Once upon a time…. (cat-saving)

Once upon a time I proudly posted that I’d finished my storyboard for my new script, with a “Tada!”

I bragged about how fast it came together, and to a certain extent I was right. I knew more about that story in a much faster time frame than ever before. But honestly, I hadn’t quite finished it even though I thought I had. Those post-its hadn’t really answered all the questions that Blake Snyder says should be answered before you write the script.

And worse — I found out that I’d made a major mistake in my plot — and that I really couldn’t move forward until I figured it out.

So with all this mulling through my head, I took my board apart and started handwriting out the cards for real, with everything filled out the way it should be, so that I could get a better picture of what I was doing. Surprisingly enough (like, duh) once I started filling out the cards properly, the story started taking better shape.

You might notice that the cards I used were from Levenger. Blake Snyder says that the time you spend buying supplies and mulling over displays at Office Depot and putting together your board is time when your subconscious is also hard at work, even though it seem you’re having fun. (Thus, the time I spend poring over the Levenger site is writing time, see?) David Allen says that the tools you choose to implement your system must be “fun” or bring you pleasure, or you won’t use them. So after spending the time at Levenger and looking at those index cards for years I finally ordered some.

Guess what. I have decided I prefer blank cards and now I have all these Levenger cards that I really don’t have a use for, blah. Live and learn.

BUT — at the same time, I also figured out that my printer does a beautiful job printing index cards — by the stack! And I suddenly decided that those handwritten cards were just too damn ugly (well, I always knew that) and got a friendly GTD-er to help me by making a template for me, and I started typing in the cards that I’d already written.

And, again, guess what. When I started typing in the handwritten cards, the words that had been good enough when written by hand and too difficult to change without making a mess, and after all, it’s the gist of it that matters — I’ll know what I mean when I actually write it, right? Well, evidently not. Because once I started working on computer again, I realized that one problem with the words I’d used is that sometimes they weren’t quite right. And I could shrug it off and say, “I know what I mean, I’ll be able to write it from this,” when in fact, I couldn’t find a better way to express it because I actually did NOT know what I meant.

Sitting in front of the computer again, I was forced to understand that a card was vague because I really didn’t know how to make it specific, not just because I didn’t want to mark up an index card.

So, going through that process — transfering the cards to computer — was a third pass at the plot, and it got stronger and clearer as I sat and pondered in “create” mode at my computer. And — aren’t they pretty? You know, this is where David Allen rocks, because he’s right, once I got a system that worked for me, and used tools that made the process bring me pleasure — in this case, cards I actually like to look at — the entire project has taken on a new energy.

Okay! Now I’m ready to write!

Except for the fact that, well, I have a producer waiting for a treatment (written synopsis), so I guess I ought to whip one out and send to her before I keep going. And yeah, treatments are a pain in the ass, but look here; I’ve got the bones of the story here, how hard can it be to write a treatment from this?

Oh wow. Way hard.

And I learned something again. That when I tried to put the cards into a narrative form, I found even more areas that were vague, and that I couldn’t write because I wasn’t quite sure yet, or the motivation didn’t seem like it would make sense….

I don’t know about you, but I think a lot us have found ourselves talking about our scripts, maybe even pitching them or ideas for new scripts to producers, and maybe, tossing in a slight change or twist or word that isn’t actually there, but you realize on the spot that it will make the person listening be more interested. It will make the idea sound better. What we’re doing on the spot is instantly recognizing something our story is lacking, whether we want to face that or not. If we have to reach for something new to pump up the idea to make somebody think it’s worth reading, then this should tell us something!

I know. “Well duh, Pooks.” Just hush. I’m a slow learner.

So as I go through trying to write the treatment, these are the moments I keep having. “Hmm, she’s not going to understand why this is makes sense unless I spell it out here….” And then I stare at the screen thinking, “Um, how do I write it so that it makes sense for her?” And then, “Um …. how WILL it make sense? I’ve forgotten. Or maybe I never quite knew….”

Treatments are fucking hard, damn it.

They’re hard not just because it’s hard to write a brief narrative that presents your story in an entertaining way so that somebody can “see” it on the screen and “see” the money it will earn — they’re hard because you have to really know your story well to write a good one.

(This is also why selling a pitch is hard — nobody walks into an office and says, “” and walks out with a contract. They pitch their story over and over to one person after another and the pitch keeps developing as they realize what is working and what isn’t, and they climb the ladder until somebody with the power to buy says, “I want it.” What this means is, they’re working hard developing a story or several stories to the point where they can not only pitch it with a significant amount of detail, but they can answer all the questions somebody may toss at them, to prove that, yes, they really can write that script. We’re talking weeks (at least) of prep work and then more weeks of plotting, and character development, and then weeks of practice, and so on, until they’re in fine-pitching mode, and then the gauntlet of meetings. But, I digress.)

As I wrote the treatment, I found myself amplifying on things and clarifying on others and just figuring out the details of others. And I got about 3/4ths of the way through and was struggling with the third act when I realized that it was way too long, anyway, so why didn’t I start a second draft that would be much briefer, and without all the detail, and then it would be easier to sketch in the third act.

I started the second draft of the treatment, and damn if I didn’t find myself revising it AGAIN as I wrote, finding new little spots that needed to be tweaked. But I realized that when I got to the same point in the script, it WAS shorter. So that was good.

Um, well, except for the fact that the first version was double-spaced and the second version was single-spaced which meant that the second BRIEFER version was actually almost TWICE AS LONG.

There is a reason why I don’t keep sharp instruments on my desk.

I am now about to dive in and see if I can plow my way through to the end, something which I am certain I have been avoiding because I don’t really know quite how it all fits together, and this time, I’m not assuming that “it will all work out by the time I get there,” which isn’t all that true, I have discovered.

But before I do, while I’m still mulling over how helpful (if grueling) each pass at this story has been, I feel the need to say so that it won’t shock me if it happens –

I’m thinking that I may have a major flaw in my premise, that will make the producer say, “No, you really need the story to be about THIS, don’t you?”

And send me back to the beginning.

Where are my post-its…?