Live To Write Another Day (8 page)

I grew up on Long Island about an hour east of New York City, so when I first graduated from college and decided I wanted to pursue a career in the entertainment business, the most logical thing to do was hop on the Long Island Railroad and trek into the Big Apple to see what opportunities I could drum up. In those days I was also very interested in being an actor as well as a writer, so I began taking classes at The Lee Strasberg Creative Center downtown. Funny enough, it wasn’t too long after I started studying there that one of the teachers became interested in a play I’d written. This teacher was a working actor himself, and there happened to be a good role for him in the piece, so it was a perfect storm. He got himself a showcase and at the ripe old age of twenty-two I had my first production!

Now, it’s important for you to understand the context of this story. This was actually
before
I had gone off to film school, so I was even wetter behind the ears than I was when I arrived in Los Angeles a year or so later. In fact, this was only the second time I had even attempted to write a script of any kind. Therein lies the beauty of the writer gene. I had no earthly idea what the hell I was doing, and yet, just as I had done with my “Triplets” masterpiece when I was just a tyke, somehow I made it work. The problem, I soon discovered, was:

The writer gene can only take you so far.

I’ll never forget the conversation I had with the director one night toward the end of the run. He was a very cantankerous guy with a few
personal issues
,
so no conversation with him could ever have been mistaken as pleasant. This one, however, was like getting doused with a bucket of ice water, as he proceeded to go on about a thirty-minute tirade, berating me for how I had failed miserably as a writer because I hadn’t adequately reworked the play during the rehearsal period. What made this moment so ironic and so incredibly confusing to me was the constant roar of laughter and applause that could be heard coming from the house the entire time he went on his rant. Not to mention the fact that pretty much everything else about the experience had been fantastic. In a ridiculously short amount of time, I had gotten someone to produce my play. A month or two later there were actors coming in, saying my words in auditions. Then we were in rehearsals. And then the audiences
loved
it. Well, enough of them at least for me to feel a significant sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Yet that cranky freakin’ director was 100% right. It could have been better. A
lot
better. In fact, to be honest, while the theme and structure of the play were strong, it was a pretty raw piece of work in many ways, written by a very raw writer. If I were to reread it now, God forbid, I’m sure that I would absolutely shudder at the characters’ lack of depth and the stiffness of some of the dialogue, which even then I secretly had some discomfort about.

So why didn’t I just rewrite it during rehearsals like any normal playwright would? The short and simple answer is:
I didn’t know how.
I was so green that I didn’t even know when the director was giving me a note, much less how to execute one.

Fortunately, I’ve learned a thing or two since then and have developed what I think is a pretty sound approach to the revision process—which, by the way, isn’t all that different from the process of creating a first draft. The only real difference is that other people have now weighed in, so to some degree you’re reacting to their opinions. But the actual writing process, the mechanics of making the story work once you re-engage in it, is pretty much the same. The trick is to get your mind right first.

So, you’ve sorted through all the notes you’ve received on your script and determined which ones are useful and which ones aren’t. Now it’s time to show the note giver the door. You can’t ever have anyone else’s voice bouncing around in your head when you’re writing. You must have an absolutely clear channel so you can get back to the business of tuning in your story. Besides, your note giver has helped you all they can up until this point. You shouldn’t feel bad about tuning
them
out.

In a similar vein, you can’t do a rewrite trying to anticipate what that note giver will say next. This can be especially problematic when you’re getting paid to write what you’re working on, or when the note giver is highly invested in your success. In the end, like you, all they really want is for the work to be better, so it really doesn’t matter what they think until they actually tell you.

Now here’s the good news:

Note givers have short memories.

When your note giver reads your new draft, they’re going to have a whole new set of notes. Ideally, with each passing draft there will be less and less, but even if there’s still a lot of work to be done, your note giver is always going to be commenting on what’s in front of them, not what you did before.

Keep your focus. Get back to your process. And remember, the note giver has left the building.

The next piece of business you need to handle is to determine the scope of the rewrite you’re about to do. Is it a major revision or a minor one?

A major revision means making significant changes to the structure of the story. So, in addition to potentially adjusting characters, changing the content of scenes, and rewriting dialogue, various scenes may need to be reordered and/or replaced and entire acts reconfigured.

A minor rewrite may involve adding or removing selected scenes, but doesn’t involve such a widespread overhaul. It mostly entails revising action and dialogue within the existing structure.

There are two big reasons why it’s important to make this distinction. First, you’ve got to understand what you’re getting yourself into, and how much of your time and energy it’s going to require. I’m not suggesting you rush or change your process, but to be a professional you do have to develop an accurate sense of your own limitations, while being able to consistently and reliably
bring the ship into port
.

Second, when you’re getting paid to write something, the one question your employer will inevitably ask is:

How long do you think this revision is going to take?

If you’re getting paid a flat fee for the work, your answer is mostly about giving them the product in a reasonable time frame. But if you’re getting paid on a weekly, daily, or hourly rate, then this is also a financial question. So, it’s obviously critical (for both you and your employer) that you have a firm grasp on the speed with which you feel you can execute.

Minor rewrites are not particularly taxing. Major rewrites, on the other hand, can be very difficult and usually entail going back to the whiteboard and/or index cards to rejigger the scenes in order to satisfy the notes. What’s especially unnerving about this is that the notes often don’t call for the entire story to be trashed, but when you start to replace just a scene or two, it’s like pulling a loose thread on your sweater. Before you know it, the whole thing unravels. So, it’s not uncommon for what starts out to be a minor rewrite to turn into a major one.

It’s also often hard to part with certain scenes. Not necessarily because you’re in love with them (though that also happens), but because they’re actually
working
. The problem is they don’t work
anymore
because of the new direction the story is taking.

Psychologically, the way to deal with this is to try and get yourself into that same mindset of “letting go” you adopted between finishing the first draft and giving it to people for feedback. The same way that the child was suddenly no longer just
your
baby, it’s now no longer just your baby
again.
So be prepared to let go of
everything
about it if you have to.

On a more technical note, something that I often do at this point is use a
double-yellow-pad
approach
. Remember my outlining process in which I write every scene on a single line so I can skim the entire story in fast-forward-mode? I do the same thing again, only this time I do it twice, on two separate yellow pads. On the first pad I write down the current structure (based on the current draft). On the second pad I restructure the story, this time allowing myself to embellish the scenes wherever necessary (in other words, not restricting myself to one line per scene). By studying the structure of my current draft on the first pad, I’m able to recognize various components that are working and use them as templates to reinvent setups and payoffs within the new structure I’m assembling on the second pad. Then, when I’ve got the new structure worked out, I once again write the whole thing down, using one scene per line so that I can see if it passes the fast-forward test.

Once you make it through this gauntlet, you’ll discover that on a high level, the structure is similar and the core message remains unchanged, but since some of the content is different, the story is expressed in a whole new way. Again, this is because the story exists separately from you. You have merely taken another run at tuning in the radio and brought the signal through a little clearer this time.

The key is to be just as patient as you were with the first draft. You don’t want to jump back in too soon and start formally composing the scenes until you feel absolutely confident with the new structure.

Now it’s time to apply this new structure. I approach this part of the process by opening the script document in Final Draft and making notes within each scene using a different color font (leaving the text of the original scene intact for the moment). This is similar to the process of creating the original outline, only now I frame my descriptions of each scene a little differently. Instead of describing the content, I explain to myself what has to be done with each scene as I move forward with the rewrite. Basically, I’m writing myself an instruction manual—or as I like to think of it, a
battle plan
.

Here’s a hypothetical example:

INT. DINER (page 10)

This scene stays the same as the previous draft. Dan still meets Lucy at the diner.

INT. LUCY’S APARTMENT (page 30)

This scene is essentially the same as the previous draft, except instead of blurting out: “Will you marry me?” and then having second thoughts about it, the moment the words leave Dan’s lips, he hesitates—which makes it
obvious
to Lucy that he’s having second thoughts and ruins the entire evening. Lucy leaves, pissed.

INT. LUCY’S APT. BLDG. – HALLWAY (page 35)

Insert a new scene here where Dan leaves a yellow rose at the foot of Lucy’s door.

EXT. AMUSEMENT PARK (page 50)

Adjust this scene per the earlier notes. Instead of making this the scene where Lucy loses the ring, this is now the “make-up” scene. Put it on the street in front of Lucy’s apartment instead of at the amusement park. Or maybe put it in the diner where she and Dan first met?

You see how I asked myself a question there in that last note? You don’t have to have all the answers at this point. You just have to give yourself a pretty clear idea of what needs to be done so you have something to lean on later when you come back to write the scene in earnest. You also don’t need to worry quite as much about the details of scenes that come later, because those scenes will inevitably be affected by how the earlier ones turn out. Not that you shouldn’t have a solid plan for them. Just keep in mind that those later scenes are the ones that will most likely deviate from the plan, so remain flexible.

If you’re getting paid to write the script or if your note giver is highly invested in your development of it, you may also want to consider giving them the battle plan
before
you actually execute the rewrite. What this does is show them the scene-by-scene detail of what they will see in the revised draft. This can be a very valuable way to avoid miscommunication with an employer, because if they sign off on the battle plan, chances are pretty good they’ll like the rewrite. On the other hand, if they have more notes after they see the battle plan, then you have just saved yourself an enormous amount of time, because it’s a hell of a lot easier to revise the plan than it is to revise the rewritten script.

Remember, the goal here is to raise the level of the work with each successive note session, to tune that radio signal in clearer and clearer so that your story eventually comes as close as it possibly can to that pure, perfect form in your mind. That doesn’t mean you can’t make a successful sharp, ninety-degree turn at any point along the way. Just be sure to always fall back on your process, create that sound battle plan, and always be mindful to keep the main thrust of the effort consistent with your core message.