There was a time, years ago now, when I wanted - more than anything - to be an actor. I loved, and I still do love, the feeling of being on stage, of showing all those people gathered in front of you that you could be someone else, that you could make them laugh, appall them, shock, frighten, warm, comfort, sadden them, with just an action or a phrase.
There's a very good saying that Phil Hammond used on last Friday's News Quiz on BBC Radio 4: "Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is knowing not to put tomatoes in a fruit salad."
I don't know whether I was ever any good as an actor - I was certainly told that I was quite a few times, but confidence is a huge part of doing it. My confidence was always battered by a memory that is fast-attaining legendary status for its faliures. After all, it's all very well being able to recite Stanislavski's acting system, but being able to do it is far more valuable than knowing it.
But there was a moment - one of those moments that you know will affect how the rest of your life will go. It happened at school. I was in the sixth form (year 13 for those of you who are too young to remember proper school years...), and I was rehearsing for my A-Level drama practical exam. I'd chosen one of my favourite speeches from Shakespeare for my monologue piece - its in Much Ado About Nothing (my favourite Shakespeare...), when Benedick first believes that Beatrice loves him - in the Branagh film, it's the bit when he's wandering around the garden with a deckchair...
I knew the speech inside and out, I'd researched into it, I'd concentrated and worked on every inflection of every syllable, and worked out timings. I'd even begun blocking the scene. Then my teacher asked me what I was doing again. I told her. She stared at me as if I'd just accused her of eating students during detentions (she was, after all, big enough for that to be believable).
Her words have stayed with me ever since:
"You'll have to change it. You can't do Benedick - you don't look like a romantic hero."
Well, to me, that's the point of acting. If I was any good at all, it wouldn't matter one little bloody jot if I didn't look like a romantic-sodding-hero. If I didn't look like one, I could act like one and speak like one. I could BE one. But instead, I had to do the only soliloquy anyone ever remembers from Richard III. And I hated it. I like the play, and I thoroughly recommend the film version with Ian McKellen as Richard III, but I hated doing it. If there's one thing I was probably less suited to be than a romantic hero, I'd have guessed at murderous hunchback king... Still, I suppose I was lucky she didn't get me to be Othello...
It was that moment, when she said that preposterous, insulting sentence, that I decided that it wasn't for me. I was going to follow something I'd been doing for just a few months - writing. I wanted, instead of being on the stage speaking someone else's words - I wanted to be the person who'd put those words in the actor's mouths.
