Some readers had questions they didn’t get to ask on the call-in show last night, so I answered them this morning.
Unanswered Questions from John August on Vimeo.
QandA
Take away the questions
Discover Magazine has a list of eleven [Rules for Time Travelers](http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/cosmicvariance/2009/05/14/rules-for-time-travelers/), which seems pertinent given the double whammy of Lost and the new Star Trek.
I’m largely on board with most of their recommendations, particularly the idea that there are no paradoxes. I’m not talking scientifically here — I honestly have no idea how to crunch the numbers to prove this point. But in terms of fiction, and screenwriting in particular, I’d argue you need to actively crush any talk of paradoxes or impossible conundrums. They will grind your story to a halt.
I did a little work on Minority Report, a Scott Frank adaptation of a Philip K. Dick story which is enjoyable for its combined Frank-Dickness. Minority Report doesn’t deal with time travel, but rather its pushy cousin called precognition — knowledge of the future. In the story, police use precognition to stop murders before they happen.
But! But! How do you know the murders were going to happen? You changed things. So for every crime, you would need to prove that the soon-to-be-killers were absolutely, unquestionably going to do it. Which seems impossible.
I argued that you couldn’t just answer those questions when they came up. You had to take away that whole class of questions, early and forcefully.
Here’s the scene I wrote:
WITWER
But it’s not the future if you stop it. Isn’t that a fundamental paradox?
Jad sets the sphere down on the table, needing both hands to explain this.
JAD
You’re really talking about predetermination, which happens all the time.
Unseen by Jad, the sphere is starting to roll towards the edge of the table, building up speed.
JAD (CONT’D)
In fact, it’s easy to demonstrate...
At the last moment, Witwer catches it. Everyone smiles.
KNOTT
Why did you catch that?
WITWER
Because it was going to fall.
FLETCHER
You’re certain?
WITWER
Yes.
JAD
But it didn’t fall. You caught it.
Witwer smiles a little, starting to catch on.
JAD (CONT’D)
The fact that you prevented it from happening doesn’t change the fact that it was going to happen.
WITWER
It’s the same with the murders.
FLETCHER
The precogs are showing us what’s going to happen unless we stop it.
(In the final movie, it’s Tom Cruise’s character (Anderton) rather than Jad who provides the explanation. And that’s an understandable change: you want your hero to feel in command of the facts.)
In any script, look for scenes in which characters answer questions, and try to find ways to take the questions away. Often, that means backing up five or ten pages, well before the audience has started to formulate their concerns, and finding a way to visualize (or better yet, physicalize) the problem.
The first Jurassic Park does this well, with the animated science lesson setting the ground rules and chopping down poles upon which red flags might fly. Likewise, the first acts of most horror movies are largely devoted to creating situations in which the characters can’t simply escape or call for help. The more artfully it’s done, the less you notice the setup.
Nor can comedies waste time addressing audience concerns. Groundhog Day churns through a number of possible solutions to Bill Murray’s dilemma in a montage that makes you feel certain that he’s tried everything, whether you’ve thought of it or not.
Don’t answer questions. Get rid of them before they’re asked.
**UPDATE:** The weird thing about running this blog for 5+ years is that I sometimes forget which questions I’ve answered, and which anecdotes I’ve given. I wrote this post an hour ago, but it covers a lot of the same ground as last year’s longer and better essay on [How to Explain Quantum Mechanics](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2008/how-to-explain-quantum-mechanics). Credit for consistency, I guess.
Same script, different day
Do you ever get sick of working with the same script that you are loathe to even look at it anymore? If so how do you get a tenth wind to reset your perspective?
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](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/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.
When do you move on?
I sent my screenplay to a big production company (in London) on their request and have been waiting two months for some type of communication, like did they even receive it?
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.