I am the fucking greatest! Ah, the wave of pride and misguided sense of accomplishment that one can ride having “finished” a script. Especially script number one. The real one, not the others before it, shat out only to be abandoned too late out of sentiment and denial. Don’t get me wrong; completing a script is hard work. The act itself is something to be proud of. What happened after I typed those last words wasn’t what I expected. A colossus weight lifted. For a day I felt serene. Then that wave of anarchic emotion that I’d expected kicked in and I felt complete…but was the script?
I was thorough with my checklist, especially with some favorite points I obsess over.
- Grammar (obviously).
- Are all slug lines consistent?
- Is the writing as economical as possible?
- Is the narrative clear and visually expressive?
- Are locations contributing to the story, visually fresh and revealing of character instead of static, derivative or convenient?
- Are all scenes necessary or can some be compressed or cut?
- Have you killed your babies? The clever moments or pieces of dialogue that you are too proud of to cut but they don’t serve the story.
- Is each character’s voice distinct and addressing subtext?
- Are you keeping it simple?
There were several more and I believe all were worthy questions that ushered me to my finish line. It wasn’t enough.
My pre-list warm-up should have been: Am I being honestly objective or do I just want my ego gratified? I learned a few things by not asking myself that question.
1. FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS FOR GOOD REASON
“How did you come up with this?” “So engaging!” “You’ve got a talent for telling stories.” “I love that your main character is missing a pinkie.” “I can’t wait to see this!” “Dude!” Abbreviated highlights I’d gotten from a small handful of adoring and trustworthy friends whom I bribed to read my “final draft”. All in the business to varying degrees, all people I have creative respect for. I had delivered! I had written a script good enough for me to leap over the gauntlet of ruthless and crushing notes I’d heard so much about. My friends said so, which kept my relationships with them adoring and trustworthy.
2. HOLSTER THE EGO
Don’t misunderstand, my adoring friends are trustworthy, unfortunately they are also compassionate. A while later, still riding my wave, I met a gracious young woman who shared she was a reader for a well-known production company. Knowing I had just written a great script, I pitched. To my surprise she volunteered to give me coverage. How generous. A couple weeks later I received her email to learn she was a total asshole. I read and re-read her caustic delusions regarding “shallow arcs”, “episodic structure”, and my favorite, “try and remember Final Draft has a spell checker”. Fuck off! People let honest typos slide in emails all the time! I was gutted. It was clear to me this woman was being cruel for cruelty’s sake. A jaded, “climbing the ladder of Hollywood” attitude projected on me.
Her words gnawed at my ego. I read her notes over and over, building my resentment until it dawned on me that the phrase, “…four out of five doctors agree…” is meaningless if doctor number five is right. Had I been indoctrinated? I didn’t want to admit that horrible shrew had opened my eyes, leaving me no excuse to sidestep a closer look at my work, but I had to.
If I were to see her today, I would give her an inappropriately long bear hug. Willingness to accept her forthright objectivity, no matter how gut wrenching, elevated my script. Don’t tell your true friend, honesty, to fuck off.
3. CHOOSE WISELY
My “final draft” was merely a kickshaw before the real writing ahead of me. I got lucky my wave flattened me so I could learn to swim. I finished applying most of my new friend’s suggestions but I wasn’t as eager to start circulating the new draft. I realized now that doors in this business rarely open and often slam hard. Before parading around my precious jewel, it better be cut and polished to the nth degree. This would take more honest, constructive truth by experienced readers.
I went on the hunt. It took time but I found them. And when I couldn’t I joined The Black List and found them there until I rounded up eight to ten sets of comprehensive notes. Opinions and suggestions covered a wide spectrum but my filter was the similarities. If five or six readers thought an element was weak I might want to look at it. At the end of the day, I’m the one who knows the core of my project best.
4. SHELVE IT
I read all the notes, read the script a few times, wrote my own notes and then promptly walked away. It was the best thing I could have done. When I came back a month later and reviewed everything, the changes needed were glaring. Sometimes it’s right to walk away and feels good to come back fresh.
I wrote to the line many creative people get to, the one that feels like you’re about to eat the dead horse you’ve beaten to death. Then I knew I was ready to feel good about having doors slammed in my face.
Craig Abell-Champion: An unusual kid who grew up on a sheep farm in Oregon. When I reached legal adulthood I was gone and never looked back. I earned a BFA in photography and spent several years shooting pictures around the world. A cinema lover, I moved to Los Angeles in 1998. Directing TV commercials was my film school. Today, I have left the realm of thirty seconds for a longer narrative road. A first time writer/director, my project Recess is in the packaging phase seeking financing.
