How to write in spite of others - Mamet

Memo from David Mamet to writers of the Unit. It’s in capitals because that’s how he wrote it. And he wrote it on a typewriter - which makes it even more aggressive.

But there’s truth here. Lots of that.

———-

TO THE WRITERS OF THE [WORLD]

GREETINGS.

AS WE LEARN HOW TO WRITE THIS SHOW, A RECURRING PROBLEM BECOMES CLEAR.

THE PROBLEM IS THIS: TO DIFFERENTIATE BETWEEN DRAMA AND NON-DRAMA. LET ME BREAK-IT-DOWN-NOW.

EVERYONE IN CREATION IS SCREAMING AT US TO MAKE THE SHOW CLEAR. WE ARE TASKED WITH, IT SEEMS, CRAMMING A SHITLOAD OF INFORMATION INTO A LITTLE BIT OF TIME.

OUR FRIENDS. THE PENGUINS, THINK THAT WE, THEREFORE, ARE EMPLOYED TO COMMUNICATE INFORMATION — AND, SO, AT TIMES, IT SEEMS TO US.

BUT NOTE:THE AUDIENCE WILL NOT TUNE IN TO WATCH INFORMATION. YOU WOULDN’T, I WOULDN’T. NO ONE WOULD OR WILL. THE AUDIENCE WILL ONLY TUNE IN AND STAY TUNED TO WATCH DRAMA.

QUESTION:WHAT IS DRAMA? DRAMA, AGAIN, IS THE QUEST OF THE HERO TO OVERCOME THOSE THINGS WHICH PREVENT HIM FROM ACHIEVING A SPECIFIC, ACUTE GOAL.

SO: WE, THE WRITERS, MUST ASK OURSELVES OF EVERY SCENE THESE THREE QUESTIONS.

1) WHO WANTS WHAT?
2) WHAT HAPPENS IF HER DON’T GET IT?
3) WHY NOW?

THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS ARE LITMUS PAPER. APPLY THEM, AND THEIR ANSWER WILL TELL YOU IF THE SCENE IS DRAMATIC OR NOT.

IF THE SCENE IS NOT DRAMATICALLY WRITTEN, IT WILL NOT BE DRAMATICALLY ACTED.

THERE IS NO MAGIC FAIRY DUST WHICH WILL MAKE A BORING, USELESS, REDUNDANT, OR MERELY INFORMATIVE SCENE AFTER IT LEAVES YOUR TYPEWRITER. YOU THE WRITERS, ARE IN CHARGE OF MAKING SURE EVERY SCENE IS DRAMATIC.

THIS MEANS ALL THE “LITTLE” EXPOSITIONAL SCENES OF TWO PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD. THIS BUSHWAH (AND WE ALL TEND TO WRITE IT ON THE FIRST DRAFT) IS LESS THAN USELESS, SHOULD IT FINALLY, GOD FORBID, GET FILMED.

IF THE SCENE BORES YOU WHEN YOU READ IT, REST ASSURED IT WILL BORE THE ACTORS, AND WILL, THEN, BORE THE AUDIENCE, AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE BACK IN THE BREADLINE.

SOMEONE HAS TO MAKE THE SCENE DRAMATIC. IT IS NOT THE ACTORS JOB (THE ACTORS JOB IS TO BE TRUTHFUL). IT IS NOT THE DIRECTORS JOB. HIS OR HER JOB IS TO FILM IT STRAIGHTFORWARDLY AND REMIND THE ACTORS TO TALK FAST. IT IS YOUR JOB.

EVERY SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC. THAT MEANS: THE MAIN CHARACTER MUST HAVE A SIMPLE, STRAIGHTFORWARD, PRESSING NEED WHICH IMPELS HIM OR HER TO SHOW UP IN THE SCENE.

THIS NEED IS WHY THEY CAME. IT IS WHAT THE SCENE IS ABOUT. THEIR ATTEMPT TO GET THIS NEED MET WILL LEAD, AT THE END OF THE SCENE,TO FAILURE - THIS IS HOW THE SCENE IS OVER. IT, THIS FAILURE, WILL, THEN, OF NECESSITY, PROPEL US INTO THE NEXT SCENE.

ALL THESE ATTEMPTS, TAKEN TOGETHER, WILL, OVER THE COURSE OF THE EPISODE, CONSTITUTE THE PLOT.

ANY SCENE, THUS, WHICH DOES NOT BOTH ADVANCE THE PLOT, AND STANDALONE (THAT IS, DRAMATICALLY, BY ITSELF, ON ITS OWN MERITS) IS EITHER SUPERFLUOUS, OR INCORRECTLY WRITTEN.

YES BUT YES BUT YES BUT, YOU SAY: WHAT ABOUT THE NECESSITY OF WRITING IN ALL THAT “INFORMATION?”

AND I RESPOND “FIGURE IT OUT” ANY DICKHEAD WITH A BLUESUIT CAN BE (AND IS) TAUGHT TO SAY “MAKE IT CLEARER”, AND “I WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT HIM”.

WHEN YOU’VE MADE IT SO CLEAR THAT EVEN THIS BLUESUITED PENGUIN IS HAPPY, BOTH YOU AND HE OR SHE WILL BE OUT OF A JOB.

THE JOB OF THE DRAMATIST IS TO MAKE THE AUDIENCE WONDER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. NOT TO EXPLAIN TO THEM WHAT JUST HAPPENED, OR TO*SUGGEST* TO THEM WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

ANY DICKHEAD, AS ABOVE, CAN WRITE, “BUT, JIM, IF WE DON’T ASSASSINATE THE PRIME MINISTER IN THE NEXT SCENE, ALL EUROPE WILL BE ENGULFED IN FLAME”

WE ARE NOT GETTING PAID TO REALIZE THAT THE AUDIENCE NEEDS THIS INFORMATION TO UNDERSTAND THE NEXT SCENE, BUT TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE THE SCENE BEFORE US SUCH THAT THE AUDIENCE WILL BE INTERESTED IN WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

YES BUT, YES BUT YES BUT YOU REITERATE.

AND I RESPOND FIGURE IT OUT.

HOW DOES ONE STRIKE THE BALANCE BETWEEN WITHHOLDING AND VOUCHSAFING INFORMATION? THAT IS THE ESSENTIAL TASK OF THE DRAMATIST. AND THE ABILITY TO DO THAT IS WHAT SEPARATES YOU FROM THE LESSER SPECIES IN THEIR BLUE SUITS.

FIGURE IT OUT.

START, EVERY TIME, WITH THIS INVIOLABLE RULE: THE SCENE MUST BE DRAMATIC. it must start because the hero HAS A PROBLEM, AND IT MUST CULMINATE WITH THE HERO FINDING HIM OR HERSELF EITHER THWARTED OR EDUCATED THAT ANOTHER WAY EXISTS.

LOOK AT YOUR LOG LINES. ANY LOGLINE READING “BOB AND SUE DISCUSS…” IS NOT DESCRIBING A DRAMATIC SCENE.

PLEASE NOTE THAT OUR OUTLINES ARE, GENERALLY, SPECTACULAR. THE DRAMA FLOWS OUT BETWEEN THE OUTLINE AND THE FIRST DRAFT.

THINK LIKE A FILMMAKER RATHER THAN A FUNCTIONARY, BECAUSE, IN TRUTH, YOU ARE MAKING THE FILM. WHAT YOU WRITE, THEY WILL SHOOT.

HERE ARE THE DANGER SIGNALS. ANY TIME TWO CHARACTERS ARE TALKING ABOUT A THIRD, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

ANY TIME ANY CHARACTER IS SAYING TO ANOTHER “AS YOU KNOW”, THAT IS, TELLING ANOTHER CHARACTER WHAT YOU, THE WRITER, NEED THE AUDIENCE TO KNOW, THE SCENE IS A CROCK OF SHIT.

DO NOT WRITE A CROCK OF SHIT. WRITE A RIPPING THREE, FOUR, SEVEN MINUTE SCENE WHICH MOVES THE STORY ALONG, AND YOU CAN, VERY SOON, BUY A HOUSE IN BEL AIR AND HIRE SOMEONE TO LIVE THERE FOR YOU.

REMEMBER YOU ARE WRITING FOR A VISUAL MEDIUM. MOST TELEVISION WRITING, OURS INCLUDED, SOUNDS LIKE RADIO. THE CAMERA CAN DO THE EXPLAINING FOR YOU. LET IT. WHAT ARE THE CHARACTERS DOING -*LITERALLY*. WHAT ARE THEY HANDLING, WHAT ARE THEY READING. WHAT ARE THEY WATCHING ON TELEVISION, WHAT ARE THEY SEEING.

IF YOU PRETEND THE CHARACTERS CANT SPEAK, AND WRITE A SILENT MOVIE, YOU WILL BE WRITING GREAT DRAMA.

IF YOU DEPRIVE YOURSELF OF THE CRUTCH OF NARRATION, EXPOSITION,INDEED, OF SPEECH. YOU WILL BE FORGED TO WORK IN A NEW MEDIUM - TELLING THE STORY IN PICTURES (ALSO KNOWN AS SCREENWRITING)

THIS IS A NEW SKILL. NO ONE DOES IT NATURALLY. YOU CAN TRAIN YOURSELVES TO DO IT, BUT YOU NEED TO START.

I CLOSE WITH THE ONE THOUGHT: LOOK AT THE SCENE AND ASK YOURSELF “IS IT DRAMATIC? IS IT ESSENTIAL? DOES IT ADVANCE THE PLOT?

ANSWER TRUTHFULLY.

IF THE ANSWER IS “NO” WRITE IT AGAIN OR THROW IT OUT. IF YOU’VE GOT ANY QUESTIONS, CALL ME UP.

LOVE, DAVE MAMET
SANTA MONICA 19 OCTO 05

(IT IS NOT YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW THE ANSWERS, BUT IT IS YOUR, AND MY, RESPONSIBILITY TO KNOW AND TO ASK THE RIGHT Questions OVER AND OVER. UNTIL IT BECOMES SECOND NATURE. I BELIEVE THEY ARE LISTED ABOVE.)

Screenwriting Tip #1021

Here’s a tip from the lovely Screenwriting Tips blog:

screenwritingtips:

Writing means waking up every morning and forcing yourself to fall in love with your story again. Do this every day until it’s finished.

It’s a bit idealistic, but add a dose of British cynicism and it works. For example:

Writing means waking up every morning and forcing yourself to remember that at one point you drunkenly told all your friends at the pub that this was a great idea for a story and you were going to one day retire on it. Do this every day until you make yourself finish. Then come up with a new idea. Repeat.

Just because it really happened doesn’t mean an audience will believe it

At the moment I’m writing my first vaguely “autobiographical” play. I use that word sparingly because it’s more based on a bit of personal experience and then embellished to make it into a play. I’ve been a personal tutor for a year or so and weaved a story around that. Adding lots of drama though - tutoring isn’t that interesting.

However, I found myself yesterday, in a read through, being told that a dialogue felt unrealistic. This wasn’t one of the parts that I’d made up. This was a transcript of something that had happened to me. But here was a room of people agreeing that it felt “unrealistic”. What? But… but it’s real. It happened. It’s definitely realistic.

Robert McKee, the Moses to all screenwriting courses (he also frequently leaves you in the desert if you follow him too closely), opens a chapter in his manual “Story” with the provocative phrase “dialogue is not conversation”. He means this in the way that conversation is often directionless. It’s a space filler and a collection of pauses and awkward phrasing. You can’t give it to an actor.

But here we have a slightly different problem. My conversation WAS one with purpose. It was a conversation where a parent was trying to convince the tutor to take a pay cut and come back. Both characters had vested interests. I remember the awkwardness of the conversation as I blithely accepted this cut to keep the job. But yesterday people said it wasn’t real. Well it was real. It was. What’s happening here?

I don’t know. It’s the magic of stories. They are not real life. They are manufactured. So when reality stumbles in on this artificial world we suddenly notice it and call it out.

A lot of autobiographical writing is really quite shit. We’ve all shuddered when our friend gives us a flyer for his one man show on his journey through adolescence. Films that are based on a true story rarely are faithful (did you know for example that “We Bought a Zoo” is a based on a family from Surrey?) and so really – what’s all the fuss about? Let’s just enjoy making things up.

The trouble is some people champion the real in stories as a sign of quality. I don’t believe it is. I just think it’s something to hide behind. I found myself doing it. When people said they didn’t believe the conversation I haughtily replied “But it happened. I was in it. Word for word that’s what was said”. I was hiding behind the fact that I could justify it was real. But just because it’s real it doesn’t mean it’s any good. Actually, in my script, it seemed to do the opposite.

I think that’s a good thing. Because otherwise we might as well all become journalists.

Keeping ahead of the Audience

Hamilton, the Director of a few James Bond classics from “Goldfinger” to “Golden Gun”, was talking about the difficulties in putting an older story onto the screen. When talking about adapting one of the films from the books he complains:

“…The problem with Ian Fleming’s books was that they were becoming 20 years too old. Those climaxes with the helicopters were on every bloody TV show in America! The problem was, where do we take Bond this time?”

Hamilton was referring to the beginnings of what has become a major head-scratcher for writers. Audiences are getting ahead of us.

We are all, as a modern audience, incredibly sophisticated and discerning with what we watch. We expect a lot of stories, but also to be continually surprised.

These days half the battle when writing something for screen is to stop the audience laughing at it. Think how often you do it. How often you laugh at a film that misses the mark. My flatmate and I dedicate hungover Sundays for that very purpose.

There’s so much bloody stuff being made. That’s the trouble. We eat stories. Series box sets are consumed in a weekend. Next weekend we want another. We say “oh, the first two seasons were really good, but they lost it in the third season”. What, so, by the time they were writing the 45th hour of drama they began to have trouble? What a bunch of dicks. They really dropped the ball on that one.

To be a writer now one must be in constant motion to escape the cliché. The moment your audience catches up with you, guesses what someone will say/do is the moment they’re gone. They’ve changed the channel.

So is this a bad thing? Nope. We just need to be vigilant. New stories must divorce themselves from anything established or risk seeming archaic and predictable.

Conversely, Old stories, when remade, must be made as if they were first being told – right now. Like Hamilton with Bond. He knew that to end his film in the same way as was acceptable in the book 20 years ago wouldn’t cut it. So he reinvented. Who’s doing this now?

Stephen Moffat’s Sherlock Holmes is a really good example. Some people may disagree but I think Holme’s death in the original Arthur Conan Doyle stories is really weak. He leaves a note by a cliff and Watson’s like “Oh, he probably fell off”. And then the following book when he’s revived three years later and just turns up in the living room Watson’s reaction isn’t much more than: “And I was pretty annoyed”.

Compare that to the rollercoaster of emotion that Steve Thompson took us on with his episode. Conan Doyle’s ending would not have cut it on today’s television with today’s audience. We require more. We have grown up. We need more complexity.

Run away from the audience. Keep one step ahead. Don’t let up or you’ll be overtaken and trampled into the concrete.

(Source: eugmemeoneill, via screnzypages)

“No, I don’t really want to see the Avengers… I can’t be bothered with ANOTHER superhero movie ———
Oh? Joss Whedon wrote it? LET’S GO”
Every single person’s reaction to the new Avengers movie

betterhideyourgrin:

SNL’s Game of Thrones

IT’S HBO!

Sexposition: A Game of Thrones phenomenon

Kudos to the people at GoT. They’ve found a way to get plot points across (much needed in this plotweb) without people realising. Just stick two people having sex in the scene. Someone saying…

“But the old King was murdered by your brother six years ago”

…may seem cackhanded. But if every syllable is separated by a thrusting man and punctuated by womanly groans we don’t notice.

The penny (penny, not penis) will begin to drop soon. We won’t be able to move for sex scenes with plot points. Everyone will catch on and use the excuse. Because it’s really hard to get exposition in without people calling foul play. You have to hide it in the room. The audience can’t work out they’re getting it spoon fed to them or they won’t eat. It’s a bit like feeding a baby by pretending the spoon is a plane. You’ve got to trick them into eating. Neeeaawwwwmmm Look out. Here comes the exposition plane. Neeeaaawwwwmmm. Nom nom nom.

Seriously though, bloody love this show. Gonna go and add a sex scene into my play to get some plot out the way.

(Source: anakochen)

Please, hold me back. Don’t leave me alone on the lonely beach that is the blank page.

The blank page. That dreaded arctic wasteland where a writer is sent to work every day. Nobody likes it. They fear the expanse that must be filled. It used to be a piece of paper on a desk. Now it’s a computer screen with a cursor flashing impatiently.

But, to be honest, I’ve never really believed in the blank page. Yeah, at one point the page is blank. But I never tend to approach a page and stare at it waiting for an idea. I have an idea when I arrive. So it’s never blank. Usually.

Blank pages should be feared. Not because they are bereft of ideas. On the contrary – any idea could exist there. In the endless space anything can happen. When consulted with a blank page and the brief that you can do “anything” – suddenly nothing will come.

A couple of weeks ago a director called me and told me he had some budget left over from a recent investment and wanted to use the money to make some short films. And wanted to know if there was any idea brewing that I wanted to make. Then asked for a first draft.

Now, after hanging up the phone, I was faced with the blank page. I could write anything. ANYTHING. And that is the hardest and most terrifying prospect.

But in reality I couldn’t write anything. I knew it was a short film. I knew it had a small budget. I knew he’d want to shoot it in London. Immediately I found restrictions. And these restrictions meant I knew what parameters I had. This meant I could begin work.

I really like restrictions because the more you have the easier it is to work. That’s why I find myself attracted to the theatre. Everything in your story has to be able to be made in front of people. This is especially true at my stage in life. Alan Bennett may be able to write a 20-character piece and get it on at the National, and he’s bloody good at it. Even if, hypothetically, I wrote something as good as him it wouldn’t get past the first producer saying “20 characters? – but you haven’t written any songs in.”

So instead, hoping that day will come, I limit my ideas to have a small cast and cheap sets. It’s the only way to get a play onstage. But, conversely, it gets me writing because I already have rules in place. So I’m secretly quite pleased. Yay to restrictions and budget concerns. You protect my mind from agoraphobia.

But surely that limits potential? Shouldn’t a great piece of art benefit from being limitless?

In 2003 Lars Von Trier set a series of challenges for his director friend Jørgen Leth. He told him to remake his film “The Perfect Human” but set restrictions on each remake. It was an experiment to see if the film could be improved, and the last of the remakes was allowed with no restrictions. Leth could do what he wanted. Reportedly this last one was the worst. Being given free rein actually harmed the film. (See http://tinyurl.com/d2hzgyn for more).

Without restrictions we start getting lost in the arctic. Endless possibilities means anarchy, and I personally get disorientated.

(Aside: This could be why a lot of film sequels are really shit. Studios enthusiastically give the creatives larger parameters. The work is diluted. And the juice tastes watery).

So, in conclusion, limit me. Please. It’s for my own good. Don’t leave me to walk alone in the arctic. I’ll die on the cold blank page.

Screenwriting Tip #936 - and it’s a vital one.

screenwritingtips:

Give yourself permission to write the Shit Version of a scene. Just remember to go back and fix it. Don’t leave the Shit Version in your draft so long that it becomes the Good Enough Version.

I like this post from Screenwritingtips. It strikes true with me because I have made both of these mistakes. I have gotten stuck on writing a scene because I don’t want it to be shit. And so stalled a script massively. And I have smashed through a scene and made it shit just to move on, but then convinced myself it’s good enough. I convince myself I never really had a problem with it, keep it in and then I send along it to people. It’s such an easy thing to do.

This is why often the feedback people give you isn’t a massive surprise. They say something about a line or a dramatic-action-lacking scene and you find yourself going “oh yeah, I did think that was problem. I’m glad you brought it up”. But then you stop and think - “hang on. If I knew that was a problem, why did I let anyone read it before I sent it?” For a moment you feel a bit foolish.

But you’ll do it again anyway. And that’s fine. It’s actually really hard to spot these things until someone tells you. It’s only when someone points this out that you realise you kind of knew it all along. Then, in mild embarrassment, you change it.

Everyone needs a kick up the arse.

This is why every writer is the product of their friendship group. Or they are the product of, what could be called, the group who suffer reading their drafts. The idea is that by the time anyone “important” (important is used very loosely here) reads it, the friends will have flushed out the fluff and reminded you of the vigour that every piece of work requires. Sometimes you need to be reminded that every time you relax with work, people notice. Friends do this nicely. Literary managers are more blunt.

So I would like to salute the people who suffer through my work. And those who suffer through others. The early drafts. The callous exposition. The clunky dialogue. We all appreciate it and we all need you. Because without you no one would know a Jerusalem from a Jersey Shore.

For God’s sake – buy a Kindle. Or any eReader. And here’s why.

“I don’t like the Kindle. I need the feel of a book in my hand”

 

So this is the most common thing said to me when using a Kindle. People dismiss it pretty quickly as something that’s not for them. They think it’s the death of the book or the death of writing. They present an idealogical problem with the idea of an “eBook” - as if it is muscling in on an essential industry and strangling it.

But they’re entirely wrong. It’s really the complete opposite.

 

In all honesty I was also pretty cynical when I first saw them advertised. The older version looks like a shit calculator. I laughed at Amazons insistence that they were an essential part of life. But I got one to read on the tube and found it useful for that.

 

But the main questions remains: Who can really replace a book with something electronic? And who would want to? I could talk about convenience and environment and all that bumfluff, (Celtx have a great response to this blog here: http://tinyurl.com/6rstsn5that covers why you need to get over the concept of the “book”). But to get to the reason why I believe you should rethink any prejudice you might have against eReaders we need to look at Amanda Hocking.

 

She’s the unexpected star of the eBook and has basically written what sounds like another Twilight series. Nevermind that though – we can forgive her. The reason I mention her is because she was systematically rejected by publishers (who probably told her that her books are like Twilight) and published through Kindle. She had a whole series and published it on Amazon and it became really popular and do de do de doooo she sold it to a publishing house in New York for $2.1 earlier this year. Not bad, eh? Good on her, I ‘spose.

 

Now here’s the key bit.

 

On the Kindle you self publish in a deal with Amazon. But don’t hold up your crucifix just yet. You may be pointing it at the wrong vampire.

So, when doing this she set her own pricing structure. As she’d had ages to fuck around and write an entire series she was able to offer the first book at $0.99 and the following ones at $2.99. So basically you got “hooked” by the first high school drama plot and just HAD to pay the extra for the others.

So she began to sell lots of books very quickly and soon topped the Kindle charts. People were reading her books - she had succeeded.


But, don’t those prices seem cheap compared with the $10 you’d get through publishing normally? She can’t be making as much as she would through writing like a normal person on paper - can she?

Wrong. Here’s some clever maths from the Guardian article about it all:

 

“Amazon would give her 30% of all royalties for the 99-cent books, rising to 70% for the $2.99 editions – a much greater proportion than the traditional 10 or 15% that publishing houses award their authors. You don’t have to be much of a mathematician to see the attraction of those figures: 70% of $2.99 is $2.09; 10% of a paperback priced at $9.99 is 99 cents. Multiply that by a million and you are talking megabucks.” (The Guardian, 12th January 2012)

 

Hang on. Forgive my ignorance, but traditional publishers give 10 to 15% royalties to writers? So they take 85 to 90%? For printing the books?

 

I never knew this and found this statistic completely amazing. How do they get away with that?

 

I appreciate that publishers do a great deal. They have a mammoth task on their hands in getting the books printed/marketed/made successful. Indeed to doubt their job would be incredibly foolish. Publisher Jane Winterbotham calls it “the peripherals” and indeed publishers do “provide an imprimatur, a sort of quality control.” That’s very useful. And I do find typos pretty consistently in eBooks, which is annoying. Publishers, at least, make a work professional.


But to charge 85 to 90% is completely ludicrous. How can they justify that? Do they think people are buying the books for the quality of the paper and the typeface? It seems like blatant and horrific exploitation and reminds me of my flatmate at uni who, when I asked him if I could use his printer for a 6/7 page essay, would charge me a pint of lager for the privilege. I still think he’s a wanker, and it seems people like him are the ones who grew up to open publishing houses.

 

Since the eReader revolution a few writers have come out to complain - as they finally can - about publishers and the shit deals they had to grump through in earlier life (most notably Anthony Horowitz here: http://bit.ly/AD1X3v). It seems like we can finally complain about it and not fear retribution/isolation. The cat is out of the bag. The elephant in the room is finally being told he’s taking up all the space and blocking the tele. The can of worms has been… you know what I mean.

 

So if you do it for nothing else, do it so you can cut out the middle men. Or at least make them re-evaluate their position. Why are they getting so much of a book? And how the hell has 10 to 15% royalty for the writer become “traditional”?

That’s why you should buy an eReader. You pay less for books and the majority of the money goes towards the people who wrote the words, instead of the typesetters.

 

That’s my view on it. I don’t really care that much. I write plays and we get paid even less.