At Last!!

Finally, the school holidays have arrived. Massive relief to the croaky, cranky staff and equally fractious kids. It snowed on the last day so we staggered in to reduced classes and spent the day in meaningful teaching activities - like showing DVD's.
Now I have a chance to return to writing following a hectic social whirl. It's strange, but after even a brief layoff I feel slightly afraid to start again. I'm not sure why - everytime I return I manage something, but the anticipation...
To give myself a boost in the new year I am trying to sign up for a screenwriting next steps course in Liverpool. My writing group in Wirral is lovely but I think I need even more encouragement and very specific advice to keep the momentum going.

Corpses and Donkeys

I have been ripping the front out of the script for Granny's Little Helper. Hopefully the character exposition is vastly improved. As a result two new characters have sprung to life. One is Zak, Alex's best friend and fellow zombie killer, the other is his Aunt Sasha. She will become more integral to the plot as she is the reason Mum and Dad go on a long cruise without Alex and leave him to look after his demented Gran. This should prevent his parents from becoming cruel stereotypes who abandon their child for a glamorous holiday. Sadly though I have decided Sasha must die. It was a painful decision, I don't kill lightly, but she will not be returning to British waters.
I also have to write a little Christmas something for the writers group on Friday. Maybe some poetry - likely to be shockingly bad, I haven't written a poem since school. In those days I was pretty good at it. Wonder if it's still there. I was going to pen a few cynical lines about overeating and shopping at Amazon (guilty!). But the word donkey keeps intruding on my thoughts.

Why I Feel Like William Tell's Apple.

I love writing, it has become a real way of life for me. If you asked me I would say I really love my teaching too - until the introduction of the Fischer Fantasy Targets. Our kids are school are sweet (mostly) so we work hard to get them the best grades we can. Some of our successes have been notable - a student of mine got the highest chemistry mark in the UK for his A levels. Now, in the quest for a higher position in the league tables, the FFTs have been wheeled out. They set an exam target for each student based on KS2 and KS3 score, do they get school dinners, eat white or brown bread at home, have a sibling named Dwayne etc. Every factor you can imagine is taken into account to label the kids. The FFTs know everything about kids in general and nothing about each individual child.
An FFT can't tell you if the child's parents are in a poisonous marriage, if one of their siblings is much brighter so they feel inadequate or if they have friends who lead them astray. Apparently this doesn't matter. We get on well with our students and accept that most will be on target, some may underachieve and others will overachieve. Often we actually speak to them like humans and give a toss how they are. We accept that there are some students we can help and a few we really can't for whatever reason. However if you are an FFT believer all you want is a student on target. Undertarget is unacceptable and worthy of investigation. Strangely being overtarget is unworthy of comment. No wonder we all feel like the apple sitting on a little boy's head.

How far can my sledge travel?

After the screenwriters festival my sledge of scripts was happily barreling along with great momentum. Back in the real world of stressing about kids exams, parent's evenings and general knackerness I feel I have hit the up slope. The amount of work I need to do has hit me. How long will it be before I can completely rewrite Granny's Little Helper? I have started but it is a huge job. And what about the other things I want to write? At the moment I am twittering a story about the Bedbugs of New York on Vacation and this is terrific fun. There is SO much I can do with that concept. Perhaps I need to find a script developmentncourse where I can take my script. Or should I just book more snow to glide on?

Chicken Pies and Bug Eyes

I found another excuse not to write on Saturday. This time it was cooking for friends. I decided to make a Chicken and Sumac pie - a gorgeous dish from Lebanon I've made before. Sumac, a sour tasting spice was no problem - but filo pastry was. Tesco in Heswall has an infuriating habit of never having supplies of anything slightly exotic when you need it. They often run out of coconut milk for heaven's sake. So I was forced far and wide (well, Sainsburys) to feed my mates. It was worth it though. The filling is very simple; chicken, onions, sumac, cardamon, cinnamon - but it is divine.
On the shopping front for writers I checked out Final Draft, nearly fainted at the price, and downloaded Celtx for free instead. At least formatting screenplays doens't have to drive me insane anymore. To whit I have worked out a new way of introducing my character Alex and his family in Granny's Little Helper. I like this family. Infact if they weren't imaginary I would invite them round for some pie too.

Opera meets the Orange Lodge?

One of the guys I met at the LSF sent an e-mail round (thanks Mike) about a Channel 4 script competition. I need a major rewrite but I am tempted by it, despite the short deadline.

But I took a night off to go and watch the Magic Flute at the Liverpool Empire with my friend Di. You could describe the Magic Flute as a savage custody battle with some musical instruments thrown in. The set was really imaginative - a room where the walls are painted with cloudy blue skies and contain numerous doors. Most entertaining though were the other members of the Temple of Wisdom dressed heat to foot in orange suits and bowler hats. Does this make Sarastro an operatic Uncle Billy? Is the Queen of the Night of the opposite persuasion (stunning singing by her)? Who knows. It did have that wonderful pantomime quality that all good Magic Flutes should have.

Pitching and Itching

Still recovering from the terrific weekend in London. On Saturday I had my script for Granny's Little Helper checked over in a clinic. I had made some basic howlers however... he loved the story line and said it reminded him of Mike Leigh ( a compliment I'm happy to take). That afternoon I had another three pitching sessions so I tried it on a German agent. He engaged with it straight away and said he would be in touch! One thing is for sure, I need a major rewrite!

Had an idea for a story on Twitter about two bedbugs from New York who end up in England by mistake. You can follow the saga of Larry and Loretta Bedbug on EJFisher2.

Hope it doesn't make you itch too much.

It was all worth it!

Two little words can make such a difference. I've spent half-term avoiding my friends, not singing at my music teacher's concert for her birthday ( I had already booked for the LSF) desperately trying to get everything ready. I changed my train times to arrive earlier and spent the night in Birmingham!!! But there have been some shining moments.
Loved taking to Marc Pye after a 'How I got my break' session. He wrote the screenplay for Trainspotting plus loads of soap episodes. He was great and offered really good advice.
Best of all was the pitching session.
One was to an agent who wasn't that interested in my screenplay.
Another to a talent scout who loved my pitch but didn't produce that type of programme.
And the best one was for a film short I included at the last moment. After I'd pitched came those two little words, 'That's Beautiful!' and he took a copy of my script.

I'm Going to the Dark Side

I have finally finished my treatment for the School of Big Brother and shown it to my menfolk with two different endings. They prefer the darker ending to the funnier one so we will head into the more crepuscular regions. The twist on that one is better anyway.

Desserts and Desperation

On Saturday we spent the day at Lancaster Uni visiting David -so no work done!
On Sunday I invite my mother round for dinner so the day is spent doing the hypocrite cleaning (running around with the vaccuum cleaner and duster trying to pretend the house is always tidy) and cooking. Food is a big deal in our house, it could be down to French genes or simple greed. Eventually I settle on a deli style start, Five spice roast chicken and a transparent apple tart (which I cook because I like the name) which is served with a calvados flavoured cream. It is good. But no the clock is ticking even more for my pitches! Let's hope desperation provides the necessary adrenaline boost.

It's holiday time!! Or is it?

Oh, the cheers of relief from the staff. Thank God! A week away from the little darlings so we can put our feet up.
So what induced me to make life even harder by going to the London Screenwriters Festival? I rashly booked two pitches, one of which I need to write a treatment for, both of which I need to write a pitch for. Then there are the workshops, the script clinic, networking etc etc. I will be returning to school for a holiday.

Farewell my phone friend

I ordered an iphone today. My old phone was like a blind date with a moose you were too polite to ditch. We had never met before it arrived. I had an old contract and wanted a clamshell phone. They said 'We'll send you this one that's available on your list.' How they must have laughed. When I opened the box and saw it in all it's white plastic glory with the strange handle thing I winced. But I stuck with the lack of memory, features and the tendency to photograph the inside of my handbag for three years. Today I finally broke free and picked a phone I thought looked pretty. Let's hope it works!

Oh, for elastic minutes!

Went on a really great course at the weekend to learn how to use social media for networking so I've spent the last couple of days trying to set everything up. In the meanwhile I am on a desperate deadline to try and get everything ready for the London Screenwriters Festival. I've booked two pitches, one with an agent and the other with a producer. And guess what? I've never done anything like this before. What makes me do this to myself? Especially when we are so busy at school too.

I've written a novel and I'm trying to find an agent for it. Thing is I've edited it so I don't reveal the event that triggers everything. Will you read the extract and tell me if it is strong enough for an opening chapter? My novel is called The Silent Gardener.

Chapter 1
The sun woke me as I lay curled like an ammonite near the hedge. I have no home anymore was the first thought that emerged. What will I do? My mind groped for the edges of the problem but found it so vast it took the easy route and switched off again.
Next time I woke voices were chattering away, women’s voices. They weren’t speaking in any language I recognised. Fear began to reanimate me. Where am I? Am I still in England? I wondered, my heart beating faster. I rolled over and peered through gluey eyes trying to locate the figures. One of the women saw me and came over. She knelt down next to me and gently touched my forehead before laying the back of her hand against my cheek.
“Are you ill?” she spoke slowly in an accent that sounded eastern European.
I paused and then shook my head.
“Are you sure? You don’t look good. What happened to your head?”
I put my hand up and felt a great swollen hillock on my forehead, I pressed it hoping it would go down but it just throbbed. I must look hideous - at least he couldn’t see me looking like this.
“You are coming here to work?” The woman’s light blue eyes scanned my face searching for an answer. Her strongly accented voice sounded crisp and no nonsense but not unsympathetic.
Work. I needed a job but what sort did she mean? And would I be able to do it?
“Are you coming here to work?” she repeated her question. I hesitated and nodded not knowing what else to do. “You need to see Mr Abbot, he owns the farm. Over there – see?” She pointed over at a smallish dark man in a checked shirt.
I slowly unfurled, rubbed my arms and legs then gradually hauled myself to my feet. I hobbled slowly over to him unable to think of what to say. He turned to look at me and frowned slightly – I looked down, embarrassed by my stained, crumpled clothing and grimy skin. My feet and sandals were indistinguishable from each other they were both so dusty.
“So you want to earn money fruit picking do you?” Mr. Abbot spoke quite briskly despite a soft accent.
I nodded.
“Well, it’s good money if you work quickly, you get paid for piecework – you know, by the basket. Will you be living here while you’re working?”
I nodded again. That was a relief. At least I would have somewhere to stay for now. I just wished I didn’t feel so sick.
“Well that will cost you £60 a week out of your wages for a bunk and three meals a day. That OK with you?”
I nodded. At least I would be fed. My legs trembled as he spoke so I held his eyes willing him not to look down.
“Don’t say much, do you?”
I shook my head.
“What’s your name, then?”
I tried to say Ellie but not a sound came out of my mouth. My throat felt as if an enormous pill was lodged in it, pressing against the sides so no sound could escape. I raised my hands to my mouth and looked helplessly at Mr. Abbot. Where was my voice?

Speak to you soon.

E J