Time to Let Go

It’s hard to know when your script is done. You know – good enough to send out to anyone. Whether for a read and some notes, to a competition or to a potential rep. I have known writers who have worked on scripts for years. And during that time, they were not generating any new material. They clutch the script in little raccoon paws as if it is a tiny, shiny thing to polish and treasure forever.

Writing in some ways is a numbers game. The more material you generate the better your writing skills become and quite simply – the higher your chances are of obtaining a rep or winning a competition. If you pour all your dreams, heart, soul - and time - into one script you essentially lock yourself up creatively. Your brain, your desk and mailbox will grow cobwebby.

Screenwriters can’t afford to go all Salinger, putting out one great script every three years and in the meantime learn to whittle and bass fish. Like sharks, we have got to keep moving. It keeps us alive, creative and hopeful.

But letting go means that your work will be judged. And it’s painful to think of. But this is part of the writer’s life. We don’t write this stuff so that our moms will love it, or so that we can wallpaper our offices with it. Every script we write is a potential movie in our imaginations. Here’s the thing - that cannot possibly happen if the script never leaves your desk. Right? We know this.

I am no high-horse rider – I have been guilty of this myself. For example, I have a competition winning comedy in my hot mitts right now that I never did anything else with. I showed it to a friend recently and he thought it was hilarious, castable and commercial. So who has it, he asked. Um. No one. WHAT?! Everyone in the restaurant stared at us. Well, I dunno, I just didn’t think it was ready. WHAT?! I have other projects out there in the world circulating, I have a great manager, I have one particular project that is at a very exciting point at a major studio but this – this is a silly comedy. BLADES OF GLORY silly. Unlike any of my other projects. My friend stared at me long and hard. The truth is, I haven’t had the courage to even let my manager read it. Why? Doctor, heal thyself.

My point is this. Sending your script out into the world and thusly calling it “done” is a great leap of faith. We go over and over each page looking for typos and tweaking dialogue or action lines endlessly. But are we really improving the script at this point? No script is ever really done – even if you get the script to a rep or god forbid to a studio exec (see “development hell”) you will be asked to make changes. Scripts are malleable things; you will even make changes while the film is being produced (you, not the other writer they hired to do rewrites, hopefully). But that is not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about having too much fear to call the thing done and enter it into that competition by the deadline. We are talking about pitching it to a manager with confidence and busying ourselves with something else while it’s being read.

Take a leap of faith. And ask yourself: how much do I love this script? How much do I believe in this material? Have I gotten feedback? From more than one source? Or – and this is the hardest question of all – is this project just not that terrific? Here’s the thing – there’s no shame in having written something that’s just not that great. We all do it. Writing is like mining for gold; the ratio of dirt and rocks to gold is very high. Learning to identify what you believe to be good stuff and getting it out there is as important is identifying that the script just doesn’t work and shelving it. Either way – MOVE ON.

There comes a time when you have to just let it go. Trust in your work. Know that you have done the work to the best of your ability. And the best medicine for that clutching fear that it’s not good enough – is to write another script. And another one. Stay busy, keep creating. And hold this truth to be self-evident: you have more than one great story in you. But you’ve got to find it. Focusing on one script obsessively stymies the very creative process that defines you as a writer. Writers write.

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