John August

Psych 101

On Golden Handcuffs

Film Industry, Psych 101, Random Advice

questionmarkI was young, innocent and seduced by a mouse. I spent 29 years working for The Company and even after I was laid off continued to work freelance doing the same work for seven more. Held back by golden handcuffs, I fear I’ve wasted decades to pursue greater things.

Is it too late to break in? Should I stop writing scripts and just take a job behind the counter at Starbucks to sell coffee? Should I never have considered starting to write in the first place, since clearly I wasn’t driven enough at an early age?

Hold old is too old to hold on to a dream? Not just screenwriting, but any dream.

— Paul
Santa Ana

random advice“Golden Handcuffs” is a term I heard a few times while visiting Pixar: a job that’s so good that you’d be crazy to leave it.

In the case of Pixar, well, Pixar is awesome. Get a job there, and you’re making amazing movies with some of the brightest people you’re going to meet anywhere. But you’re ultimately making Pixar’s movies, not your movies.

The same could be said for companies in every field. Take an anonymous survey of executive vice presidents from Fortune 500 corporations, and I bet you’ll find a lot of MBAs who feel like failures for not starting their own ventures.

Life is choices. In this case, which do you put first: your comfort or your ambition?

From what you describe, Paul, you chose comfort. ((Inaction is a choice, too, though it often doesn’t feel like it. You didn’t ask yourself every morning, “Should I quit my job today?” But it’s a good question to ask.)) And that’s okay.

I strongly doubt you wasted decades: you had an entire life outside of work that was possible in no small part due to having a steady paycheck. Most of America would gladly trade places with you. On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, you’re aiming for self-actualization. That’s good, but recognize that it’s a comparative luxury.

Right now, you’re playing the What If? game, and you’re playing it wrong.

You are never going to be able to go back and make different choices. As Daniel Faraday would remind you, whatever happened, happened. So stop fantasizing about scenarios in which the past 29 years might have turned out more artistically satisfying. More importantly, stop beating up the younger version of yourself. He wasn’t lazy or naive. He was you.

Here are your new rules for the What If? game:

* **Only ask What If? questions about the future.** What If you now devoted yourself full-time to writing? Or, What If you stopped carrying this torch for screenwriting, and pursued something else you enjoyed? Which would make you happier?
* **Only think about the person you are today.** A 20-year old has different options and challenges than a 49-year old. How much of your current life would you be willing to up-end?
* **Recognize assumptions.** Don’t assume you know where a path would take you. Rather, ask whether traveling that path would be interesting and fulfilling. ((Yes, this is essentially the chorus to the Miley Cyrus hit, “The Climb.”))

Golden handcuffs don’t really go away, incidentally.

I write movies for other directors because it’s safe and lucrative. And fulfilling, mostly. I want to get movies made, and I can write many more movies than I could ever direct.

But every time I take a job writing someone else’s movie, it pushes back my own next movie another few months. At some point soon, I’ll need to quit my day job to pursue my own ambitions, with all the risks that entails.

Can I base a character on a real asshole?

Psych 101, QandA, Rights and Copyright, Story and Plot

questionmarkI’m planning on writing a script about a character who is based heavily on somebody I know (a local comedienne), with a few other people thrown into the mix. As a character, I find her fascinating. Normally, I would just ask the person in question and they would most likely agree. However, the character in the new script is a big jerk, completely devoid of any empathy, tact, or manners, much like the real person. I’m not going to ask her if I can make a movie based on how big of an asshole she is, and I’m worried that she’s just the kind of asshole who would sue me if I did.

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.

Fake tears

Psych 101, Writing Process

My four-year old daughter has entered a phase I’m labeling “emotional scientist.”

“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.

Are online film classes worth it?

Education, Film Industry, Psych 101, QandA

questionmarkI’m 22 years of age and I’m currently an online student at the Academy of Art University based in California. (I live in Florida.) I am majoring in Directing and Producing.

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](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2007/starting-out-in-hollywood) 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.