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Category Archives: Criticism
Perhaps the single most important post in all of yourscreenplaysucks.com…
You may be getting weary of my proselytizing for typewriters as a useful writing tool. Old fashioned technology, right? You know, like the quill pen or papyrus. I don’t tout the lowly typewriter all that often. Last time was three years ago. [Search: In Praise of Typewriters. May 21, 2017] But, as yet another semester ends, it has again struck me how incredibly useful a typewriter can be.
Especially for people who have never written on anything but a computer.
The inability to get words on the page stems from a fear that the thing you’re about to write won’t be perfect. So why write it, right? With a computer, you can so easily work it and work it and work it until it’s either perfect or… until you give up, go out back, and weed the garden. With a typewriter, you Do. Not. Have. That. Option. You write it and it sucks and then you write the next sentence and it sucks and you write the next one and the next one and so on, and none are perfect, but once you get to the bottom of the page and pull it out of the machine, the page exists.
I ask my clients and students, “Do you write a sentence, erase it, and then hate yourself?” Some look at me like I’m stupid. Others… sag, moan, and glaze over. To them, I say, “You need to try writing on a typewriter.” At my film department, we have a Writing Room dedicated to a typewriter — with correcting tape removed. You can go in there and write to your heart’s content and you cannot erase a single word. Whether you like it or not, you move forward.
The idea for the Writing Room was born from the superb documentary, CALIFORNIA TYPEWRITER. Check it out on Criterion. It’s fantastic. Here is the relevant clip…
And the relevant quote…
“I can’t get to stream of consciousness when I’m involved in my own editorial process as I’m trying to be a wacko. I’m trying to be an absolute whack job when I’m typing. And it’s like, the typewriter doesn’t judge you, it just goes, ‘right away, sir. Right away sir. However you want it to be.'”
Again, boiled down…
“I can’t get to stream of consciousness when I’m involved in my own editorial process…”
If you can’t get to the fragile zone you need to be in to write, and stay there, it’s game over.
If you write a sentence and hate yourself, you may as well go be a banker. Just to get to the bottom of the page, you have to think you’re Thor.
One student this past semester had crippling writer’s block. The computer was her deadliest enemy. She’d write a page, highlight it, and delete it. Again and again. The rough part was that she could really write. She had the talent to earn money. I finally took her to the Writing Room and basically locked her in. On the typewriter for a couple of hours, she ended up writing five pages, the most pages she’d ever gotten done that fast in her entire life. She was flabbergasted.
The nail in her writer’s block coffin was a line I got from Ellen Sandler, “Write fast, write badly.” After I told my student that was her goal, just to fill the page and fix it later, then it was, for her: don’t spare the horses! Every assignment she turned in began with, “You asked me write fast and badly. I have written fast and badly.”
After she wrote fast and badly, she had something she could print, hold in her hand, and rewrite. If it doesn’t exist, you can’t fix it. I tell my students, “I can help you make anything better, but if the page isn’t there, there’s nothing I can do.”
If you rewrite while you’re writing, get a typewriter.
Spend $300. Change your life.
Pointed out to me by my student Haley Crutcher. I’m not a fan of confusing names. Here from master writer Paddy Chayefsky, are some beauts. Thank you, Haley!
Harry & Howard & Hackett & Haywood & Herron
Howard Beale & unimportant Howard K. Smith. Harry Hunter & unimportant Harry Reasoner. BTW, these are all four in same paragraph description on p.1.
Willie Stein and Milton Steinman
Louise & Laureen & Lennie
Robert then Bob McDonough
Bob & Bill & Barbara
Max & Milton & Michael
Jack & Joe & George & John
Lou & Lew… Are they the same person?! I still don’t know.
Roughly 30 first and last names/descriptions to remember. Repetitive caps (although sometimes useful, mostly confusing). Who the capital H is important to remember?! Pay attention.
Women’s descriptions either best ass, chunky, handsome (Laureen), or didn’t get names (secretaries/housekeeper)
Some last names used and some first names. Harry Hunter is Harry to everyone else, but his dialogue is under Hunter, even though at first his dialogue is under Harry Hunter.
Supposedly you have gotten into this writing dodge because you’re a storyteller. You have something gnawing inside you, burning, chewing at your guts that you can’t wait to get out into the world. To share with others. To make people feel, strongly. Something! Anything! What story do you cease to exist if you don’t tell? Why?!
Writing teachers will say, “Figure out your theme, tape it above your computer and write about that.” As if it were anywhere near that easy!
I think the opposite is true, especially if you’re telling a tale that is “about” something. Something, hopefully, that has profound meaning for you and thereby, everyone. If you do a piece of writing the correct way, it will be to some degree a journey of exploration and discovery, perhaps self-discovery. That journey must be free form, fluid, and wide open to change.
In seeming contradiction to that, I also advocate use of an outline. In Your Screenplay Sucks!, I talked about how important it is to delay writing pages until you have pounded your outline to death.
The earlier it is in your writing career, the tighter the outline should be before you write actual screenplay pages. If your outline is on the money, your overall writing time will be shorter. If you really think about what you’re doing before you write FADE IN:, you’ll waste less time in revision mode.
Even then, you still can’t know what it is you’re really writing about until you have a draft.
Deeper into your writing career, I advocate for a more free-form version of the outline, precisely what Robert Olen Butler tells you to do in his magnificent book From Where You Dream.
Presumably, as you’re working on your script, your characters are alive and malleable. You may think of something halfway through the script that never occurred to you when you started. That’s fine! Change and improvement are wonderful. Foolish changes, sad to say, will send you off in the wrong direction. But, as this is a process, you can always figure out a way to get back on the path.
As you write pages with action description and dialogue and character and all that stuff, the journey your hero is on as well as the journey you are on will begin to deviate from whatever you thought that journey was going to be when you set out to write the outline, followed by pages. Things happen. Better ideas! Something changes on page 5 that will affect page 50. This stuff is normal. Do not reject change in favor of your “carved in stone” outline.
As you churn forward, writing, do not change the pages behind you (rule of thumb, nothing is law except, “Don’t be boring.”) but drop your “changes” ideas in a file and when you’re done with the first pass, go back and perform surgery on your patient.
Only as you move toward the end of the draft can you look back and see from whence you came and truly begin to understand what your story is about. Begin to understand why you are telling this story. Begin to understand what your character’s real problem is. Begin to understand what your problem is.
“I have a problem. I make a movie about it. It’s not a problem anymore.”
supposedly Andy Warhol
At the beginning of the journey, you can certainly think you know what the hero’s problem is, but you may be wrong about even something as fundamental as that. You certainly may not know what the solution to the problem is. Not at the beginning. You find this along the way. Hey, the writing teachers are right when they say it’s a journey! Your first pass is not your tenth draft! Embrace that you will fail for a while and don’t sweat it. Press on and feel good about it.
You may decide at the beginning that your movie is about a man in a divorce. You may change your mind partway through when you discover the main character is really his wife. The reason you’re telling the story can shift and that moment, that epiphany about why you’re really here, is fun! When you gasp and yell, “So that’s why I’m writing this!”, that’s a mind-blowingly wonderful feeling.
I don’t think you can get that feeling unless you stay open to change through the writing process. At last, perhaps suddenly, the truth will be revealed to you and you go back into the story and fix all the things you need to repair that will lead to the point you now know you’re trying to make.
The point you can only understand how to make after you’ve done a LOT of writing.
Once you figure out what your story is about, it may only be a matter of going back to the beginning to do some gentle spadework to alter this or that or these five scenes to help point the reader in the direction the story needs to go. Or, maybe it takes dynamite and a crane, a ton of heavy lifting, to blow it up and start all over again. Once you know what you really, really are there for, rewriting becomes much easier. And on target.
Scenes that don’t fit the new “theme” shout, “Hey, dummy! I don’t belong here! Get rid of me!” They can’t do that at the beginning of the writing process because they are locked into whatever your original thoughts were. Once all the players (your story and your characters and you) know why you’re really at the party, then you can roll up your sleeves and get some really good work done.
So, don’t sweat it if, up front, you don’t have a clue why the heck you’re sitting there writing.
If you have any examples of this, please send them to me and I will post them. Have you figured out much later in the game than you had first anticipated what your story was about?
Next weekend, I’m doing a workshop for young writers. All the teachers have been asked to send in a letter “to themselves as a young writer.” Here’s mine.
What I Really, Really Wish I’d Been Told as a Young Writer…
by William M. Akers
It’s never easy. Even when it seems easy… at some point, it’s going to get difficult.
Treat your craft with respect. Work hard at it.
Never write something you don’t care about. Well, that’s not true… sometimes you have to do homework.
Nobody wants to read what you’ve written. Your teacher doesn’t. Your parents might. When you have a boss, she is only going to want it to be clear and concise. Heaping more big words on the page for a higher grade is not a way to learn to write.
Don’t be so hard on yourself. This is difficult for everybody. You don’t know that because you’re alone in your room fighting your own demons.
Everybody worries whether they’ve got talent. Michael Crichton, who wrote Jurassic Park and 29 other books, worried he was untalented. In his office bookcase, he had every book he wrote in every language it’d been translated into so he could sit at his desk and look at all he had done and think, “I did that. I can get through the next one.”
You’re never going to figure out how to do it. Every project is a new project with its own invisible rules. For decades I thought I would come up with “my method.” When I finally realized there was never going to be a “method,” my life as a writer got much simpler.
Write about what you’re interested in. I knew nothing about the fall of Saigon, but I made a lot of money because I sold a screenplay based on something I knew nothing about, that fascinated me.
Welcome notes. Do not argue with someone kind enough to give you suggestions on how to improve your work.
It will never be perfect. One reason some people don’t write is because they’re afraid it won’t be perfect. Art & Fear by David Bayles asks “What in your life, up to now, have you ever done that was perfect? Nothing, right? This won’t be perfect either. So just get on with it.”
Keep a diary. Even a simple one. You think you’ll remember stuff but you won’t. It will make a gigantic difference when you’re older.
You’ve got to learn two things. How to write a sentence that’s clean and clear. And how to figure out what you want to say. Technique and emotion. Two worlds to conquer.
It will take years to get good at this! Don’t worry about it if you’re not great now. The wonderful thing about writing is: the more you do it, the better you get!
Don’t despair. If you do despair, at least write about it.
Enjoy the process. On some level, doing it has to be fun. If getting published is the only thing that will make you happy, figure out something else to do with your time. The process of creating the work had better be the reward.
Learn to be businesslike. If you’re not businesslike, people won’t be interested in working with you.
Never miss a deadline. Be early for everything. Selfish people and idiots are late.
No matter how much trouble your writing is in, if you sit down and work on it, eventually you will solve the problem.
Try to write comedy. It’s the hardest thing there is but, who knows, you might be great at it.
Impress your teachers. If they think you’re worth it, they will move heaven and earth to help you.
This is perhaps a new wrinkle on a familiar theme. But it may make you look at your work a tad differently.
A former student of mine does development for a company in Los Angeles. A small company, with four employees, but they make movies and television. They get things done. She reads scripts, sits down with writers and gives notes. She prepares pitches, breaks down stories… all the things a creative exec does. It’s all about story and she’s great at it. They are sooo lucky to have her.
I was talking to her about her workload and scripts that come in, etc. Asked her if she wasn’t amazed by the number of bad screenplays that have agency reputation. Always a conundrum for a writer… if it’s so bloody difficult to get an agent, why are so many agents sending out horrible screenplays? I asked her about reading. She leaned forward, and with a degree of viciousness I had never seen in her, said…
“I HATE to read.”
It’s the last thing she wants to do, because so many of the scripts are terrible. She’d be happy if she never read another script, ever.
I thought about you, dear reader, and the work you are doing. Writing a screenplay, planning to send it out there to sell. I know you’ve imagined the reader, on a lounge chair by the pool, flipping through the pages of your script. Making the occasional note. Ooohing and aahing at the good stuff. And at the end, marking “Consider.”
That is one image. If you write toward that benign image, I don’t think you’ll get as far as if you write toward the image of a reader who HATES to read.
Imagine you are giving your script to someone, a reader, an agent, a producer, who, whey they turn to the title page, is already angry. They turn to page 1, pissed off. As they read your first slug line and first paragraph of action description, they are fuming because they would rather be doing anything than reading your damned screenplay.
How does that make you feel?
Thinking you’d better go back and rewrite that first paragraph?
Imagine someone sitting down to read who has steam coming from their collar… already upset with you… and your job is to make them happy. Wouldn’t you do EVERYTHING you could to calm them down? No extra lines of dialogue. No extra words in the slug lines. No shilly shallying around with the first act… etc., etc. All those things that are so difficult to do, and when they aren’t done well, make the reader loathe you.
Because they hate to read but have to read your script, do five more drafts so that it is perfect.
Make them smile at your intense professionalism.
Make your prose interesting.
Make your story work.
Do the job.
Do not assume your grandmother is sitting down to read your script, all warm and loving.
Assume it’s Tina Turner from TOMMY. Or Maleficent. Or that horrid teacher you had in fifth grade. Or your ex-wife’s mother, who never, ever liked you and now says, “I told you so,” with every breath.
Someone who scares you and will perhaps prod you into doing one more draft. Or five.
I have a tiny little voice in the back of my head. Sadly, it does not give me football scores before the games. It does warn me when there is something wrong with my writing.
But, it is SO quiet. So distant. So almost not there…
I ignore it a lot.
Can’t do that. Not ever, because it’s always, always, always right.
Generally, what happens is… it says, so softly as to be inaudible, “This isn’t working.” And, generally, I drown it out with, “It’ll be fine.” You think by now, I’d have learned. When the tiny voice tells you something isn’t working, and you think it will be fine anyway, most likely you are wrong. But it may take draft after draft after draft before you realize that the thing is NEVER going to work, and you’re going to have to buckle down and do the work and fix it.
As long as you do the work before you hand in your writing, you’ll be fine.
This thing I’m working on, has two scenes in a bath house. As I write this down, it seems so obvious, but I can tell you, it wasn’t. The little voice would tickle me and say, “One of those scenes is kinda like the other one.” And I would tamp the voice down… which is VERY EASY TO DO, as I weigh a lot and the voice is thin as smoke. Finally, after getting notes from a friend, I saw that the two scenes were basically saying the same thing, so I combined them into one. Saved some pages. Saved some dead weight. Saved some useless repetition. And finally shut the voice up.
The instant I made the change, I knew the scene worked. At last I felt better.
Disregard the Little Voice at your peril. Find a way to listen. Which is a lot more difficult than you may think.
Recently went to a screening of student films. If you are a student, you want to try very hard NOT to make a student film. One hallmark of student films is the unwilling suspension of disbelief that often must occur for the story to work.
The student filmmaker sometimes asks the audience to buy something that is impossible or ridiculous or just idiotic. The student filmmaker often asks the viewer to make excuses for the student filmmaker’s youth and lack of money.
This is great when you are in sixth grade. Fine. No problem. I get it. You tape a sign saying “Nuclear Reactor Room” to your bedroom door, shoot your movie, show it to your buddies, and it’s fantastic. Everyone has a good time, and understands the rules. No problemo. However. Unwilling suspension of disbelief must fall by the wayside fairly soon, though, if the filmmaker is to advance in her learning.
In one scene I saw the other night, a group of people were held captive by an evil scientist. The door was locked, and they repeatedly threw themselves against it in a vain effort to break it down so they could escape. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. However, the hinges were on the inside of the room. The INSIDE. That means the door opens inward. There was no way that door was going to bust open, unless one clever character suddenly found a Mack truck under a blanket in the room. The filmmakers were asking the viewer to accept the fact that the door might break down.
They were asking us to pretend.
You can’t do that. You can’t do it in filmmaking and you can’t do it in writing. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. It’s binary. It is right. Or it is not right. There is zero gray area.
You’re pregnant. You’re not pregnant. Easy to tell which.
Hoping is NOT going to make it work on the page.
Do not hope we’ll get it.
Do not hope we’ll pretend it works, when, deep in your guts, you know it doesn’t. Do the work and rewrite your scene until it is right.
And when it is, you’ll know.
And it will feel very very good.
This will be two complete chapters in the sequel to my book.
Got this email from a client. I had critiqued his Middle Grade children’s novel. He felt like he was channeling me…
I had crit group this last Wednesday. I found myself repeating your comments about my writing. “The action is being done by the secondary characters, giving the solution to the main character at no cost.”
The hero is the guy who has to win the day. Don’t give the cool stuff to someone who’s not the hero, or not a lot of it. Let the hero win the battles himself.
And, does the main character earn every rung on the ladder that you give him as he climbs toward the solution to the Problem? If he finds it on the ground with no effort, perhaps rethink.
Very bad writing in Disney’s PINOCCHIO… When Pinocchio comes home and Gepetto is not there… and there are no clues to lead Pinocchio toward his beloved father… the Blue Fairy drops a note and tells Pinocchio where to look for him. He should have searched and found a clue.
There. Two chapters I now don’t have to think up!
I’m giving notes on a friend’s screenplay. As it turns out, he could not give me a hard copy, which is how I normally do my reading. As I am sure you’re well aware.
He sent me a .pdf.
I started the script, and very quickly realized that, because I was unable to pull out my pen and correct mistakes in scene description or trim dialogue or do my normal bleed-red-ink-on-the-page tap dance, I was approaching the material in a different way. I was concentrating only on story. I was not concerning myself with the physical writing.
Not at all.
After decades in this business, I suddenly understood that reading a script with no pen in my hand is an amazing way to look at only the story. I wasn’t getting bogged down in minutiae… I was looking at the Grand Plan, the characters, structure, overall tone, etc., etc.
What’s great is that I will be able to give him notes on story only, and a lot of scenes will end up being cut… and, had I done my Red Pen Act all over the script, I’d have wasted a lot of time on scenes that were going to vanish anyway. Pretty neat, hunh?
I still advocate printing to proofread, because it’s essential.
Reading a .pdf is another way to approach the rewriting process.