Writing From the Heartland: How to Maintain a Screenwriting Group
2,000 Miles From Hollywood
Oct 10, 2003
Author: Eric Diekhans
It was a dark and stormy night, metaphorically speaking. Six of us, all
aspiring screenwriters, were gathered at the Perfect Cup, a cozy neighborhood
café on Chicago's north side. We were a gloomy, woeful bunch. Behind
us, the Tuesday night knitters were loud and lively. We could hardly hear
ourselves think. Not that we were entertaining pleasant thoughts. Week after
week of writing and rewriting and rewriting again for the thirteenth time
and none of us seemed near that most elusive of goals-first sale. Thanks
in no small measure to the group's feedback, we had polished our screenplays
until they gleamed, but they still weren't what the producers and agents
wanted. They were looking for edgy but safe, original but familiar. By the
end of the evening, we were threatening to give Hollywood a collective middle
finger and seek solace in knitting needles and yarn. Maybe we could finish
a cozy scarf or crewneck before another bitter Chicago winter arrived.
Our group had begun its life five years previously as a workshop at Cinestory,
a national screenwriters' organization. Pam Pierce, Cinestory's co-founder,
coaxed us through our first attempts to dissect and improve each other's scripts.
We were green—most of us had completed only one or two scripts—so Pam did
most of the talking.
When our 12 weeks were up we decided to continue on our own. I thought that
we were all dedicated to the same cause: becoming professional screenwriters.
But without the incentive of knowing we were paying to do this, the level
of commitment quickly waned. Three or four meetings into our experiment and
there were only two of us left—Diane Berz, a playwright-turned-screenwriter,
and myself.
I love the concept of the writing group. As writer Julia Cameron puts it,
"We belong to an ancient and holy tribe." I love the idea of gathering much
like our ancestors did, minus the campfire, to share stories and release our
collective energy. I love the sense of camaraderie, the discipline of a regular
deadline, the thrill of hearing my words read aloud for the first time, the
pleasure of welcoming a talented new scribe into our midst.
I jumped in and decided I would be the one to resurrect our sinking ship.
The trouble was, I didn't know the first thing about organizing a writing
group. I'd never even belonged to one before. But how hard could it be?
Damn hard, I soon discovered. Maybe in L.A., where screenwriters swarm the
cafes like Medflies on an orange grove, there are people beating down the
doors to join a screenwriting group. But here in the Midwest people are too
busy engaged in real work. The most frequent response I get when I tell a
Chicago native that I'm a screenwriter is an incredulous, "You can make money
at that?"
But I knew that there had to be more of us out there. The perfect opportunity
for first contact came when a script I developed in Pam's workshop was named
a semifinalist in the Illinois/Chicago Screenplay Competition. All the writers
who had advanced were invited to a screenwriting workshop. Here would be some
30 screenwriters, presumably with a least a modicum of ability, who would
jump at a chance to be part of our group. Near the end of the workshop I
stood up and extolled the benefits of belonging to a screenwriting group.
I was like a Baptist preacher offering a key to the gates of heaven and warning
of the pitfalls of writing in isolation. I expected people to flock around
me after the meeting, excitedly asking for my number. Instead, the assembled
talent made a quick exit to the elevators. Only two people stopped to say
they were interested.
The problem is a lot of writers like the isolation. That's why we're writers
instead of wedding planners. Outside of the Hollywood madhouse it's easy to
be in isolation—no pitch meetings, no story conferences, no glamorous premieres.
(I forgot, we don't get invited to premieres.)
Commitment is also a big issue for screenwriters working far away from Tinsel
Town. After months of posting messages on screenwriting newsgroups and at
the Cinestory offices, and talking up the group wherever I went, I had developed
a decent list of e-mail addresses of interested writers. Many of them would
show up for a few meetings, and seemed to be working hard on their scripts.
But then they would disappear. Fearing that we were doing something wrong,
I e-mailed them to ask why they stopped coming. While a few writers were working
on their own film projects or just found our meeting time or location inconvenient,
their number one excuse was that they had stopped writing.
I know that there are probably many writers in L.A. who haven't touched
their keyboard in months, but there's a certain level of pressure that comes
from living in L.A. that you don't get in Chicago. If you move to Southern
California to become a screenwriter then you'd damn well better be writing.
And guilt weighs heavy. Everyone you meet is connected with the industry.
Some of them are actually getting a paycheck. You should be, too. If you're
a Chicago screenwriter who's not writing, it just means you've come to your
senses.
Undaunted, I continued to market our group at every opportunity. One meeting
12 writers showed up. At other times, it was just Diane and I staring at one
another across the table, wondering if this was worth it. It was. Every writer
who attended regularly saw at least some improvement. Our scripts were placing
in contests and even getting nibbles from producers and agents.
As the group developed, we learned what was most conducive to success. After
first meeting in our homes, then at a hip tearoom that went belly up, Diane
suggested relocating to The Perfect Cup. It was kitty-corner from an El Train
stop and had reasonable street parking, a combination that's rare in Chicago.
Anne, the owner, and her sister, Christina, who worked our shift, made us
feel welcome. Unlike Hollywood directors, they liked having a bunch of screenwriters
hanging around, even when we played roles that required us to shout brutal
threats at one another.
When Anne decided to close early during the long winter she even let us
continue our meetings after hours.
Through trial and error we determined how frequently we should convene.
Some L.A. groups meet every week, but those are for people writing full-time.
Here, every three weeks seems to work well. We encourage group members to
bring in 10-20 pages of whatever they're working on. Twenty pages translate
into a page a day over three weeks. That's doable even for a writer working
a demanding job.
Because beggars can't be choosers, we don't discriminate about who can join.
While Diane and I have each written several screenplays and even optioned
scripts we developed in the group, many of the writers who show up are even
greener than we were when we took Pam's workshop. But sometimes even a person
who has never typed "fade in" at the top of a page may still provide insights
that can transform a good script into a great one. In turn, we just might
inspire them to take the risk of putting their story onto the page.
Three weeks after that dark and stormy night, the knitters were back and
so were we, maybe not full of high hopes, but at least with another 20 pages
under our belts. Whether you're writing in Hollywood or in Chicago, that counts
for something.
This essay is excerpted from The Writing Group Book, published by Chicago
Review Press.
(c) 2003 Eric Diekhans
ABOUT THIS AUTHOR
Eric Diekhans is a
Chicago screenwriter with a Master's in Film from Northwestern University.
His screenplay Sunday River was a semifinalist for the Nicholl Fellowships
and was optioned by an independent producer. He is coordinator of the Chicago
Screenwriters' Group, where he meets every three weeks with his fellow scribes.
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