14
A writer is frequently asked about the basic ideas from which he develops his stories and scripts. The original concept seems to arouse as much interest as its subsequent growth. Often, almost magic powers are attributed to the truly creative notion, as distinguished from one that is unproductive; indeed, it is often assumed that the “good” idea appears full-blown in the writer’s mind, replete with the capacity to grow of itself along inherent and foreordained lines.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Any writer looking back upon his completed works will recall that the first ideas have come to him in a rudimentary or fragmentary form, in a variety of ways, and, more often than not, in a completely unpredictable manner. Even the most disciplined creator cannot control or willfully produce the moment of inspiration, though he may have otherwise trained his imaginative powers to be at their peak during certain working hours, or in a given set of circumstances, or under the prodding of habit and idiosyncrasy. Further, at the instant of their first appearance, some of his best ideas may have gone almost unnoticed; only in retrospect can he recognize which seed fell on fertile ground, which spark could be fanned to creative flames, which notion was productive of results, fulfilling an earlier, uncertain promise.
Since the fundamental concept determines the outcome of the whole, it is of the utmost importance for the writer to choose wisely among many possible ideas before committing himself to the time and effort involved in full development. Yet in the beginning, when he has to make this selection, he has insufficient material upon which to base his choice.
Being incomplete, the initial notion cannot yet be “good”; indeed, many a promising idea may have been squashed, or rejected by an outsider, because it was offered too soon, submitted to impersonal view before its potential had been given a chance to manifest itself.
The very nature of the primary impulse is such as to elude definition. It is not identical with the subject matter, though this may be part of it; nor with the theme, though this may be found in it. It may be a childhood memory, a dominant character trait, even a glimpse of landscape or a fragment of dialogue.
The teeming brain never ceases to produce images, thoughts, ideas. Of these, many are so fleeting as to escape our attention almost entirely; some are briefly examined and rejected; others are considered, perhaps tested and worked on for a while, but ultimately forgotten. And then there are those which, for some reason or another, have a unique effect upon us and are not to be dismissed, no matter how hard we may try; they sometimes return to us over a period of years.
In its embryonic stage the ultimately successful idea seems to offer no other criterion than this intuitive affinity the writer feels for it. It has the peculiar capacity to stir his imagination and to remain in his memory until he has given it form.
Nor is it surprising that the initial selection should be made on this very personal basis. If a character, a situation, or a background has the power to affect us in some way, to linger on or to return to us over a period of time, it indicates some special, perhaps unconscious, appeal or meaning to us. In the arduous labors of developing the script, all our creative energies are then likely to participate; we have “our heart in it,” we are more than rationally interested, we take pleasure in giving it form.
It stands to reason, therefore, that the subjective, rather than the objective, choice of the basic idea is likely to lead to the best results. Since no objectively valid value standards can be applied in the rudimentary stage, our individual involvement is likely to prove the decisive factor.
Thus the original concept represents the most personal contribution of the writer. At the other end of the creative process is the final script, directed at a mass audience; to be understood, the personal must be cast into objective language — the subjective into a universally valid form.
It may be said, therefore, that the creative process begins in the subjective and ends in the impersonal. Individual emotion must be expressed in terms of the commonly identifiable experience. Only in this manner can the dramatist achieve the desired effect of evoking in the individual spectator the emotions he intended to stir. The poet can largely dispense with this detour, aiming directly at the heart of his reader. But the screenwriter has to follow the full span from the subjective to the objective in order to reproduce in the individual spectator the subjective response once again.
In developing his basic idea toward this goal, the writer finds that the final form foreshadows its demands upon the earliest stages of growth. On the one hand, the primary concept remains the seed around which the crystal conglomerates; it continues to be the mainspring which powers the story and script. On the other hand, we must soon ask ourselves which direction to take in order to reach the objective of the particular form we have selected, if indeed the fundamental idea lends itself to that objective.
As the various outlets for the writer’s creative efforts change in nature, it becomes increasingly important for him to learn how to evaluate the potential of his idea at the earliest possible stage.
The strong situation which had promised to provide all the conflict and drama for a feature film reveals itself as too introverted a character study in its final resolution. Conversely, the idea which had seemed so right for a half-hour television show may really require an hour, or perhaps even ninety minutes, for full development.
By necessity, if not by choice, more and more writers are becoming experts in different forms. Consequently, a writer no longer has to reject an idea because it happens to be unsuitable to the specific medium in which he is working at that moment. Instead, he can jot it down, file it away for future reference, and take it out again when it has either ripened to the point where he feels impelled to work it out or when it can fulfill the demands of an outside request.
Since the creative mind produces ideas spontaneously and without much regard for the length of stories required by a certain magazine, or the running time of a particular television series, the writer cannot promptly coax, prod, or force his brain to deliver what he needs at any given time. He can, however, train to recognize in himself the flow of ideas, their hidden or potential merit, and thus to build up a backlog that becomes not only the storehouse, but the fundamental wealth of any writer.
At what point, from what portion, and in what maimer we draw from this storehouse depends on so many variable and individual factors that no general rules can be drawn. Inner or outer impulses beyond the writer’s control may play the decisive role; all he can consciously and willfully do may be to match the right idea to the desired objective.
The interplay between the creative impulse and the strictures of the form poses some of the most fascinating problems confronting the writer. At times, particularly while struggling with some of the harsher restrictions imposed by the medium, it may be well for us to remember that completely unfettered creation is impossible and has never existed; that the mind, in order to escape chaos, has always sought form in spite of, or because of, its strictures. We cannot express an abstract thought without fitting it into an orderly sentence structure and submitting it to the rules of syntax. And throughout the centuries, even the poets vacillated between the extremes of the sonnet and free verse, between voluntarily imposing upon themselves the strict forms of regulated rhythm and rhyme, and then, at other times, seeking to escape their confining rules.
Ideally, the writer who can afford to disregard all economic considerations would obey only his creative impulse; overcome and compelled by an idea, he would decide which form would best lend itself to fulfill its inherent potential — novel, stage, screen, television. In practice, however, a majority of writers must give serious, if not foremost, consideration to the outlets for their work. If an idea chances to match the demand to perfection, the writer can proceed without difficulty. At the other end of the scale is the need to produce ideas exclusively on request, without any regard for the creative impulse.
In this interaction between the creative impulse and the demands of the form, the latter seems to play the decisive and determining role. For one thing, its theoretical needs are quite clearly established, derived, and conditioned by its very nature; they can neither be circumvented nor changed; they must be obeyed.
And in a practical sense, the producer, editor, or publisher can be equally definite in his demands. He may request a story for a certain star, a script for a specific television format, a novelette aimed primarily at the woman reader. He prescribes the length, he knows the budget, and, not infrequently, he knows the preferences of his star or sponsor.
Opposed to this, the creative impulse seems vague, groping, indecisive at times, and uncontrollable at others. A basic idea, still unformed, seems malleable enough to be guided in any desired direction. There seems to be no reason why the story material cannot be developed to suit either the necessary length of any other demand.
But it soon becomes apparent that the basic story material has its inherent projections that are at least as stubborn as, and often even more incontrovertible than, the fixed demands of form and assignment. Anyone who has ever struggled with certain given story elements knows how deceptively pliable they may seem at first and yet how iron-willed they actually are. At some stage of development the flaws or inconsistencies are bound to come to the fore; the closer the final script, the less adequately can they be concealed or patched.
In the course of our creative labors, therefore, we have to look forward to our goal and go back to our basic ingredients; we must be aware of the demands the final form we have selected will impose on us, and we must examine the projections of the elements with which we are working. Only by a perfect blending of the two will we achieve the dynamic progression characteristic of the successful story and script.
The creative process, from the inception of an idea to the final form, is a striving for total awareness. Along the way, we are hindered by a lack of foreknowledge of the future and hampered by an insufficient awareness of the meaning of past decisions.
Only the completed work can give us the full view, the full realization of intent and result, the full consciousness of idea and form — and that joyous moment of liberation known only to the creative mind as one of its singular rewards.