There are two key elements to surviving as a screenwriter – literally surviving in the marketplace (work and money), and also surviving as a creative, sustaining and retaining your talent and voice. It’s clearly very important to earn money and be able to live, and it’s important to build your profile and list of credits. As discussed in Chapter 13, these two facets can be interlinked, such as being paid to write screenplays for other people’s ideas, or being paid to re-write an existing screenplay. Whereas some people might see this as selling your soul, most sensible people will view it as being realistic, productive – and usefully strategic. At the same time, however, it’s also important to remain true to yourself and the writing you want to produce. If you spend too long writing for other people, or change your work too many times because of the notes you receive, you might find that you lose faith in both the industry and your creative abilities as a screenwriter.
But how do you start, and how do you know when to stop? And what happens when you’re given an opportunity that’s too good to miss, but which will take you away from your own – or favourite – project? Only you can know the answer to this, of course, but it’s worth stepping back every so often and reflecting on where you are and where you want to be – see the SWOT analysis in Chapter 12, for example – so that you don’t lose sight of your aims, ambitions and abilities. This isn’t meant to be all ‘touchy feely’, but a reality check about what you’re doing. Sometimes you really need to get a story out, and so will have to sacrifice other work in favour of telling the story that’s driving you. At other times you might have a personal project you’re chipping away at happily, but, because you need a new car or a new roof on your house, have to take on a commission in order to pay for it. Life is never simple, as we all know, and elements like these are all part of the joy and the pain of surviving as a screenwriter.
Whether you’re new to screenwriting or have a lot of experience already, there are always first steps that need to be taken. For a new screenwriter, first steps might include getting to know how the industry works, getting to know people, understanding a contract and having the confidence to respond to people’s notes on your screenplay. For an experienced screenwriter, first steps might be getting to know a new producer, working out how you fit into a new project that you’ve been hired on to, understanding how storytelling works on a new platform that you’re working on, or understanding the cultural differences of a contract. Although there might be marked differences between new and experienced screenwriters, in the end we’re all in it together. We’re all here to tell good stories and make successful films – and one minute you might be making it, and the next you might not. If there’s one rule in screenwriting that applies to everyone, it’s that success is never guaranteed and, just because you’ve made something once, it doesn’t mean you’re going to make it again. As people often say, you’re only as good as your last screenplay.
Kathie Fong Yoneda has this to say:
The value of volunteering and interning
By and large, in this present-day economy, jobs won’t automatically come to you. But showing your passion and abilities to others is as easy as doing volunteer work or working as an intern.
Example 1 – ‘Starting out in the industry, I was a receptionist for the legal department at a major studio. The President of the Motion Picture division asked if I had time after work to stuff envelopes for a special event he was chairing. Out of curiosity, I looked at the invitation and realised it was a fundraiser for breast cancer research. I checked the date of the event, which happened to be a free day for me. I asked if he needed any help the day of the fundraiser and it turned out he needed more volunteers to man the silent auction tables. I quickly recruited a few of my friends, who also worked in film/TV, to help out. When a job opened up as an assistant for a new senior VP in motion pictures, the big boss called me on the intercom and said he’d like to give me a personal recommendation for the job, which I got! In addition, I referred one of my friends I recruited for the charity event and she got my old job!’
Why this worked – Volunteers might not get paid in money. But for those volunteers who show exceptional skills and are willing to extend themselves, it can pay off further down the road. In this case, it not only paid off for the person concerned, but for one of their colleagues.
Example 2 – ‘While interning at a network, one proactive intern enthusiastically volunteered to spend a few hours a week updating the website of a new network TV show. Every day, the intern would diligently read the comments and questions from fans. With the permission of the show-runner and the network, the intern started a discussion group. He would post an intriguing question or topic each day that had to do with either a key storyline or an important character of the show. In a few short weeks, traffic on the show’s website had jumped three-fold. He realised many of the responders were female and seemed to be taking quite an interest in one of the secondary male characters. Noting this, the intern talked to the supervising producer and suggested that a blog be written once a week from the point of view of that particular male character, and he volunteered to write the blog.
As a result of the large number of hits and the response to the intern’s blog, the network quickly recognised the popularity of that character and that he deserved more exposure. The enterprising intern gave the show-runner and supervising producer an episodic premise he’d written which, coincidentally, prominently featured the character, and he was allowed to write the episode under the watchful eye of one of the story editors. As the series started featuring that character more often, the Nielsen ratings, likewise, started to rise. None of this would’ve happened if the intern hadn’t used the show’s website to increase interest in the series – which is where he’s now happily working on the writing staff.’
Why this worked – This intern definitely showed his ‘creative’ spirit as well as a solid work ethic. You’ll notice he took his time and waited until he’d proven his worth before making his move and asking if the show-runner and supervising producer would be willing to look at an episodic premise he’d written, featuring the on-the-rise secondary character. He clearly recognised how important it was to prove himself first, and then build a relationship before requesting a favour.
The bottom line – The most successful networking means putting yourself out there and showing others what you can do – even if you aren’t getting paid. Just because you have a degree in film studies doesn’t mean you have the experience to immediately become an executive at a studio, or to write or produce a TV series. Building relationships while showcasing your abilities will usually pay off in the long run, if you play your cards right.
© Kathie Fong Yoneda, 2012
The value of networking has been flagged up numerous times in this book, mainly to do with the business side of screenwriting and finding ways of selling your work. Another side to this is the personal value that networking can give you – moral support, inspiration, a feeling of connectedness, etc. Screenwriting can, on the whole, be a lonely process – at least until you sell your work and start to have input from a myriad of people. Until then, though, it can literally be a case of you, your laptop and a room. Although you need the creative space to perform, you also need support networks and places you can interact with like-minded people.
One way this can be achieved is by joining, or setting up, a writers’ group. Meeting with other screenwriters on a regular basis – once a week, once a month, etc – not only gives you moral support and people to discuss current issues with; it gives you a structure within which to develop your work. For example, you might have to produce a piece to be workshopped at the next meeting, or you might have to read and comment on someone else’s work. Although, on occasions, you might feel like this is taking you away from your screenplay, it can actually be really beneficial. This isn’t just because it helps to get feedback on your own stuff; it’s also a way of making you step away from your work periodically to connect with other people who can help you work through issues – craft problems, industry developments, personal dilemmas, etc. You might even find someone that you’d like to try and co-write a screenplay with, which, as well as being an interesting experiment for you both, is another way of helping to structure your working life and keep connected with real people.
There are hundreds of online screenwriting groups, too, that act as a forum for people to discuss screenwriting issues and developments, and that sometimes allow opportunities for people to share their work and receive feedback. There are two dangers with this kind of group, though. Firstly, the quality of such groups can vary enormously. Especially if you’re trying to get useful feedback, you should be careful about who’s using the groups and what’s in it for them. If you never meet these people, it’s often hard to get a real sense of what they know and what their agendas are. Second, it can be very easy to procrastinate when writing a screenplay – and constantly surfing the internet is potentially very dangerous. Because of the collapsing of space and time, using online groups can actually compromise the structure of your writing practice rather than enhance it. If, for example, you keep getting e-mails throughout the day – responding to a posting on an online forum – you could find yourself getting distracted, even hooked. On the other hand, if you’re attending a regular ‘real’ writers’ group, then you can plan your day around that one meeting, and physically take yourself out of the writing and into the group.
Christine Rogers is a Melbourne-based screenwriter and filmmaker. She’s currently writing a low-budget genre feature, and developing two TV series, and has this to say:
On co-writing
Co-writing is the best of times and the worst of times, to paraphrase Dickens. I’ve co-written four long projects, one of which has been produced as a short feature. The co-writer of three of these (and the short feature) was also the director.
So, the best of times – let’s begin there. Writing for me goes in fits and starts. Sometimes the work flows, other times I feel like my head’s made out of wood. Sometimes I might have an idea and be so surprised and pleased with it that it goes straight away into the script – and it’s only later, with time and reflection, that I understand suddenly that it won’t work.
When I was co-writing, I would bring this new idea to our writing space and tell my co-writer and immediately she would take it and turn it over in her hands like a found object, and with that objectivity we could begin to look at all sides of it – all of its ramifications. So everything was tested, debated, discussed, before it got on the page. Ultimately, this made for much stronger work. And then there were those amazing moments when my co-writer would come up with an idea so absolutely different from anything that I’d ever think of. Together, the work we wrote was so much richer and more imaginative. We sat together at the computer and wrote and talked and talked and talked until I knew her just as well as any close friend. I don’t know if you need to be that intimate to do good work, but we were. But, of course, with intimacy comes trust.
Now let’s talk about the worst of times. You can call it creative tussle, or you can call it ego, but, if you’re the co-writer writing with the director, ultimately they’re going to have the final say. Unfortunately, I also direct, so this was sometimes a difficult experience for me.
There can be issues, too, if your heads aren’t in the same film. There was a particular feature that sprang from one of the director’s ideas. We talked it through and the idea was very sketchy. I went away and wrote the first draft, and when she read it she thought it quite different to what she had in her head – and she didn’t particularly like it. But others liked it, and we were funded to write another draft. So we set about co-writing on it, but this was a disaster. She tried to push it back to the original idea she had in her head, and I – and the work itself – resisted. It never did find its place and has become an abandoned project.
Issues in my co-writing also arose because of input at different stages of development. I had a part-time job whereas my co-writer was able to write full-time, which meant she spent more time at the coalface. At first this was an irritation, but it soon turned to far worse.
As one project proceeded through multiple drafts, and got close to seeking production finance, the director began writing me out of the process – and the contract. The way it was going to work was that we’d split the (as usual, small) writing fee for the first few drafts, then after that she’d get the bulk of the money, and the copyright. I thought most of the hard work had been done in the first five or so drafts – two years’ work – and she was now just making minor amendments (which I mostly didn’t agree with). Her belief was that the later drafts were just as hard.
The producer sided with her – after all, she was the director. I felt hugely betrayed, as no doubt did she. The film never got made, but that’s another story. After this experience, I vowed never to co-write again. However, five years later, I’m currently working on a fledging TV series with another writer, but she’s not the director – nor am I – and the whole team-based TV thing works differently from the ego-driven world of the feature. I hope.
© Christine Rogers, 2012
Writers’ events have already been mentioned as a valuable opportunity to meet people, keep up with industry developments, and pitch work. Whether these are festivals, conferences, workshops or talks – run by private organisations, industry bodies or writers’ guilds – they can work as both an opportunity to develop and an opportunity to focus. In other words, you can use them to gain specific knowledge, contacts, or writing and funding opportunities, or you can use them as a focused target for your writing, such as having a pitch ready for this or a draft ready for that. In this way, you’re not just turning up in the hope that you might meet someone or learn something – you’re turning up with ideas and work that you’ve specifically prepared.
A good way of keeping up-to-date with writers’ events is by joining organisations – such as writers’ guilds and screen associations – and subscribing to newsletters. There are so many e-newsletters around these days that it can be hard to keep track of things, let alone read everything that’s sent through. My advice here would be to subscribe only to the ones that you think you’ll get something out of – such as local organisations – and to review your subscription lists every few months, to see if you can opt out of any. Sometimes you don’t know how good or bad something’s going to be until you try it. And another word of advice here – a lot of the daily or weekly e-newsletters you can subscribe to are actually nothing more than a way of advertising someone’s book, workshop, consultancy service, etc. Of course, these are valuable ways of promoting such services, but I’ve seen too many that give very little to the reader and spend most of their time promoting how they can help them – for a fee. There’s nothing wrong with these kinds of services – in fact I offer them myself – but there’s a fine line between being genuine and being a charlatan. So read and choose wisely.
Mark Poole is an Australian filmmaker and screenwriter, and was also Chair of the Victorian Branch of the Australian Writers’ Guild from 2007 to 2012. He has this to say:
What a writers’ guild can do for you
As someone once said, it’s not what the Writers’ Guild can do for you, but rather what you can do for the Guild. Or is it? As a professional writer, you may feel that the Guild needs you more than you need it, but in my long association with the Australian Writers’ Guild (AWG), I firmly believe that, if you’re serious about developing a screenwriting career, then the Guild is one way of establishing your bone fides.
Having been Chair of the Victorian Branch of the AWG for the past five years, and served as National Vice President for the five years before that, I’m obviously biased. But, looking back, I’m sure that the association has helped my career substantially. The Writers’ Guild is a great way to meet and mingle with like-minded people who put writing first, and there wouldn’t be many story producers, script editors or assessors on the Australian landscape who aren’t also members. Not that it’s a closed shop, but people who are interested in writing and understand the power of a great story naturally gravitate to the AWG.
So over the years I’ve benefitted in a host of practical ways through the friendships and networks I’ve built via the AWG. For example, it was a Guild stalwart who recommended my services to an Indian production company who wanted an Australian writer to research and write a documentary about India. And I’m sure he recommended me for the gig, not only because he knew I could accomplish it, but also in part because he knows how much time and effort I’ve put into the Guild. That’s how the network works.
But there’s another reason why a Writers’ Guild is a powerful force for good for writers. It’s an intangible one, about the sometimes elusive, even tribal sense of belonging that all writers need to cling on to, especially when the chips are down. Being a member is one way of reminding others, and yourself, of your status as a creator of works for performance, be it film, television, theatre, radio or online work.
Fifty years old in 2012, the Australian Writers’ Guild was started to support performance writers, or those who pen the words and metaphors to be transformed into images or scenes on stage or screen. The AWG covers writers of film, television, theatre, radio and interactive media, and provides a welcome focus on the writing aspects of the craft, both in terms of centring the writer as a key driver in media where the director is more often regarded as the key, and in acknowledging the point that, even where a screenplay may never be written down (for example in some forms of documentary), some person or team has thought about the work from the point of view of the story, character and theme.
Other practical reasons why a Writers’ Guild is powerful – in Australia it’s the biggest by far of the main craft unions, having around 2,500 members, both full and associate. You can join without screen credits, but to be accepted as a full member you need to have written professionally, which means that membership is seen as proof you’re the real deal.
One very practical offering of a Guild is the model contracts it can provide to ensure your work’s provided with the most legal protection available. As well, a Guild employs legal staff who can steer you in the right direction, particularly at the early stages of a deal with a producer or production company. So if you’re serious about screenwriting – serious enough to overcome the barriers, the criticisms and the barbs and carve out a viable writing career – there’s no other way forward. A Writers’ Guild offers access to a powerful network of screenwriters.
And what can you do for a Guild? The AWG began in the 1960s to campaign for better rates of pay for radio writers, a goal it managed to achieve, and in the 1970s the Guild negotiated better rates for television writers. Since then, the Guild has worked tirelessly on behalf of all performance writers to forge agreements with bodies such as the Screen Producers Association, television networks and theatre companies, and is in regular dialogue with government agencies such as Screen Australia.
Like most other Guilds, the AWG hosts regular events which put the writer centre stage, such as monthly meetings where invited guests talk about the art, craft and business of screenwriting. There’s something refreshing, even heartening, to be in a roomful of writers who share your perspective on industry matters as well as your creative ambitions – even dreams.
© Mark Poole, 2012
Being part of the industry – which doesn’t just mean working in it, but finding out about it – is also really important when considering future projects and working practices. For example, if you find out from an industry event that a production company is actively looking for children’s films, you might want to think about reordering your future screenwriting plans to try and take advantage of this. Or, if you hear from a guest speaker that she’s setting up a new funding scheme, and you know what the deadlines are going to be, you can work on your screenplay accordingly to try and take advantage of that.
Being a successful screenwriter is about being a storyteller and being connected. It’s rare that a screenplay will sell on its own – usually, it needs its screenwriter to do the work and to meet the right people to get it somewhere. To be connected, you don’t just have to know the right people – you have to know how to work with them. Creating strong relationships early on can do wonders for your career, not just because people might want to work with you again, but because people will join new networks and teams and introduce you to more people. Things can grow exponentially.
Joining forces with other people can also help to create new, innovative ideas – ideas that wouldn’t have come from you alone. As well as clearly energising a project and giving it more momentum to go on and be made, working in such a team can help to push ideas more towards the original end of the spectrum. In turn, these innovations can be what make your work more successful and revered – awards, prizes, critical acclaim, etc. Thinking outside of the box – which a team approach can often do more effectively than an individual one – can also help to pave the way for the future of screenwriting and the industry. Everything had to start somewhere – the first crowd-funded film, the first web drama, etc – and so building a network, keeping connected and maintaining strong working relationships is one way of making sure that you’re not left behind.
Award-winning producer Sue Maslin, whose credits include the features Road to Nhill (1997) and Japanese Story (2003) and the transmedia documentary project Re-Enchantment (2011), has this to say:
Some thoughts on the future of screenwriting
Once writers begin working in the non-linear, online environment, the first thing they need to let go of is the idea of directing audience engagement through narrative – there’s no such thing as a beginning, middle and end. User attention span is measured in seconds (yes, seconds!) and so most of what screenwriters ‘write’ might never be seen. All script decisions have to be made in relation to user experience. The ‘writer’ is completely in the hands of the digital media director or developer (software programmer) as to what might or mightn’t be realised within the digital parameters (software limitations, available memory, basic downloads, etc). This clearly has enormous implications for the content creator, that goes way beyond genre and budget.
Scripts in this environment are developed into maps – the navigational architecture of the site – and these, together with scoping documents, become the technical blueprint for online design. It’s not uncommon for digital developers to never refer to a script in the way we’ve become accustomed to in film and television. On top of this, every element of the work needs to be broken down and managed via a Content Management System (CMS) – a database where the iterative process of design, programming and testing (and fix-ups involving further design, programming and testing) can be tracked by all members of the team at all stages of production.
I’m particularly interested in what happens to the creative process when the systems methodology requires you to work with a Content Management System – the flow of meaning, the possibility that ‘the whole could be greater than the sum of its parts’.
Quite aside from User Generated Content (UGC), the idea of ‘authorship’ itself becomes problematic in an interactive environment, as users increasingly become ‘authors’ of their own experiences. The professional writer’s vision – mediated by the developer as the site or application is built – is just part of the overall design experience delivered to users. Even the title ‘writer’ is becoming increasingly redundant, and often writers are brought in on a casual basis to deal with ‘content’ issues as they arise. Traditional notions of writer and director as ‘author’ have been largely replaced with titles such as ‘experience designer’.
Some argue that digital developers are the new breed of content creators. The expression ‘get with the program’ all of a sudden takes on a deeper meaning if writers want a future in the online environment. It’s a time of transition but there will always be a place for screen content writers of some sort – even if we’re unsure what shape it’ll take in the future.
© Sue Maslin, 2012