By Billy Mernit

“Should I try to write something personal, do you think, or should I go after a commercial, thing-that’s-gonna-sell kind of screenplay?”

It’s a question I often hear from pre-pros of all kinds, and my immediate response comes in the form of a counter-query: When someone reads the first page of a screenplay, what is the last thing this reader wants to see?

As a professional reader and a writer, nothing deadens my soul, puts my hope and imagination to sleep faster, than the sense that I’m being told One of Those Stories in the Same Old Way.  People think that studios are looking for “commercial” projects, i.e. stories deemed to be familiar, acessible, sellable.  But in truth, the studio ideal is a story that’s the same, only different.

As a professional reader and a writer, nothing puts my hope and imagination to sleep faster than the sense that I’m being told One of Those Stories in the Same Old Way

So what makes the difference?

Here’s the thing about a conventional script that’s meant to be commercial (i.e. a workman-like version of what’s already been done and what’s done all the time to fill programmer slots on a studio slate).  There are tons of established pros doing exactly that, and chances are, they’re already better at it than you are.

Sure, if you’re an aspiring screenwriter, you ought to know and understand how such standard genre fare is done.  But while writing a formulaic, by-the-books script might give you a grip on what works and what doesn’t, that one doesn’t have to be the spec script you go out with.  In fact, that’s not a script the industry needs.

What makes a script stand out from the crowd is the difference.

What makes the difference? You.

You and only you can write the story that only you know how to write, and this is where “personal” becomes key, in terms of creating a career.

What’s the difference between personal and who cares?  Personal doesn’t mean “autobiographical.” The nightmare version of “a personal project” is the script written by a struggling widget salesman from Akron that’s all about a struggling widget salesman from Akron and widgets, widgets, widgets.  It’s the equivalent of the guy with the shopping cart on Venice Boulevard getting messages from the Planet Zygon. I call these OPI specs: they come from someone’s Own Private Idaho.

Someone who understands screenwriting craft and how to keep an audience involved could make even a widget story interesting — the problem with OPI scripts is that their writers, who often aren’t really writers, aren’t really interested in creating a good movie.  They’ve just got a lot to get off their chest about widgets.

The problem with OPI scripts is that their writers, who often aren’t really writers, aren’t really interested in creating a good movie

You, on the other hand, want to tell a good story that people will respond to, and tell it well.  And how do you know that your deeply personal take on a story, told well, has a shot at getting a response from the industry?

Say you’re with some people at a restaurant.  Guy on your left wants to tell you a story about how he met his wife.  Woman on your right, when asked about her last relationship, blushes a bit and says there’s nothing to say.  When pressed, she says it’s a story, all right, but it’s not the kind of story she really can repeat.  Which story do you want to hear?

I want the unrepeatable.

What the audience wants is the secrets – the inside dope, the hidden scars, the don’t-know-whether-to-laugh-or-cry truths about what it feels like to be human.  We want to know the thing about you that’s as outrageous as the things we know about ourselves.

So instead of writing what you think is the thing that sells, try taking the risk of really owning what’s different – what’s unique – about your world and your world view.  Show us the difference.  Surprise us with your weirdness.

Personal means repeating what’s supposedly unrepeatable.  And of course the more you’re really yourself on the page when you write, the more honest you are about your point of view… the more universal your story gets.

Ultimately we’re all walking mysteries, and we’re eternally unable to be one another.  What a great movie does is give us the sensation of piercing that veil.  An unrepeatable story acknowledges how shockingly familiar our secrets and emotions are.  Your personal, passionate feelings and point of view, honestly expressed, are what’s most likely to say hello to the rest of us.

What the audience wants is the secrets – the inside dope, the hidden scars, the don’t-know-whether-to-laugh-or-cry truths about what it feels like to be human.

The mystery of what makes a person strive and thrive is one of the most primal fascinations in storytelling.  I’ll wager that the movies you love are the ones that remind you of both what you know, and reveal what you hadn’t yet comprehended, about being inside another person’s experience.

Seems to me those are the movies you’d want to write.  They’re surely the ones we really want to see.

-Billy Mernit

Billy Mernit, screenwriter, novelist, story analyst for Universal Pictures and private script consultant, is the author of Writing the Romantic Comedy and the novel Imagine Me and You.

A recipient of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program’s Outstanding Instructor Award in Screenwriting, he teaches at schools and conferences at home in the US and abroad, and runs the popular screenwriting blog, Living the Romantic Comedy.

[divider_top]

Photo Credit: Chris Owens – Steven Depolo

by Karel Segers

This post is for those in the latter category. Those who claim that overly structured stories don’t work.

Let me begin by saying I yet have to read an Australian script that is ‘overly structured’. In fact, there is no such thing as ‘overly structured’. Scripts are ‘unoriginal’, ‘boring’ or ‘predictable’. But ‘overly structured’? No. Among the most mathematically structured scripts I know are The Untouchables and The Incredibles. Did you find those boring or predictable? Probably not.

Those who don’t see the merit in strong structure skills mostly haven’t done the hard work.

Oh, and before I see the same hands go up again, let me state the obvious: you don’t write in the creative zone while thinking of structure. You only get to look at your story structure when you’re in the left brain. Over time, structure skills become second nature in the same way you drive your car without thinking about how you shift gears or which foot to use to break.

Why movie structure works

Movie structure is nothing more or less than emotional logic. It is the order of things as we understand them subliminally, on a deeper level. It is the psychology of characters as we experience it in our everyday lives.

Recently a student wanted to write a story about a character going through the various stages of grief. No coincidence that these stages match beautifully with the Hero’s Journey.

Movie structure is nothing more or less than emotional logic.

Why?

Because this model is all about the necessary steps a character needs to go through before we believe that this character can change.

We’re talking here about change of any kind. Have a look at the Kübler-Ross model with the 5 stages of grief, compared with some of the Hero’s Journey stages.

Another student once asked me if there is a correlation between the Hero’s 12 journey stages and the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. The answer is: yes, but not because of the number twelve. In fact Joseph Campbell used a few more stages than Vogler’s twelve.

Wherever we see character change or any behavioral change such as addiction recovery, the character will have gone through a minimal number of steps, or we won’t buy it.  Character change follows certain patterns and this emotional logic is reflected in the 3-Act Structure and Hero’s Journey. It is firmly grounded in human psychology and therefore ignoring it makes your story unbelievable to a mainstream audience.

This emotional logic is reflected in
the 3-Act Structure and Hero’s Journey.

For this reason, you can’t just skip steps unpunished.

The Mythology of Redemption

An incident at my son’s preschool some years ago gave me an interesting insight. I learned about my own darkest emotions – and how the principles of character transformation are engrained in our collective unconscious.

The school management stuffed up, in a major way. As a result, fifteen adorable pre-school kids lost their teacher and were subsequently left rudderless for the last three months of the school year. The decision was irreversible and as a parent all I could do was accept it (after going through the stages above).

The principles of character transformation
are engrained in our collective unconscious.

Then the management kept bungling and I felt that something – or someone – needed to change.

The principal had been making mistakes that reflected a lack of competence or at the very least a temporary incapacity to manage the school’s affairs satisfactorily.

This person was the Hero in her own story and she needed to go on a journey of change, or…

How I became The Shadow

When the parents asked for an explanation, the management responded that no mistakes had been made and the principal would continue to take the children’s best interests at heart. No acknowledgment.  No redemption.

I didn’t buy it, nor did any other parent. When we called a meeting of the school’s Board, all we got was another litany of denial.

Ironically, in the meantime slowly things started to change for the better at the school.  But I was not happy, nor were most other parents.

That doesn’t make any sense. Things were improving?

What more could we hope for?

Redemption.

There had not been a public apology. There had not been an open redemption for all the mistakes from the past.

As human beings, we need to see this redemption. We need to see the perpetrator of the wrongdoings taking the blame – publicly. Or else we don’t believe any improvement is genuine.

It took Australia many generations to say ‘Sorry’ to the indigenous people for stealing their land, then their children. But it had to be done.

This is emotional logic.

This is why The Hero’s Journey works. This is why we see a scene of public redemption at the end of Act Two in so many movies. It is what we subliminally need to see before we believe character change to be real and lasting.

This structure is not dogmatic; it works because it reflects the true nature of the human kind.

Hey, look at those stages again…

They map your journey to successful screenwriting:

1. you’ll deny the need for structure
2. you’ll be angry that without, it doesn’t work
3. you’ll bargain and compensate with extra-awesome dialogue
4. you’ll be depressed because your efforts still don’t pay off
5. you’ll accept the need for structure – and be successful

Now go and start your grieving.

– Karel Segers

Karel Segers is a producer and script consultant who started in movies as a rights buyer for Europe’s largest pay TV group Canal+.

Back then it was handy to speak 5 languages. Less so today in Australia. Karel teaches, consults and lectures on screenwriting and the principles of storytelling to his 7-year old son Baxter and anyone else who listens.
He is also the boss of this blog.

 Photo Credit: Dave Keeshan via Compfight
 Photo Credit: Meredith Farmer via Compfight
 Photo Credit: Luc De Leeuw via Compfight
 

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

Subscribe to our YouTube Channel!