On Finishing: Or, Taking the Crunchy With The Smooth

It's been said (by people way smarter than me) that the difference between writers and wannabe writers is finishing.

That's not to say that professional writers don't have have unfinished scripts sitting in a drawer somewhere. But I've found in my own career, and in an informal poll of other writers I know, that you can track your progress toward a full career by how you handle your less than stellar ideas.

I know lots of part-time or aspiring writers who have a ton of half finished screenplays, or novels, or plays. Their attitude toward that project may be tinged with frustration, or regret, or usually guilt ("Oh God I have to get back to that...")

But most of my professional writer friends fill that drawer with finished but bad spec first drafts that will probably never go to second draft. But bottom line, they got done. And in most cases, we're fine with it.

The difference is finishing. Finishing offers closure. There have been a couple of pilots and series that I've developed over the last few months that came back as "no." Both those projects are probably dead. I certainly wouldn't spend a lot of time trying to ressurect them. If something comes, it comes, and if (as is infinitely more likely) something doesn't, then fine -- I took a shot. The point is, emotionally, when I'm done I'm done -- and ready to move on to the next thing. Finishing helps you to feel accomplishment, and the accomplishment lets you feel dispassionate and detached enough to let go.

I think if you're going to be an effective professional writer, you have to be that way. Just last week, I was talking to a friend of mine who works in the business, but isn't a writer. And I was bitching a bit about a script that I absolutely, positively drop had-to get into the network by the end of the week -- and he asked me how far along I was, and I didn't lose a beat when I said, "Oh. I haven't started yet."

To be more precise, he gabbled about 50 -60 mL of perfectly good Guinness.

It wasn't exactly true. I hadn't started revising, but I had been rolling it over in my brain, cogitating and making plans of how to proceed. I broke it down by math: "I've got X days. Which means I need to get Y done by Wednesday night, Z by Thursday noon, and Q by Friday morning."

He looked at me like I had two heads. "What if you get blocked?"

I stared back. "It's a rewrite. I'm not going to get blocked."

"But what if you do?"

The truth is, it's a calculus I simply don't understand. I think that comes from having been in that production trench and having to deliver to deadline. Writer's block is a very precious concept, but it's really something you can't afford if it means you're going to keep a hundred and fifty people waiting and cost the production a hundred thousand dollars.

Once you've faced down that fear, making a development deadline is infinitely smaller potatoes.

The other dirty little secret about being a pro is that it feels good to finish. Really good. Like, four beers good. The sense of accomplishment you feel is its own carrot. Even if you know the draft isn't perfect. Especially if you know it isn't perfect.

One of the hardest things I had to get over in the jump from aspirant to pro was the anxiety of crafting the first draft. If you go in thinking that your first draft needs to be perfect, it's much easier to become paralyzed. Now, when I write a first draft, I know that there are going to be what I call "the crunchy pages."

The crunchy pages are the things that work, but not as well as you like. (You try not to hand in anything that you think flat out doesn't work. Because what if the network notices? Or... (and can you guess what's coming next?.....) What if they don't?

By making peace with the crunchy pages, knowing that you have another draft to fix and expand and go further -- well, that means you get to that feeling of finishing faster.

(You also stamp out bad habits, like starting each day by going back to the beginning of the script and going through the whole thing...which is just a demoralizing waste of time. The other trick is to make sure the first thing you write each morning is something easy or fun to do. Never start with a scene that's hard to write, or where you're not sure of your way through. You also don't want to end on those scenes. I tend to leave them to midday, just before lunch. That way, you have yet another carrot to push through -- never underestimate the power of a nice ham and cheese sandwich.)

I always reward myself upon finishing a draft. It may be with a movie, or buying a CD, or going out and having an actual, blissful night of fun where I turn the writer brain off. (Something that I probably should learn to do more often.) The main reward, though, is always the same. When I finish a draft, I'm finished for the day. Finito. If I type "End of Show" at 10:30 a.m., that's it -- I'm done for the day.

I like to have a 'soft finish' too. If I'm supposed to submit a draft by noon Friday, I like to time it so I finish sometime Thursday, celebrate the finish of the draft, and then take one final looksee in the morning before hitting "send."

I admire the old school Mamet-and-Goldman types who write on typewriters or longhand, but I'm definitely a computer guy. When I first started out, I had to deliver a few times in hard copy, and there was something satisfying about printing out that document and sending it off. These days it's all PDF and send -- and the romance is gone a little.

But finishing still rocks. Hard.

You just have to always remember that the feeling of finishing is meant to be fleeting. There's always a new draft, a new project, a new story to break or polish or write. The War of Art is ongoing. Part of the art of celebrating the finish is to acknowledge the Sisyphusean task that lies ahead:

Starting something new.

Which is why when someone tells me they just finished a spec script, my answer's always the same:

Great. Good for you! What are you going to write next?

Then, based on their immediate facial reaction, I usually make a snap judgement about their character and level of professionalism.

I know. I know. Aint I a stinker?