Writing the TV Drama Series 3rd Edition: How to Succeed as a Professional Writer in TV (11 page)

Keep it short enough so you have time to pitch before or after the film, including the set-up time. You may have only 15 minutes, total, in the meeting.

Do pitch the show. The reel is only eye-candy. Unlike the movie producer, you’re not going to get away with not knowing how the series is going to work.

Have fun. Creative, original filmmaking can be an exciting calling card as long as the series would be able to sustain your approach.

(5) Attach a “Package”

A “package” consists of “elements” that enhance your project’s profile. Later, the package may include writers who are more credited than you, directors, main cast, possibly some special perks (for example, location, animation or an underlying source if those are relevant), and maybe even a sponsor. Certain “packaging agencies” pride themselves in assembling all the creative talent from within their own shop. But for you, at this stage, it comes down to nabbing a star audiences find interesting; someone they’ll tune in to see. These concerns belong to studios and networks, usually not writers, but if you’re trying to load the dice, you might see who you can “attach.”

Ah, there’s another bit of jargon. When a writer, director or actor is “attached,” he has committed to work on your project. It’s more than an expression of interest, and must be confirmed in a letter or even a contract. Be careful who you attach, though. Say you’ve courted your idol and finally convinced him to come aboard. Then you learn the network is looking for a vehicle for their hot new thing, and will “greenlight” your series only if Hottie is the star. But now you’re stuck with your idol. That’s one of many reasons talent is rarely packaged at this point.

(6) Get a Web Following

A friend of mine was thrilled the day a major studio said they wanted to buy her original series. They had read her pilot and a short series bible she had attached, she was represented by a respected agent, and she even had a few credits. This would be the Big Break, she believed, as she went to the first meeting with her expected new creative home. And then they dropped the question: “What is your YouTube number?” Huh? They were interested in her project all right, but they wanted assurance that an audience would be interested. So they expected her — a writer — to somehow assemble enough of a film crew to post samples of what she was proposing online and gather “heat” before they would go forward.

My friend didn’t go for it, but the approach might work for someone else. If you have the equipment and skills and if the nature of your show lends itself to Web-based storytelling (which tends to be comedic and able to be broken into short segments), that’s an example of a potential end-run around the established process. The famous attempt was
Quarterlife
by multi-credited film and television producers Marshall Herskovitz and Edward Zwick. They posted 10- to 15-minute segments online, each mimicking a television act. When a network came calling, they packaged the individual acts into a perfect hour. It didn’t work, but that may have been as much a factor of that particular property rather than a comment on future possibilities.

Go ahead and try them all — one through six — if you have the time and money. But that would take another year. So to stay on our cycle, let’s make believe you’ve created a terrific format, and backed it up with impressive writing samples. Now you move ahead to square two:

M
AY

THE PRODUCTION COMPANY

You’re on the hunt for a production company with your new series as bait. In May, you might get a producer’s attention because the previous season has ended and work for the new one not quite begun. If your proposal is ready sooner, you could also “put out feelers” in April during “hiatus.” (You’ll hear about the hiatus in Year Two.) Now, you need a company that can get you into both a studio and a network. Better yet, try to meet a showrunner who has an “open commitment” or “blind overall deal,” which means a network is obligated to buy a show from him. Who knows, he just might be searching for something new.

But how are you going to find him? Through your agent; like it or not, that’s how this industry works. Any competent agent knows who’s willing to take series pitches, who is between shows, who might spark to your idea, who is willing to deal with a beginner, and who has relationships at the kinds of outlets that fit your show. The agent can put you in the room. So if you already have an agent you can skip this section. NOT! Don’t ever lie back and think an agent is going to do it all for you. To paraphrase: Agents help those who help themselves. If you don’t have one, see
Chapter Six
, “How To Break In.”

But what if you’re determined to plow ahead on your own? It’s not impossible to get to production companies, and in some cases they may be more accessible than agents. Comb websites and read
Daily Variety
to scope out who’s interested in developing new series. If you have the magic bullet for a company who needs to get with the times and climb back to the top, or if you’re young, talented, have some awards or credits, and an aggressive personality, you may well get past the receptionist. Part of the technique is finding the perfect match to your sensibility and your project. And part of it, quite frankly, is age.

I’ll be candid with you about this issue. I’m sure you’ve heard about age discrimination in Hollywood. Some networks tend to chase young demographics, though not all are the same; in fact the top cable outlets and sophisticated network dramas prefer talent that has been honed. Still, the youth bias has created an opportunity for young writers. Very young. I know of a high school student whose homemade pilot was seriously considered, though it never sold.

At USC, my graduate screenwriting students range in age from mid-20s to mid-30s, so one year I joked to a class that they’d better not turn 30, just keep turning 29. Well, in the fall I got a call from Jennifer, a good writer who’d graduated the previous spring. She was upset because she applied for a writing job and the secretary asked her age. (That’s illegal, by the way.) Jennifer, who had just celebrated her 30th birthday, remembered my joke and quickly answered “29.” “Oooh, I’m sorry,” the secretary cooed, “our ceiling is 26.”

You may have heard about the writer who was hired on
Felicity
on the basis of being 18, and fired when she was discovered to be (gasp!) over 30. But the point for you is being young might help you get a meeting. After that, you’ll have to wrangle not to lose your project to more seasoned writers, but right now we’re talking about first steps.

Whatever your tactic, start by researching television production companies that do projects like yours. At the tail of each episode you’ll see a list of producing entities. Sometimes several logos appear because an expensive series may spread the cost among various backers, so to find out who is actually developing series, try phoning the show or the network and asking. Other resources include websites,
The Hollywood Creative Directory
, the library of the Writers Guild of America, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Information on all those is in the Appendix.

Once you have your targets, write to them and follow with a call asking to pitch your series idea. Don’t mail the format, but if you can catch the reader with a beguiling few sentences, you may flush out someone curious enough to take a brief meeting. You don’t need to wait for a response from your first choice before hitting up a second place. Contact them all at once.

At the meeting, you need to hook the listener quickly. Of course, you hope that listener is an executive producer or head of the production company. But if you’re shunted off to an assistant, go ahead anyway. Make an ally so you’ll have a chance to repeat the pitch to the decision-maker another day.

What are they looking for? Energy. That’s amorphous, I know, but it covers the sense that the series has possibilities. Remember, a series pitch is not the same as telling a movie story where the plot beats need to be in place. This is the first step in a long development process, and if this company becomes involved, they’ll probably steer you toward revisions so the project will sell, or so it fits in a specific time slot, or competes with other series coming down the pike. They’ll be watching how flexible you are, wondering if they’d be comfortable working with you for years, kind of a blind date. If you’re defensive or reluctant to revise your precious property, they’ll wish you luck trying to do it all by yourself — elsewhere.

They’ll be checking whether the concept is viable; that is, whether they can physically produce it each week within a likely budget. But they won’t ask that question unless you satisfy two other qualifications: (1) The show is completely new and unique, and (2) the show is exactly like what has succeeded before. Yes, it’s a paradox. The solution is to be original within a franchise, even if that franchise is re-interpreted, as I discussed in the first chapter.

And, of course, you know what every TV series needs above all. Come on, you know the answer: Characters. The heart of your pitch is how fully you engage the buyer in the people you have created. But you already know that from your format, because you’re well prepared.

So let’s imagine you’ve pitched to a few executive producers and settled on one company that has everything: a studio deal, the juice to take you to a network, the ability to deliver the show, the willingness to keep you in the loop even though you’re a beginner; and, most of all, they “get” your idea. You’ve found a creative home.

Maybe.

J
UNE

THE STUDIO

Most production companies can’t go to the networks by themselves. That’s because network series are “deficit financed.” Networks pay a fee to broadcast each program, around 75% of the cost of making it. For an hour-long drama that costs five million, the shortfall is around a million dollars per week. Every week. Companies don’t have that.

Studios do. Think of the studio as the bank. From the point of view of a “suit,” every time a studio endorses a series with one of the production companies on their lot they’re taking a calculated risk. Four years may go by before they see any return on their investment, if they ever do, and most shows are cancelled before that. But, oh, when a show finishes the 88th episode, they hit what they call “the mother lode,” “the jackpot,” “Valhalla.” Now they can sell the shows at a profit to cable channels, syndication and foreign markets. A single hit underwrites years of failures. Will yours be that hit?

That brings us back to you. Probably, you have no agreement in writing with the production company. They’re waiting to see if the studio will get behind this project. While you’re away, the producer is talking to the Vice President for Dramatic Series Development of the studio where he has a deal. If the producer loves your show, he’s pre-pitching it, maybe touting you as the next great thing.

Or not. He may be testing the waters to see if you’re approvable before he sticks in his own toe. That might involve sending your writing samples to the studio executive, or even, quietly, to a contact at one of the networks. He may also test the general “arena” of the show, without specifically pitching it: “Any interest in a drama about house plants; I have a great fern.” Prepare yourself, because if weak signals start coming back from the studio, he might drop the project; or he might keep the project but begin nudging you aside. You’ll know you’re being dumped if his conversation includes the term “participating,” if he floats names of possible writers who aren’t you, and if he talks up the title “associate producer.” Sometimes that indicates an actual job, but it might be honorary, a way to shift you off the writing staff. Remember, you do have the right to say no and take your project elsewhere.

Let’s imagine someone up there thinks you’re interesting, at least enough to let you audition. So back you go to the studio lot. But this time, you and the producer will refine and rehearse your pitch, and together, you’ll go to the VP.

If your producer is powerful, and he has an open commitment or overall deal, the studio may let him make network appointments on his word alone. If he’s not that strong, or he’s not so confident of your show, he’ll ask you to pitch your heart out again. Though your original format has been revised, you’re essentially presenting what you developed in April. But now the producer is sitting next to you, and you’re talking to a big desk.

Let’s say you pass “Go.” You advance to the next squares:

J
ULY
AND
A
UGUST

THE NETWORK

Traditional network television operates on the lemming model: All the creatures rush to the precipice at the same time, and most fall off. You’ll observe this behavior in most of the following stages.

All the networks “open” for new series pitches during the summer. They announce an exact opening date to agencies, and sometimes it’s in the “trades.” Depending on their needs — that is, how many series are returning, how many slots they have to fill for the fall — some might begin meetings in June, and some might be hearing proposals as late as October. You want to get in there as soon as possible, before they’re filled, though they’re inundated no matter when you go. And the playing field isn’t level. The big shots (companies with successful shows on the air) will have scarfed up prime broadcast real estate before your meeting is even scheduled.

The process is well established and organized, though it looks like a shell game to an outsider. Each network may hear around 500 pitches during their open season. Out of those, each chooses 50 to 100 to become pilot scripts. Of those, 10 to 20 might be made into pilot films. Out of those, a few become series. Those numbers vary each year, but here’s a simplified example from just one of the four broadcast networks: Take 20% at each cut — 500 pitches yield 100 pilot scripts yield 20 pilots which yield five series (see
Chart 2.2
). That’s a ten percent overall chance of making a sale, if all else was equal, which, of course, it isn’t.

Chart 2.2 New Series Development at One Network (a hypothetical example)