Where should I send my Script? Part 2

Given the enormous interest in the last post (largely thanks to a RT by Mr Linehan), I thought it might be worth following up some specifcs questions that arose.

The producer works for a company that says it doesn’t accept unsolicited scripts. Should I send it anyway?
It’s up to you. If you do, it would be unreasonable of you to pester them with phonecalls and emails subsequently for feedback. I would says there’s no harm in sending it. But, given their pre-stated policy, don’t expect anything back. Personally, saying you don’t accept scripts is a bizarre policy for a comedy company to have, given that scripts are where the jokes/money come from. But given there are tens of thousands of sitcom scripts floating around the UK at the moment, and thousands more generated every year, you have to draw the line somewhere. (Also, as someone has helpfully commented, send the script to a particular person, not a company.)

Should I send my script to agents?
Yes. You can. You probably should – especially if you feel you’re running out of options. But my experience is that agents tend not to get involved if you don’t have ‘stuff going on’. Many are good-hearted and want to encourage new writers, but they have to make a living like the rest of us. But agents are, by no means, a magic wand. Their good allies, and not bored by contracts and money, but tend not to get you sitcom work. (Some get you day-rate gag-writing work, but that's an area I'm not all that familiar with.)

Isn’t it all about relationships with producers?
Yes it is. One or two tweeted that they thought that writing sketches for shows was the way in – and this is the tried and tested formula. The likes of John Sullivan, Richard Curtis, David Renwick and Andy Hamilton to name a few started this way. In one sense, a sitcom is a series of sketches, so getting the craft of economic funny writing is probably the best foundation you can have. And through it, you develop relationships with producers, with whom you can develop longer narrative scripts. But many writers have had other routes into sitcom. I believe Simon Nye wrote a novel that he was persuaded to turn into a sitcom, and he happened to be brilliant at writing sitcom. Lee Mack has come through live performance. But sketch comedy is the best way for most, I think.

Should I send an electronic or hard copy?
I’d say hard copy. My reasoning is thinking about it from their point of view (or mine!) If I get an email, I have to print it out myself at my expense. And then put it down somewhere where I’ll remember to read it. Most likely, I'll fail to print it out, and then the email disappears off the bottom of my list, and it’s all forgotten. (I’ve forgotten to read plenty of scripts this way from people whom I know personally and like (Sorry)).

I shouldn’t bother asking where you can send them a script first out of politeness. It’s just more admin. If a script is already printed out and sitting on a table, it might get picked up and read very quickly. Especially if the first few pages are actually proper funny – which is rare. And if it ain’t funny, it goes in the bin and their day continues. We’ve all had scripts thrown in the bin. The solution is to send it someone else, or write another one.

Is it worth sending to producers as well as BBC Writersroom?
Yes. I know one of their readers very well and he knows stuff and can spot funny. You can send it to BBC Producers too – one or two – but try the Writersoom. They are mandated and paid to find new talent and encourage it. That might well involve you.

Should I send a pilot ‘set-up’ episode or a typical episode?
Send a funny episode. The debate about whether to write Ep 1 as a set-up or whether to do it in the first five minutes and then move on, or just write a typical episode is not something to worry about at this stage. Really and truly. When you are sending a script to a producer, you are primarily showing what you can do with a half-hour script. The odds of the script being turned into actually TV are truly tiny. There are so many hoops to jump through first. A script is a calling card – in the hope of developing a relationship with a producer. They get sent hundreds of pilot episodes, and plenty of typical episodes – but they don’t get sent many funny, fresh, original versions of either. It really is all about the funny at this stage. The cold-hearted planning of how you can take over the world with your sitcom comes later.

Could I send a script to you, Sitcomgeek?
I’d rather you didn’t. Sorry. I do get asked now and then. Reading a script properly – as I would like my script to be read – takes half an hour. Then you have to read it again. Think about it. And then write something useful. That’s probably a 3-4 hour job. No offence, if I’m giving away my time for free, I’d rather give it my three-year old daughter (whom I only invoice occasionally) There are script reading services available at relatively low cost. You could try the excellent and experienced writer Dave Cohen, or the delightful Hayley McKenzie.

I’m not getting anywhere at all. What should I do?
Write something else. If you’re a writer, you’ll like writing for it’s own sake – and that is the thing that gives you pleasure. But given the lack of manufacturing and an increasingly graduate population, an awful lot of people want to be writers. It’s hard work out there, and it can be slim pickings at times. And if you’re pitching a sitcom to BBC2, you’re competing with Paul Whitehouse, Steve Moffat and Ricky Gervais. You’re in with the big boys. Quit whining, and turn that into something funny. (I hasten to add I regularly ignore my own advice and whine with the best of them.)

Please feel free to ask other general questions about sitcom, industrial or scriptorial – maybe on the comments below or via twitter – and I’ll try and get to them via the blog over the coming weeks.

Where should I send my Script?

This is a question I get asked a lot. You can send it in to script competitions. No harm in that. (I write about that here) You can send it nebulous corporations who have a public service remit and will genuinely read it eventually. Better than leaving it in a drawer. I shouldn't bother sending it to an agent (unless it's a movie script or novel).

But for sitcom, I give the same answer every time. Send it to a producer who makes programmes you like - and whom you think will 'get' what you're trying to do. Print it out, put it in an envelope, spell their name correctly, write a polite covering letter that doesn't make you look like a nutjob, a stalker or a precocious 12-year-old (even if you are, hide this fact). Then wait.

If it's really good, they'll call you. Really and truly. Most scripts aren't any good, including those written by experienced professionals. So if you've written something that isn't even broadcastable, but shows promise and talent, they'll call, email and contact you somehow eventually.

Bear in mind they have work do, a job in hand and it doesn't really involve you - but they need shows to produce, and every time they open and envelope, they fear the worst, but hope for the best.

If you don't hear back ever, and you've sent it three different producers, maybe, just maybe, the script isn't as good as you thought it was. In which case, do what all decent writers do: do it again. Rewrite, edit, change, delete, type, scream, delete, type, read, simmer, pause, read again, edit then send. If you're not prepared for any of the above, may I recommend another job?

Any producers on the receiving end, please feel free to confirm or deny any of the above, but that's my experience and recommendation.

Rookie Errors No. 231 - Bagginess

I learnt a lot about writing sitcom for television on the fondly-remembered, critically-disliked sitcom, My Hero. I wrote six episodes in all, over three series. And this was done under the tutelage of some wonderful, kind and patient men who had made an awful lot of comedy between them ranging from May to December, through Game On to Vicar of Dibley and Alexei Sayle's Stuff.

Each draft of each script was read by the producer, exec producer, director, script editor and show creator. All these notes and thoughts were collated, interpreted and fed back by the producer, Jamie Rix, as truly delightful a human being as you could hope to meet.

The Baggy Draft
I remember one time I was having trouble with a draft of a script - so I sent in a draft that was very baggy indeed. Scripts for half an hour of telly are normally about 6000 words for me. Ideally a shade under. If you're playing around and have the luxury of time, a slightly longer script of 6500 is okay. (For radio, I tend to write slightly long, knowing that there isn't time to rewrite on the day, but there is time to make cuts, even before the recording itself). Let's cut to the chase. This draft of My Hero was c. 9000 words, and I sent it in.

My reasoning was simple. There were lots of options on the script. Lots of ways to go. A number of possible funny routines. And ultimately, I didn't know what I was doing. And they did. So I was turning it over to them to decide where the funny was. In way, I was being humble and unpretentious.

They were perfectly nice - but profoundly unimpressed. And immediately I realised what an idiot I had been. It was never said out loud, but could and should have been pointed out, that I was being paid good money to write a script and decide where the funny was, what the story was and 'which way to go'. They suggested that I wasn't clear on what the story was and exactly what this episode was about. And they were right. I had no idea. And I'd abdicated my responsibility to write the darned show. I wasn't being humble and unpretentious. I was being lazy and spineless. And therefore unprofessional.

The iciness in the room thawed. They were gentle with me. More so than I deserved. But the moment stayed with me.

With My Other Hat
And now I experience this bagginess from the other side. Not often. But sometimes. I get sent things that are way overlength for the show I'm script-editing - either a sketch or script or whatever - with an accompanying email saying 'I wasn't really sure what worked best, so I put it all in so you can decide'. Whenever I read that email, my heart sinks.

The first reason it sinks is I recall my own shame of doing this. And how it demonstrated my inexperience and laziness. I'm not saying that's why all people do this, it's sometimes just sheer lack of confidence and a desire to 'show your working' - and is essentially a quest for approval.

It also makes my heart sink because I realise that this is going to be noticeably more work for me. I'm going to have to read a longer draft - twice - think about it for longer, feedback on more script, and ultimately think about 'which way to go' which takes up time and brainspace. Then the rotten part of my heart kicks in and I think 'Hey, I'm not being paid to this. The writer should decide which way to go' and then the good part of heart feels bad, but ultimately agrees. And I'm tired, cross and feeling guilty. Maybe other script editors are more patient, magnanimous and understanding. But that's usually my reaction.

I'd rather read a tight script where the wrong choice has been made, and it's been seen through and slaved over, than a baggy script where every choice and no choice has been made - and I'm effectively reading a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book.

So, my advice is don't turn in hopelessly long drafts. Decide. Work out what the episode/sketch is about and stick to it. If it isn't working, fix it. If it still isn't working, talk to your script editor/producer in advance and ask for help before the deadline. This means - hey - not leaving it all to the last minute.

But don't, please, send in overlong drafts. (Unless you're a successful novelist, obviously because they you have carte blanche to write an 800 page children's book.)

PS. Sorry this post is longer than usual. I couldn't decide whether to include the My Hero anecdote at the top or not, so I left it in. But you can skip over it if it's boring. Or just read bits. (Annoying, isn't it?)

Responding to Notes like a Pro

A little while back, I thought about notes on this blog. And I've been thinking about them again. In particular, I have been thinking about how writers respond to them. And how they should respond to them.

It is fashionable to laugh at people who give you notes, ignore or challenge them. Especially when there are stupid or come from a talentless exec or chinless script editor. And it's funny when Rob Long talks about it. But he's sucked up his fair amount of notes in his time, and written episodes of Cheers. So he gets to talk like that.

So how does the young writer respond to notes? Learn the mechanics of writing is one thing. But what's etiquette. How does it work?

I've been a script editor on a several series of radio and a few series of children's TV - and given a fair amount of notes, as well as being on the receiving end of them. Before a few specifics, here are a few general points.

Bear in mind this. The script writer wants the same thing as you: a funny show. He (or she) doesn't want to make the show worse. And he (or she - you get the idea) doesn't want you to remove good jokes. He wants you to remove bad jokes, or cut things that get in the way of the jokes. Or streamline things that are confusing. Or ensure that everyone's motivation is clear and defined. He may be wrong about some of these things, but not all of them. So assume he's write about some of them. Maybe even most of them.

The script editor doesn't just want the show do be funny. He wants the script to be ready as fast as possible, so we all get to go home early. When I'm reading sketches or episodes of things, I want to be able to say 'Yup. All good.', and close the file, go home and watch the Test Match, just as much as you do. If the script isn't right, it's more work for me. I'm only going to give a note on something if it needs fixing.

The script editor is busy. He may be editing multiple episodes. CBeebies do runs of 26. (Hey, it's like working on an American show!) I may make a mistake in your notes. I may remember something incorrectly. This may be the ninth script I've fed back on today. So if the notes are little non-sensical, or contain errors or contradictions, try cutting them some slack.

If they don't find a joke funny, they can't help that.

And if you're going to be a writer of any kind, be it for TV, radio, film or books, you'll get notes. Get used to it - and remember that most notes make things better.

So here are a few of specifics:
Don't give notes on the notes. You don't need to go through them all on the email and say whether you agree or disagree with them - or give the lines a backstory. I'll go further. Don't do that. It's really annoying. Don't defend lines or bits with non-specific lines like 'You told me to cut that bit but I really like it. I don't know why. Just feels right.' Just read the notes and act on them.

Ignore some of the notes, if you know what you're doing. But think twice before ignoring a note completely, because there's probably something in it. Even the silliest most deranged note (like 'Hey, could the hero die on page 1?') is worth considering. A script is a moving, mushy thing. Nothing is set in stone until it's actually broadcast and out there. At least try it their way, even if you end up switching it back.

Don't crow. It's quite likely that a script editor will suggest something after draft 1, and then suggest removing after draft 3. He's forgotten that it was his idea. But then, he's read 2 drafts of 25 scripts since he gave that note, so maybe he's forgotten? Cut him some slack and don't make him feel like an idiot. When he's dishing out extra commissions, he might remember your notes on his notes and decide to go with someone else.

Do question notes, politely. Do say 'I'm confused by this note, because...' or 'I'm struggling with which way to go on this. We've talked about two ways and I'm still not clear why you favour the second option... etc.' A dialogue for clarification is fine.

There's lots more than can be said constructively in this area. I'd love to hear your experience of giving and receiving of notes. If you keep it good-natured, polite and professional, there aren't usually any problems. But you may prove me wrong...

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Advice like this and much else besides can be found in Writing That Sitcom, which walks you through the whole process of going from idea to script and beyond.

Available as an ebook for Kindle & Kindle App. Or as a PDF here.

"If you're even thinking of writing sitcom, you need this book.

It's beautifully specific and brutally honest." - Jasmine

John Sullivan - Some Perspective

John Sullivan is a titanic figure in comedy writing - and his death is tragic. There is no 'but' to this. No caveats or clever angles. The man was a superb writer. This is a man who wrote four extremely memorable and diverse sitcoms, namely.

Citizen Smith (1977-1980) - 4 series; Only Fools and Horses (1981-1991) 64 episodes, plus numerous specials; Just Good Friends (1983-6) 22 episodes; Dear John (1986-7) 14 glorious painful episodes.

I mention this because I was sad that there was only a half-hour documentary knocked together in his honour. In one sense, it was great that it was on prime time BBC1 - which he ruled. Many experienced, senior, cherished actors were highly complimentary of Sullivan's scripts, authenticity, attention to detail and perfectionism. But the brief running time did not even begin to do justice to the Herculean achievements of this writer.

Sullivan gives us perspective. The greats of today have a long long way to go. Ricky Gervais is today's much-lauded saviour of narrative comedy. The Office was wonderful, brilliant and important. Extras, frankly, I wasn't that excited by but did well. But in total, that's about 27 episodes of telly. So far, Gervais & Merchant are about 100 episodes behind Sullivan - and that's not including Sitting Pretty (1992-3); Over Here (1996); Roger Roger (1996-2003);
Micawber (2001, comedy-drama); The Green Green Grass (2005-9); Rock & Chips. (Most of us mortal writers would be very happy with one or two of these 'also-ran' hits or spin-offs as their greatest achievements.)

John Sullivan was a truly great writer. There are plenty of good writers around today. Most of us are hoping to be in that pantheon one day. But until we are in our sixties and looking back on significant body of work (rather than 'getting out at the top') we won't be able to tell. In the meantime, let's enjoy greatness for what it is.

Take the Rest of the Day Off

A few weeks ago, I watched the Hallowe'en episode of Modern Family - in which Mitchell ends up hiding in a toilet cubicle dressed as spiderman. And acting like spiderman. For good, story-based, character-fulfilling reasons. It's utterly, wonderfully hilarious - the kind of scene which, if I'd come up with it, I'd have thought to myself 'Well done. Take the rest of the day off.'

'Take the rest of the day off' seems to be a fairly standard expression among the comedy writing community, at least. It denotes an over-whelming feeling of pride and satisfaction at a comic masterstroke that it merits time off. It's a joke, or scene, or line, that is the perfect blend of character and story.

The Perfect Line
What I mean by that is this: A sitcom is only half an hour - 21 minutes if you're American. You don't have long. And it needs to be tight because the audience is expecting jokes. Therefore, as many lines as possible should be jokes. Or set-up to jokes. Those that are neither should be expositional - and all of the above should be done in character.

So, as a rule of thumb, if a line of dialogue isn't a joke, or a set up to a joke, or a bit of exposition, or character development, it should be cut without question. It's a waste of words and breath. The best lines are mega-jokes that move along the plot in character. Or they're just show-stopping, scene-topping jokes (eg. 'I'll have what she's having' see here)

The Awful Truth
But what is the implication in 'take the rest of the day off'? The subtext is 'Wow. That is the kind of joke that would normally take several painful, frustrating hours to come up with, but you came up with it just before lunch - so, hey, take the rest of the day off!'

And there's the rub. Those flashes are rare. And they don't just happen. They come through hard work. It would be easy to think that the writer of that Modern Family spiderman scene is just amazingly, effortlessly funny, oozing natural talent. That way, I could always assume that I would never come up with anything so good, because I'm not a genius, and so why try? Just do your best, and leave it at that.

And yet every so-called genius says the same thing: it's just hard work. Talent, yes, but mostly hard work. Thomas Jefferson apparently said, "I find that the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have." These are surely sage words. It's about putting in the hours. The fact is, that the Spiderman scene probably turned up in Draft 4, or didn't quite get the zing 'til then. Stuff that is that neat and clever normally leaves a trail of destruction and devastation in its wake. There's a hard-drive strewn with old drafts and a whole batman/catwoman sequence that should have been hilarious but just wasn't for some reason. Then the flash of genius comes.

There is no substitute for hard work. Redrafting, rethinking and rewriting. Identifying problems and fixing them. And the more we do those things, the more ideas we turn over, the more combinations of words, plots and characters we put together for a brief moment, the 'luckier' we'll be. And we'll say to ourselves, 'Take the rest of the day off', grab a coffee, and then get back to our desks to work hard enough to get lucky again.

The First Two Minutes

I'm not a particularly big fan of Dad's Army. It's a show hugely respect - but not one I especially find myself wanting to watch. (Hi-De-Hi was the rising show as I was growing up and getting into comedy.) But I watched the opening of the episode that was on BBC2 on Saturday (why make new comedy when you could repeat the 70s sitcom about the 40s?). Sadly it's not on iplayer, so I can't link to it. It think it's the Brain vs Brawn episode from Series 5. The first two minutes were very impressive from a writing point of view, and worth stopping to think about for a moment.

The show opens at a Rotary club. Mainwairing is there, receiving a sherry from a waitress, who says he can only have one because of rationing. Wilson arrives, who is there as Mainwairing's guest. Mainwairing points out the President of the Club and encourages Wilson to ingratiate himself with him, but Wilson turns his back to talk to the waitress, complimenting her on a pretty brooch. She is flattered and says she'll try and find him some extra sherry. Then Wilson meets the President - and it turns out he and Wilson were at school together and shared a room for a little while. Mainwairing tries to reassert supremacy by saying that Wilson works for him, but Wilson and the President walk off together, leaving Mainwairing behind - and the president says cheerio to Mainwairing, getting his name wrong. The entirety of Dad's Army is summed up beautifully in that little scene. The two main characters do their thing, and perform a mini-sketch, with nice jokes that sets up the rest of the show.

The opening of any show is, obviously, critical. I'd argue that, as the writer, you have two choices for that opening. Both are about building a relationship with your audience.

Choice One is go down this Dad's Army route, in which we re-establish the key characters leaving the audience in no doubt as to who the show is about and what the show is about. The only drawback with choice one is the sometimes it's a nice opening, and neat and clever, but not barnstormingly hilarious.

If were finding this choice a hard one, it may well be because we don't really know who the show is about, who they are in conflict with and what they are trying to achieve. We can't encapsulate the show in an opening sketch if we don't know what the show is. More work on the treatment, the characters, the outline and the stories for you, I'm afraid.

The thing to bear in mind with this choice also is that you cannot assume your audience know the characters - unless you're on Series 7 of your hit sitcom, in which case, you wouldn't be reading this blog (and if you are, can I have a job, please?) Always re-introduce your characters. Give the audience a hand getting a handle on them. This can slow things down or get in the way, which is why you could plump for:

Choice Two, which is to create a brilliant set-piece scene with a thwacking joke at the end. This might be done at the expense of re-introducing the characters to your audience, but it at least builds confident with the audience that this is going to be a funny show.

If you can pull it off, don't choose. Cheat. Do both. Miranda does this very successfully. She immediately builds rapport with the audience, establishing herself as a character, highlighting the potentially troublesome relationships in the show (with Penny, Gary, Stevie or Tilly) - and cutting to some big strong visual jokes to get the show moving comically.

If you watch the first two minutes of action (post titles) of Episode 1 of Blackadder Goes Forth (here), you learn that Blackadder is cultured (reading a book and listening to music), clever and cynical. You learn that Baldrick is very stupid, and the George is fanatically patriotic - and that Blackadder feels he's above the whole thing. That's the show. Then George produces a service revolver, and the story begins. That's how you start a show.