Writing the TV Drama Series 3rd edition. Pamela Douglas
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series you admire. Your personal enthusiasm for the work will count.
One other difference between the book and the classroom is that I don’t use guest speakers in real life. In the book they add dimension and inspiration. But in my classes I give personal, direct feedback on whatever each student is writing, so we function like a workshop or writers room. Assuming that you are a professional writer, you know this process of notes all too well. The class will feel like every show you’ve ever worked on.
I do not use and I disagree with “exercises.” In my opinion, the practice of not-really-writing — doing some sort of literary calisthenics — trivializes the creative process and wastes time. Any principles that can be gleaned from some academic exercise are better absorbed when a student is motivated by building to a product. If the students are going to complete at least one (preferably two) drafts of a teleplay in a few short months, they need every writing moment to work on their scripts.
I hope that if you are teaching people to write, you are a writer yourself. But some of you who may offer workshops on TV series are from the business, marketing or administrative/executive sides instead, and I’d like to help you be successful too. In fact, this book might be even more vital to you because it includes voices and experiences of actual writers and reflects their process, which amplifies the different experience you bring. But I suggest that you vary your curriculum to present more about sales and careers and less involvement in the art of writing. The book can be adapted that way by emphasizing Chapters One, Two, Five, Six, and Eight, which place television drama in a socio-economic context and explain how the industry works.
In addition to teaching how to write for existing series and how to write a pilot, USC also offers a survey course in the history and analysis of television series, examining shows from the 1950s to the present from a screenwriting viewpoint. It’s taught by one of my colleagues in the Screenwriting Division of the School of Cinematic Arts, and has become a popular part of a liberal arts education.
I mention that to give perspective to your role as a teacher. I believe that we, as teachers, have an obligation to help people become educated in the larger sense. Television has a literature as extensive as theatrical films. No teacher of feature screenplays would ignore all Oscar-winning movies from the past five years (not to mention Casablanca, Chinatown, The Godfather, or the Hitchcock legacy) when presenting the art of screenwriting and instead limit all examples and aspirations to whatever movies happen to be selling tickets this month. Yet in television, you may feel pressure to deal with only this season’s fleeting hits. Resist.
Of course, you know to tell students to write for current shows and create sample scripts that will leverage their careers. But you also know that this season’s shows are probably not the ones that will matter in five years, maybe not even next year when your students graduate. How can you reconcile that contradiction? The solution is to communicate the approaches that will last. You can start your students on a solid path, but they have to keep going beyond their time with you.
So, writers and teachers, hold on to this book. You may return to it again and again as you write new scripts and your careers evolve. In this Third Edition, I hope I’ve given you something that will last.
FROM JOHN WELLS
John Wells is Executive Producer of Southland, and previously ran ER and The West Wing. He is also past president of the Writers Guild of America West.
Pamela Douglas: If you could go back in time and talk to your own young self when you were a student in film school or college, what do you know now that you wish you’d known then about writing and producing television series?
John Wells: I wish I’d known how long it was going to take. You come out and you sort of assume it’s going to be a couple-of-year process and you don’t really start making any headway until you’ve wrtitten about a foot and a half of material, measured up off the floor. That’s when you really start to think of yourself as a writer in the way you look at the world. It’s a craft that takes a tremendous amount of time.
I wish I had more of a sense that it was much more like learning to play a musical instrument. After four or five years you start to not embarrass yourself. It takes ten years before you can even begin to call yourself proficient. And that’s very difficult for students because they’ve been through twelve years of primary school, four years of college, and often a couple of years of graduate school and they think they’ve already done sixteen, eighteen years of education, so they want to go do it right now, though they’ve actually just started.
It looks deceptively easy from the outside. If you look at the lowest common denominator you think, “I can do that.” The craft that’s necessary — the time it takes to have enough trial and error and to keep going with it — that takes a very long time to develop. I’m very suspicious of writers who haven’t been writing for ten years. I will often ask people for three or four or five pieces of material if I’ve read one thing of theirs that I like. I know they’ve given me the thing they’re proudest of, and I’m looking to see the growth, and how much they’ve done and how much they’ve committed themselves to the long-term process of writing.
I’ve supervised well over 600 scripts, and personally written well over a hundred, and I still finish each one disappointed in my work. It’s a life-long endeavor, never something you succeed at. I’ve been working professionally for twenty years and I’m always learning something new every day about writing.
PD: You could have chosen to write in any medium. Why TV?
JW: The feature world, which I remain involved in, is not a medium, generally, where you’re able to write about character in the depth I like to write about character. There are characters now on ER whose growth I’ve been writing about for years. I don’t mean to compare myself to Dickens, but I heard Steven Bochco talk about that years ago, when he explained that what he was trying to do on Hill Street Blues was like the way Dickens published a chapter a week.
And subject matter is different in television. The kinds of things we can write about seriously are more appealing than most of what you’re offered to do in features.
Beyond that, it’s much easier to be involved creatively in your work in television than in feature films. It happens a lot faster, so there’s not time for as many cooks in the kitchen. But also you get to see your work and see it quickly. I’ve done work on features that haven’t been produced for years, and [when asked for another draft] it becomes hard to remember what you had in mind when you first wrote it three years ago. In television, you’ll finish a script and see dailies on it ten days later.
PD: People talk about how television is changing now with cable, the Internet, and the influence of DVR. What does the future hold for the art of television drama?
JW: The technology makes for short-term changes, but we’re still doing what Chaucer was doing a thousand years ago. We’re still writing stories. I think we are structured in such a way that we’re interested in people, and we’re interested in hearing their stories and metaphors for our own lives and going through cathartic experiences. That hasn’t changed.
I actually think it’s a more exciting time for a writer because there are many more ways for your material to get made. You can write something and make it on a digital videocam that you buy at a store. You have an opportunity to work on shows on cable which have content you can’t do on broadcast television. The opportunities are limitless. There isn’t as much money to be made doing it, but you have thoughts and impressions about the human experience you want to share