Those who can't?

The last few months I have struggled, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, to stay motivated. Time is ticking and my career was seemingly going backwards, so I have had to take action. Something that seemed like a wild-card idea back in Nov 2010 has now come into fruition. I have quit the advertising industry and started a post-graduate certificate in education. To me this decision initially seemed like a cop out, as I’m sure it does to many people, but the more I considered the reasons I disliked my previous job the more it made sense. I disliked being stuck behind a desk all day, I didn’t enjoy the monotony of the campaigns I worked on – the strategy behind each was beginning to feel like a template and the spiel the same in every meeting. I longed for something more real and more tangible that would allow me to switch my brain back on. I worked hard at a world-class university for an English degree only to forget everything I knew. I could almost feel my brain atrophying. And one thing they say about teaching is that it’s never boring! I am now three weeks in and so far it’s going brilliantly…although I am yet to come into contact with a real live surly teenager, which I’m sure will be the real test.

When I made the decision someone asked me if that means I’m forgetting all about writing and editing. I responded that it’s quite the opposite: teacher’s holidays will provide me with more time to write and more inspiration out in the world. I can work every day with literature and creative writing, I can work on drama workshops and take my students to the theatre. And beyond the school gates there is working with adult literacy or creative writing, creating plays with young people, working on prison writer schemes, teaching abroad and experiencing the world. All in all, I think it’s a pretty good decision. My choice was almost tested when two days before starting I was sent a job spec for an agent’s assistant role came up at Blake Friedmann literary agency in their film and TV department. The job involved assistant’s admin duties including audio-typing, data entry, liaising with writer clients, dealing with unsolicited material and writing script reports, invoicing, a degree of contractual admin depending on aptitude, information gathering, and so on. It was so tempting to apply but I felt that may have been taking the easy way out; initially rewarding but not the right decision long-term. Especially when it said:

We are not expecting the post to develop into an agent role in the immediate future, but the job would be a good training for anybody with the ambition to become an agent.

Pen Envy still exists, but I guess this strand to the blog will become ‘and other stories.’ Turns out the title was somewhat fortuitous.

The Smurfette Principle

Have just found the most fabulous term for the unfortunate lack of strong female characters in film and television: the Smurfette Principle. This was coined by Katha Pollitt in a New York Times article (1991) and refers to the way many female charactes exist on the periphery to the action. They function solely to fill the role of 'female', as a counterpoint to male characters' individual traits. In recent years they serve as a love interest or as a tool to further the action. Below is an excerpt from a transcript of a Feminist Frequency youtube video.

What do Inception, the Transformers, and the Muppets all have in common? They all suffer from a trope called the Smurfette Principle. As defined by TVTropes, “The Smurfette Principle is the tendency for works of fiction to have exactly one female amongst an ensemble of male characters, in spite of the fact that roughly half of the human race is female. Unless a show is purposefully aimed at a female viewing audience, the main characters will tend to be disproportionately male.”

In 1991 Katha Pollitt, a feminist essayist wrote an article for the NY Times because she was disturbed by the lack of substantive female characters for her young daughter to watch. She found that most of the programming aimed at young people had a majority of male characters, with just one female included in the group, she called this The Smurfette Principle.

You’ve probably guessed by now that this trope was named after the only female smurf in all of Smurfville.

Once upon a time, the Smurfs were an hormonious all-dude miniature civilization comprised entirely of kind good natured little blue dudes living out their cooperative-dude existence somewhere deep in their dude forest utopia.

So Gargamel sent in Smurfette to cause divisions between the lovable blue creatures so he can capture and eat their tender blue flesh in a nice honey lemon sauce. Long story short, love and understanding won out when Papa Smurf worked some smurf magic and transformed Gargamel’s impostor into a real live smurf girl, “sexy” blond hair, high heels and all!

Down in the 100 acre woods, we follow the adventures of Winnie the Pooh, Rabbit, Piglet, Eeyore, Owl and Tigger – all dudes of course… in fact there’s only one female character, Kanga, who shows up occasionally as the mother of little roo.

Even Jim Hensen didn’t seem too keen on the women, along side Kermit, Gonzo, and Fozzie the Bear, Miss Piggy was the only female muppet.

We can even see the Smurfette Principle outside of programming aimed at young people. So for example you have George Lucas’ original Star Wars trilogy where Princess Leia is the only principle female character in the entire galactic empire.

If you’re like me then you are probably thinking there’s got to be something wrong, I mean, Star Trek has had a female captain, Buffy has saved the world from a demon apocalypse at least half dozen times, this trope has gotta be a thing of the past right?

Ellen Page gets Smurfette’d in Inception as her character is the only female dream team member.
Big Bang Theory has a primary main cast of brainy men plus the smurfette that lives across the hall

Even in most seasons of Jon Stewart’s the Daily Show there has been only one female correspondent at a time.

The Smurfette principle is especially important to remember now because Hollywood is currently trying to remake everything and anything that we even vaguely remembers from the 80′s and 90′s in an attempt to cash in on our collective nostalgia, you know, instead of maybe taking a risk on things that are new and exciting.

We even have a live action Smurfs movie coming out.
We’ve had 2 big blockbuster movies based on the Transformers, and sadly there’s another one on its way.
The 2009 Star Trek reboot by JJ Abrams had Uhura as the only female character in the main bridge crew.

And just like Star Trek we can be sure that hollywood is not going to try to bring gender equality into these reboots but rather just stick with their Smurfettes.

The problem with narratives infused with the Smurfette Principle is not only the lack of women but as Katha Pollitt points out in her New York Times article, “Boys define the group, its story and its code of values. Girls exist only in relation to boys.” Basically this means that men are the default and women get to be sidekicks or sexy decorations.

The Smurfette Principle is an alternative name for Tokenism or the Token Minority which is the inclusion of one cast member from a marginalized group in an otherwise, white, straight male ensemble. We see this most often when writers include one person of colour and that characters is usually painfully stereotyped. This is a little trick used by movie studios to pretend to appear “multicultural” and “diverse” when really they’re just upholding the status quo and not changing anything substantially.

So here’s a tip for all you Hollywood writers out there, it is in fact possible to have more than one woman in your script. Really, I swear it is. You could even have 2 or 3 women or even the majority of your cast be women.

Here’s a simple test you can ask yourself when you’re writing your scripts: “Does my movie have more than one woman on the primary cast?”

That’s it, that’s the whole test.

If you answered “NO” then you need to go back to the drawing board. If you answered “YES” then we can proceed to the Bechdel Test. Once you’ve got two female characters who are talking to each other about things other then men, then we can talk about fully developed female characters.

I do feel the lack of female characters in films and TV, and resent when the female in comedy is 'straight.' I never thought I'd see myself claim Friends as flying the flag for feminism, but thankfully those women were given equal airtime and the opportunities for comedy and slapstick as much as the men. And the pretty dumbo, thankfully, was Joey.

Last night I caught up on ITV's new female-led cop show Scott and Bailey. Starring Suranne Jones (who I loved as Karen Macdonald in Coronation Street)and Lesley Sharp. The show is co-written by Jones, along with novice writer and ex-Corrie actress Sally Lindsay and two others: Diane Taylor and Sally Wainwright (Coronation Street writer, Shakespeare Re-Told for the BBC and At Home with the Braithwaites). The programme is good, with a strong cast, but the script doesn't inspire me and doesn't stand out above the plethora of other middle of the road TV cop shows. Obviously I'm happy to see two strong female leads, but can't help but feel the case they were handling about two rapes and a murder of young women was very female-specific. If they had been two male policemen would the cases be different? And that's a question that sometimes needs to be asked - is the character female/ black/ gay as part of their character or is it part of the storyline? There's nothing worse than a gay character being brought into a soap, only to be faced with months of coming out and homophobia storylines and then to leave again just as swiftly. Gay people have other issues to tackle apart from being gay, and women have other preoccupations other than being female. A reasonable start and will be interesting to see how Scott and Bailey develops.

And while I have my feminist high horse all saddled up I may as well also mention my anticipation of the upcoming film Bridesmaids.Zoe Williams (one of my favourite journalists) was raving about the positive effect on women's represenation in films and this week's Stylist magazine describes the film in glowing terms as "a comic breath of fresh air" being for women what The Hangover and Superbad were for men. I personally can't wait for a day when it will be commonplace for a man to say to a woman "You're really funny" and for it not to be tinged with surprise. We can be funny - get over it.

Orange and Grazia writer's evening

In recent months, as you can probably tell from my heady mix of lack-lustre and barely there blog posts, I have fallen out of love with writing. There. I said it. When writing is good it’s amazing – getting excited over characters, striking gold with a lightning bolt of inspiration, and the lovely finished product filled with sweat and tears. But trying to make a living from the written word, whether it’s researching, editing or wiping the arse of the director general of the BBC it can be soul destroying. For legal reasons I’d like to point out the latter role does not exist (not since the cuts, anyway) but you get the gist. Writing is a hobby for so many people, and trying to turn it into a job only to be told over and over ‘no room at the inn’ or simply ‘you’re not good enough’ can make you forget why you don’t need to get paid to get satisfaction from what you create.

Last night I attended the Orange and Grazia sponsored writer’s evening at the Southbank Centre, London. Novelist Kate Mosse (who also founded the Orange prize for fiction) hosted a panel that included writer’s Sadie Jones (The Outcasts and Small Wars), Jean Kwok (Girl in Translation) and literary agent Claire Alexander. The panel were all encouraging, self-depracating and made for an enjoyable evening. Although much of their advice for wannabe writers was the usual: be patient, read like it’s going out of fashion, prepare for rejections but don’t give up, it is always inspiring to listen to people talk passionately about something they and you enjoy. A few nuggets stood out, and I’m beginning to understand more about the industry:

-When sending a manuscript to an agent always do a little research to find the name of someone to send it to. The personal touch can go a long way.
-When trying to choose an agent or a publisher read the author’s acknowledgements inside books you love. This will give you an idea of who is appropriate to submit your work to. If the same names are appearing again and again that should tell you something.
-Write a good letter to agents to go with your manuscript. Aim for something that stands out but doesn’t make you seem batty (my thought is that something like coloured paper might work. Try and link it with the manuscript you’re sending).
-In your letter you can include any details of a blog you keep, or your twitter/ facebook information. This can show you know how to self-promote using new media and social networking and thus potentially have a read-made audience.
-Saleability of an author has to be taken into account (although this never comes before the standard of the script) so if your personal story is something that resonates with the text don’t be afraid to include it.
-Claire Alexander claims she can tell if a writer is bad in less than a page. Bad dialogue, absence of craft and poorly constructed sentences are all immediate turn-offs.
-Most writers improve hugely by attending writer’s groups and having the input of other writers, not just friends and family. Although a friend may be able to identify a problem (if they’re brave enough to tell you) they won’t necessarily know how to fix it.
-Literary companies exist who, for a fee, will read and provide feedback on your work. (Nb, perhaps I could sign up with one of these for work? Just a thought.)
-Publishers and agents aren’t put off by length. Anything from 80,000 to 300,000 words is fine. Just make sure those words are carefully chosen and don’t submit your first draft.
-If you struggle with agents, Penguin Ireland accept unsolicited scripts though most publishers do not. Agents act as the first gatekeeper to getting published.

The evening was also in conjunction with the Grazia and Orange new writers competition, which I read the winning entry to in this week’s Grazia magazine. I don’t know if this is just sour grapes, but it’s absolute dross. Honestly. Any number of the writers I know (almost all unpublished) would be able to produce something infinitely better. I’m not sure whether the result makes me more confident in that writing is clearly such a subjective art, or if it depresses me to think that my piece is not even as good as this unstructured nonsense. I’ll try and go with my half full cup this time.

I once said two of my aims in life are to get a play produced and to publish a novel. These are goals with no time limits. Take a deep breath and keep going.

Grazia and Orange fiction prize The Deadline

The first paragraph was begun by author Kate Mosse, and entrants were invited to complete the chapter in max. 1000 words.

I really enjoyed writing it, spurred on by the May 10th entry date.

The Deadline

She stood looking up at the house. At the blank grey walls, the shuttered windows with empty boxes on the concrete sills, the stern front door. The house said nothing about what it was or what took place inside, it was unassuming and nondescript and uninviting. She'd come here several times before, but never got the courage to go in. Now, there was no choice. The deadline was today, no last chance of a reprieve or change of heart. If she was going to do it, it had to be now. She shivered, chill from the sudden drop in temperature now the light was fading, or from excitement or from fear, she didn't know. Also, the sense of possibility that, by pressing this suburban doorbell, her life could - would - alter for good. But still she lingered on the unwashed step, picking at a thread of wool come loose from her glove, caught between the girl she was and the woman she might be. A deadline she never thought she would face.

She was unable to push the bell. Her finger hovered over it with almost magnetic repulsion. Before she had the chance to change her mind and head back to the conference, no harm done, a shadow appeared behind the yellow-tinted glass of the door.
“Who’s there?” a voice hollered, and the shadow loomed larger.
“We don’t want nothin’ from you.” A face, distorted by the frosting, leered through the window. Angela stood silently on the doorstep, outwardly composed but inwardly repeating OhGodOhGodOhGod over and over like white noise. Finally the door opened with a reluctant groan to reveal a humungous woman clad only in a nightgown. It would have been impossible to place the woman’s age, had Angela not already known, as this was a great beast of a woman. The worn cotton of the nightgown stretched out over rolls of stomach and back and ass, sagging over each other in lumps like a burst armchair. Dried spittle and the remains of meals covered her front, and large crescent moons of old sweat darkened her underarms. Peering with black pebble eyes she swayed backwards and forwards with the effort of standing and watching. Their meeting seemed to be happening in slow motion. Angela was unsure if this was a trick of time, leaving her in nervous suspense, or if the woman moved at half speed with thoughts and words fighting their way to the surface like swimming through treacle. Looking Angela up and down there was definite recognition.
“What you doin’ here?” The woman reached for the doorframe to steady herself. Her large uncradled breasts undulated as she wheezed and coughed with the effort.
“I came to see you…to see how you are.”
“I can’t stand here all day.” The woman turned to walk away, leaving the door wide open. After a moment’s pause Angela took this as an invitation to follow and entered the house.

The first thing to hit Angela was the smell and the heat. It was an early autumn evening but the windows had clearly stayed shut all summer. In the lounge a two bar gas-heater burned orange and released an odour of melted plastic. The house was a time warp. Nothing had changed since the seventies and the furniture was faded in green and beige; a life lived in sepia. Unless she checked the dates on the front of the mail and freesheet newspapers piled up in the hall there would be no way of guessing the year, or even the decade. She selected a seat as far from the heater as possible and leaned forward to avoid the halo of grease that clung to the headrest. The woman heaved her gargantuan frame onto the sofa, settling into the pronounced grooves where buttocks had ploughed ridges into the fabric. They sat, not speaking, while the woman gulped for breath. Angela gazed at the old statue of Jesus on the cross that was silhouetted on the mantelpiece. It sat, as it always had, lit from behind with a candle. Puddles of melted wax sat in rivulets, almost as tall as the figurine itself. Angela folded her hands and fiddled with the beads on her bracelet in mock penance. After huffing and puffing the woman was settled, ass firmly planted in the sofa’s indent. She looked at Angela, with either a single solitary tear or an oozing bead of perspiration snaking down the side of her cheek.
“Where you been, baby?”
“Illinois. I’ve been in Illinois.” Angela was unsure what else to add. It was hard to sum up seventeen years in a simple ‘where’ or ‘what.’
The woman hauled herself forward on the sofa and fixed those black eyes on her guest.
“Your daddy been missin’ you.” She hissed breathlessly.
“Momma.” Angela started, then hesitated, “He hasn’t missed me.”
“Sure he has. I visit him in that hospital and all he does is ask for you. He barely notice I’m there.” She paused for breath. “He’s so skinny now. They don’t feed him right, I swear. But nobody listens to me. Could you go talk to them?”
“Talk to the hospital?” Angela asked.
“Sure. And tell them your daddy need feedin’ up.”
“Maybe, Momma, maybe.”
“Please, Angel. That place is worse than the last, and the one before.”
Angela found it uncomfortable to think of her father passed round the system the same way she had been. It was four years for her, before the trial and before they could find a proper home. Even that was hazy, the interviews and questions. They gave her dolls. ‘He touched you here?’ they would say, and she agreed. Memory is a strange thing.

Seeing Angela’s reluctance her mother pushed on. “It’s the least you could do.” Her mother said, sadly. And there it was: the thing Angela came to speak about, and yet was hoping would never come up. How can you tell the truth when you don’t know what that is?
“I’ll do it.” She replied. There was no admission of guilt, but no protestations of innocence either.
“Why’d you come? Why’d you come if you don’t wanna help?” Her mother asked.
“I do want to help.” Angela replied. And the real question came.
“Why’d you come now then? Your daddy needed your help ten years ago.” Her mother was angry underneath.
Resisting the urge to say and I needed your help, momma Angela just sat, sweltering.
“Why did I come now?” She repeated the question to buy herself time as she removed her jacket in the heat.
“I came now…” Leaning backwards awkwardly on the sticky chair Angela shrugged off her coat to reveal a loose blouse, and under that a perfectly rounded bump, five months grown.
“I came now.” The question needed no further explanation.

Current projects

1) Grazia and Orange fiction prize The Deadline, due by 10th May
2) Radio play You Can Never Go Home
3) Finish short story from CSM class for compeitions, various deadlines throughout June
4) Get feedback on Magical Story for flash fiction competitions

Other actions involved reading a script for someone and I also need to continue listening to radio plays.

Radio plays

A good interview in the BBC Writersroom site about writing scripts for radio.

Scrapbook - life drawing class

Last night I went to a life drawing class. Kind of weird and not at all what I'd expect - instead of a church hall with some middle aged women it was in a bar. We all sat around in a room while a young South American boy called Fernando removed his pants. Tribal music played in the background in the hope of making our pictures 'more primal...more animalistic.' Not sure if it worked. Mine were rubbish. And I spent most of the time feeling sorry for poor Fernando as he winced and clenched his way through each pose.

Overall the experience was very therapeutic. I imagine that's how I'll feel doing art therapy if I'm ever institutionalised.