Writing the TV Drama Series 3rd Edition: How to Succeed as a Professional Writer in TV (13 page)

I once wrote a pilot for a company whose glory days were memorialized in posters of hit series lining the corridors. But the rooms off the corridors were empty. Every one of their series had concluded or been cancelled the season before. They fielded a number of possibilities, but only one went to pilot — mine. It was early May, and only one light was on in one office — the executive producer’s. He went there every day and sat at the phone. He ate lunch at the phone. Waiting. Waiting for the call from New York. He sent his secretary to the city to listen for rumors, but she hadn’t heard anything. I brought him lunch one day, but we didn’t have much to talk about, staring at the phone.

Finally, in mid-May the call came: “We’re not going to pick you up.” There was no explanation — there never is — but post-game analysis guessed that too many similar shows were offered, or too many competing shops had early commitments, or too few slots were open, or none of the above.

But let’s make believe your phone call is some version of “Pack your bags — we’ll see you in New York.” Your order will probably be in one of four categories:

•  Full season

A traditional network season is 22 episodes, though some shows do 24 or even 26. In reality, even an order for a full season is hedged: The pick-up (commitment to air) is “13 plus the back 9.” That means 13 episodes will be broadcast, with the decision on the final 9 contingent on their performance.

•  Short order

This is common and might be bad news for show creators. It means the network agrees to air only six episodes — or only four! If those hook an audience quickly, more episodes are ordered. But how many shows find their audience in three weeks? With so many options, viewers might not even visit the newborn until week three. And some series take a while to get their legs. Historically, icons like the original
Star Trek, All in the Family
, and other famously successful series, took months before word of mouth alerted viewers to check them out.

Now, the heap of dead series, killed before people hardly knew they were on, casts a stench over creativity at the networks. Bottom-line network executives tend to avoid risks, but that policy backfires because fear-based decisions send some of the most creative producers and writers to cable where longer orders are customary, or where seasons are conceived as 12 episodes long (or even as few as 8 episodes in certain “full” seasons) but you are fairly secure you’ll be back for season two. It’s similar to having a full season with a hiatus, and some creators like that pace.

•  Midseason

Midseason pickups may be the best news, some showrunners think. Though a late debut denies the show a spot on the fall schedule, and probably limits the number of episodes that would air the first year, some producers like it: Their show is removed from the crowd of September premieres and saved from the insistent pressure to be on the air in a few months. Networks also like midseason shows because they create an illusion of year-round programming, which helps the network compete with year-round cable. And midseason replacements are a cushion against inevitable cancellations. If the network lets the show go ahead and produce a few episodes, pending a slot, you’ll have the time to write as well as you did in the pilot.

That said, as the writer, you’ll feel disappointed. You have to wait until late fall or early winter to find out when you’re on the air. And it’s hard not to wonder if you’ll ever be given a place at all.

•  Back-up scripts

Back-ups are the smallest pick-up, accompanied by a better-than-nothing sigh. It means the network won’t let you produce any episodes but would like to see additional scripts. They’re holding on to the show because the concept interests them, but something in the pilot didn’t work. It might be casting, tone, location, or something at the core — the direction of the stories themselves. This is a second opportunity to prove the series can work by actually writing up to five episodes, sometimes called “back-up pilots.” You, the writer, are in the spotlight, and assuming they haven’t held back because the writing is weak, this can be your chance to shine.

Let’s make believe you got a pick-up for 13 on the air. See the chute from May on the outer circle in
Chart 2.1
? Well, hold on because you’re about to be swept down it to:

Y
EAR
T
WO

J
UNE

STAFFING

Hurtled out of the development chute, still tumbling, you land in June with three months to put an hour series on the air every week. That doesn’t mean producing the first hour. It means scripts for the first five to seven episodes, plus three “in the can” (ready to air). But you have next to nothing. The sets have been struck and need to be re-built. You have no crew, no office, no production facility, and only your personal cell phone. And you urgently need a writing staff right now.

Shows that are ongoing or announced early aren’t in this fix (and neither are cable series, but more about that at the end). Optimistic showrunners started reading sample scripts and speaking with agents as far back as February, especially if the pilot was attracting an industry “buzz.” But without an actual order, they couldn’t staff. And some producers are taken by surprise.

I was once hired on a staff in June and we didn’t gather until the first week in July, although we were scheduled to premiere the first week of September. The executive producer, a highly-regarded writer-producer, had written a personal pilot that didn’t fit neatly into a usual franchise (sometimes called a “passion project”) and everyone thought it was a long shot. I think he was actually out of town on vacation when the pick-ups were announced; that’s how unlikely he thought this would be. So there we sat in a temporary office lent by the studio — four adrift writers and the surprised showrunner. He opened with “Anyone have ideas for stories?”

But that’s rare. With months to imagine winning this lottery, most show-runners are ready, and the instant the series goes, negotiations commence with writers. If you were in the mix from the beginning (if the concept was yours or you wrote the pilot), your deal is already in place. If you’re trying to join a staff, June is when those jobs open and fill quickly, so your agent should have been pitching you in the months before.

The next chapter tells how a writing staff works, so we’ll skip over that and assume by the end of June everyone is in place and writing has begun. It continues:

J
ULY
A
ND
A
UGUST

WRITE LIKE CRAZY

Ditch the idea that summer is vacation time if you’re writing for network television. July and August are the crazy-making months when the staff is turning out scripts as fast as they can. Though each show has its own rhythm, if you’re in any writers’ room, you’ll be “breaking stories” around the table, dissecting outlines as they come in, and discussing early drafts by the other writers every week at the same time as you write your own. (In
Chapter Four
, I explain the steps of writing.)

Probably, the first episode exists: It’s the pilot. But the audience might not discover your series the first week, or even the second. So in a way, the first three episodes will function as pilots. Episodes Two and Three have to reach a balance between orienting first-time viewers by reprising the overall “mission” and identifying the cast, while progressing the stories to hold people who watched before. If the pilot was a premise that deposited a character in a new environment or quest, then Episode Two is expected to deliver what happens there. It may be the most difficult and least rewarding episode on a show.

Think about it — the audience doesn’t know the characters, so viewers are not yet emotionally invested. But neither do you have the benefit of the inciting situation or curiosity that sets the series in motion, since that happened the first week. Nevertheless, this “development” episode must sizzle with the tension and anticipation of the pilot. That calls for one of the more experienced writers — not you. Your earliest assignment might be Episode Four or Five, depending on the size of the staff.

While the staff is writing, production is rolling out shows. Probably, you’ll be invited to sit in on casting guest stars in your own episode. Once shooting starts, “dailies” (unedited scenes) are screened almost every day. Go to the screenings, no matter how hard you’re writing. After you hear how the dialogue plays, you might want to rework the cadence of a scene you’re writing. Dailies also reveal the strengths of the actors. If chemistry between actors burns through the screen, you’ll want to use it.

But don’t get beguiled by stars. You’ve probably heard the joke about the starlet who was so stupid she slept with the writer. Well, that doesn’t make sense in television where writers do have power, and smart actors know it. They’ll want to have lunch with you to pitch stories for their character. I was on one show where an actor researched each writer’s birthday and sent exquisite hand-made cards; on another, an actor distributed coffee mugs personalized with each writer’s name. Some showrunners warn new writers not to hang out with the actors, fearing they’ll be too easily influenced. I say, go for it — talented actors contemplate their characters, and that can inspire you.

As the series evolves, the head writer must decide whether to let characters develop in a way he didn’t foresee, or stick to the original plan. Some showrunners begin with a chart of story arcs for the whole season. In fact, many established series invite their large staff to a retreat in early June (or whichever month precedes their season). On a whiteboard, they might assign each character a color-coded marker and track the five-or-so main roles from Episode 1 to 22 in a stack of horizontal lines. After all arcs are complete, they slice vertically, showing how the stories intersect (see
Chart 2.3
). If you work for that executive producer, no one can abscond with the series.

Chart 2.3 Sample Character Arcs for a Season on One Series

But other showrunners have a freer approach. The team that headed
Northern Exposure
used to build their series “bible” as each script came along. In one episode, a writer would invent a brother for a character, or a secret past, or a private fear. These were listed as “facts to wax” and distributed to the staff. After years, they accumulated a compendium of what various writers created — quite a different approach to a bible.

I used the term “bible” — no religious connotation (unless you worship the show). A TV bible is a document intended to help new writers and directors understand the rules of a series. Complete bibles contain elements similar to a “format” — a log line, franchise, an overview of springboards, tone, style, and the quest of the series, followed by character sketches and story guidelines.

The king of all series bibles was made for
Star Trek: The Next Generation
. At around 100 pages, it included intricate diagrams of the Enterprise, details on how the ship’s bridge operates, definitions of technical terms, characterizations that not only summarized every crew member, but also analyzed the relationship and history of each one with every other, an admonition of what to write and not write for the series; and it was accompanied by summaries of every story the show had ever aired, as well as every idea in the mill.
Trek
had to go this far because it was open to non-professional submissions. I think it was kind of self-defense against repeated questions from its many fans.

But that’s extreme. Some bibles are just a few pages including the premise, character bios, and the kinds of stories they intend to tell. Others, like
Northern Exposure
, are amassed rather than generated.

And, frankly, most shows don’t bother with bibles at all. They take too much time when everyone is busy making the airdate. Websites, even blogs, from many sources — the network, the showrunner, sometimes other writers on the show, even fan-sites — have replaced formal bibles as a source for information. But if one will be composed, now is the time.

While the staff writes and rewrites through the summer, network notes trickle down. Each episode is read by the network — Legal, and Standards and Practices, on top of the executive assigned to your show. Those notes go to the showrunner, so if you’re a beginning writer he’ll filter and interpret them; you won’t interface directly with the network. Your boss is choosing when to fight the network brass and when to accommodate the notes. It’s just part of the network landscape.

All this work leads to:

S
EPTEMBER
AND
O
CTOBER

THE DEBUT

If it was a stage play, you’d have flowers and a party opening night. But in television, you’re doing postproduction on a later episode by the time the pilot airs. (“Postproduction” means everything after filming, like editing and scoring.) And that pilot was written a year ago, before the series was a glimmer in the eye of any of the current staff. Still, send up the fireworks in the parking lot after you watch it on TV like it was new.