How Not To Be A Writer - Part Ten: A Theatrical Disaster

A few years ago, I had a chance encounter with an actor I had worked with in the past. We greeted each other, trying to remember when we had last met, and suddenly he said 'Oh my God, THAT PLAY!' I had a much younger friend with me, one who had directed one of my short plays, and she looked aghast. We both hastened to reassure her.

'No, no,' we said, practically in chorus. 'It was a disaster from start to finish.' 

It was a play called Heroes and Others about the situation in Poland, martial law and the rise of Solidarity. It was staged at Edinburgh's Lyceum Theatre with a couple of performances at Ayr Gaiety. And it put me off writing for theatre for years. 

What do I remember about it? 

I remember the Director from Hell, whose style involved rewriting my script so that it became a political diatribe, all while mercilessly bullying the Scottish cast members, as well as myself. We would often retreat into the nearest lavatory to have a good cry. 

I was very inexperienced as far as theatre was concerned. I knew that 'developing' a play involved making changes, but the director's rewrites were destructive rather than constructive. There followed a prolonged nightmare of trying to assert my own version, without, I might add, any help at all from the organisation that had commissioned the play. I was on my own, except for the cast, who agreed with me. But we were all browbeaten.

Inexplicably, we were rehearsing in a derelict building, in the middle of winter. I had a serious asthma attack from the mould and dust, and remember walking and wheezing through the streets of Edinburgh thinking that I should be in hospital. Like most asthmatics, I tried to pretend that it wasn't happening. Fortunately it abated, and the rehearsals in that impossible space finished, perhaps because the toilets froze, so there wasn't even anywhere to pee or weep.

The icing on the cake was when the doorman at the Lyceum refused to let me in to wish the cast good luck on the opening night. Although William Goldman was excluded from the premier of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and he wrote the screenplay, so I can't really complain, can I? 

The production had mixed reviews. I had managed to rescue a lot of my original script but nothing about it gelled the way it should. For a long time, my memory of it was of complete humiliation, until I looked back at some of those reviews to find that what most of them were saying was 'this is a good play, struggling with a terrible production.' 

With hindsight, when the whole thing was at its most turbulent, I should have gone to the press about it. I had one or two cautious interviews with Scottish journalists I respected, but I had been persuaded not to rock the boat. I'd bloody overturn it now, but then I'm old and bolshie.

I put it behind me, but it was years before I went back to writing for the stage, with a play called Wormwood, about the Chernobyl disaster, for Edinburgh's Traverse Theatre. The play was a great success, with glowing reviews, although even then, I didn't learn my lesson about not being too amenable, too accommodating to changes. I should have remembered how I worked on my radio plays, with the director asking questions. In thinking about and finding the answers to those questions, I improved the work. But it was still my work, my writing, my solutions. Nobody ever rewrote for me.

Wormwood was fine, but a subsequent full length play for the same theatre, Quartz, suffered from too many rewrites and the last minute imposition of other people's views. There was a fault running through the play and with hindsight and the benefit of experience, I know what it was. Ironically, none of those directing noticed the precise nature of that fault. One simple question, one simple observation would have helped tremendously. Instead, there were meetings and the picking of holes. Not, I should stress, that any of this was the fault of the excellent cast. The play was reasonably successful, but it wasn't a great experience.  

A major London critic hoped that the Traverse would 'nurture this promising playwright'. No nurturing ever went on, and my next play for them was turned down without the courtesy of explanation or comment. Rather, the script was met with a chilly rejection. I had been attempting to write about abuse in sports coaching. A challenging subject that I went on to tackle in a novel called Ice Dancing. As far as theatre was concerned, much like in the real world, nobody wanted to know about it at all. 

As for the Director from Hell - well, he's dead now. He was an actor too. He once appeared in a James Bond movie where he died horribly. I confess to watching it from time to time with a certain amount of relish. There he goes again, I think. Serve him right. 

Reclaiming our Individual Creativity - the disaster that is Creative Scotland.

Tanya and Stefan from my play Wormwood, about Chernobyl

It came like a bolt from the blue last week, while I was on a Zoom meeting with three fellow arts practitioners. Creative Scotland announced that they were closing the Open Fund, with almost immediate effect. That's the fund to which individual artists, writers etc can apply for a modicum of funding to support new and often experimental projects. Creative Scotland is the body set up to administer funds for the arts in Scotland, replacing the old Scottish Arts Council (a classic case of 'if it ain't broke, why are you fixing it?') The old Arts Council was smallish, responsive and largely responsible. It was also mostly run by arts practitioners, rather than highly paid arts administrators. 

Whether or not the closure of the Open Fund is aimed at prompting the government to come up with more cash, it is just one more example of the way in which support for the arts in Scotland (and to a great extent in England as well) has become focussed on larger groups, production companies, or those facilitating participation, rather than individual creators: artists, writers and other practitioners. There seems to be no acknowledgment that the creative arts are worth supporting for their own sake, and not as some hypothetical means to a fashionable end: wellbeing, community cohesion, inclusion and all the other buzz words and phrases demanded of applicants. Laudable aims for sure, but the fact that CS saw fit to cancel the only fund open to individual practitioners should tell us how little we’re valued.

Under the old SAC I was the recipient of a couple of awards as a young writer – small but very welcome sums that allowed me to work on particular writing projects. Before applying, I could and did contact the Literature Officer, a serious, mature writer who was incredibly helpful in allowing me to assess the focus and aims of my own work. Later, I sat on the literature committee myself, and saw just how effectively that committee – composed entirely of fellow practitioners - made what was essentially a small sum of money go a very long way in supporting individuals to develop their careers, without ever feeling that something extraneous to their creative practice was demanded of them in return. In short, they were never expected to be unqualified but cheap therapists. Committee members like myself did come cheap, because we felt that we were giving something back to an organisation that had supported us. We were paid expenses and had a great spread of interests from popular to literary, from urban to rural.  I sometimes saw myself as the 'rugged populist', willing to defend applicants from the less esoteric end of the arts spectrum.

Creativity was valued in and of itself. Not as a means to an end. 

The Literature Officer could also interact with applicants as a bridge between committee and applicant, telling them why a proposal might have been rejected, advising them about possible future applications.The sums of money were tiny in the grand scheme of things, but a struggling writer, probably doing another job or two to keep the wolf from the door, can make a little money go a very long way. I know I did. In fact I still do.

All that changed with CS and in the process we lost something precious. Badly done, Scottish government. The old SAC wasn’t perfect, and some wrong decisions were made. I remember them well. But it was a damn sight better than what we’re stuck with now. I applied to CS for one small grant to assist with a complicated book project over the ensuing years, at the request of my publisher. The whole process was a nightmare of unanswerable questions about timescales and budgets for a research and writing process that simply doesn’t work like that. I almost gave up, would certainly have done so if my then publisher hadn’t prompted me to keep going. 

I would never do it again. 

The Open Fund has had other problems. Earlier this year, it emerged that a huge sum of £84,555 had been awarded to a theatre director from the Open Fund for development of a show called Rein which - as it turned out - involved not just 'simulated sex' but the real thing. In her statement, the director said that the project was going to be an artistic film exploring themes of sexuality set in the Scottish landscape. 'The sexual elements were an integral part of the project's artistic vision. They would have challenged regressive and exploitative attitudes towards women and queer people.'All of which makes the addition of the Scottish landscape to the proposal seem like a particularly cynical box ticking exercise. 

Following public outcry, most of the money was taken back, but the subsequent stooshie, to use a good Scots word, involved mind boggling discussions about genital contact (presumably and uncomfortably in a Scottish landscape) and whether STI tests were 'industry standard'. Just what industry were they talking about? And if it's the one that instantly springs to mind, why the hell were they applying for public money? 

Call me a curmudgeon but I can't see any of my professional writer colleagues on any of those old Scottish Arts Council committees touching any such project with the proverbial bargepole. And frankly, they would have been right. I don't hold with censorship, but if you want to embark on such a project, why not find other sources of funding. It shouldn't be too difficult. 

Finally, I can see just how much practitioners at the start of their careers are let down by CS. But later career artists and writers like myself are also unsupported and I don't mean financially. I’ve had many conversations with fellow artists and writers about this. You hit a certain age and you suddenly become the unwilling recipient of patronising ‘wellbeing’ projects aimed at fending off your ‘loneliness’, even though you’re still a seasoned professional who might be looking for useful discussion about your work as much as, or even more than, financial support. 

Certainly, in its current incarnation, CS isn’t fit for purpose. It spends a vast amount of money on  salaries such as the Head of Equality, Diversity and Inclusion, earning £48 - £52K, with the Literature Officer considerably less at £25,000 per year. This again should tell you something about the value Scotland puts on its literature.* Not a lot. Perhaps our government should start again, and build something where the practitioners themselves are central to the system. And where people who seem to have a modicum of understanding and experience are in charge of steering through our current choppy creative waters, without falling over so far backwards in an effort to be seen as inclusive that their brains fall out. Not holding my breath, though. Are you?

* Just checked online. The Lit Officer is a part time position. (Why?) So yet again, salaries of which full time practitioners could only dream. 

Not Your Friends

Charlie Brown and Lucy, by Schulz

If I had to give one piece of advice to writers who are just starting out, or to those travelling hopefully in the early stages of the journey, it would be this: many of the people you encounter along the way, agents, publishers, managers, interns, editors, producers, directors, even those who work for agencies charged with funding the arts - remember that they are not your friends.

I have plenty of fellow writers and actors I've worked with, and I would count almost all of them as my friends. We share experiences in common, we sympathise with each other, we may well compete from time to time, but we also look out for each other when the chips are down. And even when we don't see each other for a while, we pick up where we left off when we do meet. That's real friendship.

When I look back over a long career in writing and publishing, I can see that most of the mistakes I've made - and I've made plenty - have involved me misinterpreting a warm professional relationship as genuine friendship. 

It never was. 

This is not a bad thing. We don't, for example, expect our doctors or dentists to be personal friends, as long as the relationship is polite and 'friendly' and mutually beneficial. Ditto our solicitors, accountants, and whatever other professionals we work with. There may be exceptions, but that's usually because the friendship predates the profession, or the professional relationship runs parallel to the personal friendship and has lasted for many years. I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the situations where that was the case and, alas, the people in question are dead. 

Writers are often to be found extolling the 'friendship' they have with their 'wonderful' agent or director  or publisher. I've done it myself more than once. It's hard not to see it as friendship, when there are so many similarities with the real thing: the long, mutually supportive conversations, the praise, the positivity, the helpful suggestions, the promises. 

Unfortunately, and unlike real friendships that can persist through thick and thin, over many years, professional relationships may not. Sometimes they end suddenly and unexpectedly, with a letter or email. Occasionally, just when you thought things were coasting along nicely, you feel the chill wind of disapproval, followed by silence. Sometimes you realise that the person who was once so responsive - the person who made you think 'this time, it will be different!' -  hardly responds at all. You make a hundred excuses for them. To yourself and to other people. I've done this countless times with different people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, shrinking away from the obvious conclusion. Like Schulz's Charlie Brown, you can't resist one more try at kicking that ball. Afterwards, you liken it to those love affairs where you make excuses until no more excuses will do. 

It isn't a love affair at all. It's a professional relationship, no more, no less. 

The cut off is invariably a commercial decision. Mostly, it's that you simply aren't making them enough money. For professionals, the business always comes first. And you know what? That's exactly the way it should be. As long as it cuts both ways. 

It can't be said too often. A professional relationship is not a friendship, no matter how much it might masquerade as one. This is not to say that it can't be polite, congenial, supportive and very good while it lasts. All of that. But when push comes to shove, they are not your friends, and if you begin to believe that they are, you are, I'm afraid, doomed to disappointment. 

The corollary of this should be that you are free to do the same thing. Your career comes first. Look out for yourself.  Don't hang on to a failing business relationship, however cordial, because of misplaced feelings of loyalty. Save that for your real, personal friends. They're the ones who deserve it. Where business is concerned, and writing is a business as well as a vocation, speak softly and carry a big stick. Be nice, be polite, but always be aware of what suits you and your work best. They won't mourn the loss of you at all, if you walk away. Because they really are not your friends.

Listening and Watching - The Price of a Fish Supper

 A couple of weeks ago, MAD Productions staged another handful of performances of my play The Price of a Fish Supper, originally produced at Glasgow's Oran Mor as one of their A Play, A Pie and a Pint series. It's a single hander, i.e. a long monologue and consequently a very 'big learn' for the actor involved, but Ken O'Hara (above) has made the part uniquely his own. 

For me, once he is on stage, he is Rab, the troubled but essentially decent ex-fisherman who hangs about the harbour and tells his tragic (but often very funny) story to whoever will listen. 

It's a play about the long, sad demise of the traditional Scottish fishing industry, a play about friendship and family, about where and how people fit into the world in which they find themselves, and the possibility, or otherwise, of redemption. It's a play that tackles adult themes and pulls no punches. 

Thanks to Ken O'Hara and to Isi Nimmo, who directs, the play has had a long life beyond that first well reviewed production. I've done the occasional after-show Q & A session. Every single time, somebody has asked me or Ken if he ad-libs it. And every time, he points out that, with the exception of the very occasional phrase, it was all written down. Carefully constructed by me. Even down to the way it's written on the page, orchestrated, almost like a long poem. (If you want to see for yourself, it's available here, published by Nick Hern Books.) 

I always wonder if they would ask the same question if I were young and male. I suspect not!

All the same, it's Ken who brings Rab vividly to life. Plays are meant to be experienced in performance. Not as words on a page.

It also makes me think about how Rab first came into my mind, telling me his tale before he told anyone else. Which is what it feels like to write in a single voice like this - you listen and your character speaks.

In the 1970s, I did a postgraduate Masters in Folk Life Studies. My dissertation was on the fishing traditions of the Carrick district of South Ayrshire. I interviewed many elderly fishermen over a period of a year. and their vivid descriptions of the herring fishing have stayed with me ever since. Even more to the point, my husband was once a trawler skipper here in Ayrshire. Eventually, he moved on to skipper charter yachts and then came ashore to work as a woodcarver and artist, but he too had stories to tell. We had and still have friends who worked at the fishing. So there was a certain amount of immersion going on for me - and many of the tales told in the play are certainly based on truth.

After the most recent production of Fish Supper, it struck me that one of the most valuable pieces of writing advice I can give anyone - whether you're aiming to write plays or fiction - is to watch and listen. Watch how people behave. Listen to how they speak.

You have to be fascinated by people. All kinds of people. What they do, what they say and how they say it. 

The Great Silence

Wormwood.

Last week, a good friend in a different area of creativity asked me why I had given up writing plays.

I suppose the answer is that I haven't, not completely, and if somebody asked me to write a play again I would certainly consider it, especially if it involved dramatising one of my own books. Still, the question gave me pause for thought.

Why did I give up?

Well, one of the main reasons was that I wanted to write fiction, and in fact I was writing fiction, lots of it. But because I was learning my craft, I didn't want to go back to dividing my time between the two. I wanted to live in the world of whatever book I was working on. So in a way, abandoning plays wasn't so much a conscious decision as a refocusing. And that was fine.


But there were other factors. Lots of women who were writing plays at the same time as me seem to have abandoned theatre as well, especially here in Scotland. Somebody speaking about women in theatre on a radio programme only the other week pointed out what a difficult place theatre was for women to get so much as a toehold in, back in the 1980s. Listening to her, I thought 'not just me then.'

It struck me that one of the other reasons why I gave up on theatre was that my life had changed significantly. I was living in the countryside, I had a child - and I couldn't any longer lurk in theatre bars making sure that those doing the commissioning remembered my existence. This may sound like a lame excuse - and the truth is that had I wanted it badly enough, I might well have done it - but the fact remains that I fell off their radar and at the time, I really didn't miss it.

Quartz

Back in the 80s, after writing 100+ hours of radio drama, some TV, community theatre, and a production at Edinburgh's Lyceum, I had two major and very well reviewed productions at the Traverse in Edinburgh: Wormwood (all about the Chernobyl disaster) and Quartz. I remember Michael Billington's complimentary review of Quartz and his hope that the theatre would go on to 'nurture' me.

Nurturing was never going to be on the agenda.

I had a brief resurgence with the wonderful David McLennan at Glasgow's Oran Mor, who produced three of my short plays, at least one of which - the Price of a Fish Supper - has gone on to have an excellent and successful life beyond its first production. But after David's sadly early death, I again entered what I have come to think of as The Great Silence.

I would send ideas, scripts, proposals to various theatre companies. Most of the time, they simply weren't acknowledged at all, although there was the occasional standard rejection. From that point on, nobody - except David, for that short time - treated me like a professional.

I was reminded of this recently, when I decided to explore the possibility of finding an agent. I have had agents in the past, including the late, great (but scary) Pat Kavanagh, who sold my first full length adult novel. It was sold to the Bodley Head, which was instantly taken over by one of the big publishing beasts and they tried to transform it into the fashionable beach bonkbuster it wasn't. My next novel had a Polish background. Pat loved it but couldn't sell it, and if she couldn't sell it, nobody could. We got a string of rejections saying that editors loved it but nobody was remotely interested in Poland. Nevertheless the single best piece of advice I have ever had about writing came from Pat.
'Only write something if you can't bear NOT to write it,' she told me.

My last agent disappeared without trace. I have no idea, not the foggiest notion, what became of him. He went AWOL and incommunicado and I've never heard from him since. Perhaps he too entered the Great Silence. Over the past year, with nine published novels under my belt, four of them still very much in print, and a brand new and well reviewed non-fiction book published in the summer, I contacted various agents who said they were looking for new clients, and who seemed like a good fit.

One responded pleasantly and personally. She was understandably too busy and told me so quite quickly, while also praising the work.
One turned me down immediately with a formal rejection letter. I doubt very much if my enquiry got beyond the intern employed to sift them.
One asked to see a PDF of a book and then - nothing.
The rest didn't respond at all. I had again entered the Great Silence.

Well -  I'm fine. I have an excellent publisher and exciting work to do, and I've given up on the notion of representation. In fact I've probably got enough interesting writing work to keep me busy for the next few years: work that I can't bear NOT to do. And that's a blessing in anybody's book.

But it does make me wonder about people just starting out. Apart from the lucky few, how do they get themselves noticed? How do they ever stand out from the crowd? And what about that old maxim that if you're 'good enough' you'll make it? So you just have to persevere? Because the successful people I know have persevered with the actual writing, for sure, but I suspect most of them have also taken matters into their own hands in some way.

I don't have any easy answers to this, but I do wonder what other writers, experienced or emerging, think about it.
How did you do it?
How do you plan to do it?

The Price of a Fish Supper - staged in Ayrshire at last!

Ken O'Hara as Rab, The Price of a Fish Supper, Ayr Gaiety.

This week, my play The Price of a Fish Supper finally had an Ayrshire production, with Ken O'Hara as Rab, and Isi Nimmo directing: three performances at the upstairs studio in Ayr's excellent Gaiety Theatre. 

What a joy it was to see it.

This play was the first one I wrote for the Oran Mor's 'A Play, A Pie and a Pint' season in Glasgow. Even then, it had been sitting on my PC for a while, with scant interest shown, until it was passed on to the late and much missed David McLennan, by Dave Anderson. Almost immediately he contacted me to say that he wanted to stage it. That first performance was directed by Gerda Stevenson, with Paul Morrow as Rab, and was extremely well reviewed. It was produced at the Edinburgh festival fringe and went on to have a production on BBC R4 (although we had to cut out all the swear words for that one!) It was also published by Nick Hern Books as part of an anthology called Scottish Shorts and as an individual eBook.

Cue forward some years and Isi, who had directed Ken in a splendid version of Alan Bennett's heartrending A Chip in the Sugar, asked if I could recommend any more one man plays. 'Well, I might have something,' I said. And pointed both of them to The Price of a Fish Supper. That was some months ago. Eventually, we were offered space at the Gaiety and the play has proved to be more successful there than any of us anticipated - the tickets sold out quite quickly, and the Gaiety added a matinee, since there was such a waiting list.

The interest in this production was, I think, down to a number of things. Ken is very good at publicity - proactive and imaginative. It goes without saying that he's also very good at acting! The play is about the demise of the fishing industry, which means a lot to many people here, but it's about a lot more than that. I still find the central character heartbreaking: he's an alcoholic ex fisherman, but I think all the time, watching it, you realise what he might have been, what he could have been in different circumstances. I had Ayrshire in my mind while I was writing it, and hearing Ken perform the play with an Ayrshire accent, with the energy of the language of the place where I live and work, was something of a revelation, even to me. I suddenly realised that I had written it with the voice of the place I now call home very firmly in my mind - and here it was, on the stage.

Ken 'got' it in a remarkable way. So did Isi. I'd forgotten how much I like theatre when it goes as well as this. This is the first production of any drama I've been involved with for some time. I'd also forgotten that peculiar, nerve racking sensation of wondering what an audience will make of it  - and the sheer pleasure of knowing that some combination of skills has made them 'get' it too.

Not Making a Crisis Out of a Drama: Why I No Longer Call Myself a Playwright.

Quartz with Liam Brennan

I used to be a playwright.

Over the past decade or so, however, I've slowly but surely moved from writing plays to writing fiction, mostly historical fiction, with the odd feature article or contribution to an online magazine such as the Scottish Review. 

Now, if asked, I think I would call myself a novelist.

This wasn't so much a conscious decision, or not at first, anyway, although latterly, circumstances and inclination did force me to make some hard choices. I'm still occasionally asked to speak about drama to writing groups. I always enjoy the variety of people and their interesting questions. But recently, I've realised that I shouldn't be speaking about drama at all and have taken a conscious decision to stop doing it. (Although I'm delighted to speak about fiction instead!) Why? Well, you need a certain enthusiasm for your topic, coupled with a certain amount of up-to-date knowledge about the practicalities.

I can do this with fiction. I'm happily published by an excellent small independent publisher, Saraband but I know about self publishing too. I know about learning the craft, and what the current market is like, the difficulties, the potential avenues. I know what might sell and what might not, about whether or not you need an agent, about supportive professional organisations. I know all about research and writing historical fiction in particular.

But I don't think I can do this kind of thing any more with drama. And what's worse, I don't think any advice I might have to offer to people just starting out will do them very much good at all.

Let's face it, drama writing was always a hard row to hoe. But back when I started out, a certain amount of enthusiasm and application might get you some way along the road to success. Now, I just don't know what to tell people any more. Years ago, if you wanted (as I did, then) to work in radio drama, you could listen to a lot of radio, find a producer whose work you liked, submit a piece of work to them, and receive encouragement. Moreover, if a producer was willing to work with you, and you were willing to put in the hard graft, you were pretty much guaranteed a production at the end of the process. My first couple of short half hour radio plays were produced here in Scotland. I cut my teeth on those before moving onto anything more ambitious, and the late Gordon Emslie taught me so much about writing for radio.

Anne Marie Timoney and Liam Brennan in Wormwood 

With theatre, I again submitted work - an early draft of a stage play about Chernobyl, called Wormwood - to the excellent Ella Wildridge who was then Literary Manager at Edinburgh's Traverse Theatre. That play went through a long development process, including workshopping with professional actors before eventually being given a full professional production to glowing reviews. None of this was easy and the money was woeful, but it was hugely rewarding in so many other ways. Wormwood was followed by Quartz, and then later on, I had three shorter plays produced at Glasgow's Oran Mor. I did some television and a lot more radio.

And then, it all dried up.

Partly, this was my own fault. Sometimes you just grind to a halt with a particular medium. But I had ideas. I was proposing them - often I was even writing them - and nothing happened. After a while, it struck me that I couldn't in all conscience advise people to send work here, there and everywhere, knowing that I myself, with a decent track record and contacts in the business, could send work out to be met with complete silence, without even the courtesy of a rejection half the time.

In many ways this was something of a blessing. I started again and this time I concentrated on fiction, with all the knowledge of dialogue and structure that I had learned by writing plays. Nothing is ever really lost where writing is concerned. And some years later, fiction has been good to me. I love what I do and so far, fingers crossed and touch wood and all that, I've had a certain amount of success.

I would never say never with plays and in fact there are possible plans afoot for a new production of one of my Oran Mor plays next year. And I'd be absolutely delighted if one of my historical novels was made into a film or television production. (Rights are available!) We'll see. But I don't much want to teach people about plays any more.

If somebody asks me what I do, I tell them I'm a novelist. And extremely happy with that title.

Editors and Artistic Directors - So Much In Common.

Coming back to theatre with a bang: Wormwood

Novelist (and friend) Gillian Philip wrote an excellent piece on editors and editing for the winter edition of the Society of Authors in Scotland newsletter. So many people wanted to read it that she reposted it on her own blog, here and I can very much recommend it. 

I had just been involved in an online discussion about the role of the artistic director in a stage play and reading Gillian’s post, it struck me that there are parallels between a good artistic director and a good editor – just as there are striking and unfortunate parallels between a bad director and a bad editor.

Let me get the horror stories out of the way first.

Back when I was starting out in theatre, I wrote a play about the Solidarity movement in Poland and its effects on one family. I was ecstatic to be told that it would be performed at Edinburgh’s Lyceum Theatre. That, though, was where the ecstasy ended. The first time I met the artistic director I realised that we had opposing views of the play. He took the script away and sent it back to me with massive rewrites on every page. He had torn it to bits, deleted large sections and rewritten it as the play he thought it should be. I fought as best I could, and so did the (lovely) cast, but it was a disaster. I was too young, too naive and too inexperienced. He was an elderly bully and it was years before I went back to theatre - with a play about the Chernobyl disaster for the Traverse in Edinburgh.

Later, this time with a novel, I encountered an editor who tried to do something similar. To be fair, some of the points she made were good, but she also made extensive changes to my manuscript without tracking them, rewriting whole chunks of my work in the kind of voice and idiom she would have used herself. By that stage I was confident enough to dig in my heels, but it was a tedious and time consuming business, going through my version and hers, reinstating my dialogue but trying to do useful rewrites where she had made fair points – which she had.

When I thought about it, I realised that a good artistic director and a good editor share quite similar qualities.

An artistic director will hold the ‘idea’ of the play in his or her head. The buck stops with her. If she is on anybody’s side, she is on the side of the play itself as you have intended it to be not as she might have written it herself. Not even as she wishes you had written it. It is her aim to make it as good as it possibly can be on its own terms. She will never do that by imposing her voice on the voice of the playwright. The process is much more collaborative, more fluid, more fascinating than that and since most directors are freelance she will almost certainly walk away rather than take on a play she dislikes. Since editors are increasingly freelance too, the same thing applies.

Anne Marie Timoney and Liam Brennan in Wormwood

There is an etiquette in theatre, so the actors will talk to the director and the writer will talk to the director, but the writer will not give instructions to the actors and the actors will not ask the writer for changes except through the director. If you know each other and have worked together before, there is a lot of leeway and what eventually emerges is a comfortably collaborative process. But I can think of many occasions where, for example, an actor has asked for changes and the director has said ‘not yet. Try it the way it’s written.’ The good director takes the work seriously, treats it (and you) with respect, but helps the playwright to see what needs to be seen. A little way into the rehearsal process, you can see where something isn’t working but it’s almost always you who make the changes.

Happy days with a very good director: Hamish Wilson

This is how it works with a good editor. I’ve just been working with one on the Physic Garden and it has been a joy. I knew that there was something not quite right somewhere, but I wasn’t sure what it was. It was something small, but it niggled. The editor read the manuscript, said ‘I love this book’ but instantly put her finger on what it was that had bugged me and the publisher. It was indeed something quite small but once she had pointed it out, it also seemed obvious and important. (It was one of those ‘why didn’t I see that?’ moments.) And it had a couple of knock-on effects on the rest of the story.  Essentially, it was a case of finding out how a particular character might really react at that point in the novel, and addressing it. It was the work of a couple of days to make the changes, but it mattered. There were other bits and pieces, of course: punctuation, the odd inconsistency or infelicity. But really, it was her ability to hone in on one small but vital facet of the story that was priceless and I’m glad I made the changes, glad to have worked with her. 

A good editor, like a good director is both unselfish and generous. But I’ve also come to realise that not everyone possesses those qualities, although they may be learned over a period of years. My genuinely bad experiences - I can count about four and that isn’t very many - involved people who were too ignorant to know how little they really knew. (Youth, though, wasn’t an issue because some of them were old enough to know better.) They were on a power trip, over confidently imposing their own views on whatever work they were editing or developing.  It was, I realised eventually, a bit like that scene in the Matrix where Agent Smith converts everything into a clone of himself. Too bad Neo wasn’t around to fight my corner when I needed him.

AUGUST WAS A VERY BUSY MONTH!

Carving by Alan Lees

For all kinds of reasons, August was such a busy month for me that I've been neglecting my blog. I found myself blogging about being a mid-list writer for the astonishingly varied and informative Edinburgh eBook Festival, attending the excellent and entertaining Inverness Book Festival with Lin Anderson and Sara Sheridan, to speak about indie publishing and promotion, while a week later, I was on a Society of Authors panel at the Edinburgh International Book Festival talking about 'Being a Writer in the Digital Age.' This was a bit contentious, but only insofar as one of the speakers found himself playing devil's advocate - and to be honest, I'm glad he did. Nothing like a little grit in the oyster to produce a few pearls of wisdom, and as one member of the audience commented afterwards 'It wasn't totally one sided, which proved to be a very good thing.' I agree. There is a debate to be had, and we should be having it - courteously and productively.

 I heard later that one of the panel had to put up with a certain amount of online abuse and I'm sorry about that. We need to be able to talk frankly about writing and publishing. We need to be able to talk about the challenges facing all of us. If we can talk about collaboration and making the best of things for all of us, so much the better.

Edinburgh is a blast at Festival time. We managed to see The Tobacco Merchant's Lawyer, by Iain Heggie, with John Bett as the redoubtable Enoch Dalmellington. This is a marvellous piece of theatre - funny and satirical and wholly entertaining and I'm so glad to have seen it at last. Every time I see a play as good as this one, I have a terrible longing to get back to writing for the stage - and yet taking anything at all from page to production these days is fraught with so many problems that - after all these years and with a good track record - I do, kind of, find myself running out of steam with that particular aspect of my creativity! I had this conversation with somebody only a few weeks ago who told me that the only way was to 'get a group of people together and do it yourself' and I thought - yes. You're right. It's the only way. But do I have that kind of energy now? All these years after my first play was staged?  I don't think so. Besides, I have so many other fish to fry, you wouldn't believe.

Meanwhile, enough of the excitement. (And believe me, there has been a LOT of excitement of which more in due course) I really need to quit monkeying around and get some writing done - fiction, that is.

PS We also spent an hour in the company of the Amazing Bubble Man. You can watch him on YouTube here. Wonderful stuff.