Marvin V. Acuna

In my humble opinion, aspiring screenwriters assume that an assistant doesn’t have the time, judgment, or influence to help them, and therefore simply see them as a barrier to their objective — connecting with the entertainment professional they desire to have read/buy their screenplay.

Huge mistake! After all, they’re controlling your access. Assistants are key and instrumental in any industry, but in Hollywood… a strategic alliance with an assistant has the potential to change your life.

LISTEN: Most assistants don’t aspire to be assistants forever.

There are numerous ways for you to build rapport with an assistant I’ll focus your attention here on just a few:

 Google their name. See if they blog or tweet. Try to identify something that they are genuinely interested in and may have in common with you.

 Always refer to an assistant by name, every time. Always be friendly, polite, and direct. Keep in mind that you are not their highest priority, and being impatient and/or self-righteous will not serve you.

 An assistant’s time is just as important as the person you are attempting to reach. Believe it or not, the assistant’s role is to determine potential value for their executive and/or their company. Be prepared to explain why you feel you can contribute and how you will add value.

 The more you can include the assistant in the process, the better. They have an ear to the ground about every aspect of the business and can offer unique insights that can help you refine your pitch.

 Assistants have the ear of everyone that will be involved in reading/buying your script. They know who you should be speaking to and can help clarify if you are even targeting the right person/company. Let the assistant paint the internal relationship dynamic for you so you may navigate it more effectively.

Effectively engaging an assistant affords you numerous benefits. For instance, they can serve as an internal champion of you, your work and they can make introductions on your behalf.

I encourage you to view every assistant with the level of respect you would afford their boss and observe the windows of opportunity that magically open for you.

by Terry Rossio

You don’t get to hear the truth much in this town, so listen up. I’m gonna back up the truck and unload. Harsh truths, right here, right now. And we’re gonna start with the most brutal:
You people really aren’t much good at writing screenplays.
In fact, your writing pretty much sucks.
I tried to be different. I tried to leave the door cracked open a bit. I politely asked you to send me only good stuff, your best stuff. And for years now I’ve been deluged by a storm of crappy query letters and mind-numbing script submissions. So many I can’t keep up, can’t even respond to them all. And not one of them has been any damn good.
Now I’m about ready to slam the door shut, and lock it down like how they do in cartoons, with a whole series of barricades and bolts and latches and such.
It’s disappointing. Especially after offering all this advice and encouragement. But man, I’m tired. Tired of being informative and helpful and optimistic. Tired of wasting my time answering your pedestrian-at-best e-mails and faxes and message board questions.
Tired of inventing nice ways to avoid telling you all that your writing sucks.
Hollywood, it is said, is the only place where you can die of encouragement.
Well, not here. Not anymore.
Your writing sucks.
You simply cannot write to a professional level. And you probably never will. It’s a safe bet to say that none of you will ever make a sale, anywhere, anytime; to think otherwise is just deluding yourselves. It’s a waste of your time, and that pains me, and it’s a waste of my time, and that pains me more.

Got it?
Oh, of course not. I knew you wouldn’t. I know you people all too well. You’ve been conditioned to ‘keep trying,’ and to ‘never give up.’ to ‘believe in yourself’ and to ‘keep following your dreams.’ Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone, with this oh-so-encouraging Website, with all those inspiring little quotes and professional tips and all. Like it was ever a good idea to make a bunch of people struggle on, no matter what the cost, against all common sense, with no real prospect of success.
Y’know what? I actually feel a little guilty. I do. I feel like I’ve been calling for a puppy to come jump up on the couch, knowing full well he can’t make it, but calling anyway, just to watch him try his best and fall back on the floor.
The worst of it is, I know exactly why I’ve been doing it. Because it made me feel important. Made me feel like the big successful expert, amongst all you floundering newbies.
A big fish in my own pond.
So yeah, there’s a dab of guilt that motivates me to come clean, here, to continue on and write this column. And I do have to continue on, of course. I knew there was no hope that one quick little splash of reality would get through to any of you, because –
– oh –
– oh, wait a second, that’s right –
– I almost forgot –
– you’re the special case.
You’re the once-in-a-generation manifestation of talent personified. The exception to all the rules. You know that there’s only a tiny amount of room in this business for only the absolute most talented, but it’s always all those other people who’re gonna get squeezed out by the numbers game. Soon, very soon, the industry is just gonna fall all over itself to recognize your unique genius.
If only you could juuuuuust get the right people to juuuuuust read your work, they’d see how very SPECIAL you are.
Riiiiight.
Hmm, funny how all those OTHER people out there trying, they each think THEY’RE the special case too, and that you’re part of the loser crowd.
How could that be?
Could it be you’re ALL part the loser crowd?

Free yourself, this instant, from the fever dream, from the slow agony of your doomed-from-the-start efforts.

Are you getting even a glimpse of the idea here?
Oh, no. Of course not. Not yet. Not even close. And heck, I knew the sarcasm bit wasn’t going to have any real effect. I was just venting a little, there. You folk are actually quite clever, in your own way. You’re smart and educated and savvy. Way too savvy for that line of reasoning to work.
So, sorry.
I apologize for that.
Changing tacks, now.
Lemme speak to you as a friend, someone who genuinely does care (well, a little bit) about you. And I’m gonna make it real easy for you. I am going to give you the best professional advice you will ever get in your life, right now. Here we go. You should stop reading this column at the end of this paragraph. (I’m not kidding. Please, you should really do this.) Then, you should immediately drag all your writing notes to the trash, along with your uncompleted next script. (The world will not miss it, believe me.) Then, find a big fireplace and burn all your old screenplays, too (hell, none of them are really finished anyway, right? And you know in your heart they never will be.) And then you can throw away all those useless ‘how to’ screenwriting books (yes, including any of these inane Wordplay columns you might have lying around). Just do it. Now. Think of how good it will feel. Be decisive. Free yourself, this instant, from the fever dream, from the slow agony of your doomed-from-the-start efforts. A clean break. Then you can go out into the world and start living a real life. Travel a little, get a job at something you can actually do, something that takes you out into the sunlight, something that lets you meet people, be a part of something real. The end of the paragraph is coming up, and I’m telling you, you should do it RIGHT NOW — and I bet, deep in your heart, you already know the reason why. One simple and overwhelmingly incontrovertible truth. BECAUSE YOUR LIFE WILL BE BETTER FOR IT. Please, pause and just give it five seconds’ thought, before you go on. Be honest with yourself, for once, before it’s too late. And just admit the truth: at the center of your being, you can’t deny that this is right.

How many times will the kids not get the attention they deserve because ‘Daddy’s trying to write something’ that nobody wants to read?

Still here?
Damn.
You’re blowing it, man.
You’re really blowing it. You’re making a mistake.
I tell you, there’s nothing at all interesting to read from here on, promise. So just quit now.
Oh, okay, I know what it is. You’re smiling to yourself, you’re thinking this column is somehow all tongue-in-cheek. The reverse-psychology thing. Like I try to encourage you to quit, and that makes you want to work even harder, try even more.
You think I didn’t know you’d think that? Yeah, sure, there’s an element of that going on here. But it’s just a device, something I’m using, a sneaky way for me to hit you with some hard truths, some real truths I couldn’t effectively say any other way. There is honesty in this column, and you know it… like how in every good joke, there’s always something real and true at its core.
That’s what I’m really trying to do here (and you’re smart enough to see it). And I’m not quitting. Oh, no, I’m not even warmed up. This is important, and I’m gonna give it my best shot.
Because what’s at stake here is pretty damn big… oh, just, let’s say, your life. A wasted life, potentially, or at least wasting the best years of your life. Days, months, years of effort endlessly trying to do something that you’ll never be able to do well. And how many sunsets will you miss before you finally give up? How many walks in the moonlight are forever gone? How much laughter with friends are you willing to sacrifice? How many times will the kids not get the attention they deserve because ‘Daddy’s trying to write something’ that nobody wants to read?

You’re chasing a dream of a place that doesn’t exist, that has no room for you if it did.

Oh. Gee. Did that one get to you a little?
Feel a little twinge in the pit of your stomach?
Good.
Because these are simple truths, really. They live within you already — I’m just bringing them out into the light.
A few weeks ago, I was driving on the freeway when a dog, a Great Dane, stepped out into traffic. I managed to swerve, but as I passed, I got a good look at the expression on the dog’s face. He was lost, confused, but focused on the far side of the freeway for some unknown reason, determined to get across, oblivious to the many cars whipping past. I managed a quick glance in my rear-view mirror, watching as he took a few more steps, and then was blind-sided in the head by an oncoming truck. The body spun around several times before it hit the ground.
It was chilling. And terribly sad.
Yeah, I’m saying that you people are as clueless in your determination as that dog. You’re lost, you’re ruining your lives. You’re chasing a dream of a place that doesn’t exist, that has no room for you if it did. It’s pathetic, it’s painful to watch, and I’m tired of it.

Okay.
I tried sarcasm, I tried friendly and nice.
I even made a weak stab at harsh brutal reality. And you’re still here.
What do I have to do?
A few more truths?
Like: the mindless drivel Hollywood churns out is only rivaled by the mindless drivel you churn out to replace it. Like: there’s a reason this industry invented coverage readers — writers like you.
Like: did you know that we all can tell by page one that your script is no good? To begin with, you can’t even put two words together to create an effective title, let alone write a whole script. (Will any of you ever come up a decent title? Jesus, it’s just a couple words!) Next, there’s wrong formatting, poor spelling, wrong page length, those clever pictures and photos you include, and oh! the colorful script covers, and that cute little copyright notice and WGAw registration number you always put on the cover page. There’s pedestrian dialogue, descriptions that are either self-consciously clever or impenetrably dense.
Actually, sometimes, a script is so bad, we do read past page one. Like the ghastly fascination of watching a train wreck as it happens.
Readers, bless their beleaguered hearts, are forced to read all the way to the end of your convoluted efforts. The upside of this is that the coverage can include all the real howler lines of bad dialogue. (The downside… well, it’s a little-known fact, but the suicide rate amongst readers is just a notch below psychiatrists. Not a big mystery, when you consider the jobs are similar: dealing with wackos.) Seriously, I always warn readers who work for us: if you take this job, you will be forcing the convoluted, incomprehensible and just plain icky dreams of others into your brain. It is actually mentally painful to read bad writing, to put that meandering illogic into your thoughts. Makes you want to take a shower afterwards.
And again, let me emphasize, I’m talking about you.
Look around the room. See anybody else there trying to become a screenwriter, reading this column? Anyone other than you? No?
Bingo.

Can’t you go buy a copy of a good script, put it side by side with yours, and see how bad yours is?

All right. You folk have been clamoring for years, ‘How do I know if I have any talent?’ As a matter of fact, you don’t, but here’s how you can tell. There are some common attributes that successful writers have. Attributes that you — yes, that’s right, you — seem to lack. As long as you’re still reading, I’ll take the time to go through the list. These attributes are the final nails in your coffin, and then you can lay your screenwriting dreams to rest:

1. SUPER-OBJECTIVITY

Good writers know the quality of their writing relative to industry standards. They know when they’ve come up with a clever plot twist, a good character entrance, an effective opening sequence. They can tell good work regardless of whether or not they’re the ones who came up with that work —- something YOU don’t seem to be able to do. How can you possibly think that last spec you sent out is as good as BODY HEAT, or BROADCAST NEWS? Can’t you go buy a copy of a good script, put it side by side with yours, and see how bad yours is? And if you can see how weak yours is by comparison, why did you send it out?

2. LOVE OF READING

Good writers all love to read. Most of them started at a young age, reading voraciously anything they could get their hands on: adventure stories, science fiction, mysteries, classics, comic books, whatever. I feel sorry for people who realize they want to be writers late in life — it’s nearly impossible to duplicate the knowledge background one can acquire as a kid, because you never again really have the time and the focus. And I think there’s just a right age to read “Treasure Island” or see DARBY O’GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE. An age where those stories will have maximum impact, and create an internal touchstone for good, solid story sensibilities.
Simply put, you haven’t read enough. Really good writers have vast libraries, full collections from Shakespeare volumes to back issues of “Swamp Thing.” Good writers can’t pass a bookstore without going inside. You, on the other hand, choose to write in genres you know nothing about, and you don’t do any research before starting — so you have no idea whether that wonderful new idea of yours is in fact novel, or horribly hackneyed.
Let me assure you, it’s the latter.

3. KNOWLEDGE

Good writers not only read, they remember what they’ve read. Minds like steel traps, they’re pack rats for information. Show me a great writer, I’ll show you a “Trivial Pursuit” champion. And so they tend to be great storytellers, great conversationalists. Hang around a bunch of successful writers and be amazed. If you can recite the opening paragraph of “A Tale of Two Cities,” recount the plots of every Hope/Crosby road picture, recite all the lyrics to Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne,” or name every artist who did a cover for the Alan Moore run of “Swamp Thing,” you haven’t even scratched the surface of the kind of stuff these guys know.
Beyond general information, what do you really know about film? Who is Ennio Morricone? Name the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. Quick, George Lucas just asked you to name your favorite Kurosawa film. What do you think of Rod Steiger — do you think he can do a southern accent?
And those are the easy ones. Who are Siegel and Shuster? What does Hank Azaria do well? What is the most famous visual associated with Harold Lloyd? Quick, Spielberg just asked you your opinion on the ending of ONE-EYED JACKS. What do you say?
All of those are easy ones, too. If you don’t know the answers, give up now. You’ll just make a fool of yourself the minute you step through the door.
You simply don’t know near as much as you need to know to even pretend to be a writer. And there’s a reason for it, actually — you don’t happen to have the right kind of brain. It’s not your fault, just a physiological truth. The capacity of your frontal lobe, or whatever, just isn’t big enough. Just as some people are not tall enough to be basketball players, you lack the physical tools — the actual brainpower — necessary to become a good writer. Tough luck, but there’s nothing to be done.

4. INSIGHT

Good writers have something to say. They observe life, recognize underlying patterns and offer insights into the nature of the human heart. So even if, by some stretch of definition, you do, occasionally, write something — the truth of it is, your writing is mediocre. You offer only the most obvious and common of themes, and so the competition from real writers will just blow you away. Even though you try hard, your writing remains shallow, meaningless, and so essentially worthless.
You’re just not very wise, not a poet, and certainly no genius with words. I recommend you go read some work by Ray Bradbury or Theodore Sturgeon to see brilliant insight combined with masterful use of written language. “I’ve read Theodore Sturgeon, I’ve worked with Theodore Sturgeon, and you, my writer friend, are no Theodore Sturgeon.”

5. INTELLIGENCE

Most really good writers are pretty smart. You’re not smart enough to compete with them.

6. COURAGE

It takes courage to be a writer. Courage to face yourself, work through your demons, and make your art. Courage to put your work out into the world, and unflinchingly face the response.
You, on the other hand, will sell out in a second. Without the courage to take a stand and keep it, your writing is compromised from the start. You don’t write from your heart, from the inside out, but to please others, from the outside in.

7. SPEAKING ABILITY

By the way, did you know that you will have to pitch? Give interviews? Argue persuasively for your creative point of view before a roomful of people? Think fast on your feet, or lose the assignment, lose the story point to someone else’s vision?
You’ve seen true pros on television, or up there on those panel discussions. They’re witty, they’re compelling, they’re entertaining.
Can you entertain? Nope. I’ve seen you. You mumble, eyes downcast; your thoughts peter out as you say them.
Face it, the type of people who make it in Hollywood are raconteurs, Renaissance Man types, salesmen as well as artists — and con artists. They are exceptional people, a breed apart. You’re really just a film-goer, another face in the crowd.

8. SOLID GROUND

Why do you think you can write when your life is a mess? Why do you think that failing in other fields qualifies you to be a writer?
Let me clue you in. Good writers have support networks. They have friends, and lovers. Their lives are in order. Many of them are wealthy to begin with, so they have time and resources to dedicate to the task.
You, with your failed relationships, your messy apartment, psycho-loser friends, your psychological problems, your last-legs car, and your overdue bills to pay… do you really think you can mount a sustained effort to be a screenwriter?

9. THOROUGHNESS

When Ted and I were trying to break into the business, our final step was always to read every word we wrote out loud. And still we missed typos and mistakes. I remember printing out screenplays late at night, usually around 2:00 AM. I’d be looking at page 89 coming out of the printer (one of the old daisy-wheel types) and notice some small typo. It was late, I was exhausted, and the script was due the next day. But I would always choose to stop printing, open the file, make the change, and reprint the whole thing — even if it meant just a correction of spelling or fixing some tiny mistake of grammar. Always. And if the page break didn’t look exactly right, I’d take the time to fix it. The script had to be perfect.
You, on the other hand, send in work without reviewing it. You give us spelling errors, and obvious grammatical errors — even in the cover letter. You can’t be bothered by proper format. In short, you lack that almost obsessive need to get it exactly right, which means, in the final tally, it never will be exactly right.

10. DEDICATION

I could have traveled the world. I could have played poker with my friends on Friday nights. I could have made out on the beach under the stars with my girl. I could have raced demolition derby at a small town racetrack. I could have done drugs, or hung out at bars to pick up women, or gone stargazing in the desert. I could have stayed in school or played drums in a rock band. I could have married and had kids. Instead, I chose to stay at home, sit in front of the damn computer, and write screenplays.
You’re not really up to that level of sacrifice, are you? It’s okay. It just means you’re human. Too human, really, to be a writer. You value the prospect of having a normal life. You want love, and family, and time with your friends. You’d rather see the world and have real experiences, instead of living out your days trapped in your imagination.
See, for the people who really make it in this business, the choices are easy. Nothing is as important as the film. They neglect their children, they get divorces, they play the power game, they do whatever they need to do to make it. That’s your competition.
You might be able to hold your own against them for a month or two. But that’s all. Their natural abilities match their ambitions, so for them, performing the job is not a sacrifice, not an endless anxiety-filled struggle. Consider Jeffrey Katzenberg. For you or me to keep that man’s schedule would be impossible. It would kill us. But he thrives on it — to him, not working would be the struggle.
But you’re not like that.
Face it, the truth is, you’re just not ‘cut out’ to be a screenwriter.

11. WORDS

Good writers love words. Shout out an unfamiliar word and watch them stampede to the dictionary. They collect words, treasuring them, enjoying every subtle nuance of the language. They enjoy telling words what to do, and having the words stand in line and do it. They’re Eskimos when it comes to snow — but to you, it’s all just cold and white.

12. PROLIFICACY

Consider this: in the afterward of Stephen King’s book “Different Seasons,” he explains how the four stories in the volume came about. Each one was written after he had completed writing one of his novels. He writes, “…[I]t’s as if I’ve always finished the big job with just enough gas left in the tank to blow off one good-sized novella.” So he wrote “The Body” after “Salem’s Lot.” “Apt Pupil” after “The Shining.” “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” after “The Dead Zone.” And “Breathing Method” after “FireStarter.”
Now just stop and think about this. Here’s a writer who, after finishing a best-selling novel, has the ability to sit down and knock out a masterfully-written novella in a matter of days. And three of these ‘afterthought’ books have been adapted into major motion pictures.
Now that’s prolific. Like the Hugh Grant character says in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, “I don’t know how I’ve been spending my time.”

And what have you done in the last couple years, in the same time that King has turned out eight new novels, and Spielberg has produced and/or directed 10 new films?

13. ADVOCATES

Visionaries may be ahead of their time, and unsold — but they at least have people on their side, actively promoting their work. In order to make it as a writer in Hollywood, your script has to be the one somebody plucks out of the pile and says, “Now this! This is what I’ve been looking for!”
Y ou need advocates. You need mentors.
At age 21, George Lucas was hanging out with Francis Ford Coppola and Peter Bogdanovich. Who are you hanging out with?
If no one is getting behind your work, consider that it may be because the work isn’t any good.

14. TASTE

This truth may be the hardest to take of all. The only thing a writer has to sell is his decision-making ability. A professional writer usually has a pretty accurate sense of what’s cool. From character names to plot twists to lines of dialogue, a good writer sells his taste for what he thinks is neat and fun. That’s the writer’s voice, his style. It’s an innate sense of what feels right.
Bad writers have this ability, too — only their sensibilities cause them to consistently pick the wrong choice.
I hate to tell you, but even if you are lucky enough to have one great film idea… your instincts are going to cause you to mess it up.
The one thing you need to sell is the one thing you can’t sell. Your instincts will tell you to go left when you should go right, dooming you to failure.
You may sense this, and give up on having a voice altogether. And you start to look to others to copy for your voice.
You become a parrot. You mimic.

15. TALENT

I’ll always remember a line from Larry Bird’s biography. It was right at the beginning, at a description of how Larry came to start playing basketball. Apparently he went out to a court, and just started shooting around with a bunch of friends. The descriptive line then said, “He noticed that his shot always went in.”
That’s such a powerful line to me, because it indicates the pre-existence of his ability. He didn’t practice for years — not until later, anyway. At first, he just ‘noticed’ that he had this amazing ability.
It’s that magical thing called talent. It’s something that you notice you have. You can’t invent it, it’s got to be there. And if you don’t notice it, if people aren’t telling you that you have it, you have to consider the probability that it doesn’t exist.
And without talent, you’ll never make it in this business.

If you’re not willing to fight — and I mean stand up in a room and yell for your convictions — you will get eaten.

*****

In the realm of completely outlining the subject here, I’ve got just a few more issues to raise. I don’t even need to be in truth-telling personal-insult mode any more. Because the rest of this isn’t so much about you, it’s about Hollywood. And it’s stuff pretty much everyone knows:

1. AGE

Have I mentioned that you’re too old? Filmmaking is a young person’s game. If you’re past 30, and you don’t have a feature film credit yet, be concerned. Every day younger players are getting in line ahead of you.

2. RACE, GENDER, RELIGION, SOCIO-ECONOMIC BACKGROUND

This is a town of rich white males — for rich white males. The religions are predominately Christian and Jewish. If you don’t fit the bill, you’re not going to fit in, you’ve got yet another wall to climb.

3. WHO YOU KNOW

Face it, this is the town that defined nepotism. Not only are there only a few open slots to fill, guess what? Those slots will be filled by the sons and daughters, friends and lovers of people already working in town. Those folk have the inside track. Which leaves even less room for you.

4. COMPETITION

Be under no illusions. This town is built on confrontation. The stakes are high: power, sex, money. And no one is going to give up without a fight.
The stupidest thing you are doing is spending years of your life trying to enter a world you know nothing about. You think being a writer is about creativity and fun.
It’s not.
This whole town is about conflict. Anxiety. Strife. Yelling. Lying. Insulting. Machiavellian power struggles. You must fight for your job every time out, against people who are stronger, more experienced, and who have fewer moral qualms than you. You have to play the game. Do the politics. Struggle to gain power. Argue with the studio at every turn. Try to out-manipulate lawyers and producers and directors and stars. If you’re not willing to fight — and I mean stand up in a room and yell for your convictions — you will get eaten.

5. FAIR PLAY

I hope you don’t think this town is fair. Your ideas will get stolen. You work will get bastardized. Even filmmakers you admire will screw you over, if they get the chance.
Hey. Let’s say you actually are lucky enough to get some interest in one of your scripts. The most likely scenarios:

* The studio executive will assign it to some other writer.
* The project will get shelved and never made.
* A director will come in and mess it up, turn it into something terrible.
* The film will bomb, and the critics will blame the writer.

And the writer won’t even be you, because after filming, the WGA will award credit to some other guy who did some minor work, polishing the script for production.
Through it all, you’ll be helpless to change a thing.
Sound like fun?

6. LUCK

Everyone knows that quality is no guarantee of success. Half the scripts that are produced each year are no better than the thousands that never sell. It’s a matter of the right thing at the right time — which you cannot control. For every one person who hits the jackpot, there are a thousand who keep pulling down the handle, eventually losing it all.
Again, given all these truths, you should do the one and only sensible thing.
Give up now.
Throw in the towel.
Head for the showers, listen as the Fat Lady sings –

All riiiiiight.
Okaaaaaay.
I’m back, folks.
Terry here. The real me.
By now the conceit of this column is no doubt more than apparent. (Heck, it probably moved past apparent long ago, into the realm of belabored.) I’ve been cataloging all the typical anxieties and doubts and fears writers have. I’m a bit of an expert here, having felt all these things myself. I’m afraid the length of this column is a testament to the depth of my own insecurity.
In truth, anxieties and fears and second-guessing are things we all go through. It’s easy enough to write about characters who never say die — but that sentiment can be tough to live out, in the face of continued rejection, when the rent is due.
In this column, I’ve tried to put all the negative thoughts you might have in one place. I hope the nay-saying and insults have stirred you up. Maybe along the lines of, “Who the %#$@!!&* does that +^%$*@! think he is? I have talent, I’m as good as anyone, and I’m going to prove it!”
Because you should be pissed if someone tells you you’re no good, that you can’t do it. And you should be able to shrug off the negative thinking, and prove them wrong. You need to have the confidence to tell everyone they’re full of crap. That you know the right path, and you don’t need anyone’s help.
If you have a dream to write screenplays, I think you should, actually, keep trying to write screenplays.
And now I’ll even tell you — really and truly tell you — when you should give up, throw in the towel, and go home.
Some writers will give themselves a time limit. In fact, that’s what Ted and I did when we were starting out: we gave ourselves 10 years to make a sale (we had our first sale after five).
But a time limit is arbitrary, and I don’t really recommend it.
Instead, you should quit trying only after two conditions have been met:

1.) You’ve given yourself a legitimate shot.
2.) Trying is no longer fun.

Now I’m going to claim that giving yourself a ‘legitimate shot’ is not a matter of time — it’s a matter of execution. (Someone could, I think, write for 10 years and not give themselves a legitimate shot.)
Legitimate shot means you learn proper format. It means you know your genre. It means you write on a concept worth writing. It means researching your subject matter. It means developing an effective style. It means targeting your work, and getting it before professionals. It means holding back your work until it is as good as can be. It mean putting out a body of work, if that’s what it takes. It means learning to shoot your own film (such as BOTTLE ROCKET or EL MARIACHI) if that’s what it takes.
In short, it means doing everything right — so the industry can effectively judge your talent.
Now, this industry is so capricious, you could give it a legitimate shot for years and still not make a sale. In which case, you should simply keep trying as long as it is fun to keep trying.
Or, at least, more fun to keep trying than to quit.
At some point, though, you should take seriously the charge of living a good life. Once you’ve satisfied yourself that you’ve given every effort, and failed, and it’s no longer fun to you, then it is, truly, time to find a new challenge and move on. Something else that will bring more satisfaction.
And if, even then, you’re the type to choose to not give up, you love movies that much, well, all I have to say is…
Welcome to the club.

Click on the “play” button to start this video.

And click HERE for more information about the Shortcuts to Success – Meeting with the Masters Mentoring Program!

May Your Life Be Extraordinary,

Marvin V. Acuna

It was his senior year at Yale University when Jewerl Ross decided he should be a representative in Hollywood. Ross had grown up in L.A., but left the area to study political science at Yale. Back in L.A., he pursued his new goal, working entry level positions for a few agencies before joining APA as an agent in 1999. Later, Marathon hired Ross as a manager. In January of 2006, Ross left to form his own company, Silent R Management.

Q: What’s important for a writer to consider in choosing a story to write?

A: Writers need to know what is going on in the business. They need to have read scripts that have sold. They need to have read movies that have gotten made. If a writer reads one third of the scripts that have sold around town, they’ll a get a sense of what they should and should not be writing.

If I go talk at any college, panel or screenwriting festival, ninety percent of the people I encounter are writing dramas. Of all the screenplays that sold last month or the month before or the year before, how many of them were dramas? Two or three? Yet, ninety percent of everybody at any school or screenwriting conference is writing a drama. That’s a mistake. Maybe one of those dramas is the brilliant next thing, but likely, that’s one in two thousand. I had a better chance of getting into Yale than you have of selling a drama. And I thought getting into Yale was pretty hard.

If someone has read and knows what is selling, they will have a pretty good idea about what to write and what not to write. Passion is really important. Writing things that people have seen before is really important–not writing something so different that it is not accessible to anyone. Great screenwriting is taking all the conventions of Hollywood–don’t kill your lead, root for your main character, have a three act structure–and putting them in a box and then taking that box and elevating it, making it the best representation of those conventions anyone has seen. That’s one way to go and that’s hopefully what most of my clients are doing. The other way to go is writing things that are just so different they catch my attention. I was talking with a friend the other day about a screenplay about a guy that has a relationship with his hand puppet and how funny and endearing and tragic the screenplay was. And it’s something that I’d never seen before. It was weird, it was different and it caught my eye.

I once read a screenplay that had all the conventions of a typical buddy/action “Lethal Weapon” kind of movie. The only difference was his partner was a monkey; a monkey who had a heroin problem; a monkey who had an anger management problem. He talked to his monkey like another guy and the monkey talked back. No one could understand the monkey but him.

Q: How brilliant!

A: It was LAUGH OUT LOUD FUNNY! It didn’t get made, but I was able to send it to 100 people. My qualification for wanting to get involved with a screenplay is “This is so good, I can send it to 100 people and 200 people will feel great about it.”

Continued online (WBW Subscribers only):
http://www.moviebytes.com/wbw/HollywoodIQ.cfm

I’m often asked why I invest so much time sharing information via the newsletter, the video tips, the tele-seminar’s, speaking engagements, etc. There are three specific reasons I hold dear to my heart. They are ideal and certainly one includes the desire to create revenue.

THINK ABOUT IT! It’s a business after all. Frankly, it’d be foolish and irresponsible of me to spend time providing insights on how to position yourself to create a successful profitable business and then lead one that does not operate successfully. Right?

Another ideal reason is because I want to empower people to reach their dream. As the saying goes, “Feed a man a fish, feed him for one day. Teach him how to fish and feed him for the rest of his life.”
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I receive notes from folks time to time letting me know how the various services we provide have helped them in some small way. Such a note arrived over the weekend from Lydia Sam Rawlings . It’s posted below.

This note moved me. So much so that I was compelled to share it here.

My Big Fat Independent Movie rip

Lydia, Thank you for the very kind words. They are soooo appreciated. I’ll continue to do my best to teach you and others… how to fish!

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Dear Mr. Acuna,

The Business of Show business is a much needed service, especially for those residing outside of Hollywood.

I have Multiple Sclerosis and I am on limited disability income so I can’t take advantage of your services though I sign up for your newsletter, free teleseminars and video tips. I always get something out of them. Thank you. I am not new to this town. I founded and ran (until recently) the film writing development group, ScriptWrights. Thanks to the courage I mustered from listening to your advice, I’ve started submitting to contests again ( a semi finalist and a few quarterfinalists in the past) and recently submitted two scripts to a producer. I am still writing 3 to 4 scripts a year or major rewrites and though I can’t network or take meetings, you made me realize I can network on the internet and take advantage of the fact I “give good phone”. You saved my creative life.
Thank you..

Lydia Sam Rawlings