GARDEN OF EDEN, LEBANON – The local Eden council is going a bundle on this new “Bible” book but having had an advance copy, I can only assume they are desperately trying to justify all the tax breaks they gave to the publishers to set it here.

I don’t have any inside knowledge of the negotiations but you can imagine the pitch. “Paradise,” the Bible lot would’ve said. “We’ll show everyone the great side of Garden of Eden. It’s going to be so big, from now on people will be using the name Eden as a synonym for paradise itself.”

It would’ve been a tempting proposition. Locals know we’ve never really recovered from the great snake infestation of the Year of Our Lord ’09 to the Year of Our Lord ’10. And scenes set in Garden of Eden in the book have drastically fewer of the little buggers than even the most optimistic of us would have hoped.

But however loudly the council insists Bible is great for the county, they can’t pretend there are many chapters and verses that even refer to Garden of Eden. Myself, I would’ve insisted some scenes take place during our buttermilk festival and at the very least demanded they include better transit information than just “a garden in the east”. We have a terrific Garden of Eden app, would it have hurt to have even one character use it on his iPhone?

If Bible really does go worldwide as the publishers hope then readers are actually going to think we only have two people living here. I suppose we should be thankful that Bible doesn’t draw attention to the terrible overcrowding problems we have in the Garden of Eden suburbs but this goes so far that you have to think there’s something wrong with the place. Did everybody leave? Does the sewage system run itself?

Do this pair run all the hotels and the bars? You have a bite to eat in the Tree of Life pub, then take a stroll and we’re supposed to believe there’s Adam again flogging ice creams.

He really is a bit dull, that Adam. The other character is Eve. Bible doesn’t go in for surnames much, I expect it’s a legal thing, but it left me wondering whether they were really married or just saying so. Because, Eve, kid, if there ain’t a ring and there ain’t no kids tying you down, you could do a lot better for yourself.

Such as get yourself into some of the better chapters of the book. After it’s done with making Garden of Eden sound like a haven for thickos – it hints that we’re all PC users with its thinly-veiled piece of product placement for Apple – then this Bible does move on to the real meat of the story. We get intrigue, betrayals, all good stuff, just not much of it here in Eden.

There is a lot of it elsewhere, in fact there’s a lot everywhere else in the book, but it does tend to try impressing us by sheer volume rather than quality. I tell you, this book could’ve done with another pass at the editing stage. There are huge sections that make the whaling stuff in Moby Dick look short. I mean, I like that we get a list of all the characters: this is a sprawling tale and it’s hard to keep track. But, seriously, there are verses that consist of nothing but this fella begat that fella.

Okay, that’s fine at the start when Abraham begat Isaac because then we’re thinking this is all kicking off now, some serious family stuff is going to happen, but I admit I sank a bit then when Isaac begat twelve patriarchs. Are we going to get the complete life history of all twelve? No. Most of the time Bible gets into these huge begat passages and we never hear of half of these people again. It’s probably a metaphor for life and how most of us get through our days without making any impact above the odd court summons for a parking ticket.

But by doing that, it really focuses our attention on those characters that Bible does follow up. These must be crackin’ important, you think, but generally no, not so much. Even the ones that are key seem to come and go too quickly.

You’ll have seen from the press interviews that King Herod is a real badass and that’s true: it’s a very exciting segment of the book and if you’re a parent like me, you’re going to be shocked at what he gets up to. Only, that’s like the tiniest part of this epic. It feels like it’s over before it begins. The whole book skips on faster and faster, never really stopping to explore the drama it creates and often, frankly, leaving me bemused. What the hell is myrrh?

Part of the problem – and again, I have no inside knowledge here but it’s obvious just from reading it – is that this Bible has been written by committee. I assumed at first that the reason we don’t get an author’s name was that it was done by someone really important, someone who couldn’t be named. But slog through those begats enough and you soon see that they don’t add up, that different writers have taken different liberties.

One writer, for instance, pads out a few chapters with the begats and really only to make the point that this new hero character, Jesus, is directly descended from King David through his dad’s side. Fine. Joseph comes from family. Got it. But in what I can only presume is a segment hived off to a freelance because the deadline was getting close, another part has Joseph claiming that Jesus isn’t his kid at all.

Maybe they were trying to set up some deep psychological stuff for later, get this Jesus struggling with father-rejection issues, that kind of thing. If so, they never follow it up.

Instead, the writers try to have it all with some light mystery kind of thing. The book really needs more laughs, but this is its sole set-piece comedy: Joseph gets Mary pregnant and when he’s caught lying about it, he does that classic farce thing of exaggerating further and further. I won’t spoil it by telling you how big the lie becomes, but by the end it is truly a whopper.

I did enjoy that and you know it’ll be a great scene if they ever make a film. But then it is right back into the sombre, dreary stuff with bizarre tirades against the banking system that I think are the writers just trying to be topical.

They should’ve concentrated more on the story and most definitely on the characters. The publishers are billing this as “the greatest story ever told” but I’m very much afraid that is pure hype. There are some interesting moments but what few good characters it has are woefully underused and I swear there isn’t a single plot twist in the entire book.

Maybe now it’s set up such a lot of backstory, the rumoured sequel will be better. But for now, I really can’t recommend this book to anyone and certainly not if you know anything at all about what life is really like here in Garden of Eden City.

Bible is published in hardback by Caxton and Kindle by Amazon

You won’t believe this because you know me, but if strangers ask, then I will tell them and convince myself that I don’t like posting incessant details online about me and what I’m doing. No, listen. I don’t. On twitter or Facebook, I am more interested in you than in me. I have one filter: is the thing I fancy saying going to make me look like an eejit? If yes, but only me and nobody else, it goes up.

I am regularly, persistently, vocationally an eejit so I say a lot online. But you’d have to work hard to find me saying I was checking in at the All-Night Wicker Store. I love finding out something and rushing to tell you but sometimes if it’s work, I don’t because I can’t. Sometimes even I draw an eejit-line. And I don’t post photographs of me taking photographs everywhere I go. Maybe you do, maybe you love it, probably your photos are better than mine, but it doesn’t appeal.

Except.

I have been aware, lately, that quite a lot is going on: a surprising number of projects I’ve worked a long time to get to do, I’m getting to do. And just day to day stuff is rather good at the moment. So I am finding that days go by where I’ve simply had a great time, where I’ve learnt something, where I’ve actually seen me improve as a writer, and while I would sooner show you a slideshow carousel of my last eighteen holidays than bore you with it all, I am aware that it’s going by. And I don’t want to miss it.

So I bought Day One.

This is a journalling app – lots of people don’t like the word app; I’m not keen on the word journalling – and it’s been around for ages. Entirely unnoticed by me. Until this week when I must’ve been in the mood for it because I caught news of its newest update and was sold. You can write in it like a diary, which is nice. You can just take a photo and caption it, not caption it, whatever you please. And whether you write or photograph, Day One stores that and adds location details. Also the current weather.

Only.

This is a terrible idea. I got an app that lets me record all that’s going on and since I bought it on Monday, it’s been hell.

Monday morning I delivered that script, which is a good thing obviously, but then I spent Monday evening directing actors in a cold reading of a stage play of mine and that went unexpectedly well. It was in a script development kind of gig and I was expecting, well, criticism. I was assuming I’d get criticism and that if I were lucky, some of it would be really useful. Instead, it went down tremendously.

But that was Monday, that’s ages ago. After Monday – you won’t believe this either but I promise it’s true – there came Tuesday. I took part in a spoken-word cabaret at the launch of Birmingham’s Mee Club event. (It’s a very good event: next one is August 21.) It was a particularly friendly, happy crowd but such a rush having people laughing when you talk – er, and when they were supposed to laugh. Met some terrific people, every one of whom was engrossing and fun to listen to, but shush now, this is about me, not about them.

Wednesday and Thursday: I finally get to the BBC Written Archives. I’ve read about that place for years and never had a job that meant I could go but there I was, lapping the place up.

And then on Thursday night I get home and the first advance copy of my Beiderbecke Affair book is waiting for me. Ages early. You can’t buy it until 28 September (in the UK, where you can get it from Amazon) or 30 October (in the US, where you can get it from a different Amazon).

That’s quite unreal. Most of what I write is ephemera; I still have the first issue of Radio Times magazine that I got a byline in but if I ever lost it, I’d be stuck trying to replace that. But Doctor Who audios, now books. Honestly, I’ve now read my own book in paperback and it still feels a bit unreal that it’s here.

I will get used to it. But that’s the fun of Day One: I’ve just captured this moment of unreality in it.

Wait.

I’ve captured it here too.

And you saw this one.

Well.

Yes, but apart from that… Day One is a smart way of flooding myself with the torrent of things I want to remember and don’t want to flood you with.

And of course it is because I got a journalling app that I began to find I had something to journal.

Next week: I buy a Print Your Own Money app.

I tend to do quite well in writing contests (Big Break, Red Planet, BBC writersroom) but only because I wait until I’ve written something and then if I go for a contest at all, I look first for the next one that fits what I’ve already done. It’s not always true, but usually, and it usually works out.

Except the other day there was the 50 Kisses contest and the moment I read the brief, I had the whole thing in my head. It was a writing contest where you wrote a two-page scene set on Valentine’s Day and presumably a kiss would be a good idea.

I wrote it in one go, sent it in immediately, entirely failed to win. Didn’t even make the long list.

You can see where this is going, I know, and I do apologise in advance for selling you secondhand goods but I just had a really good time writing this and I want to share some fiction with you instead of incessant babbling about writing fiction. 

So. If you’ll forgive the near-as-blogger-will-allow script layout, let me tell you a story.

—

CAUGHTby William Gallagher


EXT. CITY STREET – DAY


SUSAN HARE and TOM BRYSON (both white, late twenties, smart) kiss like there is no tomorrow. Like there is no one else in the world. 


The kiss lasts and lasts and lasts.


Finally, they break lips –


– but it’s only to catch a breath –


– and they are back in the single most important snog of their lives. 


The snog lasts and lasts and lasts.

REVEAL DANNY (7 years old) holding Tom’s hand. He’s squeezed in between Tom and Susan’s legs. He’s embarrassed by them. 

REVEAL CHARLOTTE: Tom’s wife, standing some distance behind him. She’s slightly older than him and has been carrying a bunch of Valentine’s roses he gave her. She slowly lowers them.

Danny wriggles away from his dad and goes to her.  Charlotte hangs on to him like you’re-never-taking-him and at-least-I-can-trust-him.


But Tom and Susan are utterly unaware.

REVEAL MRS. HARE, Susan’s mother – and MR HARE, her dad. Both dressed in Sunday best. 


Neither any happier than Charlotte. 


Tom and Susan eat each other. 


REVEAL a SOLICITOR (woman, 40s).

REVEAL the ‘we’ is herself and TWO UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICERS standing behind her.


REVEAL that behind them is a Court House.


Tom and Susan finally break their kiss.


But still hang on to each other.


Susan presses her hand against his chest.

Beat.

The police lead Susan toward the court.


Tom turns to Charlotte.


She holds up the roses and lets them drop to the street.

FADE OUT

The things you find online. This is my school photograph from thirty years ago and if you’re now peering to see which one is me, imagine how I felt coming across it this week on Facebook. By accident.

I don’t remember the day this was taken but I do very clearly, very physically remember this photograph: the copy I got then was a print in a brown cardboard sleeve. Seeing this shot online, that was my first reaction. Surprise came second, looking for me came third, I was hit first by the feel of that old print in my hands.

I do remember that on this day or one around it, the headmaster in the front row did some speech or other in which he said there was a song that summed up how we must all be feeling as we reached the end of our school days. He was a very hip headmaster so it was probably something like The Old Rugged Cross.

But I do recall turning to whoever was next to me and – in a display of contemporary pop music unusual for me at the time and unheard of since – whispering that he must mean Captain Sensible and Glad It’s All Over.

Can’t remember who I said it to. I look at this photo and I can name just ten and a half people. It wasn’t a great school, I wasn’t a great pupil, all it really did was knock a child’s automatic respect for authority out of me. I remember my chemistry teacher spending a whole lesson on getting us to mark another class’s homework. He stood at the top of the lab and said what the right answers were supposed to be while we were meant to tick or cross and report back the final score. I’ve no idea whose exercise book I marked, I don’t remember now and I didn’t care then, I just went straight to the end and gave the kid 10/10. What was that teacher going to do about it?

Another teacher did try something on: he worked hard to get me thrown out. I worked harder to stay in. I won. It was an entirely unwarranted move on his part, he was actually heading for a breakdown and was causing much damage to perhaps one kid per class year. But it was the first time I remember where I had to get really political, to think around and over someone playing the rules against me.

Oooh, it’s all coming back. That politics did help me in journalism, I’ll give the school that. But the last thing I remember about the place was how wrong the careers advice was. If I could figure out the name of the careers teacher who laughed in my face about my becoming a writer, I would not be above going back to him now. But I’m drawing a complete blank.

Blank on him, blank on all the teachers in that photo, blank on so many more people in there. I do remember who I fancied. I hadn’t remembered quite how many there were. That’s embarrassing now. I expect it was embarrassing then, too.

I only remember asking one woman out, I’m certain I didn’t actually go with any one there. Nobody in that picture. Grief, I hope I’m right about that. Or at least, if I’m wrong, that she isn’t reading this.

What are the odds, though? I sent a copy of this photo to one of maybe two and a half people in it that I still know. Jim McCarthy: second row of pupils from the back, right hand side of the photo, standing between Thingy and Er.

Jim is much better at remembering everyone, he really put me to shame there. But he also vocalised something I hadn’t realised I was thinking: the fact that whether or not you can name any face in that shot, we ourselves are unrecognisable. Or rather, we are unrecognisable to ourselves. I look at me there and I’m alien. Lifetimes and worlds ago. I prefer the me of today to the me of then. I know that the me of then would be very happy with where I’d ended up so far, but I hope he would also have told me to bloody well get there faster than I did.

I hope so, but I’m guessing. I don’t know that William Gallagher any better than I know Thingy, Er, and Whatsherface.

After I found me in that shot, after I found Jim, after I got bored trying to recognise many others, I did find Whatsherface, the woman I remember asking out. That was so strange: an instant, a picosecond before I found her, I thought of her and expected to feel – I don’t know, rejected of course, probably daft. I did like her enough at the time that she would make me tongue-tied. If anyone in that shot remembers me as an eejit, well, hey, it’s nice to be remembered and it’s impressive that they remember me so accurately. She cannot remember me accurately because I was entirely a different kind of eejit in front of her. It’s not really a difference that makes much difference, but it makes much difference to me.

Only, even if she knew me as eejit, it was also a pretty shallow kind of knowledge. She didn’t know me well, I didn’t know her well. It was a pretty temporary knowledge too: I am not the boy I was. Doubtlessly she’s not the woman she was. So here’s someone I didn’t know then and I don’t know now, but she’s fixed in my head as the 17-year-old she was in that photo.

Lots of writers swear by the idea of creating the young character in their heads before begin writing. What music did they like, what posters did they have on their wall, who did they have a crush on, what was their best subject. I have always found this notion stupefying and believed it only an excuse to postpone writing. Ask me after I’ve done a script and I can probably answer all those questions immediately: I know the characters so well by then. But at the start, I’ve not a clue and I have never believed that it tells me anything.

I suspect now that I believe this because I unthinkingly knew of this schism between the me of then and the me of today. I get the whole nature vs nurture argument, I know you’re thinking that the me of today was formed by the me back then, but it feels like I have several walls between the two of me.

I’m happy being this side of them all. But just for a moment, it was nice to peek back.

I have this secret email account. Big, big secret. Even you don’t know the address. I’ve never signed up to anywhere with it, I’ve never included it on a form, I have denied its very existence. But it’s there. And spam finds it anyway.

Well, it does and it doesn’t. It’s a gmail account and I’ve been using it since 2004 solely as a writing archive. When I finish a piece or a good-sized chunk of it, I obviously save it and back up too but I also email it to myself. Specifically this: I email it from that secret account to that secret account.

If I email it from anywhere else, if you squirrel out the address and email it yourself, or if anyone tries to send it spam, I will never know. Well, I might figure out the one where it’s me emailing. But the archive remains pristine and untouched by anything except writing attachments because everything else is immediately deleted. I don’t see a bean of it, it’s just toast straight away.

It’s been great except that as it’s a gmail account, when I wanted to join Google+ I thought I either had to reveal this address or make a new one. I made a new one. You can well believe how tedious it was having to repeatedly log out of one and into the other, to remember which was which and where you were. But then I found that even with my new gmail address, even with me on Google+, I was getting a lot of people inviting me to join the service – and they were inviting me by my Secret Address.

Hopefully I just wigged out some time in the last eight years and let this address slip but even if that’s the case and it’s not that Google was toying with me, the result was that I did not see one of these invitations. How could I? Instant toast.

Some people got annoyed with me never responding. This is how I found out. By then, though, the number of invitations to join and the idea of having to go through all of them saying I already had, I just skipped the lot. Haven’t been back to Google+ since.

And I haven’t looked in the toast bin since, either.

Until this week.

This week I’ve been doing a thing and a friend has been helping me out and somehow, somewhen, she got my Secret Email Address instead of my real one. I don’t know why, she doesn’t know why, it doesn’t matter and she mentioned on Facebook that she’d emailed thisaway so I knew about it.

But nipping into my gmail trash to get her email, I think I’ve found where all human life is hiding.

So much spam. If you get spam all the time then you’re shrugging at me now but my real address gets practically none. It gets so little that when one gets through, it’s maddening. And here was a flood of the stuff to an address I believed no one had. There’s plenty of evidence to say I must’ve given it out some time, but very intriguingly some of the spam has been sent to email addresses that are almost but not quite my secret one.

I forwarded my friend’s email, then deleted everything in the trash and waited.

When I checked back the next morning, there were ninety new messages and together they told the story of a life. I’ve not edited these, I may have nudged the order on one or two and I’ve dropped a lot of duplicates. A lot of duplicates. But where spam used to be Viagra and Rolex watches and Nigerian bank fraud, now it’s a story:

Supercharge and impress girls

Start a Relationship with Your Faith in Common – Find God’s Match for you

Buy a High School Diploma and University Degree NOW

Learn the skills that could let you be the first to see a baby

You have been selected to be on Deal or No Deal

Meet 40 plus Singles Near You. Browse profiles FREE!

Looking to cast a personal love spell?

Lose 20lbs quickly and safely

Compare and save on spy cameras

Get new windows

Injured? Get the compensation you deserve

William, do you need emergency cash?

View Photos of 50+ Singles in your City

An Ex Has Recently Searched for You

We all hate spam, but it’s out there everyday, creating fiction. Or at least creating outlines for stories: spam can be a map of a character’s entire life. I think the story you read just there is really mostly inside your head. But that means you wrote it, the spam outlined it, I just retyped the thing. I’ve gone off this whole idea now.

Actually, I don’t. I just don’t tend to swear. No reason. I’m not prudish. I don’t object if you cuss your head off – oh! I suddenly, right this moment, remember an old friend stopping in a conversation to apologise to me for her swearing. And I remember most clearly that I hadn’t a clue what she meant.

I’m not saying that I never swear. I have absolutely no doubt that if you searched every blog entry I’ve written here in the last few years, you would find the word ‘fuck’. There it is. Right there. Look at me: I’m so nice I even saved you the search.

Maybe that’s it, maybe I’m just so nice, maybe that’s the whole thing. Though there is a fella who I bellowed at over the phone this week who would disagree. And a woman who called last night claiming that Microsoft had asked her to phone me about a severe problem with my Windows PC which I could fix by browsing to her malware-infested website, she heard the word ‘bollocks’ quite quickly.

There aren’t many people I don’t like, there aren’t all that many things you can do that will bother me. There aren’t many things that I’m not interested in. It’s a happy life.

And it stinks for when you’re trying to write realistic characters in drama.

I actually think this is the root of it all: I grew up in a polite family, yes, but I also grew up in front of the telly. Lou Grant never swore. Nor did Bob Hope. Actually, I blame Bob Hope films for how my accent became – well, it’s not mid-Atlantic, but it’s never been spot-on Brummie either.

(A quick aside? I just wrote a feature on the ten films that most shaped me and Angela guessed that the Road movies would be in there. They weren’t, but they could so easily have been and all because of the  line in The Road to Morocco which goes “Like Webster’s International Dictionary, we’re Morocco-bound”.)

The Road to Morocco was 1942. Seventy years ago. We are living in an age when something made seven decades ago can be seen an enjoyed pretty much exactly as it was when new. Yes, we now see it on iPads and it has become a snapshot of a culture and a time that it once just fitted into and reflected.

Howay. I am plainly destined to never write searing social justice horror movies that are as profane as they are profound. I’m okay with that.

But it makes me conscious that there are really three types of dialogue, not two. I used to think there was good and bad. Or call it believable and unbelievable. Realistic and not realistic.

I hope that if I write a line it is realistic, that an actor can say it, that it just works. It probably won’t have swearing. Again, not from some deliberate avoidance, it just probably won’t. But that does mean it’s unrealistic.

So I’m writing dialogue that may be good and believable, but it isn’t real.

Not to compare myself to these incredible writers, but this is a key part of the work of Alan Bennett, Harold Pinter, Alan Plater, Tom Stoppard – and Aaron Sorkin.

Aaron Sorkin’s The Newsroom has been praised for the verve and brilliance of its dialogue – and it’s been slammed for its unbelievable dialogue. What I think both sides are missing is that it isn’t real, it is extremely stylised writing and at its best, it’s wonderful. Gigantic conversations happen in three lines, two of which have nothing to do with the subject at heart. People speak with passion and energy and it is uplifting.

I don’t care that it isn’t real, that none of us will ever meet a Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) character in real life.

I do mind very much that we have already met a Will McAvoy character in most of Aaron Sorkin’s work before.

It ticked me off in Studio 60 when Matt (Matthew Perry) accidentally broke an office window because I’d seen Will Bailey (Joshua Malina) do it in The West Wing and Malina was in Sports Night when Dana (Felicity Huffman) did it there. Similarly, The Newsroom has McAvoy comically unable to remember a character’s name; just as Jed Bartlett had problems with it, just as Sam Donovan did before him.

Things stop illuminating a character when they first have to shine a light through two or three other characters before them. Every writer reuses ideas or maybe even lines as they explore the same themes – though me, not so much – and sometimes it’s a running gag for the audience to spot. (Watch an Alan Plater piece and you’ll likely as not hear someone ponder whether they can make it to the Mexican border by nightfall.)

I think things don’t have to be realistic in order to be realistic. Switching the light off with those preceding characters and looking just at The Newsroom’s McAvoy, he talks in a way that perhaps you’d want to but none of us do. When it works, it’s wonderful. But the price of it all is that sometimes it doesn’t work.

If memory serves, there wasn’t a moment in Sports Night when the dialogue didn’t work. Definitely not in The West Wing. I remember Studio 60 having comedy sketches that weren’t funny but otherwise, the characters all worked. But in The Newsroom, it does sometimes fail.

Martin Sheen has said many times that it took him a while to get Aaron Sorkin’s lines and to deliver them right. Sam Waterson doesn’t seem to have got there. Emily Mortimer often doesn’t land the lines. These are terrific actors but they didn’t pull this off. To just underline the difficulty, there was a minor character in the Newsroom pilot who tortured a line about people having a personal argument in front of him.

The Newsroom is delicate. It’s making a similar mistake to Studio 60 in setting up rivalries but instantly pricking them apart. (In Studio 60, the big threat was from the network boss who could fire Amanda Peet’s character but not only was she a star, his was a very binary threat. There are no degrees of firing: his only weapon was total removal of her from the show. It was never going to happen and we knew it immediately. Within a few episodes, he was changed to being a good guy with some nasty boss above him. Exactly the same problem, just a step removed. A few episodes later, the threat was pushed off another step to being the big bad nasty FCC. If the FCC is your series enemy, your goodies are weak too. In The Newsroom, the first news story was about the BP oil rig incident so we knew instantaneously that our heroes were right to be pursuing this story and their rivals were wrong – even stupid – not to. Instantaneously. The rivals have nothing so they aren’t rivals.)

Aaron Sorkin says that during The West Wing, he wouldn’t touch a subject unless they could make very good, very strong and conflicting arguments on both sides of a topic. That’s stunningly hard to write but I believe there may never be any better drama than two people arguing where both of them are right. Swear or don’t swear, I don’t care, but when both sides of a contentious issue are articulate, passionate and right, who gives a damn whether they swear?

Whatever you do, there is someone in your field that you know is better than you can ever hope to be. The very fact that you’re in the same field only means that you’re even better able to appreciate the nuances of how tremendous they are and you aren’t.

Writers get this the worst, I think, because I am a writer. But it is regretfully true that we can go look up myriad examples of especially fine writing at any moment. If you’re struggling to write something, just read how vastly better someone else has already done that same idea. If you’re a dentist, it’s hard to examine the work of your heroes quite so readily, quite so quickly, and quite so without being arrested.

Whenever you do see brilliant work in your field, though, it is crippling. But the writing that is so good that it kills you is so good you don’t mind being killed.

Usually this writing is a body of work like a complete book, an entire script, a full poem. I get one of my worst give-up-now-William moments from half a line of Calypso, a Suzanne Vega song.

I bring this up now because I found out that her next album has been delayed to August. [Update: some sources now say September.] It’s the fourth of her acoustic re-working of her back catalogue. I mentioned this news on Facebook and Laura Cousins commented thisaway: “What I love about the acoustic versions is how it gives an insight into how the songs are written, and how very strong they are.”

Quite so. Absolutely. But that insight, that clarity… How can I say this?

There’s a line in Calypso, from Suzanne Vega’s Solitude Standing album, which describes a relationship with someone and goes:

I tell of nights / Where I could taste salt / And hear skin

Many, many times now, those last three words have prevented me writing. Stopped me cold. Because I know I couldn’t write that well.

It’s one of those lines that is wrong, that doesn’t actually make sense, and yet therefore is so right and actually makes so much more sense than the ‘correct’ line could. I’ve mentioned before that Dar Williams’s line “I am the others” does this to me. Both of these lines use the wrong word and that’s something I don’t think I can do yet it’s something that both these writers do so very powerfully.

I mean, she sings “and hear skin” and I can feel that relationship. You can touch skin, you can see it, you can smell it, but this is more. It’s that special person who’s just come in the room and set your heart going faster. The desire you can’t express neither in the sense of comprehend nor – God forbid – telling them. Not yet. Not now. You’ll scare them away. Better to be with them like this than risk losing them, losing everything. A hand, a wrist, an ankle and, yes, a breast, a thigh, all so shockingly real and vivid, all like lightbulbs under their clothes, not because of the body-part itself but because of whose body it is.

The tingle of their presence, the delicious pain of it, there is so much more to it than seeing or feeling or smelling. You can hear their skin: Suzanne Vega is right.

Only.

She didn’t write that line.

I misheard that lyric from 1987 when it was first released on Solitude Standing to 2010 when an acoustic version came out on her Close Up Volume 2. Wherein it is obvious – and I’ve since checked too – that what she really sings is this:

I tell of nights / Where I could taste salt / On his skin

Mondegreen means a misheard lyric. (Did you know that? I only recently learnt it while watching an interview with Ian Rankin where he revealed his latest book title is such a misheard lyric.)

I have been mishearing a lyric for nigh on a quarter of a century. There are a thousand other reasons to admire and love Vega’s work, but she didn’t write this one.

So apparently I did.

I’m still trying to process this.

—

If you want to check for yourself, the lyric comes about 43 seconds into the 90-second preview of Calypso and the Solitude Standing album on iTunes here. And then it’s clearer on the acoustic version from Close Up vol 2; comes about a minute into the 90-second preview on iTunes here.

I’ve said it before and I’ll doubtlessly say it again: no sooner do you create one character for a script than you have to create a second so they have someone to talk to. What’s more, they have to have bleedin’ names.

Names are so hard. Get them right and it’s impossible to imagine the character being called anything else. Gene Hunt, for instance. But there’s right and there’s familiar: Tom Rockford sounds wrong where Jim Rockford sounds spot on yet that’s what James Garner’s character was called right up to filming of The Rockford Files. (See for yourself: here’s the pilot episode script by Stephen J Cannell, who co-created the show with Roy Huggins.)

Mind you, nobody remembers why that show was called The Rockford Files. The title referred to the type of cases that this detective character would take on: as he had been wrongly convicted and imprisoned, so he was going to investigate similar miscarriages of justice. I have no idea whether he ever did and neither do you: you just know it as an especially good detective drama with a particularly charismatic lead character.

Writers set up all these thing and we needn’t: that title was specifically about the cases he takes on but it became specifically about the series. We didn’t need Jim Rockford to take on anything other detectives didn’t, we just needed him to be who he was and to open every episode with one of those great answering machine messages.

My favourite is episode 9:

ROCKFORD’S VOICE: Hello, this is Jim Rockford. At the tone, leave your name and message, I’ll get back to you.

BEEEEEEEEEP

CALLER: This is the message phone company. I see you’re using our unit, now how about paying for it?

Lots of writers spend a lot of time thinking about names. Some like their names to say something very specific about their character: Squire Allworthy is unlikely to be a right git in Tom Jones for instance. You can go far with this, viz Basil Exposition in Austin Powers.

I’m not that keen on meaningful names. I blame the parents.

But it means I’m left pondering names an awful lot. I will confess now that I used to cheat: I came up with the name Susan Hare for an early script and I thought for a long time that I would keep on using that name until one of those scripts sold. So Susan was an international jewel thief, a journalist, a 12-year-old kid, a banker and a baker, countless different things that were incompatible in age if nothing else. Only, I then realised I was writing new characters with her name in such a way that you could make all the versions fit together into one remarkable life.

I stopped. But not until after I’d used her name in a little experiment on an online service (where I gave her and a barely-intelligible male character the same computer problems to see who would help out who). And not until after I’d created a Facebook page for her. The photograph above is a version of her profile picture: I came around a corner in Cardiff Bay and saw this lonely image. By the time I’d taken that shot and tried to talk to the woman, she had vanished. So I do think of her now as Susan Hare.

I’ve lost the password to Susan’s account and it’s like she’s alive out there without me. It was her birthday the other day. She has more friends than I do. Two people I would’ve said were my friends started fighting over her.

That’s what I call a successful character name.

But what’s got me thinking about this today and wanting to talk to you about it now is not how you name characters but how you name products. Apple has just released a new free iOS app called Podcasts. You immediately know what it’s for.

The word ‘podcast’, though, is of course formed from two words: iPod and broadcast. It’s a mark of a successful product when podcasts have outlived iPods.

Maybe that success has inspired other names; maybe it’s all a coincidence that every product name is now a compound of two words. Maybe I’m only seeing this now because I’m looking for it, a la confirmation bias.

But look at the products that new Apple app is going to compete with. Instacast is the biggie: I have this and occasionally use it – remarkably occasionally since I used to produce my own podcast with UK DVD Review – and again the origin of the name is obvious. Instant podcasts. Fine.

Only, if you’re going to name something from two words, I think it behooves you to think both of what the two separate words mean and what the new compound word does too. Follow: another app for the downloading of podcasts is called Downcast.

They didn’t think that through, did they?

But at least it’s better than this. There is a clearly high-profile and apparently successful iOS app for iPad and iPhone which lets you sketch things. It’s meant to be for creating artwork and the makers would have you regard it as a highly professional piece of software. I’ve seen countless reviews of this product, none of which have appeared to notice that the name ought to have been worked on one more time.

It’s called Procreate.

I’ve been having a slightly anxious time on a script. Can’t tell you what it is yet but it’s a commission that came up quite quickly and unexpectedly; it’s a project that has to be completed quite fast. I like all this, it suits the way I work, it takes all my newsroom training and applies it to drama – and it means I’ve less time to fret.

Let me tell you right now, most especially if you’re currently wondering whether it’s the script for you that I’m talking about, it’s going fine again. Brilliantly. Flying. In fact, you could stop reading now.

Have they gone? Is it just you and me again?

Sometimes it does fly. I had a problem on it that cost me a day but when I realised the solution, it was so clever I patted myself on the back. And as I contorted around in my chair to do that, I also realised that the clever solution came with a free “oooooooh” moment thrown in. I told Angela. “Ooooooooh, ” she said.

Other times it’s not flying. But I’ve realised why and actually now, here, setting out to talk to you about this, I’ve realised that the reason is deeper than the script, it’s also tied into how my work has changed so much and so quickly. It’s terrific that I am now writing drama and books but it’s very different from just being assigned another feature to do.

Here’s the thing. When I pitch you a script, I start by telling you what it’s about. But as soon as we can, we move on to what it’s really about.

Follow. My first Doctor Who was a short 25-minute piece that was about the Doctor being stuck in prison. It was really about how I think time itself is a prison; this idea I’ve said to you before about how we are trapped here and the very best we can ever hope to do is to bang on the pipes a bit to pass a message along.

You don’t need to know that when you read the script or hear the finished drama. In some ways, it might not even be in there in finished work: certainly it will never be stated or in any way emphasised. But without it, the script is a plot. With it, it’s a story.

So this blog is about how scripts need to have more in them than plot. How they have to have something of you in them or they just don’t work.

But what this blog is really about is my move from journalism to drama.

I say all this to you about plot and theme and it feels a bit arty-farty, to be honest. I am of the get-it-done school, the park your bum at the desk and write until it’s finished. That has served me extremely well in journalism where I’m productive and fast enough that things get written and then I’m fast enough and not so precious that I can change things rapidly too. I don’t believe in the Muse.

Well, I didn’t. And if you tell me a great male artist had to have a woman around as his Muse, I still think he was just trying to impress her and I’m far more interested in what she does than I am in his poncing about.

But Aaron Sorkin said this glorious, liberating thing the other day. He’s working on a biopic of Apple’s Steve Jobs and said: “I’m at the earliest possible stage… What I’ll go through is a long period that, to the casual observer, might very well look like watching ESPN.”

Sheer air pressure propelled me out of my office when I was writing a piece called Wirrn Isle; I spent a day walking around my home city of Birmingham with my head in a futuristic Loch Lomond. It was as necessary as eating and I’d never had that before. With this new script, I’ve tried building in times like this, scheduling them rather than reaching the end of a rope before giving in to it. So yesterday I had a coffee with a guy, today I talked the ears off a water meter inspector, I’ve watched endless episodes of particularly well-written sitcom in the middle of the night.

Not endless. But I’m on my fiftieth episode of The Big Bang Theory since February. It’s not always a great show but so many times it is and the craft in those 19-21 minutes is delicious.

They do so much in that time and by contrast I’ve just spent an hour trying to find you a quote from Dar Williams about the necessity to make time for whatever you call this writing-while-not-writing. I have failed to find this quote. But in keeping with how this noodling about is an essential thing if you’re to create anything new, the search for that quote led me to another one hers that I like.

Asked by the Wall Street Journal how she gets inspiration to write, Dar Williams said: “You have to walk around a lot of museums, a lot of sculpture parks. And time your caffeine, so that you are in an open, wide contemplative space for when the caffeine takes hold.”

It’s 2pm. I forgot to have breakfast, I should probably do something about lunch now too. Drama is a weird world and it’s scaring me a little how I’m having to change to do it.

Two hours ago, I finished writing my first index. Twenty years ago, I finished writing my first article about writing indexes.

That was in the March 1992 issue of Personal Computer World and as a commentary on the state of word processors at the time, it’s fine. As a read, it’s not. But I have just had a very good time re-reading it after twenty years more experience writing, after twenty years of more technology progress and of course after my first genuine need for an index.

Back then, I was testing all the very latest word processors to see how they coped with indexing a 23,000-word document. Reading between the lines, I think I believed 23,000 words was long. Mark you, I also seemed to believe that being snarky was clever and that randomly opinionated was useful.

But I did also take all these word processors with their apparently very fancy automated indexing tools and conclude that the only sensible thing to do in the real world was ignore the lot of them and hire a professional. Can you believe this, though? I gave the address of the Society of Indexers. The address. The postal address. We have come a long way since I can now just point out their website to you.

What I don’t know is whether we’ve come any further with word processors. That slightly disturbs me because word processing was my beat, so to speak, on a number of computer magazines and I’d forgotten that I used to be so interested. Naturally I wrote my book – BFI Television Classics: The Beiderbecke Affair – on a word processor so it’s not that I’m a typewriter-wielding Luddite, it’s that my interest in computers is dead. I knew that: I went on Macs around the time of that article and have never looked at a blue screen since.

That said, I did get a little twitch looking at all the software I listed in that article: I was testing and comparing away happily and obviously you say what you were testing and comparing. Two of the software applications have entirely died since then – PageMaker and FullWrite Professional – while one – Interleaf – has been mildly reborn as something else. WordPerfect for Macintosh was in there too and that’s no longer sold but WordPerfect itself limps on.

I am a little startled at my stupidity, though. I’m used to my general stupidity but this was a specific thing and it appeared to be a kind of consensus stupidity: I and the word processor manufacturers alike all unthinkingly assumed that there was any point indexing the (say) Word document. I did write my Beiderbecke book in Word but the text was typeset in some other system. (I don’t know what system but I do know the typesetters did a gorgeous job of it: I got the page proofs and they are beautiful.)

Just doing a quick che –

– wow. I have this minute, this second, that sentence, been sent a proof cover of the book. I can’t show you because it’s not final, it’s got lots of text on that’s for position only, but the colours are great and it is rather nice seeing my name on there. Reminds me of the Doctor Who: Wirrn Isle cover. Somehow my name goes on someone else’s artwork. That’s not bad.

What was I saying?

Right.

Just doing a quick check on Google, I see that Adobe InDesign page layout will import index marks from Microsoft Word. I like InDesign a lot; I learnt it at Radio Times and am using it now on some book projects.

I’ve no idea whether The Beiderbecke Affair went through InDesign; I know that I wrote in Word 2011 and that I did the index by marking up a PDF copy of the galley proof in GoodReader on my iPad.

Weird to think that my iPad didn’t exist when I wrote that article.

Depressing to think my talent didn’t either. I don’t want to say it’s a bad article; I’ve read scripts of mine from around that time that are exponentially worse. And I also don’t want to say it’s bad because I had help on it and will not criticise that help.

For some reason I have very clear visual memories of random moments; I mentioned to someone today that I can clearly and quite precisely see where I was the time I first downloaded an iPhone RSS app called Manifesto. There’s rarely a particular reason I remember one moment over another. But this time, what I remember is a note from a friend about a draft of this article.

Reading the article now, I can tell you which lines were borne of which of his suggestions. It’s that clear to me. There’s no point telling you the lines out of context, but I can tell you the fine fella: Rupert Goodwins.

Most of the points I made in that original article failed to help me at all now as I’ve been making a real index in a real book. Most of the software mentioned in it is long forgotten. Personal Computer World magazine ceased publication in 2009. But I still know Rupert and that’s all that matters.