I'm a former writer for Buffy the Vampire Slayer and have written episodes for shows including: Angel, Firefly, Gilmore Girls, Ellen, The O.C., Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Dinosaurs, Andy Barker PI and others. I am currently under a development deal with NBC/Universal television while working as Co-Executive Producer on Battlestar Galactica. My blog is intended to help new writers tackle the job of writing those all-important spec scripts. I can't read your work, get you an agent, or get you hired. But I can give you solid, time-tested script-writing advice! And then there's lunch.

Jane on 01.18.06 @ 04:02 PM PST [link]
 
 

Friend-of-the-Blog Jeff Greenstein comments on the last entry. He says: I always pick out a special font for each show and put it (fairly) big on the title page. I'm looking at his most recent pilot script and it's true. However, his own name appears below the title in 12-point Courier. This seems to me to be a fine compromise -- the script looks unique without looking over-puffed.

Jeff also points out the importance of making it clear that a script is, in fact, a pilot (as opposed to a spec feature or a spec episode of an existing show). He does this with the simple subtitle (without quotation marks) "a pilot," while I do it by listing the name of the episode (with quotation marks) as "Pilot." They're both perfectly fine options.

EVEN MORE ON ENTITLEMENT:

I had just completed this post when I got another email from an experienced writer. Friend-of-the-blog Mark Verheiden checks in on the other side! ...the first studio script I submitted, I did a title page where I put the title (that's it) in 16 pt type. The executive practically hurled it in my face. [...] I don't do that anymore.

Fascinating, no? I'm not sure what to advocate anymore! I suggest that this choice should probably be dictated by your own personality and values, and perhaps even the tenor of the script -- free-wheeling comedy might allow for looser rules than a restrained drama. If anyone else weighs in, I'll let you know!


Jane on 10.09.08 @ 03:14 PM PST [link]
 
 

I'm back in Los Angeles again, gentle readers. And I'm awfully glad to be home. I'm hoping that I'll have more time to blog with you than I've had in recent weeks. Production is fun and exciting, but it is all-consuming.

Now, as I've mentioned before, my blog-mail has been tossed like a salad as a result all the moving around. So while today's entry was inspired by a letter, I can't quite put my hands on the letter. One of you wrote in a while back with an excellent point that I've never seen before and I've decided it's worth mentioning even with a shameful lack of attribution. When the original letter emerges from the chaos, I'll let you know!

Sometimes you convert your script to PDF format for emailing, right? At least I do. Well, when a Final Draft script is converted to PDF, a generic title page is generated. Be aware of it, because when the recipient prints out the file, that generic page is going to be on top. Apparently, some operations around town literally have stacks of these indistinguishable-from-the-top scripts. Don't let yours be one of them! You want your title -- and more importantly your name -- visible, front-and-center.

But, and here I go off-road to make an unrelated point, in my opinion you don't want that name to be too big. I've been organizing my script files here at home, and I've realized that one of the ways I can instantly distinguish a script from a working colleague from a script by an aspiring writer is that the aspiring writer uses a big font on their title page. Now, others may disagree with me here, but I would advocate an all twelve-point title page. I think it looks more professional.

This is a classic battle, actually -- professionalism vs. self-promotion. Aspiring writers have to do a lot of things that professionals don't have to -- introducing themselves to working writers without a name to drop to ease the intro, and writing self-puffing essays about their qualifications and dreams, for example. It can be very hard to balance aggression and grace. The art of humble self-promotion can be as important in the early stages of career-exploration as writing skill, and I've seen it misplayed in both directions. You'll have to find the tone that's right for you. But on title pages, I recommend a soft and steady voice.

Lunch: the "studio plate" from Poquito Mas. Do you have Poquito Mas? It's a chain, but they make their own tortillas right there -- mmm.


Jane on 10.09.08 @ 09:52 AM PST [link]
 
 

I noticed something in my own writing the other day that I'd never consciously been aware of before. It's kind of a neat little distinction you might enjoy.

This is about a short little scene I wrote that went something like this (names and content changed to prevent Battlestar webisode spoilers):

DAVE
I don't think we're gonna find a way out of here.

TOM
There has to be a way out. Keep looking.

DAVE
(realizing)
That rockslide back there -- the exit could be blocked.

Grim:

TOM
Keep looking.

That's the end of the scene. Notice what I did with the word "grim". It's hanging out at the left edge there as a stage direction when it usually would be a parenthetical on that last line, the way "realizing" was on the previous line.

I made it a direction because I wanted it to be bigger than those two words. I wanted to succinctly convey that it wasn't just the tone of one man's voice that grew grim, but rather that the tone of the whole scene changed. By taking it out of the dialogue, and putting it into the stage directions, I made it more inclusive.

It's a neat little trick. Look at the tonal shifts in your script -- are they at the line-level or the scene level? Consider moving your adjectives around appropriately.

Lunch: leftover ribs from Ribs USA! Perfect.


Jane on 10.08.08 @ 05:13 PM PST [link]
 
 

So last week I took a break from my never-ending stay up here in Vancouver with the Battlestar TV movie, to go back home just long enough to attend the Emmy award ceremony. And it was wonderful. Oh, I know the hosting was terrible and the show was long, but there's something so lovely for me about being out in that audience full of all the people who entertained me when I was growing up -- Betty White! Tommy Smothers!

And afterwards, there's the Governor's Ball, in which the star power is even more dense and they give you a map of where everyone is seated, so if you want, you can go watch John Hodgman eating his appetizer or Howie Mandel apologizing to everyone.

I didn't actually see him apologizing. I'm just assuming.

I met Stephen Colbert, who was just as charming as you could ever want. He's a sci-fi fan! I sort of knew that from interviews, but it was darn cool to hear him say it. I also saw Betty White locked in intense conversation with Phylicia Rashad out by the limo pick-up area. What was that about? And I ran into our own Katee Sackhoff and Grace Park in the ladies' room, where they both looked beautiful despite fluorescent lighting. All in all, a wonderful night. Did I tell you met Stephen Colbert? I got to hold one of his writers' Emmys. Hefty little lady. (The Emmy, not the writer.) Plus, I met Stephen Colbert. If my typing fingers could dance...

But the best part of the night was part of the acceptance speech of Jay Roach, who won for directing Recount. I'm paraphrasing, but the good bit went something like:

...and Danny Strong, who wrote a great script that really inspired us all to do this...

That's significant not just because Danny is one of my dearest friends. It also has a lesson for all of us about our own writing. The truth is, I gently counseled Danny against writing the Recount script. There were too many obstacles -- the real life events he wanted to chronicle were so recent. Everyone knows the ending. The tone is tricky. But, primarily, I was concerned because there's really only one place to take such a project: HBO. If they don't want it, there aren't a lot of second options. And I had no sense that there was a lot of enthusiasm gathering out there for a movie about the 2000 Florida recount.

Here's what I didn't take into account. Just as a forest fire makes its own wind, Danny's script made its own enthusiasm. Jay Roach said as much -- the script fueled the project.

Does that mean that you should drop that spec pilot and instead write a movie about the financial bailout plan? Heck no! Do all the practical things first, but when you've got your specs in a line and you're taking aim at your dream project, don't let others' opinions keep you from doing something that you just know you can deliver. Danny ignored me and as a result he wrote the Best Made For Television Film of the year. Go Danny, and congratulations!

Lunch: leftover squash agnolotti with extra parmesian cheese from the Italian restaurant right across the street from my hotel room


Jane on 09.28.08 @ 02:17 PM PST [link]
 
 

I haven't been to the mail bag for a while, Gentle Readers, for a number of reasons that have to do mostly with the mail bag's contents dwelling variously in my home, my office, my backpack, my hotel room, etc. The letter I'm looking at now, from Gentle Reader Rich, originated in Montreal. From there it went to Beverly Hills and then finally made its way to me here in Vancouver.

Rich is asking about choosing a show for which to write a spec script. He is toying with the idea of writing a novelty spec -- an episode of a show like Buffy that is long off the air. The problem, Rich, is that most agents and most shows these days want to read original material -- spec pilots or scripts for short films. Even plays. The primary place for which you'll need scripts for shows that already exist is for the ABC/Disney writing fellowship, and it only accepts scripts for shows currently on the air. So I'm afraid you'd have a tough time finding a reader for your vintage spec.

I recommend you write a fellowship-ready spec if you're at all interested in the program. You mention that you like House but are concerned about your lack of medical knowledge. You might find that this isn't the obstacle that you think it is. You don't need an M.D. to find out everything you need to know about one specific disorder. You might want to start by watching some episodes of those shows that follow real patients with hard-to-diagnose diseases. I'm talking about Diagnosis: Unknown or Mystery Diagnosis. Don't lift the exact story from one of their episodes, but these shows are wonderful for suggesting starting places and possible misleads.

There are other good shows to consider as well. I would think that Mad Men would be a fun choice. Since you only have to please the ABC/Disney readers -- not create a script that will be usable industry-wide -- you can be much more idiosyncratic with your choice of show.

Then, after you've got that done, you should really dive into the world of original material. Be bold, don't make a generic cop show or family show. And don't hold back, hoarding your favorite story until you're in the position to sell it for a thrillion bucks. Put it all out there.

You're reaching for a big prize, use a big reaching thing.

Lunch: mac and cheese from craft services, served piping hot on set. Yum!


Jane on 09.22.08 @ 08:26 PM PST [link]
 
 

Friend of the Blog David sends in a great example of what we were discussing last time -- the Bad Joke Joke.

This is from an episode ("Beers and Weirs") of Freaks and Geeks. In the scene, Neal distracts Lindsay while Sam and Bill swap out her alcoholic beer for non-alcoholic:

NEAL
So, what kind of music are you gonna play tonight? You should play some Chicago. They have a really hot horn section.

LINDSAY
I don't know. I think I'm gonna play some Zeppelin, Foghat, maybe some Sabbath.

NEAL
Friday night -- always a good night for some Sabbath.
(off her puzzled look)
'Cause Friday night . . . is the Sabbath . . . for the Jews.

Heh. Now that's a good bad joke. It totally comes out of character and out of the relationship between the two characters. And it has that magical quality of being funny at the same time as we understand why it's not a big laugh-getter. A great example against which to measure other examples of this difficult genre.

Lunch: noodles, sushi, canned tonic water





Jane on 09.05.08 @ 04:58 PM PST [link]
 
 

I'm still in Vancouver, and will be for another month. While I'm here, I'm continuing to read the book I mentioned before, "Best Television Humor of the Year". The year in question is 1956.

I came across an example of a very-difficult-to-execute joke type in the book. The type is the Intentionally Bad Joke. Here's how it played in an episode of "The Life of Riley," as one couple says goodbye to their neighbors, who are heading off on vacation:

PEG/RILEY
Bye! So long! Have a nice time in Portland.

GILLIS/HONEYBEE
(as they exit)
Good-bye! We'll drop you a card!

RILEY
(calling after them)
Hey, Gillis! Don't take any wooden cement!

PEG
What?

RILEY
(realizes he's told a lousy joke)
Well, you see, Portland, and cement, er... er... and so I said wooden cement... oh, never mind--

I actually had to do some research on this one, Gentle Readers. It seems that cement doesn't come from Portland, but that there is a material called Portland cement. Let's just assume it was better known in 1956. (Or perhaps it's absolutely huge right now and I'm just out of the cement loop.)

My guess is that the exchange above doesn't work for you. It doesn't work because the secret of the bad joke joke is that it has to come out of character. Riley doesn't have any particular attitude in the scene, no reason to try to make a joke. Here's the exact same joke, really, from an episode of "Ellen":

LAURIE
Hey, Ellen, why don't you turn on the stereo? How about a little Edith Piaf?

ELLEN
Yeah, everybody likes a good rice dish.

The extent to which that works for you as it lies there on your screen probably depends on the degree to which rice pilaf is more familiar to you than Portland cement. But in the context of the episode, it worked. It worked because Ellen was nervous. She was on a date in which she didn't know what was going to be expected of her. The joke came out of her nervousness and the audience laughs at its badness because they're really laughing in sympathy with her situation. The worse the joke, the more nervous she must be.

Here's another one, from the same episode. Ellen is frantically paging through Reader's Digest, desperate to distract herself.

ELLEN
Oh. Look at this: "Laughter in the Military." It seems that there was a lieutenant whose his actual name was Lou Tenant. Well, you can imagine the mix-ups.

It's not hilarious. It's not meant to be. But it's funny that, in her emotional state, SHE thinks it's funny.

Ellen also specialized in the elaborate squirm, explaining her jokes in long rambling monologues like the one from "Life of Riley" only far more complicated. I would not recommend you try this in your comedy specs -- it's a very specialized skill. Blocks of dialogue that require a very specific delivery are not good in specs.

Another note on the squirming phase of the bad joke joke: this is a place in which it is important NOT to write the line "I'll shut up now." That is a clam (an old familiar joke). If you've heard it, don't type it. A funny joke about a very recent tragedy can probably still be squirmed out of with the line "too soon?" But the clam clock is ticking on that one, too.

Lunch: left-over room-service lamb chops. Cute and delicious.


Jane on 09.01.08 @ 05:21 PM PST [link]
 
 

I'm up in Vancouver, in pre-production mode for the Battlestar Galactica TV movie. Loads of fun, and it's going to be amazing, I promise.

I just did a rewrite pass in which I cut twenty-four pages of script (from 113 to 89 pages total). It's incredible what you can do when you have to. Now, if you have to cut nine or ten pages from a two-hour script, you can probably do it with trims. Lose some scenes that can be moved off-screen, trim the fat off the ones that remain, and you can probably get there. But if you are in serious length trouble, and especially if you've already trimmed to the bone, you have to look at story. The trick here is to be open-minded. The things that get cut may include a part of a story that you think is absolutely necessary. It's okay. Put it all on the table.

Your neatest option is of course to cut a whole story. Got a secondary or tertiary story? Can you lose it? The problem with this option, of course, is that these stories often provide balance and contrast with your main story. Also, having something to cut away to is often crucial, absolutely crucial, to the A-story.

The more likely correct solution is to simplify a story, probably your A story. Think of it as removing a length of diseased colon. You sew the loose ends together after the bad bit's gone and it all functions as if it was designed that way. The hard part is in identifying the part that needs to come out because you've been thinking of it as an absolutely vital part of your system for so long, it's hard to see that you don't need it. Get advice from others and take it seriously. Or simply challenge yourself to justify every step of your story and genuinely imagine how it would work without it.

The amazing thing is, after the script-surgery, even you will start forgetting it ever was arranged any other way.

Lunch: sunomono, gyoza and pumpkin cutlets


Jane on 08.22.08 @ 10:39 PM PST [link]