In the euphoria of having my first play accepted by the BBC, as I strutted about imagining myself the new Shakespeare, I was horrified to receive a call from the producer asking me to make a few changes to the script.

“What changes?” I yelped, certain that my play was perfect and that the tiniest alteration would be like wrenching the arm off my new-born baby.

“Don’t worry. Only a few,” he said soothingly.

“What few?” (Only its nose and one ear?)

“Well, for a start it’s too long so you’ll have to cut out ten pages."

“Ten pages! But the whole thing is only forty pages long?” (My God, he wants an arm and both legs!)

“You’ve also got too many characters in the play, so could you lose three or four of them?”

“You mean ... like .. lose them? You mean cut them out? How on earth do I do that?”

“You’ve got a blue pencil, haven’t you?”

“But if I do that the play won’t make sense any more.”

“You’ll find a way.”

“Look, if it’s so simple, why don’t you do it for me?”

“You’re the writer, Ken.”

“But couldn’t you give me a few hints ... so that I don’t mangle the entire play?”

“Well, if the characters you lose contribute certain plot points, make sure those points are made by other characters. Oh, and I’d also like you to remove all the gags.”

“The gags?”

“Yes, and the philosophising.”

“Cut out the philosophising?” (The heart, lungs and liver!)

“And put in a few more thrills.”

“Are you by any chance joking?”

“No, no. This is basically a quite serious piece. This hero of yours has lost all he possesses. It’s not funny. It’s damned sinister.”

“Sinister? Have we been reading the same play? I thought it was a bloody comedy?”

“Oh, no, it’s bloody serious.”

“This is crazy. You’re asking the impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible, Ken. There are just problems that can be fixed. So fix them.”

With much groaning, sweating and cursing I did as he commanded and a month later I opened the Sunday Times and read:

“Of the Wednesday plays, I most liked Ken Whitmore’s sinister little essay in metaphysics, One of Our Commuters is Missing, in which house, family, dog and identity vanish all too literally in a London fog.” (Jeremy Rundall)

Forty plays on, I have learned much more about fixing a play, a book, a story, and this is the knowledge I hope to pass on to you.

What you get for your money will be a 1,000 word report on your play, story or novel, with pointers to where you might have gone wrong and suggestions for putting matters right.

After the initial report, you might wish to e-mail me with further questions and these I will gladly try to answer.

Nothing’s impossible. There are just problems that can be fixed. So together we’ll fix them.