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It's early days here at the site. Until I learn a little more about organization, I'm just going to give you a pile of information
right here. This is a long piece detailing many of the mistakes new writers make when they first try to get their work "out
there" to Hollywood studios and prodcos.
MISTAKES
You've written a screenplay. Congratulations! Now you're ready to write a query letter, get your screenplay read, bought,
and made into a hit movie. But somewhere along the way, something goes wrong. The first ninety-nine query letters you send
either receive no response, or garner rather dry little no-thank-yous. When you finally find someone willing to read your
script, you either mail it off into a black hole and never hear from them again, or they write back six months later wishing
you best of luck in your future endeavors while breaking the news that your script is "not for us."
What is going wrong for you and your work?
A general note of caution: There are readers who will overlook any of these errors. But there are readers who will bounce
your script for any of them. So why make them?
Query Trouble:
Why won't they even ask to look at your script? So many reasons. In order:
1. They can't. They say "represented material only" and they mean it. Why? Liability issues is one reason. They may be making
a buddy vampire road movie already. If you send yours and they read it, you'll sue when theirs comes out. Studios get sued
more often than you can imagine. Out comes their summer tentpole action movie, and somewhere in Iowa an erstwhile screenwriter
shouts: "My main character's named Jack, too! They ripped me off!!!"
The other version of "they can't" has to do with volume. Studios and prodcos are smothered in material. They already see every
hot project in town, and they have a decade's worth of material in their own vaults. They don't want to see your masterpiece.
They want you to convince someone whose opinion they trust (an agent) that they need to see it.
2. Your query sucks. This comes in several flavors: it's addressed to "dear agent" or "to whom it may concern," It's misspelled,
it's too long, it's awkwardly written, your punctuation is wrong, etc.
3. Your script sucks. All they have to go on is your description of your script. Most importantly, they have your log line.
You probably wrote a terrible log line. Most everybody does. In all likelihood, you never stood a chance of writing a log
line that they'd like. In my experience, maybe one script in a hundred from beginning writers contains a story that would
make a decent feature film. Ninety percent shouldn't be written at all in any medium. They are derivative, dull, stupid, or
weird. Ninety percent of the rest of them would be better short stories, novels, or plays.
4. Not for us. This is the line you'll hear in most rejections. Usually it's masking a much harsher condemnation of you and
your work, but occasionally it means what it says. Your story is too big, too small, or just doesn't match their interests
at the moment. Do your research before you query, but things can change quickly in Hollywood and you can't always find out
if a given prodco is appropriate for your script.
What happens if an agent or prodco asks to see your script? You send it. What happens to it then?
Mechanical Trouble:
Here are the mechanical problems. These are all the mistakes you can make before anybody reads the first word of your screenplay.
This is what can go wrong for you from the time the post office delivers your baby until the moment your reader begins to
read (if you pass these tests.)
1. Bad package.
What's wrong with a nice 10" x 13" envelope? You have a choice of white or manila. Just print the requisite addresses on one,
stuff your script and a simple cover letter inside, write Requested Material on the lower left corner, and mail that envelope
to the agency or prodco that asked to read it. Simple.
But no. Some writers send "theme" submissions. Ask the agent who received a birdcage, complete with bird, script lying in
the bottom of the cage appropriately decorated by the bird. Or those that come with Supporting Materials (art, newspaper clippings,
wine). Why, why do you do this?
Then there's the cover letter. Please, do not include: the movies your script might resemble ("it's Last Action Hero meets
Le Quay des Brumes!"), encomia from the anonymous ("my professor at Tampa Tech & Vocational loves it!"), claims for the script's
commercial or artistic potential ("this movie will make $672 million and rake in 27 Academy Awards®!") or casting suggestions
("Brad Pitt, Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, and Adrien Brody"). Just thank your poor reader for their time.
And don't send your script via any method that requires the recipient to sign for it or, God help you, go pick it up at the
post office. And since we're in the annoyance area, don't call every two days and ask if they've received your glisteningly
wonderful screenplay. Call in two or three weeks to remind them that you're alive, and that's it. In all likelihood you will
never hear from them again. That is the most common pass. Silent but deadly.
2. Fancy covers.
Use card stock. White. 110 lbs. Like the lie on your girlfriend's driver's license. Yes, a weight similar to 110 is okay.
Yes, pastel colors are okay. Do not print anything on the cover unless you are specifically requested to do so. Do not draw
anything on the cover. Do not paste anything on the cover. Just Leave It Alone.
3. Weird binding/brads.
Use Acco solid brass brads, #5 or #6. Acco is a company. They make brads. You can get their brads, and many other valuable
things you might need, at www.thewritersstore.com. And when you order your brads, order washers to go with them. These are
little circular disks you use with brads to keep your script tightly bound. Use them. Use two brads (and two washers) per
script, in the upper and lower of the three holes you've punched in your script.
Do not use any other binding technology. Do not spiral-bind your script. Do not use short brads that allow your script to
fall apart in the reader's hands. Do not use long brads that will snarl in the pile of scripts the reader has for the weekend.
Do not use cheap, thin brads that will lacerate the reader. These things will not endear your screenplay to the reader.
4. Art.
Just don't. Not ever. Never. Nowhere in the script. Not before the title page, not after the title page, not at the end, not
anywhere in the middle. I'm sure it's pretty. I'm sure it's important. Put it in the copy you send to your mother.
5. Too much on the title page.
Good Lord, if I so much as lift your main character's first name you'll have the FBI after me. Otherwise why would you include
the warnings that you have acquired both a WGA registration number and a copyright? Look at all those digits! And there's
your title, the genre, your name, then your name, address, and all other contact information there at the bottom, perhaps
with the same info for some agent or manager with executive offices in Erie, Pennsylvania.
Just the facts, ma'am. Title, by, your name and contact info. If you did have a real agent this script would be submitted
under their cover. If I'm not doing business directly with them, leave them off.
6. Cast lists/glossaries/etc.
Don't tell me who's who. If I can't tell from the script, you've got unsolvable problems. Same thing for glossaries. Yes,
I know this is script #1 of your epic three-part science fiction saga. Again, if I can't figure out what's going on inside
the script, you're doomed. We can't hand out a copy of your glossary to everyone who buys a ticket to the movie. Go ahead
and write the book. Make your twelve thousand dollars. If we want your story we'll call you.
7. Too long/too short.
We love slender screenplays. The 110-page drama. The 100-page comedy. Love, love, love. But the 87-page comedy? Or worse,
the 87-page drama? Trouble. And the 132-page drama? Or, God help us, the 132-page comedy? Disaster.
You say you can't possibly cut twelve pages out of your masterpiece? Could you do it for $250,000? I knew you could. Because
if you don't, your dear reader might just pick up your tome at ten p.m. on a Sunday night and hate you and your script with
all the passion in their wizened little heart before they've read word one.
One weird side note here. Some of you are using 24 lb. paper, liking its substantial and crisp feel. Don't. It will make your
script look and feel too long even if it isn't. Use 20 lb. Trust me-- an experienced reader can guess the length of your script
to within five pages the minute they pick it up.
8. Courier 12pt.
This is the font to use, and no other. Okay, okay, go wild and use Courier New 12 pt. Yes, there are reasons that these two
fonts are the only two to use. Do not try cheating by using 11 pt. or 13 pt. Yes, a reader can spot it from across the room.
And no, I will not get into a big argument about other proportional and "typewriter" fonts, or about what font some working,
successful, professional screenwriter might use. Are you there yet? I thought not. Don't fall on your sword over something
this stupid.
9. Too much ink.
Oh, the ennui that comes with flipping casually through a screenplay and seeing vast blocks of verbiage. Walls of words. Ponderous
paragraphs. Are you one of those writers who feels compelled to describe every setting, every action, every moment down to
the minutest detail, the smallest gesture, the most miniscule moment? See how boring it is to read about?
Use the rule of thumb. No paragraph should be taller than your thumb is wide. And get yourself some narrow thumbs. Less is
so much more. One line deep? Great! Two, okay. Three? Better be important. Four? Better be the single most important description
in the script. Five? Don't.
10. Too much talk.
This beast comes in two forms. The first are those curious pages that are nothing but dialogue. That's a lot of talk with
nothing for us to watch. Nothing is happening, or there would be action mentioned. The longer this goes on, the more nervous
the reader gets. Often, these actionless scenes are set in restaurants, and the reader is left imagining a kind of tennis
match, bouncing back and forth between the two hopefully-engaging conversationalists.
The other version of this problem is the monologue. Sprawling paragraphs of talk tumbling down the page. Sure, include a great
short monologue for your lead somewhere in Act Three. Give them something to chew on when the chips are down. But monologue
disease often overwhelms entire scripts. Every character talks in paragraphs. It doesn't make me want to see the movie, and
it really doesn't make me want to meet the writer if this is how they think human beings should talk.
Story Trouble (wherein we read your screenplay):
1. Main character MIA.
Many birds will imprint socially on the first moving object they see when they emerge from the egg. This is how we get whooping
cranes migrating behind well-meaning liberals in ultralights. Readers, upon breaking the shell of your screenplay, will imprint
upon the first active character they encounter. Imagine their distress when that person disappears for a page or ten. You
just crashed their ultralight in a cornfield.
Please, if you're not going to introduce your main character on page one, make sure it is for an absolutely critical story
reason. Hint: it's a really, really good idea to introduce your main character on page one.
2. The big black page one.
This is usually a science fiction or fantasy screenplay disease, but I've seen it in everything. That killer first page where
the writer has decided to describe the world in one go. One crushingly dense page that looks like it has 500 words on it.
There is no dialogue. Sometimes there isn't even any action. The typical version is the first page of a science fiction script
that starts in orbit above Planet X, slowly swooping past various and sundry space stations and ships, through the rings,
methane clouds, etc., and on to the frozen nitrogen surface to a domed city, through the transparent dilithium dome to a find
our steely-jawed hero.
At least they got to the main character on page one. We hate them anyway.
3. Spelling/grammar/punctuation.
There Is No Excuse. No excuse for what readers in this town face every day. You have to know that your computer's spell-check
is not enough, but too many of you don't even use that. When you see that little squiggly red line under a word, it means
that it's misspelled. Fix it. And then fix everything else. Your, you're, their, they're, there, its, it's, etc. Come on,
this is not impossible. And if you can't do it, hire someone. Can't afford to hire someone? Have a bake sale. I don't care.
I'm not going to hold your hand. Just get it done.
Yes, there are some readers who will overlook these problems. Others will not. They will resent the fact that you want them
to care about the quality of your work when you obviously do not. They will not respect a writer who has a weak grasp of the
English language. No reader will reject your script for being perfect.
4. Format woes.
Some problems don't appear on a flip-through. These can include bad slug lines (my personal favorite: INT. NEW YORK - NIGHT)
and an abundance of CUT TO:'s and CONTINUED's (I know there's more after this, thank you).
Allow me to cop to a personal dislike at this point. There are many readers who have no problem with this one. I refer to
the use of"we see" and "we hear." This makes my skin crawl. Worse, they both kick me out of the story. There I am, happily
reading about your character's quest for the Holy Grail or whatever, and suddenly "we see a dragon creeping toward Our Hero."
I'm no longer in your character's point of view. I've been forcibly ejected. I'm back to sitting in my living room wondering
what page I'm on and how long until I can have lunch.
5. Voiceover.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Really. You might do a magnificent job with voiceover. Alan Ball might write you
a fan letter. But probably not.
I'm talking about the endless series of screenplays stretching away to the horizon in which the main character talks over
the first five pages, offering us backstory, witty insight, and other loaded remarks that portend great things. Please resist
this unwholesome urge. Take a cold shower.
6. Flashback.
I'll put this here, but it could go anywhere. There's nothing wrong with flashback, either. Not in and of itself. It's just
used too often by writers who don't have the requisite skill, and used too often for stylistic reasons that have nothing to
do with the story. When you enter a flashback, the active story grinds to a halt. Make sure your flashback is critical and
interesting, or we won't forgive you. And don't just use flashbacks to deliver backstory. A flashback needs a story and structure
of its own. See Casablanca for an example of a great flashback. If you can't do it that well, leave it out.
7. The audience isn't psychic.
And neither am I, so you have filled your script with cues and information that cannot be seen or heard. You tell me that
Joe is Lou's brother-in-law. You tell me Amy went to summer camp with Susan. You tell me Susan resents Joe for an unhappy
love affair. You tell me Lou secretly pines for Amy. Well, all that information will be secret from the audience because you've
put it in description.
You say you want the reader to have a richer sense of the story and of your characters' backgrounds. That is lazy, weak, bad
screenwriting. If it's important, find a way to get it into the script in a way we can see or hear. If you can't, cut it.
8. The cast of thousands.
Lordy, I'm on page two and I've met eight people. Flipping forward a few pages, I see a dismaying parade of all-cap character
names. And nobody's doing anything. They're just talking. I am not going to fill out flashcards to keep these people straight.
This is one of those iceberg problems. If your script has more characters in the first ten pages than I can remember, you
probably haven't made any of them strong and interesting enough. No, I'm not going to fight over any of the great ensemble
movies you've seen. If I'm not remembering your ensemble, you haven't written one.
9. Character descriptions.
"He's handsome in a steely-eyed way." "She's model-beautiful, with intelligence shining from her wide blue eyes." "The reader
was attractive when she started reading, but now her features are marred by bitter resentment at being forced to read endless
clichés."
Must. Try. Harder. Screenwriting is not Great Writing. Not in the classical sense of beautiful words flowing across a page.
It's mechanical. You're confined to what you can see and hear. With one exception-- the character descriptions. Want to imply
something about that character beyond what a camera and microphone will capture? Here's your Big Chance. So why do most of
you blow it with wretched, contrived, clichéd descriptions. We don't have to read your minds, you know. We know you're trying
to say "Tom Cruise! Cast Tom Cruise!!!"
Here's an example of a great character description:
His body is 30 years old. His face is 40, his eyes 50. An ageless warrior. Somewhere, the blood of Ulysses runs in this guy's
veins.
Applause to David Twohy, for this description of The Chief from G.I. Jane. He's described his character brilliantly. And he
hasn't limited the casting to "Tom Cruise! Tom Cruise!" They cast Viggo Mortensen, and he was perfect.
10. Where am I?
You may have avoided the INT. NEW YORK - NIGHT slug line disaster, but you may stumble into another. You may tell me I'm INT.
OFFICE - DAY and go immediately to your character talking on the phone. Well, wait a minute there. Is this a real estate office
or a dentist's office? And even if you get it right the first time and I have some sense of place on page one, you might lose
me when you return to the same location fifty pages later. Plant some distinctive cues about each location so I'll know and
remember where I am.
11. When am I?
Unless you tell them otherwise, your reader will assume that your story takes place in the present day. And unless it's critical
to the story, it should. Nothing runs a budget straight up the wall like moving in time in either direction. Don't set your
small family drama in the seventies because you think it's cool.
And if your script jumps in time, go ahead and be real obvious about that, too. Don't leave me in the middle of WWII and then
show your hero climbing into his Camry and driving away.
12. Logorrhea.
Screenwriting is a game of inches, to steal from Al Pacino's Big Speech in Any Given Sunday. You had better be fighting tooth
and nail to remove every possible word from your script. Every letter. You had better look at every sentence in your script
and make sure that it is as short as it can be. Have you found a way to say what you want to say in the smallest possible
number of letters? Is there a shorter word? A simpler phrase? Do you really need to say that at all? This is haiku you're
writing. Fight for every syllable. If it ain't lean, I'll be mean.
13. You're not the director.
Your screenplay is not a movie, so stop directing it. I'm talking about camera angles, dolly shots, close-ups and close-ons,
and all those parentheticals meant to make things clear to the actors. If you start explaining why all these things are important,
I will stick my fingers in my ears and go "la la la la la."
If you have raised all the money and are shooting your movie yourself, by all means include all the camera calls you like.
But if your oh-so-instructive shooting script gets into the hands of a professional director, he will resent you. Don't tell
him how to do his job. And if your dialogue and situations are so unclear that you need to tell the actors how to deliver
their lines, you haven't done your job.
Shooting scripts, prepared during preproduction, contain camera calls and numbered scenes and various technical asides. They
are also easier to get hold of after the fact than the original scripts are (spec or otherwise). Spec scripts should contain
none of these things. They are first and foremost reading experiences. If you write a script that looks like a shooting script,
you are advertising your amateur status and the fact that you haven't read many professional scripts. Don't do it.
14. You're not anybody else, either.
Unless it's critical to the story, don't spend a lot of time talking about what people are wearing, what music is playing,
etc. Let the costume director, sound people, location managers, production designers, etc., do their jobs. All these people
are part of the storytelling process. None of them want you telling them what to do at every turn.
15. You're not Tarantino.
Oooh! Another hip hit man is on his way to whack someone, trailing a line of hip cultural references as he goes. Whoops! The
next scene is two weeks earlier/later! For no particular reason other than the writer thinks it's hip. And then we're treated
to some astonishingly graphic violence just because.
16. You're not Shane Black.
You stop in the middle of your tale to tell me how wonderful it is. How exciting the upcoming chase scene will be. How sexy
the sex is. Remember how annoying the "nudge nudge, wink wink" character was on Monty Python?
These last two items are about style. Surprise! Style is what sets your writing apart from everybody else's. Trust me-- at
this stage of the game, simply writing well will set you apart. Don't steal the distinctive style of a successful writer.
You're only the millionth newbie writer to think of it, and readers have had it up to here.
17. You're certainly not Charlie Kauffman.
I know you're not, because we have only one and he's it. He has earned the right to challenge our perception of the world.
If you try it, I will either think (1) you're trying to imitate Charlie Kauffman, or (2) you're insane. In fact, I'm probably
just going to go with insane.
18. And you're not funny.
Actually, I knew this one on the first page of your supposed comedy. I knew it from the cover letter that came with the script.
You're just not one of those rare individuals who is told often how funny you are. You don't make people laugh in casual conversation.
You can't even tell a joke, and yet you persist in the notion that you can write comedy. Here's a gentle hint: stop.
19. Is there a problem here?
Okay, your reader has stuck with you to page two, or five, or ten, and now he's starting to wonder when your story's going
to start. Readers are patient, optimistic people by nature. They have to be. If everything they read sucks, they will soon
be out of a job. They have to like something. They want to like your script. They desperately, passionately yearn to read
a good screenplay. Do these poor people a favor and start your story on the first page. Don't set the scene. Don't deluge
them in backstory. Don't spend pages describing the ordinary world your characters inhabit. As they say, cut to the chase.
Sometimes a new writer will think they have begun their story when they haven't, because their story is not the stuff of which
movies are made. The stakes are just too low. Pity the poor reader for a prodco looking for an action movie-- imagine they
find themselves reading a story about a police officer who spends the first page arguing with his wife. Well, unless one of
them pulls a gun and shoots the other, this reader will not believe the story has started. It hasn't.
Embrace conflict. Create enormous stakes. If your reader thinks "so what?" for even an instant you're doomed. If your main
character could leave the story for a nap or an afternoon off you're doomed. The stakes need not literally be life or death,
but they had better feel like it to your character and your reader.
20. The Village of the Happy Nice People.
Conflict, continued. I stole this phrase from Richard Walter. He uses it to describe the hapless occupants of any of the thousands
of insipid, bland scripts he has read in his career. These are the characters we met earlier, usually described as "ruggedly
handsome" and "model-beautiful but smart!" These folks are also darned nice. They're well-intentioned. They Do the Right Thing.
Of course, the newbie writer says. They're Our Hero. Well, nuts to your hero. He's a stiff. He has no real flaws. And oh,
doesn't everyone in the screenplay know it and love him for it! His friends agree with him, his family supports him, his dog
thinks he's a swell guy.
I'm exaggerating to prove a point. Your scripts are full of these very nice characters who never come into conflict. Or if
they do, it's on page 15 and your hero soon wins the day and by page 30 everyone he knows agrees with his course of action.
Your characters had better be in conflict on page one. Sooner, if you can manage it. How can you do it sooner? How about a
title like Raiders of the Lost Ark. Think the audience knew to expect some conflict there? If you do not have conflict in
any scene of your script, cut it. It sucks. I can tell from here.
21. No, it's my movie.
Are you a sidekick? Have you ever met a sidekick? Of course not. Nobody thinks they're a sidekick. The minor characters in
your script are all stars in their own stories. They're not just there to support your main character. Make them real people
with their own interests and opinions.
22. What a groovy sidekick.
This is one of the most extraordinarily common faults for new writers. The fabulous secondary character. At least a dozen
times I've heard new writers say that their second screenplay will star the sidekick from their first screenplay. Tragically,
some of these writers speak of their second script as a sequel to the first. I'll just go ahead as an aside and say don't.
Because I said so, that's why.
Why is that secondary character so fabulous? Because the main character is you, the writer. He suffers under all the same
social restrictions you have. He wouldn't say that! He wouldn't do that! Because you wouldn't. The sidekick has no such restrictions.
He's saying and doing everything you won't. Learn from him. He's a lot more interesting than your main character. That's trouble.
23. Your dialogue blows.
We suspected it the minute your first character spoke. Now we've come a little way into the script and we know it. Your dialogue
is bad. Your characters are pounding out backstory with every sentence. "George! I haven't seen you since your brother's wedding
last July. How has your wife, Ann? And the kids, George Jr., Michelle, and Tom?"
Ugh. Other dialogue horrors include the hip, postmodern witticisms mentioned above, and dialogue sans conflict. This can range
anywhere from happy exchanges between characters with the identical point of view and opinions (hint: get rid of one of them)
and those reader-feeder "here's our Big Plan" scenes.
Dialogue is not language. People don't talk that way. You have to do better than that. Cut the lazy (uh, well, like, um, so,
etc.) and the boring. And don't force feed us information. Don't feel bad if the dialogue in your first few scripts sucks.
It is a common failing. Don't turn to blockbuster movies to learn the craft. Their dialogue usually sucks, too. Read plays.
24. Subtext.
I don't know who said this, but I'll steal it anyway: "If the scene is about what the scene is about it will die like a rat
in the road." Subtext means that the words coming out of your characters' mouths do not convey all the information and meaning
in the scene. There's something more being said. Simple example? The Princess Bride. Buttercup realizes that when the farm
boy says "as you wish," what he really means is "I love you."
25. Talking heads.
Let's get off the topic of talking. Please. Your characters do too much of it. Remember this: in drama, talking is lying and
action is truth. And yet too many newbie scripts are nothing but talking scenes. There's a slugline, a brief description to
set the stage, and then people start talking. If they ever get around to doing something, first they tell someone about it,
then they talk about it afterwards. Movies are moving pictures, not talking pictures. If you can't rein in the chatter, write
plays.
And referring to my earlier complaint that your characters are too nice, try not to make them honest either. They don't know
what they're there to learn. They know what they want (I hope), but they don't know what they need. Don't allow your main
character to say anything insightful until page 100. Please.
26. Canned greetings.
"Hello, how are you?" "Fine, thanks, and how are you?" "Great, and the kids?" Cut the blather. Get into the scene early, get
out fast. Leave out all the pleasant social chat. It's boring, it ruins the pace of the script, and it does not advance your
story.
27. Anonymoustown/anyjob.
Let me guess. Your main character is an architect. Or works for a magazine, newspaper, or PR firm. They live on Main Street
in a city you don't name. Some writers make that anonymity an artistic choice, as in the brilliant thriller Se7en. Most newbie
writers are just being lazy.
Readers are smart people. They like to learn things. Do some research. Show them part of the world they don't know. Give your
character an interesting occupation. A word of warning: if you are not very familiar with Los Angeles, do not set your screenplay
here. Your reader will loathe your mistakes. The same is true ten times over for screenplays set in the entertainment world.
28. You're wrong.
This is where your lack of research gets serious. You've made some major mistake that unravels your story. Let's say you've
written a love story about some historical figure and made a mistake about your main character's sexual orientation. What
if you write a technological thriller and your grasp of the requisite technology is wrong? Yes, you will be found out.
Do your research. This is why the word author is next to authority. We expect you to be an authority on your subject. Put
simply, don't make stuff up. Have some respect for your craft.
29. Doesn't anybody want to be the bad guy?
Yes, you have to have a villain. No, they can't change their minds and become nice in the end. Worse, they must be stronger,
smarter, and tougher than your hero. And your villain better show up early. I won't wait around until Act Three to meet some
mustachios-twirling mystery man who has been hovering in the background for a hundred pages. And make sure your villain has
a motivation the audience can appreciate and understand. Make this character three-dimensional. Make him fascinating. Your
story is only as strong as your villain.
30. Hurt your characters.
I knew a writer who wouldn't kill her characters. Not in a thriller, not in a drama, not in an action movie. We'd stare at
her and try to explain that these were imaginary people. We tried to explain that they were being killed by other imaginary
people. It didn't matter. All her characters survived every screenplay.
Some of you people can't even wound your characters. And that's just the physical. What about those tremendous emotional scars
you're unwilling to inflict? Can you think of a single great movie where the main character did not suffer some horrible emotional
damage? Remember Indiana Jones when he saw that truck explode? Luke Skywalker when Obi Wan died? What about Lawrence of Arabia
when he was seized by the Turks? Here's a hint: he wasn't just beaten.
Pain is where drama lives. Pain is the other half of any human story. We pursue our pleasure and flee our pain. Without pain,
your story is flat. Hurt your characters. Shame them, embarrass them, humiliate them. Kill them.
31. Where'd my main character go?
I've made it to page fifteen or twenty or thirty and your main character is fading in and out. You've got a couple of other
storylines going, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but your main character isn't a part of any of these other storylines,
which is a problem.
Here's a hint. The moviestar you get to star in your movie is going to be expensive. The producer or studio that is paying
for him would like to get their money's worth. That means that they want to see their star's very expensive face on screen
80% of the time.
When you create a great main character, your reader wants to read about them. You should want to write about them. If you
can leave your main character for pages at a time, consider that you might have a problem.
32. Structure?
Yaaaay-- I made it to page thirty. I wanted to cheer the fact that I'd made it to the end of your first act. Tragically, that
pivotal structural landmark is nowhere in sight.
Screenplay structure is not something that was invented ten years ago by someone teaching a seminar at the Airport Mariott.
Go get a copy of Aristotle's Poetics. Structure is an underlying principle of storytelling. It speaks to the way the human
mind and human heart work. Learn it. Do it.
Screenwriting is profoundly different from fiction writing. It compares to writing music. The story moves unstoppably in time.
Emotion and energy ebb and flow. Do you enjoy listening to random noise (insert modern music snipe here)? Can you hear the
structure underlying Beethoven's Fifth Symphony?
So why do I read so many scripts with no structure? Emotion that peaks and plunges at random? Stakes that are high early,
then fade as the story goes on? The most typical bad structure is a slowly building series of successes for the main character,
culminating in a big success on page 90, followed by a ten- or twenty-page denoument. This is totally wrong, but I'll leave
it to you to find out why. Stop writing scripts with a page 120 that should be page 60.
33. What's it about again?
I've made it to act two of your thriller, and suddenly your detective is spending waaaay too much time with his leading lady.
In fact, nobody has mentioned the grizzly murder from page one for some little while. We've pretty much turned into a romantic
comedy (except it's not funny).
Story drift is an idea problem. New writers are not often good judges of what makes a good idea for a screenplay, and even
if they find a good idea, they are almost never able to execute it. This is an unusually complex problem. The different aspects
of the problem seem similar, and often occur together:
Often, when writers choose a poor idea for a screenplay, they find themselves running out of story. This can happen anywhere,
but usually strikes in Act Two, as in our example of the thriller that becomes a romantic comedy. Unsure how to fill all those
pages, the writer starts throwing in story elements that don't belong. Remember, a good script is complex. That means one
central idea has been fully realized on the page. A bad screenplay is complicated. That means the writer has tossed in unrelated
ideas, hoping the reader will find something interesting. They won't.
This fault gets so severe at times that the original story never comes back. These scripts are fatalities. If I start reading
a thriller, I want to read a thriller straight to the end.
The rare writer who does come up with a good idea for a feature film usually bungles it in the execution. Sometimes this is
just incurable incompetence. Occasionally, it's just impatience. The writer is so eager to start writing that they don't develop
their idea. They don't spend the time to imagine everywhere that idea might take them. They don't chase a hundred dead ends
to find that one best storyline.
Take your time. Yes, you have to outline. Yes, you should write a treatment before you start writing. It would be a very good
idea to workshop your idea in your writing group before you start writing. Writers develop tunnel vision about their ideas.
Other people will be able to see strengths and weaknesses you cannot. Even more important, they will be able to tell you if
your wonderful, original idea has been done before.
34. Humans don't do this.
In your screenwriting career, most of your characters will be humans. Humans are, by and large, lazy slobs. Okay, maybe that's
a little strong, but humans are inclined to maximize pleasure and minimize pain, and to do these things with minimal effort.
Not in many beginners' scripts. They have characters who would cross the Gobi desert for a glass of water-- leaving behind
their house and sink and glasses.
Your characters need to go to extraordinary lengths to achieve extraordinary things. You run into trouble when the the challenges
your characters face could be conquered with little effort. Or at least with much less effort than you have them making.
35. Help! It's weird!
I have heard tell of a screenplay making the contest rounds a few years ago that was written in bird language. And here I
thought they all spoke French.
If only all the odd screenplays were this easy to spot. Many unfortunate readers get far into scripts before they find out
they've strayed into the territory of the irretrievably weird. This category isn't actually something you need to spend a
lot of time worrying about, because weirdo writers will never know that they are weirdo writers, and will never be able to
change their ways.
You can learn to work within genre and ratings boundaries. You can learn to scale back the violence and sexuality in your
scripts so as to excite without offending. But if you are seriously weird, there's precious little you can do. You may be
merely odd, you may be mentally ill. The reader will never know. But we will guess.
I shall make one plea: listen to your family, friends, and members of your writing groups. Let your loved ones break the news
of your weirdness. Don't insist a reader tell you.
36. Help! It's expensive!
Okay, I'm guilty of this one. I wrote a nice little family drama, one with a probable budget of $12.83. Then, in Act Three,
I had one scene that would cost a million dollars. Think that scene will survive the rewrite? Not a chance.
Certain companies make certain movies. Small prodcos can't make giant action movies. The studios can't afford to make low
budget movies. Sound odd? It's true. They need to spend $50 million and more to market a movie. Twice that in summer. They
won't spend that on a movie that only cost a million dollars to make.
The economics of smaller productions are easier to understand. Small prodcos can only afford so much. Expected audience size
dictates reasonable expenditure on a given project.
Imagine a reader's disappointment when they finally find that one script in a thousand, a good script, only to find it hobbled
by unnecessarily pricey elements. Keep your buyer in mind while you're writing. Don't load up your small family drama with
million-dollar scenes in Act Three.
37. I can't find a pulse!
Wow, lots of things have happened to your main character. His dog ran off, his girlfriend left him, his mother called him
a sonofabitch, an asteroid destroyed his trailer, and he came down with shingles. Yow! Well, maybe not all that, but things
did happen. To. Him. This is the popular passive character problem. The world crashes in around him and he just reacts. It
can seem exciting, but to a reader and an audience wanting someone they can root for he may as well be laying there like a
lox.
You might not even notice this one, because in many movies the first act does involve things happening to the main character.
He is reactive. But by page thirty he'd better get his act together and become active. Too many main characters in new writers'
scripts never do. Oh, somewhere in act three he may decide to go out and win the chili cookoff at the state fair to show his
ex-girlfriend and ex-mother who's boss, but it's too little, too late.
38. I've seen that movie, too.
I stole that line from Elton John. You stole your story from another movie. You may not even be aware of it. You haven't seen
as many movies as I have. Or you might think your "take" is unique enough. It isn't. You may think Hollywood will appreciate
your homage. It won't. You may even be hallucinating that you should write a sequel to an existing film. You shouldn't. And
as a slightly related aside, never write anything based on any material not your own unless you have secured all underlying
rights. If I go through all this and find your "original creation" is not even original, I will come to your apartment and
slap you. Well, maybe not, but I'll think about it.
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