Most importantly, it isn’t something that will please all readers. It will please your people. By “your people,” I mean the human beings in the world who share with you certain aspects of how they see the world, how they confront it, what they love and need from stories. Think of it this way: There is no piece of writing in the history of the world, no matter how beloved or financially successful, that someone doesn’t hate. Is Casablanca for me? Uh uh. Pulp Fiction? Nope.

I hope you hear exactly what I’m suggesting here. I’m not saying that great writers sometimes write badly, which of course they do; I’m saying that great writing is only loved by some people. Not so-so writing. Great writing.

So how does this impact our process of revision, or the creation of our first draft for that matter?

Here’s how: It means we’ve got to be as clear as possible about whom we’re trying to please. Put those people on your shoulder while you’re writing—mini, weightless versions of them so that they don’t screw up your posture—and then let them whisper to you when they have something to say.

“You’re really gonna write that?”

“Oh! You were expecting me to laugh just then?”

If you’ve taken tickets at the door to your shoulder and only allowed admission to your people, then pay attention to those voices. Revise accordingly.

Do not give a ticket to your Uncle Phil who hates your favorite president and who thinks your entire way of life is suspect, at best. You can still give him a birthday present if you want, but do not give him a ticket to your shoulder while you are writing unless he is to become the inspiration for your screenplay’s villain.

Just as importantly… if you have the right people sitting on your shoulder and you’ve started to write, give these weightless minis the chance to laugh uproariously, to give your writing a silent thumbs-up. If they need it, give them a second to wipe away tears.

And then go back to the story.

When you’ve written the tenth draft, pay attention to the shy and retiring mini-person in the back row who hasn’t yet said a word. She’s been half-raising her hand for about six drafts, but every time you glance at her, she quickly puts the hand back in her lap and looks at the wall like she never wanted your attention in the first place.

At some point, this woman will whisper to you the last thing you want to hear. You will seriously consider quarantining her with Uncle Phil.

Let her talk.

Get mad at her if you must. Eventually, she will whisper to you the very thing that makes your screenplay great. In fact, she’ll write the scene you never saw coming—the one that makes even you look on with a little bit of awe. The best part—or the worst, depending on how your conscience works—is that she will give you full credit for the scene and for the whole screenplay which, if you’re honest, you now acknowledge depends entirely on this scene that you didn’t write. Egoless, she’ll disappear from your shoulder, allowing you to feel that she did nothing and that you never needed her in the first place. When you finally look again, her seat has already been taken by the guy with the open bag of Doritos in his lap who frees up his neon orange hands just long enough to start the inevitable slow-clap for your brilliance.

At this point, I like to look around the room—the actual room I’m in. I make sure I’m alone with the shoulder-people, and then I go ahead and take a little bow.

I’ve only got five drafts to go.

This has been an exciting and emotional year in my writing career. In addition to getting my first screenplay optioned, my feature script, DETROIT, has garnered some major attention from Disney, The Black List, The Page Awards, The Nicholl Fellowship, Sundance Labs, and from Fresh-Voices.

But nothing has felt quite as gratifying as this industry member’s evaluation of the script. Major spoiler alerts ahead, but I wanted to share this with anyone who might be interested. I continue to believe that some production company will be willing to take on the challenges of making this film.

Alas, the script remains un-produced and un-optioned.

Note: Some aspects of the judge’s PDF did not copy properly, hence some strange-looking rectangles in between some sections, but to be clear, I did not edit this review in any way.

The 2014 PAGE Awards Judge’s Feedback

1. What is the writer trying to achieve in this script?

You have written an eye opening, intensely moving, unsentimental yet emotional drama that intimately explores both the intriguing characters’ lives and the ravaged but still proud city of Detroit.

When I came to CUT TO BLACK on the final page I felt as if I had actually seen the movie instead of simply reading a script. That is quite an accomplishment.

2. In what ways is the writer successful at achieving his/her goals?

You have fine, focused writing, taking a story that could have been an exercise in despair and giving us a touching and believable screenplay that is equal parts coming of age, sadness, a little bit of magic and ultimately, a feeling of hope.

The story is in some ways quite simple, and the script’s message is equally as plain: never give up wanting and striving, no matter how unattainable the dream seems.

You immerse us in the city of Detroit, making it as much of a character as anyone in the story.

Of course some of the characters are sympathetic and others are hateful. And of course some of the likeable characters do bad things. But throughout they feel like real people.

3. In what ways does the screenplay fall short?

There are a few dialogue sequences that tend to ramble a little and could be tightened.

As detailed a bit more under Plot, you might not need some of the more melodramatic back-stories, like the boy Ben accidentally killed.

4. On the contest scorecard, you gave this script a total score of: 85. Please explain your criteria for your score.

PREMISE/CONCEPT: 7

This is a familiar story – a boy’s coming of age under difficult circumstances – but you’ve given it a fresh and original spin.

PRESENTATION: 10

The script is formatted to professional standards and I noticed no spelling errors. Very, very nicely done.

STRUCTURE: 8

While it has an overall classic three act structure, this is a deceptively complex script, with multiple plot lines and character twists.

You do a good job keeping all the balls in the air and giving each main subplot a beginning, middle and end.

PLOT: 9

Every time I thought I knew where the story was going you threw a little curve ball: just one example is Ben’s unexpected appearance on pg. 75. The joy we feel that Doc has found his dad is tempered when we realize that Ben is not going to stay, and not going to turn everything around.

You make your points with character and action, very seldom with speeches.

I like how the main story line – Doc’s search for his missing father – evolves throughout the screenplay. We first hear about the boy’s mission to find his dad on page 5, and little by little more details emerge. The indifference of the police (even for one of their own). The emails Mary shows her son to explain the disappearance. Mary’s affair. Ben’s earlier suicide attempt. Finally we learn about Ben’s plea to his son when lying on the kitchen floor. As the pieces come together we – and Doc – come to a better understanding of what drives the man.

The subplot that Doc’s father was a policeman but quit after killing a young boy is certainly powerful but it seems a little familiar – almost shorthand for why he’s depressed and suicidal. I know Mary argues that it’s not the trigger for Ben’s problems, but I don’t know whether you need such a dramatic plot point to get the point across.

Troy’s gangster attitude – using the younger kids to rob others, stealing the copper and other metals from abandoned houses – is believable and you clearly show how it gives the kids a sense of excitement, of camaraderie and even of belonging. It is a tribute to Doc that he never quite falls for Troy’s pitch – though we certainly worry for him.

The build up to the dramatic moments of the script is powerful but it’s in the interstitial moments, particularly, when we see the city in decay and defiance, that the story takes on the flat, unblinking detail of a documentary.

The notion that an unknown kid would be able to sing at the biggest playoff game in Detroit history is perhaps – oh, possibly just a tad – unbelievable and it made absolutely no difference to me. I was cheering along with the audience. Sometimes you just have to be cinematic and heartwarming. (And the technician’s “Fine. Whatever.” is a brilliant button to the scene.)

The ending, where we don’t know the outcome of the game might be frustrating, but it is also utterly believable and thematically true to the story. Doc has achieved something remarkable, both in his beautiful singing and in his steadfastness, both to his father and his beloved Lions. But we see he has grown and changed in the course of the story.

Tiny note: we never get a payoff for the pills Troy gives Doc and he later swallows.

PACING: 8

Pacing works nicely, with contrasting scenes of action and character development. Some of the dialogue sequences could probably be trimmed a little bit.

CHARACTERS: 9

Your ability to create characters that are both familiar and utterly individual is one big reason the script come so vividly to life.

When we first meet Doc he writhes in agony over the Lions’ loss, then robs a kid of $4 – giving him one dollar back and looking at him “with genuine sympathy”.

We don’t yet know what to make of this boy but we’re instantly intrigued. He’s clear-eyed but also an authentic fourteen year-old, uncommunicative and sullen. He’s often surprisingly innocent, utterly determined in his desire to save his dad and clearly very smart. As he flies closer to the danger of Troy we worry that he’ll take that one step too far, which keeps the suspense high.

Andre is a delight – a welcome light touch in an otherwise darkish group of characters. His humor and intelligence shines through and his philosophy of “’Cause. That’s it.” (pg. 55) shows that he is wise beyond his years.

And Mrs. Bullock is a godsend to Doc with her tough love, believably written. Mary is heartbreakingly real: a woman teetering on the edge of despair,

exhausted, but always taking that one more step. While we sympathize with Doc we are glad she’s found some measure of happiness and security with Bruno.

I have to say that Detroit is as much a character in the script as any person and you have done a terrific job showing both the urban blight and the resilience of the people who live there.

DIALOGUE: 9

You use dialogue to illuminate the character as well as move the story forward. With pg. 4’s, “You take that. That’s fair”, we understand that while Doc acts like a junior thug, there’s more to him. His response to Andre’s “You know you’re 75% white, right?” “Lotta good it’s doing me” (pg. 11) and his snarling, “You touch me, I’ll kill you” beautifully sets up his intelligence and even his sense of humor.

I think I’m still chuckling at Doc and Andre’s discussion of drinking from the cap of the vodka bottle (pg. 25). Very funny.

And Beulah’s sudden appearance with, “Well, I’m certainly somebody’s mother” (pg. 51) is a beautiful button to put on the otherwise unhappy scene about the electricity bill – a much-needed moment of lightness.

Mrs. Bullock’s speech at Troy’s funeral is devastating and beautiful at the same time.

You also do an fine job with the dialect – we get the cadence of Troy’s gangster- talk without it being overdone.

THEME: 8

There are multiple themes at work here. Certainly the linking of the Barry Sanders mystery to his dad’s disappearance is one – knowing when it is wise to let go and when disappearing is a selfish choice.

And there’s the importance of family (whether biological or chosen) and community. But I also like the notion that Mary is dead wrong when she says (pg. 19) that Doc’s strong heart can’t change the world. I think you’ve shown that it can.

STYLE/TONE: 9

Your use of Voice Over works well. Instead of explaining what we see on-screen you use it to explain Barry Sanders’ story and, sparingly, to give Doc’s thoughts about the city of Detroit.

The one time the voice over is about something more personal (pg. 6, “She’s

absolutely wrong. He’s out there and he’ll come back”) seems less successful. I wonder if there’s another – perhaps visual instead of voice over — way to get this information across.

Tiny cinematic details, like Doc anxiously pulling the draw strings of his hoodie to hide his face as the Lions line up (pg. 3), help make the scenes “pop” with realism.

Character descriptions (the boys in the car with Troy are “narrow eyed and silent”), are vivid and specific. And the choice to have the boys put chocolate sauce on their pasta because there isn’t any other food in the house is both funny and heartbreaking.

While having just one flashback in a script can be stylistically a little odd, your choice to show us (pg. 34) the 11 year old Doc with his father makes it clear why Doc is so determined to find him – Ben seems like a great guy.

A small suggestion: try to avoid using “we see” (as on pg. 8) in scene description. It reminds us that we’re reading a script and anything that pulls us out of the story, however briefly, should be avoided. It used to be more common in scripts from decades past, but is currently out of vogue in contemporary screenwriting. A small fix.

COMMERCIAL POTENTIAL: 8

Beautifully crafted character-based dramas, particularly with a 14 year-old lead actor, are not always given their due by notoriously risk-averse Hollywood – who prefer an easily marketable story, ideally based on a graphic novel.

At first glance it seems that the indie world might be an easier path to production.

However there are definitely exceptions to studio reluctance: there are plenty of terrific filmmakers who appreciate a well-told story. A wise producer once told me that great scripts do get made, even if it takes a fair amount of persistence.

My instinct is to pursue companies – production companies, producers or even mini-studios like Lionsgate — who have credits in the same general arena.

Alternatively, you could approach directors you admire (someone from Detroit, perhaps?). Of course, your script itself will likely garner some serious attention on its own, so you might not have to do much marketing yourself.

I would also be mighty surprised if you didn’t get full and enthusiastic participation from the Detroit Lions organization.

5. If you received this screenplay at your agency or production company, would you give it a:

RECOMMEND writer CONSIDER PASS project

Why? What is your agency or production company currently looking for?

Alas, while dramas are a personal favorite of mine for genre, my company currently produces lower-budget independent films, mostly in the suspense- thriller genre, so this script would not be a good match for us.

However, I guarantee that any coverage would come back with a decided (and highly unusual, in my experience) rating of Recommend Writer for your exceptional way with character and dialogue.

6. How could this writer improve his/her chances of success with this script? What else would you like to tell this writer?

It is rare that I get a script to read where I have to struggle to come up with things that can be improved.

Of course, when a director comes on board he or she will undoubtedly have some ideas – how to open up the story a little, perhaps, or how to narrow the focus slightly.

But it’s the utterly authentic feel to both character and location that will get this script noticed.

Wonderful work – keep writing!

Judge: JW

I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around this one, but here’s the situation: With few exceptions, studios today don’t make movies that aren’t based on some already popular intellectual material—a novel, a video game, a comic book, a previous movie, etc. The ones they make from spec scripts have a high concept hook and have a role for one of a handful of (mostly male) actors who are considered bankable stars. Any script that doesn’t fit the above description is an indie. But… indie budgets tend to be limited at best. It’s pretty easy to write a script that doesn’t qualify for studio or independent consideration. Nice, right?

Smart, experienced professionals tried to explain all this to me before I finished my first three scripts, but either I didn’t get it or I didn’t care. I think it was a little of both. In my head, I kept saying, yeah, but this is a great movie. Honestly, I don’t regret my decisions one bit, but you may wish to take a different path.

Reputable contests and services can get your script in the hands of Hollywood people who will actually read it.

The good news is that I won a contest with one script (the Drama category of The Page Award) and then got that script—and one other—rated highly on The Black List web site. My first script—a low concept drama—has been optioned. It is right now in the hands of an Academy Award-winning actor who could almost instantly turn the whole project green. Pretty good for an idea that had no chance. My other script that has an indie plot and a studio budget just earned me a nomination from The Black List for The Sundance Screenwriters Lab.

You can get a script optioned without an agent.

I actually had an ICM agent who loved my first script. She repped me for a Hollywood minute and sent the script to several companies. Only one of these companies even read it. That company said no thanks but asked to meet with me. Then they canceled the meeting, and I never heard from them again.

But… I posted that script on The Black List web site, it got a great rating, and a month or so later I got a call from a company that wanted to option it. An entertainment attorney negotiated the deal and that was it. Done.

People you know in the business will probably not help you.

I’m still thinking about this one. I live in New York. I have little experience with “the way Hollywood works,” but I think I’m a pretty good reader of people. A New York friend who is not in the business but who has some connections has been extremely generous in trying to help me. He was instrumental in getting the above-mentioned ICM agent to read my work. Another acquaintance who has become a friend has offered me lots of excellent advice and has made some genuine efforts to get my scripts in the hands of some important people.

Other than that, people I know in the business have essentially smiled and looked the other way. They’ve occasionally gotten a little prickly.

To be clear, I’ve never badgered someone to help me. In almost every case, I didn’t even ask these people to read a script until they offered. I occasionally made calls or wrote emails asking them for advice. Once, I asked a friend if he would connect me to another person he knew well.

Put it this way: I don’t contact these people about my career any more. I got the message—mostly via silence, occasionally through semi-polite refusals to help—that I ought to stop.

And I don’t think these people are jerks.

I believe there are a few factors at work:

1)   People are busy. They have their own careers to grow. No matter what the appearance may be, people in Hollywood almost never feel that they’ve “made it.” They are always scrapping for the next job, always trying to pull off the almost impossible trick of making art that will meet the approval of businessmen—yes, it’s mostly men—who don’t necessarily care about art. It’s a nerve-racking, paranoia-filled game. People may not want to tell you that they feel this way, especially if they’re successful, but they probably feel this way.

2)   Even prominent Hollywood people often aren’t very powerful. Movies usually cost millions of dollars to make. This simple fact means that the majority of people in Hollywood, no matter how talented, are dependent upon others to get movies made. These talented people might want to help you, but in many cases, they just can’t. And they must sometimes think, why should I use the capital I have to get my friend’s script read when I have my own fragile projects to keep alive?

3)   The vast majority of writers who ask for help from established people haven’t written anything good. And by the way, this fact makes the established, potential helpers very cynical. I’m convinced that they see some new material as bad simply because they’ve decided ahead of time that it must be bad. Their unconscious brains are playing the odds, and the odds being what they are, the unconscious brains are usually right. As a side note, I think there are two kinds of writers. Those who can talk analytically and flexibly about what makes writing effective and those who can write well but haven’t a conscious clue how they do it. The second kind of writer is extremely likely to deem lots of people’s writing “bad.” While the talented analyzer can see a tiny flaw in a scene that is making it “bad” and thus see the scene as essentially good, the second writer who relies on pure instinct only sees the flawed iteration of the scene.

A positive response to your writing means more than a negative one.

This is not a Pollyannaish claim. It’s logical.

Forget about the complexities of good writing for a moment. Think about what it takes just to find your damn missing keys. When you can’t find them, it’s almost always because you didn’t look in the place where you “know they can’t possibly be.” Or, even more frustratingly, because you looked there carelessly, “knowing” that they’re not there.

Now, think about what it takes to create a beautiful screenplay. Its emotional impact depends upon a thousand subtleties that, because you’re a good writer, you make clear but not obvious. You leave little gaps between what is said or done and what is meant. These are invitations for a good reader to take a little—or even large—leap, and you make your screenplay a series of invitations because you know that what’s on the page is never satisfying to a reader. It’s the leap that matters.

Ultimately, in a good piece of narrative writing, you can only invite a reader to the meaning-and-emotion party. We’ve all seen the movies that spurn invitations, choosing instead to shove us in the door and pour us a drink we didn’t want. We get whatever it is we were supposed to get, but we’re left checking for our wallets.

So back to my claim about a positive reader-response meaning more than a negative one. Can bad writing prevent the necessary leaps? You bet.

But guess what? So can the reader’s bad mood. So can the dog barking in the next room, or the child demanding the reader’s attention at the exact moment that a script makes the same demand. I think readers don’t often realize this: You have to give a script more attention than you give a movie on the screen. Remember that a movie has already been filtered through the interpretive consciousnesses of the actors and the director. A script is inert without a reader.

Red wheelbarrows and script readers—yes, so much depends on them.

And don’t forget, no one can find something that they already “know” is not there. No matter how much they “look.”

So the person who loves your script—genuinely loves it—has proven something that the reader who thinks it’s bad has not. Yes, proven. This reader has proven that the gaps are leapable and that the flights are satisfying. And where there is one such reader there are more. Sometimes it takes a while to find them and sometimes you can’t find enough of them to make a multi-million dollar movie, but I’d guess that the vast majority of movies ever made have survived readers (probably a majority of readers) who thought the scripts were bad.

Oh yeah, and some of them were bad.  But that’s another article.

Balancing writing with family.
Breaking into the screenwriting business.
The Black List.
The city of Detroit.
My screenplay about the Motor City.
And the virtues of the original Planet of the Apes movie!

http://marzdailymedia.com/2014/01/14/marz-media-podcast-episode-74-robert-rue/

One of my favorite screenplays is Kramer vs. Kramer (1979) by Robert Benton. It’s a perfect example of Act III writing Act I. Think of the contrasting French toast scenes: Disaster in Act I. Touchingly synchronized in Act III. Think of the ways in which Ted drops Billy off at school: Ignoring his son, handing him off to someone else and rushing away in Act I. And then, in Act III, parenting firmly (he insists on a twice-weekly hair-washing for Billy) and gently (he kisses him and calls him a terrific kid before sending him inside).

The whole focus of the film is Ted’s development as a parent, so the successful fathering of Act III must be set up by the failures of Act I.

It might be tempting to think that the scenes of Act I led to the ideas for Act III. But the only way to know what to make Ted fail at in the film’s beginning is to know what he will succeed at in the end.

Act III writes Act I.

(Deeply influenced by Syd Field, Blake Snyder, Peter Brooks, Aristotle and Arthur Conan Doyle.)

When I say that this beat sheet “has worked for me,” I don’t mean that I have applied it like a math formula. I mean that this structure has given me something to look toward in the process of writing. These beats are like a poetic form—they make me reconsider the first thing that pops into my mind. And after I’ve reconsidered, if I want to break the form, I do it. Considering the form first forces me to have a reason for my decisions.

Note: The page numbers in parentheses are approximate.

Act I Overview: Status Quo, Rupture and Reaction

Paradoxically, Act III writes Act I. The beats of a movie’s beginning should be crafted by knowing where the protagonist will end up. Act I can only be (re)written successfully by imagining the character at the end of the movie and then rewinding his life back to a place that is, emotionally, far enough away from that end to launch a meaningful internal journey.

1. Opening Image (1): What epitomizes my protagonist’s current life, his state of mind? The events of my plot are going to change all this, but I need to establish the “before” to make the “after” of my ending meaningful.
2. Set Up (1-12): What are the relevant situations and who are the relevant people in my protagonist’s life? These people and things will be the engine that makes my story go. What makes them interesting and complicated? What things do I need to establish now in order to make key plot moments that come later clear and powerful?
3. Catalyst (12): The event that starts the story. This should be something that disrupts the status quo of my protagonist’s life. It should cause complication, and it should require a response from my protagonist.
4. Reaction (12-24): In the process of reacting to the catalyst, my protagonist will become aware that some sort of decision needs to be made. But this section of the script isn’t about that decision. It’s about the knee-jerk, emotional reactions to the catalyst. These reactions should dramatize what’s at stake for my protagonist. I should allow the audience to figure out the price my protagonist would pay if he didn’t get what he eventually will decide he wants.
5. Transition into 2nd Act (25): My protagonist makes a decision about what he wants that will propel him into new and uncertain circumstances. If I’ve written a good Act I, it will be clear even at this point that this decision is risky, but that the goal is worthwhile.

Act II Overview: The Protagonist’s Pursuit of a Concrete Goal (Which Launches an Internal Journey)

It is the pursuit of this goal that will allow the character to do the emotional work (probably unconsciously) that is necessary for him to change internally. The movie is not really about the goal. It’s about the emotional work.

6. The New World (25-35): My protagonist’s decision at the end of Act I has thrust him into a new world that has its own rules and risks. This world is interesting and promises a great deal, but it also leads my protagonist to…
7. A New Obstacle (35): …which my protagonist reacts to in a way that is familiar to the audience. A way that reflects my character’s flawed Act I mindset. And this reaction leads to…
8. More obstacles (45): Things are getting pretty bad now, and it seems that maybe my protagonist never should have entered this “new world.”
9. All-In (55): But rather than turning back, my protagonist doubles down. Without knowing how he will solve the problems he now faces, he makes a decision to go forward in pursuit of what he wants.
10. Regrouping (56-66): My protagonist forms a new plan. It involves altering something inside of him (an assumption about himself or about the way the world works) that is difficult to alter. This results in…
11. A Meaningful But Insufficient Victory (70): This moment foreshadows the change that will be apparent at the movie’s end, but it is not enough. My protagonist will have to dig deeper, sacrifice more and change more.
12. A Terrible Blow (75): Here, my protagonist’s hopes should be dashed. It should seem that nothing can be done.
13. What Death Looks Like (75-85): My protagonist should be defeated. The consequences of this defeat should be dramatized.

Act III Overview: The Change in the Protagonist is Dramatized

The key beats in this act all feel like they refer to and contrast with earlier beats in the movie. This is how the movie dramatizes the protagonist’s internal change.

14. The First Steps Toward the Last Stand (86): Calling upon things he has learned on his journey, my protagonist regroups one last time and goes on.
15. Courage and Resolve (86-95): My protagonist fights for his goal, which may at this point seem to have shifted in some way, but the audience comes to recognize that this “new” goal is the thing he’s really been fighting for all along.
16. Climactic Decision and Action (100-105): This decision, and the action that follows, reveals the way in which the pursuit of my protagonist’s goal has changed him. The whole film has been building to this moment. What matters is not that my protagonist “succeeds” but that he is changed—and that the events of the story have caused this change.
17. Hint of the Future (106-110): Good narratives don’t usually end with climaxes. They end by showing us the aftermath of the climax. And they do so by dramatizing a moment that hints at the future for the protagonist. A movie does not have to resolve every problem or answer every question. It does have to suggest how the events of this journey will impact the protagonist’s future.

I get it. There are B.S. elements to most screenwriting books I’ve seen. And reading great screenplays–even bad ones, actually–is an irreplaceable way to learn. But hey big time screenwriters, I think you’re really overstating the case.

Let me back up for a second. I’ve written three feature-length scripts and two TV pilots. One script won first prize in a major contest and another was a finalist. I’ve been represented by an agent, and I’ve gotten my stuff read, but none of that qualifies me as the kind of “successful screenwriter” I referred to in the opening of this post. I’ve never sold a script. So, if you’re more comfortable taking the advice of the big time guys, now’s the time to click over to JohnAugust.com. (A fabulous site, by the way.)

But here’s something I think I know: Screenwriting books are like many products in the marketplace. They can be helpful without being the magical things they claim to be.

No matter how many times Blake Snyder tells us that he is giving us the way to write a Hollywood movie, he’s wrong about that. There is not one formula. I teach screenwriting to high school kids who are able to poke holes in the supposed universality of Snyder’s beat sheet within about ten minutes. I’d be a foolish writer if I didn’t recognize that this book exaggerates its power to explain.

But here’s my point. I’m equally foolish if I don’t recognize that there’s some brilliance in his screenwriting template. The same goes for Syd Field and some others. These guys have figured out some things that it would have taken me decades to notice about how cinematic narratives are structured. (Yeah, I know. Aristotle too, though I dare you to try to write a great screenplay on nothing but Aristotle’s advice.)

So here’s my advice:

Read the screenwriting books. Store away what’s helpful. Leave behind the rest. In the end, create structures that serve your stories rather than vice versa.

And yeah. Read screenplays.

Every moment of practice forms a habit. Either you’re creating a good habit or you’re creating a bad one. Most coaches are hyper-aware of the physical habits needed to be a good player. But there are mental habits that are critical to your team’s success. Is your team slow to transition between drills? Does it take several seconds before they can reorganize themselves when you explain something and then restart the drill? Is there confusion and delay when you sub new players into a drill? All of these practice problems will show up when it comes time for the game. Your team will play poorly out of timeouts, you’ll be slow to get into new defenses, you’ll miscommunicate, or not communicate at all, on match-ups.

I would recommend that you don’t solve these problems for your players in practice but that you hold them accountable for solving them. Make them figure out how to make quick mental transitions because, in the games, there are only so many timeouts, and they will eventually have to solve things on the fly without you.