Monday, 21 March 2011

It wasn't as good as the book - the perils of adaptation

Does anything provide a more curious sensation of intrigue coupled with mild discombobulation than the news of a favourite novel being adapted for the screen? You can hardly wait to find out who’s directing and who’s cast. Yet you tremble with trepidation every time you read some nugget of showbiz gossip from the set, unconsciously repeating the imperative “Don’t screw it up!”

Never Let Me Go is a case in point. I’d been in a state of nervous anticipation about the film, ever since reading that Keira Knightley was set to star. Now having seen it, I must admit that Knightley was all right, but the film itself was rather boring. The narrator of Never Let Me Go obsessively rehashes the mundane incidents of the past and the second-hand gossip that circulated amongst her friends to make sense of her life. Maybe this sort of thing doesn’t make for the most thrilling of films. Strangely though, the adaptation jettisons the most filmic aspect of the novel, the slowly revealed “twist”. For me, it doesn’t really work as a film in its own right. You would need to read the book to understand the relationship between Kathy and Ruth, as the film doesn’t allow for a proper exploration of their characters.

Perhaps the television serial is the better outlet for the literary adaptation? Saying that, the recent Channel 4 effort with William Boyd’s Any Human Heart left me cold. Despite each of the four episodes lasting as long as a feature film the story was rushed, the characters hollow and the dialogue stilted and unnatural – and this was adapted by Boyd himself!

Of course there are plenty of adaptations that do work, often period pieces with a straightforward narrative structure. Yet sometimes the best results come when the adaptor boldly disregards the source material and makes something entirely new out of the story. I must admit, it seems to me that one’s judgement of the success of a literary adaptation is clouded by how much you cared for the original novel in the first place.

My dream adaptation project would be to write a teleplay of Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy. This was famously filmed in 1951 as A Place in the Sun starring Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor and Shelley Winters. Although the film is acknowledged as a classic, even its most ardent fans must admit that it radically departs from the novel. I would want to dramatise Clyde’s youth, which A Place in the Sun entirely skips. The film romanticises the relationship between Clyde (George Eastman in the film) and Elizabeth Taylor’s character (Sondra in the book, Angela(!) in the film), creating a conventional love story at the expense of the satirical aspect of the novel. In summary, I would like to show it as the state-of-the-nation piece I think it is. Boardwalk Empire, the new series on HBO, covers roughly the same period though, so I guess has just beaten me to it – perhaps I could borrow their sets?

Share your thoughts on literary adaptations in the comments. Is there a particular novel that you would like to see on screen? Or, like me, do you intend to write that epic, twenty-part Bafta award-winning serial yourself one of these days?

Just a little Harry Crews Guidance

Gravel voiced and gritty - Harry Crews gives some excellent writing advice in this video. You don't have to have all the answers. The true artist, if he or she is writing something and it has all taken a wrong turn, stops. And starts again. It takes courage...


Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Poetry Competition

Write on Essex has receieved an annoucement regarding the 6th Annual Virginia Warbey Poetry Prize 2011.  We Googled this award and were pleased to see that winners are included in anthologies that are available on Amazon! If you fancy entering here are the details: 

        Judges: Chandlers Ford Writers
            1st Prize = £600
            2nd Prize = £300
            3rd Prize = £150
        10 runners up prizes of £25

    Entry fee £4.00/poem (£15 for 4)

    A prizegiving event will be held in October, and an anthology
    of winning poems will be available.

    Entries to be postmarked by May 19th 2011.  
    Entry forms and full details from:

        CFW Poetry
        PO Box 474
        Eastleigh
        SO50 0AN

    Details and downloadable entry forms available at: 


    For further details or information, please contact  
       Claire Gradidge   almejas188@hotmail.com

Monday, 7 March 2011

Rule One – Don't get stuck on the title

I’m sure I’m not alone in often finding writing very difficult. I procrastinate, then feel guilty, which for some perverse reason makes me procrastinate even more. Last year I hit upon a few strategies and simple rules to keep me writing. I am also easily discouraged and expect instant greatness from a first draft, so a few of my maxims are aimed at counteracting that pressure. I am certainly not purporting to have found a magic formula for authorial success, and if you ask on what authority I give these recommendations, certainly it is not from the perspective of a literary heavyweight. You should probably pay more attention when Margaret Atwood tells you to eat shade-grown, organic dark chocolate to cure writer’s block and not only because she’s advocating the consumption of chocolate – she is a Booker prize winner after all. And as for my own rules, I can’t even claim that I follow them to the letter. However, perhaps I would be a happier and better writer if I did.

  1. Just because what you’re writing doesn’t seem to come easily or naturally, it doesn’t mean you aren’t any good. Writing is hard work.
  2. Take as long as you need. Your writing will need time and dedication to reach its potential. Don’t feel inferior because you don’t work quickly.
  3. Enjoy telling your story. Relish every word.
  4. Listen to the advice of other writers if it seems helpful – but don’t be afraid to disregard what you don’t agree with. There is clearly no one recipe for success.
  5. Keep writing and inventing.

If you have any tips that keep you feeling inspired and creative, why not share them below? This post was partly inspired by a Guardian article from last year – Ten Rules for Writing Fiction, where various authors offered their own advice. I especially like the first rule from Roddy Doyle – “Do not place a photograph of your ­favourite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide.” Which rules do you think are the most helpful?

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Stone cold

August's group writing prompt was to write something from the point of view of an inanimate object (here the headstone). We all agreed that this is a much more difficult task than it sounds and that it is very tricky to get the balance of anthropomorphism right. The quality of writing produced was incredible, with wonderful pieces from all members that really should be out there to be read. To start it off, here's my humble effort.


The Family Plot

The gentle stir of the breeze moving through the leaves awoke Her Majesty. She loved the rowan tree with its cutwork emerald leaves and its white May petticoats. On this beautiful December morning, with the frost icing its blood-red winter berries, the tree stood sentinel to her right. She remembered the day it had proved its ancient power of guard against evil spirits, when a branch had fallen off and brained the shaven thug who’d sprayed a swastika on Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg. After that, the council wanted the tree chopped down for ‘health and safety’, in case some other poor little vandal got harmed. The vicar had told them what he thought in no uncertain terms and put a stop to that idea. Afterwards, he’d visited to pay his respects to them all, pausing as he walked to give the rowan tree a surreptitious pat on the trunk. She liked the vicar; he was a quiet, grey-haired man, old-school, not one of these trendy types with a scruffy beard and a guitar. He would sometimes stop and talk to her on a Sunday afternoon; he had known the family, not that there were many of them left these days. She didn’t begrudge them. The old life had gone and to do the best for your children these days often meant moving away. She was glad of the visitors she did get; the Boy came when he could. He and the Girl would snip and trim and brush and tidy until the place looked its very best. Even His Majesty would rouse himself then to admire the hellebores or the holly or the hydrangea, before retreating back into wherever his study was these days, muttering and smoking and tapping away at his typewriter. The kitchen had been Her Majesty’s domain, with its scrubbed table, the comforting scent of cooking and the radio playing softly in the background. She didn’t feel the same need to revisit it; she was happy here, settled and comfortable, able to watch the sun rise every morning, feel the soft rain and watch the seasons go by. There wasn’t a better place to spend eternity. A slight shifting at her side made her start; she looked round at His Majesty and to her surprise found him awake.

“I think something’s about to happen,” he said.

“What do you mean?” He was always cryptic; she suspected he did it for dramatic effect.

“They’ve come to clear a space.”

“Ah,” she replied. “Well, we knew it would happen eventually. Good job we’ve just had a wash and brush-up.”

“I don’t know how Grandfather will take to it,” replied His Majesty. “There’ll be hell to pay if they remove his ivy.”

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Bit late for a pre-work dog-walker; they tended to be gone by eight unless it was the school holidays. It turned out to be the vicar, accompanied by a couple of groundsmen in blue overalls. She recognised one of them; it was Belinda Sweeney’s boy, quite grown up.

“Here we are,” said the vicar. “The flat headstones will have to be lifted for the duration and then put back down once the work is done. Then they’ll have to be rearranged to fit in another one.”

“Right, vicar,” said the older of the two groundsmen. He raised an eyebrow. “Nasty business. They say it was no accident.”

“It’s not for us to gossip, Maurice,” replied the vicar. “Our job is to lay them to proper rest at this end.”

“Aye, then, all right. We’ll let you know when we’re done. Will it be going in straight afterwards?”

“The service is at two o’clock, so I would think we’ll be ready by three, once the mourners have all gone.”

The vicar left, and the men set to work. They were respectful enough, apart from when the boy Sweeney sat down for a smoke on Grandfather.

“A baking mishap,” he said. “She were blown to smithereens.”

“I reckon he sabotaged the oven,” said Maurice. “There were always talk about him and that blonde one from the Co-Op.”

“I never liked him,” added the boy Sweeney. “My Mam said he made his fortune selling dodgy mortgages, one of Margaret Thatcher’s city boys. She said he murdered his first wife, too.”
They’d propped Her Majesty up against the tree, so she was able to whisper to His Majesty.

“Oh, it must be Denise, then. Cousin Raymond’s second wife. That won’t be so bad. I liked her.”

“Me too,” His Majesty whispered back. “Jolly good at cards.”

Eventually, it was all over, the new arrival was accommodated and the headstones replaced. The new stone was a smart grey marble, which complemented the others nicely and before long Grandfather’s ivy began to curl towards it, just to help it settle in. The days grew shorter until Christmas passed and the sun began to warm the ground again. The Boy and Girl came to tidy the plot ready for spring, and smiled at the new arrangement.

“Raymond dropped dead at a New Year’s dinner,” whispered the Boy as he laid down a holly wreath. “No-one noticed until they saw the puddle under his chair. The blonde one had him cremated. So don’t worry, he won’t be coming here.”

Her Majesty smiled, though no-one could see it, and looked up at the cold blue February sky. The wind rustled the rowan tree’s leaves again and she was reminded of its other graveyard duty; to stop the unquiet dead from leaving their graves. Well thank goodness it wasn’t much good at that. Bridge nights at the mausoleum were a scream now Denise had arrived.

Saturday, 31 July 2010

This is to announce that Write on Essex is now a member of The National Association of Writers' Groups! (http://www.nawg.co.uk/)

We are the only Writer's Group located in North Essex, and as such, have been a little isolated. Now we are connected to other groups and will receive much more support than we have heretofore. In fact, NAWG have lived up to their commitment beautifully sending us a complete support package and monthly newsletters to be shared around.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable publications they have sent us is: "The Handy Little Book of First Lines! by Nicolette M. Ward. What a treasure! And it coincides perfectly with some writing exercises we've been undertaking at our meetings.