“To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme.”
– Herman Melville

SOME people have jobs they hate. They struggle to rouse themselves when the alarm goes off, they drag themselves to the shower, force down some breakfast (after the shower, hopefully, otherwise it could get horribly messy) and trudge unwillingly to work. Others tolerate their job on the basis that it pays the rent, gives them something to do between family time or soap episodes, and someone’s got to keep the economy going, right?

Then there are writers.

I’ve never met a writer yet who didn’t love getting out of bed to work on their latest project. No matter whether it’s splurging a first draft or handling some particularly tricky development notes from a spotty teenage executive with no more idea of how a script works than his Hornby train set, the true writer simply loves it. Every glorious, hard-fought, embattled, problematic, hair-tearing moment of it.

I have been that office worker. I was one for 20-odd years. And I enjoyed my job, as far as it went. But my willingness to get out of bed for The Man was as nothing compared to the eagerness with which I leap up these days to face the morning.

Why am I telling you this? For one simple reason, which I have learned over the course of the past few un-officebound years: when you’re writing something – anything – you’ve got to love what you’re doing. A project without passion is doomed to failure, even if it makes it into production. It’s always palpable, that sense of drive behind a passion project, and always noticeable when it’s absent.

I won’t name names, but we’ve all seen those TV shows or rapidly-produced sequels that just don’t quite cut it – and nine times out of ten it’ll be because they’re born out of expediency or sheer, unadulterated commerciality.

Don’t get me wrong: commerciality is vitally important if you want your project to get made, but if it’s there on its own, with no real passion behind it, it’ll stand out as clearly as a pimple on prom night.

Which brings me to my point. Lesson Two in How Not to Write a Musical: choosing your subject. My writing partner and I debated long and hard about this because if we get it wrong, the whole project’s stuffed before we write a note or a word. We toyed with creating an original story but vetoed it on precisely those grounds of commerciality (i.e. no one would have any idea what it was, and without at least one of us being famous, that would be a tough sell). We contemplated adapting a well-known film or play but vetoed that for a simple pragmatic reason – acquiring the rights could be both tricky and expensive.

In the end, we found ourselves a ‘property’, as these things are known in the trade, which fulfilled all our criteria: it’s an iconic novel, has an inherent appeal for our target audience, is in the public domain (i.e. out of copyright and available) and – perhaps most important of all – we both love it.

We checked it hadn’t already been done, which it hasn’t – at least, not in the way we’re planning – and started our writing process by not writing at all. We read it again.

Oh, but how silly of me. You’ll want to know what it is, won’t you? Well, allow me. Our source material is...


Next time... Letting the cat out of the bag – is there a ‘right’ time to do it?

GOOD musicals don’t just appear, fully-formed, out of the ether. Do they?

No, they don’t. They have to be worked on, crafted, redrafted and thoroughly tested before they can be unleashed on an unsuspecting – and all too often unforgiving – public.

I never meant to write a musical as my next project. I’ve come off the back of several years working on television scripts, radio plays and, most recently, stage plays, winning the national playwriting award in the process and seeing my play Rasputin’s Mother staged successfully earlier this year. I’ve got another play already being circulated by my agent and I’ve got further talks coming up with radio producers about possible commissions later in the year.

My intention next was to pitch into either a young adult sci-fi novel (the first in a proposed series) or a rom-com feature script based on a high-concept premise. So why do I find myself embroiled in the early stages of planning a full-scale, heavily-orchestrated musical with no commission, no producer and no idea how much of my life this is going to consume over the coming months?

The answer to that question provides – rather neatly, if I may say so, almost as if it were planned that way – the first lesson in a long list of things this blog is expecting to be all about: How Not to Write a Musical.

First things first. I make no claim to being an expert in writing musicals. In another part of my life I am a theatre critic, so in a professional capacity I have seen quite a few of the beasts in my time, and I would definitely call myself a fan. I figure that’s a good starting point. Quite why anyone would want to write something they didn’t like is a mystery to me, although plenty do, it would seem. My musical pedigree has so far been restricted to songwriting, short schools entertainments and a panto. Oh, and a 10-minute video opera for my brother’s video production MA. On their own, these would hardly qualify me to be ready to write a musical, except that everyone has to start from wherever they’re at.

Enter the second protagonist in this little enterprise, my co-writer Michael Blore. Let the record show that writing a musical together was his idea.

Which brings me back to that earlier question: why?

There are many reasons to write a musical. Obviously, fame, wealth and the adoration of a delighted public are high on my list, although awards and artistic credibility are up there as well. But what’s really got me hooked is the challenge.

I’ve never written a whole musical before, and the chance to tackle one alongside one of the most talented – not to mention charming – composers I’ve had the good fortune to work with is simply too appealing to pass up.

It helps that we’re both totally committed to our subject and are desperate to tell this story in this particular way, but more of that later. For now, it’s enough to have established that we’re approaching it from the same standpoint, with the same aims and objectives, and with a mutual respect for each other’s capabilities and work. It may not be enough to carry us through to the finish line of a fully staged production, but it’s a hell of a bonus out of the blocks.

Lesson One in How Not to Write a Musical, then? Pick your writing partner with extreme care. It’ll probably feel a bit like a marriage (though his husband and my wife really don’t need to worry unduly), and you’re going to be in it for the long haul. If you’re really lucky, you might even forge a career together.


Next time... Choosing your subject and why you’ve got to love getting out of bed.