Do you want it enough?

There are a lot of things I want in life. I’d like to run the marathon, to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, to be a grade 8 pianist, and to speak fluent French. But these things all take practice, hard work and dedication. All perfectly possible, but I clearly don’t want it enough. For the last few years I have flitted through life saying ‘I want to work in television’ ‘I want to be a writer’ and I thought I wanted it, but now I realise it was down on the list right next to French lessons.

I sent off my CV, dipped my toe in the water with a couple of TV companies and completed a work placement, but generally life carried on as normal. In the last few months, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, this is the first time I have wanted to succeed with every bone in my body. I live and breathe the things that will help me along the way. I now work full time in a theatre, I come home every evening to write script reports and read scripts. Any rare evening I have free I go to see a play, and this evening I tried out a new writers group. Every day I get a step closer to where I want to be and I have realised this isn’t a half-arsed commitment. There will always be someone more talented than you, so you have to be the one who wants it the most.

Shameless self-promotion

Follow me on Twitter - @PenEnvy

140 characters seems a lot less daunting that a whole blank page...

We'll Take Manhattan (BBC Four)

It was on a while ago, but have been meaning to publish this review of We’ll Take Manhattan for ages. The programme was a mini-biopic, written by John McKay, telling the story of photographer David Bailey and his muse, model Jean Shrimpton. The ninety minute drama follows the couple from their first meeting to their now iconic New York photo-shoot.

The programme looks gorgeous, evoking the swinging sixties with air hostesses in pillbox hats, but often favours style over script substance. Individual lines are fast paced and witty but fail to come together to form a structurally coherent whole. This makes the relationship between Shrimpton and Bailey feel unrealistic and disjointed, leaving the audience unsure what the endgame is for each character. Or, to use an oft quoted query, ‘what’s their motivation here?’ The character of Jean is clearly meant to begin as naïve and transform into an independent woman, but her outbursts of rebellion are sporadic throughout the script and fail to crescendo at the end. Later acts of Jean’s defiance are no more vehement than her first. In places this piece wants to be An Education, Nick Hornby’s screenplay of Lynn Barber’s autobiography, but there is not enough character depth or development to feel that Jean has been on a real journey.

In the early scenes of We’ll Take Manhattan David Bailey possesses an unbridled sexuality. It hints at upcoming passions between him and his muse, but never comes to fruition. Early on David notes Jean’s “very, very, very long legs” and duly requests she “spread ‘em.” During their first shoot Jean claims “pearls don’t really suit me” to which David replies “you’d look good in a pearl necklace. Maybe I could help you out with one.” This knowing swagger and bravado should hint at someone who sexually confident, indeed David states “I don’t get no complaints,” however his humour seems childish rather than assured when he fails to show much of a sexual repertoire at all.

It is unclear in the script when the couple start to have sex. This may seem irrelevant but as the story follows their relationship and Jean’s self-discovery it should be an important moment. The only reference to the couple’s sex life is when on arriving at the Manhattan hotel David says “No daddy, no wife. Do you think the springs will hold out?” He kisses Jean, and they move to the floor dispassionately and the scene ends. This lack of sex turns David’s earlier promises into innuendo more suited to a Carry On film. Perhaps the absence of lust and romance is purposeful, maybe McKay is trying to indicate that their relationship does not last but this fails to provide the audience with any reason to emotionally invest in the romance.

That is not to say the characters are completely unconvincing – there are some lovely moments when McKay contrasts Jean’s vulnerability with her belief that she is an adult. When David visits the Shrimpton family home Jean explains to her mother that her “new friend” has stayed over, albeit in the horse barn, with lines that convey a mixture of nervousness and pride. However neither party says any more than is truly necessary, demonstrating a mother uncomfortable with her daughter’s new-found confidence and a daughter not quite as confident as she would like to be. This develops into a set of scenes juxtaposing Jean’s new life with her old. David comes running out of the barn in his underwear, frightened by a horse and swearing coarsely at the top of his voice. Jean rushes out to rescue him on her territory now, and the scene cuts to David sat round the table saying “Nice jam, Mrs Shrimpton.” This calm is broken again, this time by Mr Shrimpton entering and ordering David out. Mr Shrimpton then instructs his daughter to never see David again or to move out. Jean shows her belief in her adult status by reminding him “I have a job. I’m eighteen,” and promptly leaves. These scenes are an example of McKay’s talent for often leaving a scene at just the right moment. It is this skill which maintains the pace of the script, as much of the characterisation happens in between the lines of dialogue. In the first half these spaces in the dialogue are positive, generating audience interest in the burgeoning relationship. When David and Jean first meet she is hunched on the floor, legs akimbo, putting on her shoes. He looks at her. She looks at him, all bambi eyes and gamine charm, and he calls out loudly for the number of an earlier model “the one with the big Eartha Kitts.” The audience assumed incorrectly what fits into the silences, which shows David as unpredictable and anti-establishment. Unfortunately as the relationship develops McKay loses these tightly structured moments and instead relies on Karen Gillan’s beauty as Jean to communicate subtext. It may be that this is a love story purposefully lived out through the camera lens, but attempts to do so are inconsistent and the audience are left unable to empathise with the characters. McKay touches on this, allowing David’s most forceful moments of adoration described in physical terms, and he even takes a photograph to capture Jean’s reaction to his speech: “You have the most elegant intense eyes. You have a spine like a swan.”

At times the programme feels as though it is written by three different writers. It is part arty love-thru-a-lens, part swinging 60s double-entendre and part pared-back gritty biopic. None of these parts are bad, but each seems as though it is not given chance to progress. One hour dramas can often feel not fully realised in this way, but ninety minutes should be enough to fully develop the characters and a coherent story arc. If any of the angles had been explored further this could have been so much more. There are some lovely sparky lines of dialogue but the script and the character of David have a lot in common: makes big promises, but doesn’t quite deliver.

Filling in the blanks

It's been a rollercoaster few months. First there was teaching or, as I like to call it, wishing bad things on Michael Gove. I knew it wasn't for me - I missed the interaction of adults, I missed learning from people and being creative. I also yearned for the career in television that I thought I'd given up on. Well, the lastest is I certainly haven't given up hope. I'm back in the game!

I've worked too hard to give up now, and who knows whether I would have been just around the corner from suceeding when I gave up? Turns out I sort of was. Although quitting teaching was a hard decision at the time I now can't believe I ever thought it was a good idea! I have been looking for a new job, have found one and couldn't be happier. I haven't just found one job either - got myself two of 'em! Will be working full time at an amazing London theatre in the development department, and in my free time have as much freelance work as I need with one of the best (in my opinion) TV production companies around. Happy days.

I'm obviously not there yet, but feel like I'm well on the way.

Just keep ploughing on.

Pay it forward

If I've discovered one thing over the past couple of years it's that people are kind. In a corridor of closed doors it's easy to get disheartened but there will always be people willing to help you along the way. Out of the speculative emails I have sent out (I'd estimate around 250) I received no response from around 80% of these. I received polite 'thanks but no thanks' from another 19.9%. Then there's the joyous 0.1%, the generous people who take five minutes to actually read your email properly and even click on the attached CV, who drop an email back saying 'Sure, pop in and let's chat.'

Now, in the current climate I'm not expecting anybody to drop everything and declare 'Behold! We've found her: the next big thing!' but those people are are willing to meet for a coffee and offer advice are like gold-dust. It's easy to think that those people who agree to meet you but can't offer you a job aren't useful, but I've realised that networking is what the TV industry is built on. Particularly at the moment when small companies (and large ones, for that matter) can't afford to take risks.

My advice? If you meet up with somebody and they help you out or give you some of their time thank them. I know that sounds simple but follow up your meeting with an email. Offer them something in return, like a contact or a script report. Then make sure you keep in touch with them. I have met several brilliant people along the way who offered advice to me, I thanked them and then I went merrily on my way. That was stupid. I should have kept up the contact, kept emailing them, offering my services. Not enough to be annoying, but just enough so that if anything comes up - either for them to help you or you to help them - you will be forefront of their mind. I have helped people out in the past too, either with script reports or advice and they have drifted off too. I'd be happy to help again, so keep in touch.

Over the last couple of weeks I have met with a few more fantastic people that I really should be keeping in touch with. And when I'm in a position to help people who are helping themselves I'll be sure to pass the favour on. As I was told this week

I'm happy to help. It's the only way to get into the business at the moment. And people helped me when I needed it.

An invaluable guide to script reports

I have written script reports for The Artists' Studio, for John Yorke at the BBC and for various freelancers. However I have never known exactly what I was doing. I just sort of analysed the scripts. I treated it like a review based on all those essays I knocked out at uni and A-level theatre studies and English lit. But for those less keen to blag it Danny Stack has provided a handy go to guide here. It was first posted in 2005 but all details are still extremely relevant, and you can see people have commented on it over a number of years. The best use of this would be as a kind of checklist. Write your report and then ask yourself if you have covered each are, or if there are any glaring omissions:

First, talk about CONCEPT: is the idea any good? Is it commercially appealing or more intellectual and discerning? Or is it just a shameless rip off of a million genre flicks before it? Or does it bring something new to the table? Is it genre?

PLOT: Does it make sense? Is it convincing and/or original? Too predictable maybe. Jumbled?

STRUCTURE: is there a basic understanding of craft on display? Is it a join the dot three-act structure or does it contain a solid and reliable framework to tell its story? However, the reader shouldn’t get bogged down with restructuring tips because it’s not a script editing exercise.

CHARACTERS: Are the central and minor characters believable, original, compelling, inspiring, colourful, loathsome, boring etc? Decent character development or emotional journey for the protagonist? Effective use of subplot with the supporting characters?

DIALOGUE: Distinctive, realistic, off-the-wall, on-the-nose, funny, dull, plain, quirks, true to each character?

TONE: Does the writer have an original voice; is the tone of the story consistent to the genre etc?

PACE: Pace, rhythm, tempo. Scenes start too soon, too late? Cut too soon, too late? Boring segments with little dramatic impact or importance? Where does the pace flag? What’s its overall effectiveness?

SETTING: Is it important to the story - does it make a valid and visual contribution to the characters & plot? Is it noteworthy at all?

APPEAL: will the idea and story find an audience? Is it marketable? Who is the audience? Is it really cinematic?

Thanks Danny, priceless advice.

Postcode

It was with interest that I tuned in last night to an episode of Postcode, the new Tony Marchant (The Mark of Cain, Garrow's Law, Holding On and The Knight's Tale for the BBC Canterbury Tales revisit in 2003) drama for children and teenagers. After hearing of its existence I watched with some trepidation - Marchant is without doubt one of the best, however it is notoriously difficult to create an authentic voice for youth programmes. They often end up too square or, more common in recent years, trying too hard to be hip. Shows like Skins have avoided this by appealing to the things kids like the most: sex, drugs, swearing and imagining their lives are so much cooler than they actually are.

I am currently training in a school in Croydon, with excactly the sort of kids represented by one group on the show. As I teach English we often talk about slang and I ask the kids questions about how they say things and why. And I'm pleased to say from my experience I think Marchant's Postcode has it pretty bang on. The main actors are also excellent and support the accurate language choices with understanded acting, and not just Sylvia Young graduates attempting to cover their RP accents.

Marchant said he chose to write Postcode after spotting a gap in the market where teens are forced to watch babyish television or unsuitable adult shows. As I am teaching I should probably take advantage of this immersion in a sociolect in my writing, however I just can't seem to keep up!

The Grinch who needs Christmas

I am so tired. I always thought teachers had it sweet with their six week summers, but they are fucking heroes. I get up at 5am and go to bed around midnight. Although that's only if I plan my lessons properly, which at this stage in the term I invariably don't. I have a 3 hour round trip of a commute, including a few miles of walking. I'm rocking every girls' worst fashion faux pas: the office skirt and trainers. Accessorised with a rucksack full of books and files and marking.

The kids at this school are loose cannons - I had an observation so bad yesterday that my mentor aborted it halfway through. I called security twice, but if I'm honest that was more for their safety than my own. Countdown to Christmas holidays: 5. Thank God (and Jesus, for being born and all).

My brain is empty of words. I have used up all the good ones I know and they have been replaced by phrases like:

This is a corridor, not a zoo.

I say when you pack up, not the bell.

If you threaten me one more time I'll punch you in the face, you evil little monster.

Obviously I'm kidding about the last one, but it's hard to be in a job where people swear at you all day, make rude personal comments, denigrate all your hard work and scream and kick and yet you have to remain calm and po-faced. This is why teachers need long holidays - to repair their frayed patience.

I wish I was a script editor at the BBC instead. But at least it will give me plenty of material if I ever get a job on Waterloo Road!

Tweet that

*Cue big fanfare* I have finally joined the modern computer age. Though I am still to use the internet at any length on my phone, I do have a swanky (read: at least two years old) ipod touch and I'm prepared to use it. That's right - I have finally joined the Twitter revolution.

Follow me (please! I only have one follower so far) @penenvy.

It is proving to be very useful as I'm following some big TV production companies, some writers and some literary agents. It's great to be uptodate on any news, job info or things I should know about in the world of words.

Watch this space, I think this Twitter thing could catch on...

Black Mirror

When I first saw the channel four ads for the first episode of Black Mirror it looked like some slightly rubbish drama for the 'safe viewing' brigade, complete with kidnapped royalty and race against time to get her back. Like a soft-focus low-budget 24. But then I read a review in the Saturday paper and two little words changed everything for me: Charlie Brooker. Man, Brooker is just great. Really great. I can't get enough of his lovely angry ways and despite his rant-ridden writing what he is communicating is still full of logical points and balanced opinions. It was definitely appointment to watch stuff.

As the show started I began to realise why one major point was left out of the trailers - you can't refer to the PM having sex with a pig before the watershed. I mean, I haven't read the rule specifically worded like that by Ofcom but I think it's safe to assume. The premise of the show was a mixture of dark, funny, clever and awe-inspiringly dumb. So dumb it came back round to clever again. I would love to have sat in on the pitch meeting for that show. It was like a game of political 'Would You Rather?' (perhaps a late night drinking game over at the Brooker-Huq household inspired the theme. You never know.) The script was pitch-perfect in being dramatic and witty, whilst not falling into slap-stick territory. Which could so easily happen in a show that refers to an hour long sex scene with an enormous grunting sow (no unfeminist jokes at the expense of any actresses please. Unless it's Miss Piggy, who I think has had that accusation levelled at her before...)

After feeling like the Will He/ Won't He question would dominate the episode Brooker hits us with not one but three twists. And I loved the final scene, demonstrating public versus private images. I will definitely be tuning in to next week's episode.

Little pieces of love

Another interesting play writing opportunity, 15 minute pieces on the theme of love for a showcase as the Southwark Playhouse. Deadline is 20th December.

The link to their website is here

Fun post-work activities: A Teacher's Guide

Me: Did you have a good evening? What did you get up to?
Colleague: Googled teacher's suicide rates.

Oh dear.

The Jury - ITV

I am sick and feeling sorry for myself. More so than usual, I mean. Spent the day making some attempt at work, with varying degrees of success. Have made inroads on reading for my essay What is English? but now have finally given in to the nausea and sneezing. Decided to instead watch The Jury from ITV this week, a drama following the twelve jurors on a murder case retrial. I am watching it as I type, ready for updates. Five minutes in I'm really enjoying it (despite ITV player's slight connectivity issues). The opening, with no dialogue, was strong and atmospheric. I always enjoy an ensemble piece where you gradually see how the characters entwine and see their actions from opposing points of view, utilised in films such as Crash and Magnolia to such great effect. That's why I am also currently enjoying The Slap on BBC4, but will save that for a different blog entry.

Twenty-one minutes in - so far the strongest aspect of the show is the writer's ability to character profile. The profiles of the three murder victums are delivered against the backdrop of the prosector's narration in court. This is a very effective device, though does have the effect of convincing the audience that the defendent is guilty because, although we are not seeing the murder happen, the incidents are being told by the prosecutor as though it is fact and we audiences are very susceptible to suggestions like that! This would also be a useful narrative device for radio plays as it is a straightforward but not too obvious way to develop plot and propel the story.

Thirty-eight minutes in - Ah, bit of a revelation during the break: just googled the writer. It's only bloody Peter Morgan. Now, I usually only list a few writing credits for these entries but he deserves a few more:Frost/ Nixon, The Special Relationship, The Queen, The Last King of Scotland I re-watched The Last King of Scotland a couple of weekends ago as it's one of my favourite films (and, I admit, because they were selling it on dvd for £3 in Tesco) and even though I knew what was going to happen I was just as shocked, saddened and intruiged as I was the first time I watched it. Amazing stuff. Though in The Jury I feel like maybe there's a few glaring lines which need a bit of editing down for the sake of subtlety and feel a little expositional. I hope Morgan isn't overexplaining for the benefit of the ITV audience. That would be a sad state of affairs indeed. Or perhaps I'm just concentrating on the script I'm becoming a little pernickety. Am really enjoying it though, and finding this 'review as I watch' idea a bit distracting, which can only be a plus point for the show.

Forty-four minutes in (and the end) - This is definitely a slow burn. I'm still getting to grips with the characters and looking forward to the next episode. I'm particularly interested in the character of Theresa, a high-flying businesswoman with an inflated opinion of her own importance, who sends her assistant Lucy to take her place and try to get out of jury service. Of course Lucy's plea to not take part is declined and she lies under oath. Well set up and perfectly believable. Though I hated myself a little there fore writing the phrase "high-flying businesswoman" as it sounds corny and a bit stereotyped - and indeed she did have leather-look trousers, spiky heels and a blunt fringe. I always enjoy watching Sarah Alexander (who plays Theresa) but there is a reason that her most successful roles are in comedy, and that's because I'm not sure she adds much depth. Will have to see how it develops as I think it's an interesting storyline.

I saw that Zoe Williams, one of my favourite journalists, reviewed The Jury in this morning's Guardian but I wanted to wait until post-viewing to read her opinion. When I did there's some things I agree with and some I'd have to take issue with.

It's a dramaturg's delight, the sight of a bunch of professionals storming down a corridor, preferably dressed as doctors, but barristers are fun too, because of their wigs. I always worry when I see it; if you need to convey that something is dramatic by having people walking really fast, when in reality I bet barristers maintain rather a stately pace, it's the equivalent of having to use exclamation marks to alert people to the fact that you're joking. In an ideal world, it would be dramatic on account of all the exciting things that happen; just as, ideally, people would know you were joking because it was funny.

Hmm...maybe it's a little cliched but professionals storming down a corridor IS exciting. They can't all be characters from This Life, staggering in late wearing yesterday's clothes and still coked off their face.
However I do agree with the below:

Morgan has a wonderful ear for formal intercourse and political devilment, but the dialogue he accords to ordinary families, trying their best in an imperfect world, sounds like an Oxo advert. Eighteen-year-old Rashid is called for jury service – "He can't! Not with his condition!" A businesswoman makes the radically improbable decision to pass her assistant off as herself because: "I'm in what is probably the most important business meeting of my life." It's like career-woman-by-computer-program, in which someone has omitted to tell the software developer that you can end up in prison for that kind of thing. There's a teacher who's in love with her 17-year-old pupil, who has made a decision I feel sure no human being has ever made in a real-life scenario. (She informs her superior of this unnatural passion – granted, the head is played by Meera Syal, and you'd tell her anything, wouldn't you? But still … ) The odd line of interesting dialogue (a lonely housewife says to her friend on the phone: "I'm like a cactus; all alone." I sort of like it because it doesn't mean anything) doesn't alter the overwhelming impression that this was phoned in, by writer and director alike. One big conference call of half-arsed prime time.

I also liked the cactus line, primarily because it was said by a foreign character in subtitles (I don't know what nationality yet; I'm not just making a rather offensive sweeping statement) and for me this makes it more interesting; as though perhaps that is a rather poetic proverb from another country.

I may disagree with some of Wiliams' points, but the way she formulates them is lovely to read.

BBC Radio 4: Opening Lines

A new opportunity below, as per the BBC Writersroom site, on their opportunites page:

The BBC Radio Drama Readings Unit welcomes unsolicited submissions from writers new to radio for their annual series, Opening Lines which is broadcast on BBC Radio 4.

As well as broadcasting the three strongest stories in the summer of 2012 they will be publishing transcripts of the shortlisted stories on a new Opening Lines webpage.

The next window for sending in material is October 17th – December 2nd, 2011. Stories submitted outside this time-frame will be returned unread. Your story will be read and responded to within three months of the submission deadline.

Content and format:

They are looking for original short stories which work being read out loud i.e. with a strong emphasis on narrative and avoiding too much dialogue, character description and digression. Pay particular attention to how the story opens and closes. They’ll be looking to see whether the beginning of a story successfully links to how it ends.

The Readings Unit are interested in seeing stories which cover a broad range of subject-matter but material which explores particularly dark, harrowing themes is not best suited to Opening Lines.

The BBC has a rigorous taste and decency policy and cannot accept stories of a sexist or racist nature, or those which use the stronger swear words. The time allotted for each story is around 14 minutes, which means stories must be between 1,900 and 2,000 words in length.

Submissions must be typed and double-spaced on A4 paper and it is important to put your name and address on the script itself. Please do not send a recording of the text.


Submission details:

When submitting your work, please include a SAE and a brief covering letter giving your name, e-mail address (if applicable), the story’s title, word count and details of writing track record. We regret that we can only accept one submission per writer and if we intend to broadcast your story we shall contact you.

Stories that fall outside these guidelines will be returned unread.

Please send us a copy of your story, not your original work.

If you would like to submit work to the London office please send it to:

BBC Radio Drama Readings Unit
Room 807, South East Wing
Bush House
Aldwych
London
WC2B 4PH

Deadline: December 2nd 2011

Update from the front line

For the first time in a couple of weeks I feel like I've had a GOOD DAY at school. Finally I have witnessed students engaged in debate, expressing opinions, and thinking about issues outside of their direct experience. I am going on a year ten trip tomorrow and some of my year ten girls whooped when they found out I was supervising - must mean I'm doing something right!

On the down side I feel overwhelmed by assessment objectives and foci, schemes of work and a mulitude of pointless acronyms (EAL, SEN, G&T, IEP, AOs, WWWs, EBIs, VAK, AFL...and the list goes on...) but am getting there, slowly but surely.

I had a meeting with another teacher today who seemed to talk entirely in metaphors - the children were plants, their education roots, and results their fruit. This became quite tedious quite quickly. By time he got to 'the classroom is like a game of Jenga; you move one building block and the whole lot comes tumbling down.' I felt like I was in a meeting with a fortune cookie maker.

Today I also had a year 7 student who, after hitting a fellow pupil, was writing an account of what happened (this seems to me to be an excellent punishment - getting them to write, whilst also avoiding fraught 'he said, she said'). He wrote the sad words "He came to the window of the classroom and stuck his middle finger up at me. Then came in and said "F your dead mum" so I got angry and beated him." Kids can be pretty mean.

Books, glorious books

I've read some great books lately. Am currently trying to eke out the end of Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman. Awesome.

So here is the quick way of working out if you're a feminist. Put your hand in your pants. a) Do you have a vagina? and b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist.

Now, I already knew I was, but this is such a funny, astute book and Moran is able to word her aruguments on feminism much more succinctly than I ever could. And she made me smother a loud chortle pre-7am on a freezing cold train to Croydon. Anyone who can do that is alright by me. She had me at "vagina"...

Also went through my obsessive We Need to Talk About Kevin phase. My god I can't wait until the film comes out. I have also been reading a lot of teen and pre-teen fiction. There are some brilliant books for kids out at the moment, and since the Harry Potter/ Twighlight years it's really having a renaissance with publishers. I'm very excited that we're providing interesting and ultimately responsible novels for them to read. More feedback on these to come, or check out my Shelfari page to the right.

Morning

I am now leaving the house at 6.15am to catch a train to get to school for 7.50am (I know, horrible commute). This means I leave the house while it is still dark and all the lights in people's houses are off. I obviously venture out of the house when it is dark at night, but the morning seems so different - there is a quietness to the morning, a feeling of intruding. I slink down the road, careful not to crunch the gravel too loudly, creeping along walls and away from streetlights. In the evening you try and make yourself heard and seen, but the deserted morning is a different matter.

This morning on my way to the train I saw a lone man dressed in a reflective yellow vest over his clothes and wearing a hockey mask over his face. It was too out of place for me to feel alarmed, but only after he passed me by did I fully realise he was clearly up to no good. I also, in a presumably unrelated occurance, saw an enormous dead fox splayed out on the pavement in front of me. Its neck bent back at an awkward angle, exposing a white scruff around his neck. His glassy eyes gazed sightlessly into the night.

"I wouldn't say I enjoyed it..." Reflections on first weeks in the classroom

God only knows if I've made a decent career move. I keep thinking about that email from a literary agent. Should I have at least sent them my CV? But the deed is done now and I have started my classroom experience. I am placed in what is referred to as a 'challenging school.' It's actually a well organised academy with lofty ambitions for its pupils, who come from diverse and often difficult backgrounds. I can see how teachers get ground down by the constant abuse and behaviour management, but I keep reminding myself that a badly behaved kid almost always comes in tow with pretty inadequate parents. It's funny, interesting and sad in equal parts. And it's certainly a fertile enironment for fuelling the imagination. Here are just a few things with have stood out so far:

On day one a year 10 threw a paper aeroplane at me. Obviously it undermined my authority, but I do admire the vintage charm in his weapon of choice.

The students aren't the only ones with issues; the number of teachers giving out inappropriate or just plain wrong information is baffling. One teacher in particular regularly provides incorrect meanings of words but I don't feel well placed to correct her (yet).

There is also a regular perpetuation of gender stereotypes such as "Stop talking. You're supposed to be reading and as you're a boy you can't multi-task and do both at once." Had I been a student in that class I would have pounced on that statement and insisted on multi-tasking with my mates for the rest of the lesson. I am a girl, after all.

A teacher also described The Sun as "not a newspaper. It just has sport and photos of women who have no self respect." This was not followed up with any explanation or class discussion. No wonder I hear boys in corridors regularly referring to women as slags, or assuming that IQ level and skirt length are inversely proportional.

School children stink. And I don't mean their attitudes (though, in some cases that is also the case). I mean they reek of adolescence. The heady mix of Lynx and body odour infiltrates every corner of the building.

There is a tiny year eight pupil, a little boy, who can't weigh more than a few stone. He is constantly exhausted and spends most of the lesson with his head on the desk. I mentioned this to his form tutor, who said not only do his parents not put him to bed at a reasonable time but they often forget to feed him dinner. No wonder he can't concentrate when he hasn't eaten for days and is in need of a nap. Made me feel very sad.

If you read a lot growing up your ability to communicate, both written and verbally, increases massively. A textbook asked students to select a newspaper article from home about refugees and one girl wrote just the words "We don't have No Newspapers" in big letters in her exercise book. Says it all, really.

Kids are very adaptable. There is a large number of students at the school with English as a second language. One recent Eritrean refugee is really struggling with his lessons and he knows very little English. However another little boy, with perfect English and a reading age well above his peers told me that when he moved to England from West Africa at the age of seven it took him a whole three months before he could speak English fluently. I was learning French for two years before I could string a sentence together! Sometimes the only giveaways that a pupil has only been speaking English for a few years is that they absentmindedly turn the pages of a book in the wrong direction or write their titles on the right hand side of the page instead of the left.

Kids also like to Do the Right Thing. They have a very strong moral compass when tested, and fights in the corridor often highlight this. They are also proud when they achieve, no matter how uncool they think it is. It is often easier to pretend you don't care and to fail than to admit you do and still fail.

After observing the behavioural problems in the lower school I was entertaining fantasies about how great it would be to teach A-level groups. I imagined we would all sit in a circle, their faces glowing with pleasure at being able to spend two hours discussing books and theories and sharing their ideas. After all, sixth formers are there voluntarily because they want to learn and because they love the subject. I could not have been more wrong. The group consisted of fourteen students who acted more like they were being asked to do hard labour than read an Arthur Miller play. "Sir, it's so boooring" "this is a well shit book" "what's even the point of reading?" and so on. I spent the whole lesson with them pretending I didn't hear their silly chatter that was designed to shock me. However I feel they might be about to get their comeuppance. Today their teacher confiscated a letter that went something like this:

"I like to snort cornflakes in my nose so they come out of my bum. I like to rub jam into my japs eye. I have got a lego brick shoved up my bum. I put my dick in my sister's mouth and shag my mum."

And so on and so forth. I am sorry to say that the grammar has been added in by me (as if these students would know how to use a possessive apostraphe). However I am pleased to say that the punishment will be a photocopy of this letter sent home to the parents of every student involved. It's about time they knew what their little darlings are up to whilst they were supposed to be learning about Freudian readings of Arthur Miller. Well, maybe they can try a Freudian reading of their own work...

I'm not really sure how to follow that little gem. More updates from the frontline next week!

Charlie Kaufman interview

I read this in The Guardian today and had to post for posterity. It's an extract from his talk at the BFI, which I couldn't attend but would have liked to. I love writers talking about writing. (See? Told you I wouldn't quit thinking about it!)

I wrote Being John Malkovich while I was waiting for [the next sitcom] hiring season. My idea was that I would write a script and use it to get work. I had this idea that someone finds a portal into someone's head, and I had another idea that somebody has a story about someone having an affair with a co-worker. And neither one was going anywhere, so I just decided to combine them.

It got a really positive response. I started to get a little known. People would read it and tell me how funny it was, invite me for meetings, tell me nobody would ever make the movie. I had maybe 15 meetings like that, so I wasn't really expecting it to get made. Then it got to Spike Jonze, and he was in a position to get a movie made. I didn't really expect it to be anything. I don't think Spike did either. I remember it going to the Venice film festival, which was the first exposure it had. I wasn't invited, but they went: Spike and Cameron Diaz and Catherine Keener. I just got a phone call saying that it was this big thing, and then all these articles got written about it. It was exciting.

Storytelling is inherently dangerous. Consider a traumatic event in your life. Think about how you experienced it. Now think about how you told it to someone a year later. Now think about how you told it for the hundredth time. It's not the same thing. Most people think perspective is a good thing: you can figure out characters arcs, you can apply a moral, you can tell it with understanding and context. But this perspective is a misrepresentation: it's a reconstruction with meaning, and as such bears little resemblance to the event.

The other thing that happens is adjustment. You find out which part of the story works, which part to embellish, which to jettison. You fashion it. Your goal is to be entertaining. This is true for a story told at a dinner party, and it's true for stories told through movies. Don't let anyone tell you what a story is, what it needs to include. As an experiment, write a non-story. It will have a chance of being different.

I'll tell you this little story. There's something inherently cinematic about it. I run in my neighbourhood, and one day I ran past this guy running in the other direction: an older guy, a big hulky guy. He was struggling, huffing and puffing. I was going down a slight hill and he was coming up. So he passes me and he says: "Well, sure, it's all downhill that way." I loved that joke. We made a connection. So I had it in my head that this is a cool guy, and he's my friend now.

A few weeks later, I'm passing him again, and I'm thinking: "There's the guy that's cool." As we pass each other, he says: "Well, sure, it's all downhill that way." So I think: "Oh, OK. He's got a repertoire. I'm not that special. He's probably said it to other people, maybe he doesn't remember me ... but OK." I laughed, but this time my laugh was a little forced.

Then I pass him another time, and he says it again. And this time he's going downhill and I'm going uphill, so it doesn't even make sense. And I started to feel pain about this, because I'm embarrassed for him and I think maybe there's something wrong with him. And then it just keeps happening. I probably heard it seven or eight more times. I started to avoid him.

I like the idea that the story changes over time even though nothing has changed on the outside. What's changed is all in my head and has to do with a realisation on my character's part. And the story can only be told in a particular form. It can't be told in a painting. The point is: it's very important that what you do is specific to the medium in which you're doing it, and that you utilise what is specific about that medium to do the work. And if you can't think about why it should be done this way, then it doesn't need to be done.

Reflections on reading – a personal reading history.

I don’t remember learning to read. It seemed to be something that was always with me. I can’t imagine living in a world surrounded by alien signs and symbols designed to exclude me. From age two or three I remember clutching my seven paper library tickets every Saturday morning in exchange for seven new books. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Spot the Dog, Topsy and Tim. The joy I felt on my fifth birthday at five slim mauve Puddle Lane tomes sitting on the shelf, glossy and brand new. Didn’t bend over the corner, didn’t crack the spine. Next came the teen section: Saddle Club, Judy Blume. I ploughed through Jane Eyre and Little Women dutifully, but my heart lay in Sweet Valley. During these years I picked up US vernacular, speaking of car trunks, sidewalks and the confusion over ‘pants.’ I hoovered up Point Horror and sheepishly absorbed romances, even at that age knowing them to be trite and formulaic. I learnt of complicated teenage problems: drug abuse, unwanted pregnancies and the mortifying shame of tripping over in the school play.

Once I had finished the available books for adolescents I moved on to adult texts. Most of them looked boring (I did, at that age, judge a book by its cover) but the shiny-covered crimes and horrors drew me in. The Shining and Pet Cemetery gave me nightmares, but the latter did provide the perverse joy of saying ‘fuck’ when asked to read aloud in class from my current book. It was swiftly removed, much to my confusion. How can a word be wrong if they print it in a book? I shrugged and went back to Adrian Mole measuring his ‘thing’ and worrying about Thatcher, whoever that might be. I shunned the school library choices and borrowed, swapped or bought any books I could. I was fortunate enough to have parents who, though not avid readers themselves, were keen to provide their little darlings with as many books as they could read. I imagine they were relieved it was those we were asking for rather than Gameboys or trainers, and every year there were ten new novels wrapped up under the tree. The teachers left me well alone, seeing my reading had developed into an intuitive awareness of form and structure, along with a desire not only to read but to write. I dutifully supplied reams of creative writing when asked to ‘describe, explain or inform’, my imagination running wild and no doubt supplying odd insights into the bizarre mind of a teenage girl. I started on Bliss, Sugar and Just Seventeen. My mum would point out that I was still years from seventeen, but I would just smirk and point out that knowledge is power. She couldn’t argue with that and left me to it.

This reading was all well and good, but by sixth form I was seriously lacking in my knowledge of the canon. I started to adore the linguistic dexterity of Atwood and Amis (the younger), but the stuffy Victorians left me cold. I went to university interview ignorant of all the texts that I did not know existed. Instead I spoke of Ian McEwan and Zadie Smith, touching on the counterpoints of art and science, and picking apart the language of despair. Fortunately my love of the theatre had grown into a love of Shakespeare and my impassioned argument for the compulsory study of Shakespeare clearly warmed the tutors’ cockles. I still firmly believe that Shakespeare should be studied by all students at all schools and that his language and his ability to initiate debate is accessible to everyone on some level. William, you’re my hero.

University opened up a new world to me. Reading became more than a solitary activity, and being constantly challenged by tutors and peers fuelled my love of books. Then came the realisation that English was actually difficult, having spent so many years racing ahead only to be bottom of the Oxford pile. I spent most days skim reading texts, my enjoyment only slightly marred by the time pressure and the twice-weekly essay panic. I discovered that academics even wrote books about books; that I could read other people’s thoughts and theories, parroting them in essays before I had any ideas of my own. The degree-level work took away my fear of complex books, I felt if I could read Poems of the Pearl Manuscript barely in English then no tricksy letters from the council or bank could foil me. Never again could someone assume I wasn’t bright, that I didn’t understand what they were saying, or that I wasn’t well educated because of my accent or postcode or the name of my secondary school. I could read Middle English, complete with Ash and Thorn, and I was proud of meeting the challenge. Every time I think I can’t figure something out I remember the Pearl poem and keep trying.

Post-university I felt out of practice, my brain turning to mush and struggling to find words. I continued to read modern novels (Coetzee, Murakami, Shriver) but missed the stimulation and variation. I took creative writing night classes, dissecting stories by my peers, and started reading TV scripts for production companies and freelancers. I read books about the craft, studying Robert McKee and Russell T Davies. In a day job where texts were limited to powerpoint slides and poorly constructed sales documents tube journeys were essential to catch up on my reading. I am immensely looking forward to having a job where reading is essential, and the idea that I can introduce books to students who have none in their home, or believe they hate reading. One day I hope to run into a student on the tube, who insisted on reading 4-4-2 magazine or Nuts at school, clutching a Chuck Palahniuk or Bret Easton Ellis and reminding me that I once told them they might like it.