Welcome back Gartholomites!
Sorry for the harsh words in part two, I knew it could reduce my readership back to one, but it had to be done.
Right, the psychology is gone – your mind is hardened and resolved – you must be a writer, even with the accompanying consequences of a pot belly and blanched skin. Let’s get down to the practicalities.
Many people start writing something without actually questioning whether it’s what they should be writing, whether it plays to their strengths. Take my friend, for example.
He has been writing and re-writing a God-awful rom-com for over ten years now. Why? Because ten years and one day ago the woman of his dreams left him and he has been trying to rewrite history ever since. He always gets stuck on act three. Why? Because he’s not a hopeless romantic - surely the profile of a successful rom-com writer – but a broken and bitter man with a self sabotage streak bigger than Brigitte Nielsen’s tits. He should be writing something more suited to his character profile – like low budget rip-offs, ‘Inglorious Wankers’, or ‘Dave Must Die’, that sort of thing.
So, think about who you are, what you’re interested in, how you like to write – it may be that you should be writing novels and not screenplays.
Below I’ve written a scene – minus the ending. You have to select which of the five possible conclusions sounds most like you and post the accompanying letter, together with your age, star sign, vital statistics and a few words about yourself, in the comments box below, and I will give you a personalised response on what kind of writing suits you. Sound good?
Ok, here we go: -
INT. KITCHEN. MORN
Keith, a middle aged man with messy hair enters the kitchen of a comfortably sized walk through kitchen diner, clutching his temples and groaning.
He pours a glass of water and gulps it down.
He opens the cutlery draw.
He looks to the washing up – there’s shitloads.
He sighs and drags a large carving knife out of its wooden block.
He cuts off a piece of bread and begins to butter it with the huge knife.
A middle aged woman enters the room –
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
Ok, what’s next?
Keith carries on looking down at the bread.
Getting myself some breakfast, babe.
This is the only clean knife.
Keith picks up the buttery knife and licks the mighty weapon suggestively.
What’s the matter? You got something
better to eat?
Keith launches the huge knife at her, and it sticks in her mouth, killing her instantly.
Don’t speak with your mouth full, bitch!
It hits him like a bombshell and he looks up, confused, his mouth dropped open.
I… have… no… idea.
Her words crash like misplaced eggs off a sideboard. His eyes flicker for a moment as the perfect reply flashes into his mind, but he allows it to pass him by. A wistful smile plays upon his lips and he looks up and into her eyes.
But her image flashes and vanishes into the memory from whence it came. His head falls, sunken by regret and gravity, releasing a single tear down onto the buttered slice.
Of course it may be that none of those are what instantly sprang into your head, in which case feel free to add an F), G) or H) if its not taken, but be careful to justify your words.