BRAIN BAKER

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BRAIN BAKER

What inspired you to write a script rather than a novel or short story?
Great question. I grew up with a love of comic books that tended to provide a big visual experience informed by dialogue and narratives pared to an essence of thought. That childhood love of kinetic images and sparse prose made the screenplay format an instant fit. Though I do now write novels, they are all adaptations of screenplays because a honed script is a 20,000 word corpus of everything essential in the work of fiction.

Was there a specific film, TV show, or personal moment that first made you say, “I want to write like that”?
Emissary”, by Michael Piller. I found a copy of the pilot for Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and was absolutely enthralled by the elegance of the writing and the freedom of the format. I didn’t take screenwriting as any formal educational path. Instead, I studied Piller’s script until it looked like a prairie bible, the pages smoothed at the edges, the ink darkened by the trace of fingers across each line. Piller’s writing is so crisp that it allowed me to apprentice at a remove in time as I read and reread Emissary and I wrote. I have a profound respect for Piller’s work, but it took years for me to move past some of his stylistic choices, and then only after others would sometimes shout: “Why do you have SO MANY DAMN ELLIPSES?!?” Well, because Piller did. Kid-you-not, the only punctuation on page 2 of Emissary is 13 ellipses and one period. The man’s fetish for three dots became an inherited kink that was tough to break… If I had anyone to thank for introducing me to the beauty inherent in screenwriting craft, it’s Michael Piller.

What’s your writing routine like? Do you follow a strict schedule, or are you more intuitive about when and how you write?
Mornings are my most creative time. I move from the genesis of new work in the mornings to a gradual – but equally enjoyable – shift to revision of existing work in the afternoon. These are mutually exclusive states for me. If I start with revision, it’s exceptionally difficult to create new ground. I believe this is because in revision, our half-dozen guardians of grammar are active and heightened attention to spelling and editing tend to over-censor what should be a Genesis of new but flawed things. Once I awaken the guardians, it’s hard to put them back to sleep and I second-guess everything.

When you're starting a new script, how do you shape your ideas? Do you use outlines, beat sheets, or dive right into scenes? What inspires your scripts? Characters? Plot? Theme? Action?
I’m a plotter. I have three things for the start of every script: 1) beginning; 2) ending; and 3) at least one powerful visual moment with the emotional power capable of eliciting tears or shouts of joy or the profound desire to commit murder. Organizing that starts with a series of bullets in outline, and I expand on the bullets, often writing entire scenes, in an expanding beat sheet, before it ever enters script format. As I plot, the story defines the characters. They’re always going to feature people like us,
just trying to do their jobs and live their lives, but the plot will spin them into extraordinary situations that test their morality, their endurance, and their courage. How does plot defined the character you need? It all comes down to what’s plausible. In a story
about winning the Indy 500, we don’t need a veterinarian. In a story about a cop and his K-9 uncovering a plot to blow up a building, we don’t need a pit crew. The plot also informs the action because we’re testing the characters within a crucible of events to ultimately reveal traits that most would recognize as heroic. The “whys” behind their heroic actions and the motives behind their next step forward are where the plot and deep-character background recognizes the story’s theme.

How do you handle writer’s block or those inevitable moments of self-doubt?
I don’t typically struggle with writer’s block either during or between scripts. Part of this relies on having a passion and an anchor. By passion, I’m talking about the tragic or heroic or poignant visual that made me excited about the story. By anchor, I mean the ending. It’s impossible for me to write without knowing where I’m going. The best way for me to become intimate with writer’s block is to start something without a clear end to the journey. I also don’t have self-doubt. Nor should anyone. What’s the worst that could happen when we share a story? Someone says “Stop”? Someone says “Ewww”? That’s how we realize
we’re in front of the wrong audience and we can growl and walk away. Besides, self-doubt is a product of anxiety about being denied the thing we hope for: fame, fortune, a gold star on the walk of fame. My aspiration is seeing the work fulfilled. I want to behold that beautiful emotional moment that was the point of passion for the writing journey in a finished screenplay. That writing experience and the research it involved and the thought it demanded was something that allowed me to grow. In other words, writing is the gift we first give ourselves. Why should self-doubt trouble the gifts that we give ourselves?

What tools—software, methods, rituals—do you consider essential to your writing workflow?
I’ve dabbled with the Final Draft beat board. Though it is a versatile and useful tool, I still tend to use MS Word to outline and organize. This is largely because plausible stories require deep research and I’ll curate that research with footnotes in the Word document that allow me to revisit or to share source material. My writing ritual requires being alone and at peace with the world. Alone-time is generally manageable. But that last part… good luck with that.

Do you write with production realities in mind, or do you let the creative vision lead first and adjust later?
I’m focusing on stories in the $4-$10 million range for production. Planning for that leads to stories that are a more natural fit than if we try to downsize after it’s a mature script. I used to write big, just letting my creative vision run wild. One epic submarine spec screenplay I authored was courted briefly for a $50-$60 million budget, but the complexity of bringing together that much funding severely limits the number of places that would entertain the project. Initially I can see why people would balk at any budgetary blinders on their creative vision. The argument is write what you’re moved to write, right? But downsizing the budget expectations opens up a broader market for the stories and – as a creative – it really becomes a test of your skill. If you have to do more with less, you’re confronted with a whole new group of tests that can be quite stimulating. How do you eke out drama and action and all those emotional highs and lows without using submarines and a 35 ship battle group in the Pacific? As a tangible example, a writing partner and I had an option for a private investigator what was a surfer dude. The pilot opened in the surf as the PI rode waves and talked to his crew. Everyone loved the scene for the visual power of the rolling surf and the dialogue until we got around the room to the budget guy who simply said: “It’s a full day in the surf with special equipment and safety teams for cast and crew.” Then he said a number that seemed way too high and we found a way to move the scene to
the shore. It has been a neat challenge that has improved my ability to charge a scene through lower-cost effects and through dialogue rather than stunts and things that ride waves or go boom.
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When a scene isn’t working, what’s your go-to strategy for fixing it? Rewrite, workshop, walk away—or something else?
All of the above! And a secret additional way: the “tell the story to a friend” way. If I have a scene that feels like it works, but isn’t quite there, I’ll tell the full story to a friend. It’s a pitch, but not like the ones with producers because it’s unscripted and definitely not timed. It’s fumbling but passionate and as I go through the story-telling process, every single time, I’ll self-realize where there are problems and I problem-solve on the fly – fast, nervous – as I “talk through” a better set of actions or scenes. I can’t do this alone. It’s the crucible of speaking to someone else that combines two benefits: 1) the nervous stress that focuses my
mind and creativity; and 2) watching their reactions and interest rise and wane. They become an EKG’s visual representation of where the story has rhythm, where it goes into AFib, where it flatlines, and whether I’m able to code blue it back to life.

How many scripts have you completed? How many have you started and not completed (we all have those)...and why are they still unfinished?
I’ve completed 18 feature length screenplays. Several are collaborations with other screenwriters. Where there’s work that’s unfinished, it’s in a creative bullpen, just waiting my attention to fully develop and write it. Time is the reason they’re not complete. There are only two works that I don’t think I’ll ever finish. The first is a screenplay where a nuclear weapon detonates in a canyon. I have – What are the odds? – another script where I had to detonate a nuke in a canyon in Act III. Because the two scripts would have the same kind of catastrophic Act III event, I’ve shelved the unfinished script in the expectation that maybe in the future, I can do something without fission. The other unfinished work is a novel that I started without first having done the work to write the screenplay. It was an ugly lesson in the time costs of writing without scenes and dialogue already developed as a blueprint. Now I’ll have to go back and write the script to figure out what comes next in the book.

Have you earned recognition in this or other competitions? What’s your strategy when submitting your scripts, and how has contest feedback shaped your work?
Ah, great question. I entered the Santa Barbara International Screenplay Awards as an experiment. I have representation with Sue Giordano at the Hudson Agency, but the thought was that we’re missing benefits from being on the contest circuit in the form of 1) story feedback, and 2) connections (we are looking for a manager for the portfolio) and 3) evidence of quality where there are win-place-show accolades for scripts in the portfolio. My strategy with the initial push of 30+ contest entries is to vet the landscape of the contest market because it’s a huge place. And that’s where this answer has to pause for a moment to share early findings from those 30+ contest entries, which has yielded a spectrum of screenplay “notes” from readers. At one end of the spectrum there are the contests that supply notes clearly derived from AI sources. One set of notes, for a story about a secret service agent grieving over the abduction and murder of his son, said: “Anyone who has gone through something similar to his character, whether it be that they’re also in the secret service agency or just a father trying to find his missing son, would easily relate to his character…” A human would not say the equivalent of “Your best market is grieving fathers and the US Secret Service. AI would. But that’s not the low point among contests. Other contests have been more egregious. That’s why I want to point out the high point: The Santa Barbara International Screenplay Awards. For context, I was a judge for the past decade for the Virginia Screenwriting Competition facilitated by the commonwealth’s Film Office. I’ve also received paid notes from coverage services and professional notes from producers and option-stakeholders and directors and from my agent. In that context of familiarity with quality, incisive, and expert notes I want to give the Santa Barbara International
Screenplay Awards its due. They set the bar as the finest I have received from any competition, with analysis that is supported and specific rather than general, and tangible action items that point to remedies. Articulate, helpful, uplifting, kind: those words are inadequate to describe the quality of the script coverage provided by the contest. In comparison to notes I’ve received from producers and option-stakeholders and my agent, the Santa Barbara International Screenplay Awards carry the same tenor of
professionalism and elegance in delivery. My strategy is to find contests that are executed with a mission of helping screenwriters, and in this first group of 30+, the Santa Barbara International Screenplay Awards has won my esteem.
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Have you done anything at this point to promote yourself or your writing (besides entering online contests)? If so, how would you gauge the effectiveness of those efforts?
I have formal representation with Sue Giordano at the Hudson Agency in NY. Sue’s advocacy is extremely effective and until recently, her efforts were my sole effort to promote. But I want to help more proactively, hence the contest circuit, and decision to join collectives like Film Freeway and International Screenwriters’ Association. The effort is still too young to gaugeeffectiveness, but it is proceeding hand-in-hand with my entry to the Lindenwood University MFA program because I believe that the best promotion is derived from being able to provide expert guidance to others in the craft.

Have you pitched to producers or taken meetings yet? What have those experiences taught you about the business side of screenwriting?
Yes, on multiple occasions. My best success has been in delivering timed and memorized story-telling pitches in 3-5 breathless minutes for teleplays, and not much longer for features. The trick is in scripting and memorizing the pitch so that it flows in your own voice and quite comfortably. After all, it’s an oratory experience. If you do it right, the audience will sit back and enjoy the ride. The experience of those meetings is two-fold: The first is after the pitch, shut up and listen. Where they raise problems, be adaptive and fully intake the concern. It’s the audience’s way of buying in. “I like this but…” is a bridge and they’re halfway across. Only by hearing what they’re saying can you help them to walk all the way. Once you do an intake fully, ask them what they think about solutions for the problems they shared. If they have some thoughts about one solution over another, it’s going to come from surprising and edifying places. In one case, the producer wanted to appeal to a certain market. In another, they wanted to steer my intellectual property well clear of a competing property that they have a greater investment in already. In all of the cases, they liked the ideas and were looking for ways to make their own contributions. Bear in mind that every part of this “listening to your partner” portion of the pitch is a test that they will evaluate to see if you 1) can take constructive notes and, 2) if you can later make changes that honor those notes. The second key experience from the meetings is to prepare waaaaaay too many pitches. More than you know they want to hear. This is because if they like you as a writer and they like some of your ideas but none of the prepared pitches take off, they won’t kick you out. Instead, they’ll ask the one question that never varies: “What else have you got?” Be prepared to tell them. Not just the finished stuff. The things that are still floating in the void of your subconscious too. Tell them about the beautiful visual moment you want to deliver. Be prepared to spin those out in shorter duration pitches of a minute or two because with these, you’re throwing bait and the ultimate outcome will be when they sit up
straighter and smile and say “I want to see that when it’s ready.”
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What do you see as your greatest strengths as a writer? Your greatest weaknesses?
Strengths: I’m organized. That means I keep notes for future scripts in files that aren’t named “Lexie-This One_Really-Really Final – (3)”. They’re more along the lines of “Lexie – Nov 1 2025 v1” and as I go through the day I reversion to v2, v3 and so on. When I get to a new date, I start a new file name with that date. This is a benefit where we have to revert scripts to bring back prior scenes because I have a historical record across hundreds of files that shows the script’s progress across time. One of my scripts has been under 8 different options. Those option holders were delighted when I was able to quickly provide changes. Those changes sometimes required a dive into the prior versions to resurrect story beats that other option-holders had asked we remove. Another strength is that I’m a visual thinker and the unlimited potential of a screenplay format, even with a $4-$10 million budget target, is designed to allow creative juices to flow. A final strength is that I’m constantly looking at how other writers execute their work, and striving to pick up craft (i.e., tools of the trade) for my own tool chest. Being in a MFA program helps to activate this practice. As an example of areas of study right now, I’m re- examining the prose of William Faulkner and others because multiple sources have reported that they want to see screenplays as a reading experience rather than as a blueprint for film. That translates into “give us prose” more than “give us action lines honed to their spiritual essence”. The challenge as a creative is to find that balance of how to infuse that great prose-like beauty from fiction - think of Faulkner, Harlan Ellison, James Lee Burke, or Ray Bradbury, who had his own tilt at screenwriting - into a script where the sweet spot for sales has dropped the page count from 120 to 99. Yet I’m reminded that the beauty on the page they seek is possible. Blade Runner did it. Fight Club is also a beauty to read. Weaknesses: I don’t feel that I’ve read enough. I’ve not mastered all the tools. I could find better ways to create the sort of conflict between characters that is increasingly being demanded from audiences that are used to the artificial conflict generated by reality shows that put narcissists and sociopaths in a box together and reward them based on how fiercely they throw elbows to get the aperture of the camera to turn and blink their way. This false-conflict is particularly troubling as a note because it arose in the context of a review for a script where a high-functioning team of scientists is working under incredible external constraints that will murder almost all of them by the end. The team would not have been selected for the mission if they had not been professional and cohesive and unified in their approach (think Mission Impossible). Through that crucible of hardship and despair the note was “Why isn’t the team bickering?” They weren’t because they entered the crisis like a well-oiled machine, and their disagreements were plot- centered and arising when conflict was naturally a result of a fork in the road where characters would take different sides. My goal is to keep the conflict plot-driven and hence realistic, while answering the note for more conflict between the characters on the protagonist’s side.

How do you balance your writing with your “day job”?
There’s no balance. The writing is a constant in the background, even in the office. When I’m at the day job, I’m alert to people and conversations and ideas, soaking it all in to become experience that feeds creative thoughts, and after the sun sets on the day job, all my other moments are spent writing.

What message or emotional response do you hope audiences walk away with after experiencing your work?
When I was a child, there was a shortage of heroes. A conspicuous absence of role models that opted to do the right thing for the right reasons. I found them in a handful of people in my life, and in comics and in books. That’s why I write stories about heroes. That’s all I do. Classic three act introduction – crisis – long dark night of the soul – third act assault “full- tilt-boogie” as James Lee Burke would say, and the hero resolves all their problems. In that story, I want people to see someone who is just like them. Someone who was tested and who took the pain and owns the scars and came out standing unbowed. In another age, these characters were Paul Bunyan and Davy Crockett and Johnny Appleseed and Aeschylus, and Sacajawea and George Washington. I want my audience to feel hope and pride and the certainty that in the fullness of time, when they are tested, that they too can survive even though they fear being destroyed.

What are you working on right now the world needs to know about?
I just finished a pilot for a time travel TV series. A portal in a farmer’s field tends to randomly eject people from the past or future. It’s in late-draft revisions with readers. Next up is a pilot about the US Marshal Service 50 years hence when we have floating cities and anti-gravity, body-augments, and other marvelous technologies. Think of the Netflix series “Altered Carbon” for a comp. After that, I’ve an idea for a western, two Cli-Fi horror features, and we’ll see what matures.

Where do you see yourself five years from now as a screenwriter—and how do you plan to get to that place?
In five years I’ll have:
 Completed my Lindenwood University MFA;
 Added 10 new features/TV pilots to the portfolio;
 Adapted another 3-5 novels from existing features;
 Added a manager to my representation advocates in addition to my agency
representation;
 Added a literary agent to my representation;
 Will be in a place with enough credited projects that I can advocate more
meaningfully to support the upward mobility of the next generation of writers.

What advice would you give to any aspiring writer hoping to follow in your footsteps?
Get out of my footsteps and up here beside me. Walk with me and with other writers not as guru-supplicant, mentor-mentee, employee-boss, but as a fellow traveler, or at least as an unindicted co-conspirator. If we treat each other, and the opportunities before us, as though they exist in a land of plenty, then people will respond to openness, sharing, kindness, and quality of engagement in a way that is uplifting and that creates long-term relationships. Insofar as it’s evident that you’re working hard to help others, that reciprocity transports us from the alternative, which is to say that Samaritans that lift each other up are always the preferred company in a business where too often the travelers eye each other warily, with hunger, and with knives out. What makes that tangible? Workshop not to be seen, but to read and to offer help within your expertise. Sit on contests to judge screenplays when invited, for the same reason. Take classes and pick up new techniques. Last of all, don’t forget why you write. If you’re like me, writing is essential to life. Turning off the ink is as senseless and destructive as halting our pulse or refusing to inhale the next breath of air. Writing is a healthy sign of life. And I wish you all a vibrant, creative, long and healthy life.