I wrote all this ten years ago. But most it still holds true. It’s mostly about approach and attitude. Anyway, see what you think:
Despite being the land of the free, America has a fairly rigid structure for how their sitcoms are written, how rooms are run and how writers progress. There’s an excellent summary of that on the brilliant Children of Tendu podcast that I recommend you track down and listen to.
In the UK, things are much more haphazard. Especially now. As a rule, it used to be that writers wrote and actors performed. And the writers who came up with the show wrote all the episodes in batches of six or eight. There have always been writer-performers, like Eric Sykes, but, again, they tended to write all of their own material, or used one other writer.
Things are much more messy now – and in a way, I’m glad about that. Although I’ve created a few of my own sitcoms for radio (Think the Unthinkable and Hut 33) and co-created one for TV (Bluestone 42), a lot of my work has been writing with other people – like Miranda Hart or Milton Jones – or existing shows, like My Hero, My Family or a number of children’s shows (Dani’s Castle, Kerching!, Mr Bloom’s Nursery and the legendary Chucklevision).
The point is this: collaboration is normal and if you’re a working comedy writer, more often that not, you’re going to be working on someone else’s show. So in this last section of the book, we’re going to take a look at how this might happen and what it could look like.
It seems there are four main ways in which you could be involved in someone else’s sitcom. Here's the first:
1. Idea Generation
Maybe a sitcom has been commissioned for a second or third series. Perhaps it’s going to be eight or ten episodes. The writer-performer has burned through lots of material in series one. But they need ideas, stories, plots, moments and set-pieces. You may have been invited to do this because you know one of the other writers on the show, or the producer liked a pilot script you sent them. Or you have a good agent and a decent CV.
You’ll probably be in a room of three or four others, maybe more, and there’ll be a whiteboard or flipchart. You’ll probably have to turn up at 10am and pitch ideas until 5pm. I know. Tough life. You should be paid a day rate (a couple of hundred quid. More if you're experienced) and what you say or pitch is theirs. It goes up on their whiteboard.
Pitching Policy
Now this could tempt you to clam up. They get all your ideas? Let’s not give them the crown jewels. Well, yes and no. The fact is you’re only going to pitch ideas that are suitable for their show. You may have watched the show and a few ideas popped into your head, so pitch those first. And you have a big long list of sitcom story ideas (thanks to Section 2 of this book) but only a handful are relevant to the show you’re pitching on. And in a day, you’re not likely to pitch more than half a dozen ideas because other people will be there – and you can build on their ideas too.
You want to make sure you pitch some really good, usable ideas because they might be using this day of ideas generation to see if you’re suited to actually writing an episode. They want to see if you ‘get’ the show. Maybe they’re not looking for someone to write an episode now, but they might be in the future. The main writer might decide to hand one off, and you want to be on the end of that hand, having a juicy script commission smacked into your forehead.
Homework
Do some homework. Work out the rules of the show. Think of some stories that put the big star of the show in stories that matter to the character – but also involve big funny set-piece scenes. Bear in mind a big funny set piece scene is just that. A scene. It’s not a story. So think about how to get to that scene and what’s at stake for the character. And what happens next. You don’t need it all worked out, but give it some thought.
More Dos and Don’ts
For this reason, don’t pitch ideas that are essentially film parodies, partly because they require little imagination and original thought, but also because they’re not actually stories that sustain. Avoid.
Have something up your sleeve for characters that seem under-served by the stories in the last series, or character pairings that are unusual for the show. And maybe an idea or two for some locations or sets that have been built, but seem underused.
Personally, I’d avoid pitching ideas that involve outside characters. “Hey, our hero’s sister shows up and she’s Little Miss Perfect. Played by a famous person.” That may sound cool and exciting, but if I’m the British equivalent of the Show Runner, I’m hearing “Hey, the regular characters are boring. Let’s have someone else. And someone cooler than the show.” No, thanks.
Then there’s the usual advice like don’t pitch something twice, act normal, and don’t be a jerk (so not normal, if you’re a jerk). Build on other people’s ideas. Don’t talk over anyone. And remember: It’s Not Your Show.
If you’re not sure of what's expected of you on the day, ask the producer. Email them. They won’t mind. They really won’t. They'll probably say that you just need to turn up and you don’t need to prepare because they don't want to pay you for your preparation time. But prepare anyway. Welcome to the world of not being paid for everything you do. You have a paid day’s work with funny people. With a small chance of lunch thrown in. Rejoice.
2. Gag Pass
A ‘gag pass’ or a ‘punch up’ sounds like some dangerous game that squaddies play, but really it’s quite straightforward. It’s a day or two of making a fairly advanced draft of a script as funny as it can possibly be.
The script is probably going to be shot or read through in a few days or weeks. Overall it should be in good shape, but the writers want one more pass at the script before it gets locked down. Maybe there’s already been a read-through and some jokes seemed to work and others fell flat, so there are patches that might need special attention. A few writers are hired for a day or two to sit and go through a script - or a bunch of scripts – to make sure every joke is as funny as it can possibly be.
Some sitcoms do this by correspondence. The script is emailed to a chosen few who write down alternative gags or lines. In my opinion, this is not an especially satisfactory way of going about it, but it saves schlepping into a stuffy windowless room and trying to be funny – and can at least be done at the gag-passer’s convenience or fitted around other work.
The more traditional way is that stuffy, windowless room with hard copies of the script printed out so you can jot or doodle on it, and pitch your ideas for new lines. You probably haven’t been sent it in advance and you’re not expected to have done any homework.
In my experience, you need to rely on your instincts for the actual jokes. You need to react to a duff line with a better one, at least in your head, and then make a note of it so you can pitch it when the time comes. When I’ve run gag passes, we read a scene aloud amongst ourselves and then stop at the end of that scene to look for improvements.
Etiquette
In general, the Rules of Ideas Generation (above) still apply. Don’t pitch something more than once, even ironically.
Pitch lines they can actually use, rather than lines that just make the room laugh – which is worth doing once or twice, but can easily get out of hand, waste time and mean that the person in charge has to be the bad guy and clamp down. They don’t want to have to do that.
Laugh at other people’s jokes and mean it. Don’t be a jerk. If you’re feeling grumpy, fake it. It’s only for a few hours.
Also, it’s okay to defend a joke or bit or moment in the existing script that you really like. It may be the original writer has gone off the joke and needs some gentle encouragement to stick with it – especially if you don’t have a better one.
You can also pitch sight gags, improvements to props, and anything which adds comedy to the show, especially if it doesn’t make the show any longer or is very easy to shoot.
Know the show. It sounds obvious but don't go into a room where you're meant to be pitching jokes and you're a little hazy on the characters and their names. Watch more episodes. Make a little diagram or chart if it helps you. Get into those characters and you'll be able to see scenes from their perspective which will help you come up with character jokes, rather than just ‘funny lines’.
Keep the tone of the show in mind. If it’s not a sweary show, don’t pitch sweary lines. If it’s not a goofy, silly show, don’t pitch goofy, silly jokes or props. If you’re not sure, pitch a line with a caveat of ‘This may be too dumb but…’ Don’t do this every time, though. Or pitch the line and then say ‘Does that work with the show?’ Let the show runner or creator be the judge if you’re not sure. But don’t pitch lines that obviously don’t fit because it wastes time, and shows contempt for the show and the process.
Work out what the scene is trying to achieve, and make some suggestions for lines that don’t derail that intention. It’s too late for picking apart the scene – unless you’re told otherwise.
3. The Table
‘The Table’ is essentially a team of writers on some kind of retainer who are working on multiple scripts of a show, seeing each episode through from ideas on a whiteboard, to the final gag pass, the last-minute rewrite, and the final final pass on that last-minute rewrite.
Most British shows don’t have tables – mainly because of expense, I suspect. British sitcoms are shot in batches of six and broadcast to a country of sixty million. They can’t be funded like American shows which are shot in batches of 24 and broadcast to a country of three hundred million.
But let’s say you’ve been involved in generating ideas for someone else's sitcom, or been part of a gag pass, or the show creator is your brother. Whatever. You've been asked to write an episode and essentially be part of ‘The Table’. Now what?
How does it Work?
It will differ from show to show, but most likely you’ll need to pitch a load of ideas for your episode to the show creator, head writer and/or producer. They’ll probably be offering you one episode in the first instance, so you’ll need to pitch at least half a dozen really good ideas that suit the show. Ideally, a main plot, a subplot and a little running joke so all the characters are involved. Nothing too detailed, just a thumbnail sketch but ideally with a couple of decent jokes to sweeten the pudding. Overall, maybe a paragraph or two for each episode idea, so you’ve got about two pages of ideas to talk about.
For this, you’ll need to have come up with ideas for 20 or 30 main plots, subplots and runners . Choose your best, and work out which main plot goes with which subplot. Think really carefully about this and make sure your ideas work well for the characters and show you’re pitching for, rather than the generic ‘Surprise Birthday party’ idea that could happen in any sitcom. And avoid bringing in outside characters.
It may be they like the main plot from one episode but a subplot from another and ask you to combine those instead. Great. They’ve seen something they like and you’re off to the races. And by ‘races’, I mean hours alone in a room in front of a grubby keyboard – but being paid.
You might be asked to work out the story in detail with other writers in a writers’ room. This is what happened when I wrote an episode of My Family. Or you may have to do it by yourself and present it, and then meet up to discuss it with the producer, creator and script editor, which is what happened when I wrote episodes of My Hero.
You may need to rewrite your outline a few times before you get a tick in a box from the producer and then told to go and write it. It can be frustrating, but as we’ve seen in previous chapters, there’s no point writing the script until the outline is right, especially on someone else’s show. Also, you may have a tight deadline and outlines tend to help hit those. Charging off on an unplanned flight of fancy with the script might be fun, but you could end up having to throw it away and start again, which is no fun when the deadline is tomorrow. Or yesterday.
The Fun Part, In Theory
You’ll probably have a couple of weeks to actually write the episode, which should be enough, given the detail of your outline. This is when you really feel like a writer, and the years of slog and rejection melt away for a week or two. You’re writing an episode of telly. And being paid for it. Great. Enjoy it. This doesn’t happen much unless you’re called Roy Clarke.
Format
Ask for a copy of one of their regular scripts so you can get the formatting right, so you’re using their house style. If they use Microsoft Word – and you don’t have Word, for some weird reason, buy Word. Likewise Final Draft. These are basic work tools that you need to do your job – which you are now being paid to do. And it’s tax-deductible. I’m surprised at how reluctant new writers can be to buy the basic tools of the trade and use free versions of odd applications downloaded from the Web. Don’t ask ‘Can I send it as an rtf?’ or whatever, because you’ll look like an idiot. Which will be a fair reflection of what you are.
Asking is Fine
Some parts of your outline might not work as you try to write them, in which case fix them. Earn your money. But if you get really stuck, and you've tried everything, and it’s just not working, there’s no disgrace in shouting for help. Talk to the producer or the script editor. They know the show much better than you and may well be much more experienced. They’d rather you asked for help and hit the deadline than having a teary unusable mess handed to them on the day of reckoning.
Last Pass
And here’s what I do. I aim to finish my draft a couple of days before the deadline, so I can forget about it for a day. Then I’ll print it out, take it to a café with a pen and read it, making notes, thinking of better jokes and trying to find cuts. Trim it, prune it, tighten it. Don’t leave it baggy (see Chapter 3.7). One last check over for typos. Then send. And pour yourself a glass of wine.
Notes
Then they’ll have notes. We’ve covered responding to notes (Chapter 4.5) but in this case bear in mind that this is their show. You’re being paid to write something you didn’t come up with and ultimately don’t carry the can for, even though your name’s on the script. They can’t force you to rewrite anything you don’t want to, but you can be fired and the episode taken off you, although this really doesn’t happen very often. When reading the notes, understand that they’re shooting lots of episodes that you don’t know about, and have a relationship with the cast, crew and commissioners that you don’t fully understand, so notes may have all kinds of odd reasons that make sense to them, but not to you.
If you’re not sure about a note, and it sounds confusing, or downright silly – politely ask for clarification, so you can give them the script that they want, and that you’re happy with. Then rewrite. And then there may be more notes. And more rewriting. Then a readthrough, more rewriting – then rehearsing and shooting. How much you are involved in this is really up to them. They won’t mind being asked if you can turn up to rehearsals or shooting – but they will mind if you complain about the answer.
Want to be a writer for hire?
Course you do. But you want get far without a script which has a clear voice and I well written and, crucially, funny. How’s your spec script? I can tell you that it almost certainly has some common but fixable problems in it. And if you send out a script with basic errors in it, you probably won’t get hired.
Solution: Spend hundreds of pounds on a script reader or editor to find them out. OR… This could save you a lot of money and open some doors:
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