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.

Script Competitions

I've never been keen on sitcom competitions, script initiatives, new writing prizes and all that.

Given that the BBC Writers Room get sent thousands of script a year anyway - ever single one of which is read - there seems little need to spend money on competitions and executives to manage them and readers to read the scripts. You could simply pay writers who show promise a little bit of money to make their scripts better.

But I've been warming, slightly, to these competitions recently since they encourage people to write - and finish - scripts. Many people respond to a deadline, so the fact there is a clear date, a prize and the promise of the script being read.

There is, however, a downside to this. Writing a decent half hour script takes ages. Especially a pilot script for a new show. It involves coming up with characters, honing them, storylining, honing the stories, writing, re-writing and editing. It's the kind of thing that would take me at least three weeks before I had anything I could bear to show to another human being who wasn't genetically programmed to love me unconditionally. That's three weeks of Monday-Friday, ten til six. I can do that because it's sort of my job.

Most people don't have this luxury, because they're holding down a day-job, or raising kids. Therefore, the whole process is done in evenings, or at weekends. This sounds really hard to me. That kind of bitty process probably lends itself to sketch writing, but not writing a half hour scripts. (It normally takes me 90 minutes to really get into a script for a day.) And so writing a script this way will take months. But most people don't have this sort of time, or hear about the competition late, or just don't knuckle down early enough. And therefore the script is half-baked, and sent off anyway.

This seems to be a widespread problem. I was interested to read this post on Chortle about Jon Plowman's session at the London Comedy Writers' Festival. Jon Plowman always says very sensible things about comedy and is a good egg, so anything he says should be given great credence. For me, the telling line was "a recurring theme of the festival [was that] writers [should] think carefully before sending off a script."

This chimes with my own experience. In recent weeks, I've been meeting a number of new and aspiring writers, and many of them said similar things about the last bunch of sitcom competitions. Something along the lines 'I entered the competition, but the script was a mess. I couldn't really get the ending to work, and one of the characters isn't funny. But I thought I'd send it anyway'.

People say these things for all kinds of reason. It might be because it's true. It's partly emotional insurance and a fear of failure, which is completely understandable. It's probably lack of confidence too, along the lines of 'I have no idea what works, so I may have written something good without realising it.' But let's be honest about this. It seems unlikely that a script that even you think isn't working would win a scriptwriting competition. So why send it in that state?

Given the proliferation of these competitions, it might be better to wait until the next competition comes round. Take that extra time to make the script good. Or really good. Put the script to one side for a month and then come back to it fresh. Be brutal. Go through each line. Does this line need to be here? Is it a joke, a set-up to a joke, or developing plot/character? If not, delete it.

The reality is that if you write a decent script, a really decent script, you don't need a competition to succeed. This is simply because there are hardly any decent scripts out there. Micheal Jacob, in his last blog for the BBC, writes:

I must have read - taking competitions and College of Comedy applications into account - maybe 10,000 aspiring scripts or part scripts. And the depressing fact is that no more than 100 were any good. The tragedy of comedy is that many people think they can write it and hardly anyone can.

If you can write - and you also write a superb script (not the same thing) - producers will want to meet you and stuff will happen. It's all about the script. Don't sell it short. Don't let it go off half-cock. Plan it. Mull it. Research it. Filter it. Replan it. Write it. Rewrite it. Edit it. Put it to one side. Forget it. Then get it out. Read it. Re-read it. Edit it. Then put in some more jokes. Then cut some of them out. And check it over again. It might then be ready to send.

It takes ages. Even if you're talented. Perhaps the proliferation of competitions gives people the idea that anyone can have a go because writing is easy. It is true that anyone can have a go. But it isn't easy. I've been doing it for over ten years professionally and only now am I starting to think I might have the beginnings of a clue as to what I'm doing. But I do know this. Talent is fine. But there is no substitute for hard work.

Bored To Death

One of the best shows of recent times is Damages. It is truly compelling storytelling with monstrous characters and a brilliant script. It's full of lying liars lying their heads off. It is brilliant.

It is also possibly the least funny things I've ever watched every episode of. I find straight drama hard work since life is often funny. Anything that has every joke extinguished and every pun snuffed out is automatically less true to life, not more so. But for me, one of the revelations of the series was Ted Danson. Star of ever-popular Cheers, and the perfectly decent but much unloved Becker. But his performance in Damages was way better than anything to date.

And so I was awaiting Bored to Death with some keen anticipation. I taped it off Sky and watched it last night, hoping this would become regular viewing in my house alongside Modern Family, 30 Rock and House, MD.

Let's cut to the chase. I didn't like it at all. Ted Danson wasn't in it much. But that really wasn't the problem. It was quirky and stylish and 'aspirational', kind of. But overall, I was very confusing.

Firstly, our hero is a novelist, which is a bad start for me. I'm just not ever going to feel sympathy for a novelist or a screenwriter, even though I am a screenwriter and a failed novelist. (It also explains why I didn't really go for Episodes). He isn't a very appealing character, or especially compelling, or funny enough to get away with being neither appealing or compelling. Which is a pity. His redeeming quality is that his bearded friend is even worse, from what I could tell.

At the start of the show, our hero-novelist is dumped by his girlfriend who moves out because he won't stop smoking pot. He begs her to stay. But she leaves. (I'm with her) He wants to win her back. And write his second novel. And so he reads a Raymond Chandler novel - for some reason. When he wakes up, he advertises himself as an unlicenced private eye on Craiglist, and within seconds, gets a case.

Aha. We have a case. A quest. Good. Maybe this case will teach him something, I thought, about why he should give up pot and therefore win back his girlfriend. Or spark another novel (if you must). Or at least stop being so self-pitying.

But he solves the case without any great difficulty, jeopardy or comedy. He is also arrested, but there are no consequences to it. Overall, the case is unrelated to his own situation and he learns nothing through it. At the end of the episode, he is still single, still smoking pot and has nothing for his novel and so his 'quest' appears to have benefited nobody, and there are no upsides or side effects.

The writers and producers of this show are clearly experienced and talented. There were plenty of names I recognised on the opening titles. And people with experience can break rules - and maybe all six episodes form a complex and interweaving story with loads of quests and victories and consequences and failures and character-based plotlines. It didn't seem that way from the first episode.

Experienced writers - and lucky inexperienced writers - can break rules in comedy, and often get away with it. Half a dozen cracking jokes, one funny peripheral character, a wig and a breathe of zeitgeist can salvage a show that technically shouldn't work. But it seems that we, in 2011, are unlikely to overturn the guidelines laid down by Aristotle hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

Maybe the show is willfully breaking all the rules and revelling in ennui and existentialist despair - hence the title, Bored to Death. In which case, good luck to them. It's never going to chime with me, as I'm not an pessimistic existentialist but a contented Calvinist. I guess that's why I'm so preoccupied with story structure and the hero having a clearly defined destination...

Alarm Bells

So today, I’m going to be screaming at a burglar alarm. And my 3-year-old daughter will probably be joining in. And my little baby too. It’s going to be awful. But potentially very useful. Let me explain. And it does relate to sitcom-writing. I promise.

I live in a rented house with a burglar alarm that I don’t understand, with a manual written by someone who’s never met another person. We’ve lived in the house for 18 months, and have never switched the alarm on, mainly because I can’t face looking at the instructions. They are so annoying, unclear and counter-intuitive, they make me both drowsy and furious simultaneously.

But now it’s starting to bleep occasionally because one of the batteries is flat. And this looks ominous and potentially noisy. So I must take on the task of getting my head around it. And while I’m minding the kids while my wife goes out for a couple of hours later today, I’m going to try and do it then. I’m already doomed. I can’t be with my kids and achieve anything else at the same time. But let’s pass over this mild delusion. That’s not the point.

The point is this: I am embracing this situation in the hope that jokes and comic situations will be forthcoming. I am going to learn the ins and outs of burglar alams. Or at least one burglar alarm. And this may come in handy one day. Maybe along these lines:

Int. Writers Room. Day.
Eight writers are sitting round a large table in an airless, windowless room. There is a problem with this week's script. The story isn’t working. Our main character has to break into his own house for some hilarious but subtley contrived reason – but it’s not as funny as it could be. After a third coffee, Sitcomgeek’s brain finally kicks in and he speaks.

Sitcomgeek: What about the burglar alarm?

Writer 2: They don’t have one.

Sitcomgeek: Maybe they should have one.

Writer 3: But are burglar alarms? Are they funny? Really?

Sitcomgeek: They are if you don’t know how they work and you have to learn very quickly.

Writer 3: But you just punch in the code, surely? Every one knows their code. Who’s not going to know their code?

Sitcomgeek: I don’t know my code.

Writer 3: How could you not know your code.

Sitcomgeek: I never use mine. I rent. It was fitted before we moved in. It’s a hassle. And we have kids and I mostly work from home, so we’re always in.

Writer 2: So how does that help?

Sitcomgeek: I had change the battery on one of the movement sensors once. While I was minding the kids. Disaster. Kind of. It could have been catastrophic, though. It would have been if I’d had to have worked it out at night. Like our hero would have to.

Writer 2: That could work.

Sitcomgeek: Do you have any idea how hard those things are to work if you don’t know what you’re doing? The manuals are written by droids and pretty much everything triggers the alarm. It’s a nightmare.

Writer 4: When did this happen?

Sitcomgeek: Ages ago. I remember thinking at the time that this experience could be useful. It was the same day that I went to the gym, got out of the pool and discovered someone walked off with my towel and key. But that’s another story.

If you’re a sitcom writer, the upside of personal catastrophe is that you might be able to use it. Embrace that. Everything you do, the every day trials of life, are material. Go to gigs you might not like. Agree to do stuff that you might hate. Live life. And if possible, write it down. Keep a list that you can refer back to when the stories aren’t flowing. They might trigger something. And alarm bells might start to ring. Except in a good way.