What's it like being part of the BBC Writers' Scripted group?

October 2025, I have just completed my final BBC Scripted workshop in London. I am elated, I am walking on air, I am roughly four or five pints deep. I have just said my farewells to my wonderful mentors, my fellow writers, people I now consider my friends. I swing my phone around, orienteering my way through the metropolis. Nothing can spoil my mood. The bustling streets of Soho fill my senses, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the e-bike heading straight at me, primed to steal my phone.

Yoink. It’s gone.

Rewind … the year is 2018, I have somehow written a play, and I am somehow on my way to London to interview for the BBC Drama Room (as the Scripted group was previously known). I am psyched, I am ready to take on the world, I am lost. For the unacquainted, London is very large, much bigger than say, Belfast, or Glasgow, or Cardiff, or my hometown of Portstewart (seven thousand people). It’s stupidly big, everywhere takes at least one hour to get to. I arrive sweaty, and very nervous (you can see where they film the news, no one prepares you for that).

The canny among you will deduce that I am not from London. I am from the North Coast of Ireland, and opportunities to interview at the BBC are few and far between. So, when I royally tanked my interview by admitting I don’t own a TV, an interview for a scheme famously geared toward TV writers, it was rather heartbreaking. So, in 2020, when I was shortlisted for interview again, I vowed not to squander the opportunity a second time.

And I did just that: squandered it.

But in 2022, I was offered an interview for BBC Voices. I vowed this time to really not squander such an opportunity (catch a hold of yourself, man, for Christ’s sake).

I didn’t squander it.

Voices opened my eyes to the world of TV. It was a wonderful experience, full of wonderful people (shout out to Cathy & Heather), and was based in a city I’m a little more familiar with (Belfast is very small, FYI). I had little to no idea about what goes into the creative process of sculpting a script for a TV show, cultivating an idea, networking (gross). I could tell you the ins and out of Voices but if you want to know that go to the terms and conditions. I entered a boy, and left a much more informed boy.

My journey with the BBC was not yet over. The year is 2024 (I’m going to stop doing that, I promise), I am walking the streets of Istanbul, mortally hungover, contemplating my life choices. Am I a terrible writer? Should I have been a lawyer? (Ew, no). Medicine? Not smart enough, Oliver, be realistic. Should I have taken up a trade as my Irish father regularly reminds me (despite me never showing any interest in physical labour and being terminally work-shy)? My phone dings. An email from the BBC: an invitation to interview for Scripted. Again. Have you ever noticed that these things arrive when you’re at your lowest ebb? When you’re ready to give up… Coincidence? Yes, of course it is, it’s not supernatural. But it’s still nice.

Day One. Is that… Nick Grimshaw?

Third times a charm. Fast forward a few months, I walk in to the BBC studios in London, a fully-fledged member of the BBC Scripted cohort, 2024/25 (meet the whole group here). I’m disgustingly nervous, my imposter syndrome is through the roof, Nick Grimshaw has just nodded at my outfit in appreciation because we’re wearing virtually the same thing (cream silk shirt tucked in to high waisted beige trousers, 80s hi-tec squash trainers, it’s a vibe). I sit at a long fancy lacquered table in a boardroom full of people who all look like better writers than me. And then they introduce themselves, and they sound like better writers. Some have agents (intimidating). Some have written films. Some are actors who know the industry inside out. 

But we all have one thing in common: we all wrote a script, we all submitted it, we all crossed our fingers as it was anonymously read, and we’re all currently desperately trying to muster something mildly funny or interesting to say for this damn ice-breaker. 

And then the first day is done, and these strangers who sat in front of you, intimidated you, are now sharing lunch with you, walking with you to the pub, adding you to a WhatsApp group, sending reassuring messages, reminding you of deadlines, becoming a network.

The Next Six Months… Workshops, Masterclasses and Meltdowns

Fair warning, the BBC will invite you to workshops and masterclasses by people you should definitely have heard of already (advice: do your research), inundate you with lists of shows you have to watch and then discuss with the writers of said shows. The Beeb are relentless, gruelling. This is no walk in the park. 

But the rewards are massive if you’re willing to play ball. For example, a professional pitching workshop to prime you for those elevator pitches. We all had to stand up in front of our peers and deliver our pitch (horrific), and we were given feedback. Was it awful? Yes. Is it necessary? Sadly, yes. Was the entire room behind you and cheering you on? You bet ye. 

Not to mention, the actual television writers' room they tossed us in to (for a show that shall remain nameless due to an NDA we had to sign, which was cool - this isn’t breaking my NDA, is it?), an experience which was wholly new to me. An insight in to how an episode of TV is cultivated in real time. Priceless stuff.

The Next Next Six Months… Writing a Big Bad Spec Script

Then, they give you an editor, and six months to write a spec script. And you long for the days of no deadlines, and homework of binge watching iPlayer. One-to-one sessions, written and oral feedback, a shoulder to cry on (an industry standard shoulder). An honest, ruthless, collaborator, who has your back (shout out to Toby, my legendary editor). 

This really isn’t a walk in the park…

Getting on to the BBC Scripted isn’t the hard work done, it’s only the beginning. But if you get your head down, show up, contribute, and learn as much as possible, it’s all worth it. It is a goldmine of information, of opportunities, you just have to be willing to dig. 

What’re the best things that came out of being on Scripted?

I have a script. It’s polished. They forced me to do it. They gave me a deadline, an editor, feedback, a network. And now it’s done, and it’s mine. 

They’ve given us a platform to show off these new beauties, with a room of indie production companies queuing up to read all of our scripts. 

The fantastic BBC crew: Audrey, Jess, Paddy and Zahra. 

Writing is a lonely business. Often, when others create, they have the other: other actors, other band members, other dancers. Others. Writers don’t have that luxury. We often sit with a piece of writing for months (in a dark room, like creeps), with no one to bounce ideas off, no one to ask advice from, no one to moan to. Scripted has given me that. A support network of colleagues, people to have a pint with, future collaborators. 

What’s the best thing that came out of Scripted? The people, the writers, the friends. 

It’s October 2025 (sorry). The e-bike swerves past me, missing me by mere inches, I stare down at my empty hands which had previously held an iPhone 13. A passerby helpfully informs me that “they just stole your phone, mate.” I turn, the thief is gone (e-bikes are fast, who knew), my phone, gone, my means of navigating the city, gone. Then, on the pavement, twenty meters away, a light. A beacon of hope rising from the ashes of despair. The thief has dropped my phone. Why? I choose to believe that it wasn’t because the phone is clearly worthless, I choose to believe that on that day, the day of the Scripted finale, the universe was on my side. I run over, pick up my beautiful cracked precious worthless device, and let out a yeooooo of sheer, unabashed joy. The witnesses to the crime around me smile in solidarity.

What a day, what a year, what a ride.

Thanks for the opportunity, folks.