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The First Time I Got Paid for It is a one-of-a-kind collection of essays by more than fifty leading film and television writers, with a foreword by screenwriting legend William Goldman. Linked by the theme of a writer's "first time"—usually the first time he got paid for his work, but sometimes veering off into other, more unconventional, "first times"—these always entertaining (and sometimes hilarious) pieces share what it takes to succeed, what it takes to write well, and other aspects of maintaining creativity...
The First Time I Got Paid for It is a one-of-a-kind collection of essays by more than fifty leading film and television writers, with a foreword by screenwriting legend William Goldman. Linked by the theme of a writer's "first time"—usually the first time he got paid for his work, but sometimes veering off into other, more unconventional, "first times"—these always entertaining (and sometimes hilarious) pieces share what it takes to succeed, what it takes to write well, and other aspects of maintaining creativity and integrity while striving for a career in Hollywood. Richard LaGravanese (The Fisher King, The Horse Whisperer, Living Out Loud) confesses that his first paid writing job was crafting phone-sex scripts. Nicholas Kazan (Reversal of Fortune, Matilda) explains why, in Hollywood, an oral "yes" often turns out to be a written "no." Peter Casey writes about the unparalleled pitch meeting for the award-winning series Frasier. Virtually every big-name writer in Hollywood has contributed to this collection, making it essential research material for anyone trying to make it in the entertainment industry, and a perfect read for movie and television buffs everywhere.
I was writing my first episode of Mash in a hotel room with French furniture from the Wilshire Boulevard period, and I noticed I had begun dancing around the room.
I was in the hotel because the architect who was doing renovations on our house had promised me the work would be finished by the time I came back to town for the second season of Mash, whose first season had paid for the house in the first place.
Renovations, like rewrites, take longer than expected, and I had made things worse by insisting that the house look like the plan we had agreed on before I left town. "I don't want that big excrescence in my living room," I had said, using the biggest word I could think of for a modernist hump on the wall the architect was proposing. Sure enough, when I got back to L.A., the house wasn't finished, but there was the hump, big as life, and just as excrescent. I took a sledgehammer to it and knocked it off the wall. This made my point, but set back construction another three weeks.
So, here I was, working on my first serious try at a television script in the cool, contemplative solitude that can only be found in a cheesy, fake-elegant hotel. More and more, I found myself taking a sledgehammer to my own scenes and dialogue, and after a while I was dancing.
I was dancing because, after hours of rewriting a scene, I had finally solved it and had crashed through to something I knew would work. "I can do it ...! I can do it!" I chanted, dancing and jumping for joy until the thought intruded that there were another few dozen problems to solve before I'd be finished.
This was the first time since I had decided I wanted to be a writer at the age of eight that I was actually working on something that might be seen by millions of people. Every little writing victory was therefore charged with emotion.
I've thought, since then, how lucky I was that my first script was one in which so many problems had already been solved for me. The show had been on the air for a year: I wasn't creating characters from scratch; I wasn't imagining a whole new world.
As an actor, I had already researched the time and place. I'd read that the Korean winters were bitter and, in a series of two-handed scenes, I let a humble pair of longjohns go from one shivering body to another through a string of deals, love offerings and extortions. It was, of course, similar to a device used by Schnitzler in the film La Ronde, so even some of the plot was borrowed.
In this way, I was able to concentrate on the pleasures of putting words together, discovering the voices of the characters, tracking the subsurface tectonics of their emotions. This made my victory dances a whole lot easier to come by than I realized at the time. Even after I had written a number of episodes and was exploring new paths, I was still making use of the work of people who had first explored the territory.
It was something of a shock when I began working on the first feature-length script I'd try after writing for Mash. Since it would be three times longer than an episode, I assumed it would be about three times harder. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be about 27 times harder.
Suddenly, I had to create, through research and imagination, a new world, populated by characters I had to build from their heads to their toes. I had to find out how they would act on one another in a way that would plunge them into Act Two and let them climb out through Act Three. I was all by myself on a huge construction site.
Hemingway said that writing is architecture, not interior decoration. I was learning that, even with all the rewriting, it wasn't renovations, either.
Now I was taking a sledgehammer to the foundation itself, redesigning it time after time, from scratch.
After all that, when I would finally crash through to something that worked, I would feel--and every writer must feel something like this--a thrill, a rush of joy, a desire to dance around the room.
I still feel it. And, once in a while, I still dance.
* * *
Alan Alda has written five screenplays: The Seduction of Joe Tynan, Four Seasons, Sweet Liberty, A New Life, and Betsy's Wedding. He wrote eighteen episodes of Mash, one of which, Inga, won him an Emmy for writing.
Excerpted from The First Time I Got Paid for It... by Peter Lefcourt Copyright © 2002 by Peter Lefcourt. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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