The Teachable "IWNRYFS"

WHOOPS. I Had one more in the queue that I forgot to publish before taking that time off.

The Post-reaction to the Josh Olson "I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script" brouhaha has been interesting in its mundaneness. We've basically seen the three main reactions:

1. What a dick.
2. Yayyy! Wow, I'm so glad somebody said it!
3. Gulp. I'm never asking a professional writer to read something of mine, ever.

Let's take a short look at each one of these reactions and see if we can pull out a teachable moment or two, both for pro screenwriters inundated with unwanted scripts, and new/potential writers looking for feedback & encouragement.

In many cases -- but not all -- the "what a dick" contingent are proving many of the points that Olson made. There's the ultra-predictable (and schoolyard-cringey) "oh yeah, well, History of Violence sucked!" types. (I mean, I didn't love that movie either, but really? Really?) And there's those who haven't given a second's pause to try and parse and understand what he's saying and why. So let's take a couple of those lines.

"you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move."

What many of the "what a dick" people are missing is the level of personal frustration and uncomfortable feelings wound up in this statement.

There's usually a reason why writers are writers. Often it has to do with a certain comfort level in observing, rather than being the major actor in social situations. I don't know Josh Olson, have never met him, but from his essay I think I recognize kindred feelings.

And that is practically a begging statement: please, please don't put me in an awkward situation. It's not fair. I don't even know you. Do not put me in the position where I might potentially have to tell you that you don't have talent.

Olson's frustration comes from the position of clearly having been put in that situation many times. He's actually at the point where he'd much rather you just decide he's a dick off the top than go through the long process of having to actually consider and give notes, only to have the person in front of you blow them off and think you're a dick anyway.

I have this thing -- with shows like the Brit Office, or the movie Bruno, or any movie situation where the stake is intense embarrassment or humiliation. I feel intensely uncomfortable -- physically uncomfortable having to watch it. I'll often pause a DVD for just this reason. The early, freakshow American Idol auditions? I have zero interest in watching those. I'd rather have a root canal.

I'm convinced that this is because I have a very vivid sense of personal empathy-- which I use every day in trying to create characters who can feel their way through uncomfortable, emotional situations. For most people, watching scenes like that generate some sense of catharsis. For me, that catharsis comes from writing those scenes. Watching them as written by someone else -- especially if they're done well -- can be excruciating. Finding yourself in a scene like that in real life that you didn't ask for, and have no control over? It's too much. It's asking too much.

Takeaway for the would-be's: read the essay again and try to see what might have gotten Olson to that point.

Takeaway for the pros: (courtesy Mark McKinney.) Answer: "I'm sorry, but I'm not reading right now..." You can explain it's because you're generating new material and can't do it for legal reasons if you want the dodge. They might still think you're a dick, but the ones who do were always going to think that anyway. And they're probably dicks themselves.

#2 -- "I'm so glad somebody finally said it."

The tone of the essay was so over the top that you've got to ask yourself, "how do pros get so frustrated that they could read that essay and applaud rather than cringe?"

Three things here. First is a basic issue of craft. Read the essay again and there's plenty of tips that are pure craft:

The story described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics to an impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, some connected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish, reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half a paragraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central event of the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentence describes a scene he's in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won't. This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

No matter how many times it's said, there are those who refuse to believe it: writers are sticklers about writing. So if your synopsis is confusing and unfocused, if your sales document doesn't sell, if your script has three grammatical or spelling errors in the first few pages -- that communicates something about your level of craft and commitment.

Olson states a clear truth: that a writer spots a fellow writer quickly. I am pretty sure if you've got something by Page 2. By Page 5, 90% of the time, I know if you've got a shot. I don't recall a script that ever got so much better as it went along that it changed my opinion of the first few pages. (This is qualitatively different, by the way, than the script that doesn't start as strongly as it could. You may well read something that turns out not to be as strong a start as a later scene, for instance -- but the quality of writing will still be high enough that you get to get to that good stuff without a sense of inner dread.)

I've said before that in my time teaching, I spotted a lot of students who had real talent who went on to great things. In the wake of the Olson essay, somebody asked me over the weekend if I'd ever been surprised: were there any of those 500 students who made it as a writer, whose "spark" I didn't spot? The answer: Nope.

And now that I think about it, the ones who did make it all instinctively had a sense -- nascent in some cases, but a definite sense -- of how to take notes in a positive way. The ones who shook off notes, or who couldn't use a note that they didn't agree with to find a third, more organic, different way to got that was both different than the suggestion and better than what they had -- I don't know if I've run into any of them since.

Secondly, you can't underestimate the reality of the "two piles" defence. I am backed up right now between friends I owe reads to, and stuff I'm supposed to read for work. It's a daunting pile.

Thirdly -- I punt a bit to a response Lee Goldberg wrote on this subject, a recounting of his Olsen-like interaction with a would-be screenwriter:

I am stunned by the arrogance of these people, telling me that my professional success isn't the result of talent or hard work, but rather it is some kind of entitlement. And that by not reading their work, or listening to their ideas, or coaching them on pitching, I am an asshole. My time is their time to do with as they please. They also assume that I am not interested in helping anyone else achieve what I have.

These jerks know nothing about me, or the time and effort I devote to sharing my experience with others. They don't know about the many days I spend each year teaching TV writing, giving seminars, or speaking about writing at high schools, universities, conferences, and libraries locally, nationwide and around the world, mostly for free.

In the last six weeks, for example, I spent seven days at the International Mystery Writers Festivalin Owensboro, Kentucky teaching, speaking, and moderating seminars on tv and mystery writing to the public. At no charge. I taught a three-hour course on TV writing to students at Cal State Northridge. At no charge. And I spent a day giving a seminar on TV writing to a delegation from China Central Television.

But what I didn't do is drop everything in my life to read some stranger's treatment, listen to his idea for a TV series, and coach him on how to pitch.

So obviously I am an arrogant, talentless, asshole.

I have committed the unforgiveable sin of deciding how to use my time and how best to give back to others. And not letting some stranger decide for me.

Again, note the frustration level, but also the other side of it. A guy like Goldberg, or in my own small way, myself, is already trying to do something to pay it forward -- by teaching, giving lectures to students, holding informal events, blogging ... to be rewarded for that by being asked to do what you do for free to someone you've never met, is beyond cheeky. It kind of sends the message that it's better to hoard your knowledge and do nothing. The "will you read my script?" from a stranger, unfortunately, kind of pees in the pool for the rest of us.

Finally, let's look at another Olson paragraph:

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn't actually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a cool movie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn't require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don't regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.

We live in an age right now where development deals are being handed out left and right to people who simply cannot write. There is no greater indictment of the dismissive attitude toward screenwriters than that. Even Emmy snubs don't compare.

Screenwriters have zero control over the network executives, actors, acting agents, or producers who feel this way. What we do have control over is those who want to join our particular fraternity. This attitude, that we fight every day, simply can't be rewarded.

Teachable takeaway: For the would-be writer: if you find yourself in a social situation with a writer you admire -- be interesting. Be fun. Comport yourself well, tell a great story; listen, and be engaging. Don't be afraid to say that you're an aspiring screenwriter, but don't ask for the script read.

If you are interesting, if you present yourself as a decent, enthusiastic, witty and sincere person, you might just inspire a bit of curiosity. Because the flipside of the Olson essay is that every writer would LOVE to discover somebody who's good, who needs help.

It sounds counterintuitive, but if you work on the other aspects of presenting yourself -- learning how to tell and sell a story (which is the same as learning to pitch, really,) you might get your script read faster than if you up and ask.

#3 -- Gulp. I'm never asking a professional writer to read something of mine, ever.

An overreaction in the other direction.

I've known a lot of actors in my time. Actors go on auditions all the time. And the good ones realize when they don't get a part, there's any number of other reasons why they might not get it. They might be the wrong look to pair against someone already cast; they might be the wrong physical shape, or height. They might look too much like someone else in the cast.

Because it's such an utter crapshoot, most who are in for the long haul learn to develop an inner sense of how they did in an audition. And they go by that. That's what makes them feel good and carries them through: they did the best they could. They nailed the read.

The other way to go is to blame every external you can: the Reader threw you off, the feng shui of the room was all wrong, the Exec Producer kept looking at his Blackberry, whatever.

The savviest would-be writers go through a similar process, where they develop an inner sense of when they can cadge an introductory read. They also know not to do some of the newbie moves Olson enumerates above. (The big one? Sending another draft to someone that you're waiting for a read from. I laughed out loud at that.)

Thinking of the "read" as an audition is helpful. Because it really is your one shot. You should look at it that way. It should be the best that you can possibly offer. It will not be perfect. But for that reason -- it should also not be a soaking wet first draft. Why would you do that?

Teachable takeaway:

Build to that professional read. How? Well there's some great advice on that from -- lo and behold, Mary, an aspiring screenwriter:

The answer is: don't look up, look sideways. If it's your first script, look for writers who are also on their first scripts, or second. Trade reads with them. You don't need a pro the first time out - because this is just another part of your learning process.

The point is to get practice dealing with notes - listening to them, understanding them, and rewriting using whatever insights they provide. It's a skill unto itself, not some incidental step to deal with after you've written your brilliant screenplay.

So save that fantasy that the pro is going to read your script and courier it right over to their agent/producer/network executive to be fast-tracked and make you the next Diablo Cody. Cozy up to it in the shower or at night while you're trying to fall asleep or when you need a natural high to get you through the next 5 pages. But keep it to yourself.

Meanwhile, get out there and find someone reasonably useful who's at approximately the same stage as you are and start figuring out this notes business together. Until you've done that a few times, you really honest to goodness aren't ready to be read by a pro anyway - unless you're in a teaching forum.

Now that is some great advice.

And in that spirit, a couple of other thoughts to leave with you:

The Diablo Cody story is a constructed myth. If you dig deep enough into her story, you will find a very ambitious woman who worked very very hard for a few years to get her "overnight" break. Don't believe the hype.

The first script I ever showed anyone pro -- was a spec script on which I had done fifteen full drafts. And they asked to see it. I did not ask them to read it.

The scripts that I sent out to get representation were drafts that had been extensively peer-read and rewritten. They were also probably preceded by six or seven "learning" scripts that I never showed anybody, ever.

Before sending out material to professionals, I cut my teeth by writing and producing several one act plays. Seeing the reaction of a real audience helped me to hone and sharpen my sensibility before putting myself out there professionally.

Writing for TV and film is a rare skill. Many, many more fail than succeed. Many, many more people think they have a shot than actually have a shot. Don't put yourself in a position where someone has to tell you, "I will not read your fucking script."

Instead, concentrate on making it "I can't believe you haven't read this fucking script."

Of course it's harder and takes a lot longer than you think it will.

Most worthwhile things are, and do.

UPDATE: John Scalzi's got an alternate take here -- as tough love as Olson's but a little less vitriolic -- that's all kinds of awesomesauce. (Found via Lee Goldberg)