Case Study 1: Parenthood

Lesson: Make a lead character, group, or family face their greatest fears head-on.

Parenthood is a critically acclaimed drama-comedy based on a feature film written by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel and directed by Ron Howard. This multi-award-winning TV series was developed and adapted by its showrunner, Jason Katims, and revolves around the Bravermans: a big, loud family of colorful and imperfect people dealing with modern life in all its messiness.

In the pilot, we see a number of the themes that will engage us as an audience for the first season and beyond. In one of the major storylines, Adam (Peter Krause) and his wife, Kristina (Monica Potter), learn that their young son Max (Max Burkholder) has Asperger’s—a disorder that impacts his emotional functioning. Adam initially refuses to accept and believe this fact about his son. Then, in the climactic scene for this storyline, Adam waits with Max outside a family event while the rest of the family watches Max’s little cousin Sydney (Savannah Paige Rae) play an angel in a recital inside. The scene begins just after Adam’s father, Zeek (Craig T. Nelson), realizes that Adam and Max are missing and goes to find them.

Zeek is a brash, tough veteran and a man’s man. His first line to his son is, “What the hell are you doing out here?” The external stakes of the scene are very simple. Will Zeek bully Adam into bringing Max inside to watch Sydney’s recital? That’s it. But, if that was all there was, we would not really care. What’s at stake is Max and Adam and their family’s future. Will Adam accept his son’s condition?

We care about these people already at this point. Adam doesn’t want to accept that his son Max has an issue. He has been fighting this. So, when Adam tells Zeek they can’t go in because there are candles inside and Max can’t walk past them—we know what he’s wrestling with. Zeek then wants to force the issue, thinking they are just babying Max. He tells Adam that he raised four kids. He knows what he’s doing. This is the “traditional” male character. Just fight through it. This is where Adam learned his model of masculinity.

Adam finally admits to Zeek, and to himself, that his son is different and they’re both going to need his dad’s help. This is all Adam can do. He’s been physically trapped by Zeek into admitting that there’s a real issue and he can’t pretend that there isn’t anymore. His son can’t walk past candles. The show’s writers backed him into a corner, where he has to face up to the challenges his son presents.

Zeek finally sees the truth, his son is hurting and needs his help, and he acknowledges the reality with a single word, “Sonny.” And he goes to him. They love each other.

Let’s review. In this simple, single scene, Adam has finally acknowledged that his son has a problem. He’s asked his dad for help. Both of these are very hard for Adam to do. They are all in uncharted territory. This single issue chosen for the Adam storyline will be something that the Braver-mans will wrestle with and come to understand more fully over the life of the show. It will exist in nearly every episode. That’s what great television does: explores the emotional and moral complexities of life as they evolve over time. And the writers explore these issues with nuance, subtext, and the specificity that grows out of each distinctive character. TV is all about the accumulation of these little moments. If you’re only gunning for plot, you’re going to be whizzing past the real drama of all stories: the emotional impact and its accompanying ripple effects. Take your time and allow each significant incident to breathe and resonate—that’s the lifeblood of all great TV series.

Case Study 2: Shameless

Lesson: Make characters live and confront socially combustible issues in interesting ways that fit who they are.

Tonally, Shameless is a harder-edged series than Parenthood. Whereas Parenthood is a series parents can watch with their kids on NBC, Shameless airs on the premium cable Showtime network, which enables its showrunners to push the boundaries of nudity and coarse language. Parenthood is evocative. Shameless is a provocative, one-hour dramedy developed and adapted by Paul Abbott and John Wells, based upon an award-winning series created by Paul Abbott for the BBC. Shameless is about a family of six kids and an alcoholic, drug-addicted, absentee, and exploitative dad, Frank (William H. Macy). These are the Gallaghers. And on most days, all they have is their love for each other as they struggle to make it through life in a tough section of below-working-class Chicago.

In the pilot episode, we have a number of storylines, but let’s examine the one that revolves around two of the brothers, Lip (Jeremy Allen White), age seventeen, has just learned that his younger brother, Ian (Cameron Monaghan), is gay. Despite the fact that the two brothers share a room, Lip never had a clue. They’ve fought badly over this earlier in the episode. It was at least a draw. Now we need to know, what happens next? Does being gay cost you your family if you are a Gallagher?

Ian is outside, smoking in a van. Lip arrives with a magazine of gay porn. He slaps it down in front of Ian. “How can that be good for you?” Is the fight gonna continue? Is this new fact gonna drive these two apart permanently? That’s the question of this scene. That’s real stakes. And, it’s in the “how it plays out” that everything about these two characters, both as individuals and as brothers is revealed.

Lip begins to ask questions. “Was Kash your first?” Kash (Pej Vahdat) is a grown man, and Ian’s boss. Lip learned Ian was having sex with him, earlier. He’s asking about his brother’s love life. His brother doesn’t want to talk. He’s angry. But, then Lip asks the question that turns the scene, and gets to the emotional heart of these two: “When have I ever let you down?” With Ian’s response we have our answer—Lip has never let him down.

Lip teases him about it, but the hard edge is gone. They share a smoke. Make jokes. It’s going to be OK. It’s not going to be easy for Ian in this neighborhood. But his brother’s got his back. This reality is a central conflict and source of support in his storyline for the next several years. Bottom line, no scene is just a scene. Not in a pilot or over the course of a great series. And no scene is just about “an external objective” if we want the audience coming back and caring.

Case Study 3: The West Wing

Lesson: Never make it too easy for your main character; keep the pressure on, and the complications and reveals coming.

The West Wing was created for network television by Aaron Sorkin, a prolific and highly decorated writer in both film and television. The show ran for seven seasons and won two Golden Globes and twenty-six Emmy awards.

Let’s examine a single, small scene from the series pilot. This scene occurs at the beginning of act 4, which is the final act of the pilot. Sam Seaborn (Rob Lowe) is the White House deputy communications director. The show was initially intended to focus on him with his co-workers being the secondary stories. In this scene, Sam is having a really bad day. Politically. Personally. All around. His best friend might get fired over something he said on Meet the Press. Something Sam thinks is true. There are Cuban refugees off the coast of Florida, with a giant storm coming and the Governor of Florida is refusing to let them land. And Sam unknowingly slept with a prostitute.

Now, he’s been asked by his boss, Chief of Staff Leo McGarry (John Spencer) to show his daughter’s fourth-grade elementary class around the White House. And he really needs this to go well. So what happens? Sam knows nothing about the history of this building. He begins to talk about himself, but the Teacher calls him out and pulls him aside. This brings us to our scene.

The scene opens in a hallway. And the teacher immediately blasts him: “I’m sorry to be rude, but are you a moron?” How’s that for a scene opening?! She’s not going to make this easy for him. Why should she? Conflict is the heart of drama. The teacher goes on to list the extensive number of historical facts he just got glaringly wrong. This brings us to the heart of the scene for Sam. He asks her if she could just point out his boss’s daughter. If she could, it would really make his life easier. She tells him the kids worked hard. They wrote essays. She’s not inclined to make his life easier.

He then goes on to explain how bad his day has been. Including the prostitute. At which point, she informs him that she’s his boss’s daughter, Mallory (Allison Smith). Ouch. This, like the entire pilot, is a terrific scene.

Look how little of it is about the “external motivation.” On the outside, Sam just wants to figure out which fourth grade elementary school girl he needs to impress to get back in good graces with his boss. He’s dealing with macro-level fires, but is not up high enough to avoid these micro-issues. Because he has assumed that the daughter is one of the students, he makes a series of blunders. These anger and upset the teacher. He then confesses things he absolutely doesn’t want his boss to know, and it unexpectedly turns out he’s confessing them to his boss’s daughter. That’s great writing. Internal complications. Faulty assumptions. Real emotions of frustration, anger, etc. We believe and feel for Sam—even as he digs himself that much deeper.

Case Study 4: Game of Thrones

Lesson: Your characters don’t all need to be invincible at the outset. Major character traits evolve, and can, and often should, be hinted at, and rolled out slowly over time. Draw your characters in extremes early in the series to give them somewhere to go.

Game of Thrones is an epic fantasy airing on HBO and created for television by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, adapted from a series of novels by George R. R. Martin. In it, seven noble families fight for control of a mythical feudal land.

In this scene from late in the pilot, we are at the wedding of a seemingly weak and frightened girl, Daenerys “Dany” Targaryen (Emilia Clarke). Despite not speaking the language, or having ever met her soon-to-be husband, she is marrying Khal Drogo (Jason Momoa), the fierce leader of a tribe of nomadic warriors called the Dothraki. Dany is being forced to marry Khal Drogo by her older brother, Viserys (Harry Lloyd), who needs the Dothraki to be his army and help him take back the throne which his family lost fifteen years ago.

From an external plot development standpoint, the scene is really about delivering a few key pieces of information: showing us how weak Dany appears and that the Dothraki are very fierce warriors, reminding us how and why Viserys wants them on his side, and introducing the dragons’ eggs that she is given as a gift.

However, this scene is rich in layers. Over the next several seasons, the dragons’ eggs hatch, allowing Dany to become the “Mother of Dragons” by growing into a compassionate, strong, and smart Dothraki leader. The seeds of all that are in this one scene.

The scene opens with Viserys being told by his advisor that Khal has promised him a crown and will go to war when the omens favor it. We then see the Dothraki women doing sensual dances and the men sexually taking them. Dany is not in her little sheltered world anymore. Two men want the same woman and fight to the death for her. Everyone cheers. Dany looks scared and uncertain. As the advisor speaks to Viserys, we get exposition—a Dothraki wedding is considered dull without at least three deaths. Who are these people? We feel sympathy and compassion. Dany is the weak, frightened innocent beauty being forced to marry a man who is seemingly a barbarian. She cries on her wedding night like a lost little girl. We fear that this will not end well. It is not until a few episodes later that we begin to see her act like the queen she is meant to be.

Case Study 5: The Good Wife

Lesson: There is no such thing as a small or unimportant scene. Every scene gets better with layers and strong visuals pointing to deeper emotional subtext.

Police, medical, and legal procedurals have been the go-to shows of networks for decades. The Good Wife is a legal drama that first aired in 2009 and was created by Robert and Michelle King. The show has been nominated for more than twenty Emmy awards during its first three seasons.

The pilot features a terrific, but atypically lengthy, sixteen-page teaser. The first five pages of this opening introduce us to our lead character, Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies), a former lawyer turned stay-at-home mom. She stands beside her husband, Peter Florrick (Chris Noth), a former state attorney, as he faces the cameras and a swarm of reporters regarding corruption charges, including sex with prostitutes and conspiring to cover it up. But our eyes are magnetically drawn to Alicia’s face: a stoic mask belying her pain and humiliation. She’s trying to “stand by her man,” but this is hard. He chose a public life of scrutiny; she didn’t. She did nothing wrong, and yet now she’s ensnared in his scandal. She wants to bolt out of there, but needs to keep up appearances for the sake of their kids. She can’t even think about what the future may hold for her family. And that’s when she sees it: a tiny loose thread on his suit jacket. She is the woman who cleans up his messes. Keeps him going. In this moment, her inner world collides with her outer circumstances. In slow motion, she reaches her hand out to remove the stray thread. But before she can grasp it, time speeds up again, the press conference is over, and she and her husband are ushered out of the pressroom. Once alone, she can’t even look at him. All he can muster is a feeble, “Are you all right?” And she hauls off and slaps him across the face, turns on her heels and walks away—down the hall toward the waiting throng of reporters and flashbulbs. Then we cut to six months later, and the series is off and running.

She’s trying to reboot her life, and re-enter the workforce after more than a decade as a stay-at-home mom. Only she’s waiting for her very first meeting on the wrong floor. Perfect. But, what I want to look at is the very last scene. Just over a page. On its surface, a simple scene. The major thrust of the pilot and its storyline threads have been all wrapped up. The template for the show has been set. Alicia will have her case most weeks. She’ll work to solve it, leading to a courtroom verdict. She’ll usually win. That will be the A story. But she will also have all of the personal issues she is dealing with. That’s what sets this procedural apart.

In this final scene of the pilot, Alicia has just finished her first new case. She won. And, as she walks back to her office, late at night—she is on her cell phone with her mother-in-law, Jackie (Mary Beth Peil). The external action is as simple as it gets. The mother-in-law wants to know what time Alicia’s coming home because she cooked. That’s the external event: “When are you coming home?”

But Alicia doesn’t answer right away. She laughs. Not at her. At herself. At life. And tells Jackie that she’s laughing because that’s the call she always used to make. She was the one always asking her husband when he’d be home. She’s self-aware. And, we are getting a sense, a reminder of how far she’s come in this single network hour. What she’s enduring. She’s moved from loyal wife standing beside her husband, to this take-charge attorney. But she’s only beginning. She’s still going to have to try to make it all work—and will need to rely on her judgmental mother-in-law to do it.

Eventually, Alicia tells Jackie that she’ll be home “in about an hour.” However, the scene doesn’t end. Even though the external event has been answered. Alicia has a new desk in a new office. Her office is in order, for the first time in the episode. Files put away. She is starting to feel like she belongs. We get all of this in the visuals, how she looks around. What she sees, the neatly ordered shelves. The nice, new chair. The pictures on the wall. We had a scene earlier to set up the office—everything in boxes and disarray. This demonstrates her change through visuals.

And she tells Jackie “thanks for stepping up.” She has been her. She gets it. She will keep needing her. And Jackie tells her, “of course she would.” And says “she’ll see her at nine.” They are in this together. Two women who understand each other. Future stories—what I like to call story tentacles—are suggested with this scene.

Then, Alicia’s new boss, Will Gardner (Josh Charles) shows up. Her onetime boyfriend from way back. The guy who got her this job. And he tells her that she’s made second chair on his case and has to be in court early tomorrow morning. She is in the mix of things. With her new love interest active and present. Tomorrow’s another day. We are left knowing and wanting more. That’s great writing. That’s a great page.

NL: I’d like to begin with your approach to developing characters particularly on Friday Night Lights and Parenthood. I think a lot of people can create plot lines and stay on the outside, but you’re able to continually dig deep into your characters and surprise. Do you start off with a sense of all this complexity or do you discover it along the way?

JK: My first job in television was on My So-Called Life, which was created by Winnie Holzman with Marshall Herskovitz and Edward Zwick as executive producers. I had been writing plays before that and had never written for television at all. In fact, I never thought I would be writing for television, but if I did, I thought it would be for a half-hour sitcom. It was a surprise to end up on a drama, but My So-Called Life was essentially my graduate school, and their approach to storytelling, has had a huge influence over how I have approached writing since then. One of the things that they tried to do was to set out to tell as little story as possible, so that you could focus on the nuance and have time to develop and get underneath the story. I remember there was one episode of My So-Called Life called “The Zit,” which made me think, “We’re going to do an episode about a pimple?” Angela [Claire Danes] wakes up with a zit, and that’s the inciting incident for the story, but it became a story about beauty and what our idea of beauty is. We expanded it to include Angela and her mom [Bess Armstrong] by coming up with this idea of a mother–daughter fashion show as a way in to talk about all of these ideas. It was fascinating as a beginning television writer to see how they developed story. It became the foundation for me—and that’s what we try to do in the writers’ room which is where all of these ideas are developed into stories.

To me, it’s always about, “What is the story about? What are we saying?” When we’re struggling with a plot, I always stop and say plots aren’t that hard. Particularly for us, we’re doing ensemble shows with four or five storylines, so we’re talking six beats—which is not a lot to do. So, if we’re struggling with a plot, maybe it’s because we don’t know what we’re trying to say or accomplish with the story. When something feels both real and intimate and gets underneath the skin, that’s what I’m always focused on as I’m telling the story.

NL: Some of this, as in “The Zit,” example speaks to theme. Is that an approach you take? Are you thinking about a thematic for A, B, C, and D stories?

JK: Theme is important of course, but I also try not to let it get in the way. Everyone has different ideas about this, and sometimes I wish I did more episodes where every storyline was thematically tied to the others. But, I’m much more interested in the evolution of character and the evolution of these individual storylines over time. Sometimes thematically people are in different places, so I try not to force them together too much. The joy of a show like Friday Night Lights is that the episodes seem like continuing chapters to me. I think of the way Dickens used to write novels where each chapter would be a weekly installment in the newspaper. Friday Night Lights has a similar feel. What I’m most interested in is how the character is evolving over time, week to week, season to season. When a unifying theme emerges in an episode, I think of that as icing on the cake. Certainly there are themes within each storyline, but for an episode, I don’t feel that story needs to connect into one theme.

NL: How many episodes do you tend to arc at one time? Do you map out the full season in terms of: I know I’m going to start this character here and this is where I want to end up? Or, do you do it six or seven episodes at a time?

JK: Parenthood and Friday Night Lights are the two shows I’ve done most recently. And, although they look like two completely different shows, to me, they’re very similar. They’re large ensemble dramas that are ultimately about family. In Friday Night Lights, it’s largely about surrogate families and Parenthood is about extended family, but they’re both about family. I approach them in a similar way. Basically what we do at the beginning of the season is that we spend a little time talking about our characters in broad strokes. Talking about where they are—where they left off from last year and what’s going to happen to them this year. We map out in very vague terms—and by the way nothing is written down—whatever their journey is going to be. Of course, you have your fulcrum characters like Coach [Eric Taylor as played by Kyle Chandler] and Tami [Connie Britton], and that family is certainly at the core of it, but all the characters are important. When we do that, it starts to suggest story, and we start to put up some cards. Again, it’s still very vague, but we’re starting to think about tent poles of where something is going to start and where something might end up by the end of the season. I hesitate to get too specific. It’s nice to have a roadmap, but you don’t want to have it tied up too much or put you too far ahead. Some stories suggest all the twists and turns even from the beginning and some don’t—and that’s okay. As long as you feel like your characters are on the road, and you have a vague idea of where it might lead, I think that’s good.

Then, from that point, it gets real. We break them usually into movements by groups of episodes. And, they’re usually four or five or even six episodes where something big is happening over the course of those episodes. For example, during the first season of Friday Night Lights, in the pilot episode, the star quarterback gets injured badly—and the big question that this incident suggested to me was: “Will the town of Dillon survive the loss of Jason Street [Scott Porter]?” In a way, you can look at that as a question for the whole season, but, I really looked at it as the question for that first movement. Because you have this coach who came in with an expectation from the town and the crazy boosters that he was going to bring home a championship, but then the guy that he had to do that with is now gone. So, how is this coach going to pull it together? Then, there was the question about this second string quarterback, Matt Saracen [Zach Gilford], who is now this deer-in-the-headlights kid: Is Saracen going to be able to step up? Then, there’s the question of what is going to happen to Jason Street? Is he going to be able to come back to the team? You don’t know. It’s TV after all—and three episodes later, he could be playing again. So, when you find out that he is paralyzed, the question gets even more interesting then because now you’re wondering what’s going to happen to this guy? This kid who was expecting to go to the NFL. Is this kid going to be okay? And, that led to the triangle between him and Riggins [Taylor Kitsch] and Lyla [Minka Kelly]. The question of Matt Saracen also led to the introduction of this quarterback that Buddy Garrity [Brad Leland] was trying to recruit from New Orleans named “Voodoo” [Aldis Hodge]. It became a question of who was going to be the quarterback, and then ultimately, as I recall, I think that movement ended in the rivalry game in the fifth episode. You resolve who’s going to be their quarterback and what’s going to happen with this team. You get to a certain point of resolution and then you start to raise new questions—which begins the next movement. That’s the way it works for us.

NL: So, you might have some vague ideas in those early discussions about where the end of the season is going to lead you, but you’re open to where it might take you?

JK: The beautiful thing about a show like Friday Night Lights is while you don’t have closed-ended stories, since you don’t have a mystery to solve, you do have a season of football, so you can break your season of television around your season of football. You know there’s going to be a certain point where playoffs start. Do they make it to the playoffs? How far do they get in the season? On a good year, there’s also State. It’s a nice way to help you with structure. On Parenthood, we don’t have football, so what we try to do is come up with bigger storylines that will give you movement over a whole season. For example, building a business one season or planning a wedding. In the first season, you have this incident where Max [Max Burkholder] is diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome which grounded you in the show and gave you something to go along with for the season—and even the entire series. These bigger ideas help you get from place to place. Basically, I try to break the arcs down in terms of movements, I try to know where I’m going and be flexible. Again, this is something that dates back to when I worked with Ed and Marshall, you want to be able to let what you’re doing evolve. It’s a very collaborative form, and my feeling about that is to embrace the collaborative nature of it—instead of just saying, “Well, I’m dictating every single thing.” Because what will happen is that you’ll put a script out and suddenly the directors and actors have ideas that I never would have thought of, and it makes me learn things about the characters I never knew. That’s the exciting part. And sometimes, things that you pictured as interesting ideas, aren’t as exciting as you thought, so that maybe that movement will just be three episodes instead of seven. And, then there are other things, where you’re like, “Wow, we want to explore that.” My feeling is that I want to leave room to let myself be influenced by what the actors are doing, how the directors are directing scenes—all these things are exciting. It makes it fun to do TV. The single greatest thing about doing television is that the show evolves and gets better over time. With movies, you’ve got a hero…

NL: It’s finite.

JK: And, there’s usually only a few characters that you can genuinely tell stories about. But, in television, the person who’s eleven on your call sheet could wind up being number one on your call sheet for an episode. You end up getting to know so much about all of these people. This is the beauty and the fun of doing TV.

NL: In your ensemble shows, are there any rules like the A story always has to be Eric and Tami or is it more fluid than that?

JK: It’s way more fluid than that. We definitely didn’t have the feeling that the A story was always Eric and Tami, and it certainly wasn’t, if you look at it. As much as they were the core of the show, it just wasn’t natural that they would have all the A stories because you’re dealing with a bunch of teenagers. Teenagers are going to have the crazy A stories. They’re going to have the stuff going on in their lives all the time. The married couple has the bigger story because it’s about their lives and their marriage, but they don’t literally have the stuff that’s the engine for the stories each week.

NL: In Friday Night Lights, they anchor the story, but in Parenthood, the siblings primarily anchor the show. It seems that the A story is always going to be about one of the brothers and sisters in that show.

JK: Typically. I felt like when I started Parenthood, I just needed a way to think about it because it was such a big cast with so many possibilities. I basically decided that I was coming at it from the point of view of these four siblings. When I started breaking stories, it was always from them. As a show evolves, you’re able to do stories that are still about that, but able to shiftpoint of view—it’s more of Kristina’s [Monica Potter] point of view than Adam’s [Peter Krause]. You’re telling a story that’s more Zeek [Craig T. Nelson] and Camille’s [Bonnie Bedelia] story than the kids or you tell stories from Max’s point of view. It’s always good to have a place to start from just so you don’t confuse yourself too much, but then you can expand that as time goes on. You’re always balancing what’s expanding with what’s just not in keeping with the show. And, that’s a decision that is really left for the showrunner. Writers will pitch a lot of different ideas which are very good, but the showrunner has to be the one to say, “Yes, that’s a good idea, but it’s not this show.”

NL: When I watch Parenthood, there’s always at least one moment where I get teary-eyed. There was one particularly heartrending scene in the first season where Kristina and Adam must come to terms with their son’s Asperger’s. Here is their energetic, curious, sweet, innocent little boy—and they’re confronted with the reality that he’s struggling with impairment. It breaks their hearts because they know it’s going to be a road difficult for him (and them) to navigate. And Kristina and Adam are so emotionally raw as they move from denial to acceptance of Max’s condition. My question for you: when breaking stories, is your barometer that a worthy plotline must be capable of pushing your characters to become vulnerable?

JK: Absolutely. Both when I’m thinking of story and I’m in the room talking about it. I’m always looking for when am I feeling something. And, again that’s personal to me—the stories that I’m attracted to. I feel like when you know the core of what the story is about emotionally than you’re better able to more easily break that story. And, also, by the way, to find the humor in it. To me, the humor comes after you figure out what you’re getting to emotionally. It’s easier then to find what’s funny because you’re talking about working through some sort of conflict. And, out of conflict, comes humor.

The example that you brought up became an issue when I was developing the pilot of Parenthood. The idea of having a kid with Asperger’s was a debate within myself. I have a son with Asperger’s and I didn’t know if I wanted to go there. Whether it was a violation of privacy for my son and my family, number one, and number two, whether I wanted to talk about it every day when it was already such a big part of my home life. But, what I felt ultimately is that

And, ultimately I did that—not knowing if I could find an actor who could pull that off. How we would be able to tell this story in a way that felt real. When neither of the actors doing it knew the particulars of what this situation was like. It would be terrible to me—the idea of doing it and having it look fake and stupid. I went into it not knowing how well we’d be able to pull it off. It became one of the most profound experiences of my career in telling that story. We were lucky enough to get Max Burkholder to play this kid, and he’s just done such a great job, but also watching how Monica Potter and Peter Krause have grown. They’ve just so invested themselves in that storyline. It’s just amazing and then to see the response that people have to it has been great. Sometimes you want a storyline that’s a little scary to you—it’s a good thing. It means you’re pushing yourself and you’re getting out of your own comfort zone. Especially in television now, where drama is written at such a high level. The audience’s expectations are so high. They have so many choices. It’s endless amounts at their fingertips—anytime they want to watch stuff. It’s a requirement for people doing television to dig deep and find those stories that are ambitious.

NL: That’s another thing about your work—it’s surprising. I can’t get ahead of you—which I so appreciate. I want to be surprised more than anything. I like not knowing where things are going.

JK: That brings up a good point too which is that I get excited about a story when we’re in the room, and you’ve got eight people with eight different passionate opinions. And, when some of them say, “Oh, I would never do that…”—that’s when I always feel like we’re on to something. I know this is an issue where you don’t know what the ending is going to be. If there’s eight people in the room and they’re all arguing about the answer, then the people watching will feel the same—that they’re not sure where it’s going to go. The way to tell stories where you don’t know where it’s going to lead is by coming up with things that are genuinely the stuff of life. Sometimes we have to stop ourselves from having too many twists and turns in the story because when plot gets too big—sometimes it gets in the way of what’s real.

I’m very lucky to have shows like Friday Night Lights and Parenthood, where the cast is so good and so strong. A little bit goes a long way with them. You don’t have to have these huge turning points within a scene for them to find stuff. It just needs to be real as opposed to feeling fake, so we try as best we can as writers to give the actors material where they are not hitting false notes as they are doing it. The actors help a lot with that too— making sure this is grounded and true to their characters. It truly is a collaboration. When you all feel you’re after the same thing on the same show, that’s when you have a possibility of succeeding. It’s very hard to do television. You’re telling lots of stories in a short amount of time and you make those episodes very fast. I feel like where TV goes off the rails a lot of the time is when the network thinks the show is one thing and the writer thinks it’s something else and the actors think it’s a third thing. And the result is that the audience is not being served. What’s important as a showrunner is to make sure you’re doing everything that you can so that everybody feels that they’re doing the same show. Everybody is excited about it and there’s ownership in that. They feel like they are invested in it. To this day, one of the things I love so much about Parenthood is when I’ll talk to the actors after they’ve gotten the script, and they’ll say how much they love another character’s story. They’re into the show. They’re not just going through and looking at their pages. They are into the show as a whole. And, that’s what keeps the show feeling real and fresh.