John August

QandA

On friends, colleagues and jealousy

Psych 101, QandA

questionmarkWhen you were first getting started as a writer, did you meet other hopeful screenwriters? And, if so, did you grow, over time, to absolutely despise them?

Because I’m feeling this. When I first moved to LA a few years ago, I met a whole bunch of disreputable screenwriter wannabes. I made friends with them. We helped and encouraged each other. But in the last year or so, I began to grow weary of their company and their lame-ass superficial ideas. I wrote a script that landed me a fairly prestigious agent and have since gone on to have meet and greets and do all the things that other screenwriters do who haven’t yet sold a break-through script. I’ve pitched for assignments. I’ve duly submitted new scripts that haven’t yet tweaked the fancy of some mid-level studio exec. I’ve met with producers. I’ve played the whole game. I feel like I’m on the cusp.

But I’m still sort of in that netherworld between WGA-sanctioned writer and struggling wannabe. The thing is, all the struggling screenwriters I’ve grown to know in the last few years… well, truth be told, they irritate the fuck out of me now. I have no patience for them anymore. And they seem to have no patience for me. They’ve grown really demanding. It seems like for every new door that opens for me, they feel like I owe them the passcode. The secret handshake. The “in.”

What I want to know is, did you go through this? Did you, at some point, have to sort of leave your fellow strugglers behind? I don’t want to lose my friends, but at the same time, I feel like it’s really important for me to separate myself from them right now. I also feel like, if the shoe were on the other foot, they wouldn’t think twice about blowing me (and all my scripts) off. I mean, they’re calling me and asking me if I’ll send their latest script to my agents… who have only hip-pocketed me and who I can barely get on the phone as it is.

Hollywood is such a weird place. I feel like I’m still learning all the ins and outs of the politics that go with it. How have you dealt with fellow screenwriter friends who haven’t yet crossed that line, but who still count you as a friend, with all the benefits that come with that friendship? Does that make sense?

I’d really appreciate some advice.

–Jay
Los Angeles

Your letter pretty well encapsulates a lot of what I have felt, and to some degree continue to feel, about Los Angeles and the film industry.

To a surprising degree, screenwriting can be a meritocracy, where good writing (and savvy) leads to a fulfilling career. Talent and hard work are rewarded; laziness is punished. The lag between cause and effect can be frustratingly long, but there’s reason to have faith.

From your letter, it really does sound like you’re off to a good start. Congratulations. Work your ass off, land an assignment, and write the hell out of it. Then do it again, and again, and again. You’ll know you’re doing well if you’re too tired to go out drinking with your old screenwriting buddies.

Yes, I’m saying to let ’em go. Not all of them, necessarily. But it’s time to thin the herd.

I think there’s an important distinction between friends and colleagues. Here’s the single most important question to ask yourself: Who is happy for you? A true friend is glad you’re finding success, without any ulterior motive for himself. Be smart: hold onto your friends. I have honest-to-goodness friends who I met the second day I arrived in Los Angeles, who will be my friends until I die.

But I also have colleagues, mostly other screenwriters, who are important to me even though they’re not really friends. With colleagues, it’s okay to feel some jealousy. Even small twinges of schadenfreude. Particularly at the beginning of my career, I was constantly comparing my success to their success, and it made me work that much harder. Yes, we helped each other out when we could, but the biggest help by far was by continually raising the bar, not just in the quality of our writing, but what we were able to achieve career-wise.

Most of your so-called screenwriter friends are probably fall into the “colleague” category. Some of them are definitely worth keeping in your life. Ask yourself which ones you think are actually good writers. Here’s the test: whose scripts are you genuinely excited to read? If you dread cracking open Jim’s scripts, and dread giving him notes, then you really don’t believe in him as a writer. You’re not doing him or yourself any favors keeping up the charade.

You don’t have to tell him, “Jim, buddy, I think your writing sucks.” Just be too busy to read the next draft. Say it’s too much like something you’re working on. (And remember that trading scripts works both ways. It’s not fair to ask for his notes if you’re not willing to do the same.)

Jim may think you’re an asshole. That’s his right. But the process of adding and dropping friends and colleagues isn’t unique to this business. I’m guessing you’re in your 20’s. With certainty, I could say you’d be going through the same thing no matter where you lived, or what you were doing. Things change. People move on.

What’s different about this business is the musical chairs aspect. Hollywood only “needs” a very small number of screenwriters. Maybe it’s a hundred. Maybe it’s three hundred. Whatever the figure, it’s a very small number compared to the vast legion of wannabe screenwriters in Los Angeles.

The cliche is that every waiter in LA is an actor. The truth is that every non-waiter is probably working on a screenplay. So when these aspiring screenwriters see you climbing those first few rungs of the ladder, it’s no surprise there’s some jealousy and resentment. After all, just a few months ago, you were exactly where they were.

In some ways, it’s easier to begrudge a person a little success than a lot of success. There’s a relatability, a why-not-me factor. It sucks for them. It sucks for you. Accept that and move on.

If it’s any consolation, look around at all the aspiring actors in your midst. They’re going through the exact same winnowing process, but at least you’re being judged on your words. Imagine how much more frustrating it would be to succeed or fail based on the whims of a casting director who liked your look, or felt you could stand to lose 10 pounds.

Please state your purpose

Education, QandA

questionmarkI’m in the middle of applications for USC and UCLA, where I hope to get an MFA in screenwriting.

Any tips on writing the ultimate statement of purpose? Also, what kind of references play well? Should I get industry types or not — I have a couple of contacts in L.A.

I notice you went to USC. Was it very expensive?

— Matt
London

Last question first: yes. Film school is and was expensive. In my case, it was definitely worth it, but for every film school grad who’s making a living at it, there are probably three who aren’t. It’s certainly not like an MBA, where you’re pretty much guaranteed to get some kind of decent job at the end.

I was tempted to dig back through the archives (which are probably on floppy disk) to find my original application letter for the Peter Stark Producing Program at USC. Laziness trumped temptation, and I didn’t. But here’s my recollection of my “statement of purpose”:

I want to learn about the film industry in a comprehensive way, everything from loading a camera to analyzing a marketing plan. In specific, I’m curious to learn how the industry learns from its successes and failures, both critically and commercially.

My letters of recommendation came from a journalism professor and a marketing professor at Drake, and a film instructor I’d had for a summer program at Stanford. I think if you have a film-related reference, use it. But make sure at least one of your references is someone who knows you well and can really speak to your unique strengths with specific examples. To me, there’s nothing worse than a hollow, generic letter of recommendation from someone who seems to be a near-stranger.

For USC requirements, I also had to take the GRE exam. Apparently, the Stark program doesn’t really care about the scores, but I’ll gloat and say I did well. I really miss standardized tests.

The Stark program didn’t ask for a writing sample, so I didn’t need to send in anything for that. What’s weird to realize is that back then, I really didn’t know what screenwriting was.

How to get into film school
Is film school necessary?

Which agent should I choose?

Film Industry, QandA

questionmarkI have the opportunity to sign with one of two agents: one deals strictly with screenplays and supposively has good connections and the other seems to be more geared towards novel and book authors but has several screenwriter clients.

The first one doesn’t seem all that interested and seems to just want to have me signed on should lightning strike but the second one seems very enthusiastic about working with me. Both have offered me contracts but the kicker is, neither is in L.A. or New York. Should I sign with either and if so, if you were in my shoes, which one would you prefer?

Thanks for the site and thanks for much inspiration.

— Brad R.
Orchard Park, NY

Tell each agent you’d like to speak with two of their clients. Just a phone call. If they’re real, above-board agents, they won’t have a problem with this. I’ve spoken with potential clients on behalf of my agent several times, and it’s no great hardship.

When you talk with these writers, here’s what you want to know:

  1. How quickly does the agent return phone calls?
  2. What meetings has the agent set up for you?
  3. Have you sold anything? Been hired on any projects?
  4. On a scale of 1-10, how satisfied are you with this agent?

I suspect Agent #2 will score better on these criteria. The fact that he/she doesn’t live in Los Angeles, and isn’t exclusively a screenwriting agent, are certainly big minuses. However, enthusiasm gets you a lot. If you think Agent #2 passionately believes in your talent, go for it.

And now for the standard disclaimer: You are still responsible for your career. Signing with an agent guarantees you nothing. You will need to hunt out work, develop pitches, and generally scramble until you get your first few jobs. Your agent can help point you to the lake; you have to catch the fish yourself.

How to Rewrite

Writing Process

Over the weekend, my friend Rawson came to visit the bambina, and we talked about the script he’s writing. He said he was about to start his next draft, which was mostly character tweaks. He was unsure how to go about it.

I said, “Decide out what you want to accomplish, then figure out which scenes would need to change.”

He seemed to think that was pretty good advice. And the more I thought about it, the more I agreed.

The biggest problem with most rewrites is that you start at page one, which is already probably the best-written page in the script. You tweak as you go, page after page, moving commas and enjoying your cleverness — all the while forgetting why you’re rewriting the script.

Instead, you need to stop thinking of words and pages, and focus on goals. Are you trying to increase the rivalry between Helen and Chip? Then look through the script — actual printed script, not the one on screen — and find the scenes with Helen and Chip. Figure out what could be changed in those scenes to meet your objectives. Then look for other scenes that help support the idea. Scribble on the paper. Scratch out lines. Write new ones.

Then move on to your next goal. And your next one.

At first, this “checklist” approach to rewriting probably won’t feel organic. It doesn’t have the same flow as writing the first draft. But fixing your script isn’t that different than fixing your car. If the stereo was busted, you wouldn’t start at the tailpipe and work your way forward until you got to the dashboard. You’d rip out the stereo, figure out what was wrong, and replace it if you couldn’t get it working. Then you’d do the same for the headlights, the shocks, and the windshield wipers. A car is a car, and a script is a script. But they’re both made of lots of little pieces, and you can only fix one piece at a time.

And scripts are much better than cars. If you don’t know what you’re doing when you try to fix your car, you might be stuck taking the bus. With a screenplay, you always have the old version saved on disk. So roll up your sleeves and get to it. Don’t let the fear of screwing up keep you from starting.