Ask the average writer how they feel about deadlines. Remember not to use the phrase 'average writer' to their face, by the way. But suggest that they jot down a few thoughts on the subject. Maybe a thousand words. By tomorrow.
WRITER: "You must be joking. I'm just off to a family funeral, I'm in the middle of moving house, and my divorce is being finalized today."
YOU: "I'll pay you."
WRITER: "What time tomorrow?"
Deadlines and payment go together like crime and punishment: there's often a big disparity between the two and some people can get away with murder - the people with the money, in both cases.
However, not all writers are exclusively motivated by money. Of those who aren't, some are even allowed out into the community nowadays, under supervision.
But the amazing truth is that nearly all writers can be motivated by a deadline, even if there's very little money involved. Or even none at all. This is one of the trade secrets revealed to producers, commissioning editors and development executives in exchange for their eternal soul during a midnight ceremony, after which they cast no reflection and don't show up in photographs.
Recently, scientists have confirmed the phenomenon by replicating a writer's normal environment in sterile laboratory conditions (for reasons of hygiene). At a certain point a deadline is applied. The effects are dramatic and often defy the laws of physics. A recumbent or even comatose writer is galvanized into a heroic frenzy of round-the-clock activity that would be the envy of hardened speed-freaks, and is transformed into a blur of pure, manic energy: the literary equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil who features in the highly entertaining cartoons you can watch on one of the children's daytime TV channels available on Freeview, Sky, or the Cartoon Network. So I'm told.
How can a simple deadline produce such extraordinary results? The classic deadline is composed of two main ingredients: Stress, and Time. Stress is a highly volatile substance. Correctly applied, it can stimulate energy, enhance performance and provide extra pep, zest, zing, zip, vigour, vim, and other potent household scourers. But too much of it can create the opposite effect, producing symptoms that may include zombie-like trance, independently rotating eyeballs and a compulsion to leave long notes to yourself on the fridge door in your mother's handwriting. It's all a matter of balance. To experience a complete absence of stress means you're dead; to experience too much just makes you wish you were. In scientific terms, stress is a product of the tension between two or more opposing forces. For writers, these forces may be the need, on the one hand, to think about getting up and doing some work, and, on the other, the desire to stay in bed and conduct vital research into the behaviour of noxious gasses trapped under a duvet, to determine how long it will take those gasses to drive a spouse or partner out from under the same duvet to go and make the tea.
Which brings us to the second ingredient, Time. As we all now understand, time is flexible. In fact, we don't understand it, but we've got that Stephen Hawking book somewhere, so that'll do. But we've all experienced the effect of temporal flexibility. For writers, time slows down when you're waiting to hear from the people who said they'd let you know if they were going to commission your screenplay, and speeds up when you find out when they want the first draft.
Mathematically, the value of a deadline (D) can be expressed in the following equation, where time (T) is computed in hours; stress (S) is assigned a numerical value on a scale of 1 to ten, and both pay (P) and the writer's mortgage arrears (WMA) are calculated in pounds sterling: D = P - WMA + S x T - MPN, where MPN stands for More Pressing Needs, such as buying a Mont Blanc fountain pen on e-bay, or taking a spouse or partner out to dinner to make up for all those experiments under the duvet.
All this proves that when it comes to motivation, deadlines work. But what if nobody has been far-sighted enough to commission you, and you haven't got a deadline? Easy! As a writer, you have access to a very valuable asset, and I don't mean the income that your spouse or partner earns in their proper, paying job. I mean your imagination. So, go ahead, imagine a deadline.
Let's say you're writing a screenplay. First, imagine a producer. You visualize a kindly old man with twinkly eyes, rosy cheeks and white whiskers. Okay, stop thinking about Christmas, wake up and get real. The producer you visualize should be a cross between Harvey Weinstein and Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. Wait, it's quite possible that Harvey Weinstein is Jabba the Hutt. But you get the picture. Next, imagine a meeting at which you pitch your idea successfully. They love you. Now, imagine a contract, and sign it. Imagine getting your fee 'on commencement of first draft' and go out and spend it. Now get to work. You complete a first draft in three weeks; well done. Now imagine getting paid your fee for 'first draft delivery' and spend it while waiting for the producer's notes before you collect your next fee, for 'commencement of first draft revisions'. You might as well spend that as well, while you're waiting. Imagine a call from the producer. They're firing you and bringing in another imaginary writer. What? But you've already spent all that money! They can't do that, can they? Of course they can. You should have looked more closely at that imaginary contract you signed. Let that be a lesson to you.
Having established that writers will work tirelessly to meet deadlines for little or no money, one big question remains: why? The answer is simple. It makes us feel needed. We feel special: someone wants us, urgently, for our unique gifts. They must love us. It's pathetic, really. I myself am writing these very words against a tight deadline. The editor of this publication informed me recently that he's going on holiday soon. He takes several a year, but has selflessly reduced his carbon footprint by having his private jet converted to run entirely on the blood of writers. As he'll be away during the period when the magazine normally gets put together, he asked if I'd write my contribution early. He suggested, amusingly, that I could write about deadlines. Say, a thousand words. By tomorrow. "You must be joking, I said..."
Hang on; this is where we came in. We've come full circle. Clever, huh? However, there's one crucial difference; in the hypothetical conversation at the beginning of this article, there are three little words that won't appear in this real-life replay, here at the end. That's right; those words are, "I'll pay you." Maybe not so clever, huh?
