I know my screenwriting posts are perceived by some as discouraging. I have no doubt that this blog would be MUCH more popular if it were the super-positive kind, telling people that we're all special snowflakes, that anybody can be a writer, that talent and hard work are irrelevant and all you need are some "ideas," a positive attitude, a little networking, and a fervent belief in "The Secret."
But this blog isn't for those people who think writing is an easy ticket to a quick buck, or that Walter Mitty-esque daydreaming will magically result in impressive accomplishments. This blog is for the people who are serious about writing and want an unvarnished picture of what they're up against, so they can be fully prepared (and, hopefully, triumph against the odds).
When I started out, pretty much the only information you could find about the business of screenwriting came from so-called "gurus" who would tell aspiring writers whatever nonsense they wanted to hear, in the hopes that the aspirants would buy some simplistic "how to write and sell your screenplay" book/course/etc. Nobody who wants your money is going to tell you that the only way to write and sell a screenplay is by putting in many years of grueling work...any more than a diet-book guru is going to tell you that the only way to get in shape is by eating healthy food and exercising consistently, or a "get rich" guru is going to tell you that very hard work and careful saving is the only way for a regular Joe to become a millionaire.
The one exception to all the screenwriting hype was the excellent Wordplayer.com site, run by A-list screenwriters Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio. My favorite column was a slightly tongue-in-cheek piece by Terry Rossio called "Throw in the Towel." Read it; he's certainly a much better (and funnier) writer than I am.
I think I'd be doing the serious aspiring screenwriter a disservice if I didn't paint an accurate picture of the overwhelming difficulty of this endeavor. But please understand that I'm not saying these things to be discouraging! I'm saying them because I want you -- the person who is really serious about doing this -- to succeed. In any difficult pursuit, you need to know how high the bar is set and what obstacles you'll likely face, so you can plan your strategy. Because screenwriting looks so deceptively easy from the outside, a lot of aspirants become frustrated when they try to break in without a clear strategy and solid preparation, and they run smack into a brick wall they didn't even know was there.
There's a difference between telling someone their dream will be difficult to achieve, and telling them it's impossible. If you've read all my posts about how long and hard you'll have to work, how much you'll have to sacrifice, how much stupidity and ignorance you'll have to endure, and how (even when you finally succeed) you'll still be underpaid and under-appreciated, and you're still here, saying "fine, bring it on, I'm tough, I can totally handle that," then I have great hopes for you. Because talent can only take you so far; you need to be a fighter, too.
And here you are: Unflinching. Determined.
Knock 'em dead, fighter.
Showing posts with label screenwriting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label screenwriting. Show all posts
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
How "crappy scripts" get made; or, Revolting Development (Part One)
Screenwriters don't get much respect. This isn't news; in fact it's a cliché. Not that most people think screenwriters deserve respect. Any Joe off the street will tell you that screenwriting isn't difficult -- it surely isn't "real" work -- and he could write something so much better if he could just find the time. During the writers' strike, blogs all over America were filled with rants like: "Those hacks are lucky to get paid at all for writing their crappy movies! I could write better stuff than that in my sleep!"
Sigh. This is by far one of the most frustrating things that screenwriters hear, because unfortunately, most filmgoers (alas, even many Hollywood workers!) are completely ignorant of the process by which a script evolves during pre-production. Most are under the impression that a writer spends a month or so cranking out a hackneyed script, foists it into the right hands via "connections," sells the script for a million dollars, and kicks back to sip martinis while the crew, actors and director make the best darn movie they can from the inept writer's overpriced drivel. Hey, how could anyone believe otherwise, judging from the finished product (yet another mediocre film), or from the awful shooting script circulating on the internet? Right?
Well, the crew DOES make the best movie it can from a sometimes awful shooting script, but it's important to understand just how that shooting script got so awful.
Let's begin at the beginning. (Okay, not the very beginning, where the writer comes up with a promising idea, scribbles it down, puts it in a shoebox with all his other promising ideas, and then continues to mull it over for ages until the idea refuses to be ignored. We'll skip all the time the writer spends working the story and characters out in his head before a single word is even committed to paper; to explain this abstract creative process would be like trying to explain the mechanics of falling in love.)
Once the basic story is conceptualized, a writer spends months (frequently years), crafting a script. Researching. Writing and discarding dozens of outlines and treatments. Obsessing over the story, living with it 24/7. Weighing every sentence. Rewriting and rewriting and rewriting until every line of dialogue crackles, every plot point is unexpected yet believable, every character lives and breathes. The writer knows the script inside and out; he has woven theme and subtext and nuance into every scene and given each character compelling motivation and a transformative arc. At that point, when the writer decides the script is as good as it's going to get, he gives it to his agent.
The agent typically gives the script to an assistant (a bright, young, underpaid and overworked aspiring writer or aspiring agent). The assistant will have to read the script hurriedly while dealing with his other somewhat overwhelming responsibilities around the office. The assistant will write "coverage" on the script, summarizing the plot, characters, theme, and story strengths and weaknesses on approximately two sheets of paper. This coverage will also include a list of possible ways to improve the script. (The assistant understands that he must come up with some suggestions to improve the script no matter how much he likes it; it's simply an expectation when one is writing professional coverage. Sometimes these suggestions are insightful and helpful; sometimes they're petty and nonsensical.)
Now the assistant passes the coverage to the agent, who generally doesn't have time to read the actual script. Based on the coverage, the agent will give the writer notes on how to "improve" the script before it can go out.
If the writer is lucky, these notes are actually useful. Otherwise, the writer must try to humor the agent by incorporating whichever notes will do the least amount of damage to the writer's original vision.
The writer resubmits the script. The process is repeated, sometimes with a different assistant or intern reading the script. (For simplification purposes we will assume this writer does not have a manager to add an extra layer of opinions and notes.)
Eventually, after much haranguing from the writer, the agent will finally agree to send the script out to producers. Yay! (Or he won't, and the writer has to fire him and repeat the process with a new agent.)
Next, producers -- or rather, the producers' readers/assistants/interns -- read and "cover" the script.
If the coverage is positive, the script may be recommended (rare) or "considered" for purchase. More likely, the writer is brought in and considered for hire. This means the writer's spec script is declared a "writing sample," (in other words, he doesn't get any money for it) and the writer is asked if he can think up a workable (read: commercial) plot for a toy line, magazine article, old TV show, or other property to which the producer owns the rights. The producer will continually inject his own "cool ideas" which the writer must somehow incorporate into the plot.
If the writer's take impresses the producer, and if he's also very lucky (because there are other variables the producer must consider which I won't get into here), he'll get a contract at this point. Yay! The "sale" is splashed in the trades: "Writer X has been hired to write Big Script for mid-six figures" or some-such. That sounds very impressive, doesn't it? Mid-six figures is, to any reasonable person, a whole lot of money.
But wait. The writer will only see a fraction (if any) of that figure to begin with, because he's paid in "steps." A fraction of the total is an initiation fee (which the writer often fails to receive despite contractual promises), another part is for the completion of the first draft, other parts are for successive drafts, and there's another payment if the script actually gets made (most don't). But let's say the first step is $120,000. Hey, that's still a lot, right? Of course, ten percent goes to the writer's agent, another ten percent to his manager (if he has one), another five percent to the writer's attorney, and a few thousand for WGA fees. Oh, and there's that half that goes to taxes.... Still, there's probably a solid year's salary left over. Forty-five thousand dollars or so is a plenty respectable salary in America. Okay, so the writer didn't get paid anything for the year he spent writing the spec that got him the job, nor did he get paid for the weeks or months he spent going to pitch meetings and development meetings. And okay, forty-five thousand doesn’t go as far in Los Angeles as in Dubuque. But writers live off pizza and ramen noodles anyway, because writers live to write. So, he's happy enough. Now what...?
Now... he writes his "first draft." Again, weighing, obsessing, agonizing.
At last, feeling triumphant, he hands it in.
And then -- god help us all -- the script goes through.... "development."
Sigh. This is by far one of the most frustrating things that screenwriters hear, because unfortunately, most filmgoers (alas, even many Hollywood workers!) are completely ignorant of the process by which a script evolves during pre-production. Most are under the impression that a writer spends a month or so cranking out a hackneyed script, foists it into the right hands via "connections," sells the script for a million dollars, and kicks back to sip martinis while the crew, actors and director make the best darn movie they can from the inept writer's overpriced drivel. Hey, how could anyone believe otherwise, judging from the finished product (yet another mediocre film), or from the awful shooting script circulating on the internet? Right?
Well, the crew DOES make the best movie it can from a sometimes awful shooting script, but it's important to understand just how that shooting script got so awful.
Let's begin at the beginning. (Okay, not the very beginning, where the writer comes up with a promising idea, scribbles it down, puts it in a shoebox with all his other promising ideas, and then continues to mull it over for ages until the idea refuses to be ignored. We'll skip all the time the writer spends working the story and characters out in his head before a single word is even committed to paper; to explain this abstract creative process would be like trying to explain the mechanics of falling in love.)
Once the basic story is conceptualized, a writer spends months (frequently years), crafting a script. Researching. Writing and discarding dozens of outlines and treatments. Obsessing over the story, living with it 24/7. Weighing every sentence. Rewriting and rewriting and rewriting until every line of dialogue crackles, every plot point is unexpected yet believable, every character lives and breathes. The writer knows the script inside and out; he has woven theme and subtext and nuance into every scene and given each character compelling motivation and a transformative arc. At that point, when the writer decides the script is as good as it's going to get, he gives it to his agent.
The agent typically gives the script to an assistant (a bright, young, underpaid and overworked aspiring writer or aspiring agent). The assistant will have to read the script hurriedly while dealing with his other somewhat overwhelming responsibilities around the office. The assistant will write "coverage" on the script, summarizing the plot, characters, theme, and story strengths and weaknesses on approximately two sheets of paper. This coverage will also include a list of possible ways to improve the script. (The assistant understands that he must come up with some suggestions to improve the script no matter how much he likes it; it's simply an expectation when one is writing professional coverage. Sometimes these suggestions are insightful and helpful; sometimes they're petty and nonsensical.)
Now the assistant passes the coverage to the agent, who generally doesn't have time to read the actual script. Based on the coverage, the agent will give the writer notes on how to "improve" the script before it can go out.
If the writer is lucky, these notes are actually useful. Otherwise, the writer must try to humor the agent by incorporating whichever notes will do the least amount of damage to the writer's original vision.
The writer resubmits the script. The process is repeated, sometimes with a different assistant or intern reading the script. (For simplification purposes we will assume this writer does not have a manager to add an extra layer of opinions and notes.)
Eventually, after much haranguing from the writer, the agent will finally agree to send the script out to producers. Yay! (Or he won't, and the writer has to fire him and repeat the process with a new agent.)
Next, producers -- or rather, the producers' readers/assistants/interns -- read and "cover" the script.
If the coverage is positive, the script may be recommended (rare) or "considered" for purchase. More likely, the writer is brought in and considered for hire. This means the writer's spec script is declared a "writing sample," (in other words, he doesn't get any money for it) and the writer is asked if he can think up a workable (read: commercial) plot for a toy line, magazine article, old TV show, or other property to which the producer owns the rights. The producer will continually inject his own "cool ideas" which the writer must somehow incorporate into the plot.
If the writer's take impresses the producer, and if he's also very lucky (because there are other variables the producer must consider which I won't get into here), he'll get a contract at this point. Yay! The "sale" is splashed in the trades: "Writer X has been hired to write Big Script for mid-six figures" or some-such. That sounds very impressive, doesn't it? Mid-six figures is, to any reasonable person, a whole lot of money.
But wait. The writer will only see a fraction (if any) of that figure to begin with, because he's paid in "steps." A fraction of the total is an initiation fee (which the writer often fails to receive despite contractual promises), another part is for the completion of the first draft, other parts are for successive drafts, and there's another payment if the script actually gets made (most don't). But let's say the first step is $120,000. Hey, that's still a lot, right? Of course, ten percent goes to the writer's agent, another ten percent to his manager (if he has one), another five percent to the writer's attorney, and a few thousand for WGA fees. Oh, and there's that half that goes to taxes.... Still, there's probably a solid year's salary left over. Forty-five thousand dollars or so is a plenty respectable salary in America. Okay, so the writer didn't get paid anything for the year he spent writing the spec that got him the job, nor did he get paid for the weeks or months he spent going to pitch meetings and development meetings. And okay, forty-five thousand doesn’t go as far in Los Angeles as in Dubuque. But writers live off pizza and ramen noodles anyway, because writers live to write. So, he's happy enough. Now what...?
Now... he writes his "first draft." Again, weighing, obsessing, agonizing.
At last, feeling triumphant, he hands it in.
And then -- god help us all -- the script goes through.... "development."
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Resolution time?
"I love to read...so my resolution is to try hard to make time to read some books this year."
I've seen that resolution on lots of blogs this week. Frankly, it puzzles me. It makes no sense to me that people would have to force themselves to do something that they claim to love. I don't know why those people can't just be honest with themselves and admit that they don't actually "love" to read; they love the idea of being well-read because they desire for people to think they're smart. I can speak from personal experience that for people who really love books, reading is such a great joy that you can't stop us from reading. We'll lose sleep to read, steal time for reading at every possible opportunity, and even sneak books into places we shouldn't. But if you don't feel that way about books, so what? Find your own joy. Maybe it's drawing. Maybe it's music.
Even more puzzling (and saddening) to me is this resolution:
"I really love writing...so my resolution is to finally force myself to work on that script/novel I've been meaning to write for years and years."
How can someone purport to "love" writing if they never willingly do it? I suspect that there are a lot of Walter Mittys out there who love to dream about being admired and acclaimed for their writing, and confuse that with a love of writing. You know the type: they spend lots of time imagining their Oscar speech, but no time working on their screenplays. Look, writing is hard, and it's quite often a chore, just like any day-to-day career. But for those who are born to do it, there's a certain thrill and satisfaction in the doing of it, too. If writing doesn't bring you that joy, why on earth would you want to torture yourself? I think there are an awful lot of people out there who are making themselves miserable dreaming their lives away.
Resolutions are something you wish to do because you know it's for your own good, although it goes against your true nature. In a way, resolutions reveal a lot about who you truly are.
S0: who are you, really?
I say: the person you are when you're alone, when you're left to your own devices, is who you truly are.
Now, some people don't like being alone, perhaps because they're not all that interesting and are bored silly by their own company. Or they can't stand being alone because they have no idea who they really are, and they're afraid to find out. Or they simply need other people to give them a sense of purpose and identity, because they only know how to "belong" to a clique -- they've never really learned to think and act as an individual.
But let's say you do spend a fair amount of time alone. What do you do?
Do you actually read the "literature" you claim to admire? Or do you read trashy magazines you claim to disparage?
Do you get out and hike in the "beautiful outdoors" you claim to love? Or do you flop on the couch and play video games weekend after weekend?
Is there a disconnect between the person you pretend to be, and who you really are?
One thing I find very interesting is that most of the frustrated, wannabe* writers I know are also (unhappily) single, and complain about the misery of (not) dating the same way they complain about the misery of (not) writing. I don't think this is a coincidence. When meeting potential romantic partners they tend to have the same disconnect between who they really are, and who they fantasize they are. They'll describe themselves as writers -- even though they never write -- or creative, even though they rarely create anything. They'll describe themselves as energetic and active even though they're usually couch potatoes. They'll claim to be adventurous, active, deep, and literate, and a fan of various "smart" pursuits like foreign films and gourmet food and classical music...yet when left to their own devices they'd rather just glaze over in front of Survivor. With such cognitive dissonance getting in the way, no wonder they can't find a compatible match.
My wish for everyone for the new year is that people accept themselves as they are. While we should all strive to improve our lives, I think we should strive to be "me, only better," rather than "me, only completely different."
So -- to all you aspiring writers fighting the good fight, my New Year's wish for you is that 2010 is the best year ever for your writing career. And to all the "wannabes" out there, give yourselves permission to let go of false dreams and find your true purpose in life.
And to everyone, everywhere: may you have peace, joy, and fulfillment.
----
*not to be confused with "aspiring" writers, who actually do write but just haven't broken in yet.
I've seen that resolution on lots of blogs this week. Frankly, it puzzles me. It makes no sense to me that people would have to force themselves to do something that they claim to love. I don't know why those people can't just be honest with themselves and admit that they don't actually "love" to read; they love the idea of being well-read because they desire for people to think they're smart. I can speak from personal experience that for people who really love books, reading is such a great joy that you can't stop us from reading. We'll lose sleep to read, steal time for reading at every possible opportunity, and even sneak books into places we shouldn't. But if you don't feel that way about books, so what? Find your own joy. Maybe it's drawing. Maybe it's music.
Even more puzzling (and saddening) to me is this resolution:
"I really love writing...so my resolution is to finally force myself to work on that script/novel I've been meaning to write for years and years."
How can someone purport to "love" writing if they never willingly do it? I suspect that there are a lot of Walter Mittys out there who love to dream about being admired and acclaimed for their writing, and confuse that with a love of writing. You know the type: they spend lots of time imagining their Oscar speech, but no time working on their screenplays. Look, writing is hard, and it's quite often a chore, just like any day-to-day career. But for those who are born to do it, there's a certain thrill and satisfaction in the doing of it, too. If writing doesn't bring you that joy, why on earth would you want to torture yourself? I think there are an awful lot of people out there who are making themselves miserable dreaming their lives away.
Resolutions are something you wish to do because you know it's for your own good, although it goes against your true nature. In a way, resolutions reveal a lot about who you truly are.
S0: who are you, really?
I say: the person you are when you're alone, when you're left to your own devices, is who you truly are.
Now, some people don't like being alone, perhaps because they're not all that interesting and are bored silly by their own company. Or they can't stand being alone because they have no idea who they really are, and they're afraid to find out. Or they simply need other people to give them a sense of purpose and identity, because they only know how to "belong" to a clique -- they've never really learned to think and act as an individual.
But let's say you do spend a fair amount of time alone. What do you do?
Do you actually read the "literature" you claim to admire? Or do you read trashy magazines you claim to disparage?
Do you get out and hike in the "beautiful outdoors" you claim to love? Or do you flop on the couch and play video games weekend after weekend?
Is there a disconnect between the person you pretend to be, and who you really are?
One thing I find very interesting is that most of the frustrated, wannabe* writers I know are also (unhappily) single, and complain about the misery of (not) dating the same way they complain about the misery of (not) writing. I don't think this is a coincidence. When meeting potential romantic partners they tend to have the same disconnect between who they really are, and who they fantasize they are. They'll describe themselves as writers -- even though they never write -- or creative, even though they rarely create anything. They'll describe themselves as energetic and active even though they're usually couch potatoes. They'll claim to be adventurous, active, deep, and literate, and a fan of various "smart" pursuits like foreign films and gourmet food and classical music...yet when left to their own devices they'd rather just glaze over in front of Survivor. With such cognitive dissonance getting in the way, no wonder they can't find a compatible match.
My wish for everyone for the new year is that people accept themselves as they are. While we should all strive to improve our lives, I think we should strive to be "me, only better," rather than "me, only completely different."
So -- to all you aspiring writers fighting the good fight, my New Year's wish for you is that 2010 is the best year ever for your writing career. And to all the "wannabes" out there, give yourselves permission to let go of false dreams and find your true purpose in life.
And to everyone, everywhere: may you have peace, joy, and fulfillment.
----
*not to be confused with "aspiring" writers, who actually do write but just haven't broken in yet.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
There's no such thing as overnight success....
Sorry for the sparse posts of late. "Real writing" (as in, the kind that kinda-sorta pays the bills) has stolen all my time lately, and forced me to temporarily neglect my bloggy blathering. Actually...this reminds me of something I've been meaning to discuss here -- a big bad four-letter word: TIME.
Whenever a working writer attends a cocktail party, it's pretty much a guarantee that someone will tell him: "I could be a writer too, if only I had the time."
And in a sense, that person is right. In the same sense that I probably could have been an Olympic gymnast, if only I'd "had the time."
If only I'd started at the age of five. If only I'd gotten up at four o' clock in the morning every day, to practice. If only I'd practiced after school every day, late into the night. If only I'd kept practicing every day for the next ten or twelve or fourteen years -- forsaking friendships, dates, hobbies, entertainment, and other activities that most people consider normal. Yep...if only I'd been lucky enough to have that kind of "leisure" time on my hands, I might have been an Olympic gymnast too.
Of course, on top of all that effort, I'd have to possess the natural talent to be better than all the other thousands of hopefuls who'd also spent their entire lives working towards the same dream. And the cruel part is, I wouldn't really know if I had that kind of talent, until after I'd spent all those years practicing.
Guess what -- that's what it means to be a writer, too. You don't do it on the occasional weekend a couple of times a year when you feel "inspired." It isn't something you hope to do eventually, or force yourself to do every once in a while. It's what you ARE. Your whole life is designed around it. You've been doing it practically every day since you were old enough to read. And it's the only thing you could ever imagine doing.
Everyone who earned good grades in high school English and can compose a decent paragraph imagines he has some special writing ability, and all he needs is a bit of free time to crank out a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay -- just as every kid who can do a split or a handspring probably thinks he can be a gymnast. But the level of excellence which distinguishes the elite from the mediocre in any highly competitive field does not come cheap.
It costs much more than most hopefuls are willing to spend.
Because the price is time.
Whenever a working writer attends a cocktail party, it's pretty much a guarantee that someone will tell him: "I could be a writer too, if only I had the time."
And in a sense, that person is right. In the same sense that I probably could have been an Olympic gymnast, if only I'd "had the time."
If only I'd started at the age of five. If only I'd gotten up at four o' clock in the morning every day, to practice. If only I'd practiced after school every day, late into the night. If only I'd kept practicing every day for the next ten or twelve or fourteen years -- forsaking friendships, dates, hobbies, entertainment, and other activities that most people consider normal. Yep...if only I'd been lucky enough to have that kind of "leisure" time on my hands, I might have been an Olympic gymnast too.
Of course, on top of all that effort, I'd have to possess the natural talent to be better than all the other thousands of hopefuls who'd also spent their entire lives working towards the same dream. And the cruel part is, I wouldn't really know if I had that kind of talent, until after I'd spent all those years practicing.
Guess what -- that's what it means to be a writer, too. You don't do it on the occasional weekend a couple of times a year when you feel "inspired." It isn't something you hope to do eventually, or force yourself to do every once in a while. It's what you ARE. Your whole life is designed around it. You've been doing it practically every day since you were old enough to read. And it's the only thing you could ever imagine doing.
Everyone who earned good grades in high school English and can compose a decent paragraph imagines he has some special writing ability, and all he needs is a bit of free time to crank out a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay -- just as every kid who can do a split or a handspring probably thinks he can be a gymnast. But the level of excellence which distinguishes the elite from the mediocre in any highly competitive field does not come cheap.
It costs much more than most hopefuls are willing to spend.
Because the price is time.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Aspiring screenwriter tip of the week: Avoid writing autobiographical scripts
"Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall down a manhole and die."
This famous Mel Brooks joke illustrates an important point. Everything that happens to you is the most dramatic thing in the world -- to you. This is why, in general, you should avoid writing autobiographical scripts. You simply don't have the perspective to see which parts of your life story (if any) might be compelling to a wider audience. You don't want your screenplay to be the literary equivalent of that bore at the cocktail party who goes on and on about himself.
Over the years, many people have inquired about hiring me to write their "amazing true life story" of surviving cancer, or overcoming domestic abuse, or recovering from drug and alcohol addiction. (One guy even wanted me to write his "inspirational" true life story of becoming a yoga instructor.) Or sometimes it's the true life story of their aunt, grandparent, etc. They always swear it's the most interesting story ever. (Many of these people even think I'll be so blown away by their great story that I'd be willing to write it for free, and we can "split the profit" when the script sells. Um, never ask a professional to spend months of his or her life working on your labor of love on speculation, by the way. It's...well, just plain rude.)
Sadly, not a single one of these "amazing true life stories" has ever proven to be unique enough or compelling enough to be worth my time. I'm sorry to break it to you, but your life, as fascinating/sad/unfair/funny as it may seem to you, is probably more mundane than you realize.
On the other hand, maybe your life really is quite astonishing. Maybe you ran off to join the circus as a six year old, ran away from that circus to become an assassin at eleven years old, ousted the government of a small island country at seventeen years old, and for the past twenty years you've been teaching blind kids how to play professional polo. Well, believe it or not, your extraordinary life is a problem, too, story-wise. Because, as Mark Twain said, "The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to be credible."
Mundane or extraordinary, your "true life story" is unlikely to make a good film. See, life, real life, is full of wild coincidences, vague motivations, ambiguous results, illogical decisions. That kind of "reality" doesn't work in a movie. Drama (and when I say "drama," I mean comedy too) needs to have a direct chain of consequences: This cause (choice/action by the hero) clearly leads to this effect, which then leads the hero to make this choice, and so on, until the big conclusion. Drama needs to make sense. Character motivations need to be clear. Choices need to be understandable. Story threads need to tie up in the end. That's what a "story" is.
Now, go make something up! You're a writer, goddamn it!
-----
Further reading (aka Somewhat Related Posts from People Smarter Than Me):
Here's what TV writer & Jeopardy champ Lisa Klink has to say about writing "reality."
And among Writer on Writing's observations about bad contest entries, he notes that "reality is not a story point."
-----
This famous Mel Brooks joke illustrates an important point. Everything that happens to you is the most dramatic thing in the world -- to you. This is why, in general, you should avoid writing autobiographical scripts. You simply don't have the perspective to see which parts of your life story (if any) might be compelling to a wider audience. You don't want your screenplay to be the literary equivalent of that bore at the cocktail party who goes on and on about himself.
Over the years, many people have inquired about hiring me to write their "amazing true life story" of surviving cancer, or overcoming domestic abuse, or recovering from drug and alcohol addiction. (One guy even wanted me to write his "inspirational" true life story of becoming a yoga instructor.) Or sometimes it's the true life story of their aunt, grandparent, etc. They always swear it's the most interesting story ever. (Many of these people even think I'll be so blown away by their great story that I'd be willing to write it for free, and we can "split the profit" when the script sells. Um, never ask a professional to spend months of his or her life working on your labor of love on speculation, by the way. It's...well, just plain rude.)
Sadly, not a single one of these "amazing true life stories" has ever proven to be unique enough or compelling enough to be worth my time. I'm sorry to break it to you, but your life, as fascinating/sad/unfair/funny as it may seem to you, is probably more mundane than you realize.
On the other hand, maybe your life really is quite astonishing. Maybe you ran off to join the circus as a six year old, ran away from that circus to become an assassin at eleven years old, ousted the government of a small island country at seventeen years old, and for the past twenty years you've been teaching blind kids how to play professional polo. Well, believe it or not, your extraordinary life is a problem, too, story-wise. Because, as Mark Twain said, "The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to be credible."
Mundane or extraordinary, your "true life story" is unlikely to make a good film. See, life, real life, is full of wild coincidences, vague motivations, ambiguous results, illogical decisions. That kind of "reality" doesn't work in a movie. Drama (and when I say "drama," I mean comedy too) needs to have a direct chain of consequences: This cause (choice/action by the hero) clearly leads to this effect, which then leads the hero to make this choice, and so on, until the big conclusion. Drama needs to make sense. Character motivations need to be clear. Choices need to be understandable. Story threads need to tie up in the end. That's what a "story" is.
Now, go make something up! You're a writer, goddamn it!
-----
Further reading (aka Somewhat Related Posts from People Smarter Than Me):
Here's what TV writer & Jeopardy champ Lisa Klink has to say about writing "reality."
And among Writer on Writing's observations about bad contest entries, he notes that "reality is not a story point."
-----
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Who is "Hollywood?"
The internet is littered with entertainment-related blogs and entertainment-related sites, where non-Hollywood people love to post (frequently, and with many exclamation points) about how very, very much they do not care about Hollywood, not at all, not one little bit.
Why anyone would go out of his way to seek out sites to which he is so actively indifferent, I don't quite understand.
"Why should I care about Hollywood!? They’re all just a bunch of immoral, filthy rich, far-left idiots who hate America!!!” the comments read (though spelling and grammar tend toward the creative -- not too surprising considering a current cultural climate which derides intellectual achievement as "elitist" and un-American). Generally the commenter will go on to describe himself as a "real" American from the places where the real people with real values live.
For a moment I’ll pretend the question "Why should I care about Hollywood?" is not rhetorical.
First of all, Hollywood is not Tom Cruise. Hollywood is not Paris Hilton. Hollywood is not the .0001 percent of super-rich super-famous people pursued by the paparazzi, any more than "computer programmers" are Bill Gates. "Hollywood" does include a tiny handful of top actors, directors, producers, and writers; sure. But the average Hollywood professional hangs out with the A-listers about as often as the average American hangs out with Congressmen.
Hollywood, actual Hollywood, consists of thousands and thousands of middle-class (if they’re lucky!) people who work very long hours building sets, rigging lights, and doing all manner of unglamorous, grueling technical jobs for which they will never become famous. Most of these people quite frankly have neither the time nor the opportunity (nor, for that matter, the desire) to attend extravagant parties and hang out with celebrities. They don’t endorse political candidates and give interviews in glossy magazines. They don’t live in mansions in Malibu and fly private planes around the world. They get up way, way before dawn and drive to work and get bossed around by supervisors who don’t appreciate them nearly enough. They struggle with stress and fatigue and overwork because they have too much to do and not enough time to do it. They make an hourly wage. They worry about job insecurity and health care and debt. They are Democrats and Republicans; they are the highly-educated and the high school dropouts. They are Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and non-believers and every religion under the sun. They come from big cities; they come from the Heartland; they come from the Bible Belt; they come from countries all over the world.
Should you care about them because their jobs are hard? No, at least not any more than you care about your neighbor or your husband or your friend or anyone else whose job is hard. Most Americans, after all -- no matter where they live -- have jobs that are hard.
But here's why you should care about Hollywood, if you care about America:
American entertainment is beloved all over the world. Entertainment is a product that America makes better than any other country. But more importantly, it's America's biggest export. Saying you don't care about Hollywood is like saying you couldn't care less if Detroit never makes another car. If you care at all about the American economy, you really SHOULD care about Hollywood. And while many Americans may not like the “values” depicted in hit Hollywood films, consider this:
In almost all (hit) Hollywood films, the good guy wins. The regular citizen fights City Hall and succeeds. The little guy achieves his impossible dream. The villain’s greed is punished; courage and determination are rewarded. The hero risks his own life for others, and saves the day.
Foreign films often have downbeat endings, but American films reflect the unwavering American belief that even the humblest among us, with guts, hope, grit, and ingenuity, can triumph over anything.
That is an American value which transcends all religions and creeds. I believe it makes us a good people, and even a great people.
But then, what do I know...? I, too, am "Hollywood."
Why anyone would go out of his way to seek out sites to which he is so actively indifferent, I don't quite understand.
"Why should I care about Hollywood!? They’re all just a bunch of immoral, filthy rich, far-left idiots who hate America!!!” the comments read (though spelling and grammar tend toward the creative -- not too surprising considering a current cultural climate which derides intellectual achievement as "elitist" and un-American). Generally the commenter will go on to describe himself as a "real" American from the places where the real people with real values live.
For a moment I’ll pretend the question "Why should I care about Hollywood?" is not rhetorical.
First of all, Hollywood is not Tom Cruise. Hollywood is not Paris Hilton. Hollywood is not the .0001 percent of super-rich super-famous people pursued by the paparazzi, any more than "computer programmers" are Bill Gates. "Hollywood" does include a tiny handful of top actors, directors, producers, and writers; sure. But the average Hollywood professional hangs out with the A-listers about as often as the average American hangs out with Congressmen.
Hollywood, actual Hollywood, consists of thousands and thousands of middle-class (if they’re lucky!) people who work very long hours building sets, rigging lights, and doing all manner of unglamorous, grueling technical jobs for which they will never become famous. Most of these people quite frankly have neither the time nor the opportunity (nor, for that matter, the desire) to attend extravagant parties and hang out with celebrities. They don’t endorse political candidates and give interviews in glossy magazines. They don’t live in mansions in Malibu and fly private planes around the world. They get up way, way before dawn and drive to work and get bossed around by supervisors who don’t appreciate them nearly enough. They struggle with stress and fatigue and overwork because they have too much to do and not enough time to do it. They make an hourly wage. They worry about job insecurity and health care and debt. They are Democrats and Republicans; they are the highly-educated and the high school dropouts. They are Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and non-believers and every religion under the sun. They come from big cities; they come from the Heartland; they come from the Bible Belt; they come from countries all over the world.
Should you care about them because their jobs are hard? No, at least not any more than you care about your neighbor or your husband or your friend or anyone else whose job is hard. Most Americans, after all -- no matter where they live -- have jobs that are hard.
But here's why you should care about Hollywood, if you care about America:
American entertainment is beloved all over the world. Entertainment is a product that America makes better than any other country. But more importantly, it's America's biggest export. Saying you don't care about Hollywood is like saying you couldn't care less if Detroit never makes another car. If you care at all about the American economy, you really SHOULD care about Hollywood. And while many Americans may not like the “values” depicted in hit Hollywood films, consider this:
In almost all (hit) Hollywood films, the good guy wins. The regular citizen fights City Hall and succeeds. The little guy achieves his impossible dream. The villain’s greed is punished; courage and determination are rewarded. The hero risks his own life for others, and saves the day.
Foreign films often have downbeat endings, but American films reflect the unwavering American belief that even the humblest among us, with guts, hope, grit, and ingenuity, can triumph over anything.
That is an American value which transcends all religions and creeds. I believe it makes us a good people, and even a great people.
But then, what do I know...? I, too, am "Hollywood."
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Thumbs down to this screenplay contest....
Like most working screenwriters, I am opposed to "dollar options." There are countless reasons why dollar options are a terrible idea for the writer, and why you should never agree to one. Please, please don't fall into the trap of being tricked into believing that a free or el cheapo option will make you a "professional screenwriter." This is so far from the truth it's laughable. All a dollar option does is tie up the rights to your work so that it's unavailable when a serious producer comes along who actually wants to buy it.
This brings me to today's sad topic: an established, formerly respectable screenplay contest that has just been taken off my "mildly recommended" list, and placed on my "avoid" list.
Say it ain't so, IndieProducer. In the past this contest seemed all right. It's run by people who have actually made a couple of films. Their entry fee was a bit high in relation to their modest cash prizes, but it was within acceptable parameters. They had (based on my limited polling of past entrants) a good track record of responding to emails, and generally met their deadlines for announcing winners. Overall, this contest has rated a neutral-to-mildly-positive on my "recommended contests" scale.
Okay, some aspiring writers aren't impressed by cash prizes, and think "exposure" is the only good reason to enter a contest. I respectfully disagree. The folks who think cash prizes are silly are people who have well-paying day jobs and would blow a big cash prize on a new plasma TV or a trip to Hawaii. I, on the other hand, always look at cash prizes in terms of how many months of "room and board" they'll cover for a struggling writer. For instance, in one particularly good month I won $11,000 total from three different screenwriting contests -- $2,500 from a relatively small contest that I won, $2,500 from a pretty big contest in which I was the runner-up, and $6,000 from a prestigious contest that I won. That $11,000 came at a time when I was so broke I couldn't even afford to buy a ream of paper, and was considering taking a temp job to make ends meet. All of a sudden I knew I'd have many many months of stress-free writing. Was that valuable to me? Hell, yeah.
As for "exposure" -- well, very few screenplay contests are SO prestigious that Hollywood actively seeks out the names of the winners. With the exception of the Nicholl Fellowship -- which is so prestigious that winning it, or even placing in the finals, means that your phone will ring non-stop -- when you win a contest, you need to do the work of informing agents and producers about your award. In that regard, pretty much any contest win is helpful, provided that you have an intriguing logline and can write a snappy query letter. Being able to mention in your query letter that the script has won an award is "extra frosting" to tempt the producer into reading it.
But, back to IndieProducer. I noticed that this year, they had changed their prize to an "option" with the production company that runs the contest. Basically, this is a way that a production company can charge a reading fee for considering your screenplay -- by disguising it as a "contest entry fee."
Now, I don't necessarily have a problem with small production companies running contests as a way to find good scripts. Indie companies don't have the resources to pay readers to weed through thousands of unsolicited submissions. Thus, they either "hire" interns to cover scripts for free (an exploitative practice in itself), or they institute a policy of "no unsolicited submissions" and rely on databases like InkTip -- a favorite of bottom-feeding and ultra-low-budget producers -- in their search for decent, cheap material.
The difference between entering a production company's contest, versus simply paying a reading fee to be considered by said production company, is that with a contest, somebody wins. This is important. If a production company simply charges reading fees, they can keep doing that forever with no intention of ever making a film. Reading fees can be their sole source of income. They don't even have to read any scripts; they can just collect the money and throw out the screenplays. On the other hand, if there's a contest involved, the company is legally obligated to pick a winner and give them a prize. And that prize should be something tangible: cash with no strings attached, or a PAID option, or other prizes of real and measurable value. And a respectable production company will award you a prize big enough that (after also paying their readers) the company is basically breaking even on the contest. In other words, the contest is legitimately a way for them to find promising material without going broke -- it's NOT a way for them to make extra income.
Which brings me back to IndieProducer. I had to do a little research (they're not being too forthcoming about the details of their "prize"), but guess what? When asked, they will admit that their prize is an UNPAID option. Yep, that's right. By entering this contest, you get to pay $35-$40 for the chance to win an UNPAID option. (Oh, and you also get a plaque.) This is icky on so many levels I don't know where to begin. Of course, the contest organizers are quick to point out that this is an experienced and respected production company. Yay.
Look: If you've been a screenwriter for any length of time you have producers (including, yes, "established" producers) offer you dollar options all the time. And if you have any sense at all, you turn them down. One of my scripts had seven or eight different producers try to option it for free (well, a buck). I always said no, and continued to enter the script into contests, winning over $18,000 in cash prizes. (By the way, I would've been ineligible for those contests if I'd accepted an option!)
Every time I turned down their free/dollar options, the various producers chided me for passing up such a "great opportunity" to work with people with "solid connections." Don't ever believe that b.s.! A producer with no money and no access to money doesn't have the ability to get a kite off the ground, never mind a movie. And, if they DO have access to money, but don't have the decency to make a small "good faith" payment to you -- say, at least enough to cover your rent for one month -- well, that's not someone you should work with. Ever. Fortunately for me, I didn't fall for the empty flattery of any of those losers -- therefore my script was totally available when a producer with integrity came along who really DID love my script...and who proved it by paying me decent money.
How sad that the "winner" of IndieProducer won't be able to leverage his contest victory by sending his script out to interested agents and producers. Instead, he'll get to celebrate his win by watching his script collect dust for a year. If the prize were a PAID option of a few thousand dollars, at least the writer would have something to show for it -- AND the company would have more incentive to actually make the movie.
Never enter a contest with a FREE OPTION as the award. Trust me, you don't want that booby prize!
This brings me to today's sad topic: an established, formerly respectable screenplay contest that has just been taken off my "mildly recommended" list, and placed on my "avoid" list.
Say it ain't so, IndieProducer. In the past this contest seemed all right. It's run by people who have actually made a couple of films. Their entry fee was a bit high in relation to their modest cash prizes, but it was within acceptable parameters. They had (based on my limited polling of past entrants) a good track record of responding to emails, and generally met their deadlines for announcing winners. Overall, this contest has rated a neutral-to-mildly-positive on my "recommended contests" scale.
Okay, some aspiring writers aren't impressed by cash prizes, and think "exposure" is the only good reason to enter a contest. I respectfully disagree. The folks who think cash prizes are silly are people who have well-paying day jobs and would blow a big cash prize on a new plasma TV or a trip to Hawaii. I, on the other hand, always look at cash prizes in terms of how many months of "room and board" they'll cover for a struggling writer. For instance, in one particularly good month I won $11,000 total from three different screenwriting contests -- $2,500 from a relatively small contest that I won, $2,500 from a pretty big contest in which I was the runner-up, and $6,000 from a prestigious contest that I won. That $11,000 came at a time when I was so broke I couldn't even afford to buy a ream of paper, and was considering taking a temp job to make ends meet. All of a sudden I knew I'd have many many months of stress-free writing. Was that valuable to me? Hell, yeah.
As for "exposure" -- well, very few screenplay contests are SO prestigious that Hollywood actively seeks out the names of the winners. With the exception of the Nicholl Fellowship -- which is so prestigious that winning it, or even placing in the finals, means that your phone will ring non-stop -- when you win a contest, you need to do the work of informing agents and producers about your award. In that regard, pretty much any contest win is helpful, provided that you have an intriguing logline and can write a snappy query letter. Being able to mention in your query letter that the script has won an award is "extra frosting" to tempt the producer into reading it.
But, back to IndieProducer. I noticed that this year, they had changed their prize to an "option" with the production company that runs the contest. Basically, this is a way that a production company can charge a reading fee for considering your screenplay -- by disguising it as a "contest entry fee."
Now, I don't necessarily have a problem with small production companies running contests as a way to find good scripts. Indie companies don't have the resources to pay readers to weed through thousands of unsolicited submissions. Thus, they either "hire" interns to cover scripts for free (an exploitative practice in itself), or they institute a policy of "no unsolicited submissions" and rely on databases like InkTip -- a favorite of bottom-feeding and ultra-low-budget producers -- in their search for decent, cheap material.
The difference between entering a production company's contest, versus simply paying a reading fee to be considered by said production company, is that with a contest, somebody wins. This is important. If a production company simply charges reading fees, they can keep doing that forever with no intention of ever making a film. Reading fees can be their sole source of income. They don't even have to read any scripts; they can just collect the money and throw out the screenplays. On the other hand, if there's a contest involved, the company is legally obligated to pick a winner and give them a prize. And that prize should be something tangible: cash with no strings attached, or a PAID option, or other prizes of real and measurable value. And a respectable production company will award you a prize big enough that (after also paying their readers) the company is basically breaking even on the contest. In other words, the contest is legitimately a way for them to find promising material without going broke -- it's NOT a way for them to make extra income.
Which brings me back to IndieProducer. I had to do a little research (they're not being too forthcoming about the details of their "prize"), but guess what? When asked, they will admit that their prize is an UNPAID option. Yep, that's right. By entering this contest, you get to pay $35-$40 for the chance to win an UNPAID option. (Oh, and you also get a plaque.) This is icky on so many levels I don't know where to begin. Of course, the contest organizers are quick to point out that this is an experienced and respected production company. Yay.
Look: If you've been a screenwriter for any length of time you have producers (including, yes, "established" producers) offer you dollar options all the time. And if you have any sense at all, you turn them down. One of my scripts had seven or eight different producers try to option it for free (well, a buck). I always said no, and continued to enter the script into contests, winning over $18,000 in cash prizes. (By the way, I would've been ineligible for those contests if I'd accepted an option!)
Every time I turned down their free/dollar options, the various producers chided me for passing up such a "great opportunity" to work with people with "solid connections." Don't ever believe that b.s.! A producer with no money and no access to money doesn't have the ability to get a kite off the ground, never mind a movie. And, if they DO have access to money, but don't have the decency to make a small "good faith" payment to you -- say, at least enough to cover your rent for one month -- well, that's not someone you should work with. Ever. Fortunately for me, I didn't fall for the empty flattery of any of those losers -- therefore my script was totally available when a producer with integrity came along who really DID love my script...and who proved it by paying me decent money.
How sad that the "winner" of IndieProducer won't be able to leverage his contest victory by sending his script out to interested agents and producers. Instead, he'll get to celebrate his win by watching his script collect dust for a year. If the prize were a PAID option of a few thousand dollars, at least the writer would have something to show for it -- AND the company would have more incentive to actually make the movie.
Never enter a contest with a FREE OPTION as the award. Trust me, you don't want that booby prize!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Aspiring screenwriter tip #1: It all counts
As some of you know, I've won a whole bunch of screenwriting (and other writing) contests -- enough to cover my rent and basic necessities for several years. A lot of folks claim that writing contests are simply lotteries, and if that's true, I must be one hell of a lucky person. Maybe so; I am Irish, after all.
But if that's true, I'm not the only "lucky" one. If you follow contests, you'll see the same few names crop up over and over in the winners' circles. Meanwhile, the people who swear that contests are "crapshoots" point to the fact that they themselves rarely place in contests, as proof of contests' randomness. I can't help but notice that a whole lot of these very "unlucky" writers also (coincidentally, I'm sure) make a lot of grammatical errors in their message board/blog posts, and betray a certain tone-deafness in terms of sentence flow and style.
"But I'm only writing fast, on the internet! I try much harder to write well when it actually counts!" is the defense these "unlucky" aspiring writers use to explain their jarring and unreadable posts. Well, haste can certainly account for an excusable typo or two. But if your natural inclination when writing is to spew clunky, illogical, unaesthetic sentences rife with errors, you're at a significant disadvantage in the competition to become a professional writer.
To look at it another (perhaps less threatening) way, imagine two aspiring singers:
Person A has a natural sense of pitch, and sounds good even when idly humming to herself or belting out an improptu karaoke performance. Her voice sounds pleasing to the ear. If you overhear her singing along to her iPod, you immediately think "what a lovely voice" and want to hear more. For Person A, it is her voice's natural inclination to be on-key and aesthetically pleasing...she doesn't have to fake it. In fact, she'd have to really "try" to sing badly.
Now consider Person B. Person B really, really wants to be a singer, and feels entitled to a singing career precisely because she wants it so much. Ever since she was little, she's dreamed being rich and famous, and she loves to be the center of attention, so she believes a singing career is her destiny. Person B sounds fairly good when she sings in the shower (at least in her own opinion), but when she gets the chance to sing publicly, her voice tends to break or hit the wrong key. She blames the imperfect performance conditions, and gets frustrated because if only the audience would be silent, if only there were no distractions, if only the songs were more "right" for her range, if only she had more time to warm up, if only the acoustics were the same as in her bathroom...she's certain she could sound almost as good as Person A. Even so, her voice is generally on key, except for a few wince-inducing screeches, and although her voice doesn't have a "nice" tone exactly, it's not altogether awful, either. It is not her voice's natural state to be on key and aesthetically pleasing, but if she's really, really trying and conditions are perfect and the audience isn't too discerning (in other words, if they possess no singing ability themselves), she's passable. She compares herself only to the worst singers, and finds that she compares favorably. She tries to ignore all the singers who are much better than she is, and if she can't ignore them, she rationalizes that they've all been given an unfair advantage by some kind of rigged system.
To become a professional singer, Person A is going to have to put in a tremendous amount of work (years and years), learning to control her breathing, learning to expand her range and volume, learning how to have good stage presence, and many other skills. If she does all that, she might -- might -- have a shot.
So...how much of a chance do you think Person B has?
I have never, ever read a decent script by a person who doesn't write snappy, articulate, properly-punctuated message board posts and emails. Sorry, but you can just tell who can write and who can't, even in a casual setting.
Sure, I know there are those (invariably lazy, illiterate people whose message board posts are riddled with spelling and punctuation errors) who say they can't be bothered writing properly in an email, blog, or message board forum, but who claim to bring their A game "when it counts."
But I don't believe them -- not for a second. You're either a writer all the time, or you aren't. A talented opera singer doesn't default to singing off-key in the shower. Singing on-key comes naturally if she has talent. She still has to work to achieve excellence, but competence is a given!
But if that's true, I'm not the only "lucky" one. If you follow contests, you'll see the same few names crop up over and over in the winners' circles. Meanwhile, the people who swear that contests are "crapshoots" point to the fact that they themselves rarely place in contests, as proof of contests' randomness. I can't help but notice that a whole lot of these very "unlucky" writers also (coincidentally, I'm sure) make a lot of grammatical errors in their message board/blog posts, and betray a certain tone-deafness in terms of sentence flow and style.
"But I'm only writing fast, on the internet! I try much harder to write well when it actually counts!" is the defense these "unlucky" aspiring writers use to explain their jarring and unreadable posts. Well, haste can certainly account for an excusable typo or two. But if your natural inclination when writing is to spew clunky, illogical, unaesthetic sentences rife with errors, you're at a significant disadvantage in the competition to become a professional writer.
To look at it another (perhaps less threatening) way, imagine two aspiring singers:
Person A has a natural sense of pitch, and sounds good even when idly humming to herself or belting out an improptu karaoke performance. Her voice sounds pleasing to the ear. If you overhear her singing along to her iPod, you immediately think "what a lovely voice" and want to hear more. For Person A, it is her voice's natural inclination to be on-key and aesthetically pleasing...she doesn't have to fake it. In fact, she'd have to really "try" to sing badly.
Now consider Person B. Person B really, really wants to be a singer, and feels entitled to a singing career precisely because she wants it so much. Ever since she was little, she's dreamed being rich and famous, and she loves to be the center of attention, so she believes a singing career is her destiny. Person B sounds fairly good when she sings in the shower (at least in her own opinion), but when she gets the chance to sing publicly, her voice tends to break or hit the wrong key. She blames the imperfect performance conditions, and gets frustrated because if only the audience would be silent, if only there were no distractions, if only the songs were more "right" for her range, if only she had more time to warm up, if only the acoustics were the same as in her bathroom...she's certain she could sound almost as good as Person A. Even so, her voice is generally on key, except for a few wince-inducing screeches, and although her voice doesn't have a "nice" tone exactly, it's not altogether awful, either. It is not her voice's natural state to be on key and aesthetically pleasing, but if she's really, really trying and conditions are perfect and the audience isn't too discerning (in other words, if they possess no singing ability themselves), she's passable. She compares herself only to the worst singers, and finds that she compares favorably. She tries to ignore all the singers who are much better than she is, and if she can't ignore them, she rationalizes that they've all been given an unfair advantage by some kind of rigged system.
To become a professional singer, Person A is going to have to put in a tremendous amount of work (years and years), learning to control her breathing, learning to expand her range and volume, learning how to have good stage presence, and many other skills. If she does all that, she might -- might -- have a shot.
So...how much of a chance do you think Person B has?
I have never, ever read a decent script by a person who doesn't write snappy, articulate, properly-punctuated message board posts and emails. Sorry, but you can just tell who can write and who can't, even in a casual setting.
Sure, I know there are those (invariably lazy, illiterate people whose message board posts are riddled with spelling and punctuation errors) who say they can't be bothered writing properly in an email, blog, or message board forum, but who claim to bring their A game "when it counts."
But I don't believe them -- not for a second. You're either a writer all the time, or you aren't. A talented opera singer doesn't default to singing off-key in the shower. Singing on-key comes naturally if she has talent. She still has to work to achieve excellence, but competence is a given!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Lifestyles of the broke and anonymous; or, Why a screenwriting career might not be for you
When I won a Nicholl Fellowship a few years back, I was astonished how many would-be screenwriters asked me questions like: "Are Fellows forced to quit their day job?" "Are Fellows forced to move to Los Angeles?" And my favorite: "How could anyone be expected to live in L.A. on $30,000!?"
(To answer these questions: No -- Fellows aren't forced to quit their day job or move to Los Angeles -- but who the hell wouldn't, if he's serious about exploiting this hard-earned big break? And as for living in L.A. on $30,000...well, actually I managed to make that money stretch for TWO years, as I'd already been surviving in Los Angeles on LESS than $15,000/year [without receiving food stamps or welfare, I hasten to point out to the ever-enraged right-wingers out there]. How did I manage? Well, it wasn't easy, but writing is so essential to me that I'm willing to sacrifice just about anything to do it.)
I frequently run into people who claim that they really, really want to be screenwriters, but they just can't quit their secure 9-to-6 corporate job, and/or they can't move to L.A., until they "make it" as a screenwriter to the extent that writing will support a "comfortable lifestyle." They fantasize that a script they work on for a couple of weekends a month will suddenly sell for a million dollars and presto! -- they'll be a "successful screenwriter" and all their cares will be over.
But these people are not serious writers -- they're wannabes and hobbyists.
The harsh truth is, the vast majority of "professional screenwriters" -- and by this I mean, screenwriters who have sold at least one script or have been hired for at least one paid writing assignment -- will never make another cent from screenwriting. Of course, they can't know they'll never make another cent, so for a few years they'll continue to write full-time, spec after spec, and they'll continue to go to countless pitch meetings, and their reps will continue to send them out for assignment after assignment, with none of these efforts resulting in a sale or paid gig. This is the part that non-screenwriters don't understand when they say things like "When a screenwriter is unemployed, why can't he just go get a day job until he lands another writing job?" The thing is, when a screenwriter is "unemployed," he's not sitting around watching soap operas and waiting for his agent to call. He IS working full-time -- he's just not getting paid for it. He's spending 50 or 60 hours a week writing, and countless other hours on the non-creative "business" side of his writing job. And this unpaid, full-time job will continue until:
a) one of his specs finally finds a buyer,
b) one of his specs happens to be just the right "sample script" that lands him a paid assignment, or,
c) he ends up so deeply in debt that he must "quit screenwriting for a while." (Which usually means quitting for good -- because if a screenwriter isn't continuing to produce new spec scripts, he'll be dropped by his reps, he won't have any new samples to circulate, and he generally won't be considered for open assignments.)
Therefore, even if a screenwriter has just sold a script for "six figures" (which typically translates to about mid-five-figures the screenwriter actually receives), that $40,000 - $60,000 paycheck must not only make up for all the debt the screenwriter has accumulated during his years of toiling away unpaid, but it must also last indefinitely, because the screenwriter has no idea when -- or if -- he will ever be paid again. So he'll need to make every penny count, and will need to live just as frugally after breaking in as he did before breaking in.
That's why, if you can't bear to live frugally, screenwriting is not the career for you!
For true writers and artists, the object isn't to get "rich" or even well-off -- the object is simply to survive to create another day. (Thus the title of this blog.) If your goal is to get rich, you'd be better off doing almost anything else! Most working writers average less per year than retail employees.
In the upcoming months, this blog will offer tips on how to get lots of great things free (such as internet service, college courses, entertainment, and much more), how to eat healthy, tasty food for less than $5/day, and how to re-assess your life to put writing in the forefront. It will even offer tips on your screenwriting career.
Next up: Houdini's last meal.
'Til then,
Stay hungry. But don't starve.
(To answer these questions: No -- Fellows aren't forced to quit their day job or move to Los Angeles -- but who the hell wouldn't, if he's serious about exploiting this hard-earned big break? And as for living in L.A. on $30,000...well, actually I managed to make that money stretch for TWO years, as I'd already been surviving in Los Angeles on LESS than $15,000/year [without receiving food stamps or welfare, I hasten to point out to the ever-enraged right-wingers out there]. How did I manage? Well, it wasn't easy, but writing is so essential to me that I'm willing to sacrifice just about anything to do it.)
I frequently run into people who claim that they really, really want to be screenwriters, but they just can't quit their secure 9-to-6 corporate job, and/or they can't move to L.A., until they "make it" as a screenwriter to the extent that writing will support a "comfortable lifestyle." They fantasize that a script they work on for a couple of weekends a month will suddenly sell for a million dollars and presto! -- they'll be a "successful screenwriter" and all their cares will be over.
But these people are not serious writers -- they're wannabes and hobbyists.
The harsh truth is, the vast majority of "professional screenwriters" -- and by this I mean, screenwriters who have sold at least one script or have been hired for at least one paid writing assignment -- will never make another cent from screenwriting. Of course, they can't know they'll never make another cent, so for a few years they'll continue to write full-time, spec after spec, and they'll continue to go to countless pitch meetings, and their reps will continue to send them out for assignment after assignment, with none of these efforts resulting in a sale or paid gig. This is the part that non-screenwriters don't understand when they say things like "When a screenwriter is unemployed, why can't he just go get a day job until he lands another writing job?" The thing is, when a screenwriter is "unemployed," he's not sitting around watching soap operas and waiting for his agent to call. He IS working full-time -- he's just not getting paid for it. He's spending 50 or 60 hours a week writing, and countless other hours on the non-creative "business" side of his writing job. And this unpaid, full-time job will continue until:
a) one of his specs finally finds a buyer,
b) one of his specs happens to be just the right "sample script" that lands him a paid assignment, or,
c) he ends up so deeply in debt that he must "quit screenwriting for a while." (Which usually means quitting for good -- because if a screenwriter isn't continuing to produce new spec scripts, he'll be dropped by his reps, he won't have any new samples to circulate, and he generally won't be considered for open assignments.)
Therefore, even if a screenwriter has just sold a script for "six figures" (which typically translates to about mid-five-figures the screenwriter actually receives), that $40,000 - $60,000 paycheck must not only make up for all the debt the screenwriter has accumulated during his years of toiling away unpaid, but it must also last indefinitely, because the screenwriter has no idea when -- or if -- he will ever be paid again. So he'll need to make every penny count, and will need to live just as frugally after breaking in as he did before breaking in.
That's why, if you can't bear to live frugally, screenwriting is not the career for you!
For true writers and artists, the object isn't to get "rich" or even well-off -- the object is simply to survive to create another day. (Thus the title of this blog.) If your goal is to get rich, you'd be better off doing almost anything else! Most working writers average less per year than retail employees.
In the upcoming months, this blog will offer tips on how to get lots of great things free (such as internet service, college courses, entertainment, and much more), how to eat healthy, tasty food for less than $5/day, and how to re-assess your life to put writing in the forefront. It will even offer tips on your screenwriting career.
Next up: Houdini's last meal.
'Til then,
Stay hungry. But don't starve.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
All those "L.A. haters...."
Gone is the city, gone the day,
Yet still the story and the meaning stay:
Once where a prophet in the palm shade basked
A traveler chanced at noon to rest his mules.
"What sort of people may they be," he asked,
"In this proud city on the plains o'erspread?"
"Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?"
"What sort?" the packman scowled; "why, knaves and fools."
"You'll find the people here the same," the wise man said.
Another stranger in the dusk drew near,
And pausing, cried, "What sort of people here
In your bright city where yon towers arise?"
"Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?"
"What sort?" the pilgrim smiled,
"Good, true, and wise."
"You'll find the people here the same,"
The wise man said.
-Edwin Markham, "The Right Kind of People"
"L.A. sucks." Right? It’s so very "real" to hate L.A., or at least to declare one's hatred of L.A. It's practically obligatory. Particularly if you don't live here and you deeply resent everyone telling you that if you want to work in Hollywood, moving to L.A. is a MUST.
Granted, we have a lot that's bad here: congestion, crime, pollution, high prices, crazy people, frenzy, chaos, stupidity.
And we have a whole lot that's good: gorgeous weather, jaw-dropping parks, hiking, horseback riding, boating, biking, beaches, open spaces (no, really); world-class museums, concert halls, and universities; tolerance, whimsy, artists, thinkers, doers, genuises. You can meet people from every corner of the world. You can sample the cuisine of every country you can name (and plenty you've never heard of). You can go surfing at sun-up, and ski snow-capped mountains by afternoon.
In other words, we have everything here. And, true to the sentiment in the poem above, I think when a person hates Los Angeles it actually says more about the person than the city.
If you’re intolerant, judgmental, set in your ways, and prone to being unhappy, you will HATE Los Angeles. If you’re nervous and uneasy around People Who Are Different Than You, the immigrants will drive you crazy. The crazy people will drive you crazy. The lack of homogenity and predictability will drive you crazy.
The thing is, I’ve lived in a whole lot of places and found that on the surface anywhere can appear unpleasant. On the surface, the South is vapid and phony. On the surface, the Midwest is conformist and ignorant. On the surface, the Northeast is superior and aloof. On the surface, the West is flighty and self-absorbed. And if you can only see the world in terms of "us" and "them," you’ll never see beyond the surface, no matter where you go, and you'll never realize that all those places are full of folks who are essentially decent, hopeful, hardworking, and honorable.
So, it's normal to be fearful of moving to L.A. But, if you want to be a screenwriter -- if you're really, really, serious about it -- you have to. I'm sorry. But you do.
Is it technically possible to break in from the middle of nowhere? Before you scour Variety for anecdotes about supposed far-flung outsiders who broke in -- (these stories are largely P.R. distortions, by the way) -- yes, it's not unheard of. But understand that these rare stories are the exceptions that prove the rule. And considering the long, long, long odds against breaking in even if you have everything in your favor, why make your chances even worse?
By refusing to move to L.A., you’re hedging your bets. You’re not willing to go to the very limit in the pursuit of your calling. Why? Is it because deep down you know you won’t make it? Because you're not willing to sacrifice your "creature comforts" and financial stability? Because you have a spouse who isn’t entirely supportive? Because you’re not sure this is what you really want?
Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.
See, I don't think this "fear of Los Angeles" thing is really about L.A. at all. I think it's about what L.A. represents. As long as you remain in your small pond, Hollywood is just a fantasy, and your would-be career (much like your purely conceptual World's Greatest Screenplay) exists in the perfect realm of ideals. But if you move here, it means you're really serious about this screenwriting thing. It's not just a daydream any longer -- it's a commitment. And when you commit yourself to something so big, so ambitious, so staggeringly unlikely, you expose yourself to ridicule and rejection. You don't get to be a big fish in the small pond of East Cupcake anymore, boasting of your undiscovered genius, about how you could surely write rings around all those Hollywood hacks and turn the town upside down. Hollywood will put you through the toughest test of your life, and your talent (or lack thereof) won't just be a hypothetical any more.
But at least you'll know.
Los Angeles infamously makes a bad first impression; when you arrive you'll endure one of the world's least convenient airports, from which you'll promptly merge into a stupefying traffic jam. Strip mall after strip mall will scroll past your car like a Hanna-Barbara background. In fact if you stay less than a week or two, you might see nothing but freeways and strip malls. But don't worry; the ugly stuff is just for show. See, if everyone knew how interesting L.A. can be, why, everyone would move here, and there just isn't room. The longer you're here, the more you'll discover that L.A. is really thousands of different little neighborhoods side by side. You'll find the one that fits you. And you don't have to change at all. In a city that has every walk of life, you're accepted as you are.
Yet still the story and the meaning stay:
Once where a prophet in the palm shade basked
A traveler chanced at noon to rest his mules.
"What sort of people may they be," he asked,
"In this proud city on the plains o'erspread?"
"Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?"
"What sort?" the packman scowled; "why, knaves and fools."
"You'll find the people here the same," the wise man said.
Another stranger in the dusk drew near,
And pausing, cried, "What sort of people here
In your bright city where yon towers arise?"
"Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?"
"What sort?" the pilgrim smiled,
"Good, true, and wise."
"You'll find the people here the same,"
The wise man said.
-Edwin Markham, "The Right Kind of People"
"L.A. sucks." Right? It’s so very "real" to hate L.A., or at least to declare one's hatred of L.A. It's practically obligatory. Particularly if you don't live here and you deeply resent everyone telling you that if you want to work in Hollywood, moving to L.A. is a MUST.
Granted, we have a lot that's bad here: congestion, crime, pollution, high prices, crazy people, frenzy, chaos, stupidity.
And we have a whole lot that's good: gorgeous weather, jaw-dropping parks, hiking, horseback riding, boating, biking, beaches, open spaces (no, really); world-class museums, concert halls, and universities; tolerance, whimsy, artists, thinkers, doers, genuises. You can meet people from every corner of the world. You can sample the cuisine of every country you can name (and plenty you've never heard of). You can go surfing at sun-up, and ski snow-capped mountains by afternoon.
In other words, we have everything here. And, true to the sentiment in the poem above, I think when a person hates Los Angeles it actually says more about the person than the city.
If you’re intolerant, judgmental, set in your ways, and prone to being unhappy, you will HATE Los Angeles. If you’re nervous and uneasy around People Who Are Different Than You, the immigrants will drive you crazy. The crazy people will drive you crazy. The lack of homogenity and predictability will drive you crazy.
The thing is, I’ve lived in a whole lot of places and found that on the surface anywhere can appear unpleasant. On the surface, the South is vapid and phony. On the surface, the Midwest is conformist and ignorant. On the surface, the Northeast is superior and aloof. On the surface, the West is flighty and self-absorbed. And if you can only see the world in terms of "us" and "them," you’ll never see beyond the surface, no matter where you go, and you'll never realize that all those places are full of folks who are essentially decent, hopeful, hardworking, and honorable.
So, it's normal to be fearful of moving to L.A. But, if you want to be a screenwriter -- if you're really, really, serious about it -- you have to. I'm sorry. But you do.
Is it technically possible to break in from the middle of nowhere? Before you scour Variety for anecdotes about supposed far-flung outsiders who broke in -- (these stories are largely P.R. distortions, by the way) -- yes, it's not unheard of. But understand that these rare stories are the exceptions that prove the rule. And considering the long, long, long odds against breaking in even if you have everything in your favor, why make your chances even worse?
By refusing to move to L.A., you’re hedging your bets. You’re not willing to go to the very limit in the pursuit of your calling. Why? Is it because deep down you know you won’t make it? Because you're not willing to sacrifice your "creature comforts" and financial stability? Because you have a spouse who isn’t entirely supportive? Because you’re not sure this is what you really want?
Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.
See, I don't think this "fear of Los Angeles" thing is really about L.A. at all. I think it's about what L.A. represents. As long as you remain in your small pond, Hollywood is just a fantasy, and your would-be career (much like your purely conceptual World's Greatest Screenplay) exists in the perfect realm of ideals. But if you move here, it means you're really serious about this screenwriting thing. It's not just a daydream any longer -- it's a commitment. And when you commit yourself to something so big, so ambitious, so staggeringly unlikely, you expose yourself to ridicule and rejection. You don't get to be a big fish in the small pond of East Cupcake anymore, boasting of your undiscovered genius, about how you could surely write rings around all those Hollywood hacks and turn the town upside down. Hollywood will put you through the toughest test of your life, and your talent (or lack thereof) won't just be a hypothetical any more.
But at least you'll know.
Los Angeles infamously makes a bad first impression; when you arrive you'll endure one of the world's least convenient airports, from which you'll promptly merge into a stupefying traffic jam. Strip mall after strip mall will scroll past your car like a Hanna-Barbara background. In fact if you stay less than a week or two, you might see nothing but freeways and strip malls. But don't worry; the ugly stuff is just for show. See, if everyone knew how interesting L.A. can be, why, everyone would move here, and there just isn't room. The longer you're here, the more you'll discover that L.A. is really thousands of different little neighborhoods side by side. You'll find the one that fits you. And you don't have to change at all. In a city that has every walk of life, you're accepted as you are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
