Writing the TV Drama Series 3rd Edition: How to Succeed as a Professional Writer in TV (27 page)

— Mae is shy about her son seeing her naked, exposed and in pain. Haleh reassures him that she’ll give her special attention. Benton wants to write out the orders as Haleh has been insisting. She lightens up on him: “Don’t worry — I’ll take care of it. Go see if Greene needs any help.”

— Benton enters Trauma One as Greene is prepping for a thoracotomy. As Benton pulls on a trauma gown to do the procedure, Greene says he doesn’t need any help — go be with your mother.

— When orthopedic resident JANET BLAIR arrives to admit Mae, Benton insists that the chief of orthopedics be called in.

— Greene and Hathaway escort an OR team out of Trauma Two. As Hathaway heads home from the night shift, she passes DR. GREGORY NELSON, chief of orthopedics, steaming into Trauma One.

— Nelson, none too happy about being pulled from his department meeting by Benton’s persistent calls, does agree to do the case. Benton tries to get him to say that he, not the resident, will actually do the case. Nelson flatly refuses, and he and Blair take her off to OR. When Benton tries to get on the elevator, Nelson flatly forbids him to go anywhere near the OR.

All of that occurs in the first several minutes, so you can see how fast television storytelling needs to move, how packed it is with dramatic stakes, and why you’d need to be at the top of your craft to write a show like
ER
. The episode you’re writing might not be as intense, but you can learn a lot from
ER
’s skillful blending of the arcs and the way this outline blasts each story out of the opening like cannonballs.

For example, in the very first beat, a peaceful “status quo” is immediately broken by the inception of the “A” story when Benton arrives in an ambulance, but rapidly diverts attention to the urgent “B” story when the gang member is tossed onto the street. Talk about grabbing attention!

Re-read your own outline and read it to friends until it’s as powerful and clear as you can make it.

S
ONNY’S
L
IST

One of my former MFA students, Sonny Calderon, told me he taped reminders around his computer, mostly tips that came from my response to someone’s work in class. He thought these four might be useful as you begin your first draft.

•   Every beat is an action. A character “realizing” something is not a scene. Each scene involves a character who wants something but faces resistance.

•   The antagonist must be as strong and motivated as the protagonist. The more equal the sides, the more suspense. See the world from your antagonist’s viewpoint also.

•   Aim at the turning point where the protagonist must make a difficult choice, a moral equation which is nearly balanced.

•   Anchor your story with the Worst Case Scenario three-fourths through. This is where the protagonist seems to fail and must overcome his internal problem to deal with the opposition.

Y
OUR
F
IRST
D
RAFT

How close should you stay to your outline? That depends how close your outline is to what works on screen. If you’re on an assignment from a show, you will have vetted your outline with the head writer (and maybe the whole staff), so you’re sent off to your first draft with an implied contract to deliver what they expect. Sometimes an outline is considered “locked,” which means you’re committed to the beats on the page and you’d better stick to them. In hasty or ultra-low-budget productions, some companies have been known to start prepping (preproduction) based on the outline. (That may mean scouting locations and rough scheduling, for example.)

But what if you come upon something you want to fix? Say, in the outline, a beat exists to reveal a character’s secret, but while writing, you realize the secret is already apparent from a previous scene, so you need to cut the extra beat. Or you might want to make a larger change: The guest cast pops out, speaking in a way that’s more interesting than appeared in the outline, and the “voice” of the character demands that certain scenes be angled differently.

If you’re doing a spec, absolutely go for the revisions if you’re sure of them. You don’t get points for sticking doggedly to an outline that doesn’t make sense! But if this script is for a producer, it’s better not to make large changes without asking. I made that mistake once. I was doing a script for a show and had thoroughly worked out my outline with the showrunner. But as I approached Act Four, I was inspired by what I thought was a more clever resolution, so I went ahead and wrote it.

Well, one day after I delivered the script, the producer was on the phone complaining I hadn’t given him the ending we’d discussed. Surprised by the emotional tenor of his reaction, I listened silently as he went on about this single point before I appreciated what he was really saying. The original ending had been his idea. Whether or not my version was better, his feelings were hurt — not just because I hadn’t used his suggestion, but because he felt I’d disregarded him. This was about respect. Aha, I made a mental note: In the future, pick up the phone and ask. If you get the boss on board, he’ll probably say okay to write what you think is best.

Now, how do you actually do the script? You’ve written screenplays before or you wouldn’t have reached this point, and this one is not so different. Once you get past the structural requirements of the hour format, and you’ve told your stories via the show’s continuing cast, the next special factor is speed. Episodes are usually due two weeks after the outline is approved, and that feels fast if you’re used to mulling over a feature for months. Of course, if you’re speculating, no one will know how long you took to write, but a concentrated schedule is a habit you’ll need if you’re going to work in television.

I’ll show you how easy it is to deliver in 14 days. Let’s say you have an outline with 28 beats (four acts with around seven scenes in each). I like to follow my outline exactly, so I write just two scenes each day.
Voila!
14 x 2 = 28. When I’m writing at home (not on staff), I begin each morning reading over what I wrote the day before, fine-tuning it. Then I take a breath and get ready for the first scene of the day. I approach it as if these next pages are the single most important piece of writing I’ll ever do. I want to bring to this screen moment the richest experience, full of subtext and nuance, while delivering the action in the tightest way I can. I might imagine the whole scene before writing a word, or take a walk and jot down ideas, or close my eyes and wait for the characters’ voices. Whatever it takes. Then I write two or three pages. And stop.

I find that pushing on diminishes quality, and I want to come to the next scene fresh. So I’ll take a break. Lunch, errands, gym, calls — I try to take my mind off it, though when I’m most relaxed, not even trying, I’ll have ideas for a way into the next scene or a perspective on one I wrote. Much later in the day, in the afternoon or night, I’ll re-read the morning’s scene and revise it. Then I repeat the process of finding, forming and writing the second scene of the day. And stop.

I’ve found that by the time I reach the end of the script, my first draft has already been edited because I refine my work each day. Of course, not everyone works like this, nor should they. I have a writer friend who starts work at 4 AM and smashes through as many pages as she can before she runs out of steam, hardly looking back. She tells me she’d never let anyone see that “mess” that rambles, repeats, and wanders into tangents. She regards it as raw material which she edits away after she arrives at the end. You could think of it as the difference between painting and carving a sculpture: The painter pays attention to each brush stroke, adding one after another until the picture is formed. The sculptor begins with a hunk of material, and cuts away “everything that isn’t the statue,” to paraphrase Michelangelo. One method isn’t better than another — whatever works for you is right.

If you’re frightened by a blank page, put something on it — anything. A painting teacher once taught me that as I stood staring at a blank canvas. He walked over and threw ink on my pristine surface, and that got me moving, even if only to clean up the ink. Some writers break the emptiness with automatic writing or anything a character might say, even if it’s not the way to open the scene. Some people write by hand for the visceral feel of words flowing from the mind onto paper. Others talk into a tape recorder.

Aaron Sorkin commented at the Writers Guild Foundation Seminar: “When I try using a tape player, I freeze up immediately. It’s walking around and talking to myself; it’s driving and talking to myself. Ultimately, it’s about typing. The problem I have with these new-fangled computers is that they don’t make a good sound. It used to be… a typewriter makes a sound like you’re working. I like the clack.”

So do whatever spins your wheels. But stick with professional form when you turn in your draft. You already know you need specialized screenwriting software, and you ought to be up on how scripts look. It might help to refer to the samples from
NYPD Blue
in
Chapter Three
. And in case you need a quick refresher, here’s a “cheat sheet” on standard form.

ACT TWO

FADE IN:

EXT. LOCATION - TIME OF DAY

The action is in a paragraph at the outside margin and goes all across the page, single-spaced.

When you introduce a character for the first time, use capitals. Example: CHARACTER ONE enters. But when Character One is mentioned again, that name will not be upper case (except when heading dialogue, of course).

CHARACTER ONE

Dialogue. Try to keep this to under 5 lines per speech, and always condense to minimum.

CHARACTER TWO

Responses can include pauses, often indicated by…

(beat)

And then the dialogue continues after the parenthetical.

CHARACTER ONE

(parenthetical)

The parenthetical above should modify or describe how a line is said, but not give a large action.

If you want Character One to go across the room and do something, that belongs here in action, not in a parenthetical.

CHARACTER ONE (CONT’D)

When the same character continues speaking after an action, indicate it with (CONT’D) after the name.

INT. LOCATION - TIME OF DAY

Give only enough description to build dramatic tension or reveal an essential insight into character or plot. Do not indulge in set decoration.

CHARACTER ONE

Notice that after a new slug line, you don’t need to write “CONT’D” though the same character is speaking.

(MORE)

CHARACTER ONE(cont’d)

When dialogue goes on long like this and breaks in the middle of the page, use “more” and “cont’d” as illustrated. Do not write long dialogue speeches like this though!

SECONDARY SLUG LINE

A secondary slug line might include ANGLE ON A DETAIL, or one specific room or part of a scene, such as CLOSET.

In spec scripts and all first drafts, do not put numbers on the scenes nor “continued” on the tops and bottoms of pages. That happens only in the final shooting script.

And when you reach the end of each Act and the end of the script…

FADE OUT.

Remember, you’re writing a “selling script,” not a “shooting script.” You want to entice a reader, especially if this is a spec, so write what will keep someone interested. Mr. Sorkin shared this insight at the Seminar:

“The selling script is the most important right now. I’m not writing a script right now for a line producer to sit and budget, for a DP [Director of Photography] to work at. I’m writing a script for you to read, to sit there at night — you can’t stop turning the pages, this is so much fun. Even now in the scripts that I write, I only, frankly, describe what’s important for you to get that moment. It’s possible that I’m going to describe, ‘and the camera pushes in and pushes in and pushes in’ and I’m probably going to write it like that because I’m building tension for the reader at that point … Mostly I write for dialogue, and dialogue is what you read fastest when you’re reading a screenplay. Description just slows it down.”

Aim toward Page 17 to end your first act (including the teaser if you have one), Page 30 to end Act Two, around Page 45 to end Act Three, and somewhere between Pages 50 and 60 at the end of Act Four. Those are approximate guides, not rules, though. A filmed episode might run anywhere from 44 to 52 minutes (without commercials), depending on the outlet, but you won’t know the actual length of your script until several drafts from now when a shooting script is read through by the cast and timed with a stopwatch. I gave you that page count only so you can check yourself. If you’re way off — for example an hour script that’s 30 pages or 90 — it’s time to troubleshoot. Here are some quick diagnostics:

T
ROUBLESHOOTING

IF YOU’RE RUNNING LONG:

•   Are the speeches overwritten, explanatory, or redundant? Tighten the dialogue.

•   Have you indulged in set decoration, directing on the page, or overblown description? Take a sharp knife to these.

•   Are certain acts long, though the script is the right length? Move the act breaks by enhancing a different cliffhanger or re-ordering scenes.

•   Have you indulged in backstory or secondary characters or tangents? Return to your original outline and stick to a clean, clear telling.

•   Have you engaged the scenes as close as possible to the conflict? Have you ended scenes immediately after the climax or goal? If you have written prologues or epilogues to your scenes, get rid of them.

•   Is there too much story? If your outline was accurate, this shouldn’t be a problem, but you might have fooled yourself in the outline by counting sequences of scenes as one beat. If so, you need to re-think the stories themselves, or delete an entire arc. This is major work, not editing (see the discussion of “second draft”).

IF YOU’RE RUNNING SHORT:

•   Have you fleshed out your scenes? A script is not merely an outline with dialogue. It requires re-imagining each dramatic moment as an experience. Make sure you’ve fully told your story, including reactions as well as actions.