Andrew Chapman Screenwriting

Writing Runts

While I was between jobs, about a year and a half ago, I wrote a feature-length script in four weeks. This week, I read it for the first time since then. It’s a hell of a lot better than I remember. It needs a couple of new scenes and a slightly different ending, but I’ve got that all figured out, and I’m on a mission to finish it today.

The next step for this script is the almost impossible step. It requires luck, an incredible amount of random chance, and not much else. Somewhere out there is a director who is looking for something exactly like this, and our paths have to cross at just the right time.

RUNTS. A council house in the south of England. Night. Two young brothers bury their dead mother in the garden.

So begins a story of two boys, Brian, aged 11, and Dean, 16, as they learn to fend for themselves while keeping this dark secret. Things spiral out of control, and Brian begins to realise that there is something very, very, wrong with his older brother.

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life, Screenwriting, The Other Stuff, Words and Writers

The Slightly Morbid Reason I Write

I was looking back over a book I had abandoned writing a few years ago, and was surprised by the final few paragraphs, which had nothing to do with the novel. They were instead my reflections on hearing the news about my dad’s diagnosis, which would take his life shortly after, and how death is the driving force that keeps me writing. If grief is a trigger for you, I would recommend skipping this post.

I wrote the following back in 2022, while Dad was still around, a few months before he passed.

***

There is no greater sedative than bad news. One month ago, my dad was told he had two months to live.

It was my mum who told me. Called me up, crying. They were leaving the hospital, on their way home. Didn’t want visitors. Needed to process it.

I called David in Spain. Told him. He’s on holiday with Arthur. Mum and Dad were meant to be there but stayed home to wait for the results of the MRI. Dad was told he couldn’t travel.

I’ve always felt that we are marching at full speed towards mortality. My dad took a wrong turn and slipped off a cliff.

I was in the middle of doing the dishes when Mum called and after the phone call I got back to it. Rachel followed me into the kitchen and said I didn’t need to worry about some dirty pots. But I did, because they still needed to be done.

I think I washed one cup before I had to stop. I leant against the counter and stared at the floor. We talked, though I don’t remember what either of us said, and then a spontaneous burst of grief caused me to push away from the counter and sob into that gap between Rachel’s shoulder and neck.

I read somewhere that writers avoid death. I think that’s why I do it.

I write so that when I am gone, my daughter can pick up one of my books and say, ‘There you are, Dad.’

It’s got me thinking about voice. Anything other than death. Voice as in the authorial voice. A lot of creative writing advice focuses on removing yourself from the prose. The author should never be present. I disagree. Whatever style I have is fundamentally me and too much tidying up of the language will remove me from it. I don’t write to deliver a plot. I write to save some part of my soul. That’s not as grand a statement as it sounds. It’s vanity, really. And terror.