Successful Television Writing

By Lee Goldberg and William Rabkin

The industry speaks out about SUCCESSFUL TELEVISION WRITING

"Where was this book when I was starting out? A fantastic, fun, informative guide to breaking into?and more importantly, staying in?the TV writing game from the guys who taught me how to play it."
--Terence Winter, Coexecutive Producer, The Sopranos

"Goldberg and Rabkin write not only with clarity and wit but also with the authority gleaned from their years of slogging through Hollywood?s trenches. Here is a must-read for new writers and established practitioners whose imagination could use a booster shot."
--Professor Richard Walter, Screenwriting Chairman, UCLA Department of Film and TV

"Not since William Goldman?s Adventures in the Screen Trade has there been a book this revealing, funny, and informative about The Industry. Reading this book is like having a good, long lunch with your two best friends in the TV business."
--Janet Evanovich

"With sharp wit and painful honesty, Goldberg and Rabkin offer the truest account yet of working in the TV business. Accept no substitutes!"
--Jeffrey B. Hodes and Nastaran Dibai, Coexecutive Producers, Third Rock from the Sun

"Should be required reading for all aspiring television writers."
--Howard Gordon, Executive Producer, 24 and The X-Files

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turner Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 10, 2007
• ISBN: 9780470248164

Lee Goldberg

Lee Goldberg is a two-time Edgar Award and two-time Shamus Award nominee and the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including Lost Hills, the Ian Ludlow trilogy (True Fiction, Killer Thriller and Fake Truth), fifteen Monk mysteries, and five internationally bestselling Fox & O'Hare books (The Heist, The Chase, The Job, The Scam, and The Pursuit) co-written with Janet Evanovich. He has also written and/or produced many TV shows, including Diagnosis Murder, SeaQuest, and Monk, and is the co-creator of the hit Hallmark movie series Mystery 101. As an international television consultant, he has advised networks and studios in Canada, France, Germany, Spain, China, Sweden, and the Netherlands on the creation, writing, and production of episodic television series. He is also co-founder of the publishing company Brash Books (www.brash-books.com) You can find more information about Lee and his work at www.leegoldberg.com

Book preview

Successful

Television Writing

Lee Goldberg

William Rabkin

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

Copyright © 2003 by Lee Goldberg and William Rabkin. All rights reserved

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey

Published simultaneously in Canada

Design and production by Navta Associates, Inc.

Martial Law Beat Sheet courtesy of CBS Broadcasting Inc.

Depths of Deceit copyright © 2003 by Universal Studios. Courtesy of Universal

Studios Publishing Rights, a Division of Universal Studios Licensing, Inc. All rights

reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, [phone], fax [phone], or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, [phone], fax [phone], email: [e-mail].

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and the author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Goldberg, Lee, date.

Successful television writing / Lee Goldberg & William Rabkin.

    p. cm. — (Wiley books for writers)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-471-43168-0 (pbk.)

  1. Television authorship. I. Rabkin, William, 1959– II. Title. III. Wiley books for writers series.

PN1992.7 .G625 2003

808.2’25—dc21

2002191054

Printed in the United States of America

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3     2    1

To Bill Yates for opening the door,

and to Michael Gleason

and Ernie Wallengren,

who showed us what to do

once we got through …

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction: So You Want to Write for Television

1. Basic Preparation

2. What Is a TV Series?

3. The Four-Act Structure

4. Telling a TV Story

5. The Spec Script

6. What to Spec?

7. The Name Is Morris, William Morris

8. The Pitch

9. How to Read the Producer’s Mind

10. What to Pitch

11. You’ve Got the Assignment, Now What?

12. Your First Assignment

13. We’ve Got a Few Notes

14. Am I There Yet?

15. Becoming Rob Petrie

16. Rewrites

17. Your Really Great Idea for a Show

18. I’m a Professional Writer, and

I’ve Got the Card to Prove It

Afterword

Appendices

A   Plotting a Mystery: How We Wrote Diagnosis Murder

B   Diagnosis Murder Writers’ Guidelines

C   Martial Law Writers’ Guidelines

D   Martial Law Pitch/Leave-Behind (Sammo Blammo)

E   Martial Law Beat Sheet (Sammo Blammo)

F   seaQuest 2032 Pitch/Leave-Behind (Depths of Deceit)

G   seaQuest 2032 Beat Sheet (Depths of Deceit)

H   Diagnosis Murder Beat Sheet (A Passion for Murder)

I   Diagnosis Murder Beat Sheet (The Last Laugh)

Acknowledgments

This book wouldn’t be in your hands if not for novelist extraordinaire Walter Wager, who first suggested we write it, then relentlessly encouraged us to hurry up and do it.

We can’t name and thank every writer, producer and executive who helped us along the way with invaluable advice and support, but you know who you are, and we are very grateful.

Finally, this book wouldn’t have been possible without the hard work of our agents, Gina Maccoby and Mitchel Stein, and the patience and understanding of our wives, Carrie Rabkin and Valerie Goldberg.

INTRODUCTION

So You Want to Write for Television

Most kids grow up watching TV.

We grew up wanting to live it.

We may only have been sitting on the sofa staring at the screen, but in our hearts and heads we were breaking into a foreign embassy with Alexander Mundy in It Takes a Thief. Exploring strange new worlds and kicking some alien butt with Captain Kirk in Star Trek. Pulling mini-flamethrowers out of the hidden compartments in our shoes with secret agent James West in The Wild Wild West.

We were just kids, but even we knew we wouldn’t end up being spies like Napoleon Solo on The Man from U.N.C.L.E., super cyborg heroes like The Six Million Dollar Man, or even debonair thieves like The Saint.

But there was one TV character we knew we could be.

He never stopped an entire universe from plunging into intergalactic war or saved the world from a race of robots. But he did spend his days surrounded by the funniest, cleverest people on the planet. He got to come up with the one idea that would save the day when everyone else was despairing. And every night he went home to the woman every man in America wanted to marry.

His name was Rob Petrie.

And he was a television writer.

As anyone who watches Nick at Nite knows, Rob Petrie, Dick Van Dyke’s character on The Dick Van Dyke Show, was the head writer for a high-rated sketch comedy program called The Alan Brady Show. And what a job that was. He’d sit around his comfy office with the other two writers—who seemed to be his best friends—cracking jokes and swapping wisecracks all day long, breaking only for the obligatory visit of the wacky deli man bringing lunch. He’d act out stories, craft sketches, struggle for just the right line, and when he was stuck, there was Buddy or Sally to help him out. He didn’t even have to type.

This was the job we wanted. That was the life we wanted.

Of course, the kids who grew up to work for the CIA because they watched The Man from U.N.C.L.E found out pretty quickly that their jobs rarely involve hanging by one toe over a pit of piranhas while fighting a pair of identical fashion-model-robot assassins. And as both our sisters will attest, years of lawyering have never once allowed them to point to a witness on the stand and intone, You might have gotten away with framing my client, if only you hadn’t polished your nails.

So does writing for television turn out to be like the television version?

Absolutely.

At its best, a job on a writing staff is exactly like a job on Alan Brady’s writing staff. Except we have better lunches.

We spend day after day sitting in comfy offices, surrounded by smart, funny, talented writers, all throwing out ideas on how to make a story work, or veering off into long, seemingly pointless conversations about politics, spouses, dogs, stocks, sex, and anything else that might clear our brains of whatever’s blocking the story process. (On one show, the entire staff would arrive at around ten in the morning, then spend the next two hours discussing where we should have lunch, which is even more astonishing when we remember there were only two places we ever ate.) We crack jokes, swap wisecracks, act out action scenes, and struggle to find the right way to make a story work.

And for this, we’re paid an obscene amount of money.

It’s essentially like this at every show on television. Some writing rooms are happier than others, depending generally on the attitude of the showrunner (we’ll explain all about showrunners later) and the mix of personalities on the staff. But they’re all The Alan Brady Show.

In more ways than we expected.

You see, there was a lot going on at The Alan Brady Show that just seemed part of the comedy on The Dick Van Dyke Show. But when it happens in real life, it’s suddenly a lot less funny.

There’s Mel Cooley, to start with. Remember Mel, the show’s producer? He’d come in, say the script was unshootable for some reason, and Buddy would make a bald joke and chase him out. As kids, we laughed at the prissy, uncreative producer and cheered Buddy for belittling him. We just never quite noticed that after Mel left, the entire staff started over again—on a whole new script.

Or think about that great episode where Rob is putting in all-nighters for an entire week because the script isn’t working, and he starts to see flying saucers. As kids, we laughed at the way Rob was haunted by what turned out to be a prototype toy saucer (and probably drove our parents crazy making the saucer’s oonie-oop sound for days on end). We just missed what now looks like the most important part of the story: Rob was putting in all-nighters for an entire week because the script wasn’t working.

How about mercurial star Alan Brady, who would adore a script at lunch, then throw it out before dinner? Or the weekly guest stars who refused to do the bit written specifically for them? Or the way the show would sometimes run long or short or over budget and the writing staff would have to scramble to fix it?

All that turns out to be true, too.

Writing for television can be the best job in the world. It can also be hard, miserable, demoralizing, unpleasant work. We’re not going to claim that it’s backbreaking, exactly—although one of our staffers did once break a toe by dropping her laptop on it—but we, and every other TV writer, can tell you about weeks of sixteen-hour days without even a Sunday off.

And that’s if you’re lucky enough to get a job. As has been chronicled over and over again, the entertainment industry is cold, heartless, and cruel. It’s almost impossible to get into, and once you’re in, it’s a constant battle to keep from getting locked out again. We don’t know any TV writers who haven’t considered leaving the business at least once in their careers. Most of us, fortunately or unfortunately, can’t think of anything else we want to do.

We’re not trying to scare you off. We just want you to know what you’re getting into.

That’s essentially the purpose of this book. We’re not going to teach you the basics of how to write a script; there are already plenty of books, courses, and seminars out there claiming to do just that. And for the same reason, we’re not going to bother giving you formats, templates, and typing advice.

What we are going to do is give you the information you’ll need to plot a career as a TV writer. We’re going to teach you how to craft a story for a particular series, how to sell that story, and—the most important test for a TV writer who aspires to anything higher than hackdom—how to merge your own style and point of view, your own voice, with that of an existing series.

We also want to teach the kind of writing that is required of every TV writer, but is never taught in classes. We’re going to assume you can handle characters and dialogue and action. But when a producer comes to you and says, We love the script, but we have to pull two hundred thousand dollars out of the budget to shoot it, when a network executive calls and says, We love everything about the script, especially the fact that it’s about incest, but we’re moving the show to Sunday at seven. Can you take out the incest, but maintain the integrity of the story? or when your star calls the night before shooting and says, I don’t care if I said I loved the idea of my sidekick having amnesia at story stage—I’m the star, and if anyone is going to have amnesia on my show, it’s me, or I’m not coming out of my trailer, what do you do? If you work in television, you have to know how to find a way to make the changes.

And, absurd as it might sound under the circumstances, you have to know how to keep the script good.

We’re also going to teach you about the business of being a TV writer, because as your career grows, and you find yourself moving up from freelancer to story editor to supervising producer to showunner, you’ll find that a greater and greater percentage of your time and talent is devoted to things other than writing—financial management, personality management, time management, star management, manager management, politics, conspiracies, and the occasional gunfight. (Okay, that last one might be a small exaggeration—most people in the TV business prefer to use knives ….)

We’re going to tell you what showrunners look for in a freelancer and in a staff member. We’re going to talk about how writers get hired and why writers get fired.

In short, we’re going to give you all the information no one gave us when we started out.

Which leaves only one question: Who the hell are we to tell you any of this stuff, anyway?

In a word, we’re writers.

We started off many years ago as aspiring freelancers, and we did what just about every aspiring TV writer does: we wrote a spec TV episode (spec meaning on speculation, meaning no one asked for it, no one wants to see it, and no one is paying for it). In our case, the spec script was for a show called Spenser: For Hire. Our agent—we were lucky enough to have one then—sent it to the studio, where, after several months, an executive read it, liked it, and passed it along to Bill Yates, the show’s executive producer.

He put it on a pile.

It sat there for a year.

And then something happened that we’re going to tell you over the next couple hundred pages never happens. There was some kind of disaster at Spenser—a script that was about to go into prep (another term you’ll be hearing a lot of in this book—it means preproduction, and if the script isn’t ready then, it means lots of money wasted) fell out (which means it was complete crap and no one could figure out how to fix it), and they needed a script in a hurry. When Bill Yates happened to lift our spec script off the top of the pile, it seems unlikely he was expecting to find something that would save him from plotting and writing a new script overnight; more likely, he was trying to distract himself from the notion of jumping out the window. Whatever the reason, he read the script.

And liked it.

And bought it.

And shot it.

And we’ve been working ever since, moving up the ladder from freelancers to staff writers to story editors to producers to supervising producers to, finally, executive producers.

And, in one of those odd twists that we used to think only happened on television, our dream came full circle when we found ourselves running Diagnosis Murder, which starred Rob Petrie himself, Dick Van Dyke.

Over all these years, we’ve worked with hundreds of writers, producers, directors, stars, and executives. We’ve taken innumerable pitches, and we’ve given even more. We’ve written dozens of hours of TV and rewritten five times that. We’ve taken terrible scripts and rewritten them into great episodes, and occasionally we’ve taken an excellent script and turned it into an unsalvageable mess. In other words, we’ve done the job.

But what’s driven us to write this book is our experience hiring and—although this is the worst thing we ever have to do—firing other writers. A major part of our job is finding writers, for freelance assignments or staff positions, who we believe can give us the scripts we need to keep our series going. These are the most important decisions we make, and they’re almost always based on one script. Sometimes on one page of one script. At most, on a couple of scripts and a half-hour meeting. (And that’s a lot more than some other showrunners will give.)

It can be incredibly frustrating because we see people who have talent, who have drive, who have so much of what they’re going to need to make it in TV. But there’s something in their writing or their personal presentation that suggests they don’t understand what the job really entails. And as much as we’d like to nurture new talent, we can’t take the risk, because there’s a network that’s given us something like $50 million to produce a year’s worth of episodes on time, on budget, and on quality, and we can’t afford to bet that on a writer we suspect can’t handle it yet.

So instead of the hands-on tutoring we’d like to give, we’re writing this book in hopes that when your agent sends us your spec script and we call you in for a meeting, you’ll be ready for your first job as a television writer.

1

Basic Preparation

To write for a television series, you have to understand how the series’ concept, the characters, and the storytelling structure all work together. That’s only half the job, the part you can see on your TV screen.

The other half is the business behind the camera, the unglamorous stuff that shapes, and reshapes, what you write more than anything else. It’s where reality collides with creativity.

A television series is a business. An episode is a product made every week in a specified number of days for a certain price and delivered at a guaranteed running time on an inflexible deadline. There is a customer, the television network, that expects the product it is paying for to satisfy its needs and desires.

To write for a series, you have to understand how the realities of production and the demands of the network dictate and influence the stories you are going to tell.

A television series is also an art that involves the creative contributions of writers, directors, actors, composers, production designers, and many, many others, which means you have to understand the necessity of creative collaboration with others in the telling of your story.

So, ready to give up and go into the furniture business yet?

Now let’s talk about the big question on your mind, the one that probably motivated you to buy this book in the first place.

How do I break in?

It’s not easy.

What’s wrong? You thought we were going to give you a magic word or a shortcut to get you past all the misery, frustration, and hard work?

You might as well take this book back and demand your refund now, because there is no easy way in. Unless your dad is Aaron Spelling, of course.

But you know what? It’s not easy opening a restaurant, becoming an aerospace engineer, or writing a novel, either.

Television is like any other business. The