Writing Wednesdays #25: Looking for the Overlap

Writers and artists get asked all the time, “How do you decide which book to write, which painting to paint?” The person asking the question usually has a million ideas in her head; she’s struggling to determine which one(s) to pursue. Here’s an answer from my experience.

A few years ago, in Hollywood, I got a new agent. He was a good agent and he did what a good agent should do: he immediately sent me out on a round of meetings. I met with producers and studio execs, actors’ and directors’ development companies. These were the kinds of meetings that screenwriters go on all the time. I told the execs what projects I was working on, they told me what they were looking for, we tried to see if there was a way to work together.

I had thought the meetings would be fun and energizing. Instead they were terribly depressing. By the second week I was feeling down. Week Three, I was clinically bummed. By the fourth week I was suicidal.

I couldn’t figure out why. The people I was meeting with were uniformly smart, motivated, funny. They treated me with respect. They were good peeps. What was wrong? Was it me? This was serious. The emotion was such a downer that I thought, I can’t keep feeling this and stay in this business. What was happening? Finally it hit me.

I realized that floating in the air over every meeting I had been on was an unspoken assumption. The execs and producers and studio people all shared this assumption, and they assumed—because I was in the room with them—that I shared it too.

The assumption was this: We will do anything for a hit.

I don’t fault that position. It’s a good business model. If ultra-violence will get us a smash, let’s go with ultra-violence. If jerk-off teen comedies work, crank ‘em out. Movies based on board games, old TV shows, comic book characters … cue ‘em up, let’s roll.

The problem for me was I didn’t share that assumption. That was why these meetings were depressing me so much. I hated those kinds of movies. That wasn’t why I was here at all! I had decided to take a crack at the movie business because I loved movies; I wanted to write stuff that meant something to me. Movies like the ones I worshipped. Movies I myself wanted to see. I wasn’t a writer for hire. I was a spec writer. That was where my heart was.

I realized that I wasn’t in the same business as the people I was meeting with. I didn’t share their guiding assumption. This was a real problem. I thought to myself, Maybe I’ve picked the wrong business, maybe this isn’t going to work.

Here was the breakthrough. I drew two big circles on a piece of paper. In one I wrote STORIES I LOVE. In the other, STORIES THAT MIGHT SELL. These were two separate circles. But, I thought, let’s move them together. Is there an overlap?

Is there a quadrant, however miniscule, where these two spheres intersect? Yes, there is. That tiny sliver I called MY BUSINESS.

That was the mental model that let me stay in the movie biz. I told myself, “Steve, focus all your effort in that little overlap and don’t ever go outside it. Don’t work on stuff you love that you believe is totally uncommercial. And don’t work on projects that you imagine will sell but that you hate. Stick to the sweet spot.”

Here’s the interesting part: it didn’t work.

Maybe sorta. It kind of stumbled and bumbled in an okay way. But nothing really clicked for me until I gave up completely on hitting the overlap and just did what I loved, even when I thought nobody else in the world would be interested.

I also stopped trying to write movies. I went to books. Why? Not as a deliberate plan. Just because ideas started coming to me as pages in novels, not reels of film. The first two were The Legend of Bagger Vance and Gates of Fire. I was certain, as I was working on each of them, that these were the lamest, most arcane, least commercial subjects possible—a quasi-mystical novel about golf and an epic about an ancient battle that no one had heard of and could neither pronounce nor spell. Who would be interested in this stuff except me?

I did them anyway and to my amazement they worked–not just critically but commercially. So I guess I have to take back everything I just said about “hitting the overlap” or “writing for the sweet spot.” At least for me, no amount of second-guessing the marketplace while simultaneously trying to be true to myself paid off. As much sense as the overlapping circles made in theory, they didn’t work for me in practice.

What did succeed was being totally stupid and jumping off a cliff.

That’s my business plan and I’m sticking to it.

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Robert McKee’s “StoryLogue”: A New Resource for Writers

Full disclosure: Bob McKee and I are good friends (and his video interview with me is part of the package I’m about to tell you about.) So be aware please, the following does NOT pretend to be impartial or objective.

StoryLogue's Robert McKee

StoryLogue's Robert McKee

Who is McKee? Robert McKee is the preeminent teacher of screenwriting and story structure in the world. His four-day intensive seminars have played to packed auditoriums around the planet for twenty-five years. His book Story is gospel for thousands of writers, directors and producers. Did you see the movie Adaptation? Charlie Kaufman half-spoofed/half-lionized McKee by name and Brian Cox (who played McKee in the film) nailed his style and manner spectacularly. Myself, I’ve stolen concepts from Bob over and over and they’ve always worked. And he’s a pretty good golfer too.

So what is StoryLogue?

StoryLogue is a serious, full-participation, web-based Writers’ Program that McKee is launching tomorrow, January 30th. Click here–www.storylogue.com–for the full monty on features, interviews, details, sign-up info.

Can Robert McKee help this writer?

Can Robert McKee help this writer?

StoryLogue is not free. It’s not for everybody. Its aim is to be an ongoing interactive seminar, a sort of “story university” for writers who want to take their craft to the next level. StoryLogue aims to tackle every aspect of writing–character, dialogue, structure, subtext, genre, you name it–and to provide its members with personal access to McKee, just like you’d get if you were attending a weekend intensive in person.

That’s my pitch. By no means am I impartial on this. I’m a believer and I’ll be using StoryLogue as a resource myself. Take a look. Click on the link. See if it might be right for you and your goals as a writer.

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The Creative Process #1: An Interview with Seth Godin

This post will launch a new series we’re calling “The Creative Process.” Don’t worry, Writing Wednesday fans, it will not replace WW. We’re going to run “Creative Process” in a different space on the new site as soon as we get it up. The plan is to ask all kinds of interesting people “how they work.” What is their process? How do they get ideas–and what do they do with them once they’ve got ‘em? We’ll be grilling writers and artists, military people, entrepreneurs, maybe even an Afghan tribal chief or two.

Seth Godins Linchpin (indispensable) comes out today.

Seth Godin's Linchpin ("indispensable") comes out today.

#1 out of the box is Seth Godin. We’re even jumping a day early to coincide with the launch of Seth’s terrific new book, Linchpin. (Full disclosure: I’m doing a joint book signing with Seth Feb. 8 at the Borders on Columbus Circle in New York City.) Linchpin comes out today. It will kick you in the butt–in the best way. It certainly kicked me.

Who is Seth Godin? He’s an author and marketing whiz (the guru of “permission marketing”) and cutting-edge thinker. If you haven’t read Tribes or The Dip or Purple Cow, please do. I’m reading All Marketers Are Liars right now and finding something I can use on almost every page. As writers and artists, we may make the decision NOT to brand ourselves or market ourselves or get into any of that razzmatazz (I wrestle with these choices myself), but we owe it to ourselves and our work, I think, to at least know what this stuff is all about.

Marketing, Seth says, is the most powerful force in the world for making change. He doesn’t mean just products; his insights are critical for understanding politics (see Sarah Palin), warfare (see al-Qaeda) and where all your money went (see Goldman Sachs.) I hope someday to do a really long, in-depth interview with Seth because I think he’s onto something that the rest of us better educate ourselves in, not just as competitors in the marketplace but as citizens of the U.S. and the world. For now though, here’s our mini-interview with Seth Godin on the Creative Process:

SP: When it comes to generating ideas, what’s your process? Solitary? Collaborative?  Is it fun, is it grueling? How, exactly, do you work?

SG: I’ve come to realize that I’m unusual. For me, it happens all the time. It spills out of me. Most of the ideas are horrible, useless and distracting. When I have a specific problem to solve, I use a more focused process. I’ll often buy a new notebook, different from the ones I’ve used before. Special pens. Then I’ll try to be somewhere with distractions (yes, with distractions) so that out of the corner of my ‘eye’ I can invent.

Seth defeating Resistance with new notepad and special pen

Seth defeating Resistance with new notepad and special pen

I’ve found that the next level up is the focused meeting. I’ll bring together energetic, smart people and outline the problem. The act of talking about it, showing off, demonstrating the options… it generates even more energy, which I return and they return and there’s a whiteboard and what-ifs and excited voices and the next thing you know, the problem retreats, head held in shame, defeated.

SP: Do you experience Resistance (meaning self-sabotage, procrastination, self-doubt, etc.?) In what form does Resistance present itself?

SG: Until you wrote about it in The War of Art, I didn’t know what to call it. For me, the resistance disguises itself as important, even urgent work that could and should be put aside. The resistance most often looks like checking my email. Email is the perfect distraction for me, because it’s fresh, new and bite-sized. When I turn off email, even for an hour, my productivity triples.

Oh, sorry, I’m back. I just stopped writing this to… check my email.

SP: How do you overcome Resistance? Do you have a specific technique or metaphor that you employ to fortify, encourage or inspire yourself?

SG: People who know me talk about my self-discipline. I haven’t had dairy in ten years, no particular reason, I just stopped. The same thing kicked in for me once I figured out what the resistance was doing to me. If the work is important enough, I stare down the resistance and destroy it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m only skilled at that in short bursts. The longer haul stuff, the multi-month efforts, the idea of building a company with 100 or 1000 people… those things fall aside and the resistance triumphs.

SP: Once you have an idea, what’s your process for taking it to a finished form? How do you decide whether an idea is worth pursuing? Is there a series of steps that take you from “germ” to “finished product?”

SG: There are a lot of germs in my world. Too many, certainly. I usually have thirty to fifty projects in the very early stages.

When I was a book packager, there was a database of 500.

As someone who has had ADD his whole life, I saw my business struggle for years. The problem with flitting around too much is that you never get through the Dip, you start a lot and don’t finish much. I realized that if I intended to make a living at this, I needed the discipline to ship, to push it out the door, to close sales, make things happen and be professional about it.

So the deal is that I can noodle with stuff all I want… until it hits a certain level of construction or commitment. And then I have to choose–kill it or ship it. And once I choose, it is an irrevocable choice. So those meetings are dramatic, even when I’m the only one in them.

SP: What do you do when you hit plateaus? How do you keep advancing? Is there one example of plateauing that you can share–and how you grew through it?

A marketing guru with his own action figue

A marketing guru with his own action figure

SG: I hit plateaus all the time. I’ve been really fortunate, had things work out and there’s a real temptation to protect your gains, cut your potential losses and coast.

Fortunately for me, the voice of the resistance is almost always drowned out by the voice of the other guy… not sure he has a name yet. That’s the guy in search of intellectual thrills, ego rides and most of all, the joy of watching people grow. I’ve been hooked on that for forty (!) years and I don’t see it going away any time soon.

SP: Bonus question: Seth, a lot of your work is inspiring people to lead, to follow their emotional hearts, to be heretics and to make their unique presence felt as artists and innovators. In your view, where does the artist/innovator/entrepreneur fit into society? What is her role in the greater scheme of things?

SG: We’re the heretics, the agents of change and the court jesters. Without us, it turns into 1984 or Windows 7. Not good.

As our society gets more complex and our people get more complacent, the role of the jester is more vital than ever before. Please stop sitting around. We need you to make a ruckus.

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Writing Wednesdays #24: Wrestling an Alligator

A friend asked me the other day how I experienced Resistance. What did the phenomenon feel like to me? I told him it was like wrestling an alligator.

"And I haven't even got a pen knife."

"And I haven't even got a pen knife."

That’s not always bad. Sometimes the beast is a cute little cayman. I can clamp his jaws shut with my left hand, grab him by the tail with my right. It’s no problem to wrap him up and get him into the trunk of the car.

But sometimes that gator gets a little bigger. Right now, in the project I’m working on, he outweighs me by eighty pounds and he’s kicking my ass.

How Bob Dylan does it

Have you read Bob Dylan’s book, Chronicles?  A significant section covers his struggles trying to put together one specific album. I don’t know if Mr. Dylan would say he was dueling Resistance or just the challenges of the work, but his style of combat, if memory serves, included impulsive cross-country airline flights, massive music listening, employment of controlled substances, midnight forays into weird parts of town, crazy phone calls, collaboration with strangers and a general instinct-driven voodoo-thrashing that somehow all came together and produced the answer he was looking for.

Resistance: 100 million years B.C.

My own struggles are a lot more reptilian. Maybe it’s because the medium I labor in is an essentially-solitary enterprise that requires hours of focused concentration daily (or nearly daily) over a sustained period of time. It’s not aerial combat, it’s foot-slogging. It’s infantry work. But back to that alligator.

Here’s why the gator-wrestling metaphor rings true to my experience as a writer battling Resistance:

1) The enemy is as big as I am. Bigger sometimes. And he’s all muscle. By no means is it a foregone conclusion that I’m gonna beat him.

2) He’s sneaky-fast. The bastard is cunning; he’ll sneak up on you underwater and strike out of nowhere. And he can cover ground like a racehorse.

3) He’s invulnerable. His hide is two inches thick–and I don’t even have a pen knife.

4) I have to grapple with him belly-to-belly. There’s no other way. This is not a rapier duel or an archery match; it’s up close and personal–two bodies, head-to-head, tail-to-tail, rassling in the mud.

5) The gator can get you from both ends. One blow from that tail will break your leg. And those jaws? If he gets them around you, fuggedaboutit.

6) The bastard is prehistoric. He’s got scales, man! And look at those eyes. He doesn’t even have warm blood. Seth Godin calls Resistance the “lizard brain.” There’s a lot to that. This foe is primordial; he was walking the earth with the dinosaurs. To him, I’m lunch–and he’s got a predator’s pedigree that goes back 100 million years.

7) There’s no negotiating with this sonofabitch. I can’t holler uncle or make a deal. And this sucker doesn’t just want to kill me, he wants to eat me.

The only way to win is outlast him. I can’t shoot him; I can’t drown him; I can’t punch him in the nose and make him quit. The only hope is to stay so close to him that he can’t get those jaws around me, while using my body weight to wear him down. His only weakness is those stubby little arms. If I can keep him off-balance long enough and keep him thrashing trying to get to me, I can tire him out. The fight will go out of him–at least till tomorrow, when he’ll be back.

An invitation to comment

That’s how I experience Resistance. How about you? How does this monster come after you? I’d like to know. Write in below under “Comments.” If we get some good stuff, we’ll run it in this space–and we can all compare notes.

Bob Dylan, we’ll be glad to hear from you too.

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WRITING WEDNESDAYS #23: SPECKING IT

I moved from New York to Hollywood in the mid-eighties. This was the era of the “spec script”–a concept that has been of great use to me on many fronts beyond screenwriting. It might help you too.

An endangered species

Today the spec script is beyond endangered; it’s just about extinct. Tinseltown’s bread and butter for most the past decade has been the pre-branded, franchiseable blockbuster–Spiderman, Iron Man, Transformers. I can understand that. It costs so much in today’s environment to make, market and advertise a feature film (and a flop can be so catastrophic), it’s no wonder that the studios want to rein-in the downside as much as they can. But in those heady days of the ’80s, when spec writers were stars in their own right and Variety seemed full of stories of Joe Eszterhas and Shane Black pulling off yet another million-dollar score, the town was frothing with screenwriters working “high concepts” and hoping to “pop an original.” I know; I’ve still got a closetful.

What is a spec script anyway?

A spec script is a screenplay written entirely on speculation. Without a deal. Without an advance. The writer nuts up and goes for it. He bangs out the whole thing on the come. Like a developer builds a spec house. All or nothing. Sell it and make a killing or crash and burn.

There’s a halfway version of specking called pitching. In a pitch, you don’t actually write the script. You pitch it verbally to a financing source–a studio, a producer, or a director or actor’s development company–hoping to get enough of an advance to pay the rent till you write the damn thing. Pitching was and is an art form. Some guys can pitch like Sandy Koufax but can’t deliver the actual product; other writers are sensational on the page but freeze up in meetings.

The real specker doesn’t even do meetings. She just writes it. This is tremendously healthy and honorable. Here’s why:

The joys of specking

First, specking takes cojones. It requires balls and it builds balls. What the writer is doing (and this goes for any artist or entrepreneur who takes a flyer on anything) is betting on herself and her talent. The Muse loves that. Nothing is more wholesome for the writing soul or for the big writing muscles.

Second, specking teaches resourcefulness. Because you’re not partnered with any entity with the right to a say-so, you have to make all the creative decisions yourself. What’s the theme? What’s the inciting incident? How do we get out of Act Two? This is tremendously liberating and empowering.

Third, specking is fun. Few of us, unless we’re rich or marvelously resourceful, get to envision our own movie and then go out and shoot it. But specking a screenplay is the next best thing. Because when you’re writing that movie, you’re directing it and scoring it and casting it too. You get to make the exact movie that’s in your head–even if your head is the only place it ever gets screened.

Lastly, if you sell a speck, you get a payday. Maybe only a modest one–but a jackpot is a jackpot. You get to validate yourself within the purest form of meritocracy: what Stephen Colbert would call the verdict of the marketplace. But, satire aside, a score in the hardball world is tremendously heartening for us writers, artists and entrepreneurs who have toiled for years on a diet of rejection, isolation and disappointment. As Ruth Gordon, who was 72 at the time, said when she won her Oscar for Rosemary’s Baby: “This is very encouragin’.”

So hats off to spec writers and artists and to anybody who’s crazy enough and gutsy enough to put their money on themselves and roll the dice. You may be deluded. You may wind up in a pool of blood by the side of the road. But no one can take this away from you: you did one of the hardest and bravest things that any entity capable of consciousness can do. You leapt from the known to the unknown–deliberately, boldly, and in full cognizance of the risk. I salute you.

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