What should I write next?

I recently received a question that didn’t exactly ask this, but probably should have - for reasons I’ll outline below. So I thought I’d tackle it head-on today, this question that no one actually asked…

It’s a weird time right now, and answering this particular question isn’t as straight-forward as it used to be. Scripts are still being sold, films and TV shows are still being made. But under the surface, things are shifting. In fact things have been in a state of flux for some time.

Here’s a quick list describing just a few of the things that have happened to scripted entertainment since I joined the WGA:

Point is, this isn’t your mum and dad’s Hollywood.

The waters have been choppy this last six or seven years, and they’re only set to get choppier. So that question of where to place your creative efforts is becoming more complex and pertinent as time rolls on.

While it looks deceptively like a single question, it is in fact several questions layered on top of each other. Let’s tackle them all.

Back to that question that wasn’t asked. The ultimate answer to “What should I write next?” is: something, anything.

Next is the key word here. There should always, always be a next.

I often read or hear versions of, “I don’t want to be a screenwriter, I just want to write this one story”. If that’s the case, screenwriting is categorically not the medium for you.

Have you ever heard anyone say, “I’m not a property developer, I just want to build this one hotel”. Or, “I’m not really a baseball player just want to play one major league world series”. Unless you’re willing to self-fund your own project, screenwriting is the same.

The practice of screenwriting is cumulative. It is a library business. It takes many years to both develop the skills and to position yourself properly for meaningful success.

At its best, screenwriting a flywheel scenario: The more you write = the better you get = the more scripts you have to show people = the more people want to meet you = the more you understand the industry = the better you get…

And so on until some level of success becomes close to a mathematical certainty.

If you write a single pilot, it probably won’t be good enough, nor will you have the industry experience or relationships to get it made. That’s the hard truth.

You might fare better with a single feature screenplay. But my advice is unless you’re willing to write multiple scripts, don’t bother starting the first one.

Alright. Now we’ve established that anything is better than nothing, let’s get into it.

This is the most obvious and the most personal. Do you have a great idea burning a hole in your brain? Can you hear the characters? Can you see the ending if it’s a film? Can you imagine what season 5 will look like if it’s a TV show? Are you intimate with the vivid and specific world you’ll translate to the screen?

Can you commit to this idea, to these characters, for months or years?

Are you gunning to get started?

Yeah, write that.

Your enthusiasm is a huge virtue. It will carry you through the hard times, make that end goal all the clearer in your mind, and crucially it will help you become the salesperson you need to be when your script finally gains traction.

Your belief in your own material and your vision for the end result will become your secret weapon when convincing others to join the ride. And over the development lifespan of a script, lots of people need to be convinced to join the ride.

What you want to write and what you feel you should write are often two different things. Set yourself free to go and create the thing that makes you feel giddy.

Does one genre or format come naturally to you? Do you have any kind of momentum in any particular area whatsoever? Do your readers respond better to one style of script over another?

You’ll know instinctively where your strengths lie. In almost all walks of life it makes sense to go with the pendulum swing, double down on the path of least friction, and harness whatever it is that gives you an edge. Screenwriting is no different.

Wherever you can, stay within your zone of genius (we all have one).

But we’re creatives with restless minds and roving imaginations. We want to explore our limits and indulge in shiny object syndrome.

If you do want to venture into new territory, I suggest you scale out of your current sandbox and scale into the next.

Let’s say you typically write romcoms but you have a craving to write action-adventure. Look at something like The Lost City. It plays to both camps in a way that feels like a natural progression.

People will recognise it as romcom-coded (what you’re recognised for), but it showcases your as-yet-undiscovered talent for action set-pieces and adventure narratives.

Now lets say you’re known for horror but dream of playing with Marvel’s toys. Consider something like World War Z. It fits squarely in the horror genre, but shows you can write at the kind of scale superhero films demand.

Incidentally this is also a great way to figure out if you can write in this new mode, and indeed whether you actually want to. Shiny object syndrome is a real and powerful thing.

Evolution is the name of the game here. Genres are more of a spectrum, and you can always nudge further along one axis or another.

Successful hard left-turns can happen. But in an industry where everyone wants to pigeonhole you, the smart move is to just make your pigeon hole bigger.

Are you hoping for a major sale? Or just some industry attention? Do you want to see it go into production? Do you believe it can?

Would you bootstrap your own version if finance wasn’t forthcoming?

These considerations seem obvious. But you might be surprised when you really interrogate what you’re aiming for.

The Black List and The Stunt List are full of scripts that aren’t destined to be made, but nevertheless capture the attention of industry readers in a way that can launch careers.

Readers are always looking for the signal in the noise; the fresh, exciting writer that they can take and plug into other projects.

This infamous script is probably the most notable example of how a script can be all the more impactful because of its inherent difficulties.

But if you’re gunning for a greenlight, you have to pay much more attention to the twin pillars of scale and genre. How much will your script cost to make? How much will it cost to market? Will the audience be big enough for the box office to dwarf those two numbers?

To wrestle with this, you need to know exactly what makes films expensive, and exactly what draws audiences. It’s a much, much trickier equation than it seems. And it’s a reason why single-location thrillers disproportionately sell.

Meanwhile, if you want to write $200 million mega-blockbusters, don’t feel like you have to write one of them now. In fact, it could be detrimental to your journey. Better to showcase your unique tone, voice, worldview, and preoccupations, then let the big studios discover you organically.

Taika Waititi is the poster child for this kind of career growth. His development as a writer and filmmaker has taken him from scrappy half-hour comedies and low-key dramedies like Boy and Hunt For The Wilderpeople, all the way to the top of the MCU. His distinctive sensibility and warm, irreverent humour became his calling card, and Marvel decided they wanted a piece of it.

Michael Waldron is another great example.

Look out in the real world. Find the version of the future you want. Watch interviews with the creators. Learn how they did it. Borrow any playbook you can.

This is a film vs TV question.

In basic terms, feature writing involves sitting at your desk, taking Zoom meetings, cranking out a draft, then another, then another. You might be invited to set for a week or two. In rare lucky scenarios, the director might decide you’re useful to have around and actually consult you on a thing or two.

Or you might hear crickets until the premier invite comes through.

Feature writing is a primarily office-bound vocation, with the odd foray out into the real world.

TV is a different beast. It takes a village to make a show, and you’re the mayor. If your script gets traction you’ll be in meetings directors, producers, studios, actors on a continual basis. You’ll be much more involved in the whole process.

Then once you get the fabled greenlight, you may well be working with a group of several writers, in an actual writers’ room, building the first season together. There’ll be story editors, exec producers, company heads, writers assistants - all kinds of folks hanging around.

Then when it goes into production, you’ll likely be centre of the action, helping manage a huge operation involving dozens of people across multiple departments over a timeline of months. It can be overwhelming, exhausting, confronting, all-consuming…and for some people the greatest life ever.

It’s a personality-type thing. If you want to make stuff, collaborate with others and essentially become the CEO of a small business, television is your goal.

If you prefer to write alone and to your own schedule - if see yourself as closer to a novelist than anything else - feature films will serve you better.

This is another TV vs film question. And here’s another area that’s gotten kind of confusing, with the proliferation of film-to-TV adaptations, eventized TV series, and cinematic universes.

But I believe over a long enough time span we always come back to the fundamentals. TV and film are very different mediums.

Does my protagonist want to rescue their kidnapped daughter? Or reunite with their childhood sweetheart at all costs? That sounds like a movie.

Are their goals more nebulous, like managing their quirky household, finding with their place in the world, continue running their eccentric spa resort? You’re in the land of television.

A film is a snapshot of a time, a place, a person, an event. It generally depicts a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

TV is like a companion. You’re living alongside these people, checking in with them. Visiting their affluent suburb // college campus // spa resort once a week.

In TV the stakes don’t need to be sky-high all the time. We’ll have the time, the space, and the inclination to celebrate the small wins and mourn the small losses along with the characters.

The plot of a film meanwhile has to merit the one-and-done style of storytelling. A high-concept premise is like crack-cocaine in film. In television, it’s more of a detriment than anything else.

Ask yourself: does this have a clear ending with sustained and rising action? Or is this an exploration of a character // characters in their specific world?

Form = content. Content = form.

There’s more to explore here. But I’m running long, so hopefully this is enough to help clarify your thinking.

It’s almost impossible to predict which trends and market forces will dictate the sales and greenlights of tomorrow. Some things are perennial - true crime; detectives; precincts; hard genre - but increasingly the industry is turning to proven veterans for this kind of material (that’s a whole other thing I’ll get into at some later date).

These questions should help you look inward, and give you the confidence to write the thing you can deliver. After all, this is the only thing in our control. All we can do is sing our own little song as well as we can sing it, and hope that people gather round to listen.

This week’s article was a little doomy, so I feel duty-bound to provide some pastoral care. Here’s a couple of articles from industry big-timer turned consultant Carol Kirschner that touch upon what I’ve discussed here.

Thanks for reading.

Till next Tuesday, go get after it.

Rob