´óÏó´«Ã½

I’ve recently been lucky enough to complete the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Writersroom (now ´óÏó´«Ã½ Writers) ‘Voices’ programme, as part of the Wales cohort. Six months of expert masterclasses, craft sessions, industry gold dust and navigating zoom. It’s been brilliant. Here’s how it unfolded…

Meet the Voices 2023 - Wales Hub writers

Some people have addictions that are pernicious, eroding, even life threatening. So let’s be clear, in November 2022 my addiction to screenwriting podcasts was none of these things. But neither was it moving my craft forward as I’d hoped. The idea was to blanket myself in the musings of all these ‘successful’ writers until enough of their craft seeped into me that I too would become ‘successful’.

Some screenwriting podcasts often explore how difficult it is to write anything. At all. And these are 9 to 5 full time writers. [Strong L.A accent] ‘Last week I was feeling overwhelmed by which nutritional supplement I should be taking, so I didn’t do any writing… I just focussed on self-care and spent the week in Malibu sitting inside my fear and allowing my juju to re-establish.’ Hmm. Are podcasts just self-help books in audio form? There is a very ironic reason that self-help books are a ten billion dollar industry.

Maybe podcasts aren’t the answer. How about screenwriting books? Well, I had tried but after 11 hours at my desk each day (3 writing/8 day job) I could barely read the instructions on a tin of beans let alone a book on story structure. I have a dozen screenwriting books sat 10% finished on my bookshelf.

An email pings into my phone…

‘We are delighted to invite you to an informal zoom interview to be considered for a place on the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Writersroom Voices 2023 programme beginning in January…’

Holy sh*t.

The pre-interview nerves start five days before. I need to get up to speed with ´óÏó´«Ã½ output so I hit the iPlayer. Shall I watch every ´óÏó´«Ã½ drama ever made? Or just the ones made in the last 30 years? I grab my pad and pen.

Five days later, I click Join Meeting with slightly trembling hands but with a forensic knowledge of ’s internal obstacles, ¹ó±ô±ð²¹²ú²¹²µâ€™s external ones, and many things in between. Turns out I didn’t need to know any of it. They were interested in me, not shows the ´óÏó´«Ã½ made decades ago. But the interview went well. I was in!

So how do I get to the next level?

I wasn’t doing terribly as it was. I had placed in the and won a screenplay award at a small festival. However, quoting these ‘achievements’ in query emails was not getting me anywhere. No two ways about it. As a screenwriter, I was treading water.

I was aware of ´óÏó´«Ã½ Open Call. In terms of places to submit your script, it stands above all contests and festivals due to what happens if you are successful. You don’t just win three hundred quid and a 30 minute zoom call with some disinterested producer in a basement in Los Angeles… You get onto an actual writing programme where you spend months learning from the people who are writing and producing the TV that we all love.

I’d submitted for the last couple of years and not succeeded. Maybe ´óÏó´«Ã½ Open Call was a step too far for a valleys lad in the back of beyond, writing about ex-mining communities and scheming politicians. Nevertheless, I submitted again and promptly forgot about it.

Day one of the Voices course was in the majestic new ´óÏó´«Ã½ building in Cardiff. I had googled ‘What to wear on the first day of an emerging writers programme’ until my fingertips were sore, and somehow ended up in a pair of skin tight chequered trousers and brown tank top. As the other ‘Voices’ rolled in looking smart, confident and stylish, I waddled in cursing Google under my breath.

They’d sent out everyone’s bio beforehand, and all the others sounded dynamic, competent and lovely. So I was devastated to find that they were indeed dynamic, competent and lovely. But despite this early setback, it was a fantastic afternoon, and a lovely sense of ‘this is so cool and we’re all in it together’ started to develop within the group.

Incidentally, as well as lovely food, the ´óÏó´«Ã½ put on free coffee urns. I LOVE free coffee urns, but had previous here. When my employers had marked the end of lockdown by dragging us to an all-day bash in a hotel, they’d put huge free coffee urns on for us. By the time I walked home, I was convinced the planet was about to be destroyed by a meteor. I went to bed at 5:45pm and spent 14 hours staring at the ceiling as the caffeine fear drained away.

So I stayed away from the free coffee as we chatted. First we met the wonderful Elise, who was to become utterly pivotal to our existence over the next six months, and then Ros, who outlined what was to come and infused us with a sense of calm and excitement. To round the day off, we met the writer of brilliant ´óÏó´«Ã½ Drama The Left Behind, Alan Harris. Alan, an alumni of ´óÏó´«Ã½ Writers, was very cool and we grilled him on how on earth you get into the industry, and what in Dickens name you are supposed to do when you get there.

After the open day, the learning really kicked in with a series of Wednesday lunchtime Zoom masterclasses, often with the full UK cohort of 72 Voices. Ten minutes into the excellent first session, with from , I had three notes which contain more clarity than I could get from twenty podcasts…

• What is a simple thing that I want to say?
• Share a secret and a truth with the audience.
• What’s the truth you know that other people don’t?

The next masterclass is from , whose passion for story and structure beams out like lasers and there are pretty much 72 smiles on the Zoom screen throughout the sessions. Incidentally, they always give us a Q&A at the end, but as a bit of a social anxiety sufferer, asking a question in front of 75 people is very nerve wracking to me. Some weeks I put myself outside my comfort zone and ask a question. My preparation for this simple task is long and arduous. While I am waiting for my turn, I am (behind a muted mic), giving it the full Am-Dram class warm up to try and open my terrified throat. LA LA LAAAA!! I AM TALKING NORMALLY… ONE TWO, ONE TWO… (repeat unbroken for 5 minutes). If I successfully ask the question, the relief is so immense that their answer is just a blur and I have to check the recording later to see what they said.

The course bounds along. Story Producer shows us how to create compelling characters, how to give them agency and utilise conflict and sub-plot to enrich them. Jess Loveland takes us through the myriad types of development docs, something peculiarly ungoogle-able and therefore priceless.

I start to really see the talent in my fellow Welsh Voices now too. I am fortunate to read Melodie’s play about wellness scammers and Emma’s play about catfishing and lost innocence. Both plays utterly blow my mind. I think back to the mess I was in my twenties and early thirties and am incredulous at the talented, imaginative people in this group. On masterclass Wednesdays, our Whatsapp group essentially becomes an immersive, multi-media comedy performance that any San Francisco improv troupe would be proud of.

Our personal project during this course is to come up with a series outline for a TV show. The feedback we receive at every step is incredibly insightful. Ros, and then Celi, laser in on more key questions and ideas in one hour than I could in a month. We’re working with professionals here. By the end of the course I’ve outlined a four part supernatural thriller set in the Rhondda between the 1960’s and the 1980’s. I cannot wait to carry on developing it.

We end the course with three priceless sessions. In consecutive weeks, we meet a group of literary agents, the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Wales commissioning team, and a group of TV production bosses. Beforehand, rather than see these sessions as an opportunity to further my knowledge, I see them as an opportunity to mark myself out as an idiot to the very people I may need to connect with in future. But the Writersroom team have created an environment so safe and encouraging that this anxiety disappears and we all bombard them with questions, receiving mountains of insightful advice you just wouldn’t get anywhere else.

The course ends with a glitzy bash in , and we get to meet lots of industry executives who are just as friendly and normal as the master-class guru’s we’ve been learning from. I walk away from the bash, and therefore the Voices programme, feeling sad. But I also feel like twice the screenwriter I was before I started, and have lots of new friends and contacts on the same journey.

In the same way that being told stories as a kid can take you to a magical place, writing stories can take you to a magical place too. Admittedly, as a screenwriter the stories you are involved with may have fewer enchanted forests and more drug fuelled assaults… but the act of creating a story can still take you to a special, vivid place when the words are tumbling over each other to get out.

And with 6 months of ´óÏó´«Ã½ Writers tucked safely under my belt, I feel far better equipped to translate that special vividness to readers and, maybe one day… viewers.

Oh, that’s weird. I haven’t been near a screenwriting podcast since starting Voices, let’s tune back in… [Strong L.A accent] ‘Last week I was feeling overwhelmed by the political situation in Guam, so I didn’t do any writing… I just focussed on self-care and spent the week by the pool sitting inside my fear and giving my chakra permission to weep…’

Ah, that’s nice.