Maybe It's You

The other day I was cleaning my office. I know, I know. Who does that, right? Anyway, I stumbled upon some of my old scripts, complete with notes from readers. Handwritten notes. That’s how old they are.

While most people might toss them into the shredder, I dug in, examining the years-old feedback, if for no other reason than a good laugh.

But I didn’t laugh. Okay, I laughed a little. Maybe a lot, but I also marveled. Some of the notes seriously ripped me a new one, but some others were thought provoking, even today. I could see my growth as a writer. Mistakes I made early that so many of us make. But everyone needs to trip a few times before the lesson sticks.

What fascinated me was reading my reactions to the feedback. In a couple documents, I had jotted notes next to theirs, wanting to understand their motivation and intent.

I wasn’t defensive. I wanted to learn.

Believe me, I made some doozy mistakes. I was a baby writer. That’s what happens with inexperience. We’re impatient. We naively assume that first script is “the one” that will bust open the doors. We’re excited and query way too soon—not on purpose, but because we have no clue that it’s not ready for anyone’s eyes. Not even our mother's.

As my experience grew, I better understood the intricacies of the craft. The notes improved. My confidence rose. But I still maintain it takes about seven or eight years of dedicated writing to not only hone your craft but to also understand the industry. And just when you think you’ve figured out how to break in, the rules change. Strikes happen. The industry trends shift.

Only one thing remains constant: Learning is endless. You need to constantly be ready to pivot. That’s challenging for a new writer to understand and accept.

Reinventing yourself takes the gift of objective analysis of your weaknesses. We bitch about how firmly those gates are locked to newbies, when we should be staring straight into a mirror, reflecting on our own roles in our struggle to succeed.

It’s easy to put the onus on risk-averse executives. However, the real work starts with us.

The first thing I noticed about that stack of old scripts was unappealing concepts. They might have mattered to me at that time, but they weren’t original, or compelling … at all.

Then there was the lack of writing voice and countless on-the-nose or cliché lines of dialogue. Ouch. I clearly wasn’t stretching my writing muscles and finding distinct speech for my characters.

But wait … there’s more!

Back in my day, we used to go to pitching events, like Great American Pitchfest. Let’s put the debate about pitching events aside. Some people hate them, but I love them. Anyway, we’d work tirelessly on the perfect pitch. Time and time again, the cowbell would ring, and we’d jump up and race to a new table with an eager executive assistant smiling at us, hoping to discover that diamond in the rough. We’d nail our pitch and get a dozen script requests. But the actual writing never delivered on the promise of the pitch, so weeks later, the inevitable “pass” would slide into our inbox.

Yep. Pitching before the product is truly ready will never, ever get you a “yes.” You may be excited to share your script with the world, but if it still has room for improvement, do the work. You get one shot at a first impression.

Ultimately, I learned from my mistakes, changed writing partners, got some incredible scripts written, as well as meetings in NYC and L.A. with the big cheeses. Why? Because I was open to admitting I had made poor choices and steered the ship away from guaranteed wreckage.

I had figured out how to improve my writing enough to get some stellar champions, yet, I still didn't get produced. Oh, there are a million articles I could write about more mistakes I made. They'll come. Don't worry.

It’s okay to mess up. Just reboot. You have absolutely nothing to lose by trying a new strategy—maybe even dive into writing novels. You might like it. I know I do. But whether you write scripts or novels, you still need to push yourself.

If you have a file with old notes, look at them and try to find a pattern, especially if it’s from multiple scripts. Are you consistently protecting your protagonist? Are the themes of your stories always getting lost? Are your readers demanding more conflict? Does every character sound the same? Are your story ideas flat and tired?

Regardless what the specific notes are, examine if there is a pattern, like you’d examine a crime scene. Where are your stories going off track and are you a repeat offender of the same notes?

Your old notes could also show you how much you’ve evolved as a writer, giving you validation. But if that’s not the case, you can remedy it now that you’ve made yourself aware of the problems.

Think of it like this, we all know that person who is consistently a train wreck with romance. They endlessly complain about their horrible partners and that all the good ones are taken. The breakup is always the other person’s fault.

Have you ever considered it’s a long-shot that this Sad Soul could just happen to date so many awful people? I mean, what are the odds they never ever found just one good person to fall in love with in their entire adult lives?

Odds are more likely that they have found a good person. Maybe even a few of them. So, why aren’t they dating?

Because the problem might not be the people they’re meeting. The problem might be them.

I bet if this Sad Soul analyzed all the partners who have come and gone, they would find a pattern, and that perhaps they are the one who needs to evolve, not the people they’re choosing to date.

The Sad Soul is the common denominator.

Take out your notes and find the familiar thread. Is it something craft-related you can easily fix, or is it in the way you are choosing to analyze the notes?

Sometimes our attitudes need to be rewritten as much as our words.

*Featured image by vali_111 (Adobe)