Simplify It!

Outlining is great. I mean, it's essential and important and a truly great outline is the precursor to a great screenplay. I really believe that, I do. However, outlining has to stop at some point. You can't just outline forever. Well, duh; why even say that? Because if you're anything like me, you easily get caught up in your own outlining, so much so that looking back at all your tables and bullet points and charts and graphs you'll see that you've basically outlined five million different versions of the same movie and now you don't know which one you're actually trying to write.

Too. Many. Choices. Not enough writing.

There comes a point where the complete muddle that is your outline has to be simplified. You have to cut that massive outline monster down at the knees. You can't take on a giant all by yourself, and try as you might instead of starting to actually write a screenplay you'll just end up making the behemoth even bigger.

You have to simplify it.

Among the many tables (I love tables - I just love them) that I use to outline my script I always have a tab entitled "Getting Weird." This is where the outlandish and crazy and really unsustainably insane ideas go for my script. The really strange "what ifs." Of all the fun I have outlining, this page is the most useless. Or is it?

Or. Is. It...?

This is where, after realizing the story was running off without me, I decided to completely simplify the story - strip it down to the barest version possible. I mean, really really primitive stuff; bring it all back to a skeletal representation of what I want it to be. And it turns out that simple is actually much, much better. It's clear. It's focused. It has room to get better.

And that's the thing. The first draft is not going to be brilliant, it's going to be a skeleton. Not even a fully grown human skeleton, but some kind of neanderthal, hunched over, slack-jawed, drooling, mouth breathing idiot blueprint. Second draft, stand that thing up straight, shut that mouth. Third draft, add some flesh, some muscle definition. Fourth draft, fifth draft, skin and hair and lips and eyebrows and dimples. I mean, if it's a dimple kind of movie, otherwise maybe a cleft in the chin or a sinister smile or something like that.

Simple first. Good later. Great lastly. If you're lucky. Wait, no; great if you work hard.

Work hard, then.  

Making Choices...Wait, No...Making the Right Choices...No...Hmm...Making the Best Choices for Your Screenplay...Wait...Hmm...

Choices are hard, in general, but even more so when considering works of fictional creativity. You could do anything, say anything, make anything happen. It's too much; it's overwhelming. Add to that the pressure of knowing that these choices will ultimately render your work worthwhile or a complete waste of time. One elemental wrong turn, one misguided plot twist and all that hard work is just...sigh...a learning opportunity.

The pressure is nearly paralyzing. It's hard to accept that making the wrong decision is better than making no decision at all because making no decision is so easy and making the wrong decision will likely be the result of hours upon hours of creative anguish.

Also frustrating: the fact that it is so easy to identify wrong choices in other people's stuff. It sticks out like a sore thumb and almost immediately you're like, "oh, man, there it is right there. That's where you went wrong." Yet this is almost impossible to do with your own stuff with the same measure of certainty. There's a reluctance that comes from the knowledge of all the blood sweat and coffee drinks that went into the making of that stupid wrong decision - and now I'm supposed to undo it? I think not. I think I'll just keep it and fix a few other small things that will hopefully help mask the fact that this element (and possibly the story as a whole) just doesn't work.

Being at the very beginning of the creative process with this new script, I'd like to identify the holes as soon and as quickly as possible to avoid spending countless misguided hours writing a steaming pile of refuse. I'd like to apply what I've learned from reading other's steaming piles of...hard work. But how? Hoooooow!?

I have some ideas:

1. Clarity. What is happening here? Can you put it into a couple of sentences, or is it more complicated than that? Because if it's impossible to sum it up, then I don't think clarity is your strong suit with this one.

2. Characters. Is there someone to love, to hate, or is everyone just kind of interesting? Because kind of interesting isn't going to cut it. Someone to root for or against, that's what you need here. You can add more dimension in rewrites, but if they're lukewarm to begin with then why bother?

3. Consistency (yeah, we're going with all C's here). When you lay this whole plot thing out, is there something actually happening at every stage of the game? Is everything that happens pointing to an eventual goal? Are these things that are happening getting more interesting as the story goes on, is something building here? Is there some reasonable idea of what two outcomes we may end up with (the good one and the bad one)? What if the bad one? What then? How bad is it?

I guess another way to look at this is through the eyes of the audience, their expectations. Ideally, the thought life of your audience should go something like this:

Movie begins:
"Oh boy, I'm so excited about this movie. Based on the logline under the poster I have a clear idea of what I'm in for."

10 minutes in:
"Wow, that was a cool beginning. I really like what's his face. He seems cool."

15 minutes in:
"Whoa, that's a curveball. What's his face's whole world is upside down right now. This changes everything. What now?

25 minutes in:
"Well, it won't be easy but it appears what's his face has a plan, a clear goal, and a clear set of friends to help him accomplish this near impossible goal. I think that one girl likes him, and because she is likable and interesting I hope that goes well. Clearly, this will end one of two ways and I am clearly rooting for the positive outcome."

50 minutes in:
"Well, I now have a clearer understanding of these characters; they are not as simple as they at first appeared. There seems to be a definite plan now and clearly these are the steps for that plan to be successful. Failure at any stage of these steps will mean certain failure all together, but the plan looks as if it will juuuuuust work. Also, things are heating up between that girl and that guy and it would appear that nothing could change that. Everything looks good."

75 minutes in:
"Okay, here we go. Final stage of this plan. Everything is in place, so I expect this will work."

80 minutes in:
"Whoa! Did not see that coming. That changes everything. Shoot, is this even going to work now?"

85 minutes in:
Oh geez. This isn't good. There is just no way, no way this is going to work. Dang it! I don't want this to happen this way, but there is a clear logical explanation as to why this is a likely turn of events. This is terrible. I feel crushed for these characters."

90 minutes in:
Wait, I thought they were done for. Could they actually pull this off?

91 minutes in:
Oh my god, they're going to do it! I think they're going to do it!

95 minutes in:
They did it!! I can't believe it! Of course, the solution was there all along! This is clearly the best possible imaginable outcome, even though I had previously only considered two other possible outcomes. How clever!"

100 minutes in:
"Awe, that's sweet. Oooh, that's cool. Awe, true love really does conquer all. Haha, funny moment."

As credits roll:
"That was awesome. I'm telling all my friends about this movie. And that one line, haha, I'll be saying that for a long time."

Roughly, that's it right there. Just make people think those thoughts at approximately those moments, and you should be golden.

Easy. Super, totally, absolutely easy.

From the Beginning of the End to the End and Then Backwards From There

I'm planning my next screenplay. Like, really planning it. Outlines, notes, beat sheets, the works. Months of work go into it and when I finally sit back to survey my wonders I realize something. Act one, solid. Act two, pretty good; there's some definite good stuff in there. Act three...act three is...complicated - well, incredibly simple at this point since I only have a few sentences in that section. I'm sure it will come to me by the time I sit down to actually write the thing.

Wrong.

You really think that what you can't outline in the broadest, most diluted sense is going to magically materialize by the time you get to page 75 of your first draft? Do you, self? Because you're wrong. It's going to be just as hard then as it is now, and even if you do manage to eek out some semblance of a maybe-not-half-bad ending, what was it all worth anyway? The end is what it's about; it's what the entire thing is building toward. The end is the whole thing.

The end is so hard. It's the big payoff - it's all your payoffs, really. Virtually any beginner can manage to pull together a good first act, a surprising inciting incident or an attention-grabbing opening scene, but having a good, memorable, meaningful ending takes such an incredible amount of work that few ever really get it. I want to get it.

So, for this script, no more wimping out. No more putting off the hard work until some arbitrary date in the future; no more buying into the idea that inspiration is something that exists externally, just hovering above my head somewhere waiting for the ideal moment to land in my brain. Good ideas, great ideas are created by those who put in the time and effort and are disciplined enough to pull those ideas out of the mess of unrelated, unfocused and ultimately unimportant thoughts that dominate our brain activity.

The brain is a thoughts dumpster and your great ideas are the uneaten bear claws still in that pink pastry box. Get digging.

And don't just knock out the easy stuff and then start writing because it feels good. Do it the hard way; start from the beginning of the end, go all the way to the end of the end, then you can work your way backwards until you have a complete outline. Be thorough; no cop outs. None of this "I'll figure it out later" stuff. You'll figure it out now, because it's what your whole story is about. It's why you're writing this thing in the first place.

It's why you're writing this thing in the first place!

There's another reason to do it this way, a really important reason. If you sit down to write your ending and nothing really happens, if you can't think of a single awesome thing to put in there then why are you building an entire story around nothing? You may have a series of events, but unless you can pull them all together into something spectacular, whether that's a quiet thoughtful spectacular or a loud with explosions and motorcycle racing spectacular, it has to be great.

Just make something great!

GITS The Quest!

Have you heard of this? Follow the link or use my blogroll to the right to get to GITS and read about The Quest logline competition. It's awesome, and you should do it.

Do it!

Bouncing Ideas Off of Yourself

I really need to find a Screenwriting group here in Austin. You'd think that wouldn't be hard, but a google search of "screenwriting group Austin" yields confusing results ranging from ambiguous to outdated. I just need two, maybe three other people in this town who are also writing movies they hope to sell and get made into movies. You know how tall of an order that is, apparently? I need motivation, inspiration, accountability.

I need opinions.

Playing the "what if" game with myself has been surprising and helpful, but there comes a point when you just need someone elses' brain on the case. I'm about to set down and make actual decisions here, and it would be comforting to hear someone else tell me that it isn't go into be a colossal waste of my time to write this thing. Friends are well-meaning, spouses are completely useless - I need fellow writers; people who are so caught up in their own creative process that to have them break from that process is to unleash upon yourself all the frustrations and criticism that they themselves wish to god they could unleash upon their own work.

At this point, I'd settle for old Abe Scheinwald.

I'm still so far from being good at this, I can't waste my time on an idea that isn't a movie. That's what amateurs do; they take this idea that they think is a good one and automatically assume there's a movie in it. They're doomed before they even start. I used to think the problem was all execution, not being able to really write the script as well as the idea deserves. That would be a wonderful problem to have! An idea that is so great you don't even think you can write it? Yes, please!

Yes. Pleeeeeeeease.

Pretend Greatness (or, Fake It 'Til You Make It)

I went to a drum recital the other night (it's not a long story, but..). The youngest kids were up first, and completely dominated the place, just rocking away and enjoying it the whole time. I enjoyed watching them. Then the kids started getting older and a funny thing happened: I started enjoying it less. Sure, the cute factor was slightly lacking, but it was more than that. Then a girl, probably like seventeen, got up to sing and the transition became complete.

In the course of one hour there was a crowd shift from blissful enjoyment (aided by alcohol - only in Austin are drum recitals held at a full bar) to uncomfortable straining to disguise your dislike of what was going on. The only thing I can pin it on is the fact that the singer herself was so unbearably self-conscious, just standing there being pitchy with this quiver in her voice, that it created this air of awkwardness.

So, what is the difference between a four year old playing the drums moderately well and a seventeen year old singing moderately well? Why did I enjoy the clanging of this tiny person versus the teenager who Paula may have let slip through the first round of American Idol (oh yes, I just went old school Idol on you all)? Confidence. That tiny drummer could have run confidence circles around that girl and never missed a tiny beat. He smiled, he made eye contact with the crowd, he created an illusion of greatness merely by believing it himself. That kid was a drummer. She was just trying to sing.

So, at long last, I'll bring this back around to writing. I dislike describing myself as a writer to people because I feel all the falseness of it at once. To me, you're not a writer until you've actually made some money at it. When I graduated nursing school I didn't even tell people I was nurse; when they asked I would always say "I just graduated nursing school." When I started my job, that's when I really felt like a nurse. But writing isn't nursing.

Duh.

In writing, there is no penalty for mistakes. No one is going to die if you go out on a limb and try something new. And you can change your mind an infinite amount of times, so if something isn't working just go back and change it. Don't be like that girl who tepidly sings her song that was popular seven years ago, just barely scraping by with moments here and there that don't suck. Go. All. Out. Be like that freaking four year old who just banged on his drums and forced the bassist to modify the beat time and again, but who loved every minute of it and had the crowd enjoying every minute of it.

Basically, fake greatness. Don't be paralyzed by incision; don't back off the mic every time there's a high note, just go for it. You should be able to hit those notes because you did it a thousand times in practice. Practice! You're a writer, so get writing. Going around being afraid of telling people you're a writer is really just you being afraid to hold yourself to the expectation that a writer must write to maintain that title, so if you're going to call yourself a writer you pretty well better be writing.

I pretty well better be writing.

I spend 36-40 hours a week nursing. That pretty much definitely makes me a nurse. If I spent half that much time each week writing, I would have no problem telling people I'm a writer. Am I a great writer? No. I'm not a great nurse, either - I haven't been doing it long enough to be great at it. But I still call myself a nurse because I will be a great nurse; it's only a matter of time and repetition. If I want to be a great writer I need to do the same. You don't become something because you're great at it, you become something, you do it over and over and over and then you become great at it.  

The Avengers and Writing Killer Dialogue

First off, The Avengers was pretty much everything I could have ever hoped for. I mean, think of how difficult this thing must have been to write - you've got like seven main characters with built-in backstories that you have to honor and also super powers (most of them) that you have to showcase, oh and also you have to defeat some bad guy which is the point of the film in the first place. And make it funny. And action-packed with a purpose. That's a lot of hyphens for one paragraph.

That Iron Man is so punchy

So, of course, after seeing this I was like "I am hereby going to lock myself in my apartment until I have completed my script to the standards by which The Avengers was held." Obviously I'm known for my practicality, just ask my friends who were around to experience my gluten-free, sugar-free vegan diet plan. But as soon as you make a resolution to do anything that requires complete solitude, your pesky friends come a'calling on you to make with the social graces. Furthermore, they were armed with beer and German sausage. I was powerless. 

 Easy Tiger on 6th - this is where I was last night, blatantly enjoying myself

So I wrote off the evening as a wash. Then a funny thing happened. Math happened. Now, most of the time, math is not something I find funny. Numbers are hard; I prefer words. But when my friend started talking it was all quantum physics, M-theory, black holes stuff, which I find infinitely (math reference) interesting. Then another thing happened. He started to sound familiar to me. He was getting excited talking about dimensions and possibilities, using big words and wide eyes to get his point across, and it was then I realized who this guy was. He's my scientist! He's my alien-obsessed, math whiz, cat crazy lab dweller from the script I am currently writing. Suddenly, I'm elated.

Reasons for elation:

1. This guy doesn't sound like me, he sounds like my character; that means my character doesn't sound like me, which is super important.

2. This is like free dialogue here - I'm basically getting hand fed lines upon lines of postulations and basic science talk that I can rework and use in my script.

3. I figured out my character's fatal flaw - pride. He over thinks things because he's like the most genius of all geniuses and nobody else could possibly understand him. The origin of the aliens, a fundamental question, couldn't possibly be a simple answer, so he will complicate the crap out of it, therefore postponing the solution to the problem. 

I think the point I'm coming to here is that locking oneself in a room is occasionally a very effective way of actually getting parts of your script written, but human interaction and basic mind rest is essential to the creative process. You need to hear how other people talk - interesting people, boring people, old people, young people, red people, blue people, one people, two people. People that don't sound like you, or other characters you've either seen in movies or read in a book.

Completely original characters with completely original ways of thinking and acting and speaking are out there. They're real people. With math degrees. Doctorate math degrees. Crazy.