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Writing in public

November 23, 08 //
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As I sit here in a coffee shop, ostensibly finishing my next script, I find myself pondering the dynamic of writing in public. I recall being in a cafe a few years ago. It was connected to the local brew-and-view, and it was a place where movie-types hang out. A kid was hacking away right there at the counter on an old Remington typewriter. It was obvious from his formatting that he was working on a script. You couldn’t avoid looking at him–clackety, clackety, clackety…zing. I was reminded of Jim Harrison’s aphorism: “You can’t create great art if you’re always yelling ‘Look at me!’ like a three-year-old who has just shit in the sandbox.”

So that gets me to wondering my own motivation for writing in public places, coffee shops in particular. I can come up with a host of practical reasons, but I also can’t avoid the notion that there is a certain amount of exhibitionism in the practice. I want to be seen writing scripts, even if people don’t know what I’m working on. “I’m special, dammit! I’m an artist. Look at me!”

This is no different from why Hemingway wrote in cafes in 1920s Paris. He was building a public image, and, perhaps, more importantly, an internal image of himself as a writer. We all know what a solitary, isolating pursuit this can be.

That being said, there are also many good reasons for writing in a cafe. First, there is the precedent set by Mr. Hemingway and his cohorts. It’s just what one does if one is a writer. You are part of the tradition. Writers haunt cafes. In my own case, there’s also the fact that a four-year-old girl inhabits my domicile. It’s hard to write with an little person around. There’s a certain kind of peace one can find in the chatter and bustle of a cafe that one can’t find in a quiet office at home. Especially if a kid keeps opening the door and poking her head in to ask for help dressing a Barbie.

There is also a certain amount of pressure you put on yourself when writing in public. Since you’re posing in public as a writer, you have to be seen actually writing. Working those keys is part of the package.

Next, there’s the issue to easy access to strong, quality coffee. That’s essential. Most of my bad habits are dying a slow death as I age. I’ve even given up my nightly glass (or three) of my beloved red wine, limiting libations pretty much to the weekend. One of my sole remaining vices is great quantities of caffeine. Writing in cafes puts me in close proximity to the supply.

I find the best cafes have both outdoor seating and lack of wireless access. Getting away from the distraction of the Web for a few hours increases my productivity. And as for the outdoor seating, this may be less universal, but I thrive on being out of doors. I’m sitting in a cafe in northern Oregon right now looking at a view of the Coast Range. It’s a crisp 45 degrees, and the sun is shining. Perfect writing weather…just enough chill in a vest and sweatshirt to keep me from being too comfortable.

Writers write in cafes. And part of the equation is certainly posing. When I was recently in LA, I spent a lot of time in cafes in Santa Monica and Hollywood. I had time to kill, and few locations are more oppressive than hotel rooms. So I sought out the famous cafes and actually accomplished some productive work. Some of the more notable cafes of choice for LA screenwriter-types include the Bourgieos Pig in Hollywood and the Novel Cafe in Santa Monica. Both are excellent locations, and I recommend them highly. You’re bound to see scripts open on laptops as you walk through with your double Americano looking for a table. These establishments have eclectic atmospheres and are filled with other writers taking advantage of the poseur practicality of writing in public.

Local film scene

November 10, 08 //
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I’m new to the Northwest, but there seems to be a vibrant local film scene.

The Northwest Film and Video festival is currently ongoing at the NW Film Center. I attended a couple events this weekend in Portland, and there’s that definite upstart energy you’d hope to find in that sort of venue. I’ll definitely be checking out more events and workshops up there. Gus Van Sant is perhaps their most noted alum.

At the NW I met the guys who made Cthulhu. Haven’t seen the film, but the trailer has a big film look. Tying into the Lovecraft mythos was a smart move and may make this film have a long-tail resonance like Bladerunner. Having heard their story, I’m sure these guys will be putting together new projects in the future. This film recently landed distribution, a major accomplishment for an indy film. It was shot in Oregon.

Reel Film Snobs is a local film program out of Salem. It’s a fun and refreshing alternative to the standard film review model.

Writing for the budget

November 4, 08 //
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When you first start writing scripts, one of the great liberating experiences is the ability to start a scene with something like this:

EXT. PARIS STREET – AFTERNOON

Smith steps to the curb and hails a cab...

And then, you can follow up with the next scene, with a quantum leap:

EXT. SEASIDE CAFE, HAVANA – MORNING

Pilar sits across from Valencia...

It gives you a sense of freedom as a writer to be able to jump from one location to another. After all, you just need to type the name of the place in your scene heading and you’re there. A leap from Anchorage to Albequerque is only a matter of characters on the keyboard. This is profound, because most of us spend a huge portion of our lives hunched over a keyboard in some dingy office or in the corner of a coffee shop. Maybe we hang out on the fifth floor of the library next to a stack of books nobody reads. To be able to leap around the globe via our narratives is one of the attractions of this pursuit.

But what I’m learning now is that such freedom can be a dangerous thing. Producers read scripts differently than we do as writers. When they see a location change, numbers start to click in their heads. A change in the setting, and the addition of numerous locations, can inflate the budget in less time than it takes you to complete a scene heading.

I’m rewriting a script now with budget and locations in mind. I’m eliminating action sequences and removing an entire series of scenes that take place two thousand miles away form the main center of action. I’m also collapsing characters, combining several similar roles into a single character to reduce the casting costs. A producer said that I could take the script in two directions: a big budget action film, or a character-driven drama. Their company specializes in the latter. I was presented with a challenge: rewrite the script to reduce the cost of making this film, and they’ll consider an option.

The pragmatic requirements of filmmaking are quite different from, say, novels where you’re only limited by your own imagination. When you set a scene in Cairo, that won’t require you to send the second unit to Africa to get b-roll of the pyramids. Or you don’t have to worry about the fact that a scene set in Havana becomes problematic if much of the cast and crew is made up Americans, who are forbidden to travel there by the knuckleheaded blowholes in Washington.

I’m also finding that it’s not always a matter of collapsing and contracting your script. Sometimes you’ll be called upon to increase a role, attracting a different caliber (and more expensive) level of talent. On this same project, I’m removing minor characters and increasing the visibility and prominence the four lead roles so that they can try to attract four major actors for these key parts instead of just one or two.

Writing for a budget is nothing I’ve ever had to consider doing before, writing as I have mostly fiction. My first two scripts featured international locations. My third script was set entirely within forty miles of where I live, my thinking being that this script might make a nice independent project someday, or at least attract interest from different types of production companies looking for smaller budget films.

Book learnin’

October 15, 08 //
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I’m a Web guy by trade and a writer by compulsion. But as an Internet professional, I often talk myself into believing that I can find out anything I need to know online and in moments. With the right tool, search query or resources, I can prepare to talk intelligently about a subject a short while before getting up in front of an audience. I can do the research for an important phone call on the fly or I can turn myself into an authority in the field of one of my clients with only an hour of Web research.

But experience and knowledge still counts for something. In fact, it counts for a lot of things. I just finished one of those floppy dead tree things called a book. It’s a book about writing for films, or rather, how to work as a film writer in the business. It deals with agents, managers, producers, meetings, meet-and-greets, pitching, contests, etc. I should have read it more than a year ago when I finished my first script. It would have saved me from sounding like a moron in any number of emails and phone calls. If you’re interested in the business of writing, and if you ever have any plans to talk to someone in the film industry about a script you have written, buy this book and take a couple of hours to read it.

The book Breakfast with Sharks is pretty damn good.

The book "Breakfast with Sharks" is pretty damn good.

I do have a certain disdain for the  “how-to write” books. Let me say that “Breakfast with Sharks” isn’t one of those. The how-tos are only marginally useful. They tend to give you an entire set of rules that are only applicable in very specific situations, and they can turn any aspiring writer into an imatative hack who churns out lifeless approximations of great film (or fiction) writing. It’s much better to learn by watching actual films with a critical eye, or reading real scripts and then forgetting all the rules and formulas. Indeed, the few times that “Breakfast” strays into giving guidance on style tend to be it’s weakest points. For example, writer Michael Lent cautions beginners to “avoid the giant talking heads,” warning against long speeches. I heard this chestunt even before I started writing scripts. But my first script, which did well in any number of contests and has been praised for its originality, broke this rule in the first five pages. In fact, it’s entire premise is about a guy whos thing is to deliver long speeches.  It’s called The Eulogoist. Monologue drives the whole script. Of course there’s also plenty of action, nakedness, twists, shoot-em-ups and a one-liner or two.

The only valuable section, I used to believe, of a screenwriting book, was that part in the back that showed you how to format your script: here’s a scene heading, this is a character, this is the dialog, this is the action, this is a phone call, etc, etc. My one book on the actual screenwriting process is dog-eared for that section. The rest is worthless.

But Breakfast with Sharks is sound writing career advice. It’s a textbook on how not to sound like a hick from Missouri when you’re talking with producers (even if you actually are a hick from Missouri). I’m taking my first trip to LA in a couple weeks to attend a film festival. I’ve also managed to arrange a couple meetings. I’m much less bewildered having read Lent’s book.

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