John August

Psych 101

On 2010

Psych 101, Random Advice

I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions. No matter how well-intentioned, they never last. That initial burst of enthusiasm (“I’ll write one hour first thing in the morning!”) morphs into a sinkhole of counter-productive resentment (“I didn’t write this morning, and I’m a terrible person.”)

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](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_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. ((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.))

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](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2009/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.

Burn it down

Psych 101, Story and Plot

You wouldn’t splash gasoline on the walls of your home, then toss a few matches while strolling out the door. In real life, this kind of willful destruction is criminal.

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. ((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.)) 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?

The only one who has seen the movie

Film Industry, Producers, Psych 101, QandA, WGA

Last week, I participated in a screenwriting panel with many estimable writers at which the topic of idiotic studio notes came up. [Robin Swicord](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0842523/) said something that reframed the issue in a very helpful way:

> 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.

Same script, different day

Psych 101, QandA, Writing Process

questionmarkDo 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.