She writes

Let women tell their own stories. Main blog: @nineteen-fifteen. Screenwriting PostGrad.

[aveline-shepard]

“I also think it’s weird in movies, when someone has amnesia, and they wake up in the hospital, a lot of times surrounded by friends and family, but when they open their eyes they go ‘WHO ARE YOU?!’ because that’s not how you act when you don’t recognize somebody. That’s very rude. It would be chaos out there if every time you saw someone you didn’t recognize you went ‘WHO ARE YOU?!’. I always try to be really polite in life, so if I had amnesia, you’d never know it! I’d wake up and they’d be like ‘Hi John, we’re so happy you’re awake’ and I’d just be like, ‘Oh, hey man… How’s it going? Oh hey dude, nice to see you again’ because that’s how you act when you can tell that someone recognizes you and you have no fucking clue who they are.”

— John Mulaney

[andreablythe]

Excellent point.

[thatgirlonstage]

John Mulaney woke up with amnesia once and never told anyone because he was too worried about being rude

[jvlianbashir]

when you find an academic source that’s perfect for your paper but it’s behind a pay wall

[e-seal-deactivated20210319]

http://gen.lib.rus.ec/

[doodooass3]

https://sci-hub.tw/

[anti-capitalistlesbianwitch]

The male glance: how we fail to take women’s stories seriously

The long read: Male art is epic, universal, and profoundly meaningful. Women’s creations are domestic, emotional and trivial. How did we learn to misread stories so badly?

The male glance is how comedies about women become “chick flicks”. It’s how discussions of serious movies with female protagonists consign them to the unappealing stable of “strong female characters”. It’s how soap operas and reality television become synonymous with trash. It tricks us into pronouncing mothers intrinsically boring, and it quietly convinces us that female friendships come in two strains: conventional jealousy, or the even less appealing non-plot of saccharine love. The third narrative possibility, frenemy-cum-friend, is only slightly less shallow. Who consumes these stories? Who could want to?

The slope from taxonomy to dismissal is deceptively gentle, and ends with a shrug. The danger of the male glance is that it is reasonable. It’s not always or necessarily incorrect. But it is dangerous, because it looks and thinks it reads. The glance sees little in women-centric stories besides cheap sentiment, or its opposite, the uninteresting compensatory propaganda of “female strength”. It concludes, quite rightly, that Strong Female Lead is not a story but a billboard.

The male glance is the opposite of the male gaze. Rather than linger lovingly on the parts it wants most to penetrate, it looks, assumes, and moves on. It is, above all else, quick. Under its influence, we rejoice in our distant diagnostic speed. It feeds an inchoate, almost erotic hunger to know without attending – to reject without taking the trouble of analytical labour because our intuition is so searingly accurate that it doesn’t require it. Here again, we are closer to the amateur astronomer than to the explorer. Rather than investigate or discover, we point and classify.

[she-writes-tv]

We female screenwriters need TV to change. That’s why we wrote our open letter | Debbie Moon

The dominance of men means a lack of opportunities for all writers. That’s why 70 of us are taking action, writes screenwriter Debbie Moon

[she-writes-tv]

Absolutely blown away by this by Astra Bloom

[she-writes-tv]

I love writing, or, more accurately, I love having written. Sometimes writing can be the most frustrating process. But having a buddy to do it with can help. Here’s my biggest cheerleader and harshest critic.

[she-writes-tv]

If the ‘we didn’t intend any harm’ defence from show runners who kill off their queer characters for drama tells us anything, it’s that we need more queer writers, more queer show runners, someone -- just someone -- in the fucking room to advocate for us.

[she-writes-tv]

writing log: 16th Jan

Countdown to the beginning of my MA: thirteen days. 

I filled out my online enrolment yesterday, and I’ve made friends with a guy who is a term ahead on the same course and he’s been sending me the reading materials so I can be an utter swot and read ahead.

I’m so excited to begin!

[she-writes-tv]

after the siren sounds

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge.

A petrol station store. There are two aisles of shelves and a wall of freezers. Behind the counter are bottles of wine and spirits. A young woman, Mandy (early 20s, in a coloured polo shirt and an un-ironed tabard) stands at the till looking up at a tv showing a rolling news channel. She is engrossed, aghast. The door opens and Gloria (40s, well dressed) enters, sounding a bell, but Mandy doesn’t look over. Her focus remains on the tv.

[Police are calling for calm as people take to the streets. In the London Borough of — scenes of cars set alight, burning projectiles are being thrown into shops and restaurants. People despair as...]  Gloria: Pump two please and twenty Mayfair.  The attendant still doesn’t move. Gloria taps her car key against the counter impatiently, the harsher sound braking through to Mandy.  Mandy: …What? 

Gloria: Pump two and twenty Mayfair, please. Mandy mindlessly reaches for the cigarettes, places them on the counter, her attention still very much on the television. Gloria: How much? Mandy: Take ‘em. Gloria: What? Mandy: Take ‘em. Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? Gloria: I am not a thief. Mandy: No one is when there’s no police no more. Gloria: No…What are you talking about? Mandy realises Gloria doesn’t know. Turns to her. There’s a moment when she wonders whether she should say anything. Mandy: There’s a nuclear missile headed for us. The UK. Us. Gloria looks between Mandy and the tv a few times, she smiles. Gloria: No. You’re joking, of course. Is this some sort of a… She gestures at the tv screen. Gloria: Well, this is a movie, obviously. Mandy: BBC rolling news Gloria: No. Mandy: Did you not hear it? Gloria: Hear what? No... I’ve been driving. I didn’t have the radio on, was listening to…Shania Twain. Mandy: Oh, I like her. Gloria: What should we do? Where can we hide? Mandy: It’s a nuke. I don’t think there’s anywhere to hide. Gloria: What are they saying? Mandy: Who? Gloria: (gestures at the tv) Them! Mandy: It was leaked. They didn’t want us to know. Gloria: What? Mandy: To be honest, I thought twice about telling you. Gloria: Why? Mandy: If you didn’t know you’d have been happy until the end. You’d have got your petrol, and your fags, and you wouldn’t have known anything about the, the after… A pause  Gloria: So why did you tell me? Mandy: Honest? I didn’t want to die alone. (A beat) Sorry. A moment whilst they both process that. Gloria: What about your family? Mandy: It takes twenty five minutes to get home on the bus. Bus only comes once an hour. We’ve got… Gloria: Oh god, how long have we got? Mandy: Eighteen minutes. Gloria: Eight…eighteen minutes? Mandy nods. Gloria looks wildly around, then: Gloria: (Indicates the spirits behind the counter) Give me one of those. Mandy: What? Gloria: The good stuff, yeah. No, the big bottle. Mandy hands her the scotch. They both go and sit down on the floor in front of the freezers. Gloria opens the bottle, takes a swig, then passes it to Mandy. Mandy: I’m pregnant. Gloria: Oh god. Oh god, Mandy, I’m sorry. Mandy: Even if I survived, the baby wouldn’t, would it? Nuclear winter an' all that. Gloria: What do you know about nuclear winters? Mandy: Telly, well, films. James — that’s my boyfriend — he likes them post-apocalyptic films.The weak always die. The women and the children. Gloria: I think that might be rather more to do with the male messiah complex than actual science. Mandy: D’you think? Gloria: Probably. Mandy: You married? Gloria: Yes. Twelve years. Oh god, I should phone her. Mandy: Who? Gloria: Claire. My wife. Gloria fumbles around to get her phone out of her pocket. Mandy: No signal                            Gloria: There’s no signal. Gloria: Do you…is there a land line? Mandy: Yeah, but… Gloria is on her feet. Mandy: …but it aint working. Just think. Everyone, like you, wants to tell their loved ones goodbye at the same time. System just weren’t built for that. Weak infrastructure. Gloria looks at Mandy, puzzled. Gloria: Film? Mandy: Yeah. Gloria settles back down next to Mandy. Gloria: You okay? Mandy: Shit scared! (A beat) Yeah. What’s she like? Gloria: Who? Mandy: Claire. Gloria: Clever, beautiful. Better than I deserve. What about James? Mandy: Bit of a twat, actually. They both laugh. There’s a pause. Mandy: Nah, he’s a reliable lad. When he found out about the baby he was really good. Didn’t run off or anything. Gloria: Well, if that’s the bar. Mandy: Girls like me…we don’t get nice ones who are beautiful and clever, like your Claire. We get lads who sit in their cars outside KFC, posing, and, if you got a good one, he won’t run off when he knocks you up. Gloria: Well, I’m glad you got a good one. Mandy: Me too. Not that it matters now. Gloria: Oh, but it does! You’re sitting here, thinking about how happy you would’ve been. You and James and the baby. Wouldn’t it be worse if you were sitting here thinking that you’d wasted your life? Mandy: Haven’t I wasted my life? Gloria: No! Mandy: I work in a petrol station. I nick the out-of-date bread instead of chucking it so I can save some of my money for all the stuff the baby’s gonna need. Do you know how much stuff a baby needs? Gloria: Not really. Mandy: You ain’t got kids? Gloria: No. Mandy: Is that 'cause you’re a lesbian? Gloria laughs Mandy: Sorry. Gloria: No, it's because we didn’t want them. We got a dog, instead. Mandy: Wish I’d thought of that! They fall silent, there’s a pause stretches out between them. Mandy: How long is there? Gloria: I don’t know. I’ll check. She gets up, goes over to the tv by the counter. The countdown says five minutes. Gloria: Fifteen minutes. Gloria returns to where Mandy is sitting. She opens the freezer she’d been leaning against, pulls out a carton of ice cream, hands it to Mandy. Gloria: Oh, no spoons.  Mandy: Aisle two. Gloria goes off in search. Mandy: I haven’t had ice cream for, like, ten years. Lactose intolerant. Don’t suppose it matters if it gives me the shits now, does it? Gloria: How quickly does that happen? Mandy: Half an hour? Gloria: Yeah, we’re good. Gloria hands Mandy a spoon. Sits back down next to her. They eat. Mandy: You picked the expensive one. I like your style. Gloria: Nothing but the best for the end of the world. There’s an awkward pause, they eat and contemplate that. Gloria: If I’d known, I would never have signed up for six months at the gym. Mandy: Paid up? Gloria: Yep. Mandy: On the bright side, you don’t have to go. Gloria: True. True. Another pause. Mandy: Do you think we’d have been friends, if we’d met and it wasn’t the end of the world? Gloria: No, probably not. Mandy: No, I ‘spose not. Gloria: It would’ve been my loss. A pause Gloria: Well, I definitely need you on my quiz team with your movie knowledge, don’t I? Mandy: Yeah! I’d be good at that. A pause Mandy: I’m Mandy, by the way. Mandy reaches out her hand. Gloria sets down her spoon, and reaches towards Mandy’s hand. Gloria: Gloria. As their hands link there’s a white hot flash, and then darkness.

[she-writes-tv]

[she-writes-tv]

[she-writes-tv]

Bets

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge.

Two Police officers stand, drinking tea from takeaway cups. They’re on the edge of a field, moorland. The light is low and, from OS, blue lights flash, lighting up the stage and the officers. To the fore is a Police tape cordon. Ali: Been doing my family genealogy. Mo: What’s that? Ali: You know, family tree. Mo: Ah, yeah. Interesting? Ali: I have an aunt no one will talk about. Mo: So… Ali: So, obviously, she’s all I want to talk about. Mo: Doesn’t your mum know about her? Ali: Yeah, she knows, but every time I ask about her, the telephone line gets really unreliable. Mo: That’s odd. (Ali looks at him, waiting) Mo: Oh, you mean she doesn’t want to talk about it. Ali: Yeah. A pause as they watch what’s going on at the crime scene Mo: Fiver it’s exposure. Ali: Confident. Mo: It’s always exposure out here. Arse end of nowhere. No phone signal. Ali: Okay. Mo: What’re you calling? Ali: Murder. Mo: Murder. You wish. Nothing exciting happens around here. Ali: Then your money’s safe. Mo: I guess. I was expecting you to go for heart attack. Ali: Got to keep you on your toes, Mo. Heads up. A man in a protective suit, carrying a metal kit case and some evidence bags comes towards them. Brian: We’re ready to move him. Mo: What’s it looking like? Brian: He’s dead. Ali: Brilliant. Thanks for that, Brian.

[she-writes-tv]

Don't I know you?

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge.

Scene one A kitchen with a large wooden table in the centre. The decor is dated. There are photos all over the fridge. This place has been the centre of a bustling family home for years. On the table, there’s an envelope propped up against the teapot. A woman, Erin, enters the kitchen. She’s putting her coat on, ready to leave the house. She picks the envelope up, opens it, reads an invitation to a wedding which she wasn’t expecting, that she’s quite affected by, albeit stoically. She puts the invitation back into the envelope, returns it to it’s position against the teapot, as if she’s never seen it. Erin leaves. Scene two An older man, James, enters the kitchen. He sees the envelope is there, now opened. He’s ostensibly the one who left it there for Erin. He sets about tidying up, making tea, all the while the temptation to look intuit envelope is gnawing at him. He acquiesces. Scene three James is in the kitchen when Erin returns home. She sits in front of the letter, still propped up in the middle of the table, sees it. James, feigning busyness whilst keeping a close eye on his daughter, notices her reaction. Places a steaming cup of tea in front of her, squeezes her shoulder supportively and leaves her to her thoughts. 

Notes: This is being posted a day late but it was written on day seven. I wanted to do some sequences without dialogue to think about action and telling a part of the story really quietly. 

[she-writes-tv]

What do I call you?

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge. 

A woman in a wedding dress sits on a grass verge. Behind her, through open doors, we can see a party — a wedding reception — in full swing. It’s her wedding, Grace is taking a breather.

She's sitting in the shadows, out of sight. The groom wanders out into the garden looking for her, he doesn’t see her so he returns to the party. 

A few minutes later a woman in a suit approaches Grace. She’s carrying a bottle of champagne and two flutes. She doesn’t seem to hesitate, just strolls straight over to Grace. Grace doesn’t hear her coming, but, as she sits down, Grace just looks at her and smiles.

Erin passes Grace the two glasses whilst she tackles the cork on the champagne. She carefully pours the wine into the two glasses, sets the bottle down, takes a glass from Grace and clinks it gently against Grace’s.

Grace: (rests her head in Erin’s shoulder for a moment) You came… Erin: Of course I came. Grace: I didn’t know if…I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be here. Erin: honestly? Neither was I. Grace: But you came. Erin: I did. (A beat) Erin: Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. For the...(ceremony). I wasn’t sure I should. Thought it’d be easier to keep a low profile here. Grace: It’s okay. I…it’s probably best. Erin: Is it? Grace: my mum and... Erin: of course. (A beat) How was it? Grace: it was... (Looks at Erin) You don’t really want to know this. Erin: no, I do (laughs) Why did you invite me if you didn’t want me here. Grace: I did. I wanted you here. Erin: as long as no one sees me. Grace: (guiltily) yeah, I suppose. Erin: it’s fine. It is. There’s a brief awkwardness Grace: This used to be easier. Erin: Didn’t it? Remember when Ms Harrison couldn’t shut us up? Grace: Shh! My mum still doesn’t know about that detention. Erin: You’re 32. I think she’ll get over it. Grace: My mother? Erin: Point taken. Grace: You kissed me on the way home after that. Erin: Did I? Grace: You don’t remember? Erin: (quietly) of course I do. There’s a silence. Grace looking into the distance, remembering. Erin looking only at Grace. Grace: Why did you come? Erin: Because you asked. Grace: Do you always do what I want? Erin: Always did. Grace looks at Erin Grace: That’s true. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was asking when I sent the invite. I was giddy. I hadn’t seen you for…what’s it been? Erin: Eighteen years. Grace: Eighteen? Really? Jesus. Erin: It’s okay. Grace: Is it? Erin: Not really, but I’ll survive.

Notes: I ran out of time on this one so we sort of leave them mid-conversation. I have a larger plan for these two characters, so you’ll see them pop up in a few of these pieces as I try them out in different situations.

[she-writes-tv]

writing log: Jan 8th, 2018

Bit late posting my latest challenge piece. And it’s pretty rubbish. I knew there would be days where what I came up with was frustratingly minimal, or shit. I feel like this was one if them. You can’t expect everything to work, can you? 

[she-writes-tv]

do better

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge. 

In a cafe, a man (50s) and a young woman (20s) sit with coffees on the table in front of them. Jenn: Are you watching Happy Valley? I swear, watching that show makes me more gay! Gary: Because all the men are shits? Jenn looks blankly at Gary. Jenn: No, Gary. Because the women are strong and heroic and amazing. Gary: Oh, yeah. Jenn: Lesbians aren’t lesbians because of men, you know that, right? It’s not what men are lacking that makes us gay. It’s what women have. Gary: And what’s that? Jenn: Our attention. (A beat) Jenn: Gary, you identify as a bisexual. Please try to do better. Gary nods.

[she-writes-tv]

The Gatekeeper

This is a short play, written over a period of 24 hours, for my own personal 28 Plays Later challenge. 

In a pub, a group of eight or so young men and women sit together around a small table. There are numerous glasses, at various stages of emptiness, on the table. The atmosphere is jolly, this is post work drinks, they’re all friends and enjoying some time to socialise outside of work. Some are having small, intimate conversations, others are studying a menu. Gemma: You’re getting food? 

John: Yep. Gemma: got a spare menu? John passes Emma his menu. Gemma: What’re you having? John: Veggie sausage and mash. Gemma: Of course. John: Yep. (To Lisa) What’re you having? Lisa: I might wait for Mike. John: Mike’s here. John waves to an older man who has just entered the bar. He looks uncomfortable. Makes his way over to the group. Sits next to Lisa on his reserved seat, doesn’t take his coat off. John: We’re getting food. Mike: I’m okay thanks. Not staying for long. Lisa: Aren’t you? I thought you were going to…did the lecture not… Mike: No. No, it’s written. Powerpoint all done. I just… (he looks around at Lisa’s friends) well, I’m tired and I have work tomorrow. Lisa: (Quietly) We all have work tomorrow, Mike. Mike: Yes, but. (Lisa looks at him, pointedly) I can’t deliver a lecture if I’m tired. Lisa: No. Gemma: What’s your lecture on, Mike? Mike: Heaney. Seamus Heaney. You’ve heard of him? Gemma: I work in a bookshop, Mike. Mike: Sort of my point. Gemma: I like Heaney, but he’s not my favourite. Mike: And who might that be? Gemma: I love Carol Ann Duffy. Mike: Pfft. Gemma: You’re not a fan? Mike: Well, no. It’s populist nonsense. Gemma: Because people like her? Mike: Because her language is so…basic Gemma: Accessible. Mike: Poetry isn’t supposed to be accessible. Gemma: Isn’t it? Mike: I’m doing a Phd on Heaney. Gemma: Well, good. But surely if poetry was only read by academics it wouldn’t make enough money to even get published? Mike: Trust you lot to think of commerce. Gemma: Us lot? Mike: Retail workers. Lisa: (Indignant) I’m a bookseller. Mike pats her knee, a gesture intended to placate her, shush her. Mike: It’s still retail, love. Gemma: Hang on, don’t you write books…? John: (interrupting, loudly) I’m ordering food. Lisa: I don’t think we’re staying. Mike: No. We’re not. Mike gets up and leaves, he doesn’t wait for Lisa, she hugs a few friends and then runs to catch him up.