I started as the runner on “Pirates of Penzance’ at Shepperton in 1981, then after four more pictures doing coffee and photocopying, got my break into the Camera Department on ‘Secret Places’ in 1983, courtesy of Eddie Collins - thank you, Eddie - and under the watchful eye of then-loader Eamonn O’Keefe, whose attention to detail, high expectations and professional approach to our trade stood me well, not just in the industry, but life in general. Back then getting one’s ticket to the ACTT was everything as this was the closed shop days, with the gates to further employment guarded by Lynda Loakes. So I joined Beechurst Film Productions as an in-house loader, and did three years of commercials under the exceptional technical tutelage of Mike Connor. After Beechurst I did several features as a loader - one with Edmund Purdom, no less, before moving up to Focus in 1987 on ‘Troubles’ - a position I held until I left the industry in 2000. By that time I was beginning to do camerawork, and had completed ten shorts and six commercials. But then I got published, and everything changed. All told: Nineteen years and thirty-two films, including six pictures in anamorphic which should always be - if it isn’t already - the Silver Star for sharping, just before the Holy Grail of 70mm, which alas, I never did. Along the way I met a huge number of crew who enriched my life. Family, in fact - and I look back on my nineteen years with a great deal of affection.

Yes; I feel quite strongly about this. The dedication goes like this: “This book is dedicated to assistants everywhere. You make it happen for them. They couldn't do it without you. Your contribution is everything.” Having been an assistant for nineteen years and doggedly worked to support my Commanding Officers in the best manner I could, one sometimes gets the feeling that you are knocking your pipe out for very little spiritual gain - yet one carries on through a sense of purpose, and the satisfaction of a job well done. A common gripe to any assistant is a lack of appreciation. I thought assistants should be recognised more, as they rarely are. We’ve all pulled some Director/DOP/Operator/Focus puller’s arse out of the swamp only to be dumped on the following day. Let’s hear it for Assistants everywhere - Yay!

For the most part, I wrote when I wasn’t filming as there is so little time, other than a daily journal which I’ve kept since 1995. When I first started to think I might give writing ‘a shot’ in 1995, I ‘downgraded’ my work levels to allow more time at home to either being with my thousands of children or simply writing. I’d do a big picture, then save, then write, then work again when Fforde Preferred Shares hit rock bottom. In the good old days when there was tons of commercial work about, I could put everyone on a second pencil with Wizzo, and work with who I wanted. Paul, Chris, Roger, Peter. It worked out quite well.

On the 3rd September 2000, in the Grand Sasso mountains on a Commercial for Italian Telecom, not a stone’s throw from where Mussolini was liberated by Otto Skotzeny. Leonardo DiCaprio starred. (In the commercial, that was, not Mussolini’s rescue) My final shot in the industry was on the trusty 300mm Canon set at short infinity, F5.6. A distant mountain view. Probably an ND6 85, too. I remember it because I knew it was my last job. I’d just accepted a two-book deal from Penguin in the States, and it was enough to go writing full time. I got lucky, to be honest. But I’d been attempting to get lucky for a long time.

All the time. I still have film set dreams, and more than once woken up thinking I had overslept the call. I miss the people - all those wonderful, funny, eccentric people who illuminate the set with quips, chirpiness or other nonsensical banter. I miss bacon rolls, too, and driving into Pinewood, and watching rushes, and walking around a new set for the first time, and foreign locations, and the relief of dawn on a night shoot, and the fizz and crackle as the arc is struck, and the hiss of a mini-mist, and the dry chemically smell of film. But most of all I miss the excitement of hunkering down to a tricky shot. Red light and bell - dead quiet boys - Ready? Ready. Turn over - speed - mark - and the thesps are off, acting like we’re not there. The grip is on boards with eight positions, the loader’s on the jib with four. The nervy trainee has to do one zoom, I’ve got to flip focus twelve times and then hit a split. Half way through the cameraman leans in to adjust the Obie and the operator has to expertly step over the jib when the grip goes from four wheels to two. It’s a seven minute take, and it all comes together. We are, for those few minutes, as one: A ten-armed, nine-eyed creature that can record a scene perfectly, and invisibly, and quietly. And then you cut, and there is that two-second hole in the air when anyone who has bolloxed it can speak up, and we all look at one another and nod and we’ve done it, and in that small moment, everything is just about perfect in the world, and you relax, and check the gate, and have some tea, and someone tells a joke about something Hammond did years ago, and we laugh. I miss that most of all. And I think that’s why I can leave it. Writing is like the movie industry, only you do all the jobs yourself - from acting to set building to lighting and even continuity and hair. And when it all comes together, and the ideas work, and you touch someone, then there’s that feeling all over again. Writing is fulfilling, and fun, and you are your own boss and that’s a good thing - but the buzz of shooting is hard to beat, and I still miss it.

Not as much as I would like. Living in Wales puts me out of circulation a lot, and I don’t make as much effort as I should. Mind you, we are kind of trained not to see people for a long time and then work and get along as though no time has elapsed at all, so it’s easy to fall back into conversation, tell old stories - complain about hours and poor pay, and the state of the traffic on the M4. A couple of people I parted company with was not on the best of terms, which is a constant regret. Bridges might have been rebuilt had I been around, but they weren’t. I still owe Hugh and Panavision a big favour, too.

For some of my books, no, and for some of my books, yes. I know that any producer will simply look upon my books as a way to make money in the most expedient manner, so it’s far easier to say no and not have them run the risk of being turned into a crock of shit. My books wouldn’t be easy to adapt, either. No novel is. Short stories adapt to films very well, and Stephen King short stories adapt best of all. The thing about selling books is that it has GONE and there is nothing you can do about it. They own it and they can do ANYTHING. Writers sometimes moan about how producers ‘ruined their work’ but really, what were they expecting in exchange for the shiny new car or kitchen extension? You take the money and you wave goodbye. If you don’t want it to be a cinematic farrago of the highest order, don’t sell it.

If I were to direct? Probably none of my books. Something new, something original, not an adapted work which I always feel is like trying to run a Mac on PC emulation software. I fail to see, in fact, why a film should be seen as the next logical step for a book. In many ways it’s a step back. Books are very personal to their readers as no two readings are alike, so it’s little wonder many people are disappointed by film adaptations. When I am God-Emperor of the universe I will decree that a director puts their name ahead of the title so we understand that this is their interpretation of it. “Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings”… Makes more sense, doesn’t it?

I wrote one, once. It was okay for a first attempt. I’d like to do it again, yes. But I work twice as hard now as I ever did in the film business. A book a year is a tall order with marketing, publicity, festivals, tours - and trying to slot a film script in there is an even taller order. I simply don’t have the time. Maybe when I’m selling more books and am truly well established and out of the danger zone, I can relax a bit and work on other projects. But it’s hard. I was in the freelance shop for so long the ‘only as good as your last job’ edict has become ingrained. I’ll probably still be insanely scribbling as they nail the coffin lid down. And I’ll still be dreaming about film sets, too.