My very first screenplay was ghastly. Oh, the pain of reading it! It’s a mythological fantasy adventure and it was great fun to write. But it’s ghastly! So is everyone else’s first screenplay. So what? Well, I’m spending several hours a day rewriting it, that’s what! And, it is such a bad read that I wear a paper sack over my head so I don’t have to see my own reflection in the screen of my laptop.

I love the story, but I can’t think of anything mean enough to say about the writing. This particular screenplay, however, is the only one I’ve written that ever advanced in a screenwriting competition. How is that possible when the writing is so poor?

In Writing the Wrong Story, I mentioned that I didn’t ever want to give anyone who reads my work cause to say, “it’s not a bad story, it’s just written that way.” Well, it took reading my own blog and two and half years to figure this out (yeah, I’m really that green of a newbie). Never say never. My first screenplay was not a bad story. It was just written that way.

So I was learning music this week, convinced that it was the wrong song for me, and I had an epiphany…or car sickness. I’m not sure. Either way I began to wonder if that sinking feeling also comes to screenwriters who force themselves to write something that they know in their guts they don’t have a knack for writing. I am not talking about professionals here because yeah, SO MANY of them read this blog. I mean wannabe writers who are good at one form or genre of writing but insist on writing another.

I should back up.

I probably haven’t mentioned that I sing. I am the absolute very best of the mediocre. I’m also one sixth of an all female ensemble. We don’t advertise, don’t have a web site, and never sell CD’s, t-shirts, or autographed photos at any of our performances. Still, we get plenty of bookings. Somebody who hears us tells their great Aunt Bertha and next thing you know, we’re invited on a cruise or to sing at a women’s event, opry house, or baseball game. We’re amateurs but our combined voices get us star treatment wherever we sing.

Word of mouth. No advertising. How does that happen?

We’re very careful that what we sing is perfect for the collective “voice” of our group. Not every song, no matter how good it is, works for us. A great arrangement could be disastrous if it doesn’t fit our balance, the textures of our voices, or personalities. We’ve learned the hard way where our weaknesses are. We don’t sing songs that are heavy in the middle and rarely sing two part arrangements. They just sound lazy. We like complex arrangements, tight harmony and three or more parts. Most importantly, we insist on learning the music so well that we aren’t focused on mechanics during a performance.

On American Idol, the judges often say something like, “You’re a good singer and it’s a great song, but it was the wrong song for you.” In many cases, NO song will work for that voice and they’re just softening the blow. But usually, that statement means that the singer just needed a better fit for his or her voice. Just because you love the song doesn’t mean you can sing it. Well, just because you love the story, does that qualify you to write it?

In screenwriting, we are advised by some to write what we know and by others to write what we love. But shouldn’t we also write what we’re good at writing? What if we have no knack for writing what we love? If we are supposed to write the stories in our heads, is it even possible to write the wrong story?

We writers need to know where our strengths and weaknesses are. I don’t write rom coms because I frequently misplace my sense of humor (hey, I sing at a LOT of funerals). My strength is in drama. That’s not to say that a drama writer can’t learn to write rom coms or that there is not humor in drama, but unproduced writers should certainly showcase their best work.

We know that there are good stories that are poorly written, but aren’t there also bad stories that are well written?

I’m reminded of a line from Who Framed Roger Rabbit where Jessica says, “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” I don’t want to give anyone who reads my work cause to say, “it’s not a bad story, it’s just written that way.”

So, you tell me. Can a screenwriter actually write the wrong story?

So, you’ve birthed the most contemptible villain to ever scourge a keyboard (let’s call him Bob) and now it’s time to get rid of him. Act three rolls around and you still don’t know how you’re going to bring Bob to his knees. Thwarting him isn’t enough. You want to crush him.

Question posed to Wordplayers: do you catch him or kill him?

Why does the author think there are only two doors?

Door (1) Kill him. Okay, we got that one. But, let’s come up with something clever like death by gold bricks (Mask of Zorro), death by corn (Witness), strap the villain’s shoulder holster to a maverick missile on a Harrier’s wing (True Lies), or take him out with a deadly accurate hat (Goldfinger).

Door (2) Catch him. But don’t JUST catch him. Find a clever way to catch him and that doesn’t mean just any ol’ chase scene. Are there even chase scenes left to write that we haven’t already seen? How about we hang Bob with the bra of the stripper he just murdered and only cut him down when he confesses?

Door (3) Villain lives a life worse than death. Maybe he catches the disease he was using to poison the community’s water supply, has to live without arms and legs, or murders transvestites and then somehow becomes one. How? I don’t know. That’s for the writer to figure out. Remember how miserable Red was when he was paroled in Shawshank Redemption? Death was preferable to life. In one Twilight Zone episode, a swindler’s holy water made him blind.

Door (4) Suicide. Okay, this one could rob the audience of the satisfaction of seeing justice served, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Maybe Bob kills himself so his nemesis won’t get the glory.

Door (5) Villain escapes. Done right, it could work. Hannibal Lector did it in Silence of the Lambs and it ended the film on an odd mixture of trepidation, disappointment, and relief.

Door (6) Leave the Door Open. Did he live? Did he die? Did he escape? A lot depends on the genre of the film and not every story can be crafted in a way that the audience would accept this type of ending, but it it can work, especially in horror films and films like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Ghostbusters.

Door (7) Accidental Death. Talk about cheating the audience! But, maybe you don’t think the audience would accept the protagonist with blood on his hands and this will work better.

Door (8) Villain Undetected. The audience knows, but most of the players don’t. This is a toughie and off hand, the only film I can think of is Presumed Innocent where the killer turned out to be a protatonist, but there must be others.

Other doors? I’m sure I’ve missed some. Aliens take Bob (X Files) or Bob goes into a vegetative state after taking his own wife off life support, or maybe Bob suffers memory loss when the old woman that he is swindling decides to bludgeon Bob with a can of turnip greens. Maybe he becomes mentally retarded or hypnotised into thinking he’s somebody else.

These are more than two options here. It doesn’t have to be as simple as catch him or kill him or as silly as aliens and turnip green cans. Some stories will require the simple resolution but others demand a more creative downfall for the villain.

What are some doors I’ve overlooked?

UPDATE: Karl Moeller added catch and release - find a way to help the villain change inside, permanently, in a way that’s clear to the meanest understanding. And then have your Hero Team turn the villain loose.