I’ve changed the name of the character, but I want her to be a comedienne, as this fits really well with the story. Most of the other aspects of the story are completely made-up, and I’ll probably only include a few situations based on real events.

Can I get in trouble for creating a character with the same personality and the same profession as the real person? How much can I get away with? Can I include things that this person has said in real life? This character is fascinating and needs to have her story told!

– Lex
Calgary, Alberta

Yes, you can get in trouble. She could sue you for libel, defamation — or the equivalent under Canadian law. By your description, she probably would sue, so you’ve really answered your own question.

Don’t poke bears.

As a writer, you’re naturally going to be drawn towards real-life people who are fascinating. That’s a good thing. Observe behavior. Figure out motivations and pathology. Then forget the real person.

Unless you’re writing a bio-pic, don’t base characters on anyone who actually exists. Not only are you exposing yourself to legal trouble, you’re ultimately shortchanging yourself as a writer. Real people are good in the real world, but you need characters that feel real in the universe of your story.

So stop thinking about this character as being the comedienne. Rip a photo out of a magazine and decide your character looks like this woman instead. What does her voice sound like? Where does she live? Is one of her neighbors stealing her mail? Is she trying to avoid her Bible-quoting brother?

Make her situation specific, and specifically different than the comedienne. It’s okay to admit to yourself that she inspired your character — inspiration is free to the universe. But every detail should be something you created, discovered, or wove in from the hundreds of other people you have studied. Your story will be better for it.

“I’m mad!” she’ll declare, pursing her lips and scrunching her eyes. Most times, she’s not the least bit angry, but rather curious whether her simulation of anger is close enough to the real thing to elicit the desired response. The adults in her life are essentially lab rats. We run through her mazes as she tests her hypotheses.

Currently, the bulk of her experiments involve fake tears. Every parent knows exactly what real crying sounds like, be it a scraped knee or a crushed hope: plaintive, gasping, desperate. Real tears show up uninvited and unwelcome.

Fake crying is a caterwaul, a siren parked three feet away. It’s a performance. Lacking the ability to summon tears, children rub or cover their eyes, pausing every now and then to survey the room to see whether it’s working.

Nope? All right. Back to the wailing.

As a parent, I endure these episodes with a measured response, knowing it’s just a phase.

But as a writer, I watch her with fascination, secretly hoping she gets better at faking it.

While it doesn’t rank up there with math and reading, the ability to simulate an emotion you’re not actually feeling is a fundamental skill, one that’s served me particularly well.

This is an essay in defense of fake tears.

Writing as acting

I had lunch yesterday with a former child actor who has gone on to have a big career. I knew he got his first roles when he was four years old, but I was curious at what age he started “acting” — that is, when did he become aware of craft and technique?

His answer: at four. His father taught him to maintain eye contact with the other actors in the scene, and listen carefully to what they were saying. He wasn’t allowed to perform. He simply had to experience the moment and follow along.

Experiencing the moment is what writers do, too.

Screenwriters are basically actors who do their work on the page rather than the stage. Both professions earn their keep by pretending things are much different than they are. Actors ignore the lights and cameras and missing walls. Writers ignore the missing everything, summoning locations and characters to enact scenes which they can later transcribe.

Actors and writers are trying to create moments that feel true, despite being completely invented.

Read a good book on acting, and you’ll find many techniques that can help you as a screenwriter. Sense memory — the ability to experience a sensation that is not actually present — lets you feel the rumble of approaching tanks. Other exercises have you substituting your experiences for the character’s, letting the broken arm you got in fifth grade be the gunshot in your hero’s leg.

Once you become aware of the techniques, you find yourself pressing your brain’s RECORD button whenever you experience something remarkable or intense. The middle section of The Nines documents my disassociative disorder during production on the TV show D.C. in 2000. Even in my fugue state, I realized it was fascinating and worth recording. That red light was blinking in the corner a lot.

When my dog of 14 years passed away this summer, I was a wreck. I wasn’t faking any tears, but I was keenly aware of them. I kept mental notes on how it felt to feel that way; rather than push past the experience, I pushed into it.

My dog was a huge part of my life. He was my kid before I had my kid. In losing him, one thing I gained was that experience of profound loss. I’ll have it to use for the rest of my life.

Feeling your way through

Here’s how I wrote the last ten pages of Big Fish.

Sitting in front of a full-length mirror, I brought myself to tears. Then I started writing Will’s dialogue. I looped over and over until I got a piece of it finished, then started on the next section. It was three solid days of crying, but it was cathartic and productive.

These were fake tears, in the sense that I wasn’t actually guiding my Southern father through his last moments on Earth. But they were true in the context of writing the story. I was creating in myself the experience I was hoping to create in the reader.

One basic goal of creative writing is to evoke a desired response. That sounds clinical and scientific, but the process is squishy and exhausting. I don’t hear other screenwriters talking much about it, probably because it’s uncomfortably personal. At least writers get to do it alone, without a crew and cameras watching.

My daughter’s fake tears are writing practice, just as much as her wobbly uppercase letters. I’m hesitant to offer her much coaching on how to cry more convincingly; it’s like arming your opponent.

But as I watch her perform an ersatz lament, I find myself pressing the RECORD button. And hoping she’s doing the same.

I’m doing very well with school but I feel I’m not getting anywhere in the process. I mean, the way school is going I’m not going to graduate until I’m around 25 – 26 years of age which is just absurd especially since I’ve been in school already for a year & a half. I may not even finish my online schooling because it’s a bit pricey for the cost per class. I’m also not able to truly associate or really affiliate with anyone through the online program. Online schooling is just not good in that matter since everything is through a message board. You’re also not able to get hands on with anything. I’ve even looked on transferring but the situation is just not presenting itself well.

I’ve talked to a few people and even read some things on if schooling is needed for this industry and some say yes and others say no. It’s a guessing game from where I’m standing.

I’ve even looked around on ways to get noticed or recognized as many have said film festivals, film schools and so forth but that’s nothing new and I didn’t already know. But in order to enter a film festival, I need a film and that takes a lot of money to get a film made and I just don’t have the resources either. I’m really just looking for answers on what do and how I can get my foot through the door but then again, I’m still looking for a door.

I can’t just up & move to California even though I do plan on going out there sometime down-the-line (when? Who knows at this time) but I wouldn’t know where to begin or let alone look, on how to get some kind of acknowledgment or advice. My folks and I are just trying to find some answers for me or a path of some sorts. It’s just becoming frustrating. My folks are questioning on what to do as it’s a dead end on every corner and opportunities are just not coming about.

I hope that maybe you could provide some answers or something.

– Scott
Florida

I think online classes are a great option for many topics, but basic filmmaking isn’t one of them. Drop out and save your money.

Yes: a class that was purely about screenwriting could be taught online, but almost every other part of filmmaking is physical and collaborative. You need to be setting up lights and comparing angles and figuring out why the sound isn’t recording right. An online session might offer a master class with Robert Elswit talking about composition. It would be fascinating. But it wouldn’t be the practical information you need right now as an aspiring filmmaker.

Make short films. Find little movies that are shooting in Florida and work on them for free. Take local classes in the things that interest you.

You’re 22 — you don’t have to have your whole life figured out. But you owe it to yourself to pursue every interesting thing with every bit of energy you have. And if you still find filmmaking is your number one passion, move to a place where they make movies. That’s Los Angeles, New York, and (recently, thanks to tax credits) Louisiana. Get yourself there and get hired on a movie. You’ll learn more your first week as a PA than you have so far in your online classes.

Read what Adam Davis wrote about his experience moving to LA to get started. It’s not easy, but it’s not overwhelming either. Every young actor you’ve seen on TV has moved to Los Angeles, and trust me, many of them aren’t that smart or confident.

Your parents are nervous because they don’t see a clear path ahead for you. My mom was the same way. But once I was here, working 16-hour days on a hundred different things, she could at least see that I’d found something that really engaged me. I was making things, even if I wasn’t making enough money to buy a bed.

It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to have doubts. But don’t let them paralyze you. You don’t have much, but you have your youth. There are many folks reading this blog in their thirties or forties with a marriage and mortgage who don’t have options you have. Embrace your freedom and explore.

So for the past few years, I’ve been aiming more towards “areas of interest” rather than true resolutions. That way, there’s no promise to be broken.

For 2009, two of my publicly-professed areas of interest were:

1. Trying more Austrian white wines
2. Finding a nemesis

Some background is obviously in order.

Austrian white wines seemed like just the right level of achievable affectation. They’re neither rare nor ubiquitous. You’ll find one or two reasonably-priced bottles on many restaurant’s wine lists. And it’s extremely low-risk: the worst Austrian white wine I’ve had is pretty damn good.

While I didn’t become an instant expert in Austrian whites this year — I didn’t Tim Ferriss it — I consider the experiment a strong success. I drank good wine and became pals with the Grüner Veltliner grape. Ask a sommelier about Austrian whites and he lights up, happy to talk about something new.

The nemesis idea never really took off.

It all sprang from a basic realization: I’m competitive. Some of my most productive periods have come when I’ve actively compared myself to someone else — and if it was someone I disliked, all the better. I saw a nemesis as a way to harness my negative emotions in the service of getting stuff done.

But I could never think of a good nemesis. It’s a tricky combination: You need to both respect and despise the person simultaneously. There are many filmmaker-types I respect, but they’re all genuinely good people. There are a handful of filmmakers I despise, but I don’t respect them enough to care what they’re doing.

I needed an evil J.J. Abrams, but I never found one.

In thinking about my areas of interest for 2010, I’m taking my cues from last year: pursuing things that make me happy (wine) and avoiding things that don’t. Again, these aren’t resolutions in the classic sense, but rather statements of philosophy — ideas I want to pursue more strongly in the year ahead.

Auf Wiedersehen, Schadenfreude

You know who I’m rooting for in 2010? Everyone.

I’m rooting for Spider-Man the Musical, Ghost Rider 2, ScriptShadow and the Republican party. While I have serious concerns with each, I’ll happily cheer the best versions of any of them, because it’s not a zero-sum game.

Life, movies and popular culture are a lot more like Settlers of Catan than Monopoly. You don’t win by destroying and humiliating your opponents.

I want 2010 to be the biggest year at the box office for both clever indies and mega-tentpoles based on sticker books. I want a year crammed with so many award-worthy titles that ten best picture slots seems like too few.

For 2010, I’ll be watching for that twinge of schadenfreude and trying to snuff it out immediately. Negative emotion is a waste of time.

Archery

The new Austrian white. Because if it turns out I’m terrible at it, who cares?

Work as the reward

A confession: on some projects, the only way I can force myself to sit at the computer is to calculate the amount I’m being paid per page, until greed or guilt makes the writing happen.

I’m hoping the majority of my work for the new year can be done with healthier motivation. It is tremendously satisfying to be writing well, and that should be the goal. ¹

Twenty-ten is going to be a busy year, though it’s not clear exactly which projects will happen.

I’ll be adapting How I Became a Famous Novelist and working on a movie I owe Fox. One very long-simmering non-movie project should finally be announced.

There is also a new version of this site that is just about ready to launch, and an iPhone app I’ll soon be beta-testing.

But that’s after the New Year. Until then, I’ll be on break. Happy Holidays. See you on the other side.

1. I taught my daughter to read this year, and was careful to make sure she enjoyed it for the sense of achievement rather than my praise. “Good job!” is a trap.

In fiction, it’s crucial.

As the writer, you need to burn down houses. You need to push characters out of their safe places into the big scary world — and make sure they can never get back. Sure, their stated quest might be to get home, but your job is to make sure that wherever they end up is a new and different place.

Writers tend towards benevolence. We love our characters, and want to see them thrive. So it can be hard to accept that what our hero actually needs is to have everything taken away, be it by fire, flood, divorce or zombie uprising. No matter the story, no matter the genre, we need to find ways to strip characters of their insulating bubbles of normalcy.

The Fire (or other catastrophe) often occurs as an inciting incident, setting the wheels of plot in motion. In The House Bunny, Anna Faris’s character is kicked out of the Playboy Mansion by page 10. In Gladiator, Russell Crowe’s family is killed.

Just as often, The Fire signals the end of the first act. In Star Wars, Luke returns home to find his aunt and uncle dead. In 9 to 5, the trio of secretaries has inadvertently kidnapped their boss. There’s no going back to the way things were.

But The Fire can work just as well later in the story, effectively burning bridges characters have just crossed. Three of my upcoming projects feature second-act or third-act Fires that not only keep the momentum going, but also remind the audience of the scale and stakes. ¹ Late fires ward off complacency in everything from The Dark Knight to Revenge of the Nerds.

It’s easy to think of dozens of great movies that never really burn the house down. But the better exercise is to look at your own scripts and ask, (a) what could burn, and (b) why haven’t I lit it on fire?

1. There’s something uniquely cinematic about destroying a giant set. A TV show, no matter its ambitions, generally has to protect its standing sets until at least the end of a season.

You have to remember that as the screenwriter, you’re the only person in the room who has actually seen the movie. You’ve seen the locations in your head. You’ve heard the music. So everyone else is trying to catch up with you, and you need to help them.

I’m paraphrasing a bit — none of this was recorded. But it’s such a smart observation that I didn’t want it to slip by undocumented.

Most of my job as a screenwriter is helping other people see the movie in my head. Obviously, the screenplay is a lot of that, but all the conversations that go along with it are often just as important.

I’ve gone through six drafts and am still incorporating changes from someone’s notes. This script was my world for nine months and I’d like nothing better than to move on to my next project full-time, but I feel like Pacino in Godfather III.

Any suggestions?

– John
Kansas City

Here’s the thing: writing sucks. It’s difficult on a good day, and intolerable on most others. That’s why I’ll gladly answer your question rather than spend these 20 minutes of staring at the scene I ought to be writing.

First drafts are hard, but at least they’re exciting and new. Second drafts have the advantage of problem-solving, and feel like forward progress. Every draft after that is a slog. And I mean slog in the most onomatopoetic sense: boots sinking in mud to your ankles, a thick slurp with each exhausting footstep. Sure, you want the draft to be good, but you mostly just want it to be done.

When you’re getting paid for it, you can sometimes muscle through a rewrite by calculating how much you’re getting paid per page. Even imaginary income works for this. While I’m annoyed by the lottery mentality with which a lot of aspiring screenwriters approach the craft (spec sale as sweepstakes), let’s face it: your script isn’t worth anything until it’s finished.

If you’ve promised a new draft to someone whose opinion you value, picturing his or her face can be a motivation. Better yet, promise exactly when you’ll deliver it. Deadlines help, as do consequences.

Consider rewards. For every three pages you finish, you get to watch a Dollhouse on the DVR.

Beyond that, I can offer a few suggestions that are not of the carrot-or-stick variety:

• Challenge yourself to remove one seemingly important scene. Imagine what would happen if the actor you needed died during production, and that scene never got shot. Could you work around it? Could you make the movie better for its absence?

• Push yourself to use better words. Particularly in the back half of a script, there’s a tendency to get a bit sloppy and repetitive. Make that scene description on page 98 as sharp as it was on page 13. Here’s a test: Are you using “there are?” If so, you could do better.

• Imagine a secondary plot that we’re not seeing. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, perhaps there’s an offscreen adventure taking place that a reader will never see. Only you as the writer will know it’s there. Dangerous? Sure. But on your fifth draft, a little danger may be what you need.

Will you reach a point at which it’s simply impossible (or self-defeating) to keep rewriting? Yes. But don’t confuse the standard difficulties of writing with true burnout. Here’s the difference: When you’re burned out, you simply don’t care. You’ll make a scene worse just to get it done. That’s when you need to quit and write something else.

I don’t want to act too pushy, but when can I let them know I’d like an answer if they are interested or not? How many times can you call/email? I have emailed two times and called once. It is quite frustrating as I would like their female star to play my main character, but I am willing to move on.

– Lorna
Paris

Move on. They already did.

I can’t reduce it to some simple “He’s Just Not That Into You” formula, but two months is far beyond the limit. You followed up. They didn’t. It’s over.

Trust me: I’ve been exactly where you’re at a lot. It sucks. But you’re better off forging ahead than trying to figure out what happened at the incommunicative production company.

Normally we would try to find a way to compromise and work both of our ideas into the next draft, but in this case it’s seemingly impossible. What she wants do will change the way readers perceive the story in a fundamental way. We have a twist at the end of the second act that is very important to the story, but if we make her changes the twist will lose all of its impact. I’m certain that if we make the changes our story will suffer. She thinks otherwise. We’ve come to a standstill because we disagree with each other wholeheartedly and we don’t know what to do now. Any ideas?

– Will
Los Angeles

I don’t have an answer, really. I’m posting your question mostly so readers will consider one of the significant downsides of writing with a partner. While it’s great to have an extra brain helping to write a script, you’re unlikely to always agree, and compromises may not always make sense.

I’ve only written one thing with a partner — the pilot(s) for Ops, with Jordan Mechner. Jordan’s a friend and a good writer. But I have more experience, and tended to use that fact to win any and all disagreements. That’s not a particularly healthy working relationship. We’re better friends now that we’re not staring at the same scenes.

Some people are good writing partners, just like some people are good roommates. I’m not either one, frankly, and that’s not likely to change.

It’s not an answer, but my best suggestion at this point, Will, is to let her try it her way. It may spoil the twist, but it may uncover some other interesting possibilities you aren’t considering.

Thanks to Rawson for the link.

I know some people in the industry… and the lifelong question of when to ask someone to read your work, or help you out comes to mind. I am very shy about when to ask, and never want them to think I am “using them.” But, it seems like if you don’t go out every night, and drink and party with them, they lose sight of who you are. Some pull the Kevin Williamson, and you will be introduced to them 100 times, and they still cannot remember your name…

How do you know when to ask for help, or a reference, or both, or even a foot in the door? If you don’t party with them every night is that going to hurt my chances in the long run? And when should you ask?

I don’t want to come off as a user, but it seems like everyone else is. Do I need to sink down to that level to succeed?

I know there is such thing as a missed opportunity….but..?

Thanks in advance,

– “Anonymous.”

What’s not clear from your question — if it really is a question, rather than an extended harrumph — is exactly how people are using you and/or stabbing you in the back. Let’s look at some scenarios.

• Are you reading their scripts, offering helpful notes, while they can’t be bothered to do the same for you?

• Are they repeating your ideas as their own?

• Are they talking behind your back? Stealing your beer? Making love to your girlfriend?

• Are you helping them move, without receiving reciprocal futon-hauling?

All of these are clear offenses. But my hunch is that nothing so egregious is actually occurring. You’re just finding it difficult to make headway personally or professionally. So you wonder: Is this indicative of the Hollywood culture, or specific to you?

It’s both.

Let’s divide it into more distinct questions.

Does the entertainment industry, and Los Angeles in general, tend to generate a lot of shallow friendships?

In my experience, yes. You end up knowing a lot of people, but not knowing them very well. The boundaries between “someone you know” and “friend” are indistinct. People flake out on you more, offering only half-hearted rsvps (“I’ll try to make it.”) or after-the-fact explanations-cum-apologies (“Traffic was insane.”) Keep in mind that you work in an industry in which people genuinely don’t know when they’ll be permitted to go home. An assistant working at a busy agent’s desk might be there until midnight.

Can you form real friendships in the industry? Absolutely. One of my best friends is the woman who was hired to replace me when I left my last assistant job. I got to know her through the hundred follow-up phone calls asking where a certain file was, or how to handle Crazy Person #32. But you don’t form real friendships when you approach people with the worry that they may stab you in the back.

Here’s the thing to remember: Friends are for your personal happiness. Colleagues are part of your career. You may go to drinks with both, but don’t confuse them.

When do you ask a colleague for help, or a reference, or both, or even a foot in the door?

At whatever moment you think there’s a pretty good chance they would help you. And a lot of that depends on your level of chutzpah. Some of the most successful people in the industry are the most shameless about asking people for things. Brett Ratner wrote to Spielberg, who sent him a check. Does Spielberg feel “used?” Pretty unlikely.

I was never that ballsy, but I did a good job keeping up with my peers, helping them whenever I could. When it came time to move to a larger agency, I asked their opinions and got them to call on my behalf. I’ll call a writer I’ve met once to ask about a project, or an executive, or director with a questionable reputation. That’s how it works.

And don’t assume you have nothing to offer someone who has more experience in the industry. When I have coffee with younger writers, I’m asking them as many questions as they ask me.

How do you ask for help?

By doing so directly, while giving the person an out.

• “I’m applying for a reader job at New Regency. You said you know Ethan Someguy. Would you feel comfortable calling him on my behalf?”

• “I wrote a short that I want to shoot next month, and I’d really like your feedback if you’d be willing to look at it.”

You then follow up nicely.

• “Just wanted to check whether you were able to connect with Ethan Someguy.”

• “I wanted to see if you’d had a chance to read my short.”

Is it just me?

No, Anon, it’s not. At many points in my career I’ve wanted to throw someone through a wall. But the situation you’re describing seems at least partly attributable to your attitude.

You’re not in the happiest place right now, which could be situational or could be a bigger deal. Disappointment is not depression. But if your overall mood is consistently needling downward, getting the advice of an actual psychology professional would seem to be in order. All the career advice in the world isn’t going to make you happy if larger obstacles stand in the way.