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A far-reaching question comes to us today, Gentle Readers, from acquaintance-of-the-blog Michael. He actually asks a whole network of questions, about getting feedback and constructive criticism from others, and about how to respond to the note, “make it more ‘special,'” and about what it means when a script you like is rejected in some way.

Okay. Well, first the basics. Get notes. Absolutely. Seek out readers whom you trust and take their advice seriously. Ask them open-ended questions about what worked for them and what didn’t work. If you get a strange note like “make it more ‘special,'” ask what they mean. Don’t argue with them or defend what you’ve done. Just take in their suggestions and reactions, and then sort through them to find the ones that help and discard the rest.

Usually, writers have a hard time making recommended changes that they really need to make, but Michael’s questions bring up the other side of that page. It is possible to put too much stock in notes. One person’s opinion isn’t necessarily right, and not winning a competition is even more meaningless — how do you know you didn’t lose by a coin flip to the equally-amazing script that won? So don’t feel that you have to make a bunch of changes that you don’t agree with, in order to aim at some mysterious target in the mist. The target is not mysterious at all. The target is a tight intelligent script that you like. You will be able to recognize it when you’ve written it. That’s the key: Notes are there to help you write something you like more than what you wrote unassisted.

If you’ve lost sight of whether you like your own script and whether or not the suggestions you’re getting will make you like it more or less, then set the whole mess aside for two weeks while you write something else. When you pick it up again, you’ll probably be able to look at it more objectively and you’ll be able to make those decisions.

Thanks for the question, Michael — hope this helps!

Lunch: Mulholland Grill. Chilled gazpacho and a beet salad. Excellent, although there should’ve been more beets.

Gentle Reader and friend-of-friend-of-the-blog Chris in Los Angeles writes in with a wonderful technical question. She (or he) says:

How would you format a montage of still photos with voiceover? Should I write in the location of each picture on the Scene Heading Line? Or can I put some kind of overall “Montage” note and then describe what’s in each picture, one by one? If that’s the case, what should I put on the scene heading line?

First off, let me just say that this is the kind of stuff that drives newer writers nuts, because they’re worried about doing it wrong, about breaking a rule. The fact is, however, that when you’re faced with an unusual situation, the best way to do it is just to be as clear as possible for the reader and not worry too much about rules. This means, of course, that different writers would tackle this situation in different ways, and none of them would be correct or incorrect.

Now, I assume you’re not talking about panning across a mantelpiece and showing us the photos there, because then I don’t think you’d be asking about the scene heading and using the word ‘montage’. But anyway, just for completeness, if it was the mantelpiece thing, it would probably go like this (please forgive any indentation oddness):

INT. LIVING ROOM

But you’re not asking about that. You’re asking about a genuine montage, right, Chris? A location-less series of still shots, like in a Ken Burns documentary? That’s more unusual, and I can imagine it being done in a couple different ways. Here is one way that I might use:

A STILL PHOTO

And on from there. But it’s totally flexible. That one action line where I list a lot of photos in a row? You could break those each out into its own shot line if you wanted to. It’s all about whatever you think best conveys what you’re picturing. Play around with it.

Notice that whether you use the “scene heading” or “shot” or even “action” designation for the bits of prose is entirely up to you. The reader won’t be able to tell which they are, anyway.

All the standard rules of script formatting assume you’re going to be doing the standard script thing, having action and dialogue set within a series of locations. When you deviate from that formula, you can deviate from the formatting rules — you can start a scene without either an “Int” or an “Ext”. You can blur the distinction between scenes and shots and description. The categories are supposed to help you. When they stop helping you, find another way. As always, the key is to make your choices clear and confident.

Lunch: that heirloom tomato salad again. Lovely.

Apologies for the break in the blogging, Gentle Readers, I was unavoidably away from the internet. By the way, we need a new joking way to refer to the internet, as both “internets” and “interweb” have gone clammy on us. Or perhaps the joke — that some oldsters still struggle with the concept — is simply outdated. Too bad; those were heady days.

I offer you a thought today about outlines and inspiration. One of the best things about writing an outline is that, as you visualize each scene in order to outline it, you sometimes start hearing the dialog, seeing all the actions you want to put in stage directions — you start ‘writing’ it. This is what people are referring to, I think, when they say they don’t like writing outlines, that instead they want to find it as they go. They mean that once they start thinking about a scene, and having ideas about the dialogue, they don’t just want to write a quick summary of the scene and move on, without capturing that moment of inspiration.

Well, there’s no reason not to do both. If you’re struck by inspiration as you outline, just start jotting down dialog without punctuation or formatting. Don’t take the time to polish it, or even indicate which characters have which lines if it’s clear from context. Just jot! When you’ve captured the extent of your inspiration, cut ‘n’ paste those lines into another working document — get them out of your outline — and keep on outlining!

This is what I do, and I really think it gives me the best of both worlds. I get a complete outline, so that I’m not just off-roading through my story, but I also have a preliminary take on the dialogue and action for certain scenes before I even technically begin work on the draft.

If this fits your writing style, give it a try. It makes writing feel almost as fast and easy as viewing.

Lunch: cheddar on flaky slabs of dried haddock

Friend-of-the-Blog Debbie in San Francisco has just informed me of another impending deadline. August 20th is the deadline to submit a spec pilot to the slamdance teleplay competition. So if you have one all ready to go, I’d suggest you slap it into the mail.

I didn’t know much about this competition until this year, when I found myself working on a writing staff alongside a previous winner who has nothing but good things to say about his experience.

The Grand Prize Winner gets cash and some sort of interaction with the good people at Fox 21 — some of whom I know and can vouch for. This is a legit deal and I encourage you all to submit your scripts.

Lunch: delicious sandwiches crafted by Mrs. Ron Moore, who took care of feeding the Battlestar Galactica writers during an impressively productive writers’ retreat. Thank you, Mrs. Ron!

Today, Gentle Readers, I’m here to tell you to FORGET ABOUT THE BIBLE. Forget it! Ignore it! It’s totally unnecessary! Spec pilots, such as you’re writing, don’t need to be accompanied by show bibles.

This is in answer to a question from Gentle Reader Ellen in Chicago, who wondered if writing three specs a year, as I urged in an earlier post, meant that one would have to write three separate show bibles. Nope. Not even one.

A show bible, if this is a new term to you, is a document that bridges the gap between the pilot script and the hypothetical television series that would result from it. It lays out the arcs of the characters and the show as a whole over at least one projected season of the show. It can also get into character details and back story and description/analysis of the world in which the show is set. Now, this is certainly work you can do on your own, and much of it you probably will do on your own – in your head – even if you don’t actually write it down. This information will be very helpful in the writing of the script, but it is not anything that would ever have to accompany the script.

When I’m writing a pilot for a studio, I have told them all about how I see the show developing. If they were seriously considering ordering the show, they would have me write it all up, but it’s just not something you do in the early stages.

This means, of course, that your script has to stand on its own as a cold read. A reader has to be able to pick it up and understand who these people are and what’s going on without any supporting documents to tell them. And they have to finish the script with a good idea of how the main conflicts are going to continue into the future lives of the characters. This sounds tricky, but it’s really not. Have you ever joined a movie midstream? Unless it was a very plot-twisty movie, you probably found that you were able to infer a lot about the characters and their relationships as you watched. “Oh, I think she’s that guy’s sister, and he’s mad at that really uptight guy…” So forget the bible, take your foot off the exposition pedal, and let the viewer’s understanding evolve.

Lunch: sushi at Echigo, the place with the warm rice. Get the lunch special. They bring you one perfect bite every few minutes.

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