Just Effing Entertain Me

Handling Notes

If you’re a writer for an audience of anyone but yourself (and maybe your mom), you’ll receive notes. So here’s some helpful advice on accepting feedback with grace and professionalism.

Oh, ALSO– don’t forget about the TV writing teleclass with Julie and Margaux Froley tonight! You can still sign up, and guess what? Even if you can’t make it onto the call, you’ll still get an MP3 of the whole session so you won’t miss out on any of the great stuff they’ll be discussing. Check out all the info in the sidebar —> (And I just found out– if you order attendance at all five of the remaining teleclasses, you’ll also get an MP3 of the Scoggins interview AND all the other cool bonus materials. The teleclasses are $25 each or $100 for all five remaining classes.)

And here’s that Oldie but Goodie.

*******************************

Handling Notes

You just didn’t get it! That’s what a fair percentage of writers say when they don’t like the notes they receive. I just didn’t get it. This to a person who reads anywhere between six and eight scripts a week. That’s right. I didn’t get it. Because it wasn’t on the page. I know that sounds callous. But remember, I am a writer too. I have a manager and work that “goes out” to executives in the industry. That means I am also on the receiving end of notes. It’s tough to handle, I understand that from experience. But because I work with so many writers myself, I have noticed a trend: The more experienced the writer is, the easier notes go down. Because experienced writers know how to handle receiving notes. It is the inexperienced writers who shriek like the Wicked Witch of the West after the bucket of water has been thrown on her. Or you sometimes get the quiet, disgruntled writer. Oh. I see. Well. I worked really hard on that. I guess you just – wait for it – didn’t get it.

Handling notes is easy when you can remember one simple thing. It’s not about you. It’s about the story. If you don’t have to kill some darlings then you may not be getting totally honest notes. Want to know how to handle notes better? Here’s how: Just write all the notes down. Don’t judge them, don’t get your hackles up, just nod and scribble. If you are in a meeting situation you may need to dialogue about the notes right there in the moment. But I am talking about receiving notes from a consultant, coverage or even a friend who was nice enough to read your script.

There are different kinds of notes. Notes about set up (I didn’t buy that the character was really all that desperate). Notes about logic (how could the murderer have been in all those places at once?). Notes about tone or genre (I know it was supposed to be a comedy but I didn’t laugh.) Notes about execution (I got confused. Was the murder in space or on earth?). Notes about the premise itself (I feel like the story was very familiar to me).

Notes are not personal attacks. Notes are opportunities for you, the writer, to improve your story. Set your ego aside and get selfish. Yes, selfish. Do you want the best script ever? Grab those notes, wring them out and see what you can use to improve your script. Check your ego, kill your darlings and don’t get defensive.

Some of the hardest notes to handle are the outright suggestions: Why don’t you make the husband a cross-dresser? What if the killer is from Poughkeepsie? Oh! I know! If you make the lion a hippo, it would be *way* scarier! The way to handle notes like this is exactly the same. Nod and write them down…

Because what you are going to do later (and it’s not only permissible but wise not to have answers right there in the moment) is look at your notes and separate them by element. This note is a character issue. This note is a tone issue. This note is a premise or logic issue. This note is structural in nature. Take an inventory – do your notes all have something in common? Maybe your structure is not working. Maybe your characters need a lot more development. Some of the notes will feel vague and you won’t be sure how to interpret them. But here’s how you can try. If the note is something like “it would be really cool if the killer attacked the police woman in this scene,” then the note probably translates to there’s not enough exciting action in this segment of the script. If the note is “I didn’t buy that the character really *had* to find the treasure,” then the note is about character motivation and set up.

Make sure you do some quality control when seeking notes. Get notes from experienced writers and get notes from some regular folks who are smart and like movies. Don’t get notes from your cousin Jimmy or your mom. They won’t be helpful. Absolutely, no matter what, you will get some notes that are ridiculous. That’s okay. Write them down, categorize and evaluate them – and toss them out. This is your story after all. If you use a consultant, you shouldn’t really get any completely ridiculous notes. If the consultant is any good, the notes will be fairly organized and generally spot-on. Yes, personality comes into it. Some people just won’t like your script. Full stop. They don’t like the genre, the type of humor or a particular character. A professional won’t have those personal issues; they will remain objective and judge the script in a mechanical way.

An interesting litmus test is this. If the note really upsets you? Take a hard look at that note. Sleep on it. What is pinging for you? Why are you feeling defensive? Nine times out of 10 it’s because the note is spot-on but the issue at hand is a darling and you’ll be damned if you’ll kill it. These are the most valuable notes of all. The ones that really get to you.

So here’s the primer on receiving notes:

• Breathe it out – don’t take it personally. That’s rule one.

• Nod and scribble. Write it all down.

• Sort out the notes, look for a pattern.

• Interpret notes that weren’t clear to you. Look for the underlying note.

• Thank the note giver and buy them a drink. They deserve it. If you react with graciousness and sincerity, they might just read for you again.

Who's the Main Character?

Hey! I’m back with another Oldie but Goodie! And in fact– I’m just going to keep sneaking them in until Julie tells me to stop. I can’t help myself. There’s just too much good stuff in the archives. And I love to be reminded of these helpful bits of writing guidance. Sometimes they pop up at exactly the right time and are just what you need to see your script in a new way or get out of a rut.

**************************************

Today I read a script titled after the main character. But as I read the script, I realized he wasn’t the main character at all. So why is the script named after him? And worse – who was the main character? I couldn’t quite tell.

In this month’s Vanity Fair, Francis Ford Coppola, in discussing YOUTH WITHOUT YOUTH, said that Leonardo Di Caprio once said to him (and I paraphrase) that in order to consider a script “I have to be the guy the movie’s about.” That sentiment is something that any A-list actor would share with The King of the World.

So as you read the pages of your script ask yourself – is your main character the focal point of the script? Does he or she get most of the page time? Is this a part an actor would love to play? Is it edgy, funny, imaginative and utterly original? Is this character, in other words, a juicy role?

Some stories obviously have dual main characters – romcom is a prime example of that. A romantic comedy is the story of two characters who intersect and change one another. And this concept is not just limited to romcom – MIDNIGHT RUN, with Robert DeNiro and Charles Grodin, loosely falls into the “buddy movie” category; it focuses on both main characters and generates its entertainment value from the dynamic between them.

You may very well have a story with dual main characters, and that will still fall within acceptable dramatic parameters. But if that’s the case, think twice about the title – don’t let one character hog it and appear to be the main character and then be overshadowed by secondary characters.

A clear sense of who and what your movie is about is pivotal when getting a read by an agent, producer or exec. If a reader can’t quite grasp who your main character is, chances are you don’t either. At the end of the day, every movie is character-driven. So who’s your main character?

On Talent

The big question — do you have talent? This Oldie but Goodie will make you think and make you laugh (but hopefully not make you cry).

*******************

Do You Have Talent?

Can talent be taught or are you just born with it? Have you got it? How do you know?

It’s an awkward thing to talk about, right up there with prescriptions for odd body parts and the balance in your checking account. It’s easy to say other people aren’t talented but you’d never admit that you do – or don’t have talent yourself. The subject engenders great anxiety; you run the gamut from suspecting you are talented to seriously doubting that. Maybe you’re not talented – you’re proficient. Can proficiency, nurtured daily, blossom into talent?

I believe that most writers with talent are born with it. And once given that gift, become 1) a savant who soars meteorically with no formal training, 2) dead to it because they are not encouraged or courageous enough to explore it or 3) doggedly committed to developing and shaping that talent until they find a way to use and express it. Guys, we want to shoot for options 1 and 3.

Writing talent is a bit ephemeral; those who read professionally can tell immediately if a writer really has a gift or if they are just a well trained mechanic. But it’s hard to describe; it’s as if a ghost walked through you. There’s a ripple of something impossible to nail down. Proficient writers may be engaging – but not haunting. Writers with no natural knack for it, well, that’s like nails on a chalkboard.

How do you know if you have talent? Well, the Wave-inatrix not only cannot diagnose each writer theoretically but would never be so presumptuous as to make such a sweeping proclamations. Who can really define talent? Who can be the final word on that?

That said, here are some indications that you might have natural writing talent:

You write all sorts of things, not just scripts – and you always have. You have boxes, piles, notebooks and cocktail napkins covered with writing.

You love words. You love the way they sound, you spell them correctly, you use them inventively, you look things up, you’re a word stickler. Admit it, you’re a word freak.

You have been told for literally years that “you should write.” By people in the position to know, i.e., not your mom and best friend.

You won a poetry or short story contest in grade school. It was horribly embarrassing but secretly the zenith of your fourth grade experience.

You read a lot. In fact, you have a sliding pile of great books by your bedside. You have been banned from the local used book shop for overshopping. It’s an obsession.

You have been published somewhere: a newsletter, a small pamphlet, a magazine. Doesn’t matter how large or small the publication. Doesn’t matter if you got paid.

You keep a journal – and have for years – and it’s philosophic and melodic. Okay and sometimes whiny but you have a primal need to write down your feelings; you love to hear yourself write.

You are a bit mercenary; you are strangely, stubbornly, stoically disinterested when some jackass doesn’t like your work. Unless they are an editor or teacher and your work will improve with their help.

Sometimes your writing is intensely personal and not fit for public consumption. Other times it is absolutely directed at readers. You know the difference.

You hear a rhythm in words; you love the way they sound together. You might spend a whole day murmuring “mellifluous” to yourself.

When you write, the world stops. It’s the best thing ever and you never want to stop, even if you never make money doing it because that’s never really been the point.

You really will never, ever, be truly convinced you have talent. Rather, you aspire to have talent.

You may need to rethink whether writing is really your talent if:

Your grasp of language is weak and you really don’t care that much.

You don’t read very much; who has time?

You have never written anything but a script and you’re not interested, either. Poetry is for wusses, the last journal you owned had a key and you were 13.

You’ve never been told that your writing really had an emotional impact on someone. And no, that “poem” on the bathroom stall doesn’t count.

You make a lot of spelling and usage mistakes – and it doesn’t bother you that much; that’s why there’s spell check.

You’ve never bothered with a class; you don’t need to tend natural genius and besides, you’d miss reruns of The Office.

You get defensive when anybody criticizes your writing; your writing is and always has been unassailable!

You’re convinced you have talent and you know this because your mom and best friend have told you so.

You’re exploring screenwriting because, to be absolutely honest, you heard screenwriters can make a lot of money.

More than anything, writing is a weird obsession; we love it, we hate it, we hope to succeed, but mainly we just can’t stop. Yes, it is absolutely true that some writers are more talented than others. But in the spectrum of writing out there today, everything from literary fiction to essays to how-to and cookbooks, there may be a place for you. Maybe it isn’t screenwriting, but if you love to write – keep doing it and see which discipline is the place for you. Don’t be hasty to judge whether others have talent unless you’re being paid to make such a slippery call. If you’re not such a whiz with words – work on that. Conversely, if you are a writing savant, if your grocery lists are what others would enshrine as great poetry, maybe you need some discipline and focus.

Nobody can truly say with finality who has talent and who does not. The lists above are facetious. Mostly. In my experience working with writers, I have noticed a strange inverse relationship between writers who claim to have talent and those who really do. The best scripts I have read were given to me tentatively and the worst usually arrive with a red carpet and fanfare. It’s quite interesting to me that those most convinced they have talent are generally dead wrong.

In a world filled with great writers, large and small, published and unpublished, it is dangerous to assume you are a genius. Humility is a good thing. For those who just aren’t sure, here’s the thing: Keep trying. Validation from a professional source, whether that be a publication, an agent, teacher or competition is incredibly valuable. Keep working on developing your writing skills but have realistic expectations. You may never be Don DeLillo but maybe you’ll be Janet Evanovitch. Hey, don’t laugh; she’s rich. And say what you will, she can obviously spin a tale. Serially.

Tell you one thing, I’m smart enough to avoid the dangerous, thorn-lined path of who is a “real” writer: Ludlum versus DeLillo, King versus Poe, Fitzgerald versus Chabon, Frey, Palahniuk, Alexie Sherman, Danielle Steele…oh, it’s just going to turn into a brawl. Tastes are completely subjective but whether a writer has “talent” is easier to measure. I’m not at all a fan of William Faulkner’s work. But it is universally established that he was a formidably talented writer.

Measuring one’s own talent is difficult to do. Give yourself the ego-test: How much are you invested in being thought of as talented versus simply giving readers great pleasure?

The Three P's

Julie will be back in a couple of days, which means I have only a couple of days left to post Oldies but Goodies. This one, about sticking with it, never goes out of style.

************************************

The difference between a writer who makes it in Hollywood and a writer who does not is that the one who made it never gave up.

Patience, perseverance, perspective…

I had lunch the other day with a well-known and respected screenwriting teacher and author of a screenwriting how-to book. We compared notes about our own writing experiences – the close calls, the successes and the failures – and we shared a wry laugh about how much difference a few years make. When I started writing scripts eight years ago, I was fueled by a conviction that my talent and my amazing script were going to earn me money and respect in only a matter of months. That didn’t quite happen for either one of us.

Year after year has passed by, with many more scripts written, screenwriting classes taken, failures, small successes, teases and huge disappointments. But Rouge Wavers, as Elton John once said – I’m still standing. And from where I stand, I’m proud as I look at my achievements and the way I have used every experience to help me build knowledge, relationships, skills and perseverance.

As we begin competition season, many readers may have entered their scripts in one or more screenwriting contests. As we collectively hold our breath and await the results late this summer and into the early fall, I encourage writers to roll their shoulders, let that breath out and keep writing. Competitions come around every year. This isn’t the last chance and it isn’t the only way.

The best way to raise the odds of being published, optioned, repped or even sold is to be like a writing machine. Never stop writing and never stop believing that you can do it. Disabuse yourself of the quaint fairy tale that your script is more brilliant than any script ever written and that two scripts into the process, you will be an overnight rockstar.

Don’t get me wrong – those who know me well know that I actually subscribe very much to visualizing exactly what you want in this life and holding that vision steadfastly until it manifests. But you can’t sit in a park dreaming of your wonderful, successful writing career, and you can’t weep into your beer after dozens of rejections, sure that it is all doomed. This is a hard knock business. Get used to it. But never say die and never let it crush the joy out of the phenomenal gift you have been given: the desire and talent to create and express through the written word.

As my friend and I compared writing scars, horror stories and triumphs over lunch, it struck me that I wish I knew then what I know now. I wish I had put myself through less drama and depression about just where my writing career was going and when. I wish I had just known that this thing – this writing – is a gift unto itself. Take everything in stride – the validation, the rejection and the dull, grey days that make you wish ardently you’d just gotten a regular job like a regular person. Slow down, enjoy the process. Be present for it. Soak it up.

Nothing succeeds like determination. As Woody Allen said, 80% of success is showing up.

Go Big or Go Home

Getting Viewers Off the Couch

Have you ever been told that your script is not “big” enough or that it read like an episode of a television program? I have. And I read scripts currently that feel that way to me too. Now that I’ve been on both sides of the fence, I have gained an incredible education. What does “not big enough” mean?

It means your story does not have enough excitement, set pieces and memorable characters to really justify being on the big screen. It means your story is okay or good enough but it just doesn’t feel like a major motion picture. It’s heartbreaking to tell that to a writer and it’s heartbreaking to hear. I recently read a crime thriller that was very adept and fairly entertaining. But it definitely felt like an episode of CSI. Serviceable but not get a sitter, pay for parking, buy two tickets and dinner exciting.

And that’s what executives are looking for – scripts that have big, exciting set pieces, really scary moments, fantastic twists, inventive writing or huge belly-laughs. If you keep hearing that your script doesn’t feel “big enough,” go back and look at your premise, first of all. Is it really that unique? Or does it fall under the pretty-good category? Would the story attract an A-list actor who could just as soon stay on their private island for another three months? Would it persuade your stodgy brother-in-law to put down his Coors, leave Major League Baseball alone for the night, get in the car and drive to see a movie? More and more these days, even yours truly gives serious consideration as to whether or not to head out to the movie theater. Tickets are expensive. Lines are long. Parking is a bummer. Concessions are pricey. Why go to the theater when I can go to my local video store, rent a movie or watch tv in the comfort of my own home?

And that’s what we’re up against, guys – television programming and DVD rentals. Television has taken a huge bite out of the box office. There is fantastic writing in the world of television and wonderful original movies on Showtime and HBO. Why should a moviegoer leave the house to go see your movie?

You have to see it on the big screen. Have you ever said that to someone? Well – that’s what you want your script to read like – wow – this is going to be GREAT on the big screen. This isn’t just a heist story or a romantic coming-of-age – this is a MOVIE.

What is “Narrative”?

What Does “Narrative” Mean in a Coverage?

What is the difference between narrative and structure? Well, structure is the spine upon which the story is hung. So that makes the narrative the flesh. Ew. All right let’s get a little more Joseph Campbell: Structure is that good old-fashioned, old-as-time system of telling a story with markers that divide moments and acts so that the story resonates for us on a very primal, subconscious level. We’re talking about cave drawings around the campfire old.

Not all scripts, manuscripts or oral traditions follow exactly the same structure but we do know beginning, middle, end is a must. We know that certain guideposts make the story more satisfying. Think of Uncle Figgis and how he tells you about his vacations in such a droning way that you actually cross the street when you see him coming. What if Figgy were to punctuate his stories with reversals, cliffhangers and unexpected twists? Well, let’s just say he’d move up the table at Thanksgiving.

So, what is narrative? Narrative is the delivery system for the story. Another way of putting that is: the way the story is told. Narrative refers to pacing, voice, style and certainly genre. The narrative should be a beautiful mountain range with peaks, valleys, sunlight and shadow.

The number one problem I see among newer writers is a flat or linear narrative. A linear narrative is one in which a chain of loosely connected events follow one another until we chug to Fade Out. Many screenwriting gurus and teachers have compared the trajectory of a script to a rollercoaster. And an apt comparison that is – perfect, in fact. Newer writers often find themselves with something more closely resembling a moving sidewalk. We just sort of slowly motor past a series of tableaux that don’t add up to anything.

Think of that rollercoaster, that slow ratchet, ratchet, ratchet to the top of the hill until our necks are craned skyward and we are filled with anticipation. Now the rollercoaster lets loose and off we go, hanging on for dear life. Dips, curves, straightaways and loops keep us thrilled and keen participants.

So what can a writer do to identify whether their narrative is flat? Well, it is important to remember that each scene is connected to the one before it and the one after it – there is a causality as we bump from one scene to the next. And that causality will be part of a build. Even slow-build movies accomplish this; LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE is a great example of a slow but effective build; we know the family has got to get to California on time or they will miss the beauty pageant.

It is important to know what you are building toward: Is it the big Thanksgiving dinner (HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS), the meteor streaking toward earth (ARMAGEDDON), or a simple beauty pageant? Everything builds in a direction of catharsis and resolution.

Characters in movies are driven toward something, inevitably. And as they get nearer to the ordeal or goal or challenge they will face, scenes begin to compress so that a sense of urgency begins to infuse the pages.

Review your scenes and sequences and ask yourself: What is happening in this sequence? Flip to the next scene and ask: And how did it affect this scene? And the one after that? Are the conflicts and stakes rising as you page through your script? Your scenes should start to get shorter, action should start to move faster. There should be a sense of movement.

It is my theory that newer writers fall into the “Well, I thought it was cool” trap. They will write a sequence or scene that entertains them but that does not serve the story. Never forget that the story is the master and the writer simply the humble water boy.

If you were to draw a graph of your story, using dots to mark where scenes hit really high or really low notes, would there ultimately be a chart showing rising tension? There better be. A flat, linear narrative is an absolute death knell for a script. Even if you have great characters, a boring narrative is sure to sink the ship. Right into the dancing rouge waves. No question about it.

Chart your scenes and look for a pattern of rising conflict. Look for moments that plummet your character very low then raise them very high. Be merciless; are the scenes, even your favorites – active enough to justify themselves?

Keep very much in mind the rollercoaster versus the moving sidewalk. It is sometimes so hard to be objective about your own work; scenes that thrill you may not thrill someone else. This is why I suggest getting out a red pencil and literally graphing the conflict and making sure your narrative offers us a many and varied topography. Don’t just show us things happening; characters must be at cross-purposes so that rising conflict paints us a picture of light and dark, fast and slow – a mountain range that ultimates in a satisfying ending.

One fun way to really nail your understanding of a kinetic, causal narrative with highs and lows is to think of a funny, strange or odd chain of events that happened to you recently. Think of it – you set the scene: So, we had just gotten off the plane in Jamaica. You add an inciting incident: Then we discovered our luggage was lost! Maybe a little complication: And we couldn’t pay the cabbie so we had to walk! Add some suspense: So then we were walking along, right? Past donkeys and fruit vendors and tin drums when you wouldn’t believe what we saw! Nice cliffhanger. Woody Harrelson! Sitting there playing the tin drums…and so on.

We all do it, we tell stories all the time. About our day, our vacation, our date. And when we tell stories, we maintain eye contact, we gesture with our hands and we pause for effect. We become animated because it is greatly validating and satisfying to watch the listener respond joyfully – for them to GET IT. How many times have you trailed off wistfully, seeing the listener is really not into it, and said “I guess you had to be there.”

Whether it is on the page or in person, when you tell a story, exploit it for maximum comedy, fear, grossness or whatever. We are all story tellers; it is our primal inheritance. Do it and have fun. Don’t be intimidated by the black and white of a script page. Think of it the same way – keep your audience hooked. Make them turn the page quickly – what happens next? Don’t let yourself become the crazy old lady with sideways lipstick, fuzzy hair and a cat who everybody avoids because her stories are so boring.

Idea Testing

Usually when we think of pitching, we imagine that our amazing script is already either completely done (or mostly done) and that we are pitching it to a potential buyer. Guys, take the concept of pitching, reinvent it and make it your own. In other words, pitch your script idea to yourself. Does the idea really make sense? Does it honestly sound like 90+ minutes of entertainment?

Pitching your story idea is a great way to find out if you’ve got a story worth telling – before you waste 112 pages telling it.

Pitching your idea first in the mirror and then to trusted friends can help test the waters but it’s also a way for you to test yourself: Can you articulate your idea pithily, including the points of focus usually included in a pitch? Can you articulate the Main Idea of your story?

Pitching and writing down your premise is a way of testing your idea for entertainment value and looking for holes or problems before you spend too much time actually writing the script.

The benefits of looking at it this way are numerous and obvious. Many writers (and I used to do this too) just sort of get whiff of the muse and start writing. And they’re really into it too; buckets of coffee and emergency chocolate are consumed, six consecutive days pass with no shower, the phone goes unanswered and the dog eats the cat. Then it’s time to get feedback on this piece of absolute perfection and the response is usually wha-?

When an executive is hearing a pitch these are some of the things he or she is listening for – things that will be encoded into your pitch, whether you did it consciously or not:

• The Big (main) Idea
• The commercial potential
• The budget and genre
• Casting ideas or inspiration

So put yourself in the exec’s shoes. You are a procurer of material. You have heavyweights breathing down your neck, your last movie tanked, you’re paying ridiculous amounts of alimony and you have three meetings after your lunch meeting. Now you have about four minutes to hear a pitch. And you are thinking: Is the idea fresh? Does it have a great hook? Can I see the poster? Does it sound like a moneymaker, a star vehicle or Oscar material? Is this worth setting up meetings for? Is this going to be the script that is going to rocket me into the next level of my career?

As a writer, you are aware that getting a Golden Idea out of your head and onto the page is a commitment of months. Who would knowingly write something that is going to die a painful death on somebody’s doorstep?

There are some preventative steps to keep ourselves in check so that our Golden Idea doesn’t run away with us only to leave us jilted and bewildered several months later. Developing your idea before committing to pages can save time, printer cartridges, buckets of coffee and the embittered feeling of futility and failure for which there is not yet a sufficiently ha-ha funny Hallmark card.

Write your idea down in the form of a one or two-sentence premise line. Limit yourself to 50 words. Don’t worry, this doesn’t have to be pretty, this is just for you. Keep it simple.

Now ask that premise line –

• What is the Big Idea?
• Who is the main character?
• Who is the antagonist?
• What is the main crux of the conflict noted here?
• Is the big climactic moment or choice here somewhere?
• Is the genre clear?

Say you can answer all those questions to your satisfaction. Now ask yourself some more questions:

• Is this a star vehicle?
• Is this a Friday night movie or a Sunday matinee?
• What is the theme of this story idea?
• How does it fit into the zeitgeist two years from now?
• Would this appeal to a wide audience?

At first, you might not be able to answer any of these questions to your satisfaction. That’s okay – this is the process. It’s called Idea Testing. Nobody is grading this, nobody even knows that you’re doing this with only one green sock on. The point is that writers who learn to develop habits and tools for testing their ideas before writing the script will develop a skill set and a discipline that will serve them very well down the line.