Me thinks me might have issues with the wee folk.

Psychological issues aside, I do find it a little annoying to hear other writers refer to their work as their “baby.”  Unless you plan on taking that script of yours from the idea phase to the editing booth you’re going to have to come up with a more psychologically pleasing word to come to terms with giving it up (or maybe saying that baby is all grown up and is now going to college has some merit to it after all.)  Otherwise, kicking, killing or just plain giving it a severe beat down are probably some of the more colorful terms you’ll be dealing with.

Enough of that nonsense, whether it’s a baby, a stack of papers or even the embodiment of six months of a dream crammed into one flash drive, what exactly am I referring to by “kicking it to the curb?”

The rewrites are done.

Well, the rewrites I can accomplish on my own anyway.  I’ve sat alone in the coffee shop, pondered the latest bits of dialogue by solitary lamplight sans brethren in my apartment and I am now thinking I’m 100% complete.  So it’s ready to show the world, right?

Wrong.

For the last four months… yes, it has been four months since I’ve written an article here at A Boy and His Script (how many times could I really write about rewriting anyway?) and I am now to the point where my eyes just aren’t picking up the subtle hints and clues that the work needs further polishing.  In other words, it’s now time to show it to someone.  Unfortunately, this process in itself can be a little disheartening.  Much like every other writer out there, I want a pat on the back as much as the next guy.  I yearn for someone to tell me the goods are in fact “the goods.”  I want to be told I’m a good writer.

But by God, now is not the time.

It took me a while to come to this conclusion, but for my purposes, a rewritten script is not a finished script until it has passed through the hands of someone who is going to spend the time giving you well-thought out criticisms on what works, what doesn’t work and what absolutely makes no sense.  Simply put, I need someone who is going to be brutal (or as brutal as you can get in a constructive way, of course.)

Sorry mom.

NEXT… Criticism?  Who needs it?!

Say what you will though, but I’d be willing to wager this phrase is more well known than you realize. Any Screenwriting 101 student has probably heard the heartbreaking, “It’s good, but you have got to learn to kill your babies.”

And for the record (and any FBI guys the above phrase has alerted,) I am not advocating the wholesale slaughter of the wee ones. Instead, I’m talking about rewriting, rewriting, rewriting.

Simply put, it means cutting out what you hold near and dear. For me personally, it’s just as important as character development. And like that same character development, the act of slicing and dicing comes in the second, third and fourth rewrite. Unless you’re an uber-writer, then I think I’m pretty safe in my assumption that the first draft is basically just cutting out the garbage. The second and third is the fine tuning with the realization that sometimes what you thought worked, doesn’t and if it doesn’t work? Out it goes.

If the first rewrite is about hacking with a machete your 180 page monstrosity into a workable piece of product, then the second and beyond are all about going in a little deeper, but this time with a surgical blade.

So, as you can pretty much assume, ABaHS has reached the second rewrite and is in the process of uploading all of the cherry red pen goodness into the computer. Once that’s completed, I believe I’ll now have a pretty good indication of how this little thriller will ultimately play out. Don’t get me wrong, with the outline, the cards, the first draft, I’m about 90-95% certain how it’s all going to end, but things change, characters may disappear and entire scenes may shift from Act III to Act I. Case in point, in my script The Boys of Twilight, I had a character named Tajo Jimador who was a sheriff’s deputy. His overall goal throughout the script was the pursuit of my protagonists, however through the course of the rewrite, the entire character disappeared. Tajo Jimador was no more… And dammit, I LIKED Tajo Jimador! (Granted, he could’ve used a name change, but you get the point.) Sometimes you tell the story what you want and sometimes it tells you to back the ‘f’ off, because it’s got other plans. Plans, which oftentimes, are pretty darn valid.

With the script I’m working on now, I’ve realized that in order to keep my budget low (or attractive as a relatively new writer,) I’ve had to curtail the addition of what I’ll refer to as “my little beasties.” I have to remember this isn’t John Carpenter’s The Thing. If I have a remote chance in hell of getting this made on my own, then it’s best to go the Jaws route and leave it in the shadows until the last horrifying minute.

So with that said, I’m moving on to rewrite #3 and at this juncture, I’m still nowhere near having this script ready to be shown.

Next time. . . More rewrite crap? Or maybe. . . an interview!

Anyway, lost amidst that analogy is the status of the current screenplay.  Not quite the before and not quite the after.  Basically, what a script is and what a script will be post-rewrite.  It’s in that weird purgatory between the First Draft and the First rewrite.  With the first being the, “I want to have a great scene about dairy cows amidst my sci-fi epic!”  And the first rewrite deciding, “Uh, yeah, the dairy cow thing. . . maybe not such a good idea for the off-world colonial civil war.” 

Right now, with ABaHS, I’m right in the middle of that realm between the two.  I still have the bloated mess that is the first draft, but I’m also within sight of the leaner, meaner fighting machine that will become the second draft.  Well, maybe not so much as a fighting machine since it IS technically only the Second Draft, but maybe it’s on its way to having the ability to take the flight of stairs without huffing and puffing. 

And I owe it all to that tool we feared in grade school.  The true teacher’s pet.  The mighty red pen. 

I’m not sure when I fell in love with the rewrite process, but there is some sort of perverse thrill about going page by page, line by line excising and abolishing entire speeches, scenes and sometimes even characters with the sole purpose of obtaining a workable script. 

I. Love. It. 

I’ve always been a fan of the term, “vomiting out” the First Draft.  It’s the draft in which you just don’t hold back, because you don’t want to start self-editing until you’re ready too.  I quickly learned the real characters and the real script would come out through that red pen process.  Who cares if dairy cows save the day in the first draft?  By the time the second draft comes around and I’ve sobered up a bit, the dairy cows have left the building, but are sure to pop up in another script down the road. 

So how long do I wait between the First Draft and the first rewrite?  You’ll hear a lot of people say you have to step away and take a break so you can look at it with fresh eyes, but while I’ll agree with that somewhere around draft five or six, with that first draft you just want to go in hacking and slashing.  After the kitchen sink approach with the initial bit of writing, I’ve got to have a quick turnaround with the rewrite, otherwise I’ll start to let the old writer’s fears creep in and start thinking, “There’s so much here, where do I begin?” 

And before you know it, I’ve convinced myself that maybe the dairy cows SHOULD stay. 

Goddamn dairy cows. 

In other words, and another analogy, after you’ve let the yard grow, you’ve got to mow the whole lot before you can go in with the weedwhacker for some precision trimming. 

NEXT: Killing your babies… 

“Seventeen days?  I don’t want to rain on your parade, but we aren’t gonna last seventeen hours…” Bill Paxton NOT saving the world. 

So the First Draft has been completed and it only took seventeen days to complete.  ONLY seventeen days?  How is that possible without varying degrees of quality?  Well, it is a First Draft, so it is what it is.  (And you’re probably like me and never let anyone read a First Draft, no matter how much blood went into writing it.  It’s just THAT bad.)  So how come seventeen days?  For starters, as I’ve stated before, it was written entirely in longhand within a 5 x 8 ‘gold fibre’ spiral notebook that you can pick up at Staples for around two or three bucks.   That process alone probably saved me hours, days, weeks.  However, as there is with any writing tool, there is the good and the bad (on a sidenote, if you take the good and take the bad, take them both and what do you get?  (pause, pause, pause) Come on people! The Facts of Life!)

Okay, the best thing about writing everything in longhand is you can take the notebook anywhere and everywhere without being looked at like another wannabe screenwriter (laptops up!)  Instead, they’ll just look at you like you’re some kind of Rainman-ish nut scribbling away like a madman in a notebook.  And seriously though, with the price of gas what it is, lugging a few ounces of a notebook onto the Orange Line from Noho to Woodland Hills is a godsend vs. jacking around with a computer for the trip (and airports, restaurants, etc.) 

So it was with that rationale that I fell in love with the notebook and in fact have since been able to cut off a few days or a week when writing that First Draft. 

The downside?  Yeah, that transcribing can be a drag.  But I suppose John Henry probably did ride a train or two in his lifetime as well.  Necessary evils.  We can’t all be selling millions on a cocktail napkin, so we do what we do. 

So there you have it.  Seventeen days later and I’m left with an eighty-two page document ready to be rewritten–

<record-scratching-sound-effect>

–Wait, eighty-two pages?  Shouldn’t a script be somewhere beween 90 – 120? 

Uh-oh.

Yep, I’ve never had a First Draft come in under 130 pages, much less 82, so to steal a phrase. . . “$#it just got real interesting.”

NEXT: The Wrath of the Red Pen (and consequently digging yourself out of a writing hole.)

Here we go, here we go. 

After a brief hiatus, ABaHS is back with all new improvements and 100% satisfaction guarantee!  Needless to say, I really didn’t improve anything and since no money was put into it, I suppose you get what you give.  But hypothetically, if you did give some money how are you to get it back?  Take it up with the boss man, because I only work here. . . and am not in the union, so I’m not contractually obligated to listen to your gripes. 

Alright, enough of that.  As you may have read, we went MIA for a few weeks.  Not out of a sense of neglect, but out of a sense of UHAUL!  That’s right, the Batcave is now the Batcave-North.  After a two week delay, ABaHS has moved from plain old Hollywood to Noho.  Really a short move actually, but spread out over the genius idea of two and a half weeks and it seemed like across the country. 

So why the lack of updates?  For lack of a desk, a cable company that couldn’t commit to an appointment for internet access unless it was a week away or a feverish rewrite on an existing script (The Boys of Twilight of which I talked about in my last post in the “In other Words…” section.)  You name it.  All apply. 

That’s not to say the writing didn’t continue, however.  I would have to say the rewrite with BoT came along better than I could have hoped, so we should have some forward momentum with that one in the coming weeks to months. 

So, I’m back with the horror!  ABaHS is looking forward to getting you up to speed with the status and continuing on with the adventure. 

Meanwhile, I want to answer that question everyone always asks.  “Why DO you write?”

Why do writers write?

Because we have to. 

 Next time, the FIRST DRAFT has been completed!!

I know this is a site of one man’s journey with ONE particular script, however I’m going to have to take a little bit of advice from Dan Petrie at this point.  One of the bits of information and concerns he imparted was the idea that he didn’t want to see the site get bogged down with one general idea.  In other words, the journey from first draft to finished film is an excellent hook, however like any good fisherman will tell you, while it’s good to have one pole resting by your side waiting for the big one to bite, it’s better to have several poles in the area doing the same thing.  A writer MUST have other lines he’s currently working. 

With that said, you’re currently reading what’s going to be a somewhat frequent addition to A Boy and His Script which I’ll file under the “In other words. . .”  The goal here is to continue monitoring the process of taking a script from draft to draft or through the submission phase, but in most cases it will be a script outside of the initial horror-thriller involved with ABaHS.  In this case, I’m currently going through a rewrite of “The Boys of Twilight,” a script I had placed in the top 100 of Scriptapalooza in ’07.  While the kudos for the top 100 is great, it also tells me “it can be better.”  Recent events have also given me the impression there’s a little heat on the script as well, so I’m getting it up to snuff, as my grandpappy would say. 

So with that said, I’ve fought back the procrastination demons once more (and will even reserve that topic for another posting with ABaHS) and am moving forward with “The Boys of Twilight” (a rewrite which will be completed in the next week.)  After that, the juggling of the moment stops and 100% focus is back on the horror-thriller.  The final part of the Daniel Petrie, Jr. interview will also be posted this week. 

Juggle-juggle-juggle.

So enough of my rambling.  Here is Daniel Petrie, Jr. . . . the second part.

—–

ABaHS: Once you had made up your mind on what genre you wanted to work within, what was your process from that initial idea to a workable outline?  Creatively speaking, how did you decide?

DAN:  One fact was to work in the area of cops and police.  I’ve always been interested in that, which right away gives you the realistic promise of life and death stakes.  Of course, people see cop movies all the time so much so there’s really no need for another unless you have a different angle.  So I thought, “What about a corrupt cop as a hero?”  At that time, this was twenty, twenty-five years ago, we really hadn’t seen that.  [The corrupt cop] also suggested something about the female lead.  Suppose she’s a D.A. or someone who’s investigating police corruption?  Those opposites suggest that it’s both a serious investigation and a romance.  The structure of a romantic comedy and a romantic drama are identical.  It’s just one looks at the emotional conflict and casts a humorous light on it and one’s more heartfelt about the emotion conflict, but the conflicts are basically the same.  Guy meets girl, they fall in love, obstacles, whether they be misunderstandings or people intervening to propel them apart and something that brings them back together in the end.  I thought that [the romance] would make an interesting counterpoint to a cop thriller.  Still, this is a pretty mechanical construction, but sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and see how far you can get with something like this.  I thought further that it’s not a very noble thing to be a corrupt cop, but are there circumstances in which that character could still be sympathetic?  I thought, if the cop is only as corrupt as the environment in which he finds himself, he’s not doing anything worse, but he’s not doing anything better than the other cops and it would really be highly unusual in that city for a cop to be incorruptible. 

“Sometimes you have to take a

leap of faith and see how far

you can get with something like this.”

Then you think, “Okay, that’s got interesting moral ambiguities you can make use of.”  Then, when you think about [the female lead], you think she’d be working in the same environment.  She doesn’t think any of this is right.  She may know the city itself has a level of corruption, but disapproves.  That leads you to think her character is upright, but also has a quality of being morally rigid and inflexible, which is admirable, but comes at a cost.  Whereas, he would be very comfortable with inhabiting this gray area of morality that would inform all areas of his life.  He would be confident, sensual, very at home in his own skin and she’d be uptight.  What if these characteristics are revealed in their sexual lives?  I thought this was an interesting relationship between these two.  So what started as an absolutely rote paint by numbers exercise became gradually over this process something that I regarded as special.  Something that I was tremendously excited by.  It had these qualities that I was looking for.  It was familiar, but really different.  It was originally called “Windy City” and set in Chicago.  We eventually decided to set it in New Orleans as The Big Easy.  It worked very well.  That’s an example of taking what I regard as “half an idea,” teasing it through and ultimately deciding this is good enough. 

ABaHS:  If you still weren’t satisfied after “teasing it through”, would you go back and try to rework the idea?

DAN:  I would tend to put it aside if I had really given it the whole college try of going through what associations I had with it. 

ABaHS:  When starting a new script, what do you think is the biggest mistake a writer can make?

DAN:  One of the great things about my own accidental education of becoming a writer was that in order to get out of the mailroom at ICM you had to be a reader, which got you closer to becoming an agent.  So, I’m reading scripts that I simply didn’t have access to.  The scripts I did have access to before were only the good scripts.  Robert Towne, Paddy Chayefsky.  That’s quite daunting and you think, “Jesus, I can’t do that.”  When you’re a reader at an agency you’re reading the scripts as they come in.  These are people who aren’t represented yet and haven’t managed to get an introduction where an agent is eagerly reading the scripts themselves.  That can give a young writer a lot of confidence, because you almost immediately think, “If I can make an effort to spell, I can outclass a great many of these.” 

“If I can make an effort to spell,

I can outclass a great many of these.”

Also, one thing that was quickly revealed is that I found people didn’t really either know or have enough of a rigorous sense about what it actually takes to accomplish what you’re trying to accomplish.  I would hear confirmations of that from the horse’s mouth, from people seeking representation.  I would read a script and think there’s some talent being shown by this writer, but it seems like the story isn’t that well thought out and I’d hear things like, “I figured it was a first draft and if someone’s interested enough they’ll tell me how to rewrite it.”  I though, wow, this is an industry that has overfull employment.  If you want to break into the business you have to write a great script, it can’t just be a good script and certainly it has to be the best that you can do.

“If you want to break into the business 

you have to write a great script,

it can’t just be a good script.”

I would constantly see scripts that would reveal in their first pages a lack of sophistication of the structure of a screenplay.  Aristotle famously promulgated the structure of a drama as that which has a beginning, middle and an end and before the beginning there is nothing.  Many of the screenplays would begin with nothing.  Meaning before the events of the story start taking place.  If you read a lot of scripts you may read some that begin with an alarm clock going off and the character wakes up, goes and makes coffee and usually there’s a funny bit about the coffee grounds that reveals character on how messy their kitchen is or whether they’re neatniks or whatever.  They get dressed and go to work, but really nothing is going on.  They just don’t know where to begin the story.  So literally they have the character waking up on the day that something is going to happen.  The ACTUAL beginning of the story.  That wouldn’t be so bad if that was THE mistake and just fixing that by lopping off those extraneous five pages fixes it, instead they’re usually indicative of a far larger problem involving material that belongs in a first act that isn’t in the first act or adversaries aren’t being introduced until page eighty.  The lack of understanding and lack of structure just compounds and compounds itself.  I happen to think really understanding screenplay structure is vital.  It doesn’t mean you can’t intelligently break the rules or do something radical, but that’s a helluva lot better when done deliberately.  Done out of laziness or ignorance isn’t that exciting. 

“I happen to think really understanding

screenplay structure is vital.”

ABaHS:  Would you attribute a lot of that laziness or ignorance to the explosion of software, seminars and generally everybody promising to teach you how to write a great script, but not focusing on getting everything in order first, the pre-script/outline process?  In other words, know what you’re doing before sitting down to write?

DAN:  I don’t know.  I remember the day when there was no screenwriting software per se.  You had to use adjunct programs to format your script after the fact or you’d use add-on macros.  It was very difficult to do all the production things.  But that’s just a word processing thing to get the right format.  It does nothing. 

I would divide screenwriting education into two camps.  I think people can get a lot of value out of all of them.  There’s one camp epitomized by Robert McKee, Truby, where these things are generally quite pricey and because of that they promise to reveal “the answer.”  For commercial reasons they’re trying to take screenwriting and mystify it and tell you these are the mystical incantations that will give you the key.  There’s another school represented by the books of many experienced screenwriting teachers.  Richard Walter and Lew Hunter of UCLA and some of the people from USC who are doing their best to demystify screenwriting by taking sophisticated concepts and trying to put them into the most simple terms they can.  They’ll talk about the sequence and the beginning of the first act, etc. in more everyday language.  I think you can get something good out of all of it, so long as you don’t become a slave to any of it.  But you can probably tell I have a bias towards the people trying to demystify the process.

“I think you can get something good

out of all of it, so long as you don’t

become a slave to any of it.”

I often find it incredibly useful to think about the screenplay I have in progress or outline and think about it in THE MOST BASIC TERMS.  Is the climax a climax, does the end of the second act reflect the characteristics of that, is it the end of the middle and the beginning of the end?  That is so valuable to me. 

ABaHS:  And this is ually done with outlining or when you’re writing the first draft?

DAN:  Oh, no, this is outlining.  And I’ll outline in Acts.  I’ll very deliberately use the Acts instead of a beat sheet.  I’ll use a format where you’re doing an outline that they taught you in school.  Big headings, smaller headings beneath, because usually when you’re working out a plot there are scenes, sequences, Acts that you kind of know fully and some you don’t have any clue about.  The ones you have no clue about and some you have full detail on might be equally important,  but if you look at a beat sheet that is, “He walks down the street in front of a bank,” has equal value with “Final Action Sequence.”  What helps keep everything in proportion is whether you have instead of the linear listing of beats the  [Act outline] in big headings.  Act I.  The second level down is “The Bank Robbery” or “The First Bank Robbery” and then below that is “Casing the Joint.”  Below that is “Character walks in front of the bank.”  And you have this thing fully worked out in your mind.  By doing it with this outline you can also choose to see only certain headings.  Eventually you get there.

—-

Next time. . . Act III . . . the climax.

I give you . . . part I.

——-

ABaHS: What do you factor in when deciding which idea you want to spend the next few months with?

Dan: For me that’s one of the most difficult parts of the process, because ideas are both easy and hard to come by.  A fully formed idea that contains something that is both recognizable as a subject and yet is at the same time not like anything else is kind of what you’re going for.  It’s easy to have one half of that equation, but to have both halves is what I would call a whole idea.  Those are surprisingly difficult to come by, at least for me.  It takes a certain amount of taking an ordinary idea or the beginning of an idea that no one has seen before, but placed in a context that is familiar, commercial, whatever word you want to use.  For example, I love such-and-such genre, but what would make my contribution to say a “buddy cop” genre that is something no one’s seen or fresh? It takes a lot of winnowing out of ideas and dismissing things.  Sometimes you start from the beginning with what seems like an unpromising jumping off point and through a series of steps come up with something you regard as special. 

“It takes a lot of winnowing

out of ideas and dismissing things.”  

I’ll give you an example of that.  When I first started writing, I gave up after a certain point in time.  I wasn’t making any money and I was not happy with my work.  So I got a job in the mailroom of ICM with the idea I would work six months, quit, save my money and start writing again.  That was about the size of it, except it was five years before I started writing again and then I had to get fired because I needed the severence pay. 

When I started writing that second time, I had been a junior literary agent and I kind of knew the kind of scripts that would sell, might get made, that I was interested in, but I also had a pretty good idea of what constituted a good writing sample.  And the way I put the writing sample to myself was if it was a genre that had elements from another genre and transcended the genre in some way, it showed a lot of light on the different kinds of writing that you could do.  For example, you could have comedic elements for a drama, it shouldn’t just be a noirish thriller, but it should have a different aspect to it.  That way, somebody could say, “Well, this isn’t a comedy, but I can see the guy can be funny.”  Or the opposite. 

“It feels like a paint by

numbers exercise.

How can that be valuable?”

Whatever you’re going for, that’s not the original script I wrote, but I eventually came back to the writing sample and thought, “You know, that’s the most mechanical beginning in the world.”  Thinking about the elements, it feels like a paint by numbers exercise.  How can that be valuable?  Other than literally as a writing sample.  So that’s what I set out with, but gradually as I thought about the elements that made up what I thought was a writing sample, I started to make those particular choices. 

ABaHS: So which came first?  The chicken or the egg or the character or the plot?

Dan:  To me the two things are so related as to be indivisible.  You can’t think about the deed without thinking about the doer.  You tend to think about the things somewhat separately, but it’s a constant back and forth.  You might also think, in order for a story to work, a person would have to do something unlikely or impossible and you think what qualities would that person have to have that are not only reliable, but justifiable to make the person do this thing.  Sometimes it’s, “Hey, I’m just forcing it.  I can’t make the person do what needs to be done.”  You figure it out.  If this were something in their background, then they’d have the inclination or abilities to be the doer of the deed that you have put for them in your mind’s eye.

“You can’t think about the deed

without thinking about the doer.”

ABaHS: So one doesn’t outweigh the other?

Dan:  Exactly.  People talk about plot driven movies and character driven movies and I can agree to a certain extent on why that shorthand has emerged or I can understand to a great degree in fact, because some movies feel very quote-unquote “character-driven” not so much of the characters themselves, but because of the lack of plot.  The reverse is true too.  It’s not that in the plot driven movies the plot is all that great, it’s just that the characters are undeveloped, but having said that there’s no question some stories are told based largely on the character or characters following their own inner directed journey without a real opposing force.  It’s that opposing force that tends to make the movie feel more plot. 

ABaHS: It sounds like you’re getting close to an outline.

Dan:  [Prior to writing a first draft] I would tend to want to know all of it.  I find that helps a lot.  When you’re confronted with an entire universe of choices, that can be paralyzing to a writer.  Where do you start when all of this is open to  you?  Often a series of arbitrary decisions are what’s needed to get you moving in some direction. 

I certainly could commit to writing a project without knowing the ending, but I wouldn’t actually start writing it until I understood the ending.  But in order to realize this was a concept I could commit to, so long as I understand the characters, the genre and what makes the story special, this usually is enough to give me the confidence so I can suffer through the next part of the process which is the intricate work of building the plot.

“I wouldn’t start writing it

until I understood the ending.”

There are people who work differently, who only work writing from drafts.  I don’t like writing that much.  I don’t fancy the idea of writing an entire draft and then getting an idea of “Oh, I know exactly where I should have started” and then starting over with one scene.  For some people, that’s their process.  I’d argue that it’s really a form of outlining.  It’s a way of arriving at what I would try beforehand.  On the other hand, it’s not possible to really finish an outline without writing a few scenes to see if a character rings true.  By the extension of that, I can understand to write from the other process. 

—-

Next time, Dan breaks down The Big Easy and more!!

Until then. . .

That’s right.  A Boy and His Script is moving beyond the “look at me, look at my blog!” and taking that first step with regards to fulfilling the promise of industry interviews along the way.   I won’t go into details as of yet, but we can expect the interview to be posted by Sunday.  Like I said . . . busy transcribing. 

So why the reference to a Luddite and a Technocrat and what does this have to do with writing a first draft?  And more importantly, where does the man behind A Boy and His Script fall? 

(Sigh.)

I’m a Luddite.   

I wouldn’t say I have a fear of technology, however when it comes to an actual first draft, I am a born again anti-tech type of guy.  In other words, I’m writing the first draft in longhand within a small 5×8 inch notepad.  Why?  The same reason why I stick to the notecards.  1) You can carry it anywhere and 2) Even if you have a laptop, there’s something about that dreadful feeling of being anchored to a computer (it becomes a report at that point.  Or homework.  Something that feels like it HAS to be done. . . “Where are you going?”  “I have to go work on the first draft.”)  Sometimes it just becomes an emotional chore, especially if you are a king of procrastination.   

Coffee shop?  Notebook in hand.  Toiling in a cubicle?  Notebook on the side.  Sitting on the can?  Yes, I said “sitting on the can.”  The ol’5×8 makes a pretty good companion.  And you don’t have to mess around with removing it from your bags when passing through security at an airport. 

But wait, there has to be a downside, right?  Yeah.  And unfortunately, if you don’t have an assistant, it’s a doozy. 

Transcribing.

The actual act of taking the script and inputing into the computer so you can have a workable draft is an exercise in stamina in itself.  Primarily, because it takes a monumental effort not to start editing on the fly.  Typos and the random quote are good to fix, but the heavy stuff; characterization, dialogue, etc. is best left for the bonafide rewrite. 

So there you have it.  I weighed the pros and the cons about two scripts ago and have since fallen in love with the notebook.  Plus, nothing beats a comfortable chair, music and scribbling away.  It’s the aesthetics of the whole thing. 

Except that transcribing part. 

That’s right, I’ll be the first to admit it.  When sitting down to write I have a hard time seeing the forest for the trees or the trees through the forest or the deep woods of individual trees of spruce and such with pine and maybe evergreens or a random maple thrown in . . . yeah, you get the point.  In other words, I tend to get lost in the woods a lot.  I’ll just stumble from tree to tree, meandering aimlessly until I realize I’ve just wasted hours wandering in a giant circle. 

So how do I equate being lost in a circle to writing this particular horror-thriller?  Simply put, if I don’t have some type of plan or at the very least a compass showing me which direction to go, I’ll flounder around writing page after page without really advancing any type of plot.  With past experiences, I’ve attempted to freeform it, but I would usually end up on page sixty with characters who have spent the last thirty pages ordering coffee.  So while some people have fallen in love with the idea they can just let the characters breathe and have the scene unfold like some beautiful flower, I’m not one of them.  If I did that, my flower would be called the Edsel.  It would theoretically have everything you could possibly want, but still end up looking like a piece of crap.  And I’ve since learned nobody loves coffee that much. 

By the time I sit down to write, I need to know the beginning, middle and end.  That’s not to say what I first write is set in stone, I just need that initial blueprint to see what the end result will be.  And when it’s one o’clock in the morning, you’ve been writing for a few hours and you’re feeling like you’ll never see daybreak, it’s nice to know if you at least follow your original plan you’ll be able to cut through the fog and make it out okay.  It may be rigid and more than a little unkempt, but that’s what the rewrite is for. 

With this script, I’m sticking to the three-step, pre-script process.  Note card, scene cards, outline.  Simple as that.  This isn’t anything new, but it’s the way I learned to write a screenplay.  And if anyone out there is as undisciplined and scattered as I am, then you already know the benefit of this process. 

Since I’ve already spent a few days (weeks actually) thinking about this script, I’m ready for the note card step.  Essentially, what I do is take one 5×8 note card, draw one solitary line lengthwise and start jotting down plot points.  I don’t necessarily write in order as I’ll just jot down cool thoughts or scenes as they come, but I do write them on the line in the order they’ll be in the script.  In other words, I may have my entire ending plotted out before I even have a solid beginning. 

I learned early on that I wasn’t content to just make it a simple one line structure with a few thistle-looking barbs sticking out of it, but rather my plotpoints birthed branches and those branches gave way to snippets of dialogue, action, etc.  What I end up with is a rough, ROUGH, outline of the entire script.  Beginning-middle-end (or Act I, II, III if you will.)  And it’s all right there on one note card. 

Sure, it ends up looking like something John Doe in the film “Seven” would write with fonts that you could only read with a magnifying glass, but for me it’s not really meant as something I go back to and read ad nauseum.  It’s just to get the film in my head.  In reality, the three “pre-script” steps are designed to cement the film so I can just write it out without worrying about what’s coming next. 

Once I completed the note card, which in this case took me about a week, I took each of those plot points and scenes and gave them one scene card apiece.  This is pretty basic Screenwriting 101.  This step usually goes a little quicker than the one note card as the ideas are already there, but I can now expand on them a little more if need be.  Once I’ve completed this phase, I usually end up with anywhere from 80 to 200 scene cards.  In this case,  I have a rough 85.  It’s definitely a low number, but I’m writing with a low budget in mind, so my locations are already at a minimum. 

It’s after I’ve completed the scene cards that I input each one, card by card, into the computer where I end up with a more traditional outline.  With this little script, I ended up with an eighteen page outline when it was all said and done. 

It’s this outline I’ll have sitting next to me (not next to me in a little chair of its own like I’m some kind of freak, but rather on the desk beside the keyboard) and I’ll sporadically reference it as I head into the next step which is writing the actual script. 

A few friends have criticized my three-step process by saying they can easily do the same steps with any number of screenwriting programs out there.  This is true, but for me, the joy of the note cards is I can carry them anywhere.  Stuff ‘em into a pocket or a backpack and whip ‘em out while I’m standing in line or looking to kill some time at a day gig.  However I do it though, by the time I’ve completed each of the steps, I’ve essentially cemented in my head the beginning, middle and end of what I’m going to write. 

And  there you have it.  Whew!  Man, what a wordy passage.  Anyway, enough of that rambling.  Next time . . . writing the damn thing.