After Hours, In the Writer’s Room | #6 (I'm Back!)

How to navigate studio notes | Resolve as a writer | A scene to enjoy

EMPTY…

Two weeks ago, in a mad dash to finish—partly inspired by the need to beat my deadline (and get paid), but mostly by the desire to simply get the story out and done—I sat down in my usual spot and powered through a 9-hour writing session. Forty pages to finish the romantic comedy—ending at 120 pages for a film that had become endearing.

It took a lot to get there. Going back and forth on the outline with the studio; writer’s block, writer’s spiral, second-guessing words—and then a moment of resolve. And I think that’s what I want to focus on today: resolve.

There’s something about being the hired gun on a project that puts you in an awkward position. You don’t own the story (even if you pitched it), you have a set of parameters (budget, target demo notes, studio notes from marketing, line producers, development executives, and whoever your handler happens to be). You’re not writing for yourself—you’re writing for them. It’s a lot of downward pressure, sometimes from people who are subject matter experts in their fields, but not yours.

You have your instincts, but then you have to defend them—with little leverage, especially if you’re new to the game. It is what it is.

But that does something to you. It can make trusting your own instincts feel risky, and defending them is exhausting. Then you find yourself blocked because you’re resisting yourself, sorting a thousand other voices in your head, second-guessing hypothetical ideas rather than tangible ones on the page. (And there’s nothing more crippling than second-guessing hypotheticals. It stops you from writing before you even start.)

It’s not a totally healthy space to be in as a writer. But it’s the thing you have to get good at navigating. (“But Silas, you don’t—you can just write your own stories!” Yes, you can… but you’re gonna be writing for free until someone buys them. So in the meantime, you might make your way by being a hired gun and learning lessons along the way.)

How do you get good at it then? That’s something I’m still learning. Here are my tips: You want to get “them” in a space where they trust your instincts. But you only start that process if you listen and stay open. Show yourself flexible. Not all studio notes are anti-art. Some are simply practical.

The budget is the budget. Unless you have the ear of finance, nobody you’re talking to can change that either. If you write something that triggers alarm bells from the line producer, neither of you have the power to change the budget—but that’s an opportunity to prove how clever you can be. Write it so you get your scene’s intention across, even if the particulars get red-penned. That alone will buy you some goodwill.

What if you know a note is way off? Well, first, you’ll only know that if you’ve put yourself in a position to understand where the notes are coming from. If a note is off, frame it for them within that context.

If that doesn’t work, you have two choices: let it go and do what they ask. If you’re right, they’ll eventually change the note. Sometimes they just need to see that their idea doesn’t work. It’s more work for you… yes… because you know good and well the note will change—so just prep for that. And when the inevitable happens… buy yourself goodwill by not leaning into “I told you so.” (Egos are a thing.) Trigger the “I told you so,” and you risk them trying to prove a counterpoint, inviting a barrage of arbitrary retaliatory notes, and cultivating a dysfunctional writing environment.

The second option is riskier—far riskier. Yes, say “okay,” then do what you want anyway. The gambit here is based on the same idea—sometimes they just need to see it work. But the risk is ego (yours and theirs). They might still want to verify their note didn’t work. In that space, even if it doesn’t work… clearly, they’ve invested too much in battling you and will say the bad idea is good just to keep you in check. You are, after all, the hired gun. Sometimes it’s not like that, especially if you’ve bought yourself goodwill. Just use this sparingly.

Inevitably though, there comes a moment where what’s required is resolve.

At the end of the day, you’re the chef in the kitchen (with chef experience). You (hopefully) know story. You’ve done your research and you know what the audience wants. You know what the genre expects, and you know your characters and story more than anyone else.

Resolve is realizing that, at the end of the day, “they” can give notes forever, but if you follow all their notes and the piece is bad, that’s on you. They’ll look at you. That’s one thing I learned as a director. You’re managing teams, they all have input, but if the piece is ultimately bad—the client, the producers, everyone—they look at you. You’re on the hook. So you make a choice. If it’s the wrong choice, you’ll face the music. But in resolving to make that choice, you’ve learned and you’ve gained.

Resolve is trusting your insight, your instinct, your vision—knowing that when it’s done, they’ll get it. It’s that silent monologue that says, “Shut up… I’m the cook. This is my kitchen. I know how to make what I’m making.”

For me, that came a bit after writing the first act. Notes were coming, but I plugged my ears and started just writing. I sent a very respectful email that ultimately said—I’ll figure it out in the writing, not the outline. Then I simply went offline. Everyone but the cooks were expelled, and the kitchen doors were closed. And then I got to work.

Twenty pages… break… twenty more pages… then ten, then twenty. By now, the ending of the story was inevitable.

It was a Friday morning. The night before I intended on keeping pace—twenty pages. But when I woke up, I had enough. I would not sleep until I was done. Today was the day. A buildup of resolve triggered “an ultimate” (gamer slang), and in a mad, furious dash, I blasted my way to the end. 120 pages. In a moment of serendipity, my very curated writing music playlist aligned perfectly to the scene I was writing, with the last note landing as I typed the last letter. It was cathartic. I looked up at my barista—only to realize I had totally missed the shift change — I was looking at an entirely different barista—and exclaimed, “DONE!”

He was, of course, bewildered at first; but by now all the staff who saw me come in religiously for a week straight knew what it was about.

There’s something about that high I could get used to. I immediately sent it out—yet still with the thought, “Notes be damned, I finished the story.”

I closed my laptop and felt empty. Not the bad empty that comes after closing out a show’s theater run, but the “I have nothing left to give” empty. All the words inside me were on the page.

So for the last two weeks, I put the story and writing out of my mind. I know that 120 pages is fated to meet the ravenous thirst of a blade hellbent on cutting those pages down to time—but that’s for a later moment.

But now I feel words again. And so… I’m back.

For those of you who stayed for the end, I have a treat for you. This is one of my favorite scenes, but it’s going to get cut. To keep myself out of trouble, I’ve changed the names, and I can’t give more context than what’s already there because this moment can’t be part of that story anymore. It’s now for another story… and for you to enjoy now:

The only context…Ashley loves Timothy,