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I talk about movie scripts a lot, but I’ve given feedback on many TV scripts as well. Based on my experiences as a writer, a screenplay consultant and a competition judge, here are three thoughts on writing
for TV:
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When writing for TV, it may seem logical to nail
down the pitch bible before turning to the pilot episode. In reality, it actually makes a lot of sense
to go ahead and draft the pilot when the bible is still at a very preliminary stage.
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Before you draft a pilot, it’s difficult to know
exactly which elements will work in the actual show. A character trait or plot formula that sounds
great when described in a bible may actually be difficult or impossible to execute
well in a script.
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And if an element is difficult to incorporate into
one script, it will be hell to do it over and over again for multiple
seasons.
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In reading for contests and giving notes through
my consulting website, I’ve come across a certain kind of pilot script multiple times. This kind of script is chock full
of strong writing. It’s a great read. But at the end of the pilot, I think: “Something’s wrong.”
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It’s a fantastic pilot, but the series is already out of
fuel. Why?
Sometimes it’s because there’s no obvious story engine (i.e., no source of overall ongoing conflict), but not always.
A more subtle problem is that a key character arc has already been resolved or nearly resolved by the end of episode one. For those who write for features as well as for TV, the urge to write fully realized character arcs is understandable. In feature scripts, character arcs should be visible, and resolution is your friend. In the best pilots, you can’t see whole arcs at all; you only see suggestions of arcs. But sometimes it’s hard to resist pushing that arc further.
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Similarly, you may be tempted to resolve a conflict between two characters in a pilot, with the intention of providing an emotional and entertaining moment, but ask yourself: Are you doing more harm than good here? Are you sacrificing the energy fueling many later episodes for a single moment?
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That’s not energy efficient.
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To put it another way: A producer once said to me that he reads feature scripts
from a lot of promising writers, but too often all the good stuff is in Act One. While it’s not as obvious, the exact same
issue occurs with pilots; you can’t put all the good stuff in the first episode.
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How many times have you watched a TV show and
wondered what city it was set in? A lot
of shows make little use of setting.
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Similarly, in many pilots I read, there is very
little sense of setting at all. I think
it’s an underused device in TV writing, one that has the potential, given the
right locale, to set a script apart.
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Consider the extremely popular CSI Miami
Setting isn’t an essential ingredient in every popular show, but it is another tool for every TV writer to keep in mind.
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I flew into Los Angeles
from New York one afternoon and headed immediately the offices of a well known production company to
practice a pitch we were taking out to several studios the next day. The President of the company, who had brought me
in to do this, was too busy, so she handed me off to her Vice President. The Vice President was also “busy” and handed
me off to his assistant.
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Although a little thrown
off, I went through my twenty minute pitch for this assistant. But I was dehydrated from the flight and not
as prepared as I could have been, so I recalled facts a bit too slowly and generally
stumbled through the whole thing. It was
obvious the assistant hated it.
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The Vice President then
felt he better listen to it, and again I floundered. He didn’t have any ideas on how to make it
better. I don’t think he thought I was
worth the effort. He didn’t seem at all
enthusiastic about our meetings the next day.
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That night and the next morning,
I worked really hard on being more prepared.
Our first pitch was to Fox, and this time I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stumble on my words. And because I was prepared, I could focus on
delivering the pitch with confidence and energy.
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It went over well. Suddenly, the production company’s Vice President who had
seemed completely uninterested changed his mind about the project. Now he thought it was worth his time.
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Here’s the thing: It was
the exact same pitch. Same characters,
same wording, same everything. The only
thing that was different was my delivery.
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It matters how you say it. A lot.
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You could mistake what I just said to suggest that a pitch is a performance. It’s not. It’s a meeting. A business meeting. It’s not a dramatic monologue. It’s a conversation.
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Now, I now some writers are “memorizers.” They don’t like being in a room, and they’re much more comfortable talking from a script. After all, that’s what we do, right? We write scripts.
If you need to go this route, there’s a way to make it work. I remember a producer telling me that she was working with a “memorizer” type writer. And, at a pitch, the writer told everyone in the room in advance: I’m a memorizer, please excuse the monologue. The producer told me this actually ended up being really endearing.
So the lesson is, if you need to deviate from the “business meeting” nature of a pitch, then state that in advance. You’ll have a much better chance of being received well.
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Producers and executives are often working on many projects at once. A screenplay you’re pitching may have one element or idea that could be incorporated into another project. This has actually come up several times for me: a producer/exec honing in on one character or story moment in one of my pitches and applying it to a project already in development. My advice is to be open to that kind of conversation if it arises. It may get you hired as a writer. At the least it will get another producer/executive on your side.
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We’ve all heard the term
development hell. For many writers, the
phrase immediately conjures up thoughts of pointless, sometimes-insulting notes
from multiple producers and executives who seem to have no aim other than to
ensure that your script goes nowhere. In
light of this common nightmare writers seem to share, here are a few thoughts
that may or may not be comforting:
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1. It’s hell for producers too.
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What they want is to write
one short note: “It’s perfect!” They really do. And they’re stressed out when they realize
they can’t.
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Sure, there are some
idiots out there, but there are many excellent (and yes, even creative)
producers and executives, and they’re working with diligence and integrity
towards the same goals you have: getting movies and TV shows made.
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An “us versus them”
attitude really doesn’t help. In fact,
it makes things much, much worse. If we writers
can get past that adversarial stance, we may find — like the main character in
Jacob’s Ladder — that producers
aren’t demons trying to tear our stories apart but rather angels trying to lift
our scripts up to cinematic heaven.
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Or something like that 🙂
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2. It helps if you actually listen to them.
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When I first began to make
a little headway in screenwriting, I got a chance to work with a producer who
had a first look deal with Warner Brothers, one of the guys whose office sits
on the studio lot. This was a great
opportunity! Unfortunately, I completely
blew it.
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Here’s how:
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This guy wanted to develop
an animated film similar to Madagascar,
but one with very unusual, lesser-known animals, not well known animals as in Madagascar. He explicitly stated
that he finds it annoying when new writers decide to trump his guidelines and
follow their creative muses.
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I finished our meeting,
and I went back home and started coming up with ideas. Suddenly, I had what I thought was a really
creative idea. The thing was: It didn’t involve an unusual, lesser-known
animal. It involved a monkey.
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No, it wasn’t exactly what I was asked to do, but I
figured the idea was so good that this producer would immediately forgive me
for deviating from his initial instructions.
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Nope.
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He was really annoyed that
I ignored what he had said, and we haven’t worked together since.
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Lesson learned.
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3. Many times, if you really think about it, the notes
you get make sense.
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Nobody likes to be wrong,
even in a draft. But don’t think of it
as wrong. It’s just that it might not be
quite right. Yet.
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Many times, I’ve reacted emotionally
to a note and started to get frustrated, and then I thought, well, now that I
think about it, the producer has a good point here.
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Once we get past the knee
jerk negative emotions, notes can actually help make our scripts much better!
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Several writers have asked
me about query letters. Here is some
query letter advice based on my experiences as well as a form of query letter
that has worked for me.
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Credentials First
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Whatever accomplishments you have (contests or otherwise), lead with them. Anything that helps you gain credibility is
the best choice for a lead sentence.
After that, once you’ve established some basic street cred, readers will
review your logline with more receptivity and focus.
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Prove Your Talent
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A query letter is a sales
pitch in which you need to demonstrate that your script is worth reading. You can’t just say it is. You’ve got to prove it.
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For example, if you’re
pitching a comedy, it doesn’t help to say, “My script is hilarious.” You shouldn’t have to say it. Your logline should imply comedic ability. You can also add a funny detail or two.
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Be Brief
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Open with your best
credential, or maybe two, not a rundown of every moment you consider progress
in your career.
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Move quickly onto your
logline and keep it short and punchy.
Make sure the genre of your script is clear.
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Add a couple of details
that show your script is likely to be entertaining and work well in its genre. You don’t have time to summarize your whole
story. This is not the place for it.
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Finish with a brief
sentence asking for a response.
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Say thanks.
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That’s it.
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You don’t need or want to
go on about how you’re dedicated or professional or a hard worker. Any such statements will only work against
you.
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A final note:
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Don’t fear rejection. Rejection is part of the job. It DOESN’T mean you’re not talented. It simply doesn’t.
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Here, for what it’s worth,
is a form of a letter that has worked for me in the past. Good luck!!!
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[YOUR LETTER HEAD (WITH YOUR ADDRESS, PHONE NUMBER,
EMAIL, WEBSITE) (YOU CAN ALSO INCLUDE LINKS TO SOCIAL MEDIA IF THEY’RE RELEVANT
TO YOUR WRITING)
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[NAME OF CONTACT]
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[NAME OF
PRODUCTION/MANAGEMENT COMPANY, AGENCY OR LAW FIRM]
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[ADDRESS]
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[ADDRESS]
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Dear [NAME]:
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[SAY WHO YOU ARE. IF YOU HAVE CREDITS, OPTIONS, CONTEST WINS OR
OTHER RELEVANT CREDENTIALS, SAY THAT FIRST.
IF YOU HAVE CONTEST WINS OR OTHER
CREDENTIALS RELATING SPECIFICALLY TO THE SCRIPT YOU’RE PITCHING NOW, MAKE THAT
CLEAR.]
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[IN PARAGRAPH 2, PITCH
YOUR SCREENPLAY. MAKE SURE YOU INCLUDE
THE GENRE. YOU SHOULD DO MORE THAN JUST
A ONE SENTENCE LOG LINE, BUT NOT TOO LONG A PARAGRAPH. JUST A FEW SENTENCES PITCHING THE HOOK AND
CAPTURING THE SPIRIT AND TONE OF YOUR STORY.]
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[FINISH WITH A “CALL TO
ACTION”, SUCH AS PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHETHER YOU’D LIKE TO READ [NAME OF SCRIPT]. INCLUDE SOMETHING LIKE: THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME AND CONSIDERATION.]
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Sincerely,
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[YOUR SIGNATURE]
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[YOUR PRINTED NAME]
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[Enclosure: SASE – IF
YOU’RE SENDING VIA SNAIL MAIL (some still do it)]
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[OPTIONAL FOOTER, CENTERED AT BOTTOM
OF PAGE, IN ITALICS
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NAME OF YOUR SCRIPT –- VERY BRIEF
MICRO LOG LINE, SOMETHING YOU’D SEE ON A MOVIE POSTER; THIS IS NOT TYPICAL, BUT
IT’S SOMETHING THAT WORKED FOR ME]
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Wilmer Valderrama is best
known for his work as Fez on That 70s
Show, but he’s also had considerable success in animation.
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A few years ago, my agent
called with an intriguing opportunity.
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In light of Wilmer’s hit
animated series Handy Manny, Disney
wanted to develop another show with Valderrama, and he was looking for family
writers to come up with ideas. My agent
suggested I get on the phone with Wilmer and his producer and pitch a few
concepts.
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I was pretty nervous. I’d never pitched to anyone famous
before. And this guy was a veteran of
one of Fox’s longest running sitcoms.
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I figured I’d have to be
hilarious to get his attention.
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I planned several “can’t-miss”
jokes for early in the pitch, and soon after the phone call began, I hit the
punch lines hard.
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Bad choice.
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The response to my
hilarious gags was cricket-esque. After
the second zinger clunked to pure silence, I actually asked: Can you guys hear
me? I was the desperate comedian tapping
his mike and asking, is this thing on?
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It turns out Wilmer is a
pretty serious business-focused guy; at least that’s how he was on the phone
with me. He seemed less interested in my
supposed hilarity and more interested in the big picture.
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So I moved on from my
ill-fated laugh-fest and pitched two ideas I had prepared in depth and was
pretty damn proud of.
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Wilmer said little about
either idea and then asked if I had any others, preferably something with a
Latin-American element. Neither my agent
nor my manager had prepped me for this request, and I hadn’t foreseen it
myself.
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More than a bit thrown, I
pitched a third idea – a makeshift concept I hadn’t really prepared for – but I
didn’t want to give up.
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Well, actually, based on
how this was going, I did want to give up. But hey, if we writers want to be treated
like pros, we have to act like pros. And
professionals do their best job, even on a bad day, right?
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So I did what I
could. And that was it. Unceremoniously, the pitch was over. Here are three lessons I learned from the
experience:
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One
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You can’t plan for
everything that will happen. Do your
homework, yes. Know who you’re talking
to, yes. But also be ready to switch
gears mid-pitch.
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Two
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It’s best not to “sell” a
joke. Don’t raise your voice or your
tone to emphasize the sidesplitting thing you think you’re about to say. I’ve
gotten the most laughs from producers by simply describing a situation that
suggests funny things will happen. If
you’re a born stand-up comedian, then do what works for you. But if you’re like most writers (funniest on
the page), then this advice should help you.
Play the pitch straight. If the
material has potential for humor, it’ll come across.
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And Three
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Never give up on a
pitch. I was surprised to hear from my
agent that Wilmer did take one of my ideas to Disney – that third idea I threw
in to keep the conversation going.
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Disney ultimately passed
on the concept, but I gave myself a chance by not folding when my jokes bombed
and my meeting-prep faltered.
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It can be nerve-racking as
hell, but don’t let your energy level fall.
Keep talking, even when you’re crashing and burning, because the next
idea might be a winner.
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Today I’d like to talk
about emotions. Seasoned screenwriters
know how to trigger emotional responses, and intuitive newbies quickly learn to
tug at the heartstrings. It is without
question a skill you need to master. As
in everything, however, there’s a catch.
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You need to generate the right
emotions.
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If you play to the wrong
emotions, your script may incite frustration, sadness or anger – not the way to
sell a story.
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Let me explain.
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Positive and Negative
Emotions
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People have this annoying
need to feel good. Movie audiences and
screenplay readers are no exception.
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If your script inspires
readers to appreciate what they have – bingo!
If it allows them, for a moment, to participate in romantic feelings
that aren’t otherwise available to them – double bingo!
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If your script happens to
remind your readers of something really negative in their lives – not
bingo!
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Bad. Very bad.
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If you do this, readers
may hate your script, even though the writing is actually quite good, and even
though they’re not fully aware why they hate it.
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An Example of How This Can
Happen
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Alexander Payne is one of
my favorite writer/directors. In
addition to other films he’s made, I very much enjoyed About Schmidt.
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My parents, however, hated
the movie.
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Since I found it so well
written, I pressed them a bit as to what they disliked. They had trouble articulating what they found
so disagreeable. They agreed that Jack
Nicholson and Kathy Bates did excellent jobs.
They just – didn’t like it.
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Here’s the thing. The film involved the main character retiring
from his job. My father had recently
retired before seeing the movie. He was
very unhappy about being forced to retire, as was my mother.
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Watching a character
retire on screen made my parents cringe from the moment the story opened. For my parents, the whole premise stirred up
negative emotions, and no amount of movie magic was going to rescucitate their bad
feelings about this film.
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As another example, I’ve
noticed that tales about cheating spouses tend to risk stirring up very
negative emotions in those that have been hurt in such a manner. The same is true about films involving
divorce, being fired, serious illness, death and pretty much anything else that
reminds us of the dark side of life.
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So What Does This Mean?
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Does the possibility that
some may react negatively to your emotional cues mean you shouldn’t attempt
anything controversial? No, it
absolutely does not mean that.
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It’s just something a
screenwriter should be aware of.
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When writing for a genre
that typically requires a large budget and aims for widespread audience appeal,
you should know that most producers will be wary of subject matter likely to
evoke negative feelings.
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In dramas and other
“indie” films, there is generally more freedom to experiment. Still, there is always the risk in any genre
that the arousal of negative feelings may impair the popularity of a story.
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You may not care. You may set out to write a sad movie for
people who like sad movies. That’s
great.
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The point is to avoid accidentally
inciting negative emotions. If you don’t
think that happens very often, my experiences in two large screenwriting groups
argue otherwise.
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Awareness is the key. You’ve got to work to predict each emotion
your script will arouse and ask yourself if you want it to do so.
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In the context of
soliciting feedback as well, it’s important to know that a particular
individual’s negative emotions may be a factor. If someone dislikes your work, it may not be
that your writing is “bad” in any intellectual sense. It may simply be stirring up “bad
feelings.” I don’t mean you should
ignore such feedback. You
shouldn’t. You should ask yourself, is
my script likely to stir up such feelings in many others? If so, is it my scripting strategy to purposefully
stir up such feelings? Do I want to do
that knowingly?
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Awareness.
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When giving script notes,
I try to be as objective as possible and not let my own emotions cloud my
judgment. But I do mention it if I think
a fair number of readers may react with negative emotions. In the end, it’s about a film’s effect on an
entire audience and not any one viewer that matters.
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First off, let’s address
the issue of talent or no talent. Do you
have talent at all?
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Here’s the good news: Most scripts I read show some talent. So yes.
You probably have some talent!
The bad news is: Even really talented writers have to struggle to write
a script that works.
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And now for more good
news: Identifying the type of talent you
have can help you focus on the right projects and give you a better chance of
succeeding.
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Two
Different Types of Talent
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There
are two types of talent in screenwriting: Horizontal and Vertical.
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Horizontal
Talent
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Movie execs need to worry
about popularity. Popular stories generate big revenues.
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Writers need to worry
about it too. It’s hard to win major
contests unless multiple judges respond positively to your script. And it’s certainly not easy to get anything
sold (at least to the major studios) unless multiple industry players agree on
the quality of your efforts.
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But does popularity equal
talent?
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It’s a kind of talent, but
it’s not the only kind. The ability to
get most people to think your writing is “pretty good” (the ability to be
popular) is what I call “horizontal talent”.
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Popularity has its
advantages, but there’s another kind of talent:
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Vertical Talent
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“Vertical talent” is the
ability to get a reasonable chunk of people, say 25%, to think your script is
“amazing” or “truly special”.
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Charlie
Kaufman is a classic example of a vertical talent. His movies are not overwhelmingly popular,
but those who like them absolutely love them.
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Which Are You?
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Both types of talent can
lead to success, but it’s important to ask yourself which type you lean
toward.
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The more vertical your
talent is, the more you’ll need to keep your budget low and focus on “indie”
markets.
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The more horizontal your
talent is, the more you’ll want to focus on business aspects such as genre
popularity and buying trends.
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Wait, There’s A Third Kind
of Talent
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This blog is taking an
unexpected twist. There’s a surprise
third talent.
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What is this mysterious
third type of screenwriting ability? I’ll
give you a hint:
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It’s your job to push each
script as far as it can go, both in terms of its popular appeal and its
artistic excellence. It doesn’t matter
if it takes you ten drafts. If you can
get to a script that works, you’ll be proclaimed a great talent.
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The third – and most
important – kind of talent is something called “grit”. Grit is simple; it’s trying hard,
consistently, for a long time.
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In the end, it’s about
effort: writing multiple drafts of multiple scripts, getting feedback and
responding to that feedback.
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Without grit, neither
vertical nor horizontal talent is likely to sustain you.
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But if you know yourself
as a writer and then lock on to your career with a bite that won’t let go, your
chances of success will be great!
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There are some
scripting tricks you won’t find in the screenwriting books. Here are three things I learned about setups
and payoffs after years of writing and reading others’ work.
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I don’t want you to make this mistake. It’s a biggie.
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This mistake isn’t something forgivable like taking too long to get to your inciting incident. It’s not the unsavory practice of using “ing” words in your description. It’s not even — gasp — submitting a spec with more than 120 pages!
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Those –- if they really are mistakes — are baby blunders, the kinds writers make when they first start out.
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I made this misstep — the biggie — after getting some huge breaks, after I had dozens of meetings set up and plenty of interest in my writing.
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My mistake was based on a false belief. The false belief was this:
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I thought meetings with producers were job interviews.
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They aren’t.
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When I was finally lucky enough to have UTA sending my work out to reputable producers all over town, I was able to schedule meeting after meeting.
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At this point, I assumed I was days away from a mammoth payout.
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The truth is: These meetings aren’t about money, because almost no producer has the means to offer you any money at all.
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A few with independent financing connections will occasionally shell out $5000 for an option or writing assignment, but it’s very rare.
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In at least one way, producers are very similar to writers. They want money from the same place you do. The studios.
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The studios have all the cash. And only the top-top studio execs have any power to spend money.
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When you really think about it, there are probably only a few dozen individuals in the whole industry who — if they wanted to — can just decide to hand over any real currency.
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So if all these producer meetings aren’t about getting you paid, then what are they about?
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In part, they’re about opportunities to write for these producers for free. (The pros and cons of such offers are a subject for another article.)
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In part, they’re about producers needing to meet anyone other producers are meeting, so they don’t feel left behind.
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But what they’re really about is this:
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You’re making a connection. You’re meeting producers with whom you might form a long-term relationship.
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And one of those long-term writer/producer relationships might some day, after months or even years, lead to a time when the two of you find yourselves in a room with a studio exec — and the possibility of real money.
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When I first started taking these meetings, I was so confused. Nobody was offering me any paying jobs. After much frustration, I finally mentioned this confusion to my manager.
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He told me, “You’re not there to get a job. This is a business of relationships. People give jobs to their friends.”
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So, to sum up, my mistake – which I don’t want you to make – was this:
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When I finally found myself in these producer meetings, I was looking for a job when I should have been looking for a friend.
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I
was at the Austin Film Festival pitching a script to an agent at one of the top
agencies. The script I was pitching was
my baby, a screenplay I’d worked really hard on. I pitched it with energy and heart. I had a feeling I’d nailed it!
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And
then she spoke.
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I
still remember her words: “I’m sorry hon’, that’s a dink for me.” I think
she said “dink”. It might have been
“ding”. It didn’t matter. This was a genuine authority, a powerful
agent. And my story was a flop. And not just as executed. My whole idea was a flop!
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A
year later that screenplay won a Nicholl Fellowship.
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That
same woman ended up taking me out for breakfast, at the Peninsula in Beverly
Hills.
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I
ordered an egg white frittata.
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It
was tasty.
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Don’t
let anyone discourage you.
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****
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Years
later, I had a meeting with an Oscar-winning producer to pitch for a job. The job was a paid writing assignment, to
adapt a popular children’s book into a feature film.
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My
challenge was to pitch my take on the adaptation to this producer, a whip
smart, highly accomplished woman. If she
liked what she heard, the plan was for both of us to take the pitch to an
independent financier the next day.
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I
really wanted to work with her. I had to
get this right.
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So
I asked around about the different ways to pitch this kind of project. I was given advice to make a series of
storyboards outlining my story. I jumped
on the advice and spent hours preparing a dozen illustrated storyboards.
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I
practiced my pitch over and over.
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And
in I went to this woman’s office.
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And
the first thing she said was: “No. No storyboards.”
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She
didn’t like them – too formal. I had to
wing it. I got through the pitch
anyway. And she liked it. Well, half of it.
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She
wanted me to redo the other half. Half a
storyline for a feature film! Over
night. So we could pitch the new version
the very next day! I’m not talking about
pitching a logline here. I’m talking
about a full-on twenty-minute synopsis.
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But
here’s the thing:
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Her
feedback made sense. It was
constructive. She had reasons for the
changes she wanted, and her reasoning was sound.
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So I
stayed up all night and revised half the treatment, and in the morning we
pitched the new story to the finance guy.
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In
the end, we didn’t get the financing.
But this producer was now on my side.
And we ended up taking that pitch to Sony, Universal, Fox and DreamWorks.
I got to meet a half dozen studio execs
in one day.
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If
I’d said no to this producer, if I’d said, you’re wrong, I’m right, I’m not
staying up all night, I never would have had that opportunity.
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Don’t
let the challenges discourage you.
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This
screenplay business, it’s harder than you think.
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But
you can do it.
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Do titles matter? Here are two brief anecdotes that say yes.
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A
few years ago, I was in L.A. pitching ideas to a well-known manager.
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He
sat quietly on his living room couch as I tossed log line after log line his
way. Nothing seemed to resonate with him.
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Finally,
I pitched a new idea I’d been brewing:
“A gullible insurance investigator is given a magical lie detector that
reveals when anyone he’s with is lying.”
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Nope. Still no response from this guy.
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But
then I told him the title of my idea: GRAIN
OF SALT.
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His
ears perked up. “That’s a good title,”
he said.
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He went
on to tell me about another writer’s project called FLY ON A WALL. It was about a guy who finds this talking fly
that can sit in a room and spy on others and report what it hears.
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“Fly
on a wall,” he repeated. “People know
that phrase. People get that.”
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Now
he was interested in my magical lie detector idea. “Grain of salt,” he said. “I can sell that. That’s the one you’ll write.”
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We
never ended up working together, and I never wrote that script.
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Maybe
it was a mistake.
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Another
time, I was having lunch in New York with a young, personable producer. He told me about a script called THE ART OF
COOL. It had sold on spec for big money
($600,000 against $850,000).
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He
told me what it was about: A nerdy student discovers the classic book The Art of War and uses it as a high
school survival guide.
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I
told him it sounded good. His response
was telling:
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“Great
title,” he said. “The Art of Cool. That one could’ve sold on title alone.”
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He
sent me the script to read. It was funny
and fresh. I think it could’ve sold with
any name. But if the writer had chosen a
different title …
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That
might have been a mistake.
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When
I’m offering feedback on screenplays, I don’t overlook the title. Here are a few questions to ask when choosing
one:
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Does
your title describe your story as well as it can?
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Is
your title appropriate for the genre?
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Can
your title take advantage of a catchy phrase that people already know?
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Is
there a clever play on words you can use (without being overly cute)?
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And
the last — and possibly most important — question to ask is:
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Are
you spending too much time thinking about a title and not enough time writing
your script?
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That’s
definitely a mistake.
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This month I’d like to talk about fear in our screenplays. I’m not talking about the horror genre. I’m talking about the writing process itself. I’m talking about writing in a state of panic – fueled by the fear of failure. This is a phenomenon I’ve seen fairly often. It goes like this: A…
style=”mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;”> When I say cheating on your loved one in this blog, I’m of course referring to cheating on your screenplay’s plot. Our stories are dear to our hearts, and they depend on us, so in the New Year let’s all resolve to cheat less (in our plotting). style=”mso-layout-grid-align: none;…
Feeling out of creative steam? It happens to every writer at every level. There’s so much resistance, so much rewriting, so much everything – it’s easy for any writer to lose momentum. But momentum is everything. All you really need, to eventually succeed, is to move forward. All you really need is momentum. If you find…
Many screenwriters have heard tales of Ron Bass. Bass, who wrote Rain Man and other well-known movies, was a huge screenwriting machine back in the nineties. At one point he had an insanely lucrative deal with Sony and was purported to make as much as a million dollars per screenplay for up to seven scripts…
style=”mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;”> What do I mean by recycling in screenplays? style=”mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;”> style=”mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;”> I’ve seen a lot of writers do it. It’s basically any time you use material from one or more of your old scripts and try to repurpose that material…