In 1973, director George Roy Hill took a young writer’s second screenplay and turned it into a winner of seven Academy Awards. THE STING reunited Paul Newman and Robert Redford from their successful turns in BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID, but more importantly, it proved that you don’t have to be a seasoned veteran to achieve the highest honors in your field.
“It was the perfect script,” Newman said on The Art of THE STING (disc two of The Legacy Series DVD release). “I don’t think we changed ten words.”
THE STING won the Academy Award for Best Picture, solidifying Hill’s place in the hallowed halls of great directors. But it also won writer David Ward the award for Best Original Screenplay. Ward’s script was the first time audiences had been introduced to the confidence (or “con”) man, as the star of his own vehicle. His originality attracted the right kind of attention, from stars to director to studio. THE STING became the success it was because of its innovative, original content, and Ward’s tireless effort to get things right.
“It took me one full year to write,” Ward confessed. In the end, such tedium and patience proved worth it, when the young writer accepted the Academy Award.
And while the story of THE STING is, no doubt, an inspirational kick in the pants for those of us looking to “make it” in comics, or any other entertainment venue for that matter, it is also one of deeper value to our daily craft, and a sad dose of nostalgic realism for the state of the film and comic book industries.
Allow me to explain.
BY COMMITTEE
“George (Roy Hill) knew exactly what he wanted,” Newman said. “And it didn’t matter what the studio told him; he did things his way. Everything today is decided by committees and film focus groups.”
Newman’s tirade on today’s film industry is all too familiar, and reoccurs from other seasoned stars and disgruntled fans far too often. Unfortunately, I fear it also applies to the comic book community. Just take a look at the yearly maxi-series, which promise to “shake things up,” only to be apathetically forgotten by all but a handful of Fanboys keeping things on life support, instead of attracting and allowing in new fans. We have many works to be proud of – THE GOON, HELLBOY, SIN CITY (to name a few) – but what we give the public when they show an interest in comics are these committee-written “events” and monthly titles starring popular characters, whose status quo hasn’t changed in years.
Originality – it’s a missing concept. Yet it’s also something desperately needed if you want to “break in.” The cookie cutter story may sustain your career, but it will not earn you one. Aside from that, you must know what you want to preserve your creative vision.
Obviously, you are in no position to play Maverick if you’re a young buck working for a demanding conglomerate that can simply throw you away and find someone else. But in two cases, you have absolute freedom to flex your creative muscles: when you’re struggling, and when you’re established. Let’s approach this from the struggling perspective, since that’s what so many of us are.
Advice: Know what you want.
As a writer, you should look for, and listen to, feedback. Seek it out. Beg for it. Want it. Because, let me tell you, it’s desperately needed. No writer is above it. But no writer should be a slave to it either. So where’s the balance? Where is the line you should walk between receiving constructive criticism and absolutely killing your material?
When I was writing BEARCATS ALL THE WAY, my first novel, I thought reaching the final page meant I was almost finished.
Dead wrong.
I knew it wasn’t perfect. I knew I needed to comb over it a few times. And I even knew getting someone I could trust to look at it would be a good idea. Still, I was proud of myself for finishing. If only I’d known just how much work was left to be done, I might not have been so quick to have a brownie and pat myself on the back.
In my family, I have an uncle, who will tear my work a new one, if it needs it. Apparently, it did. Now you may think it difficult hearing feedback that stings. It’s important, though, you find someone, who can give you their honest opinion without being an ass about it. Even if he or she is an ass, listen to what they have to say. Sift the good from the bad, and make those changes. Once your editor has made some helpful comments, get ready, because you’re back in the driver’s seat.
I’ve always said, “I’d rather hear what’s wrong with my work than what’s right with it.” Okay, maybe not always; but that’s been my take since I started taking this whole writing thing seriously. You should feel the same way. Don’t get defensive, and hide in a corner. This is your work. It deserves more than such trivial trivialities.
One year after receiving my uncle’s comments, I came to the end of a draft I could live with. Is it perfect? Nope. But I’m darn sure it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. And guess what: published comics, graphic novels, and novels, and Award-winning films are also imperfect. It’s a harsh reality. You’ll never write the ideal piece. It could always be made better in some way, large or small.
So you have to ask yourself: when is it ready? Let’s answer with a question: when is it NOT ready?
For answers to these questions, you have to 1) Trust your writer’s instincts, and 2) HAVE writer’s instincts. That means being harsh when necessary. That means holding yourself to a higher standard than you ever would anyone else. And that means knowing when to silence the inner critic.
If you feel like something is missing… if you know of scenes that gave you trouble… if you know portions were rushed on the long journey towards a completed draft… then chances are all your fears are correct. It needs more work. But there comes a point when you’ve simply grown too close to the material.
You need a new pair of eyes.
Find that critical uncle in your life, even if he’s your wife, and let the S.O.B. tear you to shreds.
Of course, schedule a few days to lick your wounds and recover. Then, reassure yourself that he/she does not wish utter failure upon you (that they don’t hate your guts), and begin rewrites.
Work through those corrections. Throw out the ones you disagree with. Re-craft your vision into a new, improved, definitive version. On the road to that definitive version, make sure to let two or three more people look at it, if you have that luxury (or at least let the S.O.B. take another crack at it).
But when is enough truly enough? When does criticism and rewriting evolve into the mutilation of a dead squirrel? That’s a question there can be no clear answer to. For me, it’s when you know the writing has a spark that wasn’t previously there. In SPRING RIVER WILD, I knew the first four-issue arc had an undeniably flat quality to it I couldn’t quite define. I needed that second set of eyes to steer me in the right direction. Once I’d determined the dialogue needed some kind of spark, I was able to open the gates by allowing my character’s smart-ass alter-ego a crack at narrating the events as they unfold. The result was something that landed me a publishing agreement with a small comic book hopeful. They’ve since gone out of business, but the work I do continues to improve, and the series is on-schedule[i].
Look for the spark. Write in more concrete, visual terms. Expand your details and characterization, and follow those paths wherever they lead through the plotting. But be careful. Listening to too many criticisms can result in writing by committee. At the end of the day, create something that can be called uniquely yours.
Next time, we’ll take a look at how David Ward’s script uses specific characterization to create conflict, tension, and twists.
[i] (Last year’s breakdowns at Speakeasy have made me more comfortable about discussing this minor aside. When a company fails before you’ve had a chance to, don’t take that as your fault. Crummy business practices cannot be controlled, especially in this industry. The important thing is when someone has enough faith in your work to say, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind spending my money to see this published.” When that happens, pat yourself on the back, even if it doesn’t come to pass. Just make sure you shake off the pride, and the fall, and start pushing your material again.)
“It was the perfect script,” Newman said on The Art of THE STING (disc two of The Legacy Series DVD release). “I don’t think we changed ten words.”
THE STING won the Academy Award for Best Picture, solidifying Hill’s place in the hallowed halls of great directors. But it also won writer David Ward the award for Best Original Screenplay. Ward’s script was the first time audiences had been introduced to the confidence (or “con”) man, as the star of his own vehicle. His originality attracted the right kind of attention, from stars to director to studio. THE STING became the success it was because of its innovative, original content, and Ward’s tireless effort to get things right.
“It took me one full year to write,” Ward confessed. In the end, such tedium and patience proved worth it, when the young writer accepted the Academy Award.
And while the story of THE STING is, no doubt, an inspirational kick in the pants for those of us looking to “make it” in comics, or any other entertainment venue for that matter, it is also one of deeper value to our daily craft, and a sad dose of nostalgic realism for the state of the film and comic book industries.
Allow me to explain.
BY COMMITTEE
“George (Roy Hill) knew exactly what he wanted,” Newman said. “And it didn’t matter what the studio told him; he did things his way. Everything today is decided by committees and film focus groups.”
Newman’s tirade on today’s film industry is all too familiar, and reoccurs from other seasoned stars and disgruntled fans far too often. Unfortunately, I fear it also applies to the comic book community. Just take a look at the yearly maxi-series, which promise to “shake things up,” only to be apathetically forgotten by all but a handful of Fanboys keeping things on life support, instead of attracting and allowing in new fans. We have many works to be proud of – THE GOON, HELLBOY, SIN CITY (to name a few) – but what we give the public when they show an interest in comics are these committee-written “events” and monthly titles starring popular characters, whose status quo hasn’t changed in years.
Originality – it’s a missing concept. Yet it’s also something desperately needed if you want to “break in.” The cookie cutter story may sustain your career, but it will not earn you one. Aside from that, you must know what you want to preserve your creative vision.
Obviously, you are in no position to play Maverick if you’re a young buck working for a demanding conglomerate that can simply throw you away and find someone else. But in two cases, you have absolute freedom to flex your creative muscles: when you’re struggling, and when you’re established. Let’s approach this from the struggling perspective, since that’s what so many of us are.
Advice: Know what you want.
As a writer, you should look for, and listen to, feedback. Seek it out. Beg for it. Want it. Because, let me tell you, it’s desperately needed. No writer is above it. But no writer should be a slave to it either. So where’s the balance? Where is the line you should walk between receiving constructive criticism and absolutely killing your material?
When I was writing BEARCATS ALL THE WAY, my first novel, I thought reaching the final page meant I was almost finished.
Dead wrong.
I knew it wasn’t perfect. I knew I needed to comb over it a few times. And I even knew getting someone I could trust to look at it would be a good idea. Still, I was proud of myself for finishing. If only I’d known just how much work was left to be done, I might not have been so quick to have a brownie and pat myself on the back.
In my family, I have an uncle, who will tear my work a new one, if it needs it. Apparently, it did. Now you may think it difficult hearing feedback that stings. It’s important, though, you find someone, who can give you their honest opinion without being an ass about it. Even if he or she is an ass, listen to what they have to say. Sift the good from the bad, and make those changes. Once your editor has made some helpful comments, get ready, because you’re back in the driver’s seat.
I’ve always said, “I’d rather hear what’s wrong with my work than what’s right with it.” Okay, maybe not always; but that’s been my take since I started taking this whole writing thing seriously. You should feel the same way. Don’t get defensive, and hide in a corner. This is your work. It deserves more than such trivial trivialities.
One year after receiving my uncle’s comments, I came to the end of a draft I could live with. Is it perfect? Nope. But I’m darn sure it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. And guess what: published comics, graphic novels, and novels, and Award-winning films are also imperfect. It’s a harsh reality. You’ll never write the ideal piece. It could always be made better in some way, large or small.
So you have to ask yourself: when is it ready? Let’s answer with a question: when is it NOT ready?
For answers to these questions, you have to 1) Trust your writer’s instincts, and 2) HAVE writer’s instincts. That means being harsh when necessary. That means holding yourself to a higher standard than you ever would anyone else. And that means knowing when to silence the inner critic.
If you feel like something is missing… if you know of scenes that gave you trouble… if you know portions were rushed on the long journey towards a completed draft… then chances are all your fears are correct. It needs more work. But there comes a point when you’ve simply grown too close to the material.
You need a new pair of eyes.
Find that critical uncle in your life, even if he’s your wife, and let the S.O.B. tear you to shreds.
Of course, schedule a few days to lick your wounds and recover. Then, reassure yourself that he/she does not wish utter failure upon you (that they don’t hate your guts), and begin rewrites.
Work through those corrections. Throw out the ones you disagree with. Re-craft your vision into a new, improved, definitive version. On the road to that definitive version, make sure to let two or three more people look at it, if you have that luxury (or at least let the S.O.B. take another crack at it).
But when is enough truly enough? When does criticism and rewriting evolve into the mutilation of a dead squirrel? That’s a question there can be no clear answer to. For me, it’s when you know the writing has a spark that wasn’t previously there. In SPRING RIVER WILD, I knew the first four-issue arc had an undeniably flat quality to it I couldn’t quite define. I needed that second set of eyes to steer me in the right direction. Once I’d determined the dialogue needed some kind of spark, I was able to open the gates by allowing my character’s smart-ass alter-ego a crack at narrating the events as they unfold. The result was something that landed me a publishing agreement with a small comic book hopeful. They’ve since gone out of business, but the work I do continues to improve, and the series is on-schedule[i].
Look for the spark. Write in more concrete, visual terms. Expand your details and characterization, and follow those paths wherever they lead through the plotting. But be careful. Listening to too many criticisms can result in writing by committee. At the end of the day, create something that can be called uniquely yours.
Next time, we’ll take a look at how David Ward’s script uses specific characterization to create conflict, tension, and twists.
[i] (Last year’s breakdowns at Speakeasy have made me more comfortable about discussing this minor aside. When a company fails before you’ve had a chance to, don’t take that as your fault. Crummy business practices cannot be controlled, especially in this industry. The important thing is when someone has enough faith in your work to say, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind spending my money to see this published.” When that happens, pat yourself on the back, even if it doesn’t come to pass. Just make sure you shake off the pride, and the fall, and start pushing your material again.)
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