Top Reasons You Should Join a Writing Group

I’ve recently joined a fantastic group of writers, directors and actors who meet regularly to read new works (as well as eat baked goods and enjoy an adult beverage or two).

It’s been several years since I’ve been involved with a regular writing group and I’d forgotten how beneficial it can be.  

Some writers don’t want or need to be part of a group and I think I was okay for a few years to be writing a bunch of stuff on my own.  But other writers find some real benefit with the sense of camaraderie and the feedback. 

Here’s my top reasons why I like writing groups:

1. You have a sounding board of like-minded writers who may be familiar with your work and can give some specific and immediate feedback on rough scripts, instead of waiting to get a formal reading up.
2. You have a deadline and an audience who expects you to deliver your pages
3. You have the chance to hear your script read aloud and since plays are meant to be performed, this is a valuable way of discovering if what you think is on the page actually exists, or if there is more work to be done.  (I just rewrote a ten-minute today based on valuable feedback and now feel its ready for submissions.)
4. You can rely on a supportive environment so that you can bring in more risky and experimental work and push yourself out of your safety zone
5. You get to hear rough drafts or first drafts of amazing scripts and then watch them get rewritten and get better from week to week.
6. You have the opportunity to support your fellow playwrights work by listening, reading, evaluating and giving supportive feedback
7. You can learn a lot from what other playwrights are writing—what they are doing well and what they are struggling with (in fact, sometimes it’s encouraging to recognize that even the best writers have the same second act issues and then witness how they overcome them)
8. You get a chance to talk about theater in your community (what you’ve all seen lately) as well as what’s going on in New York and other places.
9. You get to eat and drink and joke around with some talented people.
10. You get your own secret handshake.

Tomorrow night I’ll be starting rehearsals for Shining City by Conor Macpherson at Off the Wall, which is exciting but sadly means that I’ll be missing out on a few weeks of the writing group.  I've already been inspired to start writing two new full-lengths, though, in addition to my other projects.  

Three Things I Learned about Playwriting from my B.U.S. Ride

I’ve had a few days to decompress (and get some sleep) after the wonderful success that was the Bicolage Ubran Sprawl.  It was a such an illuminating evening of theater that it’ll keep my engine running for a long time.

After some reflection, I realize that in the crunch of time that I had to complete a play, some of my bad writing habits were revealed and some lessons learned. 

I was proud of the ten-minute play that I wrote, and even more proud of what the actors and director brought to the performance.  I credit their talent and hard work with much of its success.  I know that the play had great characters and balanced moments of comedy and drama in a real way, and this reflected the inspiration of the neighborhood I visited. 

But, because I’m a writer, I can’t help thinking about what to work on in the rewrite.  There’s only so much you can do in 24 hours, after all. 

Below are the three main lessons learned from my agonizing evening of writing.  They might be lessons to remember, regardless of the deadline.

Lesson #1: Conflict can be tricky

There’s a sneaky habit I saw in my writing (and I’ve seen in other playwrights as well).  It’s when playwrights create characters with negative outlooks or are always contrary to other people (and I don’t mean in an interesting way like Jacques from As You Like It).   I realized, though, this is not a character problem. This is a story problem.  It’s an easy way of creating the illusion of conflict when your story is lacking a major dramatic conflict--a strong protagonist with a goal and obstacle.  Your natural playwriting instincts kick in with this absence, but instead of doing the necessary and most difficult process of looking at the overall story, your characters start acting like trouble-makers—to create conflict, even if only minor struggles.

It’s ironic that last week I wrote about objectives and obstacles and passive characters because the four characters I wrote for HALF FULL are not all that active.  Their activity is waiting for a bus (passive) and their main conflict is about an idea (intangible).  I’m honestly not even sure who the protagonist would be, which would be okay if I decided that was a choice, but at 3:30 am, I was driven not by clear choices but the desire to finish ten pages of a play and make it work. 

Part of the driving force of the play was this idea of the water glass being half full or half empty.  So, obviously, I have two characters at the beginning and one is definitely a half full kinda guy and the other is a half empty personality.  Thing is, that only works for about the first page.  The character needed to be more about what wasn't going to happen--he needed hope (aka wants and dreams).  

A negative or contrary character is like an actor that only plays negative choices (“I hate this person”, “I don’t want to be here”, etc.).  Everyone has hopes, dreams and wants positive outcomes.  It’s what’s in our way that defines our life and our stories.  It’s bigger picture stuff.  When we don’t see the bigger picture clearly, we get lost in the weeds.

This is why having time to rewrite can be so helpful and informative.  You start to see the big picture.

Lesson #2:When in doubt, throw it out

You’ve heard that maxim before, I’m sure.  After hours of pounding out a comedic story that I was tied to, I finally decided, enough is enough. Even though I already had nine or ten pages of the play, it wasn’t working.  The ending wasn’t coming at all.  There was no conflict. There were four characters talking and it was boring the hell out of me.  So I ditched it. I didn’t delete it (just in case!), but I did open up a completely new blank document and started over from scratch.

Not entirely from scratch, mind you.  The nine pages I wrote gave me a lot of clarity on what story I wanted to tell and who the characters were.  Once I let go of some of my preconceptions, I was able to find my story.

This has happened to me before, on other plays, by the way.  It happened once before when I was doing a 24 hour play festival, actually.  It’s also happened many times on full-length plays.  You discover that you’re writing the wrong play.  It’s a tough realization, but every time it’s happened, I’ve never regretted it.

Again, this is why time and space can be helpful in the rewriting process

Lesson #3: Leave space for your actors and your director

In the late night/early morning thralls of creation (aka agony), I was so mired in my creative flow and finishing the damn thing that for awhile there I forgot about what my director and actors would bring to the table. The director shapes the story with the staging and by directing the actors. The actors truly bring it to life and make it their own.  They give characters life and can make clunky text seem natural. I’ve seen many bad scripts made bearable by the talents of a great director and actor. 

While I wanted to give my collaborators the best script possible, I needed to remember I was not alone in the storytelling process.  For instance, the pages I threw out had a lot of exposition.  I wanted to make sure the audience, and the actor, knew exactly what they felt and were doing in the play.  Boring.  Give the characters less to say and watch the actors fill in the hidden life behind it.  It’s more interesting for the audience and the actor. 

There are actually more than just three lessons learned from my night of frenetic playwriting, but those were the three biggest ones.  Next time I do B.U.S., I’m going to put those reminders up on my bulletin board.  

What do you want?

"The difference between a good playwright and a bad playwright is caring about every single word that comes out of a character's mouth."  

   -- Tony Kushner

Jude Law and Gugu Mbatha-Raw in Hamlet.

In my teaching and dramaturg-ing, I've often talked to playwrights about “passive characters”.

This notion floats around but maybe we all don’t know what it means. I’ve certainly been guilty of writing a passive character.  Sometimes its easy to see and  fix, but other times, not so much.

What are they really saying when a director or dramaturg says  your character is passive? 

I equate it with a director giving me as an actor a note of “I don’t know what you’re doing in this scene?  What action are you playing?  What do you want in this scene from the other person?”

Which, as an actor, clues me into the fact that I’m not playing an objective, or it isn’t clear what objective I’m playing, and also that the obstacle is not clear.  Characters want something and are defined by HOW they go about getting through the obstacles to get what they want (ie behavior and actions).

So when a dramaturg, director, or fellow playwright describes a character as passive, that’s really what they’re saying.  It’s not just that the objective/want is unclear, its that the conflict and obstacles are not clear, either (or completely absent).  Or it may simply be that the objective/conflict needs more at stake.

Every character in your play, whether they have one line or a hundred, must have a driving need to be there.  They cannot be a mouthpiece for you as the playwright.  They must serve a function.  It can be a simple need but it needs to be dramatically active.  Of course, the more complex the need and the more conflict, the more dramatically interesting its going to be.  A messenger with one line should have a relatively small need compared to say, Hamlet, right?

But if Hamlet’s only need is to “grieve his father”, we wouldn’t get past the second scene of Shakespeare’s play.  His overall need is to avenge his father’s death.  Once he hears from the ghost his father was murdered, a whole series of actions gets set into motion and he starts DOING a lot of things.  Hamlet is not just a “gloomy dane”, as some English profs would like to believe.  He’s on the move and quite active.

Most of the time, I find myself walking into the “passive character” zone when I have a character that is quite similar to myself, or I’m using a real situation.  This is natural.  In real life, most of us are quite passive.  Yes, we do things, but on the whole, most of us avoid conflict.  Few of us enjoy confrontations.  We deal with them when they happen, but if we can get what we want without pissing off our neighbor, that’s great.  And it’s rare when we run into not getting what we want in a big way. 

Theater is a truncated version of real life.  As soon as a real story or situation is put on stage, it needs to be leaner. We don't want to see the moments of non-conflict (usually).  We want to see people at their very worst or their very best, overcoming obstacles.   

So if people are telling you that your character is passive, you need to reexamine the wants and needs in a big way.  Are they as dramatically interesting as you think they are?  Is there enough conflict or do your characters get what they want pretty quickly?  What are the actions that your character is doing to get what they want? 

Sometimes it’s just a little tweak here or there.  Other times, you might rewrite the character completely in a whole new and exciting way.  

Rest assured, you’re not alone.  Everyone lands in the passive zone eventually.  Good writers just know how to rewrite their way out of there.

How do you tell your story in 2 seconds?

How do you entice someone with your logline?

Everyone knows the idea of the “elevator pitch”, right?  You’re stuck in an elevator, say with Steven Speilberg or Julie Taymor, or more likely, you’re at a holiday party with friends and you finally meet that director or Artistic Director of the big-fancy-theater-company who asks you what you’re working on.  How do you talk about your work (and sell your work) without it sounding like you’re a snake oil salesperson? 

Well, you have to know how to market it (be a little business savvy) and you have to write and rewrite your idea in something that could go on a website or press kit. 

I’m a big fan of being your own agent and P/R person (maybe that’s because like thousands of other playwrights, I am my own agent and P/R person), and I’ve also been a producer.  

You’ve got to be able to identify what makes your project unique and why your audience should be interested in it.  This makes two assumptions, of course--one, that your project is unique and two, that you know your audience.  Both of those questions must be answered before you can construct a good blurb about your show.

One tactic I’ve used in my writing classes, or when chatting with a playwright (or going to a reading) is taking a hard look at the logline, blurb or how they’re trying to advertise their play.  It will reveal a lot about the play itself and what story they're trying to tell—who is the play about and what are they doing?  It also reveals many faults in the script, if there are any.  And you’d be surprised how many playwrights are quite bad at writing a good blurb about a play they've been working on for years.

I’ve made it a habit to write a logline before writing anything now.  Before any synopsis or outline, before writing a scene, before doing any other actual difficult work.  I see it as creating a vision of what the show will be (transforming a vague notion into a tangible result).  The idea better be good and better be simple enough to fit into a two or three sentence blurb.  If it doesn’t, then I might be in trouble—there’s more thinking to do about the story—stories at their core are usually very simple in nature.  To achieve a simple story takes a lot of work—you have to get rid of the excess.

I’ve been having fun lately writing radio dramas.  It’s a totally different medium for me and I relish the challenge of planting visual cues in the audiences minds solely through the use of what they hear.  I’ve found it quite freeing, unleashing the inner teen-ager and therefore, the inner sci-fi/fantasy geek.  (I’ve been listening to old school radio adaptations of Ray Bradbury and Robert Heinlein for inspiration.)

Here are the loglines for the two different radio scripts I’ve written:

Vanishing Point(Thriller/Suspense)

After robbing an adult nightclub in Las Vegas, three women on the run take a shortcut through the Mojave Desert and find themselves lost in more ways than one.

The Adventures of Johnny Elektro Across Space-Time! “Episode 19: Attack of the Atomic Robot” (Action/Adventure)

Johnny Elektro, the bionic boy from the 1950s who has been teleported to 2050, discovers that Dr. Zero has returned and plans to use the atomic robot, Destructo, to blow up half of Pittsburgh at the robo-boxing match 4^th of July Spectacular at Heinz Stadium.  Can he and Hank Hammer stop Dr. Zero in time?

What I like about these loglines is that you know the protagonists and you know their Major Dramatic Questions right after the bat.  The title, as well as the story, reveals what kind of genre we’re dealing with (even without the tag I put in).  What I don't like about the first one is the cliche "in more ways than one".  This isn't specific enough and although vague enough to pique interest, I know I can do better.

Do I need to include all of my plot points?  No.  This isn’t an outline or synopsis.  This is a teaser, a trailer, a way of enticing interest.  Will I go back and rewrite it after I finish writing the script?  Probably. In fact, I'll rewrite the logline several times before I feel it accurately tells the story and also sells the story.

Writing a logline is part of the plotting process--its as essential as writing great dialogue, great characters and all that other nitty gritty work.  It's not fun, not glamorous, but hey, most of our writing life isn't.  

So how's your logline?

Where Are You Going?

Yesterday I was having drinks in celebration of my wife who just became a PhD and I got into a conversation with a fellow playwright.  He also happens to be a PhD candidate and is struggling with writing his prospectus—which is like an outline of what he is going to write for his dissertation.  He feels this exercise is a waste of time because the prospectus is due before he takes a six week trip to delve into archives.  Who knows what he may find there that will change the argument of his dissertation.  So why bother?

I told him it’s a helpful exercise even if he decides to change everything.  Which seems like foolish advice, but here’s why I say this.  

I used to hate outlining plays and screenplays.  (He says he never outlines his plays when he writes.)  An outline is like having a map.  You don’t need to use the map or follow your plans.  You can take detours, but its nice to know there was a plan that you could use if you needed to.  

I love getting derailed.  I love when characters surprise me, but I can’t always count on it.  The writing process is particular to each project so you never know how it will unfold.  

Yes, you should dig into the archive (both literal and figurative) and see how that changes your story and changes your plans.  An outline is not meant to be prescriptive.  It’s a tool to help you frame your thoughts and ask yourself:

Where do I want to go?  How will I get there?

If you don’t ask those questions in the beginning, you might just end up lost.

(And not like LOST the TV show.  I mean, lost.)

Seriously, you use Google maps to plan your drives, why not use some of that energy to plan your writing?

Turning Childhood Memories into Art

Over this past weekend we watched the indie film from the U.K. called Son of Rambow (made by writer/director Garth Jennings who also did the film of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy).

You can check out clips and get info on the movie at their website.

This sweet little film hit me right in the cockles of my heart for various reasons. First, the main characters are 10 year old boys in 1982. That same year I was a ten year old boy in Reno. So I remember the 80s music, the hairstyles, the clothes, the cold war, all that. And second, these kids run around and do various stunts in the forest playing Rambo and then film it with a VHS camera. Similarly, I fell out of a tree and swung on a tree rope several times ala Indiana Jones while my friend used his behemoth video camera—in fact, I wrote my first screenplay in 4th grade, SUPER SLEUTHES, a comedy with a lot of jokes about farts and pimples.

We intended to shoot the script in the summer of '83 but ran out of funding.

Son of Rambow is more complex and has more depth than Super Sleuthes, and far less fart jokes. It’s a story about friendship and family but trust me, this is not really a kid’s film. It will appeal probably more to adults, definitely more Stand By Me than The Sandlot.

What is particularly relevant to writers is that the story is based on the writer/directors’ own childhood experience. He really did watch a pirated video of Rambo: First Blood and then picked up a video camera and filmed himself and his friends. It’s how he got started making movies, actually. But in an interview he said he was first draft of the script was “rubbish” because he literally put down on paper “what really happened”.

This issue comes up a lot when dealing with material that is historically or personally factual.

“But it really happened that way!” is a phrase I’ve heard from playwrights young and old, alike, and it’s usually in defense of something that is not working in the script. Sometimes “what really happened” really works, but usually only in extreme circumstances like Apollo 13 or Blackhawk Down. Not so much in childhood memories. They seem extreme at the time but usually they’re pretty freaking boring.

As soon as you put a real event or person in your story then that material becomes fiction. This is a beautiful concept because it literally gives you permission as the writer to change anything you want. When you’re filing a police report, you’re talking about real people and the cops don’t really want you to lie or exaggerate. But when you’re telling a story, you don’t have to deal with facts. These are fictional characters. The “it really happened” police aren’t going to arrest you for falsifying your testimony.

In Son of Rambow, Will, the young protagonist, is in an extremely religious family, members of the Plymouth Brethren. He’s not allowed to listen to secular music or watch TV. There’s even a scene where he has to step out of the classroom when they watch a documentary (which is also how he meets up with the other miscreant character, Lee). But through the chain of events we call plot, he ends up watching a pirated copy of Rambo. The movie blows his mind and he runs home pretending to rescue his father from an army prison.

Now, did the writer/director grow up in a religious family?

No.

In interviews, he says he had a happy childhood, a great family, and was allowed to play and do whatever he wanted. But he knows a happy childhood on screen is a bad movie. He remembered he knew a neighbor kid, though, whose family was part of the brethren. He discovered that all he had to do was move his story next door and suddenly he had a major conflict. He could still use the same events and ideas, but now there was more at stake.

Of course, he made that discovery from rewriting.

Yes, I know, again with the rewriting! But that’s where the real writing happens. First drafts are usually rubbish. You have to keep plodding on through and keep reworking the story until it works. It’s the difference between a lazy writer and a professional.

Which reminds me…I gotta take a look at that TYA tour script again. Time to do some rewrites on that.

For now during the holidays, I’m reading a few books for pleasure (instead of scholarly or work-related materials). On my bedstand is Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson, a book of short stories by Miranda July and then I might dip into The Stupidest Angel by Christopher Moore and Northline by Willy Vlautin.

Sometimes I feel starved to sit down and absorb some brilliant writing, whether it’s a script or fiction or nonfiction. There’s real pleasure in enjoying someone else’s ability to put a brilliant sentence together or tell a great story.

I have other hidden agendas for reading, too. I’ve wanted to adapt something for a solo show but the book I had looked at for this purpose just disappointed me. I really would like to try my hand at an adaptation some day but need to find something I really want to devote my time and energy to. So sometimes I read a book and think, how would this translate to a film or play?

Meanwhile, in the next month or so I’ll do some more work on 7 MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT as we gear up to head off to the KCACTF festival in February. I’m so looking forward to diving back into that multi-layered piece, as well as working with my fabulous and talented cast.

Oh, right, and then I have a short puppet play to write for a friend of mine in Chicago.

Man, it’s already a busy year and it ain’t even started yet…

Occam's Razor (Keep it simple)

My word for the day from Merriam Webster is Occam's Razor.

Yes, I get daily emails with the "word of the day". I'm a total nerd, okay? That's what writers are, they think language is the bomb.

They also use outdated slang words like the "bomb".

I actually first heard about this philosophy (I guess its a scientific reasong thing, too) when I was in a creative writing class in high school. Mrs. Muth, a lovely old lady, gave us some handout on poetry writing and it illuminated the idea that "less is more". That poetry is about distillation of words. Good writing has nothing unnecessary.

I just got done doing a major rewrite on THE ALBATROSS. I'm starting to regret naming it that title as the more I rewrite it the more it's really starting to feel like an albatross around my neck...But the rewrites went well and the play is becoming deeper and slightly different, but in a good way. It went from a 102 page script to 137, which in some ways scares me as I know it will probably need some other cuts, but its exciting because I have a lot of new scenes and an entirely new character (not really new to the story, per se, but he was offstage and now he's more involved).

People have praised my dialogue on more than one occasion and I just got a lot of comments on the readings of THE ALBATROSS about how realistic it sounded (which is nice but to me truthful is better than realistic--I'm not going after slice of life). If there is one thing I do pretty well, realistic or streamlined dialogue is it. This can be a blessing or a curse because sometimes that really great dialogue just hides some other larger issues inherent in the character or plot. (Also, this became extremely problematic when I started writing screenplays becuase that medium tells stories mainly by images, not necessarily dialogue.) But at least I know this about myself.

The key to good dialogue, though, has a lot to do with Occam's Razor.

In other words, simplify. Leave no excess words.

In good plays, characters don't say anything more than what they need to in order to get what they want, or if its applicable to the reality, or the truth, of those given circumstances.

So, for example, if your script has a line that starts, "As you know..." or "You know you've been friends for three years and..." you probably don't need it. It's there for you the playwright, not for the characters.

But won't the audience get confused? You say.

Look, first, most people that go to theater are pretty smart. Second, even if they haven't gone to the theater a lot, most people have seen so many movies, tv shows, and whatnot that they immediately get so much information from a few lines and the actor behavior than any amount of your awkward phrasings. So just cut it out and see what happens. Don't worry, the audience will fill in the blanks. Just show your characters behaving truthfully given their wants. That's where the real playwriting is...creating those events and circumstances that make for brilliant drama. Once that's done, you can cut the dialogue down to the bone and still have a great scene.

And if the audience does get confused...just say you're inspired by Harold Pinter.

And now for Fun Facts! (courtesy of Merriam-Webster):

William of Occam (also spelled "Ockham") didn't invent the rule associated with his name. Others had espoused the "keep it simple" concept before that 14th-century philosopher and theologian embraced it, but no one wielded the principle (also known as the “law of parsimony”) as relentlessly as he did. He used it to counter what he considered the fuzzy logic of his theological contemporaries, and his applications of it inspired 19th-century Scottish philosopher Sir William Hamilton to link “Occam” with the idea of cutting away extraneous material, giving us the modern name for the principle.

How Long Does It Take?

“How long does it take you to write a play?”

When John Guare was asked how long it took him to write Six Degrees of Separation he told the reporter “51 years”.

Or so his story goes. (He was 51 at the time).

He wasn’t just being flippant. It’s hard for anyone to say specifically, this is how long it took me, from beginning to end. There’s a matter of age to consider, as Guare says—for instance, I could not write The Albatross ten years ago. I had neither the technique nor the life experience, and let’s face it, no interest in teachers, students and gender relations. But without having written some of my early plays (most of them Shepard, Pinter and Beckett rip-offs), I wouldn't be able to find my own style and voice and what matters most to me.

So now here I am almost thirty-six and I can safely agree with Guare that it’s taken me 36 years to write this play (or any other I’m writing now).

When did I get the initial idea for The Albatross? That was probably early last summer, when I actually saw the characters and heard some dialogue in my head. (Honestly, if anyone other than a writer said they heard voices in their head, wouldn’t they lock me up by now?) But some of the thoughts and ideas in the play I was actually grappling with a year or so before, when I was teaching. And some other material was dug up from when I was an undergrad, many, many years ago. But I wrote an actual “draft” last year around June or July. I remember that initial draft coming quite quickly (Like within a week).

Of course, as I’ve said before, writing is rewriting.

I spent the next few months rewriting scenes and trying to figure out what to do with these characters, then looking back and asking, “what do I have here?”

I’m still asking that.

This is all to say that I’m rewriting the play again, after these two readings I had, one in May and one in June. At first, I didn’t anticipate a whole lot of rewrites, but I’ve realized, after much distance from the material, that I have yet to create the world of the play. The characters journeys are not specific enough. Really, the characters are not specific enough. You only learn that kind of thing after taking time off from the project for awhile, then going back to it. And instead of being discouraged by the fact that I haven’t yet achieved the story I want in this play, I’m inspired to keep working at it. Actually, I’ve added a new character and having some fun with it (he’s injecting some humor into an otherwise heavy script).

As I always say, “Rewriting is the promise of perfection”.

I know it will never be perfect, but it’s living in the promise that makes writing so much fun. It’s like rehearsal on paper. I met an actor once who said he loved acting, but he hated rehearsal because it was so boring and I thought, “How can you hate rehearsal? Rehearsal is like the actors job—you spend more time in rehearsal then in performance, usually”. It’s what I love about being an actor or director—playing in the sandbox of rehearsal.

I think the same goes for rewriting. You have to love that act of reworking stuff, because that’s where you spend most of your time. It’s your job.

Okay, so now back to some rewriting…

So much to do, so little time...

Tomorrow I'm having lunch with Craig Lucas.

The day before the 4th of July, I chatted with him over the phone about what makes Seattle a great theater town and his current projects (he just got done filming a movie with Matthew Perry and Hilary Swank).

Needless to say, I'm feeling a little bit of awe. Starstruck. I just read his newest play which opens next month at the Intiman. It's brilliant. It explores the dark underbelly of American family life. It's funny. It's tragic. It's the kind of play I wish I could write. Maybe someday I will after thirty years of writing plays.

Anyway, more on that later.

I realized this weekend that I have far more ideas than time and so am trying to prioritize my projects. First things first, I have this interview and feature article to write on Craig. But then I also have a paper to write that I'm presenting at ATHE in New Orleans in two weeks. Then there is the vampire movie I'm writing. The rewrite on Tangled Up in Bob. The rewrite of Obscura. The new Oedipus adaptation (set in a Reno hotel/casino). There is also a few other screenplay ideas and two other plays in the hopper, 12 Minutes to Midnight and 10:28.

Too, too much to do. Not enough time.

And I have a party to plan for the Dramatists Guild of America, a sort of meet and greet for Guild and LMDA members.

To say its a busy summer is an understatement. When am I ever going to have time to work on my golf game? Or just workout, for crying out loud...

Oh, and I work full time at the foundation.

Speaking of which...its time to get back to work...

ABC: Always Be Closing

That phrase is from Mamet’s film version of “Glen Garry Glen Ross”. It’s an interesting philosophy about how the salesmen are always trying to get the customer to “sign on the line which is dotted”. Selling is a continual process, never quite complete until the deal is done.

And that applies to writing, as well.

I spent most of last night rewriting my screenplay “Dylanology”, which is now going to be titled “Tangled Up in Bob” (Doesn’t that title just sound like a more fun movie?). Being in the top 10 percent of the Bluecat competition is not like winning an Oscar, but it is encouraging to know that I’m not in the pile of crap that is the other 90% (of which there were 1800 screenplays). I’m not patting myself too much on the back, though, because I realized how old that draft was that I submitted (by old, I mean four months…). So I dug out the most recent draft and started reading. I’ve haven’t sat down and read it from page one all the way to the end since May. It’s always beneficial to pick up a script after you haven’t seen it for a few months because suddenly it’s like you have a pair of 3D glasses and all the glaring errors and ugly spots literally pop out of the page at you. So I made some changes, added some lines, cut some descriptions, and tried to make the script a leaner, more fun read. I’m still working on it but its getting better.

You may well ask, “Hey, if your old script has already placed well in that competition and you’ve already done a rewrite, shouldn’t you just leave it alone?” Like I wrote before, a good writer is constantly rewriting. Rewriting is the promise of perfection. We search for the perfect expression of our ideas. So we are always rewriting. Always. Always. Always. Tony Kushner says the difference between a good playwright and a bad playwright is that a good playwright cares about EVERY SINGLE WORD. Any extra word, or extra moment is unnecessary and starts to add up. It slows the script down. When you’re trying to set a tone and a tempo, clutter is death. The only way to really nail it is to rewrite.

Now there may be that rare occasion when a script has reached perfection and any more tinkering with it will just destroy what goodness exists—but I have yet to see that script. I have yet to write that script. Maybe some day I will, but I’d rather place my odds on winning Megabucks.

I think this idea about rewriting stems from the same pile of crap about writing that other myths stem from. One of those myths is that great writers write excellent first drafts (yeah, right) so they don’t have to rewrite. Or that great writers write everything feverishly quick (also not always true). For most, writing is a laborious process. Rewarding and joyous, yes, but a real pain in the ass.

When do you stop? When is the deal done? When the audience sees it. Until then there’s always work to do. After the audience sees it, it’s too late (unless you’re George Lucas).

So always be rewriting. Until the deal is done.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my full-length play OBSCURA to rewrite. That thing hasn’t been touched in over a year. I shudder to think what changes need to be made.

Chip Before You Drive

Learning to write is a lot like learning to golf.

Golf is simple in its objective but complex in its execution. What could be easier than hitting a white ball towards a hole? The game is rife with frustration and exhilaration. And it has many paradoxes. For example, it seems like the task of hitting the ball to a pin 400 yards away would be more difficult than if its only 120 yards, but alas, usually it’s the exact opposite. The closer to the hole, the more difficult it gets. In golf, its not distance but accuracy that’s key.

In writing, accuracy is everything. It doesn’t matter how many pages you’ve written—all you need is one good sentence. One good line. Even one good word sometimes. One thing that crystallizes all that you want to say with your piece.

But to learn how to find "le mot juste" (as the French would say) can feel like scoruing the earth for the holy grail. Eventually one masters words in a way that no one else can, just like even the average duffer creates a unique swing.

But it starts with fundamentals. When you learn golf you want to crush the ball 300 yards with your driver. But no one has that innate ability (even Tiger Woods). You have to start with the core fundamentals: grip, stance, setup, balance, and the swing. You have to learn how to hit a 9 iron straight for 50 yards. And then you work your way up with the harder clubs. Finally, you start to work on the driver. Of course, then there’s putting, which is a whole other game.

In the same way, composing a sentence should be the easiest thing in the world, right? Subject, verb. Sometimes a direct object. Any dummy could do it. But it’s the difference between, “My name is Ishmael” and “Call me Ishmael.” They’re both sentences, but one is much tighter and more interesting. One is passive and one is active (telling v. showing). One hints at a story. That’s what we want, any words that help our story. And eliminate any clutter.

In writing a play or screenplay, most people think they’ve got a Broadway musical or two-act play in every idea. That’s not always the case. Sometimes it’s best to start out with a ten-minute or even a five-minute play. If you really do have a big idea with characters that can hold an audience for more than an hour, maybe its best just to go scene by scene, even if its only a page or two, here and there. Concentrate on the small chunks. It takes awhile to see the big picture, to put the scenes together. In this way, it’s like the golf game. You learn a few different shots, long and short. When you go out on the course is when you start putting them together. First you look at things hole by hole. Eventually, you can see the layout of all 18 holes and how you have to play each one. And that makes the game.

So writing is like a game. It should be fun and you should learn the fundamentals before trying the advanced stuff. So what’s the advanced stuff? What separates the pros from the amateurs? Rewriting.

In golf, you want to get to the hole in as few strokes as possible. In writing, you want to use as few words as possible. So you grab some scissors and you cut, cut, cut out all the repetition and unnecessary words. (This is the philosophy of Occam’s razar) When you’re done cutting, you do some rewriting. Maybe you’ll add some more words, maybe you’ll cut some. It’s never-ending and quite maddening. You’re searching for "le mot juste". Sometimes you find it hidden in the dark crevices of your mind and sometimes it eludes you. Just like a golf pro putting for hours on the green trying to nail that twenty foot putt, you can spend hours on a few words. That’s the difference.

Someone once told me, “if you want to play better golf, go back in time and start when you’re five years old.” That’s how long it takes to get good. Why would writing be any different?

Everybody Blogs

Here's two thoughts for the price of one:

The first: I was driving to work this morning and even though it really should only take me fifteen minutes driving at the speed limit, it usually takes me twenty to twenty-five minutes. Everyone complains about the traffic in Seattle, but the truth is its not because there are a lot of cars like say L.A. or New York. It’s because most drivers in Seattle will absolutely refuse to drive anywhere near the speed limit. If the speed limit is 30 mph, you’re lucky to be going 25. If its 25, you’re probably almost stopped.

As someone who spent a lot of time driving on tour and weaving in and out of Manhattan traffic—this drives me crazy (pun intended). By nature, I am a “let’s get things done” kind of guy. It’s not that I can’t enjoy the journey, it’s just that I really do want to arrive at my destination.

Now, I know there is a lesson in this. I know that as a creative person I want to rush the process. I have about ten projects in my head I want to sit down and write tonight. And I know that life is too short to dawdle. I’m so anxious to get things done that I forget that sometimes things just have to take their own time. It’s part of the process. This doesn’t mean don’t do anything (ie sitting back waiting for the Muse to strike) but it does mean being patient. Art is about persistence.

My second thought of the day comes from this interview with John August I read on someone else’s blog. Most people don’t know him, but he’s the guy who wrote GO, Corpse Bride, one of the Charlies Angel’s movies, and one of my favorites, Big Fish. He has a great site for screenwriters with “tons of useful information” at johnaugust.com. In this excerpt of this interview he talks about writing and how damn hard it is and that just because you have a blog doesn’t mean you’re writing (which means I shouldn’t just post any old tidbit that comes to my head, I guess).

“JA: I really don't like writing. That's a terrible thing to say of course, because one is supposed to love one's art. But I'd rather do just about anything than sit down and start writing.

The thing is, I love having written. I love going back and looking at the scene I wrote. So "writing" is a necessary, painful process I go through in order to get to "having written."

When people say, "Oh, I just loving writing!" I know they're full of crap. They're probably lousy writers who are regurgitating their daily thoughts in a journal. Actual writing is hard work. Even when you have the flow and it's going well, it's still incredibly taxing. My deepest nights of sleep are after days of having to write ten pages.

(By the way, this -- answering questions for an email interview -- isn't writing. This is talking with a keyboard, which is damn near effortless. I think one of the dangerous things that's come with the rise of the Internet is that people are confusing typing with writing. Just because your words are captured in a UTF-8 character set doesn't mean that you're actually writing. Writing involves carefully shaping a thought for its desired impact. Writing means anticipating the reader's reaction, and honoring (or defeating) that expectation. Writing requires logic. Blogging just requires an account.) “