Fix: Just as a great way to start a pitch is with a personal anecdote, that same personal connection matters for a pilot. What’s the genesis of this idea, why are we writing this idea, why now, why do we think it’s timely? That’s a big part of choosing a strong idea. No matter how much skill and talent a writer may have, when he or she is actually executing the idea on the page, it’s essential to take the time to come up with an idea that feels innovative and well suited for their abilities as a writer and their voice. I always tell my students, “Write the pilot that only you could write.” That way, I feel they will be writing to their strengths, and it will come across on the page.

• “It Doesn’t Feel Authentic”

Another potential “trap” is that everything in the pilot feels too far removed from the writer’s experience. Right now, particularly in the wake of the digital television revolution, both buyers and viewers want authenticity. And if a writer is creating something that doesn’t feel authentic to the world, people can sense it. We now also have such ease of access to information that if writers fudge the facts, trying to present themselves as experts, or try to write convincing medical, legal or criminal procedure, or science fiction based on science they know nothing about, it feels false. For instance, if a writer is 19 and has never been married but is writing a show about people in their 50s who are dealing with empty nest syndrome because their kids have gone off to college, it doesn’t necessarily mean they can’t do it, but it does mean they are likely unable to capture the texture and specificity of a writer who has actually lived through that, or done first-hand research.

• “The Plotting Is Tepid”

Another potential trap is when the plot of the pilot episode is not special enough. The pilot is just “meh.” In other words, it’s too by the numbers, a familiar plotline we’ve seen on other shows, or too predictable. If I start reading a pilot and am captivated by the setup, likely somewhere around the middle of the script, I start to formulate a positive opinion in my mind: “This is a really cool setup. I wonder where it’s going.” But if I immediately think, “Well, this is where the pilot’s going, and that’s the way it’s obviously going to resolve”—and then it does exactly that, it’s disappointing. I don’t want to be right; I want to be surprised. Of course I don’t want to be disappointed because my prediction of how it would turn out is just what happened—it’s anticlimactic and removes any fun sense of discovery when reading.

Similarly, a potential “trap” is not capitalizing and delivering on the promise of the premise. Sometimes we read the first act or half of a pilot and honestly think, “This is so cool, what a great idea.” But then the second half proves disappointing because it just doesn’t capitalize on that setup. We need to ensure there’s nuance that grows out of that central core concept that’s established. In addition to the story unfolding in an unexpected way that is not obvious or superficial, we need to take our readers and audience into areas that explore aspects of the characters and their situations in surprising, innovative and compelling ways. Even if we have a good idea for a premise, we still need to make sure that where we take the reader and audience in the pilot isn’t just where they’re expecting to go, not just a superficial treatment.

For example, at the end of the Legion pilot, protagonist David (Dan Stevens) has had a day from hell. His girlfriend, who may be the love of his life, is missing—and it’s his fault. He’s accidentally killed his only other friend. He may have gotten his sister into trouble, and there’s no sign of her. And he’s escaped a strange mental asylum only to end up imprisoned in a stranger government facility. At the end, David discovers that what he thought were his disorders and hallucinations might be neither liabilities nor imaginary, but real-life, badass superhero abilities. If we can end the pilot on an unexpected note—yet one that’s inevitable because of everything that came before—we’re in a great sweet spot for the show.

• “The Stakes Are Not High Enough”

The lack of stakes, which I briefly touched upon above, can be a major weakness in virtually every early draft of a script that doesn’t quite live up to its potential. Characters want to win. They’re always trying to achieve something, to get ahead and have success. Stakes, on the other hand, are defined as the consequences of failure. What will happen if our characters don’t get what they want?

It’s not enough to say, “So this character really, really wants to accomplish something.” That’s only half the creation of a narrative drive. Better if this character needs this and if he/she doesn’t get it, there will be negative consequences.

Fix: We need to be specific about what such negative consequences or stakes entail. They need to be relatable, so that, even if we don’t know what it feels like to be a pregnant virgin after being accidentally artificially inseminated, we can understand what’s at stake for Jane the Virgin. On shows such as The Walking Dead, or police procedurals or medical shows, the stakes are consistently as high as possible: life and death. But of course, not all shows have life and death stakes, particularly comedies or dramedies such as Master of None. So, we need to be mindful that, in the pilot, if we don’t have a show with life and death stakes, there still need to be stakes that feel like life and death to the character. We see this a lot in comedy. We watch, cringing in situations in which a protagonist truly feels, “If that email gets out, it will destroy my career.” Or, “If that person discovers I said that thing about them, they’re never going to forgive me. I have to stop them from finding out.” Or, “If she breaks up with me, my life will be over.” Whatever it is, our characters must react to it and be proactive in terms of avoiding those bad consequences, as if their lives depended on it.

High stakes—or perceived high stakes—create urgency and suspense and heighten the storytelling. In a pilot, we need this narrative drive. So, whether it’s a comedy or drama, we need to make sure that, even if it’s running under the laugh-out-loud, funny, organic jokes, every scene needs to have a through-line of tension, the characters and reader/audience are aware of time, and there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. It’ll make the read more exciting, instead of monotonous. Professor Richard Walter, Chair of the UCLA MFA Screenwriting Program, has a credo he’s been repeating for the last 40 years:

We must be honest with ourselves when we look at our pilots. Is any part boring? Give it to somebody trusted to read and pose the questions, “Where were you most engaged? Were there any places in which you were bored? Did the plot go slack anywhere, and did you start to lose interest? Was it because you were confused or because you weren’t caring enough about anybody? Were there too many plotlines, and you weren’t sure which one to follow? Who were you rooting for?” We need to make sure there’s a narrative drive, meaning that, for at least one character, it’s clear exactly what he/she needs. There are clear consequences if they fail, and we care about the outcome of those consequences.

• “It’s Just Talking Heads”

Another common “trap” is when the pilot feels too claustrophobic. Sometimes I read scripts where it feels as if every scene is talking heads, people just sitting in restaurants or offices, having conversations.

Fix: Remember, television is more cinematic now, and most shows are shot digitally (and more cheaply) than before, so we can open up the story and arena as needed. In most single-camera shows, characters have the ability to go anywhere. So—have them go places! Granted, in multi-camera sitcoms, we are more confined and constrained, because we do need to set scenes in two or three main locations—then, we need to come up with new and interesting activities for our characters, as well as clever things for them to say. In dramas, single-camera comedies and dramedies, we are free to open up the world as much as we can. Get them out driving in a car, into the park, places where they won’t be tempted to sit and have static conversations. Talking heads used to be what television was about, and now that it’s more like cinema, we can relish the challenge of finding ways to realize dynamic scenes.

• “It’s Too Superficial”

Superficiality is another “trip.” As discussed, we introduce characters in a pilot who are hopefully going to be people in a show that sustains. So, we live with them over seasons and years. They must be relatable characters we root for, but at the same time, they need to be somewhat enigmatic. Like an onion, there needs to be a lot of layers to our characters, with a complexity that’s only hinted at in the pilot. It’s the tip of the iceberg in the pilot, because we’re then going to tune in/log in for subsequent episodes as we try to unravel the mystery of who these people truly are.

A note that writers commonly get on a script that still needs work is, “Dig deeper.” This means the writer needs to go back into the past of the character, to the psychology and emotional life of the character.

Fix: Through interesting, proactive, provocative storylines, hopefully each episode will reveal another tiny piece to the puzzle of who these characters are, and why they are the way they are. Go as deep as you can. On a sitcom, character evolution happens gradually, and sometimes they don’t change at all over the course of the show. However, in dramas, and in some sitcoms—e.g., the characters in The Mindy Project do evolve and exhibit more depth over time—we need to consider, “How can we dig deeper into who these people are, and into the mystery of what makes them tick on the inside?”

• “There Are Too Many Characters”

Introducing too many characters in the pilot episode is a common “trip.” That’s especially the case when they’re not differentiated sufficiently from each other. Sometimes even the characters’ names are too similar. The pilot ends up feeling muddled and confusing, and it’s hard for the reader to keep track of who everyone is, just from seeing their names on the page. Names don’t tell a reader much, as they need to remember actions and backstory. In the produced pilot, of course the audience is going to be able to put faces to names and track live action/animation, but even then, it can be confusing if there are too many characters and they are not distinctive enough. On the page, even if a writer introduces five characters in an ensemble and names each one, even if they explain gender, appearance and quirks, they can’t assume a reader will remember which character matches which description.

Fix: What’s more important is to make sure that how the characters behave, what they say and how they appear are emblematic of who they are. Remind the reader throughout the script who the characters are through their actions. And it’s sensible to avoid having too many characters in the first 10 pages of the pilot. For me, it’s as if I’m snow-blind, and I constantly have to go back, to remind myself of who people are. If we want our pilot to be a page-turner, the reader is turning the pages forward and not constantly rifling back to reference things due to getting confused. Simplicity works—and don’t worry, that doesn’t mean simplistic. Keeping the pilot simple and streamlined as much as possible is helpful, not just for the story, but for readers and the audience.

• “The Good Stuff Appears Too Late”

Another mistake that comedy writers in particular can make is backloading, instead of frontloading, the script with their best jokes. Busy Hollywood execs and producers often only read the first few pages of a script. If the best stuff happens toward the end of the script, that’s a missed opportunity. A strong and surprising conclusion is ideal but of course, the whole script has to be strong. And the bad news is that gem of an ending of the script might remain unknown, because the reader probably stopped reading before Page 10.

Know the Industry—Yet Be Innovative

It’s important to stay up-to-date with the marketplace and current industry trends. While coming up with an idea for a pilot and writing it, make sure to be aware of the potential networks where there may be a chance to sell it. In other words, ask yourself, “Which network would this show be suited for?” If it’s only suited for one network, that means we’re putting all our eggs in one basket. By Vegas odds, the chances of selling it are very slim. On the other hand, when coming up with an idea, if we consider, “This could sell at any number of networks. There may be a version of the show where I focus on the younger characters for The CW, or the female characters for Lifetime, or there may be a darker, edgier version of the show for FX, AMC or premium cable,” that gives us more possibilities.

I always encourage students to ask themselves, “Where can I sell this? Who’s the target audience? Where do they live, and how could they be targeted? What would be the access point for the audience, for this particular pilot?” But of course, no one should be overly aware of the marketplace when creating their pilot, to the point that it dictates the setting and dialogue. We need to write original material that’s our passion. At the same time, when we’re ready to go out to sell it, we need to have an idea of where it will fit and why. The first thing a network or studio executive is going to ask about the pilot is, “How do we market it? Who’s the audience?” So, I think it’s useful to already know when starting the process where the show might live, who’s going to watch it and why.

In the same vein, another “trip” is that the pilot we write is outrageously expensive. And here’s a caveat. My training as a writer was “Don’t think about budgetary concerns. Just write from your imagination. Your imagination should be your only limitation. Let production figure out how to make it happen.” I think that still holds true. Through CGI and green screen, there are now several ways to shoot more affordably that in the past would have been prohibitively expensive. However, in a climate in Hollywood where few people have the power to say “yes,” and most gatekeepers mainly have the power to say “no,” if a show feels excessively pricey, naturally it’s a harder sell. It’s not a project that can easily elicit the response, “Oh, we can produce this for a good price.” The risk involved for a very expensive project understandably makes executives nervous. The same goes for producers, who have to raise more money. If we manage to create a world that feels full and unique and it’s inexpensive, it’s just easier to get those in power to say yes, because it’s a lower risk.

At the same time, of course, writers still need to avoid those talking heads and extreme claustrophobia, even if the lack of movement could cut costs. Another “trap” is writing a pilot that feels too safe (i.e., broadcast network-y), perhaps thinking that this is what will sell. When writing a pilot, we can write anything we want. This is a chance to put a stamp of originality on an idea. I always advise, “Write your pilot as if you’re writing for premium cable.” There can be nudity and swear words, and we can do what we want. Be a daring rebel. Even when being considered for the writing staff on a network show, more often than not, they’re going to read a sample that’s been written for cable. Broadcast networks—and it’s starting to change a little—have to appeal to the widest possible audience, so they have Standards and Practices; writers for broadcast always have to be aware of potentially offending an audience. But when writing an original pilot, why restrict yourself artistically? Write a pilot that could be made on premium cable, FX or AMC. Don’t play it safe, unless broadcast network is genuinely the pilot style you want to write.

Cost and risk come down to what feels strongest for the pilot story, and there are always exceptions. Boardwalk Empire was an incredibly expensive pilot, because the production had to build the entire boardwalk on stages. Since Martin Scorsese—who helmed the pilot—is an A-list director, his involvement and Terence Winter’s idea warranted HBO’s investment in that epic, expensive period piece. But, for a new writer trying to break in, an extravagant pilot might be a tougher sell. It’s just wise to note how big and ambitious the show will be and, in the pilot, to try to contain it to something that feels a little more manageable.

There’s that fine line between imagination and industry practicality. A common “trap” is when a writer follows the marketplace too closely, instead of innovating. Being a follower results in derivative work, imitating other things that have been successful. To be true trailblazers, we need to tell stories that need to be told and that nobody else has done quite in the same way. So, tread this line: Be cognizant of the market, yet innovate. Use that as a starting point to lead and create fresh content we haven’t seen before, that breaks the rules and is out of the box—that can excite people. If the idea is too far out there, it may turn people off, but I’d rather see writers take risks and be bold and provocative, than play it safe. There’s so much material out there that our biggest challenge is to stand out from the pack, break through the noise and connect to an audience. And it all starts on the page.

The Temptation to Rush

Last—and it’s less a weakness of the pilot script than of the writer’s tendency to self-sabotage/self-delusion/laziness—one of the biggest mistakes a writer can make is sending out a script before it’s ready. After we’ve revised and rewritten the story until we’re confident it’s the best it can possibly be, and have received the advice of a few trusted reader friends, we also need to fix superficial issues, such as typos, grammatical errors and format problems. If it’s sloppy on the page, it’s not ready to go out. (But those kinds of things are correctable—we can always spellcheck and proofread.) I recommend printing and proofreading on the page, because on computer screens, we tend to not see mistakes. Our eyes jump over them. On the page, with a pen, we catch more typos and inconsistencies. So, it is worth printing when getting to that final polish stage. Plus it’s immensely satisfying to hold a physical script we’ve created in our hands. At that point, we need the script to have successfully avoided all the trips, traps and tropes. We need compelling characters we root for and follow, suspense, stakes, narrative drive, a strong franchise, the right pacing, a strong and surprising ending and more. All those elements have to be the best they can be. Remember—and this is another trope, but knowingly proffered—we don’t get a second chance at making that great first impression.

The bottom line is: