Why I Hate Writing (but still do it)

Yesterday I came to the conclusion - not for the first time - that I hate writing. It's so bloody hard. Not all writing, though. Non-fiction I-want-to-tell-you-about-this writing is something I find easy, and I can usually throw together something communicative and reasonably-well-structured very quickly. This blog post, for instance, is a quick lunch-hour job, and I'm eating a bowl of soup in between sentences. (That is, one bowl eaten piecemeal, not a whole bowl each sentence). Writing my PhD was easy, and, without wishing to sound immodest, it was rather better written than most (much to the pleasant and vocal surprise of my examiners). The little pastiches and parodies which make it onto this blog are generally vomited onto a page in one easy go. I wrote a 15-minute parlour opera libretto (deliberately without metre or rhyme) in little more than an hour. It just comes out of my head fully-formed. Why, then, have both of my major projects been such torture?

With Guilds I put this down to writing in strict meter, (almost) insisting on perfect scansion, and not settling for anything less than perfect rhymes. Absent any storytelling or audience experience, this is a tremendous technical challenge which a number of songwriters whom I respect don't even attempt (I have a blog post in mind about this, so no more detail here). Writing songs in this manner is, by necessity, very slow, and requires the laborious making of a lot of lists of e.g. appropriate rhymes (even Sondheim hates this bit). I resolved that my next project would not tie me (kangaroo) down in this manner.

So to Upbeat. I have just had a weekend largely free of distractions, a sizeable portion of which I spent writing. Total output: about 2,200 words. Is there any wonder this novel is nowhere near completion over 2 years since I started? If easy writing is like vomiting, then this is akin to giving birth to bricks. It's good stuff. I like what I'm writing, and it is increasingly full of nuance and subtle character interactions. Yet I find it so hard to write - my mind wanders off into distant parts of the narrative, worrying how each sentence will fit in to the whole. I question every word, every choice of syntax, every punctuation mark. I lose concentration - a lot. In short, it takes fucking ages.

Why bother? Reading yesterday's output, or especially the day before's (which has probably had a brief edit by now), is a joy - assuming that it's any good, of course.

I hate writing, but I love having written.

Ham and Spamalot

We went to see the touring production of Spamalot at the weekend. We never got around to seeing the West End production, so against our better judgement we went to see the offerings put forth for us lowly provincials. This is a writing blog, so i'm not going to comment at length on the production itself, save to say that the inevitably smaller budget and scale quite obviously detracted from the string of big production numbers which flesh out the show, and that some of the cast weren't quite up to it.

So to the writing. I grew up with Monty Python, and can contribute worthily to any (mercifully rare) Python recital (Obligatory xkcd). I was open to the idea of the material being worked into a musical, and interested to see how the writer integrated the recycled/reworked material into the show. I'd listened to the soundtrack and knew roughly what to expect, and was content to compensate for the smaller production.

The show is basically chunks of Holy Grail floating in a puddle of Broadway parody and self-parody, with only token attempts made to integrate the two. For the former, I had a very similar sense to when I saw Tomfoolery done by Kit & the Widow - excellent and well-loved material done slightly less well than the original, with occasional sparks of the performers finding a new effect within it. For the latter, Forbidden Broadway have already torn The Song That Goes Like This to shreds (Spotify link), and I saw little originality in the other numbers. True, it is the nature of parody to imitate, but Diva's Lament was done in 1896 by Gilbert & Sullivan (The Grand Duke), and it was just as incongruous and ineffective then. You won't succeed in showbiz (a UK rework of You won't succeed on Broadway [if you don't have any Jews]) was funny, but it was little more than a string of cheap X-Factor references, leaving rather a sense of playing to the lowest common denominator.

There was little in the way of plot or character development (admittedly true also of the film). A few attempts at pathos are stitched into Act 2 (I'm all alone, and the inevitable Always Look on the Bright Side), but could have been cut altogether without affecting the "journey" of the characters, for the simple reason that they were the journey. Nothing happened outside the numbers, worthy though they were, to suggest that they fitted into the show.

So what are left with? Some funny and silly sketches (mostly familiar to most of the audience) knitted together with big-spectacle production numbers, lowbrow topical gags, camp humour, explicit crossing of the fourth wall, a cringeworthy scene of an audience member dragged on stage, scripted corpsing, and a sing-a-long at the end. Spamalot is a pantomime. An enjoyable one, to be sure, but little more sophisticated than the average Puss in Boots. It sends itself up without ever parodying anything which hasn't been done a dozen times before. Watching it was like eating a fondant fancy; sweet, colourful, and ultimately unsatisfying.

Wildely Inappropriate

(I had a hankering for attempting an Oscar Wilde pastiche, and having a stab at his particular style of densely-packed paradox. Today's government spending review seemed an interesting setting. It's not exactly Wilde quality, but I threw this together on a coach in a couple of hours, so one can't expect miracles. A fun project. Like Henry Wotton, views expressed are not necessarily my own, or indeed anybody's.)

WILDELY INAPPROPRIATE

A Spending Review Pastiche

"Ah, David, so good of you to drop by. Can I offer you a drink?"

"Delighted to. One should never engage in a conversation about money if one is sober enough to understand it." With that he flung himself into a wing-backed armchair and took out his cigarette case.

"Whisky or brandy?" said George, and spun the top half of the globe-shaped drinks cabinet.

"I always suspected it: your model world revolves around alcohol", said David as George's globe clicked open to reveal a cluster of expensive bottles. "He who drinks whisky never wants to taste anything else. He who drinks brandy never can."

They clinked glasses, and George sat in the opposite armchair.

"This plan of yours, is it colourful?" said David.

"Colour is unique to the beholder. I cannot look at the bleak hues of this Talisker or the sanguine of this chair and be sure that you see the same. There are as many shades of purple as there are eyes, and in that sense my plan is to the Harlequin as he to the chessboard."

"Capital. Anything which is bad for the public should be colourful so they don't notice how bad it is. Anything which is good for them should be dreary so they don't notice it at all."

"I saw your speech about the armed forces. Very courageous", said George.

"Courage is the triumph of the necessary over the unpleasant. A soldier knows nothing of pleasantness, and forgets everything of necessity. He is the perfect citizen."

"Two aircraft carriers?"

"A strong navy is the envy of its enemies. A stronger one doesn't have any. We shall fill our carriers with American stealth aircraft, which are like thieves. A thief sneaks up on you and empties your wallet; an American aircraft empties your wallet so you can sneak up on everyone else. Enough of this - if a military doesn't shoot you to death, it bores you to death. That is its distinguishing characteristic. Tell me of of your budget plan."

"Well," said George, "my plan is a thing of rare beauty, which is to say that its beauty is scarce within it, but the whole is the more beautiful for it. I cannot abide things which are beautiful throughout, the perpetual ravages of sensual bliss cloy in my eyes. No, the most beautiful gallery is one with a handful of beautiful paintings among a multitude of mediocre ones; that way they have a crowd to stand above, and a darkness to shine from. My budget is minutely crafted on these aesthetic principles. It is beautiful only because of its studied lack of beauty."

"What, then, is its ugliest painting?" said David, extinguishing his cigarette and leaving it smouldering in the ashtray.

"I had no choice but to cut half a million jobs from the public sector."

"I wouldn't worry about that. A public sector worker has a job for life, and has no life at all. I would trust my life to any of them, but I don't have one either, so I instead trust them with my job. A nation shouldn't make work for idle hands, that is the devil's job, and he alone will never be unemployed." David spun his wedding-ring around on its finger.

"The funding to the police has been cut."

"Any nation which needs a police force doesn't deserve one."

"We will abolish dozens of quangos" said George, refilling their glasses.

"We cannot make up our minds whether we have quangos, but we have them to help us make up our minds. A quango should know everything and say nothing, while the government says everything and knows nothing. As soon as they know everything, they must be destroyed. They are the notebooks of a nation; to be written on, then written off. What of the BBC?"

"The BBC is a true work of art, and every other broadcaster in the world fills out the gallery from which it shines. I worship its beauty, and like any worshipper I sully it by my very worship. It is the priest who sullies his religion, the bishop doubly so; thus my worship of the BBC must inevitably destroy it, and its burning embers may I in time douse with my tears." George stared at the lavish wallpaper opposite. "Such a pity."

"And the other home nations?"

"Affected equally."

"Good. England is a nation crippled by its superiority. Wales invented its superiority, Scotland's inferiority is its strength, and both halves of Northern Ireland are inferior to each other. The result is a Britain possessing an inferiority superior to all other nations." David emptied his glass.

"The crowning beauty was that I cut less than the other side said they would." said George.

"I've a very poor opinion of a Chancellor who can't give you nothing and make you thank him for the privilege".

Sherlock Holmes vs Derren Brown

(Have been meaning to write a Holmes pastiche for some time, and last night's Derren Brown broadcast gave a perfect opportunity. The deductions are my own, and may yet prove to be spectacularly inaccurate. Forgive the leaden prose (an imitation of Conan-Doyle), the obvious incongruities of eras, and the fact that I've rushed this off in an hour after work.)

In the years following my marriage, my growing medical practice kept me from pursuing the intimate friendship which I shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes as often as I would have liked. Holmes, however, never lost time in summoning me if there was a case in which he required my assistance, or which presented features of peculiar interest. He was often engaged in several matters at any given time, and it was my good fortune to accompany him when two cases of notoriety coincided. The first is far too sensational, given its illustrious protagonists, to be placed before the public. The second was but punctuation to the larger matter at hand, but it demonstrated the remarkable powers of my friend to disengage himself from one weighty problem to consider another, and his remarkable quickness of thought and deed. He never reached higher than when pitched against an adversary with faculties similar to his own.
We were seated in the Baker Street rooms which I had once shared with him, taking some of Mrs Hudson's excellent ham and eggs to recuperate from an energetic afternoon. The page-boy brought in a tray, and presented Holmes with a telegram.

"Hulloa! Watson, it seems our brief respite is to be interrupted with another demand upon our time. I have here a missive from a Mrs McGhee, saying only 'Must consult with you at once, have an urgent matter of the most extraordinary kind'."

"Sounds promising." said I.

"Indeed, though I hope the distraction is brief. Hark! If I am not much mistaken that is her step upon the stair."

Our flustered correspondent was shown to an armchair. Holmes had a gift with the fairer sex, though he seldom saw fit to use it, and immediately put our client at her ease.

"Watson, fetch this lady some brandy, it is a cold day and the fast drive from the theatre has taken its toll."

"Good gracious! How did you know I had come from the theatre?" said out astonished client.

"Simplicity itself. Though you are not made up for the stage, there is a mark on the underside of your right sleeve which could only be left by inadvertent contact with the rim of a pot of grease-paint. Clearly you reached over it in a hurry before leaving the dressing room. But you are not here to discuss such trifles."

"No, sir. My husband is a proud man, and he is in a pretty mess, though he won't admit it. Without your help he will walk proudly to his own humiliation. He is a conjurer of some repute, and I his assistant. He has foolishly challenged in public one of his peers, that he could explain any trick his rival would care to perform. Last night there was performed a marvellous trick which my husband is at a loss to explain, yet he is billed all over the metropolis to go before the public tomorrow to explain how it was done. He is a beaten man! I beg you, please help him."

"Can you describe to me the trick?" said Holmes, offhandedly. To one who knew him as I did, he clearly had no interest in the plight of this unfortunate woman.

"I can do better than that, Mr Holmes." With that, she produced from her bag one of the modern moving picture books which were so popular at that time. "Here is the performance itself. I must have seen it a hundred times, but it is as nonsense to me."

I cannot, alas, do justice to the performance on these pages, but I refer my readers to the moving picture archives, where the performance we saw is recorded. Out client's rival claimed to be able to predict the results of a lottery draw, and gave his performance simultaneously with the draw taking place. He had some small white balls on a stand next to the screen, on which his prediction lay hidden, and both he and the stand were visible throughout, yet he went nowhere near them until he revealed that he had predicted correctly. During the recorded performance, Holmes lost his offhandedness and watched the pictures with intense interest.

"Capital! This is a most singular case." said Holmes.

"Can you help my husband?"

"Indeed, but I will do no more than help. His rival is more skilled than he, but not so much that we cannot see through his smoke-screen at once." Holmes then reached for his telegraph pad, scribbled off two notes, and rang for the page-boy.

"Madam, this note is for your husband. It gives him a nudge in the right direction, and if he cannot piece together the remainder himself then he deserves his humiliation." The other note he handed to the boy, who showed our grateful client to the door on his way to the telegraph office. He then sat in silent meditation, from which I well knew it was folly to rouse him.
That evening, while Holmes and I were indulging in a smoke, a gentleman was introduced into the study. He was a tall man, dressed in a frock-coat of a remarkable purple hue, and he clutched the summons which Holmes he sent him. He and Holmes stared at each other for a moment, as might gladiators eying their opponents in combat.

"Have a seat, Brown. May I congratulate you on your recent escapades." Our guest nodded his thanks. "I fear you may may yet win your wager with your rival, though had you staked against me you would not be so fortunate. Let me tell you how your trick was done, and do you tell me if I go wrong.

"The key facts in this are as follows: One, there are two cameras, yet the further of the two is seen only at the beginning. Suggestive, but not conclusive. Two, the closer camera is constantly moving a little at random. Three, you stand extremely still and silent for some seconds during the draw itself, yet are for the rest of the time most particularly agitated. Four, your narration of the broadcast, while excellent, is not quite exactly in time with the image.

"From these facts, and with a little knowledge of the tricks of the moving picture trade, the solution is obvious. The wide camera shows that there are no other objects near you at the beginning of the trick, yet there is no such revelation after it. After this shot, an accomplice moves in extra equipment. I have no doubt that the more distant camera will be used to show this addition taking place. You provide yourself with a screen showing the lottery broadcast at the right time, and it is placed so that it is almost behind the screen which we can see. Thus, you can look at your private screen while appearing to look at ours. The image on our screen is several seconds behind, but you appear to give a narrative based on what we see; it was in fact a narrative on what you saw several seconds previously, hence the imperfection of timing.

"The screen we see is clearly real, because at the beginning we can see your reflection in it. Yet the image it shows, at least for some of the trick, is a plain blue or green screen, which your engineers can use to overlay a moving image of the lottery. One notes that there are no primary colours in the shot which might interfere with such a process, which I believe is called 'super-imposition', save the fire-exit sign. The reflection on the floor is outside the picture.

"You stand still as you see the numbers being announced, a few seconds before we do. Your engineers freeze this shot, but continue to impose the moving image onto this still of you watching it. That the camera appears to have been jittering throughout your meretricious broadcast serves to disguise your unnatural stillness, and could easily have been achieved not by a tremulous photographer, but added on by your engineers. Behind this frozen image you are free to move to the stand, and set balls with the correct numbers upon it with ease, without fear of your amazed audience seeing you move. Having done so, you resume the exact pose which you held before, the image is unfrozen - just before we see the last lottery ball being selected, but just after you did - and you can triumphantly reveal your success.

"Do I have it about right?"

It was clear from the thunderous expression on our guest's face that he had.

"May I compliment you on a splendidly executed illusion, and note that your task of providing it is far more difficult than mine of seeing through it." said Holmes.

On that, our guest bowed, and passed silently from the room.

"Come, Watson, place your revolver in your pocket. We have more dangerous matters to attend to tonight."

Another half-developed idea

Have all but abandoned writing for the time being, spending my free hours on other pursuits. But still thinking. Am still on the hunt for a killer idea for my next show, trying to keep the elements which worked in Guilds but still be similarly original.

A setting some 1000 years into the future (carefully avoiding anything approaching science fiction!), where the prevailing religion of the time is based around, say, the Harry Potter books, in much the same way that Christianity is based around the gospels. Blissfully ignorant of the context in which the books were written, they believe in the literal truth of the books, and worship Harry as a messiah. This is, to us, a blatantly silly premise, but to them it would appear as natural as, say, transubstantiation appears to a devout Christian. There is a lot of scope then for poking some gentle fun at the expense of religion (in the same way that Guilds did to politics); by using some well-known modern culture as the basis, it is obvious how much the future people have missed the point of what they have studied.

There is more than a little Life of Brian in the basic idea, but I think the execution is remote enough from it to stand alone. Care must be taken to avoid any implication that modern religions aren't true (for a given value of 'truth'), but if it makes the audience ask questions along these lines then so much the better. Regardless of one's beliefs (or lack of), religion is a fascinating subject. There are also obvious copyright issues with HP and so on, so the reference must be indirect, but no less clear.

From a plot perspective, having a bunch of robed priests (a bit like in Die Zauberfloete) arguing how many crumple-horned snorkaks can dance on the head of pin, and other such theological matters, gives plenty of opportunity for comedy. Working in various cunning machinations and plot twists would pretty easy. It would be wonderful to juxtapose this petty committee-style squabbling with it being some major ecumenical conference (like the Council of Nicaea) where even the most arbitrary decisions have a direct effect on billions of people over the following centuries.

On a slightly different tack, focusing on junior members of the order might be fun. We always hear about the Illuminati (or whatever) having some massive worldwide plot at Grand Master level, but we never see how the junior members each do their own tiny part. They don't know the greater effect and probably believing that they were acting benevolently, probably as part of their own shot at positions of fractional rank and status.

The trick here is weaving a plot of human interest and probability into the larger structure, as the emotional content has to be carried somehow.

I like this idea. Would that I had time even to complete the fulfilment of the *previous* idea...

Red Dwarf - Back to Earth pts II & III

Well, it tied together two of the stronger story ideas which the series/books have ever generated, threw in a scene of genuine emotional clout, and ended on a hopeful note. What could possibly go wrong? Sadly, the whole was far less than the sum of its parts, and the blame lies squarely on some lamentable writing decisions.

I'm trying hard to make these posts a balanced and well-reasoned dissection of new episodes of a much-loved show. That said, the best thing I can honestly say about the return to Earth is that it now occupies pride of place in my Jar Jar Binks Archive of Things I Pretend Never Happened. A plot line in which characters interact with their audience and their creator is a potentially interesting one, but absolutely must never be used with already-established characters, lest the magic of those characters be irretrievably destroyed. The cast and crew speak proudly of their four-walled TV sets, but their writer systematically demolished the fourth wall by having his characters abruptly aware of their own fictional existence. Self-parody is joined by recursive self-reference, fanwank in-jokes, and cheap topical gags, and the result is jarring in the extreme. Even if this were a good idea, and I cannot emphasise enough that it wasn't, the execution is poor - the plot and the pacing grind to a standstill, and the use of characters is again weak. It isn't even funny.

The golden rule of writing is "Always be true to your characters". Have them behave realistically, and within their own personality. Rimmer commits a cold-blooded murder, and nobody even reacts to it. Lister, in the space of two minutes, is in fear of his imminent death, experiences his own death, kills his creator, and yet can laugh hysterically as he repeatedly hurts Rimmer's nadgers. This would only be remotely credible if Lister were a psychopath; he isn't, and it isn't. Sorry, this is crap writing. These aren't human beings, they are the playthings of the author. Ms Hologram, having served her purpose, is unceremoniously dumped into the Darth Maul Dustbin of Undeveloped Utility Characters. She could have done so much more.

The dystopian Blade Runner angle worked really well, once you accepted the abrupt jump there from Coronation Street, and that we were previously in "real life" (no huge monoliths in Westminster last time I checked). It looked brilliant. So much more could have been done with this idea - I wish the entire Earth episode had been set there. At it was, it was an incongruous fantasy rampage shoehorned into, and with no connection to, what had been done previously. An opportunity wasted.

The scene in which the crew are in Carbug (fabulous prop, but better off in a Top Gear stunt) and "land" it as though a spaceship was witty, original, and funny. A moment's thought, however, and we notice Lister's comment about his hometown having lots of stolen cars, and Rimmer being a classic car expert (previous episode) - it's a pedantic point, but surely this undermines their necessary unfamiliarity? A more careful author would have cut out these in favour of keeping the (worthy) landing scene, to no other cost to the script.

Having endured the embarrassing tour of modern-day Britain, we are rewarded with a noticeable recovery in the end section. Lister is faced with the decision to leave his personal utopia (rework of the book version of Better Than Life) knowing that it is a fantasy. This is a really strong idea. Craig Charles shows us how much he has developed as an actor, and delivers a scene of genuine poignancy. Bravo. The Earth plot is then tied up as a fantasy (explicit Back To Reality rework) - OK, so it's a bit holey in that the others weren't experiencing their own utopia (in BTR they were all respectively in plausible hells), but we can forgive that. We have the clunkily-set-up but otherwise strong idea of Lister chasing Kochanski in hope of a reunion, leading us forward into another (?) series. Hope for them, hope for us.

Watching the Making Of episode was a revelation. There are some seriously clever technical things going on behind the scenes, and credit is due for them. The production, on the whole, was very impressive, particularly given the practical constraints they must have. There were several good ideas in the writing which deserved much more than they got; there were a few very bad ideas which got far more than they deserved. There is some genuine merit in the writing - let this not be lost sight of - but it was too clouded by its rank failings for the result to be a success, and the overall sense is one of opportunities missed. Red Dwarf has never been perfect, but in its pomp the shortcomings were papered over by the sheer joy of its inventivess, wit, and panache. Not so here.

I hope there is a further series, and I hope that it is an outstanding success. I cannot, however, look forward to it. Forgive the repetition (this is a writing blog after all!), but I hope it's better-written than Back To Earth. I can only wonder what Rob Grant (those in the know will understand the schism far better than I ever will) thinks of what his co-creation has become in his absence. Were it me, I would be upset.

Red Dwarf - Back to Earth pt I

New Red Dwarf. Finally a chance to give closure to the story, and a happily-ever-after for these beloved characters. A chance to atone for the weak and puerile Series VIII and finish on a high. I have greatly looked forward to this!

Having been a somewhat obsessive fan as a teenager, I grew out of it and hadn't (re-)watched an episode for about ten years until I saw a few recently. Happily, they stood up to the ravages of time, and more pertinently to the mature judgement of adulthood, and of an aspiring writer. Funny, sharp, inventive, showing a great rapport between the actors. Fully deserving of its exalted place in the sit-com pantheon. This was a happy nostalgia trip indeed.

There are two more new episodes to come, tonight and tomorrow, and I really want to like them. I really wanted to like last night's episode too, and I tried hard to view it with realistic expectations. Alas, it fell short even of these.

We weren't given an explanation of how the proir cliffhanger was resolved, why the crew have disappeared, where Kochanski is, or where Holly is. It's like a reset button was pressed and Series VIII didn't happen. Fine by me! No time wasted digging our way out of old holes. The "Nine Years Previously" caption (or whatever it was) hasn't yet been tied up - a whole episode of flashback? I'm sure all this will become clear soon, but why put the caption there at all? It seems a jarring loose end.

The opening scene of dialogue between Lister and Rimmer is a strong one, and a welcome reminder of the tenor of the early series. Sneeze-ironing made me laugh aloud - a promising start indeed. Rimmer, however, quickly became annoying, and acted throughout without realistic motivations - no longer a believable (if objectionable!) character - and he dangled dangerously above the tentacled monster of self-parody.

The plot felt like it was all happening purely to give them a magic bullet to return to Earth. The leviathan (opening scenes of Back to Reality with much less panache?) appeared out of nowhere, did nothing, and then vanished again. There was no narrative tension. Ms Hologram appeared out of nowhere, had a mishandled interaction with Rimmer and an cringingly unoriginal one-character-doesn't-know-another-one-is-listening scene, and hands them the magic bullet (surprised nobody tried to sleep with her - or is this still to come?). I don't mind necessary plot elements being introduced, but they need to stand up on their own - the strings were all too visible. The show depends on our seeing things through Lister's eyes, coloured by his surprisingly-perceptive and human take on events, but he vanished from the script the moment Ms arrives. Lonliness and the hope of a return to Earth have surely been the definitive underlying tensions of Red Dwarf ever since its inception - why do we not see this in Lister now the hopes look like being realised? His reaction is absolutely pivotal! Why do we not see the social impact of a new crew-member into a hugely insular group (this was handled better in Series VII with KK's arrival)? Maybe we will tonight, but even for the first part it was a golden opportunity missed.

Much of the show has a CGI background, and it isn't seamless. I've never liked CGI skutters, and the wrestle-with-tentacles scene was poor. Shoestring special effects are part of - and almost define - Red Dwarf, but shoestring CGI seems almost dishonest. Cunning model shots feel more real, provoke a far more sympathetic response, and have a certain charm which using computers utterly lacks. The Star Wars prequels suffered badly from this too, and their budget was rather larger! Given how the show was financed, this is all forgiveable, but it makes the suspension of disbelief that bit harder.

I know nothing of the practical constraints they may have had, but not filming in front of a live audience was a mistake (though I'm glad they omitted a taped laughter track). The performance as a whole lacked its once-effortless vibrance, and the characters didn't gel together as a 'posse' like they once did - there was no sense of a group of people who were very familiar with each other and had been through so much together. This, sadly, was once a central pillar of the show's deserved success, subtle and intangible though it may be. I can imagine it being very difficult resurrecting a twenty-year-old format and immediately recapturing the old magic, but the dynamic just isn't there. Would a studio audience have helped the actors?

Red Dwarf has never had bullet-proof writing, but the earlier work stood up far better than this. Almost anything can be forgiven if the result is funny, but the aforesaid laugh-out-loud was the only one so far, and this brings the other shortcomings of the scripts into sharper relief.

I've greatly enjoyed reading Robert Llewellyn's twitter feed during the production, and it seems that I am in a minority of those disappointed with the show. I sincerely hope that it is an outstanding critical and financial success, and wish all involved nothing but the best. Given my own total anonymity there is little chance of any of them, or indeed anybody at all, reading these thoughts, which is probably for the best. I also sincerely hope that the next two episodes are an improvement upon this one - I would very much like the Red Dwarf journey to end in a happy place.

This is a writing exercise: take something which I love to bits, and figure out why its good stuff is better than its less good stuff. I still have a lot to learn as a writer, and learning from others' mistakes is as important as learning from their triumphs.

Musing

Been a while since I posted. This blog has largely served its purpose, which frankly never involved any serious expectation of being read (which isn't to say that it being read isn't nice!). I have another idea for a blog which would, I think, have the potential to be properly popular, but I really don't have the time to develop it at present. Given the weight of things that I'm taking on, this isn't likely to happen soon.

Anyway, I heard today that a company is interested in reviving Guilds, the musical comedy I co-wrote for the Edinburgh Fringe '07. I have rather mixed feelings about this.

Reasons to go ahead:
- The show took a lot of hard work, and deserves to be seen/experienced by more people.
- We're very proud of it.
- It might cause, in a networky way, something else to happen by someone seeing it.
- Probable expectation of some nominal royalties.
- We are not famous or in-demand enough to afford pretentions like insisting that our work is performed in such a way as preserves the original intentions.
- Seeing a fresh take on the show might be very rewarding.
- Seeing it performed again might be very exciting. It was last time.
- Being among a company of people who like the show even half as much as the original cast would be tremendously rewarding.
- The central idea of the show is genuinely original and fresh, and has a lot more mileage left in it.
- Quite a nice ego-trip. Let's be honest here.
- A chance to address some of the less-than-perfect features of the show with the benefit of hindsight. New professional shows get loads of preview performances so the writers/directors can get it right before it opens. We had one chance. (Well two, actually, with the break in the middle of the Fringe run, and not all of the changes I/we made were improvements).

Reasons not to go ahead:
- It will never be as special as the first time, where the cast comprised many of my closest friends.
- The atmosphere around the original production was like nothing I've ever experienced, and any revival will never come close.
- Some of the jokes have aged and will need rewriting.
- One of the central themes was absolutely bang on the zeitgeist in summer '07. It is now way out of date, and the wrapping-up of the show will hugely suffer from it. It is too deeply woven into the plot to be replaced without a significant rewrite, and I doubt that an adequate replacement could be found.
- They won't do it "properly", no matter how good the company is (and I honestly have no idea whether or not they are). Seeing it done wrong will really annoy me. Even the original production, in which I had little direct influence, was not entirely "right" in my eyes, and that was with the composer MD'ing (with whom I shared a very close concept of the show) and a receptive director.
- What goes in the Fringe stays in the Fringe. Some shows only work there, and I think this is one of them. Would need to be a double-header at the very least.
- Seeing a new production may tarnish the memories of the original show, which are among my very happiest.

Basically, it comes down to this: is seeing a second production of the show worth the fact that it cannot possibly be as special as the first one?

I really don't know the answer to this.

Upbeat: I

Well, it's six months now since I started this blog. I still have a lot of novel still to write, but I feel that I'm settling nicely into the style, if not the routine of actually writing enough.

Ages of Man is dead, long live Upbeat. I still don't intend posting any more material that is destined for said book, but here I'm going to throw together a sketch to fill out back-story, and to try to develop a voice for Ellen. I recently wrote a scene from her perspective (probably the only one in the book), and realised that her character could do with a bit more development, as could my writing of her voice. This is a not-very-thought-out attempt at so doing.

---

Ellen heard the 'phone ring, and knew without looking who was calling. She didn't rush to answer it.
"Hello, mother, how lovely to - "
"Ellen, darling, how was last night? When do I get to meet him?"
"Mother! He only took me out for dinner!"
"Well I want to know everything about him. Gary, you said his name was?"
"Harry. He's a - "
"Prince Harry? Wouldn't it be wonderful if you married a Prince!"
"He's a history student, we met at - "
"Is he as handsome as Timmy was?"
"Mother!" The conversation was settling into a familiar pattern.
"I'm only asking."
"Well, yes as a matter of fact. He's quite tall, with curly blond hair. We met at a party, his flatmate is one of my old school friends. He's - "
"Good. I wish I still looked as stunning as you, then I'd find myself some dishy young man."
"Mother! Don't let daddy hear you say that, it's not nice!"
"Speaking of daddy, he's having a shoot next weekend, would Gary like to come? I'm just dying to meet him."
Conversation, such as it was, continued for a quarter of an hour. Ellen's normally endless patience generally wore thin during conversations with her mother, especially the ones about her love-life, which most of them were. To her mother it was absolutely imperative that she found a suitable match before she was too old (i.e. 22) and it was even more imperative that he be handsome, athletic, charming, and from "good stock". If Ellen actually liked him, then so much the better.

Half-formed idea

The musing following my previous post has lead me to think about why the setting is weak, and I've come to realise that this is due a lack of any narrative drive. It is simply there as a backdrop to the action.

It's occurred to me that an underlying assumption in the majority of amateur performance - be it theatre, orchestra, choir or whatever - is that people will go out of their way to see it. In reality, audiences are generally strongly biased towards friends/relatives of the performers, who will have been 'encouraged' to attend. There are exceptions of course, but if an amateur group suddenly ceased to exist, hardly anyone not involved would notice or care. This is in stark contrast to professional groups. Furthermore, the audience's appreciation is often insensitive to the quality of the performance. The performers tend to behave as if the performance were as important as for a professional group - understandable, as it is their pastime - even if the standard falls far short of that (talking the talk?). Would the performers actually like it if they got what they wished for? Would an audience of 3000 and a frank review in The Times really please an amateur group?

Bearing this in mind, I wonder if the orchestra storyline could be made to stand up on its own by turning this on its head - perhaps setting it in a world in which amateur performances share the same properties as professional ones (large audiences, reviews in major newspapers etc.), perhaps setting it in reality but having the (poor) orchestra suddenly become famous.

It's not quite right yet, but I think it's a thread worthy of more thought.

Why aren't I writing another show?

I've just listened to some recordings of Guilds, the musical I co-wrote (a working DVD, alas, hasn't yet reached me), and was at once reminded of several of the most satisfying aspects of writing a show. My writing, such as it is, came alive in a way that simply isn't possible with a book. I would send off fresh lyrics to the show's composer, and in return would receive a recording of a new song. The characters, previously existing only in our imaginations, took on a life of their own when the roles were filled by real actors, most of them close friends. Being among the cast/crew and seeing how much joy the show was obviously bringing them. Watching audiences being entertained, laughing (in most of the right places...) and applauding. None of these happens to an author, at least until he gets so famous that his work is adapted for the screen or stage - hardly something to assume will happen!

Why throw that away and write a book instead? Why confine myself into one of the most solitary processes possible? Several reasons. The first is purely pragmatic; when I'd decided to start writing again, my previous collaborator was not available, and I wasn't desirous of trying to find another and trying to develop a similar rapport. Second, I'd found that the plot and dialogue had come much more naturally to me than the lyrics, and while I believe that my lyrics show a strong degree of craftsmanship, they lack somewhat in emotional clout. I can do 'clever' a lot better than I can do 'sincere', and that is a limitation indeed for a lyricist. I want to try a different medium, and see if I am more suited to writing in it. I'm not a huge fan of straight theatre, so it was either through-composed opera (probably something like Britten) or a novel. Opera librettists are unquestionably second-class citizens, and I fancied finding an appropriate composer even less than for musicals. So a novel it is.

My writing style is increasingly turning out like early Pratchett, but without the fantasy. While pleasing, and a little unsurprsiing, this worries me, because early Pratchett used the fantasy to drive the plot and to provide interesting situations for his strong characters to deal with in a decidedly non-fantastic manner. His later work is more character-driven, but still retains the complexity of plot and setting afforded by his rich fantasy world. Guilds, if anything, fitted this mould better - it had real characters in a ridiculous setting that was self-consistent and fully real to its inhabitants, and a lot of the (plot-driven) show's freshness derived directly from its setting - this aspect of the show is one that I think we did very well indeed. Leaves of plausibility floating on a lake of silliness. Upbeat worries me because it is, if anything, too real - it is a very mundane setting and the plot is, frankly, uninspired. I think the characters are strong and the story a good one, and I think the book will be funny, but I'm worried that the plot and setting are insufficiently interesting to provide a good enough backdrop to a character-driven novel. Having realistic characters is essential for any writing, and the interest must ultimately derive from them. I worry that I'm turning away from the most successful aspect of my one previous project.

(On a side note, I find the Discworld novels are relying less and less on the fantasy, and there are times now when the fantasy actually gets in the way - pretty much all the fantasy (setting excpeted) in Making Money could be cut without harming the book, except for the Deus Ex Machina golden golems. Not his best.)

Perhaps the solution to this is to keep the characters and the basic story, but dump the orchestra tour and move the story somewhere more interesting. One of the strengths of the project so far is in making humour from the extremely mundane (the edited stuff does this better than the blog posts!), but this is possible in pretty much any setting.


Hmmm.

Insert Title Here

I have just got back from the first dissection meeting of a new and very promising writers' group, at which I got a lot of useful feedback. I am taking away the message that I am on the right track and am worrying about the right things, though I may need to be a little more careful about some of them.

I have a prospective title.

This was in no way discussed, but an idea has spontaneously occurred anyway. I very much admire the Woody Allen film Match Point, particularly the way that the title tied in not just with the setting, but with the structure as well. The film opens with a tennis player describing how a match can be won or lost if the ball hits the net cord, as it is little more than a coin toss which side of the net the ball will land, causing jubilation to one player and despair to the other. This theme is repeated later in the film, and how the film ends depends on a very similar event (which I won't spoil).

The ending of the novel is very clear to me. George will finish it single (again...), but very much changed for the experience, and he will set off to start university with a new, justified, sense of optimism (not revealing details!). Upbeat is a possible title. It means two things - optimistic in mood, and, musically, the unstressed beat preceding a (more 'interesting') bar/phrase/movement. Both of these fit the feeling with which the novel ends. A paragraph setting this up at the beginning, and another at the end would tie the plot, the setting and the title together nicely I think.

Titian Encryption

This has provided me with a perfect excuse to recycle shamelessly this parody which I wrote a few years back.

THE TITIAN ENCRYPTION
---------------------


A short story by Now Brand, the famous author.

Author's note: "All buildings and paintings in this story exist and are faithfully represented.
Furthermore, I did not make up any of the analysis or history whatsoever. None at all. Honest."


-------

Robbie felt confused. He'd been called at night to the National Gallery of Scotland in an emergency, but he couldn't understand why. An academic, he was dressed in his usual festive reindeer woolly jumper with leather patches on the elbows. He couldn't understand why he had been called in so urgently. Why have I been called in urgently? I don't understand it.

The gallery had a Titian (the famous artist) exhibition running, but had been emptied by police chief Vache due to an incident. Robbie entered the gallery, his Oxford Brogues with half-inch heel and carefully-tied laces resounding against the white marble stone floor as he walked at 72 steps per minute. Vache lead him into the gallery, which the forensic team had lit dramatically with spotlights perfect for the forthcoming film. On the floor lay a dead female deer, and next to it was written, in blood, the following legend:

3.14159
O DNA DATA: A CANINE!
(VIZ I NOTE A COLLIE)
R.S.V.P. ROBBIE BLAGDON KILLED ME

"Incriminate yourself" barked Vache.
"No." replied Blagdon.
"Here is Scaffy Nephew, our resident cruciverbalist."
Robbie's eyes moved across the room and met Scaffy's. Hastily putting them back in their sockets, Robbie shook her hand. Scaffy was like an Egyptian obelisk - she was tall, slim, attractive and moved with the lithe grace of a hummingbird.
"I will leave you alone for no good reason" said Vache, leaving them alone for no good reason.
"What does this writing mean?" enquired Robbie.
"The number is only pi"
"But pi is the divine number! That has symbolic significance of the highest order!"
"No it hasn't."
"But the words! All about dogs - we should look at local pet cemetaries for hidden messages on dogs' tombs!"
"No. They are anagrams. They say 'Tiziano Vecellio' and 'Diana and Actaeon'."
"The famous Titian painting! It's right here in this gallery!"
"What a coincidence."

They left the female deer carcass and moved to the famous painting. It depicts the myth of Actaeon hunting in the woods with his dogs and chancing upon Diana (Artemis in Roman myth) bathing with her nymphs in a stream. Diana was embarrassed to be seen naked, and changed him into a deer. His own dogs then chased and killed him.

"This painting has hidden meaning. Look from Actaeon's point-of-view - Diana is not recoiling but opening her legs to him! Renowned scholars consider these two as a couple. Also Actaeon's legs meet a nymph's legs at right-angles, signifying unity between the sexes - male and female in perfect balance, black and white, yin and yang, Torville and Dean. Actaeon is gesturing towards the stag's head on the pillar, suggesting how 'dear' Diana is to him. This entire painting is intended as a hidden message that Diana did not kill Actaeon, but was his lover."
"But I thought there were contradictory hidden messages in another famous paintings by the same artist? Doesn't this cause a major symbolic dichotomy?"
"A clash of the Titians? No - I ignore all evidence that doesn't support my claims. Perhaps the dead deer is a message from the mysterious Brotherhood of Oxfam"
"The brotherhood of what?"
"Oxfam - an ancient charity order with spurious links to freemasonry. Although everyone rightly thinks they are a great force for good, soon stupid people will believe they are evil because of the following blatant falsehoods."
"What does Oxfam mean?"
"Ox in Portuguese is 'boi' and 'fam' is a contraction of 'familiar'. Conspiracy nuts say it means 'familiar with boys' - suggesting this group may practice secret sex rites with children. Incidentally, Titian was once head boi of Oxfam, as were Renoir and Da Vinci. Also, Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci were in the group, as were Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci."
"So they painted and deflorated? Fascinating."
"So much in life is hidden in plain sight. Like the symbolic significance of tobacco packaging"
"But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
"Shut up." Robbie sensed his incessant lecturing was losing people's attention.
"So, back to the message. What does RSVP mean?"
"RSVP is a mystical abbreviation used in brotherhood communication to confirm attendance at meetings."
"Wow - my grandfather used to call me 'Really Silly Villy Pilly' - does that mean this message is for me?"
"It must do - perhaps he is in the order!"
"I once saw him in a sex rite, but I just thought he was a pervert."
"For centuries Oxfam has concealed the secret that Actaeon and Diana married, and that their descendants are still alive today. They hid their family tree, called the Gruel, and one day they will use its secrets to fight all the other charities!"
"Gruella warfare?"
"The Gruel is like Pandora's box - it is just the tip of the iceberg, and when the ice is broken, a can of worms will be opened and all hell will break loose!". Robbie didn't tell the whole story yet to build dramatic tension.
"Where do we go now?"
"Someone has written 'Go to Teviot' on the wall next to the painting."
"Let's go!"

"The Teviot Row House building is a renowed and historic building, built as a building for students as a student union building. It is the oldest purpose-built student union building in the world." explained Blagdon as they entered the building. Robbie looked tense. He looked at Scaffy and saw that she was just as tense as he was. This made him feel equally tense, and when she noticed she also became as tense as him, which made him similarly tense.
"I have an idea" said Robbie, tensely. He lead them upstairs to the canteen and joined the queue for lunch (it suddenly no longer being night). After a long wait, he arrived at the counter and was served some venison pie.
"I told you pi had some significance! Pi sounds like pie, and Venison is deer meat. Also, pi comes from circles, and this pie is circular! Pi is an an irrational transcendental number, and my arguments are irrational and transcend logic. The symbolic links are irrefutable! I am very clever indeed!"
Scaffy didn't look impressed. They took the pie to a table and sat down. Cutting open the pastry, Scaffy pulled out a filled pancake from inside.
"I have seen these before! My grandfather cooks them. They are very difficult pancakes to open and contain hidden messages. It's a crepe-tex! But why would Teviot have them?"
"Perhaps they are in the conspiracy as well! Maybe they are funded by Oxfam? Or the Freemasons?!"
Robbie was excited now.
"There is a note inside the pie:"

GO AWAY YOU NOSEY BITCH

"The meaning of this is obvious - a bitch is a female dog, and black Collies have long noses, and if you tell them to go away, they do! The password is definitely Collie! This is easy!"
"A collie-dog's cakewalk?" Scaffy carved 'Collie' into the pancake using a knife, which then opened. So did the pancake. Inside the crepe-tex was another note:

I AM SICK OF ALL YOUR POINTLESS ANALYSES SO SHUT UP
V.P.L. LOOK UNDER THE MOOSE

"So, what is the symbolic meaning of that then, smarty-pants?"
"Erm, I'm not sure. We should consult Surly Teabag, the renowned English stereotype."

They walked downstairs to a large, mounted, moose's head. Underneath was a handful of off-white, gooey mess stuck to the wall.

"Ah, one of Oxfam's secret methods to hide documents, having symbolic meaning referencing the sacred feminine deer. Diana and Actaeon were united as humans, but also as deer, and Oxfam use the feminine deer as a symbol of unity between the two gods".
Scaffy pulled the sticky mess off the wall and found a note underneath.
"But why use this floury goo to attach things to walls?"
"The symbolic links are obvious. Dough adhere: a female deer".

At that moment, Bishop Ringaringaroses, international man of ministry, burst through the door with his sidekick Silage, who snatched the message from Scaffy's hand and gave it to the Bishop.
"Hahahaha! I have the gruel", shouted the Bishop, enunciating his words like the report of a Heckler & Koch MP5/10A1 submachinegun (the special version chambered for a 10mm hollow-point round rather than the usual 9mm with full-metal-jacket) in three-round-burst mode.
"But this is not enough - please sir, I want some more! Give me the crepe-tex" said the Bishop, taking the pancake from Scaffy. "Thank-you Silage. Have some cognac". Silage drank from the proffered flask, and collapsed on the floor.
"He is fatally allergic to the carpet-fluff I put in the cognac. I am from the RSPCA and want to take the Gruel from Oxfam and use it against them!". He opened the slip of paper.

SILAGE IS OF THE BLOOD OF ACTAEON

"You fool, you just killed the only surviving descendant of Diana and Actaeon. The holy bloodline is lost forever".
"Oh well. Anyone fancy a game of pool?"


EPILOGUE
--------

And so, with the pointless destruction of thousands of years of history, the holy and wholly holey plot comes to an abrupt end. Silage lies dead, Robbie and Scaffy look lovingly into each others' eyes in a crude attempt at inserting romantic undertones and Ringaringaroses continues his cunning diagonal moves. Tune in next week for "Cherubs and Imps", an identical adventure by the same author starring Robbie and some snazzy upside-down writing. Now the mysteries of Titian's paintings remain hidden in plain sight, waiting to be discovered again.

Titian Pish.

Other projects

The purpose of this blog is to explore and flesh out unfinished ideas, and to experiment with different writing tasks. Ages of Man is feeling pretty fleshed out now, and while it could do with some re-examination (and editing!), I have a pretty clear concept of how I want it to develop. At some point I will start writing it in full, which I do not intend to post on a public forum such as this (neglecting the obvious lack of readership...).

It thus falls to think about some other ideas that I have kicking around. I saw this article on BBC News, describing a group of people who genuinely believe that the Earth is flat, and in a worldwide conspiracy to convince us otherwise. The human mind is capable of believing in pretty much anything rather than discard its own axioms, and it is quite clear that these people would subscribe to the most ludicrous explanations imaginable - especially as regards evidence - rather than discard their underlying axiomatic belief in a flat Earth. This link demonstrates something similar- of people searching for evidence to prove their ideas, despite rejecting similar and overwhelming evidence that disproves them. We do not worry about the Flat Earth Society because they are a harmless minority - but what if they were actually dangerous? How would we cope with them?

This brings me onto the idea of someone committing unspeakable atrocities with only the purest intentions, albeit in the name of misguided piety in a (preferably) fictional religion. What if Hitler/ Stalin/ Pol Pot did what they did in a genuine belief that they were benevolently acting in the best interests of mankind and/or their god? Given the lengths to which people are capable of deluding themselves, this is not beyond the bounds of credibility. Such a character would raise some interesting and pertinent questions, and would probably be well suited to a musical/opera of the most dramatic and emotional kind.

Ages of Man IX : Back on the shelf

(Badly need Edward to develop some depth and elicit some sympathy from the readers. This is also the scene where the main idea in the book is first hinted at)

After the rehearsal, the orchestra had decamped en masse to the nearest pub, where they promptly overwhelmed the cook with a massive backlog of food orders. It was the kind of pub with numbered tables in a strictly regimented layout; the orchestra had fragmented into a series of small groups. Most groups had pushed their tables together (to the disapproving glares of the landlord), but Edward and George now found themselves at a small table some distance from the rest of the orchestra.

Edward was a Social Drinker. To him, this meant that he had the occasional drink when out with others "to keep them company". To everyone else, it meant that he quickly became drunk on booze that he wasn't used to, and trampled blindly into awkward conversations. He was attacking a pint of the local brewery's stronger ale with suicidal enthusiasm. George had once tried a sip of wine when he was ten and hadn't liked it. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since and was horrified at the mere thought of further experimentation. He was making the most of still being too young to drink legally in pubs; goodness knows what excuse he would be compelled to resort to after his birthday next month. He nursed a lime cordial as though it was served in the Holy Grail.

"You and Ellen seemed to be getting on well."
"Er, we've only really introduced ourselves. She seems very friendly."
"You sly old dog. I bet you have the pick of the girls at school!"
"No more than anyone else - it's a boys' school."
"In the holidays? Lots of nice local girls - they must be fighting over you!"
George paused; the conversation was getting painfully close to the nerve. "Not really, I don't tend to get out very much in the holidays. Mum needs a lot of help decorating and so on."
"Oh, so you're not a ladies' man?"
"I wish. Maybe after I start university?"
This derailed Edward somewhat. His own love-life was a complete non-starter, and he had it set out in his mind that youthful advice from a young stud like George would be just right to set him on the road to success. He was determined that the tour was the perfect time to 'score', and that he should get some guaranteed hints as soon as possible. Finding out that George was clearly even more clueless was something of a disappointment. Not being one to change his mind, he ploughed on ahead anyway.
"I was rather hoping for your help. It's been a long time now since Marjorie passed on. Since your father left home all those years ago it's just been the two of us in that big house, and without her I'm just rattling around on my own. I think it's about time I found someone else, someone I could settle down and enjoy my retirement with."
"Sounds like a wonderful idea. I know Mum & Dad would be delighted if you found someone else."
"I know it sounds silly, but I don't want to be one of those people you read about who die in their sleep, but no-one notices and their corpse lies in their bed for weeks on end before it gets found."
"That's a bit morbid! Surely you don't have to worry about that at your age?"
"I know, I know, but it scares me. I don't get a lot of visitors, so I do worry about it. I've never lived on my own before. It was nice at first, having all the freedom, but now it just seems like the house is a great big empty hole waiting to swallow me up." Edward had a singular ability to sound cheerful even when saying these things.
"Well a nice companion for you would do you a lot of good. I'm sure it's what she would have wanted" George was beginning to worry what was coming next.
"I agree. Trouble is, between you and me, Marjorie was, well, she was my sweetheart in the sixth form, and you got married young in those days. She was the only girlfriend I've ever had, so it's 45 years since I was last, well, in the market as it were."
"I'm sure it will all come flooding back to you. I expect it's like riding a bicycle - you never forget how."
"I wish." said Edward, who actually had forgotten how to ride a bicycle.
"Are there any single ladies in the orchestra?"
"Actually quite a few. I talked to Ted Coote, who sorted out all the hotel bookings, and there's a surprising number of potential targets. Quite a few girls around your age too."
The two of them exchanged a look, and in that moment they realised that they weren't so different. George looked away first, stifling a smile of newly-kindled optimism. Edward didn't get the hunting tips that he wanted, but at least he had a hunting partner of sorts. He felt better already.

There are times in cricket matches where a batting side is struggling to avoid a follow-on and the probable heavy defeat that follows. Two hapless tail-enders find themselves at the crease knowing that all their best batsmen have failed, and that they are facing 90mph deliveries whistling past their noses. It is only a matter of time before they have their stumps torn out, yet they soldier on, pluckily offering weak defensive prods at the incoming onslaught. Spectators of both teams tend to enjoy watching these gladiatorial passages of play, partly because they admire the bravery, but mostly out of schadenfreude. George and Edward were to womankind what these beleaguered tail-enders were to Brett Lee, but without the protective padding.

Pretty Women

I've been listening again to Sweeney Todd (the Cariou/Lansbury recording) and was again struck by the brilliance of one particular scene. Todd has the hated Judge in his chair; they exchange ordinary barber-customer conversation as Todd lulls his victim into security, through with the audience's tension gradually mounts in expectation of Todd fulfilling his obvious murderous intentions. Sondheim then, quite brilliantly, has them sing Pretty Women, a tender duet about the only thing they could possibly have in common (the Judge pursued Todd's wife and is shortly to marry his daughter) - Todd gets wrapped up in the moment and almost forgets himself. However much they hate each other, and however bitter and twisted they both are, they still share this same warmth; expressing it in this way - and, almost as a by-product, ratcheting up the tension almost unbearably - and at this time nothing short of genius.

It also reminded me how powerful musicals/opera can be. I'm trying to switch from libretti to a novel, and there are a lot of things which are much easier in novels, but there are also some things which simply cannot work on paper. The above is, for me, a definitive example. I recognise that I could not write anything approaching this no matter what the medium (frankly, few people can), but it has reminded me that while I have a stack of new tools at my disposal, I have also put a stack of others away. Ages of Man could never work as a musical and would require a rather different approach to work as a play, but a few musical numbers in the novel would solve a few problems!

Ages of Man : Comments

I've had a look back over the initial character descriptions I wrote, and in both cases my perception of how they will be has shifted. Not hugely - the basic idea is still the same - but enough to warrant a re-write of the description! One of the reasons for experimenting like this on a blog is to solidify such things before I start writing proper, so I suppose it is serving its purpose. I had previously expected that Edward would be on at least an equal footing with George, but I'm increasingly thinking of George as the lead.

As for plot, I'm keen on the idea of George unsuccessfully pursuing Ellen, unaware of the fact that she is way, way out of his league. I think that she might end up having a little soft spot for him simply because he is brave enough to try, and is probably quite different from the rest of the small subset of men who are brave enough to hit on her.


One problem that has to be addressed is making sure that the readers sympathise with both the characters. George is quirky, shy, and naive, whereas Edward is tactless and inconsiderate. Trying to make them both likeable in spite of this is difficult. The story is essentially a coming-of-age tail, with the spin being that there are two of them doing it at very different times of life. If people don't like the characters 'before' then they aren't going to stay interested long enough to enjoy 'after'.

Another note on characters; no character of any significance is based on a single real person, but I definitely draw inspiration from real life. Generally this is blending together several people I have known, exaggerating some features and discarding others, arriving at someone who is not the same as anybody, but is (hopefully!) nevertheless believable, interesting, and deep. I find Edward more difficult to write, perhaps because I don't/didn't particularly like the people he is drawn from!

I really hate the working title now. Will have to think of something better. I'm also starting to think that the parents will not appear at all, except perhaps over the 'phone.

Ages of Man VIII : Tally ho?

(about time the guys started interacting with women, or at least trying to...)

After a slightly panicked hour of rehearsal, George was visibly relieved when Mr Sharpe called a ten-minute break. He had every intention of spending it all in the gents' loos, not out of any lavatorial necessity but simply for the sake of having some comforting walls between him and other people. His escape was intercepted by an unstoppable onslaught of Well-Brought-Up-Young-Lady-Being-Friendly-To-A-Newcomer.
"Hello there, I'm Ellen, I don't think we've met." said she with an expensive accent, extending the hand not carrying her cello.
"How do you do? I'm George". He hoped his intention to hide in a cubicle was imperceptible in his tone of voice, but he felt it twice as acutely at the prospect of making small talk with his new acquaintance. She was a few years older than he, tall and slender with dark hair and a friendly smile. She radiated casual class and was immaculately dressed; the Venn Diagram of women who wear tight white jeans, and women who could carry off tight white jeans had a happy intersection with Ellen. That part of him which didn't want him to flee wanted him very, very much to stay where he was.
"Pleased to meet you, George. You play wonderfully." Ellen was determined to
put him at his ease.
"That's very generous of you to say so, thank-you. I thought I'd made a bit of a mess of it, actually." He was beginning to talk to his shoes.
"Don't be silly! You're doing very well. Don't worry about Mr Sharpe, he's like that to everyone. The nastier he is to you, the more highly he thinks of you."
"He must be positively horrible to you then!" said George slightly too quickly, and immediately worried that it sounded corny.
"Talented and charming! What a catch you are for the orchestra!" Ellen did indeed think his jabbered compliment was corny, but she had a wonderful knack for making people feel good about themselves. "How did you come to join us for the tour?"
He gestured across the room towards his grandfather. "I'm Edward Kent's grandson, he said there was a shortage of violas and that I should come along. I'd only have been sitting around at home, so I thought I ought to. I need the practice! How about yourself?"
"I've been here since I was a girl. Mother's absolutely potty about music, she's in every orchestra within 50 miles, and I simply got swept along."
"Tally ho!" Edward had misinterpreted George's gesturing as a summons, and rampaged over to join them. "I see you've met Ellen, wasting no time there, you young stud!"
Ellen saw the look of sheer horror on his face, and deftly defused the situation.
"I was just telling him about Mother, about how she's been with the orchestra for twenty years. You've been here almost as long, haven't you? You and she must have some memories!"
"Well I'm just a newcomer, I've only been here fifteen years! Still, your mother and I have done a few concerts together since then! Nothing will ever quite compare with the time we played..."
Before the monologue got into full swing, George took the opportunity to excuse himself quietly, and rushed to the gents to spend the rest of the break cringing in the corner of a cubicle.

Ages of Man : VII

"So, what's the plan for today?" said George, as they pulled off the motorway.
"We're going straight to a rehearsal now, then we'll check into the hotel later. First concert is this evening."
"Fair enough. Which pieces are we doing?"
"Carmina Burana is the main piece, we're doing Tannhauser Overture in the first half along with a song cycle by some German composer no-one's heard of."
"Sounds very good. I've got Tannhauser on LP."
"LP? Don't they allows CDs in your dormitory?"
George didn't answer. He was considered among his friends as something of a technophile, and was as adept with cutting-edge technology as anyone, so it generally came as a surprise when people found out that he had a vast arsenal of 12" vinyl records. His love of modern technology had somehow become intertwined with his calculatedly old-fashioned streak, and the result was a fascinating clash of cultures. He had spent a week of his previous holiday creating a beautifully-designed website containing artistic photographs of his collection of rotary-dial telephones; he took the photos with his high-end DSLR camera.
"Do you know which desk I will be playing in?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're principal viola."
"Principal? Gosh, I didn't realise that. Can't a someone from the orchestra do it?"
"Not really, the only other violas who are coming are Mrs Atkinson, who hasn't been up to much playing since her arthritis set in, and Helen and David, but they both said they didn't want the job."
"But I've never played as principal. I thought I'd just be making up the numbers."
"Oh don't worry about it. The music's quite easy." Edward was not the type to embarrass easily. It wasn't that he didn't care about making a fool of himself, rather it never occurred to him that anyone could make a fool of themselves. To do so would require a sense of dignity, which he utterly lacked. He therefore assumed that everyone else was the same, and hadn't the faintest sense of when other people were embarrassed, especially when it was he who was embarrassing them. It hadn't occurred to him that George might have preferred a less prominent part in the orchestra - he didn't care what people thought of his playing, why should anyone else? Sadly, not caring how you sound is not conducive to musical excellence - he was a dreadful musician, but he neither realised this nor cared.
George, on the other hand, was mortified at the thought of leading the section, small though it was. Some orchestral players didn't care a jot about which part they played, would happily play anything that was put in front of them egolessly. Some sections would think nothing of rotating parts for different pieces. String players, on the other hand, defended their desk position with the same enraged defiance as certain middle-aged women defend their right to be called 'Ms'. The orchestra's few good players percolated to the front desks, and stayed there. Shy players, and those who knew their own limitations, stayed at the back. The middle desks were occupied by mediocre players who were either inadvisably trying to work their way forwards, or fighting to avoid the ignominy of being moved back; sometimes both at once. To be in a middle desk was to wear a symbol of status, however microscopic, and it meant having someone to look down on in order to feel better.
George was one of nature's back-deskers, though he was afflicted with the unfortunate ability to play very well indeed. He would far rather sit behind row upon row of inferior violists, secure in his anonymity and, though he'd never admit it to himself, a buried sensation of smugness at being better than those in front of him. Being principal terrified him, even though the music would be essentially identical. He would far rather be surprisingly good (or, in his unswervingly-modest words, 'not disastrous') than disappointingly bad, and the thought of being compared unfavourably to the other players turned his stomach into knots. George had, however, made one error of judgement: he had grossly over-estimated the skill of the other players.

Ages of Man : VI

Item 3: To receive the tour manager's report

Mr Coote stood to say that he had successfully secured a rehearsal venue for the first afternoon of the tour (c.f item 2 of previous meetings minutes re: Mr Sharpe's concerns about guest players not attending earlier rehearsals). He expressed that he was having difficulty with the logistics of transporting around so much percussion and asked that for future tours consideration be given to this before choosing pieces because the seven percussion parts in Carmina Burana by Carl Orff were causing him grief. Mr Kent helpfully offered to bang a few pots and pans when the bassoons weren't busy. Mr Sharpe said this wouldn't be neccesary. Mr Kent said that he had played some lovely bongos in his time to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote then gave a detailed account of the transport arrangements for the many instruments on the many legs of the journey. Both pages of this account are attached to these minutes. Mr Coote was thanked by the committee for the lengthy trouble which he had obviously gone to.