Inside the Room

by Linda Venis

  A “semi-arc” series like Castle shoots for the best of both worlds. Its stand-alone episodes can be enjoyed individually, even by a new viewer who knows nothing about the show. At the same time, its arcs allow the writers to develop characters, evolve relationships, tell more intricate stories, create suspense, and keep long-term fans hooked.

  You may be thinking, Hold on. I’m just writing a pilot here, for a series that’ll be semi-arc at most. Do I need to figure out every last detail of my show’s arcs in advance and set them all up in my pilot?

  Relax; you don’t need to do that. However, you might want to give thought to possible arcs for your series as well as possible episode ideas; doing so will help you figure out what your series is about, and that in turn will help you map out your pilot.

  If a particular arc has a grabber of a beginning that’s too good not to include in your pilot, then put it in! But if it’s merely backstory—planting seeds that won’t sprout until later—don’t include it just for the sake of completeness.

  You can also hint at an arc to follow. In the Castle pilot, Castle intuits that Beckett has a traumatic, unsolved crime in her past, but we don’t learn the specifics until episode 5, and the arc doesn’t kick into high gear until several episodes later. Castle’s discovery in the pilot adds depth and motivation to Beckett’s character—worthwhile even if the series never followed it up. But it also teases the audience with the notion that Beckett’s mystery may get explored later in the series.

  How much does your series arc, and how much of that arc do you need to plant in your pilot?

  Are There One Hundred Episodes in My Series?

  Network executives frequently ask during TV series pitches, “Does this show have a hundred episodes in it?”

  A bit of history: In the Olden Days of Television, a series usually wasn’t profitable for its producing studio until it had made one hundred episodes. A series with fewer episodes than that was far less lucrative in the syndicated TV market, because shows in syndicated reruns often aired five times a week. One hundred episodes would last for twenty weeks without a repeat, but a show canceled after twenty-four episodes wouldn’t even last five weeks.

  The first-run and syndication markets have changed drastically since then, so the hundred-episode benchmark is now neither as significant nor as accurate; eighty-eight is a more frequently heard “magic number” today. But regardless of the number, the underlying question is the same: What is the natural lifespan of your series? Is it a rich enough franchise and a solid enough premise to generate several seasons’ worth of episodes, or will it run out of steam after a season or two?

  Don’t fret; nobody’s expecting a list of all one hundred stories. And many series concepts are inherently so prolific that the question’s easily answered. (The Law and Order “ripped from the headlines”–type shows won’t run out of stories as long as there are headlines.)

  But there are plenty of series concepts where it isn’t immediately obvious how (or if!) the show will yield a hundred episodes. For that matter, there are pilots out there that deliver excellent writing, intriguing characters, and compelling drama—but give little or no clue what the series will be like over the next six episodes, much less a hundred.

  Here’s one way to test the “longevity” of your series premise. Set aside an hour and brainstorm episode ideas. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate—just simple, one-line concepts. Don’t worry if they’re any good. Don’t worry if they’re original. (In fact, go for the “obvious” stories. Our brains often need to churn out all the obvious ideas before they can get to the less-obvious ones. Besides, an “obvious” idea might freshen right up with a little mix-and-match…later.)

  Just come up with as many “story starters” as you possibly can. For example, let’s say the series premise is “humans establish a colony on a distant planet.” Off the top of my head:

  Severe drought. Crops die. Food rationed. Tensions mount.

  Second ship brings more colonists. Our colonists, already struggling, don’t want them.

  Colonist is murdered. Colony splits over what to do with alleged murderer.

  Discover that the “uninhabited” planet isn’t. Alien life forms pop up and say “go away.”

  Scientist claims planet’s sun is about to go nova. All must evacuate. Most don’t believe and refuse.

  Plague lays most colonists low. Healthy few are overworked, overstressed.

  Alien shape-shifter invades colony.

  Evil megacorporation “buys” planet, wants to evict colonists.

  Interstellar war breaks out; planet is in a strategic location; colonists want to stay neutral but are pressured to take sides.

  Colony strikes “oil” or equivalent; everyone becomes rich.

  Alien bacteria in water supply alters colonists’ behavior. All turn violent. Or…all lose inhibitions. Some get violent, some get romantic, etc.

  Colonists discover (too late) that an alien plant is a highly addictive drug.

  And so forth. Yes, they’re vague, obvious, derivative, you name it; that’s not the point. The point is that in less than ten minutes, I was able to spit out a dozen of them—and, good or bad, any of them could be hammered into a workable episode. This indicates that the premise has “legs.”

  Let’s try the same exercise on another premise: “An elite squad of mountaineering rangers patrols Rocky Mountain National Park.” Hmm. Well…

  Squad performs thrilling rescue of a stranded mountain climber.

  Squad must find and rescue lost climber/hiker before nightfall/freezing temperatures.

  Squad deals with avalanche.

  Small plane crashes into mountain; squad must find/rescue.

  Dunno about you, but I’m already struggling. How many variations are there on “daring mountainside rescue”? I can’t see twenty episodes here, much less a hundred…and if this premise went to series, I suspect it would soon get radically changed to “open it up” for more stories. (“Squad encounters Bigfoot! Squad finds lost city of Shangri-la! Squad gets transferred to Malibu to become surfer lifeguards!”)

  See how many episode notions you can come up with for your series. If you can’t hit double digits within an hour, take a second look at your premise to see what’s holding you back.

  Who Are My Characters?

  Pilots live or die by their characters, because so does television. Series characters become family. You invite them into your home each week; you care about their conflicts. You don’t necessarily have to like them—a depraved villain can be just as fascinating as an upright hero—but you must want to see what they do next.

  Strong, distinctive, quirky, recognizable, surprising, watchable characters will keep an audience solidly hooked even if the stories are overly familiar or weakly plotted. Fresh, unique characters make old stories new again—because even if we’ve seen a particular plot a hundred times, we’ll still be interested to see how it will affect these specific people.

  This is why, for example, the “oddball detective” genre stays popular. By and large, the audience doesn’t tune in to see what clever clues and intricate mysteries the writers concoct every week; they tune in for the fun of watching that particular detective solve the case in his/her own inimitable fashion.

  (Here’s a thought experiment: take a mystery plot—any mystery plot—from any show at random. Now imagine that same plot as an episode on other detective shows—Castle, Elementary, Monk, Bones, Columbo, Psych—pick your favorites. Same crime, same clues, same solution—yet the resulting episodes would be as diverse as their protagonists.)

  Your characters are the most important ingredient in your mix-and-match. Bring them to life. Make them demand our attention. Make us believe in them and care about them—and you’re halfway home.

  How Do I Develop Characters?

  There’s a school of thought that says before you can write your characters, you must know their backstories inside and out. Some people suggest you fill out character sheets
listing their family histories, places they’ve lived, college majors, political leanings, religious affiliations, employment histories, favorite foods, books, music, clothes, pets…you name it.

  Try it. If it works for you, great!

  But it’s not the only way to bring your characters to life. Personally, I don’t find that assembling a long list of facts helps me know my characters any better, and here’s why:

  I’m writing television. Unlike a novelist, I can’t get into my characters’ heads (well, not unless we hear their thoughts in voice-over, and that gets old fast). In a script, I can only describe what a character says and does. As a result, when I create characters, I focus on just that: what they’ll say and do in a given situation.

  Example: Let’s create a character named Sam. A lawyer, age thirty, single. First scene in our hypothetical pilot: Sam comes home to a modest downtown apartment in a big city, drops briefcase on sofa, kicks off shoes, and pours himself a drink. (Sam’s just been ignominiously fired from the law firm, but we don’t want to reveal that until a later scene.)

  You ask, “What does Sam drink? Beer, wine, whiskey? And what brand?” I respond, “Well…does it matter what Sam drinks? Do we get much insight into Sam by knowing the beverage and the brand? I’m more curious about how Sam drinks. For instance, let’s try it two ways….”

  Sam enters kitchen. Opens a wine refrigerator full of bottles. Looks them over judiciously. Carefully removes an expensive vintage from a lower shelf. Opens it with a corkscrew—and takes a long, deep swig right from the bottle.

  Or flip it around: Sam enters kitchen. Takes crystal wineglass from cupboard. Notices spot on glass; meticulously wipes it clean. Opens wine refrigerator. It’s empty. Opens regular refrigerator. Nothing but milk, eggs, leftover takeout boxes. Rummages in pantry; finds a tiny airline-size bottle, opens screw top, pours red wine into glass. Swirls wine in glass, holds it up, eyes its color, gives it a sniff. Looks out window, raises glass to city skyline in a silent toast. Takes a sip, savors it, swallows.

  Two variations on the same basic scene: Sam drinks red wine. However, describing how Sam drinks (not just what Sam drinks) gives us different insights into the character.

  Another method of creating distinctive characters: Think of real-life people—friends, family, acquaintances, or even people you’ve only encountered once. Who sticks in your mind? Who among them could you write into a scene?

  For example, maybe you’ve got a distant cousin you rarely see but vividly recall because she’s so gleefully outspoken; she’ll say anything to anyone, and usually does. Sometimes you wish you had her devil-may-care fearlessness; other times you wish she’d grow up.

  Now drop your cousin into situations and imagine how she’d respond. Some jerk yells catcalls at her? She’d verbally cut him to ribbons. Some bureaucrat tries to wrap her in red tape? She’d stand on his desk and become such a pest that she’d get her way. She’s supposed to say a few brief words at a funeral? She’d deliver an honest, impromptu eulogy both hilarious and touching.

  And even though you may not know much about your cousin—her college major or her favorite music or what jobs she’s had—it doesn’t matter. You can imagine her speech and behavior well enough to write her in any of those scenes, and they’d be entertaining to watch. Despite not knowing the underlying psychological reasons why she’s the way she is, you can picture what she’d say and do in various contexts.

  When you need an outspoken character, imagine your cousin—or, more precisely, those facets of your cousin’s behavior that you can transplant onto your character. They may be vastly different people—your cousin might be young, skinny, tattooed, and blue-collar, whereas your character might be male, white-collar, gay, whatever—but if they have similar attitudes and actions, thinking about your cousin will help you bring your character to life.

  Help! My Characters Are Flat!

  We talk of making our characters “real” and “rounded” so that they “pop off the page.” One way of doing that is to acknowledge that people have many sides and many personas; they’re never just one thing. Writing simplistic stereotypes does your characters and the audience a disservice.

  You can combat this by considering your character’s traits—and adding a but to each. Fred’s a corrupt, greedy politician—but he genuinely loves his family and would die to protect them. Kristin’s a shy, introverted lab technician—but she writes steamy erotic fan fiction under a pseudonym. Yoshi’s a vegan and a peace activist—but she becomes dangerously aggressive behind the wheel of a car.

  People are complicated. Characters shouldn’t be one-note.

  Even your most minor character should be distinctive. Any character important enough to speak is important enough to give a personality and an attitude. Generic characters are dull characters.

  Every interaction between two characters, no matter how small, presents an opportunity to reveal new information about them both. Why squander those opportunities?

  Let’s return to Sam, our laid-off lawyer. Later in our pilot, Sam goes to a bar to meet a potential (and desperately needed) new client, who never shows up. While waiting, Sam has too many drinks, which leads to a stupid move by Sam in the following scene.

  The bar scene could start like this:

  Sam sits at the bar. A BARTENDER asks, “What can I get you?” Sam replies, “Scotch. Straight up.” Bartender: “Right away.”

  Quick, simple, and utterly boring. It’s the sort of bland setup scene that gets edited out after the first rough cut. Try it this way instead:

  Sam sits at the bar. The bartender—BRIANNA, 40ish, friendly—grins. “Sam! Long time. How goes the ambulance chasing? You want coffee? I’ll start a fresh pot.” Sam barely looks at her: “Scotch. Straight up.” Brianna’s taken aback: “You sure?” Sam repeats, “Scotch. Straight up.” Brianna shrugs, heads to the well. “Comin’ up.”

  Yes, it’s longer, and it’s still a nonessential scene we might trim out later—but at least the bartender’s now a character instead of a prop, and we imply that Sam used to be on the wagon but has now fallen off.

  Drama is about characters—their goals, challenges, virtues, and flaws. Richer characters make richer drama.

  Premise or Nonpremise Pilot?

  You’ve got a solid franchise, an intriguing premise, an overview of your show’s arcs, and some fascinating characters. Now you need to decide if your pilot will be a premise pilot.

  A premise pilot explains how the series premise gets started. It’s your show’s origin story: How the Superhero Got His/Her Powers…or How All These People Crash-Landed on This Island…or How a Nerdy Salesman Began a Life of Espionage and Adventure…or How Holmes and Watson Met and Became a Team.

  If it must be the first episode aired because it sets up all the others, it’s a premise pilot.

  In contrast, a nonpremise pilot, also called a prototype pilot, doesn’t delve into origins; instead, it’s a typical episode of the series, with the franchise, premise, and characters already up and running. It doesn’t have to air first; it could just as easily be episode 3 or 4 or 6 or 8.

  There are huge advantages to writing a nonpremise pilot. Because a premise pilot is busily setting up the series, it isn’t a representative episode of the show. By jumping right in, a nonpremise pilot is a much better sample of the series.

  Moreover, premise pilots are often less interesting than what follows. They’re like driving to Disneyland: No matter how entertaining the journey might be, the real fun doesn’t begin until we arrive. In a nonpremise pilot, we’re already there, riding Space Mountain.

  Ask yourself, “What’s the heart of my show? What’s the fun, the ‘good stuff’ that my audience will tune in to see every week? And in my pilot, when does that good stuff start?”

  If the good stuff doesn’t start until the end of your pilot—or, worse still, episode 2—rethink your pilot.

  If your pilot must be a premise pilot, get to the good stuff as soon as you can.

/>   Don’t sneak up on it. Don’t obsess about the setup. Don’t feel you have to introduce every single character before the fun starts. If your pilot story kicks off the series by turning your main character’s world upside down, spend as little time as possible setting up the character’s ordinary, right-side-up world.

  Cut to the chase. The best way to do that is to write a nonpremise pilot. The second-best way is to write a premise pilot with absolute minimal setup. If it’s a fish-out-of-water pilot, get your fish out of the water fast.

  Time to write!

  Okay, I’m Writing. Any Tips?

  Well done! You’ve got your premise and your characters firmly in hand and you’re writing away. A few suggestions:

  Reread chapters 1 and 2. Plotting a story and writing a teleplay are the same processes whether it’s your own series or someone else’s, so I won’t repeat what’s been so ably covered already. Well, actually, I’m lying, because I am going to repeat one thing from chapter 2:

  Rewrite. Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. Get plenty of feedback, take what’s useful, and make your script better. Resist the temptation to send it out when you know it still needs “a little polishing.” Your scripts are your calling cards. Don’t be sloppy. Get them right. The following chapter, “Revising One-Hour Drama Specs and Pilots,” will give you strategies the pros use to improve their scripts. And speaking of feedback:

  Have fresh eyes read your teleplay. I would hope you have several trusted “beta readers”—fellow writers willing to read your work and give you clear, honest reactions. Perhaps you’ll invite a few to help you break your pilot story; perhaps you’ll run your outline past them as well. My advice: Keep one or two of your beta readers out of the process until the teleplay stage; their feedback will be much more useful if they know nothing whatsoever about your series before they read your pilot script.