Dear Earl,

I read your post about how screenwriters should become directors to protect their work.  Isn’t that a bit much to ask somebody?  It’s hard enough to learn one job.

In that specific case, I was referring to the screenwriter’s weakened position in the moviemaking system.

Directors have more power.  Ergo, if screenwriters want the power to protect their stories, they should seek a position of power.  I’m not saying every artist needs to study every field.

Oh, thank goodness.

But now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea.

I never went to film school.  There’s a fun story behind that, which I’ll tell another time.

Without any formal guidance, I had to build my own curriculum.  So for awhile, I studied film books.  And in my studies, I came across a man named Sergei Eisenstein.

// STUDIES WITH SERGEI //
Eisenstein is the creator of, among other films, the Battleship Potemkin and its famous Odessa Step sequence.  He lived during film’s early innovation years, when the idea of cutting two shots together was a revolutionary idea.  Literally.

The idea of creating meaning by joining shots is almost second-nature to us now, but Eisenstein helped pioneer the practice.

So where did he get the idea?  Not from studying films (there were hardly any films to study).

By taking concepts from Japanese writing, and combining it with his own experiments in the Soviet cinema training program, he helped develop the idea of cutting film.

// CUT TO: EARL, CIRCA 2001 //

The story of Eisenstein’s discoveries changed the entire way I viewed my self-education, and in the process, changed the way I work, both creatively and otherwise.

From Eisenstein’s story, I learned:

• There are no irrelevant fields of study.
Everything relates, in some way, to everything else. Knowing how one system or discipline works can inform your knowledge of others.

Obvious example: I started life as a screenwriter. Becoming a director (and with that, an editor) taught me what worked on the screen, and what didn’t. It informed my imagination in a way that “more writing” couldn’t have.

Less obvious example: for a time, I worked as an American Sign Language interpreter. I didn’t know it then, but working in a completely visual language taught me the feel for the subtleties of nonverbal communication.  I learned how to tell stories better by applying the principles I learned in sign language.

• Good ideas come from anywhere.
You don’t know where the next great idea you have will come from. That makes everything interesting, on some level. And it also encourages collaboration and humility when you’re working with others. People want to work with me again because they feel like their creative ideas are respected. That’s because when they speak, I listen, whether I agree or not.

• Learning doesn’t stop.
If any discipline can influence any other, how do you know which ones to study, and when to stop? The answer to both is: “you don’t.” And that’s exactly where you want to be.

That passion for learning maintains with Funakoshi called “the beginner’s mind:” a mind open, unbiased, and excited to understand.  (A concept I wouldn’t know to apply, if I hadn’t studied Shotokan karate)

// STUDY EVERYTHING //
Study what you love. Study some things you hate. Above all, study the jobs that relate to your career.

Screenwriters should know how to direct; directors, how to act.  Novelists should know how to edit their manuscripts.

Everyone should know something about marketing.

You do not have to be an expert in any of these. But knowing enough — the lingo, the mindset, the necessities of the job — will inform your own work. You will know how to avoid the pitfalls that appear further down the line.

And if the field has nothing to do with your passion, tremendous.  You are more likely to discover an insight about your work that no one has ever thought of, because they never thought to look for answers in the study of architecture.  (Or robotics, or computer programming, or avid gaming)

If I were a screenwriter starting today, you know whose job I would study?

The unit production manager. AKA, Them What Puts the Budget Together.

Knowing how to keep things cheap is an excellent tool for a screenwriter to have.

Especially now.

Related posts:

1. The End of the Screenwriter
2. Pry Yourself from Preproduction
3. Test-Screening Your Screenplay

Dear Earl,

We just received an email announcing the open entry period for a big media award/film festival, and we’re going to enter!

Awesome, congrats.  Why are you entering?

When you win, the trophy is amazing, it’s made of crystal and golden butterflies — wait, what?  What do you mean, ‘why?’  It’s a big award/film festival!

How much is the entry fee?

Huh?  I don’t know.  It’s somewhere around ($50/$100/$200).

Maybe it’s just me, but if someone is asking for more than lunch money, I like to know why I’m doing it.

Everyone born after 1953 has imagined this for themselves at some point.  And when you finally commit to being a professional creative, you’re hit with so much hard reality (disappointment, compromise, and poverty) it can seem like the last bit of magic left.

And it is.  For one night.

But after the champagne is all gone and the press has gone home, a new day dawns and you’re left with a clunky conversation piece.  And not much more.  There is no honor in winning awards.

You’re depressing me.

That’s because, as an audience member, you have always admired awards.  That admiration is what you’re going to count on now, as a creative professional, when you realize that awards are really only good for marketing purposes.

Awards are something you wow the audience with.  Awards get you jobs, get you access to higher-caliber collaborators.  In a marketplace glutted with competing talent, awards give you the benefit of the doubt.

Isn’t that the same thing as honor?

It is and it isn’t.  Honor is an ambiguous idea that floats wherever we place it.  What I’m talking about is credibility, and that has a very concrete value.

So I shouldn’t try to win awards?

You should absolutely consider it.  But be discerning.  Like anything creative, you should take into account your audience first.

And before you offer yourself up to be judged, be a judge yourself.  This award/film festival claims to be prestigious and noteworthy: have you ever heard of it?  Is it something recognized by your industry, your clients, your audience?  If not, you may get better results spending your marketing budget elsewhere.

Because that’s what you’re doing, when you submit to win an award.  As much as you’re putting yourself up against your peers, you’re also entering a blind bid for something to add to your press kit.

Set aside the validation of winning.  If someone offered you the chance to buy this award, for the same price as the entry fee, would you do it?

That’s how you know if an award is worth it.  It cannot be about validation.  If you don’t already know you’re good enough to win, you probably aren’t ready to enter.

Related posts:

1. A Question about Stranger Things DVD
2. Dealing with Silence and Rejection
3. Pry Yourself from Preproduction

Dear Earl,
I just submitted my masterpiece to

• a reviewer OR
• a publisher OR
• an agent OR
• a producer OR
• a film festival

and I haven’t heard anything back. It’s been months. What do I do?

Signed,
Everyone Who Ever Made Anything, Ever

Did you follow up after a few weeks?

Dear Earl,

Yes. We haven’t heard anything, and it sucks.

Signed,
Still Us

Okay. Odds are, silence is the only rejection letter you’re going to receive. Maybe they just haven’t seen your submission yet, but if they do, and they like it, they’ll call you. Might as well move on and –

Dear Earl,

What? How can you say that? These people are insensitive bastards who won’t even deign to send a simple email saying, “Sorry, we don’t like it.” THEY OWE US THAT MUCH.

Signed,
Still Us, Slightly Drunk

Oh. I see.

Okay, this is a common misunderstanding for people in the entertainment business. You’re interpreting their lack of response as disrespect. What it really is, however, is a lack of interest, which can be more hurtful, but is not really designed to be insulting.

If you want, I can state the obvious, which is that their disinterest isn’t a direct comment on your talent, it’s the end result of countless factors, including: the state of the marketplace, the economy, the creative direction of their company, their personal taste, and whether or not they had bran that morning.

BUT –

That’s little comfort when you’re the one being rejected. What you need to know is that rejection — and its mutated-birth cousin “total silence” even more so — is an ingrained part of any creative career. You should reasonably expect to be ignored and rejected at least sixty percent of the time (eighty to ninety percent is not out of the ballpark).

That’s why a creative career is so tough to gauge: a success looks just like a failure for the first ten years.

SUCCESSFUL CAREER IN THE ARTS
They were rejected and ignored for years. And just when they were about to quit, someone gave them a chance.

FAILED CAREER IN THE ARTS
They were rejected and ignored for years. And just when they were about to quit, they did.

If you look at every rejection as a judgment, it’s going to wear you down.  You’re going to either give up, or else become one of those cynical people at parties with faces like lemons.

Or, you can choose to look at rejection as a natural part of your process.  Plumbers don’t complain when they have to deal with crap; why should you?

THAT MEANS YOUR JOB IS NOT “TO BE SUCCESSFUL”
Your job is to be talented, at the right place and time.

When and where is that? Nobody knows.

That’s why, outside of the time when you are actually creating, your primary role is being an “opportunity collector.” You should look for and pursue as many opportunities as you can, until it’s clear that they are tapped out; sheer odds will guarantee you’ll get your chance.

So if someone doesn’t respond, or rejects you outright?  Learn what you can, and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s one more email or phone call you don’t have to follow up on.

Related posts:

1. Dealing with Silence, Part Two
2. Pry Yourself from Preproduction
3. Are Awards Worth It?

Dear Earl,
My biggest challenge is getting started. I know I have the talent, but

• I just can’t start start this script OR

• I just can’t finish this script OR

• The script tries to bite me when I touch it.

Signed,
Almost Everyone In the World

There’s no shame here, Everyone. This is a completely natural part of the process. Here’s what you have to do.

Put away your script. Jump on the Internet. Tell everyone you know that you’re going to have a big premiere party for your new film in three months. Talk up the awesome. Cake and pie and balloon animals.

Now look at your script. You have approximately a week to get it in shape, because this thing won’t produce itself. Fix what you can, then start calling actors.

POINT: The fastest way to improve as a filmmaker is to see your movie walking and talking on-screen, with an audience. The fastest way to get your movie on-screen is to get the audience first; fear of public humiliation will do the rest.

(Hint: I’ll bet you can name ten filmmakers right now with decent careers who, in your opinion, haven’t ever found a great script. It didn’t stop them, why should it stop you?)

“P.S. BUT, BUT, BUT…”

Yes, Everyone, your first screenings might be embarrassing, but improvement is built into this process.  I promise, no one will remember it ten films from now. You won’t even remember it ten films from now.

Making movies is about inertia.  More movies die in gestation than ever died in front of an audience.  Start your movie, keep it moving, and finish it.  Everything else is the small stuff.

• • •

Dear Earl -

It’s us again. What we meant to say was, we WOULD get started, but we don’t have

• the right location OR
• the right cast member OR
• the right size pile of money

So, things are really more difficult than you originally let on.

Sincerely -
A Slightly Smaller, More Experienced Subset of Almost Everyone in the World

This argument is basically logistics: you don’t have access to some element the script requires. Reasonable.

But who wrote the script? Get the writer on the phone! You don’t have a skyscraper to shoot in, set it in a sweat lodge. Or a garage.

This sounds like Roger Corman talking, right?   Keep these two things in mind, Subset of Everyone:

• First, being professional doesn’t mean having the perfect set of resources,

it means delivering a decent product with the tools available. Michelangelo didn’t use CAD, and Da Vinci never had access to Photoshop.

• And second, it doesn’t have to look perfect, it has to look planned.

If you write a great movie about a yacht and you shoot it in a canoe, the audience will cry “suck!” If you write a great movie about a canoe and you use a canoe – that’s great production value!

The lesson to be learned here? The audience only judges you based on what you’ve told them to expect.

It’s about telling a great story. Your production elements don’t need to be out-of-this-world, they just have to believably fit.

Let’s put the idea in practice:

So cut the shipwreck. Set it in modern day. Lose all the cannibals and the sprawling island paradise. What do we need to make this movie work? A beach, and some kind of shelter for him to sleep in.

That movie is called Cast Away. (I’m presuming a painted volleyball is not outside your budget) A brilliant movie, simply told, cheaply shot (Tom Hanks notwithstanding).  Their chief set piece, the thing the movie couldn’t work without, was empty solitude.  Zemeckis took nothingness and made it a prop.  You can, too.

POINT: Your production elements are only there to serve the story, and story is the only thing you can control completely. Do more than just butcher your story to match your resources; take whatever you have and make it dramatically integral to the story.

• • •

More real problems from fake people to come.

Related posts:

1. Study Everything
2. Test-Screening Your Screenplay
3. Are Awards Worth It?