This morning I woke with a bad taste in my mouth, after finishing
writing about Sleepy Hollow Episode 2.12. I realized I'm
tired of critiquing other writers, particularly those who have been
able to do--with even moderate success--something I haven't done yet
at all, namely write a producible script and get the
thing made.
To say that this is no small feat may qualify as the understatement of the millenium, and I'm not just saying that cause it's really, really hard for me. Near as I can tell, it's really, really hard for everybody.
Television writers are, first and foremost, artists. True, they make better money than 98% of other writers, but that's not why they do it. They do it for love of the craft, the love of story, the ancient, bone-deep need to make the tiniest bit of sense of this world for our tribe. They do it to entertain and edify that tribe. They do it because they can't not do it. I will never believe that any writer sits down at his or her computer and says, “how can I get away with the bare minimum so I can get paid?” We're a proud people, us writers; if we're going to put our name on something, we want it to be good.
The fact that these scripts are good enough to pass muster at Fox and have a lot of money put into their production means they are good. Not perfect, because they're written by human beings, but good.
Critiquing someone's else's work can be fun. It makes one feel smart. “Look how terribly clever I am! I found a witty way to make you feel like shit for doing your best and not being perfect.” Who on earth is required to be perfect? Whose work is? Good criticism hits on point, but with love; it is written or offered with the express purpose of helping a colleague be a better writer, an artist be a better artist. I worry sometimes that I have forgotten that. The sarcastic shredding of someone else's hard work is like a temporary salve on the wound of not having done that work oneself. For all my witty comments, the writers of Sleepy Hollow are the ones bringing home the pay checks, getting to work each day with brilliant amazing people, seeing their work performed. That fact is not remotely lost on me.
Deconstructing someone's else's creative baby is about 20 gazillion times easier than giving birth oneself. It may be a good exercise for helping one become a better writer, figuring out what works and what doesn't and why, but it doesn't get one's own script written, and it doesn't actually make writing that script any easier. If anything it makes it harder because as soon as one puts pen to paper one starts making the exact same mistakes one just excoriated another for making. And one still has to ardently court the Muse, sometimes for months, and then sweat and bleed all over one's pages to get somewhere remotely decent.
So, I'm not going to work on any more critiques right now. If I'm so smart, then let me write a decent Sleepy Hollow script. Let's set the bar a little higher—a good one. That should keep me sufficiently occupied that I don't have time to hurt the feelings of other writers doing their damnedest to entertain me. I'll finish and post my reflections on 2.9, 2.10, and 2.11 one day, perhaps soon, because I started this project and I will see it through. Besides those episodes were pretty great—in fact, for 2.11 I could just write “Bravo, Mr. Goffman” and call it done. But I enjoy waxing enthusiastic about good writing and he deserves a lot better than that, especially from me.
In the meantime, I have some sweating and bleeding of my own to do, and gratitude to express. Thank you, Sleepy Hollow writers, for all your hard work, and for keeping me entertained, coming back, week after week. You all are rock stars. Here are some virtual tissues to wipe the blood off your keyboards.
To say that this is no small feat may qualify as the understatement of the millenium, and I'm not just saying that cause it's really, really hard for me. Near as I can tell, it's really, really hard for everybody.
Television writers are, first and foremost, artists. True, they make better money than 98% of other writers, but that's not why they do it. They do it for love of the craft, the love of story, the ancient, bone-deep need to make the tiniest bit of sense of this world for our tribe. They do it to entertain and edify that tribe. They do it because they can't not do it. I will never believe that any writer sits down at his or her computer and says, “how can I get away with the bare minimum so I can get paid?” We're a proud people, us writers; if we're going to put our name on something, we want it to be good.
The fact that these scripts are good enough to pass muster at Fox and have a lot of money put into their production means they are good. Not perfect, because they're written by human beings, but good.
Critiquing someone's else's work can be fun. It makes one feel smart. “Look how terribly clever I am! I found a witty way to make you feel like shit for doing your best and not being perfect.” Who on earth is required to be perfect? Whose work is? Good criticism hits on point, but with love; it is written or offered with the express purpose of helping a colleague be a better writer, an artist be a better artist. I worry sometimes that I have forgotten that. The sarcastic shredding of someone else's hard work is like a temporary salve on the wound of not having done that work oneself. For all my witty comments, the writers of Sleepy Hollow are the ones bringing home the pay checks, getting to work each day with brilliant amazing people, seeing their work performed. That fact is not remotely lost on me.
Deconstructing someone's else's creative baby is about 20 gazillion times easier than giving birth oneself. It may be a good exercise for helping one become a better writer, figuring out what works and what doesn't and why, but it doesn't get one's own script written, and it doesn't actually make writing that script any easier. If anything it makes it harder because as soon as one puts pen to paper one starts making the exact same mistakes one just excoriated another for making. And one still has to ardently court the Muse, sometimes for months, and then sweat and bleed all over one's pages to get somewhere remotely decent.
So, I'm not going to work on any more critiques right now. If I'm so smart, then let me write a decent Sleepy Hollow script. Let's set the bar a little higher—a good one. That should keep me sufficiently occupied that I don't have time to hurt the feelings of other writers doing their damnedest to entertain me. I'll finish and post my reflections on 2.9, 2.10, and 2.11 one day, perhaps soon, because I started this project and I will see it through. Besides those episodes were pretty great—in fact, for 2.11 I could just write “Bravo, Mr. Goffman” and call it done. But I enjoy waxing enthusiastic about good writing and he deserves a lot better than that, especially from me.
In the meantime, I have some sweating and bleeding of my own to do, and gratitude to express. Thank you, Sleepy Hollow writers, for all your hard work, and for keeping me entertained, coming back, week after week. You all are rock stars. Here are some virtual tissues to wipe the blood off your keyboards.
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