Inside the Room

by Linda Venis

  Pitching the Pilot

  The Bible

  For yourself, the reader, your agent, and maybe someday the network, the next thing you should write is a series bible that lays out your creation in a couple of pages. The bible is yet another selling tool for your show and for you.

  Start with a short synopsis. The first sentence should be your logline; remember to make it compelling and simple. Next, write a condensed version of your overall series—just a few paragraphs, up to one page. Now add your character bios; describe your main characters in three or four sentences each and secondary characters in one or two lines. Follow the bios with short summaries of the first ten episodes, keeping them funny and interesting. Don’t add an episode just to make your number. If the story doesn’t grab you, it won’t grab anyone else either. Finish the bible with a half-page wrap-up of how you’ll tell the stories and how the series works.

  You can put the synopsis and the bios up front, the episodes and the last page in the back. Now you’re ready to sell your script.

  The Pitch

  For the TV writer in Hollywood, it’s all about pitching your ideas, whether you’re an experienced staff writer on a specific show, a freelance writer trying to sell an idea and script to a showrunner, or—as you might well be—a newly minted writer of a pilot who needs to practice the skill of selling his script and himself and learn to be a writer and salesperson that producers want to hire. Most TV shows are sold on the basis of a pitch.

  Envision that you’ve caught the attention of some Important Comedy Execs and they’ve invited you to a meeting. Practice the steps below with your friends, family, and classmates if you have them; practice in front of the mirror, in the car, in your head.

  Prepare and Practice

  If you’ve gone through all the steps in this chapter, you know your series idea inside and out. Now make sure you get passionate about it! You’ve done your character work, so practice describing your characters’ comedic idiosyncrasies and flaws, what drives them through the series. You’ve outlined ten episodes in your bible, so choose a couple of the best ones to show how your series will unfold and that it has legs.

  Design the pitch so you take all this material and turn it into a story, and then practice the pitch on people who can give you some feedback. Train like an athlete for the big day. I pitch the whole thing to myself just before I go to sleep, in the shower the next morning, and in the car on the way to the meeting.

  In the Room with the Execs

  Sitting in an outer office waiting to go into a room filled with execs can be intimidating and nerve-wracking. Sometimes you don’t know who or how many people are going to be behind that door or how their day has gone so far. The only thing you can manage once that door opens is your pitch. Make sure you can answer any question about the series—before it starts, while it’s on the air, and for the reunion show long after. Everything else is out of your control. Breathe.

  When the small talk stops, the spotlight is on you. Start off with the Big Idea, the premise. Hook them fast. Draw them into your intriguing concept with your compelling logline. Make them see the show and understand why it stands apart from all the others.

  Next hit on the characters, one at a time. Here comes the payoff for all your hard work. Describe the people who will populate your new, exciting world—their attitudes, unique voices and outlooks on life, the behavior that makes them funny. Explain the conflicts. Show how your secondary characters contribute more conflict. Hit them with some dialogue, and give them some jokes. Keep the pitch clear, concise, and funny.

  The Home Stretch

  It’s almost over. Now you can breeze through those three or four examples of typical stories you’d put these great characters in where conflict and hilarity will ensue for countless episodes. If you’re counting, it’s one hundred. If you’ve hit the ten-minute mark, you’re bordering on too long. Oh, yeah, and deliver all this without referring to any notes or pages. This is all happening extemporaneously. My brother, Rick, rips up all his notes before he walks into the room. It’s a great statement of confidence.

  Now it’s their turn. If they have a lot of questions, that’s a good thing. If you are pitching a television show at a network, it’s because they’ve read your work and feel you could bring them a good idea, or you’ve been picked by a producer or studio who is excited about your writing. Yes, there are a few jerks who sit there silently, smugly, with a look that says, “Impress me,” but most development executives are welcoming and convey the feeling, “I’m impressed. Tell me your story.”

  A Final Word

  Your half-hour comedy pilot is your voice, your vision. The TV industry is changing—it always is. At this writing, blogs, Twitter feeds, YouTube, and even self-published books through outlets like Author Solutions are being trolled by executives for potential pilots. Having a digital presence is a great way to attract attention, and a pilot based on a digital presence has a chance of selling because execs are way more comfortable buying something based on established material, even if it’s just a Twitter feed. But remember that, as the writer-creator, you have to bring the goods. Commit to doing the deep work of developing your Big Idea, of creating characters and stories, of studying the masters, and of honing your craft. I’ll see you on the other side of your hundred episodes.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sitcom Master Class:

  Creating Comedy Through Character

  by David Isaacs

  Plot springs from character…. I’ve always sort of believed that these people inside me—these characters—know who they are and what they’re about and what happens, and they need me to help get it down on paper because they don’t type.—Anne Lamott

  The Sitcom Mantra: Character Rules

  For the past thirty-five years, I’ve had the good fortune to make my living as both a television and a feature film writer. Writing for the big and small screen is what I set out to do, so it’s safe to assume that I’ve been blessed. I’ve had a part in writing some prestigious TV series, including M*A*S*H, Cheers, Frasier, and Mad Men. In short, a sweet, fulfilling ride, although there has been one drawback, albeit a small one, that to this day I don’t relish facing.

  When you become a professional writer—and believe me, with Kardashians running amok we need you more than ever—you will be approached almost weekly with a bit of a professional dilemma. Family and friends, acquaintances, and even strangers will barrage you with ideas for TV series. Most folks know a good show when they see one, but obviously, few know how to begin to execute one. Unfortunately, that does not stop them from believing they’ve got a hit on their hands. All they need is for you, the pro, to confirm that. Or better still, take it the rest of the way to Emmy glory. Trust me, the minute you sell your first script you’ll run into people who want you to affirm their knockout idea.

  I’m by subspecies a comedy writer, or sitcom writer to be even more specific, so I get a version of the following quite often.

  DISTANT COUSIN PETE

  (confidentially)

  Dave, I work in a hardware store. You wouldn’t think that a hardware store is funny, but you can’t believe the crazy stuff that goes on there. The people who have no idea what they’re looking for, traveling salesmen that’ll offer you all kinds of things, even women, to get you to stock their caulking product. I always think it’d make a great sitcom. You’ve never seen one take place in a hardware store before.

  You get the picture. Hardware store, supermarket, dentist’s office, particle acceleration lab—they’re all potential settings for a funny new series, chock-full of franchise-specific high jinks. You know what? In the hands of a skilled comedy writer, any of them could be, even the one dealing with a potential thermonuclear antimatter disaster!

  My polite response to these well-intentioned creators is three questions that usually end the fantasy of quick riches right on the spot. I simply ask:

  Who are the characters we’ll follow in this setting?

  H
ow do we relate to them?

  What do they want and how do they go about getting it?

  Mr. Buzzkill strikes again.

  It’s not that I’m afraid of competition. (Instructor’s note: That will be my only lie, I swear.) However, I feel it’s incumbent upon me to use my hard-earned pulpit to spread the message that no comedic series, however unique in setting or concept, resonates without strong characters that make the trip worthwhile. Cheers, Taxi, 30 Rock, and The Office are all wonderful shows set in varying workplaces, some more familiar—we might even say clichéd—but the characters and their relationships and conflicts are fresh, original, and above all relatable to a varied audience.

  I learned early in my writing career that character rules. It’s the two-word mantra I repeat to myself, and to anyone who asks me how to become a Successful TV Writer. My mantra trumps even the most novel concept. Let me give you a recent example of what I mean.

  From the moment it premiered, one of my favorite on-air comedy series has been Modern Family. It’s funny and it’s fresh, which is saying something considering the family comedy has been mined more than any other genre. There is no more recognizable setting on TV, in both live action and animation, than the overstuffed living room and the stairway leading to nowhere. We’ve all seen our share of multigenerational shows and experienced a lifetime of comedies with precocious kids and confused parents. We’ve witnessed TV families in all kinds of second-marriage configurations and contrived circumstances.

  Modern Family, while certainly “modern,” still had to win over a jaded viewing public. How did creator/writers Christopher Lloyd and Steven Levitan earn their audience? Not with just a novel gimmick, but with well-rounded, identifiable characters like Claire (Julie Bowen), trying her best to wrangle three children and a husband who would rather be his kids’ “homey” than just their father. Claire’s father Jay (Ed O’Neill) is an equally deft creation: the family patriarch trying for a second go-round at youth with a hot-blooded Latina wife who comes equipped with a young son who is anything but the kind of kid he can relate to.

  However, the writers knocked it out of the park with Mitchell (Jesse Tyler Ferguson) and Cameron (Eric Stonestreet), a gay couple who’ve adopted an Asian baby and are obsessed with proving that they are perfect parents. The adult members of this extended modern family deal with real issues, fears, and hang-ups that create the fuel that powers memorable series: conflict.

  Setting, concept, and circumstances can be inspirational in their own way, but I believe that creating comedy through character informs all the important elements of good filmic storytelling—point of view, scene structure, and emotional arc—and does it naturally. From the inside out, if you will.

  Character Is Story

  On the first night of my UCLA Extension class “Creating Through Character: Utilizing Character to Develop an Original Comedy Series or Screenplay,” I write on the board, in very large letters, the word plot. Then I give a warning: “I do not want to hear this word used in our class.” There is always murmuring in the ranks. How can you possibly avoid using the word plot in a narrative writing course? The answer is, “It’s hard, but it’s worth a try.” Another loose definition of plot is a section of ground where bodies are buried. It’s my little pointed joke, but there is a method to my madness.

  New writers tend to worry themselves sick over plotting. How will they ever figure out all the setups and roadblocks and twists and turns that will lead to a satisfying resolution? Here’s a complaint I hear from students all the time: “I come up with good ideas and have no trouble writing dialogue but I can’t plot to save my life.” Well, two out of three isn’t bad, but if you fear actually telling the story then you struck out on the big one. It’s like saying, “I have a stylish car body and great tires but no engine.”

  When I started out as a screenwriter, I was just as intimidated by plot as anyone, and the truth is a cleverly told episode of The Office still feels like black magic to me. So how do you learn to plan out a story and still sleep at night? One way is to avoid the word, the concept, the devil in the details of plot. I ask you to turn to your new friend, character. Your buddy will do a lot of the heavy lifting for you.

  After I’ve banned the word plot from class, it’s obviously up to me to explain how character is our salvation. Let me start by giving you a set of basic ingredients for creating a strong character, one that will generate conflict and its by-product, story.

  Strong Character = Strong Story

  Very simply, the keys to a strong character are: attitude, desire, and flaw.

  Attitude can be defined as worldview, or the manner in which a character approaches life in general. How does an individual carry him/herself in society? Is he/she inherently optimistic or pessimistic? Self-assured or lacking self-esteem? True believer or skeptic? Laid-back or ever-cautious? Rational or superstitious? Every one of us has a particular mind-set that defines us. For narrative purposes, the more defined the better.

  Desire is, of course, a deep longing for something. It might be love or companionship, might be money, might be a great job, might be freedom, might be a car, might be status, might be a child, might be revenge. We’ve all had the feeling of wanting something badly. It’s not always what we need, but that doesn’t stop us from wanting it, sometimes desperately.

  Flaw is that part of a character’s nature that prevents him/her from functioning in his/her own best interest. For example, acute jealousy, extreme ambition, fear of failure, and fear of death are all practical flaws. For our purposes we could also rename the classic Seven Deadly Sins—wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony—as the Seven Deadly Flaws and add those to our list. After all, good old Will Shakespeare kept himself busy for years exploiting the flaws in his characters; Othello would just be a play set in Venice about Iago the annoying gossip if Othello had been a loyal, trusting husband.

  Case Study #1: George Costanza from Seinfeld

  Let’s use a familiar character in the world of half-hour comedies to demonstrate the formula of “character is story.” Since it’s my class I get to choose, and who better than one of my favorite personalities of all time: none other than the hapless George Costanza from Seinfeld. As played by Jason Alexander, he is the embodiment of utter frustration, the frustration that makes him a symbol for all of us who choose the wrong path on a daily basis. Let’s deconstruct George using our three key elements.

  Attitude: George is a self-described loser in life. Distilling that title down to one word, he’s a pessimist. George is dead certain that the world is against him and so is rarely surprised when things go badly for him. He may decide that he’s found the answer to his troubles, but deep down he knows that he’s destined to crash in flames.

  In one quite clever episode, “The Opposite,” George has the idea that the smart way to live his life is just to do the opposite of what he would usually do in any particular circumstance. He becomes the anti-George. It actually works for a while, but when you believe deep down you’re a loser, well…I don’t know nature- or nurture-wise how George developed his attitude, but after watching him interact with his parents, Estelle and Frank, I’ve got to lean toward nurture. For example, when George tells his parents that Jerry and he are going to write a pilot for NBC, his mother’s first reaction is to blurt out, “What do you know about writing?”

  Desire: George is after something in almost every episode—a hot woman, a front-office job with the Yankees, an opportunity to make some fast money (a sitcom staple), a TV writing career, winning a dubious bet—whatever it is, he’s relentless in his pursuit. His desperation alone makes him a wonderful character. However, I think that all of George’s longings add up to one all-encompassing desire: The man wants respect. He needs to be looked up to, well thought of, loved, and in command. It’s what makes him feel right, it’s what he craves, and if you’re as big a fan of Seinfeld as I am, you love to watch him chase after it and more often than not fail.

  Flaw: Ge
orge has a number of flaws, but the one that stands out to me is his inability to tell the truth. Lacking self-esteem, he has little or no faith in his own abilities. He feels more comfortable lying about himself than letting folks know who he really is, and the fantasies he concocts inevitably make a character that creates conflict and thus narrative by his very nature.

  In a very funny episode titled “The Marine Biologist,” George tells an attractive woman he meets that he’s a noted marine biologist. We know that his fabrication will complicate the situation and eventually come back to haunt him—which it does when he must stride into the ocean to save a beached whale just to cover his lie. With little or no positive reinforcement from friends, George further embellishes his lie to Jerry and company: “The sea was angry that day, my friends.”

  In another episode, “The Conversion,” George literally changes his religion to Latvian Orthodox to hold on to his current girlfriend, who insists that she must break off with him because he’s not a member of the church. He is willing to make a commitment he has no intention of keeping just to avoid rejection. George Costanza is a guy with some big personal issues. Another way of putting it is that he’s a comedic story-generating machine.