Here's an excerpt of a story *lightly* based on personal experience of writing for telly back in the 1990s... the whole, tawdry story can be read on my Patreon page if you subscribe! Here's the link to...my Patreon!
But
then Kevin the producer and his script editor Bill called him in for a series
of one-to-one meetings.
Ian left each one
feeling bruised and confused.
Every draft he did of
his single episode seemed to get worse and worse, in their eyes.
‘Can’t you see?’ Kevin
shouted. ‘It’s just shitty! And it’s getting shittier and shittier! And that’s
why we’ve called you in, yet again, for an emergency meeting this time. We want
to give you every chance to get it right, but that only goes up to a certain
point. We’re getting to the stage where my Exec needs to see this and I’m not
happy about handing it over in this state. This, what you’ve written, Ian –
five times now – is still shit. It’s worse than shit. It’s like the scum on the
shit it was five drafts ago.’
Bill the script editor
smiled and shrugged from behind his computer.
Ian didn’t know what to
say. It was like all his life force was draining out of him via the squeaky
swivel chair he was sitting on. He hardly dared move or breathe. He saw that he
had got everything completely wrong.
Kevin was going on, ‘We
think you’re good. Or, we did do, at the start. But you’ve lost it completely,
haven’t you? Look at this. Have you even read it back through? It doesn’t make
any sense at all. No one, not one of them, is talking about what they should be
talking about. It’s as if you’ve completely ignored the story-lining document
and gone off in your own direction. What are all these twats talking about? Frigging
nonsense!’
Ian tried to break in,
saying that he was trying to show how distant the characters were from each
other by giving them rather stilted chitchat…
‘Stilted chitchat?’
Kevin shouted. He was getting a bit shrieky by now. He actually stood up and
for a moment Ian thought he was going to punch him. ‘Who wants to listen to
stilted frigging chitchat? Is that why we shell out millions of pounds to
produce quality, ratings-grabbing, world class telly? Is that what our viewers
want to sit down to watch? Is that why they want to vote for us at the frigging
BAFTAS and the TV Quick awards? The Stilted Chitchat Show? Are you frigging
joking? They want drama. Quality frigging drama. And do you know what that is,
Ian?’
He was looking down at
his script. Kevin was right. It was terrible. Ian must have been in a dream.
What had he been thinking of? Battering away at Liz’s word processor in her
ground floor flat. Staring through the venetian blinds at the geese wobbling by
and the cats slinking under the cars. Going over and over the same scenes and
crunching down the lines of dialogue till they were as small and as real as he
could make them.
‘Drama isn’t what
you’ve written. Drama is her saying, ‘Look, Mike. I know you don’t love me
anymore.’ And him saying, ‘I do, Hannah! I love you more than ever!’ And her
going, ‘No, you’re lying!’ And him going, ‘But I do!’ And her saying, ‘I can
feel it. Deep down. I know what’s true.’ There! That’s off the top of my head
but there’s more real drama in that than the pile of shite you’ve given us.
It’s pathos! It’s real life! And it’s eight million bastards sat at home on
their settees thinking, ‘Shit! She’s actually saying it! She’s coming out with
the truth!’ That’s eight million inarticulate bastards, Ian, and they’re all
living dull little lives full of awkward chitchat. You see, they want to hear
the twats on telly saying exactly what’s in their heads. They want to hear
those twats saying exactly what they mean. They want her to tell him he’s wrong
when he lies and tells her he still loves her. We all know he’s talking out of
his arse and we want to hear her call him out! That’s drama, Ian. That’s soap.
And you haven’t got a clue about it. Everything you’ve turned in for three months
has been just frigging awful. You haven’t got a clue about bringing out the
subtext. It’s clear you never knew what we were on about at all. And so, you’ve
had your last chance, lovey. And you’re out.’
Before he knew it, Ian
was out in the corridor. He caught a glimpse of Bill the script editor giving
him a sympathetic look. The door slammed, and he heard even more shouting, a
bit muffled.
Then he was leaving. He
was heading back to the lift. He was out of there.
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