Inside the Room
Page 9
Come up with a great title. It’s the first thing readers see when they pick up your script. Put some effort into it. A distinctive title that grabs attention is much better than a generic title that could apply to a thousand other works. Short, sweet, and intriguing is also better than long and on-the-nose. (For the series Justified, I’ll bet titles like Raylan Givens, US Marshal, and Deputy Givens, and My Old Kentucky Home were considered and discarded. The show’s working title, by the way, was Lawman.)
Conclusion
An episodic spec shows that your writing is professional…and a pilot shows that your writing is unique.
Be unique. Be bold. Be passionate. Be original. Above all, be yourself.
In the writers’ room, once a story’s been broken and an outline’s been network-approved and a writer’s being sent off to write a teleplay, the showrunner’s parting advice invariably includes the suggestion to “have fun with it!”
Fun? thinks the writer. We’re over budget and behind schedule; the story break was rushed and the outline’s got problems; I’ve got to grind out a teleplay in less than a week—and I’m supposed to have fun with it?
Well…yes! When you’re slogging through a recalcitrant act 2, it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that you’re creating a television show! Telling stories, concocting plots, giving birth to characters, spinning worlds of make-believe—it should be fun, shouldn’t it?
Therefore, my parting advice to you, fellow writer, is to work hard, get it right…but at the same time, don’t forget to…
“Have fun with it!”
CHAPTER 4
Revising One-Hour Drama Specs and Pilots
by Matt Witten
So you’ve finished your first draft and even done some rewriting. Mazel tov! My advice to you now is:
Don’t change a word! It’s perfect!
Just kidding. The only TV writer who does perfect first drafts is David E. Kelley, who created Ally McBeal, Boston Legal, Harry’s Law, and a zillion other TV shows. Not only that, he’s married to one of the world’s most gorgeous women. And if that weren’t annoying enough, he’s reputed to be a nice guy.
But for the rest of us mere mortals, life doesn’t work that way. In my ten years of writing for TV shows like House M.D., Law and Order, and Pretty Little Liars, I’ve never seen a first draft that didn’t need revising. I’ve seen very talented writers turn in dreck. I’ve done it myself. So join the party!
My serious advice, which I’ve given to hundreds of students at UCLA Extension, is: Do take a moment to pat yourself on the back. You’ve written a complete draft. The world is full of people who call themselves writers but don’t write. You, however, are now officially a writer (definition of writer: one who writes). Finishing a draft of an hour-long show isn’t easy, as you’re fully aware at this point, but you’ve done it.
Now what?
I’m going to give you twenty-seven suggestions. The first six are about process—how to prep yourself and think your script through before you even sit down at your computer. The next twenty-one are nitty-gritty suggestions to guide you during the actual rewriting.
The Writer’s Process Before Rewriting
These six suggestions are fundamentally about ways to help you get a new perspective on your script.
1. Take a Break
Put your first draft aside for a while. You want to come back to it fresh. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself spending hours debating whether or not to delete a comma. You won’t be able to look with a new perspective at the larger issues in the script. Some people need only a day for their brains to rest; others need a week. Give yourself as much time as feels right.
On the other hand, some of my Writers’ Program students have been procrastinators who have trouble finishing things. If that’s true of you, then I strongly suggest that you don’t wait longer than two weeks, because you might lose your momentum. Get yourself back to the computer. Turn off the Internet. Turn on some Encouraging Music.
2. Get Feedback
Imbibe other people’s fresh perspectives. You’re looking for folks you can trust to be honest about what’s not working. Ideally, they’re writers too, or they have experience critiquing writing, or some related experience like acting or directing. But good advice can come from anywhere. One of my best readers is a friend of my wife who’s never worked in the entertainment biz but happens to be smart, watches a lot of TV, and doesn’t worry about hurting my feelings. (In fact, she seems to enjoy it!)
Give your script to friends and acquaintances to read. Invite them over for pizza and have them read your script aloud. Read it out loud yourself, from beginning to end, and to a loved one (again, if you trust him to be honest). Bring your script to your writers’ group. Give your script to a writer who’s more experienced than you.
You don’t have to do all these things, obviously. But do at least two of them; that will probably be sufficient. Your goal is to attain a clear enough understanding of the problems in the script so that you’ll be propelled and compelled to go back to your computer. Sometimes having just one insightful, simpatico reader will do the trick. She’ll say, “You know, your main character doesn’t seem all that active,” and suddenly the light will go off in your head and you’ll be ready to rewrite immediately.
When you get feedback that seems inane, don’t respond immediately. Don’t defend yourself or your script. Take a deep breath. Try to hear what your critiquers are really saying. Maybe if they keep talking, they’ll say it in a way you understand better. Or maybe you won’t get it right away, but tonight, when you’re in the middle of brushing your teeth, it’ll start to make sense.
If somebody says something in your script doesn’t seem real, don’t respond as a colleague of mine at Law and Order did to the head writer: “But it is real! I read it in The New Yorker!” For this response, the writer got fired. To quote an old aphorism, “Reality is not a defense for drama.” If something doesn’t feel real, then it doesn’t matter if it is real.
Everybody has his own style of giving comments. One person might say, “I think the script could use a little cutting,” and it means he thinks you need to cut a quarter of a page in act 3. Somebody else—like my TV writer friend Laurie, who is so nice that she tries to sugarcoat things—might say the exact same words and mean she thinks your script is an utter bore and you should ditch half the darn thing. It’s incumbent upon you to probe a little and get your critiquers to be as specific as they can.
Be alert to people’s biases. For instance, if you’ve written a great script about zombies and you give it to me, I’ll hate it. Sure, I’ll try to be objective, but I’ll bet even if it were the best script ever written in the history of television, I’d still hate it. Zombies? Who needs ’em? You want to show your script to people who are on your wavelength.
Often critiquers, especially inexperienced ones, will offer solutions without clearly stating problems. Someone will say something totally out of left field, like, “How about if the main character’s love interest has really bad PMS? Or maybe she’s a dwarf.” Before you throw this person out of your house for offering aggravating non sequiturs, try to figure out where she’s coming from. Maybe this comment is her ungainly way of saying the love interest is too utterly perfect to be believable.
Giving criticism is hard. It’s intellectually challenging and emotionally fraught. Your critiquers are acutely aware, as are you, that by sharing your script with them, you’ve just pulled your pants down and revealed your most private parts. Try to make the process as easy on all of you as possible. Have some Cherry Garcia handy. Send your readers a thank-you e-mail afterward, or a gift certificate to iTunes—even to those who might have hated your draft. As long as your readers are being honest, that’s all you can ask for.
3. Listen to Your Inner Voice
So here’s a common scenario:
The writer, at dinner, asks her boyfriend, “I’ve been thinking about that scene on page eighteen. Do you think it really work
s?” Boyfriend, having heard this question at dinner every evening for the past two weeks and wanting to make her happy so he can get lucky that night, replies, “Yeah, I think so.”
But the writer is only mollified momentarily. Later, as she’s taking a walk through the neighborhood, that darn scene pops into her head again. She thinks about it while going to bed. The next morning there it is, like a chipped tooth. She may find herself saying, while she’s alone in the car, “It’s probably fine.” “Joe says it’s fine.” “I think it’s okay.”
You know what? That scene doesn’t work. If you have to keep trying to convince yourself something works—a scene, a character, a plot point, whatever—it almost certainly doesn’t. Sorry. Go back to the drawing board.
4. Visualize Every Scene—and Every Character
The next time you’re out walking or biking, or waiting in line at the supermarket, think about your script. Start on page 1 and visualize every scene. Say to yourself, “What’s cool about this scene? Why would I enjoy seeing it on TV?” If you can’t think of an answer, then you’ve got a problem you need to address.
Sometimes if you do this exercise, you’ll find it takes you a minute to remember what scene comes next. Danger sign. The reason you couldn’t remember it? It’s a boring scene.
The flip side of this, the more positive aspect, is that you may find yourself saying, “Wow, I’ve got a lot of great scenes.” You’ll be energized to get back to your computer.
Another thing to try: Consider all your characters, one by one. Do they each have a unique voice? Are they in scenes that are entertaining or moving? In a story you enjoy? If you were an actor, would you love to play this character, or would it be just another paycheck?
5. Watch TV
If you’re rewriting a spec of an existing show: Watch a few episodes. Yes, I know you’ve already watched a whole bunch. But now watch them again, or watch some new ones. Armed with the experience of writing a first draft, you’ll watch the show you are specing in a more sophisticated way. You’ll have whole new insights. You’ll realize your character wouldn’t really say some of the things you have him saying. You’ll get inspired to add a new thematic element to your script.
If you’re rewriting a spec pilot: Watch a few episodes, including pilots, of shows that are similar to yours. It will get you thinking afresh about tone and pace.
6. Stay Loose
Yes, rewriting a script can be stressful, but have fun too. Now that you’ve finished a first draft and the bones of your story are in place, you’re free to explore. Take things to the limit. Instead of your characters kissing or shaking hands, let them have wild sex. Instead of people arguing verbally, have them whip out.357 Magnums and start shooting. Have your main character fall off the cliff and land on his head. See what happens.
Raymond Chandler said that sometimes when he was writing and wanted to shake things up, he’d have two guys burst through the door with six-guns; then later he would figure out who they were and what they were doing there. Get some of that spirit in your own process. If you’re going too far, you can always pull back. Even if you keep only 3 percent of the wacky stuff you throw in there, it’s time well spent. Let those brain juices flow.
And now…
The Nitty-Gritty of Rewriting
Okay, so you’ve taken a break, you’ve gotten feedback, and you’ve been thinking deep thoughts. Now it’s time to get cracking! Here, as promised, are twenty-one practical suggestions that I share with my students—and use in my own rewriting process—for both specs and pilots.
1. If You’re Rewriting the Same Scene
Over and Over Again…Red Alert!
You have one scene, or one part of a scene, or one speech, that you keep rewriting over and over again. You know it’s not quite working, but you figure if you get the dialogue just perfect, you’ll be in business. Maybe if you change the word that to this, it will all come together. Or if your character says, “I love you, Joe,” instead of “I love you,” will that give your scene the resonance it needs? Or maybe if you cut that one sentence…no, maybe it would be better to leave it in…no, maybe take it out…or maybe put it back in…no, maybe take it out…
Here’s the reality. Speaking for myself and other professional writers I’ve consulted about this nasty phenomenon, nine times out of ten, if we’re going nuts trying to fix a scene or a speech, obsessing over it endlessly, the problem isn’t something that can be fixed with slightly better dialogue. The problem is more fundamental.
Maybe the plot point is wrong. The reason you’re having so much trouble writing the scene where Sally leaves Joe is because it’s not real. In reality, Sally wouldn’t leave him. If you’re writing a spec of The Good Wife in which Alicia and Eli have a one-nighter, and you’re having trouble getting their romantic scene just right…Well, the reason you’re having trouble is because those two characters would never get romantic together.
Maybe the tone is wrong. You’re writing a spec of Homeland, and you interrupt a tense chase scene with some jokey stuff. But the scene’s not working. Do you need to cut all the jokes? Or just some? Or what about keeping the jokes and getting rid of the chase?
My advice: Stop rewriting that cursed scene. Get up from the computer, take a long walk, and figure out the deeper problem. Which leads us to…
2. If the Scene Isn’t Working,
the Problem May Lie Earlier in the Script
You’re writing a scene in which your lead character, a farmer, is deeply upset. He can’t pay his mortgage and he’s in danger of losing the farm that’s been in his family for over a hundred years. Obviously an emotionally charged situation. You write the scene. You write his big heart-wrenching speech. You give it to friends to read.
And one by one, they tell you, “You know that scene where the farmer was upset about losing his farm? I didn’t really care that much.”
You’re outraged. You tell your friends, “Are you kidding me? He’s losing his farm! His home! His heritage! His whole sense of self! How can you not care?!”
Nevertheless, you trudge back to your computer. By God, this time you’re going to bring tears to your readers’ eyes. You rewrite the farmer’s big speech. You rewrite it again. And again…and again…and again…
Then you give your new and improved script to another friend. He says, “You know that scene where the farmer was upset about losing his farm? I didn’t really care that much.”
You take to drink. You rage to your wife. You decide your friends are shallow idiots. And besides, they’re city people. They’ve never lived on a farm. What the hell do they know?
But finally you storm back to the computer. You rewrite that goddamn speech…again…and again….
You give the script to your one last friend who hasn’t read it yet. And he says, “You know that scene where the farmer was upset about losing his farm? I didn’t really care.”
You can’t take it anymore. Before he even finishes the sentence, you grab a bread knife. You stab your friend in the heart. You end up in prison—five to seven years for involuntary manslaughter. You get off with a light sentence because, luckily, your judge was an aspiring TV writer too, so he took pity on you.
Now that you’re in prison, and sober, and with plenty of free time to look at your script with a new perspective, you realize what the problem was. There was actually nothing wrong with the scene. It was a darn good scene. And that speech was totally kick-ass. The problem was with what came before the scene—or what didn’t come before.
You needed to have an earlier scene, or even two or three, where you showed the reader how deeply your farmer cherished his farm. A scene where the farmer, as a young boy, learned how to milk a cow from his beloved father. A scene where the farmer’s eight-year-old daughter holds a newborn calf lovingly in her arms. A scene where the farmer promises his teenage son that no matter what happens, they’ll always be okay; their family will never lose the farm.
Once your reader truly feels how inve
sted this man is in his farm, she’ll care if he’s going to lose it.
Now, I realize the above scenario is hypothetical; most of you folks who are reading this are not currently in prison for a screenwriting-related crime. But in order to ensure that this tragic fate does not befall you: If a scene or a part of a scene isn’t working, and you’re starting to obsess over it, check to see if the problem lies earlier in the script. There’s a good chance you’ll discover your scene hasn’t been set up properly.
3. Two Problems, One Solution: Bingo!
Any time you can take care of two or more problems with one solution, you can be pretty sure you’re on the right track. Try not to look at your script problems in isolation, but as part of a whole.
For example: You’re writing a spec of Bones, and you’re having three problems. One: Your murder mystery isn’t twisty enough. Two: Brennan is missing from act 3. Three: Brennan doesn’t do anything superbrilliant in your spec. If you can come up with a solution in which Brennan figures out a cool, surprising clue in act 3…then you’ll have addressed three different problems in an elegant way, with one solution. I’ll bet you fifty to one it will be the right solution.
I always keep this principle in mind when I’m rewriting: Can I come up with the solution for two or three problems at one stroke? It’s a surprisingly accurate guide to what will ultimately work and what won’t.
4. Look to Cut or Combine Characters
Do you have two characters with the same gestalt? The same attitude toward life? Do they root for the same baseball team and eat the same brand of chocolate? Then do your best to cut one of them. Or combine them.
The main reason for this is that these two characters will make your script feel a little repetitious and confusing. The reader will think, Wait, did I see this guy already in act 1? Or was that some other guy? Also, if two different characters express the same feelings in more or less the same way, the reader will lose interest. She’s read that stuff already from one character; why does she need to see it repeated by somebody else?