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All my snorkel equipment gets carried around in a pink mesh backpack. Mesh, so that everything has at least a fighting chance of drying off. Also, I seem to remember that Joss used to have a pink mesh backpack and I always thought it was adorable. (One of the many reasons why Joss is cool is his unashamed love of things like pink mesh backpacks.) Anyway, part of the glory of the pink mesh backpack is that it can go into the washing machine smelling like a dead fisherman, and when you pull it out again it’s as fresh as the silk rose pinned to a debutante’s dress.

Ooh, didja catch those analogies? I’ve talked about these before, about using them in stage directions to quickly paint a picture. Like this one:

The ship is tossed like a bird in a storm.

Or in dialogue, to get a clear image of what a character is thinking, such as in this line from my old pilot about showgirls. Here, Holly is trying on her false eyelashes for the first time:

HOLLY
Whoa. They’re heavy. Blinking is like doing pushups.

Recently, I got a letter from Dr. Ingrid Glomp, in Gernany, asking about how one can learn to “think and write in analogies.” Hmm. Interesting. I can’t think of any tricks for this except to just make a sort of checklist when you’re looking for a line, remind yourself to stop and think about what the experience *feels* like. If you ever find yourself hunting for the words to describe the effect you want, just consciously go looking for analogies. You do it naturally anyway. Every time you describe a victory as “tarnished,” or a laugh as “grating,” you’re using analogy (metaphor really, but who’s counting).

Now, I must admit, I may not be devoting my full attention to answering this question. I’m totally distracted by the name Ingrid Glomp. It’s fantastic. Ingrid Glomp – great name. Seriously. Next time we talk, I’m totally going to talk about naming characters. Quiz: Why is House named House? Answer coming soon.

Lunch: popcorn with parmesan cheese and hot sauce on it. Yippee!

I knew someone in college who worked in a sort of upscale housewares store. He told us once that there was a trick to selling overstocked items. Say you have too many black mugs in your inventory, and too few white ones. Here’s what you do: make a display of all white mugs with one black one. Everyone will buy a black mug. Don’t you love that? The power of opposites. Using one thing to sell the opposite effect… somehow this feels connected to something I’ve noticed about some scripted jokes:

We talk about comedy as a “relief” from the drama and tension elsewhere in a script, because it’s supposed to be the opposite. But sometimes a joke can actually heighten the tension. And then you, the writer, totally score, because you’re playing both notes at once. You’re making ’em laugh! You’re making ’em sweat! You’re the conductor of an orchestra of human emanations!

Here’s the thing that makes it work. Humor *does* lighten a moment. And the characters that you’re writing about know that. So if a character cracks a joke in a tense moment, the audience is going to infer that the character is scared, reluctant, and generally tense.

Here’s an example from an Angel script I wrote. Doyle has arrived home to find a monster named Griff in his apartment:

—
Doyle faces Griff. Doyle tries to look calm, but his hand shakes as he puts his keys back in his pocket.

DOYLE
I think you have the wrong place. I was very clear about canceling the maid service–

GRIFF
You owe money.
—

The fact that Doyle is finding it necessary to joke, despite his obvious fear, makes that fear all more evident.

Here’s a similar example from a Buffy:

—
Buffy is in her room, deciding on a pair of earrings. She’s considering hoops when she looks up
to see Giles standing in the doorway.

GILES
You know this is very dangerous.

BUFFY
You’ve just heard horror stories, that’s all. Wear hoops and they’ll catch on something, rip your lobes off, lobes flying everywhere…

GILES
That’s not what I mean.
—

Buffy, of course, knows exactly what Giles is really talking about. She’s just trying to defer the conversation because she’s nervous about Giles’ reaction. Her nerves come through extra-clearly because she’s making a joke.

In terms of shows currently on the air, look at how often House uses this technique. A character like that is almost defined by the thing’s he DOESN’T want to talk about, so this is the perfect technique to use with a guy like that. Give it a try.

Lunch: sauted mushrooms, leeks and bits of tofu dog with Chipotle Tabasco sauce. Try the Chipotle Tabasco — good stuff.

On Monday morning, gentle readers, I am headed off to a new job. I’m going to be on the staff of the new Andy Richter comedy “Andy Barker, PI.” I’m so excited – the pilot is great and I think it’s going to be a really strong show. The new staff had our first get-to-know-you dinner last night, and I can report that it’s a fun and accomplished group. The new schedule will mean I’m going to be a lot busier all of a sudden, and the blogging frequency may drop a bit – from once a day to once or twice a week, but I’m going to be here as much as I possibly can, my friends.

I’m way behind on addressing all the fine questions that arrive in the mail – I love these! And I wanted to talk about what may be the most delightful one yet. Jenn in L.A. asks “How do you deal with henchmen?” Oh my. Well, I punish them harshly if they fail to protect my mountain lair.

She explains what she means: “Lots of times in Buffy, she’ll come across a cluster of vampires, only one of whom has a speaking role. Still, the rest of these vamps might appear throughout the episode / die in interesting ways. How do you keep them alive on the page without taking up too much space?”

Thanks Jenn! That’s an interesting question. And, I should note, it’s not just relevant to Buffy and similar shows with an action element. Doctors, for example, might have to break some hard news to a gathering of a patient’s family members, and those might also be characters that reappear throughout the episode. This is a very similar situation since, again, it’s likely that only one of the group will have a speaking role. (You have to pay people a lot more to speak – even if it’s only one line – and writers will go to great lengths to keep extra characters from piping up.) For the sake of making me laugh, let’s continue to refer to these silent supporting characters as “henchmen.”

Usually, these kinds of characters don’t really get names, just the barest of labels. Here’s a chunk of stage direction (I believe this was written by the impressive David Fury) from a Buffy episode in which she fights some silent henchmen-types. Note that in this case there was no central speaking villain, just a band of silent equals:

—

BACK ON BUFFY as she is about to engage the Monster. When she hears a SNARL and turns to see ANOTHER ONE on her right.

NEW ANGLE as she takes a step back, sizing up the beasts, when a THIRD MONSTER leaps in behind her. She’s surrounded.

She spins around, catching the third monster in the head with a roundhouse kick. MONSTER #3 is knocked back as MONSTERS #1 and #2 charge her.

—

If you want to give them each visual defining characteristics, these could well have been called “bumpy-headed monster,” “extra-strong monster” and, I dunno, “mangy-furred monster” or something.

In our analogous doctor show, you could imagine something very similar:

—

BACK ON HOUSE as he straightens up from questioning the patient’s DEVASTATED MOTHER. He hears a CLEARED THROAT and turns to see the patient’s ANGRY-LOOKING SISTER on his right.

NEW ANGLE as he takes a step back, sizing up the sister, when a RED-EYED BROTHER steps in behind him. He’s surrounded.

—

At this point, he might dodge through the group to the safety of his office. Buffy’s roundhouse kick is cool, but House has got that bum leg…

Now, as the writer, you can just refer to ANGRY-LOOKING SISTER and RED-EYED BROTHER as being present in any scene in which you need them to be standing around silently. That’s all you need to do to keep them alive on the page. If they had importance to the story, you’d give them names and lines. But since henchmen really are just there to fill up the room, you should spend as little ink as possible on them. Similarly, if the Monsters in the Buffy story stuck around, you’d simply mention in stage directions something like “the three MONSTERS from earlier glare at Buffy from across the crypt.” Nothing more is needed.

Note that you can also fill up scenes with extras just by mentioning: “The deli is moderately busy” or “The halls are full of students.” Silent people are pretty cheap when producing an episode, and even cheaper in a spec.

Lunch: chicken and salsa in scrambled eggs

So, I spoke to the ABC Fellows this morning. A good group – cheerful, engaging, full of good questions. And I did a little intelligence-gathering, too; finding out what specs *they’re* writing so I could run back here and tell all of you. I have to say, there were a couple of surprises. A lot of “Criminal Minds” – that one wasn’t even on my radar. And there was at least one “The Closer.” No “House”s – “Grey’s” seemed to be winning the battle of the medical specs. “Medium” was in there, too. In half-hour, it was “Earl” and “The Office,” just as you might expect.

I got the impression they were feeling the lack of specable shows, just like I think many of you are. I bet lots of them will end up writing spec pilots to round out their portfolios. So I talked a little bit with them about spec pilots. About the importance of finding something for the show to be *about.*

You might feel like it’s already about something. You know, it’s about your childhood on the Bikini Atoll, watching the nuclear testing and wearing a two-piece swimsuit. Well, that suggests some events, but it doesn’t really tell me what the show is about. What is that main character going through? Is this a show about the lessons of adolescence? About feeling different? About losing touch with old friends and finding new ones? About the strength of family? About making a family that isn’t your birth family? About redemption? Self-learning? Reaching out? Looking in? Stuff like that – that’s the heart of the show. Figure that out, and then suddenly the nuclear testing ground isn’t just a pretty setting – it can be an illustration of the show’s real content – maybe a metaphorical symbol of how things can change in an instant, or about how we don’t always recognize destructive forces when we first see them, or simply about emotional outbursts…

Your story is still original. But once it has an emotional heart, it’s also universal, because you found the common ground that every reader can identify with. It might help to practice pitching your pilot idea as if you had to sell it to a network. Don’t just tell the story, but think about how to present it as something identifiable for an audience. I pitched a pilot two years ago that I eventually wrote, although it never made it to the air. Here’s how the pitch began:

“Every teenager is convinced that every adult in the world is lying to him, keeping huge important secrets from him. In my show, that teenager is right.”

I was hoping to hook the listener right there, before they heard about when and where the show was set or what the secrets would turn out to be. I made sure they knew this was a story about teen paranoia, suspicion and alienation… before they knew anything else.

Lunch: big salad with avocado and warm chicken.

Know what I get to do tomorrow morning? I get to go speak to the current crop of ABC Writing Fellows. This is the program that I trumpet constantly, the one that gave me my start (as the Disney Fellowship), and that pays its participants to learn to write for television. Such a good deal.

I won’t have a ton of time to speak to them, and I’m going to have to figure out how to convey the most important advice quickly. It’s an interesting group to tailor advice to; they’ve got their foot in the door, but it’s a very heavy door. A foot-crushingly heavy door. The advice that I give them has to help them not give up any advantage they have gained. It would be a shame to complete the program without having gathered any momentum. It would be like an evolutionary false start — starting to turn your flippers into feet and then sliding back into the ocean.

Well, one thing I know I will tell the fellows is “play nice.” The friends I made in the program are still my best friends. And the very young executives who patted our heads in the Disney hallways included David Kissinger and Jordan Levin, both of whom went on to be powerful forces in the television business. And I’ve already told you about the importance of being nice to assistants. The wheels that roll under Entertainment are made of assistants.

If you, like the fellows, ever find yourself in a position to talk to people who are already doing what you want to do, or who know those people, or who hire those people, or who provide water for those people – go beyond being professional with them. Be genuinely friendly. Ask questions. Make a friend. Don’t hand them a spec, don’t offer to send it to them, but tell them you’re writing one and ask some lovely general questions about what shows they think make a good spec, whether or not they think writing a spec pilot is a good idea. And ask what they like about their jobs… stuff like that.

Maybe this idea — make friends to get ahead — seems completely obvious. Not to everyone. Not to the guy in the airport yesterday whom I heard yelling at the gate agent. “I’m in entertainment!” He declared. “I know you’re holding back some seats!” What a charmer.

So play nice. And remember that having a connection only accomplishes something if you’ve got the scripts to back it up.

Lunch: Thai spicy eggplant

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