Writing the TV Drama Series 3rd Edition: How to Succeed as a Professional Writer in TV (36 page)

H
OW
T
O
B
REAK
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I want to tell you a fairy tale
that really happened, or so I’ve been told.

Once upon a time — actually the mid 1980s — a young woman fell in love, not with a man but a television series whose main character seemed just like her. Each week at 9 PM on the day of her show, she would sit on her couch facing the screen, wouldn’t answer her phone or flip a channel. Often, she found herself thinking about the motives and dilemmas of the characters and talking to her friends about stories that might happen. She noticed the speech patterns of each character, how conflicts were set up and resolved, and how the plots were interwoven. And then she made the leap: I could write this.

Gamely, she sat at her electric typewriter, knocked out a 60-page “spec” and mailed it to the show. A “spec” is a speculated script — no one asked you to write it, no one’s going to pay, but it would be her ticket to ride. Except that the script was returned unread with a form letter that they don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts. But she was in love, so she tried again.

Script two — somewhat better than the first simply because it wasn’t her first — went off to the show. And back it came. Now, this woman had no film school degree, no relatives in the business, no screen credits, no agent. And where she lived no one else had a clue how to break in either. But she was in love.

So here came script three. By now she’d read books on screenwriting and researched the series to find hints where the stories were heading. She aimed this third script at what she thought was a gap in the series, and she included a short cover letter that showed she had something unique. So she sold this one, right?

No. But this time the envelope held something amazing: a note if she was ever in Los Angeles, come visit the office. You know how fast she bought that air ticket.

Luck, fate, or curiosity, who knows, she managed to get an appointment. And what did she have in her hands? Ah, you thought it was script four. Nope, she got smart. She brought pitches, short summaries of ten stories that were perfect for the series — twice as many as writers normally bring to pitch meetings. And she told those stories with wit and insight in five minutes each. So she sold one!

Just kidding. She sold nothing but left with an armful of sample scripts, a log of what they had in development, and suggestions for areas of interest. The producer said he’d be willing to hear her pitch again.

Next time, she finally heard the winning sentence, “have your representatives call business affairs.” Does that mean she sold a script or was invited onto the staff? No way. But she’d nabbed an assignment to write an outline, which you know from the previous chapter is the first paid writing step. The producer’s assistant showed her their “beat sheet” style, and she managed a workable story that — hooray! — was sent to first draft… to be written by someone else. She was too inexperienced to write, though she would receive “story by” credit. With that, she relocated to Los Angeles to watch closely as the episode developed.

And then she pitched another episode. It was good. They let her write the first draft. It wasn’t so good. But she learned as the script was revised, moving through the writing staff, production, and postproduction. She pitched, outlined and wrote another episode — better. She made allies among the writing team. And finally, when the series was renewed for the next year, she was invited onto the staff.

And she rose through all the writing ranks, staff writer, story editor, producer, supervising producer. And three years later, in the last season of the series, she became the executive producer, running the show she loved. The End.

Within that fairy tale lie tips for breaking in, which I’ll detail below. In fact, every writer who has broken into drama series can tell you a war story, and you can take cues from each. Here’s mine:

Writing for screen never occurred to me, growing up in New York City, but I’d always written — poetry, stories, plays, journalism — and by the time I graduated from college at 20 I’d won some prizes and published in small magazines. Mostly my adolescent journalism idealized about the potentials of television if characters could reflect the diversity of our population, the true experiences of women, and the realities of urban life. (That was before HBO and the other cable channels, not to mention the better network shows, broke the old network mold and won awards for doing just that.) Based on my articles, I was hired as program director for an experimental public TV station in Los Angeles. So I arrived, with one suitcase and a winter coat that would be useless, 3,000 miles away from anyone I knew. A few months later, the station went broke.

But I’d met people and someone tipped me that MCA-Universal was searching for a young woman in feature film development because they’d never had a woman executive. In my three years at MCA, I saw predictable names always attached to movies while scripts by less-known writers (even ones with agents) never made it to the executive floors, and even when a movie was greenlighted, years passed from script to exhibition, during which time the original writer was replaced (and his replacement was replaced). But a few floors down in the television department and the units which made series, scripts were on the air in months, the writer’s credit intact.

So I set out for a TV career. By this time I’d written three spec features, having learned the craft from the pros. My first job was an uncredited dialogue polish on a TV movie, a typical beginner’s job. That happens when an established writer has completed all contracted drafts, and a new writer revises lines though her name would not appear on screen. In this case the young characters didn’t sound real, so I spent two weeks rewriting for a flat fee.

That job got me my first agent because the producer needed to negotiate with someone, so he made a few referrals. Hey, if a producer wants to hire you that’s a sure shot to an agent. I went with one who was beginning, like me, and grew with the agency for years.

Now I was ready to try the episodes. But how? I found a fresh angle: Watching episodes of
Trapper John, M.D.
, I felt one of the main cast was being ignored. I knew Madge Sinclair was a wonderful actress, having once seen her on stage, and I took a chance the series might be obligated to her after years on the air. So I asked my agent to arrange a pitch. As a kid with no experience, I didn’t have a clue about “A-B-C” stories or the four-act structure, so I had to be taught by the producer. But the episode was made. Madge brought my lines to life. And later that year she won an Emmy for her performance in the first episode I ever wrote.

I didn’t stay with this series. I freelanced at several others, and it was a while before I was on a staff, but that first break was a kick.

It all comes down to these rules:

T
HE
R
ULES

WRITE WHAT YOU LOVE.

This is not self-indulgence; it’s the way to write well. What separates you from everyone else trying to break in? For our fairy-tale heroine, passionate identification with the main character in the series, understanding the struggles and feelings that protagonist would face, gave her stories the force of reality. You might find your break-in angle from experience in a field like medicine, law, or police work, absorption in a genre like sci-fi, or even in your family background. Your passion will lead you to authentic stories.

So when you choose a show to spec, pick one you watch often. Sounds obvious, but I’ve encountered would-be writers who think they’re playing the system by speculating shows they would never watch, thinking they’re easy to break into. Doesn’t happen that way. First, all shows want to hire the most gifted writers they can attract, not reluctant pragmatists. Second, never write down — it hurts you as an artist and damages your reputation. Third, it’s not going to succeed. It’s obvious if you don’t really have a feel for the show. And finally, what you are creating in a spec is a showpiece, not an actual episode, and this brings me to the next point:

DON’T SPEC THE SERIES YOU PLAN TO PITCH.

Okay, that’s opposite the lesson in the fairy tale. A few series will read specs for their own show, but most won’t, and you don’t want them to. Think about it — the producers know their show’s minefields. Outsiders wouldn’t know the producer is going to scream if he hears one more pitch about the dog, or another swimming pool corpse, or a romance between two actors who (you couldn’t know) had a fight yesterday. But producers on a different show will be able to see your script for the great writing it is without the encumbrances.

So go ahead and speculate for a series you know well — then develop pitches for a different show within the same genre, or of a comparable quality. For example, at one time the producers of
ER
would read a script from
NYPD Blue
to judge a writer’s ability. In 2010, producers of shows ranging from procedurals to sci-fi to family dramas were all reading specs of
Breaking Bad
, though it has nothing to do with the subjects of their shows — they were reading for ability with characters.

And ability is what you’re demonstrating — talent plus skill. So choose to study and write for the highest quality series that interests you. Look for one that’s been on long enough to be recognized and maybe won some writing awards. (You can find a list of award-winning series through the Writers Guild of America and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, both listed among resources at the end of the book.) You’ll sharpen your screenwriting; and the show’s multifaceted characters may pump up your dialogue.

Quality of writing is the immutable rule. And that brings me back to our fairy tale, and the next principle:

ASK THE RIGHT QUESTIONS ABOUT A SERIES.

Notice what the woman considered when she first tried the show: the motives and dilemmas of the characters, stories that might happen to them, speech patterns of each character, how conflicts were set up and resolved and how the plots were interwoven. All these can be discovered in the episodes. Once you delve into the underlying motives by asking why the characters behave as they do, you’ll uncover the roots of future stories and also subtext that will color the way you write these characters. It is this more subtle layer of characterization that producers want to see in a writing sample because it suggests a source for further writing, as opposed to flat characters or “types” pushed around to serve a plot.

What stories might happen to the characters? Don’t answer by using plotlines already set in the show. Those story arcs will be complete before your script is done, and big changes that turn the series are made by executive decision, not by freelancers. Instead, ask what urges or issues come from the characters at a point of stasis — that is, when they behave normally, rather than guessing how the narrative will evolve over the year.

Or come up with an angle of your own for the main cast. For example, if you speculate a
Dexter
, in which the character often goes out on his boat, and in your real life you work as a marine biologist, what do you know about creatures in his waterways that might add intrigue to his story? When
Friday Night Lights
was still running, the most interesting spec scripts I saw were from writers who’d lived in Texas and had experienced the lore of rattlesnakes and dust storms. You could smell the authenticity in the pages.

Ideally, every character’s dialogue is specific and expresses background, education, attitude, intelligence, and personality. Listen well, and ask yourself how Vampire Bill’s choices of words and his phrasing differs from Vampire Eric’s on
True Blood
, or how Peggy’s differs from Pete’s on
Mad Men
. A critical hurdle for an outside writer is to catch the “voices.” You may begin with the actors, but don’t let that fool you. The differences are on the page.

Conflicts and plot structures are somewhat determined by the hour format and, in network television, by act breaks, as you saw in
Chapter Three
, but don’t let that hang you up. Do what it takes to keep readers turning pages. Production companies and agents will read only a few pages and if they’re not hooked, the script gets tossed. The tension has to stay high and the reader needs to be surprised often — not by a gimmick but by a turn in the story that is true to these people. Be unpredictable within the world of the show. For example, in a story about breast cancer, give the disease to a guy because men can get it too. Be fresh, creative, unexpected.

You see, it’s all about good writing, the same qualities you’d apply to writing a feature or other dramas. That’s not to say you shouldn’t ask about the shows you’re speculating or pitching. Do your research. Unlike our woman of the 1980s, you have the Internet. Virtually all series have websites, as do all networks, and many have fan sites too. The official site will assure you basics like spelling the characters’ names and a history of the series. Some include statements by the producers with hints to their taste or sources of inspiration. Watch out for the fan sites because they might not be accurate, but the best include summaries, and some list every episode that’s been aired, which will save you from writing or pitching what’s been done.

The right questions are always about stories and characters, not special effects, costumes, budgets, casting, gossip, or marketing gimmicks, so stay focused.

HAVE THE RIGHT TOOLS.

Our lady of the 1980s toiled on an electric typewriter; no one does that any more. For your computer you must have —
must
have — a professional screenwriting program. The Writers Computer Store (in the resource list) will advise you of your options; if in doubt, “Final Draft” is popular. “Celtx” is a free program available online. Each series adopts specific software which their writers must use, but for speculating, any program that creates a standard screenplay form is fine. As you can see in the sample in
Chapter Three
, the hour drama looks the same as a feature screenplay (though sitcoms are formatted differently). To be considered at all, your scripts must appear perfect and professional.