Just Effing Entertain Me

This is Your Brain on Script

I read an article in the New Yorker a couple of years ago – could have been five – time compresses when you get older, oddly – about cab drivers and brain scans. These scientists performed brain scans of cab drivers and found that a certain part of the brain – we’ll call it the navigation-a-thalamus -is larger than those in normal people. And they found that when they measured the navigation-a-thalamus in new cab drivers, it was smaller than that of experienced ones. So in doing the same thing over and over, a certain part of the brain grew and became more powerful.

It’s the same when you’re a reader of scripts. A part of your brain gets really muscular. Which explains the odd head shapes you see so much of here in LA.

So who here saw RATATOUILLE? There’s a scene in the movie in which our hero, Remy, looks at several letters and documents and certain key phrases float into focus, blurring out other, less important phrases and words. And in this way, little Remy is able to put together and understand an important plot point.

In the class I taught at the Great American Pitch Fest which was essentially an inside view of how readers do their jobs, I gave the class participants ten pages to read and timed the read for four minutes. That’s 40 seconds per page. And that’s a little generous. In reality, an experienced reader will spend about 30 seconds on each of your pages. And that RATATOUILLE thing happens; sluglines, action lines and lines of dialogue come into focus while others fade to the background. Because the reader’s brain is trying to quickly line up information to get a grasp of what’s important so that the information can later coalesce into a cohesive whole – your story. We all have a vast, information-gathering and interpreting super-computer atop our shoulders.

That’s why dense action lines do you no good. You can write as little or as much as you want on the page but when it’s read, about 30 seconds will be spent on that page. If your action lines are dense, my brain is scanning for the key words or phrases that help me understand what’s going on. It’s not conscious. There is an urban myth that readers consciously skim because we just don’t give a damn. Untrue. It’s the way the brain works.

Great example: we had a script in the Silver Screenwriting Competition which was written beautifully and was setting up, on page one, a small mid-western town that was past it’s prime. The writer did an almost Malick-like description of ruts in the road and waving rows of corn and oil rainbows in the puddles. And it was gorgeous. But the reader was simply scanning for: small town. Midwest. Seen better days. She paused in her judging and said you know, this is great but not necessary.

In some ways it’s like reading a book – you imagine the scene based on the words and that’s part of the fun. But when you dictate every single aspect of the scene, I not only get bogged down in your details, you disallow me from just flowing along with the story and letting my own imagination fill in the details like the mud puddles after the rain.

Now dialogue – dialogue our brains can’t skim; we need to read every line because that’s where the plot is happening.

Everybody reads and evaluates information: directions, recipes, letters, instructions. When you’re reading a script you’re doing the same thing but what your brain is doing is actually pretty complicated: You’re information gathering so you can follow the narrative, you’re mentally bookmarking significant moments or details and then on another sub-level, you are analyzing theme, character arc and general entertainment levels of everything working together. A reader’s brain on a CAT scan is probably a complicated field of fireworks.

Now – one of my mentors, Stephanie Palmer, teaches that the human brain can really only process three pieces of important information in sixty seconds. In this case, she talks about that in the context of pitching. I’m listening to you and my brain is trying very hard to HEAR those key points that coalesce into your story making sense.

Your brain is always working hard to gather and interpret information. A friend is telling you about his or her day. And your brain is working on so many levels in the moment of hearing the story. WHAT happened? HOW should I respond? What does this MEAN? HOW can I relate?

So your brain is actually hearing: blah blah blah MY BOSS blah blah DID THIS BAD THING blah blah blah I WENT TO A GUN STORE blah blah blah. Now, your friend might prattle on quickly, with a lot of dense thoughts but those three things are the ones you plucked out and ordered as being important.

Similarly, reader’s brains are gathering, ordering and interpreting information very quickly.

On your page you should have about THREE things for me to absorb in order to not only follow your narrative but interpret your story:

Plot development
Character development
The dna of the premise and the theme

A great exercise is to take a page out of your script, get a highlighter and highlight those significant pieces of information. Highlight where your plot moves forward, highlight an example of character development and highlight what signifies the dna of your premise on the page. All of these components can show up in action or dialogue.

If your premise is: A man searches for his long lost sister in Peru only to find that she’s been kidnapped by an eco-terrorist group bent on taking over the government, then the dna of that plot: man searching for sister – Peru – kidnapped by eco-terrorists – taking over the government – should show up, some way, some how on every page. Everything, every creative decision you make, should evidence your premise on every page. I should never read a page in which this dna is not present.

Because, to put it in more work-a-day terms, that is what the reader’s brain is doing. It’s scanning your pages trying to recognize and interpret what your premise is and then how, on every page, that is falling into a pattern that can be later interpreted. You know how the brain works – like a computer. So it sees “eco-terrorist” and instantly images and meaning flood into the brain. It sees “frat party” and the same thing happens.

So don’t fear the reader (which needs more cowbell, honestly) but rather understand that setting aside their preferences, how their day has gone so far today, whether this is a competition script or a regular coverage – readers have a highly developed sense of ordering information and analyzing it for logic, resolution, complication, character development and overall entertainment. It’s not personal – it’s a brain activity. So when a reader reviews a script and by page 18 the brain is unable to coalesce this information into a shape which is in some way recognizable and satisfying – you’re failing in your job as a writer.

Some say that scripts are like blueprints – true enough. If anyone knows anything about technical writing, even there, as I write the instructions for putting together your new Ikea cabinet, I need to write the instructions in such a way that you can follow easily and connect the dots. It has to be in some kind of order that your brain can interpret. Same with stories.

Turn your eyes away from the Rouge Wave right now. And write down the three words or phrases that float to the surface of your awareness. Do it.

I’ll wait.

Now. What did you jot down?

The way brains work.
30 seconds a page.
Three things on every page.

Or maybe you jotted down a slightly different list, subject to your interpretation. Pretend that readers are students cramming for a test the night before. They are information gathering. What stands out? What seems important? If you had to put the script down right now, this minute, and pitch it, what would you say? What would you be ABLE to say? That’s what happened during the judging process the other night.

Put yourself in a reader’s shoes. It will help your own writing in a huge way. Inestimably, in fact.

Wavers know I am teaching a how-to reader correspondence course (sidebar). If you can do this, I think it has the potential to move your writing chops into a whole new realm. If you can’t or don’t want to do the homework necessary, get hold of some scripts and do the 30-second test. Then go back and highlight the pertinent information. Do it to your own scripts. Become familiar with the idea that every page should contain, ideally:

Plot development
Character development
The dna of the premise and the theme

For you argumentative types, yes, you can have a page with two of those three qualities but why be stingy? The best scripts have all three. Think about it.

Should You Write a Short Script?

So yesterday, The Wave-inatrix got together with my friend T, a DGA program graduate, gifted short film maker and soon-to-be CSI AD (assistant director). I’m leaving his name confidential so as not to jinx anything. Not that I believe in jinxing – how juvenile! – but still. Anyway, so T, as we already know here on the Rouge Wave, is in search of his next short film to direct. His last short film starred Sandra Oh of SIDEWAYS and Grey’s Anatomy, just by way of wow, that’s impressive.

T and I talked about Billy Friedkin and Werner Hertzog (VERNER for you non-teutonic types), then ordered mint lemonade and went over the scripts I had obtained for T through clients and a few submissions here on the Rouge Wave. I know, you’re wondering why the pic of the fancy wine, above. It’s coming. Read on.

Now I do want to note that yours truly has stupidly never bothered to write a short script. Why, I thought, would I do that when I should write a feature script – that’s where the money and the careers are, right? Ah. But through this experience I have learned that in actuality, a well written short script is not only a trillion times more likely to get made, it can open doors FOR your feature script. I admit, I have secretly thought that short scripts were hobbyistic ways for nascent writers to spend time rather than facing the REAL work – a feature. Sure, I’ve seen plenty of short films and gone to short film festivals – wow, you barely have to feed the meter! But this experience with T has really been eye-opening for me. Had I bothered, in the past, to write some short scripts, my work would have been the first thing I would have given to T, and due to our friendship, my experience and sunny personality, I would probably be the one getting my short script produced. But no. I have never bothered. In fact, I pitched T a short story I had written awhile back. He LOVED it. Was it in short script form? Had I adapted it? Because he’d make it baby! Ahhhhh guess what the lame answer was? No. Hadn’t bothered. I missed the boat. That crazy Willie Wonka boat. You know the one. Through the tunnel?

So – exactly what is a short script? How short is short? Well, there doesn’t seem to be an exact measure. A short script can be anywhere from 10 to 30 pages long. Most often, short films submitted to festivals, etc., run about 10 to 12 minutes. So that’s approximately a 10 to 14 page script. Price Waterhouse fired me for trying to use my abacus at work, just FYI. But you get the drift.

So there we were, T and I, drinking our mint lemonades and going over what DIDN’T appeal to T about the short scripts I’d given him, as he worked up to the one that did appeal to him very much. What, I asked T, is the short list, in your view, of qualities you look for in a short script?

And this is what he said:

Voice.
Absolute and irreversible change.
Emotional payoff.
Gettable locations.

We’ve talked so much here on the Rouge Wave about sequencing, structure and character arc over some 100+ pages of script. How on earth do you squeeze that all down to say 12 pages? It’s like trying to shove a camel through the eye of a needle, right?

As T and I reviewed the short scripts that did not work for him, two qualities came up over and over again: 1) Very expensive shoot; too many cars, extras and locations. 2) What was the point of the story and he could see the end coming a mile away.

Many of the short scripts that were submitted to me after I made the request here on the Rouge Wave fell into the “what was the point” category. They were clever and ironic but sort of ended with a thud. Wow – so the good guy was the bad guy. As if that revelation and irony was super powerful. But it isn’t. Not really. Many of the submissions were dramatic dead-ends. Well written, from page to page but ultimately, what I saw again and again was the writer getting through nine pages and then essentially saying – PSYCH! Wait – did I spell that right? You know what I mean, like what your brother did to you all growing up until it left a painful scar. Here’s money – PSYCH! You can borrow my car – PSYCH! My best friend has a crush on you – PSYCH! Ha ha ha ha. Ha. Yeah it’s pretty funny now, dude. Who’s pushing fifty? I’m just saying.

Many of us are familiar with the famed American short story writer, O. Henry. Famous because he wrote extraordinarily clever short stories that almost always had a major twist. Most famously, The Gift of the Magi. Ambrose Bierce, of course wrote the amazing An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.

Those two writers – and I’m only stating the obvious and of course leaving off many, many modern writers who were inspired by them – knew how to tell an extraordinarily emotionally complex story in a simple way in a short space of time. Simple plot, complex characters. We’ve all heard that before, right? If that formula is true of a feature script, it is a thousand times as true for a short script. Because you do not have 90 minutes to tell your story. You have ten minutes. So writing a short script is not a free pass in which a writer doesn’t need to bother with complexity and payoff. A short script doesn’t ask less of you as a writer – it asks quite a lot more.

A short script has to be extraordinarily powerful because of the delivery system – 10 pages. It’s not good enough that everything we just saw didn’t happen or was ironic or awful or cute. Ten pages about two sisters who find a kitty and save their parent’s marriage simply isn’t compelling enough to warrant a short film. A short film really has to cover significant emotional terrain. As T put it, “absolute and irreversible change”.

T said, on the one hand, he hates writers to censor themselves by worrying about expense and “gettable locations” but at the same time, the reality is – could this scene in the car be shot in a car that is moving or parked? Because the moving car is way more expensive and difficult. Can the scene set in a crowded bar be set on the sidewalk OUTSIDE the crowded bar? Because if we show the crowded bar interior, the film maker just got himself dealing with hiring dozens of actors to play extras. See what I’m getting at?

If a feature script is a field of grapes harvested and turned into a barrel of wine, a short script is that barrel of wine turned into one jeweled glass of exotic, apricot-scented dessert wine.

Slow, Slow, Quick Quick Slow: Music in Writing

Today I met a favorite client of mine (hi Mike!) who just so happens to a funny and very gifted writer. As we went over his script pages we discovered that in a few set pieces, his rhythm was off. Just, you know, the scenes weren’t working. Too little information was happening at too slow a pace. So we worked on the rhythm of his opening pages and the rhythm of subsequent set pieces and talked about rhythm in writing overall.

Firstly, rhythm is a word I always stumble on when I write it – what word has two h’s!? I vote for: rithum. I wonder if in the year 2050 all words will be spelled in the shorthand of text messages. That would be super annoying. I also stumble over “dialogue” because according to my computer, that is a spelling error. Some people spell it simply “dialog”. That looks both way wrong and way right to me. Must research.

Again with the digressage.

Just about everything in life has a rhythm or a pattern. The seasons, the day, your life. And so does writing. First act, second act, third act. Set up, complication, resolution. Feel, do, complicate, resolve. And all of this while other stuff is going on like walking, eating and picking up the phone. Your scenes should have an almost balletic feeling to them.

As every comedian knows – ya gots to land the joke. And in this case, ya gots to land the scene. Keep things moving – whether that means physically or the dialogue, or as is often the case, both. Look at the HOW on your page. Yes, you’ve got the beat, yes your character work is good, but does the scene flow? Imagine that you are a camera; how does this scene look when you watch it? Is the dialogue flowing back and forth between your characters fluidly? What is happening in the background? Is a waitress efficiently balancing an order in her arms? Is the front door opening and closing – what is the choreographed scene happening here and how are your main characters part of it?

In real life, a phone ringing can interrupt a conversation. In reel life it can too – but you made it happen just when it did for dramatic or comedic effect. Feel the rhythm on your page. Is it there or is it stepping on some toes at this point? That’s okay if it’s a little clumsy right now, but eventually you want to choreograph your scenes in such a way that the scene has a genre-appropriate flow to it. Do you need long pauses? How about short bursts of dialogue and action? Is your romantic comedy couple doing the mental tango while they eat dinner? Is your script a fox trot, a quick-step or a dramatic paso doble? If you were to set your script to music, what would the music be?

This scene from David Mamet’s STATE AND MAIN could be set to music. Check it out:

ANGLE interior Walt’s office.

WALT
I have to tell you, I can not express
to you how happy…

MAYOR
And we’re glad to have you here…

WALT
My golly, you know? All my life I grew up in the city, but every
summer…would you like a cigar?

MAYOR
(of cigars)
Aren’t these illegal?

WALT
Why would they be illegal?

BILL
…there’s a trade embargo against Cuba.

Pause.

MAYOR
Well, you know, Walt, I just wanted to say that anything I could do…

WALT
That’s very kind of…as a matter-of fact, one I hate to bother you with…

MAYOR
…not at all…

WALT
…we need the shooting permit for Main Street…

MAYOR
Whatever you need. The City Council, of course, has to pass on your…

WALT
…the city council…

MAYOR
On your “permit,” but that is less than a formality.

WALT
…it is?

MAYOR
I am the City Council. We meet Friday, and I…

WALT
George, that is so kind of you.

MAYOR
And, my wife wanted to, wanted me to ask you, we’d like to welcome you,
we’d, she’d like to have you to dinner at our house.
(beat) I don’t mean to be…

He hands an invitation to Walt.

WALT
Are you kidding me? We would be
de…

Phone rings.

Walt motions to an aide, who writes in green on a production board…Tuesday 12th, dinner, Mayor.

MAYOR
Well, I won’t take more of your time…

BILL
Walt, it’s Marty on the Coast…

MAYOR
We’ll see you Tuesday, then…

Walt starts for the phone.

WALT
It’s one of the great, great pleasures meeting you…

Mayor leaves the office.

BILL
It’s Marty on the Coast -

WALT
On the coast? Of course he’s on the coast, where’s he gonna be, the
Hague…

Walt goes to the phone.

WALT
(into phone)
What? Marty! Hi. We’re…
(pause)
The new town is cheaper than the other town. We’re going to save a…for…because..because we don’t have to rebuild the Old Mill, they’ve got
an Old Mill…they’ve got a firehouse…they…

A production assistant comes in, installing a piece of equipment. She brushes past the drywipe board, where we see she wipes out “Dinner with the Mayor.”

WALT
Baby, baby, I want to save the money just as much as you do..no, no it’s not coming out of my pocket, it’s going into my pock…my…my and your pock…yeah? Okay. A product placement – tell me ab…he’s going through a tunnel. (to Production Assistant) Whoa, whoa, whoa…you wiped out the board. DINNER WITH THE MAYOR, TUESDAY NIGHT, write it in red. That’s all we need, to miss Dinner with…

First A.D. sticks his head into the room.

FIRST A.D.
We can’t shoot in the Old Mill.

WALT
(to phone)
Wait a sec, Marty.

Mamet uses ellipses to create breathing room around his dialogue. It makes it feel as if it overlaps more. Overlapping, slightly stilted dialogue is his trademark. It creates a rhythm in the scene.

And here’s a scenelet from a comedy I wrote a million years ago. Quick primer: A newly empowered Ella spirits her Granny away, leaving Lena, the bad-gal-extraordinaire pinned to a tree.

Confused, Lena stares after Granny.

LENA
Hey! What about me?

Suddenly – THWANG!

- An arrow slices through Lena’s coat at her shoulder millimeters from her flesh. And pins her to the tree.

Lena looks at the pinned arm incredulously when -

THWOCK

- Another arrow pins her other arm.

Ella lowers the bow calmly.

ELLA
Get in the car, Granny.

LENA (o.s.)
Hey!

Lena struggles in vain.

LENA
You can’t just leave me here!

WHACK! A pine cone hits Lena’s head. She stares after Ella and Granny miserably.

A moment in a scene of mine has no business being next to a great Mamet scene – but my point is this. Do you see how, in that scenelet of mine, the movement is almost storyboarded? I draw attention to certain parts of the moment purely by where and how I used the words. Notice the creative choice I made:

- An arrow slices through Lena’s coat at her shoulder millimeters from her flesh. And pins her to the tree.

I didn’t write:

- An arrow slices through Lena’s coat at her shoulder millimeters from her flesh and pins her to the tree.

I chopped the sentence up because it “lands” better. It’s a little funnier to note that the arrow pins Lena to the tree after the brief pause that the punctuation mark created.

Does your scene have a rhythm? Or is it clumsy? Is it as pithy as possible? If you took away the dialogue could you still understand what was going on based on body language, etc.?

Well, as Gene Kelly sang in AN AMERICAN IN PARIS – I got rhythm. I got music. I got my gal, who could ask for anything more? Who could ask for anything more?

How to Make a Good Script Great

So do Wavers think the Wave-inatrix ever takes a day off? Or a vacation? No! I work tirelessly, seven days a week! [Insert bleak moment of realization here]. And while it’s the 4th of July all over the world, only one continent gives a damn, and not even the whole continent, either. The rest of us carry on living and creating and…okay I wish I were camping or something. At minimum. But. I do have a great article for Wavers today, by Michele Wallerstein: How to make a Good Script Great. Read and enjoy. And light a sparkler for me.

***

Getting a screenplay down on paper is difficult, there’s no doubt about that. Yes, you search endlessly for that “different” story, for that unusual and fantastic arena that you are sure no one else has done or will do.

Writers often try to find and create unique situations that are so far out that they bear little or no resemblance to real life or real people. Trying to be unusual can be a trap for new writers as well as established pros.

A “great” screeenplay and film has legs. That means that people will want to see the movie over and over again. They might want to bring their friends, or rent the film on DVD, or purchase a copy to own.

The secret for writing a great screenplay is not in finding the rare situation, it is in writing with the following high standards:

1. Character Arc: No one wants to stay with a film or screenplay if the main character does not grow internally, does not learn something important about him or herself and does not become a better, smarter or move loveable person. Whether the film is BOOTY CALL or anything by Jane Austin, you will notice the growth of the star character, and love them for it.

2. Underlying Theme: A great movie is not about the plot. It is about what is going on underneath. It is about something emotionally important or with a universal problem of great significance. Jim Carrey’s MASK is about the insecurities of all people. It is about the main character’s feelings of inadequacy’s and personal fears. You must find a way to touch something that can affect the collective and often unconscious needs of people in general. Even the animated classic, BAMBI, is about all of our fears of abandonment.

3. Dialogue: I believe that it was the great actress, Helen Hays who once said “If it ain’t on the page, it ain’t on the stage.” Nothing in a screenplay is as bad as boring dialogue. You must learn to write characters that speak with a unique voice. They must jump off of the page with personality, wit and exceptionally clever ways of saying things. Each character in the piece needs to have a distinct personal quality and voice.

4. Pacing: If your pacing is slow, or worse, if it is repetitive, you will lose your reader in just a few pages. Keep the story moving forward like a shark in the water, never stopping, never holding back or over-analyzing itself.

5. Likeability of Main Characters: If the reader cares about the people in the story, they will want to go forward with the script. Likeability is more difficult to explain than it appears on its face. Sean Penn’s character in the 1995 film, DEAD MAN WALKING, is an obnoxious murderer. By the end of the movie, the audience understands him and has some sympathy for the child that he was and the unhappy adult he became.

Certainly there are more facets to a good screenplay then the above and those you will learn in film schools and books on the subject. The professional looking format, the short exposition, etc. mean quite a bit. However if you want to raise the standard of excellence in your writing, I suggest you concentrate heavily on seeing if the above 5 points are well http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifcovered in your next project. These 5 points will separate you from the crowd, they will turn a comedy, thriller, drama, family film or love story into a GREAT SCREENPLAY.

By Michele Wallerstein

“You can purchase Michele Wallerstein’s CD titled “HOW TO BE AN AGENT’S DREAM CLIENT” by emailing her HERE.

The Rouge Wave Mailbag

Dear Rougewave,

I keep running into the advice to never use “we see”. People say that a lot of readers will throw my script into the “round filing cabinet” if I use it because in general they hate to see “we” in a script. They say I shouldn’t take the chance. Is this true?! Do you guys really hate it that much? So much so that if I’ve written a killer script you’ll toss it out just because I used “we” a couple of times? The thing is, I’ve seen it in all kinds of scripts, but the same people tell me those scripts are later drafts and that I’ll rarely if ever see it in early drafts of spec scripts. But I thought spec drafts WERE what I was reading! Gah! I’m confused! Am I taking a chance by using it?

Sincerely,

Ed F.

Ed,

First off, close your eyes and take a deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath. A nice, relaxing, cleansing breath. Innnnnnnnn… ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut. Good. (Open your eyes.) Okay, here *we* go…

This is by far the most frequently asked screenwriting-related question (at least on the internet). And I have to be honest — when Julie told me someone had asked it, I begged her to let me weigh in. Man, for ages, I’ve been waiting for someone to give a definitive answer. *The* answer. The one that would end all speculation. Well, I’m going to attempt to do that now. Yeah, yeah, I know the debate will rage on long after this blog entry has passed away and gone to cyber-heaven, but, what the heck, lemme tell you what *I* think…

“We xxx (see, hear, fly over, tumble through, etc.)” is part of the screenwriting lexicon. It’s not quite a formatting tool, like INT. or EXT., but it’s close. I have seen it used so often, I practically *expect* it now whenever I crack open a script (or scroll down in a pdf or FD document). And, yeah, early drafts of spec scripts that sold (and are in development or have been produced) are sometimes riddled with it. And since I know the *real* question is about early drafts of specs that broke their writers into the business, rest assured, you’ll see it in those, too. (Check out Brad Inglesby’s THE LOW DWELLER, James Simpson’s ARMORED and Jon Spaihts’ PASSENGERS, for starters.)

So put your mind at ease — you can use it. Just use it wisely. And creatively. But that applies to everything, right? Instead of writing a bunch of random “We see Gary walking into the bar. We see Todd stumbling out of the bathroom. We see Veronica caving Fred’s skull in with a hammer” sentences, think about exactly why you might want to use it on a given occasion. Perhaps it’s to create a POV shot in your reader’s mind: “We inch our way down the corridor… toward the blood spattered door.” Or maybe it’s to draw attention to something we see, but a character in the scene doesn’t: “Right as Paul turns away from the closet, its door quietly swings open, and we see two glowing RED EYES peering out of it. Paul is oblivious, though, and we want to warn him, we want to scream “Watch out!” at the top of our lungs, as the dark, hulking SHAPE glides out of the closet…”

Crude examples, but you get the idea.

And, yeah, people will say, “Well, in both of those passages, you could omit ‘we’ and still have the same visual.” And then they’ll offer their rewrite and it *won’t* be the same thing — it *won’t* imply the same visual. It won’t have the same *feeling*. It won’t have the same, dare I write it, Voice. I’ve seen that a million times.

Because here’s the thing… the real issue: When you write a screenplay, your job is to give a reader (be it a reader-reader, an agent, a producer, a studio exec, an actor, a director, etc.) the experience of watching a movie. You want to immerse them in the film you’ve played over and over in your mind. Basically, you want them to feel as if they’re watching *your* movie when they read your script.

I say use whatever tools you have to use to accomplish that. Use them creatively, use them wisely, and use them confidently.

“We back away, slowly, as the hordes of mutant anti-we-seers crawl out of the woodworks.”

Tony Robenalt

****

Yeah. Tony’s pretty cool. That’s why he reads at The Script Department. If you want Tony’s notes on your script you can request him personally. If you dare.

That’s Entertainment

Sometimes it’s very clear to the Wave-iantrix exactly what I’m going to post on the Rouge Wave and other times I stare at the flotsam and jetsam on my desk until inspiration strikes. But you don’t want to hear about the coffee rings, highlighters, books and scripts lying all over my desk. Oh but wait, what’s this?

This week the Wave-inatrix had to cover a book for an A-list actor and his production company for whom I read. And the book is a ridiculous bodice-ripper. Which is, incidentally, one of the, if not THE highest selling paperback genre in human history. So I’m thinking – oh god, kill me now – I’m a Dorothy Parker adoring, F. Scott Fitzgerald worshipping, John Irving, Michael Chabon, Alice Sebold, David Sedaris, Joan Didion loving literary fan girl. A bodice ripper? Really? Why me, god? Why?

So two days later, as I’m reviewing this book for potential movie adaptation, I find myself reading the pages. I mean reading the pages. I’m not supposed to do that. I can’t – it takes too long. Usually when you cover a book, you skimmy mcskimmerson as fast as you can, only noting the major plot points and general vibe so you can summarize it quickly and make a decision about whether it’s cinematic, commercial and appropriate for the actor or production company in question.

But this Dorothy Parker adoring, F. Scott Fitzgerald worshipping, John Irving, Michael Chabon, Alice Sebold, David Sedaris, Joan Didion loving literary fan girl finds herself – the shame – responding to the romantic through-line like nobody’s business. Oh, don’t get me wrong, this is a big fat PASS for a lot of reasons (repeated beats, archaic, outdated themes, thin subplots) but I once again find myself in awe of the power of the primal, archetypal emotion to sway even the snarkiest of us. In this case – romance.

He loves her! He will not ever leave her! He’s so strong – oh, his rippling muscles and sad blue eyes – I mean, this is treacle. But I’m responding to it like a freaking Jungian experiment. Sure, I could be embarrassed. But if you know the Wave-inatrix, you know I can find a lesson in just about everything.

When writing a screenplay, recognize the power of the primal core of your story. Which is to be found in your…wait for it…THEME. Love, death, fear, lust, revenge, redemption, triumph, tragedy – these are some of the most deeply rooted human emotions which are literally encoded into our genes. It’s hardwiring, people. We’re stuck with it. Emotional response to primal archetypes and fears.

Shakespeare knew it. So did Milton. And Tolstoy. And James Joyce. And Euripides. Every truly great writer knows that we must tap into that deep well of primal human emotions to really hook the reader. It’s why JAWS – a silly (but great) movie about a giant shark scared us out of the water for decades. It’s why we cried so hard watching ORDINARY PEOPLE or TERMS OF ENDEARMENT. Or why we laughed so hard at most any Monty Python movie and our hearts broke for the two cowboys in BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN. It’s why we rooted so passionately for Christian Bale in 3:10 to YUMA and Viggo Mortensen in A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE. Because we are deeply drawn to the themes of dignity and redemption. We’re not ranchers or crazy mob killer guys – we never have been, we live in a three floor walkup in Brooklyn – but that hardwired instinct is alive and well in all of us.

So ask yourself – what is the primal emotion that is the foundation of your script? Your reader, even the snarkiest, most jaded Hollywood reader is a human being susceptible to having that hard wiring light up like a switchboard. Push the reader’s (and ultimately viewer’s) buttons, Wavers. Push them hard but not obviously. Sneak in and leave them secretly lusting after the revenge the antagonist deserves. Or the cojoining of the two leads in your romcom. Leave them wanting resolution and satisfaction on a level so deep they can’t quite articulate it.

Push those buttons, Wavers. Push them wantonly. Readers love it.

The First Ten Pages

They say that just as the sun sets over the ocean, a brilliant but brief green flash appears.

They say that a person will tell you everything you ever need to know about them in the first five minutes you meet them.

They say that readers can tell, within the first ten pages of your script, whether the script is working.

They say that if your first ten pages don’t rock, an executive will simply toss the script on the PASS heap.

I don’t know about the green flash, never having seen it, but I do know that all the major signifiers of your skillset as a writer are contained within the first ten pages of your script.

This Saturday, I will be leading a class at the Great American Pitch Fest punchily titled: Ten Things Readers HATE. The class is going to be a hoot and one thing I will be doing is passing out samples of good, bad and ugly first ten pages (yes, they will be anonymous samples and yes, I have permission from the good-natured writers to use pages from their very early scripts).

My aim is for the members of the class to see, first hand, what works and what doesn’t work.

But let’s get down to brass tacks: what are the signifiers of your skillset as a writer that are so evident in those first pages? Well – what should be happening in the first ten pages in general, Wavers?

The main character(s) are introduced and described
The world is established (relative to the genre and tone)
The main idea of the story is established
The genre and tone are established

So what are the skillsets we are then looking for? What turns us on and what turns us OFF?

Action lines:
Are they dense and talky? Do they tell and not show? Are they descriptive yet brief? Are they wordy with typos? Are they lifeless? Or are they like chiffon – colorful and textured but very light. Are they clunky or are they cinematic and evocative? Does the writer have not only a grasp of language but a way with it?

Bad example:
She stares at him. He leaves. It starts raining outside.

Good example:
Her look withers him and he skulks out of the room. A clap of thunder and the bruised sky lets loose with a deluge.

Character descriptions:
Did the writer describe your characters in a blow-by-blow, wordy and yet ultimately empty way, noting everything from their shoes to their hair color? Or did the writer take it a up a notch and manage to capture the character’s essence in a clever shorthand?

Bad example:
SHIRLEY (in her mid thirties), in a denim skirt and with bleach blonde hair is a waitress. She has an English accent and she hates her job.

Good example:
SHIRLEY (30s) is a life-long waitress and it shows. She shifts the gum to the other side of her mouth. Shirley: Take your order, innit?

It is in your action lines and dialogue that you will paint a picture of the world you are establishing. Within the first ten pages, I want you to paint a vivid picture of what it looks and feels like where the story is set. Is it bleak? Is it rich and colorful? So often writers just leave that part out. It’s set in some generic city. Sometimes the city isn’t even named. Wavers – think about it, if you’re writing a thriller are you maximizing the space around the characters to add an air of creepiness? If it’s a romcom are you using the world it’s set in to create a sense of loneliness or romance or whatever you’re going for? Are you GOING for anything in your setting and location? You should be and never moreso that in those first ten pages.

All the signposts should be in place to indicate the genre. If it’s a romcom or comedy of any kind- the first ten pages should have…wait for it….funny dialogue and moments. If it’s a horror…give me the creeps right away. Drama…show me where the conflict is going to come from. Sci-fi/apocalyptic, period piece – set up your genre with the signposts of that genre.

In the first ten pages, the reader should have major hints about where the story is going.

Readers are weird; we’ve read so many hundreds if not thousands of scripts that our minds are geared toward seeing patterns. Probably better than anybody, readers are great at grasping what lies ahead in your script. If we can’t get a sense, by page ten, of the main idea or, annoyingly, “Big Idea” of your script – something is not working.

To refresh Wavers, the main idea or concept of your script is that short sentence I might reiterate to an exec: It’s about a guy who robs a bank but the bank manager is his long lost brother. So that’s the main concept of your script. So in the first ten pages, you need to establish so much: the characters, the place, the tone and the genre – and that the main character is desperate enough to rob a bank. Notice I am not saying that if the main concept, that a guy is going to rob a bank needs to be spelled out – but it needs to be heading in that direction by page ten, yes. In tone and otherwise. So what does that mean? That in the first ten pages, I am seeing desperation, bleakness, maybe loneliness, anger…Unless it’s a bank heist comedy in which case – well, you get it already.

Set up your story efficiently and do it quick.

To head off the inevitable question: Yes, sometimes I read scripts in which the first ten pages didn’t completely tell me where the script was going but the writing is so good, the voice is there, the writer’s grasp of the pages is so strong that I am so on board with it – it’s a delight to find out where it’s going.

But for newer writers, that grasp of language, that confidence that voice is often not there. So even if some pretty cool stuff happens in your story later – it’s like going on a bad date. Once you’ve gotten spinach in your teeth over salad – I’m not feeling it anymore. Even if dessert is great.

The first ten pages – of any genre – is like a seduction. Foreplay. A strip tease, if you will. You want the reader to sit up and take notice. And by page 108, you want the reader to stuff a hundred dollar bill marked CONSIDER right in your glittery g-string.

So come on, Wavers – it’s all in the hip action. And a boom chicka boom chicka boom boom boom. Shake your booty in the first ten pages and you just got yourself a reader interested in the next 98.

The Rouge Wave Mailbag

Dear Wave-inatrix:
I have a question about writing partnerships. How do you structure the writing process? I’ve heard of several different ways: each person writes a version of a scene and you either combine or pick the better version or you alternate scenes, you sit in a room together and dictate/write together. How do you manage this process especially long distance?
-Partnered in Pennsylvania

Dear Partnered:

While I can only speak specifically about my own experience, which is long distance, I do know partners who literally work elbow-to-elbow as they beat out the outline and write scenes. Personally, I would find that a bit claustrophobic. Whether you are writing in partnership or alone, I think we writers do need that quiet time to really get into the zone. But maybe that’s me.

My partner and I work thusly: We spend the outlining process on the phone – a lot. During that initial process, we brainstorm our new idea together and then begin emailing each other rough outlines. Who’s at bat depends on who has the time that day or week. In our case the time difference is a huge benefit – I can get pages to my partner by end of day my time and he’ll be up and working on it long before I’m up the next day. We LOVE it.

So we write using a sequential narrative outline and as above, phone and email our contributions and ideas until we have an outline we like. Then it’s time for pages. Because we use the sequential, someone starts off by writing the first sequence. All ten pages or until he or I get stuck. We send that sequence, the other person reads over it, makes small tweaks and here’s the best part – we leave script notes for each other within the text. So you click on the little box and you might find: I thought we agreed this isn’t believable? Or – So do you like this? Sometimes, depending on where we are with the draft, we might pass the script to whoever’s turn it is and say simply: Can you cut three pages out of this sequence? We also leave each other notes within dialogue, which is, I’ll go ahead and take the liberty of saying, one of our funniest, funnest ways of communicating. So you might have:

Christine: What have you done with my son?
Joan: I don’t know, but it’s pretty bad, I’m guessing. Killed him?
Christine: Well that really sucks. Whatever you did. We need to figure this out.

We simply pass the baton back and forth – like running a marathon, we spell each other. The notes within the pages plus more emails and phone calls help in the process as well. The thing about our partnership that is just so amazing is that we love each other’s work so if I got the pages back, for example, and my partner had changed something I’d written, I either didn’t really notice or just loved it anyway. In the end result, in our case, when I read our pages now, I really can’t tell who wrote what – such does our writing blend.

So whether you can work in each other’s presence, literally, or if you pass the pages back and forth leaving script notes within the pages – you have to find the rhythm that works for you. And most importantly, you have to suspend your own ego in favor of the story in general. For me, it was always a delight to get the pages back, go over them and see the improvements and progress my partner had made. Because we had agreed on our outline in the first place, we never just plain add a scene or beat that was not discussed. If one of us thinks of a scene or a new beat or development that would really shift things – we call each other first. I think there’s a bit of a gentleman’s agreement – you don’t just throw something in that wasn’t discussed.

Now bear in mind, we write psychological thrillers – comedy writers really find it helpful to work in the same room when writing comedic scenes. That way the energy bounces off each other and the comedy reaches greater heights.

There are other friends/colleagues that I work with but not as an equal partner – more as a supportive creative source. I’m spending time with a dear friend who has a ROCKIN script this weekend, in fact. I don’t do any page work, just review scenes and sequences and be there as a brainstorm partner, taskmaster and cheerleader. If you have someone you know whose story you really love, that’s a great way to exercise your creativity while giving back to the creative abundance pool.

I hope that answers your question, Partnered!

Keep those questions coming, Wavers – we love it!

Then There Was The Junior Script

Rouge Waver Diane had this comment to make of yesterday’s post:

I agree with so many of your insights on starting a new script. But the one thing that I do – to get the creative juices really going – is write the scenes that have given me the inspiration to write the script to begin with.

Diane – you took today’s post right off of my keyboard. I do like to organize my premise and do some character work first before I can write any kind of scene, but I get your gist and what you are proposing is what I actually do as my second step in the Frankensteinian process of giving life to an idea.

I write a Junior Script. Or Script, Jr. as I affectionately call it. I know the Wave-inatrix often proclaims this or that God’s gift to humankind but truly, the Junior Script is, well, God’s gift to humankind.

Here is the academic definition of the Junior Script (patent pending): A short, half-assed script in which the writer jots out sluglines and brief, on-the-nose scenes nailing the intent of the scene with almost zero grace or redemptive qualities except that it is now on the page.

You know those kitchen sponges you can buy that are completely flat until you put them under water and then they expand? This is your Junior Script. It’s the matzo of scripts. Unleavened, kinda flavorless but you have a weird, inexplicable attachment to it anyway.

So you’ve written an outline and you’re feeling pretty good about it. Mostly. It’s always a work in progress. The Junior Script enables you to start writing scenes – the scenes you know you want to write, the place-holder scenes and anything else that inspires you at the moment. Your Junior Script can be 32 pages long – we don’t care at this point – it’s those first pages, those initial scenes that you need to get on paper before they dissipate, never to be retrieved.

A scene in a Junior Script might look like this:

INT. Candy Store – DAY

Our main character comes in, freaks out and robs the place.

Main Character: You LIED about the Abba Zabba! You LIED!

INT. Hamlisch County Sheriff’s Office – LATER

Main character shuffles in, manacled, then kicks the sheriff in his paunch and manages an amazing escape.

Main Character: You’ll never catch me! NEVER!

And so on. A Junior Script is really just a way of saying Your Script In It’s Infancy – but I call it by a totally different name because the Junior Script is its own, sovereign country. It has different rules.

The Junior Script can be super long – or super short. It can be crappy. It can sound stupid. It can be brilliant. It can have typos. It can be on the nose. It is free from judgment or neuroses. It is a way of just putting place holders and half-scenes in place so that it can slowly evolve into the First Draft.

Recently, I heard an great little anecdote. A caterpillar was struggling mightily to get out of its chrysalis when a woman, watching this struggle, couldn’t help but lean in close and help the little guy out just a little bit. The new butterfly emerged quickly, flopped around and promptly died. Because caterpillars need that struggle to get out – it builds the muscle-strength and circulation they need to be able to fly moments later. Now the lady is a butterfly-killer.

Oh, Wave-inatrix, love you do but damn you’re circuitous sometimes…

Like a caterpillar crawling out of its chrysalis, the Junior Script needs to be imperfect and to struggle and it cannot be judged and found wanting because it’s evolution is the struggle. Often, screenwriters, no matter where they are on the curve, get squeezed in the vice of the expectation of perfection. They think it has to be great the first time. On the first page. In the first scene. Untrue.

After you’ve organized your idea and worked out your main character, let loose on a Junior Script and just get on paper what you want to get on paper. Don’t judge it, for god’s sake don’t show it to anybody, just let your fingers fly. If you really aren’t sure what will happen in a scene, don’t jot it down, it has no place in the Junior Script. Only get down those scenes in which you know what the beat is – but don’t worry about writing it well. Suspend judgment during the writing of the Junior Script. Learning to do so will allow for your evolution as a writer, from one draft to the next and beyond.

In the Beginning Was the Box

So you have an idea for a script. You talk to friends, they like the idea. YOU like the idea. This is exciting. Then you open up a blank document. And stare at it. You write down your idea. Suddenly, it’s not seeming so great. Hours pass, sweat beads on your forehead. The blank page mocks you. Dozens of other pressing needs cross your mind: changing the paper at the bottom of the bird cage. Checking the mail. Throwing in the whites. And still, the page mocks you every time you return from these other pressing priorities.

So – what is literally the very first step you take in this whole “write a script” thing? The Wave-inatrix has written ten scripts and believe it or not, the first step is always the hardest. There’s no easy, pat way into getting your story going. Why, I spent this last weekend in this self same position. But by the end of the weekend, I had written a complete outline for an idea I’ve been bandying about for weeks. It’s imperfect, it’s not fleshed out, but it’s there. Finally, a lumpen shape to play with. I also changed the paper at the bottom of the bird cage and did quite a lot of laundry. But I digress.

The first thing I do is write down, in a long, sloppy paragraph, what my idea is. I stare at this horrible paragraph. And I ask of it – where’s the antagonist? What is the crux of the conflict? What is the deal with the main character? What is her flaw?

And that is where I start. With my main character. Because I know, lo these many years both reading and writing scripts, that whatever the adventure I had first come up with, must be inverse to the flaw of my character. Uh, oh but I don’t have a flaw yet. I go back to the main gist of my story idea. Okay what is the worst flaw you COULD have in this situation, that fuels the story, that will make the universe rain down on my main character’s head at every turn?

And then I just begin to write. Steam of conscious, unedited crap. I just write. I write stuff that I will quickly delete. And then I rewrite it. I write bits of dialogue. I fill the page with utter gobbledygook that no one else will understand. Then I look back up at my primitive premise line.

And I begin to see. A shape has started to suggest itself. And I tweak the premise line. Then I keep writing about my main character. Oh – and that idea for the antagonist again. Yeah, great line of dialogue. And hours pass and still, I have a half-page of confusion. But slowly, very slowly, a shape is beginning to emerge.

It’s like packing up to move. At first, you have a pile of boxes and all of your stuff staring at you. Half-heartedly, you pack one, random box. Okay, one box done. Is it time for lunch? Anyone want coffee? But you stare bleakly at the rest of your stuff and know you’ve got to keep moving. And suddenly, you must categorize. What if I just pack up this ONE cupboard? What if I start with the kitchen at least? A primitive system of organization has emerged from the muck of procrastination.

Boxes are assigned and stuff is going in those boxes and hours later – aha! Progress has been made! Now motivation starts to kick in. That part of the house is DONE. A light is at the end of the tunnel – you can do this!

So think of the blank page as a room full of possibilities that need to be categorized, starting with what your story idea is. So put that idea in a box and stare at it. Then look around the room and know that character work is the next box that really has to be packed and stacked, next to the premise line. And then later, the theme – oh but you don’t need that right now, just pack the dishtowels and leave the box open, you’ll get back to that. Oh and the antagonist, that should get packed and put near the main character. Oh looks like you forget something to put into the premise box! Keep that one open too.

And suddenly, hours later – your hot mess of an idea has started to gain a certain organized beauty. It’s not perfect, but you’ve made progress. The end is in sight – the end, in this case being an outline that while imperfect, makes a certain kind of sense. Once you’ve packed all your boxes, you can endlessly arrange and rearrange them before you make the move and UNPACK the boxes into actual script pages. But that’s much easier – these boxes go in the kitchen, those boxes go in the living room. You organized the packing now you can unpack at your leisure. Because you know where everything is and where it needs to go.

That might be one hot mess of a metaphor but Wavers, it works for me. And I have begun the process of organizing my next script and it feels great. But the point of this missive is that it’s not only okay it is totally normal to feel somewhat overwhelmed and distressed when you start a new script and have no idea what your first move should be. Just pack one box. And then another.

What’s the main idea of the script?
Who is the main character (that’s one messy box)
Who is the antagonist?
What then is the inciting incident?
What would the climax then be?
And the midpoint?

Hmmmm… Not working. So rearrange the boxes. Nobody is judging this right now. You are alone in this rag-and-bone shop, you decide how to find just enough order to spark your creative juices and let the eventual pages flow.

Keep shuffling those boxes until order arises from the chaos. And once you’ve got some kind of order, you’ve made it past the toughest part. Truly. The unpacking, the actual script pages will present challenges too, but at least now you’re in your new place, full of possibilities and extra closets and cupboards you didn’t even know you had. Now is not the time to worry about exactly where you’re going to put the panini maker. This is just getting this big, overwhelming, dusty project STARTED.

Actual page writing? That’s when you’re all unpacked and have an amazing outline and then you figure out what color to paint the living room or which kind of curtains to put in the kitchen.