There are three rules in Hollywood. You know the first. William Goldman said it, and many have repeated it:

Rule #1: Nobody Knows Anything.

And of course, like peer pressure, there's magic to it. Just as no parent believes their child is a peer, nobody believes that Rule #1 applies to them. The problem isn't that _they_ don't know. They _know_. It's all those other people who are the problem.

I'm going to give you two more rules.

Rule #2: Anything Might Work.
Rule #3: In All Likelihood, Nothing Will.

I don't mind raining on anyone's parade. I'm not your teacher. I'm not your mother. I'm not a consultant or script doctor. I don't have a book to sell. I'm not making money telling you this. I'm not even making money at screenwriting, other than the twenty grand I've won in screenwriting contests. Feel free to leave this site for the myriad of feel-good screenwriting websites out there in the ether. I'm going to try to tell you the truth, and in this section I want to tell you a few things about the business.

It will take me some time to get this section finished. While I do, I want you to test yourself. Are you tough enough? Can you handle the truth? I want you to go to Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio's excellent site, www.wordplayer.com, and read Terry's column number 34--Throwing in the Towel. If you can read that and still come back here, congratulations:

http://www.wordplayer.com/columns/wp34.Throw.in.the.Towel.html

Made it back? Good for you. There's something I want to discuss right up front. When we talk about the business, we need to define what we mean. Because there are two screenwriting businesses in Hollywood. You and I are a part of one, and we are trying to join the other.

The first business is the business of the wannabes, and it is huge, both in terms of population and economics. The second business is the business of working writers, and while the economics can be impressive and alluring, the population is small. There is overlap between the two. Working writers buy screenwriting software, brads and washers, cardstock and ink cartridges just like the rest of us. But for the most part they do not pay for conferences, travel, consultants, script doctors, seminars, gurus and film schools.

You and I, and wannabe writers the world over, are supporting a vast industry. Every time I attend a conference I am once again amazed at the size of this industry. And, frankly, I am more than a little appalled. Because I know Rule #3 is true:

In All Likelihood, Nothing Will Work.

I'm not saying you're not a good writer. Even if every single person who reads this is terrific and talented and devoted to their craft-- if every amateur writer were-- there just isn't room enough for all of us.

Let's crunch some numbers.

First, a fact: The entertainment industry is a mature industry in the non-developing world. Entertainment seeks one asset: the time and attention of an audience. In the non-developing world, populations are stable and most members of that population are fully served by entertainment outlets. This means that everyone has a TV, a VCR, and a theater nearby. They may have a DVD player and a video/computer gaming system. They have their stereos and iPods. They are devoting the maximum amount of free time available to enjoying those entertainment outlets. Nobody is suddenly going to start spending ten extra hours a month going to the movies or watching TV. The populations of North America, Western Europe, and Japan are not suddenly going to expand, creating extra entertainment consumers. We have realized the finite capacity to consume entertainment product.

This means that the amount of entertainment product manufactured in an exhibition-dependent format (the wide-release feature film) should remain stable in the foreseeable future. The magic number of such films made last year is around 300. It doesn't change much year to year.

300. Okay, sounds like plenty of opportunity for beginning writers. Until you start chipping away the films that were written as works-for-hire by professional screenwriters. Or purchased as specs from professional screenwriters. Or purchased as completed films, foreign or domestic. That total comes to a rather painful figure somewhere north of 275.

Ouch. So how much competition do you have for those twenty-odd slots? For seeing your spec sold and made into a movie? We can look at the easiest number to find: the number of scripts registered with the WGA each year: about 45,000.

45,000. Still more are registered with the Library of Congress. Still more are never registered. Some new writers don't know they should. Many professionals don't bother, particularly those working on assignment. I have heard many estimates that put the total number of screenplays written each year at 100,000. And screenplays don't vanish after one year. They remain in circulation around Hollywood like the rings of Saturn. I heard one person claim that there are one million scripts outside the gates of Hollywood at all times.

One million scripts vying for twenty production slots. That would make your odds one in 50,000.

Doesn't sound good, does it? Here's what I want you to do. Go back to the writing page and read my piece about the mistakes new writers make in querying, submitting, and writing their scripts. If you can get through that list and haven't made those mistakes you are so far ahead of the game, I can't even tell you. Your odds are down to maybe one in one hundred. Better.

The horrible odds of one in 50,000 make you feel out of control, but in fact that's a myth. Leveling the playing field is entirely in your hands. There is only one thing you need to do:

Don't Suck.

No, I'm not kidding. I'm not being facetious. Because this is so very hard. It is absolutely heartbreakingly, appallingly difficult to write well. And you have to. I don't care if the movie you saw last weekend stank in the nostrils of the Lord. You'd better believe the original screenplay didn't. You cannot chase the lowest common denominator. Hollywood has chewed up and ruined many a masterpiece. You have to write a masterpiece for them before you will earn the same privilege.

I am telling you that improving the odds from one in 50,000 to one in one hundred is entirely in your hands. This is true if you have the capacity to be a great writer. Again, see Terry Rossio's piece on Wordplay. This isn't true for everybody. It's true for very few. I think Terry did a great job describing the traits of a successful writer. Effort just isn't enough. It's as true in writing as it is in sports. As much as I might wish to be a wide receiver in the NFL, as hard as I might work, it just isn't going to happen.

Sob.

Sorry. But let's go with the assumption that you have what it takes and have put in the maniacal effort required to not suck. Where do we go from there? We face the hundred-to-one odds in:

The Business

Ready? Let's get to it.

1. Words to Live and Die by:

Here is the one piece of advice I insist you follow. Above all others. In Hollywood, and in your life, if you can. But definitely in Hollywood:

Always Tell the Truth.

Sound strange? This is Hollywood, after all. You shouldn't expect the truth from anybody else, so why this burden on you?

Because information is everything, and this is a very small town. If you fabricate anything, if you claim to know someone you don't, if you say you were recommended by someone who has never heard of you, if you swear your script got great coverage somewhere and it didn't, you will be found out and kicked to the curb, script still clutched in your hot little hand.

Yes, people do check on what you tell them. Yes, they do call around. Do not be swayed by the few examples where people got away with spectacular evasions of the truth. Hollywood laughed after the fact, and clamped down. They don't like being made fools of. Nobody does.

I also want you to be able to sleep at night. I don't want you to lie awake trying to remember what you told to Producer A and what you told to Producer B, and worrying that they'll bump into one another over the smoked sturgeon at Barney Greengrass next week and compare notes.

Keep notes about who you meet, who you talk to, and what you talk about. Keep notes about who has seen your script(s). Keep that notebook by the phone, so when someone calls, you can tell them what they want to know. The truth.

2. What it's All About.

Think the theatrical movie business is about selling movies? Nope. The theatrical movie business is about selling popcorn. Movies are a loss leader. To the theater owner, the cans of celluloid that get carted in and out of his theater are just a lure to draw live bodies to his concession stand(s). His theaters are just big dark rooms where people can sit and snack.

We may complain that Hollywood churns out predictable fare, but in fact it doesn't. Hollywood delivers a pretty remarkable diversity of films to theaters each year. There is only one reason for that: nobody can predict which movies will generate the highest popcorn sales. Think this hasn't been studied exhaustively? Think again. The minute theater owners can predict their take at their concession stands based on the movies in their theaters, then you'll see a narrowing of the kinds of films Hollywood makes.

Next time you go to a movie, mess with the system. Seeing a subtitled foreign drama? Get a giant popcorn. Seeing an action flick? Have a small diet soda. Win one for diversity.

3. Arf.

There are more stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame for dogs than there are for screenwriters. So Know Your Place. Looking for fame and glamour? Look elsewhere. You will not be waved into Sky Bar on Friday night. You will be standing on the curb with the tourists and the winos. Enjoy.

4. This is Really Hard.

There are some would-be screenwriters out there I'd like to beat about the head and shoulders with a rolled-up screenplay. Okay, there are quite a few. But at the top of that select class are these folks:

"I've just finished my first screenplay. Who do I send it to to sell it? Should I send it to the studios or should I send it to an agent first? Won't they just take ten percent of my money?"

Gaaahhh!!! Sorry, but I just had to get this out of my system. You can insert your own mock here. This isn't verbatim, but I have come across this question here and there a hundred times. If you think this is a good question, keep reading.

5. It's the Idea, Stupid.

Want to sell a screenplay? I thought you did. Well, you're going to have to write this:

A high-concept, low- to moderate-budget screenplay in one of the hot genres with a lead role written for a bankable young star.

I put high-concept first for a reason, but you can't afford to blow off any part of this description. I also put it first because it's difficult to come up with a high-concept idea and 99% of new writers either (1) don't know what high-concept means, or (2) can't do it.

I read maybe ten log lines a day here and there, and even the small percentage that don't suck aren't high concept. I may see one good high-concept idea a year from a new writer. That's one out of 3,655 log lines. What is a high-concept idea to me? One that makes me squirm wishing I had come up with it, because the script rolls out before me the minute I hear the idea.

I said it was hard. I meant it. You want a sale? Do it anyway. Don't waste your time writing the drivel I see circulating out there. A woman struggles to reconnect with her half-brother while trying to open the first taco stand in Terre Haute? Who cares?

Here's high-concept:

-A lawyer suddenly can't lie. (Liar, Liar)
-An actor can only find work by posing as a woman. (Tootsie)
-A divorced man pretends to be a nanny to be close to his kids. (Mrs. Doubtfire)
-A bus is rigged to explode if its speed drops below 60. (Speed)
-A serial killer is killing according to the seven deadly sins. (Se7en)

Keep going. And no, I'm not saying these are the only movies that get made. They make sequels, too. Kidding, I'm kidding.

Yes, there is a chance that someone will see your beautifully-written, low-concept taco script and hire you for a writing assignment. But there are a lot of professional writers out there looking for those assignments, and your odds are long. I am showing you your best chance. Honest.

Concentrate on the genres:

-Horror
-Thriller
-Action/Adventure
-Comedy
-Romantic Comedy
-Family Comedy

Note: Action/Adventure only if you can keep the budget under control, and the Comedy genres only if you're funny. We discussed that, right? Right.

Develop an original, high-concept idea. I'm sorry that there's no way to write that in a way that adequately describes how hard it is to achieve. There should be a font available for the expression of creative anguish. In fact, it's like the line in the Far Side cartoon: "Here a Miracle Occurs."

Then color inside the lines. Write a nice, clean, screenplay. Don't try to be original and wonderful in your writing. No, don't write crap. Just don't tart it up. Try to create a fast read. Make sure it's the correct word count for a genre script (hint: keep it between 100 and 110 pages, a little shorter for family comedy).

That's it. That's the trick to writing a sellable script. It's not a guarantee, but it's a shot.

Writing drama? Hollywood likes adaptations of successful novels and plays and adaptations of real-life, well-known stories. Writing history? Be careful. If you don't have major original content your idea can't be protected. Heck, they like adaptations there, anyway, when they make historicals, which they don't like doing. Writing big budget? They don't trust you enough. You'll just be fired and replaced. With a low budget they probably can't afford to do that. Chances are they'll be stuck with you.

6. The Big O -- Options.

Or, how to give your script away for free.

If you haunt the various and sundry screenwriting chat boards and listserves, every few days you will read a message from a would-be screenwriter reporting that they have optioned their script. From the number of exclamation marks you might get some idea of their excitement. They're on their way! Just as soon as the producer raises the money or gets the script to their mysterious, unnamed connections at Studio X, that script is going into production. Fame, fortune, and vacationing with celebrities can't be far behind.

Insert the sound of squealing brakes. If options are so wonderful, why were we told in the graduate program at UCLA never to option our scripts? And why do those excited people on the message boards and listserves never end up checking into the Carlton Hotel when Cannes rolls around?

Let's look at options. The farther from these terms you get, the less likely that your option will mean anything. You need to be careful. You are giving up the rights to your screenplay to someone, just as surely as if you had sold it. The only difference is that it isn't forever, although it can feel like it.

What is an option? An option is a granting of the rights to buy a screenplay within a defined period of time for a specified amount of money. Which means that first of all, an option is a contract. All the terms, option money, purchase price, and term of option are all spelled out.

If you do not receive and sign a contract with all these terms in place, you do not have a real option. Note here that you must be paid something to make the option contract valid. Even if it's five dollars. And I've seen writers settle for five dollars.

What is a guild option? The Writers Guild of America has a minimum payment schedule in place for options, tied to the high-budget or low-budget sale price of the script, as applicable. You must receive ten percent of the ultimate sale price. In a guild contract, an option gives you twelve points toward guild membership. This is the only option that is really worth considering. It's serious money. The person who pays you real option money is committed. There's a chance they'll get in trouble if the project doesn't move forward. The guy who pays you a week's dry cleaning money? Not so much.

So why do writers accept such measly little options? Why do they give away control of their scripts for months and years at a time for almost no money? Remember, if you option your script today to Producer X for fifty bucks and Spielberg calls tomorrow and offers you a million dollars for it, you can't accept. You have given up your rights to your baby.

Writers accept bad options because they don't know any better. The baby producers offering these options tell them this is the way to get in the business. And in their defense, they can cite writers who got their start with that fifty-dollar option. But I'm here to tell it like it is, and almost none of these small-money, non-contracted options go anywhere. If the producer can't pay you real money, and does not have the legal resources to offer you a proper contract, how on earth do you think he or she can marshal the resources necessary to get a movie made? They can't.

I understand the emotional struggle. Being able to say you've optioned a script is a boost. Feeling that your script is a step closer to being produced is terrific. The phone calls, meetings, notes are great. Rewriting for someone other than the voices in your head is super. Hearing Producer X drop names of people he knows and places where he can get your script read-- priceless.

What if none of it is real? Without a contract, without real money, it probably isn't.

How to handle the mini-option:

-Time is money. Literally. If you're getting no money, they get no time. If you're getting little money, give them little time. If you're talking to enthusiastic young Producer X, who has fabulous connections but no cash of his own, all you want is access to those connections. If he really is the best friend of the President of Production at Studio X, he should be able to get your script read at Studio X in six weeks. So why do so many writers give their scripts away for two years? Offer as short a time as you can. Six weeks, three months, six months. A year? Your script will go on a shelf for eleven months, then they'll panic and finally send it around. Never, ever go longer than a year.

-Get it in writing. Even if you have to write up your agreement yourself. Payment, dates, etc.

-Make sure you know where your script is going. What person at what company. This will save you querying time later, and anyone who wants to buy the script will want to know where it's gone. And you need to know if Producer X is really doing anything.

-Stay in touch. Don't just option the script and ignore it. Call Producer X. Ask what people are saying about the script. This can help you in future rewrites, and let you know if you're writing the kind of thing the town wants.

When should you accept a mini-option? If you have a script that you've shopped on your own, if you can't land an agent or a manager, if you are working on other material and this script is low on your priority list, only then should you consider one of these mini-options. But it is the last resort. It is this or burying the script in your back yard forever. Keep your fingers crossed and tell your family you've optioned your script. But don't expect a lot of applause when you post on the screenwriting boards. Too many people know the end of this story.

So why were we told at UCLA to never option our scripts? Because if Producer X can find a buyer out there, so can you.

7. Let My People Go!

I just met a writer who has been working on the same screenplay for ten years. I haven't even been writing screenplays for ten years, and this poor writer has been noodling away on this thing for a decade.

Why has this writer made this Joycean effort? Because Secretly Retired Actor X's production company is "interested." She's been taking notes from them since 1995.

We've talked about small prodcos and weak prodcos. Let us now discuss the phantom prodco. Or, as I like to refer to them, the Phantom Menace.

Five years ago the Hollywood Creative Directory--the bible of production companies--was about half the size it is today. Hollywood isn't making twice as many movies, so why are there twice as many prodcos?

Because some of them aren't real. By "not real" I mean insofar as the newbie writer is concerned. These prodcos are not going to make your movie. Some will never read a query letter. Why? Not for the reasons we discussed before. Some of these prodcos are owned by writer-directors or writer-producers and are there to promote the work of the principal. Some are financial entities, not production entities. Some are owned by Hollywood newbies (yes, even baby writers), who believe they can only get their phone calls returned if they call themselves producers.

And some are owned by actors, as in our case of the Screenplay That Time Forgot. I don't mean to tar and feather all these companies. Some actor-owned prodcos, like Adam Sandler's prodco and Charlize Theron's prodco, are strong, skilled, real companies deeply involved in the production of motion pictures.

But we've come to examine Secretly Retired Actor X's prodco, which has so effectively held our fellow writer hostage since back in the last millennium.

Why would Secretly Retired Actor X even have a prodco, you ask? Because he can deduct travel, cars, dining, accountants, business managers, staff, etc., etc., etc. as business expenses. What do those on the prodco staff need to do to prove to the IRS that they are engaged in legitimate business activities?

They need to option screenplays.

Think they want to spend more money than is strictly necessary? Nope. Think any legitimate agent in town would let their client sign a nice long option with them? Nope. Think they're even going to want to call attention to themselves by optioning scripts from name writers? Nope.

You see where this is going. Straight to the newbie writer.

This is a worst-case scenario, to be sure. To their credit, nobody the writer deals with at the company may even realize they're working in a shell company. They might be bright, young, and enthusiastic, certain they can make a movie. Some may not want to say no to the dreams of a newbie, even as the months pass, the drafts get written and rewritten, and nothing happens.

Ten years later...

Zilch.

Small prodcos, weak prodcos, phantom prodcos, and the hundreds of eager folks working in the industry who have to secure material to build their careers--all these people need to option screenplays. As a result, perhaps one non-Guild option in a thousand becomes a movie for theatrical release.

When dealing with an actor's company, or any prodco, find out what they've really produced. Don't go by what's printed in the HCD. Actor's prodcos often receive producing credit for doing nothing more than toting the actor's tax deductions around.

This is a variation on a theme. The theme is Don't Give Away Your Script. Don't option your material to people who can't move it toward production. Don't lose control of your dream just so Secretly Retired Actor X can get a tax break on his Land Rovers. And if you are in this situation, run. They are never going to make your movie.

And to Secretly Retired Actor X, his prodco, and all others like them--

Let My People Go!

8. The Real Deal.

We've had a look at some of the fake deals. Now I'm really going to scare you. Let's take a look at a real deal. If this doesn't send you running for the hills, nothing will. If you read this, and it sounds horrible, get out now. There's a reason this is Section Eight.

Your phone rings one sylvan morn. On the other end, that estimable gent, your agent. You don't recognize his voice at first, because he sounds happy.

Prodco X loves your script. Prodco X wants to option your script. A real option. Twelve Guild credits, and, since it is a high budget script, about ten thousand dollars (I'm rounding for simplicity).

Note that the odds are against a flat-out purchase. Why? Because unless there's a bidding war for your script, they don't have to buy. Writer deals are step-deals. For newbies, think baby steps.

We've discussed the rather less-than-dreamy money awaiting the new screenwriter. The buyers are not interested in making you rich. They are interested in your having just enough money to write full-time while they want you. It's like a fellowship. They want you to quit your day job. They don't want you to go out house hunting or Porsche buying.

So you accept the option, get over the cheap champagne hangover, and get the most important phone call a screenwriter will ever receive: Prodco X's financial guy calls to ask for your Social Security number so they can cut you your check. Before it arrives, you have your first notes meeting with Prodco X.

First thing you need to determine is who at Prodco X likes the script. If it were just an intern or a junior exec, you would have had an enthusiastic phone call and possibly a meeting. The junior exec might have waxed poetic about wanting to make your script when they went out on their own. You might even have signed a free option with him and found yourself in a fake deal. But the money, if any, would have come out of his pocket. Literally.

Now you're in a meeting with three or four people. In the best of all possible worlds, the company principal is there and loves the script and you. In the fantasy version, he has actually read the script and can quote from it. Don't expect this. In reality, he's read the coverage. In real reality, he isn't even there.

So who is in the room? You'd like the most senior people you can get, and you'd like the senior story guy. Don't play favorites; you don't know who your point person at the prodco is going to be. It could be the intern who brought you your water.

What you are hoping they will tell you: "We love it. It's exactly what the studio is looking for. We called the head of production at the studio and he will personally be reading it this weekend. On Monday they should cut you the check for the remainder of the deal. We cast next month and shoot in the fall. We called Big Actor A and he wants to meet you. Here's his home phone number."

What they will actually tell you: "We love it. It's exactly what the studio is looking for. But before we submit it to the studio there's just... one... thing...."

Or a couple of things. Little things. Minor tweaks. A detail here or there. Nothing major! Just a few notes.

Wherein the new writer is introduced to the concept of the free page-one rewrite. Followed by the next, and the next, and the next....

Yes, the Writers Guild of America does not allow signatory companies to demand (or even ask for) free rewrites. Well, get over it. Happens all the time. Think A-list writers don't do it? You bet they do. Everybody does. And if you want to work in this town, you'll do it, too. Don't worry. You won't grow hair on your palms.

The writer who survives and thrives in this town is the writer who can handle notes. That is the job. To Address Their Concerns.

I'm not saying you have to blindly do whatever any producer, development exec, creative exec, story editor, actor, director, or intern tells you. But you cannot ignore any of them.

Notes will make you insane. If you don't have a drinking problem, get one. How bad does it get? Imagine writing a historical drama and being told characters' names are too long. You find yourself pleading "But I can't do anything about Domenico Ghirlandaio."

Imagine writing a script called GHOSTCATCHER and being told "Maybe the main character doesn't have to catch ghosts." These are but a couple of my own stories, and I'm nobody. It only gets worse. It's amazing that successful screenwriters don't have to eat with corks on their forks.

You need to listen to the text and subtext of notes. Whatever the text is telling you to do, the subtext is that someone has a problem with the script as it is. Someone tripped on something. Your job, and yes, they expect this of you even if they don't say it, is to fix their problems in ways much more clever, inventive, and interesting than they could ever imagine. If they could do it themselves they would, believe me. They do appreciate your abilities, even though they will never tell you. Do what they cannot, do it without being a pain to them, and they will be very, very happy with you.

So what are notes? Why the pain? Let's look at a few possible note problems:

-The notes are mutually exclusive. You cannot simultaneously make the main character a cheerleader (Prodco X's director of development's idea) and a priest (Prodco X's story editor's idea). Note that the DD is the senior person, but the SE is your contact person. No, they will not always work this out internally before they dump the notes in your lap. They should, but there are a lot of shoulds in this town.

-The notes are mutually exclusive, but only the writer can tell. Most folks in prodcos don't know so much about storytelling as I hope you do. They probably don't understand your script so well as you do. So they ask you to make the main character a muralist, which doesn't jibe with your characterization of him as an agoraphobic. That's over the top, but you get the idea. It's more subtle than the problem above. Nobody would see this problem just reading the notes.

-The notes are a page one rewrite, but nobody at the prodco seems to realize it. This is my personal favorite. An example I experienced was shifting the time frame of a script from six months to two weeks and moving the setting from Manhattan to Philadelphia. The folks at the prodco figured this could be done in thirty minutes with find-and-replace.

-The notes are pointless/weird/stupid/etc. Go back to the Writing page. See all those mistakes? The only ones a prodco probably won't make have to do with brads. Everything else is up for grabs.

What you need to do is make the folks giving you the notes feel that you are listening to them and their ideas. All of them. They like to feel that they are a part of the creative process. Stand in your mirror and practice saying "That's interesting. I'll take a look at that" with an intrigued smile on your face.

If a note can be done without weakening the script, do it. If you're not sure, try it. If you have a genuine problem with a note, discuss it with your contact person. If a note will have a global impact on the story and you think they are unaware of it, discuss it. Get the rewrite done and handed in promptly. That means no more than four to six weeks for a page-one rewrite, and only if they know it's a page-one. If they don't know, they want to see the script back in a week or two.

Do not whine. Do not refuse to change the script. Do not get a list of ten notes and only address seven. Yes, they will check. I guarantee those you skip will come from the most senior person. Do not take months to get the job done. Do not go around your contact person's back if you don't agree with him and complain to his boss. Be a professional.

So you do your free rewrite and await the phone call that it is going to the studio. You are mentally spending the purchase check. Shopping for your (used) Porsche.

The phone rings. It's the story editor. "We love the script! Love the changes you made! We're very impressed! There's just... one... thing...."

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Welcome to hell, kid. How many times will you be asked to rewrite your script? To infinity, and beyond!

Okay, maybe not. If your script really is a direct match to what the studio wants, if you really nailed it, if they really, really like you, it might go to the studio.

But probably not.

Think about what's happening around you. Yours is not the only script in development at Prodco X. Prodco X is like the planet Saturn, and its rings are formed of a zillion screenplays, books, articles, TV shows, life-rights deals and internally-developed ideas all in orbit around it. Prodco X, in turn, is one of not nine but many dozens of planets in orbit around the star that is the studio. Development, which is a wretched misnomer, is, at this stage, the process of trying to get your script boosted out of orbit around Prodco X and into orbit around the studio.

You are now in Development at Prodco X. You are rewriting the script again and again. Dozens of other writers are also in development at Prodco X, and more are coming every month. One of five things can happen to you and your script from here:

1. You rewrite your script until Prodo X thinks it's ready. Their enthusiasm for you and your script remains high. The script goes to the studio.

2. You keep rewriting, but they stop returning your phone calls. They're "not sure" about the project. Eventually, you drift to your next spec. Hopefully, this does not take you years. A good clue that you should move on is the expiration of their option.

3. Your contact person at the prodco is fired, or the prodco loses its studio deal, or there is a regime change at the studio. These are a few of the infinite number of disasters that can kill existing projects in development.

4. You freak out. This one is far too common. I don't mean that you bolt from your chair in the middle of a notes meeting and run screaming into the street. I mean that you are on page-one rewrite number seven and are given one more tiny little note that means another page-one, and your brain seizes up. You do nothing. Your contact person calls you two weeks later and you haven't touched the script. It's over. The prodco can smell fried writer brain a mile away. This scenario can play out much like scenario two from this point, or:

5. Your script goes to the studio to be killed. This is done in cold blood. If you are a pain to work with, they can submit your script to the studio knowing that it isn't ready and will be shot down. That negative coverage will stay at the studio forever. Your script is never going back there. Get bad writer coverage two or three times and you're never going back to Studio X as a writer. See why you want Prodco X to like you?

Take a deep breath. Because you're now six months down the road from that first happy phone call. You've been writing non-stop on the same script the entire time. The option money is long gone. All you want is for Prodco X to send the script over to the studio. If only they could see it! If only they knew how perfect it is! If only they'd buy it so you could eat!

How many of the scripts orbiting any given prodco ever get sent to the studio? It varies widely, but I've never heard anything better than about one in twenty.

Let's look at studios. Movie studios used to make movies. Today, most are financial and distribution entities. They provide money for prodcos to produce movies, and they distribute those movies. The good news is, they mean business. The bad news is, they mean business.

Studio X was in the top three at the overall box office last year. But times are tight in the business. Like many of the other studios, Studio X has cancelled over half of their studio deals over the last two years. That means that many, many prodcos were invited to find their development money and overhead elsewhere. Prodco X, fortunately, was retained. The option money you've spent probably came from the pile of money given to Prodco X by Studio X back in January. As an aside, see why the spec market, such as it is, seizes up toward the end of the year? Everybody's out of money.

Let's assume that you've survived development at Prodco X. They still love your script, still love (or at least like) you, and are sending your script to Studio X for their legitimate consideration (not to be killed).

How many scripts does Studio X receive every day? Don't ask. You'll only cry.

Do not let yourself be lured into thinking that just because your script is good, even great, and Prodco X thinks it's a movie, that any of this will hold sway over Studio X. Studio X assumes these things of all the scripts sent to them from agencies and prodcos, and that's all they read.

The first thing Studio X will do is have your script covered again. They may even send it to a union reader. These are serious professionals, not the interns readers fear. Believe me, you should fear these people more. They're terrifyingly good at their jobs. The odds on getting positive coverage at this stage are vanishingly small. A friend of mine who read for Studio X said his specific job was to reject scripts. If he gave a script positive coverage, he got in trouble.

Let's assume that Prodco X has enough pull to get your script read and honestly considered at Studio X. Let's further assume that your script bests the horrible odds and gets positive coverage. Where does it go from there?

Brace yourself. Really. Sit down. Strap yourself in, because this is going to be unpleasant. Because at Studio X, a respected studio with many successes and big awards to its name, your script goes on a shelf. The coverage, however, goes to the marketing department.

Stopped screaming? Excellent. If, at Studio X, the marketing department cannot see a way to market the movie, if they cannot see a big audience waiting for it, if they cannot see the one sheet, your script dies right there. It will never be read again, it will never be bought, it will never be made.

This is good news, if you want your movie made. Other studios may buy your script and only then decide it can't be sold as a movie. You get your points and your money, but your script goes on a shelf, never to be seen or heard from again. At Studio X, at least, if they buy it, you know they believe the movie will work.

Let's suppose you have a terrific high-concept idea, the marketing department can see their campaign immediately, and it's a genre they need in their release schedule. Sold! You get your purchase check (usually WGA minimum, or "scale," plus ten percent to cover the cost of your agent, minus the option fee). You've heard of low-six against mid-six deals? This is what it means. Low six is the scale-plus-ten. On the first day of principal photography (if it goes to production), you then get an equivalent check, completing the "mid-six" deal. But right now, you're plenty happy with the first half of your deal.

And then they fire you.

Oh, they won't do it at once. Your contract entitles you to one rewrite and one polish. Yes, I said entitles, not obligates. Because you deserve a chance to get the script in shape to shoot. You probably won't be able to, and if the project has any size at all, they don't want you to. They want to hire some known, successful writer to rewrite the script. In this way they protect their jobs. "I didn't know it would tank! I fired that schmuck newbie and got Famous Writer X!"

So cash the check. But don't get comfortable. Do the finest job you can on the rewrites. ("Polish" is developmentspeak for "rewrite.") Be utterly professional. When you are fired, go quietly.

At least you'll get a credit on a produced movie, right? Right? Beginning to think you'll fall over if there's ever any good news to be had on this website?

Of the scripts Studio X buys, they may produce one in fifty, max.

And that is the Real Deal.

9. Which Way to the A-List?

Still with me? You have the heart of a warrior. And the brains of an end table. You might make it!

You go to conferences. You see the writers up on stage. They made it, you cry. How?

They got movies made. Production is the magic ingredient. Because Hollywood really does make movies. Studio X will have to send a dozen movies off to theaters this year. They can't reject everything, much as they might want to.

What gets made? Adaptations of important books. Projects that major movie stars want to make. Ginormous tentpole projects based on comic books. Cheap, cold-blooded films based on old television shows. And a number of modestly-budgeted high-concept genre movies.

See where you might fit in? The odds are against your getting the rights to a hugely successful book or comic book, and rarely will an important star agree to work with a newbie. But there's that genre category. Want to see your movie made? Write inside the box.

How do most A-list screenwriters get there? Let's set aside the ones who were college roomies with the current head of production at Studio X. Let's not consider the Son of Major Director X. Or the guy who, as an intern at Studio Z, covered his own script so glowingly that it was in preproduction before they discovered the ruse.

Let's just look at the man-on-the-street, wannabe-made-good. There are two main routes. The writer described above, who wrote the smart genre script and went the spec route. I wrote about him because that's the route all eager spec-clutching newbies want to hear about.

The more common route will never see that spec made. The spec script is just a writing sample. This is the more common route because, in all likelihood, The newbie writer hasn't written a movie that anyone will ever want to make. So let's look at the writing sample route:

Writer X started writing in college. He wrote six or seven specs, polished two or three, and got one submitted to Prodco X. While Prodco X had no interest in the script as a project, they were impressed by the writing. They had a meeting with Writer X, read his other polished work, and offered him the chance to write one of their in-house story ideas.

Now, if Prodco X is feeling particularly rich that week, or thinks the WGA might be looking, they might pay a newbie to write on spec (either to first write a treatment or go straight to a first draft). The money here is pretty handsome. On a high budget, the treatment is about thirty grand; the first draft about forty.

Writer X didn't get paid. He got talked into truly writing on spec. The idea he was given was nobody's favorite. Prodco X gave Writer X about a one percent chance of turning in something they would like. The wretched downside of this gamble is that Writer X spent his precious and limited writing time working on something he knew he would never own.

I have some advice if you ever find yourself in this situation. Try to negotiate that, a year after you finish the script, the script and idea will belong to you. This essentially gives them a one-year free option to try to set up the script. If they can't, you own the whole thing. Otherwise, you walk away with nothing. The risk, of course, is that the next three newbies in the door won't demand this. Just be careful. Is this opportunity worth it? Would you be better off spending the time writing a spec that belongs entirely to you?

Writer X takes the gamble. And he turns in a script that they love. And it survives the studio process and gets made. At this point, it doesn't even matter much if the movie doesn't perform. It doesn't matter if Writer X was replaced by writers Z, Y, Q, and W. He still has a writing credit on the movie after WGA arbitration. He has been sprinkled with magic dust.

Everyone in Hollywood wants to see his or her name on a movie. The Golden Children in Hollywood are those who have gotten movies made. Writer X is now in demand. Whether Writer X worked from his own idea or someone else's doesn't matter. He Got A Movie Made.

Suddenly Writer X's agent is a very happy man. His phone is ringing for Writer X. Prodcos that wouldn't even look at Writer X's spec scripts a year ago are calling and begging to read them. The agent can probably option two or three in rapid fire. Writer X is going to meetings all over town.

If Writer X doesn't burn out, if he doesn't crash his Porsche, if he doesn't stop writing, and if he can get another couple of movies made, he might be on his way to the A-List. Here are some possible career paths for Writer X after his first screen credit:

-Writer X goes on a flurry of meetings. His existing specs are being read, and Prodco Z takes a shine to one of them. It is now much easier for them to send Writer X's spec to the studio, because after all, Writer X is now a produced writer. He's less risky. Because he Got A Movie Made.

-But the odds are still against Writer X ever seeing one of his specs made. The business really isn't about specs. So he gets hired again to write from an existing property or idea. Each time he's hired, his "quote" (what his agent charges for his services) goes up a bit. If Writer X gets projects set up at the studio, and if he can get them made, his quote can jump upward rapidly. So Writer X gets in the business of adaptation and writing for hire, where most feature writers work.

-If Writer X can get a few projects set up at studios, and even better, produced, he'll keep working. If he gets a reputation for being easy to work with, good at responding to notes, and fast, the town will love him. They may even start asking him to rewrite projects that are in trouble. In this way Writer X becomes a script doctor. His quote for this kind of work grows and grows, because saving a project that's headed for production is high-stakes writing. At this level, writers usually won't be getting writing credit on the project, and their compensation for that is truly spectacular. The newbie writers out there admiring Writer X's ascent aren't even aware of his most highly-compensated work.

That is how Writer X made it to the A-List. He was pleasant to work with, professional, and fast. And he was a very, very good writer.

Writer X was one in a hundred. Maybe one in a thousand. As I mentioned earlier, the produced writer is unlikely ever to receive another screen credit. Why? Let's look at where a even a produced writer might go wrong.

Writer Z went through the same process as Writer X. He made it past Prodco X, and Studio X made his movie. And he was never seen or heard from again. What happened to Writer Z? It could have been a number of things:

-Writer Z freaked out. He spent the money. He had a wife and kids in a studio apartment in Eagle Rock. When the money came in, it became the down payment on a tiny house in West Hollywood. His wife quit her job. Writer Z went on meetings all over town. He had a clock running in his head, feeling his limited financial cushion evaporating. He became desperate for work, and took an assignment on a project he did not like. He submitted the script and the prodco wasn't impressed. He started rather frantic rewrites as his wife was forced to look for another job. Soon Writer Z had to get a part-time job himself. The prodco and his agent weren't returning his calls, and he didn't quite have the time to write a new spec.

-Writer Z was a one-hit wonder. He had only one polished spec. When the town called his agent and asked to see his other work, there was nothing to show. If Writer Z's one polished spec became his one produced movie, nobody knew what was Writer Z's work and what was the work of the rewriter(s). Writer Z was as much an unknown as any newbie. In the end, nobody was willing to risk hiring Writer Z on assignment. Writer Z had ideas for new specs, but it took him more than a year to write one. By then, he couldn't get his former agent on the phone.

-Writer Z had Attitude. He decided he didn't have to take notes any more. After all, he was a Produced Writer. Soon the word around town was that he was a pain to work with. Writer Z was shocked one morning when his agent dismissed him. He tried to land a new agent, but Hollywood is a small town where rumors are concerned, and he hadn't earned anyone enough money to have the right to be a jerk. He didn't realize that he had to mend his ways and start again at square one. It was over.

-Writer Z wasn't very good. Yes, he came up with one good idea. He was rocketed into the ranks of produced writers because his idea was a terrific movie idea. The rewriters on the script did most of the heavy lifting. Writer Z's agent sent his other specs around town, and soon everyone knew that Writer Z didn't have the goods. He went on a round of meetings, but no offers were forthcoming. He wrote new spec, but nobody bit. Or he fell into a series of go-nowhere deals. He wasn't good enough and never worked again.

-Writer Z was not aggressive enough, and/or his agent was not aggressive enough. Writer Z waited for the world to beat a path to his door. Perhaps he had signed with a top agency and he was still so small as to be beneath notice. He didn't get sent on a zillion meetings. Within a year he found himself back at newbie status.

-Writer Z was not lucky. What can I say about this one? Writer Z was skilled, sane, and professional. He had a good, aggressive agent. He went on the meetings. He wrote new specs. And for whatever reason, he never connected the same way with the town again. Nobody hired him on assignment. Nobody bought his specs. He may have spent years going to meetings and writing, and it came to nothing. He never made another dime.

Beginning to see why you see the same writers showing up at all the conferences? Why you can only name a couple dozen A-List writers? Because there just aren't that many of them. Few people have the talent required, and even fewer have the personality. If you lack either, save yourself the heartache and go write a novel. This is just too hard.


TBC

They can kill you, but they can't eat you. -Dawn Steel