Tag Archives: concept

Inspiration

Concept to Script in 48 Hours!

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When it comes to completing a draft, I’m a big believer that perfectionism is the enemy. As I’ve stated before, getting it on the page, to be shaped and honed in the rewrite will get you out of that rut of stewing over the optimum execution of the current scene, which can hang you up for weeks, or months, or longer.

Here’s a great breakdown of a super-compressed drafting process by Tyler Mowery. He deftly illustrates this point by starting from zero and getting a first draft knocked out in two days! Here is his detailed video chronicle – the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Screenwriting Issue of the Day

Derail Your Plot To Get It On Track!

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First, the bad news…

Recently, while trudging through a page-one rewrite (those are always a breeze), I found myself in a familiar (not to downplay its awfulness) predicament. In my steadfast resolve to knock out this draft from start to finish, I’d written myself into a corner, or several corners if the metaphor still holds ( I don’t think it does). It went like this – I had an idea of where I wanted my plot to go but didn’t see how the stuff I was currently writing could reasonably get there. I wouldn’t call my condition the dreaded b-word (you know the one), but I was definitely stuck. (No more parentheticals. I promise.)

This lead to me adding things, things, and more things. Entire expository scenes and new extraneous characters were popping up in my story to bridge logic gaps and steer the narrative in my intended “right direction.” The anatomy of my script became nightmarish. The core meaning of the story that had initially drawn me to this concept was getting buried under a muddled mass of fluff, to the point where it was becoming unrecognizable. The plot was wandering aimlessly. I was re-committing the same sins that had necessitated the page-one rewrite in the first place.

I took stock of what I was writing and I wasn’t sure whose material this was, but it wasn’t mine, and I wasn’t sure who was writing it, but it wasn’t me. There was a severe lack of “me” all the way around this thing. No, this was some other guy, who was writing a term paper of sorts, in strict chronology, with mandatory requirements imposed by… someone? And what was his tool of choice to fulfill those requirements? Plot contrivances employed to rationalize other plot contrivances! I got into such a tangle that I started asking those questions that can be lethal to a writer’s motivation: Is every word I write taking me further in the wrong direction? Do I need to go all the way back to the concept phase and rethink my whole idea? Should I maybe scrap this piece altogether and start that other one I’ve been pondering? Am I really cut out for this writing thing?

But it wasn’t time to hit self-destruct quite yet.

And now, the good news…

Having already wrestled with creative roadblocks in several forms, I’d found that taking a short break from the process to reboot my perspective was usually in order. So, while catching up on my consumption of Better Call Saul, cookie dough, and Bourbon; my decompressed mind conjured up a way out of this abysmal slump that might just help you too.

Interestingly, my instinct to go back to the source wasn’t actually wrong in principle, only in content. The solution simply involved asking BETTER QUESTIONS, the type that everyone should ask when they lose their way: Why am I doing this? Why do I want to tell this story at all? Why this one instead of another of those creative bugs infecting my brain? The answers were just as useful as they were reinvigorating. They got me unstuck and in a better flow than I had before all this happened, when I was writing insincere fodder with blissful ignorance.

Why am I doing this? This one’s easy. I’m doing this for the enjoyment of it, for the unparalleled excitement of having my creative impulses pour out through my fingers and take a form that some like-minded (and maybe even some differently-minded) readers can recognize and appreciate.

Why do I want to tell this story at all? This one isn’t so hard either. I wanted to tell this story because I have a perspective on life that’s uniquely mine, and by putting these characters that I have in mind in these situations that I’ve conceived of, I can try to express that perspective in a way that connects with people to make their experience of reading/ watching my work as satisfying as it was for me to create it.

At this point, I realized that scrapping the idea was no longer on the table, and the tougher question with the more actionable answers was to soon to follow…

Why this one instead of another of those inspiration bugs infecting my head? Because I was excited about this and that particular sequence; the moments that would be a true pleasure to write, where the characters were pushed to their limits and forced into the actions that would define them and make them memorable, the points where the audience and the characters thought things were going one way, and then they take a sudden turn, and the plot unfolds in a surprising and satisfying way to subtly convey my theme.

Once I realized all this but didn’t see it happening the way I wanted, I just snapped and said, “I’ll write that scene that really needs to be in there to keep me excited about this thing, and even if I jettison the whole thing, it’ll be fun to write that scene. And that’s what this is all about, right?” So I did exactly that, and, it came together nicely. But what about when that scene was written? Where to take it next? And what about this big timeline gap standing between where I’d gotten stuck, and this completed scene?

Rinse and repeat. I thought, what’s the next most important scene for me to include in this sequence, to make this a story I’d be interested in as a writer and as a reader? It was a scene that takes place a little down the road from the one I’d just written. That scene was also a blast to write, and some unexpected gems found their way in there to enrich it as I went. I did this again and again, without regard for what came next, only what came next in importance to me.

After a few more scenes were done, I’d worked my way down to one that actually occurs between where I initially got stuck and that first “priority scene.” So, instead of being lost near the start of the journey, not knowing how to get where I wanted to go, I now had a series of waypoints laid out in front of me, and I just had to figure out how to connect them. This took some adjustments and alterations, but that was part of the fun too! And in the course of this, I really got the feeling that I had overcome something.

Things continued to happen in the process that surprised me. The characters told me what should happen, and each sequence came out a little different than I’d planned it. Most importantly, this all rejuvenated my enthusiasm for what I’m doing.

But now let’s come back down to earth. This wasn’t a magic bullet that just launched me into the stratosphere. I’m not writing this post poolside at my new place in the Hollywood hills, where John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart once arm-wrestled to decide who would eat the last cigar butt. But it did generate a wealth of inertia that continues now and has me barreling through this draft with renewed confidence that I will complete it, my only limitations being time constraints and the fact that my typing skill falls somewhere between infant and nineteenth-century Santa Fe pack mule. If I hit another snag, I know that I’ll handle it, and it may very well involve another joyous discovery!

So… if you find yourself similarly confounded; take a step back, consider your grander purpose for all this, let go of any overly-rigid “plans” that might just be stifling your inspiration, and move forward according to your priorities. Let us know how it goes!

Book Reviews

Review: The Idea: The Seven Elements of a Viable Story for Screen, Stage or Fiction by Erik Bork

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One of the most prevalent and vexing feedback notes we can get is “it’s just not working,” thus initiating the never-ending punishment and agony of “making it work” (more on punishment and agony later). But a real pro can always whip a story into shape, bringing whatever concept he’s confronted with, whether his own or inherited from another writer, to a working and engaging plot, right? Well, not so fast.

I’ve actually received the comment that I’d done a respectable job buttressing unworkable plot points with the circumstances and exposition that made them almost dovetail believably into the story. Of course, the troubling part about this was that we both knew it wasn’t a compliment. Applying a tourniquet doesn’t close the wound.

Maybe what separates the pros from the up-and-comers is their ability to discern a workable story idea from one that’s just plain deficient at its core, and, in its present form, can’t be made to work, no matter how many hours or how much grief the writer is willing to throw into trying. This is the skill that’s explored in The Idea: The Seven Elements of a Viable Story for Screen, Stage or Fiction by Erik Bork.

In his assent to screenwriting prominence, Erik Bork started as a dude from Ohio who made the big move to LA, wound up temping for 20th Century Fox, where he was assigned to assist some actor guy you may have heard of, named Tom Hanks. He was in on the development of From the Earth to the Moon and Band of Brothers, both of which he helped write and produce. On the latter, he worked with some producer guy you may have heard of, named Steven Spielberg. This experience sounds, on one hand, like a dream atmosphere in which to develop one’s career surrounded by first-rate mentors; and on the other, a brutal thrown-into-the-deep-end scenario. Either way, the author’s credibility doesn’t seem to be an issue.

Bork opens the book with an insightful briefing on the modern market. He professes that the more things have changed, with greater capabilities to create content on modest budgets and resources, the more they’ve stayed the same, with the continued need to get past the gatekeepers if you want to put your stuff in front of a sizable audience, thus turning it into a career. He then lays out a catchy blueprint on how this can be achieved through the proper vetting of your idea.

As we all know, at the heart of every story is a problem, so Bork has couched his quick and concise guide into an acronym that spells out the most crucial elements of a story concept in the following way…

  • P – Punishing to the protagonist from start to (almost) finish
  • R – Relatable characters and situations we can empathize with
  • O – Original: “give us the same but in a different, unique way”
  • B – Believable logic/ character actions, even in an unreal world
  • L – Life-altering stakes should be involved
  • E – Entertaining material that fulfills genre expectations
  • M – Meaningful enough to leave a lasting emotional impression

Don’t be turned off by the neatness of how these factors fit the acronym. Bork didn’t’ choose them lightly, and backs each one up with solid hard-won wisdom about its vitalness, how it operates alongside its counterparts, and its place in the hierarchy as far as how much wiggle room you have with it.

As you may have gleaned from my previous review, lately I’ve been delving into more specialized books that cover specific components of the script or steps of the process. If there’s an ideal go-to reference that you should crack first, it would be The Idea. Once you run your concept through Bork‘s gauntlet, and you’ve got all of the cylinders firing, then you can more confidently move forward to the mechanics of plotting, character development, twists and turns, etc. with far fewer headaches and self-loathing contemplation about whether you should just throw in the towel and sign up for an online typewriter maintenance course, or is that just me?

As mentioned, The Idea is a short read. However, despite being dense with useful content, it’s also an enjoyable journey through the PROBLEM elements. It’s laid out in a way that’s extremely accessible to writers at all levels, usually detailing the most common ways that new writers tend to fall short in each of the techniques, the mindset that led them astray, and how these can be remedied.

The story concept is where it all begins. If you want to create great fiction from the ground up, then giving this component its due attention and scrutiny may be the single most valuable habit you can add to your craft. Several of this book‘s insights were immediately actionable for me, and the impact it’s had on the quality and my experience of writing, is immeasurable. If you’re having trouble with your process that isn’t easily identified, chances are it can be traced back to the issues addressed in The Idea, but don’t just take my word for it. Pick it up and let me know!

My Story Theories

Don’t Underestimate the Logline

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We’re all familiar with it, and many of us dread it. It’s that terribly brutal chore of condensing 100+ pages of story into a single sentence. It’s often invoked as a necessary component of the marketing package of your script once it’s complete and ready to be shopped around. However, the depth the logline’s purpose and utility go far beyond that. It’s a mistake to overlook it as a powerful prewriting tool, guide, and measuring stick for a developing idea.

According to John Truby, most scripts fail at the premise level, meaning that the foundational concept isn’t adequately fleshed out before the writer opens up Final Draft and gets going. Forming a logline isn’t the catchall remedy to this, but it can be the ideal starting point for troubleshooting. It’s a super quick, super efficient device to gauge whether your premise or situation has graduated to the level of a story; and to get you there if it hasn’t. 

The logline lets you know if the bare essentials are taken care of. In its most common and basic form, it represents the skeletal framework of 1) protagonist, 2) protagonist’s goal, 3) antagonist (or antagonizing force), 4) stakes (consequences if the goal isn’t achieved), and maybe 5) world of the story if it’s unique and/ or vital to the narrative.

Example – Logline for The Dark Knight: A masked vigilante hero must stop a sadistic domestic terrorist before his attacks destroy Gotham City.  Loglines can undoubtedly vary in form and structure, and will usually be modified later when the objective becomes marketing and promotion, but most of the time they’ll look something like this at the outset.

See all five of those pieces in there? If you can’t roll call these elements and articulate how they operate together in one concise sentence, then you probably have some fundamental story problems; and these are much easier to take care of at the prewriting stage than after you’ve written 25 pages and don’t know where to go from there.

This is coming from experience. I had an idea for an action thriller that I was so fond of, it seemed as if the entire story just played right out in my mind. So I just dove in head-first and started cranking out pages. Somewhere around the end of Act I, I hit a wall. Some glaring logic issues started creeping into my head that needed addressing before I could move on. A fellow writer, much more experienced than I, suggested taking it back to the logline to ferret out any missing pieces.

“Logline? Those awful one-sentence summary things they harped on in filmschool? Isn’t that for the pitch phase?” I’m not proud of my mentality or writing from those days. Anyway, I took his advice and the missing link came jumping off the page at me. 

I had a familiar but unique protagonist, with a clear goal, and his polar-opposite-in-every-way antagonist that had perfectly organic reasons to oppose him. The bloodbath finale between them was the image that made we want to write it in the first place.

BUT… 

Those logic problems came from one central notion: why wouldn’t he just walk away from the situation before said bloodbath ever ensued? There were no stakes. So many other building blocks were so clear, and so many of the plot points practically wrote themselves, that I’d developed a total blind spot when it came to the stakes. Who cares why he has to be in this situation? If he’s not, my awesome story can’t happen! That’s why! Well, I don’t think that’s going to cut it with a producer or manager.

This is where things really got interesting. It’s just stakes. No big deal, right? Just contrive some reason that explains his plight and traps him in it. I’ll have this script back up and running in no time; awesome story still intact. Not even close.

The narrative corner I’d painted myself into couldn’t have been a better arena in which to learn the indispensable nature of each of those logline components. It dawned on me real fast that they interconnect like the cells of a Rubik’s Cube. Change one, and you shift several others with it. The most precious ideas in the story were so dependent on certain choices by the protagonist, that the introduction of every type of stakes I brainstormed threw them off. 

I’d reached a storytelling impasse. My premise needed stakes, but the addition of stakes altered it into something I wasn’t so excited to write. So I shelved it, extracted some of my favorite aspects, and put them into a new script; one with a complete logline.

Is that idea dead forever? Of course not. No story issue is insurmountable, and it may just get another look someday. But the point is that looking to the logline allowed me to avoid digging deeper into a story that had already failed at the premise level and direct my time and effort toward something with a greater chance of success. So when you’re getting a newly-formed story concept off the ground, bypass this step at your peril.

What do you think? Do you agree that the logline is an important guide? Let us know!