Have you been watching Inside No 9? No? Well you should be. It’s in its third series now (tonight, 10pm, BBC2, is the last episode – don’t miss it), and it’s some of the best television I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching. I love it for the pure entertainment value – it’s sometimes scary, occasionally funny, often sad, regularly unsettling and never less than brilliant. And I also love it because the writing is just wonderful. As a lesson in storytelling, I really think Inside No 9 can’t be bettered. At the end of each episode I always find myself wishing I could sit in on the writing sessions shared by its creators Reece Sheersmith and Steve Pemberton – just to see how their minds work.
For those who don’t know, Inside No 9 is an anthology of unconnected stories, each set behind door number nine. There has been an episode that played out via the clues in a cryptic crossword, one that was completely silent, and an episode starring Sheridan Smith that had such a twist in its tail that I find I still think about it months and months after watching. There was one on a sleeper train, one in a karaoke booth, one in call centre… they are varied and original and it’s hard to pick a favourite episode from the three series.
I have a hatred of overly long films. I firmly believe that if you can’t tell a story in less than two hours, you shouldn’t tell it at all. I still have nightmares about the months (it was months, right? Or did it just feel that way?) I spent watching Lord of the Rings. Inside No 9 makes me feel like my dislike of waffle has been vindicated. Every single word either moves the story forward, or adds a layer to the plot, or sets up the final twist. And for writers that’s a really important lesson to learn.
Like many writers, I’m sure, I am often guilty of padding; adding extra words to a scene just because. I know how my heroine is wearing her hair in this scene, I find myself thinking, so everyone else should know too. But Inside No 9 has taught me that unless it’s a vital part of the story, then the heroine’s hair isn’t really relevant. 
Of course not all writing is like this, and sometimes it’s fun to play with language or write glorious descriptions. But in terms of plotting a novel, there’s a lot to learn from Sheersmith and Pemberton.
In the crossword episode – The Riddle of the Sphinx – the characters talked about Chekhov’s gun. That’s the dramatic ‘rule’ that if there is a gun in the first act, then it needs to be fired before the end of the play. It means that everything has to be relevant to the action – otherwise it has no place in the play. Inside No 9 shows this off to perfection – and I’m going to try my very best to remember it when I’m plotting my next story.