The wonderful Lilie Ferrari writes about her time as a scriptwriter for television, and
celebrates the women writers who succeed in the industry. Lilie runs
scriptwriting workshops for the Unthank School and next week we will post details of her courses which begin in the autumn. In
the meantime read on for some great insight into the business:
“I started writing
seriously when I was nine. In fact I wrote a rather bad full-length novel
called THE TRAIN NOW STANDING, about a gang of kids and a disused railway
station. This was followed in my early teens by a dramatic saga of unavailable
mod boys, desperate youthful love affairs and accidental pregnancies. Neither
of these works, I am glad to say, ever went near a publisher; but - aah, those
heady days, when I wrote what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted!
I didn’t become a
professional writer until I was in my late thirties, life having been taken up
by single parenthood and the need to work hours that meant my son could attend
school and still have a mother – so a tangled collection of half-sensible,
half-silly jobs filled my days until I landed at the BBC, somewhat
astonishingly, as a script editor on EastEnders.
I was always a soap fan, and some of my heartbreakingly naïve enthusiasm for
the genre must have shone through– because I entered the interview room without
even knowing what a script editor actually did…. When, worn to a frazzle a year
later, I wearily asked my Executive Producer (a frighteningly intelligent
woman) why she had picked me for the job, she answered, without a hint of
conscience, “- Because you were so keen I knew I could work you like a dog…”
That she certainly did.
It’s hard to describe the massive treadmill that is working on a soap; it
really doesn’t stop for anyone. Death in the family, illness, trauma, sick
kids, breakdowns – the juggernaut rumbles on, crushing stragglers as it goes.
My job entailed hours on the phone with defensive argumentative people (yes –
writers), and nights tinkering with unworkable scripts due to be filmed the
following day. If I had the ‘flu, the scripts were biked over to my flat so I
could work on them in bed. If a scene
didn’t work and the writer couldn’t be tracked down to change it, I had to do
it on the spot. If the producer thought the script had failed, it was my job to
break the bad news to the writer that the script would be “pulled”. You’re very
lucky if your domestic relationships survive that kind of pressure. I count
myself fortunate that mine did, having watched so many others head for the
divorce courts. Soaps take no prisoners, and my training on the job taught me
everything a scriptwriter needs to know – mainly, that you are a very small
(but essential) cog in a very large wheel, and that if you can’t take the
pressure, no-one really cares.
Eventually I started
writing for EastEnders, and then for
other continuing dramas – Holby,
Casualty, Peak Practice. Television has given me a good living, and has
allowed me to indulge in my first love, which is writing novels. I know that by
many standards, I have been fortunate to be paid to do the thing that I love.
But for an older woman, getting work is tough. I am sixty-six, and when people
ask me if I’m going to retire, my answer never changes from the one I gave when
I first punched the keys of a typewriter: “I’ll never stop writing. I’ll write
if you pay me, and I’ll write if you don’t.”
Television is now a
young person’s game, and I don’t begrudge the arrival of new talent – we need
it! – However I am sad that the baby is wriggling in the drain with the
bathwater; people who have lived a long life have a million experiences to draw
on, and yet we are called on less and less frequently to contribute to the
stories tv offers. Young producers are afraid to risk their own reputations by
employing someone who seems to be yesterday’s news. They are all on the search
for the “next big thing” – who, it would appear, must be about to leave school
or university. I could give many
examples of how this affects what we see on our screens, but here’s one I find
particularly funny when I’m in a good mood, and particularly depressing when my
feminist hackles are up. I was in a storyline meeting on a show that shall be
nameless, the only grey-haired woman in the room. I was suggesting the arrival
of a new doctor into the series. I
described her with enthusiasm – a woman in her fifties, a consultant – bright,
intelligent, funny, takes no prisoners – when I realised that the room full of
twenty-and thirty-somethings gathered at the table were all looking aghast.
Finally, one of them spoke. “But what stories can we tell about her…?” I was
asked. Another added decisively, “It means we can’t do anything that involves
sex.” “Why not…?” I asked, “Women in their fifties still have sex, you know.”
Expressions round the table ranged from utter horror to total disgust. “Ew!”
exclaimed one of the youthful, “But no-one wants to see it, do they..?!” Eventually the female doctor was shorn of
fifteen years of her life, so that she would become “acceptable” to viewers.
So every time you see a
drama – I mean a sensible drama – telling a strong, recognisable story of an older
woman, I can almost guarantee that an older woman wrote it. Sally Wainwright
(52), Heidi Thomas (53), Lynda La Plante (72), Abi Morgan (47), Kay Mellor (64).
I’m envious of their success, obviously (I’m a writer – we thrive on envy). But
I want to offer a bouquet of joyous recognition to every older, female writer
who breaks through the traditional barriers of tv to tell us stories that women
recognise. They are our national treasures!”
Lilie Ferrari was co-creator and writer for the
drama series The Clinic for RTE.
She’s written episodes of Peak Practice (Carlton), Dangerfield
(BBC),Casualty (BBC), Holby (BBC) and EastEnders (BBC). She
has also had four novels published, and is currently working on her fifth.
