Today, I received some hot inside info on the Warner Bros Writing Workshop from Jack Gilbert, this blog's man on the inside. He wanted me to tell all of you that everyone there is looking forward to your submissions, and then he added a whole bunch of good news. Take it, Jack!

Under the first year of Chris Mack's leadership, an astonishing 7 of last year's 12 participants got staffed, by far the best result ever.

And we hope to do at least as well this time around. To that end, your gentle readers need to know that the deadline has been moved up to give us a little more time to plow through the stacks of submissions (almost 1,000 last year). So the packets need to be postmarked by July 25.

You can tell them that we'll spot great writing whatever series they submit with, and that they shouldn't worry if their specs have similar elements to aired episodes, or if their story choices turned out to be different than where the series eventually landed. We're just looking for the very best writers we can find.

Let's count the good news. First, that's a really amazing placement statistic. Second, although the adjusted deadline gives you less time, you've got some warning, and I have to say the total number of submissions is less than I'd thought -- they have almost as many participants as the ABC/Disney program and far less competition.

Finally, I love that they're going out of the way to clarify that their standard is writing quality, not clairvoyance. We all know how hard it is to aim a spec script at a moving target, and this program is letting you off the hook for errors of anticipation. I think that's an excellent policy.

So start polishing those scripts and aim really high -- it doesn't have to be as good as what's on television. It has to be better.

You can do it!

Lunch: a chopped antipasto salad. But the pepperoncini were left whole and stemmed. A flaw in an otherwise fine attempt.

Jane on 06.26.08 @ 10:54 PM PST [link]

Gentle Reader Victoria in England writes in with a great observation about bad writing. Ooh good, I love complaints about bad writing. Here's what she's talking about:

One thing that particularly stands out is when a scene calls for a lot of exposition, and the writer has obviously chosen to write one long paragraph of dialogue and then randomly dish out sentences to different characters. It ends up sounding as though the characters are delivering a presentation to each other, having agreed in advance what they are going to say.

She goes on to ask about how to avoid this problem as writer. Well, first allow me to blush. Because before I got this letter, I'd've been far too ready to actually recommend this technique as a clever way to break up long bits of exposition delivered by a single character. Farm it out around the room and you can disguise it, I'd've said. But, of course, Victoria is right. Doing this runs the risk of exactly what she's talking about -- it sounds like one of those grade school performances in which each child's been assigned a different line of the poem to read out loud.

The problem is a tricky one and the best solution is probably to avoid getting into this situation at all -- parse the exposition out over more scenes, or let characters (and the audience) be less-well informend -- they'll pick it up as they go, which is often more interesting anyway.

But let's suppose there's no choice. Five people know a bunch of stuff and a sixth guy walks in and you simply have to have a big explain-o-fest.

Well, you can try using this as an opportunity to highlight your characters. Got someone impatient? Have them interrupt the explanation and take it over. Got two characters who don't like each other? Have them compete to be the one to deliver the information -- talking over each other. Got a natural leader? Show the others automatically deferring to her to sum up the info. This kind of thing can be big and overt, or you can just subtly use stage directions to indicate some pointed looks and eye-rolls that will let your reader see how the scene would be played.

I would also consider giving the characters different opinions on what happened. I don't just mean different opinions on what do next, but different interpretations of what they already know. Like this:

JULIAN
Then the alien started talking about how we're all gonna die--

HEATHER
Wait-- it wasn't a threat. It was a warning. Wasn't it?

JULIAN
It was a threat.

You can also have the characters learn new information in the process of relating it, instead of preparing them with all of it in advance:

KELLY
If we don't get the sprinkler system back on line, the whole place is gonna go up!

SHEILA
At least it'll only take out the one building.

MARGARET
(looking up from computer)
You're wrong. Their system's been hit, too. The whole neighborhood could go.

All you have to do is hold back some little bit for them to find and it becomes a much better scene.

The first step is realizing you have a problem scene. Thanks to Victoria for pointing it out!

Lunch: chopped salad with warm chicken (And many thanks to Anthony in Oregon who sends along a delicious-looking recipe for a spinach-strawberry salad with a much more appealing dressing than the one I've been dealing with here. Thanks, Anthony!)

Jane on 06.24.08 @ 06:11 PM PST [link]

Some of the hardest work in writing a scene can be the transition from one topic to another. I'm sure you've all observed this. You know that both Jenny's divorce and the impending home-repairs have to both be discussed in the scene, but you're wasting the majority of the lines on trying to find some natural way for the topic to turn from one subject to the other. You're starting to think that your only option is some desperate reach like "Wow, that sounds like a bad custody situation. Speaking of disasters, did you see the mess the roofers made yesterday?"

Well, every now and then you can avoid this problem just by avoiding this problem. If a character changes topics without any transition, it can have an interesting effect. Generally, it suggests that the new topic has been on their mind the whole time and that it finally, gracelessly bubbled to the surface because he couldn't keep it in anymore. That can be very powerful. Without wasting a single line, you've given the readers/viewers a peek into your character's thoughts. The other effect it can have is to link the two subjects. If talk of someone else's divorce leads this character to think of their own crumbling home -- well, they don't have to say "speaking of disasters" to give the impression that they are in fact, speaking of disasters which they have linked in their own minds. Another powerful hint at their thoughts for the audiences.

There is one more thing you need to do to make a topic transition without any transition. Mark it. I would put in a quick stage direction like so:

DAVID
I just hope he gets the kids. Man, what a screwed-up situation.

ROSE
It is. I feel bad for both of them.

Without transition:

DAVID
They told me the roof is in bad shape. Earlier, I mean. They didn't even want us stay here tonight...

Just drop in that little "Without transition" or "He changes topics without warning," or you can do with a parenthetical on his line, something like (out of the blue). This lets the reader know that you're doing this on purpose. Without an actor there to make your intention clear, it's possible that a reader might miss what you're doing and simply think you omitted a transition. By calling attention to it, you avoid that misreading, and make it clear you're in command of the script.

Note that this technique is not adaptable to all situations, but if something is simmering in a character's thoughts, it can emerge without warning, and when it does, it creates a wonderful, script-dense moment, with no time and space wasted on turning a topic.

Also today, an update to a previous entry. I keep forgetting to mention that I've also been told that Blazing Saddles is another source for the "state your name" joke we were discussing earlier. It occurs to me that whole joke is really just "Say goodnight, Gracie," with an option for group participation. Classic, indeed.

Lunch: Did you know that you can ask Baskin-Robbins to put three different flavors in a malt? I went for Cherries Jubilee, Peanut-Butter Chocolate and Rocky Road. And make sure it's a malt, not a milkshake. The difference is malt powder and it's crucial.

Jane on 06.21.08 @ 03:24 PM PST [link]

I have never written for a show without commercial breaks. So when Adam in West Hollywood writes in to ask about structuring episodes of Showtime or HBO shows that air without breaks, I find myself blinking in momentary confusion. He's finding that he's having a hard time structuring a spec because he misses the toeholds that act breaks provide. Yes, I would too.

In standard television writing, you rely on those breaks when you're structuring your story. You generally begin with a sort of grid on your whiteboard or corkboard, with the acts arranged in empty rows or columns before any material is put up there.

I would guess that breaking a show without act breaks probably would be more like breaking a movie. There would be three acts and the breaks would be virtual. We could test this hypothesis by back-forming outlines for episodes of these shows. In fact, this is exactly what you should do, especially if you're writing a spec episode of a show that already exists. Make a little outline of all the episodes as you watch them, and see if there are story turns at anything like predictable intervals. Then structure your spec to match.

If you're writing a spec pilot for a show without act breaks, well, I know what I'd do. I'd break it with four acts, since that's what I'm most familiar with, and then just not indicate the breaks. Either that, or I'd do the same thing I said above -- analyze a show that already exists, then use their basic structure for my show. There is no need to reinvent anything here. People write these shows, and we can see what they've produced. Analyze the product and you can infer the process.

I've heard people say that they can sit down and come up with an outline just by "telling the story straight through," but I find this hard to imagine. My theory is that these people have internalized some sense of structure that they can apply without conscious thought, but that is still there.

I would always recommend against making an outline without something to structure it. And, obviously, I turn pale at the thought of starting to write without an outline at all.

Lunch: In 'n' Out burger

Jane on 06.20.08 @ 05:26 PM PST [link]

Michael in Hollywood writes in with a concern. He's having a hard time finding sample produced scripts. I've written a lot about the importance of having these if you're going to write a spec of an existing show. They give you the show's exact format and answer loads of questions such as, as Michael points out, whether they slug the characters' dialogue with their first or last names.

They also help you figure out the structure and pacing of your script because you can compare those things apples-to-apples if you've got script pages to spread out.

But I am hearing from you and others, Michael, that these scripts are getting harder to find. They are, after all, the property of the studios, and apparently they are cracking down on their release. If I were you, though, I'd still make an effort to find them. Look on Ebay, for example. You might also try some of those Hollywood book shops like Book City. Since you live in Hollywood, you can even go in person and look at their selection. Also, living in Hollywood, you have access to the group Scriptwriter's Network, which maintains their own library of such scripts that you can look at if you join. I just spoke to that group last weekend and can recommend them not just as a source of scripts but also for writing help, networking and all sorts of useful things.

In other mail news, to Terry in Kentucky: I'm sorry, but I don't have contact info for Ringo or his assistant. But I love that you asked.

And a big "Thanks" to Elizabeth in Texas who loved my most recent Battlestar episode -- glad you liked it!

Lunch: left-over potato salad from a party

Jane on 06.17.08 @ 02:16 PM PST [link]

UPDATE: I have been informed (by two different Friends of the Blog), that the most prominent source for the "state your name" joke referenced here is the movie Animal House. So now we know!

Have you seen it yet? SciFi is running the Battlestar Galactica mid-season finale on their web site all day today. And of course it will be broadcast tonight. Tune in, okay? You need to see this. Seriously, one of the best hours of television ever. I cannot even articulate how proud I am to be involved with this show.

This episode was presented Wednesday night here in LA at a huge domed movie theater. It was incredible to see it on the big screen. There's nothing like hearing the reactions of a crowd moment-by-moment. You really can tell what's working and what isn't. (It all worked.)

Before the screening began, Ron Moore got up and made everyone promise to keep the secrets they were about to learn a full two days before the official broadcast. He had everyone raise their right hands and repeat an oath beginning, "I, state your name...". So everyone, of course, said, "I, state your name..." As he knew they would. It was a sweet moment of shared smart-assery, as Ron knew it would be.

It made me think about some things, that moment. How often does a crowd get a chance to be funny? Being funny as a group with no prior planning is ridiculously difficult. Perhaps a crowd, asked to repeat after their host, might refuse to stop repeating, but that's more bratty than funny. Perhaps a group of close friends, out for a nice dinner, might spontaneously mimic the gait of the host at a restaurant after he says "walk this way," but that's a much smaller group. (And impolite, especially in a nice restaurant. I can't recommend it.) The only other example of large-group whimsy that I can think of is The Wave, which is impressive, but hardly a reliable laugh-getter.

There's that trick of saying to a crowd, "Everyone turn to the person on your right..." but that's about making a crowd be foolish, not letting a crowd be funny.

So why does the "state your name" joke work? Because the audience knows the bit. I am not coming up with where exactly I've seen the bit before, but I certainly have. Taxi, perhaps? Perfect Strangers? Shows with someone with an amusingly incomplete mastery of English could easily use this joke. It would be a non-self-aware version of the joke, of course, in which the "swearer" makes a mistake. But, of course, it would also work on MASH or Cheers or even Welcome Back Kotter, in something more like its recent use: I mean, someone addressing a group of smart-alecks.

The group of smart-alecks is a great comedy configuration. The Marx Brothers, of course, are a spectacular example of this. There is something irresistible about scripted bits that capture the spirit I observed in that theater -- the feeling of more than one person simultaneously seizing on a comedic moment. If you've got a group like that in your script, playing around with this concept is definitely worth your while.

Anyway, in whatever form, and from whatever context, the audience knew the bit. It's so familiar, in fact, that it has crossed the line from "clam" to "classic."

Could this bit be on its way to this status?

MAN WITH MICROPHONE
Can you hear me?

AUDIENCE
WHAT?

It would work, I'm telling you. Now we just have to get the general populace organized.

Watch BATTLESTAR GALACTICA!

Lunch: leftover Koo Koo Roo chicken and a yam. Disappointingly tasteless yam. Sometimes you get a boring one.

Jane on 06.13.08 @ 11:24 AM PST [link]

I recently answered one of two questions sent in by Gentle Reader Amy in Colorado. Here is her other, equally good, question:

Your recent posts about being up in Vancouver made me wonder -- how does that work? When the writing staff and the production are in two separate locations, I mean. How do you keep in touch with each other; how do you have production meetings; where are other members of the production team located (i.e.: the show runner, other producers, etc.) Are the logistics a small nightmare, or does it work pretty smoothly in this virtual world of ours? My partner and I have written a pilot that is set in Colorado, and in a perfect world, it would be shot here. [In CO.] So I have wondered what that would mean...

Great question. First off, you might find that if your pilot were produced, Colorado would look a lot like Canada. Scenes from Smallville often featured snowy mountains looming over the Kansas plains, remember. There's no reason to think that your fictional location will match your actual one. At least the snowy mountains would make sense for you.

But to answer the bulk of the question, each writer/producer makes the trip to Canada when their episode is being shot. The production pays for first-class airline tickets (I am told that this is a WGA-required perk and I applaud it heartily), and puts you up in a nice hotel with a little kitchen in the room. The general plan is to fly up the day before the production meeting, which takes place a couple of days before shooting starts. You attend the meeting and do rewrites up there (they install you in a little office).

The production meeting consists of the writer/producer, director, and all the different departments that will be involved in shooting the show: set decoration and extras casting and props and locations and wardrobe, etc. There are about twenty people in the meeting. All of these people work in Vancouver and are there in person. Not included in this meeting are cast members and people involved in post-production (editing), which is done in Los Angeles. A high-level producer often listens in on the meeting over speaker phone, but often says nothing.

As writer/producer, you look at props and tour the sets and look at the wardrobe for the episode and all that stuff. It's fun to say, "Let's not use that towel for the towel scene. Let's use that towel." You huddle with the director and have lots of talks with them about the script -- answering their questions and explaining your intent.

If enough of the cast is available, there will also be a table read, in which your script is read through (very quickly in our case) by the cast, so you can hear it out loud.

Notice that every step will probably require you to tinker with your script a bit -- to simplify a sequence or adjust a line or more.

Once shooting starts, the writer/producer sits on set near the director and watches. You get to fix problems and explain things to the actors and make changes to the script on the fly. This can be nerve-wracking, but it can also save a lot of wasted film if you're there to settle a question or correct a misperception. Or mispronunciation.

When I was up there recently, I was producing two episodes in a row. That meant that I was often running across the Vancouver lot from the soundstage to the office to do rewrites or polishes or attend meetings about the next episode during lighting set-up delays on this episode. There's nothing like the adrenaline of that. Fun! (Not sarcastic. It's actually a blast.)

Sometimes you might stay for the whole shoot, other times, especially with an experienced director, you might only stay a few days into the shooting schedule. An episode takes 7 or 8 working days to shoot. If you stay the whole time, of course, you run into the next writer who's already flown up for the production meeting on their episode, which will start shooting the day after yours wraps. And on and on it rolls.

During this time you are not in the writers' room, which remains in Los Angeles, full of whichever writers are available. If there's a crucial discussion, you may be included on speaker phone. Often, you will keep the other writers informed by email about any changes that you're making to your episode during filming that may impact future stories, and they do the same in return: warning you to adjust a line, perhaps, that might be contradicted by something they just came up with for a later story.

The show runner will generally be with the staff, not on the set, unless it's his or her episode or if there's some crisis there that they need to deal with.

When you're in LA, the writers' room feels like the beating heart of the show. But when you're on the stages, the immediacy and energy of filming feels primary. It's certainly easier when a trip to the stages doesn't involve a plane trip, as was the case at Buffy, where the stages were right there, but it is made as easy as possible by the people who book the flights and arrange the rooms and drivers to shuttle you to the set from the hotel every day. And there's something very pure, I find, about being in Vancouver for a shoot -- there are literally no distractions. Often, during shooting, the van picks you up at 7 AM or earlier, and takes you back to the hotel at 8PM at which point you might need to rewrite some scene that shoots later in the week, and then it's off to bed because the van's coming even earlier tomorrow. I always end up totally immersed in the episode, which would be harder to achieve in LA with all the distractions of home. (Some writers, I'm told, spend their small amounts of free time in the lively hotel bar, which is constantly full of movie stars shooting in Vancouver and lodged -- always -- in that hotel, but I value sleep too much to really participate.)

It's not ideal, having to leave the room several times during a season, but it can be made to work very smoothly.

Lunch: Cup O' Noodles

Jane on 06.12.08 @ 02:33 PM PST [link]

Amy in Colorado writes in with two questions. Here is one of them.

How does this happen? I recently watched a movie [...] where the time-line/histories of the main characters made no sense at all. Early in the film, the main character explains that her mother never liked her husband because they met when she was 19 [...] Then, 3 weeks after the husband dies, she has a 40th birthday. [...] Later, she's all upset and yells that her husband was only 35 when he died. [...] Then, there is a flashback scene from their first meeting... [and]... there's no way he's 15. So, am I to believe that not a single person involved with the movie noticed the obvious contradictions???

Yes, it's possible that they didn't notice. Or, more likely, when they noticed after the fact, they felt that making some kind of fix would lead to some worse consequence -- if they made the husband older when he died, for example, the poignancy of his loss would be lessened, perhaps, and that would be worse than a logic flaw that most viewers won't catch.

This kind of thing happens all the time, more often on tv shows -- in which the backstory evolves over years -- than features, and there's good reason for it. The problem is that scripts aren't imagined, written and then shot. They're imagined, then re-imagined, written, then rewritten by others, then reconceptualized during preproduction, tinkered with on-set without the writer present, then totally re-imagined one more time in the editing room -- again, usually without the writer being there. I don't know the movie in question, but I wonder if it's possible that the flashback scene was added late in the process, after the rest of the material was filmed and hard to change. Or, perhaps, the woman's birthday was originally a 30th birthday, but the casting of the female lead made that implausible? They may have decided that the funky math was better than trying to age down their actress. Or maybe they originally were going to delete the birthday reference, then added the "met when I was 19" line, then later realized they needed the birthday for some other reason... Or who knows what. In the chaos of making a movie, the logic of the script is often -- not ignored, but rather, jettisoned in favor of more immediate crises.

There are lots and lots of things like this that can happen between page and screen. Actors get haircuts or boob jobs during a shoot, or some location is suddenly unavailable or the writer forgets some choice they made weeks earlier and writes something that contradicts it.

Remember that big fight between Buffy and Spike in which the whole point of the scene was that Spike could suddenly survive (and fight) in sunlight, but the whole scene was shot in the deep shade? Well, the day grew late and the shadows grew long. Everyone noticed it, but there was little that could be done.

After you've seen this happen to a few of your scripts, you may start to try to make them production-proof. I remember on one sitcom early in my career I was told, "never write a scene that requires a specific prop unless you have one in your garage." Now, I've never had any problem, ever, with the prop people failing to supply what I needed, but clearly the guy who gave me that advice had. The problem with trying to write protectively is that trying to prevent problems leads to overwriting in which everything is laid out too clearly, or to boring writing in which everything is on an easy-to-control interior set without crowds or too much action.

In a way, those of you at the "aspiring" stage of your tv writing careers are lucky in that you're writing to be read, not produced. You have no other writer and no panic-pressed writing of your own that will introduce contradictions, and, like a novelist, you have the imaginations of your readers to deal with, not the vagaries of nature and a crew. Of course, part of the assignment is to write a script that appears producible, so you can't go nuts with a chariot-race in every act, but you can at least keep your characters' ages straight, and rely on sunshine when you need it!

Lunch: That strange strawberry-spinach salad again. Get the strawberries on the side and avoid the pink dressing.

Addendum: I keep thinking of new ways this could've happened. Maybe the birthday was originally supposed to be years after the husband's death, not weeks, but in the moment they decided that it would really only play with fresh grief. This feels quite likely to me.

Jane on 06.11.08 @ 03:32 PM PST [link]

UPDATE: I got word back from the guys at the ABC/Disney program about the web site. They say, "We are a bit behind with the updated application, but are hoping to get it posted no later than Friday of this week." So there you go.

Wendy in Reseda wants to know if she can submit a re-worked version of the same script she submitted last year to the ABC/Disney Fellowship this year. I don't see a problem with that. If it's read by the same reader, they might notice that it's familiar, but they should be good enough at their job to realize that it's well-written. It's possible that it might give the impression that you've only got one idea, but if that's their concern they will simply request a second script to make sure you've got the goods. If you're really proud of this new version -- if it genuinely sparkles -- use it.

Lisa in Indiana is working on a "Lost" spec, also for ABC/Disney, and she's worried that by focusing on a less-commonly featured character, she's creating something that will be seen as an atypical episode. "Lost" is, of course, a bear of a show to spec. Many people will tell you not even to try. But Lisa is passionate about the show, and since (as she points out) the show does experiment with different types of tones and structures, it's not clear that the "atypical" criticism even makes sense anymore. Just as I told Wendy, if you're confident that the script sparkles, use it.

R.A. in Phoenix is checking in to make sure the ABC/Disney program is continuing at all, since apparently the web site (see sidebar over there -->) is in need of updating. Yes, it is, and the site should be updated soon.

Other Gentle Readers have written in with other ABC/Disney questions, that I plan to get around to shortly. I'm so pleased that interest in this program continues. It gave me my start and it continues to attract and nurture aspiring writers and turn them into colleagues.

Lunch: Shabu shabu with Kobe beef. Then I took home the leftover raw beef and cooked it up to make a superlative steak sandwich.

Jane on 06.08.08 @ 05:49 PM PST [link]

The day that Harvey Korman died, I heard a little excerpt played on the radio of a comedy bit that I'd never heard before, taken from a sketch he performed with Danny Kaye. I've located the whole sketch here, but you don't need to watch the whole thing since other than one funny joke -- the one I heard excerpted for the radio -- it's pretty dire. But the joke worked for me. Here it is:

HARVEY
Class, for a baby's bath, what's the most important thing you absolutely need?

DANNY
A dirty baby?

Now, listening to this being performed, it's clear early on what the joke is. It's one of those "Stating the Obvious" jokes that I've talked about before. Once you hit "the most important thing," you know that's the joke. You probably already know that the answer is some version of "the baby." And yet the joke made me chuckle. Because of the adjective.

It's not just that adjectives make things funnier, although they often do. Moist, bendy, pointy, itchy -- they are all great words that spice up any sentence. But in this case, "dirty" is doing something beyond that. Can you bathe a clean baby? Well, if you take bathing to include the idea of removing dirt, then, no, you can't. So the answer makes literal sense, but it also raises the idea of NEEDING a dirty baby -- needing something that is normally undesirable. For me, it even raises the image of someone purposefully dirtying a baby so that they can bathe it. Funny!

The joke isn't in the words, of course, but in the concept. These are all the same joke (even though they don't all work exactly the same way -- since you can't purposefully make a chicken raw, for example, it doesn't quite resonate the way the baby one does):

What do you need to cook a chicken? Raw chicken.
To fix an engine? A broken engine.
To censor a movie? A dirty movie.
To cure the common cold? Well, first you need a cold...

If you wanted to use these, you'd massage the language a bit, but those are the hearts of the lines, right there.

I just did that thing, of course, where I killed the joke by dissecting it. But it's worth it, because once you figure out how any one particular joke works, you can extrapolate and make jokes of your own. Maybe you'll find the one your spec script needs.

Lunch: left-over Thai food. Spring rolls and peanut sauce.

Jane on 06.05.08 @ 12:05 PM PST [link]

I've got a good question here from Thomas in St. Louis who must be a very young writer indeed as he talks about watching Buffy since he was in second grade. Oh lord, is that possible? Dear me. Well, good for you, Thomas! I'm pleased to meet'cha! He's writing a spec for the ABC Fellowship, and he's wondering about a specific approach:

As a result of the WGA strike, a lot of shows didn't get proper season finales. Would writing a spec intended to serve as "the finale that could've been," be original and stand out, do you think, or would it not be enough of a typical episode?

You know, there used to be a lot of rules about specing episodes of shows that already existed. Such scripts were the currency of the town and you had to follow all sorts of rules about which few shows were "specable" and about making your episode typical and yet different at the same time. But now, with ABC/Disney pretty much the only place that still takes this kind of script, I'm starting to wonder if those rules mean anything anymore.

Sure, you still shouldn't base your script around a guest character, and you still need to demonstrate a thorough mastery of the show's voices. But do you still have to worry about hitting that exact "typical" vs. "special" bull's-eye? I'm not so sure. It used to be that your Seinfeld was going to be compared, head-to-head, with hundreds of other Seinfelds and almost nothing else. But now, your "Sunny in Philadelphia" might be up against a "Weeds" and a "Breaking Bad" and a "Tudors"! So you've got a little more latitude within the confines of the rules of your show.

So, sure, if you've got a great alternate season finale, why not? If the dialogue sparkles and the story-telling is crisp and controlled and the stage directions have both style and confidence, the script is going to stand out. Good luck, young Thomas!

By the way, you know how people always spec brand new shows too soon? Before they've had time to secure a second season or even settle into their own patterns. Well, you're going to want to write a Dollhouse spec as soon as this thing hits the air or even before. No, you are. Resist it. Hang back a little. I think this show is going to take us on a journey, and we have to get a feel for its trajectory before we jump on.

Lunch: cheddar-and-ham Lunchables. I had not tried the Lunchable product before. The ham was appalling. We give this to children? The cheese and crackers, however, were delightful.

Jane on 06.02.08 @ 10:55 PM PST [link]