Dear Writers,

I have applied for the Women in Film and TV Kay Mellor Screenwriters’ Lab three years in a row. Every year I applied, I thought I was ready. Every year I applied, I thought perhaps this was it, I was going to get in.

And every year, until last year, I didn’t.

It’s important to remember that when it comes to opportunities like this, there are so many variables outside of our control that it’s impossible to guess why we didn’t get selected.

Sometimes feedback is clear. They tell you that you’re not ready yet, or that the script isn’t quite there, or perhaps they received a lot of similar applications. And at least then you can do something with that information.

But when you enter national schemes and hear nothing beyond a rejection, you cannot dwell on the what-ifs. My biggest takeaway is that it’s a not yet.

I really believe in the power of “yet”. It’s what makes me apply again and again. And it’s what the industry means when it talks about resilience and tenacity.

I meet a lot of writers who internally digest rejection, or become very angry at why they didn’t get selected for a scheme or competition. But all you can do is your best and hope you are the right fit for that particular cohort at that particular time.

Having now been on the inside of this lab, I can categorically tell you: you cannot second guess it.

I would say roughly half of our cohort were newer writers, and half were emerging writers with more experience behind them.

It would be very easy for someone like me, who has invested an enormous amount into this career already, to feel embittered that newer writers were also on the programme after trying for so long to get through.

But actually, one of the most valuable things about the lab was the diversity of experience in the room. You need that balance. Diversity is so important for having a broad perspective and a grounded understanding of the world.

It was incredibly helpful hearing less experienced writers ask questions that I already knew the answer to, because it made me recognise how much I had grown myself. It gave me space to support others.

Equally, being around mentors and writers at different career stages stretched my understanding even further.

That dichotomy is really important.

If you’re thinking of applying this year, my biggest advice is this:

Don’t try to guess what they want. You can’t. All you can do is be yourself.

Write the thing you genuinely care about. Write it as well as you possibly can. Make sure the concept is clear and as distinctive as it can be. Because when you read enough competition entries and festival submissions, patterns emerge. And I say that as someone who pre-selects for festivals and reads a great many scripts regularly.

People write about the same things: Grief. Violence. Affairs. Poverty. Adversity.

And all of these are important stories. There’s a reason so many of us write them. They are universal. But the challenge is finding the lens that makes your version feel fresh.

The script I submitted was about a man with breast cancer. There may well have been fifteen stories in that pile about breast cancer. But I suspect only one was about a man with breast cancer. And through that lens, I was still able to explore women’s experiences and perspectives within that environment, but from a different angle.

That’s what people mean when they say: same, but different.

What I don’t think we talk about enough with these opportunities is the practical and financial reality of saying yes to them.

The turnaround for the lab was incredibly tight. I submitted my eight pages, then was invited to send the full script after being shortlisted, and then suddenly I was in.

At the same time, I had already secured a place on The Network at the Edinburgh TV Festival, meaning I had already asked my boss for time off work.

Now I needed another week.

And I had run out of annual leave.

So I had to take unpaid leave, which was a real dent financially for our household.

I was very fortunate that around the same time I was offered some additional writing work after pitching a project to Waitrose Magazine through an opportunities newsletter. I was paid well for 800 words, and it just about covered the shortfall.

Without that, it would have been an incredibly stressful month.

Both my children’s birthdays fall in September and October, as does my husband’s, and we were heading towards Christmas.

I was also fortunate that my boss is incredibly supportive of my writing career. He understands what my creative work brings back into my professional role. But I know not everybody works in an environment where that support exists. In previous jobs, taking that time off could genuinely have threatened my job security.

So before applying for opportunities like this, it really is worth asking: if I got in, could I actually do it?

I am very guilty of applying first and worrying about the logistics later. But I also know I have support around me. It might be uncomfortable financially, but we would survive it.

Not everybody has that safety net.

The residential at Arvon in Shropshire was honestly one of the most extraordinary experiences I’ve had as a writer.

As somebody who works full time, to be able to step away from work, home, life, and responsibility, and simply be a writer for a week felt overwhelming.

I’m 41 years old and I had never experienced dedicated creative space like that before. I went straight from school into work. Every penny I earned went towards surviving, or contributing to family life. So to have legitimate permission to be selfish, as a woman and as a mother, was deeply emotional.

Every time I reread the itinerary email, I wanted to cry. We were looked after. Fed incredible homemade cake. Cooked for. Supported. It was such a gift.

And honestly, if I could afford to do a residential like that again, I would in a heartbeat.

We spent the week in morning sessions understanding an area of the industry from film, TV, and the different ways you can be a writer.

The afternoons were our own time, to write, network, walk, sleep! We also had dedicated 1:1 time with our mentors, Marilyn Milgrom and Lisa Holdsworth.

In the evenings, after we’d cooked for each other, we had a talk from our mentors, with a guest speaker, agent Christina Pickworth.

Something I hadn’t really noticed about the venue was that it is run entirely by women. And it wasn’t until a maintenance guy popped in briefly did I feel that jarring sense of masculine energy. It surprised me how much the atmosphere was different for it being all female. And I was surprised to find how much I liked it.

The cohort have become a genuinely lovely peer group, and I’ve leaned on some of them over the last six months.

It was wonderful seeing everybody again at the showcase in London. We were invited to resubmit our scripts, and mine and Holly’s were selected for the table read.

Watching professional actors perform twenty-five pages of our work in front of a Women in Film and TV audience was surreal. The response in the room, the encouragement from peers, the conversations afterwards, it was all incredibly affirming.

I’ve also stayed in touch with mentors from the programme. Lisa Holdsworth generously joined me on my podcast, The SC, with the London Screenwriters’ Festival, where we analysed the first episode of Happy Valley.

Maintaining those professional relationships has been one of the most valuable parts of the experience.

I think this is the most important thing I can say. Industry labs, schemes, and opportunities are often framed as gateways. Opening doors. The thing that changes everything. And yes, they can absolutely be career-defining. But they are not magic wands. I think many of us still carry an outdated perception of the industry:

That world barely exists anymore. You get out what you put in.

The lab opened doors for me. It introduced me to people I may not otherwise have met. But opening the door is not the same as walking through it. And walking through it means leveraging the opportunity. Building relationships. Following up. Staying visible. Continuing the work.

I’m still figuring that part out myself. But I think a lot of it comes down to courage and audacity. The courage to keep trying. And the audacity to believe you belong in the room.

I hope this has been helpful.

And if you apply this year, let me know. I’d genuinely love to hear what you submit, and how you get on.

Best wishes,
Helen

Next up… Agents, why the rush? (And What Writers Should Expect)