To me, writing is all about asking questions. When you’re writing a script it’s things like:
What does the character want?
Why does he want it?
What’s stopping him getting it?
Do I really need another cuppa or am I just avoiding doing any work?
Ooh, what’s on YouTube today?
Then you move on to dealing with notes and to questions like:
Are you out of your fucking mind?
You want to turn the main character into a what?
Why the fuck would she take her clothes off in the middle of a court case?
But even when watching films I ask myself questions. If it’s a good film, I ask things about the plot:
Who’s the murderer?
Why did he make that phone call?
I wonder if she’s going to take her clothes off?
Of course, if it’s a great film I forget to ask questions and get swept along by the whole thing; but afterwards the question I like to ask most is:
What questions did the film makers ask themselves to arrive at those answers?
This to me is the most invaluable question I can ever ask. How did the writer or director or producer or whoever arrive at that decision? What questions could I ask which would produce those answers?
For a genre film I might ask myself what are the essential elements I need in this film; or perhaps what the clichés I need to avoid? If it’s a spoof I might ask: what’s funny about the film/genre I’m spoofing? I might write lists down in answer to these questions and then eliminate or incorporate them all into the script.
Sometimes the question defines the concept of the film; for example, ‘Shaun of the Dead’ and ‘Hot Fuzz’ have the same question:
What happens if you relocate a typically American genre to England?
America is a land of extremes, England is a land of mediocrity. We don’t have crashing storms, deluges and deserts; it’s just mostly a bit damp. This shift in attitude creates both of those films; if you’d thought of that question, you’d have written the films. By working out what question was asked to create them, you can apply it to other genres. Sometimes the question can be reversed:
What happens if you relocate a typically English genre to America?
Which sparks off, well … nothing. But it could have done, and that’s the point.
Every film I admire I look at the bits which impress me, whether it’s the story or a particular character or even just a particular joke and I ask myself the question:
What questions did they ask themselves to come up with that?
Maybe they didn’t ask themselves any questions, maybe it was a flash of inspiration; but the task here is to reverse-engineer the film. By taking it back down to a question or series of questions, hopefully you can apply the same answers to your own project and maybe even recapture some of the same magic. Because after all, the one question you don’t want anyone asking about your work is:
So I’m working my way through a treatment at the moment. I know some people hate them, but I love ‘em. Some people think they restrict creativity or somehow strait-jacket the story telling process.
Some people are, of course, mental.
This is my favourite part of the process, just telling the story before you get bogged down in dialogue and page counts and all the technical gubbins of writing a screenplay. I love the organic nature of the whole thing, that it’s easy to alter scenes as you go.
If a good idea for act two necessitates changing a scene in act one - it’s only a paragraph instead of having to juggle pages of dialogue. I love the way it twists and changes as you go with better ideas, supplanting the old ones without effort or emotional attachment. I haven’t spent hours or days worrying at a scene because at this point the scene is just a few lines long.
Once a treatment’s finished, it’s easier to find the flaws and fix them. If the story sags anywhere - you can spot it and correct it. Reading back through and changing it is effectively re-drafting and saves time later on. Similarly, it’s easier for the producer or director to say what they do or don’t like about it; and once they’ve changed their minds, it’s easier to fix.
It’s just … easier.
As an extra Brucie bonus, once you get to the actual scripting - it doesn’t feel like a first draft. The more time you spend on treatments, the further along the script is by the time you actually get round to typing FADE IN: Not only have you nailed down all the story elements and the character arcs, but you’ve been thinking about each scene with every pass over the treatment which should make writing the scenes ridiculously easy.
In my mind, the first draft of the script is actually equivalent to the third or fourth draft - it’s already most of the way there. This certainly seems to bear out with the films I’ve had produced so far, where the differences between the first draft and the the final draft are mostly cosmetic. It’s rare to have to go back and change anything structurally or to alter a character beyond recognition.
I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but it’s rare.
I love all this pre-writing since it makes the actual writing bit a hell of a lot easier. Altering scripts is a pain in the arse and is needlessly difficult. Synopses, outlines, treatments, character outlines and back-story … those are where the majority of the work should be done. If you’re waiting to resolve these issues in the script, you’re working too hard.
There was a flurry of posts on Shooting People this week, sparked by a guy who was wondering if he should give up if he hasn’t achieved success by a certain age.
Naturally, the flood of responses told him not to be silly, keep pushing for the dream, never give in, never give up … etc, etc, etc.
Personally I had to fight the urge to tell him to quit now - part of my ongoing project to eliminate all the competition.
All well and good.
Although a couple of people posted replies along the lines of:
“Scriptwriting is my life. My wife has left me, my kids have been taken away, I’m being kicked out of my flat, I’ve been on the dole for years and I feed myself on one tin of beans a week. I’m starving, I’m impoverished and I’m bitterly depressed, but it’s worth it because I’m pursuing my dream and I’ll never give up.”
This struck me as … fucking stupid.
Scriptwriting is your life?
Really?
My life is my friends and my family. It’s experiencing new things, meeting new people, going to new places. It’s hard work, it’s laughter, it’s learning to cope with the knock backs. It’s loving and being loved in return.
Screenwriting is sitting in a room on your own hunched over a keyboard.
I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it and spend a large proportion of my life doing it; but it’s not a life. And given those two descriptions - who sounds most likely to have something to write about?
Um … obviously, I’m talking about the definition of a life versus the definition of screenwriting. Anyone who’s had all the wife leaving, being made homeless, starving issues probably has quite a lot to write about. You’d probably slit your own throat whilst doing it, but there’s a lot of meat there. What I’m talking about here is people who deliberately let their obsession put them in that situation, not people who are unfortunate through no fault of their own.
Writing is a job, just like any other. Yes it can be fun, and yes I enjoy it more than any other job I’ve ever had - but it’s frustrating, depressing and chock full of stupid office politics. Imagine the worst office you’ve worked in - or better yet, take the worst people from every office you’ve ever worked in, imagine them all suddenly becoming famous, highly strung, deeply unsure of themselves and sporting an ego the size of Africa.
Now multiply it by a thousand and you’ve still nowhere near the egg-shell treading nature of the job.
The point is that whereas people dream of becoming a writer - once you’re getting paid and having to do it on demand it quickly becomes work-a-day and tiresome. Why do you think writers procrastinate so much? Not because it’s such a wonderful experience that you can’t wait to immerse yourself in it time and time again - but because there’s frequently more interesting things going on around you.
Like washing the dishes, or cutting the grass, or even reorganising your sock drawer.
It’s the same as any job - bits of it are more fun than others, there are days when you can’t wait to throw yourself into your work and days where you can’t wait to give up and go and watch TV.
I decided a long time ago that I would never, ever be a struggling artist. I don’t see the advantage of staying at home all day every day trying to write when no one wants to read it, starving yourself in pursuit of a fantasy job which you may never achieve.
That’s not to say you shouldn’t try - but for god’s sake: be sensible.
No job is worth losing your lover over. No job is worth becoming homeless or losing access to your kids or starving yourself. These are not the actions of a well balanced individual.
And I can guarantee no one who refuses to work and stays at home all day does any more writing than anyone else. Honestly, I can guarantee that. People who have all day to write do exactly the same as people who only write in the evenings or weekends: spend most of their time browsing the net for porn.
Writing is one of those careers which may never happen - you have to be realistic. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try, you should. I also don’t advocate setting yourself a deadline - there’s no reason why you can’t keep writing until the day you die. If you enjoy it, keep doing it - but for fuck’s sake don’t starve yourself to do it.
You need a plan, a strategy. Find a day job which allows you the time to write and pays you enough to live on. Comfortably.
With this in mind, here’s my quick guide to finding an ideal, writing friendly, day job.
You need a job which pays you enough to live on. This is important, you don’t have to struggle and it doesn’t make you a better writer. Yes experience is good; but if I wanted to write about being homeless I would pick someone off the streets, buy them a meal, ask them some questions and then use my fucking imagination. That’s what it’s there for. Most of the people you’re writing for don’t know what it’s like to be homeless either - they won’t know the difference.
Make sure your job doesn’t take up too much time. 9-5 is okay, but try to find one without a massive commute. Adding two hours to the beginning and end of each day is not a good idea.
Find a job with no homework. Don’t pick something where you have to spend four hours a night filling in paperwork - what’s the point? That’s writing time.
Find a job which requires little or no thought. If the job isn’t mentally demanding, you can spend your working day thinking about Vampires and explosions and shit.
Don’t work on your own. You need to meet lots of people so you can steal their life stories and their speech patterns. Characters are so much easier to create when someone else does it for you.
If possible, avoid working with computers. You don’t want to be staring at a computer screen all day and again all night. Plus, computers are complicated and you have to think about them. See point 4. The only exception to this is if your job consists of sitting at a desk with a computer and you have no work to do. Brilliant, you’re now getting paid to write.
Avoid responsibility. Only accept promotions if it means doing less work for more money. The goal here is not to get too involved in your day job, just go in, do it, come home. Don’t get involved. Satisfaction comes from writing, this is just to pay the bills.
Consider shiftwork. If you don’t have a family and you don’t mind missing the odd Saturday night, try working odd hours. That way, when you do start having meetings you’ll be able to take them midday, mid-week without having to phone in sick.
This is very important, find a job which is tolerable. You don’t have to love it, but you do have to like it. A boring, depressing job makes you … guess what? Boring and depressed. Find something which is a bit of a laugh and doesn’t make you want to kill yourself and others. Remember, you may be doing it for the rest of your life.
There, simple isn’t it?
At the end of the day, becoming a scriptwriter costs money. You need a computer, software, a printer, stamps, envelopes, paper, ink, competition entry fees, travel fare for meetings, attending festivals, courses …
YOU NEED MONEY TO MAKE MONEY.
Being a full time writer might be your dream, but it shouldn’t be your life. You may never make it … don’t waste your life in pursuit of something which may be forever out of reach. Again, I’m not advocating NOT trying. Try your hardest, be dedicated, write as often as you can without losing touch with friends or loved ones; but be realistic. You need to look after yourself, physically and emotionally. For that you need money and you need love.
People seem to have a really odd attitude towards attaining success as a writer, particularly when it comes to competitions. It’s almost as if the industry is an unscalable tower with the professionals forever out of reach at the top. At the bottom of the tower are thousands of aspiring writers who are desperate to get up there, but feel they are being ignored.
They throw their scripts at the people at the top, who are not interested despite every single word being pure genius. It’s a hopeless, frustrating situation. One which dooms you to perpetual failure and obscurity.
Until a competition comes along.
A competition is perceived as a lift which will take you straight to the top and make all your dreams come true. This is your only chance, you have to get on that lift or all is lost!
Except, the lift only holds a few people and there are thousands of you. The odds are against you, even if you were all superb writers of the highest calibre - only a couple of you can get on that lift. Naturally, the majority of writers are disappointed and spend the next few months/years whinging about how unfair the lift is, how it’s prejudiced and how the people chosen to board weren’t worthy.
Until the next competition comes along and the cycle starts again.
Here’s the thing I don’t understand: THERE’S A STAIRCASE!
Instead of trying to cram yourself into the lift or waiting for someone to peer over the edge and pick you from the crowd - take the stairs.
Apply for every job on every website every day. Paid or unpaid, it doesn’t matter - get stuff made, learn the craft by experience, work your way slowly to the top.
I’m not saying people shouldn’t enter competitions, of course you should. They are fantastic opportunities which aren’t to be missed. Winning can leapfrog you straight to the top and you’d be crazy not to apply for every scheme going, but it’s not the only way.
Hell, even people who win things like this don’t always carve out a career for themselves. Yes, it puts you in a much better position - but you still need to put in the hard work when you get there.
The most recent example was the BBC’s College of Comedy - an amazing opportunity and the six winners are incredibly fortunate to have their talent recognised and be selected - but for all those left at the bottom, don’t whine about it or get depressed. The odds are you weren’t going to win anyway. 1400 entries, 6 winners: 233 to 1 against. Not the worst odds, but still not good.
I see competitions as diversions, potential short cuts. I enter them and then I immediately forget about it and carry on plodding up the stairs. I doubt I’ll ever win a competition and I don’t really care because I’m doing alright on my own. Yes, I would love to be given the opportunity and I’d break down in tears of joy if I ever won anything; but I never get upset when I don’t - I just keep plodding onwards and upwards, one step at a time. It’s slow going, but at least I’m moving.
Reading people’s blogs, I often wonder what everyone else is doing - are you just submitting stuff to the BBC Writersroom and hoping? Are you waiting at the bottom of the tower for the next lift or are you actively pushing your career forward? Are you waiting for it to happen to you or are you making it happen?
And now on to part three, bearing in mind the usual disclaimer: believe at your own risk.
Which, incidentally, I think should be on the front of most bibles.
The levels:
Unpaid work
Low-budget films and corporate work
Mid-budget films and writing for other people’s TV shows
Creating your own TV show and high-budget films
And we’re at:
LEVEL TWO - LOW-BUDGET FILMS AND CORPORATE WORK
The change from unpaid work to low-budget films just kind of happens. Basically, if you’ve been applying for every job advertised and only getting the unpaid things - sooner or later, probably when you’ve racked up a couple of credits, people will start offering you paid work.
Simple, isn’t it?
Kind of.
There are a lot of factors here, but that’s it in a nutshell. By applying for everything, you’ll slowly work out what kind of replies to adverts generate the best responses; your CV should be looking more impressive and you should have built up a network of contacts.
If you’re good and easy to work with, these people will want to work with you again. Not only that, they’ll recommend you to others.
A company (or individual) with the budget for a low-budget movie will probably have one or two credits - probably short films, maybe a feature. There’s a good chance this is the first time they’ve had any money to hire anyone, hence they’ll be looking for someone with a comparable level of experience.
More established writers probably won’t work for this little money, less established ones can be too much of a risk; but that can depend on whether they’re looking to hire a writer or option a script. If it’s the latter, then the script is all that matters - a good script will grab their attention no matter who wrote it. If it’s the former, then they’ll want a good sample, a few credits and a nice, affable person with a passion for their particular idea.
This is the beauty of responding to ‘writer wanted’ rather than ’script wanted’ type of adverts; if they’re looking for a script, you either have to have something in the genre and budget range they’re looking for or be able to write one very, very fast. If they’re looking to hire a writer to script their idea, you just have to have a vaguely similar sample and be able to convincingly repeat the following line at the interview:
“Wow, this is a great idea - I’d love to work on this.”
Despite it nearly always being a lie.
Hopefully by now you can start being a bit more selective about the jobs you apply for. Experience will have told you which types of adverts to avoid and which ones are genuine. It’s difficult to tell and I’ve been caught out more than once; but generally I can smell a bullshit no-hoper from, well, however far it is from Eastbourne to London.
An interesting pointer at this level is where the interviews/meetings are held. Assuming they like your spanky new CV and your sample, they’ll want to meet up. This will either be at their office, in a hired room at some kind of media centre, or in the pub.
My experience at this level shows:
In an office = good.
They have premises, they have money, they may be pulling a Sting-like scam, but they’re probably on the level.
In a pub = good.
They may or may not have the money, but at least you’ll get a drink out of it. Hell, if it’s a restaurant you’ll get a free meal.
In a hired room = bad.
Usually very bad. They’re on a tight budget, they haven’t got money to throw around so why the fuck are they meeting you in an expensive room which is less comfortable and serves less drinks than the pub opposite?
Because they think it makes them look professional.
It doesn’t.
You need these rooms for read-throughs or for casting, but not for a one to one meeting. Be polite, be enthusiastic, but don’t expect to be receiving a cheque any time soon.
With this level, as the other levels, there is a surprising amount of bullshit floating around. People think they’re making a movie and will promise you all sorts of money on the first day of principle photography - but it rarely happens. Most of these projects never attain funding.
Which is fine, it’s all more experience.
But you have to be able to judge which ones fail because the producer tried his best and just couldn’t raise the funds; and which ones fail because the producer has no fucking idea what he’s doing and is just in it for the pussy.
How do you judge?
Using all the experience you built up on level one.
Try not to get into a situation where you’re doing endless re-writes on the promise of a big pay-out and a film which will star most of the cast of Ocean’s 13.
You will end up doing this, because the bullshit will drown your brain, but try not to do it more than four or five times.
Learn from experience. Monkeys can do it, it can’t be that hard.
Agree on a schedule of payments and do the work safe in the knowledge you’re getting some money irrespective of how far up his own arse the producer disappears.
And guess what? You’ve got paid, you’re a proper writer.
Adverts for corporate work pops up now then, plus - a lot of failed projects will be by people who make a living from a corporate production company but have movie aspirations. Be nice to them, show them how many ideas you have and you might end up with a job.
Some people might tell you corporate work is selling out and prostituting your art.
Encourage these people, it’s less competition.
The goal here is to earn money doing something you love - writing. I did a year of corporate work, and all I had to do was come up with an endless stream of stupid characters saying funny things.
That’s all I do anyway.
I like writing comedy.
I like getting paid to write comedy even better.
Getting paid a regular salary to write comedy is even better still.
After a while of working on level two, you’ll find you don’t really want to do any more unpaid work.
Except when you do, when it’s to your advantage.
It’s all good, do what the hell you want - just keep writing, keep making contacts, keep working. All of the good people you work with, the odd few who aren’t fucking idiots, are moving up through the levels too. Even the actors will be getting better and maybe looking for their own projects to direct - make sure everyone involved can get in touch with you and you’ll drift into …
LEVEL THREE - MID-BUDGET FILMS AND WRITING FOR OTHER PEOPLE’S TV SHOWS
Um … I don’t know much about this level yet. I’m kind of just here.
The mid-budget stuff is kind of an extension of the other two levels, but most of it comes from contacts you’ve worked with before. TV stuff … I’ve got my first credit coming up soon, I’ll let you know if it leads onto anything else. I guess, maybe now’s the time to look for an agent?
Maybe.
I’m still a bit loathe to do that, I’m still not sure I really need one just yet; but again, we’ll see how it pans out.
Sorry this isn’t a more complete strategy guide and peters out before all the interesting bits, but my career is still very much a work in progress.
I feel like I’ve started a story in a crowded room and have just realised I don’t have an ending.
Looks like I’m going to have to fake a coughing fit and run for the toilet, hoping against hope everyone will have forgotten what I was saying by the time I get back.
I should probably point out before I continue that this strategy is something I’m using which has worked for me so far. I’m by no means where I want to be, but I seem to be well on my way. Due to the nature of these things, and my own propensity for being wrong, I wouldn’t advise anyone to follow my advice.
Hell, I don’t even recommend reading it all the way through. Go and watch the telly or something.
For me, this is the work you have to do before you start looking for work. For some people this will mean university, others may be able to write saleable scripts right off the bat, for me it meant teaching myself. I’m not clever enough to write a work of genius right out of the gate and I get inexplicably angry when I’m put into a classroom.
No, I learn better when I’m self-motivated and can read things at my own pace.
So, the formula: get good, get experience, get a reputation, move on.
Getting good: the main things here for me is study, practice and feedback. In other words: read scripts and watch TV and films, write scripts, get other people to read them.
The one thing which helped me more than anything else was Trigger Street. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a peer-based reviewing community. You get in depth reviews from aspiring writers in return for reading and reviewing other people’s scripts. It’s all done on a random assignment basis, so you’re not swapping scripts and you can be honest without fear of recrimination - as long as you’re polite.
There is a ranking system and a message board and all sorts of stuff - but for me it’s the peer reviews which are priceless.
Literally, the whole site is free.
Bearing this in mind, I think the way to proceed here is read ONE script-writing book (doesn’t matter which one, they’re all much of a muchness) and then put it to one side and forget about it.
Watch a lot of films.
Write half a dozen scripts.
As soon as you’ve finished the sixth, go back to the first and re-write it.
Repeat this until you’re vaguely happy.
Sign up to Trigger Street (or one of the other such sites) and get your script ripped to pieces, whilst reading other people’s scripts and working out what’s wrong with them. The process of reading and reviewing other scripts, whilst re-writing your own really, really gets you thinking about how to do it properly.
This gets you good, experienced at reading, writing and re-writing scripts, and hopefully a reputation among like-minded people for knowing what you’re talking about.
Once all your scripts get into the top ten - all of them mind, one is just a fluke - then you’re probably at the bottom end of mediocre and ready to move onto …
LEVEL ONE - UNPAID WORK
Some people won’t do this - they won’t sell themselves short. Which is fair enough. There’s a long running debate about not giving away your hard work and how this creates a situation where people are expected to work for free when … blah, blah, blah.
If you don’t want to do it, don’t. I wanted to because I thought when I applied for paid jobs if I had a reasonable CV it might put me nearer the top of the pile.
Which is exactly what happened. A CV full of credits is better than a CV with nothing on it - no one can tell how much you got paid for each script.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating working for free for anyone with any money. I wouldn’t work for the BBC for nothing. Working on spec is one thing, working for free for companies with money is just fucking stupid; but there are plenty of aspiring film makers who can’t write. Loads of people with a camera and mates but no script who just want to make a film.
Fine, the results will probably look like it was made by a bunch of mates with a camera and no money - but occasionally something good will come of it.
‘The Evolved’ for example, is a bloody awful film (which is okay, it was meant to be awful) but I can walk into shops in America and buy it, it got me into a few film festivals and it got me an IMDb credit … and I love it for all its faults.
My plan was to build a credible CV which proves I have a bit of experience and to build my own confidence, plus - you never know where unpaid stuff might take you. Occasionally a collaborative project might result in a paid gig or international fame.
But that’s a pipe dream and not the point. It’s all about working your way up slowly but surely.
Where do you find people with the talent, drive and equipment but no money?
Separating the wheat from the chaff is a nightmare and the only way to learn is by experience. My advice? Which we will all recall, isn’t to be followed … apply for everything.
All of it, just email every fruit-loop who posts about any kind of writing job: films, TV, radio, theatre, porn, student projects … just apply for it all. Most of them will never get back to you because they’ll either go with someone else or they’ve realised they can’t be bothered to actually make anything.
At the same time, reply to anyone who’s looking for a script - you should have your half-dozen reasonably good scripts to submit. Plus, in the absence of any other work, you’ll be writing and polishing more.
Eventually, someone will either option a script or give you an assignment or maybe want to collaborate with you.
Should you give your script up for a free option?
Well, that depends. How much confidence do you have in that person? Do they seem like they might be able to get it made? Sometimes you find well respected documentary producers looking to make a feature - they have the contacts and the know-how, they just need a script.
At the end of the day, what’s the worst that can happen?
Paramount could ring you up the next day with a million dollar option.
True.
Is it likely to happen?
If not and if no one else is expressing an interest - sign the agreement.
After negotiating yourself a decent percentage of the budget on the first day of principle photography. That way, if there is any money - you get your fair share. If they won’t agree to this, there’s something wrong here.
If nothing happens after a year - you get your script back and try again.
You’re not back where you started - you’ve had an ‘in-development’ credit for a year and experience of re-writing your script to order - plus you’ve made a contact who might come back to you in a few years time to try again.
It’s frustrating, it’s annoying and it’s hard work - but congratulations, that’s writing and it doesn’t get any better.
The line between Level 1 and Level 2 blurs when people start paying you. Jobs you thought were unpaid suddenly yield a pay-cheque or you start getting responses from people with a little bit of money … it’s all good.
You’re applying for everything, you’re learning how to deal with people (some of whom are idiots), you’re learning to write and re-write, you’re learning to cope with rejection and you’re building a CV.
Hopefully, you’re even starting to fill a shelf with finished projects and you find you’ve accidentally drifted into …
LEVEL TWO - LOW-BUDGET FILMS AND CORPORATE WORK
Which will have to wait until tomorrow, or possibly Monday since it’s the weekend.
Tuesday, make it Tuesday then I can have a lie in.
When I first started writing I figured it was pretty easy:
Write something, it gets made, you get paid.
There, that all sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it?
Admittedly, there do seem to be a few gaps in that strategy. Namely, how do you write something good? How do you get it to someone who wants to make it? And why the fuck should they spend their money on you?
Luckily, this kind of delusion also coincided with the ‘telling people I’m a writer without actually doing any writing’ stage.
A day every couple of months doesn’t count. I wash my car once or twice a year - it doesn’t make me a car-washer.
When I finally knuckled down to actually writing in as much of my free time I could spare without getting divorced, I’d thought out a much better strategy.
Or at least I think it’s better - I’m still working my way through it.
I figured that some people do leap-frog straight to the top; they might win a contest or accidentally sleep with the right person. Basically, the very good and the very lucky can go in right at the top.
I’m neither of those things.
So I need to work my way up. The luck thing, you still need; but you can significantly improve your chances by simple networking. Talent - hard work will get you at least halfway there; and since I’m rapidly becoming of the opinion that most pro-writers are decidedly mediocre and just shine because the majority of aspiring writers are appallingly shit, then halfway is good enough.
I don’t have to be good, I just have to be consistently mediocre.
The other thing which occurred to me was if you leap straight in at the top - not only do you have to be bloody good (or lucky) to get there, you have to be consistently good to stay there. Luck won’t help.
I see success as a kind of pyramid, if you fail you get knocked down a level. If you start at the bottom, jump to the top and then turned in something shit - there’s a long way to fall and you’ll look like a one trick pony who will probably disappear into obscurity. There’s no foundation to your career.
Someone who worked their way up, a level at a time, building a consistent reputation at every level - if they fail, they obviously just weren’t ready to move up a level and can settle back into the level immediately below. In other words, the longer it takes to get there, the longer you’ll stay there.
Hopefully.
So, I thought, my new strategy needs to contain a lot more steps. It has to build slowly but steadily. Every move needs to be reinforced, ready to build the next level on. I want a pyramid with a broad base, not a pole with a narrow platform at the top.
My new strategy became a series of mini-strategies for each level of the industry. I figured the levels were something like this:
Unpaid work
Low-budget films and corporate work
Mid-budget films and writing for other people’s TV shows
Creating your own TV show and high-budget films
And on each level: Get good, get experience, get a reputation, move on.
How’s it going for me? Okay, I think.
I’m somewhere between levels 2 and 3. The beauty of this system is, I already know some of the people on level 3 from working with them on 1 and 2. Some producers and directors have moved on ahead of me and are waiting for me to get there, some are moving up with me and the ones still on level 2 are eager to work with me again and will gladly welcome me back if it doesn’t pan out.
The key here, of course, is to be good enough and personable enough for people to want to work with you more than once.
Tomorrow, I’ll go through the levels in more detail.
The script’s away. It’s launched and running. It’s hot and in the … no, wait. That’s torpedoes.
The script’s in the mail?
Email.
Which means it’s already there.
Oh dear, this post has gone wrong already.
The producer and the director have the script, now I’ve just got to sit back in buttock-clenched fear until I hear back from them.
I just hope it’s before I finish eating all my fingernails and other such clichés.
Things I learnt whilst writing this script:
There’s no É in Courier Final Draft.
Um … that’s about it.
Well, it’s an important lesson, I suppose.
Something which it has driven home to me, again, is the importance of proper preparation.
A script is so much easier to write when you don’t have to solve all of the problems on the fly.
Which brings me to the title of tonight’s epistle:
OUTLINES
Every now and then I read about some wannabe scriptwriter - and I don’t use that in a pejorative sense, I just mean they want to be professional scriptwriters and aren’t yet - who say they don’t outline anything. They say they just start writing from the beginning and churn out a masterpiece.
And I’ve always thought - if that works for them, great.
But it’s not great.
Outlining a story - being able to write a good synopsis or treatment (since people tend to treat the two words as interchangeable) is a vital skill. Most jobs you get, or at least I get, are based on a submitted treatment.
Someone says have you got a film based on such and such. I say yes (which is usually a lie) and the next question is: “Great, can I read the treatment?”
I don’t think it would go down very well if I turned around and said “No, but I can tell you roughly what it’s about.”
Or it might, but they’re still going to want to see a treatment.
It’s particularly important when the director’s already on-board because he’s going to want to have his say - and it’s far easier for him to have his say when you’ve only written ten pages as opposed to a hundred.
In a lot of cases, the treatment is also used as a fund raising tool - it gets included in a pack with the film and sent out to potential investors.
Okay, so you could write the treatment after the script - but that assumes you’re writing the script on spec as opposed to on commission.
Look at this way, you’d turn up to view a house which is already built; but you’d never pay to have a house built without seeing the plans first. If you’re looking for a new house and three architects submit detailed plans and the fourth tells you he just makes it up as he goes along and you’re trying to restrict his creativity with all this plan nonesense - well, I’m guessing you’d instantly narrow your choice down to three architects.
That’s what it’s like for me.
I’m not building houses, obviously; but I haven’t written a spec script for years. What I have done though, is write a lot of spec treatments.
Sort of.
Is is still a spec when someone’s asked you to do it?
My point is, for all those aspiring scriptwriters (that’s a nicer way of putting it) who think outlining is a waste of time - you’re going to have to do it at some point in your career.
And since the decision on whether you get the job or not will be based on that treatment/synopsis/outline, then you’ve got to be good at it.
And since the only way to BE good at something, is to GET good at something and the only way to do that is to practice …
Then you might as well start now.
Unless you’re a genius writer who people will throw money at just for the chance of perhaps owning one of your masterpieces … in which case, just carry on as you are.
I’m in a completely new scene somewhere between the blue/green card and the yellow card at the end of the third row.
That’s right, I’m at the end of act two, mother fucker.
Which is also almost exactly on target.
Some days I scare myself.
So what does this mean?
I may well be able to finish this by tomorrow, edit it on Tuesday and actually take the last day of the deadline off.
A day off! Who’d a thunk it?
Does this mean I can now write a script in three days?
Well … no.
Sort of.
This script is flying out because I wrote the treatment last year.
June to be precise.
Which means, even though I’ve not done any work on it since then, I’ve been mulling it over for six months. Once I’ve thought of a story or even a basic concept, it rolls around in my head. Even when I’m working on other projects, my mind still occasionally wanders over to have a poke at it.
This happens for everything I do. I have little mental boxes with all the concepts in and when an idea pops up for a particular project I just drop it into the box. Over six months, this box got very full.
When I came to look in the box last week, the whole film was practically already written.
Plus, this is a re-imagining of a 70s horror film - I wasn’t going to mention that bit, but the producer says it’s alright - so there’s already a full film to watch and study. That film has the whole template laid out for me, I just have to add a few tweaks and update the characters.
Believe me, if you gave me three days to write an original film from a concept I hadn’t mulled over for a while, I wouldn’t be able to do it.
Well, I might; but it would be a pile of shit.
To be fair, this one might be. I haven’t read anything I’ve written yet. I feel like I could push on tonight; but I won’t. Writing at this time of night tends to produce strange results and there’s no room in this script for dancing monkeys.
So I’m off to watch Blake’s 7.
All being well, I might finish the script tomorrow. Although tomorrow will be a short day - I’ve got to break early to teach a class tomorrow night. If anyone in the Brighton area wants to learn Kung Fu as a new year’s resolution, drop me a line.
I thought the competition had disappeared up its own arse, until I found this. Hmm, did Mike Figgis really enter this competition?
I received the following notes about a feature film which was due for imminent production:
“We want the two Cuba Gooding Jnrs to be African tribesmen, one a medicine man and one a chief, who Tom Jones promised jobs as Traffic Wardens.”
“there is a mine of comedy related to having a dragon spunk bomb explode up your ass and the consequences thereof.I would encourage you to pursue that line of thought”
“I’ve got this animatronic stag’s head…”
and my favourite:
“Tom Jones should be more like Idi Amin.”
The film still hasn’t been made.
All in all, January was a bit of a failure. The only really positive bit was buying a board to cover with brightly coloured index cards.
I quite enjoyed that bit.
FEBRUARY
Feb kicked off with the Gothenburg Film Festival where, against all odds, The Evolved was being screened. It went down really well and even sold out; I fucked up my first Q&A and still got asked for an autograph by a deranged Japanese fan.
Upon my return, I decided to be more proactive and use one of my cinema contacts to arrange a screening of the film in the UK.
Still haven’t done that.
I somehow got bombarded with scripts from people who wanted feedback. Why did they choose me? Who knows. I tried to oblige for a while, but it was getting on my nerves and taking up far too much time - so I said no and it all stopped.
Christ, all this seemed much more exciting at the time.
MARCH
I lost £90,000 of money I hadn’t even received when a potential feature film budget got cut in half.
Bollocks.
On the plus side, the feature still hasn’t been produced so I haven’t actually lost any of the money I haven’t received.
Not much consolation.
I spent four hours watching someone light a bottle of whiskey and wrote an advert for scented hemorrhoid cream.
And got paid for both of them.
I decided to stop telling lies and remove all the bullshit from my CV.
Chameleon, a martial arts feature film, disappeared up its own arse. No one told me, I found out by accident.
I fought a man whilst dressed as a granny. To be fair, he was dressed as a granny too.
He won.
I decided, rather randomly I thought, to send a script into the BBC Writersroom.
They didn’t like it.
And that was pretty much all I did in March.
Depressing, isn’t it?
APRIL
Ah, right. April must be where it started to get better …
No.
Someone described The Evolved as a “new low for the British Empire”.
I’m quite proud of that.
One of my sketches featured in a ‘Best of …’ thing, despite me not having entered the competition.
That was quite special.
I offered a brief rant about bloggers cloaking themselves in anonymity whilst simultaneously trying to promote their writing … and the next day hordes of people (very small hordes, possibly just two people) revealed their real names.
I’d like to take credit for that, but I suspect it was just a coincidence.
I had a meeting with Don Allen about writing a film for him. I was on top form in that meeting … I babbled incoherently about random things until we ran out of time; and … HOLY SHIT! I got that job.
Cool.
A week later I met Jonathan Sothcott about him using one of my short scripts in a horror anthology - five shorts in one feature. He had my script, one other and needed three more. I pitched six ideas, he loved five of them enough to not even bother contacting the other writer and upped the film to six shorts in one feature.
He turned out to be Martin Kemp’s business partner and between them they knew enough people to pack the film full of celebs.
DOUBLE HOLY SHIT WITH CHOCOLATE MONKEYS ON TOP!
I was right, things did get better in April.
MAY
May kicked off with a bout off contract signing.
Cool.
The BBC Writersroom included me on their blogroll. I was one of nine links then, there’s only ten now - so I’m quite chuffed by that.
Thank you Mr … am I allowed to mention your name? Or will that provoke howls of jealousy from other non-linked-to writers?
I’ll just leave it, you know who you are.
I wrote all six segments of the horror anthology which became known as ‘The Summoning’.
I went to Cannes: crashed a car; crashed some parties, got some expensive dinners bought for me; nearly spent 23,000 Euro on a poker table (not gambling, I nearly bought it in a charity auction); got harrangued by a producer who kept asking innane questions; met some nice people; saw one shit film and spent an obscene amount of money.
Was it worth it?
No.
JUNE
Swore a lot.
Met Martin Kemp.
Walked into a lamp post.
None of these things are connected.
Poured Diet Coke into my laptop.
Optioned another feature film.
Got upset about stamps.
Killed a character because his name started with the wrong letter.
Got my phone bill from Cannes.
Cried about my phone bill from Cannes.
Briefly believed a Welsh woman was an Indian man in a kilt …
AND THEN SOME FUCKING CUNT POURED TEA INTO MY LAPTOP.
Okay, so I poured a teensy, tiny bit of Diet Coke into it a few days earlier; but this guy poured a whole cup tea in and then fucking denied it.
Son of a bitch.
Bastard fucking son of a bitch.
Bastard fucking whore-mongering, cock sucking, son of a bitch.
Oh, and I submitted some sketches to the BBC on a friend’s recommendation.
JULY
Karma Magnet was filmed, starring Gary Kemp and Adele Silva; and directed by Martin Kemp.
I wasn’t there.
The whole laptop saga kicked off. Read all about it here, here and here.
Mentioned to the world about how nice my wife’s breasts were.
Met a load of the fellow bloggers for the first time, most of whom didn’t believe I exist.
And … um … that’s all I did in August.
Pathetic, isn’t it?
SEPTEMBER
A new first for me, I turned down some paid work.
And then obsessed about it for monthsweeks … a bit.
Had a request for more sketches from the BBC and bought a toasted sandwich maker to celebrate.
Was sick from eating too many toasted sandwiches.
Slagged off writers in general, for no good reason.
Hit myself in the face with a big bastard sword.
And then fell asleep in a meeting at the BBC.
A particularly good month, I thought.
OCTOBER
Got a bit upset about mobile phones in movies.
Found out the BBC meeting didn’t go quite as badly as I thought.
Wrote a feature film in five days.
Swore never, ever to do it again.
Shouted at the BBC producer for not using script writing software - haven’t spoken to him since.
Met Gary Kemp.
One of the potential feature films got cancelled … and became something a lot, lot cooler which I still can’t talk about.
Wet myself with excitement.
And finally reached saturation point with projects and had to start turning down work in earnest. I turned down a lot of work in October - if you’re one of the rejected: sorry.
NOVEMBER
Wrote a factually, morally and in every other way just plain wrong rant about the term ‘Continuing Drama’.
Got asked to write a treatment for a feature which included the words nudity, vampire, caribbean and Nazis.
That was fun.
Had a cup of tea ruined by an explosion in an airport.
That wasn’t so fun.
And found out the BBC sketch show is using some of my stuff and wants to cast someone really, really exciting in my sketches … but not from the producer who still hasn’t been in touch.
DECEMBER
Got asked to write three more treatments for three more feature films.
And finished off the year by discovering a guy offered to completely fund one of the potential feature films.
So, where does this leave me? What conclusions can I draw from this year?
Um … I should learn to keep my fool mouth shut?
Probably.
What does 2008 hold?
Well, so far I’ve got one feature shooting in January, one in February and another ten in development which could spring into production at any moment.
But they probably won’t.
I’ve got a TV series being prepped to do the rounds, with three others hovering in the wings of potentiality and a BBC sketch show hurtling through production as we speak.
Or as I speak.
Or type.
And this morning, I managed to negotiate myself a bacon sandwich.
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