by Dean Orion
The writer gene can only take you so far.
I’ll never forget the conversation I had with the director one night toward the end of the run. He was a very cantankerous guy with a few personal issues, so no conversation with him could ever have been mistaken as pleasant. This one, however, was like getting doused with a bucket of ice water, as he proceeded to go on about a thirty-minute tirade, berating me for how I had failed miserably as a writer because I hadn’t adequately reworked the play during the rehearsal period. What made this moment so ironic and so incredibly confusing to me was the constant roar of laughter and applause that could be heard coming from the house the entire time he went on his rant. Not to mention the fact that pretty much everything else about the experience had been fantastic. In a ridiculously short amount of time, I had gotten someone to produce my play. A month or two later there were actors coming in, saying my words in auditions. Then we were in rehearsals. And then the audiences loved it. Well, enough of them at least for me to feel a significant sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
Yet that cranky freakin’ director was 100% right. It could have been better. A lot better. In fact, to be honest, while the theme and structure of the play were strong, it was a pretty raw piece of work in many ways, written by a very raw writer. If I were to reread it now, God forbid, I’m sure that I would absolutely shudder at the characters’ lack of depth and the stiffness of some of the dialogue, which even then I secretly had some discomfort about.
So why didn’t I just rewrite it during rehearsals like any normal playwright would? The short and simple answer is: I didn’t know how. I was so green that I didn’t even know when the director was giving me a note, much less how to execute one.
Fortunately, I’ve learned a thing or two since then and have developed what I think is a pretty sound approach to the revision process—which, by the way, isn’t all that different from the process of creating a first draft. The only real difference is that other people have now weighed in, so to some degree you’re reacting to their opinions. But the actual writing process, the mechanics of making the story work once you re-engage in it, is pretty much the same. The trick is to get your mind right first.
The Note Giver Has Left the Building
So, you’ve sorted through all the notes you’ve received on your script and determined which ones are useful and which ones aren’t. Now it’s time to show the note giver the door. You can’t ever have anyone else’s voice bouncing around in your head when you’re writing. You must have an absolutely clear channel so you can get back to the business of tuning in your story. Besides, your note giver has helped you all they can up until this point. You shouldn’t feel bad about tuning them out.
In a similar vein, you can’t do a rewrite trying to anticipate what that note giver will say next. This can be especially problematic when you’re getting paid to write what you’re working on, or when the note giver is highly invested in your success. In the end, like you, all they really want is for the work to be better, so it really doesn’t matter what they think until they actually tell you.
Now here’s the good news:
Note givers have short memories.
When your note giver reads your new draft, they’re going to have a whole new set of notes. Ideally, with each passing draft there will be less and less, but even if there’s still a lot of work to be done, your note giver is always going to be commenting on what’s in front of them, not what you did before.
Keep your focus. Get back to your process. And remember, the note giver has left the building.
Major vs. Minor Revisions
The next piece of business you need to handle is to determine the scope of the rewrite you’re about to do. Is it a major revision or a minor one?
A major revision means making significant changes to the structure of the story. So, in addition to potentially adjusting characters, changing the content of scenes, and rewriting dialogue, various scenes may need to be reordered and/or replaced and entire acts reconfigured.
A minor rewrite may involve adding or removing selected scenes, but doesn’t involve such a widespread overhaul. It mostly entails revising action and dialogue within the existing structure.
There are two big reasons why it’s important to make this distinction. First, you’ve got to understand what you’re getting yourself into, and how much of your time and energy it’s going to require. I’m not suggesting you rush or change your process, but to be a professional you do have to develop an accurate sense of your own limitations, while being able to consistently and reliably bring the ship into port.
Second, when you’re getting paid to write something, the one question your employer will inevitably ask is:
How long do you think this revision is going to take?
If you’re getting paid a flat fee for the work, your answer is mostly about giving them the product in a reasonable time frame. But if you’re getting paid on a weekly, daily, or hourly rate, then this is also a financial question. So, it’s obviously critical (for both you and your employer) that you have a firm grasp on the speed with which you feel you can execute.
Minor rewrites are not particularly taxing. Major rewrites, on the other hand, can be very difficult and usually entail going back to the whiteboard and/or index cards to rejigger the scenes in order to satisfy the notes. What’s especially unnerving about this is that the notes often don’t call for the entire story to be trashed, but when you start to replace just a scene or two, it’s like pulling a loose thread on your sweater. Before you know it, the whole thing unravels. So, it’s not uncommon for what starts out to be a minor rewrite to turn into a major one.
It’s also often hard to part with certain scenes. Not necessarily because you’re in love with them (though that also happens), but because they’re actually working. The problem is they don’t work anymore because of the new direction the story is taking.
Psychologically, the way to deal with this is to try and get yourself into that same mindset of “letting go” you adopted between finishing the first draft and giving it to people for feedback. The same way that the child was suddenly no longer just your baby, it’s now no longer just your baby again. So be prepared to let go of everything about it if you have to.
On a more technical note, something that I often do at this point is use a double-yellow-pad approach. Remember my outlining process in which I write every scene on a single line so I can skim the entire story in fast-forward-mode? I do the same thing again, only this time I do it twice, on two separate yellow pads. On the first pad I write down the current structure (based on the current draft). On the second pad I restructure the story, this time allowing myself to embellish the scenes wherever necessary (in other words, not restricting myself to one line per scene). By studying the structure of my current draft on the first pad, I’m able to recognize various components that are working and use them as templates to reinvent setups and payoffs within the new structure I’m assembling on the second pad. Then, when I’ve got the new structure worked out, I once again write the whole thing down, using one scene per line so that I can see if it passes the fast-forward test.
Once you make it through this gauntlet, you’ll discover that on a high level, the structure is similar and the core message remains unchanged, but since some of the content is different, the story is expressed in a whole new way. Again, this is because the story exists separately from you. You have merely taken another run at tuning in the radio and brought the signal through a little clearer this time.
The key is to be just as patient as you were with the first draft. You don’t want to jump back in too soon and start formally composing the scenes until you feel absolutely confident with the new structure.
Make Your Battle Plan
Now it’s time to apply this new structure. I approach this part of the process by opening the script document in Final Draft and making notes within each scene using a different color font (leaving the text of the original scene in
tact for the moment). This is similar to the process of creating the original outline, only now I frame my descriptions of each scene a little differently. Instead of describing the content, I explain to myself what has to be done with each scene as I move forward with the rewrite. Basically, I’m writing myself an instruction manual—or as I like to think of it, a battle plan.
Here’s a hypothetical example:
INT. DINER (page 10)
This scene stays the same as the previous draft. Dan still meets Lucy at the diner.
INT. LUCY’S APARTMENT (page 30)
This scene is essentially the same as the previous draft, except instead of blurting out: “Will you marry me?” and then having second thoughts about it, the moment the words leave Dan’s lips, he hesitates—which makes it obvious to Lucy that he’s having second thoughts and ruins the entire evening. Lucy leaves, pissed.
INT. LUCY’S APT. BLDG. – HALLWAY (page 35)
Insert a new scene here where Dan leaves a yellow rose at the foot of Lucy’s door.
EXT. AMUSEMENT PARK (page 50)
Adjust this scene per the earlier notes. Instead of making this the scene where Lucy loses the ring, this is now the “make-up” scene. Put it on the street in front of Lucy’s apartment instead of at the amusement park. Or maybe put it in the diner where she and Dan first met?
You see how I asked myself a question there in that last note? You don’t have to have all the answers at this point. You just have to give yourself a pretty clear idea of what needs to be done so you have something to lean on later when you come back to write the scene in earnest. You also don’t need to worry quite as much about the details of scenes that come later, because those scenes will inevitably be affected by how the earlier ones turn out. Not that you shouldn’t have a solid plan for them. Just keep in mind that those later scenes are the ones that will most likely deviate from the plan, so remain flexible.
If you’re getting paid to write the script or if your note giver is highly invested in your development of it, you may also want to consider giving them the battle plan before you actually execute the rewrite. What this does is show them the scene-by-scene detail of what they will see in the revised draft. This can be a very valuable way to avoid miscommunication with an employer, because if they sign off on the battle plan, chances are pretty good they’ll like the rewrite. On the other hand, if they have more notes after they see the battle plan, then you have just saved yourself an enormous amount of time, because it’s a hell of a lot easier to revise the plan than it is to revise the rewritten script.
Remember, the goal here is to raise the level of the work with each successive note session, to tune that radio signal in clearer and clearer so that your story eventually comes as close as it possibly can to that pure, perfect form in your mind. That doesn’t mean you can’t make a successful sharp, ninety-degree turn at any point along the way. Just be sure to always fall back on your process, create that sound battle plan, and always be mindful to keep the main thrust of the effort consistent with your core message.
SURVIVAL GUIDE SUMMARY
9. The Art of Executing Notes
Things to Remember:
•Once you’re ready to start your rewrite, it’s time to tune out your note giver. The note giver has left the building.
•A major revision means there are significant changes that need to be made to the structure of the story.
•A minor revision may involve adding or removing selected scenes, but mostly entails revising action and dialogue within the existing structure.
•Don’t be afraid to go back to the white board or the index cards to execute your rewrite.
•Be prepared to let go of every scene.
•Use a double-yellow-pad approach, writing down the current structure on one pad, and the new one on another.
•Be patient. Don’t start composing the new scenes until you’re absolutely confident with the new structure.
•Once you have your new structure, make a battle plan, describing within the body of your script how you are going to modify each scene.
•Consider giving your note giver the battle plan for more notes before executing the rewrite.
Questions to Ask Yourself:
•What is the scope of your rewrite? Is it a major or a minor one?
•How long do you think your rewrite is going to take? Make an estimate and see how accurate you are.
•Are there components (individual scenes or sequences) of your old structure you can use as templates for parts of your new structure?
•Is each modification you’re making consistent with your core message?
10. Writing Partners
Being in a writing partnership is kind of like being in a marriage. It’s an intimate relationship that needs to be based on trust, mutual respect, and commitment. You have to really like this other person with whom you’ll be spending a great deal of time and sharing your ideas and your dreams. So if having a writing partner is one relationship too many in your life, you have my permission to stop reading this chapter right now and skip to the next one—or forever hold your peace!
Assuming I haven’t scared you away, let’s talk about those three things I just mentioned…
Trust, in this relationship, means that no idea is a bad idea—that you can throw anything out there no matter how lame it might sound, and there will never be any judgment about it on the part of the other writer. It means that this person will always have your back creatively.
Mutual respect means that you never trash each other’s work. I learned this lesson the hard way when a writer I was working with repeatedly deleted or radically rewrote scenes that I had written in our script without even thinking about discussing the changes with me first. You can imagine how that partnership turned out.
Commitment means always being willing to do what it takes to make the work better, and always seeing the job through until it’s done. This is the toughest one of all, because as I’ve already mentioned, the story never stops being told. So no script is really ever done—which means, like parents, once you conceive and give birth to these mind children, they connect the two of you forever.
What You Need to Give Up
When you enter into this relationship, the first thing you have to be willing to give up is creative ownership of the work. When you work with a writing partner, there is no draft just for you. In fact, there is no you anymore. You are now we. So every idea, every outline, every script, right from the very outset, is only fifty percent yours, creatively speaking. (To be clear, I’m not in any way referring to ownership in the financial sense here. Obviously that’s an entirely different conversation.)
The second thing you have to be willing to give up is creative autonomy. Since fifty percent of the work belongs to you and the other fifty percent belongs to your partner, you are only one of two votes that determine every creative decision that must be made on its behalf. So everything must be discussed at some point and negotiated if necessary, which can sometimes be a sticky business.
Most significantly, you also have to be willing to give up your own voice, as does your partner, for the sake of this third, entirely unique creature that is the product of your collaboration. This may seem like a scary proposition, effectively losing your identity as an individual writer (and make no mistake, that’s exactly what it is), but in my experience, this melding of voices is actually one of the coolest aspects of writing with partners—the fact that you’re creating something that would never be the same if it were written by any two other people.
What You Gain
Here are the big advantages to writing with a partner. First of all, you get a second brain, and who couldn’t use one of those, right? Just think about all those painstaking hours you need to spend tuning in the radio, carving out characters that are properly motivated, endlessly structuring and restructuring. Now you don’t have to figure out all that stuff on your own. Half the answers are your partner’s responsibility.
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br /> Plus, now you have a reliable sounding board to help work through all the rough patches, a person who’s as knee-deep in the story as you are and equally invested in making it work.
You’re now also working with someone who is not only responsible for half the ideas, but half the workload as well. In reality, nothing ever shakes out exactly even, but if there’s good communication between the parties, clearly defined expectations, and a sincere work ethic, you’ll be well on your way to doing some great things together.
The Partner Process
Like the process you create for yourself, the process you develop with a writing partner needs to emerge organically over time. Almost all of the collaborations that I’ve had with other writers have begun with simple conversations, sometimes accidentally, where we both found ourselves intrigued by a specific idea or a mutual area of interest. In some cases, one of us may have already written down some notes on the subject or done some high-level brainstorming, but generally it’s best to pretty much start from scratch.
That first conversation usually turns into a series of conversations, during which time we also separately do a little homework. This research period tends to be less intense than the one I described earlier, because in addition to sharing the workload, the knowledge gap also seems to close a lot faster when two people bring their life experiences and their collective energy to the table as opposed to just one.