Here’s an idea

Ah, the dreaded pitch. I still maintain that the hardest thing to do is to pitch yourself and your ideas, but having had a fair amount of experience of it and exposure to it, it’s no longer a thing to dread. Perhaps the most dramatic pitch experience I had was realising, shortly before 9am and while in the bath, that the pitch I thought was the following day was in fact that day, and somehow getting myself to the airport, to Johannesburg, and in front of the pitch committee by the designated 2pm timeslot – that pressure didn’t really allow for any time to stress about the pitch itself!

So, what makes a good pitch? Well, first of all, is your story good. If your story is excellent, and your characters are compelling, you’ve really got very little to worry about. The key part of a pitch that I think goes wrong for people quite often is forgetting that there are three things a story needs, and one of them is an audience. You need to focus your pitch on the people you’re pitching too, and beyond that to the audience they serve. You need to put yourself in the position of audience member, and be convinced that you’d really want to watch whatever it is you’re pitching.

I don’t think it will ever be simple to pitch ideas, and in so doing, to pitch myself. The way I do it well is by being prepared, being confident, and knowing full well that I’m going to pitch far more often than I’m going to sign on a dotted line (they aren’t really dotted though, are they), so I might as well get as much practice as possible.

Once upon a time…

…we started to tell stories. Now, we tell them all the time, from the stories companies tell us in order to make us buy things, to the stories we tell ourselves to get ourselves motivated, and of course, the stories that entertain, inspire, and engage us. This week (this is last week’s blog, technically, but who’s keeping track) we have been looking at story structure – is there a better or best way to tell a story? Does it get boring if all movies have a similar structure?

I believe so firmly that storytelling is an innate part of being human. There’s a reason Aristotle’s poetics still resonates, and that’s because hey, the Ancient Greeks knew how to tell a good tale. Excellent stories last, they get shared, they take on a life of their own. And there’s a reason that archetypal stories abound – the Hero’s Journey, the fish out of water, the rags to riches story – we like these. They make us feel good about ourselves, they reaffirm the way we see life.

I believe that a good structure is like a skeleton. And hey, we all have pretty similar skeletons, but that doesn’t make us all the same, or boring, so why should stories be any different?

Technology…

…is everything that was invented after you were born. I can’t remember who said that, but it’s always struck a chord with me.

This week we’ve been looking at the history of screenwriting, from a scenarist writing a simple list of scenes to be shot, to  where we are today. At the same time I met this week with a potential writing job for animation, and the contrast really struck me.

To what extent does our writing change because of external factors (the introduction of sound to film, shifting to longer reels, or more recently, vfx, interactive television like Black Mirror trialed) and to what extent does our writing and imagination shift technology? If we want enough for something to be possible, and we write it, can we then move the medium forward to make that possible?

I believe it’s an intricate dance. When I was writing weekly with puppets, the possibilities that vfx brought to the party and the conversations I had with vfx and the art department about what was and wasn’t possible absolutely affected what I wrote, how I wrote it, and how I would imagine things in the future.

Perhaps the scripts I write twenty years from now will look vastly different indeed.

#notallfeedback

This week was an interesting one, because having finally submitted a draft script for a project I’m working on, I was briefly in that sweet spot as a screenwriter: between submission and feedback, where you can briefly feel confident you’ve done something great.

Today I got some initial feedback on that script, as well as having a feedback session with my tutor for my MA, the first of such sessions. And honestly, I needn’t have feared. In both cases the feedback was encouraging, thoughtful, challenging, and absolutely necessary. And I think this ties into last week’s thoughts on what a collaborative medium screenwriting is.

Of course it’s wonderful to write things that I think are excellent, and feel smug about them. But the right feedback can only ever make things better, either by getting me to defend my original work, and become clearer in my own mind about my choices, or by adding to the original, or shifting it into a better space.

The wrong kind of feedback is obviously rather different. The kind that feels like microphone feedback, a sudden sharp painful noise. Sure, maybe you were doing something wrong, but clearly this is not the way to deal with it.

And happily, I still get to decide which kind of feedback is which.

I love the smell of existentialism in the morning

Week two of the MA, and we’re grappling with notions of what a screenplay is, what a screenwriter is, and who “authors” a film.

One thing I’ve often thought about is how most people don’t know how to read scripts – that’s perfectly understandable, we don’t read any scripts very often, and when we do, it’s usually Shakespeare and we get taught it in irritating ways that don’t properly engage with it as a performance text.

What this means as a screenwriter though is that you’re writing in a language that is unique to an industry. Producers and directors are the ones that need to be able to read your script as you want them to, primarily. Actors too, of course, but they’ll likely only see it if the producers and directors approve. What to leave in, what to leave out. How much to dictate, how much to imply.

I imagine that most screenwriters, like me, see a movie in their head as they write – I have to, and then I have to try and capture that in words. Is the finished product exactly what was in my head? Not always, but more often than you think. And sometimes, it’s so perfect that I am brought to tears. So what’s a screenplay? I know a good one when I see one, if that helps.

A zombie blog rises: I’m back

I’ve just begun an MA in Writing for the Screen, to try and add some academic weight to the work I’ve been doing for many years, and one of the requirements is to write a reflective blog about the process. I contemplated a clean slate, but since this blog is here, and has my name on it, I decided to rather return and see if I can bring new life to an old site. (It was on “please reset your password” levels of neglect, so I’m being optimistic!)

The first week has been all about considering why it is that we write and tell stories, and then coming up with a premise for a short project that we will tackle this semester. After toying with several ideas, including some that I’m busy with as professional projects, I decided, rather gleefully, to revisit an idea I’ve had for years, but never done anything with.

I think for me part of storytelling has always been finding the right time and space to tell a story. Some stories demand a particular medium, for example, they are only good ideas for TV, or for a short story, or for a play. Others need to be timed correctly, and I think perhaps the time for this story is now. At it’s core it’s about a desire to be seen, a desire for attention, and the fleeting nature of that in our society.

I think I also leaned into it because it’s a bit of a dark comedy, and I love writing comedy. A lot of the projects I’m working on right now are drama, so my funny bone needs exercising.

With a lot of thoughts in my head about the fractal nature of stories, and chaos theory, and creating worlds, I’m starting a new adventure.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It’s almost the end of the year, just one more script left to write, and then I can hang up my satirical pen until January. But before I do, there’s something I want to talk about.

It’s something that affects me pretty much every day of my life. And I don’t normally bother talking about it, because, truthfully, there are more important things to worry about.

Imagine if you had a drip over your desk, and once a day a drop fell down your neck. It’d annoy you, but you wouldn’t focus on it, just brush it off and move along. Maybe one day there’d be a couple of drops, but never enough to make you get up and do something about it.

As a woman who dares to have an opinion, and tries to be funny, I am harassed online by men every day. It ranges from mild antagonism to rape and death threats.

It’s exhausting.

Just yesterday, something I wrote caused rather more drips down the back of my neck than usual – three hundred and nine rape and death threats. Three hundred and nine men who took time out of their busy day to threaten me.

Yes, these people are idiots.

Yes, they’re not worth my time and energy.

Yes, men get threats too, although not generally the rape ones.

But it’s exhausting.

I have no answers here. No solutions.

I know for sure that I’m going to keep having opinions, and trying to be funny, and I’m definitely not shutting up. I know for sure that there are people in this world that I want to rile, that I want to make uncomfortable. And if I succeed, these people will probably threaten me.

But it’s exhausting.

Like but Unlike

Researchers and clever people have just discovered a document which shows that the term “African American” is at least 50 years older than we think, appearing in print in 1782. And, as always, if it appears in print, it’s probably already in general use. This finding fascinated me, as “African American” has always fascinated me linguistically. And remember, I speak as a lover of words and meanings, I am no great academic on the subject.

 

A brief bit of internet research about 1782 in the United States reveals it to be pretty much a year of business for the country – the start of a new bank, a new mint, oh and smack bang in the middle of the Revolutionary War. Money and war, definitely business as usual. This is a time when America is defining itself. When everyone is an immigrant, and proud of it.  How fascinating that in the midst of this an African American is giving sermons. Back in the 18th Century, anyone giving sermons would need to be pretty educated. Who are you, “The African American”? I want to know your tale.

 

But I digress, I am here to look at the phrase “African American”. African American is at once inclusive, and exclusive. It simultaneously declares “Yes, American” and “But not American”. That qualifier, that “African”, is an instant othering tool. There was a time when many of these terms abounded – Irish American, Italian American, Asian American. All of them implying, of course, that there is somewhere, probably in Hollywood, or maybe Texas, an American American. The American that needs no adjective.

 

And see how Irish American and Italian American get countries, while African American and Asian Americans have whole continents attached to them? “Yeah, the Italians aren’t quite white enough for us, but they’re ALMOST white enough”…And while Irish and Italian Americans can trace their roots, can proudly claim their Irishness or Italianness, African Americans aren’t afforded the dignity of classifying themselves as Ghanaian, Senegalese, Nigerian American, because their route to America was not a voluntary one, and no records were kept of their ancestral roots.

 

Boy, they must have been spinning when South Americans started moving north. “We can’t call ‘em South American Americans, that’s just daft!” “But how will people know they’re not really like us?” I bet the guy who dreamed up Latin American got a raise. Okay, okay, in fact, it was under Napoleon that it was named Latin America, in an attempt to create a bond with continental Europe against Anglo-Saxons. In fact, back then, North Americans were Anglo-Saxon Americans. Even Native American others – and, as was pointed out eloquently in “Inventing the Indian”, is a supremely absurd linguistic construction because the land that they are native to was not called America until someone else called it that.

 

Although we’re not sure who called it that –  the etymological origin of “America” is unclear. For many years it has been accepted that America was named after Amerigo Vespucci, an Italian explorer. But there isn’t a lot of evidence, and indeed some evidence suggests that he named himself after America. There’s another theory that it was named after Richard Amerike, a rich chap who sponsored explorations to Newfoundland. Or possibly it derives from a Caribbean language, and was originally Amerrique. Perhaps it’s best to stick to a rather compelling Urban Dictionary definition of America: “A country that claims the name of an entire continent to itself alone for no compelling reason.”

 

But let’s go back to African American. Isn’t it odd how you don’t hear much about Italian Americans anymore? Or Irish Americans? Isn’t it odd that a search on Google’s amazing N Gram viewer, which looks at the frequency with which words and phrases are used in printed material, shows an increase in usage of the phrase African American by around 130% in the last 20 years? Partly, of course, this is a good thing. That we are talking more about these issues. That there is more being said about African Americans. Especially, I hope, BY African Americans.

 

But part of me wants to know if, like the Irish and Italians, that African qualifier will ever vanish. 250 years later, black men and women are still not seen as American American. That sucks.

What Rumpelstiltskin Means

Anyone who knows me will know I have a thing for words. They intrigue and inspire, they amuse and alarm. But there is seldom anything more satisfying than finding a single word which sums up neatly a situation or emotion. This is why “petrichor”, the smell of the earth after the rain, sticks more easily in our brains than, say “zugzwang”, a term used in chess to describe a situation where you have to make a move even though you’d be better off staying put. Zugzwang might have many useful metaphorical applications, but practically speaking, most of us, well, don’t play chess. But most of us have smelled the earth after the rain, and been struck by the sensory nature of that experience.

And so we collect these words which neatly sum things up, which are apt, and help us define and describe our worlds. This is why we fall eagerly upon lists of “untranslatable” words – because so often they manage to fill one word with an entire sentence of meaning. Who would use “being pleased at the misfortune of others” once they’d heard “schadenfreude”, or “to hesitate as you’re introducing someone because you suddenly forget their name” once you’ve encountered “tartle”?

But the joy of finding a word that explains something you’ve not before been able to express clearly outside of your own head extends far more deeply. How about learning the word “heartbroken” for the first time as a child? Learning that your heart could break, holding that concept. And then, at a point hopefully years later, feeling that word. Or, as my friend told me last night, what about learning the word “gay” for the first time, and knowing that was what describes an aspect of you?

In the tale of Rumpelstiltskin, knowing his name gave people power over him. This is an old trope of magic and fairy stories. And it’s a magic I believe in. Knowing the names for things, no matter how big or small, empowers us. Without words, ideas, emotions – even our very essence – can get lost inside us. Words, however fallible and feeble, allow us to hold things outside of ourselves, in a way that others can try to share. Choose your words carefully. Wear them like jewels.

 

Herrah

Women of our nation, have you been feeling more relieved than usual when taking your bra off at day’s end? Felt a little flutter of excitement at buying your “feminine hygiene” products? Well of course you have! It’s women’s month! And what a glorious month it is, August, the gateway drug to Spring.

What does women’s month mean, you ask? Why it means cocktail parties! Poetry readings! Events with “women” in their title! It means the world is pinker and frillier, and more inclined to be whimsical about things. It means discounts on makeovers and spa days!

This women’s month is even more exciting than usual, because, wait for it, we are naming the machines that will be printing the new ID cards after women that contributed to the struggle! That’s right, their contribution will no longer go unacknowledged. There’ll be an event on 9 August. There’ll probably be photos in the press and everything. I can barely contain my excitement.

You know what else women’s month means? Those silly chauvinists, griping about how there’s no men’s month! Aren’t they just adorable ladies? Don’t you just want to go on a diet, spend your month’s salary on beautification and new clothes, and then go on a date with them and giggle at all their jokes? I’ll bet you do.

Another simply fabulous thing about women’s month is that we get to hear from women about all sorts of issues in once off guest columns or interviews. Of course, we could never expect them to have opinions all year round, that would be ridiculous, but it’s spiffing to get an annual injection of femininity into the national discourse.

We also get to hear our politicians pay lip service to rape, domestic violence, sexism, and other trifling inconveniences that women face – and not only the Department of Women, Children and People with Disabilities, or those insightful minds at the ANC Women’s League, in August we discover that just about EVERY politician is doing things to help women. We just forgot to notice them.

A word to the wise though – don’t get carried away, and try and do womanly things in September or, heaven forfend, October, and expect anyone to be excited. Know your place. We have thirty one whole days dedicated to us, let’s not be greedy now.

Yes, August is a veritable whirl of womyn worship. And just think! Come 31 August we’ll be exactly where we are now. Only ever so slightly more jaded.