Blog

This fall, I will have been writing prose for thirty-three years. It is the one thing in my life that I have stuck with.

The journey as a writer began in college in 1992. I did not attend a fancy or prestigious college but a small, modest one, a community college, where writing prose found me through those mandatory English requirements.

I wrote, and I wrote a lot, a lot of bad prose from 1992 to 1997. They were the “apprentice years” as the late author, Paul Auster, called them.

I wrote novels then, miserably failing at the Great American Novel and having to settle for what I called “The Great American ‘Short’ Novel”.

In 2003, my first work of prose got published, a collection of three novellas through a semi-vanity press who claimed they rejected over sixty percent of the manuscripts they received. I had written entry-level fiction, I like to call it, by this time. Not Pulitzer Prize-winning prose but good enough prose to get published, or hoped to get published, and a publisher that rejection most of the manuscripts they received was good enough for me.

Very modest book sales followed. Not what I had hoped for. I was, sadly, naive.

Up until that time, I had a literary agent from Peoria, IL, who failed to land me a publishing contract with a traditional publisher for a collection of short stories I wrote.

In 2008, Clarion Books (Random House) request the first three chapters of a novella I had written. Suspense. Women’s fiction.

That ultimately fell through.

When you come that far and that close as a published novelist and look back at what you have been through, you cannot just turn back. For me, it was already too late. I had already fallen too deeply in love with writing prose.

I still wanted more than anything to become a traditionally publisher author. Can you only become an author through traditional publishing? Does self-publishing even count? Perhaps I am being too hard on myself.

Then the demon of digital publishing emerged. All you needed was a half-baked book and an internet connection, which I had and turned to. I felt I was proven enough, had paid my dues enough, to venture in this direction, and I have been published through that route ever since as, I guess you could call it, an “amateur author”.

But you have to be careful with the self-publishing platform. It can easily be mistaken for a “plank” as in “walking the plank”. Self-publishing, in particular through Amazon, makes it dangerously too easy to publish prose, prose that is not polished, and that, I believe, has been the reason I have not succeeded, why I have not been read by a wider audience.

So, I am trying to resurrect my career, being much more precise at polishing my prose. I thought, several times, about taking on a pen name, but frankly, I believe, it is both as hassle and taking the easy way out, and you are really starting over, throwing those thirty-three years away. Maybe if you are just a few years in, but not two thirds of your lifetime.

I am not saying that I am turning to the dark side of publishing with self-publishing; what I am saying, which I now believe, is that sometimes, the road to being traditionally published goes through independent publishing. Maybe an easier, more comprehendable was of saying it is that “you have to go through the minor leagues of publishing to get to the big league of book publishing or traditional publishing”.

When you choose independently publishing, you have to put your unpublished book through “book camp”, though editing it, creating its cover, in writing the book blurb, which, I think, can be way more difficult to write than the book itself.

When I began the journey writing prose, I had two ultimate goals—one, to write the Great American Novel, and two, publish it through a traditional NYC publisher. Let’s face it. There’s no point in trying to deny it. NYC is the publishing capital of the world. There is a reason the Writer’s Guild East is headquartered there. For me, it was a pride thing—getting published through a traditional, NYC publisher.

So, I wrote prose and sent prose in, only to receive an avalanche of rejection letters. Round after round, I sent prose in, and round after round, I received avalanche of rejection letters. Not enough to wallpaper an entire room but enough to fill a few shoe boxes.

I was determined to become a published novelist—nothing would do but a traditional NYC publisher.

I felt I had no other option—I turned to the necessary evil of self-publishing. For around $250, they published a collection of three novellas.

Reality check.

I assumed—and you know what happens when you assume—this publisher edited manuscripts.

My collection was published “riddled with errors”—typos, misspelled words, and an onslaught of semi-colons. It was embarrassing!

Lucky, I corrected the problem before the book had been on Amazon for too long.

Then KDP emerged, and I went with it, in the meantime, still receiving landslides of rejection letters from literary agents and traditional publishers. Yes, you guessed it—from NYC.

KDP, as most of you know, is a Print-on-Demand publisher. They do “not” edit your manuscript, they do “not” design your book cover, and they certainly do “not” market your book. Just publishing your book, throwing it up on Amazon, and hoping for the best is “not” book marketing. It is more like pinning your book up on a bulletin that looks like a pinata of Post-it note—which will eventually be buried under other Post-it notes.

To be a self-published author, you cannot underestimate your readers, believing your story is so good that they’ll let a book “riddled with errors” ride. There is the suspension of disbelief—not “the suspension of bad grammar”.

It turned out I still had not edited my novellas well enough. You have to edit the shit out of you books, over and over again. You have to design a book cover that is good enough for an art gallery—”not” your refrigerator door. But that still is not enough. You have to keep the book in their hands by writing a bad-ass book blurb—from the first sentence to the last. It has to arouse the reader!

My strategy still hasn’t changed—I still believe that sometimes, the road to traditional publishing goes through self-publishing. You won’t write a story for everyone. Writing a story for everyone is simply impossible. Some readers will love it, and some will hate it.

What you “do” have to do is make sure your book is reliable and readable, edited as close to perfectly as possible. You have to make sure your book is wrapped with a book cover that is worthy of a work of art, something seen in an art gallery, and the blurb—it must arouse your readers.

Then if “that” does not land you a traditional book deal, then maybe you are not meant to be a writer.

I have been writing about independent publishing, about how sometimes, the road to traditional publishing has to go through independent publishing.

Now, I am wondering: Is there really a difference between independent publishing and traditional publishing? How can you tell if the story is a damn good story? Easy. If it excites you. If it does, then there is a good chance your readers will get excited about it, too. It is all about emotions.

Do I dare say it?

I do. No.

Why?

Well, whether you choose the independent or traditional publishing route, it shouldn’t really make a difference if you have written a damn good book.

What I mean by a damn good book isn’t about grammar. What it is about is story. Is the story you’ve written a damn good story?

Yes, grammar is important, very, very important, but story, whether one wants to admit it or not, comes first.

In other words, you can construct eloquent sentences, poetic sentences, poetic prose, prose with accents like alliteration, but, if your story isn’t there, if there is no story, then all you have is, although eloquent sentences, sentences that go nowhere.

Ask any author. Go ahead. Ask them. They will say that when they’re trying to get the first draft of their story written or captured down on paper, the last thing they’re concerned about great grammar, correct grammar. They’re main concern is getting it all, the story, on paper, “then” worry about the grammar later. The late Jimmy Buffett wrote the line of a song: “And if I could just get it all on paper….” There is a reason why they call it a first draft or the vomit draft, well, the people in the screenwriting world do.

Of course, if the story is there, and your lucky enough to win over an agent or traditional publisher with it, they have the people, they have the staff to polish the grammar to mirror finish.

But, if you’re not one of the rare lucky ones—we rarely are—but, indeed, the story you’ve written is, you believe, is exciting, then, if you feel you’ve exhausted all the possibilities, all your options, all your strategies of attracting a traditional publisher, then you must choose the only other option left—independent publishing. This means that you must make sure, whether through you or a paid professional editor, the grammar in your story is as precise and polished as it can possibly be, and this means to a mirror shine.

But, it does not stop there.

Then there is the book cover, then the book blurb, and both must be artistically and verbally superb, enough that the potential reader strolling by the bookshelf has no choice but to stop, pick it up, and read the blurb, and holding the book close to their heart, take the book to the register.

Yes, traditional publishing houses have the staff do it all and do it all very, very well. They have the editors, copy editors, and the artists to bring out the best in your book.

The difference with self-publishing is, well, unfortunately, you have to do it all, including the marketing, which has always been without question, I admit it, my greatest weakness. But, I am still betting on, I still believe that word of mouth can work wonders. Write an damn good book, tell a damn good story that will stir the hell out of your readers’ emotions, and their experience with it will spread like a wildfire to everyone they know—even, I am willing to bet, people who don’t read books!

If I had heard it correctly, the author himself, R.L. Stine, of the Goosebumps books series swears that the success of the book series came about because of word of mouth, not because of marketing, and he is, if you have ever watched any of his interviews on YouTube, dead honest. He simply tells it like it is.

So, that’s the path I am on right now, making sure that every story, every thriller novella that I write is not just edited but edited incredibly well, and its cover is a work of art, and its book blurb is superb. You only get a moment, or two if you’re lucky to win a reader over in a book store. How long do you want your book to stay in their hands?

Good grammar, not necessarily great grammar, starts with constructing good sentences.

From there, you move into constructing great stories, and constructing great stories is more important than constructing great sentences.

Please, allow me to elaborate.

Okay, let’s say, you’re just moving along, living your life, when life happens.

In this particular case, what I mean by “when life happens” is not when life interfere with your schedule.

What I mean is “when life happens as a writer”.

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly and quite miraculously, an idea for a great story just drops in your head, and you scramble, you do everything in your power to write it down, as quickly as you can!

You write an outline, a road map of your story.

Now, you’re ready to write the story, in novel form.

This is where good grammar matters, because it you don’t have it, it becomes a distraction and can destroy your story.

What do I mean by “distraction”?

If you don’t have at least good grammar, bad grammar will slow you down, will keep you from writing your story.

The very last thing you want to be thinking about is grammar when you’re trying to wrote what could quite possibly be the next Great American Novel.

What you need to be concentrating on is story, not grammar.

How good should your grammar skills be? Good enough that when you’re writing that Great American Novel your grammar skills are in autopilot, or have become second nature to you.

Your grammar skills do not have to be perfect or as good as a professional editor in a publishing house. It just has to be good enough to get you through the first draft of your novel.

There is a reason why they call it a “first draft”. You can get the grammar right on the second and thirds drafts. The important thing is that you get your story written.

Structure first, sound grammar last.

I like to use alliteration when I write prose, but it is not something I am thinking about until I believe I have written a solid story first. Think of things like alliteration as part of the finishing touches you put on your story. Alliteration has nothing to do with the story but it makes for a story that flows or reads like poetry. But remember. You’re not writing poetry. You’re writing prose.

Write a great story, and I bet, in a perfect world, an editor won’t care about the grammar. Even an editor knows you can fix the grammar later.

Book titles are everything. First impressions. Book titles should be catchy, whether they are for books or films.

There are times I’ve finished a first draft or even several drafts of a novel or screenplay; for some reason or another I couldn’t find a title for it. Well, I couldn’t find a good one.

I enjoy watching movies. If you pay close enough attention to them, at some point in the movie, you’ll hear either a character say the title of the movie, or you’ll see the title of the movie on something like a sign—not counting the title in the beginning credits, of course.

I had a hard time finding a title for this one screenplay I had written. I just couldn’t seem to nail a title for it. It was a road trip romantic comedy. The main characters were on the run to Mexico. Mexico. This was the title I had when I began the screenplay. Even though it did seem like its natural title, I wasn’t happy with it.

It wasn’t until the fourth revision that I found the official title. The title was given to me through the dialogue of the main character: “This ain’t no vacation, sweetheart.” Bingo. It fit perfectly.

Some book titles reveal themselves in the very beginning, when the lightning of a story idea strikes. They stick. We then write the story around them. Other book titles, however, are stubborn. They come in reverse, after the story is written, sometimes even after several drafts are written.

If the title doesn’t come in the beginning, don’t worry. It will come by the end of the first draft. If it doesn’t, it will come by the second, or third, or fourth. Trust me. It will come. It’s like spaghetti sauce—It’s in there.

Does technology help us, or hurt us? I think it would depend on the generation or understanding of what technology really does.

I have visited quite a few schools to read my children’s books and talk about writing. There is always a little time after a reading for children to ask me questions. The one question I am asked all the time and first is “Where do you get ideas for your book?” Every once in a while a child will ask “Do you have a computer?” “Yes,” I reply, “but not always.”

Yes, computers or word processors are wonderful writing tools. Word processors can certainly help you write more efficiently. You can highlight blocks or paragraphs of text and move them around with ease with a mouse. There is a built-in spell and grammar check.

The truth is no matter how advanced in technology computers are and most certainly will become, they will not and cannot write for you. Sure, they will suggest where to put a comma. Sure, it will tell you when you do not have subject/verb agreement, when you have a fragment. But, do you understand why the computer is pointing these things out? More importantly, do you know how to correct them? Is the computer even correct? Writers have this earned privilege called a poetic license.

It is not so much about the technology the computer has in correcting spelling and grammar as it is about pointing errors out. An example is misspelled words—not necessarily typos but misspelled words. If you meant to type too but typed to, to the computer you are correct. See? You cannot trust the computer. You have to be able to check your work much the same way as you do with math. That is why math teachers want to see your work or calculations.

They want to see if you really understood how you got your answer. Some students think they can get by or away with memorization, but eventually you will have to know what you are doing.

When I tell students I started out as a writer with a manual typewriter, I might as well have said to them that I painted pictures on cave walls. They look at me rather strangely like a dog when he tilts his head. Some of them have never even seen a manual typewriter let alone heard of one.

The truth is manual typewriters will teach you how to write, not necessarily come up with a story—that is all you, something that cannot be taught—but teach you how to write it grammatically correct. Word processors can spoil us. They can make us lazy, and this is dangerous for aspiring writers. With word processors, you do not have to write or think through your thoughts carefully. Manual typewriters, on the other hand, will. You will think twice, even three times about your thoughts before you type them out. Otherwise, ripping out typed page after typed page will get old fast and rather frustrating.

Before you move up to a word processor like Microsoft Word, your grammar skills should be sharp enough to be on autopilot when you write. If you think bad or mediocre grammar skills are distracting while you write, imagine what it will do to the reader. With good grammar skills you will not always have to trust the computer, or be at the mercy of the computer. When it claims you have an error, you will be able to think about it, debate it. If the computer tells you to jump off a bridge, will you?

A couple of months ago, well, more than a couple of months ago now, I heard on the radio that college loan debt had exceeded credit card debt. Wow, that surprised me.

That said, I remember when I had discovered screenwriting. I remember writing my first feature screenplay—I also remember receiving my first script coverage report. Even with an associate’s degree and good basic writing skills I had to learn about screenwriting, particularly structure, and that meant film school.

Of course, the first film school that sprung to mind was New York Film Academy, but the reality of how expensive film school was quickly deflated all my excitement. My wife and I simply could not afford it—even in a marriage with no children.

So, New York Film Academy—or any other film school, for that matter—was, pardon the pun, out of the picture.

I had heard some pros in the film industry say that film school was necessary, but then I felt a whole lot better after I had heard what other pros like Sydney Pollack had said—just get out there and start shooting.

Well, thanks to screenwriter Carl Kurlander (“St. Emo’s fire”) I had a solution to my film school tuition problem, and that solution fell somewhere between books-on and hands-on—more toward hands-on or “butt-on” after what mystery novelist Lisa Scottoline had said so bluntly about writing—“Apply butt to chair.” I would go a much cheaper route to learning to screenwrite. I called this route “poor man’s film school.”

With poor man’s film school, I would learn how to screenwrite through script coverage, which is basically a report all screenplays receive before and when they go through the studio system.

During the time—this is going back to, I think, the winter of 2008, the script coverage company I had chosen—and am still with today—was Screenplay Readers, and what was, I think, $59 per coverage report—pretty damn cheap, I think—is up to $97 today—which is still pretty damn cheap.

I sent in the second screenplay I had written “This Ain’t No Vacation, Sweetheart” for screenplay coverage—I did not send in the first feature I had written “Abstinence” written in for screenplay coverage probably because I was already onto the second—and the second one would be the one I would learn how to screenwrite through coverage.

Four drafts, a lot of bitter sweet notes, and $236 later I received a Consider for the screenplay. A Recommend, which I did not mention, is the highest rating a screenplay can receive. It is also a very rare rating and very difficult to get—only a handful of them were given out through their entire time in business—but, since only 4% of screenplays receive Considers, a Consider is good enough and what they would give the green light to to submit to studios and agents.

“This Ain’t No Vacation, Sweetheart” and script coverage got me off to a good start as a screenwriter, enabling me to build a good foundation as a screenwriter.

Poor man’s film school might not work for everyone, but it worked for someone like me who had limited financial resources to work with.

You poured your whole heart and soul into writing your manuscript. It may be good. It may even be really good. It may even be perfect, even in Pulitzer Prize contention, but do not. I repeat do not tuck the manuscript into an envelope, do not seal the envelope, do not send the manuscript to NYC. Please put the manuscript down and slowly move away from the desk.

But why do I have to put it away? Ever hear of the saying “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”? It’s true—for lovers, and for writers. It’s only the first draft, and falling in love with it could be fatal! There are visions that must be done!

Do I have to call the writing police? Save me the trouble. Set the manuscript down for revisions. Put it away. Hide it if you have to! Whatever it takes! Leave it for a few days, a week, even a month! The longer the better! Well, do not wait too long. Then go get it. Sit down with it. Go ahead. Open the manuscript. Read it. Go ahead. I dare you. Read it.

OMG! Wow! You did not think you wrote a pop-up book, did you, but it seems like you did. The errors! You did not see before, did you? They are leaping from on the page like firecrackers, are they not? Now, after all the smoke clears, begin the revisions. When you are through, I guarantee it. What you thought was good manuscript is now even better, right? See. I told you so.

Well, that is the good news. Wait. There is bad news? Yep, it is not over, not by a long shot. Set the manuscript down. Put it away. Even hide it if you have to.

Ugh, writer, do they have to break down the door of the sanctuary your writing room? Do they have to point their firearm like a laser beam right at you? Do they have to say, “Please put the manuscript down and slowly move away from the desk”? Do I have call the writing police?

I am so grateful that computers hadn’t already found a permanent place as an appliance in our life and household during most of my early childhood—and smartphones certainly weren’t around. If they were, they probably looked and felt like bricks, and computers, well, at one time, probably looked like modern pipe organs. If you did have one in your home, you didn’t need a desk. You needed to build an additional room!

What I am grateful for are manual typewriters, and they were still hanging around throughout my childhood.

My first official introduction to the manual typewriter came in high school, when, thanks to my parents, who had drafted me into College English, I had to write, and type, two term papers, one five to seven pages and the second ten to fifteen pages; the regular English class only required one term paper, a mere five pages long. Needless to say, the manual typewriter “was not” my best friend, nor writing.

The manual typewriter I had to use was a Royal typewriter. It had been handed down to me by my father, well, it was there to be used. My mother had bought the typewriter as an engagement present for him who really needed it for college.

Of course, I didn’t see the sentimental value of the typewriter. To me, manual typewriters meant work. It was manual labor. Using them was probably the equivalent to making license plates in prison or placing shirts into automatic folding machines like Woody Allen had to do in Take the Money and Run.

In 1992, I discovered writing the traditional way, in college, where writing, surprisingly, had then gone from work to recreation. I began to use the manual typewriter more and more—occasionally in the college library I would use the sadly soon-to-be-extinct IBM Selectric typewriter with its magical silver ball and super sensitive keys if it was available—and it usually was—to type papers that were due that day or minutes before class. Some things never change.

I don’t remember when exactly it had happened or who had suggested it, but they were surprised that as a writer I still used a manual typewriter and did not use a computer or word processor.

Of course, change is hard, and is probably why we don’t like it, forcing us out of our comfort zones.

I continued writing with a manual typewriter.

Now to be quite honest, computers had made it into our home before they had found a permanent place as an appliance in everyone else’s home. My father, a high school math teacher, had brought us an Apple II computer home from work then later on he had bought us a Commodore 64, complete with a 5 ¼-inch floppy drive and a dot matrix printer, but we, mainly my big brother and I, did not utilize the computer for educational purposes, which my father had hoped for.

For us, the Commodore 64 was an exciting new video games console, a major upgrade from the Atari 2600, and with the floppy drive, we pirated as many computer games as we could—even rigging the disks so that we could save games on both sides.

My baby sister was the first one to type a term paper on the Commodore 64, but we, certainly I, hadn’t paid much attention to what she was doing.

Years later, my big brother bought a PC from Sears, but that, too, equipped with dual floppy drives, was mainly used for video games.

Finally, in, I think, 1997, when I realized I enjoyed writing enough to know I’d be in it for the long haul, I borrowed $200 from the Bank of Grandma to buy a PC with a fast 80286 processor, no mouse, no Windows. It ran a program called Professional Writer. It was Heaven, white text against a sky-blue background.

I began using Professional Writer, and from that day forward, it had changed everything for me as a writer. Sadly, as a fiction writer still learning the structure of storytelling, I never returned to the manual typewriter, wondering how I had ever gone without a word processor.

With the word processor there were magical tools like spell check and cut and paste. I could take a sentence—a paragraph—even an entire page—highlight it and drag it up and down and across pages, without yanking out a single page in sheer anger and frustration from a manual typewriter and having to go through the hassle of typing it all over again. It was a process I remembered all too well in high school when, as Last-minute Matt, I had to pull an all-nighter to finish a term paper, missing the school bus and having to chase it down several stops later.

But all that said, with all the technology that the word process had to offer, I realized it still didn’t—and it still couldn’t—write the paper or manuscript for me. Yes, even though things like spell check and cut and paste were nice, it couldn’t write the story for me.

If I had to step into a high school classroom and talk to students about the profession of writing, and a student were to ask me what they thought would be stupid question: Do you need a computer to be a writer? I’d reply in rapid fashion, “Absolutely not!” In fact, I’d have to be careful not to forbid it!

Again, computers are wonderful tools for writers—for advanced, professional or accomplished writers, but for writers just starting out, the most efficient and effective way to learn how to write is to use a manual typewriter. The road to becoming a proficient writer goes through the manual typewriter.

Computers cannot slow you down like manual typewriters can, and what I mean by slow you down is that computers do not allow us to think our thoughts through before we type them out, unlike computers that make it way too easy not to—I’m speaking more to the folks who type their thoughts directly into the computer.

Computers can be bad for the thought process, allowing us to form the bad habit of not thinking our thoughts through. We know that we can instantly delete words, sentences, entire paragraphs, even entire pages with the touch of a single key. It’s way too easy! Writing is rushed on a computer, and you know what they say about folks who rush in.

Manual typewriters have a way of slowing you down. They have a way of allowing you to see the scenery or graffiti of your thoughts before you type them out. They force you to think your thoughts through much more carefully.

No, the manual typewriter, like the computer, will not write your story for you, but manual typewriters will force you to think your thoughts out through. Manual typewriters will teach you to be efficient enough with writing to enable you to check the math of your writing, to understand why your story may or may not be working, and more importantly how to fix it. Computers won’t do the thinking for you—nor will manual typewriters, but manual typewriters will surely slow you down, enough to get you into the habit of thinking your thoughts through.

Once you’ve gotten into the habit of thinking through your thoughts and are able to go back and check the math of your story, it might be bitter sweet, but you are ready to graduate from a manual typewriter to a word processor, which then becomes a wonderful tool for real or true efficiency.

Remember. Whether you’re using a manual typewriter or a word processor, you are still only typing, not writing, and there is a big difference between writing and typing. A computer can’t write for you, only make bad writing look good on a neatly typed page, which you won’t get away with once it’s read.

When you write, slow down, think your thoughts through, and in the end, it won’t matter which tool you choose, a computer or a manual typewriter, you’ll save a whole lot of time and paper. A computer can’t help you a whole lot if you don’t know how to write. Yes, a computer may be able to tell you if the sentence you’ve written is a fragment or not, but do you know why it is a fragment? If you don’t, sadly you are at the mercy of the computer.

I still have the Royal typewriter I began my journey as a writer with. Sadly, it’s stored in its case in the attic, but one day, when my income affords me the time to, I’m going to get it out and type out an entire manuscript on it—all 350 pages of it. No, it’s not an Underwood, the typewriter that screenwriters typed screenplays with in the good old days of black and white films, and I don’t own one, but, typing on my father’s Royal typewriter is just as sentimental, maybe even more.

When is your script ready for script coverage? The short answer—not after you have completed your first draft.

For you first-time screenwriters, in case you are not familiar with the protocol of script coverage, I will explain.

Script coverage is a report. It is a rating all scripts receive by script readers based on the quality of the script. These readers are cold-blooded and either work for the studios or used to work for the studios and now own a script coverage firm. A script either receives a Pass, a Consider or a Recommend, Recommend being the highest rating. Pass, to clear things up real quick, is not good.

No matter what kind of writing you do, re-writing will always be a big part of it, seventy-five percent or better of the battle. Screenwriting is no exception. Actually it is more of an exception than novel writing because screenwriting is an even more competitive field.

Okay, so, you have completed the first draft of your script, but trust me. It is far from finished. It is just the beginning. Now the real work begins—re-writing it. Sometimes it takes several drafts before a script is polished to a glorious shine.

And when, you might ask, is a script polished to a glorious shine? When the re-writing becomes less and less, when all loose ends are tied up, when you are touching up your script rather than going through more major rewrites. It is when you believe you can do nothing more to your script to make it any better, when you cannot take it any further, when you can describe your script in 25 words or less.

Now, there are two ways your script receives coverage, which I have mentioned seven paragraphs earlier. Studios automatically give scripts coverage whether you are ready for it or not or whether you want it or not—that is the chance you take when you submit it directly to them. If your script receives a Pass, this may be the end of your screenwriting career before it ever begins. You may not get a second chance.

However, the safer or smarter way to go is “not” to send your script directly to a studio first but rather to a script coverage firm.

Let us say you feel your script is ready. You have taken it as far as you can go. You send it in with souring confidence to a script coverage firm, but, instead of receiving as expected a Consider, your script receives a Pass, which feels like a shot to the gut.

But, this is the most critical difference between studios and script coverage firms—with a script coverage firm it is not necessarily the end of the world for your script writing career but rather it might just be your initiation into the screenwriting world.

Script coverage firms only give scripts test drives. They are actually on your side, and even though they will not act as your agent they are looking out for you. If your script receives a Pass, it is just plain bad, script coverage firms will save you the embarrassment and heartache served up by studios and offer you notes on how to improve your script. Script coverage firms will save your ass. They will save you a second or even third chance to get a script right—or strongly suggest you choose another career path by “freeing up your future”.

In short, script coverage firms will tell you whether or not your script is ready for the merciless eyes of studios. If they advise you not to, do not send it to a studio. Re-write your script until it receives at least a Consider. Yes, Recommend is always best but it is very difficult to receive. A Consider is good enough.

You should not be thinking about script coverage until you feel you cannot improve your script anymore. Even if you think you have written the perfect first draft, imagine how much more perfect it will be after several more drafts. After that and your script sings, before you send it off to a major studio that will automatically give it coverage, send it to a private script coverage firm first. Cover your act!