Category: Lizard Men

July 15, 2016

You Want To Know What I Think?

I really like this title, even though it makes me think of the conservative talk show host in V for Vendetta.

So, a question was posed in the comments a few weeks back—how do you deal with criticism? Specifically, how do you tell good, useful criticism from questionable opinions, and how do you weight those opinions to tell which are worth listening to and which are just… well, wrong.

I think that was the question, anyway. If I’ve completely missed it, Chris, feel free to point and laugh at me in the comments. Until then, though, this is what I’m going with…

This is kind of well-timed, too. Back in May I handed in my new book to the publisher, and near the end of the month I got back notes from my editor. Lots of notes.

Pagesof notes.

I won’t lie. It stung. It never feels good to have someone pull out lists of reasons why months of work needs… well, even more work.

Here’s the thing, though. He was right on about 85% of what he said. And I knew it. My editor’s a smart guy, and he picked up on a lot of things—small things, really—that didn’t work in the story. But these small things snowballed into three or four big problems.

(Which I am now about halfway through fixing…)

So… how did I know he was right?

Assuming I’m actually open to receiving some honest criticism, one thing I can immediately look for is if this criticism is objective or subjective. Is it a factual, provable point, or is it just a reader’s opinion. If I use the wrong spelling of canon, drop commas in weird places, or don’t have a single transition anywhere… these are real problems that have a right or wrong answer. This is objective criticism, and if I’m going to get argumentative about something like spelling, well… my writing career is going to take a while to get going.

Which takes us to subjective criticism. This is when my editor or beta readers express their opinions on my writing. And opinions can be taken with a grain of salt. Or several grains. Sometimes a spoonful.

For example, some opinions are informed. My agent doesn’t think this is a good time to try selling an urban fantasy book. He spends his time talking to different editors and looking at recent market trends, so he’s probably got a pretty good sense of things. That doesn’t mean selling a UF book right now is a guaranteed failure, but it’s probably a good way to approach things for now.

On the other hand, some people’s opinions are a bit… less informed. I think zombies suck. Maybe you could give her a dog? Or a cat? I feel like this sex scene could be cut. Have you considered ending the book on Chapter Six and just making it a novella? Have you considered giving this up and going back to investment banking? These are all critical statements, but there’s nothing backing them up except one reader’s opinion.

And don’t get me wrong. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, and their opinion is (usually) totally valid. But at the end of the day, some opinions carry more weight than others. Neil deGrasse Tyson’s opinions on moon colonies carry more weight than mine, even though I once did a whole month of research for a zombies-on-the-moonbook. Pretty much every woman on Earth has better thoughts than me about the struggles, barriers, and sexism they encounter as a woman. On the plus side, my opinions on G1 Transformers and Micronauts carry more weight than my brother’s (he was more into sports when we were kids…and as adults, too).

But how do I tell objective feedback from the subjective stuff? There are so many rules and accepted standards! It could takeyears and dozens of drafts to learn them all!
Well, here’s one easy rule of thumb. If I’m giving you feedback for something, and my notes have a lot of phrases beginning with–

“I think…”

“I feel…”

“This didn’t do it for me.”

“I just don’t…”

–my critique probably isn’t that objective. Just because my personal reading preference may be for casual dialogue, implied sex and violence, or clever twists doesn’t automatically mean these things are right for a given story. And it doesn’t mean a lack of them is wrong. So when I’m saying “I think you need this,” I’m not offering advice based on facts or rules, just off my own thoughts and feelings.

However…

Yeah, there’s always a however…

As I’ve mentioned before, some people will try to soften the blow with criticism because they don’t want to hurt my feelings when I read their notes. So even though they’ll have a perfectly valid, solid point to make, they’ll lead it with one of those phrases I mentioned above. “Not 100% sure, but I think you may want to check if Schwartzenagger is the correct spelling.” I’ve done this to other writers. Readers have done it to me. It’s just human nature.

Except…

The flipside of this is the people who don’t realize they’re just voicing their opinions or some half-understood advice. And these folks will declare with absolute certainty that I must change this character’s name or move that comma or turn all my zombies into witches because, seriously, who still writes about zombies? It’s over, people. Witches are the new hot thing.

So when I’m wading through my feedback, I need to be able to sort good opinions from bad ones. And real objective criticism from heartfelt opinions. That’s part of my job as a writer.

Now, all that being said… there are times someone’s personal opinion might hold a little more weight. If some producer wants to pay me to rewrite my screenplay to include an alien love-child, or to rewrite the main character of my civil war slave story to be a white guy…that’s their call. If a publisher wants to buy my Agent Carter fan-fic with all the names and a few genders swapped, I probably won’t tell him no. If someone wants to pay me actual money to do something that could very well ruin my story… well, getting paid is nice. A lot of writers cover their monthly bills that way. Especially in Hollywood.

Y’see, Timmy, the bad news is that a huge amount of knowing how to sift through criticism and make these choices is just plain experience. It’s the ugly process of writing, getting feedback, rewriting for the feedback… and realizing two or three drafts later some of that critique could’ve been ignored. Then having this happen again… and again. And again. The only way to learn this is through writing and rewriting and learning exactly how all of this word-stuff fits together and then writing some more and having it suck a little less.

Also, it’ll help a lot if I read more. Lots of things in lots of genres. If I can name a hundred manuscripts that have done the same thing as mine with a character, with structure, with dialogue, that’s probably a good sign that what I’m doing is acceptable. But the only way I’m going to know that is if I’ve read lots and lots of material.

By the same token, if I read a hundred books a year and not one of them has done what I did with dialogue… well, it might mean I’m a visionary, but odds are it means this isn’t really an acceptable practice. If I find one or two out of that hundred that do it, they’re probably the exception than proves the rule. Again, though, the only way I’ll know is to read.

Yeah, this sounds like a lot of work. It is. I didn’t figure all this out overnight, or even in the eight or nine years since I started this blog. This is actual decades of experience, stretching back to the early ‘80s when I first started screwing up this stuff with fanfic, comic book scripts, and lizard man stories. And I screwed up and got rejected a lot.

As I’ve mentioned before, experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want.

Speaking of not getting what you want…

There will be no post next week because I’m going to be down at San Diego Comic Con. If you happen to be there Saturday, though, I will be part of a panel on worldbuilding and storytelling, so you could show up and mock me in person.

And I’ll probably put up a few photo tips to make up for the lack of actual post.

When we do meet again, though, I’d like to talk about chefs.

Until then… go write.

January 10, 2015

The Friends and Family Plan

Running a little late. Sorry.

Hey, last week there were two posts in a row. You’ll survive. Really.

Anyway, let’s talk about the system you’re using.

I think one of the harder things to find is an honest opinion. Odd to say, I know, with all the folks who like to shout about the truth on the internet, but I think there’s a certain level of honesty that’s difficult to get from people. Most of us don’t like saying “No.” Everyone worries about offending someone and the possible ramifications it could have, especially these days when so many comments are taken out of context and so many folks are ready and waiting to be offended by… well, anything.

My time in Hollywood taught me that a lot of folks have almost brainwashed themselves against saying “no” or offering any kind of negative feedback. My differing opinion can get me fired, after all, so I keep it to myself. The person asking “Do you like this?” could end up deciding whether or not I get health insurance and a new office next year, even if they’re just the office PA right now. They don’t always say yes, but pretty much nobody says no. No is all but forbidden.

Unless you’re one of the lucky few who has a partner, writing is something we have to do alone. The odd conundrum here is that one of the very few ways we can improve as writers is to get feedback. People need to read our work and express their thoughts and opinions about it. I need to have an audience. A realaudience.

What counts as a real audience? Well, it’s people who will give me an honest opinion. People who are willing to say no. A solid beta reader, as they’re often called, won’t mince words or spare my feelings, because they understand I need to know what’s wrong with my work so I can improve it. Kindness and white lies don’t help me at all. They only undermine my attempts to get better.

A little story…

When I was a kid, my mom read pretty much every piece of half-finished crap I wrote. And believe me, I wrote a lot of it. She slogged through at least three versions of Lizard Men from the Center of the Earth between third and seventh grade. There were also a few good-sized pieces of Boba Fett and Doctor Who fanfic (long before there was such a term). Plus a bunch of short stories and a truly awful sci-fi “novel” called A Piece of Eternity that had cosmic rays and mutants and cute little robots and bug-aliens that were shamelessly ripped off from the old Marvel Micronauts comics.

Now, there’s no question in my mind that I wouldn’t be where I am today if my mom hadn’t kept reading this stuff and encouraging me to write more. None at all.

However…

I eventually realized something. My mom was pretty much always going to say she liked what I was writing because she’s my mom and that’s what good mothers do. It didn’t matter if the material was good, bad, or borderline nonsensical, my mom would congratulate me on it.

Which is when I realized I needed to start getting other opinions.

Now, granted, this is an extreme example. I’m not saying my mother should’ve told the eleven-year-old me that my writing was childish and predictable and I didn’t have a chance of ever getting published. That would’ve just been cruel, and also a bit unfair. In one way, this blind kindness was a good thing.

However, this kindness can also be a trap. And many people, willingly or not, fall into it.

Dot, for example, surrounds herself with people who won’t give her honest opinions. She’ll only show her writing to immediate family members, or friends who are so close they’ve got all the same interests and background. Parents, siblings, friends, lovers—people with a strong desire not to hurt her feelings, and, on some level, a vested interest in keeping her happy.

Is it really that surprising to learn these people all say Dot’s writing is great. Her mom and dad think it’s wonderful. Her friends got all the jokes. Her brother Yakko loves it. Her boyfriend (or maybe girlfriend—Dot’s very open-minded) thinks she should send it out to some magazines or agents.

Are they all lying to her? Possibly not. There’s always that chance Dot is the next Harper Lee or Ernest Hemingway, unable to produce anything except Pulitzer-level material when left alone with a word processor. Maybe she really is a writing savant, able to put down words on the first try that are going to make the Nobel Committee weep tears of joy.

But, as they say in Vegas, I wouldn’t put money on it.

Worse yet, sometimes these well-meaning folks will tell Dot to ignore the good criticism she is getting. Did Phoebe’s feedback sting a bit? Did it make Dot question her abilities a little? Well, just ignore it. What does she know, anyway? She’s just one person, and she’s probably jealous of Dot’s talent. That’s why she’s tearing the story apart like that.

We all start out rough. Our first works suck. Usually our second works, too. But we can’t get past that until we admit it and really consider some of the feedback we’re getting… and the people we’re getting it from.

Finding a real, honest audience for your work can take years. Some folks mean well, but are coming from a place of no education and/or no experience. A few of those folks are coming with no education or experience and they’ll ask you for money. And some of them… well, let’s be honest. Some people are just jerks. They like to look down their noses and criticize people—sometimes for no real reason, sometimes so they can feel superior. They’ll give an opinion and expect you to treat it as fact.

Over the years since Mom read all my stories, out of the hundreds of people I’ve met in the film and publishing industry, I’ve found maybe a double handful of people whose opinions I really trust. They have the education, they have the experience, and at the end of the day they want to see my writing improve almost as much as I do. Several of them are merciless and blunt to a point that could make small children cry, and I consider myself lucky for that.

And, for the record, Mom still likes a lot of my stuff, too. But she only sees the final version.

Speaking of my mom, next time I’d like to tell you my story. It’s the most interesting thing ever. Really.

Until then, go write.

criticism feedback Lizard Men opinions Star Wars

August 30, 2014 / 2 Comments

The Plimoth Experience

Very sorry this is so late. I mentioned last time that I was working on a major rewrite of the new book which was due last week. Then I looked at it again over the weekend and asked my editor if I could take another pass at the last fifty pages before he read it. And he said I could, because he’s very forgiving of my screw-ups since I own up to all of them. Which is why I’m late this week.

But enough with the excuses.

Speaking of last time, it struck me a while back that I’ve never talked about why I end every one of these little rants with “Go write.” Is it supposed to be a clever catchphrase or something? Encouragement?

Let me answer that by telling you a funny story about Plimoth Plantation.

No, it’s relevant. Really.

While I mostly grew up in Maine, I spent my high school years in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Yes, the same Plymouth as the rock and the Pilgrims and the Mayflower and all that. One of the big tourist attractions is Plimoth Plantation, a recreation of the original colony (with original spelling) complete with actors playing specific historical roles. You can walk in and the colonists will talk to you, answer questions, and usually ask about your odd (modern) clothes.
Every year in Plimoth Plantation is 1627. It replays again and again, following the historical record. Births, deaths, marriages, and so on. A friend of mine worked there for a few years with her parents, and because of her age she was assigned a specific role. Part of her role was getting married at the end of the summer to another historical character, Experience Mitchell (ahhh, have to love those Puritan names). The catch was that my friend was kind of interested in another Pilgrim. So on “the big day,” one of her co-workers gave her a wedding gift in the changing room, a t-shirt that said…

Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want.

I laughed when she told me about it, but the phrase stuck with me. Mostly because it’s true. If you talk to anyone who’s considered experienced, it’s because they failed or screwed up. A lot.

Now let’s jump forward a bit.

Comic writer and artist Brian Michael Bendis has a new book out called Words For Pictures. We happen to have the same publisher (well, where this book’s concerned) and the director of marketing slipped me a copy while I was at San Diego Comic-Con last month. I read it as soon as I got home. It’s great, you should buy a copy.

Words For Pictures is mostly (as the title implies) about writing for comics. But there’s a lot of solid advice in there for writing in general. In fact, it was interesting to see that Bendis addresses a lot of the same points in his book that I have here on the ranty blog. In pretty much the same ways.

One of them is this. To be a writer, I need to write. I need to write a lot. You’ve probably heard this before. Many people have said the same thing.

Here’s the part you probably haven’t heard.

The reason everyone says to write a lot is that we’re all going to put out a lot of crap.

Tons of it.

I believe it was Neil Gaiman (in one of his books) who said that everyone has at least three great stories in them. While I believe this is true, I think there’s an unspoken corollary there which is just as important. All of us have lots and lots of bad stories in us. Dozens of them. Maybe even hundreds. We have contrived plots, weak characters, awful dialogue, and terrible structure

I wrote a ton of bad stuff that none of you ever have—or ever will—see. I spent about twenty years getting out all my bad stories and habits. My first attempt at a novel (in third grade), Lizard Men From the Center of the Earth. My Doctor Who and Boba Fett fan-fiction. My middle-school sci-fi novel. My junior high fantasy novel. My high school werewolf-detective novel. My college novel, The Trinity. My after-college-moved-to-California novel, The Suffering Map (which went through eight or nine full drafts). Plus a ton of comic scripts, short stories, screenplays, and I think even one or two attempts at stage plays. Thousands of pages. Thousands of hours of work.

Some of you may have noticed I’m in no rush to self-publish these, despite the constant assurances from some quarters of easy money.

Why?

Because, pretty much across the board, they suck.

My early work sucks. It’s bad. I spent days and days writing stuff that should never see the light of day. I have no problem admitting it. In fact, it was being able to admit it that let me move from being a random dabbler to a serious writer. I dug through all the bad stories and found the good ones underneath. Maybe even one or two great ones.

Writing all those stories was my experience. Whenever you hear about an overnight success or an amazing “first” novel, odds are that writer really has a long string of work—and a lot of failures—behind them.

We accept that in every field of work someone needs a certain level of mastery and experience before they’ll be considered a professional. Taking an auto shop class in high school doesn’t make me a mechanic, and taking a CPR class doesn’t make me a doctor. Home Ec didn’t make me a chef, and oddly enough the White House hasn’t called me about any foreign policy decisions, despite my B+ in history.

And these people have screwed up, too, on their path to being a professional. Ask your mechanic and she or he probably broke a couple cars while learning how to fix them. Lots of doctors misdiagnose patients, and some patients die from these mistakes. Your favorite chef cooked a lot of really bad food over the years. Some of the better politicians are the ones who admit they were wrong about an earlier position they held.

And we understand that in all of these fields, these mistakes are part of the learning curve. I don’t get the success, but I get the experience. It’s why it takes so long to become a doctor or a chef or even a mechanic.

Or a writer.

This is one of the reasons I harp on spelling so much. It’s an easy-to-spot symptom that usually implies bigger problems. If my manuscript is loaded with spelling mistakes and misused words, it means I don’t know how to use my tools. And it also means I didn’t really spend a lot of time (if any) on my drafts and polishes.

Y’see, Timmy, at the end of the day this is all up to me. It’s not someone else’s responsibility to make my book good. It’s mine. If I can’t spell, have a weak vocabulary, poor plots, thin characters, flat dialogue… that’s all on me. Which is why I asked my editor to hold off reading this new draft so I could fix some things. Part of being a professional is knowing how to do all this stuff and, well… doing it.

There’s an all-too-common belief that just finishing something means it’s good. That the act of struggling to finish that first novel is the experience I need to call myself a good writer. I mean, I made it all the way through to the end of a novel on my first try. That’s a lot of writing. That novel must be worth publishing and being read, right?

But the truth is, the vast majority of first novels are awful. The second ones are pretty bad, too. The third ones are at least tolerable. Ex-Heroes might’ve been my first novel that was published, but it was my seventh-and-a-half attempt at writing one. And, as I mentioned above, I’m really glad it was the first one people saw.

Because that junior high fantasy novel… man, that was embarrassing. On so many levels.

Next time, I’d like to hit another problem right on the nose.

Until then… go write.

Bendis drafts Ex-Heroes exceptions experience gaiman Lizard Men writing

February 27, 2014

The Ecchh Factor

Pop culture pun. I don’t do puns, normally, but it works. As you’ll see.

This is mostly going to be for screenwriters. Writers of prose—please don’t feel left out. There’s a couple of things in here for you, too.

Tis the season for screenplay contests. A few of the big names have opened their mailboxes for submissions, and there’s a dozen more noteworthy ones past that. It’s a great way to get your name out there and even win some decent money, too, if you plan accordingly.

However…

As some long-time readers know, I used to read for a couple of screenplay contests (four different ones, in fact). I have several friends who read for some of the same ones, and some others, too. This time of year used to be a time of great sadness for us. And also a time of great drinking. Usually for the same reasons.

For an average contest, I’d probably read about a hundred scripts per year. That means there were years I’d read over three hundred scripts, usually all in the space of three or four months. It was a fascinating (and sometimes horrifying) overview of amateur screenwriting. To be honest, it’s one of the big things that convinced me to start the ranty blog.

It also gave me a real sense of certain patterns. There were certain types of scripts that would show up again and again and again. And it got to the point that I (and most of my friends) would let out a groan—an Ecchh, if you will—when we opened the next script and realized it was another one of those stories. Usually we could tell within the first few pages. In rare cases, the story would go along fine for twenty or thirty pages and the big first act reveal was… it’s just another one of those stories.

I drank a lot during this period of my life.

Now, I’m not saying any of these are automatically bad scripts that no one would ever pay a dime for. We could probably check IMDb box office listings right now and find examples of more than half of them. But contests aren’t about the box office, they’re about the submissions pool. Unless it’s something truly, utterly spectacular, each of these all-too-common screenplays is going to get an automatic response from a contest reader. An Ecchh. And that means my script is already starting in the negative. And even if the reader’s just subconsciously knocking off two or three points for being an Ecchh-inducing script, those points could mean the difference between making it to the next round or winning a contest.

So, a few types of screenplays you should think twice about before submitting. I’ve mentioned some of these before, so if they sound familiar… well, I thought it was worth repeating.

The 50% Script
I’ve mentioned this idea here a few times. In any pool of submitted material, around half of the submissions can be usually be disqualified by page three. It’s when I submit my stoner sex comedy to a Christian values screenplay contest. Or my romantic comedy to a horror contest. Or my five-act play to… well, any screenwriting contest. The same goes for short stories. Very few screenplay contests want to see short stories. Hard to believe, I know, but there it is.

The 50% scripts are also the result of me being incompetent and/or lazy. If I don’t know how to spell, have only the faintest understanding of grammar, and no concept of story structure… that’s a 50% script. Or if I send in a first draft with all its flat characters and wooden dialogue. Or if I don’t even bother to learn how to format a screenplay. Or if I wrote my screenplay under the assumption I’d be directing it from this draft.

If my script falls in that 50% group, the reader’s going to know very soon. And they’re going to Ecchh because a lot of contests require them to read the whole script… even if they know it’s not going to win. Most readers will toss a 50% script as soon as they can. Sometimes sooner, if they think they can get away with it.

The Writer Script
I’ve said this a dozen or so times. Do not write about writers. I did the math one year as a reader and it turned out almost 15% of the scripts I read had a writer as one of the main characters (yeah, I started keeping track of this stuff). When I was interviewing contest directors for Creative Screenwriting, one joked that if her contest banned scripts about writers they’d probably lose a quarter of their entries. More than a few professional editors have said they’ll toss a book manuscript if it opens with someone writing on their computer.

No one cares about the day-to-day struggles I go through as a writer. No one. Most of you don’t—you’re here to learn about the successes. Definitely not a bunch of script readers, many of whom are writers themselves. If I’m being sincere, I’m going to bore everyone (more on that in a bit). If I make up some idealized writing lifestyle, the readers will Ecchh over that because now I’m delving into fantasy.

Let’s assume they didn’t toss my script aside as soon as they saw the writer character. If they get to the end and said writer-character finally sells their book or screenplay and wins the Pulitzer/ Oscar/ whatever… the reader will crumple my script into a ball and burn it so nobody else will have to read the damned thing. Then they will get my personal information from the contest director, hunt me down, and cram the ashes in my mouth.

And I probably won’t advance in the contest.

The Current Events Script
I’m going to go out on a limb here. If we could look at the pool of Nicholl submissions for this year, I’d bet we’d see a fair number of Olympic scripts. Several of them would be about stray dogs in Sochi. Also a bunch of screenplays that tie somehow to health care laws. A few on government gridlock, too. And most of them were probably written in four weeks or less.

Y’see, Timmy, if I saw a news report about some fascinating nuance of the world and realized it’d make a great script… it’s a safe bet at least a thousand other aspiring screenwriters saw the same news story and had the same idea. Probably more with the way stories spread on the internet. Even if only half of those writers do anything with the idea, and even if only ten percent of those people are sending their script to the same contest as me… that’s still fifty people rushing out scripts about the exact same thing I am. Even if half of them are completely incompetent and the other half are just barely on par, it means the contest reader is going to be reading a dozen scripts just like mine. Ecchh. And that’s if we stick to a thousand as our base number.

Mine may be the best in the batch, of course, but it’s going to lose a lot of appeal because now it’s a tired, overdone idea. And none of us want to be thought of as the best take on a tired, overdone idea.

The Actor Script
When people are trying to be positive about this one, they’ll call it “a character script.” It means my screenplay is just a thin plot with a handful of over-detailed character sketches piled up in it. There’s usually lots of deep and meaningful multi-page conversations about mundane things, often held in a few basic locations, and very little action. Of any sort.

The thing is though, is there anything remotely interesting about a story that’s indistinguishable from the boring, everyday life we all lead? Is there anything impressive about me putting all that boring stuff down on paper? Is there any sort of challenge there, for me as a writer or you as a reader?

Ecchh.

As it happens, this leads nicely into…

The True Script
A kissing cousin of the character script is the true script. On the cover or either the first or last page (sometimes several of these) I assure the reader this tale is based on true events involving me/ my parents/ my best friend/ someone I read about in a magazine article. These true events are often stressed to give a certain validity to what the reader is about to take in. After all, they can’t call my story or characters or dialogue unbelievable if it really happened, right?

Thing is, no one cares if my story is true or not. Nobody. Ecchh. They just care that it’s a good story and it’s well-told. So my tale of prepubescent paraplegic drug addicts in 1990s Los Angeles needs to be as enjoyable—on some level—as a story about Neanderthal superheroes battling prehistoric lizard men in 1990s Los Angeles. Whether or not one of them’s a true story is irrelevant. In the end, I’m telling a story, and it’s either going to be good or it isn’t. Reality doesn’t enter into the equation for the reader, so it can’t for me.

The Formula Rom-Com
The man pursuing his dream girl realizes his best friend has been his real dream girl all along. A woman’s engaged to a condescending, controlling executive and then meets a poor artist and discovers he’s the real love of her life. Aphrodite/ Cupid/ an angel comes down to Earth on an assignment and falls in love.

Do any of these sound familiar? They should. Pretty much every one of them has been made into a dozen movies and a few thousand screenplays. Yeah, flipping the genders doesn’t make them any more original, sorry. Once it’s clear on page three this is a rom-com… Ecchh.

My romantic comedy has to be really spectacular and original to impress a reader. Again, it’s that sheer numbers thing. In four years of contest reading—a hundred romcoms, easy—I read one that stood out. Just one.

The Holiday Script
If you add in straight-to-DVD, movies of the week, and pretty much everything Shane Black‘s done, there’s a good argument to be made that holiday films are one of the best selling genres out there. However, just because my script is very sellable does not mean my script is very good. Or original. And if my contest is looking for good (see above), well…

The trick is to come up with something a contest reader hasn’t already seen again and again, to the point that they go Ecchh as soon as they see the mention of Halloween decorations. And—speaking from experience—they’ve seen most of it. They’ve Santa Claus quit, get fired, and get replaced by a temp, an elf, Mrs. Clause, his son, his daughter, his evil twin, his evil other personality, a robot, an alien, another holiday figure, another supernatural figure, Jesus. It’s all been done. The Easter Bunny has learned the true meaning of Easter, Cupid has learned the true meaning of love (see above… again), and Gobbles the Turkey has learned the true meaning of Thanksgiving. The hard way. Many, many times and in many, many ways.

There you are. Seven very common types of scripts that will make a contest reader Ecchh. Probably more like eight or nine if you read between the lines a bit.

Again, I’m not saying I could never, ever win with one of these scripts. But I am saying that if I’m going to go this path I absolutely must knock it out of the park. No questions, no conditions, no exceptions.

Speaking of movies, next week I’d like to talk about the lessons we can all learn from that fine classic film Satan Met A Lady and its slightly more well-known remake, The Maltese Falcon.

Until then, go write.

50% rule character contests CS ideas Lizard Men love Nicholl originality real screenwriting

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