25 October 2014
25 October 2014
Every once in a while, people complain to me that they just cannot get their writing done. They feel they have too many other commitments. They feel blocked. They feel uninspired. They feel depressed as a result, or anxious.
I tell them they should quit.
They should quit. I have too many commitments. I feel blocked. I feel uninspired. I almost always feel (sub-clinically) depressed or anxious.What’s the difference between us?
It isn’t that I am any better than them. I’m not. I just can’t quit.
There is not a moral difference. This is not a Puritan screed on the ethics of work. If I could quit, I probably would. If you can, you probably should. Why? Because nobody wants you to write.
Your family doesn’t. You friends don’t. They might talk a lot about how they love your writing, or how they support you, and they might even be telling their version of the truth. But really, everyone loves what you have written — not your process of writing — and would probably prefer that you quit, whether they recognize or admit this or not.
Everyone that loves you supports your happiness, when your writing probably makes you miserable on some level, at least some of the time. Of course, most people don’t love us. Your boss doesn’t want you to write (even if your boss tells you to write, s/he wants you to get it over with, now). Your bank certainly doesn’t. Your lover, however much s/he loves your writing, would love you more if you quit and made a gift of that time.
Writing is a bad career choice (except when it is a part of a non-writing career — in which case, it often elevates you and gains you glory in that other field). Even writers who claim to love writing will admit that it is often a source of constant frustration and mental strife. Writing takes physical tolls on your body due to the inactivity it requires in long stretches, in poor positions. Writing isolates you socially. Writing isn’t respected culturally.
Most writers, of course, do quit. We all know writers who quit, either one-book wonders that claim to be writers but never really seem to write anything, or who actually admit to having quit, or (more commonly, perhaps) secret writers that secretly harboured ambitions we aren’t aware of, and that secretly quit. Often, in your family, if you dig you will turn over a relative who at one point “tried to write” but quit.
One of the standard questions I ask in my 8-Ball interviews is “Why don’t you quit?” Almost every answer to the question is a variation of “I can’t” due to either stubbornness or compulsion. In the minority are answers that express actual pleasure in writing, or that see writing as useful in some way.
My favourite response is by Sina Queyras: “Why would I quit? I don’t understand that question.” Although Queyras is negating and turning against the question, in a sense she sums up the idea that I’m trying to express here: there is something in some writers that doesn’t understand quitting as a viable option. Is it strength of character, or a character flaw?
If I could quit, I might. But here’s what happens when I don’t write. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. Ideas for writing jam up in my head. I hate whatever I’m engaged in doing (with very few exceptions, like spending time with certain people), because I feel like there’s something more important I should be doing. I feel like I’m wasting my time and I can’t enjoy anything. When I write, even a little, then I feel better and I can enjoy myself again in my off time.
Despite this, of course, I still harbour some “(lapsed) Catholic guilt” about writing — either I feel bad for not writing or I feel bad for writing. Under these circumstances, quitting makes sense.
Is the writing more important than other things? I would like to think so, but I’m a nihilist at heart. Even without being nihilistic, you could argue that clearly, in many cases, it’s not. If anything has value, it’s clear that in various ways writing has value — which doesn’t mean it is more valuable that other things you could be doing.
I don’t even like writing that much! This is a trend I’ve noticed among writers. Many often enjoy having written but hate the process. Personally, I am process-oriented, and find the process fascinating and rewarding. But that’s not the same as liking it. It’s hard work and it isn’t fun. But if I don’t do it, then it throws my life into chaos and disorder and fills me with anxiety. (Probably, I should seek out a psychiatrist rather than a pen.)
So why write? Again, I find writing and the writing process rewarding, even if I don’t enjoy it. Not everything that is important and valuable is fun. But how important and how valuable is it? Why write? This isn’t an easy question to answer, and I don’t have a good answer.
My best answer takes the form of a poem by Catullus. Let’s misread it (in my own, loose translation) to imagine he is writing about writing itself:
I hate and love. You may ask why.
I ask also. Then it happens and destroys me.
What I like about this misreading of “Catullus 85” is that writing is typified as an event — in a sense close to how I like to read Badiou’s conception of an event: as an intervention that disrupts and alters being, which creates some (provisional, temporary) truth.
This isn’t the moment for arguments about Badiou, but simply to note that the destructiveness of the “event of writing,” the disruptive potential of art (its conceptual violence), is the thing that attracts me to writing in the first place. At its best, I see writing as a method of destroying ideas in and about the world. I would be worried if I started to enjoy it more fully. I would suspect my motives or suspect the work.
You might be different. What happens when you don’t write? How do you feel? If you can get through life without writing, then maybe you should quit. There are no great rewards from writing unless the process itself rewards you, holds value for you, and creates its own meaning.
If you aren’t getting any writing done, then there’s nothing wrong with you. And if there’s nothing wrong with you, then you should probably quit while you still can. On the other hand, if you want to become a monster, you should write.
You might do well to become a monster. A monster threatens normality. A monster therefore has radical potential, as does a writer. If you are looking for a great way to destroy your life, then writing is for you! Destroying your life might be the very value of the process. Turning yourself over to the work, to its event, which demands transformation in fidelity to its truth.
1. Check Your Poetry Shelf Life
Ensure your poetry is fresh by checking the “Best By” date on your book or page of immortal poetry.
2. Make Sure Your Materials Are Clean
To get the most out of your poetry experience, poets recommend that you use a clean page every time.
3. Cook Your Poetry to “Sound”
Because tastes vary, always write your poetry to “sound” — and listen to the pop to know when to stop.
4. Maximize Taste
To maximize taste, shake contents of poem before pouring onto page. This will help coat the poetry with insight. To maximize epiphanies, be sure to edit the poem immediately after writing.
5. Store Your Poetry for Freshness
Store poetry in a cool place such as a bookshelf out of direct sunlight. Avoid the refrigerator. Some say the cold storage makes the poetry better, but many refrigerators contain little moisture and can dry out metaphors. Always keep your poem ideas sealed in the original black notebook until you’re ready to begin writing.
Sometimes I’m asked about my workflow for screenwriting — what software I use, and so forth. Although I have tried many combinations, at present I just use and recommend two programs: Scrivener (where I do ALL of my writing) and Highland.
(From time to time, I also use the Notes application on my iPad or iPhone, but then I dump that into Scrivener.)
The nutshell is that I plan and write everything in Scrivener and then output it to Highland to polish and format. The details are below, including a bit of my history with other software and other ways of working.
I first began screenwriting while studying under George Toles (the co-screenwriter of many Guy Maddin movies) at the University of Manitoba, in the early 2000s. I met David Navratil in that class, and somehow we ended up getting hired as screenwriting partners by Joseph Novak, to write some samurai movies.
We were “hired” for very little money, but nevertheless were hired, and wrote four feature-length films for Joe. All of the films were based on his story ideas, which we then developed and reworked.
The first of these scripts, Son of the Storm, captured the interest of a Hollywood producer and also the actor Cary Hiroyuki-Tagawa. However, the story was too similar to Tom Cruise’s movie The Last Samurai, and the main character (like Cruise’s, a white foreigner) wasn’t a role for Hiroyuki-Tagawa.
So, we wrote a second feature called Way of the Samurai. This script secured the “attachment” of Hiroyuki-Tagawa, but ultimately didn’t find funding. We wrote two more features, which had samurai elements but were more modern in their settings: Yakuza and Samurai on 47th. Then we more or less stopped writing samurai films.
Joe later ended up taking Way of the Samurai and reworking the script as a western, then shot the feature as a micro-budgeted independent film called Snake River. That’s how we ended up with a very strange credit, to the effect that the screenplay of Snake River was based on a screenplay that we wrote.
All of these movies were written in Final Draft. Thus began my love-hate affair with Final Draft. At the time, there were no real competitors for Final Draft. The very expensive Final Draft. (Although I have always paid either a student or an educator rate, rather than the full rate, it’s a pricey program even at these discounts.)
At the time, Final Draft was pricey but a godsend. I wrote many other things in Final Draft, including my M.A. thesis (a screenplay called The Sandman). However, as the years passed, and I purchased subsequent editions of Final Draft, I noticed that the program seemed to be getting worse and worse. I also noticed that it had garnered some serious competitors.
I have tried many other screenwriting programs over the years (I forget most of them) but the only viable competitor in my view was CeltX. Still, my affair with CeltX was fairly brief. At the time, it was a good program, but very much a poor man’s Final Draft.
Now, it has blossomed into a much more impressive flower. CeltX is an online software system and also offers a host of desktop software. Generally speaking, CeltX is also much less expensive than Final Draft, although it is now also a subscription service and so could easily cost much more, since it has been restructured as your monthly “screenwriting bill.”
While I don’t have extensive experience with CeltX, every now and again over the years I decide to try out its newer incarnation. I start using it, and then find myself drifting back to Final Draft. The Final Draft app, which is much more reasonably priced, was my preference for a while.
For a while I was addicted to StorySkeleton. This was in a period where I had a desktop PC and a PC laptop, but found myself doing most of my writing on my iPad.
What kept driving me from program to program (and also, in my non-screenwriting writing, driving me away from Word) was a simple goal: I wanted to get away from writing linearly. All of my books had been struggles to write, in part because of how non-linearly I work in my creative process, and I was finding screenplays harder to write as well. Then I discovered Scrivener.
Scrivener changed my entire writing life. I now write everything in Scrivener, and proselytize annoyingly to everyone about how they should write everything in Scrivener. I’m going to make a point to not talk forever about Scrivener in this post, but it’s important to note that Scrivener comes with a screenwriting template.
I do all my screenwriting in Scrivener now, but I don’t use any of its screenwriting functions, or this template. You could, however.
Scrivener is in many ways the perfect program, but it has two weaknesses. One, it’s difficult to learn. There’s an incredible online course that simplifies the process of learning Scrivener and I highly recommend it. The course is well worth the cost for all the time and frustration it will save you, and all the power of Scrivener that it will help you unlock. When you know how to use Scrivener, you can use it for almost everything, including writing screenplays.
(Two, it’s not great for working with an editor, when you arrive at the point where you are trading files. For this, for various depressing reasons, we are still stuck with Microsoft Word.)
However, I don’t use any of Scrivener’s screenplay functions. Instead, I write in Scrivener using something called Fountain syntax (it’s simpler than it sounds) and then export the text to Highland, which formats it like a screenplay. I then export out of Highland to whatever file format I need.
This process is much simpler than it sounds. It’s the simplest process I’ve found, and the least expensive. Here’s a more detailed look at how I work on scripts.
Scrivener was initially developed to write novels and dissertations and one of its great strengths is that it allows you to hold all of your research materials in the same program as your actual writing. As a result, it allows a seamless flow between writing and consulting your research.
Every time I have to consult research materials as I write, I kick myself because I wrote five books without Scrivener (well, more like ten books … I don’t publish everything I write) and at least as many screenplays.
My method of writing is very non-linear, and so without Scrivener I was working in a super-inefficient manner, wasting months and months of time fighting to get my software to do what I wanted. I want to stab my past self for not switching to Scrivener sooner.
In the past, I used actual index cards, or a separate program, to map out and develop the story. Scrivener has an outstanding index card view that I will write about another day, which is especially useful in the planning and editing processes.
The great power of Scrivener, as I’ve mentioned, is how it encourages non-linear writing. You can jump between making notes, shuffling index cards, and writing actual scenes of the script easily. I will map the story structure using these cards, which (in other views) also contain all my notes for each scene and my drafts of the actual script as well.
This sounds much more complicated than it is. Fountain syntax is basically a way of writing that a software program (like Highland) can read. You can find a lot of information about Fountain here.
All you really need to understand is this basic concept: when you write a certain way, a program like Highland can “read” it. Let’s imagine that I wrote this (the screenshot is from Highland, but I could write this in any program — usually I’ll use Scrivener):
We move on to our next step:
Then Highland automatically reformats the text in proper screenplay format, like this:
That’s right. It takes this program a single click to reformat the above (Fountain syntax) text as a screenplay.
I do all my editing before this point. Basically, I only use a screenwriting program (Highland) when I’m ready to do a final pass/polish. If necessary, I make a slight modification or two in Highland (you just switch between the two views, of your text and your formatted text).
You could, of course, just write in Highland. If you like to write more linearly, Highland is perfect for you — you can write in the editor view where you don’t have to worry at all about your format, and then just click to the formatted view anytime you want to see how things look. You don’t have to worry about anything other than writing. The program automatically does all the formatting for you.
When I work with shorter scripts, or test scenes, I often just write directly in Highland. Due to its minimalist design and clean, intuitive interface, it’s the least complex and as a result the best and most enjoyable screenwriting program (yes, the emphasis in Highland is on writing — not on formatting or other non-essential tinkering).
I have to offer one caveat about Highland, however: it does not, currently, work well for writing multicam TV. This is because there are too many TV formats for (mostly) comedies, and although there is something approximating a “multicam format” there really is nothing in TV writing that is “standard” format.
Many TV dramas and single-cam shows just use a mild variation of standard screenplay format, so Highland works great for almost everything. But if you want to write a spec script for The Big Bang Theory then Highland isn’t for you, although the software’s developer (screenwriter John August — best known for writing various Tim Burton films) told me that they “will try to do multicam” in the future, so I expect this to become a nonissue.
(Since I’m working on a feature film project for the next while, and made the PC to Mac switch recently, I am currently without Final Draft. My hope is that this issue is resolved before it matters to me, so I can stick entirely with Scrivener+Highland for screenwriting rather than buying a Mac version of Final Draft or having to find another third program.)
Incidentally, this is why Highland is a great program, outside of how inexpensive it is compared to other programs. It was literally designed by a screenwriter for screenwriters. It’s easy to use. It’s streamlined and pretty. But most importantly, it contains nothing that you don’t absolutely need.
Highland easily exports out as various file types, so a few clicks are really all you need to pull your text from any program whatsoever (I use Scrivener, but you could use Word or even plain text on your phone) and reflow it all in standard screenplay format.
Here are the main benefits of this workflow:
I don’t worry about formatting while I write. The most “formatting” you have to do when writing with the Fountain syntax is to hit shift, or enter, or add an asterisk … sometimes. Another core element of Scrivener is that it separates what you write from how it outputs the writing. You can write in a totally messed up way, with various fonts (twenty fonts per paragraph) or whatever serves your purposes, and then have the program normalize to one font when you output the text. I won’t go into details about that, but I will note that the idea behind using Fountain syntax, Scrivener, and a program like Highland is the same. You focus on writing — not formatting — and instead relegate all your formatting (and its time-sucking hellishness) to the very end of the project, when you let the software do the work.
I can write in any program. I’m using Scrivener, but I don’t have to. I could write right in Highland, and sometimes do. I could write in my iPhone/iPad/Macbook “Notes” app, and sometimes do. I could write in Word (without playing around with margins, or ever hitting the Tab key) or any other text editor. I could email scenes to myself. As long as I use the Fountain syntax (which is extremely simple), I can use any text editor. This is how I make serious writing progress while riding the bus. I write scenes or snippets of scenes on my iPhone or iPad, then copy/paste those notes into Scrivener (I could skip the Scrivener step if I wanted). Then later on it all gets pasted into Highland. I don’t have to do anything fancy, just copy/paste — the software does all the formatting conversions.
I can work as non-linearly as I want. I value being able to write any part of the script at any moment. Scrivener helps me hold and (re-)organize all these fragments into a whole, and Highland does my conversions. If you like writing linearly, you could just use Highland (or a similar program) and skip Scrivener. I love Highland’s minimalism, because Scrivener has all the complexity I need to write anything. I just don’t want to fight with Scrivener’s outputs to create a screenplay format, because in some ways Scrivener is too complex for screenwriting. I just dump my text into Highland and let it do all the formatting work for me rather than clicking a bunch of settings in Scrivener, or even bothering to learn how.
That’s my screenwriting workflow — let me know in the comments below if you recommend other programs, or other ways of working, or if you have any questions or advice.
“Because roses are seldom read. #whypoetrysucks”
“way too many ways of looking at blackbirds. #whypoetrysucks”
“wandered lonely as a what? Nevermind, I can’t do this. I like poetry. #whypoetrysucks”