I routinely ask aspiring screenwriters and filmmakers, “What films or TV shows did you watch over the past week?” The answer I’m often getting lately, which irks me to no end, is:

“Nothing.”

Let me be blunt: if this is you, there is no future for you in this craft.

I get it. In my student days, movies were scarce, and it was exciting to see something new or have the opportunity to rewatch a favorite. Now, the selection is so overwhelming that people experience choice paralysis.

Some people solve this by making a list of films to watch and steadily working through it; many use Letterboxd.

Consider doing the same for movies, screenplays, and books.

If you want to write, you need to read. If you want to make screen drama, you need to have a broad range of film and TV references.

So, what have you watched recently, and what did you learn from it?

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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But the same books invariably call for a thematic sentence, then move on as quickly as possible to a new topic. Why?

Because catchphrases have no relationship to structure. They are isolated from the rest of the writing process.

Consider SICARIO. A screenwriting book might quote Alejandro and declare its theme to be:

There is no war on drugs, only war.

This is meaningless. Not (just) because it’s detached from the point of view of any character, but because it has nothing to do with structure. Not yet…

Beyond the sentence

A story takes place from a character’s point of view. From that unique perspective, a story is a battle between two belief systems. Two ways of seeing the world. Two ways of living.

In 3-act structure, a character’s arc is a transformation from one belief system to another. In a tragedy, the hero fails to make the jump.

The argument for one value system is encoded in any thematic sentence. The opposing belief system needs its own representation. This is sometimes called anti-theme.

Anti-theme

Anti-theme is the character’s belief system when we meet them in the Ordinary World. It’s the way of being that has kept them alive until now. We, the audience, have to believe the anti-theme with our hero. We have to want it for them.

But, as Meg LeFauve points out in The Screenwriting Life, the belief system that keeps the hero alive in Act 1 will kill them in Act 3.

Craig Mazin sums it up in Scriptnotes 403:

The purpose of a story is to take a character from

[anti-theme] to the embodiment of the theme through action.

In SICARIO, the two opposing belief systems are:

A. Follow the rules

B. Fight fire with fire

System A is a kind of deontological approach to life. Do the right thing for its own sake. System B is for the consequentialists. The outcome is what matters. And there’s only one way to catch the true criminals.

This is the impossible choice confronting Kate Macy. This is the source of meaning. The story is an elaborate and balanced ‘trolley problem’.

From sentences to structure

This takes us from a single thematic sentence to a quantum pair of opposing beliefs from the character’s point of view.

How do we get from here to a 3-act structure? There’s one more crucial step. It’s the difference between a catchphrase and a belief system:

A value system is a way of living that has both benefits and costs.

For a story to be meaningful, the two opposing ways of seeing the world must be true. That means each one has a cost, and each one has a benefit.

Back to SICARIO.

Macy can follow the rules (A) or fight fire with fire (B). The diagonal elements in the table are opposites. The benefit of A is the cost of B. The cost of A is the benefit of B.

This how trade-offs work. If Macy follows the rules – does the ‘right thing’ for its own sake – she can maintain her humanity, but she’ll lose the fight.

If Macy stoops to the level of the criminals, she can catch the people responsible for killing her colleague, but she has to sacrifice her humanity.

This is what makes the decision compelling. This is what makes the story meaningful.

And this table is the thematic system that maps onto a 3-act structure.

Thematic structure

Here’s the punchline. The key ingredient for a meaningful story is this:

At the low-point, the character must experience the cost of both value systems.

This is the only way for the hero to make an enlightened choice in favour of one belief system or the other in Act 3.

If the story is missing any of the four quadrants of the thematic table, it will be naïve at best – propaganda at worst.

The most impactful stories don’t just include the cost of the ‘theme’ and the benefit of the ‘anti-theme’. They drive straight at them like a heat-seeking missile. This uncovers the deepest truth that the story has to offer.

Back to the sentence

So what of the thematic sentence?

With thematic structure in place, a post hoc catchphrase can now be delivered in dialogue. It can be presented from the point of view of the hero, a mentor, an antagonist, society at large, or something more abstract.

The precise wording of any such catchphrase is an issue of tone, not structure. This is the writer’s framing of the winning value system.

In the circumstances of this particular world, in this particular story, one belief system is more courageous. More generous. More aspirational.

In SICARIO, Macy chooses her humanity, but loses the fight. In the script, Alejandro delivers the punchline in voiceover from 30,000 feet:

There is no war on drugs, only war.

Other examples

THEMATIC STRUCTURE IN WHIPLASH

Andrew Neiman wants to become one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time. Charlie Parker became Bird. Andrew wants to stand on his shoulders.

The two value systems that Andrew must choose between are sacrifice and balance. They’re opposites, in direct conflict with one another.

The particular labels are interchangeable. Sacrifice could be replaced with dedication or obsession. Balance could be replaced with moderation or perspective. The thematic dichotomy – the truth of the zero-sum trade-off – is what matters.

For any possibility of achieving transcendent greatness, you must give everything – and more. That’s clear. The cost is also obvious. It’s everything else.

The alternative mode of being is to live with balance. In moderation. But there’s a cost to that too. A jack of all trades is a master of none. When Andrew isn’t practising, someone else is.

After the second act break, Andrew asks his mentor Fletcher if System A can be taken too far. Can you discourage the next Charlie Parker from becoming Charlie Parker?

Fletcher’s response is no. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.

WHIPLASH reveals the difference between thematic structure and tone. These are independent variables.

In traditional screenwriting terminology, one might describe Andrew’s want in terms of drumming success, and his need in terms of his relationship with his father and girlfriend.

In a technical sense, the story is a tragedy because Andrew doesn’t make the jump across to System B.

But there is still one more layer to be added – tone. At the climax, in this tragedy, Chazelle has us, the audience, rooting for Andrew to get back on stage and become Bird.

THEMATIC STRUCTURE IN FINDING NEMO

This is the canonical example of thematic structure.

Marlin loves Nemo. He lost his wife and all other children to a barracuda. Now he’s terrified of Nemo getting hurt in the dangerous ocean. He wants to protect him from all harm.

The two value systems in play are protection and letting go.

Why does the story work so well? Where does the impact (meaning) come from? The fact that the thematic contest is balanced and therefore true.

If Marlin loves Nemo, he should want to protect him from all harm. Nemo getting hurt is the worst thing that could possibly happen. Except, as Dory points out, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him.

Despite everything that’s happened, the more courageous, more enlightened, more aspirational choice for Marlin is to let Nemo go.

Coda: want and need

Note finally that this story architecture supersedes the concept of want and need.

In a standard single-protagonist 3-act structure, the hero arcs from ‘want’ to ‘need’.

These terms are no longer required. They are replaced by something that is embedded in the structure: value systems. Want corresponds to one column of the thematic table. Need corresponds to the other column.

End of story.

John Head

John is an emerging screenwriter and script consultant from Melbourne, Australia. For reasons that remain unclear, he spent the previous decade and a half as a professional mathematician. His recent work has placed in Scriptapalooza and Final Draft’s Big Break.

Pacing is critical. Rush through the story, and viewers struggle to understand what is going on. Slow down too much, and they get bored. How do you manage the pacing and rhythm of a story? Can you fix it in post?

Let’s go back a few decades.

If you know me today, you’ll hardly believe that for a short time, I was the face of MTV’s pan-European movie show The Big Picture. It was the nineties. MTV was still a teen and hyper hip. I was neither, which may explain why I didn’t last.

The brand had marked its territory worldwide with a fast-paced editing style, a trademark that would affect all audio-visual media, from TV interstitials and commercials to music and corporate videos.

TV series and feature films fell for the new fashion, too, but the editing style didn’t fix malfunctioning or slow-paced stories. Many movies in the MTV spirit bombed terribly. Some that spring to mind are Tank Girl, and later Scott Pilgrim.

ONE FLEW TOO FAST

In one of the earliest articles on this blog, I shared what I learned about story pacing from Milos Forman. In his director’s commentary on One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, he recounts how he struggled to maintain its duration.

“I cut it down television style, under two hours. And you know what was funny? It felt much longer.”

The reason fast cutting doesn’t necessarily speed up a longish film? Because what really matters is not the number of cuts per minute, but the amount of story beats per unit of time.

But even if the smaller segments work individually, it doesn’t guarantee that the overall story will.

What really matters is not the number of cuts per minute, but the amount of story beats per unit of time.

SPEED HUMPS

Early in the new millennium, Richard E. Grant wrote and directed a film based on his childhood, called Wah-Wah. It’s an epic, 3-hour journey full of nostalgia, domestic drama and breathtaking vistas. Except that it’s not really three hours long. The 85-minutes I watched only felt like that.

Wah-Wah is made up of a chain of vignettes, told in episodic fashion. And there you have the reason for its slow pacing. If a film has more than one story, you need to restart the telling after each ‘episode’, much like TV.

In TV, great episodes have cliffhangers, but Wah-Wah has none. And re-booting the story or starting a new one after each vignette requires significant intellectual effort. If this isn’t coupled with high emotional tension, audiences lose interest.

Episodic storytelling works fine on a higher level. TV series form episodic chains, and movie franchises may release an episode every year or so. But within one sitting, we usually prefer a strong sense of unity. A single, focused dramatic story. And I felt this was missing in Wah-Wah.

PACING BROKEN? CONSIDER THIS

A faster edit wouldn’t fix Richard E. Grant’s problem. A narrative technique that sometimes adds to pacing and tension is the ticking clock. “But Wah-Wah was a drama,” I hear you say, “and deadlines are for thrillers and action flicks”. You know what? Deadlines are everywhere.

1. Deadlines

One of my favourite indies is Courtney Hunt’s Sundance winner and Academy Award nominee Frozen River. The film stars Melissa Leo as a mother who needs to pay for a new trailer home before Christmas, or the family will be homeless. This ticking clock kicks in right in the first scene. Similarly, in Jennifer Lawrence’s feature debut Winter’s Bone, written and directed by Debra Granik, the character of Ree must find her father by a deadline, or else…

These are low-budget indies, and both rely on more than one ticking clock to assist the pacing.

Deadlines are everywhere.

More sophisticated methods require an insight in your story’s architecture. If you understand fractal structure, you will know that acts work on every level. Just like the big picture of your story, scenes and sequences often behave like acts, too.

But how to use this to your benefit?

2. One-Two, One-Two

Don’t give your audience a 3rd-act resolution for each scene or sequence.

Once the problem is resolved, they will relax, and it will create that episodic Wah-Wah feel. As a result, you’ll have to work extra hard to pump the momentum up again.

Instead, abort that mini-story. I call it the One-Two, One-Two approach. Give us a first and second act; then abort by cutting in with your inciting incident for the next scene or sequence.

In the video that goes with this article, I illustrate this method with the Toy Story 2 sequence where Woody rescues Wheezy. It’s an unfinished mini-story, as it is aborted before Woody succeeds.

MORE PACING FIXES

While we’re on the topic of fractal structure: your higher-level units (Sequences, Acts) won’t work if the constituent parts don’t work. So for your act to flow, your scenes and sequences need to have a good pace, too. You can diagnose and fix this by looking at the structure of those smaller units first.

3. Scene/Sequence Structure

Many consider Aaron Sorkin for a master dialogue writer. Really? It often takes an A-lister to pull it off believably. I think Sorkin is first and foremost a master of structure. His greatest scenes play for 3-5 mins while keeping their tension. Not because of his clever words, but rather his smart structure.

Proper dramatic structure is probably more a foundational skill than a quick fix for pacing. Fortunately, a few simpler methods exist that you can apply immediately. Most of them are based on common sense, like ‘in late, out early’.

Sorkin is first and foremost a master of structure.

4. In late, out early

While a fast edit won’t fix your fundamental story issues, a lean trim will still pay dividends. You’ll aim to retain only what is essential, i.e. whatever generates an emotional response.

One simple surgical procedure would be to remove all ‘meet and greets’. People stick to social protocols in the real world, but your story will die by them. Cut it out, unless you use them to dramatic purpose.

Cutting scene openers is part of the broader rule of ‘in late, out early’: keep scenes as short as you can. Apart from a few tentpole moments that may run two, three to five minutes, you will typically keep the average duration of your scenes under two minutes, and under a minute for television. This will assist with the overall pacing.

When you research your preferred genres, you’ll find that the averages differ for each.

After looking at the scenes as a whole, you will need to scrutinise the dialogue. In an early draft, characters may take as much time as real-world people to get their point across. But screen drama doesn’t work like that. You’ll need to compress and stylise.

5. Shortened segments

When teaching face-to-face classes, I used a trick to make the day go faster. The first session would run for a full 2 hours, and each subsequent session would shorten by 15 minutes, until a final 60-minute session.

The course was hugely successful, and I’m sure the trick contributed to the students’ experience.

Years later, I found that the pilot for the TV show Braindead did a similar same trick. Check this out!

The pilot teaser (normally around 1- 3 minutes) runs for a whopping 22 pages. Act 1 starts on page 23, and runs for 20 pages. Subsequent acts are 11, 7 and 6 pages respectively.

The pilot sold, and a first season was ordered (but sadly not renewed).

Do you know of any other techniques and tricks to manage the rhythm and pacing of a screen story? Let us know in the comments. Which movies and shows don’t work for you because of their pacing, and which ones rock?

-Karel Segers

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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Some will say that rules are essential, because without them there is only anarchy. But are there really any hard rules in screenwriting? And if there are, who sets them?

And what is wrong about anarchy?

Anarchy Ruled

Screenwriting format grew out of the need for a standardised notation when film production became a repeatable process. It was never codified by law, so you won’t go to prison for writing in Comic Sans – even if we all agree you deserve to.

We’re all free to write what we want, and how we want. Thank god! But conventions started to emerge as people voluntarily copied what worked. All those conventions together, you may call a screenwriting standard, and this standard – or code – is observed in order to achieve the best results.

The standard is never prescriptive, but descriptive. It is a set of observations rather than a rule book. Even The Screenwriter’s Bible is only a record of David Trottier’s observations from studying successful scripts; it’s not Trottier’s Law.

Penalties apply

Even if there are strictly no rules, breaking the code will lead to penalties. Those who read scripts are seeking a particular experience. If your writing format or style stands in the way of this experience, you will suffer a penalty.

At film school, if you don’t abide by the rules, you will lose marks – even if your story is Oscar material.

Picasso said: “Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.”

Robert McKee differentiates between rules and principles: rules say “Do this!”, and principles tell you “This works.” If it doesn’t work, your script will be rejected, or you won’t be hired. For most writers this threat suffices to stick to the principles.

Says who?

Because Robert McKee is an authority – whether deserved or not – some gatekeepers expect you heed his advice. In other words: ignore his principles at your peril.

Even a descriptive work like The Screenwriter’s Bible may achieve prescriptive status when readers use it as a reason to reject scripts. What was merely a principle has become a hard rule.

Before you truly understand what works and what doesn’t, I believe you need to get your work made, and see it on a screen. Therefore, I have previously said: “prove that you master the rules, then bend them.”

Hard v Soft Rules

To achieve the strongest identification, you must tell your story from a single first-person POV. Despite the must, this is a soft principle. It works, but it can be broken easily, and successfully. If you know what you’re doing, you’ll often ignore soft rules – deliberately.

Scripts are written in Courier 12. This is a much harder rule. You break this one at the peril of being considered an amateur, and some may not even read your script. You will get away with this one only if your surname is Gilroy or Coen.

Loglines count 25 words or less. A production company asks you to submit a 25-word logline. You believe your story needs more to do it justice, and you ignore the 25-word rule. Great! Now the production company has a really easy way of eliminating your work. [The reality is that they may not count words, but if the length of your line visually stands out, it may be enough to trigger a rejection]

Different rules [for different fools]

When you break rules, you’re being punished, while others get away with it. That hardly seems fair! Unfortunately, there is no fair in film. It’s a business.

When you’re writing on spec, your style will be scrutinised more than that of an established studio writer. Conversely, when reading scripts you need to understand what type of script you are reading, before drawing any conclusions.

Those you believe ‘get away’ observe more restrictions than you are even aware of. With experience comes a better understanding of what works and what doesn’t. As a result, the pro writer will set themselves more stringent rules.

BYO Rules

When asked how he learned screenwriting, Taylor Sheridan explained that he simply avoids the mistakes he saw in scripts when he was an actor. In other words, he turned those observations into his own set of rules.

Yet, Sicario brutally annihilates the POV principle: In the third act, we leave the main character to experience the movie’s finale through the POV of Alejandro. Why it works? Sheridan is meticulous in making sure everything else fits perfectly: tension and stakes are sky-high, and the storytelling is clean and linear.

Also, Sheridan had to break rules. This particular story simply cannot be told any other way.

What You Need To Break Rules? One Word.

Rules are not what matters. What is critical is the governing principles.

Any rule can – and must – be broken, under the right circumstances. One word will help you understand whether a rule applies to your situation, and your script: “WHY?”

If you don’t understand why certain things are allowed and others aren’t, these ‘rules’ mean nothing.

Why do certain things work and others don’t?

Conclusion

Breaking rules without good reason may not be smart, but blindly following them is even dumber.

The best books and courses don’t impose rules; they illuminate the inner workings of drama. They show you the underlying emotional logic, so you can deduct your own rules.

Don’t worry about rules. Study everything that has lead people to observe them.

Then write in freedom and with confidence.

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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Duh!

Yet, I’ve read so many rants about the quality of scripts, that it warrants a clear view on what is out there, and what we can learn from them.

When Django Unchained won Best Original Screenplay, I was dismayed. While I found the movie exhilarating, the script was a complete disaster. It was obvious that the voting Academy members had not bothered to read the screenplay.

More recently, some people have questioned the quality of the script for Promising Young Woman, insinuating its success is undeserved. We are all missing the point. Irrespective of any Academy Award nominations, Django is about Tarantino, and PYM is about Emerald Fennell — not the script.

We’ll talk about this in a minute, as both fall under the category of auteur films.

I recently posted a video to our YouTube channel about the topic, but I wanted to give you a more methodical breakdown.

So let’s dive in.

What Screenplays Should You Be Reading?

A screenplay is not an effective learning tool, just because the movie was successful or because you managed to lay your hands on it.

From the thousands of scripts on the web, there are only a handful I recommend to my students as exemplary writing. (I am using these for the online course I designed, Immersion Screenwriting. The story of how this course came about is here.)

We need to treat most scripts with a healthy dose of scepticism.

A wild variety of scripts circulate on the web, from unproduced amateur scripts, to fan fiction or TV specs. Looking for the pilot of Rick and Morty, a while ago some sites would offer up one of the many fan specs instead. Go figure…

Yes, you can learn something from reading any script. But if your time is limited, you’ll need to choose. The scripts that matter roughly fall into one of 2 categories: the studio script, and the spec.

The Studio Script

Most of the PDF’s out there are studio drafts, simply because they’re the movies people watch, and they are disseminated virally. Better teaching examples exist, but they are harder to find, as they excite less people.

Studio scripts are written by established writers who are hired and paid to do so. Sometimes early drafts leak, and unfinished scripts appear on various websites. While they may illuminate the process if you compare them with later drafts, they’re not always examples of how to write well.

Completed studio scripts could be misleading, too, as they rarely showcase the type of material you should write. Most are adaptations, sequels, remakes or franchise material, and you have no access to the rights of any of this, as it is exclusive studio property.

For all the above reasons, we better look at the spec script.

The Spec Script

A spec script is written on the speculation that one day it will sell. The writer is not paid for their time, as they fund the development themselves. In this way, they keep complete freedom and control.

A great source of spec scripts is the Black List. If you have never heard of it, it’s time to do your research. In my view, these are the type of scripts you can learn from the most.

While it is a bonus to know what scripts find their way to production, you should be reading scripts people buy. And the annual Black List is a barometer of what scores high among agents and executives. And these are the ones that do the deals.

Mind The Draft

Before reading a script – and certainly before drawing any conclusions about writing quality or style – check what draft you’re holding.

(TLDR for this section: The perfect screenplay to study is the marketing draft of a sold spec script.)

Early Drafts

An early draft is useful only if you compare it with the finished film. Compared to later drafts or the finished film, it shows development or production decisions. In this way, we learn what didn’t work in the mind of the writer (or director/producer).

A Quiet Place
Early Draft
(click image)

Marketing Draft

This is the one that gets producers across the line. It makes people part with their money – if they do. Therefore, it is the best version of the script to learn from as a beginning screenwriter. Sometimes, the marketing draft is labeled the ‘final draft’.

Hell or High Water
Final draft
(click image)

Shooting Script

The shooting draft will more closely resemble the finished film. It may have received input from the producers and/or director. And any post-sale changes may have somewhat muddled the writer’s original vision.

Joker
Shooting draft
(click image).

Post-Production Draft

These are pretty rare, and that’s okay. Post-production drafts aren’t useful in terms of writing style, because it is a purely technical draft of a script that was likely sold or greenlit in a very different format.

The Fellowship of the Ring
Post-production draft
(click image)

For Your Consideration

Every year around Oscar time, you’ll find a flurry of studio scripts available ‘for consideration’. Like Django Unchained, remember?

Technically, they are meant for Academy Members, but often the PDF’s are widely available. These production drafts may have been rewritten, polished or sanitised after the sale, or even the movie’s release.

Nomadland
For consideration
(click image)

Not All About Story

Only a fraction of working screenwriters sell their specs. The others sell their skills.

We all remember the names of those who get their own stories to the screen. But they’re only the tip of the industry iceberg. Most of the money is under the surface.

If you want to make a living from your writing, don’t get caught up in the hunt for the high concept. What matters is the clarity and freshness of your writing more than your unbridled imagination for wild cinematic adventures.

Unless, of course, you’re a multi-hyphenate.

Beware of the Auteur

Aspiring screenwriters watch more films than the average human. We’re always out to find something new and refreshing. We love rule-breakers, because they surprise us and make us believe we can do it, too.

What some forget is that many films in this category were written by the director, and greenlit based on their visual prowess. Think Paul T. Anderson, Alfonso Cuaron and Kubrick. Some small indie auteur films fall under the same category.

When you are excited about a movie, ask yourself why it was made. Auteur projects are all about the voice and visual style of the writer-director. They’re not about the story per se. Many of them were greenly based on earlier work by the filmmaker, be it a short film or previous feature work.

Of course, you were told that every movie is first and foremost about the script. But some… are not.

Instead of reading 2001 A Space Odyssey, Eraserhead or The Grand Budapest Hotel, study Alien, [500] Days of Summer or Hell Or High Water. The core vision was incapsulated in the script, and not in the mind of the director. And each of these was executed in a supremely effective, wonderful writing style.

What Can We Learn From Reading Screenplays

I look out for three things, when reading screenplays:

• • • First, by focusing on spec sales, we find out what sort of concepts, themes, genres and story types are popular in today’s market.
    • Next, we can learn how stories are organised. You can learn this from the finished film too, but it is useful to see how structure is articulated on the page.
    • Finally, we study writing style to see how specific challenges are addressed on the page.

Now you know what scripts to look for, it’s time to get reading!

If you don’t have the time to hunt for scripts, or choose which one to read, sign up for a curated program, such as the Immersion Screenwriting course, where the scripts are cherry-picked for you.

The course offers a methodic approach to reading and processing the material, following an achievable schedule of daily reading and writing tasks.

And to finish, here is a little bonus for you: 10 Great Screenplays. (No catch. Just a download.)

What are the scripts you have learned from the most? Please tell us in the comments!

Happy reading, and happy writing!

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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It makes sense to read 10 pages of a script, if the reader is out to find a writer. If your dream is to sell your script, there is no escaping the synopsis.

10 Pages Of Hell

Of course you hate that you have to leave out all the gripping details, but remember, every other screenwriter is in the same boat with you – except perhaps the A-listers.

The title of this piece may be misleading. Like most things in our industry, there is no clear consensus on the rules of the synopsis. So, let’s look at the different types of text you may need to deliver.

Development Synopsis v. Marketing Synopsis

Just like there are different types of logline, your synopsis may serve different purposes, each of which require their own approach.

During development, the synopsis helps to see the story clearly, and it communicates the direction of the script to your producer, manager or co-writer. Sometimes screenplay contests or funding programs also ask you to provide several types of synopsis along with the script.

Most of the time, your concern is just with the development synopsis. This version includes all important story elements, including the ending.

Once the film is complete and ready to go out, the development synopsis won’t cut it any longer. To reel in distribution gatekeepers, the producers and marketeers will need documents that resemble the synopsis, but that go by different names.

Siblings Of The Synopsis

Because different people label the types of summary differently, some confusion exists around what we call a logline, a synopsis, outline or treatment. It doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as you understand what to write.

Serial Summaries – The Show Bible

For serial material, the most common type of synopsis would be the series bible, summarising the episodes as part of the pitch document – sometimes also called the pitch bible or show bible.

One episode would typically fit in one or two paragraphs. In more extensive bibles, each episode synopsis could take up to a page.

Treatment Territory

Some people will call a 10-page summary still a synopsis, while others will call it a treatment or outline. I call anything over 4 pages a treatment.

A treatment may run from 10 to 50 pages, or even longer. James Cameron is known to write scriptments, running over 100 pages.

Sentence – Paragraph – Page

When you summarise a story in one sentence, people usually call it a logline, even if you don’t stick to the industry guidelines for loglines.

A logline typically holds only 20 to 30 words, although complex stories may require longer loglines. But when your logline blows out, it may end up being a paragraph synopsis, which can hold around 50 to 200 words.

For this article, I’m going to focus on what I believe is the most common type: the one-pager film synopsis that tells the entire story. You can write this type of document for a feature film, but it would work just as well for a TV episode.

The One-Pager Synopsis

When big international film markets were a thing, I often attended as a buyer. For each film, sales companies would hand out a single A4 on hard paper, with artwork on one side and a synopsis on the other.

A Single page

The synopsis would run for half a page or a full page. I’m sure they still do it this way, even if most business happens outside those big independent film markets.

500 Words – 12 point

Whether you write your synopsis in US Letter format or A4, I recommend sticking to 500 words or less, to keep it easily legible. You don’t want to be one of those writers squeezing 2,000 words on a single sheet.

To fit 500 words on a page, you need to keep your font around 10-12 point. The smaller the font, the more white space you can insert, but the harder it is to read.

It doesn’t matter which font you use, but don’t go for courier, and instead pick a proportional font like Arial, Times New Roman or Helvetica. Readability is key.

What To Include?

The rule is simple: include the most important story elements that can fit on a single page, while making sure that everything makes sense from a logical and emotional perspective.

The point of a synopsis is to give as much information as possible, while keeping it a joy to read. Don’t deliberately leave out information, and certainly don’t omit the ending.

The ending

Until your screen story is ready to be viewed, you don’t really need to tease it. So even if you have only half a page available, you still need to include the final act. Not including it may suggest that it is not all that great…

The only instance I can think of where you leave out the ending, is where your document also contains a longer synopsis that includes the ending.

Main Characters

Depending on how many characters feed into your plot, you may or may not mention them all. What matters most is that your main character’s story makes sense.

If you struggle to include all the story beats, start by leaving out subplots and supporting characters. If you have a dual protagonist story, and you can’t keep a logical flow for both without going over the 500 word mark … well, you’ll have to figure it out.

The Theme

I don’t remember ever reading a good synopsis that explicitly states the movie’s theme. Typically, in great movies, the theme is clear from the story itself.

How To Write The Synopsis

Just like any other work you produce, your synopsis must follow the ‘3 C’s: it should be clear, concise and colourful, in that order. By colourful I mean it should be fun to read.

Format & Style of the Synopsis

Beginners’ synopses often include generic phrases such as “Jack encounters some major obstacles before he succeeds in his task.” These are a waste of space as they apply to every story. You must be specific and only share information that is unique to yours.

Leave out any act or sequence headings; you don’t have the space for those, and readers don’t care. Just tell the story. You can use paragraphs to show the act or sequence structure without explicitly referencing it.

Adjectives make prose more colourful, but in screen stories we focus on action instead. Adjectives also bulk up the word count, without adding any vital story info.

It is often said that the synopsis should evoke a tone that is not too distant from the genre of your film or series. Keep it lighthearted if this is the intended tone of your script; make it read deeply dramatic if this is the vibe you go for.

Rules and Techniques

It is tempting to get distracted by rules and guidelines around synopses. If you believe that a rule holds the reader back from enjoying greater satisfaction and becoming more invested, it is your duty to break it.

Don’t forget that there is only one goal: to get the reader excited about your story and convince them of your writing skills. A poorly written synopsis doesn’t bode well. Having said this —

The synopsis is written in the present tense, just like the logline or the action/description in your script.

To land on the perfect word count, I start from a longer version, and keep trimming down to the required word count. In this way, I can control what I cut, and keep only the most important story elements.

Synopsis Structure

Allocate roughly the same proportionate space to each structural element. In other words, your first act will take up a quarter to a third of the word count, the second act will take up half, and the final act, whatever is remaining.

Similarly, if you wrote your script in sequences, you might start a new sentence for each sequence in the synopsis. Readers love it when they can follow the dramatic flow of your piece on the page.

Whatever cliffhangers you (intend to) have in the script, they need to come out here on the page as well.

Keep it in sync

Writing the one-page synopsis is essentially a crash-test for your story. You will realise what works, and what needs more work. As you do this, you may decide on fundamental changes that affect not only the script, but even your logline. Make sure you keep all those documents in sync.

Once you have the perfect synopsis, update your logline. Conversely, if the logline captures your story more lively, update the synopsis. In short, keep your development documents in sync, and once you hit final draft, update them all.

Homework

Once you have a few synopses under your belt, the pain will ease. Heck, you may even enjoy writing them! I believe that the best practice is to write synopses for screenplays that are not yours.

In the Immersion Screenwriting course, you’re encouraged to write a synopsis for each of 7 curated scripts. Students who took the course have reported that their synopsis writing skills skyrocketed by the end.

What is your favourite movie? Why not write a synopsis for it today?

Enjoy!

-Karel Segers

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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The only reason Chris topped every other promising screenwriter that year – and he knows it – was his gut-wrenching finale. Those last few pages of The Muppet Man even beat the image of Zuckerberg endlessly refreshing Erica’s profile.

One of the web’s most ruthless script reviewers called it “the most emotional finale since a certain giant ship sank ten years ago.”

But what’s the big deal about endings?

Why Wow Them In The End

The first great Hollywood movie I saw as a kid was Star Wars (IV: A New Hope). I’ll never forget how I felt, coming out of the cinema: I desperately wanted to stay in the universe of Luke Skywalker, and relive the entire experience. Its finale was just perfect.

A great ending can save an otherwise problematic or difficult script – like The Muppet Man. Have you seen Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood? Industry pros know that to go into profit, you need word of mouth – and repeat business. Great endings deliver just that.

Think about your favourite movies. Most will have an extraordinary ending.

In this article I won’t give you the secret to writing a Muppet Man ending, but you may learn a few tricks to make yours more memorable.

Which Ending Suits Your Story?

I’m often asked how to end a particular story. How the hell should I know? If I did, it would have been my story. No-one will dictate how to end your script – until you sell…

Still unsure? Look at films you like, and figure out how their ending relates to the beginning.

A strong ending refers back to the start, and shows us a change to the main character, or to the world they live in. This can be incredibly gratifying. To underscore the change, some great films deliver a book-end finale, literally going back to the point of departure.

This full-circle is only one of many techniques to amp up your ending. It doesn’t say what should happen, rather how to execute it.

Amazing Endings: Structure

To deliver on the element of surprise and create an amazing ending, a number of structural techniques may help wow the reader.

In crime or supernatural stories, a twist in the tail may secure your spot in the hall of fame like it did for Se7en, The Usual Suspects, The Invitation or The Sixth Sense.

Alternatively, trick your audience with a false ending, only to give them the mother of all jump scares when the villain comes back one final time.

Here’s an overview of some techniques you may consider:

• Book End
• Twist in the tail
• False Ending
• Narrator Ending
• Frame Story
• Crystal Ball (Mental Construct/Epilogue)
• It Was All A Dream
• Cliffhanger / Anticipation

Be aware that these will enhance the final emotion rather than change it. In a minute, we’ll look at more fundamental ways to impact your reader/audience’s response.

The Insanely Great Ending

I believe Michael Arndt wrote 10 different endings to Little Miss Sunshine, and the one you may have seen was not among them. In the course of writing that fabulous script, he started a rigorous study of movie endings.

He talks about it here.

One of the things Arndt learnt, was that people like endings that are positive, surprising and meaningful.

These three qualities have little to do with the structural options above. In order to deliver a genuinely satisfying emotion to a reader and audience, we need a whole different set of categories.

Emotional Choices

The list below is not meant to offer binary options, but rather a sliding scale for each. I have bolded what typically applies when people speak of a Hollywood ending.

The reality is that most successful films, even in independent and international cinema, follow the popular choices.

• Emotion: Up / Down
• Change / No Change
• Goal: Victory / Failure
• Morality: Noble / Dubious (Dishonourable)
• Plot question: Resolved / Unresolved
• Clarity: Clear / Ambiguous (Confused)
• Reliability: Reliable / Unreliable
• Expected / Unexpected

The last category applies purely to how the ending is delivered. All bolded options are ‘expected’. You must deliver each in a way that is surprising.

Theoretically, your options are unlimited, and your freedom is complete. In the real world, however, only a limited subset of those infinite variations usually works for a mainstream audience.

Four Key Factors

From my own observations, the following 4 are the categories – in order – that will have the greatest impact on the success of your ending, and this is consistent with Michael Arndt’s findings:

• Clarity: most audiences prefer clarity over ambiguity.
• Victory: an up ending – that is earned – trumps  the down or bittersweet ending.
• Change: we want to see positive change in the character or the world.
• Expectation: we prefer an expected outcome, delivered in unexpected ways.

But How? drawkcaB etirW!

Because the ending is the most important part of your story, you cannot write your opening  until you know what your final image is going to be. An amazing ending needs to be set up from the very first shot.

McKee recommends to write your story backwards from the final image. The alternative is that for each draft that alters the final act, you will need to go back to set it up – again.

Practically speaking, you will probably write the first draft sequentially from the start. Then, refine your amazing ending until you’re happy. Finally, go back and start the complete rewrite.

(Of course, a whole lot of pain can be avoided by using use a step outline.)

More About Amazing Endings

If you found this article helpful, please share it around.

Check out the masterclass on your YouTube channel, with examples of some popular endings. Is yours included?

If you subscribe to the channel, I’ll send you a notification next time I publish a free masterclass.

Thank you for reading, and watching!

Karel Segers

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mask

Early in the 2020 coronavirus pandemic, some governments recommended against wearing masks for reasons you may have read in the media at the time. I followed that science, and didn’t wear a mask.

It felt wrong, as I belong to a white minority in an overwhelmingly Asian suburb of Sydney, where face masks had been commonplace long before Covid.

But there was another reason I felt naked without a mask.

“In Asia, masks aren’t just shields. They’re also symbols. They’re an affirmation of civic-mindedness and conscientiousness, and such symbols might be important in other parts of the world too.”

[from this article]

So, I caved in, and googled “best face mask”.

(The first result came from the WHO … or maybe not: https://who.com.au)

The Don don’t don

“I think wearing a face mask as I greet presidents, prime ministers, dictators, kings, queens, I don’t know. Somehow, I don’t see it for myself, I just don’t.”

It was one of the Donald’s classic quotes, and at its core it debunks what others have said was the reason for his refusal.

The real reason had nothing to do with the coronavirus, and everything with the mask as a symbol.

The function of a face mask in a pandemic is clear: to protect you. But Trump was more concerned about its symbolic power. The mask as a metaphor.

If you need a mask for protection, you’re weak. You’re a loser. And we all know what Trump thinks about losers. After all, his favourite movie is Citizen Kane. (Not Little Miss Sunshine.)

So, the Don doesn’t don.

What is remarkable about this attitude is that he completely misses the point about when metaphors matter, and when they don’t.

There may be a symbolic value, but wearing a face mask during a pandemic is first about the literal application of a piece of cloth to your face, so you don’t get sick.

If Trump mistakenly responded to the metaphor instead of the science, well, somehow he didn’t get that, either.

Another missing mask

To fulfil a public function and serve the people means to step out of yourself, and essentially become someone else. This is why superheroes wear masks.

The mask as a metaphor signals the new role you are willing to play. It transforms, and transcends.

When Peter Parker puts on his Spider-Man mask, his actions change, and he becomes your friendly neighbourhood hero.

Trump however, refused to act presidentially.

Now here’s the thing: Trump wanted to play president. He loves all the peripherals and paraphernalia that come with it.

Only, he may have the courage of the knife, but lacks that of the blood.

He wanted to live in the White House, have the power to make Big Decisions, and meet important people. These things are peripheral to the job, and have little to do with serving America. They are just the mask; not what it stands for.

Imagine if Spider-Man were to don his suit, yet continued acting like a dork. That’s Donald Trump.

But given that the man is out, let’s focus on what matters now.

What is your mask?

Although you are reading this, you are likely wearing the mask of the writer. You are approaching this text with the question “how can this help me write better stories?”.

The biggest decisions in your life show the mask you’re wearing.

When I decided to move to a different suburb, I wore the mask of the father, because I wanted my son to be able to walk to school.

These days, my writer’s mask is important enough to get me out of bed earlier than normal, and write before doing anything else.

Masks and metaphors define our relationship with the world.

Joseph Campbell asked: what myth do you live by? Once you’ve picked, your myth comes with a mask.

To live by a myth, you abide by its laws, and you act out its rituals. That’s the mask, right there.

But if the mask is just a metaphor, how does the world know which one we’re wearing?

Well, this brings us to storytelling.

Archetypes, Masks and Metaphors

People recognise our mask by the actions we take.

Because you know your screenwriting stuff, you know how an audience understands a character: through their actions.

The way we perceive someone’s actions will determine our relationship with that person, and the mask we project onto them.

Just like we relate to other people through the mask we wear, we relate to them through the mask they are wearing.

For characters in stories, this goes in the exact same way.

Your characters are playing a role. They fulfil the role that best suits them for the purpose of your story. We have a word for that: archetypes.

On the people who raised us, we see the mask of the parent. Someone who shares their experience with us wears the mask of the mentor. The person we are attracted to dons the mask of the lover.

Our characters, too, behave in ways that represent their archetypal function, i.e. their particular relationship with the Hero.

The Shadow is the antagonist, usually representing a character trait the main character suppresses. The Herald brings the news of the inciting incident, the Trickster pokes fun at the main character’s flaw, etc.

Sometimes these archetype coincide, as archetypes or masks can overlap; they are malleable.

It is essential that the audience sees the same mask we envisaged when we wrote the character.

For each character in your story, the relationship with the main character needs to be clear.

How do we create this crafty stuff?

Creating Masks and Metaphors

Making our characters wearing their mask is easier than telling people to stay protected. Writing archetypes is mostly an unconscious thing. But it does help to ask yourself what the main function of a particular character relationship is. Then, to work with it consistently.

You can actively reinforce a character’s mask by aligning every aspect: physiognomy, sociology and psychology.

This aligning explains why mentors are often older people with the function of parent or teacher, and why lovers in movies often look attractive to all of us.

We experience a great story from the POV of the MC. This means that we need to understand the archetype of each character in the same way the MC does.

When you’re writing original material, you design your characters to support the overall story. You give them the most effective mask to wear.

For adaptations, you have to figure out the mask for each of the existing characters, and decide if it supports the story you would like to tell.

For true stories, it may be even harder. Sometimes we need to give characters different masks, or remove them from the story because no dramatic mask fits the real-world character.

Changing Faces

Most characters keep their masks on. They don’t fall out of character, or change their roles.

But when your MC goes through an arc, and changes their world view; inevitably the way they look at other characters will change, too.

This is when you see characters shapeshift.

Remember Lotso Bear from Toy Story 3, or Colonel Quaritch from Avatar? Both are initially mentors, but as the MC sees the world in a different way through the second half of the story, these characters take on a different mask.

In other words: as we change our look on the world, our view on the people in it will change, too.

What You Need To Remember

In our stories, all characters need masks.

The clearer the archetypal role they play in the story world, the better the audience will understand their relationships, and the emotions that go along with them.

In life, know your masks and metaphors. And when you wear yours, wear it with pride and responsibility.

Respect the traditions that come with it, so that those around you understand what you want to achieve, and who you’re trying to be.

You want to be a leader? Then lead. You want to be a president? Be presidential.

You want to be a writer?

Wear the mask, and write.

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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In this article, I am going to eradicate this issue for you, once and for all.

For now, I will focus on single-protagonist stories, as it is hard enough to write these successfully. Once you fully grasp the concept, you can always transition to multiple leads.

Why You Should Avoid A Passive Protagonist

Why this obsession with action in screenwriting in the first place?

Isn’t character more important than action?

Character can be revealed through action, visible or audible. After all, dialogue is action, too.

But screen stories are supposed to be primarily visual, so we need to show the character’s behaviour. And in order for this behaviour to be visible, your character(s) must be active.

This is why action is more important in screen stories than in any other form of storytelling.

And as you may find out the hard way – if you had not already – it is not as easy as it appears to maintain the discipline of keeping your heroes active.

Put Character First [but for a different reason]

Character comes first, but not for the reason other teachers may have told you. We don’t start with the character because of their journey, their development or transformation.

We start with the character simply to establish where our Point of View (POV) is placed.

Most screen drama is experienced from a particular character’s POV. This may change over the course of the story; even within a scene it can change. For the strategy I will give you, it is important to be acutely aware of the POV character at every point in your story.

The good news is that in most stories, the POV coincides with the MC. In other words: The MC is also the POV Character.

Now we have established this, we are going to look at drama in a slightly different way.

I warn you: things may get a tiny bit technical.

Events and Actions Prevent Passive Protagonist

Many unsuccessful scripts have a lot going on.  The problem is that we don’t care, because it doesn’t involve the characters that matter to us. Or if it does, the character doesn’t respond. We would love to see some reaction, but it just doesn’t happen.

Too often, the writer is unaware of this problem.

Lucky for all of you, this can be easily resolved by taking a slightly different perspective.

Stories are essentially a succession of actions and reactions. The big difference with physics, is the addition of POV. In the context of story, instead of ‘action’ and ‘reaction’, I prefer to speak of EVENT and ACTION.

An Action happens almost always in response to an Event. This makes sense, because we want a character’s actions to be somehow motivated. As a viewer to empathise or identify with the character, we need to understand this motivation.

We need to witness the Event that makes the character act in the first place.

For the writer, this requires a careful examination of the ebb-and-flow of Events and Actions.

However, before you can effectively analyse your story in terms of Events and Actions, you need to pick the POV. Mostly, we’ll be in the perspective of the Main Character (MC).

If you find the following dry and uninspiring, please bear with me. You will thank me later. After all, we’re in the critical/analytical stage of the writing process (Later you can plunge back into your beloved crazy-ass creative mode.)

To reward you for sitting through this with me, you’ll receive a goodie at the end: a semi-automatic Step Outline form that will tell you the truth about your MC’s activity!

Definitions

I would define ACTION as “a meaningful activity performed by the character.” This can be dialogue as well as physical activity. Each Action should have consequences (i.e. a ‘reaction’) for the character taking the Action, or for other characters.

An EVENT is “an incident or occurrence happening to the character.” An Event is never an action by the character. You need to understand this critical distinction, because here is where scripts fall apart, not just on the page but on the conceptual level. I won’t get into concept right now. Please, just trust me.

Most importantly: an Action by one character can constitute an Event to another. You may think that your script has a lot of Action going on, while in fact it is just a pile-up of Events (i.e. sh** happening to your character).

Can you now see why it is critically important that we first establish the POV?

If you want to diagnose your MC’s activity, we need to stick to the MC’s POV to be sure that the action is performed by that character.

An Action by any other character may constitute an Event.

Action vs. Event in Parasite

As an example, let’s take the POV of Ki-woo in Parasite. The film may seem an ensemble – multi-protagonist – story, but it opens and closes on Ki-woo. That means something, right?

When Ki-woo’s friend in Parasite offers him the tutoring job, this is an Event to Ki-woo. His acceptance of the job is an Action.

When Ki-woo is at the Park family, and he realises he can bring his sister in to teach art, this realisation is an Event (to him). Telling mother Park he knows a good tutor, constitutes an Action for him and an Event to Mrs. Park.

We’re only looking at Ki-woo now… Can you see what happens when we consider the full character ensemble? What is an Event for one character, may be an Action for the other, etc. Things can get awfully complex, but this doesn’t mean you can overlook it!

This is why I recommend that beginning writers focus on a single protagonist, single POV story first.

Writers sometimes assess their stories simply in terms of how much stuff is going on.  They may fill their script to the brim with action, but they forget to focus that action on their MC. By first anchoring our POV, you will never make this mistake.

Even a single-protagonist story requires a methodical approach to assess the story. I may have exactly what you need to help you with this.

And when you apply the analysis to your story or script, you may be surprised to find how little Action is really there…

The Step Outline

To  ensure the protagonist is central to the story, and remains active, you can use a Step Outline. This is a bullet point summary of your story, with one line for each scene. And by scene, I mean dramatic scenes; not just any script block with a slugline. A simple establishing shot, or a still shot of your character asleep would probably not qualify.

Because I keep seeing poor handling of POV and Passive Protagonist in so many screenplays, I designed a form to help you write a truly effective step outline…

The Mother-Of-All-Step-Outlines!

To the standard Step Outline, I added a column to the left for the POV, and one to the right for Action vs. Event:

(In the next update, I will make sure that the report only counts Action scenes from the protagonist’s POV, and if you register for my newsletter today, I will make sure you get that update later as well.)

You can download a working version of this Step Outline form, including a POV and Activity reporting tool for your story from here, or by completing the form at the bottom of this article. Just follow the link to the online form, then create a copy for your own use.

A Brief Note On Events

If an Event is “an incident or occurrence happening to the character,” this may apply to any of the following:

• a physical, external incident: e.g. The MC’s car runs out of fuel.
• an action by another character: e.g. A neighbour kicks in the MC’s front door.
• dialogue by another character: e.g. The MC is told by her husband: “You’re an idiot.”
• a (sudden) memory, realization or revelation: e.g. Ki-woo in Parasite realising his sister can do the tutoring job.

Avoid Passive Protagonist

In a story that works, the number of Events and Actions will be roughly in balance, with more Events in the earlier scenes, and more Actions towards the end. If your screenplay has an abundance of one and a lack of the other, it will suffer from:

1. an unmotivated MC: too many Actions, and insufficient related Events; or
2. a passive protagonist; too many Events, and insufficient deliberate Actions in response.

Using the step outline during development in the way I describe above can help you in diagnosing your story, and avoiding these common issues.

Please let me know in the comments if you believe your story can be helped by this approach (and if not: why).

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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I love teaching, I adore my students, and I’m fortunate enough to see some good results, as some of my students go on to build a writing career.

Yet, I am growing increasingly frustrated.

There is a missing component in the learning of these young people. Some take the initiative to fill in the blanks, but others aren’t even aware of what is missing.

By just taking courses, there is little chance you will survive the real world.

So what else do you need?

Let’s first look at the positive aspects of books, courses and gurus.

Book, Courses And Gurus

I have written about the merits of film school. You can learn a lot from the experts through books, courses and videos. I have the best memories of binge reading screenwriting books, and then attending lectures by the authors.

In some instances, you can speed up the process of understanding how screenplays work, what has worked in the past and what hasn’t.

You’ll also learn the systems and terminology used in our industry.

Courses give you a general overview, based on more material than you can process in a lifetime. You learn about genres and styles outside your taste, which will help you communicate with professionals.

Books and courses give you different perspectives. No matter how long you study a subject, you’ll still only see it through the lens of your own eyes.

Screenwriting courses may give you a wholly new, valuable point of view.

However, one of the biggest problems with courses, is that only little of what you learn specifically relates to the work that you (will) write.

Therefore it is essential that you get feedback to your own work. It will help improve your performance, and level up to the requirements of the market.

Talk, Don’t Write

One of the local film schools offers their students industry feedback. Professional script consultants come in to help the students improve their scripts from first to final draft. It’s great. Students love it.

Not only is this an introduction to how the industry works; it is an invaluable addition to the lectures. Lecturing is a transfer of knowledge in bulk. The consults provide bespoke feedback, different for each student. Even if two students struggle with the same issue, they may need different solutions.

Consults outclass written reports. In the studio system, notes are a standard form of communication with writers. But without produced credits, you will benefit far more from a direct two-way conversation.

In a live consultation, you are able to ask questions, and so can the consultant. This helps define your objectives, as well as the issues standing in the way of achieving them.

The Consult Is Your Inmost Cave

Most of us work better and faster when we can verbally discuss our work, rather than write or read about it in a snapshot report.

Many aspiring writers are not familiar with the lingo, and consultants should not have to explain or define every concept in a report.

A good script consultation is a mini-workshop, where client and consultant work together to determine the priorities for future work, and the way they could be addressed by the writer. The best consult is an intense, inspiring and rewarding experience for both sides.

A welcome side-effect of some consultations is that writers discover what they are actually writing about.

Often new writers are not aware of the themes they infuse their stories with.

As a consultant, you are in the privileged position of discovering these themes with the writer. What is their world view? What bugs them, and how do their stories comment on society?

A great consult creates an Inmost Cave, for writers to discover their own voice.

It allows them to develop their voice, and articulate their ideas in ways that the industry and the audience will understand. Sometimes it allows them to clarify, sharpen and refine their ideas.

Often these young writers are yet to find their path in life, and their writing provides a valuable introspection into their values, hopes and dreams. As a consultant, it is a humbling experience to be there, and witness this fascinating process.

And yet, no matter how inspiring, poetic and even mythical these experiences may be, they are no substitute for learning from the source.

Back To The Screenwriting Source

A few years back, a member of a screenwriting forum was eaten alive when he dared to ask for a method to learn screenwriting for free. Many of the readers had paid good money for their education, and they came down on the boy to annihilate him.

It turned out the boy didn’t know any better. He was new to screenwriting, and with a mental health disorder he didn’t know how to be diplomatic when asking his question.

It set me thinking.

Screenwriting books and gurus have only been around since the 1970’s, while some of the very best movies were written long before.

How did screenwriters learn the craft before there were any gurus around?

My guess? From reading great screenplays, stage plays, and novels.

It seems that we have collectively forgotten that the best learning lies in the best scripts. Yet, students these days seem to believe they can educate themselves without opening a single screenplay.

From reading lots of great scripts, you can learn style, structure and dialogue, virtually by osmosis.

One of my most dedicated students used to read a full-length feature screenplay every day, for months. This experience helped him so much, that he skyrocketed to the top of the best screenwriting contests, and was introduced to Hollywood agents. You can do this, too.

To be perfectly honest, though…

Just reading scripts is not going to cut it, either.

Enter Immersion

Thousands of screenplays are available online at any given time. They’re only a download away. So why don’t we all get to work, like, now?

It turns out to be a massive challenge to tell the wheat from the chaff.

Many are mere dialogue transcripts, which is utterly useless for the screenwriter who wants to learn how to use proper formatting and descriptive style.

Others are butchered versions, converted from one format to another, and ending up in a crappy TXT or – even worse – HTML format.

And only a few dozen scripts are available freely from their rights holders.

Fortunately, some sites publish a curated offering of these scripts, so you don’t have to make the selection for yourself.

In my view, once you are reading a rock solid selection of the best scripts, the only other mandatory daily action you need to take, is: write.

This is why after teaching screenwriting courses for nearly ten years, I decided to completely overhaul the philosophy behind my teaching.

I made a thorough review of what had worked in the past, and what didn’t.

I looked at which students had been successful, and who failed. Then I looked at the practices of working screenwriters, and built a system that helps writers build better habits, and prepare them for the writing of a professional screenplay draft. All without a tutor.

I named the course Immersion Screenwriting.

The results have been phenomenal.

The writing exercises I designed for this course emulate some of the brain processes of the seasoned screenwriter. Others are meant to create a steady writing habit, while building some sort of format muscle memory.

By performing these exercises on a daily basis, you adopt the practices of the professional screenwriter effortlessly. The basic version of the course runs for seven weeks (50 days), enough to change or create a new habit.

Take Action

If this all sounds like something you’d like to try, head over here.

If you have spent hundreds or thousands of dollars on screenwriting courses and consults, rest assured that none of that was a waste. You will have acquired a top level understanding of the screenwriting trade.

But to get in the successful habit of writing effective screenplays, you need to not only know but feel what a great script looks like. This takes some time, and a fair amount of reading.

You need to know your genre inside out, you need to know its flagship movies and writing conventions. In addition, you need to be able to apply a contemporary writing style.

Readers want to enjoy your screenplay not only for its story, but also for its reading experience.

So, what script are you reading next?

Karel FG Segers

Karel Segers wrote his first produced screenplay at age 17. Today he is a story analyst with experience in acquisition, development and production. He has trained students worldwide, and worked with half a dozen Academy Award nominees. Karel speaks more European languages than he has fingers on his left hand, which he is still trying to find a use for in his hometown of Sydney, Australia. The languages, not the fingers.

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