0909_tvv_willnotreadscript

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I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script

We know you've been working very hard on your screenplay, but before you go looking for someprofessional feedback, you might keep in mind the following piece byA History of ViolencescreenwriterJosh Olson. Sept, 2009.

I will not read your fucking script.

That's simple enough, isn't it? "I will not read your fucking script." What's not clear about that? There'snothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading yourfucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I'll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I willnot ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or takeout my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

You're a lovely person. Whatever time we've spent together has, I'm sure, been pleasurable for both ofus. I quite enjoyed that conversation we once had about structure and theme, and why Sergio Leone is

the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, andit would thrill me no end to hear that you had sold your screenplay, and that it had been made into thebest movie since Godfather Part II.

But I will not read your fucking script.

At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I'm a dick. But if you're interested ingrowing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick in this situation, pleaseread on.

Yes. That's right. I called you a dick. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot wheremy only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definitionof a dick move.

I was recently cornered by a young man of my barest acquaintance.

I doubt we've exchanged a hundred words. But he's dating someone I know, and he cornered me in theright place at the right time, and asked me to read a two-page synopsis for a script he'd been working onfor the last year. He was submitting the synopsis to some contest or program, and wanted to get aprofessional opinion.

Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to read their scripts, and it's the simpletruth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is scripts from good friends, and the other is manuscripts andbooks and scripts my agents have sent to me that I have to read for work. Every time I pick up a friend'sscript, I feel guilty that I'm ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guiltythat I'm ignoring my friends. If I read yours before any of that, I'd be an awful person.

Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, orsomeone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, and it's hard to escape without seeming rude.Then, I tell them I'll read it, but if I can put it down after ten pages, I will. They always go for that, becausenobody ever believes you can put their script down once you start.

But hell, this was a two page synopsis, and there was no time to go into either song or dance, and it wasjust easier to take it. How long can two pages take?

Weeks, is the answer.


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And this is why I will not read your fucking script.

It rarely takes more than a page to recognize that you're in the presence of someone who can write, but itonly takes a sentence to know you're dealing with someone who can't.

(By the way, here's a simple way to find out if you're a writer. If you disagree with that statement, you'renot a writer. Because, you see, writers are also readers.)

You may want to allow for the fact that this fellow had never written a synopsis before, but that doesn'texcuse the inability to form a decent sentence, or an utter lack of facility with language and structure. Thestory described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics toan impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, someconnected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish,reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half aparagraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central eventof the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentencedescribes a scene he's in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won't.

This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn'tactually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a coolmovie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because itdoesn't require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because theybelieve that, they don't regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you apiece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be ascreenwriter.So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and therewas nothing. And the truth is, saying something positive about this thing would be the nastiest, meanestand most dishonest thing I could do. Because here's the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage thehopeless, but you cannot discourage a writer. If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you're not a

writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I've done you a favor, because now you'll be free to pursueyour real talent, whatever that may be. And, for the record, everybody has one. The lucky ones figure outwhat that is. The unlucky ones keep on writing shitty screenplays and asking me to read them.

To make matters worse, this guy (and his girlfriend) had begged me to be honest with him. He wasfrustrated by the responses he'd gotten from friends, because he felt they were going easy on him, andhe wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give theillusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head. What they want--always--is encouragement, evenwhen they shouldn't get any.Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they've spent a year wasting their time? Do youknow how much blood and sweat goes into that criticism? Because you want to tell the truth, but you wantto make absolutely certain that it comes across honestly and without cruelty. I did more rewrites on thatfucking e-mail than I did on my last three studio projects.

My first draft was ridiculous. I started with specific notes, and after a while, found I'd written three pageson the first two paragraphs. That wasn't the right approach. So I tossed it, and by the time I was done, I'dcome up with something that was relatively brief, to the point, and considerate as hell. The main point Imade was that he'd fallen prey to a fallacy that nails a lot of first timers. He was way more interested intelling his one story than in being a writer. It was like buying all the parts to a car and starting to build itbefore learning the basics of auto mechanics. You'll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you'll never havea car that runs.


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