So...You Want to Be a Screenwriter—Snap out of It!

I am a screenwriter.  I started writing professionally as a screenwriter.  I will always be a screenwriter because it's fun and I'm hooked and I'm good at it.  But, I say this with all sincerity and compassion—do yourself a favor and start writing novels and self-publish.

I say this because there is no market for screenplays.  I say this because so many screenwriters think a sale a year will make them rich (NOT!).  I say this because, as the wonderful John August (Big Fish, Go, Charlie's Angles) says, " ... you’re never as broke [as a newly employed screenwriter] as when you first start making money."  There is no real outlet for screenwriters to be writers and find an audience as writers. Just consider the Writers Guild of America's (WGA) statistics from its 2011 Annual Report (2012 report for 2011 isn't out yet):

Out of roughly 10,500 members, in 2010:

• 4,244 reported income overall (@4%)
• 1,615 reported income from features (@2%)
• 3,142 reported income in television (@3%)
  (Deadline Hollywood, Nikki Finke 2011)

So, even screenwriters who have "made it" and join the WGA number under 5% annually.  Of these, even a smaller percentage make "big money."  What about all the other screenwriters?  All the many thousands who are not in the WGA, but who think it's only a matter of time before their lottery ticket gets hit by lightning on their birthday on a leap year?  They beat their heads against the gatekeepers walls and doors and write their fingers to the bone and make NO money—ever.  This is the vast majority of screenwriters.  This is the reality of the movie and TV business.  It's called "the business" and not "the art" for a reason.  But, "the business" is stacked against you (us).  It is siloed and a closed shop.  It is designed to keep you out, not to invite you in.  Everything about Hollywood is designed to make it as hard as possible to "break in."  None of this reality check will not stop anyone who wants in, however.  Once bitten by the bug it is impossible to talk reason into the smitten (I know of what I speak, I'm one of them).

And so this missive.  If you have to write screenplays, fine.  Go for it.  Just know there is no market for them.  Everyone is competing for the same, few potential buyers (and I mean few), and there are already 10-thousand professionals who are inside the walls and have preferential access due to their WGA status.  Sorry, it doesn't matter that you have the best story ever written—no one will ever read it, due to the closed system. So, where do you sell your script?  The indie film market?  Most producers will ask you to write for free or pay you a couple thousand and promise to pay Guild minimum when they make a sale.  Good luck with that.

So, where else will you sell your great American screenplay?  Nowhere is where.  If you can't get a studio to buy, or a production company, or a legitimate indie producer, there is no other outlet.  Like I said, there is NO market for screenplays outside of these few and restricted points of sale.

But, there is hope. You are a writer. You don't have to beat your head against Hollywood's door.  You can write something else, you can write somewhere else!  The world of writing has changed forever, and is changing as I write this.  Writers can actually make money, find readers, and find satisfaction in their work through the wonderful world of self-publishing and e-books. But, you've heard about all this.  You know about e-books.  "That's fine," you lament, "but, I'm a screenwriter."  So, drop the "screen" part and just be the other part (hint: starts with a "w" and ends with an "r").  You can do this, honest. 

Writers, nowadays, can ill afford to specialize if they want to make a living doing what they love; and for the first time in publishing history it is actually possible for a writer to make a living writing.  Writers have to diversify with their work: short stories, plays, novels, novellas, screenplays, etc.  Most of these can be put up on the Internet and generate readers and money.  I know screenwriters who have put up old short stories (20 years old!) and people buy them.  And they are feeling like real writers for the first time in their lives.  They have fans, they have market share (small as it is) and they are making some money.  Not with their screenplays—nobody wants those, nobody will read those, nobody cares.  But, e-books and short stories and novellas—you bet.

If you are a screenwriter who must write screenplays, knock yourself out.  But, do yourself a favor and learn how to write prose fiction.  Self-publish and discover a world that has been custom built for you as a writer.  In this new world, people won't rewrite what you write, people won't tell you to turn all your characters into robots, people won't hire other writers to completely fuck up your story and you will actually be appreciated and thanked (imagine that) for doing what you do. You may not get rich, but you will make some money—guaranteed more than you will screenwriting! 


So, consider my words.  Consider what is waiting for you on the Internet right now.  Consider actually writing for readers and not for trust-fund-baby, wannabe-writers playing movie producer (because that's who most of us screenwriters end up writing for—not Paramount!). Just consider ...

Now go be brilliant.

(Note: Some have said to me that this post makes self-publishing sound like it's easy and a bonanza for money. NO, NO, NO... none of this is easy.  My point here is that screenwriting will get you basically nowhere.  Self-publishing will at least get you somewhere... not a panacea, but a real outlet for your work.  No such possibility exists with screenwriting.)

The Writer’s Dream: An Agent and a Deal—Part II

In part one of our adventure, I shared that I was inches away from realizing “the dream.” Lit agent lined up and fired up, publishers in the wings as likely buyers, visions of deals and bookstores and midnight book launches with lines around the block. Okay, the last one not so much, but the other two were solid. Then, the news: my author platform was weak.

For those who don't know what this is, there are many wonderful posts on the Internet by authors who have written on the subject, not to mention numerous consultants who will help you set up a platform for a fee. In a nutshell, an author’s platform is your marketing web presence and social media infrastructure. These two things combine to help you sell your books to readers. A typical platform has the following pieces: author website, online store, author blog, video-book trailer, per click advertising, social networking (Twitter, Facebook, etc.), podcasting, e-newsletter, e-article marketing, and other inbound marketing partnerships that link your platform to other platforms, etc.

The agent told me that I had a great product and it was salable, but I was not salable due to my shaky platform. I had the infrastructure, but my numbers were bad. Traditional publishers, these days, have reduced budgets for marketing and promotion of their authors; consequently a first-timer is not likely to get any marketing help from a publisher. Pubs prefer to make deals with writers who have their platforms in place, and strong, before they publish the book. Big-name authors still get the old treatment (media support, public relations, book tours, etc.), but not the average Joe-Jane writer. Those days are over.

“Okay, fine,” I told my agent. “What kind of numbers do I need to have to be ‘salable’?” Her response was, “To put it bluntly, you need more zeros.” Sigh. I know writers with great platforms. They have thousands of followers, thousands of subscribers, thousands of fans and friends. They took years of working the Internet and publishing multiple books to build up their followings. My puny hundreds just didn’t stack up—too few zeros. It was sounding like I was suffering from the cart-before-the-horse syndrome. Before I could sell anything, I needed the people ready to buy, but before I could get them to want to buy, I needed something to sell. Yes, if your head is about to explode, join my club.

The agent wanted to go for it and spin-doctor my proposal to make me more attractive. I suspect, if I had agreed to jump on board, she would have pulled it off and gotten me a publishing deal. But, the business facts weren’t adding up for the way of the dream. If I took a traditional publishing deal, I was looking at these facts:

• It would take me at least eight months to write the book.
• If I went with a traditional publisher, it would be at least a year, after delivery, before there was a book in a bookstore.
• Between the writing and the publishing cycle, it would be almost two years before I’d have a book to sell.
• I needed product now to support my growing writing seminar business; I couldn’t wait two years to have products to sell attendees.
• It would take me at least a solid year of self-marketing to build up my platform to respectable numbers.
• If I signed a traditional deal, I would get less than 8% royalties for print books and around 25% for digital rights.
• With a traditional publisher, the book could go out of print in a year and there’s nothing I could do about that.
• There would be agent fees.
• Bookstores would take my book and I would not have the headaches of returns.
• I could get real reviews for the book.
• If I wanted my book in bookstores I'd need a publishing deal.
  
• I would lose rights, especially digital rights—for years.
• There would be little or no support for promotion, marketing and sales.
• I would have to do all the heavy lifting to create the market for my book.

If I self-published, the following facts were present:

• I would have to do all the heavy lifting to create the market for my book.
• I would have to do the sales and marketing, even after there was a market.
• I would have no agent fees.
• I could get paid reviews for the book, but mostly these are useless.
• I would retain all rights, especially digital rights.
• Bookstores would not take the book, unless I entered into a wholesale deal with them large enough to support returns, which I would have to manage.
• I could end up with 65–70% royalties on the digital side vs. less than 25% in a traditional deal.
• Penguin, Houghton Mifflin and other pubs are moving into the self-publishing space, or distributing books from Amazon.
• The number of online venues available to market and sell my book have grown exponentially in the last 12 months, and will grow exponentially more in the next 12 months.
  
• I could have product to support my workshops in less than a year (actually just a couple of months).
• I could do just fine without a bookstore presence. The biggest bookstore in the world is online.
  
• I could possibly leverage any success for my book and land a traditional deal later down the road, if I wanted.
• If I wanted hard copy of my book I could use the Espresso Book Machine, or work directly with a print-on-demand company like Lightning Source.
  

The conclusion came fairly quickly:

Authors with established readerships who opt-out of traditional deals (Barry Eisler, JA Konrath) can do so because they have a built-in market for sales, i.e., their established readers. Writers like me are starting from scratch (in that sense), so marketing is a much harder thing to pull off. This is why a traditional publishing deal is still the brass ring for first-time writers. There may be no financial backend, but the price of entry is worth it for the legitimacy of being published. Novelists, especially, find this road a godsend. Nonfiction writers, however, have to think twice before stepping onto that road. How-to and self-help are easier to sell and can find a readership more easily than fiction, and nonfiction is what keeps most publishing houses financially solvent.

So, knowing all this, I had to think hard about the facts bulleted above. No matter which way I went, I’d have to do all the heavy lifting in order to build up my platform and find my audience. And then, even after it was created, I’d have to do all the footwork necessary to sell my book. I could not afford to wait two years to have a book in hand; I needed product sooner than that to grow my business. In addition, I knew that digital self-publishing was finally coming of age and the stigma of self-publishing was quickly diminishing. I knew that the financial terms would benefit me on the digital side of the process both in the short and long runs. If I was publishing a novel, probably not, but I had a strong how-to book, one that credible people were telling me would pretty much sell itself.

My road was clear: self-publish.

I won’t (and can’t) claim that my process here is right for you or your book, especially if you write strong genre fare (crime, YA vampire/werewolf romance, etc.). But if you have a strong how-to or self-help book, you might want to think strongly along these lines. What is critical to realize here is that once a traditional publishing deal was a matter of professional life and death for ambitious writers. This is no longer the case. Traditional publishing is now just one more option a writer has available. Traditional publishing is one choice, in a long line of business choices, that we as entrepreneurs must weigh and consider as we build our brands and our businesses. Because that’s what we are doing, we are business people engaged in start-up activity. Even if this idea of being an entrepreneur is frightening to you, or overwhelming, or you just can't make that leap—no problem. You still have the choice to leap or not. A few years ago, that was not the case; you had no choice. Now you do!

As someone has already said, the publishing problem has been solved. And we are all the better for it.

Now, go be brilliant.

The Writer’s Dream: An Agent and a Deal—Part I

The dream of every writer has always been: get a New York lit agent and then get a publishing deal through that agent. The city matters; a lit agent in Kansas City just doesn’t have the same gravitas as a New York City lit agent—sorry. Anyway, this is the brass ring. Getting an agent and a publishing deal makes you an author, not just a writer. I have always held this dream for myself; like anyone, like everyone, who writes.

Would you be surprised if I told you I had both pieces of this dream in the palm of my hand … and then walked away? Would you be shocked and appalled if I told you I found a great agent who told me she loved my book proposal, thought I was brilliant, and felt super-confident she could sell my book—fast—and I still walked away? I can only tell you that you would be no more surprised, shocked and appalled than me, because I walked; I walked.

How the walking happened; the process by which I came to this crazy-ass decision (which I am very pleased with now, by the way) is a process worth sharing. It is worth sharing because I think thousands of writers are facing the same circumstances which were offered to me, and that my case is now more the rule than the exception. A year ago there would have been no debate, I would have gone the way of the dream. What a difference a year makes.

So, I asked a friend, who is a New York Times bestselling author, for an intro to an agent, or at least a recommendation for agents that might be interested in my book proposal, How Not to Write Your Self-Published Novel: The Missing Manual for Writers & Storytellers. My friend was Johnny-on-the-spot and referred me to her husband’s agent; a wonderful New York agent with a small but energetic lit agency.

I submitted my e-query; I followed all the detailed requirements for the submission process; I was sure to mention in the first line of the query email that I knew my friend and her husband. I hit “send” and waited with baited breath.

In short order I got a reply: the agent saw my friend’s referral in the first line of the email and decided she should read it. Normally, she told me, they just deleted queries from the queue, there’s just not enough time to read them. But, because I was smart and dropped some names in the first line, I made the cut and she read my email. And, she loved the idea of the book.

We began talking immediately and she enthusiastically asked for my proposal. She even told me that she knew several publishers that might be interested in my project. One, in fact, had contacted her an hour before we talked describing to her the kind of project he was looking for, and what he was describing was essentially my book. What luck! He also described the kind of author platform any prospective author might need to have in place in order to strike a deal with his company. The platform was critical. The platform was key. The platform, as I came to discover, was more important than the book! My very experienced friend told me that all this was a great sign; agents don’t engage a writer in this way unless they are strongly considering making a deal. Yay for me!

As I waited for a response on the proposal, I chewed on the idea that the only reason I was even talking to an agent was that I had name-dropped and had a network. If I hadn’t written that my e-query was a referral, I would have been deleted and consigned to email oblivion. How crazy was that? What a crap-shoot this process really ends up being. Nevertheless, in about two weeks, the agent responded back and reported that she liked the proposal, thought I was brilliant and was excited about the idea of the book and its prospects. There were just a few cosmetic changes she wanted to make to the proposal to make it attractive to editors. Whew, so far so good.

And then the bombshell, and I paraphrase: “I can sell the book, but I can’t sell you.”

The dream was slipping fast. I had to do a quick reality check: she loved the book, she thought I was giving great advice to writers, she felt confident she could find a publisher, but the weak link was the author (ME). Huh?! What was wrong with this picture? Well, what's wrong was that my author’s platform was too weak. I didn’t have the numbers. “But,” she said, “Let’s cobble together what we can and see what I can do.” Meaning, let’s start spinning your bio and platform infrastructure to try to generate some confidence in your ability to market the book and create a readership. The good news was she was still in my corner, willing to work with me and get creative on selling me to the publishers. The bad news was I had to get creative to sell me to the publishers.

So, we hunkered down to give the Emperor some new clothes. And I began wondering about the process: it’s not enough to have a good book; it’s not enough to be qualified to write that book; it’s not enough to have a good agent if you are a first-time author; you better have a platform, and not just any platform, you better have a strong one. But, what does that mean? How does that look? How do you know you’re ready and can dance the dance with a publisher? The dream, it seemed, now had three pieces: an agent, a publisher and an author platform.

It was at this point my thoughts began to move into the unthinkable; and I began dancing with the publishing devil. Oh, what a difference a year makes. Stay tuned for part two and the exciting conclusion!

Now, go be brilliant.

Prologue as Prelude to Shooting Writing Teachers!

Recently, I finished "guest teaching" at a well-known writer extension program here in Los Angeles. The class was an advanced novel writing workshop. The teacher, who lets me come and teach from time to time, is a master writer with an amazing skill set, and I always enjoy the experience. This time, however, something happened that truly threw me for a loop.

One of the students said something to me that nearly knocked me out of my chair. I had just answered a question about whether or not another student should use a prologue in her novel. And the writer came back with the statement, "Oh, I was told not to bother using a prologue. People aren't using them anymore because nobody reads them."

I asked, "Who gave you this piece of advice?"
"Oh," came the response, "One of the people at [writing program name redacted]."
"People" meaning someone teaching through the writers program.

(I'm not mentioning the program because my beef here isn't against them; they are fine people. My beef is against the bonehead who gave this advice.)

I was speechless, or more correctly, I was keyboardless. I literally couldn't type I was so astonished at the utter badness of this advice. If it had come from some writing hack over the Internet I'd have just sloughed it off and corrected the error. But no, this came from a writing teacher at a prestigious writing program. DON'T USE A PROLOGUE; NOBODY'S READING THEM ANYMORE! Really?

I know exactly from where this sentiment evolved. The teacher, up on all the hipster authors and new YA superstars and hipster trends from hipster agents at all the hip new publishing companies saw that all these hip people were not using prologues—thus the new flavor of the month writing rule: no more prologues; the hipsters don't write them anymore.

I want to just go running, screaming down the hall when I hear this s@#t. I read almost 300 manuscripts a year. Most of them are genre (suspense, thriller, horror, mystery). Almost all of them try to use prologues, but fail only because they don't know what a prologue is or what it's supposed to do. Those who don't use them do so only because they don't know that they could, or should.

Let me be clear: this is no trend. This is no form of advice worth listening to; this is crap! A prologue is not a trend, it is a literary device used to enhance the opening of a story. The writer chooses to use one (or should do so) based on whether it will work with the story and genre, not based on some mythical statistic that readers aren't reading them anymore (and who tracked that little factoid anyway?).

Here is my prologue speech that I give writers who don't know a prologue from a steak sandwich:

" The prologue in a novel is the opener, the bang, the teaser that sets the tone and context for the introduction of the hero-heroine. If you look at any well-known genre author, most of them use prologues in their stories to set up the action. In mysteries the prologue is where the first murder occurs and the reader “watches” this happen, in a suspense story the prologue is where the opponent is first introduced, sometimes along with the first crime or physical threat; in a thriller the prologue is where the first death/danger/jeopardy is introduced that sets the tone for the adventure, also often the agent of the central opponent is introduced. The prologue is where the story hits the ground running and then stops on a dime with a big question: who got killed and why, who’s responsible, what’s going on here? Then the first chapter is where the hero-heroine is introduced in a benign way, usually showing daily life, some basic exposition about their lives, work, etc. The first chapter usually gives the basic context for the hero-heroine so the reader understands why he/she is the main character and where they fit into the adventure, and then the first chapter ends with them being sucked into the story through some raising of the stakes or some incident that pulls them into a mystery that grows more dangerous and more personally threatening as things progress—okay, maybe in the second chapter."

End lecture.

If a prologue is there, readers will read it. Especially if the book is a genre book. Television shows and feature films use prologues all the time as openers for the show. Viewers don't skip the opening of a movie because it is a prologue! They watch the darn thing. It sets up the adventure. It works the same way in a book.

So, once again I make the grand plea for you to use discernment and common sense when listening to people like me, i.e., writers who teach other writers. Just as in used cars, aluminum siding sales, and stock swaps there are those who sell trends when they should be selling substance.

Stay vigilant, listen to everyone, read everything, follow no one! Repeat the mantra after me ...

Now, go be brilliant.

Writing and the Archetypes: Are They the Best for Developing Characters?—Part 1

A friend recently asked me to refer her to a “good” book on how to use the archetypes to write stories. I referred her to the book that has cornered the market on this area of writing: Christopher Vogler’s The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers. Chris’s book is great and it presents a seamless examination of how some archetypes work with the classical myth structure, specifically the hero’s journey. Based on the seminal work by mythologist and teacher Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Vogler’s book has been a staple around Hollywierd for years (in fact, that’s where it was born—long story).

I’m not trying to give a sales pitch for The Writer’s Journey, though you should buy it—it’s wonderful stuff. No, my point is to explore a broader issue, an issue raised by my friend’s innocent request. The issue is: are the archetypes really the best source for developing characters and developing stories? My response to this question is a resounding, no.

But first, a digression: what the hell are the archetypes and what the blazes do they have to do with writing? This is a topic worthy of several books in and of itself, but to give you the Cliffnotes version, read on:

What is an archetype?

The word can be broken down into two parts: arche and type. Arche, from the Greek means origin, beginning, primal, and tupos means pattern, stamp, or model. So, an archetype is a primal stamp, the first or original pattern of “something,” usually describing a human behavior or characteristic (i.e., trickster, magician, villain, etc.). The great psychologist Carl Jung made the term famous. Jung’s Analytic Psychology broke away from the rigorous mechanics of Freud’s Psychoanalytic approach around 1912; indeed, Freud was Jung’s mentor for many years, before the two had an intellectual falling. Nonetheless, Jung went on to found his own “school” and is responsible more than any other person for popularizing the idea of the archetypes in everyday life (i.e., father complex, anime-animus, etc.) His version of the archetypes is the basis of the popular, and often used by writers, personality typing system call the Meyers-Briggs Typing Inventory (MBTI).

What do the archetypes have to do with writing?

A lot. There are many fine books written about the archetypes and their relationship to writing, especially in developing characters. The archetypes represent the essential patterns of human behavior and personality (according to many). The archetypes are a part of every human being, and we find them in every culture in every human anywhere on the planet. They represent part of the “monomyth,” i.e., the common myth that can be found weaving its way thorugh every human culture throughout time. For Joseph Campbell (and by osmosis Chris Vogler), that monomyth is the hero’s journey. What better tool to use to create characters, right (wrong)?

For example, according to Vogler, every story is populated by archetypes. They are the recurring patterns of human behavior symbolized by standard types of characters in any story (Source: Wikipedia):

1. Heroes: Central figures in stories. Everyone is the hero of his or her own myth.

2. Shadows: Villains, antagonists or enemies, perhaps the enemy within. The dark side of the Force, the repressed possibilities of the hero, his or her potential for evil. Can be other kinds of repression, such as repressed grief, anger, frustration or creativity that is dangerous if it doesn’t have an outlet.

3. Mentors: The hero’s guide or guiding principles, for example Yoda, Merlin, Gandalf, a great coach or teacher.

4. Herald: One who brings the Call to Adventure. Could be a person or an event.

5. Threshold Guardians: The forces that stand in the way at important turning points, including jealous enemies, professional gatekeepers, or your own fears and doubts.

6. Shapeshifters: In stories, creatures like vampires or werewolves who change shape. In life, the shapeshifter represents change or ambiguity. The way other people (or our perceptions of them) keep changing. The opposite sex, the way people can be two-faced.

7. Tricksters: Clowns and mischief-makers, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy. Our own mischievous subconscious, urging us to change.

8. Allies: Characters who help the hero through the change. Sidekicks, buddies, girlfriends who advise the hero through the transitions of life.

(List Source: Wikipedia)

It does not take a rocket scientist to see the potential benefits from relying on these “primal patterns” to shape and build fictional characters. Indeed, for many the archetypes help shape the very structure of a story itself, as in this case with The Writer’s Journey.

But, the bolded-italicized text above (which introduces the list) flags the central flaw in this approach. Any approach relying on archetypes must be reductionist, not additive. Characters are based not on their complexity, but rather on "standard types" and "recurring patterns of characteristics." This is a house of cards waiting to fall, in my opinion. Where is desire? Where is motivation? Where is choice? Nowhere is where. There's nothing wrong with using patterns and recurring characteristics, but they can't be the starting point for real characters, let alone structuring a story.

As we will shall see in part 2 of this 3-part series, while there are great benefits from using the archetypes in writing, there are also huge dangers that can derail your story and cripple your characters before they even get started. Stay tuned for part 2 and learn why the archetypes should not be a writer’s first choice for story or character development. That all-important choice should instead be something called the Enneagram System.

Premise Line–Log line Conundrum: Aren’t They the Same Thing—NOT!

Wending one's way through the language of the story development jungle is one of the most crazy-making issues faced by new authors and screenwriters. This problem is wonderfully exemplified by the phrases “premise line” and “log line.” Yes—now is a good time to go running screaming down the hall.

We hear these phrases used interchangeably all the time. Well-intentioned advice given by so many writing teachers and gurus becomes migraine material when "premise line" and "log line" are actually used in the same sentence referring to the same thing. I’ve actually heard this done by story consultants, “Yes, you need a great premise line. In fact, the log line is the key to any good premise. So, take the time to develop a great premise line.” Still running screaming down the hall, FYI.

Okay, I didn’t hear this exact exchange; I paraphrase. But this is what happens. Writing teachers mix these two critical concepts up and spew them out as if they were Twiddle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Premise line and log line are two DIFFERENT tools, two DIFFERENT concepts, and two different skills. Okay, stop running down the hall now and listen.

So, what is the difference?

The premise line is your story. Period. The premise line is a complex and subtle construction that reveals not just a main character and an adventure; it actually delivers the basic structure of the story to the reader-viewer. The art of the premise line is the art of precision and clarity of ideas. A well-formed premise will “click” when you read it to someone and they will say, “Yeah, I see that story. I’d read that.” They “see” the story in just a few short lines. But, getting those lines just right might take hours, days, or even weeks. I’ve known some to take months. What is it they “see”?

The premise line gives them a clear vision of a protagonist acting with a purposeful desire toward a goal that is opposed by some force, and all this leading to some dénouement. This is a simplistic definition, but it captures the essence of what a premise line accomplishes. I will be writing a later post that breaks this down specifically with examples, but for now, know that the premise line is the structure of your story told as a single sentence (that’s right—1 sentence; and not a long run-on sentence sprinkled with comma splicing!) that has forward movement and gives a sense of the story’s beginning, middle, and end (no, don’t give away the ending).

Here is an example of a good premise line (three guesses what book/movie):

When the innocent, youngest son of a powerful mafia godfather discovers his beloved father has been shot as part of a turf war, he agrees to join the family to exact revenge and re-establish the family’s honor, until his actions force him to cross a line he was never meant to cross, dooming him to become the next Godfather.

Contrast this to a log line. The log line is your story’s high concept in a short sentence. If you don’t know what high concept means (yes, it means something) then check out my post on this concept.

The log line, unlike the premise line, does not show the overarching shape of your story, it does not give you the action line of the protagonist, nor does it give you a sense of the big picture. No, the log line’s job is to grab you and get your mind and emotions churning. There are seven components to a high-concept idea:

• High level of entertainment value
• High degree of originality
• High level of uniqueness (different than original)
• Highly visual
• Possesses a clear emotional focus (root emotion)
• Targets a broad, general audience, or a large niche market
• Sparks a “what if” question
  (Excerpted from my book The Anatomy of a Premise Line: 7 Steps to Foolproof Premise and Story Development. Bookbyte Digital, publication date 2012)

When a story has one or more of these components, then it can say it is high concept. The more the merrier. If it only has one or two, the claim can get iffy. Each of these bullets means something specific and are important to understand. Please refer to my post for more explanation. But, for the purposes of this post understand that the log line exemplifies these seven components of the high concept, and it does so in few words. Here are some examples:

• A monster shark terrorizes a small coastal town [Jaws, Peter Benchly]
• A cop battles uber-thieves when they take over an office building. [Nothing Lasts Forever, Roderick Thorp (film: Die Hard)]
• A young boy discovers he’s a wizard and goes off to wizard school. [Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling]
• A man saves a pregnant woman in a world where women no longer give birth. [Children of Men, P.D. James]

None of these tell you about a hero or heroine, none of them give you any idea about the journey to be traveled, but they do grab you and get you wondering “what if.” That’s the job of the log line.

These are the differences between the two tools. It does not take a rocket scientist to see how they work together to form a powerful effect in pitching a story. One grabs you and the other satisfies the “what if” with a bit more detail. Together they sell the story and get you that next meeting.

So, to summarize: premise line and log line are two different tools that work synergistically to create a powerful image of your story. They were built to work together, not separately. If you build them well, you will take many lunches—and you won’t have to pay either.

Now go be brilliant.

High Concept: Yes—It Actually Means Something!

As writers we have all come up against the agent, publisher, studio hack or fellow writer who, when asked to give feedback on our story retorts, “Yeah, good idea, but … it needs to pop more. There’s no high concept.” Sigh. And what the heck does that mean? What are you supposed to do with that? People throw this phrase around like the definition is common knowledge.

But when asked to explain their sorry selves, these same people only deliver cliches, like:

• It’s your story’s hook
• It’s what’s fun about your story
• It’s your story in a single image
• It’s your story’s heart
• It’s your story as a movie one-sheet
• It’s the essence of your premise
• And so on …

All of these have some truth to them. All of these speak to the idea of a high concept, but none of them really explain the darn thing. “High concept” has become a term d’art that everyone uses and that no one really understands.

After much hair pulling, moaning, and sleepless nights analyzing this idea, I have stumbled upon an elegant construct that I think will with both define the term accurately, but also give writers a tool for testing their ideas to quickly see if there is a high-concept component present. It goes like this:

High concept applies to any idea: motorcycle design, toothpaste, cooking, comic books, novels, movies, the list is endless. High concept is about essence; that visceral thing that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and doesn’t let go. From a writing perspective, a story idea that is high concept captures the reader’s or viewer’s imagination, excites their senses, get’s them asking “what if,” and sparks them to start imagining the story even before they have read a word. High concept drives the commercial book business, as well as the film and television industries. A high-concept idea has the following seven qualities:

The 7 Qualities of a High-Concept Idea™:

• High level of entertainment value
• High degree of originality
• High level of uniqueness (different than original)
• Highly visual
• Possesses a clear emotional focus (root emotion)
• Targets a broad, general audience, or a large niche market
• Sparks a “what if” question
  (Excerpted from my book How Not to Write Your Self-Published Book: Top 25 Writer Fails & Fixes. Xela Opus Press, publication date 2013)
  

Let’s look at each of these to get a better idea of what they mean:

High-level of entertainment value: This can be elusive. Defining “entertainment value” is like trying to define pornography; it’s in the eye of the beholder. Simply put, you know if something is entertaining, or not, if it holds your attention and sparks your imagination. If you are distracted easily from the idea or interested purely on an intellectual basis, then it is safe to say that the idea may be interesting, engaging, and curious, but not entertaining.

High degree of originality: What does it mean to be original? Some common words associated with originality are: fresh, new, innovative, novel (no, not a book). Think of originality as approach-centric. The idea may be centered in a familiar context, but the approach (original take) offered to get to that familiar context has never been used before, for example:

Frankenstein:
Familiar idea: evil monster terrorizes the humans.
Original take: the monster and humans switch moral ground and the humans terrorize the monster.

Dog Day Afternoon:
Familiar idea: man robs a bank for money.
Original take: man robs a bank to get sex change for his transsexual lover and wins the hearts and minds of the people.

Lord of the Flies:
Familiar idea: survivors shipped wrecked on an island.
Original take: the survivors are proper English schoolboys who abandon all civilized norms reverting into primitive savages.

So, originality is more about finding new ways to present the familiar, rather than inventing something new from scratch.

High level of uniqueness: Whereas originality is about approach and fresh perspective, uniqueness is about being one-of-a-kind, first time, and incomparable. Being original can also involve uniqueness, but being unique transcends even originality.

Highly visual: high-concept ideas have a visual quality about them that is palpable. When you read or hear about a high-concept idea your mind starts conjuring images and you literally see the idea unfold in your mind. This is why high-concept books make such good films when adapted. Books with cinematic imagery are almost always high-concept stories.

Possesses a clear emotional focus: Like imagery, high-concept ideas spark emotion, but not just any emotion, usually it is a primal emotion: fear, joy, hate, love, rage, etc. There is no wishy-washy emotional engagement of the reader. The involvement is strong, immediate, and intense.

Possesses mass audience appeal: The idea appeals to an audience beyond friends and family. The target market is broad, diverse, and large. Some ideas are very niche, appealing to a specific demographic, but this is usually a large demographic. High-concept ideas are popular ideas, mass ideas, and often trendy ideas.

Usually born from a “what if” question: What if dinosaurs were cloned (Jurassic Park)? What if women stopped giving birth (Children of Men)? What if Martians invaded the Earth (War of the Worlds)? High-concept ideas are often posed first with a “what if” scenario and then the hook becomes clear. The hook is that part of the high concept that grabs the reader. It is often the one piece of the idea that is the original concept or the unique element. In the three examples just given, each of them has a clear hook that leads to a high-concept premise line (the "premise line" will be the subject of a later post).

Do you have to have all seven qualities for an idea to be high concept? No, but the more of them you have, the more likely you will have a strong high concept. When the idea of high concept is put in the context of these seven qualities, it becomes easier to see that commercial ideas and literary (i.e., soft) ideas often have a clear line of demarcation. That line is the high concept. The next piece of this concept concerns the log line, which is a practical tool for realizing the potential of your high concept. In other words, your log line (different than a premise line!) is your high concept stated in a short, concise sentence. But, this is the subject of a later post.

I hope this helps. It sure helped me when I figured it out.

Now, go be brilliant.

Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest Winners 2011 (Yikes)

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is a writing contest held annually and is sponsored by the English Department of San Jose State University. Writers have to "compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels," i.e., be bad, very bad.

The contest was started in 1982 and is named for English novelist and playwright Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, author of the much-quoted "It was a dark and stormy night". This opening, from his 1830 novel Paul Clifford, continues in perfect, purple prose:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

Well, the 2011 winners and losers are in: (be ready to cringe)

1st Place:

"Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories."

Sue Fondrie,Oshkosh, WI

At 26 words, Prof. Fondrie’s submission is the shortest grand prize winner in Contest history, proving that bad writing need not be prolix, or even very wordy.

2nd Place:

"As I stood among the ransacked ruin that had been my home, surveying the aftermath of the senseless horrors and atrocities that had been perpetrated on my family and everything I hold dear, I swore to myself that no matter where I had to go, no matter what I had to do or endure, I would find the man who did this . . . and when I did, when I did, oh, there would be words.

Rodney Reed, Ooltewah, TN

For a list of all the happy entrants : http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/2011.htm

Here's to hoping they never write that novel!

Attack of the Three-Act Structure: Run for Your Lives!

As writers we have all been bamboozled! We have done the one thing we, as writers, should never do—assume. We have assumed that because someone writes a bloody book and gives advice about writing that: 1) they know what the hell they’re talking about, 2) they are right, 3) because they wrote a book they have something original to say.

All of these assumptions are dead wrong. And you can extrapolate all this to writer-bloggers (including me!). Like I always say, my mantra if you will: listen to everyone, follow no one. So listen up—

One of the great lies we have all swallowed, only because the source of the lie spoke with some authority or sold books or screenplays, is the lie of the three-act structure. The idea that a story is told in three acts is about as true and real as Area 51, or the Legion of Doom, or Elvis still being alive (sorry, he’s really dead). Three acts have NOTHING to do with storytelling. However, three acts have a great deal to do with physical stage production. Let me explain.

Way back in the days of the Greeks, we’re talking pre-default days—circa 500–300 B.C.—drama was king. Theater, in the form of epic poetry, was the Comic-Con of the age. Physical plays performed by human beings on a stage that required moving sets and technical setups (some amazingly elaborate) were an unavoidable part of physical production of a play. Even then it was not thought smart to have the audience sit and watch the sausage being made, so some enterprising Greek came up with the idea of curtains or screens that could be put into place to shield the audience from the gross happenings between transitions. Curtains were one way to not break the mood, to not lose the tempo, etc.

Thus, acts were born. Writers started writing to accommodate these changes in the physical requirements in their plays. Acts were sometimes three, sometimes two, and sometimes ten! Even 2500 years ago there was no hard and fast rule about the number three. So, the idea of acts is not an idea related to telling a story, it is an idea related to a specific form of delivering a story: i.e., a stage play. Acts are about the constraints of physical production, not writing or storytelling. 

Commercial television is another place where acts make sense, because of commercials.  Every 17 or 20 minuets you have to break the story to sell soap—thus an act.  TV shows have anywhere from 4–6 acts due to commercial breaks.  Again, not a part of storytelling; a part of selling soap, i.e., how the story is delivered due to the constraints of the storytelling environment! (Remember, TV is not an entertainment medium, it is a sales medium—TV shows exist so you'll watch the commercials, not the other way around.)

So, where the hell did we get this cockamamie idea that screenplays or novels should be told in three acts (or four or six)? “Oh,” replies the literary critic, "it comes from Aristotle. In his foundational work Poetics he laid out the necessity of three acts in drama and comedy.”

WRONG!

Aristotle (384–322 B.C.) never talked about acts. He talked about a beginning, middle, and end in any drama or comedy, but he laid down no such rule about acts. So, don’t blame him.

Not to point fingers, because I think the actual origin of this in modern times is impossible to “finger,” but one influential source for this monstrosity of an idea is Syd Field. We all have a debt of gratitude to this man for trailblazing the field of screenwriting for popular audiences. He is a great man and he deserves his place in the pantheon of marketing mavericks. Yeah, I know … here comes the “but.”

But—Syd, more than anyone, popularized the idea of three acts through his “Paradigm” theory; the idea that stories are told in three acts, but that the second act should be broken up into parts A and B. And because he was "the first," and because he was articulate and made sense, people assumed this must be true; this must be the way of things. In Hollywood this notion of three acts took hold like a pernicious weed. To this day, at the highest levels of creative power, creative executives all talk about three acts. Agents, managers, all manner of industry blowhard talk about three acts. Even, sadly, we screenwriters smoke this nasty weed. In the publishing world, the problem is less pronounced, but it is still an issue. Literary novels, especially, are less prone to this infestation, but commercial, genre fiction is more likely to succumb.

Run, run, run—for your creative lives! Three acts have nothing to do with storytelling. Shake loose this idea and free yourself. Three acts will not serve you or your story, unless you’re a playwright. So, what should you do instead? How should you structure your story?

What story development tool is best for you is a highly personal and complicated issue. There are some good story structure teachers out there (“story gurus”—see my post http://bit.ly/qW9Bww) who have alternative approaches to the three-act structure. Many of them do some modified version of the three or four act structure, but some like the fabulous John Truby (The Anatomy of Story) have created real solutions to the problem. Chris Vogler (The Hero’s Journey) is another. I can’t recommend John Truby highly enough, though. His work is truly seminal in the field. My own methodology is also good (Enneagram-Story Bridge™), but my approach is better suited for building a development foundation that can then be ported over to a more determined system, like Truby's or Vogler's. For now, I will just leave it at that, as this topic of story-structure methodology deserves a more detailed examination all its own—at a later time.

Just know that there are useful alternatives out there and that you will be hugely benefited in your creative process if you just walk away (nay, run) from the model of three acts, and look instead for an approach that focuses on classic story development and not the same ol’ same ol’, story-structure straightjacket.

Now, go be brilliant!

Death to Story Gurus (metaphorically of course)!

Gurus: it seems the world is over-run with them. Cults, cults of personality, cults of politics, cults of religion, therapy cults, food cults, sexual cults the list goes on. There is at least one more type we should list, sadly: the story cult.

Yes, story gurus abound these days. Throw a stone and you’ll hit one. I won’t name names (you know who you are), but writing and story gurus use the same tactics as any cult leader to recruit, retain, and indoctrinate their “followers.” Here are some of the red flags to know if you are getting sucked into the web of a story guru:

• “You need me to help you become a better writer.”
• “You need my methodology/system if you are going to succeed.”
• “One class isn’t enough, you have to do the whole series to really get the benefit.”
• “Sign up for the next class series or you’ll fall behind in your development as a writer.”
• “My next book has exactly what you need, so make sure you buy it.”
• “If you really want to succeed, sign up for this writing retreat; you won’t get this information from anyone else.”
• “Join my writing group, or you won’t make any progress as a writer.”

The message is clear: you need me, you can’t do this alone, and you need a guru/teacher.

(Dramatic pause) … NO, YOU DON'T! You do not need a guru; you do not need a teacher. And anyone who tells you that you do is selling you snake oil and pulling a flimflam on you. But, let me explain why I feel this way.

The word “guru” has developed a bad connotation because of all the vampires out there that suck people’s power and money under the guise of “teaching.” There is nothing inherently wrong with listening to a guru or a teacher. We all benefit from teachers who teach. We all become more for learning from people who have been through experiences we have not, and who can transfer their knowledge to us as a gift. But, when getting that help demands us giving up our personal power, AND our bank accounts, then I certainly have a problem with that—and I hope you do too.

Sadly, there are many people who line up to give up their power to so-called experts in every field, least of all in the story-consulting world. I know, I work in that world, I teach in that world—but hear me, I am no guru! My approach is simple: take classes, buy books, listen to everyone; but, follow NO ONE! My tweet version of this philosophy is: Death to gurus! I speak metaphorically, of course.

Teachers and gurus are never a necessity. You can learn everything you need to learn on your own. But, it saves time to have someone teach you things if they already have the experience and insights you lack. You will have those experiences eventually yourself. You will gain those insights yourself. But, why not take a shortcut if one is offered; ala a teacher or guru? Nothing wrong with that.

But, the job of teachers is to teach themselves out of a job. Their job is not to produce perpetual students, but to produce more teachers. Any good therapist should therapize themselves out of a job by getting patients better, not keeping them hooked on years of therapy. Any good leader does not produce followers, they produce more leaders who change the world and make life better for everyone. The same goes for story gurus.

I teach classes; I sell books; I consult with clients. And you will pay me for the privilege because it has cost me years of time and money to gain my skills and knowledge. I’m worth the price of admission! But, I make no demands that you follow or keep buying, or ever use me again. If you choose to continue to work with me, great, that’s a preference, a choice you make consciously, NOT a necessity that is foisted upon you by my guilting you into following my methodology or “teachings.” You don’t need any story consultant or me. We need you, however, if we want to do what we love to do, i.e., teach and work with great writers.

So, to sum up: Death to story gurus. You are your own guru. You are your own teacher. Use us out of preference, not necessity. We don’t want your power. But, we don't work for free, so there’s the tradeoff. We who do this story work are lucky to have you , so thank you.

Now, go write.