Live To Write Another Day (7 page)

You’ve finished your first draft, the one that was just for you. Mazel tov. Are you ready for some feedback? I hope so, because ready or not here it comes.

The most important thing you need to do now is:

Keep an
open mind
.

Remember, you’re not pregnant with the child anymore. The child is here in the world with us and soon it will have babysitters, teachers, grandparents, siblings, friends, and all sorts of other people who will start to exert a sway over it. As I said before, your job now is to be a sure-handed guide, to
receive
the advice and insight of others, to make level-headed decisions about your story’s future, and to continue to shape it into the story it wants to become.

Does this mean that you’re no longer in control of the process? Absolutely not. On the contrary, your process is more important than ever. What it means is that you have to find a way to be comfortable with the fact that no matter who you give your script to, from this day forward it will always be seen in an imperfect light. No matter what you do with the notes you receive, no matter how hard you try, no matter how many painstaking times you rewrite it, there will always be another person with another opinion, and there will always be more notes.

Seriously.
Always
.

Are you starting to understand now why I was so emphatic about loving and cherishing the time you spent writing that first draft—when the idea belonged to no one else but you?

Again, I’m not saying you should just throw up your hands and jump off a bridge. What I’m saying is you have to be super cognizant of the fact that you’ve now entered an entirely new phase in the life of your story, one in which you’ve got to make a substantial attitude adjustment as you approach the work ahead. So don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom. In fact, there’s definitely another way of looking at this next step with the glass half full.

When you started this grand adventure, you had nothing more than a passing notion, a faint, undefined radio signal, right? Then you started to tune that radio signal in and it got clearer. Then its cells started to multiply and miraculously it grew into this fleshed out, three-dimensional being. But that doesn’t mean it’s not
still
growing and changing. As a matter of fact it will
never
stop growing and changing. In other words:

The story will never stop being told.

If you can genuinely buy into this concept, then you will always be able to remain open to new ideas, and no note will ever freak you out. Okay, I take that back. Of course there will be notes that freak you out, but there will never be a note that takes you by surprise, or makes you want to jump off that bridge because you feel it threatens the precious sanctity of your creation. You’ll be egoless about it (if that’s possible), and at peace with the fact that not only does this story exist outside of you, it also exists in a state of constant change. So actually, you’re still tuning in that radio, and you always will be—because the story will
never
really be done. There will
never
be a final draft, and there’s absolutely
nothing
precious about it but your core message.

Another very memorable moment from my film school days illustrates what I’m talking about here in perhaps the simplest of ways. The wonderful writer/director and prolific producer James L. Brooks came to speak to us one afternoon, and part of the discussion involved screening selected scenes from his films and television shows. After they showed a scene from the Academy Award winning
Terms of Endearment
someone asked a question, but the pensive Brooks didn’t answer for several long moments. He just kept staring at the screen, until finally he explained that he couldn’t help thinking that he should have cut away from Jack Nicholson’s character earlier in the scene to capture a little more of Shirley MacLaine’s reaction.

I found this absolutely fascinating. Here it was 1989, a full six years after the film had been released, probably at least ten or more since he first began working on the idea, and who knows how long since he last looked at that particular scene. Now he’s in this auditorium full of adoring film students showering him with praise about his work. You’d think he’d just sit back and enjoy the ride, right? Wrong. His writer gene wouldn’t let him. Instead, he gets right back in there and keeps editing, keeps tuning in the story, keeps rewriting the script in his mind.

Clearly this is a guy who is well aware that the story never stops being told.

Another healthy way to look at the note-receiving process is to see it as a gold-mining expedition, an opportunity to discover nuggets of wisdom that will help make your story better, as opposed to an encounter with a nuclear submarine that’s about to blow it to smithereens.

In order to be a successful gold miner though, you have to dig—and you have to dig persistently. You can’t be passive. You have to be proactive.

But how can you be proactive when you’re the one receiving the notes, when you’re the one who’s supposed to be doing the
listening
?

Here’s the deal: When someone gives you notes you need to be open and respectful and consider each one carefully, but at the same time you can’t let the note giver get away with being an omnipotent authority on your story, or let them poke holes in it without offering anything constructive (as we discussed in the previous chapter). It’s your work. You know it better than anyone, and you know what you’re trying to say with it. If you think a note has some validity, use the conversation to drill deeper into it.
Shape
the note into something that can help you realize your vision by getting more specifics out of your note giver. By asking them follow-up questions, you guide the direction of the discussion and engage them in the process, which will show them you value their opinion—and if they know you value their opinion, you will definitely get more out of them. Through this exchange, you will automatically begin to collate the
useable
notes in your mind and incorporate them into the tuning process, even if you’re not entirely sure how you’ll apply them.

On the other hand, if you don’t think a note is valuable, then don’t spend any time on it. Let it go.
Immediately
. Whatever you do, don’t get into a discussion as to why a note is an affront to you or your story. Being defensive about anything during this conversation is a complete waste of time. If you determine that a note doesn’t work for you, just forget it and move on. It’s not important. There’s too much gold in them thar hills.

Sometimes even the most experienced note givers aren’t always conscious of the note they’re actually giving you. They point out a problem and make a genuine effort to give you a possible solution, but they just can’t quite articulate it. Or the note is only marginally valid—or even worse, completely off base—and they haven’t got a clue. Either way, it isn’t helpful. But you can tell from their sincerity that what they’re saying isn’t entirely trivial either. So the real question is:

What’s their intuition trying to tell you? What is the note beneath the note?

Very often I find the key to this little riddle doesn’t quite reveal itself until I’ve received a few sets of notes from multiple people. At that point, the same note (or several notes that are similar) will have probably appeared over and over again, which eventually unmasks the underlying issue and makes it fairly obvious. But more often than not there’s something else that all this feedback triggers, a more subliminal, organic answer to a deeper problem that I knew was there all along but couldn’t quite solve or articulate on my own.

It’s not unusual for this note beneath the note to end up being the most valuable of all. So instead of dismissing that weird moment in the conversation when both you and your note giver seem to be a little lost, pay extra close attention. That moment might turn out to be far more helpful and instructive than you think.

One of the first jobs I had after I got out of film school was working for a very successful television producer by the name of Mort Lachman. Mort was about seventy-two years old at the time and was the sweetest guy in the world. He had started out his career as a joke writer for Bob Hope, then after years of doing USO shows and TV specials in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s, went on to produce sitcoms for Norman Lear in the ’70s and ’80s:
All In The Family, Kate and Allie, Gimme A Break
, among many others.

I used to pick Mort up at his house every morning and drive him to the studio, so I got to know him pretty well, which was a true gift. Between all the fun stories and anecdotes he would tell me, he also gave me lots of sage advice, the greatest piece of which came after I finally worked up the nerve to ask him to read one of my scripts.

“I’d be happy to,” he said. “As long as you understand that my opinion doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

I was of course quite confused by this.

“The only opinion that matters,” he then said with that characteristic twinkle in his eye, “is the opinion of the person who’s saying ‘yes.’ ”

Translation: If someone wants to buy your script, what difference does it make what anyone else thinks? The buyer is ultimately the only one you have to please.

This is very true, and the more I’ve written over the years, the more I’ve realized this principle actually speaks to an even broader question:

How invested in your success is this person giving you notes?

In the case where the note giver is paying you actual cash money the answer is obviously “very invested.” But there are also other degrees of investment to consider. Is the note giver a producer you’re working with who is putting their own time into helping you develop the script so they can be attached to produce it? Does the note giver work for the publisher you’re trying to get a book deal with or an agent who represents you? In all these cases, there’s obviously a potential financial reward for the other party in return for their investment.

Is the note giver another writer? If so, are they a close friend, someone who truly wants to see you succeed, or are they just an acquaintance who may not care that much? Do they take the note-giving process as seriously as you do? If they do, then you’ve found a valuable relationship to cultivate. If not, it won’t take you long to find out.

There’s also the “casting” of your note givers. In other words, does this person’s sensibility match the material that you want them to read? As close as you are with your buddy the horror writer, you really don’t want to ask him to critique your sitcom, unless he’s an equally talented comedy writer. This may be even more important when it comes to non-writing note givers, because unlike those of us with the writer gene, their
taste
in material tends to influence their opinions a little more than the nuts-and-bolts mechanics of the writing. Not that any given note giver, writer, or non-writer can’t be effective across a wide range of genres. As discussed in the previous chapter, all note givers have their strengths and their weaknesses.

The important point here is that it’s smart to establish a wide variety of note givers you can draw on, who are well-suited to read your work, and to tap into those various resources to get a nice spectrum of feedback on each and every piece you write.

Important as it is for the note giver to trust the writer to digest the big picture notes and be able to make hay with them, it’s equally important for the writer to be able to identify and dismiss the smaller, less significant notes that will likely get swallowed up in the rewriting process.

This means with every note you receive, you need to ask yourself:

Can I use this idea to make my story better and does it support my core message?

If the answer to this question is yes, then your mission is clear. You have to find a way to incorporate this note into your next draft. If the answer is no, well,
hasta la vista, baby
.

Obviously this is another one of those things that’s a hell of a lot easier to write in a book than it is to actually
do
. Believe me, it will never be that cut-and-dry.
Never.
But that’s why God gave you the writer gene. It’s your job to separate the cream from the rest of the crop and then figure out what to do with it.

Once you understand how the success of each draft, and each work as a whole, hinges on this delicate dance between note giver and note receiver, not only will the quality of your stories improve, but you’re ability to crank out those drafts with increasing proficiency will improve as well.