Welcome to screenwriting!

By: Hilary McIndoo

 Every endeavor is fraught with its challenges, failures and uncertainties. So trying to write a script is no exception. And many established professionals in the film industry can claim that the warning signs are posted clearly and legibly for all to see, every step of the way. They may even claim that the introduction to this site is nothing new, or certainly nothing compared to what they had to go through. However, as far as I know, they haven't been asked to write an advice column. And I was.

 One of the most commonly asked questions about writing is: how do I get started? You start the same way you do anything else: by starting.

 Initially, this means you have to be both an active participant in life and an observer of it. Thousands of little daily dramas unfold around you every day. Tragedies and amazements of epic proportion roll across whole societies as the planet continues to circle the sun. By being born here, you agreed to play in the game of life. By choosing to become a writer, you agree to put into action the inborn skills you brought with you. Like everything else that eventually comes to fruition, bringing forth these skills requires attention, nurturance, education, faith, and love. And patience, too--a frustrating trait I'm not overly fond of!

You pay attention to becoming a writer by listening. If your friends like to hear what your day was like and respond with comments such as, "That was a good story!", listen to them. They are telling you that you are a good storyteller. You are also required to listen to them: to track the day's events as they map the character of their lives. Get a pencil and paper. Put it in writing.

Millions of writers have gone before you, so the above advice isn't an insight of staggering and timely relevance. However, I mention it because you will need to believe in yourself. A lot. And you will need your friends.

Commit to performing the act. This often requires an investment. Of time, specifically. Crafting a new work involves dedication. When these intentions are put into reality, they are marked by doing both daily and extraordinary things. This means: write every day.

Write something every day. For me, it doesn't mean I HAVE to write my screenplay every day. (I once turned out a shimmering book of poetry which I can read ten years later and still be astonished by. Those poems were my assignment to write something every day, when what I was really doing was beating myself up for not writing my screenplay. The poems were all I had time for. Or so I thought then.) Writing something every day can range from eavesdropping on conversations in cafes and quickly jotting down the turns of speech, to little quips left on the refrigerator, to contemplative journal entries, to artfully long letters, to impassioned and imploring emails.

 And, of course, it means progressing on your script. Your script does have to get written, and you will have to muscle it  along every single step of the way.

 In the meantime, write something every day. Soon you will begin to notice that somewhere in your psyche, you have  pressed the "record" button. You will be experiencing life, and suddenly you will have a wealth of it to draw on.

One of the ways to start honing the skills of this craft is to take a screenwriting class. Either that, or check out a couple of how-to books from the library. Or both. Depending on your budget, you can get a film degree, take a one or two year program, attend a weekend workshop, buy or borrow the books. Seeing movies at the cinema with a live audience is a requirement. Renting videos in order to pause and take notes, is too. Throughout this schooling you will be reminded many times: you gotta spend money to make money.

Due to the fact that--before software--writing a screenplay was seen as the latest get-rich-quick scheme, of course there are many writing imposters lurking about in the big bad world. Do what you can afford. Be prepared to learn. Realize as well that a course may be a gamble where it becomes a waste of your time and money. I have a four-year film degree. I refer to it as my Useless Liberal Arts Degree, because my school didn't teach script-writing in its film and television program! In a way it was a waste of time--I know this because of taking summer classes at another university's film school for additional credits my senior year, and learning more in that summer than I had in the previous three years at "my" school.

I have taken the weekend workshops of Robert McKee and John Truby, and highly recommend both. I have read the books by Syd Field and Linda Seger. I prefer hers: HOW TO MAKE A GOOD SCRIPT GREAT. The above four names are industry standards now, and personally I would agree that their information will serve you well.

As for the local script courses you can take practically anywhere these days: beware. Remember this warning: Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. There are countless supposedly lapsed Hollywood professionals who have retired to other cities and small towns, claiming to be established producers and writers. If their advertisements in the local paper gives a list of credits and achievements with studios and production houses, call these places. Find out. You can sit at any desk in Hollywood pretending to be a writer, then go back home and say you are. If the fee is something you can afford, and you feel you'll get something out of the course, then by all means go to it. If you've already written a couple of scripts and at least one of them is good enough to be doing the rounds, then you probably don't need to attend these smaller workshops. If you are a new initiate to the craft and feeling particularly vulnerable, be prepared for meeting someone like me. I'm not teaching a local screenwriting class, but maybe I should be. Because I'll tell you if you're wasting your money:

Several months ago, I got a call from an old office mate, introducing his friend. They had got to talking and my name came up, whereby the friend said he wanted me to review his script. I was stumped by this request! The writer is a pretty well-known cinematographer; he had to know lots of people, and he couldn't get his movie made? The officemates said he was requesting the review because it was the second draft of a first script, and he hadn't taken it around yet. So he'd really appreciate the advice.

I talked with the cinematographer and then read his script. He told me he was in the second session of our local screenwriting class. Each session lasts for a few weeks and costs a couple hundred dollars. So here he was, well into the second session and the instructor still hadn't caught the most basic of mistakes. He had nonsense action and bit players taking up the first third of the script: the relationship between the two leads wasn't established until at least thirty minutes into the story. (By that point: who cares?)

I met the cinematographer in a cafe. I watched him work the crowd as he made his way to my table: he did indeed know everybody. He proudly told each and every one of them that he was here for his script review, and they cheered him every step of the way. I cringed through the last-minute approach of a well-wisher who wanted him to sign his newest book that she'd just bought. Then I told him the truth;

His new script will probably sell before my current one, because it's a pretty standard story. But it IS his story. (Honor this when it comes your turn for a review. The story you are reading belongs to someone else. Not you. Don't rewrite the story. That's making it your story.) I told him I was sorry he'd spent money on this screenwriting course, because his instructor hadn't caught the mistake of the story starting too late. I gave him some suggestions on how to bring it forward, break up the original beginning, and then put those pieces in later on. Still the same story. Just re-arranged a bit, and told better. I showed him how.

During this I watched his body language as he got increasingly defensive. Eventually he couldn't stand it any longer. It's the story of a president's teenage daughter who gets kidnapped. He snapped, "But Hilary! I CAN'T start the story any sooner because her father hasn't been ELECTED yet!!" I looked at him evenly and said with a smile, "Bill. Bill. This is a work of: fiction. Not historical fact. This is not based on historical fact. You can make him get elected any time you want to."

 All writers need to know it's okay to hold this power. And if you aren't receiving it from your instructors and colleagues, perhaps you'll find it here.

cheers--Hilary

(c) Hilary McIndoo, 2001