come to love.” Or, for a simpler example: “The women of Stepford have a secret.” Before long, either full log lines (like the one from The Last Samurai) or “hooks” (like the one from The Stepford Wives) became necessary to pitch films, episodes, and series, not merely to log them or advertise.
A log line for a series may be less specific than the story summaries you’ll use for individual episodes. The goal is to orient a listener (yes, listener, not reader) to your project, to catch an executive’s attention. “MTV Cops” is a famous log line for Miami Vice from an era when MTV was new and hot. Grey’s Anatomy, on the heels of the success of Sex and the City, was described as “Sex and the Surgery.” When he was first presenting The O.C., Josh Schwartz knew the Fox network was looking for an updated Beverly Hills 90210, so he pitched his show as “90210 on the beach in Orange County,” and later admitted that was a Trojan horse to set up a far more nuanced show.
Once your log line sizzles, take the first couple of pages of your format for an Overview. This is not a summary of the pilot (a common mistake), but an introduction to the world and the quest of the whole series, including location, style, tone, context, and, most of all, characters. Though full characterizations come later, the main cast must be mentioned up front. Use brief tags like “a single, middle-aged probation officer who adopts a child from one of her cases” (from Allison Anders’ series proposal In the Echo); “a 29-year-old Congressional aide running against her boss” (from Rod Lurie’s proposed The Capital City).
Within this Overview, suggest springboards for future episodes so decision-makers believe the series has legs. That is, state the source of future episodes, for example: Each week the character must balance the tension of her marriage with the intrigue and politics of a legal case; each week the detectives pursue three cases, walking a thin line between vigilante justice and the job; each week we fall in love with the vampire, only to discover we’re bitten again. As in any fiction writing, make ‘em laugh, cry, be scared or angry or fall in love. The overview may be as far as you get in a pitch, so make it soar.
Follow the Overview with the centerpiece of any series: characters. If viewers don’t root for your main cast, if they’re not compelled to find out how the people are coping or loving or fighting back each week, you don’t have anything. Remember, TV drama isn’t really about the concept; it runs on the emotional fuel of endless character arcs, as discussed in Chapter One.
Take one page each for the few leading roles. I said few. Yes, you’ve seen excellent ensemble shows with casts in double-digits, but in a proposal, the listener’s eyes will glaze over after you get past your third or fourth character. So focus on one fascinating, eminently castable character and engage us in her spirit and goals. You can do that again with roles for antagonists or partners, providing their connections to the protagonist are gripping. Beyond those few, summarize the secondary cast with only a tag for each, even if those parts will grow later.
After the characters, you need to tell some stories. You might summarize a potential pilot in a couple of pages. (More about pilot writing in a moment.) But networks really need the sense of a mid-season episode because that’s a window to how the show functions every week. Some proposals focus on episode seven. Some list log lines for five to ten potential episodes. Some describe the long arc and the end of the quest after five years on the air. Whichever method suits your series best, be sure that you communicate an arena so rich that its possibilities seem endless.
That’s it for standard components, but that’s not it for a proposal. People refer to series pitches as dog-and-pony shows, and so far I haven’t suggested any special enticements, furry or otherwise. Try photos, artwork, clippings, endorsements, biographies — come up with something fun. But don’t do the baked goods angle; it’s been tried, and readers get annoyed. You know, placing your proposal in a cake so the executive is sure to notice it. However, if your show is set in a bakery, maybe you should get cooking!
(2) Write a Pilot
Pilot scripts are assigned by networks in the course of development, and I’ll tell you how that works when we get to September on the chart. (We’re still only in April.) Normally, producers proposing a new series don’t go in with a pilot already written because it’s too expensive for something not likely to succeed (most proposals die, and so do most pilots). Also, network reactions might change the series. Why spend $30,000 or more for a script about a hermaphrodite in a beauty pageant when the network will only buy if the contestant is a poodle? But if your writing is not known, and you’re passionate that a sample would convince readers, then speculating a pilot could be smart strategy.
Matt Weiner, creator of Mad Men, wrote the pilot while he was toiling away on sitcoms. At the time no one would buy it, but the quality of the writing landed him on the writing staff of The Sopranos. Years honing his skills on that great show and winning awards finally made it possible for him to film the Mad Men pilot made exactly as he’d envisioned it long before.
J. Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5, is said to have written all five years of his series while he was on the staff of a Star Trek, so Babylon 5 was finished before he ever proposed it. But don’t try that at home, folks.
Short of writing 100 episodes, the worst you risk is another unsold script. If it’s written well, a pilot can serve as a writing sample along with any other screenplays or episodes. And as soon as you have clout (or know someone who does), you can take it off your shelf.
For more about writing a pilot, see the “Spotlight On Writing Your Pilot Script” between Chapters Four and Five.
(3) Write a “Backdoor Pilot”
A backdoor pilot is a two-hour movie, and might be a clever way to propel a series. The game involves writing a pilot that masquerades as a movie, and, in fact, works as a closed story. But the seeds of subsequent tales and promising character developments are embedded in a situation that could easily spring many episodes.
You could offer it as a screenplay and be thunderstruck when someone else observes that it could lead to a series. Or you could come clean with your intentions up front. Depends on who you’re dealing with, but you certainly should tell an agent what you have in mind. Another compromise is the “limited series” (which used to be called “miniseries”). That’s longer than a movie but less of a commitment than a full season, usually running six to eight hours over several weeks. If the movie (or limited series) does well, you have a great shot at the series. Either the backdoor pilot or the “partial order” gives a network a chance to hedge the bet. And if it doesn’t go to series, you still have a movie script.
(4) Create a Presentation Reel
A showrunner once invited me to his office to discuss a series that had suddenly landed in his lap. He didn’t have a clue about it, he said uneasily; it was loosely based on a hit movie and had been sold as a series on the basis of a 15-minute reel made by one of the movie’s producers who didn’t have time to do the show. So the newly anointed executive producer was hastily interviewing writers to find the series. The problem was that 15 minutes of “possible scenes” using the movie producer’s actor friends (who would not be in the actual series either) didn’t add up. Not that the 15 minutes weren’t cinematic — they were beautifully atmospheric — but the group in the office were TV writers looking for the kinds of elements I’ve told you about: a) springboards suggesting where stories would come from; b) characters with potential for long arcs; c) some sort of quest or motor for the star. The reel turned out to be sort of a Rorschach test: everyone came up with a different
