Fiction Writing Demystified Page 4

  I constructed my script so that the murder was committed while the husband was asleep in a chair (he hadn’t beaten her for several days) — and our lawyer-hero wins the battered-wife an acquittal by arguing self-defense — from the inevitable next beating, the next and the next.

  The satisfaction I got from writing that episode, and seeing it produced, was exponentially increased when it aired, and generated thousands of letters applauding the point we had made. Women’s rights groups requested copies of the script.

  As you can see from these examples of pitches, they jump-start your imagination. You begin to write the rest of the story, seeing pieces of it in your mind. Visualizing the conflicts. In television, that’s what is supposed to happen with the people to whom the story is pitched. They begin to fill in the blanks.

  A successful pitch is one that excites, that starts your listener mentally writing the rest of your story.

  For writers of any kind of fiction, it’s a good way to think. Because by pitching your story — to a friend, spouse, publisher, editor — but particularly to yourself — you will gain a better, firmer handle on it. You will be less likely to marry yourself to an incomplete premise, or to a story that goes nowhere. Most important, it’s about clarity. About knowing what your story is about — and then maintaining your focus.

  As stated, the above pitches did not have beginnings, middles or ends. They were not full-blown stories. That’s a good way to start.

  But only to start.

  Unfortunately, too many inexperienced writers dive straight off these springboards into the actual writing of scenes, of script or narrative. And days, weeks, or months later, discouraged, they place their partially finished manuscripts in a desk-drawer, because they were unable to figure out where their story should go. This problem will be addressed shortly, including ways to avoid it.

  Envisioning a specific incident or moment or scene are good ways to start generating a story. As described earlier, a what-if-thisor-that-were-to-happen? Or a scene that, for instance, illustrates a premise. Again, an example. I was producing a series called The Law & Harry McGraw (Cr. Peter Fischer), which co-starred the remarkable Jerry Orbach as an old-fashioned, seedy, Philip Marlowe/Sam Spade-type Private Detective whose Boston office was across the corridor from patrician Attorney Eleanor McGinnis, portrayed with sexy elegance by Barbara Babcock. And I thought it would be interesting to play a climactic, turning-point scene in which Harry is not merely baffled by the case he’s pursuing — but he’s reached the point where he is abjectly defeated, ready to throw in the towel, to quit the detective game — and Ellie tries mightily to talk him out of it. And seemingly fails, but while she’s doing so, Harry figures out the mystery.

  That was the scene I wanted to write — mostly because I could almost see the electricity, the fun Jerry and Barbara could have with it. And more importantly, the fun I, and my archetypal Viewer would have watching it.

  But I had no story. Only questions. How could I get my characters to that place? And even trickier, could I pull it off so that it wouldn’t feel contrived?

  The story I constructed in order to get to that scene pitted Harry, with his plodding, gumshoe methods, his beat-up car, etc., against a slick young hotshot PI who was into computers, Ferrari’s, electronics and so forth — all of the latest techniques. Both detectives would work on the same case, with the increasingly discouraged Harry always several humiliating steps behind the new guy — except that in the end, Harry wins out; he solves the case the old-fashioned way — with his instincts and his gift for bullshitting people.

  That key scene around which I built the story — the moment I was going for — took place deep in the third act (out of four TV acts). In theatrical terms it would have been the opening scene of Act Three, wherein I begin to bring my protagonist out of the tree, when the by-then profoundly discouraged Harry has hit bottom, convinced he’s a has-been, a dinosaur who’s past it. He’s given up on the case, on himself, and then, abruptly, it all turns. Harry suddenly sees it clearly — how the crime was committed, and what he must do to smoke out the bad guy. The script, and that scene, are among my favorites.

  The above-cited example could also be described as kicking off a story with a character, because in that instance, Harry McGraw’s attributes and hang-ups were a known quantity, as were Ellie McGinnis’s. I wanted to put them into a situation which would dramatize who, at bottom, they were, bringing their individual chemistries to bear on each other.

  You might very well begin thinking about your story with a situation that is not as pivotal as the foregoing example. I’ve done so, many times. In any case, it’s another workable approach to developing a story idea.

  Again, however, only a beginning. But arriving at your premise via a specific scene, and then reducing it to its core idea is a good exercise, a habit worth developing to keep you on top of the story you’re telling, to keep it from getting away from you — a reminder for you of where it’s supposed to be going.

  A novel is something else. As is a full-length movie. The longer forms are not always so readily summed up in one or two lines. When they can be, it’s often because there isn’t enough story. And yet, even if you’re writing a complex novel, you should be able to describe it in fewer than 100 words. Not synopsize it (that should come to two or three pages double-spaced) — but essence it.

  Okay, so a hook — or a bare-bones premise — isn’t a story, any more than are those one or two scenes you’ve envisioned for your novel or screenplay — scenes you can see so vividly you can almost taste them — moments you can barely wait to commit to paper — or kilobytes. Yes, there are writers who can sit down and type CHAPTER ONE, or FADE IN, without a clear idea of where they’re going, without an image of a complete story, without really knowing their characters, and, through the sheer weight of their talents, one hundred-twenty — or four hundred pages later — they will have written a successful screenplay or novel.

  I am not one of them, though you may be.

  But — particularly if you’re a beginner, I wouldn’t bet on it, and neither should you.

  Sorry guys, but the next step is — for most of us — the hard part. The s-t-o-r-y. With a beginning, middle and end. In TV it is demanded of most writers because the producers need to be confident that they — and the writer — know where the story is going, to make sure it’s consistent with their series, and to ensure that they’re not buying a script that’s too similar to one they’ve already shot.

  Oh — and in case you ever happen find yourself in a face-toface pitching situation — wear something blue. For reasons that probably aren’t worth analyzing, your words will be more convincing, more believable, if you wear some blue.

  THE PROCESS

  Building Your Story

  Yes, this is where I invoke the often-dreaded “O” word.

  Outline

  I continue to be amazed by the number of working, published novelists I meet who do not outline. And at the risk (one from which I have rarely shied) of coming off as a smartass — they are wrong.

  I hasten to point out that they are not necessarily bad writers. Some great writers work that way (on a tightrope, without a net). What I am suggesting — and this is both arguable and unprovable — is that their work — their end-product — would probably be even better if they had outlined.

  My next argument, however, is almost inarguable: writing a long, complex piece such as a novel or screenplay from an outline will make the entire process easier, less angst-ridden, and — except for those of you with masochistic tendencies, far more pleasurable and satisfying. And, as with the Great Ones, your finished story will be better.

  Okay, here’s how it’s done in television, and how you should do it.

  From that initial pitch or premise, we expand our story to a page or two. A manageable size that enables us to grasp the whole, to embrace the totality of it at a glance so that you can, among other things, question its roundness, its shape. So that, as me
ntioned earlier, instead of getting mired in details too early in the game, we can see, at all times in the process, where we are going. To maintain control over our material, instead of the other way around — instead of, as is so often the case with inexperienced writers, having it overwhelm us. Overcoming or guarding against that danger is, in essence, what this process is all about.

  From that expanded-but-still-brief narrative description of our story, we go to what is referred to as a step outline. Most one-hour TV episodes are divided into a “tease,” and then four acts, a form governed largely by the necessity for commercial breaks. In the average one-hour episode (actually, about 44 minutes of story), there are between 30 and 40 or more scenes. The step outline consists of twoto-four line narrative descriptions of what happens in each scene, which in a few pages, again permits us to maintain our grasp on the shape of the entire show. And, if a line or two of dialogue helps nail a scene, there is no law against using it in lieu of, or with narrative.

  Some writers, incidentally, prefer to jot their scene descriptions on file cards that they can arrange on the floor, or tack to a bulletin board, reshuffling them in this or that order to better tell the story. There is at least one software program designed for that purpose. Whatever the method, it’s about maintaining that all-important overview.

  One of the ways we start breaking down the show into steps is to divide a legal pad page into quarters — one for each act. That way, we can easily envision how we’ll build to the moment just preceding each commercial break, or “Act-Out.” Also described by TV writers as the “oh, shit,” it’s that instant when the story is interrupted, the players left in a situation suspenseful (or funny or dramatic) enough to keep the audience glued through the sales pitches — in order to find out what happens next (not a bad way to end the chapters of a novel). Because not only must we keep them watching till the break, we have to make sure they’ll still be there afterwards, so they’ll stay tuned till the next batch of advertisements. Laying out your story — and writing it to your Act-Outs is covered additionally in Chapter Five, Construction — Telling Your Story.

  It’s worth noting that in television, at this point the writer usually “talks” the steps to the writer/producer(s) — and often, to story editors — who offer comments, fixes, recommendations for improving the structure. This might include telling the writer that this “beat” (scene) or that story-move is too similar to one they’re already employing in another episode. These observations are as a rule accompanied by a back-and-forth discussion, including helpful, problem-solving suggestions on the order of “Okay, suppose we do it this way...” These script or story conferences are usually audiotaped (and the tape is then given to the writer if he hasn’t brought his own cassette recorder). One major benefit of taping is that, rather than needing to focus on taking notes, the writer can take an active part in the discussion. The additional obvious plus is that the writer comes away from the meeting with a complete set of notes.

  I mention all this because, while most of you will never write a TV script on assignment, nor even wish to do so, you may be a member of a writing group, or have contemplated joining one — and tape recording the comments that are thrown out during such a session can be invaluable in revising your work, or reminding you of thoughts you had during the meeting. The same would apply to any lengthy verbal commentary about your writing. When I teach writing courses or speak at seminars, I urge the attendees to tape the sessions. As with the TV scriptwriter, it facilitates participation, rather than trying to be a stenographer.

  Incidentally, during the development of a TV script there’s a somewhat sneaky business-reason these initial “steps” are presented verbally, rather than in writing. According to the Writers Guild of America contract, we (the buyers) are entitled (from the writer) to two drafts of the story and two drafts (plus a polish) of the teleplay. That’s what we agree to pay for. Were we to ask for any additional drafts, we’d have to pay extra — hence the writer is almost never asked for more. If we were to accept, on paper, the step outline, we would by Guild rules have to count it as the first draft of the story. Everyone involved understands that this is, technically, a way around the WGA contract, but I have yet to encounter a writer who objected to the procedure. It helps everyone concerned. And there are times when the writer, after presenting the outline in “step” form, skips the next phase; with some action-adventure shows on which I’ve worked, the step outline is the story outline — that’s as far as it’s taken — and the writer then goes directly to teleplay. Definitely not the case with more complex dramatic pieces, for which the scene-by-scene narrative outlines (albeit sometimes including scraps of dialogue) run from 20 to as many as 35 double-spaced pages (which is longer than average for TV), leading to a 55 page final script.

  For those of you who write in other forms, the meaning of all this is to emphasize that no matter how eager you are to get into the meat of the story you wish to tell — write an outline first. Lay it out. More about that later, but first, in case you’re not clear:

  What is a Story Outline and How Does it Differ From a Synopsis or a Treatment?

  A synopsis is generally defined as a one-to-four page narrative description of what happens in your story, told with some sizzle, since it will likely be used as a selling tool — to entice an agent, publisher, or producer to take a look at your manuscript.

  A film treatment used to consist of twenty-to-forty or more pages of narrative. That seems to have changed. In Hollywood, where it is rumored that few people will (or can) read, and even fewer have attention spans longer than five minutes, treatments have become so brief that the line between them and synopses is blurred. I have had producers caution me that anything longer than four pages is death. Even for the purposes of selling the screen rights to a novel.

  An outline is a different animal. As mentioned above, it’s a scene-by-scene breakdown (continuity) of your story, written (basically) in narrative form. The length and amount of detail can vary, and style need not be a concern unless you plan to show it to others who might not “get” it. For TV and film scripts that are written on assignment (rather than on spec), the outline will invariably be read by producers and often by non-writers, such as studio or network executives, and should therefore be written with such exposure in mind. But if your outline is for your eyes only, the writing can be sketchier.

  Because of my background in TV and my own comfort-level, spec or not, I still write my outlines in some detail. The outline for my novel, The Sixteenth Man, was 112 pages. Thus, for me, the outline for each scene of a TV script might run half a page to a page, double (or 1.5) spaced.

  What Does a Story Outline Look Like?

  Outlining can be rather daunting and, for those unfamiliar with the process, it may be difficult to imagine the form — not that there is a single, rigid style. To acquire a self-created example I suggest that you try a technique I’ve found both enlightening about the form and instructional about writing — a method by which you can learn how good stories (and those not-so-good) are constructed. Even experienced writers, including professionals, may find it to be a few well-spent hours.

  Rent or buy or borrow a videotape or DVD or other type of recording of one of your favorite movies or shows or miniseries (or one that is not a favorite, but was nonetheless an artistic or commercial success). View the first scene, punch Pause, and write three or four or five lines about what the scene was about. Then run the second scene, and repeat the process — and so on and so on. It will take awhile, but by the time you’re through, you will have an outline. You’ll see what it looks like, know how it’s supposed to read.

  But more than that, you will have learned. A lot. You’ll see what the writer was doing — understand it on a fresh level. Which can be a revelation.

  One More Plea (But Not the Last) On Behalf of Outlining

  or

  How the “Drudgery” of Writing Your Outline Will Turn Into Pleasure

  While the hi
gh-wire act of writing a novel, play or screenplay without knowing your characters or where they — or your story — are going may be exhilarating, it can — and often does — result in the unfinished-manuscript-in-the-desk-drawer syndrome, with its accompanying discouragement and depression.

  I don’t know about you, but I am not into that type of risk of my time and efforts, nor do I recommend it for others.

  Working from an outline will make you a better writer in a hurry.

  Yes, I’ve heard the argument that — having outlined — the actual writing process then becomes one of “filling in the blanks.” And the one about how the author sacrifices spontaneity. Or the potential for inspiration.

  Nonsense.

  Did the great painters not work from sketches? Does anyone suppose Beethoven composed his Ninth Symphony without having a pretty solid idea of where he was going?

  As mentioned, building your story in this way will give you control over your writing. You’ll see the things that are working, and the things that aren’t. The unities — and the disunities. The flow. The repetitions. It is a lot easier to fix a story at the outline stage than it is after you’ve written — and sweated — 80,000 words, and find that on some intrinsic level it doesn’t work. Or that you don’t need that chapter, or this character. Or that you’ve gone off in a direction that works against your narrative.