You've done it. You've fleshed out realistic, compelling characters with conflict-driving dynamics, you've beat out and outlined a solid story based on that work, and your treatment urges the reader forward, eager to know where the protagonist is headed. (It even propels you forward, and you already know what happens! Or so you think...)

You've just opened your screenwriting software and confidently typed up your title page. It's time, at last, for page one. One of two things is about to happen, and there's a fix for both:

• Unbridled "World-Building." After being deep in your head for (ideally) months, you are finally facing a wide-open screen. All of the rules and contemplations and craft of character, story and structure are behind you. Now you can type what you want! Elaborate skylines are constructed, people bustle on detailed streets, extremely specific music floats from your mind to the page (sure to convey to every reader the emotion the song has always evoked in you). The characters that have been living confined in your brain are having casual conversations, their voices peppering a page that finally has slug lines in glorious caps. The weather, the neighborhood, the vibe of your creative vision pour effortlessly forth. You confidently fill page one with paragraphs of descriptive text and audio and visual references, believing you are providing critical context to the reader before your story begins.

You confidently fill page one with paragraphs of descriptive text and audio and visual references, believing you are providing critical context to the reader before your story begins.

• Blank Page Syndrome. After working out the specificity of your awesome characters and bandying about the many possible storylines and episodes you could take them on (ideally 100!), you have no idea where to start. None. Anything, literally, is possible; how can you begin to choose? You've studied craft, so you know there needs to be a Set Up. But that's the start of your actual plot, and something seems like it would be missing. Or, or...you didn't do any of the pre-work to build characters and related storylines — and you're still in the same position, facing that ruthless blank page. Anything could happen...but what exactly should?

When you're in "Unbridled 'World-Building'" mode, this is what you see:

And, gently, this...is what your reader sees:

Of course, when you're in blank page syndrome, no one's seeing anything. Even a tumbleweed rolling across the page would be welcome. Maybe you could make it a Western!

Breathe in, breathe out. The answer to both dilemmas is simple. You never start writing your script on page 1. You actually start writing your script on what will become page 3 or 4 (or 5 — we see you, genre, fantasy and period pieces). If you've enjoyed exercising your craft to get here, you have a clear storyline that's ready for the page. That's what you'll begin writing. And, as you know, once you type that first character's name, they're going to take over. They're going to sound like they want to sound, thanks very much. They're going to spar with the antagonist in a surprisingly different...unexpected...wait, are they flirting with each other? Anyway, they're going to snatch the keyboard away from you and bring you along for their ride.

You never start writing your script on page 1. You actually start writing your script on what will become page 3 or 4.

Congratulations! You've entered pure creative, channeling mode.

If you haven't entered script stage with strong character and story development already in place, this may still happen, but it won't make the remaining pages any better than the first one that you're struggling with. Shut down your screenwriting software and do the preparatory work that will make this part easier and delightful and sometimes fascinating and often, honestly, still terrifying. Let's just focus on the "easier" piece and call it a win.

The time to write your real page one, and the rest of your 1-4 page Set Up, is after you've typed the very last word of your script, stepped away, revisited a few times and adjusted, and shared with a trusted reader. Is the character consistent on the page? Do they arc in the course of the story? Is there a single theme? Do the relationships evolve; does the tension keep escalating? Do you care what happens and feel driven to find out what does?

Once all those answers are yes, it's time to, literally, start your script. And now you have the building blocks you need for a memorable and effective set up, one that clearly establishes your main character's core, governing trait and why it works for them in their current world. You absolutely cannot know that until you finish the script. Believe me! Your characters will take on lives on their own. Let them. Then capture that lightning in a single moment that helps us understand why they are accepting of their "old world," no matter how awful it may be, and why, as a result, they are going to reject the "new world" that's about to be sprung on them in a few pages. As I write in "Write It, Pitch It, Sell Your Screenplay":

"The Set-Up establishes the normal existence and expectations of your Main Character.  But not every minute and action and person in every typical day! Just the specific values and relationships necessary to give meaning to the upcoming Unexpected Change." — DMA Anderson

If you save the Set Up for last, you will find yourself facing a wide world of possibilities again, but this time, they come with a clear, filtering purpose: prepping your protagonist and the reader for the ride ahead. And this time, it's based on establishing your character to center your story in their change, rather than establishing the physical environment to center your reader in the location. Stop trying to prepare your reader for the entire story, and switch to preparing your reader solely for the Unexpected Change. What do they need to know in order to understand and care when the Main Character says no? That's what makes them want to know how you're going to organically force your protag reluctantly into that journey anyway. (And not because someone is going to die and grant them an inheritance if they say yes. Remove that beat!)

Stop trying to prepare your reader for the entire story, and switch to preparing your reader solely for the Unexpected Change. What do they need to know in order to understand and care when the Main Character says no?

Of course, there's a third possibility as you face that blank screen: you've done all your foundational work, you know exactly how you want to kick off the story, and you're ready — and prepared! — to begin. Still wait. Let your characters have their day and their say and their way with what will soon become their words. You may end up using the same Set Up at the end; you may come up with several more. But you'll have all the insights you need to make an impactful choice that draws a delightful, indelible line from Fade In to Fade Out.

Now take a moment to revisit that title page. Are you suuuure that's the best name for your script?

Every week, the hardest part of reading a script is flipping from the title page to Page One. (Unless the title page itself is awash in various fonts and images. Or has a typo. In which case, much of my hard work already is done.) When I take the plunge and turn to that first page, I know what I’m excited to see: an intimate, distinct — and if it’s a comedy, laugh-out-loud funny — character reveal. I want to eavesdrop into a micro-moment in the main character’s day where they make a micro-choice that clearly demonstrates their core trait…and teases two upcoming things:

1. What imminent Unexpected Change, what applecart upset, will thrust this character reluctantly into a New World where their core trait absolutely cannot succeed; AND
2. How will this core trait, which they invariably lead with and cannot turn off, constantly cause them to be the Architect of their Own Demise (ideally for 100 episodes)?

Your protagonist’s core trait is the defining element of story. Absolutely everything revolves around, butts up against, and/or spins off from that North Star. First, your New World is defined by its diametric opposition to your main character’s central, governing trait. If your protagonist can succeed in the New World exactly as they are on the first page, then I have nowhere to take them. Survival in the New World won’t require them to learn lessons, grow, fall down, and pivot, so there’s no basis for conflict or character arc in the story. Second, your secondary characters exist only to create friction and growth opportunities for the main character. Their roles and traits must put pressure on your main character, so if there’s no core trait, there’s no magnetic center to build your other characters in reaction to. And finally, the thing that makes main characters both authentic and relatable is that they feel real. And real people have real dominant traits that really inform the really awesome to really awful things they really do. Those traits are why we really love, despise, long for and run from the people we encounter in real life. For real.

Your protagonist’s core trait is the defining element of story. Absolutely everything revolves around, butts up against, and/or spins off from that North Star.

Some glorious examples of classic page one protagonist gold include:

• 30 Rock pilot (2005). Liz Lemon battling the guy who steps out of the hot dog line and breaks accepted cart protocol. Her choice? Liz buys “allll the hot dogs.” Liz controls environments. She keeps the order. (Of course, she’s a showrunner!) So I know her New World reporting to the Vice President of East Coast Television and Microwave Oven Programming is going to be mired in chaos. Control vs chaos? That’s a clear, relatable, organic core conflict.
• Abbott Elementary pilot (2021). Janine wrangling a roomful of students that clearly have more understanding of the real world than she allows into her own sunny POV, and fixing in the moment — or noting to fix in the future — any deviations from that optimistic world view. Janine controls environments. She fixes what needs fixing. So we know that her just-begun year two in the classroom will be even more chaos.
• Leave the World Behind screenplay (2022). Amanda announcing to her still-sleeping husband that in the midst of his potential employment woes, she’s booked an expensive house at the beach. Which is why she’s packing for him and, shortly, their still-sleeping, equally unaware kids. She…well…she (cough) controls environments. She takes no input. So I know her New World is going to be the ultimate chaos.

All right, we’re going to leave the deeper conversations about controlling female protagonists (and about the ending of LTWB — LOVED IT! FIGHT ME!)  to another post.

What I want to, long to, cannot wait to, am always thrilled to see on your script’s page one…is a small, simple, human moment in the main character’s familiar old world that showcases how they move, innately, through a space. What trait they lead with and fall back on the most. When I see that, I settle in for the read.

But I rarely see it. Instead, I see a lot of text on the page. Paragraph-long action lines. Sometimes detailed descriptions of shots, camera angles, posters on walls, and music lyrics. Always skylines for the city, and, inexplicably, quite often scenes of the character brushing their teeth. Pause on all of that for now. Just open one of your scripts and read the first page. Does your main character even appear? If so, do they make a character-revealing choice on that page? If so, does that revealed character trait directly inform and propel the rest of the script?

Open one of your scripts and read the first page. Does your main character even appear?

If not, that’s the opportunity for infusion of craft that lies immediately ahead. If you have a completed script, ask yourself what your character’s single, dominant trait is (or might be, if you’re not sure). Then go scene by scene through the script and precisely note which scenes are driven by that trait, which characters are in friction with that trait, and how the character shifts regarding that trait, however infinitesimally, near the end of the script. Make no assumptions or adjustments for things that don’t perfectly match. It has to be that exact trait in action on the page. And ideally, it shows up and starts driving the story on page one. In the course of this review, you will most likely find that your main character has absolutely no dominant trait that’s informing anything…or you might find that the character you thought you wrote became their own person on the page by the end of the script.

For example, if you saw LTWB, you’ll notice Amanda’s core trait is repeatedly articulated on the page/screen as “misanthropy.” So the new world would have to introduce human connection (and, spoiler alert, it certainly does), which would be a clear, organic core conflict. No misanthrope wants to be forced to intimately connect to others. However…to me, her choices and conflict most frequently were rooted in controlling outcomes. So, maybe she hates people as a consequence of not being able to control them? That’s why reviewing and considering what you’ve actually written, versus what you intended to write or believe you have written, is helpful and critical to developing your story.

Reviewing and considering what you’ve actually written, versus what you intended to write or believe you have written, is helpful and critical to developing your story.

One final note: your main character’s dominant trait-revealing choice doesn’t always have to appear precisely on page one. In sci-fi, fantasy and period pieces, writers first might briefly establish the culture and mores of their world or times, or briefly establish the “before-times” to give context to the new order and, more importantly, to provide necessary information to understand how the core trait of the character fits in this world. Then we narrow focus to a character-revealing moment and choice to anchor the story and hook the reader. In these genres, you’ll still need that choice to appear in the first three pages of a script, but please feel free to wow your reader by getting right into it on page one.

And if it’s not on page one? What I’ve learned from reading, literally, thousands of scripts, is that the script itself most likely is a Page One rewrite. Because if the most essential element of character — their core trait — isn’t yet on the page, none of the other elements of story and structure are anchored in anything. The script may be entertaining to read as a one-episode sample, but it’s not yet a 100-episode story…because those are guided, always, by a clearly drawn character with a central, core, dominant, governing, go-to, North Star trait.

I'm writing this on a Friday, and like many execs and producers across L.A., I’m facing my weekend read with apprehension. Not because of the height of the stack (typically smaller at this time of year), but because of the temptation of it.

I...LOVE...reading writing samples.

They’re like a literary first date with a writer. And unlike driving behind a stop-and-start delivery truck on a narrow canyon road en route to an L.A. restaurant that inexplicably has no parking lot in a restricted residential parking neighborhood, every writing sample offers the promise of something delicious: an unexplored slice of life, a relationship beat that resonates, a laugh-out-loud scene, the perfect cadence of that one character’s dialogue… That’s the role of the writing sample: to show how well, and how specifically, a writer captures character, voice, choices and moments on the page. The whole idea is to say, “See? Now imagine what I will do on YOUR project!”

To be clear, most samples in a given stack are decidedly NOT great. Maybe 1 in 30 will be. That’s the one that compels you past the first 10 pages all the way to the fade. And the next thing you know, you’re calling the rep (or following up on your waiver) to say, “Let’s meet.”

To be clear, most samples in a given stack are decidedly NOT great. Maybe 1 in 30 will be.

Why do I call? I’m always wildly curious about what motivated a writer to create a great writing sample. I want to ask tons of questions, see what else is underneath a character, a world, a moment, a sentiment I caught a glimmer of. And when those calls go well, and how I love when they do, sometimes I take an unexpected next step in the relationship and say: “I’d like to develop this.”

And this moment, like those dimly lit, parking-ticketed dinners, is where Producers are from Mars and Writers are from Venus. Because we often aren’t yet having the same conversation. The writer, and sometimes their rep, thinks I “really” mean: I want to take this script, as it is written, and start shopping it to my Rolodex (Gen X)/Contacts (Gen Y)/Out-of-Life-Balance, Aging Co-Conspirators (Gen Z. They’re not wrong). Or that I'll give them notes on a couple of passes and then take their script, again, pretty much as written, out to market. And no matter how clearly and repeatedly I explain my true intentions for their project, which I sincerely have feelings for, I very rarely succeed in explaining that we often will have to do a page 11-rewrite to transform said writing sample into a sellable pilot.

That’s because a writing sample delivers a one-episode character. Your great writing sample protagonist has a clear voice and memorable dialogue, moves with granular and escalating choices through a defined mini-mission, and/or showcases secondary characters vividly on the page. A sample’s goal is to demonstrate your skill as a writer, to close or wholly eliminate any gap between what I need done on my show and what you will be able to do on Day One of your hire. To shift you from “drive on” to “parking space,” from lunch at home to team lunch order…after team lunch order…to bringing your own lunch from home to the room.

A writing sample delivers a one-episode character.

Your great writing sample doesn’t have to worry about setting up the core trait of a protagonist that drives their every self-limiting choice…deftly building the authentic new world you’re going to drop them into so it constantly and increasingly conflicts with that trait…finely crafting distinct secondary characters and placing them in organic roles in that world to fully dimensionalize that protagonist…establishing the stakes, jeopardy and glue that will challenge your lead on their new mission…or weaving in a clear, relatable, resonant theme that guides them like a reluctant, recalcitrant, resistant little North Star on their way.

That’s because when you’re staffed on a project, the show’s creator(s), producers and executives already have done that work. They just need you to flow with the characters and world they’ve already fought the beautiful battles for.

They already wrote, shopped and sold…a PILOT.

A pilot absolutely has to unveil a 100-episode character. Not something entertaining in a single read; something absolutely undeniable in the vision it unfolds for a character season after season. (Okay, yes, our industry has changed, so your pilot may only make it to eight episodes before social media begins decrying its untimely demise, but it still needs 100-episode-level vision.) (Okay, okay, I also know you’re not going to make old-fashioned 100-episode residuals if it isn’t a broadcast show, but the creative rules of our “show” have not changed as much as the financial rules of our “business.”)

A pilot absolutely has to unveil a 100-episode character. Not something entertaining in a single read; something absolutely undeniable in the vision it unfolds for a character season after season.

A 100-episode character has to be clearly set up, on page one, with a singular and memorable, core trait-revealing moment. Then within the next few pages, that new world has to arrive. And the reluctant mission must begin. Meanwhile, each character must arrive organically, with their own mini-mission and traits and relationship dynamic, applying their specific pressure to the protagonist, starting their own dovetailing stories. The protagonist must fully arc in the episode, yet somehow only move a grain of sugar (or salt) towards evolution, so we have somewhere to take them...for 99 more episodes. And the single, solitary, crystal clear theme has to be established and sewn into the fabric of every scene and into the choices, wins, losses, escalations and retreats of our characters.

A great pilot is so well-executed that through its synopsis alone, a roomful of writers can instantly start pitching possible episodes and generate laughter, familiarity, tension and even tears because they all immediately know what these characters would do. Not what they did that one time, in your great writing sample, but what they will do 100 times, in an ever-evolving fashion, towards becoming better people and making the world a better place. (And before you say it, yes, even if it’s Walter White. Watch that series finale again.)

Of course, not every writing sample could be a great pilot, and not many great pilots start from writing samples. But in the event yours IS that great sample, and you’re ready for it to become a great pilot, the first step is to reframe. It’s not your premise, or the plot, or that one joke, or that moment everyone mentions, or the characters themselves that make a sample pilot-worthy. It’s the promise of one or a few of those things. And like all relationships, building out that promise and making it great will take dedicated work.

Or, you can shop and sell your sample as-is without doing all that work. It happens! But should you find yourself in development hell as a result, here’s a weekend read especially for you.

Writers, there is a special place called "development hell," that is more accurately called "writer's purgatory." I want to tell you why it happens so you can see when it's looming ahead and avert the crisis in favor of a creative win.

Development hell happens because someone in the creative pipeline - a prod co, studio or network exec - saw something they liked in the premise or the plot of your pitch, and they said, "let's do this." (Not "I love it!" That almost never means what you think it means or what the actual study of English language literally means it means.)

That kernel of an idea was filled with promise, and docs were signed, and deals were flowed, and cash was likely not exchanged. And there you were "in development." (Aside: someone definitely told you or your reps this project wasn't ready yet, and you or your reps definitely just told them that it has gone into development, so there!)

Now come the notes. After the slow-motion pace of finalizing the agreement comes the surprise acceleration towards, "Okay, where are we?" That begins the push towards product. And in this industry, product is a treatment or a script. So everyone is going to urge you towards writing, and hear this deeply, "plot" because that's what you brought to the table that excited them. There then will be many meetings about "What if this happens?" or "Why does this happen?" and you will ponder and pitch ideas and go back to your initial pages and write more complicated and sometimes convoluted permutations of plot.

Everyone is going to urge you towards writing, and hear this deeply, "plot" because that's what you brought to the table that excited them.

And you will never emerge. After many months of this, you will be pushed to "go to script" to see if you can somehow "crack the story," and the notes will continue and the contradictions will surge, and your rep will Zoom-rub your shoulders, and you will be irritable and weary, and your prod co will be more irritable and weary, and your studio and network execs will remain oddly cheerful because the coffee is powerful and ever-flowing in those legendary buildings.

At the end of a year or so, the development term will expire, and the project will go quietly into that good night of turnaround or "we own it even if we don't want it but you definitely do not get to do anything else with it." And lutes will be strummed, and lore will say, "the writer couldn't crack it." (Really, it's the execs who will say this. And sometimes your rep, just never to you.)

Lutes will be strummed, and lore will say, "the writer couldn't crack it."

How do we record scratch this moment? We're not wondering how you got here; we know how you got here. Now, you will know, too.

You are in development hell because you led with premise or plot instead of characters. You pitched a series of scintillating sequential events instead of a compelling, complex character. You wrote, as I say, from the outside in. You wrote exciting things about "what happened to my character next" instead of grounded, revealing illustrations of "what my character inevitably did next." And you can't effectively develop plot points.

You can't. Develop. Plot points.

Plot is only meaningful as a manifestation of your character's values, desires, risks and changes. It is an expression of character, not a replacement for it. Without character, everyone is just debating ideas for events, in meeting after meeting - and without the anchor of a character, their core trait, their organic tension, every possible event is going to be considered a *viable* possible event. And you will chase those possibilities until the sand runs through to the bottom of the glass.

Plot is only meaningful as a manifestation of your character's values, desires, risks and changes. It is an expression of character, not a replacement for it.

You will not go into development hell if, before you ever pitch a thing, you do the deep, glorious, revealing work of finding, defining and forming a real character. That is the craft that will guide your project. And that is the reason anyone will ultimately watch your project. The world didn’t devour “Wednesday” for its depth of plot; they watched it for the astonishingly specific character (and the amazing performances). “Squid Game” would be a one note gore-fest without the beauty of flaws and arc of its perfect protagonist. You will follow him on that plane into S2, no matter where it takes him or you, because that character has you in a hold. And it’s not a scripted rule of craft either; social media is filled with reality show fans talking about cast member’s names and who they root for and against. Watch any award-winning doc and see how they root the story not in the literal events but in the characters who experienced them, what decisions they made, and how they changed for better or worse as a result.

Please, pitch characters, not plot. Develop character journeys, not plot points. And if a development opportunity comes your way, the very first meetings you and your rep must insist on having is a deep dive into and sign off on the protagonist and supporting characters. Not their physical descriptions, jobs and catch phrases. Their essential selves, true norths, conflict with the world.

What if you’re currently in development hell? You still can get out and back on track to a producible project. Temporarily stop trying to organically land aliens at the end of Act Two and schedule a character dive before you do any more plot pivots. Come to that meeting with your characters built out, arced and dynamic. Have that conversation as soon as you possibly can.

Temporarily stop trying to organically land aliens at the end of Act Two and schedule a character dive before you do any more plot pivots.

And that person who told you it wasn’t ready yet? Grab a coffee with them and see if they might remember or share their thoughts from way back when, because it may be helpful craft for your next foray into development.