Sometimes I receive kind letters tucked between the pages of novels or other works of prose. The notes are from the authors, which overwhelms me -- people who manage to put together book-length amounts of prose impress me beyond my own meager words. Books -- have you looked at these things? The words go all the way to the margins! Do you know how hard that must be?

Sometimes the authors are pointing out a reference in their book to the influence of Buffy on their lives. Thank you very much on this score to Brianna Hope Jacobson, the author of Mortified, a collection of teenaged writings edited by their now adult authors, and Doreen Orion, author of Queen of the Road an off-beat travel memoir. Thanks also to Jennette Fulda (Half-Assed, a Weight-Loss Memoir), Austin Grossman (Soon I Will Be Invincible), Lani Diane Rich (The Fortune Quilt and Maybe Baby among others), and Eugene Ramos (one of the nine collective co-authors of The Artifact) for their wonderful words. James Kennedy (The Order of Odd-Fish) was especially gracious in his note. And there are more, the books currently residing in my home on various bookshelves and resisting my efforts to locate them.

Sometimes these authors mention that they've found something in this blog that applies to their variety of writing, and that they've been able to apply it. I'm tremendously flattered to think that might be true, since I myself write entirely -- other than a few short stories and this blog -- in script format.

But today I had a thought that is directly applicable to prose writing, so I'm going to lay it out there. It's about the granularity of detail in a scene. (Do novels have scenes? I mean, they do, but I'm not sure they're called that. You know what I mean.) Sometimes a novel has been sweeping along, covering days and weeks efficiently, and then you get a long slow start to a scene -- I'm thinking of a specific one in Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake. (SPOILER ALERT) On page 159, chapter seven starts with "Ashima sits at the kitchen table on Pemberton Road, addressing Christmas cards." And the action slows to a maddening crawl. On purpose. We hear about the cards, the envelopes, the address books, the tea kettle. She gets a call, ends the call, the scene goes on, and the fine fine grain of the scene tells you that something very important is about to happen. And it does. Ten full pages later. And, my goodness, those are a great ten pages because you're so tense throughout that you're in danger of cracking open. (END SPOILER ALERT)

It works because the readers know that a scene wasn't included for no reason, so they keep waiting for the reason, but it also works, I think, for a deeper reason having to do with the human brain. The precise reporting of inconsequential details mimics the way our memories go into retentive overload in dangerous or emotional situations. It's the effect that makes spills and collisions suddenly seem to go into slow motion as we experience them, because we're suddenly hyper-aware of every moment. A great prose writer like Lahiri can capture that feeling on the novel's page.

Now, can you apply this to script writing? Yes! And since you're presumably writing spec scripts, not scripts for production, you can achieve it remarkably easily through the novel-simulating magic of stage directions. Don't make them long, because the readers will skip them, but make them frequent and you'll get the effect of slowing down the reader, slowing down the scene. Do it right (a mild suggestion of danger inherent in the situation helps) and you'll get suspense. Let me try it. Let's say that John is making a phone call as he walks down a empty city street on a cold night:

I've mentioned the amazing Friend-of-the-Blog Jeff Greenstein before, and here he is again with a great idea. He suggests that I talk about the right way to open your spec pilot. Yes. This is huge -- a lot of people never read past the opening, so making it as perfect as possible is crucial. Jeff says: I am a big believer that the opening line of a pilot (or the opening image, or the teaser) should be the series in microcosm.

Yes. Exactly. I agree. I do this and I suspect many other writers do as well. In fact, Jeff is prepared to prove that they do. Here is a darn impressive list he composed:

In the Cheers pilot, the teaser is Sam with an underage kid who's trying to get a drink using a fake military ID. Kid says he was in the war. Sam asks what it was like. "It was gross," the kid replies with a shudder. "Yeah, that's what they say -- war is gross," Sam replies. The teaser gives you a sense of the place and the guy.

The Battlestar pilot has that great opening scene with Number Six and the emissary from Earth. The scene says, "Remember those metal robots? They look like humans now. And they're going to fucking kill you."

The Lost pilot starts with a close-up of an eye opening, and the aftermath of the plane crash. This show is about consciousness and strandedness and tragedy.

Will & Grace starts with Grace in bed with her sleeping fiancé, yet on the phone dishing with Will about George Clooney's hotness. It's the perfect encapsulation of their odd relationship.

The Desperate Housewives teaser: In the midst of tranquil suburban splendor, Mary Alice blows her head off.

The West Wing pilot: In a bar, talking off-the-record with a reporter, Sam Seaborn is distracted by a hot girl who's giving him the eye. This show is about politics and sex (well, it started out that way), and the "backstage" lives of people in government.

Wow. That's a fantastic list. I would add the teaser of the pilot of The Wire, in which a detective gently interrogates a neighborhood kid about a senseless murder -- the gross illogic of which the kid takes in stride. The series' whole sense of an overwhelming inescapable system of crime is there in that scene.

And the Buffy pilot teaser? Remember, it was that bit that looked like the girl was about to be munched by a vampire, but in fact SHE was the vampire? It told you to throw out your dramatic expectations, that danger could come from anywhere, and that women were going to have some power in this world. It was Buffy's own story, but told from the vampire side first.

Writers tend to agonize over their teasers, especially that first page, and especially if the project is a pilot. If you've just shrugged and started with your main character waking up in bed, then I'd suggest that you might've missed a really good opportunity. Think about the heart of your show -- what's the central dynamic? The central message? Is there a way to capture it in your opening sequence? Go ahead, agonize. It's good for you and your spec.

Lunch: wonton soup at Noodle Planet.

Jane on 10.22.08 @ 07:34 PM PST [link]

Sometimes you think all the puppies are born and then there's one last puppy. Here's one additional thought for yesterday's litter of script errors. Fellowships that ask you to submit spec episodes of series that are already on the air often specify that you can choose any show currently airing, or words to that effect. In an effort not to be the four thousandth The Office spec that a particular reader has to read on that day, let's imagine that you decide to be more original. That might be a good idea, but try not to drift too far afield. If only one of the readers is familiar with the show you've chosen, then you're in luck, you only need one reader. But what if none of them are?

You're probably safe with off-net but critically popular shows. I mean, yeah, Mad Men is obviously totally spec-able, and you can dig deeper if you want -- I'm thinking of something like It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. And shows that have been around a while, like Monk -- that's probably pretty safe. But in the television multiplex we now have some more obscure shows. It's very important that the readers know how to evaluate your mastery of voices that you did not create. Don't make it harder for them to do so. Don't drift too far off the ranch.

And if you go the other way and decide to go with The Office? Well, the show is packed with clear voices, which makes it, frankly, a lot easier to write than a show with malleable mushy characters. You should be able to feel it when you've nailed, for example, a Dwight line. Yow! But of course, all the other talented aspirings are out there pumping their fists too. So make your script memorable. Don't try to do so with a really crazy out-there concept that the show would never do, since the whole point is to be exactly like the show. Do it by making the concept precise, making the turns surprising but not random, and making sure that every joke is the best it can be. There's always another joke. Don't be afraid to think of an alternate for every joke in your script -- even the ones you like. You don't have to change to the new one, but what if you find something better? You'll only find the better joke if you look for it.

Lunch: scrambled eggs with salsa and French bread toasted in the oven

Jane on 10.18.08 @ 08:53 PM PST [link]

Breaking News. What went wrong with your writing program submission? I found out.

I've pinned down three reasons why scripts don't make the cut when they're submitted to scriptwriting competitions like the one profiled yesterday. Two of the three key errors that have been flagged are no surprise to me. But one is, so hold onto your space bars, there's something interesting ahead.

First off - Guest stars! If your spec script centers around a guest character, then that could well be why you didn't get into the program. This was one of the first things I talked about when I started this blog. One of the very few reasons that someone would ask you to write a script for a show that's already on the air is to see if you can capture the voices of the characters. The reader is listening to the show in their head as they read, imagining the literal voices. A guest character, no matter how well-written, causes silence. And it's not just a pseudo-auditory problem -- your regular characters need to drive the story, if someone else is coming in and doing a lot of talking, chances are that you've got them acting and all your regulars reacting. Big problem. It's an episode of The Office, not Michael Scott's Mother Visits The Office. Use original characters in small doses. If you've got a stranger given material that approaches the amount given to one of the regulars, then that's almost certainly why you didn't get in.

Second -- Spelling! Grammar! Punctuation! Imagine that the fellowship reader is filling out a form about your script, creating a score. Imagine that you get points automatically taken off for (real or perceived) errors. How many points do you want to lose because you forgot to have your mom/professor/friend proofread your script to make sure you used the right form of "your," that you spelled "precede" correctly, that you've got your apostrophes in the right place? Seriously, find an apostrophe fiend and make him or her study your script -- I find apostrophe errors in every script I read. Imagine the advantage you'll have when everyone else's script takes a scoring hit in this category and your script does not.

And here is the third, surprise factor:

Failing to observe the difference between multi-camera versus single-camera formatting. This one I did not see coming. Multi-camera, traditional sitcoms like The New Adventures of Old Christine, Two and Half Men and Big Bang Theory use a very specific style of formatting -- stage directions are capitalized and dialogue is double spaced. Some sitcoms also put all the stage directions in parentheses. They also label the scenes with letters of the alphabet (but not ALL letters of the alphabet, some are skipped). I also seem to remember from my comedy days that some shows even had the peculiarity of omitting the period from the last sentence of every clump of stage directions. In a nutshell, sitcom scripts are strange and need to be studied closely. Get a copy of a script for the show you are spec-ing. Study it! Mimic it! If you try your hardest and simply cannot get a script for your show -- well, I think that's a big problem, but the least you can do is to get one for a show that resembles it in format. Again, this mistake is easy to avoid but could cost you.

Submitting a script to a writing program is like submitting your college application. It's worth taking the time to do it right.

Lunch: In 'N' Out burger, "animal style". So good! I wish it was easier to combine this with an order of McDonald's fries.

Jane on 10.17.08 @ 05:34 PM PST [link]

Now you know, Gentle Readers, that I much prefer to talk about writing tricks -- I mean "techniques"-- than to give advice about how to get into the business, since I really don't consider myself an expert on that. However, I just found out about a writers' program at NBC called Writers On The Verge. The official link to the program can be found
here

My understanding is that this program is specifically intended for writers who are inches away from breaking into the business. Here's what one of the program organizers told me about what they're offering:


Basically, it's our crack at a fellowship. It's more like the WB or CBS Fellowship than ABC in the sense that it's only 10 weeks and I can't afford to pay them for their troubles. Another difference between ours and theirs is that WOTV is two nights a week. Tuesday night is solely dedicated to a writing workshop and Thursday [to a] speaker series and personal development exercises. They [the participants] write a spec to get in, and in the program write a new spec and start an original. It's really fast paced because we want them ready for staffing.

We are currently in the 3rd year of the program, and will start accepting applications for next year's program in May of '09. To apply, writers must write a spec of a current series, primetime or cable, answer some essays and send in a resume. The link [see above] will be where new info is posted next year.

Though we're the newest fellowship, we've had a good amount of success so far with 5 of the 8 fellows from last year staffed and all 8 represented. The other three writers have moved up the food chain in some way as well (script coordinator with a freelance, etc...). In fact, NBC just bought a comedy pilot from a team that was in the program last year -- so that's our most exciting news to date.

Wow. I'll say -- that's a pretty amazing track record for a fairly new program. And it's also another good place to use those specs for existing shows, which are otherwise increasingly devalued.

May might seem like it's a long way off, but this program clearly sets a high standard and you're going to want all of that time to get a spec into the kind of shape it's going to require. If I were you, I'd start working. So let's hear some typing noises! Good luck!

Lunch: BBQ chicken and those amazing spicy fries at Ribs USA.

Jane on 10.14.08 @ 09:12 PM PST [link]

Friend-of-the-Blog Jeff Greenstein comments on the last entry. He says: I always pick out a special font for each show and put it (fairly) big on the title page. I'm looking at his most recent pilot script and it's true. However, his own name appears below the title in 12-point Courier. This seems to me to be a fine compromise -- the script looks unique without looking over-puffed.

Jeff also points out the importance of making it clear that a script is, in fact, a pilot (as opposed to a spec feature or a spec episode of an existing show). He does this with the simple subtitle (without quotation marks) "a pilot," while I do it by listing the name of the episode (with quotation marks) as "Pilot." They're both perfectly fine options.

EVEN MORE ON ENTITLEMENT:

I had just completed this post when I got another email from an experienced writer. Friend-of-the-blog Mark Verheiden checks in on the other side! ...the first studio script I submitted, I did a title page where I put the title (that's it) in 16 pt type. The executive practically hurled it in my face. [...] I don't do that anymore.

Fascinating, no? I'm not sure what to advocate anymore! I suggest that this choice should probably be dictated by your own personality and values, and perhaps even the tenor of the script -- free-wheeling comedy might allow for looser rules than a restrained drama. If anyone else weighs in, I'll let you know!

Jane on 10.09.08 @ 03:14 PM PST [link]

ADDENDUM: I found the letter that prompted this entry. Thank you, Eddie in Van Nuys! Eddie is a Friend of the Blog. He adds this helpful tip: Fortunately, it's an easy mistake to fix. In Final Draft all one has to do is open the "Document" tab and hit "Title Page." That brings up the script's title page and it can be formatted from there. Problem solved." Got that? Thanks!

Original Post:

I'm back in Los Angeles again, gentle readers. And I'm awfully glad to be home. I'm hoping that I'll have more time to blog with you than I've had in recent weeks. Production is fun and exciting, but it is all-consuming.

Now, as I've mentioned before, my blog-mail has been tossed like a salad as a result all the moving around. So while today's entry was inspired by a letter, I can't quite put my hands on the letter. One of you wrote in a while back with an excellent point that I've never seen before and I've decided it's worth mentioning even with a shameful lack of attribution. When the original letter emerges from the chaos, I'll let you know!

Sometimes you convert your script to PDF format for emailing, right? At least I do. Well, when a Final Draft script is converted to PDF, a generic title page is generated. Be aware of it, because when the recipient prints out the file, that generic page is going to be on top. Apparently, some operations around town literally have stacks of these indistinguishable-from-the-top scripts. Don't let yours be one of them! You want your title -- and more importantly your name -- visible, front-and-center.

But, and here I go off-road to make an unrelated point, in my opinion you don't want that name to be too big. I've been organizing my script files here at home, and I've realized that one of the ways I can instantly distinguish a script from a working colleague from a script by an aspiring writer is that the aspiring writer uses a big font on their title page. Now, others may disagree with me here, but I would advocate an all twelve-point title page. I think it looks more professional.

This is a classic battle, actually -- professionalism vs. self-promotion. Aspiring writers have to do a lot of things that professionals don't have to -- introducing themselves to working writers without a name to drop to ease the intro, and writing self-puffing essays about their qualifications and dreams, for example. It can be very hard to balance aggression and grace. The art of humble self-promotion can be as important in the early stages of career-exploration as writing skill, and I've seen it misplayed in both directions. You'll have to find the tone that's right for you. But on title pages, I recommend a soft and steady voice.

Lunch: the "studio plate" from Poquito Mas. Do you have Poquito Mas? It's a chain, but they make their own tortillas right there -- mmm.

Jane on 10.09.08 @ 09:52 AM PST [link]

I noticed something in my own writing the other day that I'd never consciously been aware of before. It's kind of a neat little distinction you might enjoy.

This is about a short little scene I wrote that went something like this (names and content changed to prevent Battlestar webisode spoilers):