Greetings,
I'm trying to save a failing writing project (Wattpad comedy book) by rewriting and exploring what's not working. I'm particularly in need of editing suggestions as I just write far too much!
The book is a sitcom-style comedy series. Each book in the series, set on Grundy Island, has it's own mini-adventure. For this book it's a murder mystery. In a nutshell: The protagonist, Ben longs to break away from his mad family and hum drum life and the path expected of him and leave the island. Each adventure keeps him from doing so. In this episode, it's a series of mysterious deaths.
Below is Chapter 1, pasted from the half-written book on Wattpad (link in my profile if you would like to read the whole thing so far).
Thanks
Jo.
Grundy Island - 'The One about the Pirate'
Written by Jo Challacombe
Chapter 1
Benjamin slugged back against the sofa of his third-story flat, staring wistfully at the ceiling. He had decided 'ceiling staring' was the most interesting thing he could find to do living on Grundy Island. He'd been staring at the same spot for hours and was beginning to rival his flatmate, Pat, in the insanity department.
He looked over to Gary, the well dressed cactus, wearing an over-sized pair of sunglasses, carefully set upon the small table next to the sofa.
His flatmate, Pat, had won Gary in the Grundy Island fair last summer. Ben had told him that he'd been 'had' by the stallholder, and a real cactus in sunglasses was not passable as official merchandise from his favourite childhood cartoon, 'Captain Cactus Investigates', but Pat seemed delighted with his prize.
Gary, in spite of his unsavoury beginnings, had since become a staple member of the family and a revered confidant.
Well, Gary. This is it. This is my life. Why try to change anything? Why try to be better? I'm just going to live on this island, until I die. I will never be a success, never be a famous writer, never win the girl of my dreams. You've got the easy life, Gary. Being a cactus. You've not got any worries...
Gary, listened intently, but said nothing. The soulful non-existent eyes behind the sunglasses, said it all, as far as Ben was concerned. Gary always knew exactly what not to say.
A thudding sound from the hallway informed Ben that the post had been delivered. He sighed again. Checking the post was the second most interesting thing he could find to do on the island.
~~~
Ben crouched down to gather the messy pile of mail by the front door. As he reached for the letters, a scraping noise caught him off guard, forcing him to steady himself with his hand.
Looking up, Ben saw the postman; reasonably occupied with trying to cram a rock through the letterbox.
The rock was anything but 'letterbox-shaped' and it scratched and scuffed the edges of the opening as he continued to punch at it with his palm, assisting the operation with regular grumbling.
"Err, hello?" Ben hailed up to the postman. "I'm right here, you know! Stop posting a rock through my letterbox!"
The postman paid no attention and gave the rock one final push. It landed with a thud onto the floor.
"Gee, thanks - just what I always wanted. Tar very much!" Ben mocked.
"Just doing my job mate" he heard the postman call as he withdrew.
Ben picked up the rock and examined it. It was stamped with an official postmark and addressed to 'Sucker, Flat 3, High Street, Grundy Island'.
Rock artists...
He put the rock in the pocket of his dressing gown and resumed his focus onto the letters. Scooping up the pile, he lazily searched through it, discarding the letters back onto the floor as he appraised each one;
What do we have here? A bill, and another bill. Two more bills... again. Ahh, a bill - haven't had one of those yet. What's this, 'fan mail' for Mr. Patrick Stewart? Oh no Pat, what have you done now?
Ben contemplated texting Pat to question him when a much more pleasing piece of mail suddenly caught his eye;
Hang on - this one's a real letter, for me!
Ben hurried back into the lounge, passing by the open french door windows (which led to an extremely small, and questionably stable balcony), throwing the rock outside as he went. There was a faint sound of excruciating pain from the street below.
He sat back down on the sofa and held the letter carefully in front of him.
Ben had always wanted to be a scriptwriter. Specifically - a comedy scriptwriter. He just knew that inside of his incredibly average 20-something exterior was a talented, well-rounded comical writer just waiting to escape.
For the last two years he had been submitting scripts to the CBC - the Community Broadcasting Channel for Grundy Island. The island wasn't linked into 'proper tele' like the mainlands, so they made do with their own station and channels.
Most of the programmes were astonishingly terrible. They made acting look like something you do when your head hurts and you've drunk too much alcohol, while simultaneously realising you have approximately five seconds to decide whether you're going to commit to the step you've just moved towards, or if you're going to fall spectacularly.
It was for this reason, Benjamin told himself, that all of his scripts had been rejected. His funny, clever, family-appropriate comedy (with just enough dirty jokes to keep the mums happy) ideas were pushed aside for mindless drivel about gardening and something vaguely resembling a sitcom, which seemed, as far as Benjamin could decipher, to be predominantly about cheese.
The letter Ben held in his hand, was not however, from the CBC. It was from the mainland. He had decided to take his talents to the "real world" and submit a script to the "big guys".
He looked at the shiny silver logo in the left-hand corner of the letter, which read; 'The English Action-group for Television'. TEAT was as big as it got, as far as getting your stuff of the TV was concerned. If you could get a show broadcast by TEAT, you'd be milking the results for years to come.
This was the moment he had been dreaming of for years; apart from the odd dream involving his Aunt Fanny, which only ever occurred when he spent too long thinking about the alternative meaning behind names.
As he held the letter, Ben couldn't help wondering what his mother, Violet, would think of his success. She had always wanted him to take over the family business - the butchers on Grundy Island; presently run by his very dense father, Albert. She would probably have a heart attack.
Ben felt a smile forming as the thought triumphed in his mind.
He opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Benjamin Proust,
Thank you for contacting the English Action-group for Television regarding your recent manuscript submission, 'The Right Sing'.
Although we appreciate a comedy television series, focused on the daily struggles of a singer/songwriter looking for fame in a competitive world, whilst dealing with the physical and emotional challenges of having a severely disabled cat at home, has potential; TEAT feel the script is not what we are looking for in this current television climate.
As with our previous seven replies, this decision by TEAT is unlikely to alter - even with your helpful list of 'Ten Reasons Why This is Funny' and the tasty, if not slightly crumpled cake you included in your last communication.
Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you any more direct feedback on the matter. I can add, however, to assist you with any future submissions; at the very least, a basic understanding of scriptwriting is useful when wishing to become a scriptwriter.
TEAT would like to take this opportunity to wish you the best of luck in your career.
We would also like to request that you stop calling the main office and hanging up without speaking. Your phone number comes up on re-dial, so we know it's you.
Regards
Suzanne Fields
Commissioning Editor for The English Action-group for Television (TEAT)
Follow us on YouTwit for TV news #goodTEATS
Another rejection. Ben sighed. He lowered the letter and gloomed solemnly ahead. His inner dialogue stepped in with angry enthusiasm;
They're not worth it Ben. Let them reject you...you'll make it another way. You'll get off this island and make something of yourself, if it's the last thing you do!
Ben folded the letter and put it under the sofa cushion. He reached for the remote control and turned on the small, second-hand television:
A fat man in a waiter uniform wheeled a giant cheese into a cheap looking dining hall.
WAITER
Madam, I have brought you this cheddar, as a sign of my love for you. I hope you don't find the gesture too...cheesy
The canned laughter echoed over the shot of a beautiful woman dressed in furs, her eyes fixed on her hearts desire. Ben continued to watched the screen, unimpressed.
WOMAN
Franco you must know by now - I have always loved cheese. And now, I can love you both...
Ben cringed as the odd couple embraced and began feeding each other large pieces of the giant cheddar. Several other characters came onto the screen dressed in unusual costumes resembling various cheeses. The cast began to sing a song about "Eden being where the Edams at".
Brilliant. Re-runs of 'Cheese for Dinner' - could life get anymore exciting?
Ben moved to pick up the remote control and switch off The TV, when he stopped. The screen had fallen silent. Ben watched as it turned to black and an emergency news report replaced the comedy:
A woman in a smart suit addressed the viewers. She was sat behind a simple desk with a large cardboard screen, hastily painted with a city landscape scene.
NEWS ANCHOR
We interrupt this broadcast with the following emergency news report.
A dead body has been recovered in the dockyards, in the early hours of this morning. News reporter Anita, joins the police at the scene.
The report cut to Grundy Island dockyards. An attractive news reporter was standing beside a police officer, who looked nervously into the camera; the dockyard boats and confused and frightened onlookers filled the background.
NEWS REPORTER
Thank you Janice. The body was discovered here, at Grundy dockyards at around 6 am this morning by local fishermen.
Police have been working at the scene all morning, to uncover clues to this gruesome death. Police officer Sam Brine joins us.
POLICE OFFICER
I ...can confirm the body of an unidentified man has been found. we are currently carrying out state of the art investigations at the dockyard to help us in our investigations.
The camera zoomed into the background, where Ben could see police officers using dowsing rods, pacing back and forth; other officers were miming an impression of a dead body to onlookers and then pointing to the scene.
NEWS REPORTER
At the time of the discovery, odd squawking noises were heard around the area. Members of the public, who were nearby the dockyard this morning are urged to contact police with any information they may have.
POLICE OFFICER
We've had quite a few calls from older ladies telling us the best way to crotchet a hat and lots of calls about soup flavours. Please only call if you have relevant information to the case. If you are the murderer, we'd be particularly interested in receiving your call.
Ben stared, mouth agape at the television.
A dead body? This is quite possibly the most exciting thing that has ever happened on Grundy. Did the policeman say "murderer?"
Ben contemplated this for a moment. He was pretty sure he'd never heard of a murder happening on the island before. He wondered if Pat had watched the news.
Where is Pat, anyway?
Ben walked out onto the balcony for some fresh air. The fear and excitement of the news report sticking in his mind.
He gazed down onto the High Street below. A group of men in corporate suits stood in a gang by an old telephone box. They looked deep in conversation.
A young girl, dressed in a comfortable multi-coloured tracksuit ensemble and trainers walked by the group of business men, whilst listening to music on some over-sized headphones. One of the men, in a particularly sharp deep-blue suit pushed the young girl over as she walked by. The group of men sniggered and pointed.
The idiotic scene snapped Ben back to his present concerns;
I need to get off this island...
The town clock chimed ten times. Ben went back inside and cast his eyes over the calendar on the lounge wall.
Every day had the same entry, committing him to his set of mundane, daily activities, etched onto the calendar in red biro;
Visit Mum (say hi to Dad first)
Work
Eat a sandwich
Work
Sleep (maybe) OR
Try to write brilliant script
He would have to put the news report out of his mind. Reality called.
Ben sighed again. Surely, Ben couldn't help thinking to himself as he put on his coat, this much sighing indicated an underlying depression that needed immediate medical attention.
