JaneEspenson.com

I had a very spec-writer-y experience today, gentle readers. I was writing my pilot in a deli, when the waiter asked what I writing. “A TV script.” “Oh? What show?” “It’s a pilot.” He instantly looked deflated-slash-encouraging and lost interest. Sigh. I know you guys face this all the time. Interestingly, it tends not to get better. Buffy writers were routinely asked if the show was animated, or if it was a kid’s show, or even just told “never heard of it.” And that was pretty much the MOST well-known show I’ve worked for. When I mentioned Battlestar Galactica recently, I actually got a, “Oh, is that a magazine?” So… I guess… chin up, it doesn’t get much better.

Anyway, here’s a thought that might actually be helpful!

You know how I’m always talking about the most common spec-writing mistake? Namely, centering a spec around a guest character? Well, you know when this is even more important? When what you’re writing is a spec pilot.

And it would be really easy to make this mistake, too, since in a pilot EVERYONE feels like a guest character. The detective’s client has been known to the reader just as long as the detective, after all. But resist! You’ve got to establish new characters here, make the reader/viewer fall in love with them and want to see that next case. And you’ve got limited room to do it in.

So get ’em in, make ’em interesting, and then get ’em the heck off the stage. Let your fine new regulars get down to work. They’ve got readers to seduce. They’re gonna need room.

Lunch: corned beef hash and poached eggs. Yum!

I have just finished reading the oddest little novel. “As She Climbed Across the Table” by Jonathan Lethem. It’s a nifty little scifi/philosophy/humor/physics love story. You know the kind.

I want to call your attention to the following character introduction: “Georges De Tooth was our resident deconstructionist, a tiny, horse-faced man who dressed in impeccable pinstriped suits, spoke in a feigned poly-European accent, and wore an overlarge, ill-fitting, white-blond wig.” Holy cow. Talk about painting a picture. What I love about this description is that other than the information about field of study, all these things are observable. And yet, they tell you so much about his nontangible qualities.

This man clearly cares deeply about appearances, about hiding his true self. But he also isn’t interested in appearing especially normal. He wants to wear a metaphorical mask, but an unconventional one. And, since the accent is apparently transparent, and the wig is ill-fitting, this man, who is all about the masking, clearly isn’t very good at it. Even before he speaks, I expect him to be pedantic, defensive and self-consciously outrageous in his opinions. But how cool is it that I never had to read any of those words? (I do wish, however, that I knew how the wig was styled. I keep imagining a page boy, but I don’t know. I feel like it would help me understand Georges even better. Don’t you think?)

So I’ve started to think about how details in a character description can be better than piling on the abstract adjectives. A breathless woman in high-top sneakers, a twitchy boy with his shirt buttoned all the way up, an old man with a bandaged ear, a girl who giggles and tugs her sleeves over her hands, a college boy with hair over his eyes, a man with a thin smile and James Bonds’ wardrobe… all these details make us start inferring things about the characters, without ever having to write words like “nervous,” “dangerous” or “shy.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, because I’m writing a pilot. Those of you writing spec pilots are probably thinking about it, too. How much should we describe these new characters were creating?

Out of curiosity, I looked at the Twin Peaks pilot script. Some amazing characters were born there after all, I was curious about how they were introduced. I found that some were barely described at all. The series lead is merely:

FBI field agent DALE COOPER, mid-thirties, handsome in an unremarkable way.

Or course, he immediately begins talking into his tape recorder, making his character unique instantly through dialogue. Other characters are given more of a picture:

JAMES HURLEY, a handsome, clean-cut young man with intelligent eyes, in a black leather jacket, seated in the back corner, his motorcycle boots up on the back of the chair in front of him.

GIOVANNA PACKARD, wearing a coat over a brocade bathrobe, her beautiful hair and make-up in stark contrast to the harsh surroundings…

and

AUDREY HORNE, a delicate, Botticelli-like beauty, with a halo of wavy black hair and dark, haunted eyes.

Look at the last one. When you look at the literal meaning of this apparently physical description, all he’s really saying is that he hopes to cast a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl. But the poetry of the description tells the reader a lot more than that. Does she sound peppy or languid? Vapid or deep?

Scripts are a unique form of literature. Even a spec script has to behave as if the roles in it will be inhabited by actors. So you can’t create every mole on their shin, as a novelist can. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find clever, poetic, visual ways to start building their personalities in the readers’ minds. I’m going to try it in my pilot. You can give it a try in yours, too.

Lunch: A veggie sandwich on a crusty Italian roll from Bay Cities Imports in Santa Monica. Wonderful!

I was sitting here writing just now — working away on my pilot script — and I had a little epiphany. A very small one. Just a ‘phany really. Something I’d known and employed forever, but had never really thought consciously about. But it’s true and it’s important and it clarifies some stuff you’re probably already doing instinctively when writing dialogue. So I thought I’d sneak on over here and whisper it to you guys.

People get inarticulate when they have to tell the truth.

I don’t mean all truths. I mean here the kind of truth that either makes the speaker vulnerable, like a proclamation of love, or the kind that has the potential to hurt the listener, like a retraction of a proclamation of love.

This has two consequences. Number one, it should make you write hesitations, false starts and circumlocutions in moments like these . Number two, it means that a reader or a viewer, encountering a character engaging in hesitations, false starts and circumlocutions KNOWS that a truth is at hand. Even if she doesn’t yet know what it is. You can use this to create suspense.

CHARACTER 1
Why did you want to see me?

CHARACTER 2
Oh. Right. You… There was this thing you did earlier… And I just wanted… Um, do you want to sit down?…

And, of course, one natural reaction to suddenly finding oneself inarticulate is to push too hard to get through it. And then you get the blurt. Also effective, and also all wrapped up with the truth. You don’t blurt a lie. (Unless you’re a really good liar who is turning the above principal to your own advantage by feigning a spontaneous blurt.)

Truth implies tongue-tied. Tongue-tied implies truth. Only the liar is glib.

Lunch: Chinese chicken salad and edamame at Universal

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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