To be (represented) or not to be (represented)…that is the question.
By Dean Cavanagh

For the past four years, I've made a relatively good living as a screenwriter here in the U.K. Sure, I've had to suffer the incredulity-stretching development processes, and the sheer ignorance of so-called 'film people,' many of whom seem to be attracted more to the glamour and junkets of the industry than to the end products.

I’ve eaten large amounts of humble pie, ranted, raved and threatened on a weekly basis to jack it all in and take up a moral occupation (armed robbery, fraud and dealing in stolen vital organs are options that I’ve considered that would offer a higher moral standing). As David Mamet points out, screenwriting is a whore's profession.

So if we are, to a certain degree, whores, how do we go about securing the protection of a pimp-- um, sorry, ‘agent’?

I started to write screenplays because I genuinely believe that I have cinematic stories to tell and I would like nothing more than to see them up there on the silver screen. I have four great passions in life: family, films, music and football…and as my family will testify, not in that particular order.

From a very early age, I wanted to become a full-time writer, and like many who share the dream, I continually put it off until one day I could no longer bear the prospect of a life on the assembly line in the local dead souls factory.

I wrote my first spec script; a sprawling, unformatted, unstructured comedy about a man trying to achieve his dream. I didn’t hold much hope out for it and was shocked when it got optioned by a high profile U.K. producer. The producer obviously saw something in it, and I was catapulted into my first bout of development. I felt like a lightweight fighting my corner against Mike Tyson. "Development is ten percent creativity and ninety percent compromise."-- Dean Cavanagh, 1999.

I was over the moon that a respected producer was interested in my vision. I learned very quickly though, that a screenplay is not a ‘screenplay’ until it has gone through so many rewrites you can’t recognize it; what I thought were the script’s treasures were held up and exposed as rusty empty tins-- they held no substance. Sure I got mad, I got frustrated; the truth is a bitter pill and I didn’t think for a minute that my script needed medication.

Looking back on the experience now, I have nothing but respect for that producer. She taught me to question every line I wrote, get into a scene as late as possible and out as soon as possible, and that no matter how good you think your script is, it can always be improved if you’re passionate enough about it. A valuable lesson was learned, and it’s no coincidence that out of the countless films that were given money by the U.K. National Lottery fund, she was one of the handful of producers who made a return on her production.

So there I was, 'optioned,' and on the first rung on the ladder to being able to call myself a professional screenwriter. I was told that I should get myself an agent. Fellow writers, producers, development executives and directors kept telling me that I 'needed' an agent, an agent was 'indispensable,' without an agent I would be 'left out in the cold.'

By the way, in the four years that I’ve been 'left out in the cold without an indispensable agent that I so desperately needed,' I have been commissioned for two feature adaptations, a major rewrite, a dialogue polish, two episodes of a sitcom and had three more original scripts put into development.

Anyway, I decided to actively seek an agent, I reasoned that these mythical agents must be privy to some secret knowledge, if so many of my peers kept insisting that I secure one.

Scripts, faxes, e-mails and letters were dispatched to the biggest of the big and the lowest of the low (and I mean that in a literal sense)…the waiting game began. I contacted every single agent in the B.F.I. handbook. It cost me hundreds of pounds and countless precious hours, but I managed to get a couple of meetings lined up.  But I also received letter after letter politely telling me that I needn’t have bothered enquiring for representation because they weren’t willing to look at my work because they were too busy. Deep breath, sigh, onwards and upwards.

I bit the bullet and got working on the ones that were willing to hear me out. I rather naively figured that I’d be able to pick and choose a pim-- er, agent, who was going to be able to best represent me.

The meetings went well, I presumed, and I awaited responses to my work. Weeks turned into months. Nothing. The meetings had all been in vain. I figured I’d spent a little over one thousand pound in stationary and travel expenses trying to snare me one of them there mythical creatures.

I’ve come to realize that U.K. literary agents are a gang that are a law unto themselves and I’ve no desire to start running with them and here’s why.

The contemporary writer I most admire is Irvine Welsh, and I’ve had the good fortune to get to know him a little and adapt his (in my opinion) best novel, ‘Filth’. Irvine, as you probably know, has had five very successful novels published, scripted a couple of films, written for countless anthologies and magazines, written three plays, and guess what? Yes, that’s right, he hasn’t got an agent either, and has far as I’m aware, he has no desire to secure one.

Now, I might be reading agents all wrong.  Maybe my work’s not good enough to be represented, maybe I shouldn’t have had the audacity to even approach these superhuman mythical creatures in the first place, but in the time that I haven’t been able to get an agent, I’ve managed to keep working and received praise and encouragement from fellow writers, directors and producers from all over the world (well the U.K., France, Iceland and America, but you understand what I’m getting at.)

So, let’s look at it this from their P.O.V. The U.K. agents that found no worth in my work are right, okay? I’m just ‘lucky’ and have fallen on good fortune in getting world respected film makers to take an interest in my scripts. We all know that everything in the creative arts is a matter of ‘taste’, right? Maybe these film makers are delusional and have no taste, it’s possible…but it’s also possible that these U.K. agents are merely myopic parasites whose days are numbered, is it not?  Excuse my optimism, but I tend to fall on the side of the latter question if pushed.

I’m lucky enough to have access to the web, and I’ve met a lot of fellow screenwriters over the past couple of years. We try to help each other through this perilous maze that is our profession, and virtually all of us are without representation. It’s heartening to know that there’s a real groundswell of negative opinion towards agents (I’m talking specifically in the U.K.) and that more and more up-and-coming writers are choosing to represent themselves.

A little footnote: I was recently asked to attend a meeting for a proposed adaptation of a very popular book. I went along out of courtesy to the producer and to let him know that I was interested in working with him in the future. There were six other screenwriters on the shortlist and they are all represented. Before I got the chance to explain my reason for attending, he offered me the adaptation. I had to turn it down because of a commitment, but he has since returned to me with the same offer, only now with a workable window and thirty percent rise in pay. Guess what? I’ve put him in touch with another unrepresented writer who he’s taken a shine to and the first draft is nearly finished.

Anyway, out in the waiting room, I was accosted by an agent, who was with her client and who had ‘heard nothing but great things about my work.’ She was all over me like a rash-- "Why don’t you send me something to read? I’m always willing to look at new writers' work." "Yeah, of course." I replied, "What a great idea! Why didn’t I think of sending you another three scripts so you can send me back another 'thanks, but no thanks' reply?" I didn’t reply…needless to say I didn’t send her the scripts either…maybe she’s waiting for them, maybe she’s already forgotten all about me, or maybe, just maybe, she's contemplating what she’s going to do to earn a crust when the bubble finally bursts for the bottom feeders…excuse my optimism, but I tend to fall on the side of the last scenario if pushed.

Visit "Dean Cananagh's Development Hell" here.    

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