#Josh Olson | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itsawritblr · 6 months ago

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"I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script." Or fic, or short story, or novel, or poem, etc.

A lot of new Followers have asked me to read their writing because I'm a professional writer.

I do not do that.

I don't read other people's writing, finished or WIP, for the same reason screenwriter Josh Olson will not read your fucking script.

For those who are new here, I'll repost Olson's great article. If you find it offensive, you're in the wrong place. This is not the writblr for you.

"I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script."

Originally published September 9, 2009 by The Village Voice.

So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing.

by Josh Olson

We know you’ve been working very hard on your screenplay, but before you go looking for some professional feedback, you might keep in mind the following piece by A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson.

I will not read your fucking script.

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? “I will not read your fucking script.” What’s not clear about that? There’s nothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading your fucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I’ll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I will not ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or take out my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

You’re a lovely person. Whatever time we’ve spent together has, I’m sure, been pleasurable for both of us. I quite enjoyed that conversation we once had about structure and theme, and why Sergio Leone is the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, and it would thrill me no end to hear that you had sold your screenplay, and that it had been made into the best movie since Godfather Part II.

But I will not read your fucking script.

At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I’m a dick. But if you’re interested in growing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick in this situation, please read on.

Yes. That’s right. I called you a dick. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move.

I was recently cornered by a young man of my barest acquaintance.

I doubt we’ve exchanged a hundred words. But he’s dating someone I know, and he cornered me in the right place at the right time, and asked me to read a two-page synopsis for a script he’d been working on for the last year. He was submitting the synopsis to some contest or program, and wanted to get a professional opinion.

Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to read their scripts, and it’s the simple truth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is scripts from good friends, and the other is manuscripts and books and scripts my agents have sent to me that I have to read for work. Every time I pick up a friend’s script, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring my friends. If I read yours before any of that, I’d be an awful person.

Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, or someone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, and it’s hard to escape without seeming rude. Then, I tell them I’ll read it, but if I can put it down after ten pages, I will. They always go for that, because nobody ever believes you can put their script down once you start.

But hell, this was a two page synopsis, and there was no time to go into either song or dance, and it was just easier to take it. How long can two pages take?

Weeks, is the answer.

And this is why I will not read your fucking script.

It rarely takes more than a page to recognize that you’re in the presence of someone who can write, but it only takes a sentence to know you’re dealing with someone who can’t.

(By the way, here’s a simple way to find out if you’re a writer. If you disagree with that statement, you’re not a writer. Because, you see, writers are also readers.)

You may want to allow for the fact that this fellow had never written a synopsis before, but that doesn’t excuse the inability to form a decent sentence, or an utter lack of facility with language and structure. The story described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics to an impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, some connected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish, reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half a paragraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central event of the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentence describes a scene he’s in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won’t. This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn’t actually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a cool movie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn’t require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don’t regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.

So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing. And the truth is, saying something positive about this thing would be the nastiest, meanest and most dishonest thing I could do. Because here’s the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage the hopeless, but you cannot discourage a writer. If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you’re not a writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I’ve done you a favor, because now you’ll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that may be. And, for the record, everybody has one. The lucky ones figure out what that is. The unlucky ones keep on writing shitty screenplays and asking me to read them.

To make matters worse, this guy (and his girlfriend) had begged me to be honest with him. He was frustrated by the responses he’d gotten from friends, because he felt they were going easy on him, and he wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give the illusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head. What they want — always — is encouragement, even when they shouldn’t get any.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they’ve spent a year wasting their time? Do you know how much blood and sweat goes into that criticism? Because you want to tell the truth, but you want to make absolutely certain that it comes across honestly and without cruelty. I did more rewrites on that fucking e-mail than I did on my last three studio projects.

My first draft was ridiculous. I started with specific notes, and after a while, found I’d written three pages on the first two paragraphs. That wasn’t the right approach. So I tossed it, and by the time I was done, I’d come up with something that was relatively brief, to the point, and considerate as hell. The main point I made was that he’d fallen prey to a fallacy that nails a lot of first-timers. He was way more interested in telling his one story than in being a writer. It was like buying all the parts to a car and starting to build it before learning the basics of auto mechanics. You’ll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you’ll never have a car that runs.

(I should mention that while I was composing my response, he pulled the ultimate amateur move, and sent me an e-mail saying, “If you haven’t read it yet, don’t! I have a new draft. Read this!” In other words, “The draft I told you was ready for professional input, wasn’t actually.”)

I advised him that if all he was interested in was this story, he should find a writer and work with him; or, if he really wanted to be a writer, start at the beginning and take some classes, and start studying seriously.

And you know what? I shouldn’t have bothered. Because for all the hair I pulled out, for all the weight and seriousness I gave his request for a real, professional critique, his response was a terse “Thanks for your opinion.” And, the inevitable fallout — a week later a mutual friend asked me, “What’s this dick move I hear you pulled on Whatsisname?”

So now this guy and his girlfriend think I’m an asshole, and the truth of the matter is, the story really ended the moment he handed me the goddamn synopsis. Because if I’d just said “No” then and there, they’d still think I’m an asshole. Only difference is, I wouldn’t have had to spend all that time trying to communicate thoughtfully and honestly with someone who just wanted a pat on the head, and, more importantly, I wouldn’t have had to read that godawful piece of shit.

You are not owed a read from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it’s not a huge imposition. It’s not your choice to make. This needs to be clear — when you ask a professional for their take on your material, you’re not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you’re asking them to give you — gratis — the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off-hours.

There’s a great story about Pablo Picasso. Some guy told Picasso he’d pay him to draw a picture on a napkin. Picasso whipped out a pen and banged out a sketch, handed it to the guy, and said, “One million dollars, please.”

“A million dollars?” the guy exclaimed. “That only took you thirty seconds!”

“Yes,” said Picasso. “But it took me fifty years to learn how to draw that in thirty seconds.”

Like the cad who asks the professional for a free read, the guy simply didn’t have enough respect for the artist to think about what he was asking for. If you think it’s only about the time, then ask one of your non-writer friends to read it. Hell, they might even enjoy your script. They might look upon you with a newfound respect. It could even come to pass that they call up a friend in the movie business and help you sell it, and soon, all your dreams will come true. But me?

I will not read your fucking script.

Josh Olson’s screenplay for the film A History of Violence was nominated for the Academy Award, the BAFTA, the WGA award and the Edgar. He is also the writer and director of the horror/comedy cult movie Infested, which Empire Magazine named one of the 20 Best Straight to Video Movies ever made. Recently, he has written with the legendary Harlan Ellison, and worked on Halo with Peter Jackson and Neill Blomkamp. He adapted Dennis Lehane’s story “Until Gwen,” which he will also be directing. He is currently adapting One Shot, one of the best-selling Jack Reacher books for Paramount.

*~*~*~*

And to everyone asking a professional to read your work for free:

Yes, I'll read your work if you pay me.

I charge $1,000,000. After taxes. In cash. Up front. And all I'll do is read it. Feedback costs another $4,000,000.

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yournecessaryevil · 1 year ago

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☠️ His Darkness Divine ☠️

•Part Two•

💀CHRIS MOTIONLESS X READER SERIES💀

After your chance encounter the previous night with a demon from one of the oldest ruling classes of the Underground, you've been given a lot to think about. But you're not the only one...

• fluff; language; mentions of death/violence; TW (mention of Ghost, [male presenting])

"Little mouse..."

Dark eyes stared into your soul, a smile playing at the edges of that mouth, that sweet, sinful mouth of his, that lower lip lined with three little silver rings. You wondered for a minute what it would feel like to kiss him, to have those rings pressed against your own bottom lip.

The faint whisper of his laugh echoed in the space between you, his breath cool against your skin as he leaned down to place the softest of kisses along your right shoulder.

"Penny for your thoughts, little mouse?"

Again, those eyes seemed to look directly into your soul, and you could feel the heat spreading across your cheeks as you stared back at him, quite unable to escape from his gaze.

"I... I was wondering... w-what it would be like to... to kiss you..."

God, you hated the way your voice trembled for him like this. And yet-

Another hushed, answering laugh fell from those lips, as he ducked his head down to kiss your bare shoulder again.

"Mm. Are you really sure you'd like to find out... Y/N?"

The minute he said your name, those eyes found yours again, and he leaned towards you, ever so slowly, that faint smile lingering at the edge of his mouth once more...

Closer, closer still-

You suddenly awoke with a start, your hand curling into a tight fist around the empty bedsheets next to you. Your heart thundered within your chest, the staccato beats every bit as scattered and careless as your thoughts.

Speaking of which...

You could still see him so clearly in the forefront of your mind, ever present since the minute you two had met last night. You hadn't been able to get him out of your head, hadn't stopped hearing his dulcet tones in the back of your mind, not for a second.

There had been something so utterly compelling about him, something that had left a heavily lingering impression upon you. And it wasn't just him, no. His comrades of sorts had made quite the impression too, each of them enshrouded by their own sense of mystery.

What was it about him...?

You had felt the way everything seemed to change the minute you'd decided to trust him, to put your hand within his, to let him lead you to safety. It was like the very air itself had rippled, like time had ceased to exist for those few minutes.

He had felt it too, you know he had.

All of them had, really.

A brief memory flitted through your mind then, of the way the one they called Ghost had looked at you, the expression of mixed hostility and curiosity in his dark eyes. He had been the only one out of all of them to be rather tense and harsh, that night.

You recalled the way he'd been almost anxious, insistent, demanding that their leader just abandon you in those woodlands.

But he had refused.

"Cerulli..."

The last name flashed through to the forefront of your mind, returning with it the fresh memories of this morning's dream.

Once more, you felt the heat rushing to your cheeks as you recalled the way his mouth had almost met yours, those rings nearly touching your own bottom lip-

The soft kisses he had left along your right shoulder-

If you pictured it long enough, you could almost feel the lingering weight of his mouth against your skin. But it, along with last night, seemed nothing more than an illusion.

Heaving a ragged sigh, you pulled yourself from the bed, reluctant to start your day and leave those ever so pleasant dreams and memories behind...

"Burying ourselves away in here again, are we?"

The amused voice of his brother made Christopher look up from the book he'd been reading.

Although, 'reading' was a bit of a far cry.

Sure, he'd had the book open before him, but the words had begun to all blur together into meaningless black lines on a page, the more he'd let his thoughts wander.

His little mouse...

Fuck, he hadn't been able to get her out of his head all night, nor all that following morning. She was all he could think about, from the second he'd locked eyes with her in those woods.

"You've been remembering her too, I take it?"

Richard's voice cut through his thoughts a second time, and Christopher found himself nodding in agreement.

"I rather liked her, you know. She seemed to have a good head about her, yes?"

There was a note of amusement in Richard's voice, as he stood there in the entryway to Christopher's study, leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Sola's not happy."

Christopher approached the subject with some reluctance, his words feeling very weighted as he said them.

Although, judging from Richard's answering scoff, he had taken a step in the right direction.

"You picked up on that too, then. He's not going to like it, but I suppose he'll have to get over it. I mean," his brother began, taking a few casual steps into the room, his attention wandering before finally coming to rest upon Christopher, "it's no longer his decision to make.

"Not that it was his decision to make in the beginning, anyhow. That was entirely up to you. But now that you've made your decision, he cannot have a say in it. You said it yourself last night, he doesn't get to make the calls here. You do."

"How can I make any sort of decision when he's already stacked the cards against my little mouse?" Christopher countered.

"I know-"

"He's so determined that Y/N is going to end up just like Lilith was when I was done with her: a shell," Christopher interrupted.

"I know. But perhaps Balz was right when he said none of us know for sure what is going to happen with her. I mean, yes, you know as well as I do that the minute she's introduced to our world, to what we are, all hell will break loose, whether literally or figuratively.

"But it also means that you'll never leave her side. I saw the way you watched her last night, we all did. This is different than Lilith, this is... this is more. Don't be so quick to give in to Sola's side, brother. Something tells me you know what you're doing," Richard insisted.

"And if you're wrong, and she d- if something happens to her?" Christopher argued.

One of his brother's brows lifted in response, a faint smile ghosting across his features.

"When am I ever wrong? Be honest."

Christopher's answering reply came as a sigh.

"Almost never."

"Exactly," came his brother's amused response, as he took a seat in one of the dark red velvet upholstered chairs in front of the desk. He leaned back in his seat, bringing one of his legs up to rest crossed atop his knee, his eyes thoughtful as they gazed upon Christopher.

Richard's eyes were a soft blue today, much as they always were when the younger demon was in a relaxed frame of mind. They grew to be more of a crimson or ink color when he was tense or emotionally volatile, an occasion of which was rare for the young demon.

"Something about you has changed now."

Christopher automatically tensed, earning a soft laugh from his brother.

"Relax, I didn't mean it in a malicious way. It's rather nice, actually. You're far less... dismal... than you used to be," his brother laughed.

"Dismal?" Christopher scoffed.

His brother shot him an answering grin, giving a mere shrug of the shoulders.

"Ryan's words, not mine. Although," Richard said, leaning forward in his seat, his grin widening, "Balz said you've become less... how did he put it? 'Mopey zoo lion'...? Be thankful Ryan was a bit more generous with his choice of words."

That earned him an eye roll from the older demon, his mouth opening to fire back a response, when there was a sudden tapping on the doorframe of the study.

Both men looked up to see their brother, the man in question, standing there.

Balz shot both of them a grin at the mention of his name, one eye closing in a wink. "Tell me I'm wrong," he greeted the two of them with a shrug.

"Oh, by the way. Sola sends his regards," he added, his smile faltering for a moment.

Almost instantly, the previous amicable mood began to dissipate like fog on a sunny day.

"I'm sure he does indeed send his fucking regards," Christopher muttered darkly, his gaze dropping to focus once more on the book that lay open in front of him.

Richard scoffed, his bottom lip curling out in a sneer of distaste, the two black rings sitting at the corner of his lip shining in the faint light filtering in through the window curtains.

"Yes, do give him our regards in turn," he retorted, the blue of his irises darkening a little.

"He's just irritated, I presume. He thinks you're out to corrupt her soul or something, I dunno," Balz cut in.

Christopher let out a derisive laugh, the sound void of any humor.

"Why should he be irritated, you'd think that prospect would bring him some form of pleasure," he remarked.

"Mm, no. Not really. He thinks this girl of yours is going to end up meeting the same demise as Lilith," his brother countered.

There it was again, the mention of that name-!

"Fucking- what is his fascination with Lilith all of a sudden?? Why the fuck should he care so much now? He never showed any interest before?" Christopher snapped, exasperated.

"Oh, he cared very much for her. Almost too much than what was good for him. But you never knew that, did you?" Balz answered softly.

At that, Christopher's head snapped up.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

The nervous glance his brother exchanged with Richard did very little to appease the older demon's own nerves, and one of his hands curled into a tense fist atop the desk.

"Er, he never told you? What him and Lilith-? Ohh, I don't know if I should tell you," Balz said, wincing a little.

"Spill," came Christopher's hissed reply.

Balz exchanged another wary glance with Richard before clearing his throat, taking a nervous half-step into the room.

"He, uh... him and Lilith. They were, um. They had a sort of... arrangement," he began.

Christopher's jaw clenched as he stared his brother down, silently daring him to continue.

"What kind of arrangement?" he growled.

"They were sharing a bed together," Balz answered flatly.

"Or, rather, he was fucking her," he quickly amended, wincing again.

No. Fucking- no.

Not her, not his Lilith, his-

There was a moment's silence before Christopher suddenly slammed both palms down flat on the desk, his eyes darkening along with his mood as he abruptly stood up from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his rage.

"Brother, you can't-" Richard began, but upon seeing the stormy expression on the older demon's face, he grew quiet.

Balz shot the younger demon a questioning look before hurrying to move out of Christopher's way, watching the older demon storm past him, out into the hall.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, accompanied a few brief moments later by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

"He's- oh, fuck. Do you think we ought to stop him??" Richard began, panic setting in, his blue eyes widening a little.

This was answered by a shake of the head, a frown resting upon Balz's lips.

"No. Let him be. I think maybe at this point, it's very well deserved, whatever Sola has coming to him. He should've told Christopher the minute those two got involved with each other. She wasn't his to steal. No, let him go," he spoke quietly.

Indeed, Lilith hadn't been Sola's to claim, and yet-

He'd done it anyway.

And in the end, he had ultimately been the downfall of her soul, not Christopher.

But Christopher wasn't ready to hear about that part, not yet. Not right now...

Whatever happened now between Sola and his brother, it was out of Balz's hands. That was between the two of them...

An irritated frown crossed over Ghost's features as he paced back and forth in the front room of the house, phone held up to one ear.

"Look, I don't care how long it takes, make sure it gets done-" his words were suddenly cut off as the sound of a slamming door caught his attention.

"I'll have to get back to you later!" he growled, ending the call and setting aside the phone as he stormed out of the room and into the foyer, ready to tear whoever it was who dared disturb his peace a new one.

He stopped short upon seeing his brother standing there, the older demon's eyes narrowed with a fury unlike any he'd seen in a long while.

"Well. Hello to you too, mind telling me what the fuck your problem is?" Ghost retorted, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.

Christopher's hands curled into tight fists at his sides, his jaw clenching as he stood there.

"You tell me, you fucking traitor!" he spat.

His brother's eyes narrowed in irritation upon hearing the remark, as he half-turned away. "If you're here to be an asshole, you can fucking leave," he answered coldly.

"One word: Lilith," Christopher growled.

Ghost froze in his tracks at the name, his whole demeanor changing in an instant. "What of her?" he asked nonchalantly, his tone almost dismissive.

"You fucked her. Didn't you?" Christopher said darkly.

A moment's silence seemed to drag out between the two of them, until finally, finally, Ghost turned around to face his brother.

"Who the hell told you?" were the only words to leave his mouth.

So that was it then.

No remorse, no apology, nothing.

A full-blooded, cold fucking confession.

It was all Christopher needed to hear.

With a snarl, he launched himself at his brother, knocking the younger demon to the ground, the sound of something cracking on impact against marble flooring clearly audible in the room.

"The fuck is your problem-" Ghost began, his words cut off as Christopher landed a harsh hit to the side of the demon's jaw.

"You're my fucking problem!" he snarled, getting in a few more hits and avoiding plenty of his own from his brother.

Blood spattered against the immaculately clean floors as Christopher got in another hit to the corner of Ghost's mouth, splitting the younger demon's bottom lip.

"Fuck you!" his brother spat, fingertips digging into the older demon's shoulders as he tried to regain his bearings.

"Fuck me-?" Christopher muttered darkly, throwing another punch towards his brother's face. "You just couldn't let me fucking have her, could you??" he shouted, his fury nearly blinding him for a moment, as he threw hits left and right.

And then in the midst of it all, Ghost got in one good hit of his own, hard enough to unbalance the older demon for the briefest of moments.

A few scattered moments was all Ghost needed; he drew back his fist, before bringing it forward as hard as he could to the side of Christopher's face, drawing blood on impact.

"Maybe if you had taken better... care... of her-" his fist connected with his brother's face, once more, twice more, "then I wouldn't have felt the need to sleep with her!"

"Fuck you, I gave her everything!" Christopher hissed, spitting aside a mouthful of blood on the marble flooring.

"Right, just like you plan on giving your little Y/N everything!" Ghost fired back, his eyes narrowing.

Christopher's heart lurched at the sudden mention of Y/N's name.

He couldn't have her too, he wouldn't-!!

Using all his strength, Christopher fought back, delivering one last brutal, unforgiving punch to his brother's face, taking some secret satisfaction in hearing the sound of bones snapping beneath his hand.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" he roared, his anger rolling in heavy waves down his spine as he wrapped one hand around his brother's throat, squeezing hard.

Ghost stared defiantly back up at Christopher, his eyes reflecting the older demon's fury back at himself.

"Get the fuck... out of my house... before I send someone... to slit your little mouse's throat...!" the younger demon choked out.

With a loud hiss, Christopher finally relented, releasing his grip on his brother's throat and standing up, but not without delivering one last kick to Ghost's ribs.

Again, there was some satisfaction to be taken in hearing the bones snap beneath the weight of the damage sustained, a cruel snarl forming at the edges of Christopher's mouth as he glared down at his brother.

"If you so much as fucking touch her, even once-" he threatened, his words getting cut off by his brother's answering hiss.

"Get. Out," the younger demon spat darkly, his eyes as heartless and black as his soul. He sat up, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Whether it was his own or his brother's, he didn't know, and he didn't care. This entire social visit had taken a rather sour turn, in his eyes.

Christopher shot his brother one last dark look, before pointing a finger at him. "Leave her alone. I swear to the fucking gods. You touch her, and I won't be so merciful with you next time!" he hissed, before turning and storming out of the house.

Fuck, every part of him ached at the moment, none more so than his heart, or what was left of it by now.

He needed to see Y/N, he needed his little mouse.

Just one more time, that was it...

A long, ragged sigh slipped from between your lips as you allowed yourself to sink down onto the couch of your small, one-bedroom apartment.

Every part of your body ached with the strain of today's work day, and all you wanted, all you needed, was just a moment of peace and quiet.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The tapping on the door unearthed a loud groan from you as you forced yourself to get up from the couch, shuffling over to the door and getting ready to grouch at whoever it was that had disturbed your brief second of relaxation.

But as you looked through the peephole, you were completely unprepared for what lay on the other side.

Or rather, who.

It was him.

Holy fuck, it was him.

Christopher Cerulli.

He was almost looking rather bloodied up at the moment, but nonetheless, it was him.

You flung aside the chain and hurried to undo the deadbolt, throwing open the door in your haste, revealing the tall, dark-haired man from last night.

Only now could you see just how much of a literal mess he was, blood staining the front of his shirt and leaking from the corner of his mouth and from multiple cuts along his face, which was sporting more than its fair share of gradually darkening bruises.

"What the fuck happened??" you asked, panic beginning to set in.

His trembling, breathless reply was instant.

"P-please, little mouse. May I come in?"

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