A Lesson from William Faulkner (via Game of Thrones)

Considering that Game of Thrones is in its final season, it seems fitting to devote a post to it. I could spend the next 900 words praising the show, but that seems unnecessary, considering that endless ink has already been spilled on the subject. Anyone who watches knows about the compelling plotlines (all 50 of them), the complex characters, and the bad-ass dragons. Nor will I engage in unfounded speculation about how the series might wrap up. That’s what Reddit is for.

Instead, since this is a blog about writing, I want to talk about GOT’s original, unaired pilot, which by all accounts was a disaster. One of the most epic TV series in history almost never got made. And as a writer, I’m fascinated by the story of how the show’s two creators managed to turn things around and what this says about the creative process.

When David Benioff and D.B. Weiss pitched this massively ambitious project to HBO, both were in their 30’s and had zero production experience. Yet, somehow, they scored enough money to make a pilot, being tapped as both writers and producers. It took them four years to get it made, at the end of which they screened the finished pilot for a small group of screenwriter friends. Imagine the feeling of anticipation when the lights went down, four years of their life about to be subjected to professional critique. With everything in them, they wanted validation that this time had not been wasted. Unfortunately, this was not to be. As Benioff recalled years later, “watching them watch that original pilot was one of the most painful experiences of my life.” One of their writer friends who screened it, Craig Malkin, referred to it as a “complete piece of shit.”

The pilot was both boring and confusing. At the end, the test audience didn’t even know that Jamie and Cersei were siblings (which is kind of a big deal, especially considering that they’re… you know… doing it). Benioff and Weiss were convinced that HBO would cut ties with them, but amazingly, the network kept them around, allowing more time and money to revise and reshoot. And revise they did, ultimately changing more than 90% of the script. The rest is history. The pilot they finally ended up with is fantastic. Anyone who watches Bran tumble from that window in the last scene knows that this show is unlike anything else on TV. Craig Malkin, he of the “piece of shit” comment, called their rehab of the pilot “the biggest rescue in Hollywood history.”

So, besides serving as an interesting anecdote, what’s the takeaway?

For one thing, it illustrates that even phenomenal writers stumble, a comforting notion for amateurs like myself. I’m focusing especially on Benioff, who’s a bit of a literary rock star. The first book he wrote – first book – got made into a move by Spike Lee (The 25th Hour). He followed this up with another great novel (City of Thieves), then moved on to movies, writing the scripts for Troy, X-Men: Origins, and The Kite Runner. So, he may have been an inexperienced producer when Game of Thrones got greenlighted, but he was a massively successful writer. And yet he managed to produce a piece of shit. But, crucially, he was receptive to criticism. When told that his labor of love had massive problems, he didn’t pull out his resume and remind everyone of his credentials. Instead, he took the critiques to heart and went back to work.

William Faulkner’s most famous bit of writing advice is the admonition to “kill your darlings.” If you read any book on the craft of fiction, you are guaranteed to run into this line. As you should, because it’s great advice. The point Faulkner’s making is that every piece of writing has elements that the writer falls in love with – a paragraph of rich description, a snappy line of dialogue, a unique character. However, these don’t always serve the story. And when this happens, the writer has to be ruthless enough to cut them, to think of them as attractive weeds that must be trimmed for the health of the entire garden. Authors that lack the stomach for this end up producing bloated, self-indulgent writing. I have a tough enough time making cuts on pieces I’ve spent a few months on. I can only imagine how many darlings Benioff and Weiss killed when re-writing 90% of a script they’d spent four years on. But they were ruthless editors, and their story survived because of it.

I guess this shouldn’t be surprising, considering how merciless they are with the show’s characters. For me, one of the best aspects of Game of Thrones is the knowledge that no one on-screen is safe. Characters that seem crucial to the show – both good and evil – will unexpectedly wind up dead. When this happens, the viewer wonders how the show can continue without that person, but it always manages to, twisting and turning in ways that wouldn’t have been possible had that beloved character retained his/her head (or viscera, limbs, etc.). For the sake of the story, any and everyone is expendable.

To take a more philosophical view, growth is always accompanied by pain. In all areas of life – no pain, no growth. And for a piece of writing to grow, it’s got to experience pain, too. You’ve got to be willing to give your writing a shot of whiskey, hold it down, and hack away anything unnecessary. Your piece might hate you in the moment, but it will thank you later, once it’s published.

So, the next time I’m feeling overly attached to something trivial – maybe a bit of flowery description, or a secondary character who is too cute by half – I’ll remind myself of the Red Wedding and start hacking away.