You have to jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down: my time at LSF by Ellie Rofe

Photo by Annabel Vere

A few days before this year’s London Screenwriters’ Festival I left my degree at Cambridge. It was a tough decision: a degree from Cambridge can be a very handy thing after all. But while I enjoyed the literature, ploughing through critics’ books on the gendered use of footwear in Shakespeare or a post-colonial reading of punctuation in Ulysses made me feel like I might go mad. It’s a bit like diseases of the bowel or the internal combustion engine: I think it’s crucial that somebody understands this stuff – I admire them in fact – but I don’t think that person should be me.

So having cut the parachute cord, I arrived at LSF for Pitching Thursday with some trepidation. All my eggs were now in the writing basket – and that is a notoriously hole-ridden basket to hold such delicate little dreams. What followed was four days of wild inspiration. An new way to consider character, inspecting the inner workings of comedy, thinking about how to pitch your project – these were the things I gave a shit about! And the festival was chock-full of people who had taken unconventional or risky routes through life. Immediately I felt like I was home.

Then on Saturday, in Laurie Hutzler’s talk on character mapping, she casually threw out a brilliant Ray Bradbury quote:

“You have to jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”

I realised this was exactly what I had done – and how lucky my timing had been. I had jumped off the cliff just a few days before, and already the LSF was helping me gather the raw materials for some wing-building. Along with a side-helping of continental lager now and then. Because we all know that drunks fall better.

Beyond my personal little epiphany, here’s what else I learned:

1) Make yourself uncomfortable: I lay down this dare right now. Challenge yourself in the next year to do at least one thing that terrifies you. Most successful people at some point have leapt out of their comfort zone. This means different things for everyone (and if it’s ‘public nudity’ for you, ignore the dare). Two common ones:

– Chat (or ‘network’, wotevs). This is my big one. Despite appearing to be a boorish, sarcastic fool, I am actually quite introverted, especially off the back of a bad bout of depression as I was. Sometimes that space between me and the person sitting next to me feels huge – unbridgeable even. You may feel the same. Try to bridge it. Because that connection you make could be wonderful. At worst you could be greeted with a stony faced harridan who spits on your dreams before huffing away. But the thing to remember – especially when your brain helpfully lists all the ways you’re stupid in the dead of night – is that they are very likely the ones with the issue here. So you just keep trying, you beautiful idiot.

– Pitch. Even if your palms sweat and your rectum loosens, pitch. The odds of actually vomiting or soiling yourself are extremely low. And if you want to succeed, you will have to do this. The incredible opportunities provided at the festival are far more difficult to manufacture yourself. If you’re terrified or confused, take Pilar’s class (if she’s there in 2014). It’s awesome.

2) Clear your schedule. Go to as much as possible. You never know which session will give you your ‘Eureka!’ moment.

3) Be prepared. By, say, March – start writing. Or April. May, June, July… Or right now. Just make sure you have something to talk about. Even just some ideas to attach the advice to. The festival is amazing if you have never written a word. You will just get so much more from it if you have.

Also: Get business cards. Research your pitchees. Research the speakers. Wear sunscreen if you fancy. Submit to the extra sessions. I was green with envy that I hadn’t submitted to the Script Labs or the Actors’ Table Read or the Script Doctor sessions. Next year I will be more organised.

4) Get on Twitter beforehand. OK, this isn’t essential. Perhaps you have some ideological hatred of vapid social media or condensing thoughts into 140 characters. I know I did. I also thought Twitter seemed like a lot of effort for very little gain. But perhaps thinking that millions of people were a) identical and b) idiots is a touch arrogant. Who knows? Having joined post-festival I get it, albeit in a very rudimentary way. It’s interesting, fun and you meet lots of people who are in a similar position (i.e. hunched over a smart phone looking at a Twitter app). And you get to promote your new blog too (www.myyearinfilm.co.uk #shameless)

5) Be open, be warm, have fun. My mum has always said you can either be a radiator or a drain. (Although my mum also sings ‘love shot a hole in my tights’ to ‘Sex Bomb’, so she can’t always be trusted.) Anyway, guess which one people prefer? Smile, chat, ask people questions, smile again. It’s amazing how this can produce a virtuous cycle where warmth generates more warmth and things really heat up, and everyone gets really, really hot for each other and… oh, hang on. That was a different weekend. And a very different blog. I should stop right there.

Good luck and happy writing one and all.

Ellie