JaneEspenson.com

Another week, another episode of Project Runway. This week’s episode was about how deadlines can sometimes make you do really good work. It’s true, and it applies to writing as well as to kicky sundresses. (I promise, this site is not going to be about the dress metaphor every day.) When you don’t have time to second-guess yourself, when you don’t have time to compulsively question every line you write, you can write better.

Some people can assign themselves deadlines. Others make promises to friends about when a project will be done. These don’t really work for me, because I know they’re fake — neither I nor my friends enjoy the power of enforcement. Under these circumstances, I still tend to let the work expand to fit the allowed time.

What does work for me? Well, save me from myself, because the answer seems to be: take on another project. Suddenly, that distant deadline looks a lot closer, doesn’t it? Because I know there’s that other thing that also has to get done in the same amount of time. Now I’m working — fast, smoothly, without a lot of hand-wringing and pacing. Just writin’ without thinkin’.

My father always says “give the job to the busy person.” He means that the reason that the busy person has so much work on their desk is because everyone knows that they’re the one who will get it done. There’s a lot to be said for making yourself the busy person.

Lunch: the “carne asada burrito” lunch special at the Universal Studios cafeteria. Oh! The raw onion! My god!

I took a sewing class in junior high school. We all had to. Everyone took one quarter each of wood shop, metal shop, sewing and cooking. I suspect it was considered quite innovative at the time, allowing girls and boys to be injured in various ways all at once. Anyway, the shop classes were kind of fun. My mother still owns the enormous wooden desk name plate I made for her. It takes up a large piece of her dresser. And I did well enough at the cooking. I’m motivated enough by the prospect of eating pie, to be willing to learn how to make pie happen. But the sewing. Oh man. Patience and fine muscle control? Oh dear me, no. I was given a passing grade provisionally, on the condition that I continue to come by the sewing room to finish up my unwearable skirt. I never went back. I didn’t even wear skirts, and I had no faith that my circle of fabric was ever going to be one anyway.

But I found this entry today on a web site about dresses. Read it through. It’s not about dresses! It’s about writing spec scripts!

When she talks about touching all the fabrics in the store — that’s watching tv. And then there’s reading about writing, natch. Hence this blog and all those ‘how to write for tv’ books. And picking a garment based on what you already own and like — that’s selecting a show to spec.

The only difference… you don’t need to buy a new machine to write a spec. The one you’re sitting in front of right now is all you need.

I swear, that web site made me feel like I could sew. I hope it makes you feel like you could write a spec. Because you can.

Lunch: a big homemade salad with cucumbers and beans in it

Once, I was fortunate enough to visit Tasmania. While there, I got to meet this amazing woman, Tanya Cochran, who runs a wildlife sanctuary there. She told me a great story with an Aesop-worthy moral at the end of it. The story was about an orphaned baby echidna that she raised by hand. Echidnas look a lot like porcupines. (For a good time, google image search echidnas.) Anyway, she was watching TV one night, with her favorite cardigen thrown over her legs for warmth, and the little echidna snoozing beside her. At least she thought he was snoozing beside her. In fact, he was tunneling happily through the sleeve of her cardigan. He arrived at the wrist hole only to realize he was too big to progress any farther. Impasse! She ended up having to cut up her favorite sweater to rescue him. And here’s the moral, exactly as she said it: “You can’t pull an echidna backwards through a cardigan.” Truer words were never spoken. I choose to think that she intended us to apply this principal fairly widely. She was speaking, of course, about the futility of looking for an easy way out, when a more drastic reframing of the situation is actually called for.

Sometimes you may be writing a spec (or other project) when you realize that something is wrong. Fundamentally wrong. Wrong because the story turn that makes the story worth telling requires characters to act in ways they never would. Or because you suddenly realize that the point of the episode goes against the point of the show in general. Or because they just aired an episode that’s exactly like yours. I’m talking about BIG problems. The answer is sometimes to get out the scissors, free your echidna, and start looking for sales on replacement cardigans. Don’t hesitate, don’t waste time trying to make superficial changes. Your echidna might suffer.

Starting over almost always yields a better story anyway, since you get to apply everything you learned from the false start.

Lunch: packaged sushi and cold noodles from the Universal Studios cafeteria. Nice on a hot day.

Hi all. Oh, such a heart-tugging letter just arrived from Angie in (I think) Los Angeles. She’s 35, has been trying to be a writer for many years now, acting as her own agent, and is wondering if the time is right to give up. Oh, Angie! I think you know me well enough to know that I never advocate giving up. And since I think you know that, I think that’s what you really want to hear. So here it is:

Don’t give up! You’ve got a number of factors working in your favor: 1. your scripts have performed well in contests. 2. as a “diverse” writer, you’re a member of a protected group, which can open up some opportunities. 3. You live in LA, so the door you’re trying to get through is right in your neighborhood. 4. Thirty-five doesn’t seem nearly as old as it did when I was, ya know, under thirty-five. You’ve still got time. And in five years you’re going to be forty whether you keep working at this or not. So you might as well keep working.

The sobering facts are that this is a rough time for anyone to get a television job. You really need an agent. But agents are hard to find. Lots of them don’t want to take on new clients right now, with employment prospects thin. The fact that a writers’ strike is looming probably has an effect too.

But these things can change — a strike, should it happen, will end, for example. And if you continue to add to your list of contests and fellowships, eventually an agent may agree to rep you, or at least “hip-pocket” you, which is a more informal relationship that can still get your scripts to producers under an agency cover. Then you can stop having to try to do it all yourself.

I know it’s hard. But all I can tell you is to meet other writers, join screenwriting groups, take classes, keep submitting those specs to contests and fellowships. Maybe start writing plays — some playwrighting contest wins could be impressive. And I know quite a few people who have written and shot their own low-budget features — heck, maybe you can conquor the world through YouTube! Get creative about how you approach the problem. But don’t be too aggressive with people — if you come across as pushy, you’ll burn bridges. Let your scripts do the talking, as much as possible.

And, Angie, write me again, okay? Let me know what you decide to do.

In other news, a follow-up on yesterday’s five-act post. I’ve received two emails from working writers with completely contradictory information on the future of episodic tv structure. I am informed both that Bones has gone back to the four act structure after an attempt to work with five, and that new ABC drama pilots are being written with SIX acts (although with no teaser)! Well! So, I guess, the wise thing is probably to let your story dictate your choice! How many times does your story turn? That’s how many act breaks it can have!

Lunch: tortilla chips with salsa and cheese and a chocolate cupcake

I’ve had two letters recently asking me about the new five act drama structure that’s popping up more and more often. People are wondering if it’s here to stay and how, or if, it affects writers of specs. Great questions!

Well, I first encountered the five-act structure at Tru Calling, which actually changed over from four acts to five. And then at The Inside, there was also a five-act mandate. The pilot I’m writing right now? Five acts. It’s the thing. Half-hour comedies are also being affected. They used to be two acts or sometimes three. Now some are four!

The change is being driven by the networks, who want, I assume, the additional commercial break. But it is affecting more than commerce. It’s actually changing the shows. And it will change your spec. Here’s why:

The act breaks are the most important moments in your show. They are the moments of suspense that bring you back, and the moments at which revelations and decisions change the direction of a story. Adding an act break is like adding a new joint between your wrist and your elbow.

You can, if you want, think of one of the act breaks under this new structure as a sort of pseudo act-break. The second act break used to be the biggest, most important break, coming as it did, at the geometric center of the show. But now it’s more likely to be the third act break that really makes the big story turn. And the second act break may become less prominent — an exciting moment along the way, but not a big story pivot. A moment that under the old system wouldn’t really have deserved the musical swell and the fade out.

Of course, we aren’t always happy with how that pseudo break looks once we’ve written it. As a result, I do believe that shows are actually getting bendier. We’re putting in more turns to accommodate more commercial breaks. How weird is that? Now, shorter acts with more turns can be a fine thing. Stories move faster and shock more often. Of course, they may not feel as deep. We replace the slow deep-water turns of the big fish with the sharp surface jitters of the waterbug. This makes it sound like I don’t like the new system, but actually my personal internal jury is still out. It’s just different, that’s all. Like that new arm joint. Hard to control… but there’s a new place for pretty bracelets!

If you’re writing a spec for an existing show, follow whatever it’s doing in its most recent episodes. And pay attention to the breaks as you study the produced eps. Is one of them a pseudo-break? Or does the story turn at every juncture?

And if you’re writing a spec pilot — well, I’d go for the modern five-act look. It shows you’ve been paying attention to the latest trends. And try to sneak the depth in anyway.

Lunch: The “dynamite roll” at a local sushi joint. Awfully goopy for sushi.

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