It’s fascinating to see what happens when an idea takes form.  Initial concepts seem free, and there’s a lot of fun to be had in generating them, but a completed script is all about grounding that burst of energy with constraints that allow it to appear the story could happen in the world we share, or one that we can imagine.  Every phase after that first rush of enthusiasm for something new is a choice that shapes and directs what further choices can be made, until one inevitable final structure is arrived at.

That’s the way it seems a lot of the time, but it’s useful to remind yourself that the choices you’ve made are merely one possibility among many.  I liken the process to using stepping-stones to cross a river.  The river itself is in flux, seen from the stone you’re on, but move to another and as well as having a new perspective on the passing waters, you now realise that the stone you were on was merely a temporary perch, and not the fixed thing it seemed to be at the time you were on it.

The dance of improvisation and form is a fascinating one.  Its path is determined by choice points and whatever temporary certainty you may hold about the story you’re writing.  Believing a character to be such a type of person; organising a story so that it conforms to someone else’s concept of a three act structure; finding the genre that seems to fit your story; all these are attempts to convince yourself that you know what you’re doing.  Which is no bad thing, but shouldn’t be mistaken for actually believing it yourself. 

It’s one thing to pitch an idea confidently to a producer, another to have that same sense of the absolute when you’re actually shaping whatever raw ideas you’re given and working them into something that…feels right.  Because ‘feeling right’ is about as close as I get to being able to describe what the process of actually writing a story is like in practice. 

When I’m actually letting the ideas flow, notions of acts and genre and character and so forth are a million miles away.  What matters, at least at that point, is the state I’m in.  Many people recourse to the hackneyed phrase ‘trance-like state’ to describe their creativity, but let’s be honest: it’s LIKE a trance because it IS a trance, pure and simple. 

And that’s fine: we’re expecting the stories we create to alter the states that audiences are in, whether through making them laugh, cry, wanting to know what’s in the box, or whatever.  So it’s only fair that we get to test the altered states we’re working with ahead of time, to see if they’re worth serving up to anyone else; a lick of the spoon before the cake goes into the oven.

We watch film and television and read books and comics and listen to music and go to galleries and lap-dancing clubs precisely because they shift our state of consciousness in some fashion that we find interesting.  You won’t go to see a horror film if you don’t like being scared.  Action films get the adrenaline going.  Humour is great for raising serotonin levels.  And anything involving any kind of characters gets the mirror neurons engaged and allows empathy and learning to take place.

Knowing that we engage with different art forms in order to get what amounts to a side-effect free high, what can we do to heighten the effect of the stories we’re creating?  Well, for one thing, as laid out here, learn to get into strong states yourself that allow stories to flow from you naturally and without hesitation. 

How to do that is perhaps a subject for future pieces, since it takes some people a while to get there with ease and we can all benefit from learning more about it: but creativity is an innate ability we had as children, when play was what we did most of the time, and can be readily tapped into again.

Alex Osborn was born in the late nineteenth century, and became a big cheese in the world of advertising. Intensely curious about the different aspects of creativity he saw writers and designers at his agency tapping into, he looked for patterns in what they were doing and came up with a model that I was introduced to by NLP trainers Michael Breen and Eric Robbie in an excellent workshop on Creativity and Innovation.

Like any good model, Osborn’s is an example of clarity and elegance. What it boils down to is simplicity itself: take your input, whether that be a raw idea, or a fairly finished one that needs an injection of fresh energy, and apply one or more of the following processes to it:

Put it to other uses

Adapt

Modify

Magnify

Minify

Substitute

Rearrange

Reverse

Combine

Easy, huh? So much so that I’ve seen people dismiss it as shallow. It isn’t. As ever, you get out of working this way what you put into it. And it’s helped me come up with novel concepts that I continue to be proud of, some of which I’ve gone on to develop into full treatments or scripts. At other times, I’ve found it helpful when faced with a technical challenge in a story to adopt one of Osborn’s strategies as a tool for problem solving. It works.

One way to play with this system is to start with something that’s often done in pitching: use two stories as a reference point for your new one. Let’s combine Donnie Darko with Witness (in one workshop I ran, somehow all but one pair of writers were working up mutant films that got half their DNA from Witness, so I want a go). Hmm. How about this…

A world-weary cop has to bring a troubled teenager to trial: the teen has predicted two plane crashes and that can only mean he’s a terrorist or at least has inside info. But – as the cop comes to realise - the teen really is having insights into the future; including the whereabouts of the cop’s daughter, who walked out on her family years ago. In standing up for the psychic teen, the cop reaches out to his alienated daughter, and the three of them embark on a high-risk strategy to stop a third plane crash.

Never mind whether it’s any good or not at this stage: all I’m pointing out is this works as an example of Osborn’s ‘combine’ strategy. Now, if desired, we can apply other processes too. Rearrange, for instance: make the psychic the cop’s daughter, removing some of the Witness elements but making for a story more based on a father and daughter with communication problems. Or magnify: make the third plane the setting for the bulk of the film, rather than just its third act.

Get the idea? Osborn’s strategies aren’t remotely precious or academic: they’re fast and practical methods to generate and evolve concepts. And given that any writer is in the business of merchandising the products of their imagination, the more tools you have at your disposal for coming up with ideas at a rapid rate, the better.

You may have already noticed that this approach can be used with any kind of input: raw concepts in word form, sounds, or images. I’m currently listening to a CD by jazz violinist Billy Bang inspired by his experiences in the Vietnam war, and somewhere along the line the feelings and images he associates with that period of his life and its aftermath will have been transformed through processes along the lines of Osborn’s to become the basis of his music.

At its best, film is all about visual storytelling. So why is it that relatively few screenwriters and filmmakers really appreciate what this means in practice? All too often, on television in particular, dialogue is used to reinforce what is already apparent. That’s the least interesting choice of the ones available to the writer at scripting stage.

What makes film a rich experience is the potential to have different layers of information present in one scene, both through the combinations and contradictions of what’s seen and what’s heard, and from the relationship of one scene to what’s previously been related in the story. At a micro level, the juxtaposition of one image to another becomes important; the famous scene of an ape throwing a bone in the sky cutting to a spaceship bridges time from the dawn of man right up to the year when the core of the story is set in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

One exercise I give students to do to sharpen their ability to think visually is to script a scene without dialogue as follows: the protagonist realises they have forgotten a significant date, and has to escape one social obligation to satisfy the more important one concerning their relationship with the person whose significant date this is.

The range of responses to this challenge proves to me that, with prompting and feedback, people can start to think of visual solutions to complex problems with ease. The first issue is the intentionally awkward business of visually representing what ‘forgetting’ means, since this is something that happens in the mind. Bringing it to life requires context and incident. One popular choice is for the protagonist to notice a date ringed on a calendar while they are, say, having breakfast, but I’m sniffy about the use of text in that approach. More interestingly, how about post arriving through the door including a combination of brown envelopes and colourful ones indicative of birthday cards? Not startling, but at any rate better.

Next there’s the business of ‘escaping a social obligation’. Coming up with a ruse to get out of work for a few minutes to buy a card and flowers is one route here, but there are others. Why not play with the emotions of the significant date and the social obligation, and have someone leaving a childrens’ party to go to a funeral, removing a red nose and white face make up to attend the service…but neglecting to remove their enormous clown shoes?

The possibilities are endless, and point to the value of exercises like this in setting constraints for the conscious mind so that the unconscious can be liberated to come up with solutions. Of course, not everyone believes they have such capabilities. Some people will tell you that they can’t think visually, for instance. At which point it’s interesting to ask them how they recognise their car say, or their partner, if they don’t have a picture of them in mind. It’s also good to stretch your visual muscles once in a while with some image streaming, a process designed by whole brain learning pioneer Win Wenger:

Close your eyes and look up to a light source. Note the patterns that start to swirl in front of your eyelids. And describe aloud what they look like, and what those colours and shapes could be. If necessary, work with someone who’ll prompt you with questions to encourage you to do this process freely and without self-censorship. Do this for up to five minutes at a time.

Image streaming is lots of fun. But be warned of one documented side-effect: it increases your IQ the more you do it. I’ve known people who swore that they couldn’t see pictures in their heads learn to image stream and get a real buzz out of doing it that helps their writing and more. What you’re doing is bridging the bits of your mind that come up with images with the part that constructs narrative…in other words, exactly the aspects of your mind that you want to engage in screenwriting. And any form of exercise that takes the form of daydreaming aloud can only be a good thing, surely.

I went to see a theatrical version of The 39 Steps with friends yesterday, and it was excellent. I don’t go to the theatre as often as I’d like, and I’ve walked out a few times in recent years when I have been. This production had me captivated throughout. So, what were they doing that worked, when some trips to the theatre had ended prematurely?

Most importantly, the key to the show was the effort that the cast had put into devising inherently ridiculous solutions to impossible problems. The story is based on the film(s) and book of the same title, and features chases, train journeys, desperate runs through boggy terrain, and a cast of maybe a couple of dozen characters all performed by the same four actors. Realism was clearly out of the question, and so the performers looked elsewhere.

I wish I’d seen the process of devising and rehearsal for the show, because it was evidently a lot of fun. Given the necessity of entering into the realms of the absurd, they did so with gusto and team spirit, which is the only way to enter uncharted territory. Anthropologists talk about liminal zones, where normal social rules no longer hold sway. This applies just as much to audience members as it does to performers. For an actor to persuade an audience that a piece of silvery cloth being moved by someone offstage is a stream they’re wading through requires more than the sound effect of running water: complicity with the illusion is required.

The 39 Steps was built on many bold and audacious acts of complicity, which we as an audience accepted because they were entered into joyfully for one thing. But those devices are often used by small theatre companies doing plays for small audiences, whereas on this occasion the venue was filled for several consecutive nights.

The key to this conundrum, I believe, is that inventiveness in The 39 Steps was firmly wedded to a familiar narrative. Even if you don’t remember the film in detail, you’re aware of the gist: guy goes on the run to Scotland after getting falsely accused of a murder, and is enmeshed in an espionage case. Beginning, middle and end are clearly delineated, and many other dramatic conventions were observed along the way. Like, the hero had a conscious want – for adventure – distinct from his initially unconscious need – for the stability of a relationship. In achieving one, he secures the other, just like in so many films audiences are used to.

This balancing act of experimental physical theatre with conventional narrative made for a compelling audience experience. A more faithful recreation of The 39 Steps story would be dull on stage, with its hackneyed period characters, stilted dialogue, and tricky to realise action sequences. And a full-blown evening of avant-garde theatre would be too self-indulgent for most audiences to take in the absence of narrative. Here though, the combination was perfect, and hilarious, and an artistic success on every level.

I’ve relished the opportunities I’ve had to work with actors, and look forward to doing so again. One show I did, a theatre in education play called In Your Head on the theme of dyslexia, was a powerful and enjoyable learning experience. Sometimes I scripted scenes that actors performed. Other times they improvised and we shaped a definitive script from what worked between us. And on a few occasions they gave me a brief that I’d have never come up with myself, but delivered for them. In the show itself, the distinctions between working methods faded, and instead the audience responded to different elements: this part humorous, this moving, this polemical and this musical.

For no particular reason other than it’s fun, here’s the conclusion to In Your Head, which audiences - particularly teenagers with dyslexia - loved. To set the scene, protagonist Brian has made the journey to accepting and celebrating his dyslexia, and comes onto stage in a new guise as stand-up comic:

Think. In the beginning was the Word, which gives you some idea of where God stands on dyslexia. Although quite what you’re supposed to make of someone who spells their name YHVH and pronounces it Jehovah I don’t know. Maybe - just maybe - He’s dyslexic Himself. Anyway…

God goes round creating stuff - the heavens and the earth and the beasts that crawl and the fish that swim and every fowl of the air and every other living thing unto the ones that’s never been on Wildlife on One. But after all that work he couldn’t be bothered with doing an index for it. So he creates Adam, and one of the first jobs Adam has is to name everything.

Now what you’ve got to ask is, why did God get Adam to do the names? Sounds to me he was a bit worried about it. Scared he might get it wrong. Like a dyslexic?

And that might explain a few things. If we’re living in a messed-up world that no one can make sense of, maybe that’s because it was put together by a dyslexic deity. And if He made everyone in His own image, then dyslexics are just that bit more God-like than anyone else…

Bow down to me my people, for I am the Lord Brian, and those who tell me where to put a capital letter shall suffer my wrath…And mighty indeed is my wrath…

I’ve thought for a while that one good way to generate stories for those big one and two part dramas on ITV is to look at what the Daily Mail is saying. Not that I’m recommending the Mail as a journal of record, but if you want a paper that believes its finger is firmly on the pulse of Middle England – and many politicians seem to think that it does – then the Mail is your paper of choice. Let’s have a look at today’s copy, to see what dramas it inspires…

200 DRIVERS TRAPPED AS BLIZZARDS AND FREEZING WEATHER SWEEPS ACROSS COUNTRY

There’s plenty of jeopardy here, as the story follows a single mum and her child in one car; a stressed executive looking forward to a weekend with his mistress; and a lorry-load of illegal East European refugees. The danger is it’s all going to be rather static, since the camera is going to be pointing at people in their vehicles for the most part. What’s needed then is for a plucky group of the stranded to band together to seek the comfort of a motorway service station, where chunky vegetable soup and reheated lasagne is available. Then we can have conflict within the service station staff, about whether their social duty to the survivors outweighs their obligation to provide profits for their employers. If we can get Sarah Lancashire as the feisty cook, conflicting with a by-the-book station manager, then I reckon we’ve got a goer.

‘ELECTRICITY WOMAN WITH AMAZING POWERS’ CAUSES LIGHTS TO FLICKER WHEN SHE GETS STRESSED

In the Mail’s account, it turns out she has no control over this freakishness. Dramatically then, it would be good if she had to gain control over her mutant ability to save the day. Which is easily engineered: all that’s required is an accident somewhere remote, perhaps caused when she has a strop with her boyfriend in his helicopter and causes the power to fritz. Rescuers come looking for the victims, but there’s no clear indication where they’re to be found. It’s up to the electricity witch to control her abilities and send out a signal in morse from the helicopter’s lights. Sarah Lancashire would be perfect as the woman with the electrical powers.

JUDGE DEMANDS END TO MIXED-SEX WARDS AFTER ALCOHOLIC PATIENT GROPES FRAIL DEMENTIA SUFFERER

Now bear with me here, because I think this has great comedy potential. All we have to do is look at the genders: if the alcoholic is Sarah Lancashire, and the dementia sufferer David Jason, the whole thing starts to become poignant. The ward can be a microcosm of modern Britain, and the judge’s demand an example of political correctness gone mad, which the Mail and its readers are fervent believers in. Naturally, the patients rally round and stick it to the judge, demonstrating that they recover better in an environment where flirting is encouraged.

TOO BUSY TO EAT, THE WORKING MOTHERS WITH ‘STRESSOREXIA’

Let’s face it, Sarah Lancashire is pretty skinny. Which makes her ideal to star in this story of a mother struggling to build up her business after a nasty divorce, while bringing up her mildly autistic son. She’s faddy about food to start with, but by the second ad break it’s clear she’s a victim of ‘stressorexia’. Only guidance from a dishy doctor will restore balance to her life, and as she puts on the pounds, passion stirs between them. Close on the new family unit chowing down on Swedish meatballs after buying a symbolic three-seater sofa at IKEA

My first contact with superheroes was when Batman guested in an episode of Scooby Doo way back when. I was fascinated by this cowled and ominous figure, like no fictional character I’d seen before, and Batman entered my dreams that night.

Next, I found Batman in a box of American comics that one of my grandmothers had stashed away from when my uncles were younger. I could make little sense of what I read – no surprise, given that it was the team-up of two groups of superheroes from parallel worlds who for that reason each had a near-double in the story – but I was captivated by everything about the comics. I learned more about Batman, who didn’t just hang out with the Scooby Doo characters but also associated with other costumed good guys. Sometimes he’d be in Gotham City, sometimes in space, but wherever he was adventure would surely follow, and he’d tackle it using his wits and his fists and whatever gizmos he had to hand.

As it turned out, I became more of a Marvel Comics fan, perhaps because in Hulk, Spider-Man, and X-Men their characters had more messy stuff about alienation and growing up different that teenagers can easily latch onto. DC’s characters were…purer somehow. Which is maybe why an icon like Batman is so malleable, equally at home tackling an alien invasion at Superman’s side, and tracking drugs kingpins in shady alleys. And I was happy to read either kind of story. It was only after I’d read a fair few of them that I started to filter for quality, and recognise what that meant. And when I’d worked that out, I was able to seek it for myself, dropping titles I’d read uncritically and heading towards those written and drawn by creators I respected.

Walt Simonson’s run on Thor. Claremont and Byrne’s X-Men. Howard Chaykin’s seminal American Flagg. The unfinished-looking but still compelling Thriller (Robert Loren Fleming and Trevor Von Eden). And finally, after the weird-looking Ronin, which was too much for me at the time, Batman got the creator he deserved in Frank Miller. The Dark Knight Returns is a stunning piece of work, sprawling and ambitious and knowingly mythic, and I’ve read it many times over the years. But in many ways I prefer Miller’s other tale of the Caped Crusader, which he wrote but didn’t draw. Batman: Year One has a narrower scope than TDKR, and David Mazzucchelli’s minimal artwork hasn’t got the grandeur of Miller’s, but it’s a more disciplined and affecting story. It’s like the difference between Apocalypse Now and The Conversation: both Coppola in fine form, but one operatic in scale and the other intimate.

My first training in scriptwriting was at the London Cartoon Centre, and at that point in my life I’d have done anything to write a comic. Thankfully that didn’t happen – I had raw talent then, but nothing like the craft and tenacity required to make a career out of it, so it’s for the best that my career went in other directions. But I still love comics, and have been thinking about them more of late given the impetus of a competition to devise a superheroine for Shadowline and Image Comics, with the incentive of a guaranteed three-issue series co-owned with the artist.

How do you go about devising a superheroine then? For one thing, I wanted a character who was distinctly female, and not merely a hero with breasts. Which I did, but then found that a couple of the concepts I had were good on paper, but not ones I’d be wise to write…both were similar enough in some respects to Alan Moore’s Promethea that I chose not to proceed: you don’t win any favours by playing on the home ground of the medium’s finest writer in your first outing. So instead I went for another couple of heroines with a lighter feel to them, meaning I’ve come up with three pitches that I know would be a joy to write. Much as I’d like to tell you more, I can’t until the competition results are announced. Sorry.