Archives for the month of: July, 2008

I don’t know how many times over the years that I’ve recommended to writer friends and fiction writing students to read their work out loud. Not only will you catch every typo and grammar glitch, but you’ll be able to hear the ring and rattle of the words in your head.

Now that a tiny bit of screenplay success has me focusing all my writing efforts on scripts, you’d think I would have carried this bit of advice over to this other medium.

Right now I’m revising  a script with a healthy dose of feedback from producers, hoping that they’ll pull the trigger and decide to make this film. This script features a very, very long eulogy delivered in the first scene. The extended monologue up front breaks all the conventions of filmmaking, which is one reason I’ve had such good feedback. It’s a well written speech, if I do say so myself. And it doesn’t slow down the film at all.

You’d think I would have read this eulogy out loud before now. I first penned this scene almost two years ago. I’m on draft 7 according to the file name on my Word document, but it’s more likely draft 20 for this specific scene. And I’ve never read it out loud. Until now.

It’s early morning, and I affected my best cheesy Irish accent and read the scene. I’ve sliced it down again and again, and they seem to think it’s still too long. It’s half its original size. I read it out loud, and I cut it some more. That was the first time I’ve ever read an extended passage from one of my scripts. This in a medium that is mostly dialog.

Isn’t that ridiculous?  That should be your first step upon revision. Read the whole friggin thing. I wonder how often we ignore our own platitudes.

This is the only truth. As much as writers might be in love with the romance in Dylan Thomas’s notion of the hearth killing the writer, a working stiff life can be your greatest ally.

A full-time job requires punctuality. It requires a schedule. And when you start to wedge moments into that schedule for writing, and you repeat the process daily, you start to build momentum. Road trips, drunken jags, backpacking trips along the spine of the Andes…all of these things might fuel stories. But to produce, you need routine. A mind-numbing, automatic routine that you don’t have to think about. This will give you the requisite pockets of space, to live within your own head.

If you write a little every day. At the same times. You build momentum. Writing begets more writing. I’m finally settling in after our cross-country move, and I’m starting to find this routine. A few minutes in the morning. A half hour at lunch. A couple hours at night.

Cats that wake you at first light are useful. Suddenly you’re stumbling to the garage with a cup of cat food, bleary eyed, wondering where you are. You walk past where the Mac is charging on the counter, and suddenly you’re sitting on the front porch typing (or more likely deleting) dialog on your script rewrite.

When you’re a working stiff writer, you cling to the fringes…5 am, 11 pm…to get you work done. Especially when you have a family that deserves your time, and a job that conspires to take more than its share.

Of course, you’re always thinking about your work…in that critical meeting where you should be taking notes, when you’re watching your kid play in the fountain. My wife used to ask me what I was thinking when my eyes glazed over. Now she asks, “You’re thinking about your latest script, aren’t you?”

So now it’s seven on a Sunday morning and I’ve got a good couple hours under my belt. And I’m starting to mutter to myself, uttering the dialog exchange in my head, trying to approximate the affectation and genders of the characters. Anyone watching me would figure me insane. If you work on a script long enough, this just happens. Lines slip out whenever they will. It’s kind of like when my 4 year old daughter has conversations with her imaginary siblings.