listening to Your Characters Can Bring Your Scene Alive

A few weeks ago, I had my scene performed in front of an audience, which was an absolute blast, but the real joy came from seeing a director at work. She understood my characters better than me, and saw under the surface of every line, emphasizing juicy subtext to create a bouncy, witty opening. In this post I hope to give some thoughts on how writers can develop their characters to create more dramatic scenes.

We'd each been asked to write a new scene of a play as part of the Out of Joint Writer's Academy at Salisbury Playhouse. I normally spend months writing treatments and was totally unprepared to be writing scenes, but the deadline was fast approaching.

I was a little nervous when two weeks later I entered a room of actors and a director working on a fellows piece. I'd never worked with a  director before. I wasn't really sure what they did beside organising the actors and perhaps telling them how to say their lines. I dreaded it. My work was unready, but thankfully, the director could see its potential, and did so much more than I thought.

She summed up her thoughts and started to go through line by line with the actors, refering to me when a question came up. What was interesting to see, was the level of detail with which she worked. With every line, she asked, why are they saying that? What does that mean? What are the relationships to the other characters? Do they like each other, and how much? An interesting thing Max Stafford-Clark likes to do is show a card with a number, and that number is how much a character likes another character. It's not just like or dislike, there are levels.

With this in mind, a few interesting discoveries were made in my scene.

Firstly, I had a group of pals role-playing, two boys, Danny and Robb, and a tom-boy called Fran. The joke of the scene is that Fran wants to be the knight so forces Robb to wear the dress, and Robb, hiding in a make-believe tower, moans as he itches and scratches at the uncomfortable dress.

At which point, the director asked about a particular line, where one of the boys asks the other, "You all right mate?" In my mind, this was a genuine, are you okay? They're friends, of course they care about each other. The director looked past that. She looked deeper. These 'friends' are forcing this guy into a dress and have a go at him when he doesn't want to. Would Danny be concerned about Robb? Really? We changed a few actions, and had Danny pull Robb out the bush when his moaning puts them off their game, and say the line. Now it had subtext. It was the Beta animal telling the Omega, don't you mess up our game. You'll wear that dress and like it.

Now I hadn't picked up on that, so a lesson there. Ask yourself why is my character saying that line? Ask deeper. Why are my characters doing the things they are doing, and what does that say about them, and how can I use that  to show how they interact with others? Consider unseen hierarchies within groups of people, even friends. How can we play on those to make a scene more dramatic?

Second, when the group need money to buy a costume to enter a role-play event and discuss how they will afford them, Robb tells the group when asked, "I'll probably buy one." Again, the line I delivered was matter of fact. He told us what he was going to do. The director asked why he said the line, and we looked. Robb finally had a one up on Fran, the top dog. He was sticking it to her in a play for more power. Knowing this, Frans later snap comment to Robb was her putting Robb back in his place.

I was amazed at how much I'd missed, and it made me see every single line of dialogue should have a deeper function. How can we make this? How is this possible? I'm still not one hundred percent sure, but seeing as hierarchies helped this scene, I'm willing to say they could help most other scenes too.

The top-dog has power and wants to keep it. The runt has no power and wants to get some. With this running in the background of your scene (as long as it's relevant), you can create more conflict than previously possible, for now when characters debate how to fix a problem or how to overcome whatever conflict you invent, they can do so with an air of subtext. They can battle out for power.

Of course, you could create a number of things running in the background, it doesn't just have to be a power play. You could have scene where some characters know more than others, playing up to their friends lack of knowledge. A scene where one dislikes the other yet the other is far nicer, and play up a series of fake pleasantries. That's why I think it only works if it's relevant. I think Fran has a lesson to learn about being bossy, and needs to understand she can be an imaginative girl and have a job at the same time, and I think the power-play hierarchy will help show her character growth at the end.

That's about all I have to say how you can write a more dramatic scene. I will add that it was a lovely experience to have my scene performed. I was able to see which lines didn't work, and was able to see which scene directions got in the way of both director and actor, and thought about cutting some back. Even if you can't find a workshop like this, a group of friends around a table can help bring your scene alive too.

Out of Joint Writer’s Academy: Last but not least

I’ve been attending classes at Salisbury Playhouse about how to write for the stage. It’s been great fun, developing familiar story techniques, whilst introducing concepts alien to film, like how to use intervals. In our final class before Christmas, we read through scenes our class had written, with Max Stafford Clark directing.

I must admit I had no clue who Max was until a bit of goggling after the session. I could tell he was a professional with years of experience under his belt. He had a set of playing cards which he used to give actors directions, such as how much characters expressed their hated of each other out of ten. His techniques helped actors improvise off the scripts, and with this example, forced two characters meeting to discuss a lover in common, to say amiable lines with an air of pure dislike. The subtext became extra juicy.

Max has directed many plays, such as Our Country’s Good by Timberlake Wertenbake, and going by his bio page on the Out-of-Joint website (his own touring company) he’s helped new writers get plays on the stage. 

This session certainly gave our writers sweaty palms. It was the first time many of us had heard each others plays, and the material was very interesting. One of my favorite pieces, simply for the fun we had reading it, felt like a student film, with a stoner and his geeky friend discovering a pigeon in the middle of their kitchen table.

After the first read, Max  established rules for a second reading. The stoner would have to laugh at various points, and the geek would have to cry. The results were fascinating. As the two characters debated what to do with the feathered carcass, they suddenly became two very different people. The stoner became laid back, carefree and fun, whilst the geek became distraught and anxious about who delivered the morbid gift. The conflict maximized as the two characters had a distinct point of view. All from a little bit of laughter, and a few tears.

I’m not saying the scene worked better due to the actors or the director alone, the lines and the conflict were already established on the page. What Max did, was emphasise the conflict already within the scene. This shows how pushing characters to their extremes can really make your scene sing, and perhaps if the writer rewrites with this in mind, can enhance the script and dialogue without Max’s directions. 

The scenes all had something in common, something I’ve been grappling with for a while. The scenes were all character driven. Before, I’ve struggled to understand this, and instead of developing character, have created more twists, reveals and external conflicts to prevent a character reaching a goal. My scenes have been plot heavy (not that plot is a bad thing, I'm just trying to work out how to write a scene with more focus on character, mainly because for me it's uncharted territory).

What these scripts all cleverly did, was establish two distinct characters from two different points of view, a wife and an ex-wife of the same man, a laid-back stoner and his anxious friend, and set-up a single plot point, the wife and ex-wife meet before the man arrives, the stoner and his friend discover a pigeon. And that’s all. The rest of the scene explored the implications of the plot point. Will the two women stay civil, or both turn against the husband? What will the two friends do with the pigeon, and will this instability affect their relationship? All the comedy, and all the subtext came out of the interaction between the two characters, and relied solely upon one incident to drive the scene. 

At least, that’s how I viewed the scripts. I think if anything, these classes have opened my eyes to new ways of storytelling, and perhaps now when I rewrite my scene for Max to read in February, I can make something just as entertaining as all the other writers who read today.