Amateur Hour.

Can I overcome my mercenary pride and rediscover the joy and fulfilment of doing something for love that I used to do for money?

Apr 18, 2025

"Only a fool writes for anything but money"

So said a hero of mine, Samuel Johnson, and it's haunted me ever since I first made money from writing.

The money wasn't much. It was NZ$50 a week writing stuff for The Critic - the Otago University Newspaper. The editors at the time (one was Substack co-founder

Hamish McKenzie

!) seemed to feel guilty that I'd basically set up writing camp in the office out of pure love (and access to an iMac G31) and been cranking out story after story over the previous year.

I was surprised and delighted by the money.

Soon after, I started making pocket money from fringe plays

This was fabulous, because I would have written them anyway, and at the end of the season I'd get a nice chunk of change, ranging from hundreds to thousands of dollars2. Then I had a hit play, straight out of drama school, for which I received six figures over the course of a year or so - and the chance to create and star in my own show, which was as good if not better than my peers who'd embarked on more predictable career pathways like law.

Now I was a professional playwright. Or screenwriter. Or writer or something.

Now the inception of projects was all about the cash

Money stopped being a nice surprise and became an expectation at the conception of a project and the benchmark of its ultimate success.

It's hard to pinpoint the end of the golden weather

I became disillusioned with the government funded arts system in NZ. I had a particularly galling experience with what I still believe would be a stunning theatrical adaptation of Candide3. It still stings to recall. Geoff Pinfield came up with the concept, and we came up with a fabulous production concept - e.g. the story and the way it was staged - using two professional actors, simple but clever technology, several actors from each local community in which it played, and the audience. We had Philip Tremewan, the director of Wanaka Festival of Lights ready to host the premiere and five other regional festivals lined up to take the tour. But Creative New Zealand turned down the initial application for funding to get it all off the ground.

Funnily enough, Geoff and I had built our early careers off dealing with this kind of thing

But this project involved two professional actors, and a few other bits and bobs. It all would have paid for itself down the line, but CNZ told us no. We asked why and they said 'oh sorry, great project - just submit it again with these minor tweaks, and we'll say yes'. So we did and they said no.

That just broke something within me.

I decided I was just done with that petty game

I know, I know, no one deserves funding ya de ya. But my heart was just out of it. I needed to make some proper money, I was living in New York surrounded by early stage founders with really exciting proposals to change the world, so for several years I created pitch decks for them.

This scratched my playwrighting itch - after all I was putting words in their mouths. And they were very successful, and I was very good at it, and ergo they were happy to pay me quite a lot of money. I was a professional playwright for Venture Theatre. The other stuff could go fish.

Anyway, I've written or adapted a couple of plays since then, but nothing anyone will stage for various reasons. I've contented myself with my Voices of Gallipoli4 project - but basically there's an itch that I've been struggling to scratch.

Then I saw this in my local paper

Too-small-can't read?

It's a playwrighting competition announced by a 180-seat theatre on the North Norfolk Coast. They want scripts for plays no more than 60 minutes, no more than 6 characters. The winners win a staged reading of their play.

But here's the crux: it's only open to amateur playwrights.

To submit, I will have to chew, swallow and digest that gagging lump of pride that says "I am a professional writer"

I can certainly prove that I've barely earned a bean from my writing the last few years.

I feel I'm ready

I feel it will be good for me.

I hope I'm going to do it.

I feel I know exactly the play. It's been brewing a long while

It's called Relationships of Care. It has three characters.

An elderly, recently widowed father who lives in a too-big house on the North Norfolk Coast and struggles to live independently

His adult son who lives in London, who may never be physically present, and tries to discharge his filial responsibilities via smartphone.

A 19-year old local who is, for some reason willing and available to turn up between 7am and 9am each morning to get this old fellow ready to face the day.

It's the right place and time for this tale

I've been mulling it a while. The North Norfolk coast is home to the oldest, richest people in the UK. It's beautiful, but a long way away from the perceived centre of action. It's the ideal place to retire when you've made your money, except… all these wealthy old folks, combined with the temptation to AirBnB all those lovely coastal cottages, means property prices are insane. Families and younger, less affluent people struggle to live in these places. The incentive is to move elsewhere for a better life.

So these isolated, wealthy old people have a big problem: who's going to look after them?

And what’s the deal with this 19-year old who does have the time?