You can only write so much before wondering why you’re devoting so much of your time and attention to a pursuit that pays off for such a small number of its practitioners. It’s something I’ve been thinking through again lately, having decided that I won’t be putting in an entry for this year’s Red Planet competition.

Why not? After all, it’s a brilliant showcase for writers, with unsurpassed prizes. True, true. But in terms of where I am and where I want to be, I don’t currently have a new pilot script in me that’ll be sufficiently distinct from the one I entered last year, set in the world of drugs work. Sure, I could write something, but the only new project that’s close to me writing it is one that’s not too far away in subject matter.

Why is that important? Because I feel I’m at an interesting stage with my writing, with a strong pilot script for the drug worker series that’s already attracted professional interest, and which I want to circulate further around the industry. And when I do, it’ll be accompanied by a feature script that I’m happy with.

So, how come it’s taken so long to get these scripts sorted out? Well, I’ve written all kinds of work over the years, some of it commissioned and paid for. But somewhere along the line I got sidetracked by my relationship with a particular filmmaker. We made a short together that got to tour internationally with the support of the British Council, and he turned up on a regular basis with other opportunities following that initial success. Which was great. I developed any number of treatments for shorts and features alongside him, and learned a lot in the process. Great to a point, except you can only work on projects for no money for so long before weariness starts to set in. And the projects being dangled were further and further away from my true interests.

Things came to a head when I was coaxed into writing a treatment set in the world of American cage fighting. It was reasonable enough, a perfectly professional piece of work that would have made a solid film of its sort. Only, my heart wasn’t in it. Even less so when a meeting was arranged in America at which the story was pitched (thankfully not by me) to Jean Claude Van Damme. At which point I realised that I was participating in some kind of cheesefest that didn’t represent me in any way.

Since then, I’ve taken a different tack. It took a while to sort out exactly where it was taking me, but what matters is that I can honestly say every project I’ve been involved with since those days has been one I’m fully engaged with and committed to. Yes, I can turn round a competent and well executed story of various sorts - but for me, with my background in advertising, that’s really just a demonstration of copywriting skills. And I’d still be working in advertising if that’s all I aspired to.

Instead, I’m finding that I’ve regained the enthusiasm for writing I had in my early days, before I knew quite what I was doing. Some of the sample scripts on this site come from that period; the play Breaking In for instance. God only knows what the structure of that play is, but it’s not one you’d find recommended in any book on writing for theatre. But it doesn’t matter. It’s a story about two people in a relationship that seems to be doomed, but where there’s the hint of light if they can only stop for a moment and see what they’re doing to themselves and each other. Simple as that. And funny, too. The core is what matters, and that’s what I’ve realised anew in the range of stories I’ve been developing in recent years.

The seed for the stories I’m interested in can be all kinds of things. It can come from knowing drugs workers and being fascinated by how they keep going in the face of overwhelming odds. From wanting to tell a modern day fable with a talented illustrator. From finding an original way to tell what might otherwise be an imagination-free genre tale. Whatever it is, there’s got to be a kernel there, a challenge I’ve not taken on before that can inspire me to keep working, whatever else is happening. And if that challenge is there, and I can meet it, then I can honestly say I’m doing the best I can at writing what matters to me. And believe me, that feels a lot better than knowing your cage fighting yarn is being discussed by the Muscles from Brussels.

There are creators in all fields who prefer creativity itself to be something unexamined, for fear that looking under the hood of what they get up to will disturb their ability to actually do it.  Not a theory I subscribe to: I’m very much of the opposite inclination, happy to look at the processes which may underpin my ability to write.

I like to see my attitude as part of a lineage which includes seminal creators such as Miles Davis and Brian Eno (and no, that doesn’t mean I believe I’m as ‘good as’ them).  Miles started off as a sideman in the bop era, before pretty much inventing cool jazz, and then reinventing himself a few other times.  He did so out of a desire to keep moving forward, not getting stuck in his or anyone else’s cliches.  As a result, it’s hard to hear the connections between, say, Kind Of Blue and On The Corner.  The former sounds accessible enough, a masterpiece of melodic group interplay.  The latter baffled people on its release, and only in recent years has it been reappraised in the light of its twin influences: experimental composer Stockhausen and funk maestro Sly Stone.  Personally, I love both disks, but even if you don’t it’s hard not to be impressed by Davis’s determination to keep his sound fresh.

Brian Eno takes that determination to experiment one step further with the Oblique Strategies cards he co-developed with Peter Schmidt.  They’re designed to keep the recording process alive when things get stale, giving gnomic instructions such as ‘What would your best friend do?’ and ‘Honour the error as a hidden intention’.  OK, maybe hard to imagine such processes being employed now that Eno is working with Coldplay, but listen further back to his solo albums or collaborations with Robert Fripp and David Byrne and you can hear a restless intelligence at work, navigating uncharted territories that would later be marked out as whole new genres of music.

What this has to do with writing is my conviction that writers should look in any and every possible direction when seeking inspiration and guidance.  Read Steven Pinker on language and thought.  Study Tarot for interesting ways to look at character and structure.  Pore over graphic novels for new possibilities in visual storytelling.  Talk to people outside of whatever social circles you usually move in to keep your antennae alert to difference.  Your job is to output writing, and its uniqueness will be determined by the range of your input.  There’s no shortage of writers out there who’ve studied with Robert McKee: how about instead soaking up all you can about hypnosis, anthropology, scuba diving, the tattoo business? 

I’ve not done a screenwriting MA and am perhaps stubbornly proud of the fact that whatever I’ve learned and accomplished I’ve done by doing it my way.  Perverse maybe, but it makes a difference.  OK, it’s taken me longer to make some connections than it otherwise would, but the particular path I’ve taken has been fascinating and absorbing, even on its darkest days, and I wouldn’t swap it for anything.  For me, perhaps the biggest lesson I’d pass on about writing is simply captured in the phrase ‘be where the difference is’.  By which I mean stay restless, tune in to what is most likely to take you off your own map and into the bit that reads ‘Here be dragons’.  History tells us that dragons are unlikely to have existed, but the pursuit of them - well, that’s a grand tale…

Where the dynamic of art and society is concerned, I’m very much of the belief that art can have social value. Not that all art should seek to have social merit, but that it can absolutely be a valid part of the debates that society has with itself about issues affecting some or all of its members. Today’s Guardian features two stories where art and politics have intersected with interesting results…

Over in America, Indiana teacher Connie Heermann has been using the book The Freedom Writers Diary, filmed recently with Hilary Swank, to inspire a class of underperforming teenagers. The stories it contains are written by young people from the inner city, whose lives have been turned round partly as a result of their creativity. And, guess what, it contains some swearing. Despite getting the assent of 150 parents to using the book, one of the school’s board members objected to some of the more potty-mouthed content, with the result that Connie has been suspended from her job without pay for 18 months, and the book effectively banned from the school.

I was lucky enough to have had an English teacher with Connie’s vision. We were bored to tears by the first few pages of Stevenson’s The Master of Ballantrae, and responding to our agonies he went and got us Kes instead. It was a breath of fresh air, and reading something concerning the life of a boy our own age living in what was recognisably our own world was a liberation. I’m pretty sure there was a bit of swearing in there too, but thankfully the school board never intervened. That same teacher was passionate about the work of George Orwell, and it’s maybe because of that baptism in socially engaged prose by a committed and articulate advocate that I became fascinated by the interaction of the world and the writer.

It’s always interesting when an interest group claims to be unfairly represented by a work of fiction, and this week it’s the turn of that underprivileged bunch, barristers. Their bone of contention is the excellent series Criminal Justice, which unfortunately for them is written by one of their number, Peter Moffatt, who could be fairly said to know a thing or two about the horsetrading that goes on in the legal system.

Timothy Dutton, the head of the bar (which itself is an interesting choice of language to describe what is in effect a cartel for bewigged justice dispensers) claims that Criminal Justice in no way, shape or form resembles the way that yer actual barristers conduct yer actual law. And you’d like to think he’s right, what with the tactics used by the show’s barrister to stall, to persuade, and bamboozle its youthful protagonist.

Unfortunately, there’s a wealth of evidence to suggest that this portrait is in fact highly representative of what goes on in Britain’s legal system, and that Dutton is flipping his wig about someone with inside knowledge writing about it in a show that’s attracted respect in part for the authenticity of its detail. Funnily enough, there have been no complaints from jailbirds about the portrayal of the brutal anthropology of incarceration. Sure, as Moffatt acknowledges, he’s writing a piece of television drama that is enthralling and entertaining, but there’s no denying the research that’s gone into it.

Where these two stories are concerned, I’m hoping there’ll be more to come. It’d be lovely to think that public outrage could help Connie Heermann get her job back from the knuckle-draggers who took it from her. And I’m sure further elegantly worded asides will be exchanged between Peter Moffatt and his former lords and masters about Criminal Justice, which continues until the end of the week.

On the face of it, ‘write what you know’ has to be the most restrictive adage to confront the would-be writer. For a start, it rules out most genre writing, assuming you’ve not been involved in a space battle, been hired to find a missing child, or swung your sword against an ogre. And given the amount of dross in genre fiction, maybe that’s not bad advice.

Only, what are we left with at that point? Dreary novels about adultery imagined and not acted on? Definitive accounts of the working lives of architects, suntan technicians and tarmac specialists with a hankering to write a novel? Stories that elevate the mundane into something not really like art? That way lies madness, or at least an endless round of Nick Hornby imitators and tales of dismal childhood…hmm, pretty much what you’ll find an abundance of in book stores.

‘Write what you know’ is not much use taken at face value then. But treated as an endorsement to write what you know about through your emotional life, it releases endless possibilities for writing. I’ve never had an archenemy, but there are a few people in my life I’d have gladly tossed off a waterfall at one point or another. I’ve never colonised an alien planet, but I’ve spent months living in another culture, one where the fact that the language was shared didn’t mean that many assumptions were. I’ve never performed on the main stage at Glastonbury with a band, but I’ve performed poetry as an amateur alongside professionals and been as well received as they were.

Very rarely do the scripts I’ve written correspond with the facts of my life. But more often than not, there are ideas that I’m passionate about, emotions I feel, concepts that matter to me. Those are as much a part of ‘what I know’ as the mere details of my life, and are much more important when it comes to writing.

I’m currently researching a tv drama set in a 1980s counterculture I’ve seen precious little drama about, let alone any that has the right feel when I compare it to my own experiences of that world and the people who inhabited it. My personal experience will be useful as a benchmark, but where the script will come alive is when I combine it with research and a compelling - fictional - story. Sure, there’s a strong element of reality to what I’m writing about, but I’m not devising a documentary and feel no obligation to be restricted to the facts as they’ve been recorded (…and in this instance, some of the relevant information has been expunged from the records of contemporary newspapers with help from security services).

Veracity without drama is lifeless. Drama without emotional veracity is empty. Tread a path where your own emotions inform the choices you make in a story, and you have the capacity to create something interesting. This, by the way, doesn’t mean wallowing in your emotions and using them as an opportunity to lament the end of your relationship with the heartless so-and-so who left you high and dry when you had a fleeting affair with their best friend. That way lies self-indulgence.

The trick here, and I’d recommend meditation classes if it doesn’t come naturally, is to shift between feeling and listening to your emotions as they were at the time, and viewing what happened with empathy for all involved. Approached in that manner, you can create rounded characters for all the parts required, rather than creating an improbably angelic version of yourself and mere puppets for anyone else.

Bloody hell, this writing lark gets pretty complicated, and into some rich psychological and philosophical territory. Well, yes. Enjoy the journey though, and please try to distinguish between a bit of necessary navel gazing and disappearing up your arse.

One thing I really don’t like is Sunday newspapers at New Year. They’re always filled with rehashed stuff about the previous 12 months, with pompous commentaries on top about the meaning of those events blah blah. So now, this being the 100th post at youdothatvoodoo, rather than cast a teary eye over the previous 99 entries, I’m instead going to look to the future, because something special’s coming up…

A few years back, I was chosen by my regional screen agency, EM Media, to go on a course that the UK Film Council were running, called Train the Trainers. It was led by screenwriting guru Phil Parker, and we were taught how to deliver the 40 hour Introduction to Screenwriting class that he’d developed. Lots of fun, and it led to me delivering that training in Nottingham on three occasions, hosted by Confetti Institute of Creative Technologies.

While many aspects of Phil’s course are very good indeed, I couldn’t help think something was missing, and that was some time at the front end of the course to explore creativity in general, to ensure that students had tools to develop and enhance their creativity all-round before applying it to the specific task of screenwriting. The material I came up with for that aspect worked really well, and equipped students with skills that they could tap into for the remainder of the course, and which are useful in many other contexts too.

Anyway, I’ve continued to explore the psychology of creativity for some years, studying a variety of models of what creativity is, and how it can be developed further. More importantly, I’ve found practical ways of teaching that material to people in ways that bring it to life: creativity isn’t an academic subject, it’s as much to do with attitude as anything.

Some of the material I’ve come across I’ve mentioned here before, such as Osborn’s typology of creative processes, and its spin-off the SCAMPER grid. Equally, I’ve looked at other sources, such as Koestler’s The Act of Creation - a big influence on 60s creatives from the Beyond the Fringe crew to writers and designers in ad agency studios - and continued to follow up-to-the-minute research on creativity. I’ve also done some research of my own into the impact of physiology on creativity, influenced by my experience of tai chi, and found ways to make that part of the process.

Anyway, all of this and more, you’ll get a chance to experience for yourself at a one day workshop I’ll be running on Saturday July 12. The event is called Connecting with Creativity, and the venue is in Nottingham’s city centre, and if you’re at all interested in learning effective means of developing and enhancing your creative potential, I want to see you there.

Full price seats are £75, but readers of youdothatvoodoo get a discount available until June 12: tickets purchased up until then cost £60. To get in touch, email adrian at youdothatvoodoo dot com and I’ll happily answer at least some of your questions about the event…the only way for sure to know what it’ll be like is to attend. I’m more than confident this will be an exciting and rewarding day, and here’s some feedback offered by my screenwriting students about courses I’ve run:

‘Thank you so much for opening up a new avenue for me.’
‘Thanks for making it brilliant.’
‘Thanks for so much useful and stimulating stuff.’
‘Thanks for a great course and for all your encouragement, focus and guidance.’
‘Cannes do!’

I finished a script earlier this evening, and I’m really pleased with it. And particularly as I entered the home stretch, I realised more of what the story is actually about, and realised there was a much more interesting transformative arc there for one of the principle characters than I’d first imagined.

Comics writer Alan Moore sometimes uses the metaphor of high altitude mapping to describe what it’s like assembling a story, and that made sense in this particular case. I put together the characters, themes, and structure in a way that seemed to fit, and then launched into writing the damn thing. And, what do you know - it worked! What’s interesting is the difference between knowing what the story is like from that high altitude perspective, and then the ground level experience of actually writing it.

In the process, I discovered a lot more about some of the characters than I thought I knew. And I hope that the show who those characters belong to agree with my conclusions, since that would increase my chances of selling this sample script to them. In this case, it’s a sample script that’s been requested, rather than being offered out of the blue, so I’m hoping that too will make them see me in a good light.

This is the stage of things where other people get involved, and that’s always an odd one. Right now, I’m very happy with this particular script, and feel it fits the bill for the show it’s aimed at. In reality, the feedback I’ll get will almost certainly point out ways that I’ve strayed from the path, in their eyes, and more than likely when I receive that news I’ll be inclined to agree with it. Time gives distance.

But, this very second, I am more than happy with the work I’ve done. And that’s something important to hold onto: something I aim for in everything I write is for it to be as good an example of what it is as it can possibly be. You’re on a hiding to nothing if every time you set about writing you aim for Nobel status, but if instead you aim for an attainable personal goal, then you can reach it, maybe even surpass it.

For instance, the play Breaking In that you’ll find on this site is my crack at writing a decent two-hander play, and I reckon I did the job…as did the audiences who saw it. My Hellblazer comic script is my stab both at writing for that title, and at using colour in narrative ways within a comic. And so on: set yourself an achievable goal, and you can look forward to reaching it - decide that nothing less than, say, being the next James Joyce will satisfy you and you’re much more likely to end up dissatisfied.

Naturally, having finished some writing, I figure I deserve a treat. So I splashed out on Amazon, seeing good deals on seasons of The Wire and The Shield I don’t have. Not that all my wants are American. Far from it: I’m waiting for the price to come down on Party Animals, last year’s sharply written drama about MPs’ research assistants, and recently picked up Boys From The Blackstuff for £10.

All this self-congratulatory stuff is bringing to mind The Shamen’s old positivist anthem, Pro Gen, from where this post gets its title. Whoever would have thought I’d be quoting Mr C in a blog on screenwriting?

Once upon a long time ago, I was a member of a local writing group. Only for a short time, it turned out, since like nearly all writing groups I’ve had any acquaintance with it was more for people who liked the idea of being writers than those who actually did any.

Anyway, there was an old guy there, his face all pinched and frowny, so that I told myself I was making a judgment based on his appearance and he was probably a really nice old man if only I listened to him. So I listened, and he proceeded to tell me and those few people at the group who still let his words into their heads, that it was hard being old since you’d heard everything so many times before, and that there wasn’t anything new to hear anyway.

He continued in this vein for a while, and I realised that sometimes appearances aren’t deceptive: he looked like a crotchety old coot and, by god, he was one. And I thought, I’m pretty sure if I believed I’d heard everything before and that there was nothing new under the sun, my face would probably wrinkle up like his, in disgust at the things it was affronted by on a daily basis.

Please note that this man’s condition was not age-related. He just happened to have practiced it for a long time. I suspect that it was ingrained as far back as his twenties, when he’d have been sneering at teenagers for making the same mistakes he had, or more likely making ones he’d been too scared to actually make in his own life.

Anyway, it struck me that this was an odd attitude for someone calling himself a writer to approach life with. And I wondered what kind of writing he did. Turns out, he was writing a research-heavy historical novel about a dentist who extracted teeth from a minor American president, which he reckoned had some impact on late nineteenth century politics. No surprise that 1) it was set in the past, and 2) pain featured heavily.

And I asked myself, when confronted by this elderly wannabe and his grim worldview ‘Is this the best way to approach writing, or life in general?’. I decided it was not.

It seemed to me that a more helpful attitude for the aspiring writer would be one of curiosity about the world, since you never know where or when you might come across a story, either yourself or through listening to the ones that others share with you. And such an attitude of curiosity would go hand in hand with a non-judgmental outlook, for otherwise you might find yourself dismissing perfectly good stories merely because they happen to come from the experience of people you deem
unfit for reasons that matter deeply to you but probably don’t make much sense if you think about them. But rather than make that non-judgmental outlook something po-faced, why not make it engaging and friendly, to increase the chance of coming across people wanting you to be part of their lives and tell you the amazing things that happen to them?

The above is as close to a credo as you’re likely to hear from me. All I can say is, it’s served me well. And going through the world with that attitude has introduced me to drug dealers and schizophrenics, astronomy groupies and glamour models, hypnotists and witches, all of them with stories that have enriched my life, and led me to write stories that will hopefully enrich the lives of others, or at any rate give them something diverting to help pass the time before whatever happens next in their own story.

What is a story, anyway? Is it defined by incident, or meaning?

We hear and tell tens of stories throughout the day, in full or in part. Some of them amuse, others provoke thought, others give insight into the teller. We define ourselves to others, and ourselves, by the stories we tell.

There’s an outfit called the Landmark Forum which grew out of a seventies therapy movement, est. I know a couple of people who’ve had run-ins with Landmark, and though they practice some pretty dubious habits such as locking people into seminar rooms and refusing to let them go to the toilet (which takes me back to junior school if anything) they also have some more interesting things going on. Such as, getting group members to tell the defining stories of their lives and, gently or otherwise, pulling those stories apart.

Why would behaving so impolitely to someone’s stories be useful? Well, when it comes to the stories that define us, we often choose to play archetypal roles. Whether we’re hero, victim, fool or survivor, we’ve identified with a particular stance on life that, arguably, we play out in other aspects of our life, whether or not they’re the most appropriate ways to deal with the situations we’re confronted with. Challenge that role, by bringing other perspectives to the stories people tell, drawing attention to the necessary omissions or weighted descriptions, and that can help people rethink not just the content of their story, but the meaning they made of it and have carried forward since.

So, allowing a bunch of killjoys can be good for you, huh? Actually, done well — and I’m talking about the kind of interaction you can have with a caring friend rather than some of the clodhopping accounts I’ve heard from Landmark — and it can be a very useful experience. Realising that the cherished story in which you broke your mother’s favourite vase didn’t mean she no longer loved you, but was the start of a journey in which by paying for a new one you became a provider for the first time in your life, can be a therapeutic experience.

I’d suggest that one of the things writers do in creating their professional stories is, sometimes, reexamine some of their own fundamental stories. Which would explain the recurrence of particular themes in a given writer’s work. And, knowing that it’s possible to do so, would it be worth asking yourself what your own fundamental stories are and seeing how they relate to the scripts and prose you’ve already written, and the projects you aspire to tackling in the future?

Eek, we’ve finally got onto ‘writing as therapy’ some 90 posts in to this experience. Apologies if I’m coming across a bit Dr Phil — greater apologies still if I’m all Oprah. And mum…sorry about that vase.

What metaphors do you have for writing? Is it something that’s as natural as having a daydream, or as tough as cracking a particularly elusive walnut? And what about ideas? Are they like butterflies you have to catch with an imaginary net, or that you tune into on your mind’s private radio station?

The metaphors we use are a reflection of what we believe, and shape how we behave. I worked at an ad agency once where one of the directors would pair up with a writer to have what he called a ‘braindump’, an unsettling image that conjures up furrowed brows and straining - and is frankly an activity that should be engaged in on your own unless there’s a medical need for assistance. Then there’s the famous ‘brainstorm’, a term some people refuse to use now as they believe it offensive to the mentally ill, so hence we have new terms like ‘thought shower’, one that’s never really convinced me.

If you’re unclear of what your metaphor for creativity, or writing is, ask yourself what your mental picture is of that process. Some people’s mental picture will contain that metaphor very obviously: a zoo full of wild and exotic animals; a solar system where every planet has different physical and maybe even social rules; a garden that needs to be cultivated. If you don’t seem to have a mental image, then ask yourself ‘what is creativity or writing like…?’ and listen for what comes up.

At which point, some of you will be nodding your heads, and others will still be wondering why any of this matters. Well, if you’re in the latter camp and you’re confident in your ability to generate workable concepts and develop them to fruition (…another metaphor, as it goes) then all very well. If, however, you’re someone who feels that their writing is sometimes difficult, that they’re stuck, and that words flow like the last inch of treacle out of a crusted-up tin (..another metaphor) then perhaps it’s time you had some fun with this notion and explored what your metaphors around writing are, and what they could more productively be.

Metaphors for creativity give you some idea of the pre-conditions that need to exist before someone will allow themselves to be creative. If your creativity is such that you require Classic FM, a chilled Chianti, and certain flowers in your study before you can put words to paper, then I wish you all the best and hope you continue to enjoy a steady stream of classical music, wine, and blossoms. But what if creativity could be as natural as breathing, say? It’s not a coincidence that the words ‘inspiration’ and ‘respiration’ have a lot in common…so what if you could literally come up with ideas as easily as breathing in and out, wherever you happen to be?

Start to keep your eyes and ears open for evidence of metaphors that you and others have for creativity, for writing, for ideas, for whatever else you’re interested in. And notice the difference between those who have an abundance of those things, and people who struggle to come up with anything inventive or novel. What metaphors do the generative people use, compared to those who find creativity difficult? And how might you be able to assist them in finding more constructive metaphors, if that’s something they want to play with..?

Imagine how tiresome it would have really been being part of the Algonquin Round Table, with Dorothy Parker and cronies swapping wisecracks over martinis. I’m betting most of those bon mots were carefully rehearsed, and they were drinking so much because they were nervous.

Which is one way in to a point about writing. Don’t overpolish it. We can tell when you’ve sweated over a supposedly offhand remark, spot it when you’re trying to hard to emulate Aaron Sorkin’s dialogue. This is a phenomenon that affected my prose more than my scripts, which is one of the reasons I rarely go near prose. I have only to read a few lines of my short story The Calico Kid to be reminded that I was taken with J.P. Donleavy at the time. And – give me points for lofty ambition at least – one of my stabs at a Doctor Who novel, of all things, stands self-consciously in Thomas Pynchon’s shadow.

The thing with influences is transcending them. And I don’t mean full-on Buddha style transcendence here; more, the way that a child effortlessly outgrows early fads and peers to develop its own personality. Sometimes that means rejecting early influences the way teenagers do when they start to abhor a previously cherished band under the influence of new friends. Only, the harder you try to reject something that meant a lot to you, the more its influence will show in ways that you can’t control.

Sometimes, you can spot the traces of other writers in things you see. A good few writers have tried to emulate Paul Abbott, not least the ones who script his series Shameless. Few have mastered that Xeroxing, and I’m not sure that’s the best way to approach the show anyway: the giveaway is typically the way they approach writing Frank, who for me is still only written convincingly by Abbott.

At other times, a dialogue tic makes its way round tv shows. I don’t know who first wrote ‘I love the bones of you’, which is a lovely heartfelt way of expressing that sentiment…but I am mightily sick of hearing it from the mouths of various characters on Coronation Street who have no business saying such a thing. At least play with the structure a little, you know? Anyone loving their partner’s bones could reasonably be assumed to be fond of their flesh, their eyes, their arse, and even their words. Think, people: it costs nothing and is worth everything.

The key, as ever, is to keep your attention on the outside world, and note the differences between it and the model of the world you contain in your head and reveal in your vocabulary and sentences. The more differences you note, the richer your internal world becomes, and the more you have to write about. Sounds like a good deal huh? Then stop reading this, and go and note down at least three phrases that capture your attention in the course of today. And tomorrow. And the day after. And…