Working as a copywriter, though I wanted to get away from it and did, turned out to be one of the smartest things I’ve done. A large part of a copywriter’s thinking is devoted to capturing distinctive propositions in arresting words; the fewer the better. And that, as I discovered when I began to seriously apply myself to the business of developing concepts for film, is the heart of what screenwriting is about.

The core of this style of thinking applies equally to copywriting and scripts. The thing being, your brain isn’t concerned with the output you’re developing — you’ve got a transferrable skill, and you’re more likely to earn money from it in the world of advertising than in film and television. In my case, I inhabit both those worlds, and that’s a lot healthier for me financially than if I was to depend on scriptwriting alone, which just ain’t happening right now.

Besides, I like the fun of many of the commercial gigs I get. This year I’ve written an after dinner speech for a former world champion sportsman, come up with the words for a couple of websites, and developed the thinking that holds some ads together. I treat this kind of stuff like some people use Sudoku: a means of keeping the brain in trim, though in this case I get paid handsomely for it too. And in the process I acquire all kinds of knowhow that might come in handy for a script one day. Better than twiddling around waiting for a call from the BBC.

The best book I’ve yet encountered on the sort of thinking that’s at the heart of coming up with unique ideas of any sort, though the book’s ostensible subject is advertising, is Al Ries and Jack Trout’s 22 Immutable Laws of Marketing. It’s a pretty slim volume, and contains pretty much one idea reiterated again and again: your job as a creator is to come up with a concept that occupies a unique position in the minds of its audience.

Why does that matter? Well, ask yourself this: who was the third man on the moon? You can almost certainly name Neil Armstrong as the first, but after that things get kind of fuzzy. As with astronauts, so with film treatments. You don’t want your idea to be seen as ‘not quite Die Hard‘, or ‘kind of Strictly Ballroom‘: you want to it to stake out a claim in a potential backer’s head and remain there.

This advice seems to sit at odds with the common advice to writers that we pitch stories in relation to existing ones, eg ‘Alien in a submarine’, ‘The Shining, but with Lily Allen wielding the axe’. A bit more thought and you’ll appreciate that the skill here is what in advertising terms is known as brand extension. Hence the appearance in your local supermarket of Pepsi Max, KitKat Dark, Bud Lite and so on. In other words, products that hark to successful precedents but have a distinction that keeps them separate.

All of this might seem far removed from the world of writing from the heart, but is it really? For one thing, even the most heartfelt writing needs to have input from the head too: no point in putting all your sweat and tears into a commercially unappealing project. And innovation is to do with the emotions as much as it is the mind: people aren’t rational about their favourite brands, music, or films.

Your mind makes no distinction between whether a concept it comes across is a radio advert, book jacket copy, a best man’s speech or a Bjork song. What matters is whether it makes an impact, and that comes from a blend of distinctiveness, emotional connection, and whatever else goes into a wow factor. Knowing that, then considering the end result you’re after when you’re developing an idea is a matter of common sense.

It takes a lot to propel someone out of their home to go out in a cold evening and see a film. Make it easier for audiences and come up with concepts that are compelling enough they feel driven to find out what your hot new thing is, and let them share that buzz with their friends. And if they can convey their enthusiasm for what they’ve seen in a short and snappy sentence you’ve helpfully provided in the form of a strapline, so much the better.