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Fuckers !
Unfortunately, we can't seem to find your script, it is very rare that a script goes missing but simply because of the number of script we manage, this can happen.
We are very sorry about this, if you'd like to send us another copy of your script we'll make sure it's considered and returned to you as soon as possible. Please mark your script for the attention of the Script Assistant and enclose a copy of this email
Best Wishes
BBC Writersroom
Fuckers!
Fuckers, cos I waited for five months...!
But - believe it or not - I'm not all that furious! Normally, once you've sent your script, you can't rewrite it. They will not accept a new version (unless it is asked for). In my case, however, I was given a wonderful opportunity to do so. And I did. Perhaps I should see a sign of divine providence. I had implored Dionysus recently and I start to believe he actually listens to me...
I have to thank Nigel for checking my English. He was prompt and efficient.
Here is an extra page which I added to the new copy of my script. Originally it was meant to be a covering letter, but I thought it more appropriate to join it to the script itself.
To the reader:
Despite having a distinctly Anglo-Saxon sounding name (or perhaps a trifle Irish), I come from an essentially French speaking background. Born in central Africa (Zaïre) from Belgian parents, I grew up in Brussels which I left after my schooling to do a History degree in Birmingham. Prior to settling in France, I lived in Siena, Italy. I've always been moving in cosmopolitan circles which have moulded my mind towards a spirit of tolerance. It is such a spirit which I endeavoured to convey in my script.
The story takes place in 1938. The main characters are two 17 year old teenagers: an English girl, whom I would describe as happy-go-lucky, and a German boy, member of the Hitler Youth, deprived of a normal adolescence. They meet in Syria (which is then under French mandate) and spend a month together in the house of an Englishman. Their entourage is a colourful assembly of nationalities and faiths which -- to paraphrase one of my characters -- is not necessarily bound to generate dissention and rancour. The story is meant to convey the following message that the world has a treasure: its cultural diversity. It is partly intended to fight those who manipulate it and turn it into a factor of conflict.
It is a first script and I did my very best to conform to the appropriate format. You will not fail, however, to spot many imperfections due to my language and lack of experience. The scene headings may not always meet the requirements and the opening ten pages contain descriptions exceeding five lines. I couldn't bring myself to prune them, for I thought they were necessary for the setting. I hope you'll extend me a little leniency in this area.
Finally I wish to add that my situation, though far from desperate, is not overwhelmingly exciting. I'm aware that chances are small and I fear bitter disillusions, but I cannot help putting all my faith in this script. I wish someone professional could hold me out a friendly hand.
p.s. : I took the initiative in joining to the script a few illustrations which should help you viewing the scenery.
And here is what I wrote on the message board the day I sent back my script:
There. It's done. The die is cast. I've sent my (reviewed) script back to the Writersroom. May the Gods be with me. I implore you, O Dionysus ! Give me that little extra push which every man needs to fulfil his destiny...! I shall not be ungrateful.
[6 comments]- A History of Greece
- This week was not productive in terms of work. So I'm not going to talk about it.
Christelle spent last Tuesday and Wednesday in a spa with her colleagues. I thought it a fit time to do a bit of erotic writing which I had planed long ago.
The writing went fine and I was rather pleased with the style. As it was, however, it wasn't me. Passion was lacking. My pen was driven by mere basic, short lasting feelings. For some reason, it had a bad impact on my mood. Not to say that it was too... autobiographical. I had no right to involve certain characters.
I let the matter rest for a day, then I chose to renounce and resolved to delete the file. I felt better soon after.
I felt the need to return to my roots as a historian and managed to 'unearth' in my messy library a book I read with pleasure when I was still at university, A History of Greece by J. B. Bury and Russell Meiggs. It's kind of a bible for both students and amateurs.
Curiously enough it has never been translated in French and the thought of doing it crossed my mind on several occasions.
I believe I'm perfectly up to the job, but I fear I lack credibility as I haven't published anything yet.
Should I nonetheless try to approach the editor?
[11 comments] - A Pagan in Our Midst
Remember the Bacchus which once belonged to my grandfather ? Some will perhaps recall I mentioned it in one of my first entries.
Well, after some proper thinking, I decided to re-enact his cult. I am now, officially, a disciple of Dionysos. And to mark my conversion I erected an altar in his honour.
Every evening I light a candel by the statuette and reverently speak his name upon each release of my precious seminal fluid. In return, he grants me with inspiration in my writing.
[7 comments]- An evening such as I like
- Given the deafening noise caused by the current Jazz Festival, I leave the flat every day at six to spend the night at my stepparents'. I come back every morning at eight.
The house of my stepparents is, I may have said it in a previous entry, a stone's throw away in the nearby countryside. It's a quiet place, all the more attractive that it is provided with a swimming pool.
So last light, I had a late swim with my son Brinsley. I'm pleased to see how at ease he is in water. Our great fear is to let him play alone by the pool. It's not always easy to keep an eye on him, particularly when we have people to entertain. One always believes that the other takes care of him. Accidents happen in this manner. But we are well aware of that and it became a conditioned reflex to ask for his whereabouts as soon as we lose sight of him.
After the bathing, we watched a cartoon together and then I sent my little darling off to Bedshire with a book. It's my policy to let him read as long as he wants, provided he keeps quiet and remains in bed. Usually, twenty to thirty minutes later, he falls asleep. Sometimes, however, he is in a mood for a sleepless night and we have to frown a bit. In this connection, I bought him In the Heart of the Moon (Ali Farka Touré & Toumani Diabaté) which gives a very nice insight into African music. It's very soft and I put it when I switch off the light. I sit by my son, stroking his hair and forehead, talking in a low voice, almost whispering, about wild animals in the savanna, and about that little village in the far distance, where people dance around a giant fire, celebrating the stars and the coolness of the night. Brinsley listens quietly, yielding to the soothing power of the music. His head falls on the pillow and he soon embarks on a journey which leads him to the mystical lands of our first ancestors.
So, to resume my account of last night, once Brinsley was in bed I went back to the garden, sat by the swimming pool and read till I couldn't see the lines in my book. Danièle, my stepmother, asked me if I wanted to turn on the lights, to which I replied in the negative. I wanted too to celebrate the advent of the night. Attending its fall is something I always enjoy. Everything gets quieter, except for the nightbugs which start their single scale concert orchestrated by the moon.
This morning, I woke up at six thirthy. The sun had risen and was already turning from orange to bright yellow. I decided to go for an hour jog amidst the fields. I felt reborn. I felt a new man.
I believe I'm becoming one. I know now what I want. And what I want is not inaccessible.
[7 comments]