JaneEspenson.com

I’m back in Los Angeles where it’s warm. So let’s get on with the bloggin’, shall we?

I find here a letter from Alexandra in Culver City, who points out that I was very unclear in my entry for Sept. 23rd of this year in which I talked about reconceptualizing one-hour spec pilots as half-hour spec pilots. I didn’t mean to suggest that anyone should actually write half-hour versions of Ugly Betty. I just meant to use Ugly Betty as an example of the kind of comedic-toned show that could’ve had its pilot script whittled down by its original author into a charming half-hour pilot if they’d chosen to do so. I hope that clears things up!

On a different topic, Alexandra also asks, “…does it ever happen that you actually get staffed on a show that you don’t know in its entirety? If so, do you ‘bluff’ your way in the writers’ room on the first few weeks of the job, or are you open about how much you love or don’t love the show, or how much you know about all the characters…?”

Great question, Al! (Can I call you Al?) The answer to the question is “Yes, it happens all the time.” In fact, even a rabid fan comes into the writers’ room of an established show suffering from a distinct information deficit. They might know the characters, but they don’t know about all the story lines that were considered and then dropped, or the foibles of the actors that limit what the characters can do, or the preferences of the network for a certain kind of episode, or the plans that the show runner has for the future arc of the show. Everyone expects the new guy at the very least to be uninformed and curious on these points. And usually, of course, the deficit is even larger. You can be a fan of a show and still forget big chunks of established back-story, or have failed to observe some quirk of one of the characters. No one expects you to know everything. I make mistakes all the time in the Battlestar writers’ room — forgetting some occurrence in a past episode or (repeatedly) mixing up which ships are Raptors and which are Raiders, or suggesting some character act in a way counter-indicated by everything else they’ve ever done. Shrug. I note the error and move on. I’ve done this in every room I’ve ever been in, and, to varying degrees, so does everyone else.

And what if you’re barely aware of anything about the show? It happens. A lot. There’s no need to hide it. You’ll have done as much quick research as you can, of course, starting from when you heard you had an interview, but you might still show up feeling generally unfamiliar with the show. It’s fine. You will be given disks, on your first work day, of all the shows to date. If you aren’t given them, ask for them. Ask questions in the room if you can do so without derailing the process, or corner higher-level producers in the hall or over lunch with your questions. I myself sat down and reread all the Television Without Pity recaps of Battlestar when I got my current job, to make sure I hadn’t just seen the episodes, but had checked my perceptions of what was going on against someone else’s reactions. I remember hearing that a high-level producer at Star Trek: The Next Generation, was hired without having seen any of the show, or even of original Trek, and that they spent their first weeks watching endless tapes to immerse themselves in a culture entirely foreign to them. And that’s certainly not an isolated or unusual case. The other writers will generally be eager to help, to discuss, to bring you up to date.

In other words, Don’t Bluff. Except… well… it’s not bluffing, exactly, but… you asked if you should be honest about how much you “love or don’t love” the show. Don’t love the show? Oh, no, you love the show. Seriously, you LOVE the show. Even if the other writers are downplaying it, find something you love about it. This show is someone’s brainchild, someone loves it very much, and hundreds of people are devoting their time to try to make it the best it can be. If you don’t at least try to wrap your arms around it, you will have a bad time and you won’t do your best work, and you might just get a reputation as a negative presence. It’s far better, I believe, to have a few grumpy-pens question your taste, than it is to have a show-runner question your love of the craft and/or devotion to her project.

Besides, they hired you, right? What’s not to love?

Lunch: the “protein scramble” at Factor’s Deli — egg whites and ground chicken with grilled tomato slices.

Sometimes, someone will read your script and point out a problem you had never noticed. “Hmm… they go to all that trouble breaking into the bank when it’s been established on the show that one of the secondary characters has a mom who works as a teller.” Or “Wait– if they’d just set their time-travel pod to take them far enough back in the first scene, they could’ve avoided all the problems!”

Sometimes, you have to acknowledge the note and fix the problem. Sometimes, the problem isn’t fixable and your script blows up. But SOMETIMES, you can just say “can of worms!” and run away.

If a bunch of people have read your script and enjoyed it, and only one guy noticed the problem, you are sometimes totally justified in ignoring the note. Lots of good stories have threads that can be pulled if you look for them, characters who take an illogical action at a crucial moment, for example, or a super-weapon from a previous episode that suddenly seems to be unavailable. If it the problem is small enough and you feel the dramatic payoff is big enough, you have my permission to just go with it.

Just because a thread is there, doesn’t mean it has to be pulled. Sometimes you can just tuck it under and no one will even notice.

Lunch: butternut squash ravioli, baked potato, double-chocolate pistachio cranberry square

I used a term in the last post that I’m not sure I’ve talked about yet. I mentioned keeping a character “alive” in a scene. You probably figured it out — if a character doesn’t speak for a long time, they disappear from a scene. In general, this is a bad thing. Sure, the marine guarding the door doesn’t have to say anything, but if you bother to have a major character in a scene, they should be kept alive in it.

This is obviously going to be a consideration when you’re actually working on a show, because actors generally hate being treated as set decoration — if they’re in a scene but not in it, they’d often rather be cut. But it’s also important in your spec scripts; a silent character is even more prone to disappear on the page than he is on the screen, given that on screen we can see him.

It’s also, in general, a good idea to give all the important players in a scene a line up near the front of the scene. It’s very distracting to a reader to have someone start speaking in the middle of the scene if the reader wasn’t even aware they were in the room. I know, you mentioned them in the stage direction at the top, but that’s kind of the point: if a character isn’t actually speaking, they’re not really fully present to the reader.

It’ll feel like you’re directing traffic when you start writing to accommodate this. You’re handing out lines based on reasons other than the logic of the situation, which can feel very unnatural. But it is important and is done so automatically by working writers that your script will look more professional for having accomplished it.

Lunch: shrimp dumplings, pork dumplings, chicken feet (which I enjoy because they are both delicious and a genuine psychological challenge)

Hello, Gentle Readers. I’m still in beautiful (and rainy) Vancouver. Posting may continue to be a little sporadic, but I’ll do my best to bring you the freshest in writing advice!

Know what can help enliven an otherwise static scene? Give the characters something to do. Let ’em play poker or unstick a stuck window or wash dishes or eat. I know this may seem like more of a production detail than a writing one, but actually it can be a huge help in the scripting. You can demonstrate a character’s reluctance to talk, for example, by having them suddenly talking too much about the task at hand. Or you show their sudden attention to a topic by indicating that their hands go still, or betray a sudden shock by showing them dropping something.

Action like this, especially something with a verbal component (“I call,” “hand me the thing,” “watch out”…), also helps break up the dialog so you’re less likely to have big blocks of text as one person pours out their opinion. It can also help keep minor characters “alive” in a scene.

And here’s the important part — the activity you choose helps give depth to your characters. Are they Scrabble people? Or are they at the gun range? Trying to get gum out of their son’s hair, or clipping their overweight husband’s toenails, or typing out a warrant? You can help deepen the illusion that this character has a real life by picking the activity wisely. It’s not just staging. It’s personality.

Lunch: ketchup-flavored Pringles, Coke

A supplemental post today, Gentle Readers, because I don’t like to have a day in which there is a new post, but no actual writing advice. So here we go…

Sometimes you have to rewrite a scene quickly and under pressure. Certainly, when you’re on staff and your episode is being produced, you will have to do this. But even as a spec writer with a contest deadline looming, you sometimes have to do this if you’ve suddenly realized that a scene isn’t working. The best way to approach fast and stressy work is to make your job easy. That means limiting yourself to one goal: a scene that fulfills its function in the story. Notice that preserving a line that you really love, or keeping a certain character in the scene, or retaining a really cool transition into the next scene… these are additional goals. They might feel like they’re making it easier, since they represent work that’s already been done, but they really aren’t. They’re splitting your focus.

It’s usually fastest to throw everything out, start with a bare slug line and think about the absolute minimum that the scene needs to accomplish in the story. Get that down. Now you can embroider and embellish… hey, maybe you can even fit in that line you wanted to save after all, but that’s only a consideration after the scene is working.

This method also helps combat scene-spread, the tendency of scenes to expand during re-writing. A scene written this way will be short and to-the-point, which is probably — almost certainly — exactly what you need anyway.

Lunch: pulled pork, beans, beets, corn. Like a picnic!

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