Okay, I know what you’re thinking – how come you’re writing tips on screenwriting when you’re not a pro yourself? Two reasons.
1) It doesn’t stop a lot of other cunts from doing it.
2) Some of these cunts don’t know what they’re talking about.
3) I would be a pro if I followed my own tips, that’s how good they are.
So, over the next couple of blogs I’m going to outline what I think every aspiring writer needs to succeed, as well as some general tips to make your writing better.
First and foremost: -
You must love writing. If you think that a writer’s life is sitting on the top deck of buses, getting sucked off by adoring fans, before alighting to do an interview with Jonathan Ross, then you’re wrong. That’s an actor’s life. If that’s what you’re in it for then get yourself to Prada, or whatever it’s called.
If you want to be a professional wordsmith then you must love writing, not drinking coffee in Starbucks, or any of the other cunty chainstores, in your corduroy jacket, talking about your next idea, which they know as well as you that you are never going to finish. Any writer worth his salt testifies to the fact that you don’t talk about it until it’s done. And he knows better than to be ripped off in some sterilized, overpriced beanhouse, where you pay over the odds for sitting on, and looking at, pieces of wood that aren’t really wood at all, but laminated pieces of shit, the same pieces of shit that are found in every other one of their personality free kernel whorehouses, everywhere else in the country. No, the real writer goes to real cafes, independent places, wherein you are unlikely to find anyone with a normal amount of facial features. They will always be missing an eye, or have an extra forehead, placed where their chin should be, that kind of thing. In England these are called greasy spoon cafes. Oh yes, the writer will be in there, with his notepad, jotting down the utterances of these characterful inbreds, ready for inclusion in his next working class masterpiece starring Gary Oldman and the man from Eastenders.
Oh yes, and you must love the idea, nay the practice, of sitting down at a computer, or with a pad, or typewriter, or a quill and a forehead, whatever floats your boat, and testing your imagination and powers of communication. You must delight in taking yourself to imagined cul-de-sacs and smashing your way out of them with a cerebral dumper truck. Take this improvised scenario.
You are at the shops and you see a man passing by in full jogging regalia, followed by an overweight policeman. Do you simply exclaim ‘oh’ and walk on, or do you question your reality? Are the two things related? Had the jogger just got off with a priceless necklace? Was the jogging outfit a ruse to deflect from his history of petty crime and thievery? On this occasion no, the jogger had simply dropped his wallet and the policeman picked it up, but these are the sorts of questions you should be asking yourself if you want to be a pro. You should be running home at this point, alive with possibilities on what the background of the mystery jogger could be. What’s his home situation like? Is he a homosexual or libertarian? What sort of cunt would go out looking like that? Create a psychological profile. Do online psychological tests as that man. And every other person in your screenplay.
If this all sounds like too much work then perhaps you are better cut out to be a runner, or maybe an editor.
If, on the other hand, it sounds like what you do everyday anyway, then congratulations, you’re well on the way to having a successful screenwriting career. But don’t be so naïve! You’re not there yet – you still need to read part two – and part three if I can stay motivated.