John August

QandA

Curse of the Pop-In

Film Industry

flandersJosh Friedman, whose purported [screenwriting blog](http://hucksblog.blogspot.com/) is actually just an excuse to make up pseudonyms for our mutual acquaintances, recently [wrote](http://hucksblog.blogspot.com/2005/09/swimming-with-shrimps.html) about almost bailing on an assignment because he didn’t want to drive to Santa Monica.

While that may sound ridiculous to most readers, I can relate. I increasingly share his Life’s Too Short principle, particularly when it comes to dealing with westside traffic.

His attempted solution is smart, but runs into a vexing problem:

Agent’s Assistant calls Producer Friend’s Assistant and says I want to convert Santa Monica meeting to a lunch. The assistant explains that this is not possible as Producer Friend’s Fancy Boss wants to “pop his head in the meeting.”

As far as I know, “pop-ins” are strictly a Hollywood phenomenon. Basically, the powerful boss who is too busy and important to have a sit-down meeting with you has several goals with this maneuver:

1. Confirm that you are an actual person who appears sane.
2. Establish dominance over the junior executive.
3. Be able to say, “I met with Josh Friedman last week…”

Just this morning, I survived a pop-in. They’re not always bad.

But what can be very frustrating is the Pop-In That Never Comes. Here’s how it happens.

The meeting starts. You talk about the weekend’s movies. Executive says, “Fancy Boss will be popping in at some point.” You say, “Great.” You talk about the project. You make decisions. Someone takes notes. Everything is going well.

And at just the moment the meeting should be over, Executive realizes that Fancy Boss has never popped in. She goes to check on Fancy Boss, to see if he’s going to be able to stop in. Yes? No? Two minutes? How soon will he get here?

(You hear this conversation while you’re sitting in the Executive’s office, wondering why every single person in Hollywood has that big fat [CENTURY](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0714838489/) book on her shelf.)

Executive comes back and apologizes, saying “Fancy Boss is running late, but he really wanted to meet you.” At this point, you’re officially screwed. You could demur and say that you have to get back to feed the baby (note: babies are handy excuses), but there’s no question that all the positive mojo has now been lost in a sea of awkwardness.

What usually happens is that just as you come up with your excuse, Fancy Boss swoops in, shakes your hand and then hurries away. The total encounter takes less than 30 seconds. And then you get a call later from your agent saying, “Fancy Boss said he really liked you…”

Sigh.

Should I fudge the date on the cover?

Formatting, QandA

questionmarkI have a question with regard to whether or not you should date scripts when sending them out.

Would it put someone off from looking at a script if they saw a date on the cover page that was one or two years old, (or more!) and therefore subconsciously make them think the idea is no longer “current”?

— Danni
Los Angeles

Yes, put the date on the cover. And as much as possible, try to keep it accurate and consistent. That way, when you’re talking with someone about your script, you can be assured you’re both talking about the same draft. More than once, I’ve sat down at a meeting and glanced at their script, only to realize they were looking at an old version.

That said, if you’re giving the script to someone new and important, and it’s been six months since your last revision, change the date. I don’t know about most readers, but I always tend to notice the year on the cover. Given the choice between a 2003 script and a 2005, I’ll always choose the more recent vintage. It’s a psychological thing.

And while we’re on the topic, there’s no need to put “First Draft” or “Second Revision” on the title page. The date is plenty.

Inevitably, a few days after a major revision, I’ll notice a bunch of typos. If it’s really just simple misspellings, fix them and keep the old date. If making the corrections changes page breaks and whatnot, use the new date.

Someone actually wants to read my script

Film Industry, QandA

questionmarkI am an aspiring writer/director who works for a major
studio in LA — nothing too exciting, just an entry
level position. But, the job allows me to run into
people who might be able to help me along the way.

Just tonight, I struck up a conversation with a woman
who just so happens to represent the writer of the TV
show at which I was working. I said that I was a
writer. She then handed me her card and said that
she’d like to read my scripts. I can imagine that she
probably hands out her card to many aspiring actors,
but I figure since she did tell me to send her myself,
I might as well. How should I go about that? What
should I include in the letter that I attach to the
script?

— Ryan
Los Angeles (originally from Michigan)

That sound you hear is the collective gasp of one thousand readers wishing they had your luck.

Pick your best script, the one that everyone likes. Write a short letter that says basically, “I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday at WHATEVER SHOW. I promised I’d send you my script, and I’m a man of my word. Attached is TITLE OF MY SCRIPT, a GENRE set in LOCATION that a lot of people seem to like. Here’s hoping you do, too.” And be sure to include your phone number or email, both on the letter and the script (in case she loses the letter).

Hurry, man! Run! Don’t waste a day and risk her forgetting who you are.

And let us know what happens.

On friends, colleagues and jealousy

Psych 101, QandA

questionmarkWhen you were first getting started as a writer, did you meet other hopeful screenwriters? And, if so, did you grow, over time, to absolutely despise them?

Because I’m feeling this. When I first moved to LA a few years ago, I met a whole bunch of disreputable screenwriter wannabes. I made friends with them. We helped and encouraged each other. But in the last year or so, I began to grow weary of their company and their lame-ass superficial ideas. I wrote a script that landed me a fairly prestigious agent and have since gone on to have meet and greets and do all the things that other screenwriters do who haven’t yet sold a break-through script. I’ve pitched for assignments. I’ve duly submitted new scripts that haven’t yet tweaked the fancy of some mid-level studio exec. I’ve met with producers. I’ve played the whole game. I feel like I’m on the cusp.

But I’m still sort of in that netherworld between WGA-sanctioned writer and struggling wannabe. The thing is, all the struggling screenwriters I’ve grown to know in the last few years… well, truth be told, they irritate the fuck out of me now. I have no patience for them anymore. And they seem to have no patience for me. They’ve grown really demanding. It seems like for every new door that opens for me, they feel like I owe them the passcode. The secret handshake. The “in.”

What I want to know is, did you go through this? Did you, at some point, have to sort of leave your fellow strugglers behind? I don’t want to lose my friends, but at the same time, I feel like it’s really important for me to separate myself from them right now. I also feel like, if the shoe were on the other foot, they wouldn’t think twice about blowing me (and all my scripts) off. I mean, they’re calling me and asking me if I’ll send their latest script to my agents… who have only hip-pocketed me and who I can barely get on the phone as it is.

Hollywood is such a weird place. I feel like I’m still learning all the ins and outs of the politics that go with it. How have you dealt with fellow screenwriter friends who haven’t yet crossed that line, but who still count you as a friend, with all the benefits that come with that friendship? Does that make sense?

I’d really appreciate some advice.

–Jay
Los Angeles

Your letter pretty well encapsulates a lot of what I have felt, and to some degree continue to feel, about Los Angeles and the film industry.

To a surprising degree, screenwriting can be a meritocracy, where good writing (and savvy) leads to a fulfilling career. Talent and hard work are rewarded; laziness is punished. The lag between cause and effect can be frustratingly long, but there’s reason to have faith.

From your letter, it really does sound like you’re off to a good start. Congratulations. Work your ass off, land an assignment, and write the hell out of it. Then do it again, and again, and again. You’ll know you’re doing well if you’re too tired to go out drinking with your old screenwriting buddies.

Yes, I’m saying to let ’em go. Not all of them, necessarily. But it’s time to thin the herd.

I think there’s an important distinction between friends and colleagues. Here’s the single most important question to ask yourself: __Who is happy for you?__ A true friend is glad you’re finding success, without any ulterior motive for himself. Be smart: hold onto your friends. I have honest-to-goodness friends who I met the second day I arrived in Los Angeles, who will be my friends until I die.

But I also have colleagues, mostly other screenwriters, who are important to me even though they’re not really friends. With colleagues, it’s okay to feel some jealousy. Even small twinges of [schadenfreude](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schadenfreude). Particularly at the beginning of my career, I was constantly comparing my success to their success, and it made me work that much harder. Yes, we helped each other out when we could, but the biggest help by far was by continually raising the bar, not just in the quality of our writing, but what we were able to achieve career-wise.

Most of your so-called screenwriter friends are probably fall into the “colleague” category. Some of them are definitely worth keeping in your life. Ask yourself which ones you think are actually good writers. Here’s the test: whose scripts are you genuinely excited to read? If you dread cracking open Jim’s scripts, and dread giving him notes, then you really don’t believe in him as a writer. You’re not doing him or yourself any favors keeping up the charade.

You don’t have to tell him, “Jim, buddy, I think your writing sucks.” Just be too busy to read the next draft. Say it’s too much like something you’re working on. (And remember that trading scripts works both ways. It’s not fair to ask for his notes if you’re not willing to do the same.)

Jim may think you’re an asshole. That’s his right. But the process of adding and dropping friends and colleagues isn’t unique to this business. I’m guessing you’re in your 20’s. With certainty, I could say you’d be going through the same thing no matter where you lived, or what you were doing. Things change. People move on.

What’s different about this business is the musical chairs aspect. Hollywood only “needs” a very small number of screenwriters. Maybe it’s a hundred. Maybe it’s three hundred. Whatever the figure, it’s a very small number compared to the vast legion of wannabe screenwriters in Los Angeles.

The cliche is that every waiter in LA is an actor. The truth is that every non-waiter is probably working on a screenplay. So when these aspiring screenwriters see you climbing those first few rungs of the ladder, it’s no surprise there’s some jealousy and resentment. After all, just a few months ago, you were exactly where they were.

In some ways, it’s easier to begrudge a person a little success than a lot of success. There’s a relatability, a why-not-me factor. It sucks for them. It sucks for you. Accept that and move on.

If it’s any consolation, look around at all the aspiring actors in your midst. They’re going through the exact same winnowing process, but at least you’re being judged on your words. Imagine how much more frustrating it would be to succeed or fail based on the whims of a casting director who liked your look, or felt you could stand to lose 10 pounds.