The Tao Of “No More, No Less”

By Christina Hamlett

As many of you are aware, I teach an online course for aspiring screenwriters through WRITER ONLINE. Not only do I walk my students through the rudiments of how to craft a compelling film but also how to package the finished manuscript and make a stellar impression on industry professionals. Unfortunately, my experience as a mentor has also revealed the dismaying trend that, in their zeal to sell a story—be it a book, play, or movie—fledgling writers will frequently assume that submission requirements apply to everyone on the planet except them.  While they can’t be faulted for their enthusiasm, this display of arrogance—how ever well intentioned—will usually result in a rejection instead of a contract. 

Thus, the subject of this month’s article on making the most of your writing talents in the coming new year:  Always Follow Instructions.

Remember that one-page, mimeographed test that teachers were so fond of handing out in elementary school—the one which began, “Read all of the directions before you start,” then proceeded to list a long series of silly behaviors such as quacking like a duck, running around your desk, and putting your shoes on opposite feet? Not until you got to the last entry did you discover, “Now that you have read all the directions, please print your name at the top of the page and sit quietly until the rest of the class is done.”

The publishing and production world is not much different from this childhood lesson in paying attention. Neither, apparently, are those who rush headlong into the creative process without reading—and comprehending—what’s expected of them.

Take, for example, the final assignment of the aforementioned screenwriting course. After six weeks of interactive lectures and lessons, students are instructed to turn in the first 10 pages of an original film script for evaluation. The guidelines are specific in terms of page count, format, and terminology. The number “10” itself is significant in terms of their sample representing the first 10 minutes of screen time (1 page=1 minute)—the critical opening window in which you either grab the audience’s attention or send them channel-surfing or wandering off to see what’s playing at the theater next door.

Care to take a guess of how many envelopes I receive that contain not 10 but 120+ pages of script? 

“I knew that once you started reading this, you just wouldn’t be able to put it down,” they typically say, usually on a post-it note festooned with smiley faces or puppies. If I ever did become that riveted on an opening scene, of course, I would probably pick up the phone and insist that the author send me the rest by Fed Ex. (That has yet to happen, by the way.) 

Then there are those who have a hard time grasping the “1 page=1 minute” concept and will either submit a scant 2.5 pages with the explanatory margin note that “the fight scene takes up a whole lot of time” or 17 pages with directions that “everyone talks really fast.” There is also an excessive amount of cheating when it comes to typeface  (i.e., “I know you told us all to use Courier but I thought Marlett Bold made a whimsical statement.”).

Suffice it to say, the rules of publication and production weren’t written to be broken; they were written to be adhered to. The standardization of fonts, margins, and pages in the script market, for instance, is necessary for prospective directors to know whether they are dealing with a teleplay, a two-hour feature, or the next TITANIC. Even the cover stock and brads used to assemble a finished screenplay are an industry standard; many a wannabe screenwriter has discovered that the only thing a glitzy presentation binder with bells and whistles accomplishes is in drawing glaring attention to the owner’s amateur status.

Magazine publishers—be they print or electronic—have a litany of guidelines, too, primarily geared to word-length, perspective/slant, and whether or not similar topics have been addressed in recent issues. Woe to the writer who colors outside the lines with a piece that is inappropriate to the readership, not particularly timely, or rambles into a 3,000 word essay when the maximum count for freelance submissions is a bite-size 750.

Whether your area of expertise is film, stage, novels, or non-fiction articles, it’s essential that you give the requesting party exactly what they want, in the order they want it, and no more/no less than what is being asked for. 

Let’s say you run across a listing in WRITER’S MARKET that strictly advises that book proposals be submitted between June 1st and August 31st. only.  Do not, therefore, assume they’ll be delighted to receive a hefty package from you during Christmas week. Nor should you dismiss such caveats as “Agented Submissions Only,” “No Simultaneous Submissions,” and “No e-mail inquiries.” Authors who might otherwise have a promising future have unwittingly sabotaged their chances for publication by either ignoring these requests completely or offering chatty explanations as to why the editor should re-think the existing company policies. The red flag that goes up when editors encounter such correspondence instantly translates to one thing: this person will be a pain to work with.

My students often protest, of course, that submitting only one chapter or the first 10 pages of a script is hardly enough to show the buyer was a tremendous story they’ve written. The truth of the matter is, though, that people who are the decision makers when it comes to what gets put in print or on the screen are seasoned enough to recognize what’s good or what’s bad from the very first paragraph.  There is also the grim reality that there are simply not enough hours in the day for them to read and evaluate every single submission from cover to cover. The seemingly “unfair” limitations being placed on the author are actually performing a favor: would you rather have someone get hooked on a great query letter plus the first 5 pages of your manuscript and request the rest…or have your entire tome buried in a back room slush pile, never to be read at all?

When in doubt, opt for brevity. A letter-size envelope will almost always be opened upon arrival; a thick package (particularly if unsolicited) is more likely to be set aside indefinitely or used as a doorstop.

The value of abiding by instructions holds equally true after a project has been assigned or sold. I recall how ecstatic I was back in 1980 when I received a check for the sale of my very first play, a Medieval comedy entitled THE KNIGHT OF THE HONEST HEART.  In the course of preparing the work for publication, the letter said, it was requested that I delete four specific lines of dialogue. 

My excitement quickly spiraled into anger. “They already sent me a check for it,” I told my husband. “That means they should keep my script exactly the way it is!”

He pointed out that my acceptance of the check was conditional. “If you feel that strongly about keeping the lines in, they’ll probably want their money back.”

Fortunately, I saw the wisdom of his advice and complied. To tell you the truth, I don’t even remember what those four lines were, much less why I ever felt so impassioned that the success of the play hinged on them being there. I do know, however, that the show’s debut could have been significantly delayed if I had held fast to balking with the editor.

The happy ending to the story is that I’ve continued to sell scripts to this same publishing house for the past 20+ years. I must be doing something right; specifically, delivering exactly what they wanted.

Here’s to the New Year and the publishing kudos it brings to each and every one of you! If you have an experience or advice you’d like to share, the mailbox is always open at authorhamlett@cs.com. 

Former actress/director Christina Hamlett is an award winning author and script coverage consultant whose credits include 21 books, 115 plays and musicals, 4 optioned films, and columns that appear throughout the world.  Her latest screenwriting book, COULD IT BE A MOVIE, is now available at www.mwp.com.