Live To Write Another Day (9 page)

Being in a writing partnership is kind of like being in a marriage. It’s an intimate relationship that needs to be based on trust, mutual respect, and commitment. You have to
really
like this other person with whom you’ll be spending a great deal of time and sharing your ideas and your dreams. So if having a writing partner is one relationship too many in your life, you have my permission to stop reading this chapter right now and skip to the next one—or forever hold your peace!

Assuming I haven’t scared you away, let’s talk about those three things I just mentioned…

Trust
, in this relationship, means that no idea is a bad idea—that you can throw anything out there no matter how lame it might sound, and there will never be any judgment about it on the part of the other writer. It means that this person will always have your back creatively.

Mutual respect
means that you never trash each other’s work. I learned this lesson the hard way when a writer I was working with repeatedly deleted or radically rewrote scenes that I had written in
our
script without even thinking about discussing the changes with me first. You can imagine how that partnership turned out.

Commitment
means always being willing to do what it takes to make the work better, and always seeing the job through until it’s done. This is the toughest one of all, because as I’ve already mentioned, the story never stops being told
.
So no script is really ever done—which means, like parents, once you conceive and give birth to these
mind children
, they connect the two of you forever.

When you enter into this relationship, the first thing you have to be willing to give up is creative ownership of the work. When you work with a writing partner, there is no draft just for you. In fact, there is no
you
anymore.
You
are now
we.
So every idea, every outline, every script, right from the very outset, is only fifty percent yours, creatively speaking. (To be clear, I’m not in any way referring to ownership in the financial sense here. Obviously that’s an entirely different conversation.)

The second thing you have to be willing to give up is creative autonomy. Since fifty percent of the work belongs to you and the other fifty percent belongs to your partner, you are only one of two votes that determine every creative decision that must be made on its behalf. So everything must be discussed at some point and negotiated if necessary, which can sometimes be a sticky business.

Most significantly, you also have to be willing to give up your own voice, as does your partner, for the sake of this third, entirely unique creature that is the product of your collaboration. This may seem like a scary proposition, effectively losing your identity as an individual writer (and make no mistake, that’s exactly what it is), but in my experience, this melding of voices is actually one of the coolest aspects of writing with partners—the fact that you’re creating something that would never be the same if it were written by any two other people.

Here are the big advantages to writing with a partner. First of all, you get a second brain, and who couldn’t use one of those, right? Just think about all those painstaking hours you need to spend tuning in the radio, carving out characters that are properly motivated, endlessly structuring and restructuring. Now you don’t have to figure out all that stuff on your own. Half the answers are your partner’s responsibility.

Plus, now you have a reliable sounding board to help work through all the rough patches, a person who’s as knee-deep in the story as you are and equally invested in making it work.

You’re now also working with someone who is not only responsible for half the ideas, but half the workload as well. In reality, nothing ever shakes out exactly even, but if there’s good communication between the parties, clearly defined expectations, and a sincere work ethic, you’ll be well on your way to doing some great things together.

Like the process you create for yourself, the process you develop with a writing partner needs to emerge organically over time. Almost all of the collaborations that I’ve had with other writers have begun with simple conversations, sometimes accidentally, where we both found ourselves intrigued by a specific idea or a mutual area of interest. In some cases, one of us may have already written down some notes on the subject or done some high-level brainstorming, but generally it’s best to pretty much start from scratch.

That first conversation usually turns into a series of conversations, during which time we also separately do a little homework. This research period tends to be less intense than the one I described earlier, because in addition to sharing the workload, the knowledge gap also seems to close a lot faster when two people bring their life experiences and their collective energy to the table as opposed to just one.

When we get to the Concept Document phase, my preference is to continue working together in the same room, possibly with a white board, while we further define all the high-level aspects of the story. Then one of us can go off and transcribe the notes and begin to write up the document, which we can then pass back and forth, editing until we’re happy with it.

At this point, it is still preferable to be in the same room so we can work on the structure and lay the foundation for the outline together. Otherwise, one partner tends to do more of the heavy lifting on the story than the other, which skews the creative equation a little too much in one person’s favor. (Not that you can’t make it work either way. I just find it a little more effective to do this work in person.) Then, once you reach the outline phase, you can pretty much work in separate locations the rest of the way, again passing documents back and forth until you’re satisfied with them.

When writing the actual script, I’ve found that the best way to ensure that each of your voices is being fairly represented is to write no more than a scene or two before you pass it back to your partner. You’ll also need to establish some ground rules at this point, governing how extensively each of you can rewrite the other. Here’s an arrangement that works particularly well:

As long as each writer remains consistent with the outline, all rewriting is fair. However, if either writer wants to do something that represents a significant departure from what has already been mutually agreed upon, then a conversation needs to take place before any blood can be drawn.

As you can imagine, this process can definitely get a little trying at times. Each partner can have a very different take on the nuances of how each character behaves, how each character sounds, and how a particular scene should go (even when you’ve agreed upon its placement and its content).

Regardless of the arrangement, one thing remains absolutely true:

You’ve got to be willing to compromise when you work with a writing partner.

You also have to be able to exercise a great deal of tolerance and patience—which means completely buying into
we
at the expense of
me
.

Pitching a story really isn’t all that different from pitching any other kind of product. Sure, it’s a creative idea you’re talking about, so it’s a lot more glamorous than pitching a vacuum cleaner or a bottle of shampoo, but at the end of the day it’s still a
sales pitch
and you, as the writer, are the
salesman
—which, frankly, has always made me a bit uncomfortable.

“I’m not a salesman, damn it! I’m a writer!” I want to scream to the heavens every time I have to work on a pitch (and sometimes do). But like it or not, pitching is part of the job. At some point, it’s not enough to just lock yourself up in a dark room and crank out pages. You have to be able to verbally express your ideas to people, to give them confidence that you
can
go off and write that great script. So you might as well find a way to get good at this little dog-and-pony show or, at the very least, figure out an impressive way to fake it. (Just kidding. There is no way to fake it, really. So you
better
get good at it!)

When you walk into that room to pitch a story, the most important thing you’re selling is yourself. Like any other business meeting or job interview, your would-be buyers/employers are looking for talented people with exciting ideas, but first and foremost they’re looking for a person that they can work with, a person that they don’t mind talking to on the phone a couple times a day or whose name doesn’t make them shudder every time it appears in their e-mail. The only way to be that person is to be authentic. In other words:

You have to pitch in a way that’s consistent with your personality.

Here’s a perfect example. I have two very successful writer friends, one in film and the other in television. The film guy is very soft-spoken. He pitches like a fisherman with a secret. He starts off very quietly, then slowly reels his audience in as he carefully unspools his story, giving them one bite-size piece of information after the other, until he finally reveals all. The TV guy is the complete opposite. He pitches like a three-ring circus rolling into town: big, gregarious, colorful, and bursting at the seams with enthusiasm. Not that he’s blustery and loud. He’s not. It’s just a very energetic, get-your-popcorn-ready type of approach. Both styles are extremely effective, but not necessarily because they’re technically proficient (which they are). They’re effective because they’re authentic and they’re consistent with each writer’s personality.

My personality is much closer to my TV pal’s. I get very animated when I’m passionate about something, and nothing gets me more amped up than talking about a story, so I pretty much allow that excitement to come through when I pitch. Again, it’s all about being comfortable in your own skin. Beyond that, the key is to be really well prepared and have a good, solid framework through which you can both deliver the content and focus your energy, regardless of your style or approach.

Pitching is very much like acting. It’s a performance, a little piece of theater in which the character that you’re playing is
you
. So when I say you need to be well prepared and have a framework, what I really mean is you need to know what you’re going to say, and like an actor, you need to rehearse and deliver your lines as if they’re coming out of your mouth for the very first time.

Does this mean you should write yourself an actual script just for the pitch? If you feel it will help you, absolutely. It all depends on what you’re comfortable with and also, to some degree, the specifics of the particular project.

I’ve written myself pitch scripts at times, but generally I tend to prefer to write it in my head as I talk it through to myself, over and over, and commit it to memory. I find that I’m a little less attached to the specific words when I do it that way, and a little more focused on the beats of the story and the big ideas. I also feel that this technique makes it a bit easier to pick up where I left off after being interrupted, which will happen in almost every pitch meeting.

Either way, whether you write yourself a script or just write it in your head, you have to know the material backward and forward.

Pitching with a partner (or multiple partners) allows you to enjoy many of the same advantages that writing with a partner does, the greatest of which is that you don’t have to carry the whole load by yourself. Even if you’re a great pitchman, it’s always nice to have that other person in the room to play off of. Two or more voices are also much easier on the ear of the listener than one because of the natural variety in tone and inflection that’s created. The trick is to alternate speaking at palatable intervals, which means you really have to be on the same page and know who is going to say what and when. In other words:

You have to be working from the same script.

Fortunately, most of the people that I’ve developed projects with over the years have shared this approach to partner pitching, but there was one occasion when it was definitely put to the test.

Not too long ago I was pitching an interactive project in which I had two partners. The project also involved demonstrating some innovative technology designed for live performances, so it wasn’t exactly like pitching a television show or a movie, but the same principles apply. We needed to sell our personalities in the room, we needed to tell an engaging story, and above all, we needed to work together with precision and give a good performance. The problem was that one of my partners wasn’t too keen on rehearsing. Not that he was lazy or didn’t care. In fact, he was very committed. He just didn’t have that much experience pitching and felt that rehearsing would cause us to lose our freshness. He didn’t quite get the concept of being a well-rehearsed actor, and insisted on just winging it. So the third guy and I rehearsed our parts as best we could without him. Sure enough, when we got into the room, guess which one of us got flustered and stumbled over his words?

The last thing you want to happen in a pitch meeting is to look unsure of yourself. Even if you actually know the material cold and just have a momentary lapse, the instant that happens it puts a seed of doubt in the buyer’s mind about whether or not you can do the job. So why take that chance? Why not do everything in your power ahead of time to prevent that from happening?

One bad experience was all it took to make my interactive pal a believer. The next time out, he was much more amenable to rehearsing his part and, not surprisingly, came off much more confident in the meeting.

I don’t want to be a buzz killer here, but it wouldn’t be very forthright of me if I didn’t tell you that the majority of your pitches will probably not result in a happy ending. It’s a sobering fact, I know, especially given how much of a writer’s heart and soul goes into telling a good story, but as any salesman will tell you, pitching is a numbers game. You have to get a lot of people to say “no” before someone says “yes.”

The thing about pitching in the entertainment business that makes this fact even more maddening is that the decision to buy or not is highly subjective and unpredictable. There are so many factors beyond just the merits of what you’re offering that go into it: for example, what the company already has in development, if there’s a budget to buy your pitch, what is currently working in the marketplace, etc. And sometimes when you do get that “yes,” it doesn’t come exactly the way you expected. That’s why it’s so important to be open and flexible, and ready for anything that happens in the room that might even
lead
to a yes.

Here’s another story for you that illustrates this point. After I had written an episode of a television show called
The Invisible Man
, the producers were so happy with the job I’d done for them they asked me to come back in and pitch another one. This obviously didn’t guarantee me another sale, but naturally I was very excited and immediately shifted my brain into overdrive to come up with that next great pitch.

Now you remember my buddy, the acupuncturist, who lets me use his office? Here’s a case where not only was the environment a wonderful creative cocoon that allowed me to do my best work, it also gave me the perfect idea.

In the show the main character, Darien Fawkes, has a synthetic gland implanted in his brain by a secret government agency. The gland allows Darien to turn invisible but it’s not without its glitches, as he can’t always control his invisibility. My idea was that, during a mission, Darien wrenches his back and subsequently goes for acupuncture in a desperate attempt to both heal himself and alleviate the pain. But when the acupuncturist puts the needles in him, she inadvertently stimulates the gland and discovers that
she
can control it—which inevitably leads to no good.

As always, I put as much work into the story as time would allow, diligently prepared, and then went in and pitched my heart out. From the get-go all the writers in the room responded to the idea, but when I was done the executive producer said: “All right, forget everything he said after the word ‘acupuncturist,’ and let’s see if there’s actually a story here that we can use.”

At that point it would have been very easy for me to let my bruised ego do the talking, to just keep trying to convince them the material I’d prepared was in fact worthy of another episode. A younger version of me may very well have done that. Actually, younger versions of me
did
do that, which is why this time I made sure I’d learned from my previous mistakes. This time I played it smart. I knew I had a “yes.” It may not have been the “yes” I’d wanted or expected, but it was definitely a “yes.” All I had to do to close the deal was know when to shut up.

To make the sale I’d have to settle for selling the
idea
and not the exact story I’d pitched. So, rather than being defensive and possibly end up
talking them out of saying
“yes,” wasn’t it better to let my pitch basically be the first draft and let the brainstorm that was now occurring in the meeting be the first revision?

This calculation turned out to be right on the money. The pitch was successful. I got the job. Not only that, they bought the next two episodes I pitched them. Why? Because I pitched my personality, I was always well prepared,
and
I was open and flexible enough to let that “yes” take whatever form it was going to take.

Another very important part of pitching involves not just pitching your personality, but also understanding the personality of the person you’re pitching to. Obviously, if you’ve never met the person before, there’s no way of knowing what they’re like, but if you’ve had the chance to get to know them even a little bit, then you owe it to yourself to specifically tailor your pitch to the aspects you know they will respond to (to whatever extent that’s possible).

Recently I was working on a project at Walt Disney Imagineering
,
which is the part of Disney that builds the theme parks, and found myself pitching to an executive I’d pitched to several times before. Now, because WDI has such a tried-and-true creative process and such a rich tradition, you typically follow a certain protocol when you pitch there, using a style of storytelling that is very unique to what they do.

In this case, however, I didn’t feel confident the traditional approach would work. Why? Because this particular executive is extremely adept at figuring out what you’re going to say ahead of time and, once he does, tends to cut you off before you’ve had a chance to fully explain it. This doesn’t mean he’s no longer interested in your concept. It’s just that in the blink of an eye, he’s two steps ahead of you, which inevitably leaves you scrambling to get out from behind the eight ball.

I knew the standard dog-and-pony show wasn’t going to work this time, so instead, I decided to bring in three people who were supporting me on the project and use
them
to tell my story. Rather than formally pitching, I kept the whole thing conversational, sort of backing into each part of the pitch by saying something like: “John and I were discussing the first part of the experience, and his idea, which I really liked, was to do X, Y, and Z.” We’d then talk about that aspect of the project for a while, and then I’d somewhat stealthily move on to the next part of the pitch by steering the discussion in the direction of another one of my supporting players.

The resulting conversation was not only very enlightening, but also very effective, as I kept this very smart executive engaged in the story throughout the entire meeting, and most importantly, convinced him to provide funding for another round of development on the project.