FADE OUT.
So here we are.
It's hard to believe a year has passed since I touched down in Vancouver to begin this chapter of my life. And what a year it was, folks. I came to VFS a comedy novelist, and now I’m a writer. I mean, I have written pretty much everything. Short scripts. Comics. Commercials. TV specs. Features... Everything down down a video game pitch document.
That’s the Writing for Film and Television program in a nutshell. You write. A lot.
You also read a lot. You learn how to work with constraints of both budget and time. And I think most importantly, you develop the soft skills you need to navigate the business. (Well, ideally you pick this up.)
You learn story.
Wait, that’s weak. You live story. You eat, sleep, breath, vomit, sweat, pee and poop story. If you’re not writing it, you’re reading it. If you’re not doing either of those, then you’re probably skipping class or ducking out of the required reading.
You make stuff. You’ll be asked to make stuff you didn’t know you were capable of, and you’ll be pushed to accept nothing but your best work. You’ll also talk a lot of shit, and hopefully start getting the tough skin needed for the industry.
There are a lot of lesson to find in this sometimes manic twelve months. The best way to explain the VFS experience is this:
I graduate tomorrow, and submitted a final assignment a few hours ago. I still have a handful of projects on the go, and it’s likely this cycle will never end.
It started slow, then slowly spun into a crazy amount of work. To my classmates still able to read after this year who might be scanning this — FUCKING KUDOS TO YOU. Open up that messy VFS folder full of your projects. Think of the hours spent writing. It’s a fucking huge accomplishment. Pat on the back, ya’ll. You did good.
So as the chapter comes to a close, I think fondly on all of the memories. Of the friends, the lovely times on the beach, the ramen, and of course the quietly panicking over 47 different deadlines. It’s a fine balance. I’ve been given a huge set of tools to bring craft to what used to be flat-out intuition. I’ve understood the elements of stories and how they work mechanically for some time—but having to focus on character made me understand why the beats you see in things like Save the Cat, etc.’s pages. They’re fundamental parts of narrative that dramatize a change for a major character.
Sounds a little braggartly, doesn’t it? The truth is, I’m just excited that I’m starting to really get it. The lightbulb went off a few months ago, which hilariously is exactly where the point of realization would come if I tracked it as a story. Well done, faculty. You wove a beautiful narrative. I’m so grateful to have worked with such brilliant mentors. Yeah, sure... It’s your job. But it’s a fucking great thing that you do... So thanks for the wild ride.
...That may have come out wrong.
AND NOW THAT WE GOT THAT OUT OF THE WAY...
DANIEL’S LESSON TO OTHER WRITERS WHO READ HERE.
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A MEMO:
Show your work. Set deadlines. Finish. And show your fucking work. Don’t be precious about it. It’s good that you love it, but a script—and any writing for that matter—is made to be read. Find a trusted circle. Take notes.
And don’t worry, you don’t have to take notes.
But you will realize they were right a few months later.
You should read as much as you can. It’s good to study craft. But having your work read is essential. If you’re sitting on a completed manuscript, and you feel unsure about it... It sounds crazy, but that’s exactly the time to phone a friend.
Tell people your story before you write it. Bounce ideas off of everyone. It goes against our nature, being as we usually only enter the public for either coffee or alcohol. But it must be done. It’s how good work is made.
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Helluvah ride, readers. Helluvah ride.
*Passes out on keyboard*