First things first: go and read this excellent post by Philip Palmer. I was lucky enough to be part of a course that Philip led in Brighton a few years ago, and still have occasional contact with him. And when he talks about knowing yourself, he’s speaking the truth.

I know this, because there were a few years when I was writing and not being myself, and one way or another that’ll catch up with you. It all started innocently enough, when I did one of the smarter things I’ve thought up: there was an ad from a filmmaker looking for sample scripts from writers, and I hadn’t got anything suitable but instead indicated my enthusiasm and suggested we come up with something from scratch. That move paid off: I met the director/producer, and we got on well.

Not long later, he was given the chance to take over the making of a short. And he wanted me to do a script rewrite so that he could do the story justice, which he believed the existing script didn’t. I agreed with him. Besides, this was my chance to make a film. So I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. And in the end did about fifteen drafts of what went on to become my first filmed project. And there was a level at which it was pretty cool — it was filmed on 35mm, featured a relatively well known tv actor, and was beautifully shot. The British Council liked it enough to tour it internationally.

But something was wrong, which my friend Nicola put her finger on. “It’s not your voice, and it’s not those characters’ voices either.” Bingo. That was it. In adapting the work of another writer, to suit the demands and style of a director with his own vision, something had been left out of the equation. That something was me. Oh, there are traces of thoughts and feelings of mine in there, no doubting that — but it lacked a coherent voice.

And that surprised me. I’d written and helped devise plays where my voice was present, but something about the development process of that short film stifled it. And I felt similarly about what happened when I got to write episodes of Doctors. Sure, I was grateful for the opportunity and everything — a BBC gig, whoo — but somewhere in the long process between coming up with an idea, having it approved with reservations, selected with considerations, and developed with the input of maybe four people channeled through one script editor, the scripts lost any of the idiosyncrasies that I’d liked them for in the first place.

This, you’ll understand, is seen with my retrospectacles on. I’d like to say I learned from what happened and immediately made necessary changes to ensure my voice was once again front and centre in my writing. But it wasn’t like that. I got involved in all manner of projects for the filmmaker I’d done the short with, which increasingly veered away from anything I could recognise as me. Only when I’d written a treatment for a cagefighting movie that was aired in a meeting with Jean Claude Van Damme did I realise the magnitude of the nonsense I was participating in.

No wonder then, that I had a breakdown of sorts. And, to tell the short version, that turned out to be a turning point for me. For the last five or so years, I’ve only developed stories that I am 100% committed to, that — like it or not — are characterised by my voice, my sweat, my stink. That’s the way I like it, and — interestingly — it’s since then that people have paid more attention to the projects I want to develop. Which isn’t to say the going is easy. Far from it. But I’d rather do things this way and fail than succeed and feel as compromised as I did a decade ago.