The Honest Truth About Screenplays

By Gina Nafzger screenplay.biz

During the holidays last year, I was contacted online by an older female writer in Vancouver. She'd written a horror spec and was seeking an honest consultation on its prospects. Being "older" myself (in Millennial years, 40 is the new 70) I'm especially sensitive to these writers' plights. Many have families, homes and kids to pay for. Odds are they've been working straight jobs they're not particularly pumped about just to pay the bills. Real life can be a real bitch, and the day-to-day of it all conspires against hopeful older writers mustering their courage to finally take their shot.

Believe me, younger readers, as you age, it gets harder and harder to swallow feeling creatively stifled and further justify deferring one's lifetime dream. There's nothing quite so thunderous as the ticking clock of middle age.

So I said yes. Told Vancouver Writer to go ahead and send me the script, and that I'd make the necessary time to go over it.

One thing did worry me. This tiny red warning beacon (a quiet bit of "foreshadowing" in scriptwriter lingo) tucked into her last email. It came in the form of a single throwaway line --

"No need for any introductory statement -- this screenplay is NOT my first effort, nor is this the first draft of it."

Twenty-plus years hard time has learned me a few things. Here's a big one. Writers -- especially struggling writers -- are lousy at hiding even the slightest hint of annoyance or displeasure. Seriously, they're the absolute worst, worse than even actors. Industry folk can see a writer's stink face coming a mile away. It's this transparent, wounded mask of hangdog emotions for all the film universe to see, cycling through entitlement, irritation, indignation, anger, desperation, only to land tragically on despair.

Brothers and sisters, a quick word of caution. Your literary stink face opens the doors to only two things: an embarrassing bout of self-immolation and/or impending unemployment.

Secondly, any time a writer informs me that "this isn't their first rodeo" or "they already know it's good" or any other self-protective preface of this kind, I know immediately there are gonna be problems. You can get all New Age Tao Te Ching with this concept -- "That which calls itself the Tao is not the true Tao" -- or you can keep it blue collar and accept that struggling writers are very much like drunks -- before they can get better they have to admit they have a problem. Until then, expect relapse after relapse, blackout after blackout, DUI after DUI.

How can I speak with such authority on this?

Because "the Devil recognizes his own."

As a working writer, I've been guilty of this shit a ridiculous number of times. It can take years of growth and practice to develop a professional-writer poker face, to damp down the involuntarily bile accompanying each suggested overhaul and unexpected criticism. It took Yours Truly damn-near a decade (file under -- slow learner). Meantime, until you learn how to roll with it, you're hurting nobody except yourself... so try and suck it up once in a while.

Regardless, ignoring my tingling Spidey Sense, I shrugged this last email off and went back to work.

Couple days later, I began reading Vancouver Writer's script.

Straight out of the gate, there were massive problems. The über stock horror premise was as clichéd as they come. Stop me if you've heard this one before -- young people encounter scary, violent times inside an abandoned house out in the dark, foreboding woods.

Yes, it had the sullen, brutish and inexplicably hostile Hillbilly locals. Yes, it had the hick roadside tavern going silent when the kids walk in. Yes, there was a one-eyed man with a scarred face -- hell, he may have even been the bartender. Yes, there was a non-believer hayseed Sheriff and his smart-assed/aw-sucks Deputy. And no, none of the five twenty-somethings had a single smartphone or tablet between them -- which everyone alive knows is an impossibility. Lastly, of course, their car's GPS didn't work either.

Listen, if we could time-machine it back to 1972, when Deliverance was first released and films like Texas Chainsaw Massacres, The Hills Have Eyes, and a bazillion other subsequent rip-offs didn't exist yet, maybe -- and I stress maybe -- this script might have gotten looked at by a few low-budget companies. Maybe.

Unfortunately, it's 2014, and they do exist. Not only are these the Rosetta stone classics of the horror genre, they're established big money "brands" that have been marketed across the globe for FOUR DECADES. They've been sequeled and prequeled and origin-storied to death. To put it in perspective, in the past ten years alone, they've made THREE Texas Chainsaw's -- and Chainsaw 4 is in pre-production as I type this.

Which brings us right back to those essential Screenplay 101 questions at the beginning -- what's new, different or unique about your story? What makes it fresh and contemporary when stacked against the ocean of clichéd copycat scripts already out there? And again, just as importantly, what's going to motivate potential buyers -- the money folks -- to take an active interest? Why would they put money into your lesser, regurgitated version of a branded product with a built-in audience that already exists?

Readers, seriously, ask yourselves -- would you put your own money into a project like that?

Not a snowball's chance. Shy of a production company serving as a money laundering operation, neither will financiers.

Bad script got worse. Characterizations were X-Acto blade thin, without any convincing backstories or motivations at all. Dialogue was completely expository (a.k.a. "on the nose") and the characters' voices were all identical. Worse, these kids didn't sound anything like real twenty year-olds do today; a surefire tip-off to readers and producers that it was scripted by an older writer -- not exactly something you want to advertise in today's youth-obsessed Hollywood. Sad to say, it only went cannonballing further downhill from there. By page 40 it was toast, irrevocably D.O.A., a compendium of all screenwriting's cardinal sins in one sloppy, migraine-inducing package.

So yeah, the news wasn't great. The script didn't need a band-aid, it needed a blood transfusion. It would take a helluva lot of heavy lifting to fix, no doubt, but still, even then, it wasn't impossible to reboot by any stretch.

Believe me, nobody likes hearing their project is fucked up. Think I'm any different? So to help buffer the initial shockwave of despair that hits every writer, I wrote thirteen pages of detailed notes. Thirteen pages. I gripped the bit between my teeth and went berserk breaking down scenes, trouble-shooting structure, suggesting plausible motivations and alternative storylines. I did everything possible to stress that, while the project wasn't working now, all hope was not lost. What the writer needed to do was steady themselves, take a deep breath and begin objectively considering the logic behind what needed to change. In the final accounting, once the smoke had cleared, this would be a good thing.

I Gmailed these notes and prepared for our scheduled follow-up call the next day.

The call never happened. Instead, I got a nasty reply that started something like this --

"I understand this is not any easy business. However, you are not an Oscar-winning producer nor head of a major Hollywood studio. You're a writer who's supposed to help and encourage others! Your notes are snarky and mean-spirited and the only person that benefits from that is you!"

Additionally, Vancouver Writer was upset I hadn't read the "whole thing" -- and asked that I refund half the fee if I was only going to read half the script. Essentially, that's like telling a coroner you want him to examine the toe-nails for signs of life even though the corpse's head was blown off.

Believe me, Dear Readers, I could not Paypal her a refund fast enough.

Sure, the concept of having given up two days of my writing week to cook up prescriptive, entirely unappreciated notes on a bad script stuck in my craw some. But hey, I'm a big boy, been around the block, and I fully accept that sometimes "no good deed goes unpunished" where dreams, egos and the commercial arts are concerned. Okay, A LOT of times.

But beyond that, there's the simple, self-evident truth that scripts don't suddenly get better after forty lousy pages. Ever. Nobody sprouts great storytelling skills a full third of the way in and begins banging out the best movie of all time. Even if the End of Days and/or some other demonic intervention allowed this to take place, it still wouldn't matter. Why? Because there wouldn't be anyone left reading it to find that out.

Ten pages. That's how long you get to hook your reader before they trashcan your script. Ten fucking pages. Brutal, right? That's the Industry standard. Sometimes readers new to the job will give bad projects the full First Act twenty-five out of pity alone... and then drag-and-drop it into oblivion.

Free passes for forty shitty pages? Forget it. Never happen in any of our lifetimes. You'd have better odds of getting Justin Bieber appointed to the Supreme Court.

Yet interestingly, neither of these things is what really bothered me.

What really killed? That the writer totally missed the point of having a professional look at your script to begin with.

You have sudden chest pains. You see a renown heart specialist. She gives you an electrocardiogram. The results ain't good. So lousy, in fact, she insists on doing open heart surgery immediately to save your life

And you respond by telling her... your feelings are hurt? That she wasn't "encouraging" enough?

Say whaaaat???

Why on Earth would you seek out a professional and pay good money only to get miffed by their opinion?

Seriously, as adult writers, what should you expect when having qualified, working professionals read your script? That the reader will be awestruck, dumbfounded, have their doors blown off? That they'll fire back an urgent, glowing email saying how perfect it was? How it didn't need even a single revision and how surprised they were it hadn't already been produced, Palme D'Or'd and enshrined in the Library of Congress?

Or... if we're keeping it real, is this actually some not-so-sly backdoor fishing expedition for confirmation of what you've not-so-secretly been hoping for all along -- official word that your work is undeniably brilliant and you're a bona fide genius after all?

It's okay, you can admit it. Thought that way myself, once upon a time. So I'd like to refer you to Uncle Junior's shrewd Season One The Sopranos quip regarding the odds of that -- "I want to fuck Angie Dickinson. Let's see who gets lucky first."

Real-deal screenwriters don't expect best-case scenarios every time they send a project out. Besides being vainglorious and delusional, it's unrealistic and completely unproductive. It's emotional suicide, an approach that can destroy you creatively as much as spiritually.

Real-deal screenwriters also learn to protect themselves emotionally. To accept that writing for film and TV is a relentless process of reworking and improving and reimagining -- way past your original pain threshold. Real-deal screenwriters understand this is not a quick munchies run to 7-Eleven, but an Apollo mission to the moon. Hot-to-trot noobs counting on walk-off homers and hundred-yard kick returns are either legit bipolar or as flat-out nuts as Sarah Palin thinking she would be Vice President some day.

See, this is a huge thing less-experienced screenwriters forget -- nobody else expects your early drafts to be perfect. That's just your own white noise, needless additional pressure you're putting on yourself. Forget about hole-in-ones, just lay that first tee shot squarely in the middle of the fairway. Screenwriting is about revising and rewriting... and then revising and rewriting some more. Only two times you're ever "finished" on a script -- when you get fired or when the completed film is locked and can't be physically changed again. That's it. Meantime, expect to keep working to the point you wish you'd never heard of movies or wanted to write screenplays in the first place.

Writing is a process. Always has been. From the inception of the written word, all of your favorite writers have gone through some version of it. Take heart from this. Let it deepen your faith in what you're doing. Get off your own backs. Give yourselves a break. No need to get angry or embarrassed, nor waste time lashing out or feigning superiority. It's hard for any writer to move forward when they're exhausting all their energy contending what clearly doesn't work actually does. You're fooling nobody save yourself.

Simply acknowledge that your script isn't there -- yet. But hey, no worries, you're on your way, and fielding and incorporating objective, quality feedback is a key part of that journey.

For Chris'sake, could this be any easier? Let the healing begin already.

Make sure you understand the key point of this story, and it's definitely not that Vancouver Writer's script sucked. What's of lasting importance is the writer's wounded reaction to it sucking. It provides the perfect cautionary tale for every writer out there, blueprinting that crossroads moment you'll eventually face between growing up and getting better or staying immersed in self-deception and stunting your skills. Between taking your prescribed medicine and getting well, or stubbornly refusing and flushing your pills down the toilet.

Look, if you honestly believe you know more than everybody else, especially people with years and years of paid professional experience, go right ahead, stuff your fingers in your ears and play deaf. But if, like the rest of us, you grasp that every idea should be seriously considered, good or bad -- whether you choose to go with it or not -- then stow the fuckin' attitude and start paying attention.

You never know. Someone good out there just might be trying to help you.

Making a living writing movies is a privilege, something that'll come hard-earned, if at all. Hollywood doesn't need you, doesn't give a shit whether you live or die, and nobody -- and I mean NOBODY -- is gonna cry if your Tinseltown dreams don't come true.

Remember that money line in American History X where Dr. Sweeney sees Derek/Edward Norton in prison and asks -- "Has anything you've done made your life better?"

When it comes to screenwriting, I believe we can (and should) ask ourselves a version of this with near-identical intent -- "Is how I'm approaching my craft making my writing career better? Are there any objective, tangible signs that what I'm doing is working?"

The answer may be "no". This might hurt like a motherfucker. But until we can look these issues dead in the eye, there's no hope of making real progress.