How to Write a Teleplay-Podcast-Book Manuscript

Typically, it’s the other way around. Books become movies or television series, most of the time without viewers even knowing they were adapted from something. But I did the opposite with my debut novel, The Second World. It started as a TV pilot, and now it’s a manuscript. All it took was 10 years.

(Finding Success in Self-Publishing.)

About a decade ago, I was fresh out of college and blazing my own trail in Los Angeles, pursuing a career in scriptwriting—specifically TV, specifically-er comedy TV, specifically-est adult animated comedy TV. But my illustration skills left much to be desired, so I was really shooting for the moon while simultaneously capping myself at the knees. Looking back, I would’ve done things differently. But I’m also glad I didn’t.

I was working as an Office Production Assistant with a smile and childlike ambition. Every time I was filling in at the front desk, I’d be typing away on my newest script idea. Some were decent. Most reeked of inexperience. Still, I kept writing, putting in my 10,000 hours, and became obsessed with an idea about a Mars colony.

I loved imagining how a new society would develop their own governance in the modern age. New nations—at least ones on previously unoccupied land—don’t exactly pop up anymore. (Not that they really did before either, but it was more socially acceptable to invade, pillage, and claim.)

Dozens of page-one rewrites honed my instinct for pacing and visual storytelling—making every page count, cutting all unnecessary dialogue, and camouflaging exposition. Eventually I realized a Martian colony wasn’t much different from the 13 American ones. The Atlantic Ocean became 140 million miles of the cold, dead vacuum of outer space, and I was off to the races with a parody of early U.S. history.

When I shared the pilot around the industry, people liked it. Two thumbs up! But at the time, I was a nobody—and as my dad always says, “Two times zero is still zero.” Still, I believed in it, building an entire series bible for the show. Nevertheless, knowing what happens in season six doesn’t matter when season one is 140 million miles away from being greenlit.

So I shelved it.

Then podcasts exploded. Narrative fiction podcasts were the new radio dramas—or at least that’s what audio companies were trying to make happen. I thought it could be my way in. So I rewrote the project for audio and had to trash or tweak all the visual elements and gags. It sharpened the voice and rhythm in my head, teaching me how to rely on tone and timing to sell a joke, an emotional beat, or a twist.

I produced a 15-minute proof-of-concept and gave it to my aunt, who worked as an agent in publishing and thought she could attach talent and sell it as an audio series. We got close. A sci-fi actor-turned-audiobook-narrator was interested, but ultimately didn’t think it was the right fit. Or lost interest. Or just forgot about it.

Shelved again, on a cramped shelf of shelved projects.

Another one of those projects caught my eye. It had a main character and father-son relationship that I loved, and the idea of slotting it into the Mars story kept coming back to me. Maybe that combination would be enough for a whole novel.

I never thought I’d write a book. I didn’t have the attention span for one. But I realized that gatekeepers can stop you from producing a TV show or a podcast—no one can stop you from writing a novel. (Gatekeepers can certainly prevent you from getting it traditionally published, marketed, and publicized, but I’d learn that later.) A new ADHD diagnosis and a prescription for Vyvanse helped me sit at my desk long enough, and I wrote about 40 pages.

By that time, I’d unintentionally trained myself in storytelling across several mediums. TV taught me to show, not tell—and to be quick about it. Audio taught me narration and how to describe things the audience can’t see. And prose allowed me to blend it all together, plus have some fun with elements that would only work on the page. I thought the end result was decent and shared it with friends who agreed—though probably just because they were my friends. Still, it gave me the confidence to keep going, so for that, I’m grateful.

A few months later, I had a finished draft on my hands. I proudly gave it to my book-agent aunt, who politely ripped it apart.

I rewrote it.

A few months later, another draft. I proudly gave it to my book-agent aunt, who politely ripped it apart and told me to forget all about it. Let it go—it’d take years, and I’d get burned out. She had another opportunity for me, and all I had to do was change the entire story and every single character.

Okay.

I rewrote it. I developed an entirely new series bible for a completely different audio project altogether. Nothing came of it.

I quietly returned to the original Mars story, now with even more world-building ideas from the alternate version. By then, it had lived through every medium imaginable: screen, audio, print (all of which, multiple times). And every time I adapted it, it evolved. It was the most fleshed-out concept I had ever worked on. So much flesh.

A few months later, another draft. I proudly gave it to my book-agent aunt, who politely ripped it apart. She dismissed it completely, but thought another agent might pity me more.

Nope.

After two rounds of over 50 queries, I had enough rejections to convince me that literary agents might not be my target audience. I decided to self-publish.

Although the road was brutal—full of shallow ups and very deep downs—like a muscle, the project has been torn down only to be rebuilt even stronger…so, so, so many times. Every adaptation, rejection, and rewrite was its own writing workshop, helping me see the same story from another angle. The Second World has been tested in every form and white-knuckled every failure. And I’m incredibly excited and scared and stressed and happy and nervous and proud to finally share it with the world.

And maybe, one day, someone will option it for the screen, and I’ll just have to adapt it again.

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