I know I’m screwed when I crack out the index cards.
I know I’m screwed because I never use index cards. They’re not part of my process. So if I do find myself mired in a spectacle like this, it’s because I’ve worked through my entire writing toolbox, and I still don’t have the answers.
If this were a spec script, I’d probably put the whole thing on ice for a while before I found myself at this sorry juncture. But I owe this draft to a production company. Time’s ticking. I need to crack it.
To be clear, I don’t have a problem with index cards themselves. They just don’t really work for me. Never have. I don’t even own index cards. As you can clearly see, I just cut up an old journal. That’s how desperate things had gotten.
This was yesterday; during what I hope was my own personal dark night afternoon of the soul. Because just when I was down bad, a bolt of lightning struck - like an epiphany at the act two climax. I was breathing through the pain, and what came to me in that moment was one of the first exercises I ever learned, back when I was a playwright.
I thought of it because the exercise is itself kind of like breathing. We spend most of our waking lives taking relatively shallow breaths in and out. Instinctively occupying the middle ground. But when you’re stressed, or blinded by anger, or you just need to focus, you’re encouraged to breathe in deep, deep as you can, and then out as far as you can. In, to the furthest point of your lung capacity, and out all the way. And it really works. Soon, a new perspective emerges as if by magic in your mind’s eye.
So what’s deep breathing in screenwriting terms?
Let’s say you’ve reached a point in your script where you go cross-eyed every time you look at it. You can’t remember what it is that was supposed to make this thing good, you can’t even remember why you started writing it. Everything just seems kind of fuzzy and floppy and flabby and urgh.
Try zooming out. Step away from the screen - or the scraps of paper - for the rest of the day. Go on a long walk, take a shower. Whatever it is that tends to get the good thoughts flowing. Now try and think of the film you’re writing in the abstract. “Watch” the trailer in your head. Mentally play back the moments you’re excited to write. The parts that will get the big reactions from a reader.
Think deeply about what you’d want an audience member to feel as the lights come up on your film’s premier. “Wow, that was so…” So what? Scary? Funny? Heartbreaking? Suspenseful? Find the word. Make it your north star. Try and evoke the feeling that the word conjures.
Revisit the films or TV shows or comics that inspired you if helps. Rediscover the hell yeah that lit the fire under you to start writing the thing in the first place. But crucially, don’t get bogged down in detail. Or even the medium-sized stuff. Go on a vision quest through all the reasons it’ll make the best-of-year lists when it’s released.
Take the pressure off the scene you’re writing, or the act you’re marooned in. Forget about why none of your characters are just calling the cops, or exactly what one half of your ensemble are supposed to be doing while the other half are fighting the giant spider-people. They’re all details, details. Tomorrow’s problems.
Today, simply luxuriate in the awesomeness of what your finished product is going to be. Drink it up like it’s already finished, and already perfect. Fill your tank with love for this thing you’re coaxing into life, then get back to it after a good night’s sleep.
Or…do the opposite. Zoom in.
Open a new document. Start typing. Improvise a scene. Doesn’t have to feature in the story. In fact, it’s better if it isn’t part of your story. Just some tangential hypothetical scenario in your film’s extended universe.
Take the characters you’re struggling with and plug them into the scene. Don’t plan it. Just put them in a scenario and set them off doing whatever it is they want to do. Focus on recapturing their voice. Let them speak and act through you.
Again, take the pressure off. This isn’t another load-bearing block in your Jenga tower. It’s free-play. Demo mode. It might lead nowhere. That’s great. Just let them cook.
Rediscover what makes them distinctive and alive. Find the texture of their relationships, the nuances in their dynamic, the specifics of their worldview. Again, luxuriate. Let the pages run on. Let the central conflict drift and turn.
You’re no longer the puppet master, with its god-like burdens and responsibilities. You are witnessing them, peeking through the window when they think you’re not around. This exercise is incredibly freeing, even fun, and might result in some of the best writing you’ve done in a while.
Take this energy and attack your story. Perhaps even carry over the approach. Forget what you had planned for your characters in the next scene. Let them figure it out on their own. Simply bear witness to their actions.
When we’re in the process of grinding through a script, it’s so easy to get stuck in the middle ground. The relentless chug of pushing our characters on to the next sequence we’ve laid out for them. We become servants to the forward march.
But we need change and variety here just as much as we do anywhere else in our lives. It’s what keeps things fresh and surprising. And when it comes to creating a great script, fresh and surprising are two very precious commodities.
When I came back to my script this morning. I cheerfully cut an entire subplot, and added what I think could be the best set-piece I’ve devised in years. I’m feeling clear-headed again. The end is in sight. And my index cards are where they belong - in the bin.
Until next week, happy writing.
And if there’s anything you’d like to see me write about here, hit reply and let me know.