How Tragicomedy Works

The “tragicomedy” is an important genre that has re-emerged over the last decade, combining two specific elements: comedy and tragedy. It is significant to note that it isn’t purely tragedy as defined by playwrights, such as Shakespeare. While Shakespeare’s plays definitely had scenes that were comedic in nature, I’d argue that the tragicomedy actually leans more into the comedic than Shakespeare’s tragedies. They also tend to have a more grounded approach: think less witches and prophecies, more alcohol, drug-taking and inappropriate behaviour. I’m going to analyse two shows that I feel truly encapsulate the genre’s strengths and why I feel they both belong in the modern age of ground-breaking television.

Firstly, we begin with Fleabag. Phoebe Waller-Bridge, as far as I’m concerned, is a writing genius and a lot of what makes the show work is how well the narrative follows the protagonist’s consciousness. We see things through her eyes; the vulnerability that is inherently engrained within the scenes, due to the brutal honesty of her perception and what she tells us, makes her likable, even as she does things we wouldn’t necessarily agree with. This “warts and all” approach is how it weaves both humour and tragedy into its tale. Without spoiling anything, there are many instances where the matter-of-fact nature of how information is delivered creates reflections of pain from the protagonist and the characters around her. It manages to deliver humour and tragedy in not just the same scene but, sometimes, the same sentence. Waller-Bridge’s deft touch and excellent acting sell the character. It could, of course, simply be a comedy, but it would lack its heart – the overarching themes of grief, guilt and regret; the pursuit of wanting to be a better person. That theme leads us nicely onto the second show.

Bojack Horseman was one of the original Netflix shows that helped put it on the map and, given that the final set of episodes are coming out tomorrow, I thought it was an appropriate time to discuss why the show works so well. Similar to Fleabag, there are elements of the protagonist that are irredeemable. In this, both shows find strength from within – the natural arcs of both characters aren’t about making them fall in line with the moral guidelines of the audience, but simply to learn to live with what they’ve done. Bojack is an alcoholic narcissist who is constantly struggling with who he is and who is supposed to be. The comedy comes from his one-liners, his arrogance and his selfishness. The tragic aspects come from the same place in that he realises that these things are unhelpful, unbecoming aspects of his character to the people around him, but he is unclear how to change even though he seemingly wants to.

The theme of change in both shows is what makes the tragic and comedic aspects work so well. The humour simply comes from the debauched, degrading acts they do and things the characters say. It provides an important element of escapism for the audience, in the same way that Hugh Laurie’s character in House does. It revels in the inappropriate, in the ‘I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that’ shock value that, along with smart writing, can create some hilarious scenes. These flaws, the aspects that audience laugh at, are also the character’s biggest weaknesses and the ones they struggle with. They are classic defence mechanisms; childish, immature acts designed to fulfil themselves so they don’t have to think of the guilt lurking underneath. The tragedy comes from how difficult it is to change – again, something identifiable, something the audience can grasp and relate to. Season 2 of Fleabag is particularly relevant here; the entire arc of the season is the protagonist actually attempting something that seemed completely alien to her before: seeking some form of redemption in the arms of a particularly dashing priest. The disfunction within the protagonists of both shows is what initially hooks us in, but it’s the depth shown through the dramatic elements that really make us relate to the very human need of wanting to better yourself.

Why the tragicomedy is particularly relevant to the modern setting can be shown in the tone of both shows. In Bojack, one of the main targets of its satire is the frivolous, fickle world of social media. In a world where anyone can find out anything about a celebrity, many of the show’s side characters only care about the public perception of Bojack. The show peels back the media image to show that there are many other layers beneath the character that the fickle world would be horrified by. Similar to Fleabag – in a society where everything can be exposed, the writers of both shows seem to be asking: why wouldn’t we show you everything? These shows couldn’t have existed even twenty years ago because the idea of the self has never been so potentially detached from the world around it. Bojack wants to be seen as a success, as the star of a highly successful sitcom, but, underneath it all, he is still miserable. Self-reflection for the characters is the only way for them to grow and, in having a society that only wants the juiciest gossip, the present and now, Bojack’s journey shows that it is harder to hide and process the sense of unfulfillment. If they are to change at all, it will be a gradual one because it is a constantly ongoing battle.

Both of the shows highlighted above are largely comedic endeavours, but one of the things that make them special is the way they delve into the protagonist’s psychology. The pain, the craving to heal, to redeem oneself, are powerful motivators and it is arguably only through adding tragic elements that these themes would be able to be explored at all. The genre feels more relevant now because of the brutal honesty of what the characters show us and what the programs are willing to depict. These aspects accentuate the difficulty of living in modern society – all exposure, no privacy. Whether it is Fleabag’s breaking of the fourth wall, or how we see Bojack’s drug trips, in giving us greater access and intimacy to the characters, it sells both the comedy and tragedy to a greater extent. Just look at another excellent show that falls into the same category: Barry, about a hitman that also wants to be a stage actor. Again, it is all about the internal process of wanting to be a better person, of trying to face the truly horrific things you’ve done. For tragicomedy to work, it needs to be unflinching – whether you want to laugh or cry at the scenes being depicted, in showing them to you, the comedy and drama highlight the two essential aspects of the human experience: the pain we suffer and the hope, the need, to feel that we can change and progress from what it’s done to us.

The Motives of the Writer

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” – Ernest Hemingway.

Picking up on something I mentioned in my last blog post, I wanted to discuss the idea of the personal specifically regarding the role of the writer. I’ve always found people’s assumptions about writers interesting, and so I want to write about why it can be misguided to assume and why I think people do it. And don’t worry – we are going to get to the Hemingway quote at the top of the post!

ASSUMPTION is the key word here. I’ve found that, when you’re with friends and you’re discussing a particular band or writer, one of the main topics that come up is WHY this song or this story was written. The discussion normally leans that way to provide a greater understanding for the motivation behind the writer’s intention. The reason behind wanting to label the writer’s intention is usually a positive thing – a way of spreading knowledge about something that both of you enjoy. However, this isn’t always knowledge and in that lies the heart of the issue. Many people assume the intention of the writer and take their own opinion as fact. Let me provide you with an example to show you what I mean. I’m going to briefly mention Arthur Miller’s ‘Death of a Salesman’ to illustrate my point.

I was lucky enough to read ‘Death of a Salesman’ in Sixth Form and found it endlessly fascinating. Not only is it an incredibly powerful play, it is also an excellent, deeply-moving character study that dissects the pain that comes from the failing of masculinity. Willy Loman attempts to live through his sons; to try and convince the world that his life hasn’t been a failure and, in not succeeding, it leads to a horribly inevitable tragedy. The reason I bring this up is because of the assumption that many people would make upon reading the fractured relationship between Willy Loman and his sons. Here is the assumption.

A LOT OF PEOPLE: Wow, I think Arthur Miller clearly had a strained relationship with his father which he is expressing in this play!

Many, myself included, do this all the time when reading or watching a piece of writing – you take the plights of the characters and innately find a way to attempt to explain them. This leads to people taking a shortcut and assuming that everything that is written must be personal. Now, having recently watched a great interview with Miller, I can actually tell you that the above assumption isn’t actually an assumption: it’s a fact! Miller describes his relationship with his father as one of largely silence and he found writing as a form of therapy, essentially to convey emotions and disappointments that he didn’t know how to accurately convey to his father. I’m sure you notice the difference here: one is an assumption not based on fact and the other is an interpretation guided by something the writer has actually stated.

This leads nicely back to Hemingway’s quote at the top of the post. I actually agree with Hemingway – I think writers do bleed when they write pieces of fiction. But many people assume about how they bleed which is a problem in that it blurs the line between interpretation and fact. By all means, you are entitled to have opinions about why writers use certain plot points, have particular types of characters in their work, etc. There is no harm to interpretation. It, however, has always baffled me when people take an assumption as fact. They are putting words into the mouths of writers with absolutely no evidence to back them up. It’s dangerous in that it actively limits the writer’s voice as oppose to elevating it, which is usually the person’s initial intention upon conveying that opinion. The act of writing itself is incredibly hard. Similar to music, from the fact alone that you are creating your own work, it is inherently personal. However, to what degree it is personal, is for the audience to debate and the writer to know. There are no issues with this apart from when the audience overstep their mark, so to speak, and take their own opinion regarding the writer’s motivation as gospel. It is a completely different thing if the writer confirms the interpretation, like Miller did above, but many people simply put words into the writer’s mouth like a trashy newspaper headline and, instead of encouraging discourse, it actually limits it.

But, why do we do this? It is actually quite simple, in my opinion. Whether we like or dislike a work, we feel the need to understand how it was made only when something feels inherently personal. Take, for example, Marvel’s Cinematic Universe. I’m a huge nerd for those films because I find them enjoyable. However, because, at least on the surface level, they simply look like very good action movies, the motive of the writer is largely not discussed beyond the literal decisions they made regarding plot and character. This isn’t to say that those films are not personal to the ones making them (of course they are). My point is more that we only seem to provide motive for the writer in instances that either repulsed or moved us. We feel the need to understand why we felt the way we did upon the work’s completion and, if it’s something that moved us, we want to know what drove them to write something that feels so personal to us. Similar to discussing Fiona Apple in the last post, however, we need to realise the difference between fact and fiction and show the writer, or any creator, respect in not having the words that come out of our mouths as the ones we put into theirs. It is only when we acknowledge the difference between fact and interpretation that we can truly begin to unravel the intentions of the writer and actually understand the motivations behind the work that we so greatly admire.

 

 

The Importance of Character Studies

“I don’t like stories where nothing happens in them.”

This is a complaint you often get with works that are considered to be character studies, and I really want to analyse what this means. Everyone is entitled to their own particular tastes, their own passions, likes and dislikes, and I often find that some people seem to simply dislike character studies. While I personally find the view baffling, I really want to break down why this is and to provide a sufficient counterpoint, to essentially defend their significance in the storytelling landscape.

Firstly, let’s analyse what is meant when people say that “nothing happens.” What they essentially mean is that they find the plot tedious or boring or, to be frank, there simply isn’t much plot within the story’s framework. Character studies are, by their own nature, largely based around the innerworkings of the character – the character’s progression or degradation. Here’s the thing that I find strange, though: character is plot and plot is character. You simply cannot have one without the other – it doesn’t make sense. Characters drive the plot by the simple fact that they exist and plot is simply the character’s story. So, I find the complaint that “nothing happens” bizarre because, by the definition of there being a story and characters, there has to be a plot so things do, technically, have to happen.

Maybe I’m being a little facetious. Obviously, when people are critical in this way, they don’t really mean that nothing happens – they mean that nothing of interest happens for them. I can actually understand that viewpoint more largely because it comes down to a matter of taste. Personally, I’m not a huge David Lynch fan because I find his films oddly jarring; too strangely detached from how most stories are told to be considered compelling. They, undoubtedly, look great and I appreciate Lynch’s skill as a visual director, but often his stories leave me cold. Now, my complaint wouldn’t be that “nothing happens” – it would simply be that what was presented didn’t grip me. People who complain about character studies are clearly saying this, but why? In the same way that I find Lynch’s approach to storytelling a little isolating, why do some just not engage with character studies the way they would with other types of stories?

 

In order to really answer this, it’s firstly important to state that I think there will be some character studies that are liked by every single person. It simply isn’t possible for someone to hate every single one – I genuinely believe that. This is partly due to subject matter, tone, characterisation, plot; this can all affect people in different ways and create significance to one and indifference to another. However, I have a theory regarding why a lot of character studies are dismissed by some. They are internal stories. They can be as much about the psychology of the character as anything else, and some can find that ponderous. Some characters in these stories actually have little to no impact on the world around them because they aren’t central to it – the protagonist is at the centre, and the other characters are simply there to drive the protagonist’s journey. Take, for example, Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. The other characters are, of course, significant, but they are largely there to serve Holden Caulfield’s journey. I think it’s an excellent book, but I’ve heard many complain that simply nothing happens.

It is laboured and lazy to say that, of course. When I critique something, as we all do, I never use that phrase because I don’t think it’s fair to the storyteller. There is always something going on; you just simply might not connect with it. Holden’s story is one that centres around him coming-of-age, attempting to find his place – the story drifts along with him, providing the same level of slow burn apathy and alienation that Holden himself feels for the world around him. Stories like this are important because they beautifully describe the internal changes that we can experience in our lives. Sure, these stories might not be as outwardly “thrilling” or “shocking” as others, but it doesn’t mean they don’t have a place. The reason The Catcher in the Rye functions so well is because it’s constantly focused on what it needs to be; a depiction of a character attempting to make their way in the world. Sure, I find action and horror stories, stories that maybe have more elements that are deemed to be “cool” in them, to still be entertaining, but character studies need to exist as a point of counter-programming. Hell, I’m aware that saying that isn’t even fair because, of course, you could have an action or horror story that is also a character study!

Stories are a form of escapism. That is simply how they operate and maybe, for some, these stories don’t take them to a place that feels far enough away from their own concerns and worries. However, I’d argue that character studies connect us to a story in a way that other, less character-centric stories don’t. There is always a plot to every story, but, with the way that the journey in these stories are quieter, more internal, they provide greater insight into the character. If they are done well, they don’t leave me cold, they make me care. They can reaffirm our own belief into the journey’s we’re taking or simply make us feel less alone. For me, there will always be a place for them. Maybe some people simply feel like they don’t need to identify with a story that can, at times, feel so inherently personal to the character centred around it.

The Problems with an Ensemble

Let’s say you’re writing the pilot of a television show. You’ve got a great idea for a plot but are not sure where to go with the characters – you have some ideas, but how many characters should you realistically have? That depends on several things and, at risk of overcomplicating the matter; I thought I’d go over the main pitfalls:

i) WHO ARE YOUR MAIN CAST?

Writing a script, you can have as many side characters as you want – that’s the beauty of them. Side characters are really designed to further plot, which is why in any television show, the audience’s favourite side characters tend to be the ones that have an element of personality to them, because a lot of them don’t bother to have that. If need be, you can keep writing side characters, but the important question is who are your main cast? I’d argue you need at least two (the Mulder-Scully mould) and you can go up to as many as seven or eight. You need to nail these down in your head before you start writing as these characters need to be your main focus with regard to characterisation.

ii) WHAT KIND OF SHOW ARE YOU WRITING?

Regardless of genre, you tend to have two types of shows, or a third one, which is the combination of the two types. You have plot-driven shows and you have character-driven shows. In all honesty, ensemble shows need to be both, but this depends on the amount of characters you have. The more characters you have, the harder it is for it to be character driven. This is due to the simple fact that more characters mean more work to have them characterised. I’ll give two examples to show the difference: The X-Files and The Wire. The X-Files is known for being character-driven because there are only two main characters, so plot and character can always work simultaneously. The Wire, however, is different: because there are so many characters, it is more plot-driven because it simply has too many characters to prioritise characterisation. The Wire is undoubtedly a fantastic show and the only time it stumbled was when it would rely on side characters to create more depth to storylines. This occasionally made the show weaker from a narrative perspective because the narrative was relying on characters the audience barely knew and expected them to care about. This is the problem with an ensemble cast – if it is too large, there can be little depth to side characters because there’s simply not enough time for every character to function with the same level of depth. Basically, if you want to make a character-based show, it is a better idea to have fewer characters in order to let them breathe within the narrative.

iii) WHAT MAKES YOUR MAIN CAST TICK?

This is why the definition of what your main cast is is so important: because when you can define what they are, you can begin showing why the audience should be invested in the main cast. This can be literally anything: job pressure, money trouble, relationship issues, a murder-mystery, if it’s a comedy, a particularly bad hangover. This examination needs to begin in the first episode because the sooner the audience are invested in the main cast, the sooner they will become invested in the show. A show lives and dies on the function of the main cast and so if you can both make plot function at a fast enough rate and keep the main cast interesting in varied ways, you should have the backbone of a decent television pilot.

An ensemble is important to make your show stand out and if you can answer these three main questions, you’ll have a better idea as to the direction of your script and where you want the narrative to go.

Plot Holes: Where Do You Draw the Line?

Plot holes are both a statement of fact and a matter of opinion, which makes them difficult to define. In theory, any development which goes against logic or seems to ‘forget’ narrative continuity is a plot hole. However, writing is difficult: even the best shows occasionally have things happen that break logic because it fits with what the writer or group of writers want to see happen.

So, when is it a plot hole and when is it not?

Firstly, it is partly to do with TONE: if you’re writing something that is supposed to be a gritty crime drama, and then throw an element in that seems highly unlikely given the tone and shape of the show, it stands out like a sore thumb. However, if you were writing a cartoonish, action packed, colourful comedy that did not take itself too seriously, and something unlikely happens it won’t be a huge deal because this piece constantly has things that are unlikely to happen! Tone sets a prerogative with your audience – an element of trust, almost. So long as the tone is consistent and the narrative development does not betray the tone, then it will be a lot easier for the audience to accept.

Secondly, CHARACTER is very important in this equation. One of the biggest complaints I hear from television fans is when a character from their favourite show does something that is “out of character.” To the defence of writers, this can be surprisingly difficult to get right every single time because plot sometimes demands things to happen but it is also to do with the audience’s interpretation of the character – something the writer cannot control. The best thing a writer can do is to keep their characters sharp, but also make them flawed. If your character is to do something very stupid, make it obvious before that point that they have this particular flaw. For example, if you have a womanising detective called Jim who for some reason sleeps with a woman involved with the crime they are investigating (stupid detective!), then before that development, make it clear that it is part of his character. If you don’t, then some people will argue that Jim doing this is “out of character.” If you try to keep your characters consistent, then there shouldn’t be any character based plot holes. This is the one that audiences take more personally as well – audiences understand that plot is the driving force, but if you start messing with their interpretation of the characters, they could turn against the program rather quickly.

The third part, and definitely the hardest to contain from a writing perspective, is NARRATIVE CONTINUITY. The more characters you create and the more they interact with each other, the harder continuity is and the more likely things will be genuinely forgotten about by writers because there are too many dominoes falling in their narrative for them to remember everything. This can be avoided by trying to keep things simple in the narrative – the fewer plates spinning, the less likely they are going to crash into each other and break, but this should NOT stop you from writing ambitiously; it just means you should be careful about it: analyse each step carefully before making it because going back on a plot development is difficult to do. This is something I have had to do in the past: there is nothing more annoying than trying to correct a plot development because you’ve realised it makes no sense because of that one minor thing you completely forgot about. Writing is a constant learning experience and, depending on how simple or complex you want your story to be, narrative continuity is something you need to keep on top of. There is one interesting way you can help alleviate the audience’s scrutiny of your plot, and that is to try and keep things happening in your plot. If you need something a little dubious to happen in your plot (maybe because a character wouldn’t normally do that or because it’s a bit stupid that a character would be in a certain location at a certain time), then the very least you can do is validate this decision as quickly as possible. It is not ideal of course and you shouldn’t really lead your narrative to have too many things to scrutinise, but if you do, then if you give this development more reason to exist in your plot by validating it, then at the very least audiences cannot argue that the development was “pointless.” If character X shoots character Y, then by making sure it has meaning in your narrative, it will be easier to accept from an audience perspective. Basically, narrative continuity can always be contained so long as you keep a level head and always think of the consequences of a character’s action.

You can define a plot hole by analysing a development through the lens of these three elements. You really want a development to pass in all three of these criteria, but if it passes at least two, I think you can have a little wiggle room with the third one. If Elaine sleeps with some guy called Vikram and it is in keeping with her character and is in keeping with narrative continuity, but is maybe tonally a little strange in the context of the show, so long as it isn’t completely tonally separate, it would normally be accepted by most of the audience.

Let’s use a real example to illustrate the importance of this a little more. Now, out of respect for the show I will not name the show in question. It is genuinely a great show, and so this mainly comes out of respect for the show in question and besides it is much more important to analyse the writing decision. In Show X, there is a character in an apartment that is being shot at by several people.  A desperate situation. So, this character decides to jump out of a window in order to avoid being shot at. However, what has already been established in this episode is that the apartment is quite high up in this block of flats (at least four floors.) However, this character not only survives, but manages to crawl away from the place of impact within ten seconds of landing. The character surviving the fall is not the issue. The narrative plot hole is that he is somehow so unfazed by the fall that in less than ten seconds he has managed to crawl away without a trace. It is revealed in the next episode that the character has merely broken one of his legs…and managed to crawl away in the space of less than half a minute. Admittedly, I may be making this sound a little more ridiculous than it is, so let’s analyse this through the three aspects of a plot hole.

This development definitely passes the second aspect: it is definitely in keeping with this character to do something stupid and reckless like jumping out of a fourth-storey window. However, the development gets a little shaky on aspect three: after all, how did he manage to crawl away so quickly? If he did only break one of his legs, he would surely be in a lot of pain and wouldn’t realistically be able to crawl away in time. The worst aspect, however, is tone. The tone of show X is a gritty, realistic crime drama which prides itself on choice and consequence – it is a very layered show and so for this event to take place with such little consequence goes against the tone of the whole show. It is most glaring in tone because of its weakness in narrative continuity. It is a plot hole because it does not pass all three of these aspects.

The line between what is a plot hole and what is not is very difficult to define. It is ultimately a matter of opinion in part of the audience – some audience members will be more annoyed at a character inconsistency than a strange shift in tone. Nothing is ever perfect and you will always have things that will veer to towards being a plot hole – even the best shows and books have choice and consequence that can be close to being one, because they can be very difficult to contain and remembering the consequence of every single little decision is a writer’s worst nightmare at times. These should be rules just to keep in mind when writing. If your plot development works in all three aspects, it cannot be a plot hole.

How Donnie Darko escapes the pitfalls of time travel in narrative

Time travel is a tricky concept in narrative, hence why most writers do not touch it. It is difficult because the rules of it are not only hard to define, but difficult to traverse even after such definition. The loopholes are constant and, even simplified; it isn’t hard to see why: the very nature of time travel in narrative is designed to change something in the present or in the future, based on the idea of cause and effect. The principle of cause and effect is the reason to create time travel in the first place, but also the very reason it is so hard to use well: if you are using time travel to change something, it could have effects well beyond the realm of simply that one thing.

Here’s an example: let’s say I have someone called Steve. Steve wants to lose weight. He’s bought a gym membership but has a wife, two kids and a full-time job, so finds it hard to make time for the gym. Then, out of nowhere, he acquires a time machine. His thought process is simple: to go back in time and stop himself from eating so much. HOWEVER, if he goes back in time and meets himself, the possible ramifications on his own psychology are potentially monstrous, so he decides not to do that. But, even if he manages to avoid that pitfall, he still needs to change something ill-defined and which he has very little control of.

It’s not a great example, but it does the job: the use of time travel in narrative is to show the dangers of playing God – to show that changing the past, present or future has dire or far-reaching consequences. But many writers use it regardless and in ways that quite clearly suit their narrative and, while this is completely understandable, it shows how tricky and uncompromising time travel can be.

So, as a writer, how do you get over time travel? The answer is surprisingly simple and one that one of my favourite films, Donnie Darko, shows how to do it well. You can use time travel the same way you can use any narrative conceit: BY DEFINING WHAT YOUR INTERPRETATION OF IT IS. Donnie Darko is many things, and certainly has other elements to it besides time travel, but the narrative clearly defines what its own interpretation of it is and, in doing that, can focus on character and plot in a way that other stories cannot do because they spend the whole story defining why time travel should be used in the first place! Justification for narrative conceits is necessary, but should not clog up your plot. The best way of dealing with them is by combining plot and character: rather than have two people blabber on for five minutes about the rules of time travel, make it as simple as possible in order to grip your audience, rather than segregate them from your piece. A simple way of doing this is simply to have two people have an argument who represent two different perspectives: Mr. Pro Time-Travel and Mrs. I-Hate-Time-Travel. Even if this seems oversimplified, for the nature of dealing with such a big concept, it is wholly necessary because in actually grounding your own interpretation of time travel (or whatever concept you are using) it will help define the very structure and direction of your piece.

How Music can add depth to your writing

Here’s a great example of how music is important, both in and of itself and used in other creative mediums. I particularly like how music can change a scene or really add to its depth.

To really show what I mean, I have devised a little experiment. The first video in this article is a trailer for a film called What If, starring Daniel Radcliffe. I can’t speak for the film, but the trailer isn’t very good – largely because it’s one of those trailers that seem to feel the need to give away every plot development in the actual film. It’s a romantic comedy, meaning that it’s supposed to be funny.

HOWEVER, this is where the fun starts, because the second video I have in this article is from a film that I’ve already discussed and that I genuinely thought was excellent: Gone Girl. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross sure know how to make strange, atmospheric and creepy music and this soundtrack is a good indicator of that. I’ve chose ‘The Way He Looks At Me’ because it’s one of the more darker songs on the soundtrack, and it has thematic resonance with what I’m showing you.

Play the trailer for What If and you get a romantic comedy. But turn the sound down on What If and play ‘The Way He Looks At Me’ and suddenly the whole thing changes. Is it really a romantic comedy or a thriller about a man driven to the edge of insanity for a woman? Instantly, the knife scene has a new edge and the scene where Wallace pushes that-girl’s-boyfriend out of the window now seems like it could have been intentional. It now looks like it is more to do with Wallace trying to replace the-guy as Chantry’s boyfriend. It suddenly seems more like a psychological thriller than a comedy and, at its best, that’s what music can do: if you want to set a certain tone or give your scene that little bit extra, it can really do that. Don’t overuse it though – it still shouldn’t be used often because it can dilute its effect.

Why do we write?

This is a particularly interesting question – one that I’ve always felt myself asking. The more cynical part of my brain feels like the main reason is to escape from reality; maybe in the sense that we prefer the realities we create in our mind as oppose to the one we see reflected in front of ourselves.

This, however, is far too simplistic: it seems to paint all writers as miserable loners who sit in darkened rooms all day listening to The Cure and The Smiths. After all, it does not make sense if this is the only reason – I rationalised that escapism is probably part of why I love writing. The same can be said for millions of others, all of which, I am sure, have realised certain half truths as to their motivations. The fact that we still keep writing despite realising this shows that there needs to be more to our motivations then simple escapism.

Another important point to bear in mind is that this question should not merely be limited to writing – but all creative mediums in general: musicians, artists, actors, directors, and countless others. While there is certain uniqueness to writing in the sense that we actually create characters that exist in our head, all of these creative mediums have something in common: a desire to express something more.

I think the more well rounded reason partly lies with finding meaning in existence. It is something every human being struggles with at some point and the creative medium helps us with this in two ways: firstly, it actually gives us something to do with our time, something we enjoy doing, and, secondly, in other people enjoying what we have done, it creates a sense of achievement, which gives us a desire to keep doing it.

The desire to write is something harder to define – it has obvious similarities with acting in the way in which you inhabit something else: a character. I actually think the writer has the easier job; I create characters but I personally do not feel like I have to fully get within their shoes. The actor, on the other hand, needs to live and breathe that role, however unpleasant and nasty that role might be.

Ultimately, I feel like we can comfortably link the meaning of our existence with our own psychology and interweave that to create a reason as to why we create anything. It is partly about legacy, but that is too general – our life choices are to do with that, not just our artistic aspirations. It is our ability to express that arguably makes us unique and could simply just be a way to define ourselves as human; to put our quest for meaning into an expressive context. It could also just be about acknowledging our own flaws and our own humanity: one joy I get from writing is finding that a specific person relates to a character. This always amazes me; my thought process is always in awe of this. You can relate to something I created. That means that, in some small way, we are similar in a way I could not have known before. It is in this kind of beauty, the beauty of trying to understand each other, that we find the prime reason why we express at all.