You know that bucket is mentioned a few pages earlier
Writers put onto paper how they visualize the events of the story.
Your get an idea of how you want things to look, maybe even a picture-perfect image, so you put those details onto the page, which is fine.
But sometimes the writer feels the need to include as much detail as they can. “To really paint a picture with words,” they might say. But it’s easy to get carried away. Some writers see this as a golden opportunity to really flex their literary muscles, so they go all out.
A big write-up about the contents of a room. Or identifying specifics about the clothing a character is wearing. That sort of thing.
While that kind of colorful minutiae might work in a novel, many see it as a negative when it comes to screenplays (opinions may vary, but this appears to be the general consensus).
There’s only one reason the writing should be that specific: if the item in question plays a part in the story. Is it vitally important that we notice it? If the answer is “no”, then all it’s doing is taking up valuable real estate on the page.
When the writer makes a point of identifying a particular item, then we should expect it to make a return appearance later on. Set up, pay off, remember? It’s better to have a reader think “Aha! So that’s what that was for,” rather than “Huh? What was that for?” or “Why was that in there?”
By drawing our attention towards something that is more of an issue for the set designer or wardrobe department, it slows down the story’s momentum and makes for some unsatisfying reading.
Tell us the things we need to know, rather than the things you think would be nice to know.
After some thorough self-imposed analysis, the revising of the comedy spec is underway. It’s getting easier to spot trouble spots.
There’s one scene in particular that’s giving me some trouble. It’s a pivotal scene involving the main character and offers a revealing glimpse into his backstory. The problem was in figuring out how to best do that.
After much drumming of fingers, rubbing of chin, and a whole lot of attempts, a potential solution may have presented itself. It’s still in the development phase, but for now, quite workable.
One of the first things I learned about screenwriting was what each scene needs to accomplish: advance the plot, the character, and the theme.
Regarding plot, does the scene move things forward? Does it fall neatly into place in terms of how the overall sequence of events plays out? If you took it out, would it totally mess things up?
I’ve read a lot of scripts where something happens and I don’t know why. Maybe it’ll pay off later? Sometimes it does. Other times, well…
Another handy tip when it comes to advancing the plot in a scene: do it quickly. Get to the point of the scene as fast as you can, then get out. Don’t wait around. Just get out now. Too many times I’ve seen a scene drag on much, much longer than it needs to.
Regarding character, does each scene show them changing a little bit more from when they were first introduced? This doesn’t just apply to the main character. Every character needs to grow/develop. Wouldn’t it be kind of boring to read a story where nobody changes?
And tying it into the advancement of plot, every situation the character experiences should help move their own development along.
Which brings us to theme. The message of your story. This can be a little tricky.
Each scene should tie into the theme, or have it on display in some manner. I recently worked with a writer having trouble tying everything together. We discussed the story and the main character’s internal and external goals. What was the message they wanted to convey? Based on those discussions, we were able to come up with a theme that worked for both the story and as it applied to all of the characters.
One of my favorite examples of a theme in use is BACK TO THE FUTURE. Early on, Marty says “History’s going to change.” And boy, does it. We get a ton of set-up in the first act, and then everything does indeed change in the second act as all of those setups are paid off. Amazing.
Take a look at your latest draft. Does each scene advance the topics in question? If not, do you have a way to fix that so it does? The more you get in the habit of doing this, the easier it’ll get and the faster it’ll become second nature to do it all the time.
Once again, your stalwart author makes the necessary sacrifices so you don’t have to.
This time around, I had the misfortune of watching an extremely bad large-budget movie from the semi-recent past. It was painfully obvious that a larger percentage of the budget should have been diverted to hiring quality writers, rather than on everything else. A pipe dream, I know.
But trust me. It was bad.
What made it so bad, you may ask?
Oh, where to begin.
My biggest problem was that too much of the story felt glossed over, with vital elements explained in a very lazy and haphazard way, if they were even explained at all. It felt like they were trying to force events to match how they wanted the story to play out, rather than deftly setting things up.
Reasons why something would happen, or were supposed to have happened, seemed to have simply been thrown against the wall, and whatever stuck, that’s what they went with. Did it matter if it fit within the context of the story?
Nosireebob.
Once again, there were too many questions raised that were never sufficiently answered. When this happens, it simply takes away from the movie-watching experience. The only reason I knew the film had to have been around the midpoint area was because of its running time, and NOT because of what had transpired over the course of the story.
I could say I had a vague inkling of what was supposedly going on, but was just never sure, since the story was being told in a very sloppy and unorganized way. It irked me to no end to be see such terrible writing so prominently displayed. And apparently I wasn’t alone in my opinions. The film was a major flop at the box office.
So what silver linings can we extract from this pitch-black cumulonimbus that stole away just under two hours of my life?
-Write a story that’s easy to understand. Keep it simple. This doesn’t mean dumb it down. Keep us informed, unless withholding that information is absolutely necessary.
-Let the story play out organically. Don’t try to force it because that’s what you want to happen. It’s easy to tell when that happens, and it ain’t pretty. If you didn’t put in the effort to figure it out, why should we?
-Have things happen for a reason. “Because it looks cool” is not one of them. Would it drastically change things if it didn’t?
-Set up, pay off. If something happens, we want to see what happens as a result. Don’t leave us hanging. And counter to that, don’t suddenly spring something on us out of thin air. It reeks of desperation. Audiences don’t like that, either.
One of the things I always strive for in my scripts, be they big or small budget, is to respect the intelligence of the intended audience. That is one lesson I believe the writers of this abomination should have kept in mind.
To say the past week and a half has been a little hectic would be a slight understatement*. And of course, it involves writing and the opportunities that come with it.
Long story short – Somebody wanted to read one of my scripts. But I hadn’t finished writing it yet. So I wrote, edited and polished it. In ten days. Without taking time off from work.
As you can probably guess, I’m equal parts exhausted and exhilarated at having done it.
While I catch my second wind, here’s the extended version:
A little over three weeks ago, I connected with somebody who works for a production company. They mostly do TV, but are looking at expanding into features.
Emails and pleasantries were exchanged. They took a look at the blog, liked what they saw, and asked for a list of my loglines “to see if my boss might be interested.” So I sent it. This was on a Friday afternoon.
A vital piece of the puzzle to keep in mind – just before all of this occurred, I’d gotten the outline of a long-dormant comedy spec to the point where I felt ready to start on pages. Which is what I was doing while all of this interaction was occurring.
The following Monday morning, the response came in. “Do you have scripts for X and Y? Would love to request if so.”
Naturally, X was the long-dormant comedy spec that so far I had written all of 8 pages, and Y was still in outline form (which I’d already been considering producing in another medium).
My initial thought was panic. Neither script was available, but I didn’t want to blow the opportunity; I wanted to be able to send them SOMETHING. Sooner, rather than later. What to do, what to do?
After a little evaluation and weighing all my options, I wrote back that I was still working on the latest draft of X (which was true), and could have it for them the following week. I’d considered saying a few weeks or a month, but that seemed too long. Regarding Y, I said pretty much what I mentioned above – it was an outline, but they could take a look at it if they wanted to.
They were cool with both options, and were looking forward to reading them.
I’d just thrown the gauntlet in my own face. What had I gotten myself into? Was I totally insane for thinking I could pull this off? Would I be able to pull it off?
Only one way to find out.
I had a script to write, and had to do it faster than I’d ever done it before. I had no intention of sending them a first draft, so I had to crank that out and do a major polish on it. In about a week and a half. Taking time off of work was not an option, so I’d have to be as productive as possible in the off-hours that didn’t involve sleeping.
I explained my plan to my understanding family and got to work.
I produced as many pages as I could per day, averaging 8-10. Those would then be edited & polished during all available downtime at work (it being summer vacation season was a godsend – traffic’s much lighter, so that really helped). I’d get home, incorporate the changes, then move on to the next set.
Write, edit/polish, rewrite, repeat. A seemingly never-ending cycle.
A few things I discovered during all of this:
-Having a solid outline made it so much easier. I knew exactly what had to happen in each scene, and how I wanted it to happen, so there was no time wasted trying to figure it out.
-I sincerely think my joke-writing’s gotten better.
-I’ve gotten much more proficient at coming up with solutions to last-minute script-related problems.
-I seriously wondered if this is what it would be like if I were doing this for a living. I’d actually be pretty cool with it.
After ten days of non-stop effort, I had what I considered a somewhat decent 97-page comedy script. Both it and the outline have been sent.
Of course, they may not like either one. But at this point, I don’t care. Simply having accomplished this is my victory. I set an intense short-term goal and did it.
The script could definitely benefit from at least another rewrite, but that’s not a priority at this juncture. I wrote it in the time I said I would, and that’s the important thing.
Others may scoff at my feeling of accomplishment, claiming it’s no big deal or that they’ve done it or even done it in less time. But their words will fall on deaf ears because it’s a big deal to me. This is something I did, and am extremely proud of having done it.
So what now? I’m taking the weekend off, which will include going for a much-missed and much-needed training run.
But come Monday, I’ll be right back at it, hard at work on whatever project I opt to do next.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to take my time with it.
*I really appreciate everybody’s patience, and hope you enjoyed the throwback posts. And K wanted to thank everybody for the kind comments about her guest post. Yes, I am a very lucky guy to have somebody like her.
I’m a big believer in tying story elements together whenever possible. While this should already apply to key details within the story, sometimes it’s simply a matter of a setup and payoff, even if it seems like a throwaway item. Bonus points if it ties in to your primary storyline. Which it should.
Case in point: in the opening scene of CHINATOWN, Gittes is showing his client photos of the man’s wife’s infidelity. The man, heartbroken, tells Gittes “if there’s anything you ever need, let me know.” The scene ends, and we figure that’s that. This is what kind of guy Gittes is and what he does, and then we transition into the main storyline. Events play out, and Gittes finds himself cornered in a tough spot.
So how does he get out of it? He leads his pursuers to a house he claims has the answers. But when he knocks on the front door, who answers it? The guy from the opening scene. We’d totally forgotten about him, but it’s a perfect choice. It ties things together, works within the context of the story, and anybody else would have not worked.
Everything in your story should serve a function in helping move the story forward, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.
Do you have characters or events in your script that are strictly one-time-only? What purpose do they serve? If you took them out, would it make a difference?
And if you do keep them, is there any way to change them around so that you have a solid setup and payoff that tie into the overall story? It might not be as tough as you think.
In the outline of my current project, I had some smaller scenes in the first act that were totally unconnected. Going through it a second time, I’ve been finding ways to connect them. Sometimes it’s about using a character making a return appearance, or having some key scenes take place in the same location. Again, it’s all about what works within the context of the story.
(Admittedly, I’m also working on this from the mindset of keeping the budget low. If having the same character appear twice, rather than it being two separate characters, or being able to use a location more than once means less money that needs to be spent, than so be it. It’s an influence, not a rule. But this is me. You may choose to take a different approach.)
Another benefit of tying elements together is that it shows how much thought and effort you’ve put into crafting this story together. The evidence is right there on the page. You’re proving that you’re actually thinking this through and not just randomly throwing things in and hoping something sticks. You’d be surprised how many writers do that.
Maximum Z 