by Greg DePaul
Hollywood is full of funny, gifted writers who aren’t working. And a few who live on government assistance. (I’ve met them.) The competition is beyond fierce. So the deciding factor—the element that pushes you over the top—is hard work. Relentless, hard work.
That’s why your motto must be A.I.C.: Ass In Chair. If you don’t keep your A firmly planted in the C, your writing won’t improve and you won’t become a successful comedy screenwriter.
I can usually tell when writers aren’t keeping their A in the C long enough—they will ask me to read their latest script, adding that it’s a “first draft.” Either they’re telling the truth, in which case they haven’t spent enough time writing, or they’re lying because they know the script sucks and want to be able to hide behind the newness of it, as in, Well it’s just a first draft. In either case, they should go back to the woodshed until they’ve got something ready to show.
None of that should be taken to indicate that you can ever write enough. You can’t.
Almost all screenplays can be improved with another draft. The vast majority of scripts, including those that have sold for seven figures, should be. And they will be—usually many, many times before the camera starts rolling.
When I’m working on a screenplay, I don’t give anybody—whether they’re my best writing buddy or my agent—anything to read until at least the tenth draft. I consider it grossly unprofessional to do otherwise. If your script really is a first, second, or third draft, I guarantee it’s pretty bad, or at least it’s not nearly as good as what you will be holding many drafts later.
In fact, I can say with absolute certainty that the eleventh draft of your latest script will not be worse than the tenth—if only because you will have had to re-read the same story at least a couple times to produce each draft. And every time you read it, you will find something else that needs to be cut or changed. And that’s improvement.
Remember: you get only one good read from anybody.
After that point, the script is tainted. The reader has developed an impression about the concept, and no matter how much you re-write it, the reader will hold on to that original impression. So beware.
Here’s my rule for when I can show my work to a colleague for constructive criticism—I show work when I can’t possibly write another page. Because that’s when I need help. And as you’ll see later in this book, great screenwriters have terrific endurance. They keep their A in the C until their work sparkles.
But wait, you say. Couldn’t an aspiring comedy screenwriter, a young gun, be some kind of savant and manage to write a great first draft of a first script?
I suppose. But I’ve read thousands of scripts, and only once have I read a script that was any good by a writer who claimed it to be a first draft. And I still think he was lying.
Writers improve with experience—the experience of writing, re-writing, being read, and suffering withering critique. Becoming a great screenwriter without going through all that is, well … not going to happen. If you intend to become successful, you need to block some serious years off your life.
Oh, and you should move to Los Angeles. Did I mention that yet? If I failed to tell you to move to Los Angeles, it’s only because it’s so blitheringly obvious I forgot to mention it. Sorry, I won’t bring it up again. Promise.
So why, then, do so many aspiring screenwriters violate A.I.C. and get up from the chair?
Well, sometimes they need to pee. That’s understandable. Once a day, maybe. But if you’re like me, there are magazines in the bathroom, and a trip to the toilet can soon become an extended vacation if I happen to chance upon an especially interesting article in, say, American Sportsman. Or, for that matter, in Spudman, the magazine of the potato industry. (Yes, it exists.)
Then, of course, there’s my iPhone, and, if I bring that into the john, it’s a sure bet I’m going to max out my data plan.
In fact, practically anything can divert my attention when I’m in the middle of a writing session. Because the biggest impediment to writing is procrastination. And as Shakespeare once said, “Procrastination taketh what talent provideth the opportunity for.”
OK, he never said that. But he would have. If he had running water. And an iPhone.
You must write as if you are training for a marathon. Force yourself to stay in the chair for two, three, four hours straight without getting up or going online. Even when you have nothing to say and don’t feel the least bit funny. Actually, especially when you have nothing to say and don’t feel the least bit funny. That’s when you need to force it. Fill the page with whatever you’ve got left. Run on fumes.
Keep in mind—if you succeed, you will have to continue writing. And if you get married or have kids, you will have even less time to write. And there will be even more pressure on you to maximize the time you spend in the chair. So get comfortable and start making that time productive.
I know what you’re thinking: I may get creative sparks anywhere at any time. So I’ll just bring this little notebook with me and go to Disneyland to write.
Wrong. Yes, creativity can happen anywhere, and, yes, it helps to write ideas down as you get them. But, at a certain point, you need to focus all your energy on the page, and, when that happens, procrastination—the mother that birthed your creative impulses—must be forcefully rejected.
Use your sudden creativity for what it gives you—inspiration—and then shut it out when you need to write. Because you do need to write. A lot.
Writing Hat
By now you must think I’m more drill sergeant than writing teacher. But, obviously, comedy screenwriting is more than just sitting in a chair for endless hours. There’s all that writing to do.
When you start a script, set targets. I write seven pages a day when producing a rough draft. At that rate, I can finish in a few weeks.
When writing new pages, pour everything onto the page. Don’t question what you’ve written; move forward. You don’t have the time or energy to stop after every page and think, Hmmmm, maybe that could be funnier.
In other words—don’t re-write when you write. In fact, don’t ever look back.
As a produced screenwriter and a former script reader for agents, I know that most screenplays break down in the second act, usually right in the middle. That can happen because the plan (or treatment or beat sheet) wasn’t well thought out. More commonly, it happens because the writer simply loses his or her nerve.
It takes a lot of courage to write. Even more to write comedy. And courage is cheap when you’re writing page four and you feel fresh and positive about the next hundred pages. After all, you haven’t closed any doors yet. But as soon as you tell us the bad guy is, say, Romanian, you have made it virtually impossible for him to be from any other country. And once you tell us the hero has only one arm, well … you get the idea.
That’s why once you’ve battled your way to page sixty, you are likely to lose heart. It’s called the “second-act blues,” and it happens to almost every screenwriter, including plenty with Oscars.
So while it takes guts to start writing, it takes even more guts to keep writing. Yet most screenwriters are chronically self-doubting, if not self-loathing—a potentially catastrophic combination.
That’s why you need to forge a solid plan for writing your script, then you must block off the time necessary (the more, the better) and write. Without regret. Without fear. Without reading your work as you go along.
Otherwise, your doubts will kill you. Or at least they’ll kill your script.
As you write, don’t stray too far off course. As discussed elsewhere in this book, you don’t want your screenplay to be episodic. If so, it’s dead in the water. So avoid tangents.
For comedy screenwriters, the biggest tangents are usually jokes and set pieces that are over-written and do not feature the protagonist. When writing a rough draft, if you find yourself lavishing pages on a funny character who is not the protagonist, or milking a joke long after it’s dead,
you should feel a little tingling on the back of your neck. That’s your scribey-sense telling you, Get back on track.
When I’m writing new pages and my scribey-sense tells me I’m taking the story in the wrong direction, I immediately end the scene I’m working on, type the words “CUT TO” at the bottom, and start a new scene. That new scene usually focuses on the protagonist and advances the story. At that moment I think to myself, Phew! Dodged a bullet.
Some of you will think my never-go-backward writing process is risky. You wonder, What happens when I suddenly realize, halfway through the draft, that there’s a character I want to insert into the story even though I didn’t introduce her earlier?
You write her in.
If she’s truly needed, you’ll see that when you go back and read the rough draft. If she’s unnecessary, you’ll cut her when you re-write.
But if you start questioning yourself during the rough draft, you may fall into an endless pit of despair (which is, I suppose, filled with crumpled up sheets of printer paper). And that’s a hole from which few writers return.
So let’s say you never stop writing, pay dutiful attention to your plan, and listen acutely to your scribey-sense.
Chances are, if you do, you will finish your first rough draft.
Editing Hat
Now what?
Be proud. You got through it. But don’t go renting a tux for the Oscars just yet.
Instead, get some sleep and do something else for a while. Play golf. Paint a portrait of your pet. Make some crank calls. Whatever. Just print the script, leave it on your desk, and stay away from it long enough to forget most of what you’ve written. For me, that’s about a week.
CUT TO one week later:
On your desk sits a rambling, bloated mess, held together by brads, that only vaguely approximates a completed screenplay.
But don’t let that bum you out. You are standing on the brink of the next level. You need to prepare yourself because …
This is where novice screenwriting ends and professional screenwriting begins. This is when you raise the bar on yourself and declare—through your actions—that you are only going to accept great work.
You do that by sitting down in a quiet room with your rough draft, clearing your head, and reading it straight through as if you’ve never seen it before and you are a producer looking for your next hit comedy.
You’d better have a red pen handy. Because most of what you’ve written should be marked up when you leave that room.
After you’ve marked it up, ask yourself, How much needs to change?
If the answer is very little, you’re almost certainly lying to yourself.
Diagnose what ails your screenplay. A good re-write begins with a stone sober assessment of what you’ve got on the page. Don’t look back to your old treatment or beat sheet. That will only reinforce your original characterizations of the scenes and story lines. You’ll think about the scenes as you wanted them to be, not as they are. Instead, deconstruct your rough draft and make a new diagram. This is what you actually have.
Think about the original goal of the script. Was it high concept (as per chapter 5)? If so, did you convince the reader of the premise? If not, you’ve got even more work to do because high-concept comedies don’t work unless the reader is sold on the premise.
Take a hard look at your second act. Does it conform to the Basic Drama Rules (which you’ll read about in chapter 6)? If not, scrub up and prepare to operate.
Read the dialogue out loud. Or, better yet, get some friends together (preferably actors) and have them read it out loud. If the dialogue doesn’t sound real, use your red pen. Are there enough laughs throughout the script? There can’t possibly be enough, because you’re hoping to make the reader laugh until doubled over in pain. If not, cut, change, wash, rinse, repeat.
I’m not saying everything must go. That would mean starting over with a new story and a new script. (Although, in truth, that sometimes happens. And if it does, accept it and move on.)
Draw up a plan of action. Your re-write should start with fundamental, structural changes. That means moving scenes and sequences to where they should be and deciding what new scenes must be written.
You’re going to improve everything that’s not fantastic. Because great screenplays impress from beginning to end, and, unless you’ve recently married into Hollywood royalty, that’s the kind of script you will need to break into the biz.
Once you’ve settled on your plan for re-writing, start. Set a schedule and maintain strict habits as you did with the rough draft. You must ruthlessly execute the next draft. If you’ve decided to cut, say, a montage, cut it. Don’t get all nostalgic and hold back. Trust me, the scenes will beg you not to cut them. They will cry out to you, pleading to be spared.
And you will listen—because you gave birth to them and because you are (as are all writers) vain. After all, that scene is your favorite, right? And it’s your best work, right?
Wrong.
A screenplay is more than the sum of its parts. It’s a story, and its structure is paramount. No scene, no sequence, no joke trumps the whole story. I’ve seen a lot of potentially great screenplays fall into the shredder because the writer failed to cut his or her “best work.” And, yes, many of those screenplays have been mine.
Here’s the truth: your best work can only come in the form of a completed screenplay. Thus, no scene or sequence can constitute your best work. So, when re-writing, kill your cutest babies and get over it. You cannot have a future as a successful Hollywood screenwriter until you do.
So mark it up, suck it up, and come out re-writing.
Ass Hat
OK, I just threw this section in to lighten the mood.
But if there were such a thing as an ass hat, it would be worn by the writer who does the worst thing a writer can do after completing that first rough draft—panic. Like a new parent who has just seen his baby for the first time, the writer thinks, Yikes! It’s ugly, fat, wrinkly, and covered in blood!, and promptly runs off, screaming, for the hills.
OK, most parents don’t do that. In fact, most spend their lives boasting to the world about how amazing their children are, despite their kids’ many flaws. Kinda like writers who stop working on their scripts just at the time when they should be rolling up their sleeves and digging in.
So don’t wear the ass hat. Instead, go back, face your baby, and edit, re-write, edit some more, make more coffee, re-write … you get the idea.
The Long Haul of the Feature Screenwriter
Of all the types of writing you can do, screenwriting is the most fraught with peril, the most potentially disappointing.
So much is dependent upon the concept. And the market. Plenty of well-written scripts are marketed at the wrong time—perhaps three months too early or six weeks too late—to meet the right reader at the right moment.
Hollywood decision-makers are surprisingly of one mind. Executives and producers all read the same trade magazines and websites. They schmooze at the same watering holes. They jump ship from job to job like they change their … you get the idea. So they tend to want the same things at the same time.
When Hank and I first started going to meetings, every executive in town told us, “We want a pot comedy.”
So we wrote one. And we earned fans.
By the time we took meetings with those fans—merely weeks later—their tastes had already changed. Suddenly they were telling us, “We want a teen sex comedy.”
That was right before American Pie sold to Universal.
So the business moves fast, and it moves en masse. Buyers have a herd mentality. Position yourself at the right time with the right script and you can win the blue ribbon.
Hollywood readers—the assistants and interns who are the first to read most of what pours into studios and production companies from agents’ offices on a daily basis—are also of one mind. Send a script to the story department at DreamWorks and that reader’s coverage will so
on find its way to every studio in town. No matter what an agent tells you, there is no such thing as a “confidential” read.
Why is this?
Nobody moves up in Hollywood without friends, and keeping up those friendships means spreading information around. When a reader dislikes a script, the reader tells his or her friends. To warn them. To curry favor. To stay part of the friendship circle. So once it’s out there … it’s out there.
It takes time to produce a completed, marketable screenplay. For me, at least six months. An idea that seems unique and original now may seem absolutely passé and overdone two months from now. That’s how fast Hollywood operates.
Every script is a massive leap of faith in the writer’s talent and perseverance, as well as the market. After all, most scripts—even those written by industry veterans—have a lifespan roughly equivalent to that of a newborn infant in the Middle Ages. In the desert. During a plague.
So those of us who screenwrite for a living stay up nights chewing our fingernails to the nub. That idea we’re working on … Is it already old? That script we’re writing on spec … Is somebody else, somewhere across town—or in this very coffee shop—already writing it?
Poets never expect to make a dime. Novelists hold out hope that the New York Times will embrace their work and start the royalty checks streaming in, but the vast majority of published novelists must work a day job. Playwrights dream of Broadway while toiling away in Brooklyn garrotes at night and working at organic, fair-trade coffee shops by day. But those writers are artists. In the end, they find satisfaction in the work. The writing.
Screenwriters need to succeed. We want fame, we want fortune, we want those blondes (of either sex) by the pool. And we want them now. Our scripts look lonely on the shelf without movie posters with our names on them. Satisfaction comes on opening weekend.
I have a talented friend who has been writing for decades. After college, he wrote young-adult novels. One was published and can still be found at libraries and bookstores. And while the book paid very little, he enjoyed the feeling that came along with being published and knowing he’s being read.