flying wrestler» Writing Advice

Don’t withhold; reveal, and complicate.

Erik — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 17:32:16 +0000

A writer I work with as a consultant recently shared a phrase with me that came from her friend Craig Hammill (thanks, Craig!), which perfectly encapsulates a point that I often make with writers: “Don’t withhold; reveal, and complicate.”

What that means is this: withholding information – especially information about your main character and what they think, feel, want, plan, and are trying to achieve – tends to distance readers and audiences from your material, rather than drawing them in.

It’s a very common issue I come across in scripts, especially ones that are saving some sort of big reveal or twist for late in the movie.

The problem with this is that when readers don’t really understand what’s driving your main character, they have a very hard time connecting with them, or engaging with your story – and they will tend to read from a detached distance (which you don’t want!), rather than as an emotionally engaged participant in what is going on (which you do want!).

As I said in another post about the importance of a subjective main character point-of-view in screenplays, perhaps the most important task for all writers is to first make the audience care – and “whether I care” is the main thing I am noticing as I read a script (just as we all are doing when we watch a movie).

Or you could say more specifically that we’re asking (often subconsciously), “Am I emotionally engaging with this character, invested in their problem and goal, entertained by the process of them pursuing it, and wanting to see how it turns out?”

I believe that for us to achieve this primary, essential goal – and to sustain that caring throughout a story – we need to go much further than writers often do to make their main character’s thoughts, feelings, desires, plans and scene-by-scene motivations crystal clear at all times.

I sometimes teach a workshop on “What makes a good scene”, where I read excerpts from the screenplays for three very successful movies: (1) the scene in The Godfather where Michael prepares to shoot Solozzo; (2) the scene in Pretty Woman where Vivian is called into the hotel manager’s office; (3) and the scene in Jerry Maguire where Jerry tries to get Rod Tidwell to “help me help you”. What is strikingly evident in the writing of each of these three scenes is how much they focus on the emotions of the main character, as they deal with a very clear problem, and try to achieve a very clear goal. One can’t help but get drawn into what they’re going through.

This, I believe, is what screenwriters want to do with virtually every scene. We want to reveal information about our main characters (including emotions, desires and intentions), and then complicate their situation through the conflicts they run into as they try to pursue those intentions. When we withhold, instead, we leave the audience guessing as to what’s really going on.

I understand why writers sometimes do this. We have all seen great movies with shocking twists at the end that seem to memorably and climactically “make” the story. Perhaps the best example of this is The Sixth Sense.

But here’s the catch: throughout that movie, the audience knows everything they need to know about Bruce Willis’s character, to be able to emotionally engage in his efforts to try to help Haley Joel Osment. You understand Willis’s motivations and emotions from scene to scene, and you want him to succeed. The story is an ongoing process of revelations and complications, where viewers are understanding what the main character wants, and are with him emotionally as he tries to achieve it.

The twist that happens at the end only adds an additional dimension to the story. It doesn’t change or betray everything we’ve been invested in up until that time. It isn’t even required for the story to work. It only takes it to another level.

I believe this is true, in general, of such twists. The audience has been absolutely engaged in the problems of the story as they reveal and complicate, and they have been sharing the perspective, motivation and emotions of the character who is at the center of it all – with a big problem they’re trying to solve (including, for instance, Chazz Palminteri in The Usual Suspects and Richard Gere in Primal Fear – two other “big twist” movies).

What I’ve noticed with some screenplays that are going for big reveals like this is that they fail to engage readers prior to the twist because, in order to make the twist work, they have to withhold so much information about the main character and their overall story problem, that there’s not enough to grab onto emotionally – not enough that the audience is interested and invested in, and wanting to see resolved.

In my view, it’s not worth it! Big reveals should be in service to a story that is already working without them – not the one thing that will hopefully make a story work when they finally come out. Getting readers’ emotional investment in a story problem is the name of the game, in my opinion – and giving them the information they need to build and maintain that investment should come first.

What makes a good series idea

Erik — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 19:29:50 +0000

In my work pitching series ideas and writing pilots (and on good days, selling them to networks such as NBC and Fox), I’ve learned a few things about what they’re looking for, and what makes an idea sellable – as well as what a successful pilot script tends to include.

Most of it I’ve learned the hard way, from having people not want to move forward with one of my projects at some point in the process – be it the network, studio, producers, or even my own agents at CAA. When your project gets “passed on” at some point in the process (or professionally evaluated by someone like me), hopefully you get some valuable feedback about what might be missing.

Here is the number one lesson I’ve learned from that process:

Don’t think of a series as one long story, but as 100+ little ones.

Most of us writers seem to be most interested in how a character and situation arcs over the course of many episodes and seasons, and draft that out in great detail in some sort of “bible.” (Maybe it’s because most of us started in features, where that arc is so central to the point of the movie.) When asked what happens in a typical episode, we might have a whole lot of possibilities of what could, in theory, happen. But what we haven’t focused on enough, often, is the one thing that buyers and agents are definitely most focused on:

“What is the franchise?”

The “franchise” is the endlessly repeatable story engine – the problematic situation(s) for the main characters that is going to create a new story every week. Buyers and agents care far more about this than they do the season arcs. What they really want is a clear demonstration of what generates a story in an average episode – and how that story plays out in a compelling and entertaining way, which takes a full episode to resolve. They want to see that there is a seemingly limitless well of such stories, which are all variations on the same basic type of story problem(s) for your main character(s).

That’s what they’re going to be evaluating, and what needs to be front and center – focused on, and really working – to have a chance to get their approval.

A feature screenplay tends to be about a character (sometimes more than one) who has some sort of problematic life, then is hit with a catalytic event which leads them to develop a goal for that story. They then pursue the goal, and things get more complicated, difficult and urgent as they do so – until finally there is some resolution in the end.

The average television episode is basically the same. Whether you’re talking about HOUSE, EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND, SEX AND THE CITY or THE SOPRANOS (or any series), they all tend to begin with a problem or crisis that the series regular you’re focusing on feels they must solve, to get things back to their normal status quo (however compromised and unsatisfying that status quo might be). It’s very important to them, and they’re basically in hell trying to solve it – but it’s really entertaining for us to watch.

Buyers and agents want to know what’s generating those problems every week, and preferably, it will be in the context of an idea which represents a fresh twist on a familiar genre that has worked before in television. (These genres are more specific and limited than what we might normally think – just as they are in features – but that’s for another post.) Suffice it to say that the thing we must be most crystal clear on, in our pitch and our pilot script – is where these stories are coming from.

Although some series get by with the challenges of a heroic occupation or undertaking with huge, relatable, life-and-death stakes and an entertaining process to watch (i.e. certain kinds of doctoring, lawyering, police investigations or “adventuring”) most dramas and virtually all comedies are mostly about what is loosely (and not pejoratively) called “soap” – the challenges of personal relationship conflicts for a web of characters, each of whom want something that is important to them, that they can never quite get.

In features, the main character tends to heal and grow and fix their life in the end. Not so in series! (Except maybe in the series finale.) Television characters tend to be pretty much the same from episode to episode, with the same unfulfilled desires – despite the incremental changes of circumstances that happen over time. It’s the pursuit of those unreachable goals (and the problems that come up in life related to them) that are the stuff of story.

So the goal becomes demonstrating who these people and problems/goals are, and how a typical episode takes a full hour (or half hour) for them to resolve a big, specific problem related to them.

This is one reason why pilots should primarily be examples of a typical episode – and not merely the first installment of a long story, which only shows how everybody came together into the current situation. Their primary function is to represent what future episodes will look like, and thus sell the franchise to buyers.

If you can make your primary focus finding and then demonstrating such a franchise, you’ll be on the right track.

Writing from a subjective POV

Erik — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 19:52:37 +0000

The single most devastating note I could ever hear on one of my scripts (if readers were brutally honest enough to say it), would be, “I didn’t care.” I would go as far as to say that my single biggest job as a writer is to make readers and audiences care: to get them emotionally invested enough in what’s happening in a story to want to keep reading or watching. What this really means is they must care about the character at the center of it – to deeply relate to what they’re going through on a human level, and want to see them solve whatever big problem the story is exploring.

The book Save the Cat’s title comes from Blake Snyder’s admonition that the “hero” of a story must “save a cat,” – or do something similarly sympathetic – in the first ten pages of a screenplay, so that readers will think this person is worthy of their attention and time. While I agree with that, I would go further: I believe we need to get the reader inside the main character’s perspective on things – inside their skin, almost – so that it feels like what’s happening to that character is happening to them, throughout the story.

The first script I wrote professionally was an episode of the HBO miniseries From the Earth to the Moon. The one I chose focused on an individual astronaut with a problem, which seemed like it would keep him from ever flying in the Apollo program. I identified this situation as having good story potential, in comparison to some of the other episodes, which focused on missions which did not necessarily have such a likely potential main character who audiences might get invested in. So far so good.

But when I wrote the first drafts of the script, I got so caught up in the research, and the responsibility of accurately documenting all the key events of the Apollo mission this episode was focused on, that when I gave the script to another professional screenwriter who was involved in the project, he clearly didn’t care about the story. He was nice enough not to put it that way. What he said was that he thought it needed more of a clear point-of-view.

What that meant was not just that this character needed to be at the center of events – he already was. But the audience needed to experience what he thought, felt and wanted from inside his perspective more. It had to become an emotional journey for them. It’s not enough for them to be somewhat interested in his situation, and the mission he ended up flying on. The real goal is for them to care – to relate to this human being and really want him to achieve the goal this story was focused on.

How does one achieve that? Well, the first point I would make might seem an obvious, but also stifling rule: they should be in virtually every scene. I remember how much I chafed against this idea when my college screenwriting professor first offered it, and how I sought out movie examples with main characters that weren’t in many of the scenes, in order to try to prove him wrong. (I don’t remember how far I got with that, but I don’t think I was a big success.) Of course, you don’t need to be slavish about this, but you might be surprised if you looked at successful movies you have loved, to discover just how many scenes the main character is present in. I would wager that they’re in the vast majority of scenes – and in the ones they’re not, there’s a very clear and important story reason (which probably has a lot to do with them, even though they’re not physically present).

But it’s not just that they’re present. Usually, they should be driving the action of the scene: what they want and are trying to do should be the main thing each scene is about. And it takes all the scenes of a movie for them to finally achieve their goal. That’s how hard and complicated the problem is.

Of course, there are stories which have more than one “main character,” but I think they’re rarer than you might think. A true “ensemble” movie is one in which multiple characters each have their own mini-stories that interweave, as in Crash, The Big Chill, or He’s Just Not That Into You. But you’ll notice that even in these movies, in any particular scene, we are squarely within the emotional perspective of the “main character” of that storyline. In other words, things aren’t told “objectively,” from above.

In many scripts that I read, that’s exactly what it feels like: we’re looking down on events, and not experiencing them emotionally from inside the main character. We may not even be fully aware of what the main character is thinking, feeling, wanting, or trying to achieve. Or there might not be a clear main character – just a bunch of characters experiencing a story, none of whom we are really inside of.

I recently contributed a “beat sheet” for the Save the Cat website, analyzing The Kids are Alright. In writing it I discovered that this movie had no one main character, but actually explored all five of the central characters’ points of view on the story they’re all involved in. This is another kind of “ensemble” approach that is rarely used, but can be effective if done right. But again, in every single scene, we’re really focused on a particular character’s emotions as they are experiencing what’s going on. We’re made to feel, intimately, what it’s like to be each of these characters.

I believe emotional connection and resonance is what storytelling is all about (along with entertaining – if we want to find an audience). The best way to achieve this is to give your main character a big, difficult, complicated, important problem with huge stakes for them – which challenges them to go on a “mission” that will take the whole movie to solve. And then, to dramatize that mission from their perspective – to be with them as they attempt to achieve their goals, as they fail, change plans, run up against unintended consequences, and get pressed to their limit, before things finally get resolved. In other words, to get us so invested in their point-of-view, that it becomes our own.

SAVE THE CAT genres

Erik — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 20:39:51 +0000

Ever since an established producer recommended I read Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat, I’ve found it to be an essential tool, both for my own writing, and for the writers I’ve worked with as a consultant. I think its “Beat Sheet” is great for structuring a story – and that it builds on paradigms that have come before in a fun and very practical way. But the thing I like most about it are the ten “genres”. With names like “Fool Triumphant,” “Institutionalized,” and “Dude with a Problem,” they have completely redefined how I looked at types of movies and stories, in a way that I think can be really helpful to writers. In contrast to standard generic terms such as “comedy,” “drama” and “thriller,” these story templates can give real substantive assistance in figuring out what kind of story you’re trying to tell – and making sure its premise and overall arc fit within a particular type of narrative that has been proven to be successful.

I know, it sounds at first like a formula – and we writers are quick to be skeptical and rebellious against something that seems like it could lead to cliched writing. I’m with you on that. But when I looked at the vast variety of movie examples that Blake Snyder fit into these ten genres, I realized how flexible and wide-ranging this system was. It inspired me to realize that I have favorites in virtually every one of the genres, and got me thinking about my next project in terms of which genre it might fall into – which helped greatly in turning it into a compelling and commercial premise. I would go so far as to say that I’m hard-pressed to think of a successful movie or novel I have loved that can’t be pretty clearly seen as occupying one of these ten genres.

I think we as writers tend to become interested in an idea for a story that has some elements that attract us, but often it doesn’t add up to a premise that has the potential to compel and entertain a large audience (and move our careers forward). Simply put, not every movie idea is a workable commercial concept – in fact, most ideas behind scripts that I read aren’t, in my judgment – and I think it’s no coincidence that they also usually don’t clearly fit one of the Save the Cat genres.

What I’ve also found is that even writers who are familiar with (and trying to work with) these ten types can use some help with interpreting and applying what I believe Blake Snyder was trying to say with them. So this becomes a large part of what I do when I evaluate an idea – I run it through the filter of these genres to determine what kind of story it’s “trying to be” – then help the writer (assuming they agree) make it really become that.

So I have a few tips below based on this work. My first and most important tip is this: PICK ONE! Yes, there is some crossover between the genres, and certainly a “love story” (for example) can commonly become a “B Story” to some other type of movie. But I think it’s a big mistake to take elements from various of these genres and try to fit them together. I think that defeats the whole purpose. In my opinion, if you want to write a movie that will grab professional readers and eventually audiences, really fulfilling one of these genres – with your own unique vision and variation, of which there are infinite possibilities – is the way to go. I think if you look at the most successful writers and movies, that is what they have done (whether consciously or unconsciously).

What these genres really speak to, I think, is the main issue professional readers have with most scripts. That issue usually has to do with these basic questions: “Do the main character’s problem, desire, goal and plan add up to something clear, compelling, believable, entertaining, and relatable? Is it big enough, with enough in the way, and growing difficulty and stakes over the course of the story, to an exciting climax? And is it told through the subjective perspective of a main character with some sort of inner journey, which reaches a satisfying resolution?” In my humble opinion, fulfilling the requirements of one of these ten “genres” provide a great start to making sure your story does that.

And so, without further preamble, here are my tips on working with seven of the most popular genres:

1. DUDE WITH A PROBLEM. Every story, in essence, is about a “dude with a problem.” But this particular genre dictates a certain type of problem: one that is life-or-death and immediate, that must be solved through some sort of physical battle, right now. The whole movie is essentially a chronicle of that battle (which might consist of a series of mini-battles). Think Die Hard, Bourne Identity, Misery, 2012, or Apollo 13.

2. GOLDEN FLEECE. This often seems to be the “catch-all” genre when no other will fit. But it, too, has its own specific requirements that must be met for it to really work. The key is that the main character’s “team” is chasing a very clear and definable “prize” that seems unreachably hard. You’ll know the movie is over, because they’ve achieved the prize, or not. Often I find in scripts purporting to be a “Fleece” that the “prize” is unclear, or not big or challenging enough, and the journey toward achieving it thus not as compelling as it could be. Think The Bad News Bears, Finding Nemo, Saving Private Ryan, Ocean’s Eleven, or Cast Away.

3. BUDDY LOVE. All movies have relationships with problems. But it’s not a “Buddy Love” unless the main problem of the movie has to do with a key relationship that seems essential to the main character, which is threatened by something. ”Will they or won’t they end up together?” is the central question of the movie, and the main issue that is explored throughout. Think The Black Stallion, Starsky and Hutch, Pretty Woman, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or An Officer and a Gentleman.

4. INSTITUTIONALIZED. Just because a story takes place at an “institution” of some sort, does not make it fit this genre. And the “institution” does not have to be literal. The question is whether there is a group with its own rules and norms that the main character is exploring the costs and benefits of membership in – and ultimately deciding whether they want to be a part of it or not. It’s about deciding who they want to be in relationship to it, and the risks and reward of same. Think Full Metal Jacket, Goodfellas, Office Space, The Devil Wears Prada, or Crash.

5. RITES OF PASSAGE. Similarly, just because a character is going through some sort of rite of passage (in the generic sense) does not mean it meets the criteria for this genre. The key here is that it is a relatable life problem (like adolescence, divorce, mid-life, loss of a loved one, or addiction), which the main character is avoiding by chasing something else. They are clearly on a wrong road, as they spend most of the movie in pursuit of some challenging goal that is entertaining to watch, but not ultimately going to work out well. Finally, they’re left having to face life after all, hopefully having learned something in the process. Think 10, The War of the Roses, Ordinary People, Trainspotting, orAmerican Pie.

6. SUPERHERO. The key here is a nemesis and problem that is seemingly bigger than they are. It’s never compelling watching amazing people (real-life or made up) succeeding over and over again. Good stories are always about characters being pressed to their limits and overmatched – in hell, essentially – until the very end. (I can not say this strongly enough. Stories are about dealing with big problems that only get worse when you try to deal with them. So are scenes, most of the time. This is the main issue that I work with on almost every story – making sure it’s a compelling problem that is big enough, hard enough, and complicated enough to take a whole movie to solve.) Think Erin Brockovich, Harry Potter, The Matrix, Gladiator or Spiderman.

7. OUT OF THE BOTTLE. The “magical” catalyst should cause complications and challenges that never would’ve been there without it. Again, they make the hero’s life harder, in ways that demand to be solved. Usually, it’s easier for readers to swallow if the magic emerges from some sort of relatable, semi-explainable place (i.e. not too arbitrary or contrived) like a carnival wish machine, an electrical storm, or some established mythology like genies or witchcraft. And the magic should go away or be resolved in the end, with the character back to an essentially “normal life,” where they’ve grown in some way. Think Big, Aladdin, The Nutty Professor, Liar Liar or Field of Dreams.

Writing miniseries on spec

Erik — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 22:24:40 +0000

In my work as a consultant, I often meet screenwriters who are hoping to get into the marketplace with an idea for a potential miniseries – and it’s usually a historical piece. Maybe I see more of these than other consultants, since I’m most known for writing and producing in this format (BAND OF BROTHERS and FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON for HBO).

Whether these writers have written one or more scripts for this proposed miniseries, or just have a treatment/outline for the concept, I usually find myself suggesting that they reconceive the idea as a feature – and I tend to find that most ideas can work as well, if not better, in that form.

I do this because I think scripts for a proposed miniseries generally don’t make ideal writing samples. And that’s what an unproduced, unrepresented writer is really creating: writing samples. (In fact, that’s what we professionals are doing a lot of the time when we write on spec, too – because most projects don’t sell or get produced, but they might move your career forward by showing people what you’re capable of.) You want those agents, managers, producers and executives who read your work to think, “Even if I don’t see this project getting made, I can see this writer working professionally, and I want to be part of it.”

The problem with miniseries spec scripts is they don’t translate to anything else in the industry. A one-hour miniseries episode does not equate to a one-hour pilot, and it doesn’t show that you could write a drama series. It’s not quite a feature, either. And it is probably more open-ended in story than you would want either of those to be. It’s unlikely the people you want to impress or convince are going to read multiple miniseries scripts – and you want to put your best foot forward, so that the one script they might read shows you’re a viable writer for the marketplace.

Miniseries are also not produced in enough quantity that writers “who can do that” are being sought after. When we made BAND OF BROTHERS and FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON, we hired writers off feature samples. I don’t think any of them had scripts for other miniseries that we looked at. They’re just too rare. And as far as selling your miniseries idea, the sad truth is that networks looking to make them are looking at established producers and writers (and their agents and managers), not to outsiders – even more than in the feature marketplace.

On the other hand, a good spec feature can do so much more for a career. It’s more likely to get produced (and can be independently produced for a viable marketplace), and it shows you can write a good feature – an ability that is much sought after. Sometimes, conceiving something as a miniseries is really a result of not finding a clear story to tell within a historical event, and instead relying on multiple real-life “episodes” as being “the stuff of miniseries.” Whether they are or aren’t, I would recommend thinking through the feature possibilities first.

I personally like SAVE THE CAT’s ten genres (nine of which can work well for true stories) – and suggest looking at whether your subject matter could nicely fit one of those. Look for what you’re most passionate about in this idea, find your take on it as a writer, and see if it can’t be a tight, compelling feature instead.

In the end, though, I think you have to follow your passion. And if miniseries is ultimately the best/only fit, and you can write a first episode that knocks it out of the park, then I would say, “go for it.” Don’t expect a lot of interest in reading multiple scripts or a lengthy miniseries “bible,” but that one-hour script might be impressive to a potential representative as part of a larger writing portfolio, even though they will likely have a hard time selling it.

In case you’re wondering, I personally have never developed a miniseries on spec, but was employed on projects that were already set up – where there were bigger names involved who made the network interested. When writing on spec, I have always stuck to pilots and features.

WGA guide to Television Writing

Erik — Fri, 28 May 2010 05:19:45 +0000

In my coaching and consulting I help a lot of writers with original series ideas: evaluating concepts, reading pilots, and sharing my knowledge from the work I’ve done developing, pitching and selling series ideas - which has given me a lot of insight into what agents and managers, production companies, studios, and most importantly networks look for.

I also read a fair amount of spec scripts for existing shows – the other tried and true method for breaking in to T.V. writing. Today I came across a publication on the WGA website that I’d read a few years ago, and realize it’s full of good insider information for aspiring T.V. writers who may not be aware of its existence.

So I decided to link to it here. It’s called “Writing for Episodic TV: From Freelance to Showrunner.” It’s not so much about creating your own show, but writing for other people’s series, and working your way up the staffing ladder.

The Guild’s site has a lot of other useful tools, information and interviews in its section on “The Craft.”

I also recommend getting their magazine “Written By,” which has great interviews and advice on both film and television writing, from a professional perspective. (Members receive it automatically, but anyone can subscribe.)

Passion. Openness. Persistence.

Erik — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 04:23:59 +0000

I guess I’ve become a fan of acronyms.

First, it was “CURE”: what I think we as writers should aim for with every concept, every story, ever scene — that it be Compelling, Unique, Real, and Entertaining. (I posted about this here.)

Now it’s “POP”: the three qualities I think we all need to develop and practice to move forward as writers. I blogged about this under the heading “Talent is Overrated,” and I want to go into it a bit further – because I think a lack of one or more of these is the only thing that can truly get in our way.

Of course it starts with Passion. We have ideas we like and want to explore, which we turn into a piece of writing that we’re enthusiastic about. That part is usually easy, at least in the beginning.

Then you show it to people. You’re Open to feedback. But they never love it the way we hoped they would. They always have notes. They often don’t get it. They didn’t find it Compelling, Unique, Real and or Entertaining.

Then what? That’s when we as writers are at risk of losing one, two, or all three of these key practices – which are more important than talent, more important than connections, more important than ANYTHING ELSE.

We lose our Passion. Our enthusiasm is gone. We don’t see the point. We don’t believe in our ideas anymore. Or we can’t get excited about the process, with all the disappointment it seems to contain. (Think you’re alone in this? Every good writer including top professionals go through it. We all get beat up by others’ reaction to our stuff, and we’re all at risk of losing our passion.)

Sometimes, we close off that Openness to others’ feedback – to really listen and hear what they have to say. I’m not saying “others” are always right, and we should follow their vision above our own. Not at all. But I am saying that showing our work to others – especially the right kind of “others” who know what they are talking about and are honest with us – is an essential part of moving forward. So is understanding that there’s always going to be this cycle of enthusiasm, feedback, and then rethinking and rewriting – at every stage of the process as a screenwriter. If we are defensive, or closed off, and don’t seek that input from the world, we will not move forward.

It’s unfortunate – it even seems unfair, because we often think we just want to be DONE with a piece of writing, and to have others receive it as GOOD, and hopefully praise us, and give us money. It’s human nature. It’s annoying to be told you didn’t hit the mark somehow, even devastating – an outrage – and it means we have to do more work.

That’s where the Persistence comes in. Perhaps the most important practice of all. To keep going, despite how frustrating this process can be. Of course, it’s only really frustrating inasmuch as we resist it, and expect or want it to be different from how it is. But we all do it. We want to sell our work and have it succeed. We don’t want to be told it’s not sellable, in its current form. So what do we do, when that happens, and it happens over and over again?

Do we get down on ourselves, and our abilities? Do we decide we’ll never get there? Do we lose our passion, and close off?

I like what Akiva Goldsman, Oscar-winning screenwriter of A BEAUTIFUL MIND said at a WGA rally at the beginning of the last strike, in November 2007. I’ve quoted bits of this before, but here’s a longer version:

“I was the worst writer in my seventh grade class. And when I went to college, I was the worst writer in my college class. But each time someone told me to stop writing, I never stopped. When I wanted to write a thesis in college and do it as a novel, my faculty advisor told me I have to stop writing. He said, You’re not very good. I didn’t stop. When I went to graduate school, and tried to get a degree in creative writing, they told me to stop, because they said that I wasn’t that good, and I didn’t stop writing. And now, I’m just the last one standing of everyone I knew who is still writing.”

Is it really that simple? Obviously he had passion and continued to pursue it. He kept showing his work to others, even as their feedback seemed to be beating him down. (And he continues to do so to this day. And trust me, he gets as many notes as anyone else.) And he keeps at it.

My point is that the process is basically the same for all of us. And the pitfalls are the same. It’s just a question of how we respond. I have to remind myself of this all the time. It’s about continuing to stay with something I believe in until it reaches that level where it can positively impact others in a real way.

Of course, sometimes the passion truly isn’t there. I’m not saying you have to push through and try to force things. But if you can get past the disappointment and discouragement, and find that writing (or a particular project) is something you really do have underlying Passion for, then maybe it will be helpful to keep this “POP” concept in mind, and keep going…

Blake Snyder’s “5-Step Finale”

Erik — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 17:12:22 +0000

For those of you who use the Blake Snyder Beat Sheet (which I highly recommend, and use when I consult with writers), I recently came across an archived blog post from Blake himself, where he goes into greater detail on how he thinks the “Finale” section (that huge chunk of Act 3 that decides the ultimate outcome of the story) works. He breaks it down into five steps, using a “rescue the princess from the castle” metaphor, which is not to be taken literally – whatever the main problem of the script is that we’re waiting to see resolved, here is where the main character has to summon everything they have and face their biggest challenge yet, putting the “new idea” of Act 3 into practice – and it’s usually where their ultimate change (or decision to remain “steadfast,” if you understand Dramatica lingo) finally happens, which is a key part in deciding the ultimate outcome.

As usual, Blake’s style is breezy, funny, and a quick read. Check it out:

http://www.blakesnyder.com/2007/12/17/the-five-step-finale/

(It’s also included in the third book, SAVE THE CAT STRIKES BACK.)

Main characters and DRAMATICA

Erik — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:05:36 +0000

One issue I commonly find in scripts I read is a lack of clarity on whose emotional point-of-view the story is being told through. I think that we as writers don’t instinctively realize just how important it is to choose a main character and STAY WITH THEM. I know I didn’t, for a very long time.

By main character, I don’t just mean “most important character” or even “protagonist” – the one who is the central player of the story’s action. I mean that character whose eyes we see the story through. And yes, we NEED such a character, in order to get emotionally invested, and only one of them. Even in a two-hander, like a romantic comedy, where each of the two leads is very central, one of them should be the one we “ride in on” — who we see the other through the emotional perspective of. In PRETTY WOMAN, for example, we’re experiencing what it’s like to be a hooker in a billionaire’s world, not so much what it’s like to be a billionaire with a hooker girlfriend. There are some moments of the latter (I’m thinking of the “dental floss” scene, for example, or when Edward watches Vivian laugh at I LOVE LUCY, or sing in the bathtub), but the person whose PROBLEM WE’RE INVESTED IN is Vivian, by far.

And that is our first job, in any piece of dramatic writing — to get the reader invested in someone’s life situation and growing problem. I said in my last post that most ideas and projects fail at the level of concept. Most pieces of writing fail at the level of making us really understand and care about someone in the first few pages — and then keep us caring. That person who you want us to care about is the main character. The more you cut away to other characters and start to tell things through their point-of-view, the more you’ll limit the reader’s emotional investment and connection. There just isn’t room for two or more people who we experience the story’s events through. (Comment or e-mail me if you want my thoughts on a couple of partial exceptions in two movies I love, JERRY MAGUIRE and THE BIG CHILL.)

I first learned of the distinction between “protagonist” and “main character” from Dramatica, a theory of story (and piece of software for developing and analyzing stories) that I’ve been working with since the beginning of my career. I recently met its co-founder, Chris Huntley, at the Screenwriting Expo and agreed to do a testimonial for him, which I understand will appear (along with an article about my use of Dramatica) in their December 1 e-newsletter. (I can send or post this article if anyone is interested.)

I find myself talking about Dramatica a lot these days with writer clients. After using SAVE THE CAT to clarify concept, genre, and basic beats, the next step is often to get more clear on the main character — who it is, what their personal emotional story is that links with the overall story, and who their “impact character” might be.

“Impact character” is a Dramatica term. The basic tenet to their theory is that a great story tends to have four throughlines: the “objective” story that all the characters care about, which I like to think of as having a central problem and question that won’t be answered until the end — which the writer must be clear about, and which must be developed constantly throughout the script or manuscript. In the “objective” story, there is a “protagonist” and other characters with particular dramatic functions having to do with that story.

One of these characters (usually the protagonist, but not always) is also the “main character” – who we experience the story through the perspective of, as if it were happening to us. So many scripts don’t feel like their events are happening “to us,” and we don’t care enough, because they don’t successfully choose, stick with, and develop this main character point-of-view. Dramatica says that they should have their own “throughline,” a story about their personal arc that has its own beginning, middle and end, that interweaves with the objective story.

In addition, the theory presents two other “throughlines” to make a complete and satisfying story: one is about the “impact character,” and the other is about the relationship between the impact character and main character. The presence of the impact character (who is not the same as the objective story “antagonist,” and is often the love interest) puts pressure on the main character to consider changing in some key way, and vice versa. By the end of the story, one of them will change, and one will not.

Dramatica says that this relationship forces the main character to look past what they think is their problem and solution, to some deeper underlying issue, which gets confronted and resolved in the last act. This doesn’t mean the main character is always the one who “changes” — but they do go through growth and development, as does the impact character (although we don’t experience this through their perspective: we look “at” the impact character, and “through” the main character, emotionally). This relationship accounts for most of the heart and emotional resonance of any story, for the reader, and/or audience.

If you’re interested in knowing more, click here to download a .pdf file of the Dramatica comic book which illustrates their basic theories in a fun way. Or go to their website to read much more, or to order the software.

Loglines and SAVE THE CAT

Erik — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 05:52:36 +0000

Most story (and series) ideas fail at the level of concept. Sad, but true. I’ve learned this the hard way. Of course, “fail” is a harsh word. What I mean is simply that they fail to become something that millions of people would happily pay money to watch or read. Because that is what most of us are going for when we write, aren’t we?

It’s not easy to achieve such a lofty goal. It’s rare that anything does. But it’s what the writing marketplace is entirely built on. Those few projects that truly succeed finance all the countless others that don’t — and they (and their writers) are what everyone in the business is looking for, and paying for.

Of course, there are many elements that have to come together for a project to really work, and be a big success. But the key element that we writers do well to pay more attention to is the concept: the basic idea for the story that you could communicate in two sentences — which would hopefully make most people who hear it say something like, “Wow, that sounds like a story I’d want to see or read. There’s something unique about it, but also very real, and it seems clearly entertaining and compelling. I don’t have to ask a bunch of questions. I get it, and I’m with you.”

And so we screenwriters work on this “logline.” Blake Snyder’s book SAVE THE CAT emphasizes this. But here’s the point that I think is key about the logline: it’s not about shaping the words of the logline to “sell” your concept. The point is to shape your CONCEPT until it can be expressed clearly in a logline that just works for people, without you having to do any “selling.” The logline is not the place to tease or hype or generalize — it’s a place to clearly and succinctly tell an idea that sells itself.

The logline should stand alone. If more explaining is required, and more questions are necessary to truly get the idea, then that’s a sign that it’s not a concept that really works. It might be so well-executed that it makes for a good script, but it’s far, far less likely to get sold or produced or help a writer build a career in a significant way. Because the BUSINESS of writing is concept-driven. And concept is what grabs the public.

I used to always hate when people told me to focus on the logline and the big commercial high-concept idea, because I thought it was so limiting. I thought that most of my favorite movies couldn’t be expressed in a catchy logline. And I will say that many great stories don’t necessarily have an enormous “wow” factor when you hear the two-sentence pitch. But I do think their loglines would sound like something Compelling, Unique, Real, and Entertaining. It sounds like there’s a story there, that is worthy of being told, that many many people could enjoy. And that doesn’t require a lot more explanation to be able to evaluate it.

That said, the real thing I love about SAVE THE CAT (and especially its sequel, SAVE THE CAT GOES TO THE MOVIES) is not so much the stuff about loglines. It’s the ten unique “genres” Blake Snyder came up with (and the five sub-genres of each, with numerous movie examples, that are in the second book). This new way of organizing the basic types of successful stories, that have been repeated over and over again, is truly revolutionary to me. Rather than focusing on setting or tone (“war movie” or “comedy”), he much more usefully focuses on basic CONTENT — what’s happening in the story. And in doing so, he created a very helpful common language with which to discuss story concepts.

I’ve yet to read a script or manuscript where it wasn’t valuable to try to pin down which of these ten (really fifty) basic types of stories it’s trying to be — each of which has a few basic elements that are worth paying attention to. And I think finding which one of these you’re really trying and wanting to write is incredibly helpful in honing your concept. Of course, you want your idea to be fresh and different in some way, but there is a flexibility within these basic templates that allows limitless creativity — while providing a structure to create within.

The other central aspect of SAVE THE CAT is the Beat Sheet, which is helpful for structuring the key elements of a story. It’s great for coming up with a one-pager, where the key building blocks of the story are mapped out, and I highly recommend using it for that. But unfortunately, nothing will really write or even outline the whole thing for us!

Not even my favorite software and theory of story can do that — although it goes into far more useful detail on the elements of what make up great stories than anything else I’ve ever seen. But I’ll save that for another post…