All Screenwriters Are Assholes
(Relax; I’ll tar myself with that brush first…)
Anyone who wants to be a screenwriter is an asshole.
This probably includes you as well. So that’s you, me, and anyone else who’s ever even heard of Final Draft. All assholes!
To paraphrase Plato in the Republic: only those who do not wish to tell their story can be trusted to do so. If not, you’re–oh, I don’t need to keep repeating myself here.
The problem here is that we all have something burning deep inside us: there is a story in there that wants to get out. It’s not necessarily a good story, but it’s something.
It’s a thing that needs to be expressed, and it keeps nagging and lingering in the back of the mind until somehow it comes out. The problem is that we expect other people to want to hear it.
That’s fine, but it takes–you guessed it–an asshole to think that people want to read what we have to say, let alone spend millions of dollars turning it into a fucking movie.
Now it’s obvious that a good story, well told, is entertaining and valuable at least to its limited audience. The problem lies more in just blurting out what’s in our minds with no idea of the craft required to make it digestible.
There’s no way to get the music locked inside of you out if you can’t play an instrument, or, for that matter, even carry a tune.
Likewise, if you have no craft in your storytelling, you’re almost certainly spouting a bunch of overblown, off-key drivel and expecting people to love you for it.
There’s nothing more sad than frustrated writers who didn’t put any effort into getting better who get all shitty because the world doesn’t recognize their genius.
It’s like the girl I once gave a kind script critique to at film school who sought me out at a party two weeks later to tell me that “I just didn’t understand what [she was] trying to say.” Well, that, or she’s a shit storyteller. And, of course, an asshole.
It’s like the drunk acquaintance of mine telling me that the script about her grandmother, a rough draft of 200 pages, was perfect and didn’t need any editing. As much as I value straight talk, I told her kindly that humility has its place in writing, as does editing. I suggested she cut 100 pages and bring me the script for a free consultation.
She declined, of course. I let her know in no uncertain terms that it’s not impossible to write a good first script but that two people, ever, have managed to do so. She’s no Stallone; I can’t even believe that Stallone managed it. She is, however, an asshole.
Did you get the point above? The key here is to develop a certain degree of humility. Realize that consuming your work is a favor on the part of the audience. Most of it, for a long time, is going to be sort of terrible. Remember, though, that’s OK.
In fact, you might as well just put your first three or four feature scripts in a drawer, lock the drawer, and pay Elon to send that fucking key to Mars. Then shut up and keep writing.
The problem is really foisting your sort-of-terrible artistic efforts upon unsuspecting friends and relatives. No one useful wants to read it; pretty much anyone who might agree to do so undoubtedly already thinks the sun shines out of your ass. This type of person wouldn’t give you honest feedback if you paid ‘em.
After lots of mistakes, soul-searching, giving up, starting again because you’re compelled even though you know it’s a terrible idea, and finally learning to distinguish constructive feedback from other people’s emotional shit, you’ll start to develop some chops.
Even then, people won’t be simply lapping it up and asking for more. They might say that “this has something,” even though the whole of the piece is still pretty shit.
It’s only after giving up and restarting so many times that you begin to realize that your own worst enemy is yourself. You learn that you need to feel physical pain as you write something emotional. You learn that if you think it’s too clever to remove, you definitely need to take it out (hint: put it in another drawer and promise you’ll use it later).
Eventually you learn that you’re an asshole. And that’s OK. Just remember that you are, and have respect for the people who put up with your shit, because they’re the ones you’re doing it for.
That’s not selling out; that’s telling the truth. The people who are worthwhile will come along with you as you write only for yourself. You will express your truth and they will appreciate it. Just remember, however, that without craft your story cannot translate to anyone who’s not living inside your skull. If you don’t learn craft, you will always be an asshole with shit-all to show for it.
There is, however, a way forward.
Given enough time and practice, you’ll be good enough that no one cares that you’re an asshole. You’ll just be “eccentric.” And that’s the best any of us can hope for in this crazy world.