Inside the Room

by Linda Venis

  Scene by Scene: Ask First, Write Later

  I mentioned above that we all hit points in a script where a scene just doesn’t work. While embracing the fact that this will happen and realizing that your reaction to this curveball is where the real writing takes place, let me give you a series of questions to ask before you begin each scene that may minimize the number of times you find yourself squeezed.

  I’ve been employing this list in one form or another since day one of my career. When I started out as a TV writer, I literally codified it into what I called “scene sheets,” forms that I filled out before I attacked each scene in a script. By now the list is burned into my brain and I don’t use the sheets, but to this day I look at the scene paragraph in my outline and make little notes: reminders, directions, and changes to help me write the best scene I can.

  If it works for me, there’s no reason it shouldn’t work for you, right? So here goes.

  Why does this scene exist? Does it reveal new information, thus advancing the story? Does it set up expectations for what’s going to happen later in the script, and does it propel us into the next scene? Is the scene related to theme? Could the information it does contain be covered by dialogue in another scene? Most importantly: If it wasn’t here, would we miss it? There are usually a couple of scenes in an outline that fail this test. Save them for your next script.

  Are the characters in this scene necessary? This point seems obvious, but sometimes it’s not. Just because two characters have been hanging out for the last couple of acts doesn’t mean they still have to be together in this next scene. Just because a character lives with a roommate doesn’t mean the roommate has to be home. Basically, if you find that characters are just standing around, not saying or doing anything important, get rid of them. I learned this lesson on the first show I ran, when I found myself trying to explain to an actor his function in a scene we were shooting. In fact, he had no reason to be there. But he was, so I gave him a gun and that made him happy. It would have been easier if I’d caught the fact that he was superfluous at the script stage.

  Does the scene have adequate conflict? I know I’ve mentioned this before, but this question is one that I answer for every scene in every script I write. I literally write conflict next to the scene in my outline, then briefly indicate what that conflict is. Make sure each scene you write has conflict and that it’s important to the story. Enough said.

  Is it clear what the person driving the scene wants? This has to be clear for a number of reasons: We have to know what he wants in order to understand where the story is going; you have to know what he wants to put impediments in his way. On the set, the most common question you’ll hear from an actor is “What’s my motivation?” If you can’t answer that at the script stage, you sure won’t be able to answer it on the set. And giving the actor a gun doesn’t always fix the problem.

  Where is the scene located? Is the scene you’re about to write in a typical and appropriate location? Is it in a set that’s used often? If it’s out in the “real world”—in a place necessary to your script but not a location your show normally visits—is the location fully taken advantage of? To show you really know what you’re doing, try to get back to that location one or two more times during your story. You’d have to anyway if you were shooting so that the production company could justify the expense of traveling there. Write like a pro and someone might mistake you for one.

  Is the scene an act out? If so, does it leave the reader hanging, barely able to contain her enthusiasm until she turns the page? Does it raise the stakes? Does it truly propel the story into the next act? If not, you need a better act out!

  Is the scene part of a B or C story? If so, is it related to the A story by theme? Does it reinforce or provide insight into other elements of the A story? If the answer is no—if it’s a freestanding story line—is it balanced correctly against the number of A story scenes? Usually, a B story, and especially a C story, will only have one scene per act. At most, two.

  Is there something surprising about the scene? This question is my favorite. It’s not really a formal aspect of scenes you hear talked about very often, but it’s worth a thought. Another way to put the question would be: Is there something you find particularly cool about the scene? Something you think the reader will remember later? Or is there a reversal in the scene: Did you skillfully lead the audience into thinking one thing was going to happen, then surprise them with a different outcome? It’s not a goal for every scene, obviously, but it can make a good scene.

  There you have it—the sum total of what I can tell you about writing the first draft of your spec. Stop paying attention to me and get back to writing. I’ll see you on the other side.

  Writing Your Second Draft

  Time for another round of congratulations! You did it. You really did it: You wrote the script. And you know what you get to do to celebrate?

  Write a second draft.

  These words leave a bad taste in most working writers’ mouths, because they’re associated with notes and calls from studios and networks and subsequent pained attempts to make sense of what was said while at the same time trying to remember what made you want to write the script in the first place. In this instance, however, you should move forward without trepidation: The only notes you’re going to get are coming from yourself. But first things first: You have a very important task to undertake before any reading or rewriting takes place, and that brings us to the subject of our next section.

  Gain Some Perspective

  Now, I know you followed my advice and avoided the temptation of rereading your script as you wrote it. Now’s your chance to try again. Put your script in a drawer. Go away for the weekend. Get back to the gym. Again, not being on a show, facing a deadline, means you have the luxury of gaining some precious distance from your script, and this will make a critical difference when you finally read it. It’s a well-known fact that it’s easier to identify areas of concern in other people’s scripts than in your own; putting your script down for a couple of days will help you be (a little) more objective when you pick it up again.

  The good news is, I have something for you to do in your time off: Watch more TV. Specifically, check back in on your show and make sure nothing big has happened while you were off writing. I know I sound paranoid, but humor me. Get back up to speed. Then, when you can’t take the suspense any longer, take a deep breath…and take the next step.

  Read Your Script!

  At last, the long-awaited moment is here. Find an hour, close the door, and pick that baby up. Make sure you have the time to read it all in one sitting, and make sure you have a pen in your hand. You’re going to want to make some notes.

  The first thing you’re liable to notice is that the script is too long. Most first drafts are—there are usually more beats in an outline than are needed. If you had a showrunner or network they might even have told you that, but with the story all crammed in your head, it’s often hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. At this point, though, its being long is actually an advantage. Why? Because you’re going to want to trim and tighten, and that will drop page count. Making a script better usually involves making it shorter. Funny how that works.

  So read your script. Write little notes—trims, dialogue improvements, inspirations—right on the script as you go. Bigger ideas can go on the back of the last page: If a character went here, you could drop the scene where he went there; there are too many scenes without the lead in the third act; that romantic attraction seems forced—stuff like that. Work your way to the end, then sit back and ask yourself how you enjoyed the read. I hope you think the script was pretty good. Most writers like their first drafts; the tormented-writer thing you hear so much about comes later in the process. And, honestly, if you hate it, then the issues are more fundamental (perhaps a career in accounting doesn’t seem so bad after all). So let’s say the script was pretty good.

  Now you need to evaluate your notes. If they’re
mostly the ones you wrote on the pages, then have at them, remembering that your constant goal is to tighten, to cut the scenes down to the bare minimum that keeps the story moving. Could you enter a scene later or leave it earlier? Could some of your dialogue be left unsaid? Keep one of my favorite writing words in mind: velocity.

  When it comes to the larger notes, the ones you wrote on the back, I suggest you sit with those for a day. If some of them are fairly substantial structural changes, or ones involving adding or dropping characters, you might even want to go back and move things around in your outline, “seeing” how things would look before you actually tear into the script. My guess is, though, that your structure is solid—we’ve certainly spent enough time going over it—and that your bigger notes have mostly to do with scenes that somehow just “don’t work.” They feel unsatisfactory—boring, or confusing, or out of character. In that case, I suggest you go back to the categories we discussed earlier in the chapter. Whether you’re looking at the entire act or just a scene, ask yourself those questions again:

  Why does this scene exist?

  Are the characters in this scene necessary?

  Does the scene have adequate conflict?

  Is it clear what the person driving the scene wants?

  Is there something surprising about the scene?

  If the scene is an act out, is it a cliffhanger?

  When you’re done answering the questions, it’s back to the script again. Implement your notes. Do that rewrite. Remember your goal: This script should seem like a “lost episode” of the show you chose. Don’t quit until it does.

  Write—Write—Keep Writing!

  I only have two more pieces of advice for you, and they both concern what you should do when you’re finished with this spec. Really finished, as in you’ve gotten feedback from everyone you know, written one or two or ten more drafts, spell-checked the heck out of the script, and released it into the wild. What do you do then?

  First, the long answer: Continue to learn your craft. Luckily, part of that means watching a lot more TV, but you also need to read scripts—lots of them. The Writers Guild of America website can point you toward some, and so can Google. You would also be well served to find some other writers to hang out with: A lot of people I’ve worked with have at one time or another been members of writers’ groups. Ex-students of mine have formed them after every class I’ve taught. And speaking of classes—take some! UCLA Extension Writers’ Program is a tremendous resource; in the hour-long drama field, you can take ten-week classes devoted to any and every step of the TV writing process, from outline to script to pitch to pilot.

  That was the long answer. My guess is you already know the short answer: What do you really need to do next? Write. In my career, that has always been the answer to problems I’ve faced. Too much work to do in too short a time? Write. Stuck writing crime shows even though your real interest is sci-fi? Write. Been out of work for a year? Write. Want to break into the business? Write. I hope this chapter has helped you on that journey, and I’ll see you in Starbucks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Writing the One-Hour Drama Pilot

  by Richard Manning

  Now that you’ve taken the lessons of chapters 1 and 2 to heart and written an excellent one-hour spec for an existing one-hour drama series, it’s time to relax, take a deep breath, enjoy a beverage…

  …and start thinking about writing a one-hour pilot.

  Why? Because you need more than one sample in your portfolio…and more than one kind of sample.

  Consider the readers of your samples: showrunners, agents, producers, and executives. Some will prefer “originals,” some will prefer episodic specs, and some will want to see both. (When I’m looking to hire writers, I always like to read both.)

  The more samples you have, the better, especially when you’re starting out. Let’s say you’ve found a producer willing to read your stuff, so you offer to send the brilliant spec episode of Homeland you’ve slaved over. Here are some possible responses:

  “I’d rather read an original. I can’t tell much about a writer from an episodic spec. What else ya got?”

  “Well, okay, I’ll read it, but I’m not at all familiar with that show, so…what else ya got?”

  “Homeland? Nah, I can’t stand that show. What else ya got?”

  “I love Homeland. Send it.” (Reads it, then:) “Terrific script. You nailed it. It really felt like a Homeland episode. But my show, a sci-fi action romp, is nothing at all like Homeland. What else ya got?”

  (Or:)

  (Reads it, then:) ‘“Solid script, but I’ve read three other Homeland specs just as good, so I’m on the fence about you. What else ya got?”

  If your answer is “Nothing,” you’re at a disadvantage. The producer might think, One script’s all you’ve written? That’s not much practice. Yes, it’s terrific—but for all I know, it took a year to write, and I need writers who are both talented and fast.

  But if your answer is “I’ve also got a pilot,” you’re proving that you aren’t a one-hit wonder.

  (Of course, it’s better still if you can reply, “I’ve got a pilot and two other episodic specs and a feature!” The more prolific you are, the more you demonstrate that you’re a hard worker who’s serious about this writing stuff.)

  A pilot allows you to show off your own voice as a writer. With an episodic spec, you’re demonstrating that you can write someone else’s show and harmonize with someone else’s voice—but an original pilot is 100 percent you.

  In this chapter, I’ll guide you through the creation of a one-hour dramatic pilot. I’ll share some of what I’ve learned not only from creating a television series, writing three pilots, and writing/producing shows such as Farscape, Star Trek: The Next Generation, TekWar, Sliders, Fame, and many more, but also from the TV writing courses I’ve taught at UCLA Extension. I’ll help you choose a subject, brainstorm ideas, develop a franchise and a premise, and create fresh and original characters—all the ingredients you’ll need to write your pilot.

  Let’s begin!

  Writing Your Pilot

  The first question, of course, is:

  What Should I Write?

  Hey, it’s your pilot! Write anything you like.

  Yes, I know that doesn’t help much. How about this: Write something you can get excited about.

  That might seem like “Well, duh” advice, but trust me—plenty of pilots out there read as if they were written by Marketplace-Analyzing Robots. “Hmm. Procedurals usually do well. Spunky young heroines with attitude and tattoos are all the rage. And several studios are developing postapocalyptic shows, so networks must still be buying them. I therefore conclude that a series about a young, tattooed woman who analyzes crime scenes in a near-future Hunger Games–type world is precisely what I should write.”

  Now, maybe you’re thinking, Hmm, call me crazy, but I actually kinda like that idea! That show could be cool if they did it right! But that’s my point: If you can truly get excited about the idea, then—by all means—go and write it!

  However, if the idea doesn’t get your heart racing, and the main reason you’re pursuing it is that you’ve coldly calculated that someone else might like it, chances are that attitude will show through in your material, and it’ll read as flat and manipulative.

  Remember Jean Giraudoux’s classic quote: “The secret of success is sincerity. Once you can fake that you’ve got it made.” The problem is that very few writers can successfully fake sincerity.

  Why even try? Write honestly. Write from the heart. Write what you want to see, not what you think others might want to see. Come up with ideas you can get excited about.

  Note that I’ve phrased it “ideas you can get excited about” rather than “ideas that excite you right on the spot.” Not all ideas jump up and grab you the moment they’re born; often, a new concept needs to be developed before it sets your imagination on fire.

  That’s a phenomenon I call “there’s s
omething there, but.” An idea’s caught my eye and I’m interested…but I’m not in love with it yet. Maybe it sounds too vague, or too ordinary, or too familiar, or too uninspired….

  Don’t discard those half-baked ideas. Set them aside, let them marinate in your subconscious for a while, and come back later for a fresh look. What is it about the idea that appeals to you, however slightly? What’s the “something there” that seems to have possibilities? Toss that “something” around in your head. Mix it up with other ideas. Push it in several different directions.

  Take a walk or grab a coffee with a friend or significant other and kick the idea around between you; a fresh perspective might help you make a vague idea click into place. I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat in a TV writers’ room with several other scribes, all fussing over an idea that seems promising but isn’t there yet. Sooner or later, one thought will sound half-decent, and that’ll spark someone else’s thought that sounds better still, and that’ll inspire yet another thought that winds us up, and faster and faster we go until—snap! Now we’ve got it! That’s what we were looking for! What a terrific idea!

  Talking over an idea with someone, even if they have nothing to contribute but a sympathetic ear, will often help you clarify what you like (and don’t like) about the idea. I know that sometimes writers think, “My work is my art and my soul, hence I must do this entirely alone, or else I’m cheating.” Untrue…and particularly untrue in television writing, which is as collaborative as it gets.