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HOW SHOWS GET ON TV AND THE TV SEASON

Fasten your seatbelt — here comes a heady two-year ride, from the first glimmer of a new series, twisting through one year of development, and then barreling through a full season on the air. We’ll be touring the traditional network cycle, though you already know from Chapter One that TV is changing. Currently, many cable outlets (both basic and pay services) premiere series in winter and spring, and don’t compete with the network season, and some networks are testing year-round production so that they stay competitive with cable, especially during the summer. I’ll discuss those variations at the end. But now, take a look at the chart (Chart 2.1).

“Year One” represents the months of forming and selling a new series. See the dividing line before May? That’s when a new show first gets picked up by a network. In “Year Two,” we’ll follow a series that’s in production. Month by month, you’ll experience the process as if watching your own project grow up.

Let’s begin by making believe you have a great idea for a television series. Screech! That was the sound of brakes. You’re not likely to get your original show made if you’re a beginner. At least, you’re not going to do it by yourself. For decades, the custom has been to climb the ladder: You’d join a staff and go up the ranks until a network invites you to propose a series of your own. By then, the reasoning goes, you’d understand the way things work so you could reliably deliver an episode every week. No novice could have enough experience. Simply, no one would listen to you no matter how interesting your idea might be.

Chart 2.1 Traditional Two-Year Development and Production of a New Show

So let’s back up and understand why beginners don’t create new series. (I know, we haven’t even gotten to the first month, but hold on, you will get on the track.) Consider what a drama series does: It manufactures hour-long films that air every week and continue (the producers hope) for years. Your ability to come up with a pilot (the first episode) doesn’t prove you can write episode 7, or 20, or the 88th episode at the end of four years. It doesn’t necessarily demonstrate that the series has the “legs” for anyone else to derive a full season, either. (Having “legs” means a show has the potential to generate enough stories to last a long time.) And it surely doesn’t guarantee that you would know how to run a multimillion-dollar business with hundreds of specialized employees (actors, set builders, editors, office staff, directors, truckers, camera operators, electricians, composers… without even counting writers).

Television series aren’t bought or sold on ideas, but the ability to deliver on those ideas.

Now, don’t freak. There are ways. The closed loop of staff writers becoming showrunners who hire staff writers who will one day be showrunners is loosening. Sometimes feature filmmakers who have clout but no television experience are paired with TV veterans. A second infusion of outsiders is the twenty-something producers, often with a track record in small Internet series or credits in independent films, journalism, or published fiction, including graphic novels (comics). Since some outlets pursue teen audiences, they tend to prefer writers under 30. But could they have the experience to run a show? Here’s how it worked at The O.C..

At 27 years old, Josh Schwartz, creator of The O.C., became the youngest person in network history to produce his own one-hour series. He was a junior at the USC School of Cinematic Arts when he sold a feature script for half a million dollars. A few months later, he sold his first TV pilot. And suddenly he was a TV producer, though he never spent a day on the staff of a series. Fox supplemented him with Sex and the City writer Allan Heinberg, who helped structure stories for the first 13 episodes, and Bob DeLaurentiis, who’d spent two decades running shows. DeLaurentiis oversaw all aspects of production while Heinberg ran the writing staff. As for Schwartz, he wrote or rewrote episodes. In an article in The New York Times, Schwartz commented, “It’s not like writing a movie — you still have to learn how to map out a season, how to track characters. It’s not something I could’ve done by myself for the first time. You need people … who’ve been through it. Who know how to build to sweeps, or this is how a teaser works. I had to get educated.”

That brings us to your starting point on:

YEAR ONE

APRIL

CREATE YOUR PROPOSAL

So, here you are with your fresh idea — though I hope you have more going for you than that, even if you’ve never worked in television. The genesis of new shows ranges from the sublime to the ridiculous. On the high end, fifteen years of journalism covering Baltimore’s police department led to a fact-based book titled Homicide, which was bought by experienced television producers and turned into the series Homicide: Life on the Street. And a decade later, that journalist, David Simon, created The Wire and Treme. On the other end of the spectrum, the comedy show $#*! My Father Says originated in a series of Tweets. You might not have years of journalism or an audience following you on Twitter, but do arm yourself with something, at least accomplishment as a screenwriter.

One of my former students (described in Chapter Seven), parlayed his credit on a quirky independent film But I’m a Cheerleader into several steps that led to writing a pilot for the WB (with his writing partner), and then the team joined the writing staff of Smallville, and nine years later they became the showrunners. Leverage whatever is special about you.

In this early stage, you’re not aiming to shoot a series, only to land a meeting with a production company that has a track record. So your first goal is to be “adopted.” For this, you’ll need the same tool that will carry you all the way to the network, so everything else rests on square one, when you’re on your own. Let’s assume your idea has been percolating all winter, and now in April you’re ready to form it into a presentation of some kind. But what kind? Actually, this stage doesn’t offer the clear guidelines you’ll find in the other steps. You’ll need to discover the most compelling way to put across your unique concept. With that in mind, here are six possibilities:

(1) Write a TV Format

That term “format” can be confusing because it’s used in different ways throughout filmmaking. “Format” may refer to a film stock or camera lens, to the way a script is laid out on a page, or even a genre or franchise. In this context it means a series proposal. Though a format isn’t an exact process, certain components are advisable because you’ll be asked about them in meetings anyway. In reality, most formats aren’t even written except as notes for a network pitch. But I suggest you write everything, for now, to clarify your show for yourself and a production company. Lay it out this way:

Cover page: Find a title that grabs attention and suggests the tone of the show (funny, scary, dramatic, provocative, comforting, whatever). The title will probably change; think of it as a toe in a doorway. Underneath, identify the franchise or general category (e.g., teen drama, comedy-drama, political thriller, sci-fi…). If it’s based on something (book, play, movie, cartoon) you’d better say so, but make sure you have clear rights to the underlying work. Your credit is “Written By” or “Created By” and that goes on a separate line. Place your contact information at the bottom of the page. If you’re represented by an agent or manager, of course, the cover is done by their office and your agent will be the contact.

Do register the completed format with the Writers Guild (specifics on that are in the Appendix). But do not put your WGA registration number on the cover — it’s tacky. Also don’t include any dates or draft numbers. Every draft you deliver is the first, untrammeled and never before revealed to human eyes — or that’s what you’d like the producer to think. (No one wants something that’s been rejected or gathering dust.)

On the top of Page One, write a “Log Line.” You’ve encountered that term in screenwriting classes, but did you know it originated in television? For decades, television station owners have been required by the FCC to keep a log of everything they broadcast. These had to fit on a line, like “Lassie finds lost boy.” Then TV Guide and newspapers began printing short episode summaries like this one from Joan of Arcadia: “Joan learns the downside of vanity when God asks her to take a cosmetics class.”

Soon the promotional tag found its way to movie posters, as in: “Tom Cruise stars as Nathan Algren, a heroic American military officer hired by the Emperor of Japan to train the country’s first army. After being captured by his Samurai enemies, Algren becomes unexpectedly inspired by their way of life and fights to defend what he has come to love.” Or, for a simpler example: “The women of Stepford have a secret.” Before long, either full log lines (like the one from The Last Samurai) or “hooks” (like the one from The Stepford Wives) became necessary to pitch films, episodes, and series, not merely to log them or advertise.

A log line for a series may be less specific than the story summaries you’ll use for individual episodes. The goal is to orient a listener (yes, listener, not reader) to your project, to catch an executive’s attention. “MTV Cops” is a famous log line for Miami Vice from an era when MTV was new and hot. Grey’s Anatomy, on the heels of the success of Sex and the City, was described as “Sex and the Surgery.” When he was first presenting The O.C., Josh Schwartz knew the Fox network was looking for an updated Beverly Hills 90210, so he pitched his show as “90210 on the beach in Orange County,” and later admitted that was a Trojan horse to set up a far more nuanced show.

Once your log line sizzles, take the first couple of pages of your format for an Overview. This is not a summary of the pilot (a common mistake), but an introduction to the world and the quest of the whole series, including location, style, tone, context, and, most of all, characters. Though full characterizations come later, the main cast must be mentioned up front. Use brief tags like “a single, middle-aged probation officer who adopts a child from one of her cases” (from Allison Anders’ series proposal In the Echo); “a 29-year-old Congressional aide running against her boss” (from Rod Lurie’s proposed The Capital City).

Within this Overview, suggest springboards for future episodes so decision-makers believe the series has legs. That is, state the source of future episodes, for example: Each week the character must balance the tension of her marriage with the intrigue and politics of a legal case; each week the detectives pursue three cases, walking a thin line between vigilante justice and the job; each week we fall in love with the vampire, only to discover we’re bitten again. As in any fiction writing, make ‘em laugh, cry, be scared or angry or fall in love. The overview may be as far as you get in a pitch, so make it soar.

Follow the Overview with the centerpiece of any series: characters. If viewers don’t root for your main cast, if they’re not compelled to find out how the people are coping or loving or fighting back each week, you don’t have anything. Remember, TV drama isn’t really about the concept; it runs on the emotional fuel of endless character arcs, as discussed in Chapter One.

Take one page each for the few leading roles. I said few. Yes, you’ve seen excellent ensemble shows with casts in double-digits, but in a proposal, the listener’s eyes will glaze over after you get past your third or fourth character. So focus on one fascinating, eminently castable character and engage us in her spirit and goals. You can do that again with roles for antagonists or partners, providing their connections to the protagonist are gripping. Beyond those few, summarize the secondary cast with only a tag for each, even if those parts will grow later.

After the characters, you need to tell some stories. You might summarize a potential pilot in a couple of pages. (More about pilot writing in a moment.) But networks really need the sense of a mid-season episode because that’s a window to how the show functions every week. Some proposals focus on episode seven. Some list log lines for five to ten potential episodes. Some describe the long arc and the end of the quest after five years on the air. Whichever method suits your series best, be sure that you communicate an arena so rich that its possibilities seem endless.

That’s it for standard components, but that’s not it for a proposal. People refer to series pitches as dog-and-pony shows, and so far I haven’t suggested any special enticements, furry or otherwise. Try photos, artwork, clippings, endorsements, biographies — come up with something fun. But don’t do the baked goods angle; it’s been tried, and readers get annoyed. You know, placing your proposal in a cake so the executive is sure to notice it. However, if your show is set in a bakery, maybe you should get cooking!

(2) Write a Pilot

Pilot scripts are assigned by networks in the course of development, and I’ll tell you how that works when we get to September on the chart. (We’re still only in April.) Normally, producers proposing a new series don’t go in with a pilot already written because it’s too expensive for something not likely to succeed (most proposals die, and so do most pilots). Also, network reactions might change the series. Why spend $30,000 or more for a script about a hermaphrodite in a beauty pageant when the network will only buy if the contestant is a poodle? But if your writing is not known, and you’re passionate that a sample would convince readers, then speculating a pilot could be smart strategy.

Matt Weiner, creator of Mad Men, wrote the pilot while he was toiling away on sitcoms. At the time no one would buy it, but the quality of the writing landed him on the writing staff of The Sopranos. Years honing his skills on that great show and winning awards finally made it possible for him to film the Mad Men pilot made exactly as he’d envisioned it long before.

J. Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5, is said to have written all five years of his series while he was on the staff of a Star Trek, so Babylon 5 was finished before he ever proposed it. But don’t try that at home, folks.

Short of writing 100 episodes, the worst you risk is another unsold script. If it’s written well, a pilot can serve as a writing sample along with any other screenplays or episodes. And as soon as you have clout (or know someone who does), you can take it off your shelf.

For more about writing a pilot, see the “Spotlight On Writing Your Pilot Script” between Chapters Four and Five.

(3) Write a “Backdoor Pilot”

A backdoor pilot is a two-hour movie, and might be a clever way to propel a series. The game involves writing a pilot that masquerades as a movie, and, in fact, works as a closed story. But the seeds of subsequent tales and promising character developments are embedded in a situation that could easily spring many episodes.

You could offer it as a screenplay and be thunderstruck when someone else observes that it could lead to a series. Or you could come clean with your intentions up front. Depends on who you’re dealing with, but you certainly should tell an agent what you have in mind. Another compromise is the “limited series” (which used to be called “miniseries”). That’s longer than a movie but less of a commitment than a full season, usually running six to eight hours over several weeks. If the movie (or limited series) does well, you have a great shot at the series. Either the backdoor pilot or the “partial order” gives a network a chance to hedge the bet. And if it doesn’t go to series, you still have a movie script.

(4) Create a Presentation Reel

A showrunner once invited me to his office to discuss a series that had suddenly landed in his lap. He didn’t have a clue about it, he said uneasily; it was loosely based on a hit movie and had been sold as a series on the basis of a 15-minute reel made by one of the movie’s producers who didn’t have time to do the show. So the newly anointed executive producer was hastily interviewing writers to find the series. The problem was that 15 minutes of “possible scenes” using the movie producer’s actor friends (who would not be in the actual series either) didn’t add up. Not that the 15 minutes weren’t cinematic — they were beautifully atmospheric — but the group in the office were TV writers looking for the kinds of elements I’ve told you about: a) springboards suggesting where stories would come from; b) characters with potential for long arcs; c) some sort of quest or motor for the star. The reel turned out to be sort of a Rorschach test: everyone came up with a different show… which meant no show at all, finally.

Even if you’re not a Hollywood movie producer who can sell a series off a few scenes, a reel might be helpful if used cleverly. Think of the dog-and-pony show, and imagine an executive in his office. It’s 4 PM and he’s been taking pitches every 20 minutes since his breakfast meeting at 8 AM. You walk in with a DVD. He might wake up for that.

If you want to try, here are some tips:

Be careful it doesn’t scream student film. You know: the long zoom toward the doorknob, which is ever so beautifully lit, and the reflective moments laden with symbolism. Often, student films aim at film festivals where their art is appreciated. In television, which moves faster, those same qualities may come off as indulgent. So make sure your reel looks professional and suits the medium.

Keep it short enough so you have time to pitch before or after the film, including the set-up time. You may have only 15 minutes, total, in the meeting.

Do pitch the show. The reel is only eye-candy. Unlike the movie producer, you’re not going to get away with not knowing how the series is going to work.

Have fun. Creative, original filmmaking can be an exciting calling card as long as the series would be able to sustain your approach.

(5) Attach a “Package”

A “package” consists of “elements” that enhance your project’s profile. Later, the package may include writers who are more credited than you, directors, main cast, possibly some special perks (for example, location, animation or an underlying source if those are relevant), and maybe even a sponsor. Certain “packaging agencies” pride themselves in assembling all the creative talent from within their own shop. But for you, at this stage, it comes down to nabbing a star audiences find interesting; someone they’ll tune in to see. These concerns belong to studios and networks, usually not writers, but if you’re trying to load the dice, you might see who you can “attach.”

Ah, there’s another bit of jargon. When a writer, director or actor is “attached,” he has committed to work on your project. It’s more than an expression of interest, and must be confirmed in a letter or even a contract. Be careful who you attach, though. Say you’ve courted your idol and finally convinced him to come aboard. Then you learn the network is looking for a vehicle for their hot new thing, and will “greenlight” your series only if Hottie is the star. But now you’re stuck with your idol. That’s one of many reasons talent is rarely packaged at this point.

(6) Get a Web Following

A friend of mine was thrilled the day a major studio said they wanted to buy her original series. They had read her pilot and a short series bible she had attached, she was represented by a respected agent, and she even had a few credits. This would be the Big Break, she believed, as she went to the first meeting with her expected new creative home. And then they dropped the question: “What is your YouTube number?” Huh? They were interested in her project all right, but they wanted assurance that an audience would be interested. So they expected her — a writer — to somehow assemble enough of a film crew to post samples of what she was proposing online and gather “heat” before they would go forward.

My friend didn’t go for it, but the approach might work for someone else. If you have the equipment and skills and if the nature of your show lends itself to Web-based storytelling (which tends to be comedic and able to be broken into short segments), that’s an example of a potential end-run around the established process. The famous attempt was Quarterlife by multi-credited film and television producers Marshall Herskovitz and Edward Zwick. They posted 10- to 15-minute segments online, each mimicking a television act. When a network came calling, they packaged the individual acts into a perfect hour. It didn’t work, but that may have been as much a factor of that particular property rather than a comment on future possibilities.

Go ahead and try them all — one through six — if you have the time and money. But that would take another year. So to stay on our cycle, let’s make believe you’ve created a terrific format, and backed it up with impressive writing samples. Now you move ahead to square two:

MAY

THE PRODUCTION COMPANY

You’re on the hunt for a production company with your new series as bait. In May, you might get a producer’s attention because the previous season has ended and work for the new one not quite begun. If your proposal is ready sooner, you could also “put out feelers” in April during “hiatus.” (You’ll hear about the hiatus in Year Two.) Now, you need a company that can get you into both a studio and a network. Better yet, try to meet a showrunner who has an “open commitment” or “blind overall deal,” which means a network is obligated to buy a show from him. Who knows, he just might be searching for something new.

But how are you going to find him? Through your agent; like it or not, that’s how this industry works. Any competent agent knows who’s willing to take series pitches, who is between shows, who might spark to your idea, who is willing to deal with a beginner, and who has relationships at the kinds of outlets that fit your show. The agent can put you in the room. So if you already have an agent you can skip this section. NOT! Don’t ever lie back and think an agent is going to do it all for you. To paraphrase: Agents help those who help themselves. If you don’t have one, see Chapter Six, “How To Break In.”

But what if you’re determined to plow ahead on your own? It’s not impossible to get to production companies, and in some cases they may be more accessible than agents. Comb websites and read Daily Variety to scope out who’s interested in developing new series. If you have the magic bullet for a company who needs to get with the times and climb back to the top, or if you’re young, talented, have some awards or credits, and an aggressive personality, you may well get past the receptionist. Part of the technique is finding the perfect match to your sensibility and your project. And part of it, quite frankly, is age.

I’ll be candid with you about this issue. I’m sure you’ve heard about age discrimination in Hollywood. Some networks tend to chase young demographics, though not all are the same; in fact the top cable outlets and sophisticated network dramas prefer talent that has been honed. Still, the youth bias has created an opportunity for young writers. Very young. I know of a high school student whose homemade pilot was seriously considered, though it never sold.

At USC, my graduate screenwriting students range in age from mid-20s to mid-30s, so one year I joked to a class that they’d better not turn 30, just keep turning 29. Well, in the fall I got a call from Jennifer, a good writer who’d graduated the previous spring. She was upset because she applied for a writing job and the secretary asked her age. (That’s illegal, by the way.) Jennifer, who had just celebrated her 30th birthday, remembered my joke and quickly answered “29.” “Oooh, I’m sorry,” the secretary cooed, “our ceiling is 26.”

You may have heard about the writer who was hired on Felicity on the basis of being 18, and fired when she was discovered to be (gasp!) over 30. But the point for you is being young might help you get a meeting. After that, you’ll have to wrangle not to lose your project to more seasoned writers, but right now we’re talking about first steps.

Whatever your tactic, start by researching television production companies that do projects like yours. At the tail of each episode you’ll see a list of producing entities. Sometimes several logos appear because an expensive series may spread the cost among various backers, so to find out who is actually developing series, try phoning the show or the network and asking. Other resources include websites, The Hollywood Creative Directory, the library of the Writers Guild of America, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Information on all those is in the Appendix.

Once you have your targets, write to them and follow with a call asking to pitch your series idea. Don’t mail the format, but if you can catch the reader with a beguiling few sentences, you may flush out someone curious enough to take a brief meeting. You don’t need to wait for a response from your first choice before hitting up a second place. Contact them all at once.

At the meeting, you need to hook the listener quickly. Of course, you hope that listener is an executive producer or head of the production company. But if you’re shunted off to an assistant, go ahead anyway. Make an ally so you’ll have a chance to repeat the pitch to the decision-maker another day.

What are they looking for? Energy. That’s amorphous, I know, but it covers the sense that the series has possibilities. Remember, a series pitch is not the same as telling a movie story where the plot beats need to be in place. This is the first step in a long development process, and if this company becomes involved, they’ll probably steer you toward revisions so the project will sell, or so it fits in a specific time slot, or competes with other series coming down the pike. They’ll be watching how flexible you are, wondering if they’d be comfortable working with you for years, kind of a blind date. If you’re defensive or reluctant to revise your precious property, they’ll wish you luck trying to do it all by yourself — elsewhere.

They’ll be checking whether the concept is viable; that is, whether they can physically produce it each week within a likely budget. But they won’t ask that question unless you satisfy two other qualifications: (1) The show is completely new and unique, and (2) the show is exactly like what has succeeded before. Yes, it’s a paradox. The solution is to be original within a franchise, even if that franchise is re-interpreted, as I discussed in the first chapter.

And, of course, you know what every TV series needs above all. Come on, you know the answer: Characters. The heart of your pitch is how fully you engage the buyer in the people you have created. But you already know that from your format, because you’re well prepared.

So let’s imagine you’ve pitched to a few executive producers and settled on one company that has everything: a studio deal, the juice to take you to a network, the ability to deliver the show, the willingness to keep you in the loop even though you’re a beginner; and, most of all, they “get” your idea. You’ve found a creative home.

Maybe.

JUNE

THE STUDIO

Most production companies can’t go to the networks by themselves. That’s because network series are “deficit financed.” Networks pay a fee to broadcast each program, around 75% of the cost of making it. For an hour-long drama that costs five million, the shortfall is around a million dollars per week. Every week. Companies don’t have that.

Studios do. Think of the studio as the bank. From the point of view of a “suit,” every time a studio endorses a series with one of the production companies on their lot they’re taking a calculated risk. Four years may go by before they see any return on their investment, if they ever do, and most shows are cancelled before that. But, oh, when a show finishes the 88th episode, they hit what they call “the mother lode,” “the jackpot,” “Valhalla.” Now they can sell the shows at a profit to cable channels, syndication and foreign markets. A single hit underwrites years of failures. Will yours be that hit?

That brings us back to you. Probably, you have no agreement in writing with the production company. They’re waiting to see if the studio will get behind this project. While you’re away, the producer is talking to the Vice President for Dramatic Series Development of the studio where he has a deal. If the producer loves your show, he’s pre-pitching it, maybe touting you as the next great thing.

Or not. He may be testing the waters to see if you’re approvable before he sticks in his own toe. That might involve sending your writing samples to the studio executive, or even, quietly, to a contact at one of the networks. He may also test the general “arena” of the show, without specifically pitching it: “Any interest in a drama about house plants; I have a great fern.” Prepare yourself, because if weak signals start coming back from the studio, he might drop the project; or he might keep the project but begin nudging you aside. You’ll know you’re being dumped if his conversation includes the term “participating,” if he floats names of possible writers who aren’t you, and if he talks up the title “associate producer.” Sometimes that indicates an actual job, but it might be honorary, a way to shift you off the writing staff. Remember, you do have the right to say no and take your project elsewhere.