When the itch of literature comes upon a man, the only thing that will relieve it is the scratching of a pen. A Victorian vicar wrote that and he wasn't wrong. I'd had the urge to write since I was a young man and I indulged myself from time to time. I scribbled the odd short story, I wrote pornographic letters for a couple of contact magazines, I sent ideas to TV stations, I wrote scripts and I collected a lot of rejections - as most writers do. One day I got a letter inviting me to visit a TV producer to discuss my work. I wept. The producer didn't want to use my script; she liked it, but she was looking for writers for the revival of an old courtroom drama. Did I think I could write thirty episodes? Why not? I said. Go away and study the law, courts and court procedure, she said. As soon as the contracts are signed I'll send you the story lines, she said. I read books. I spent my days in London's famous courts. I made friends with people, on both sides of the law. I made lots of notes. A couple of months passed. We wrote to one another: I told her how much I had learned and how anxious I was to get started on the scripts; she repeatedly assured me that the contracts would soon be signed. I noticed, at the bottom of one of her letters, that her title had changed. She was no longer assistant producer of xxx, she was now producer of xyz. I congratulated her on her promotion. It was the last letter I ever received from her. I had not understood that the change of title meant she had been promoted out of the old job, with responsibility for the courtroom drama, and that she would have no more use for me. It took a few weeks, but I got the message. It was a blow. I probably wept. I promised myself, that I would not write anything speculative again for TV or anyone else, I would write a novel instead. And I wouldn't send it to publishers; I'd publish it myself. I thought I may even give it away; hand copies to people on street corners; read passages to people on trains and, if they liked it offer a copy to them; or just leave copies in coffee shops and on park benches. I began writing The Workers, a sexy, violent, funny story from the London underworld. After writing about fifty-five thousand words, I allowed the son of a friend to borrow my laptop for a homework project. Don't download anything and don't add any programs, were my parting words. Two days later he brought the laptop back with a killer virus on it. Every word of The Workers was lost. I wept. Luckily I had a few chapters in hard copy and I tried to rewrite the rest, but it's hard. I just didn't seem to be able to get the scenes down. I had all but given up when I saw an article about Alex Tew and his Million Dollar Website. It was a great idea, Alex had sold a million pixels to fund a university education, I thought may be able to sell a few pixels to fund the writing and serialization of The Workers. I decided that, once I got going with a monthly deadline, I would be able to squeeze all the lost ideas out of their hiding places in the dark corners of my brain and onto the screen. I didn't have any trouble finding a Million Dollar Script, a Google search produced plenty to choose from. I decided on a script offered by ozwebfx. The script was less than a hundred dollars and Ozwebfx uploaded it for a small fee. Within a few hours, on the 31st February 2006, chapter one of The Workers, Say Goodbye To The Monk was uploaded to my new site, http://YourBigHomepage.com. |
