JaneEspenson.com

Book news today.

First up, I now have in hand my copy of “Apocalypse How” by Daily Show writer Rob Kutner. You can order it here, or here. I suggest you do, in fact, because it’s very funny. I love that it doesn’t just concern itself with the details of life after, say, a crippling epidemic, ecological collapse, robot revolt or nuclear war, but also includes discussions of post-Rapture life for those of us not transported out of our clothes. The book is like a primer in one of the most important skills in joke-writing, namely finding every possible angle on a single topic. Lovely.

In the section on entertaining post-apocalypse, I particularly enjoyed this bit on party chat:
…it’s always a good idea to start with topics of common interest: “Barely tolerable weather we’re having, eh?” “How ’bout those hyenas?” “Anyone here managed to reach groundwater?”

It’s the hyenas that get to me. It’s one of those fill-in-the-blank jokes that is always fresh because it’s not the form of the joke that’s funny, as much as it is the magical choice of that one word. Hyenas. Punchier than “flesh-eating microbes,” and less obvious than “zombies,” it hits the perfect note.

At the same time my copy of Apocalypse How arrived, I also received a copy of “Half-Assed; a Weight-Loss Memoir” by Jennette Fulda along with a nice note from Jennette herself.

She says that my posts about responding to notes helped her during the editing stages of the book. Yeah? Cool! Thanks, Jennette!

If you recall, my basic advice on this topic is to listen to notes without reacting negatively in the moment and to think about the ideas underlying the notes. When you approach your rewrite, you’ll find ways to supply what the reader found lacking or correct what they found out-of-tune that you will never find if you bristle and bridle when you first hear their reaction, or if you react to the “letter” of what they’re saying without making sure you understand the “spirit” of it.

Lunch: avocado lettuce and tomato on olive bread

I don’t usually do this. I like to limit this blog to writing advice. But I cannot resist this. So please, enjoy this personal tale of hilarity that (I’m hoping) will somehow reduce itself to a writing lesson at the end.

Get this. Remember how I was just in Vancouver? Well, instead of checking luggage, I had a box of clothes FedExed up there and then back down here when I left. It avoids the hassles of baggage claim and I totally recommend this plan. When you’re ready to head home, you just scoop your unlaundered clothes into a box and ship it off, neat as you please.

Except that they do some sort of operation at the border in which the shipping labels are removed and sometimes switched. Fun!

This means that when a box arrived at my home yesterday, it didn’t contain my clothes. It contained someone else’s clothes. Luckily, this person was savvier than I about the hazards of international shipping labels, and had included a piece of paper with his name and (business) address. I have the property of a “Mr. R. Starkey.” Those of you who know stuff about stuff are now freaking out. A little checking re: the address and the business name has verified: I have Ringo Starr’s clothes. Okay, now everyone can freak out. Please notice that according to any system of logic, this makes me the fifth Beatle.

Steps are being taken to fix the problem. Don’t worry, I’m not going to keep the clothes. I’m not even going to look at them, in fact, and I’m hoping Ringo is exercising similar restraint when it comes to my (if you recall, unlaundered) items.

So, how is this a writing lesson? Well, doesn’t it make you feel a little better about the inciting incident in a lot of comedies?

UPDATE: I just took Ringo’s clothes to Ringo’s house. Turns out that wasn’t a business address after all, but his actual home address. Holy cow. I met his charming British assistant who gave me a signed Ringo photo and was very happy to have the box of clothes, but who did not have my box of clothes. So they’re not with Ringo after all. Who knows what other celebrity is pawing through my stuff — I hope it’s Shatner, don’t you? Anyway, it’s been a fine adventure and Ringo Starr has star-shaped stone inlays in his driveway. Not tacky like it sounds, actually very nice, very tasty.

Lunch: cup ‘o noodles, chex mix, fig newtons

Part of returning home involves being handed a big stack of blogmail that piled up while I was gone. Let’s take a peek inside:

Amita, in Ontario, wants advice about applying to the ABC Fellowship. (First off, I don’t know for sure that you’re a Canadian, but your letter comes from there, so you’d better check the application, Amita — I think the program might now be limited to US citizens — WHOA — I just checked and it looks like now the only requirement is US work eligibility. Is that new? Is that hard to get? Aren’t you glad you wrote to an expert, Amita?)

She asks about the resume and Statement-of-Interest parts of the application. She’s got interesting (and slightly conflicting) concerns: fear that her resume isn’t enough like everyone else’s, and fear that her statement is too much like everyone else’s. Well, set aside the fear over the resume. A pre-med background and living experience in Europe is far cooler (and more marketable) than any film/tv degree. The program isn’t looking for a fat resume, but for talent and diversity — diversity of background and experience. You’ll do beautifully.

In terms of the Statement of Interest, she fears she’ll be writing the same “I wanna be a writer” statement that everyone else will write. What other interest would someone express, after all, if they’re applying for a writing program? Here, I’d venture to guess that the key isn’t content as much as enthusiasm and expression of motivation. In other words why do you want to write for television, and what inspires you about it? Are you trying to accomplish something through what you write? Or is it about fulfilling something more personal to you? Just like when you write a character, you don’t just have to know what they want, but why. Tell them about the why.

There are always a few letters that I simply don’t know how to answer. Please enjoy the following non-answers:

John in Hong Kong asks about how established British writers can pitch a children’s show to US producers. Sorry, but that’s a totally different world from my own. I guess I’d try to set up a pitch at Nickelodeon if I were you? Are they still the big kid-tv provider? I’m not even sure. But I hope you get to the right people and that you have the best of luck!

Richard in Maryland is looking for a co-writer. I don’t want to become the writers’ matchmaker, so I’m not sure how to help. Perhaps those networking sites like Facebook or Livejournal would be a good place to start?

And a thank you to Kelly in Ontario, Canada, who writes in with a success story about selling a comic book series after a career in film and TV. I love to hear that people are taking the creative path in that direction too. Congratulations!

Lunch: That chicken and heirloom tomato dish from the “nice side” of the Universal Studios Commissary.

So did you see last night’s new episode of Battlestar? This one, called Guess What’s Coming to Dinner? was written by the amazing Michael Angeli, and I think it’s one of the strongest episodes ever. Suspense, chills and singing!

In celebration, I’m going to use a line from his draft to demonstrate one of my favorite writing techniques. Check this out:

INT. GALACTICA – CORRIDOR
Athena, frantic, wild-horse eyes, bolts down another part of the corridor, no sign of…

I’ve talked about this before, and this is a great example. And I’m not even talking about the stunning description of Athena’s “wild-horse eyes”.

See what he did structurally? By creating a sentence that bridges over the change in formatting (“…no sign of Hera”), he’s making the inherently choppy structure of a script read more like prose, like a short story. This reader-friendly technique can be part of making your spec script feel enjoyable, not just as a description of a good potential filmed product, but in itself. Angeli’s scripts are always literary objects in their own right and if the Battlestar scripts are ever published, I encourage you to devour them.

Lunch: Japanese noodle soup from a restaurant I hadn’t been to before. Pork broth, cabbage, egg, noodles. Lovely.

All right. I’m back home in Los Angeles, and my hope is that blogging will now resume its normal schedule. Sorry ’bout the interruption. Life in Vancouver had a certain work-sleep-work pattern that was very hard on the blogging.

Because I have all sorts of on-set experience fresh in my head today, I think I’ll diverge a bit from the normal function of this blog. In general, I like to limit the discussion to practical advice to those of you writing spec scripts that are not likely to (are not even intended to) ever be filmed. These specs are the audition pieces that get you jobs, or get you into fellowship programs. They have special properties because they are ultimately intended for a reader, not a viewer. That’s why I spend so much time talking about the poetry of a good stage direction.

But I know that some of you are doing something different. You’re actually writing material that will be filmed, either because you’re already working on a show, or because you’re producing something yourself, perhaps for the internet. So here’s some advice for those of you who need to worry much more about the viewer than the reader:

1. Write Short. When the cameras roll, the material seems to expand like a big yeasty ball of unwieldy dough. Three pages will feel like an eternity. Make sure in advance that every line is working for you. Is that particular line absolutely needed? Are you sure?

2. Let the Actors Work. If an actor can do it with their face, you don’t need to write it. In a spec script that will never be filmed, you may find yourself over-explaining emotions with good cause, but if you’ve got good actors, let them do their stuff. If your material is going to be produced, you may want to take a pass (well ahead of time) that eliminates any of the over-writing you may have found necessary at earlier stages.

3. Be Flexible. I know you imagined a specific staging when you wrote it, but now that you’re shooting it, it may feel awkward to bring this character all the way into the room, or it might look weird or simply be unshootable to have that character reacting from the other side of the window. Coming up with natural staging may even require you to change some lines around while it’s being filmed, but that doesn’t mean you failed. Take these kinds of adjustments as part of the process, not as a sign that you didn’t stage it correctly in your head.

And, in apparent contradiction:

4. Don’t Be Too Flexible. Everyone around you may get all excited about some cool shot or unexpected costume choice or really innovative staging of a scene. But you’ve got a job they don’t have. You are the Keeper of the Story. You have to keep in mind whether or not that really interesting choice supports the scene or undercuts it. When you watch them shoot a scene, remind yourself of the purpose that the scene serves in the story as a whole, and make sure that that purpose is realized.

And, finally,

5. Stay Out Of The Way. Give any notes you have to the director, not directly to the actors unless there are circumstances that make it acceptable. Let the director do their thing. Don’t panic and feel like you need to rewrite something on the spot because it isn’t playing — usually it isn’t playing because it isn’t cut together yet. Watch, learn, relax, and enjoy the food.

Lunch: An avocado, lettuce and tomato sandwich with a big bowl of noodles on the side.

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