What It’s Like

Relationships take time.  Real ones do, too, but I’m talking about the fake relationships between people you make up.  I was reminded of this when I watched “House” this week.  The episode ends with Amber, aka Cutthroat Bitch, in mortal danger.  She’s the perfect character to do this with.  We’ve spent lots of time with her, learned to love/hate her, and have gotten invested in her relationship with Wilson.  Which makes us care if she lives or dies.  But since she’s not a regular, we the media-savvy audience know that she could really die.  This is a tough trick to pull off.  I’ve written a few “love interest of the week” episodes in my day and they’re awful.  There just isn’t time in a single, hour-long episode (42 minutes plus commercials) to introduce a new character, have one of your regulars convincingly fall in love, then endanger and/or kill the love interest and make anyone care.

This is one reason that any two-hour version of “Pride and Prejudice” will have trouble living up to the 300 minute, BBC miniseries.  The other reason is, of course, Colin Firth.  But Colin aside, I really think that simply giving the central relationship enough time to truly develop is key to its success.  The recent Keira Knightly version was surprisingly good, but even it had to fast-forward Mr. Darcy from haughty scorn to outright lust in about a scene and a half.

This is also where TV series will always have an advantage over feature films.  On a show, you have time to realistically let opposites attract, or friends realize they feel something more.   Can you imagine “Moonlighting” if Maddy and David had to get together by the end of the second hour?  Okay, I’m dating myself.  I meant Bones and Booth.  The downside of “will they or won’t they?” is one we’ve all seen, on ancient shows like “Moonlighting.”  There’s only so long you can tease out a relationship before paying it off, and once they sleep together, it’s all over.  The get-together/break-up/get-together tango is even worse (cough cough “Grey’s Anatomy”).  One show with a novel take on this dilemma is “Pushing Daisies.”  Ned and Chuck are in love.  However, if he touches her, she’ll die.  Does sexless love count as unrequited?  Will one or the other get so frustrated, they fall out of love?  Whatever other problems I may have with “Daisies,” I love that emotional core.  And the fact that, because it’s TV and not film, they can keep exploring it and not have to come up with some magical “out clause” that lets the lovers kiss at the end.

In one of the innumerable articles I’ve seen lately on the death of the romantic comedy, I came across an interesting statement (wish I had a citation, but I don’t) by the writer that rom-coms are suffering because there are fewer and fewer genuine obstacles to keep a couple apart.  In the old days, (even before “Moonlighting”) there were strict race and class barriers, getting a divorce from your current spouse was a bigger deal, etc.  In the current culture, it’s tough to find a real, uncontrived reason to keep two people apart.  So you get completely artificial stuff like “27 Dresses” and “Made of Honor.”  By comparison, “Knocked Up” was pretty real, since they had believable personality differences to overcome.  Although when Allison suddenly declares “I love you,” it comes out of nowhere - but that’s a different problem.

So what does this mean for your spec-writing efforts?  If you’re writing an episode of an existing show, do not write a love interest of the week.   Even (especially) an old flame.  Really.  You’ll be sorry with the result.  It’s generally not a good idea to center a spec on a guest character anyway.  Play with tensions among the regular characters instead.  If you’re writing a spec pilot, and you want sexual tension between your characters, make sure you have a good, solid reason to keep them apart.  I don’t just mean something external (like if he touches her, she’ll die), but good character reasons which would make sense to anyone who actually knew these people (oh, he’s so wrong for you).  Also, don’t feel obliged to put sexual tension into every script.  Men and women can indeed work together without sparks flying.  Although the network will probably make you put it in later.  And make every character 25 and gorgeous.  But again, that’s another problem - one I hope we’ll all have to deal with someday.

A showrunner looking to hire will find him or herself facing an enormous pile of specs.  As this person reads one script after another, he or she will genuinely hope to be impressed by a great piece of writing.  Part of his/her mind will also be looking for an excuse to toss out some scripts to make the task a little more manageable.  Here are some ways to get your script thrown right into the recycle bin:

Bad spelling, grammar, or punctuation.  Should go without saying, but I keep seeing scripts with basic mistakes like these.  I also strongly advise against using text-speak or LOL-speak in your scripts, with the possible exception of dialogue if there’s a really good reason.  Some readers (like myself) just find it annoying.  Also, when you try to be trendy, you run two risks.  First, that you’ll fall behind the trend and sound dated.  Second, that you’ll be so far ahead that your reader won’t understand what you mean and will feel stupid and/or old - not what you want.

Bad format.  With the existence of scriptwriting software, there’s no reason to get this wrong.  Don’t change the font.  Don’t futz with spacing to get more lines on a page.  There’s some flexibility in format among shows, but follow the format of your chosen show exactly - same number of act breaks, teaser or no teaser, etc.  For spec pilots, use similar shows as guidelines.

Huge blocks of dialogue or action.  Most readers, when seeing a page-long speech, will stop cold and drop the script.  David Milch could get away with soliloquies on “Deadwood” because he’s Milch.   A full page of action with no dialogue can also be intimidating.  Writers sometimes refer to the amount of “white space” on a page, which is exactly what it sounds like - the visual field of white broken up by some little black letters.  Flip through a produced script to get a feel for the amount of white space per page you should be shooting for.

Show mistakes.  Again, this seems like a suggestion which shouldn’t be necessary, but get the names of the characters right in an episodic spec.  Know the basic backstory of the show.  Tiny details, like the name of the hospital Jack worked in on “Lost,” don’t matter.  Bigger things, like the fact that he was married once, do - in the sense that you should be careful not to contradict them in your spec.  Do your research.  It’s possible that your readers won’t catch your errors, but it looks pretty sloppy if they do.

There are also some things which are a matter of taste - reader preferences rather than outright errors.  Such as:

The use of “we” to indicate “the audience.”  Some writers hate it when they read “We see what Meredith doesn’t…” etc.  Other writers, like myself, use that kind of phrasing all the time.  Alternatives include “New angle reveals what Meredith doesn’t see…” which is more of a camera direction, or “What Meredith doesn’t see…”  I don’t know why some people prefer one over the other.

“Directing” in the script.   Sometimes it’s necessary to indicate a specific shot, especially for a reveal of new information.  Other times, it’s just really tempting to specify a particular shot or angle to match the picture in your head.  Taken to excess, this can be annoying to read.  You can get away with more “directing” in a spec pilot, since you have to establish things like pacing and visual style for the first time.   For an episodic spec (all together now), follow the example of the show.

Gimmicky presentation.  By this, I mean things like including extra stuff like illustrations, props or CDs of theme music along with your script.  Personally, I find this a turn-off, but other writers/readers feel differently.  I heard of one writer who submitted a “Buffy” along with a box of handmade stakes - and the “Buffy” producers were impressed enough to read the script (most people won’t read specs for their own shows).  Use your own judgment, and realize that you’ll get some strong reactions on both sides: love it and hate it.  Of course, even the best gimmick won’t make your script any better, but especially in television, you are selling yourself and your personality as well as your fabulous work.  Make sure that however you present your script, it’s true to the person you really are.

I’d love to provide more information about the upcoming “Breaking into the Box” seminar, but I don’t know any more than the Writers Guild Foundation has on their website.  The purpose of the WGF is to provide education for the general public, as opposed to the programs sponsored by the Writers Guild itself, which are geared toward members.  So, I’d imagine this program is more for beginners than established writers.  Whether that makes it more or less worth your $150 is up to you.

I have to put in a quick plug for a book I’m thoroughly enjoying, called “Not Quite What I Was Planning.”  It’s a collection of six word memoirs.  The title is an example.  Others range from funny (”Catholic Girl.  Jersey.  It’s all true.”) to tragic (”Found true love, married someone else.”)  The idea of distilling your life down to six words is a fascinating challenge.  If your first thought is: “Ooh, I gotta try that,” you’re definitely a writer.  It also seems like a great writing exercise for a character.  What six words would he or she choose?

I’ve been learning a lot lately about assistants.  I never was one myself (the closest I got was that “Trek” internship), and most of the shows I’ve been on have been so low-budget, we’ve had one assistant for the whole office.  Turns out there are actually three types of assistants on shows which can afford them.  There’s one assistant just for the showrunner, another one for the writing staff, and sometimes even an office P.A.  The office P.A. is basically a gofer who makes copies and gets lunch.  It’s the entry level of assistant positions.  But at least you’re working in the writers’ office, as opposed to the set P.A.s, who fetch stuff for the production crew.  As an office P.A., you’ll have the chance to read various drafts of the scripts, meet the writers, and get some sense of office politics.  You probably will not spend time in the writers’ room - which, as an aspiring writer, is where you ultimately want to be.

The showrunner’s assistant also doesn’t spend much time in the writers’ room.  You’ll probably be stuck at a desk, answering phones, most of the time - even when the showrunner him or herself is in the writers’ room.  This job is the most like a conventional secretary.  You’ll take messages and keep a calendar for the showrunner, and probably do some personal errands as well.  If the showrunner is involved with multiple projects, like running one show while developing others, you’ll probably need to keep track of all of them.  One bonus of this position is that if you do a good job, the showrunner will probably agree to read your stuff.  If it’s also good, you stand a decent chance of getting a freelance script.

The writers’ assistant is the person who sits in the writers’ room as the staff breaks stories and takes notes.  Often, you’ll write up a rough outline for the writer of that episode.  This job is a front row seat to the process.  As a “Trek” intern, I sat in the writers’ room, and it was an invaluable education.  When the staff isn’t breaking stories, you’ll probably answer phones, make copies, whatever else needs to get done.  In terms of pay, the showrunner’s assistant probably makes more, but I spoke to one former assistant who considered it a promotion when she switched from showrunner’s to writer’s assistant, because it got her in the room.  You may have to work a little harder to form relationships with the writers, because you’re not one-on-one like the showrunner and his/her assistant.  But eventually, someone will read your material, and (again, if it’s good), you’ll be considered for a freelance script.

Getting that first assignment is, of course, the goal, but it doesn’t mean you can or should quit your day job.   One produced script doesn’t automatically lead to a staff position.  I know several assistants with produced credits who are still trying to make that jump.  I also know some assistants who have been at their jobs for years, waiting to get even that first script.  I don’t say this to be discouraging, but to let you know that the whole process may take a while.  Be ready for it.  Don’t burden yourself with a time limit: “I’ll be an assistant for a year and see how it goes.”  Pursue other writing opportunities at the same time, of course, but plan to be patient and give the writers you work with a chance to know you.  They all know you want to write.  Most of them were probably assistants, too.

I wish there were some steps I could tell you to follow to get an assistant job, but it seems just as random and unpredictable as getting any other job in this business.  Meet lots of people.  Make a good impression.  Let everyone know you’re looking for assistant work.  Rinse and repeat.  The opportunities will come.  Be ready to take advantage of them when they do.

The Writers Guild Foundation is putting on an all-day seminar on breaking into television.  It isn’t cheap ($150), but the list of speakers is impressive, and it should be packed with good information.  Go to www.wgfoundation.org for information.  It is open to non-Guild members.

A final word on “The Abyss.”  I have seen the extended director’s cut, and don’t think it works any better.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge James Cameron fan in general.  In fact, I was reminded of how much I love and adore “Aliens” the other night.  Cameron has another brilliant exposition scene disguised as a character moment early on, when Ripley is feeling useless and awkward among the Marines.  She asks the Lt. if there’s anything she can do to help, and he returns “I don’t know, is there anything you can do?”  So she hops in the power loader, picks up a huge crate and says “Where you want it?”  He laughs and it’s a nice moment of her winning some respect.  Of course, what it’s really doing is setting up the great power loader v. Alien Queen fight later on, but the scene completely works on its own.  Anytime you need to sneak in some information for later use, try to make it serve double duty if at all possible.  Hiding your exposition well or, even better, making it entertaining, is a really useful skill.

Onto a question from Matt about spec pilots.  He wondered if writing a script which would be too expensive or difficult to produce might make it look like he doesn’t understand production.  Yeah, it might.  Or it might not.  It will really depend on your reader.  So if you feel that busting the budget is truly the only way to tell the story you want to tell, go ahead - just be aware that it’s one more risk factor which might put someone off.  As always, I strongly recommend having one or two “safe” and conventional samples to show, in addition to as many weird, expensive or unmarketable scripts as you care to write.

Deb also had a question, about a novel she’s published.  First of all, congratulations.  I understand that’s quite a difficult feat in itself.   She also thinks it would be a great film.  I’m not sure if Deb is looking to adapt her novel into a screenplay herself or sell it to a studio.  I’ve never done an adaptation, but know a little about how literary sales work from my time as a development assistant to director Kathryn Bigelow.  Part of my job was reading screenplays.  Another part of it was soliciting and evaluating books.  I would start by reading Publishers Weekly, which contained synopses of the various books each of the major publishers had coming out.  When one sounded interesting as a project for Kathryn, I would contact the subsidiary rights department of that publisher and find out if the film and TV rights to that book were still available.  Anyone can do this.  Go to a publisher’s website and they’ll tell you how to submit an inquiry.  If the rights were available, I would get a copy of the book (sometimes before it was published) and read it.

I would also solicit material from agents who represented novelists.  The big agencies all have literary departments.  Deb, if you don’t have a lit agent, I recommend getting one right away.  Your publisher should be able to help you.   That agent is the person who should not only field inquiries from development types, but also contact producers and directors who might be interested in your book and get them to read it.  If, for example, a director reads and loves your book, he or she may want to option it.  An option is like a lease - the director would pay a certain amount of money to have the exclusive right to adapt the book for a certain period of time (maybe a year).  If nothing happens with the project during that time, the rights revert to the author, who can option or sell them again.  If someone buys the rights, the price is generally higher, and the buyer has exclusive rights to make a film or TV show out of it forever.

This also applies to spec features.  Several years ago, a producer optioned a screenplay I wrote for a year, during which time she tried to get a director, actress and/or studio attached.  Also during that time, she hired another writer to rewrite the screenplay.  I wasn’t real thrilled, but under the terms of the option, she owned the material.  We had a director attached for a while, but ultimately, nothing happened.  When the option expired, I chose not to renew it, and now the screenplay (the original, not the rewrite) belongs to me again.  I’m honestly not sure what would happen if somebody wanted to buy the rewrite version - I can only assume they’d have to buy my version as well.  This is why I have an agent to figure this stuff out.  One more reason I’d recommend that Deb get one of her own, pronto.

Finally, I want to say a few words about my friend and former boss Larry Hertzog, who passed away recently.  Larry created “Nowhere Man.”  I met him on “Missing,” and he later gave me some freelance work when he ran “Painkiller Jane.”  Larry was great to work for.  He had faith in his own talent, which made him secure enough to listen to everyone else’s ideas, then confidently pick the best option, no matter where it came from.  Larry was a completely no-bullshit guy.  You always knew where you stood, and never had to wonder what he really meant by that remark.  He was genuinely interested in people, which is a valuable quality in a writer.  He could happily debate character motivation for as long as it took to get to something genuine.  He really enjoyed the work, and that was infectious.  In his writers’ room, we always laughed a lot.  And still managed to get the work done in time to get home at a decent hour.  If I ever get the chance, I hope to run my show as well as Larry did.  I truly miss him.

I caught part of one of my almost-favorite movies last night: “The Abyss.”  It’s an almost because I absolutely love the first hundred and ten minutes or so… but the end is simply bad.  If you haven’t seen “The Abyss,” you should.  It has an interesting setting and story, great characters, a truly disturbing drowning scene, and Michael Biehn with a serious moustache.  It also has one of the best exchanges of dialogue ever.  Early in the film, Hippie looks on as Bud has a nasty fight with Lindsey via videophone.  Bud finally hangs up in disgust: “God, I hate that bitch.”  Hippie nods, philosophical: “Probably shouldn’t have married her, then, huh?”  Genius.  All the exposition you need about Bud and Lindsey’s relationship right there.

My problem with the end - and if you haven’t seen it and don’t want spoilers, skip ahead a paragraph or two - starts when the sparkly E.T. butterflies show up to save Bud.  The special effects here, especially compared to the seriously cool water tentacle, are just bad.  And the aliens are way too cutesy.  They then proceed to share their sage advice that war is bad and love is good.  They surface their ship, which now looks like a plastic bathtub toy.  The people in the rig come out, and only then realize: “We didn’t decompress.  We should be dead.”  And poor Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio has to smile and say “Yeah.  They must have done something to us.”  Ick.  Not that I wanted a huge explanation of what the butterflies must have done to them, but this just feels lazy.  After I saw “The Abyss,” I actually went home rewrote the ending.   Really.  I still have it somewhere.

A lot of movies, and some TV shows, have a similar problem.  The set-up is great, the journey is interesting, but the payoff is a serious letdown.  The show which springs to mind is “The X-Files.”  The government conspiracy stuff was intriguing for a while, until right around the time of the movie (the first, as it turns out), when I realized there would be no resolution.  It was just an endless tease with no answers.  I do sympathize with the creators’ dilemma.  When you build up a mystery for that long, any payoff will feel disappointing.  Some people have the same concerns about “Lost.”  Whatever the explanations turn out to be for the island, the weird interconnections among the passengers, the smoke monster, the ghost in the wooden shack, etc, they will probably be something of a letdown, if only because the viewers have been spinning out such a creative variety of alternatives.  The unknown is generally more interesting than the known.

The good news is that, in a spec pilot, you get to set up the mystery (if that’s part of your show) without ever having to pay it off.  Let’s face it, the chances that you’ll actually sell your spec pilot are very, very small.  This is true for experienced writers and even more so for beginners.  So you’re really writing it as a sample of your original voice.  Which frees you up from considerations like: Is it marketable?  What happens in season three? or Who did kill Laura Palmer?  I have a friend who wrote a spec pilot set in Biblical times.  It’s one of the least-marketable things I’ve read in a while.  It’s also a great script, and a terrific, completely original writing sample.  He sets up all kinds of intriguing mysteries, which would clearly generate more stories (showing his skill at setting up a series), but odds are, that’s as far as they’ll go.  No payoff, no letdown, no disappointment.

You may feel the temptation to write up an entire bible to accompany your spec pilot, laying out the future of the series and answers to all the questions you raise.   Go ahead and write it if you like, but I don’t advise showing it to the readers of your pilot.  If somebody, someday does want to make your series, bring on the information overload.  Otherwise, your goal with a spec pilot should be to tantalize the reader.  Let their minds play with the mysteries you set up.  Leave them hanging, and desperate for more.  Which, of course, they can get if they hire you.

One of the great things about writing this blog is having a reason to do research.  As I may have mentioned before, I’m a research fiend.  In response to Sara’s question (and my realization of my own ignorance), I did some checking into what “going fi-core” actually means.  It means you resign from the WGA.  Permanently.  However, if you want to keep working as a writer, you must continue to pay union dues - which are currently 1.5 percent of your writing income.  In exchange, you get to work under a WGA contract (including minimum payments) and get health and pension benefits.  What you don’t get is the right to vote in any Guild election, run for office, or participate in any member activities, like the WGA awards.  Which, IMHO, isn’t all that much to give up.  Fi-core non-members still get the most important, practical stuff - the financial core, one might say.

So what’s the downside?  For the writer who goes fi-core, not much.  He or she gets to work on both union and non-union productions, strike or no strike, and gets all the protection of the Guild.  For the Guild and its members, however, there’s a big downside.  Fewer union members means less leverage for collective bargaining.  Less leverage translates into a shittier contract.  If a big chunk of the WGA had gone fi-core during the strike, the studios would have had no incentive whatsoever to negotiate.  Since only a few members did, they ended up getting all the benefits of the strike (better contract) without paying the price (three months of unemployment).  Which is why some people consider them weasels.  Of course, it’s possible that some of those members went fi-core out of genuine principle because they thought the strike was a huge mistake.  It’s kinda like being an American who thought re-electing Bush was a huge mistake.  If you feel strongly enough, you can give up your citizenship and move to Canada.  Where you’ll probably end up writing for an American show anyway.  Or you can suck it up, decide that the good of being an American citizen outweighs the bad, and try doing something to fix the problems in your own country instead of abandoning it.  End of metaphor.

One interesting thing this research brought to my attention is the fact that the WGA gives money to political causes.  I kinda knew this already.  I know they lobby for tax breaks to keep production in the U.S., for example.  Turns out that if you go fi-core, you can refuse to let your dues go toward any political cause.  That’s one of the justifications for the whole fi-core option.  So if I discover that my guild is actually funding terrorists, I suppose I’ll change my fi-core tune.

In the interest of clarity, let me point out that fi-core non-membership is not the same as associate membership.  To become a full WGA member, you need 24 “units” of writing credit within a three year period.  Writing an episode of an hour-long show gets you 12.  Selling a feature gets you 24, etc.  When you get some units, but less than 24, you can become an associate member.  You pay $75 a year in dues.  You can’t vote in elections, but you can sign up for something called the Alternative Health Plan, which I’m afraid you’ll have to research yourself.  You can remain as an associate member for up to three years, by which point you either get enough units or withdraw from the Guild.

And on a final Guild note, the “Crime Pays Saturday” event went well.  We had a great turnout, although some of the guests were a bit confused to discover that there was no seminar, no panel discussion, no lecture - just socializing with other writers.  Which, judging by the overall volume in the multipurpose room, was a mission well accomplished.  Next month’s genre of choice: spy movies!

I’m back.  And yes, I had a lovely vacation, thanks for asking.  The only glitch was that, for some reason, my TiVo didn’t record “30 Rock” while I was gone.  Now I have to wait 17 frakking days to download that episode so the writers can get their cent and a half in residuals.

I’m getting excited about the “Crime Pays Saturday” event at the WGA tomorrow.  Our RSVP list just hit 70 (!).  Even if only half that number actually shows up, it should be a good crowd.  What I’m really hoping to accomplish is giving writers a chance to meet new people in a casual, no-pressure kinda way.  If anybody ultimately ends up working together, so much the better.  I’m looking forward to having some interesting conversations about crime (fictional, of course) myself.

I was also happy to see the official announcement from SciFi/Virgin Comics about our project, now called “Superbia.”  Not that I seriously feared that they were going to back out at this point, but it’s nice to have a public commitment nonetheless.  So far, it seems like the ongoing creative challenge will be finding just the right tone - fun, but not spoofy.

In previous posts, I’ve mentioned some writers’ training programs.  The Disney/ABC program is currently accepting applications for writer’s assistants.   Fox is also taking scripts for its Diversity Writers’ Initiative.   And NBC is reading for its Diversity Initiative.  I’ve also just learned about something at CBS called the Writers’ Mentoring Program, which is taking apps now.  I can’t personally vouch for any of these programs, but I don’t see how participating in them could actually harm your career, so why not check them out?  The WGA group I’ve joined is also continuing to search for ways to revive the official, Guild-sponsored version.

Speaking of the Guild, I wasn’t especially pleased to see the public list of members who went “fi-core.”  It’s a legal, Guild-created option - so why shame the members who use it?  When, exactly, was it designed to be used anyway?  I do understand the desire to stop the rumor-mongering by revealing who did and did not go fi-core, but the finger-wagging statement that accompanied the list was a bit much.  I’d be more interested in exposing the members who didn’t even have the guts to openly go fi-core, but snuck around and scabbed under pseudonyms.   Those people should be flat-out expelled from the union.  This practice of allowing the fi-cores to stay in, but holding them up for public ridicule, seems pretty icky.

Now stop reading this blog and go watch some TV.  Ratings are down for most scripted shows coming back after the strike, which will only encourage the networks to program more reality crap and the already-dismal staffing situation will only get worse.  So for the sake of your own future careers, run to the TV and turn it on right now.  Seriously.  You don’t even have to watch.  Just turn on something scripted and go do your laundry or whatever.  Unemployed TV writers of America will thank you.

I’d like to start with a question from Brandon, who is concerned about eventually getting fired from his own show.  First of all, I gotta be honest, Brandon, it’s way, way too early to be thinking about getting your own show on the air.  You have many years of working your way up the ladder ahead of you before you’ll even have the opportunity to pitch your series idea.  Yes, even if it’s the greatest idea in the history of television.  So please don’t waste your energy fretting about it yet.  Fret about writing terrific specs, making some contacts, and getting that first paid gig.  There will be plenty of time to worry about potential future problems in the future.

Another reason not to worry too much about how to avoid getting fired from your own show is that there’s simply not much you can do about it.  The studio owns the show.  Doesn’t matter if you base it on your own life, write it, direct it, produce it, star in it, build the sets and sing the theme song… when you sell your idea to a studio, you give up ownership and control.   Sound unfair?  Not really.  They’re putting up all the cash for production.  We’re talking multiple millions, which they will probably lose (the odds of success being what they are).  Even if you were phenomenally wealthy enough to finance the whole show yourself, you’d still have the network and advertisers to deal with.

In television, the networks own the distribution channels.  Which means that you, the writer, and the studios must ultimately answer to them or they simply won’t put your work on the air.  The networks must answer to the advertisers (with the exception of pay cable channels like HBO and Showtime, which rely on subscribers).  The whole song and dance of upfront presentations is the networks trying to convince the advertisers that their programming will attract a lot of viewers, and the most attractive (demographically speaking) viewers at that.  The advertisers then place their bets on which shows will become hits by spending more on ad time during those shows.  The networks use that money to pay the license fees to the studios for the right to air their shows.  The networks do not own the programming.  They “rent” it - a certain number of airings for a certain license fee.

The studio uses the license fee to finance the show.  Problem is, they usually spend more than the license fee.  Which seems really stupid - if you know how much you’re going to sell the show for, wouldn’t you just cap the budget at that amount?  Except that TV shows have to compete with feature films, video games, the internet, etc.  So the studios throw more money into production costs, expensive actors and directors, big name feature writers, whatever they think will tip the odds in their favor.  This is called deficit financing - the real world equivalent of maxing out your credit cards.  Even a big hit like “Lost” doesn’t start to make its money back right away.  It used to be that shows wouldn’t turn a profit until they went into syndication, usually after several years, and the studio could sell the reruns all over again for a new license fee.  Now there’s DVD and internet sales, which help make up the deficit a lot more quickly, even on less-successful shows.  Which is why the issue of who gets what residuals from DVDs and the net has been such a big deal.

The sad truth is that most shows are, in fact, not profitable.  Which makes the studios a little nuts about grabbing profit where they can.  Which translates into complete ownership of “your” show.  When the day comes that you’re negotiating a deal with a studio to produce your baby, you will be obligated to give them the power to fire you.  The best you can do is make your payout as high as possible, so they’ll (hopefully) be less inclined to do so.  But if they really truly want you gone, you’re gone.  That’s the unfortunate reality of the business.  Almost makes you want to go write a novel instead, doesn’t it? Then maybe some big studio will buy the film rights and…   Oh, yeah.  Same problem.

I’m heading out of town for the next week and a half - post again when I get back.

I mentioned before on this blog that I’ve gotten more involved with the WGA, specifically the Diversity Committee, since the strike.  This had led me to help form something called the Genre Committee, which came out of guild member Dwayne Johnson-Cochran’s excellent suggestion that “diverse” writers might help ourselves more by focusing on our common interests than on our differences - i.e. let’s classify ourselves by our preferred genres rather than things like race or gender.  So the Genre Committee is now putting on our first social event, called “Crime Pays Saturday.”  It’s a gathering of writers who work on, or are interested in, TV crime dramas.  Future events will focus on other genres, like horror movies, romantic comedies, sci-fi TV dramas, etc.  We’re trying to make the guest list as varied as possible, in terms of race, gender and experience level - although it is still limited to WGA members.  The idea is to recreate some of the great, casual social environment from the picket lines, where writers could just meet each other, without the immediate pressure of “give me a job.”  If you’re in the Guild and interested, go here for more info.

Onto a question from Dan about reintroducing a character who has appeared briefly before in a script.  I’d suggest using a visual cue to remind your audience/reader - remember, this character is meant to be played by an actor at some point.  Give your waitress a distinctive characteristic, like flaming red hair or a skull and crossbones tattoo, which your hero notices when he first meets her.  When she reappears, mention the tattoo again and put a brief reminder of who she is in the text: “The tattoo is unmistakable.  This is Erin, Jason’s one-night stand.”  Don’t knock yourself out to get it into dialogue unless there’s a natural way to do it - like if Jason is with a friend who wonders why he just ducked behind a potted plant, and Jason can explain: “Because I slept with that waitress and never called!”  Hope this helps.

I heard Larry Wilmore (creator of “The Bernie Mac Show”) speak at the WGA earlier this week and found him really inspiring.  Not to mention extremely funny.  Who knew he does a great Richard Nixon impression?   He talked mostly about the struggle to get “The Bernie Mac Show” on the air and maintain his creative vision for the show.  He had a clear, strong idea of how to make it good, and simply refused to compromise.  When network execs told him to change something, he’d find a way to avoid doing it.  This led to a hit show, many awards, and Mr. Wilmore himself getting fired after two seasons by execs who didn’t care to be proven wrong.

His approach obviously took a lot of courage, which I honestly don’t know if I’d have.  First, he had to trust completely in his own talent.  When other people criticized, he had to simply know that they were wrong and he was right.  I almost never have this kind of faith in my own work.  I second-guess myself constantly.  I start to think: do bad writers know they’re bad?  Or do they think they’re great and are just plain wrong?  How am I supposed to make that judgment about myself?  Feedback from others does help, but ultimately, only the artist can define his or her own creative vision.  Which sounds pretentious even as I write it, but maybe it should be.  I am presuming that my vision of the world is unique and valuable.  As Mr. Wilmore put it, he was hired for his artistic contribution to the project, not to take dictation of someone else’s.

But even assuming this level of self-confidence, there’s still the studio/network hierarchy to deal with.   When a network exec tells you that you must change something, what options do you really have?  But the way Mr. Wilmore looked at it - what options do they have to force you to do it?  They have one weapon: they can fire you.  Short of that, all they can do is keep repeating their request in increasingly stern language.  If you can cope with your bosses being upset with you, you’re still in the driver’s seat.  At least, until they fire you.  Which is what ultimately happened to Mr. Wilmore.   Okay, not exactly a happy ending.  But he knew that was the risk he was running and accepted it.  He decided he’d rather get fired than do a show that wasn’t true to his vision.  That takes guts.  And it’s entirely possible he was wrong.  Maybe if he’d compromised, the show would have been just as good, or even better.  That’s part of the risk of holding your ground, too.

So as I agonize about whether I’m making the “right” choice for my character in a particular scene, it might help to realize that there’s no such thing.  There’s only my choice.  Which, let’s be honest, I’ll probably still second-guess.  And if the person who signs my paychecks tells me to change it, I may or may not be willing to defend it to the death.  But I sure enjoyed hearing the story of someone who did.