I have watched my wife deal with the aftermath of surgery after breast cancer, witnessed my late sister’s blemish free stomach become extremely scarred after two major operations for bowel cancer and a liver resection. I have seen countless members of my family and friends cope with the repercussions of surgery for various illnesses, and I believe that every single one of them would rather not have been sick, would rather not have been cut into. The choice they had was surgery and treatment, or remaining unscarred and unwell. And yes, they all had choices, but choosing to live with scars, as opposed to remaining whole and die, was not a choice most of them made.

Then there’s my brilliant mum. She’s eighty-three and looks exactly what a mum at her age is supposed to look like, and I love and respect her for it. She has shrunk in height, as we all do when we grow older, she has never coloured her hair (she asked my sister and I whether she should and we both said we loved her as she was, though my dad has always joked about turning her into a blonde). She is now losing a little hair, (I fully expect this to happen to me and many of my friends), and I know it bothers her, of course it does, no one says you have to like it, but she grows older with such grace and her natural beauty increases. She has lost sight in one eye, the other is on the decline, and there is nothing that can be done to save her sight. She is an ardent reader, losing her sight will mean not being able to continue with her great passion, and it is a passion, and this makes me sad. I am already pondering audio books, not the same experience, I know and her hearing is not great. We have become accustomed to raising our voices. Then again, she has just come round to wearing hearing aids, and they do help, although she wasn’t too keen on them at first. She isn’t used to handling fiddly objects or anything high tech, the closest she gets to e-mail is typing letters and then my dad sends them. He, at the age of eighty-four, is a genius on his PC. Mum used her electric typewriter up until she and my dad properly retired last year. Sometimes she is a little unsteady on her feet, but she walks as much as she can, occasionally with the help of a stick, or my dad, and she never complains. She says there are people younger than her with worse problems, and she just has to get on with it. My mum. She’s never worn tons of make up, she doesn’t need to, she is beautiful. She isn’t one for designer labels, or any labels, she isn’t a great shopper (sadly I didn’t inherit the latter trait!). She is warm and generous and kind and stands on her feet for hours baking. She tells me to make the most of everything while I can. Everyone loves my mum, because a mum is exactly what she is and what she resembles. I cannot imagine what she would have looked like if she had any amount of cosmetic or plastic surgery or treatment, I’m just glad that she didn’t (not that it was ever in her mind), because her beauty goes deeper than her skin, and that is something that cosmetic or plastic surgery can never alter. It cannot make you a nicer person, a more successful person, a healthier person. It cannot make you younger, it cannot halt the ageing process, and even though those who have had cosmetic surgery or their teeth whitened so extremely that they resemble a badly touched-up photo, do not look younger or, in many cases, any better, they just look different and mostly they look odd. When I see men and women of all ages with distorted faces (the Duchess of Alba is a good example), due to unsuccessful (or too much) surgery, I feel sorry for them, because for some reason they thought they could do better, look better, look younger. I shudder every time I see botched surgery, irreversible botched surgery, surgery which people think makes them looks great, but which the rest of us know makes them look like extras in a horror film. We all talk about it, the lip jobs that have gone horrendously wrong and ended careers, the eye tucks which make people look strange, the face lifts which have rendered skin unable to take its natural course, to the point of no movement at all. I wonder if that’s why the current trend in all things nostalgic on television (Mad Men, Boardwalk Empire and any amount of classical adaptations) is so high, because the characters (mostly) look like us, not cosmetically enhanced versions of us.

I love my mum’s wrinkles, not that she has many. My grandmother and then my mother always taught us to wash our faces with water, no soap, and to dry our skin by moving the towel upwards in one direction only, to keep the skin firm. My grandmother had the most amazing skin, and so does my mother. My sister had wonderful skin, mine is not bad, but then I used to sunbathe as a teenager and young adult in sweltering heat and not think anything of it. But when my mum’s wrinkles show, so does her life, her eighty-three years of work and pleasure and sorrow and joy. I can see my sister and myself reflected in her wrinkles and in her face, and when people see me, they immediately see my mother. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I blame it on a culture, which shuns maturity and applauds youth, so those of us who are maturing, perhaps feel that in order to keep up with the young (which by the way, we don’t have to do by having surgery), we must pay heaps to look like the young. It doesn’t work.

I do colour my hair, probably because of the ageist world we live in, and the ageism that exists in my profession, but that’s about all I do, and anyway, I don’t think it’s the same as surgery. To many, grey hair = old = out of date = out of touch = unfashionable = we don’t want you, you can’t do the job. There is nothing attractive about an older person trying to look ‘younger’ from the chin up, the women with wrinkled necks and foreheads that don’t move, the men with ill-fitting toupées, granted I don’t know much about the latter but I doubt it requires surgery (unless you go for hair implants I suppose). You don’t look like a young person, you look like an older person trying to look young, which is not the same thing at all. Wrinkles and liver spots on necks and hands give the game away, so get wise, live for the now, be proud of who you are and stop trying to fool yourself, because you don’t fool me. When I look at you I don’t see the person you are, but the person you are trying to recreate and it doesn’t work. I’d rather live in a world where people look individual, where people grow older as they used to, than live in a world of Stepford men and women. I’m not suggesting we all walk around looking our worst (I have enough times, often in Sainsburys, and always meeting someone I know), but save your thousands of pounds for a real problem, which I hope none of us ever have. Enjoy being the person you are, rather than loosing sight of that for a false sense of appearance. As my energetic dad says, you’re as young as you feel, and he mostly feels sixty-five! He goes to the gym every week, he is constantly rushing around and living his life, being the person he is rather than the person he tries to be. I hope I am as energetic when I am sixty. I know what I want to look like if I reach his age and I know who I want to look like, two people I can see myself in and not parents I don’t recognise anymore. And I plan on doing it naturally, without faking it with surgery and injections. And I will let my hair go grey. Right now I am deciding when might be the right time. Perhaps when I am sixty.

I’m one of the lucky ones. But in the big world, out there, it’s not fixed yet. Our heterosexual friends may think there is no problem, because they are okay with us, because they have always been okay with us, because they have gay friends in their lives, because their children grow up knowing us and know better than to call us names, but for every heterosexual person who is okay with gay, there are at least fifty others who would happily see me imprisoned, correctively raped and killed. And it’s not okay.

I took it upon myself to do probate – for those of you who don’t know what this means, probate is the term commonly used when talking about applying for the right to deal with a deceased person’s affairs. That’s what it says on the direct gov website. I could have handed the lot over to a solicitor, paid heaps of money and possibly waited a year or more for my sister’s estate to be sorted out, for inheritance tax to be paid with interest (if you don’t pay in full, six months or so from the date of death, you are charged interest on the outstanding amount). It’s not heaps of money I’m talking about, don’t get me wrong, I prefer to give the children their inheritance rather than giving it to a solicitor. Being the most impatient woman on the planet, I didn’t want to wait for someone else to do it. I never want to wait, why wait when you can have complete control and do it all when you want to? So I took it into my own hands, with occasional help from my cousin, the other executor – who lives on the other side of London and to be fair, I had all the paperwork with me, so it seemed ‘easier’ to do the majority of it alone. I called upon him for advice, and to complete final copies of all the documents, once I had drafted them in my untidy handwriting, pages and pages of them. I did probate for my uncle last year, so I knew what was ahead of me, and was rather smug about it. That’ll teach me.

Five months later, probate is through – unheard of, I am told by solicitor friends. This means we can soon start to administer the estate. It’s been incredibly hard and stressful work, and it has been work. I’ve probably spent two weeks of every month filling out forms and writing letters. The phone calls alone have taken up hours and hours of my time. My own work was set aside, but I take full responsibility, as I chose to do it. I wanted to handle my sister’s affairs, to make sure everything was carried out with dignity, ease and speed. Every phone call I made to companies about the house and bills has seen me hold back tears. Name. Address. Date of Death. Birthday. Every time. I learned it so the words came forth like an automaton, programmed to perfection. I became practiced at it. And mostly, those people from those companies were fantastic. Occasionally they didn’t know what to say, we’re not very good at death in this country, even though it is the one guarantee we have, often people don’t know what to say. My advice – say something rather than nothing, because saying nothing hurts, it does not acknowledge that something this momentous and life changing has taken place. Mentioning my sister in the same sentence as death does not sit comfortably with me, nor does it ring true. It is still impossible to believe that she is no longer alive. I reach for the phone at least once a day, I must tell Leah, I tell myself, and in that second she is alive and very much still in her house, pottering around her kitchen or garden, making dinner for her kids, cleaning and tidying and watering her plants. And then, in the next second, she is not. And every time it comes as a shock, as if I have only just heard the news. Probate, for me at least, was one of the last contributions I could make for my sister.

What, you ask, has any of this to do with my not being buried with my family?

I had to arrange for my sister’s funeral, with my Dad’s help and my cousin’s assistance. As most of you know, Jews, like Muslims, are buried swiftly, often on the same day they die. My sister was born and died on a Thursday. The Town Hall where my sister’s death would be registered, closes early on every first Thursday of the month, which meant we had to be really quick, with paperwork from the hospital where she died handed over as fast as they could manage, so that we could register her death, hand the relevant-coloured paper over to the synagogue which would guarantee that my sister could be buried on Friday. The alternative was to wait, register her death on Friday morning, and have the funeral on Sunday. I couldn’t contemplate a funeral the day after she died, I needed time to register it in my head, let alone in a book in a town hall alongside so many others. I wanted to say something, I needed time to write my words, think about what I would say, I couldn’t whip up stock sentiments, I had one chance only and I wanted to get it right. My parents were utterly distraught, my sister’s children devastated, our family and friends utterly supportive and distressed. To my sister’s kids and me, burying Leah on Friday seemed wrong, it was too soon. We agreed that Sunday would be best – not least because we knew lots of people wanted to be there and giving some notice is better than none, and a Sunday is better than a Friday, taking work and child care and travel arrangements into account. Not everyone’s lives are geared towards the Jewish way of life – and death. It seems the early Thursday closure of the Town Hall had a positive outcome after all. There were one or two ultra-orthodox relatives calling and asking why the funeral couldn’t be on the Friday – to which we said Leah would want more people to be able to send her off, rather than adhering to the religious dictates of a religion Leah followed in her own way. Leah was traditional, but people mattered more than faith.

Along with papers for Leah’s funeral, were papers about the memorial stone. There’s a long list of dos and don’ts. My Indian-Jewish-Iraqi heritage means we belong to the Spanish and Portuguese Jews’ Congregation, founded in 1657. Our memorial stones are flat. In the cemetery where my sister is buried, the reform Jews with their tall stones look down on us, like north Londoners on Parliament Hill looking down on south London. When my uncle died last year, my parents took care of his funeral arrangements. This meant I saw little of his memorial stone documents. This time I studied everything very carefully, because I had, of course, been thinking about my own mortality, my own death and my own funeral. The day after my sister died, in their house packed with overwhelmed relatives, my Dad asked if I intended to have a Jewish burial. I said I hoped so, but how could I contemplate that right now, just after Leah had died? Because, my Dad said, with the full knowledge that my Buddhist and once-Catholic wife, would never be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery – never mind that she wants to be cremated – because we can have a double plot. All it means is that they dig deeper. I laughed and then I cried. Too soon to grieve, I was in that strange hyper, nebulous state, I was in pro-active, loads-to-do mode. I spoke to my wife about it, upsetting as it was, I told my Dad okay. Our many nieces and nephews would slip some of Stella’s ashes in beside me, the rest would go in the Thames or the Pacific, one large stretch of water, that is what Stella wants. The list of what you can and cannot have inscribed on the memorial stone were mostly dos and don’ts that I was already familiar with. No flowers allowed at Jewish graves, that we already know, but having visited the cemetery several times, I’ve noticed bouquets in our part of the synagogue, left by several gravesides. I shall slip some in for Leah next time I go, birthday blooms that would make her smile.

There are rules for married women and rules for single women, according to another rule, sisters and brothers cannot be mentioned by name, only as sister and brother of the deceased. But my mum has her name on her brother’s stone, and fortunately this has not been questioned by the rabbi, so I will be there, named after the kids and my parents, I will be there for eternity. I was ready to row with the rabbi about this if he challenged me, luckily for him, he didn’t. We also wanted to include some words to a song which comes from an American TV show called ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.’ These are the words we wanted alongside more meaningful ones:

Day man
Fighter of the Night man
Champion of the sun
You’re a master of karate and friendship…for everyone

Dayman Song

Some of the meaning is relevant to my sister, not the karate! We found it funny. Leah found it hilarious, it always made her roll back and smile. Leah and her kids, mostly her eldest son, used to sing this song, she would do the Uhh ahhahh and make me laugh out loud. We sang it to her – among other songs and lullabies – during the night and morning when she eased her way into death, in a quiet and unremarkable way, quiet, as she was in life. We all agreed these words would add a smile to her otherwise solemn inscription. The rabbi wouldn’t allow it. It is highly unusual – his words not mine. If they allow this kind of thing for everyone, they’ll set a precedent. Good, I said, so set a precedent. They still wouldn’t allow it. We had a feeling they might say no, and while we were all angry, we have almost accepted it. Almost. A friend whose husband is a stonemason has offered to send him round, inscribe the words. I am tempted, but I wouldn’t do it. In this instance, I play the game, stick by the rules, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.

The words are written, a date has been set. But the rule which shocked me the most is this. Unless someone is what is called halachically Jewish, their name cannot be included on the memorial stone.

That means when I die, my wife’s name cannot go on my memorial stone. I called the stonemason, asked them about this, explained that I am gay, that didn’t seem to bother them, and asked about my wife’s name going on the stone. Oh, they said, no one’s ever asked about that before. To be fair, the stonemasons have been incredible, patient and kind at a time when stress rules my life. They said they wouldn’t have a problem with it, but the synagogue would. Given that the synagogue wouldn’t allow the words to Dayman, they are hardly going to change an archaic law that says my wife, my non-Jewish wife, cannot and will not have her name on my memorial stone. I told my mum and dad to forget about a double plot, I was not going to be buried there. My dad was surprised, but he didn’t try and make me change my mind. They both understood and accepted the reason why. My eighty-three-year-old dad has come a long way, considering it took him nine years to accept my wife. I love my mum and dad. I immediately emailed a liberal synagogue in Streatham, where I have been on several occasions, for a wedding and a naming, and I vented my anger, shared what our rabbi had said. Would they allow my non-Jewish wife’s name to go on my memorial stone? Of course they would. And that is why I won’t be buried with the rest of my family, in the same part of the cemetery as the rest of my family. They’re all there, my sister, my uncle, cousins too, and by the time I am out of this world on my way to the next, I am sure there will be a few more, filling up the ground, surrounded by countryside and beautiful views with the odd secret bouquet laid to rest. I have spent my adult life working towards equality of all kinds, crossing the boundaries of race and religion and colour and sexuality. My wife works tirelessly with gay rights groups, puts herself out in the world, never denies who she is, and all for what? To be told she cannot have her name on her wife’s memorial stone. I have not worked hard to have my relationship accepted and acknowledged in life, only to have it rejected and ignored in death. I shall either be buried in a non-Jewish cemetery or in the reform part of the cemetery where my family are and will be. Mine will be an upright stone, a stone where my wife’s name will be included, bold and significant, just as she is in my life today. I still don’t know whether the gay thing is an issue – if she was gay and Jewish would they accept her name on my memorial stone? Maybe someone can find out and let me know – not that she is going to convert, not that I would ever ask her or expect it.

I like to believe change happens, and the orthodox Jewish religion needs to change if it is to see more people coming to the faith than turning away from it. It needs to include everyone and must rid itself of so many archaic laws. As my Dad said to me the other day, it’s not the religion, it’s the men who make the rules, the men who won’t change the rules. Don’t blame the religion, he said, blame the men. I love parts of my religion, and I truly loathe others. I live in hope, perhaps the laws will be updated, perhaps the rabbis will realise how wrong they have been, to deny what I consider a human right, in death as in life. Perhaps I will be laid to rest alongside my family. Or perhaps they won’t change the rules, and I will be on one side of the cemetery while my family is on another. I know one thing, my wife’s name will be there, on my memorial stone, with words that will sing out loud. Shelley Silas wife of Stella Duffy. Wife of Stella Duffy.

I was as unashamedly inquisitive as the next person. I wanted to have a good nose around the house, after all I’d seen it on television since I was a child. My parents have always been Tory supporters, but are wavering now. They are unhappy with David Cameron and his team, not that they would ever vote Labour. They told me to have a word with him and I explained it was unlikely we would meet. My parents like to call me a cappuccino drinking (extra sprinkles), Guardian reader, who, in their minds, is very radical. I am not. I like to think I am very tolerant and mostly, I am. Like Stella, I am old Labour, my values have changed as I have grown older, but I am all for looking out for my society, am happy to pay higher taxes so that the less well off can afford to survive, and do what I can do contribute. But what was I doing here, at No 10?

After we left our mobiles at reception (I loved the absence of mobiles for two whole hours), we made our way down the hallway and I noticed an L.S. Lowri painting. I had to look twice at the signature. I don’t know why I was so surprised and excited, perhaps because I am not used to seeing great works of art in people’s homes, but this didn’t feel like someone’s home, more a temporary accommodation-come-workplace, which is filled with people like me and Stella and dignitaries and celebrities all day every day. I thought about all those people traipsing through our house, and then reminded myself it was never going to happen. On we walked, fresh flowers accompanying us everywhere we went, up the famous staircase, with photographs of all the PMs, and I did tingle and it was special and I even managed a quick glance at Margaret Thatcher’s photo. Upstairs to three large reception rooms, I likened it to our small terrace being broken through from one end to the other, just bigger and deeper and higher, and full of priceless objects. I ignored the first room of people and walked instead through to the furthest room, where a couple of men were being nosy too! The first man I spoke to was the MD of the Huddersfield Giants (did you know that Huddersfield was the birthplace of rugby league?). We were both amazed at the view through the large windows, looking out onto Horse Guards Parade. I didn’t expect that view, not sure why, I know London’s layout pretty well, I just didn’t put the two locations together! So that’s how the Queen travels so quickly from Buck House to No 10.

The afternoon progressed, along with more famous paintings, a few famous faces, but actually not that many. I was more excited to see Ben Cohen than David Cameron, even more thrilled that I managed to introduce myself to Billie Jean King, someone I have respected since I was a teenager. She was a reminder to why we were all there – addressing the problem of homophobia in sport. Billie Jean King lost all her endorsements within 24 hours of being outed. And still there are so few sports people who have come out. I was told there are twenty premiership players who are gay. Imagine what a difference it would make if they came out, all of them. That is why I was at No 10. To try and make a difference, to try and make it okay for those who are not okay.

And now to the food – canapés and alcohol were plentiful, the sausages particularly delicious, as were the gigantic strawberries dipped in chocolate. Yes, I admit to enjoying the food. I met so many interesting people, some gay, some lesbian, some heterosexual, some transgender, some bisexual. Who cared? I didn’t. Because in those rooms, for me at least, something important happened. I thought about the protests by people who refused to attend the event, or thought that the likes of me shouldn’t attend, or that we were just playing up to the Tories, or that we were there to gape (what’s wrong with gaping?), and I questioned myself, and Stella and the rest of us. David Cameron spoke very briefly, and then seemed to disappear. A few of his colleagues (Theresa May, Margot James, Anne Milton) were on hand to talk to the more important guests, the ones who make a real difference, Lisa Power, Policy Director from the Terence Higgins Trust, Claire Harvey, a brilliant woman and paralympian. We are both patrons of Diversity Role Models, a new foundation set up by Suran Dickson. Ben Cohen, now retired, was there as Chairman of the Ben Cohen StandUp Foundation, the world’s first anti-bullying organisation. Gareth Thomas and plenty of other well-known, and many more not so well known people, in and out of the sports world, all came together because of a cause, not a Tory cause, but a world wide cause that was important to me. Homophobia and transphobia in sport. And yes, David Cameron is not my best friend and I still disagree with pretty much everything he stands for, but this is a cause that crosses parties, and I wanted to be party to this cause. And that is why I went and that is why I will never apologise for going because the cause is what mattered, irrespective of whether it was hosted by Labour, Tory or a government from outer space. The food didn’t matter, and the décor didn’t matter, and ultimately what I wore didn’t matter, what did matter was that I found myself speaking to so many different people, and not once did I question whether they were gay or lesbian, heterosexual, transgender or bisexual or Tory or Labour or Lib Dem. For two hours, the people in those spacious and bright reception rooms, through my eyes at least, provided a microcosm of the possibilities for the society we live in. We still have a long way to go with sexuality and racism and all the other isms you can add to the list, the event showed a glimmer of hope. And if I haven’t said it enough, the emphasis was on the cause, not which political party you align yourself with. It allowed me a chance to show my support to my colleagues who make the groundbreaking work happen, and to those I respect. If we don’t talk to each other, and break down barriers, what hope is there for a better world? If I remain in the room across the hall, do I have to wait for the person opposite to make the first move, or can I be braver than that? I like to think I am always braver. If only Israel and Hamas would speak, the world might change overnight. Yes, I’m an optimist, but it’s better than being a pessimist because I might as well give up. I honestly believe that it is far better to talk to your enemies, to stand beside them with your differences in one hand and your hope in the other, than rage at them from across the street and wait for a miracle to happen. We create the miracles. It is better to share the same space, note our differences face to face, rather than ghettoise ourselves and push ourselves so deeply into corners, that the only way out is if someone else prises us out, and that rarely happens. There are quite a few brave people in the world, but more who would like to be brave but never make that step, because they are afraid of losing jobs, being hated, being bullied.

I also realised this yesterday; that our wonderful and accepting heterosexual friends, who have no problems with our sexuality, might actually think it’s fixed, so they don’t speak out or consider that perhaps all is not so great. See above, Ben Cohen, ‘the first straight sports star to donate his philanthropic efforts for the benefit of LGBT people.’ We need heterosexual allies, and those we have are plentiful, but when one of their kids comes out and they realise it’s not fixed, I don’t want to be the one to say I told you so.

At the end of the afternoon, after signing a flip chart, (I’m still unsure what I signed), the man who I had first talked to, in the room with the view of Horse Guards Parade, gave me a rugby shirt. Here, he said, this is for you, because you were the first person I spoke to and you were so lovely. Before he went, he invited us both to a match when we’re in Huddersfield. I’m going to take him up on his offer. I left No 10, no better or worse as a person, but full of hope. Surely that’s what it was all about?

I am SO sorry for the lengthy delay in responding, I have been hugely preoccupied with work and family matters.

Ok, so while it would always be lovely to have everything that we write, produced, it  just doesn’t happen that way.  I’ve two un produced plays, and most writers I know, even the A list ones, have un produced plays, for no other reason than they are not what theatres want right now!  It’s hard to know what theatres do want, and with the current arts funding being drastically cut, I think we are all worrying about what we do and where to find a home for our work.  It’s a difficult business at the best of times, most playwrights, even the established ones, find it hard to make a good living solely from theatre, because unless you are fortunate enough to have a west-end hit play or musical, it just doesn’t pay.  This is why so many playwrights have to write 2-4 plays a year, well, those who are lucky enough to get that many commissions, and I am not one of them.  It’s also why the lucky few move to TV, which does pay.

First things first, you say you want to be a playwright, sounds to me like you already are.  Anyone who has written a play and taken it to Edinburgh, is a playwright.  The more stuffy playwrights might expect you to have more work in your portfolio, I do not!  So YOU ARE a playwright.  Good!

Sounds like you are forging ahead and creating work, which is excellent.  In this profession we need to be a step ahead of others, always on the look out for places to stage work, people to work with.  I totally agree with you that plays need to be performed in order to be fully realised.  I have this problem time and time again with my work, it reads brilliantly off the page and once it’s up, well, it mostly works. Plays are written to be performed NOT read in a room quietly.

I think the thing to do is to keep writing, keep sending work out.  I’m not sure how old you are, but have you contacted places like the Young Vic or the Royal Court, who have (the court does at least) young writers attachments (under 26 I think, do check first).  If you want to write, you will do it whether you are working 7, 5 or 3 days a week in a paid job.  It’s hard.  Get over it and get on with your work.  We’ve all had to at some time – and I’m not being hard, just realistic!

It usually takes 5 years I reckon to make ‘it’ in someway, and I don’t necessarily mean earning pots of money.  The best advice I can give you is to write, write and write.  Send your work out to literary managers, or dramaturgs, or associate director (literary) as they are now called!  When your work is on, invite agents – if you’re young and innovative chances are they will come.  Everyone is on the look out for new talent, the next big thing.  I don’t have any easy answers, formulas or magic.  Other than none of us ever know what works and what doesn’t until it’s out there.

The other advise is to go find a newish director who you can work with, form an alliance and go put plays on.  And NEW doesn’t necessarily mean young!

Radio drama is also a good way in for playwrights – it’s actually where I started and I have a great home there.  They are the best, nicest, most helpful people in the world.  They don’t pay heaps, but it’s def worth considering.  Google the writers room and download their info, or go to the BBC Radio Four website and they should have guidelines for new writers.  The afternoon play slot is where they probably commission about 20-30 new writers a year – so why not you?  And if you don’t listen to radio drama, start now!  Some of our greatest writers started in radio.  It’s fantastically well respected and you will learn a craft that can earn you a nice bit of bread and butter money every year!  And one radio play broadcast can command a bigger audience than most plays will ever get!

Oh, and go join the Writers Guild of Great Britain – def worthwhile.

So, I hope I haven’t depressed you – one never knows what’s going to happen in this business, surprises are always around the corner, and mostly when you least expect them, but I firmly believe if you are putting work out there, sooner or later someone is going to say about your play, this is the one, this is it.  If you sit in a room dreaming about doing it or tell yourself you cannot possibly have a full time paid job AND write, you are kidding yourself.  It’s how most of us started, some still do.  I work most weekends, because I love to, but also because I need to.  So do many writers.  It’s not a glamorous profession, it can be rewarding and there are lovely gifts, but mostly it’s just writing, re-writing, re-writing some more, constantly inventing new ideas and hoping producers will love them as much as you do, loving then hating your work, not being sure how to do it at all, BUT when it works, it works and there is nothing quite like it.

Still want to write?  Go for it.

Hope this has been of use.  Do let me know.  Stay calm, be nice to everyone, say please and thank you, go to the theatre, watch TV and film, be a step ahead AND ENJOY IT.

Warmest wishes & happy writing.  Let me know when I can come see something of yours.

(well they work for me)

Shelley Silas

For Women in Prison Magazine

3^rd August 2010

A few years ago I spent three hours a week over four months with women at East Sutton Park open prison.  Part of the course included writing exercises and improvisation games.  The purpose was to have some fun but also to try and unlock their creative side.  During the last workshop the women read/performed their pieces.  I was very proud of everyone, but actually it proved a worthwhile experience for myself as well.  While not everyone wants to write or can write in a way they consider ‘good enough,’ I believe everyone has a voice, and everyone has something to say.  But how do you find that voice, how do you tap into the qualities that make you different to someone else?  And what’s the difference between writing from your own life experiences and making it up?

I left school with 3 O’levels, went to work at 17, did a BA when I was in my 30s, part-time over four years while I worked full time, and then went on to do an MA in creative writing. And I promise you I am not at all academic.  The most important tool I left with was that writing is really re-writing, that an initial idea which sparks our interest and excitement at any given time, is one thing, but going on to develop that idea into a longer and more in depth piece, re-reading several times and re-writing possibly even more, is another altogether.  The re-writing is where, for me at least, the really hard work begins. You don’t have to be an Oxbridge graduate or any other university graduate to write.  You don’t need permission to write.  All you need is to want to do it, and then do it, and keep doing it.  It’s not physically hard, you do need staying power, and often your confidence can be low because of rejections, and all of us, even the most established, are rejected at some time.  You just have to keep at it, because the more you do, the better you’ll get, you’ll discover early on which ideas work and which don’t, and most importantly, you’ll find your voice.

Swimming has become a recent love of mine, as with most things, I started later in life. It relaxes me, focuses me and allows me time for just myself without the distractions of contemporary living – i.e. technology.  In the pool one morning, I decided that swimming is like writing.  We use different techniques, different strokes, we breath differently, we go at our own pace, but the outcome is the same – i.e. a finished piece of work or several laps.  It’s how we get there that makes each of us different.  I must preface what you’re about to read by saying these are suggestions that help me, they may help you, they may assist you in finding your own way.  Each writer has their own process.  Now it’s time to find yours.

• don’t try and write like anyone else.  originality is what sells.

I think it’s very easy to try and emulate someone else, perhaps thinking if I can write like them, I’ll be a success, because they are.  Your USP (unique selling point, a word creative types use a lot) is your voice.  And it’s not just enough having an individual voice, you need a good story too.

• your voice.  your individual style/tone and so much more that differentiates you from someone else.

It’s also the way you speak, your rhythms, patterns, inflections, the organic order in which the words end up on the page.  You might hear people compare writers to each other, someone may say he writes in a very Dickensian way, or her work is like Martina Cole or Marian Keyes.  So what is it that differentiates them?  Spend 10 minutes a day listening to others.  Make a note of how they sound, what makes them different to one another?  Whose writing do you like and why?

• writing your life.

The women I met in East Sutton Park had the most fantastic stories to tell.  While I never asked why they were there, I was of course interested to know.  After a couple of weeks, some of them volunteered the information, others did not.  We are all intrinsically interested in the human condition, why people do certain things, what drives them.   If you’re writing from real life (and many writers take incidents from their own lives and fictionalise them), it’s up to you how much you tell.  It’s not necessary to write down every detail of every second in your life, because quite frankly, we are only interested in some aspects.  It’s important to include the big events, where the changes (emotional and physical) happened and what the direct results of those changes were, what kept you going, the people who influenced you, the house you lived in, though we don’t need to know about every single neighbour unless they had a direct influence/effect on your life story.  I would say only tell us as much as you feel we need to know about your story to get a clear picture of how it was.  When you read about other people’s lives in memoirs, what is it that has specifically excited/interested you in their story?  Alternatively make a note of what hasn’t interested you, even though they have still included it.

• structure.

Structure is what holds your story together, kind of like the way a house is built.  How is it held in place, how is it designed?  What might make one house different from another?  A good start is the basic beginning, middle and end structure, but some stories might start at the end and go back, or start in the middle and go back.  Think about the films Groundhog Day and Memento structurally.  There is no fixed structure for anything, no right way or one way to do it, as long as it works and supports the story you are trying to tell, go for it.  Sometimes you might need to write the story first and then work in the structure.  I find it’s best to do this, otherwise you are so bogged down with all the technical stuff that your story suffers, and ultimately, for me at least, there’s a real danger of structure overtaking story, and that’s not ideal.  You can have the best characters and a good, solid structure, but it’s story that counts most for me.  I don’t want to confuse you or bog you down with structure, as I think it’s best to write the first draft and then go back and see where the structure might not work properly or where you can do something different.  But it’s something to consider.  And not every novel or play has to have a new or original structure, most people use a beginning, middle and end, and that works just as well!

• get on with it while accepting that prevarication is part of the creative process.

Okay, so I admit, I spend a great deal of time making cups of coffee, walking around, doing lots of displacement activities so that I don’t have to write.  Actually, what’s going on inside my head while I’m doing all these other activities is a great deal of thinking about characters and plots and stories.  I might not physically write a word until later afternoon or early evening.  But the pre-writing can often be the most creatively satisfying.  So it’s okay to do other things, you don’t have to sit at a desk eight hours a day every day.

• sometimes it’s okay to write rubbish

Rubbish is useful, because it’s often only after you’ve finished a piece, whether a short story or play or something longer, that you can begin to see what it is you’re saying, and then the real writing starts.   A gem of a sentence or storyline may well appear through the rubbish.  I would encourage you to set yourself a limit to write every day, 500 words is good, and stick to it, even at weekends, rather than waiting for the perfect sentence or idea to emerge before you start.

• grammar

Don’t worry about getting your punctuation right, or your grammar perfect.  Just WRITE.  I’ve read a few writers’ work in the past, very successful writers, and I can tell you that I was pretty surprised at the absence of grammar and punctuation.  It might be laziness or that they are just not very good at it and that’s okay.  Editors and sub editors often take care of this, though I wouldn’t encourage you to leave it entirely up to them.  What I mean is, don’t let it stop you writing that first page, draft, novel, play, short story.  You can go back and revisit, revise and make better.

• when boredom sets in

Okay, so you might get bored, actually, you will get bored and that’s okay.  It happens to all of us.  Go do something else.  Go for a walk, to the gym, read, watch TV, draw, whatever.  Don’t make yourself sit down and write if you really, really, don’t want to.  It’s okay to be bored.  But if you’re too bored too often you might want to think about whether your story is working or whether your boredom is a result of you just not being bothered!

• things you might want to write about.

Everyone has a story, everyone has something interesting to say. Chances are, if it interests you, it will interest someone else.  If you’re keeping a diary or journal, perhaps an entry might include something that has excited you, surprised you, upset you, something you’ve witnessed or heard.  It might be a new experience, something you’ve read or watched that has had an impact on you or it might be directly from your life.  It doesn’t really matter as long as you want to write it.  As I say, if you’re interested, chances are everyone else will be too.

• no need to rush.

One of the most important pieces of advice I can give to any new writer (and quite a few established ones) is not to rush.  Often we think a piece of work is finished when it is far from that.  I would suggest you finish a first draft, leave it for a week or two then return to it with fresh eyes.  You’ll be amazed at how work develops in that time, you may have had other thoughts, and you’ll be pleased you didn’t send it off too soon.  It’s something I have learned to do, it doesn’t come naturally – mainly because writing is often such a solitary business, that as soon as we have written something, we want to share it.  Hold off sending anything to anyone to read until you are absolutely sure that you can do no more on it without handing it over.

• questions.

I have found if I’m stuck or something doesn’t work or make sense, I ask myself questions about what it is I’m trying to write.  There’s no one definitive list of questions, make them up – you’re the boss of your work.  Questions I might ask are, is this plot really, really feasible?  Why does this character behave in this way?  Do I really care about this other character?  Etc etc.  It’s a way of breaking the ice, moving ahead and getting to know your work so well, so when someone else is reading it, if they have any questions, you’ll automatically know the answers.  It works for me.

• reward yourself.

Whenever I finish something, a story, play, feature, I like to acknowledge actually getting through to the end! And the way I do this is to reward myself.  It might be chocolate, a new lipstick, watching a DVD, a cup of coffee, an hour of daytime TV.   Sometimes that feels like a reward! Whatever it is, I like to mark the completion in some way.

• try not to compare yourself to others.

Easier said than done, but it’s probably the most harmful way to disrupt yourself and your writing and gives you every reason not to write.  A is different to B is different to T is different to J.  It’s what makes us all matter, it’s what gives us our unique way of telling a story, our voice.  If we were all the same, there would only be one type of book or play written in one way.  There’s room for everyone.  By all means look at what someone else is doing, but don’t think you have to be like them in order to succeed.  You don’t.  And their success doesn’t take away from your success or your ambition or your possibilities.  We can all succeed and there are loads of possibilities out there for all of us.

• the only way is your way.

Once you know what you want to say say it.  There is no formula, no perfect or right way to write.  The way you say it, is the best way for you.  And you might have more than one voice, more than one style, and that is okay too.  Some people write under different names, because what they’re writing, possibly crime and romance, require different styles, different voices.  So as not to confuse readers, they simply have another name for another style of work.  Maybe read some Ruth Rendell and Barbara Vine.  Same writer, writing under different names.  Publishing and other writing worlds (i.e. theatre) often find it easier to compartmentalise writers into types so they come to expect the same style from you every time.  And it’s possibly easier for them to sell.  But if you’re like me, you don’t fit into any one box.  It can be harder at the start, ultimately I think it’s more exciting!

Go write, try and enjoy it.  Go find your voice, and when you’ve found it remember, it’s yours and no one else writes or sounds like you.

© Shelley Silas

3^rd August 2010