A Buck A Page

As many of you know, I’ve won a whole bunch of screenwriting (and other writing) contests — enough to cover my rent and basic necessities for several years. A lot of folks claim that writing contests are simply lotteries, and if that’s true, I must be one hell of a lucky person. Maybe so; I am Irish, after all.

But if that’s true, I’m not the only “lucky” one. If you follow contests, you’ll see the same few names crop up over and over in the winners’ circles. Meanwhile, the people who swear that contests are “crapshoots” point to the fact that they themselves rarely place in contests, as proof of contests’ randomness. I can’t help but notice that a whole lot of these very “unlucky” writers also (coincidentally, I’m sure) make a lot of grammatical errors in their message board/blog posts, and betray a certain tone-deafness in terms of sentence flow and style.

“But I’m only writing fast, on the internet! I try much harder to write well when it actually counts!” is the defense these “unlucky” aspiring writers use to explain their jarring and unreadable posts. Well, haste can certainly account for an excusable typo or two. But if your natural inclination when writing is to spew clunky, illogical, unaesthetic sentences rife with errors, you’re at a significant disadvantage in the competition to become a professional writer.

To look at it another (perhaps less threatening) way, imagine two aspiring singers:

Person A has a natural sense of pitch, and sounds good even when idly humming to herself or belting out an improptu karaoke performance. Her voice sounds pleasing to the ear. If you overhear her singing along to her iPod, you immediately think “what a lovely voice” and want to hear more. For Person A, it is her voice’s natural inclination to be on-key and aesthetically pleasing…she doesn’t have to fake it. In fact, she’d have to really “try” to sing badly.

Now consider Person B. Person B really, really wants to be a singer, and feels entitled to a singing career precisely because she wants it so much. Ever since she was little, she’s dreamed being rich and famous, and she loves to be the center of attention, so she believes a singing career is her destiny. Person B sounds fairly good when she sings in the shower (at least in her own opinion), but when she gets the chance to sing publicly, her voice tends to break or hit the wrong key. She blames the imperfect performance conditions, and gets frustrated because if only the audience would be silent, if only there were no distractions, if only the songs were more “right” for her range, if only she had more time to warm up, if only the acoustics were the same as in her bathroom…she’s certain she could sound almost as good as Person A. Even so, her voice is generally on key, except for a few wince-inducing screeches, and although her voice doesn’t have a “nice” tone exactly, it’s not altogether awful, either. It is not her voice’s natural state to be on key and aesthetically pleasing, but if she’s really, really trying and conditions are perfect and the audience isn’t too discerning (in other words, if they possess no singing ability themselves), she’s passable. She compares herself only to the worst singers, and finds that she compares favorably. She tries to ignore all the singers who are much better than she is, and if she can’t ignore them, she rationalizes that they’ve all been given an unfair advantage by some kind of rigged system.

To become a professional singer, Person A is going to have to put in a tremendous amount of work (years and years), learning to control her breathing, learning to expand her range and volume, learning how to have good stage presence, and many other skills. If she does all that, she might — might — have a shot.

So…how much of a chance do you think Person B has?

I have never, ever read a decent script by a person who doesn’t write snappy, articulate, properly-punctuated message board posts and emails. Sorry, but you can just tell who can write and who can’t, even in a casual setting.

Sure, I know there are those (invariably lazy, illiterate people whose message board posts are riddled with spelling and punctuation errors) who say they can’t be bothered writing properly in an email, blog, or message board forum, but who claim to bring their A game “when it counts.”

But I don’t believe them — not for a second. You’re either a writer all the time, or you aren’t. A talented opera singer doesn’t default to singing off-key in the shower. Singing on-key comes naturally if she has talent. She still has to work to achieve excellence, but competence is a given!

Screenwriters don’t get much respect. This isn’t news; in fact it’s a cliché. Not that most people think screenwriters deserve respect. Any Joe off the street will tell you that screenwriting isn’t difficult — it surely isn’t “real” work — and he could write something so much better if he could just find the time. During the writers’ strike, blogs all over America were filled with rants like: “Those hacks are lucky to get paid at all for writing their crappy movies! I could write better stuff than that in my sleep!”

Sigh. This is by far one of the most frustrating things that screenwriters hear, because unfortunately, most filmgoers (alas, even many Hollywood workers) are completely ignorant of the process by which a script evolves during pre-production. Most filmgoers are under the impression that a writer spends a month or so cranking out a hackneyed script, foists it into the right hands via “connections,” sells the script for a million dollars, and kicks back to sip martinis while the crew, actors and director make the best darn movie they can from the inept writer’s overpriced drivel. Hey, how could anyone believe otherwise, judging from the finished product (yet another mediocre film), or from the awful shooting script circulating on the internet? Right?

Well, the crew DOES make the best movie it can from a sometimes awful shooting script, but it’s important to understand just how that shooting script got so awful.

Let’s begin at the beginning. (Okay, not the very beginning, where the writer comes up with a promising idea, scribbles it down, puts it in a shoebox with all his other promising ideas, and then continues to brood about it and mull it over for ages until the idea refuses to be ignored. We’ll skip all the time the writer spends working the story and characters out in his head before a single word is even committed to paper; to explain this abstract creative process would be like trying to explain the mechanics of falling in love.)

Once the basic story is conceptualized, a writer spends months, even years, crafting a script. Researching. Writing and discarding dozens of outlines and treatments. Obsessing over the story, living with it 24/7. Weighing every sentence. Rewriting and rewriting and rewriting until every line of dialogue crackles. Rereading the script to make sure every plot point is unexpected yet believable, until every character lives and breathes. The writer knows the script inside and out; he has woven theme and subtext and nuance into every scene and given each character compelling motivation and a transformative arc. At that point, when the writer decides the script is as good as it’s going to get, he gives it to his agent.

The agent typically gives the script to an assistant (either an aspiring writer or an aspiring agent). The assistant will have to read the script hurriedly while dealing with his other somewhat overwhelming responsibilities around the office. The assistant will write “coverage” on the script, summarizing the plot, characters, theme, and story strengths and weaknesses on approximately two sheets of paper. This coverage will also include a list of possible ways to improve the script. (The assistant must always come up with some suggestions to improve the script no matter how much he likes it; it’s simply an expectation when one is writing professional coverage. Sometimes these suggestions are insightful and helpful; sometimes they’re petty and obligatory.)

Now the assistant passes the coverage to the agent, who (because he’s very busy and doesn’t have time to read) will read the coverage, rather than the script. Based on this coverage, the agent will give the writer notes on how to improve the script before it can go out.

If the writer is lucky, these notes are actually constructive and useful. Otherwise, the writer must try to humor the agent by incorporating whichever notes will do the least amount of damage to the writer’s original vision.

The writer resubmits the script. The process is repeated, sometimes with a different assistant or intern reading the script. (For simplification purposes we will assume this writer does not have a manager to add an extra layer of opinions and notes.)

Eventually, after much haranguing from the writer, the agent will finally agree to send the script out to producers. (Or he won’t, and the writer has to fire him and repeat the process with a new agent.)

Next, producers — or rather, the producers’ readers/assistants/interns — read and “cover” the script.

If the coverage is positive, the script may be recommended (rare) or “considered” for purchase. More likely, the writer is brought in and considered for hire. This means the writer’s spec script is declared a “writing sample,” (in other words, he doesn’t get any money for it) and the writer is asked if he can think up a workable (read: commercial) plot for a toy line, magazine article, old TV show, or other property to which the producer owns the rights. The producer will continually inject his own “cool ideas” which the writer must somehow incorporate into the plot.

If the writer’s take impresses the producer, and if he’s also very lucky (because there are other variables the producer must consider which I won’t get into here), he’ll get a contract at this point. Yay! The “sale” is splashed in the trades: “Writer X has been hired to write Big Script for mid-six figures” or some-such. That sounds very impressive, doesn’t it? Mid-six figures is, to any reasonable person, a whole lot of money.

But wait. The writer will only see a fraction (if any) of that figure to begin with, because he’s paid in “steps.” A fraction of the total is an initiation fee (which the writer often fails to receive despite contractual promises), another part is for the completion of the first draft, other parts are for successive drafts, and there’s another payment if the script actually gets made (most don’t). But let’s say the first step is $120,000. Hey, that’s still a lot, right? Of course, ten percent goes to the writer’s agent, another ten percent to his manager (if he has one), another five percent to the writer’s attorney, and a few thousand for WGA fees. Oh, and there’s that half that goes to taxes…. Still, there’s probably a solid year’s salary left over. Forty-five thousand dollars or so is a plenty respectable salary in America. Okay, so the writer didn’t get paid anything for the year he spent writing the spec that got him the job, nor did he get paid for the weeks or months he spent going to pitch meetings and development meetings. And okay, forty-five thousand doesn’t go as far in Los Angeles as in Dubuque. But writers live off pizza and ramen noodles anyway, because writers live to write. So, he’s happy enough. Now what…?

Now… he writes his “first draft.” Again, weighing, obsessing, agonizing.

At last, feeling triumphant, he hands it in.

And then — god help us all — the script goes through…. “development.”

In case you do not know what “development” means — it means a team of people, who are typically not writers, read a script (or coverage of a script) and then find a way to change, improve, or alter the script in any way they can think of. It behooves the development personnel to suggest alterations, because not to do so suggests that their job is unnecessary. (No, really.) The development personnel will actually compete with one another, each trying to come up with bigger and better changes. It’s the way to get noticed and move up the ladder at these companies. Have I mentioned that these people are not, in fact, writers?

Based on these development notes — some of which are clever, many of which are stunningly illogical — the writer must go back and “improve” the script.

(”Why,” you might ask, “would the writer agree to make changes he knows will be to the detriment of the script?” Well, the short answer is, he has to, because the producer is his boss. However…you, the filmgoer, will never know how passionately writers fight for their vision. You’ll never know how hard writers struggle to keep the smart and original stuff in there — the stuff they know will thrill you the way those rare, great, classic movies thrilled them and made them want to be screenwriters in the first place. Writers have more faith in the audience than the studios do. Writers kick and scream and get labeled “difficult” for believing that people are smart and want to be awed and challenged.

And they lose, of course. The writers always lose. Because it’s the producer’s job to make the studio happy, and it’s the studio’s job to make the corporate shareholders happy, and the corporate shareholders don’t care what sort of widget their company makes as long as the profits are good. The “money people” know the most reliable profits result from appealing to the lowest common denominator. And without their money, the film doesn’t happen. So the writer’s choice is: dumb down the script, or get replaced by someone who will.)

Needless to say, the new “dumbed-down” draft generally comes off as, well, dumb, and the development folks are baffled as to how all this dumb stuff (which they requested) got into the script. So, the writer is fired. Or, alternatively, the writer refused to make the nonsensical changes — so the writer is fired. Either way, at this stage, the writer is usually fired. (So, he can forget about seeing the rest of his step payments. All he can do is toil at another spec and hustle lots more pitch meetings and hope he can make something happen again before his rent money runs out.)

In his place, a new writer is brought onto the project, and the development-notes-rewrite cycle repeats like Nietzche’s Eternal Return. A single project can go through dozens of writers. (These successive writers may be just as talented, or even more talented, than the original writer, but each writer has a unique style, voice, and vision. Alas, these differing styles generally give the patchwork script a disjointed quality.)

Most scripts never make it out of this loop, because there’s constant turnover among executives and producers, and the new teams don’t want the old teams’ sloppy seconds. But if the script does makes it past the initial development process, it’s sent to directors and/or actors.

Guess what? The actors have notes, too. They want their characters rewritten to be more [sexy, funny, ass-kicking, damaged, etc] if they’re going to consider taking the part. This rewrite may disrupt the character’s interaction with the plot as a whole. (Some actors admit they don’t even read the entire script — just their part!) But without the star, there’s no audience…so the requested changes are made.

This step (the notes, the rewriting) repeats every time a new above-the-line person (actor, director, producer) joins the project.

By the time the project is greenlit, the umpteenth-generation script is generally a disaster. It’s a miracle, honestly, that a coherent script EVER gets shot. Who can blame the audience when they wonder why someone got paid to write this “crap”? The original writer designed a Ferrari, and a committee turned it piece by piece into a locomotive and then a spaceship. In the end, the mere fact that the engine turns over is astonishing.

Why doesn’t Hollywood make movies for “me?”

I hear this complaint all the time. “Hey! I’m a [baby boomer, senior citizen, woman, homosexual, evangelical, intellectual, minority, etc.] … why doesn’t Hollywood make movies for ME?”

Frankly, there’s a certain tragic narrow-mindedness to this viewpoint, as it presupposes that people have nothing to gain from seeing movies about people who are different from themselves. Presumably “Raiders of the Lost Ark” was exclusively for dashing male archaeology professors and “Die Hard” was made for middle-aged New York cops. And I guess only lonely robots found Wall-E’s story compelling.

From my point of view, one of the greatest things about movies is that they offer the opportunity to broaden your experience. To travel places you could never hope to visit. To embody people you could never hope to be.

But, okay. Let’s say you really are itching to see movies about people like YOU. Well. Here’s a list of 1000+ movies that were released in theaters last year. How many of those did you see, or even hear of? Are you sure not one of them was for you?

Isn’t the real question: Why didn’t I know about the movies I would have liked? Why didn’t they come to my local cineplex?

The thing is, you don’t hear people say “why aren’t there paintings being painted for me?” “Why aren’t there books being written for me?” In most of the arts, there’s an assumption that you have to actually put some effort into finding those works which suit your taste. The same goes for film. Sure, a handful of would-be “blockbusters” are advertised incessantly, but they only represent a tiny portion of the movies created each year. Really, if you believe mass-consumption tentpole extravaganzas represent all available movies, then you probably believe all restaurants are McDonalds.

Every single year, hundreds of films are released that represent practically any conceivable taste. Offbeat films. Challenging films. Personal films. There just isn’t mainstream money generating mainstream ads to promote these films, because they don’t appeal to broad mainstream tastes. Every year, quality niche films are made, with the optimistic view that discerning audiences will hunt down and celebrate these little gems. If you care that much about finding special movies that are made for “you,” track those films down. Go to film festivals. Subscribe to Netflix and take a chance on some indie films. Start a film club with like-minded people, swapping film suggestions.

Hey, maybe even make your own little indie film.

It never ceases to amaze me, the myriad ways in which aspiring screenwriters are exploited by opportunists.

A couple of days ago I was procrastinating on Craigslist (I admit, I’m one of those people who pops in from time to time just to flag the ads which offer naive writers amazing work-for-free “opportunities”), when I saw a post titled “Screenplay Readers Needed.” I see a lot of those ads on Craigslist, sometimes for contests, sometimes for production companies. This one was for an unnamed screenplay analysis site, and their post had a tinge of desperation.

I admit, I was curious. I’m very skeptical of analysis sites which delegate their work to independent contractors. How do you know who you’re getting? And how much profit is the company making, compared to the hapless, nameless reader who’s doing all the work?

Well, as the saying goes, “inquiring minds want to know.” I replied to the ad, asking for further details. I asked them what sort of qualifications they expected from their readers: should I send a resume? Samples of my screenwriting, perhaps? Of some coverage and feedback I’d written…? I discovered that their phone was answered by a real estate appraisal company (run by one of the co-founders of the analysis service). Interesting.

The following day I received a reply — so, now I knew the name of the company. I won’t mention their name, but it’s a company I’d heard of before, as they advertise rather heavily. They generally charge about $150-$200 for analysis, depending on the particular service a writer decides to order. On the surface, that’s a bargain compared to most script consultants.

However, here’s what worries me. They were not actually interested in reading my resume or hearing about any of my qualifications. See, they had received “lots of responses” to their ad, and wanted all applicants to audition by doing a screenplay analysis on spec. (Apropos of nothing, they refer to their analyses as “feedbacks” [sic].) Then, hypothetically, should they chose to hire an applicant, they’d pay him $25 per script thereafter.

Okay, $25: To read a script, and write two pages of comments, suggestions, and corrections. Let’s break that down.

To read a script — to really read it thoroughly and carefully, not just to skim — requires a couple of hours. That’s just to read the script. To make note of basic technical issues (format, awkward sentences, grammatical errors), requires another hour. To actually contemplate the story, mulling over what does and doesn’t work, and why, requires hours more. Never mind the time it takes to put all your reactions into articulate paragraphs. You’re talking a full day’s worth of work, eight to ten hours. For $25. Two or three dollars an hour.

(Hmm. What’s Burger King paying these days?)

So the overworked reader, who does all the work, earns $25 and “valuable experience.” While the middlemen who merely run the site get $100+.

But wait! Let’s examine this further. With this system, they don’t even have to pay any readers at all! They can just send clients’ scripts out to prospective employees, who will do the feedback on spec, in the guise of auditioning for a job. (Evil genius, don’t you think?)

Folks, please. Don’t waste your money on any service that would pawn your script off on anonymous, bottom-of-the-barrel readers. Ask exactly who will be reading your script, and get proof that he actually knows how to write a good screenplay!

Otherwise, you could probably get comparable feedback from amateurs at a peer-review site. And that wouldn’t even cost you a penny.

Whenever a successful writer attends a cocktail party, it’s pretty much a guarantee that someone will tell him: “I could be a writer too, if only I had the time.”

And in a sense, that person is right. In the same sense that I probably could have been an Olympic gymnast, if only I’d “had the time.”

If only I’d started at the age of five. If only I’d gotten up at four o’ clock in the morning every day, to practice. If only I’d practiced after school every day, late into the night. If only I’d kept practicing every day for the next ten or twelve or fourteen years — forsaking friendships, dates, hobbies, entertainment, and other activities that most people consider normal. Yep…if only I’d been lucky enough to have that kind of “leisure” time on my hands, I might have been an Olympic gymnast too.

Of course, on top of all that effort, I’d have to possess the natural talent to be better than all the other thousands of hopefuls who’d also spent their entire lives working towards the same dream. And the cruel part is, I wouldn’t really know if I had that kind of talent, until after I’d spent all those years practicing.

Guess what — that’s what it means to be a writer, too. You don’t do it on the occasional weekend a couple of times a year when you feel “inspired.” It isn’t something you hope to do eventually, or force yourself to do every once in a while. It’s what you ARE. Your whole life is designed around it. You’ve been doing it practically every day since you were old enough to read. And it’s the only thing you could ever imagine doing.

Everyone who earned good grades in high school English and can compose a decent paragraph imagines he has some special writing ability, and all he needs is a bit of free time to crank out a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay — just as every kid who can do a split or a handspring probably thinks he can be a gymnast. But the level of excellence which distinguishes the elite from the mediocre in any highly competitive field does not come cheap.

It costs much more than most hopefuls are willing to spend.

Because the price is time.

The internet is littered with entertainment-related blogs and entertainment-related sites, where non-Hollywood people love to post (frequently, and with many exclamation points) about how very, very much they do not care about Hollywood, not at all, not one little bit.

Why anyone would go out of his way to seek out sites to which he is so actively indifferent, I don’t quite understand.

“Why should I care about Hollywood!? They’re all just a bunch of immoral, filthy rich, far-left idiots who hate America!!!” the comments read (though spelling and grammar tend toward the creative — not too surprising considering a current cultural climate which derides intellectual achievement as “elitist” and un-American). Generally the commenter will go on to describe himself as a “real” American from the places where the real people with real values live.

For a moment I’ll pretend the question “Why should I care about Hollywood?” is not rhetorical.

First of all, Hollywood is not Tom Cruise. Hollywood is not Paris Hilton. Hollywood is not the .0001 percent of super-rich super-famous people pursued by the paparazzi, any more than “computer programmers” are Bill Gates. “Hollywood” does include a tiny handful of top actors, directors, producers, and writers; sure. But the average Hollywood professional hangs out with the A-listers about as often as the average American hangs out with Congressmen.

Hollywood, actual Hollywood, consists of thousands and thousands of middle-class (if they’re lucky!) people who work very long hours building sets, rigging lights, and doing all manner of unglamorous, grueling technical jobs for which they will never become famous. Most of these people quite frankly have neither the time nor the opportunity (nor, for that matter, the desire) to attend extravagant parties and hang out with celebrities. They don’t endorse political candidates and give interviews in glossy magazines. They don’t live in mansions in Malibu and fly private planes around the world. They get up way, way before dawn and drive to work and get bossed around by supervisors who don’t appreciate them nearly enough. They struggle with stress and fatigue and overwork because they have too much to do and not enough time to do it. They make an hourly wage. They worry about job insecurity and health care and debt. They are Democrats and Republicans; they are the highly-educated and the high school dropouts; they are Christians and Jews and non-believers and every religion under the sun; they come from big cities, they come from the Heartland, they come from the Bible Belt, they come from countries all over the world.

Should you care about them because their jobs are hard? No, at least not any more than you care about your neighbor or your husband or your friend or anyone else whose job is hard. Most Americans, after all — no matter where they live — have jobs that are hard.

But here’s why you should care about Hollywood, if you care about America:

American entertainment is beloved all over the world. Entertainment is a product that America makes better than any other country. But more importantly, it’s America’s biggest export, by far. Saying you don’t care about Hollywood is like saying you couldn’t care less if Detroit never makes another car. If you care at all about the American economy, you really SHOULD care about Hollywood. And while many Americans may not like the “values” depicted in hit Hollywood films, consider this:

In almost all (hit) Hollywood films, the good guy wins. The regular citizen fights City Hall and succeeds. The little guy achieves his impossible dream. The villain’s greed is punished; courage and determination are rewarded. The hero risks his own life for others, and saves the day.

Foreign films often have downbeat endings, but American films reflect the unwavering American belief that even the humblest among us, with guts, hope, grit, and ingenuity, can triumph over anything.

That is an American value which transcends all religions and creeds. I believe it makes us a good people, and even a great people.

But then, what do I know…? I, too, am “Hollywood.”

Aspiring screenwriters tend to have a love/hate relationship with screenwriting contests. They’ll enter a handful of them, and pin all their hopes and dreams on the results. If the script advances, that means the contest readers are perceptive individuals able to recognize true genius when they see it. And if the script fails to advance, well, the screenwriter assuages his bruised ego by declaring that his rejection is meaningless because “it’s all subjective,” after all.

Well, it is subjective…to an extent. Script readers (and producers, and audience members for that matter) are human beings with differing tastes. But — and this is important — it’s not “ALL” subjective. If you submit a script to dozens of contests, a pattern will emerge. Does your script tend to win (or place in the top, say, one percent) of most contests, even if it occasionally doesn’t make the cut? If so, it probably has something going for it; it’s connecting with most readers, and when it doesn’t make the cut it could be attributed to differences in taste. On the other hand, if your script usually doesn’t make the cut, you need to be honest with yourself and accept that your script might need a lot of work. Subjectivity should not be confused with random chance. Contests (and industry gatekeepers) don’t put the names of all the submitted scripts into a basket and draw the name of the winning screenplay. It isn’t a lottery. So, that’s the good news: increasing your odds of winning is up to you. It’s also the bad news: increasing your odds of winning is up to you.

Here’s another frustrating consideration: the pool of contenders is growing all the time. So you’d better be improving faster than the pool is expanding, or you’ll only be treading water. Terry Rossio once said, “It’s never been as hard as it is right now to break into the business, and it will never be as easy as it is right now, either.”

Consider this: My first script, a teen comedy, initially won most of the contests it competed in (except for Nicholl and Austin, where it only made the semis…still, a decent showing for a teen comedy). But, I observed that over time, the script performed less well. One year it would make the semifinals of most contests, and go no further. Then, next year, it would make the quarterfinals and go no further. What did this pattern mean? Did the script get worse somehow, just sitting around? Did the readers all of a sudden not “get” the script? No, I don’t think so. I think, over the years, the competition pool (not just for contests, but for all of Hollywood) has gotten bigger, and better. Comparatively speaking, my first script — as good as it might have been at one time — could no longer measure up. That’s why you can’t EVER stop writing, you can’t ever become complacent about your skills, you can’t ever rest on your laurels. You must keep producing fresh material, and take every opportunity to hone your craft. Would my Nicholl Fellowship-winning script still win if I re-submitted it today? I wish I knew. It’s possible the new crop of hopefuls would kick my ass. But I’m pretty sure anything I write today would still win — I’ve certainly learned a new trick or two in the years since winning the Nicholl. That’s all I can control: whether or not I best my own past efforts.

Today I’d like to focus on one of my favorite words. It’s a rarely-used word, one in danger of obsolescence, which is unfortunate because it has so much relevance today:

ULTRACREPIDARIAN n. Someone who gives opinions on matters beyond his knowledge. (Also adj. — pertaining to one who gives opinions on matters beyond his knowledge.)

ULTRACREPIDATE v. to criticize beyond one’s sphere of knowledge.

The word comes from a story recorded by Pliny. (If you’ve read much Pliny, you know he was a rather “creative” historian, so this story may be apocryphal.) Anyway….

According to the story, the famous Greek painter Apelles was hanging his paintings in a public square, when a cobbler approached and examined one of the paintings. “You’ve depicted the sandal wrong,” the cobbler said, noting that Apelles hadn’t included enough loops in the leather straps. Apelles accepted the suggestion and repainted the shoe. The cobbler then went on to smugly critique various other aspects of the painting, such as the composition, the color, and so forth. At this point the painter interrupted, declaring that “the cobbler should not judge beyond the sandals.” (Ultra crepidam means “beyond the sandal” in Latin.)

This story is also the source of the proverb, “the cobbler should stick to his last” (”last” being the term for a shoemaker’s pattern).

In contemporary parlance, ultracrepidarians are “armchair quarterbacks.”

Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach; those who can’t teach, ultracrepidate on internet message boards.

The Right Kind of People

Gone is the city, gone the day,
Yet still the story and the meaning stay:
Once where a prophet in the palm shade basked
A traveller chanced at noon to rest his miles.
“What sort of people may they be,” he asked,
“In this proud city on the plains o’erspread?”
“Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?”
“What sort?” the packman scowled; “why, knaves and fools.”
“You’ll find the people here the same,” the wise man said.

Another stranger in the dusk drew near,
And pausing, cried, “What sort of people here
In your bright city where yon towers arise?”
“Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?”
“What sort?” the pilgrim smiled,
“Good, true, and wise.”
“You’ll find the people here the same,”
The wise man said.

-Edwin Markham

“L.A. sucks.” Right? It’s so very “real” to hate L.A., or at least to declare one’s hatred of L.A. It’s practically obligatory. Particularly if you don’t live here and you deeply resent everyone telling you that if you want to work in Hollywood, moving to L.A. is a MUST.

Granted, we have a lot that’s bad here: congestion, crime, pollution, high prices, crazy people, frenzy, chaos, stupidity.

And we have a whole lot that’s good: gorgeous weather, jaw-dropping parks, hiking, horseback riding, boating, biking, beaches, open spaces (no, really); world-class museums, concert halls, and universities; tolerance, whimsy, artists, thinkers, doers, genuises. You can meet people from every corner of the world. You can sample the cuisine of every country you can name (and plenty you’ve never heard of). You can go surfing at sun-up, and ski snow-capped mountains by afternoon.

In other words, we have everything here. And, true to the sentiment in the poem above, I think when a person hates Los Angeles it actually says more about the person than the city.

If you’re intolerant, judgmental, set in your ways, and prone to being unhappy, you will HATE Los Angeles. If you’re nervous and uneasy around People Who Are Different Than You, the immigrants will drive you crazy. The crazy people will drive you crazy. The lack of homogenity and predictability will drive you crazy.

The thing is, I’ve lived in a whole lot of places and found that on the surface anywhere can appear unpleasant. On the surface, the South is vapid and phony. On the surface, the Midwest is conformist and ignorant. On the surface, the Northeast is superior and hostile. On the surface, the West is flighty and self-absorbed. And if you can only see the world in terms of “us” and “them,” you’ll never see beyond the surface, no matter where you go, and you’ll never realize that all those places are full of folks who are essentially decent, hopeful, hardworking, and honorable.

So, it’s normal to be fearful of moving to L.A. But, if you want to be a screenwriter — if you’re really, really, serious about it — you have to. I’m sorry. But you do.

Is it technically possible to break in from the middle of nowhere? Before you scour Variety for anecdotes about supposed far-flung outsiders who broke in — (these stories are largely P.R. distortions, by the way) — yes, it’s not unheard of. But understand that these rare stories are the exceptions that prove the rule. And considering the long, long, long odds against breaking in even if you have everything in your favor, why make your chances even worse?

By refusing to move to L.A., you’re hedging your bets. You’re not willing to go to the very limit in the pursuit of your calling. Why? Is it because deep down you know you won’t make it? Because you’re not willing to sacrifice your “creature comforts” and financial stability? Because you have a spouse who isn’t entirely supportive? Because you’re not sure this is what you really want?

Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.

See, I don’t think this “fear of Los Angeles” thing is really about L.A. at all. I think it’s about what L.A. represents. As long as you remain in your small pond, Hollywood is just a fantasy, and your would-be career (much like your purely conceptual World’s Greatest Screenplay) exists in the perfect realm of ideals. But if you move here, it means you’re really serious about this screenwriting thing. It’s not just a daydream any longer — it’s a commitment. And when you commit yourself to something so big, so ambitious, so staggeringly unlikely, you expose yourself to ridicule and rejection. You don’t get to be a big fish in the small pond of East Cupcake anymore, boasting of your undiscovered genius, about how you could surely write rings around all those Hollywood hacks and turn the town upside down. Hollywood will put you through the toughest test of your life, and your talent (or lack thereof) won’t just be a hypothetical any more.

But at least you’ll know.

Los Angeles infamously makes a bad first impression; when you arrive you’ll endure one of the world’s least convenient airports, from which you’ll promptly merge into a stupefying traffic jam. Strip mall after strip mall will scroll past your car like a Hanna-Barbara background. In fact if you stay less than a week or two, you might see nothing but freeways and strip malls. But don’t worry; the ugly stuff is just for show. See, if everyone knew how interesting L.A. can be, why, everyone would move here, and there just isn’t room. The longer you’re here, the more you’ll discover that L.A. is really thousands of different little neighborhoods side by side. You’ll find the one that fits you. And you don’t have to change at all. In a city that has every walk of life, you’re accepted as you are.

Writers have this weird problem: everyone wants to give us their “ideas.”

“So you’re a writer, eh? Well, would you believe, I have an idea that would make the greatest movie! Guaranteed blockbuster! Oscar material!” the Random Stranger says, usually after giving you a lecture about how writers get paid way too much to write the bad movies they write, and how the movie industry goes about its business all wrong, and how he (Mr. Random Stranger) would write his own much better scripts if only he had the time.

“Okay, okay,” you (the writer) sigh. “Let me hear your idea.”

At which point, if you’re lucky, Mr. Random Stranger is the paranoid sort, who refuses to tell you his great idea because you’ll probably “steal” it. (Yeah…I have six shoeboxes full of my own ideas that I’ll never, ever have time to develop. And a dozen new ideas each week. So does every writer. It’s kind of, you know, part of a writer’s job to come up with them. Want some?)

Anyway, if he’s not the paranoid sort, Mr. Random Stranger will tell you his idea. And nine times out of ten (no, make that ninety-nine times out of one hundred), the idea will go something like this:

“So…there’s this guy, right?…and he had dyslexia when he was a kid, right?…and plus he was really small…and so the other kids used to pick on him and stuff. But then when he got older he started to work out a lot. And then he became, like, tough. He got a job as a bouncer. And then the kids who used to pick on him, they’d try to get into the bar. But he would just laugh at them! Great, huh? And then he started dating the cocktail waitress, who was really hot. And would you believe, they got married! But….then she got cancer. And he had to watch her die really slowly. And it was really sad. Really sad.”

And then, to further sell the greatness of this story, Mr. Random Stranger will add (quite unnecessarily), “Would you believe, it’s all true! That actually happened to me!”

Sigh.

Having read a whole lot of scripts (professionally and otherwise), and having been pitched a whole lot of ideas (professionally and otherwise), I hereby offer this little list of tips that your “great idea” probably…isn’t.

1. It’s your life story, or that of some other member of your immediate family.

I’m sorry to break it to you, but your life, as fascinating/sad/unfair/funny as it may seem to you, is probably more mundane than you realize.

On the other hand, maybe your life really is quite astonishing. Maybe you ran off to join the circus as a six year old, ran away from the circus to become an assassin at eleven years old, ousted the government of a small island country at seventeen years old, and for the past twenty years you’ve taught blind kids how to play professional polo. Well, believe it or not, your extraordinary life is a problem, too, story-wise. Because, as Mark Twain said, “The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to be credible.”

Mundane or extraordinary, your “true life story” is unlikely to make a good film. See, life, real life, is full of wild coincidences, vague motivations, ambiguous results, illogical decisions. That doesn’t work in a movie. Drama (and when I say “drama” I mean comedy too) needs to have a direct chain of consequences: This cause (choice/action by the hero) clearly leads to this effect, which then leads the hero to make this choice, and so on, until the big conclusion. Drama needs to make sense. Motivations need to be clear. Choices need to be understandable. Story threads need to tie up in the end. That’s what a “story” is.

2. It’s about a “friend” who overcame a disease or domestic abuse or a tough childhood or similar personal drama.

See #1.

3. It’s the true story of what a jerk/bitch your ex really was.

If you want revenge, write a memoir. (If you’re famous. Otherwise, see #1.)

4. You’re not sure what your story’s about; you can just picture a couple of “cool scenes.”

When Robert Towne, arguably one of the greatest living screenwriters, was hired to write Mission Impossible 2, he was given a list of unrelated “set pieces” (read: cool scenes) that the producers demanded he work into the movie. He was instructed to just string the “cool scenes” together with, you know, plot-type stuff, and give Tom Cruise some cool lines to say. Ever see Mission Impossible 2? Sucked, didn’t it?

5. It involves a kid who goes to sleep and/or loses consciousness, arriving in a “magical dreamland” where he/she is some sort of lost royalty who must save the kingdom before waking up.

As a reader I’ve encountered SO MANY amateur scripts with this tired plot. Who knows why. Maybe people come up with this stuff when they tell bedtime stories to their kids? Maybe too many people internalized The Wizard of Oz when they were kids? Anyway, blecch.

6. It involves a bunch of college (or high school) stoner buddies who hang around or drive around and say “profound” stoner stuff.

Nearly every 20-something’s first script is just like this. That’s okay. Move on, and try to write something original next time.

7. It involves godlike mythological characters such as Cupid, Aphrodite, guardian angels, muses, etc.

You’d be amazed how many bad amateur scripts, particularly romantic comedies, involve Cupid as a matchmaker or guardian angels falling in love with mortals. Sure, good movies have been made with such characters (Wings of Desire, for instance), but they’re the exception, so be aware that if you’ll have to overcome a reader’s initial eyeroll.

8. It’s “really real,” in other words, it involves ordinary people living ordinary lives.

Yawn.

9. You can’t describe the premise in fewer than three sentences.

You probably don’t really have a premise.

10. Your “cool premise” is really just a protagonist.

“So, like, there’s this guy, and he’s like, a vigilante superhero, you know, kind of like Batman? Except the thing is, he’s really a vampire!” for instance, is NOT a story premise.