Tips to Becoming a Better Writer

It takes a long journey to become a cinematic storyteller of professional quality, and you need all the help you can get along the way. What follows are nine points of advice to build and strengthen your skills as you develop as a writer.

1. Write

This may seem painfully obvious, but it is surprising how many wannabe writers there are who never make the effort to put pen to paper and develop their skills. Writers write. Period. If you do not write, you are not a writer.

You can read every screenwriting book from cover to cover, but all that knowledge will be useless if it is never put into practice. You can read a book on how to swim, but you will still not know how until you actually get into the water.

It takes years of practice for a beginner to nurture their skills to a professional level. You will have to churn out five to ten completed screenplays before you can be confident in your grasp of the craft. This means that a dedicated storyteller must be disciplined. Set aside a few hours every day to write. No distractions. No excuses. Do you think professional athletes got to where they are on nothing but talent? No. They achieved success through practice and discipline. They practiced every day since childhood, and continue to practice every day despite being the best in the world.

At first, there will be resistance. After all, writing is hard. Even professional screenwriters are tempted to put off working to watch TV or goof around on the internet. But if you really want to be a writer, you must push through the resistance. No pain, no gain. Though there may be days when you do not want to write, sit there until you write something. Eventually, it will become a habit. You will want to write every day at your scheduled time. You will not be able to think about doing anything else. You may even get upset whenever something keeps you from writing. This is when you know you really are a writer.

2. Read

Reading makes you a better writer. And I don't just mean read books on screenwriting. Read anything and everything: fiction, nonfiction, novels, plays, newspapers, magazines. Absorbing the words of others will build your vocabulary, improve your communication skills, and enrich your creative grasp on the English language. Novels, short stories, and stage plays will expand your conception of story possibilities beyond the narrow, often-cliched forms seen in the movie theater. Their freer uses of plot, theme, and character may help break you out of confined ways of thinking.

Expand your sphere of knowledge into as many areas as possible. Botany, economics, swing dancing... It could all be useful. A storyteller cannot believably portray a world without first knowing about that world. Study history, science, politics. Explore other cultures and learn about persons different than yourself. Each field of study is an endless source of material to exploit in your own work. Real world knowledge provides a way out of the stereotypes we see in hackneyed television and movies and into a story world rich with layers of meaning and truth. The more you know, the more you can draw upon and the greater your artistic range.

3. Become an active viewer of movies

Don't just watch movies. Watch them through the eyes of a storyteller. Analyze how the story has been put together. Identify the Story Spine and the act breaks. How are the scenes constructed? How does the storyteller distribute information to create curiosity, surprise, and suspense? It is often necessary to watch a film twice to see how it works. Watch it the first time is to experience the story as a viewer. Watch it again to focus on the craft. Remember what you experienced watching the film on the first time around and then try to figure out what the storyteller did you make you think and feel that way.

If you happen to be watching a bad movie, don't just zone out. Figure out why it is bad. Where did the storyteller go wrong? How could it be made it better? If you were hired to fix the script, what would you change?

4. Read the screenplays of films you admire

The screenplays for thousands of produced films are available online. Many have also been printed in book form available in stores and libraries. One of the best ways to develop your skills is by studying the work of successful professionals. In certain ways, this is preferable to watching the movie itself, because it will allow you to focus upon the way the story has been put together on the page without the distractions of performances, camera, editing, or cinematography. You can read and reread each scene at your own pace. Reading screenplays is especially helpful when it comes to learning how to write action and description. This is the part of screenwriting that the audience never sees, and reading it on the page will help you to understand how to communicate information in a clear, active, and efficient manner which allows readers to see the potential movie unfold in their minds.

5. Get hired as a script reader.

Since production companies, agencies, and management companies receive dozens of spec screenplay submissions every week, they hire readers (usually unpaid college interns) to comb through these piles and separate the good from the bad, from the ugly. I graduated from one of the country's top film schools, but this was not where I learned about story. My real training came from reading hundreds upon hundreds of unproduced screenplays (most of them terrible). Readers not only read scripts, but also write “coverage”-- a short one-to-two page analysis of each submission that gives the executives, agents, or whomever a quick overview without having to read the script themselves. The wonderful thing about writing coverage is, rather than simply generating a general opinion about whether a script is good or bad, written coverage forces the reader to really think about what specifically is good or bad about each script, what reasons it is good or bad, and make possible suggestions on how to fix the problems. Coverage is basically homework for your personal education in screencraft.

Most of what you read will be crap. You may be surprised that 90% or more of the scripts won't be very good. Out of the remainder, 9 out of 10 still will not be good enough to be produced. However, there is a bright side. Poor scripts give an unparalleled opportunity to sharpen your own critical skills. Being required to criticize, dismantle, and diagnose screenplays written by someone other than yourself develops an inside-out understanding of screencraft. You will learn the right way to write a script by seeing all the ways a script can go wrong. You will recognize what readers like to see in a script by being a reader yourself. As you gain the capability to connect symptoms with causes, many of the more abstract notions contained on this blog will become clear to understand now that you can see the concepts in action.

Paid reader jobs are hard to get, and most unpaid gigs require college enrolled to receive course credit in lieu of payment. However, there are always plenty of small companies, film festivals, and screenplay competitions that need volunteers to sift through submissions. There are also a number of online communities where developing screenwriters post their work for feedback. If you are really serious about developing your critical abilities, you can even practice this on your own. Find unproduced screenplays online, or scripts to movies you have not yet seen and write your own mock coverage. Just make sure you get the most of it by putting your analysis in writing. No education is complete without homework.

6. Watch documentaries

Including documentaries in your screening habits can make you a far better writer than watching narrative films alone. Cinematic stories are supposed to be imitations of reality, but if a writer only watches movies, the only thing the writer will learn to imitate is other movies. Documentaries are also narrative dramas, but they show the drama of real life. Documentaries present real people struggling with real conflicts in situations which can be far richer and more complex than those found in fictional narratives. Like reading, documentaries will expose you to subjects that will broaden your knowledge and open you mind to new storytelling possibilities. They can vastly improve your ability to create rich, identifiable characters by presenting the intimate thoughts and actions of real human beings in situations that, at times, can be far stranger than any fiction.

7. Read biographies and autobiographies

Biographies and autobiographies of public and historical figures can help a writer better understand what it takes to create interesting, well-rounded, fully human characters. Persons of fame (or infamy) are usually seen by the public in only one dimension. We know only the superficial details told to us by the media or word of mouth. A rock star is just his/her songs, photos, and performances. A politician is just the policies he/she supports. An actress is just the roles she has played. But biographical works allow us to see these people in multiple dimensions. We learn the backstory that made this person who they are. We find how they achieved what they have done, what drove them to do it, and the struggles they faced along the way. If the work is autobiographical, we are allowed to go even deeper into character, learning the intimate thoughts, emotions, needs, and fears behind the actions which made the person famous. A storyteller needs to understand his or her characters with the same level of intimacy. Discovering the complex tangle of psychological impulses behind public personas will help writers understand what must go into creating characters who are equally fascinating.

8. Make an effort to understand human psychology

A writer cannot create believable human behavior on screen without first understanding it in real life. Most people cannot understand why other people do what they do. Some of us don't even understand ourselves. Stiff, flat, unnatural characters are the result of a writer who lacks the ability to empathize -- that is, to see the world through the eyes of persons different from themselves. A great storyteller should be able to take the viewpoint of any character at any time; regardless of gender, race, culture, age, or sexual orientation. He or she must be able to occupy dozens of different minds at a time, each with their own unique way of seeing the world.

A basic understanding of human psychology can help a writer empathize with any type of person. It can give the ability to predict how any given person will react in any given situation. It can explain how the experiences, traumas, wants, needs, and fears found in a person's past make them who they are today and continue to influence their actions in the future. Stories, after all, are about people. They explore humanity. That makes storytellers anthropologists. We have to study our subjects to know what makes them tick.

9. Write more.

Writing is not easy. It is not glamorous. It is arduous labor. The amount of time and dedication it takes to become a success guarantees that only the strong will survive. This is why the first and foremost quality any writer must have is a genuine LOVE of writing. A real writer does not write for money (though money is nice). Nor does he or she write for fame (few ever attain it). A real writer writes because he or she wants to write. Needs to write. There are ideas deep down inside the writer that he or she must communicate to the world. A real writer couldn't possibly imagine him/herself doing anything else.

It is this passion alone that will get you through the growing pains of the long years it takes to grow from beginner to pro. You have to want it.

Scribble on.

Motivationally Speaking

“Feeling and longing are the motive force behind all human endeavor and human creations.”
- Albert Einstein

“All actions are judged by the motive prompting them.”
- Muhammad

Vague writing is bad. Vague character motivations are even worse. Poor motivation turns what could be good characters in flimsy shells whose actions appear to the audience as random, arbitrary, illogical, or completely fake.

You hear actors ask “What's my motivation?” What they mean is they do not understand why their characters do what they do, either because there is not enough information in the script or from a lack of communication with the director. Actors cannot believably imitate human behavior until they understand the actions of their characters from a psychological standpoint.

To create believable, lifelike characters that actors and audience alike can understand, a storyteller must first understand the basics of human behavior. To help, I have broken down human behavior as it pertains to character action into three simple rules.

1. No human being performs any action without a motive.

Now, let me first define 'motive,' since for some it has gained unintentional negative connotations. Some think of a 'motive' as a bad thing thanks to phrases like 'ulterior motive' or the 'motive of the crime.' The word 'motive' itself does not imply anything sneaky or underhanded. Instead, it comes from the same root as the word “motion.” A motive is a force that causes movement. As it pertains to behavior, a motive is the reason why someone chooses to move into an action.

No action taken by any person, regardless of how simple or mundane, is done without a good reason. No one walks across the room for the sake of walking. They do so because they expect to reach something at the end of their trip. Or to get a better look at something. Or to burn half a calorie. Or whatever. No one talks just for the sake of talking. (Although it may seem like some people do.) We only bother to waste the precious energy to speak when we have a need to communicate something, or wish to affect another person, or because we want attention, or at the basest level, relieve the social awkwardness of standing around with others in silence. An action without a reason behind it is senseless. Anyone who acts without reason is labeled a schizophrenic.

No choice is random. Your choice of clothing today was not random. You had a motive behind what you chose to wear. Maybe you chose the sweatpants because you want to be comfortable. Maybe you chose against the sweatpants because you will be going out in public and want to fit in. Maybe you chose to dress flashy because you want attention. Maybe you picked that shirt because you think it makes you more appealing to the opposite sex.

But, if every action we take begins with a motive, what is it about that particular motive that appeals to us? Why not take a different action with a different motive? Why not save the energy and do nothing at all? The reason behind the choices we make comes from the second rule:

2. All actions are motivated by a desire to gain something for oneself.

All actions are taken, in one way or another, for the purpose of self-benefit. We do things because there is something in it for us. We work to gain money. We speak to a friend because we gain a feeling of companionship. We sit down to gain comfort. We stand back up to gain mobility. This instinct for constant self-benefit is the result of billions of years of biological evolution. When it came to the survival of the fittest, those creatures who were single-mindedly looking out for themselves were the ones that came out on top. Any creatures who did not act out of self-interest stood a slimmer chance and were slowly weeded out of the genetic pool. The instinct for constant self-benefit is rooted so deep in our genes that it is impossible to deny.

Actions are motivated by a desire for a personal, positive gain. Take a simple action such as eating. Eating gains something positive. Either it relieves the unpleasant sensation of hunger, or alleviates boredom, or at least gives the simple pleasure of tasting something enjoyable. When people become so full that eating no longer gives them anything positive, they stop. No one feels motivated to do themselves harm- unless there is a benefit that outweighs the harm. Even people who mutilate themselves do so because the act gives them some sort of pleasure. Nor are people motivated towards displeasure. No one wants to eat dirt. That would not gain anything pleasurable- unless a person were so wracked with hunger that the benefit of relieving the hunger outweighed the displeasure of putting dirt in one's mouth.

Even actions that appear completely altruistic are motivated by the desire for a positive personal benefit. People don't give to charity to punish themselves by losing money. They do it because the action gives them something positive back. Maybe it is the respect of one's peers. Maybe it is the self-pride gained from thinking of oneself as a good person. Maybe it is just the happiness one receives from seeing their money used to help others. Even the soldier who throws himself on a grenade to save his comrades gains something by the action. In his last seconds of life, he gains joy from the knowledge that he has saved the lives of others. If, on the other hand, he were the only soldier in the foxhole, it would be complete stupidity to throw himself on the grenade, since there is nothing to gain by the action. He would instead be motivated to run away to gain a chance at survival.

Various studies in biology and anthropology have shown that, in both the human and animal world, there is no such thing as true altruism. This even applies to the rearing of one's own offspring. Protecting one's offspring, even sacrificing one's life for the offspring's survival, is still in the biological sense done out of self-interest. Biological evolution occurs as a direct result of which members of a species do the best job preserving their own genetic line so it may be passed on to successive generations. Those members who, by whatever coincidence, were compelled to do all they could to ensure their offspring's survival did themselves the benefit of winning the evolutionary game. This instinct ensured that their genetic line would continue to survive, passing along the instinct towards protecting the young along with it. Those who developed a sensation of love and responsibility for their children were even more successful. Thus, we have become genetically coded to love our families out of a primitive biological self-interest. Studies have shown that humans and animals alike are more likely to sacrifice their own lives to save the life of another to a degree that is directly proportional to the amount of genetic material shared between the two individuals. You are more likely to sacrifice yourself for a child or parent who shares 50% of your genetics versus a sibling who shares 25%. The degree becomes much lower for a cousin who only shares 12.5%, and even less for a non-relative who shares none.

These cold facts illustrate extreme examples of the rule, and most of the cost/benefit analyses we make are instant and subconscious. However, this information still goes to prove that all actions taken by any human being are done so because the actions will grant them some sort of perceived*, positive gain.

(*The modifier 'perceived' is an important addition. Just because one thinks something will result in positive gain, it doesn't necessarily mean it will.)

3. No human being will take action until they understand (consciously or instinctively) what specific, physical benefit they will receive.

People are motivated by specifics. A motivation must offer a benefit distinct enough for the person to clearly understand why the benefit is desirable; and what specifically they have to gain.

There is a technique in the world of sales known as “benefit selling.” Benefit selling is based on the premise that customers do not buy a product because of that product's features. They buy a product for the physical benefits those features will give them. The goal of the salesperson should not be to gush on about how great and fancy the product itself is. They should instead seek to communicate the desirable results the customer will physically gain from owning that product. For instance, if a customer is told, “Buy the new Toyota. It has an improved braking system,” the customer's response may very well be, “So what? What's that mean?” If on the other hand, the customer is told, “Buy the new Toyota. It will keep your family safer in an emergency because of its improved braking system,” the customer will understand the physical benefit he or she has to gain from purchasing this automobile, giving the customer a motive to act. The salesperson should not emphasize the car's soundsystem itself, but instead the enjoyment the driver will gain from the soundsystem. Instead of commenting on how nice the luxury add-ons are, the salesperson should communicate the prestige the customer has to gain from a vehicle with such features.

My point is that people are not motivated by abstractions. They are motivated by the perception of a specific gain they stand to receive, whether that gain be physical, mental, or emotional. People cannot be motivated by “love.” Love is an abstraction. They are instead motivated by the warm feeling one receives from the affection of a loved one. Likewise, no one is motivated by “hate”. Rather, they are motivated by the emotional satisfaction one receives from venting one's negative emotions towards someone or something which gives them displeasure.

Why this is Important, and How to Use This

Storytellers need to understand why it is so important to give characters clear, specific motivations. Vague character motivations prevent audience identification. An audience cannot empathize with a character's actions if they cannot first understand those actions. If characters seem to act without good reason, the audience will perceive the behavior as random, arbitrary, and meaningless. An audience cannot emotionally experience the story through the character's eyes if they are not allowed entry into that character's mind to understand what they do and why. The audience will instead be left as distant observers with no emotional stake in the story's outcome.

Sometimes vague motivations are the result of poor communication. The storyteller has not provided enough information through dialogue or visual evidence for the audience to fully understand the character's behavior.

More often, vague motivations come about because storytellers fail to make the effort to understand their characters' motivations themselves. These writers fail to treat their characters like fully psychologically-functional human beings. Instead, they treat them like puppets they can move to and fro, to do this and that just because the story needs them to. The result is a script full of dull, flat, cardboard cutouts. They are considered “flat” because there is nothing beneath the surface of their actions to give those actions a meaning the audience can understand. When creating a story, writers should make the effort to see potential character actions from the standpoint of what specific physical benefit the character wishes to obtain. Then, the storyteller must communicate this motivation on the page through visual evidence in a clear, dramatic, and natural manner.

Once again, characters cannot be motivated by abstractions. Saying that your hero is motivated by “justice” or “duty” is a mistake. How does one actually achieve “justice?” This is impossible since justice is an abstract concept. In reality, your the hero is not motivated by justice. Instead, he is motivated by an internal urge to accomplish a physically attainable goal, that, once accomplished, will give the hero the psychological benefit of confirming that his belief in an abstract concept such as justice or duty is worthwhile. For example, let's say we have a story about an ethical young lawyer involved in a court battle against a corrupt corporation. The lawyer believes in truth, justice, and the American way. But her beliefs are not her motivation to act. Why? Because to be a considered a motivation, a motive is required to have, a. a perceived benefit, and b. a desire for that benefit. The appropriate way to phrase the lawyer's motivation would be that she -- 'desires to win the court case (the action) in order to prove to herself that truth and justice still exists, subsequently gaining her the comfort of knowing that she is not naïve and simple-minded for believing in these principles (the physical benefit).'

Until a storyteller clearly knows what motivates his or her characters, that storyteller does not really know his or her characters. Until a storyteller knows his or her characters, s/he is left with only half a story.

scribble on.

I H8 VAGUE (& the virtue of clear, crisp description)

 Vague is the enemy of good screenwriting. The ability to communicate with clear, expressive language rather than vague words is a factor that separates the professional from the amateur.

Cinema is a medium dependent on concrete existence. That means the content of a film or movie must be made up solely of things that physically exist in some form (whether they be people, props, locations, etc). Otherwise, they cannot be photographed with a camera and shown to an audience (or in the case of modern cinema, at least brought into visual existence using CGI). So, a movie is made up of specific and concrete visuals. The script may only mention that the scene contains “a man.” But the audience does not see a generic man, they see Matt Damon. The script may mention “a car,” but the audience sees a specific car, a yellow 1978 Datsun.

The goal of the writer should be to use the written word to communicate the actions and images of a scene with sufficient visual detail to allow the reader to visualize the scene as closely as possible to how the audience will experience it on the screen. A good story can succeed or fail with the reader depending on how well the writer does this. If the writer lays out action in vague, wishy-washy words, what the writer wishes to be interesting and/or emotionally charged will come off flat. Consider this example:

'Mark walks down the street. It is a cold autumn morning. Mark stops at his car and gets in.'

Given that this description lacks much visual detail, the reader has no choice but to imagine the action in the most generic manner possible. To the reader, this piece of action feels unimaginative, bland, and dull. Compare it to this improved version:

'Mark walks slump-shouldered down a sidewalk lined with small New England-style homes. He shivers as wind blows dead leaves across his feet. Mark opens the unlocked door of a shiny black Mercedes CL and climbs inside.'

This version, while longer, not only has the benefit of allowing the reader to visualize the scene in greater detail, but also communicates information about Mark and his environment in the process. Merely saying “autumn” doesn't indicate much. Autumn looks different depending on where you are and how late in the year it is. This passage helps us zero in on that. We learn information about Mark. Rather than having a generic “car,” we see he can afford a luxury vehicle which for some reason he has the confidence to leave unlocked.

First and second drafts always start out rather vague. This is expected, since the writer's focus at this point should be on figuring out the best way to make scenes do what they needs to do according to their function in the overall narrative. But once this has been worked out, scenes should be brought into clearer and clearer focus with each revision, like an optometrist putting a series of lenses in front of the eye. It all comes down to knowing your scene and knowing your characters. If the writer has gotten to a point where he or she knows the story and characters down to the most intimate detail, this becomes easy. Once a writer has become this familiar with their story world, they can see it inside their head in the smallest detail and know exactly how their characters may behave in any situation. The only challenge that remains is communicating these nuances on the page in a manner that is clear and efficient.

Once a writer reaches the stage where he/she can communicate with such a level of detail, his or her work makes the jump from just being a good script, to becoming a potential movie. There are a lot of good scripts out there, but very few potential movies. Good scripts may work on paper, but they are still not ready for the screen. Only once the script attains a required level of visual detail does it cross the threshold. What is needed is not only a great story, but a great story that directors, cinematographers, actors, and the like can pick up, visualize, and immediately understand what they must do to make the story happen.

Vagary is a hallmark of an amateur screenwriter. Everything in the script seems typical, average, or generic*. The locations are all treated like stock settings. The characters are little more than names on a page. Geography is unclear. Character actions are hazy. We cannot visualize where the characters exist spatially in relation to each other and their environment -- instead characters seem to float in some kind of limbo space. Usually, this lack of visual detail occurs because the writer is still not exactly sure what is going on in the scene in his or her own head. The scene is hazy on the page because it is still a fog in the writer's imagination. The writer still has not made the effort to know his or her story and characters well enough to tell the story with a VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

(* BTW, never describe your protagonist, or any other character, as “an average 20-something,” or “a typical high school teacher.” WTF is interesting about a character who is "average"? Why would an audience want to spend two hours of their life caring about a person who has nothing unique or special about them? “Average” means “boring.” This is lazy characterization. It is also unnatural characterization. There is no such thing as an “average” person in real life. There are no identical clone pods walking around with the same brains and personalities. Everyone has something about them that makes them unique. Find it and communicate it. No one wants the watch “The Underwhelming Adventures of Nobody Special.”)

Some new writers may think that writing in broad strokes is good enough, that merely suggesting action and visuals are enough for other creative professionals to take over and fill in the gaps. This is not true. Being vague only manages to leave the writer open to criticism. Using wishy-washy words communicates a story in a timid voice. Rather than tell us what is happening, the words seem to merely suggest or guess at what should happen, allowing the story to show through as a contrived, made-up world. The reader starts to question the storyteller's authority. You're trying to be the Great and Powerful Oz, but your show is so underwhelming that it allows us to notice your butt sticking out from behind the curtain. On the other hand, strong, visual words communicate a story with a voice of AUTHORITY. Rather than reading a suggested story, the reader is led to SEE the film, exactly as it should be happening. This is a script that grabs the reader and says, 'This IS what is happening, right NOW. There is no questioning it. This is REAL.'

But how much detail is too much? Overdoing it is just as easy as coming up short. Ironically, the same day I started work on this article, I began reading a spec script that has the exact opposite problem. This script was completely OVERWRITTEN. The description spelled out every little pointless and repetitive detail. Simple actions were described with entire paragraphs. Sentences were cluttered with unnecessary adjectives and adverbs. This script must have been at least ten pages longer than necessary simply from all the unneeded description.

Here's the thing: I can't give you hard and fast rules about how much is too much. You just have to know when to say when. You do not have to tell the reader how many chairs are in the room (unless this information is important to the scene). We do not have to be told about every piece of clothing the character's mom wears (unless these details communicate something about her or the story we need to know.) We do not need to know the exact time of day, all the items in the hero's sock drawer, or how many steps the villain takes to cross the room (unless this information has some sort of significance to the story).

Do you see a pattern here? Your script needs visual detail, but only those details that are significant in terms of conveying story or character. Every detail should communicate something. Either something that advances the story, allows the audience an improved understanding of the people, places, and things of the story, or helps deepen character. For example, if we have an important character walking his dog, learning the type of dog he owns helps us learn more about what type of person he is. Is it a rottweiler? A chihuahua? A shelter-rescued mutt? On the other hand, if a scene takes place in a park with plenty background persons walking their dogs, it would be pointless to give details on these people and their pets. They have nothing to do with the story, so who cares?

Don't be redundant with details. If you establish in Scene 1 that the story takes place in the freezing cold of winter, you don't need to keep telling us it is cold all the way through Scene 114. Audiences/readers only need to be given information once. They don't have that Memento disease where they forget every ten minutes. For example, we only need to call Mark's car (from the example above) a “shiny black Mercedes CL” the first time it is seen. From then on, it can simply be referred to as his “car,” since a proper visual for that car has already been established.

When it comes to describing characters and locations seen for the first time, create only a handful of telling visual details that get essential ideas across and let the reader's mind fill in the rest. Here is a good example from The Bourne Identity:

INT. FISHING BOAT BUNK ROOM -- NIGHT

        A wreck.  Too small for all the people in here right now --
        SAILORS sweeping off the table -- rough hands laying THE MAN
        down --

        THE CAPTAIN -- brutal and impatient -- watching from the 
        door as --

        GIANCARLO tears through the clutter -- searching for a
        medical kit buried in the shambles.  GIANCARLO is sixty. A bloodshot soul.

There is very little actual information written in this excerpt. Yet still, it is enough for us to see the scene and character in our heads because our minds fill in the rest of the details.

But, all of this aside, there is a far more deadly type of vague that may be lurking about your script. Vague character motivations. This will be the topic of my next article.

FORCED DECISIONS and DILEMMAS (and lack of narrative free will)

Throughout this blog, I have made frequent references to characters making choices. At every turning point of your narrative, an obstacle forces characters to choose a new direction of action in order to circumvent the obstacle and continue onward. But the word choose is not entirely accurate. In a well-written cinematic story, these decisions are never much of a choice. In reality, the character has only two options: 1. Escalate the conflict, or 2. Accept failure.

In a well-written cinematic story, there is really no such thing as FREE WILL. Every single thing a character does during his or her pursuit of the Story Goal is not really done by choice -- not done because the character wants to take these actions -- but because the story situation has forced them to. The story situation has painted them into a corner, and the only way out is to take on more risk and more danger with an action they would NEVER take under regular circumstances. The best story actions are those someone would have to be crazy to take if it weren't for the extraordinary forces bearing down on the protagonist. Would a sane person jump off a skyscraper with nothing but a firehose tied around their waist? Of course not. But that is what John McClane is forced to do in Die Hard. Not because he is crazy, but because this has become his only option due to the extraordinary circumstances he finds himself within.

These are called FORCED DECISIONS. Forced decisions are the most common, and often the most effective way to advance a plotline while keeping actions plausible and maintaining character integrity.

To explain:

Human beings naturally seek the path of least resistance. If an easier, simpler, less risky way to do things is known, we will always choose it. This is part of our survival mechanism. Why take a larger risk than we have to? Why expel more energy than needed? If one option has a potential for unnecessary conflict, we will try to avoid it. If something may result in a negative outcome, we avoid that too. That is called common sense.

Since following the path of least resistance is natural human behavior, a character who has the path of least resistance open to him/her and chooses not to take it will not be considered believable. People often mock horror movies where the victim being chased chooses to run up the stairs instead of out the front door to safety. This is because there was an easier, more common sense option open to the character; but instead, the character willingly chose to riskier, more dangerous path. The audience then turns their back on the character for being stupid.

However, here's the thing about the path of least resistence: It makes boring cinema. Nothing could be less exciting than watching people stick to the least risky, most conflict-free options.

Forced decisions help the storyteller reconcile the contradiction between the natural human instinct to avoid conflict (found in believable characters), and the necessity for situations filled with conflict to create an exciting story.

The goal of the writer must be to take away the path of least resistance in order to force the character into riskier choices. If the horror movie victim was being chased by one killer, and a second killer arrives to block the front door, then running up the stairs would become the character's only option. In this case, no one in the audience can say a word to criticize the character's actions.

Quite often, a story requires characters to take risky or dangerous actions simply to move the story to where the writer wishes it to go. Forced decisions are often the only way to make such actions plausible. In Star Wars, when Luke, Obi Wan, and the rest first encounter the Death Star, the story requires them to go onto the Death Star so they might find and rescue Princess Leia. However, only a fool would do this voluntarily. At this point in the story, the heroes have no pressing reason to take on the risk of infiltrating an enemy base. The common sense decision would be to get out of there as fast as possible and alert the Rebel Army. But instead, the story FORCES the heroes onboard when a tractor beam locks onto their ship. They now have no choice but to come on board and find a way out of the corner they have been painted into. Likewise, Back to the Future's Marty McFly does not choose to jump into the time machine and travel back to 1955. It happens as a result of Marty being forced to use the Deloreon to escape from the Libyan terrorists.

Any time a character needs to take action, the storyteller must be constantly aware of all alternative options available to the character. If the storyteller does not realize easier options exist, the audience definitely will, making the audience lose faith in the storyteller's capability. If the protagonist chooses to confront the bad guys in a one-on-one gun battle when he could have simply solved things by calling the police, it creates a LOGICAL HOLE in the story. Logical holes make both you, the storyteller, and your characters look stupid. It becomes hard to keep the audience on your side once this has happened.

To plug potential logical holes, the storyteller should first recognize all available options, and then force the character down the most dramatic road by providing physical evidence as to why the easier paths cannot be followed. If a character does not take a more reasonable option, there should be a good reason why. There must be an obstacle blocking the way, or at least a darn good (and plausible) character reason.

The invention of cellular phones has become somewhat of a bane to screenwriters. Before cell phones became ubiquitous, all a writer needed to do to keep a character in jeopardy was put him or her in a place where the character could not reach a phone to call for help. But now, in the twenty-first century, all someone needs to do to get help is reach into their pocket. Because of this, modern scripts are filled cell phones that get lost, broken, or have dead batteries, as evidence to the audience as to why the character cannot follow the path of least resistance when in danger.

To avoid logical holes, the rule is CYA (“cover your ass”). Look over your script and try to find all the logical actions your character could have taken, but chose not to. Then, make sure you have provided good logical evidence as to why not. There is a lot of CYA going on in Hans Gruber's first sequence in Die Hard. Before the villains even make their presence known, we see them cutting phone lines, shutting down elevators, eliminating security guards, etc. The audience needs to be shown this evidence in order for them to understand that the hero John McClane does not have the traditional methods available for help. He is forced to do something more extreme. If storytellers do their jobs correctly; by forcing characters down paths of action that escalate the conflict (by necessity, not choice), and providing physical evidence along the way as to why these are the characters' only choices; the storyteller will create narratives where, no matter what happens in the story, no matter how crazy or far-flung the premise, all events will appear inevitable and necessary. The path to the climax must seem like the only possible path, thanks to all the obstacles that blocked every alternative.

THE EXCEPTION (but not really)

One caveat must be made. Often, the most dramatic story moment arises when the character DOES have a choice between more than one option. However, this a choice the character does not want, because no matter what the character chooses, it will make the situation worse. This is called the DILEMMA – a forced choice between two or more equally undesirable outcomes. You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't. No matter what the hero chooses, he/she loses.

A common (and cliched) example can be found in countless action films. The hero has something the villain wants. The hero must keep this thing out of the villain's hands. But, the villain grabs the hero's friend/lover/child/etc, and puts a gun to their head. The hero is offered a dilemma. Either give the villain what he/she wants, or allow the villain to kill the friend/lover/child. Both options are undesirable. The hero does not want either outcome. But, the hero MUST decide. He/she must pick the lesser of two evils and give the villain what its wants. (Or maybe the hero allows the villain to blow the innocent person's brains out. Wouldn't that be a surprise?)

The dilemma is the worst choice you could ever force upon a character (from the character's perspective, that is). In a regular forced decision, the character still has hope that the risky and undesirable path may still lead to success. With a dilemma, the character knows they are screwed no matter what. Yet still, the choice must be made. It is usually the most important decision the character will make. Everything hinges on this moment. Choose right, and the character may still find a way to overcome the conflict find success. Choose wrong, and the character will doom themselves to utter failure.

The Matrix features a classic dilemma at the end of its second act. Neo and Trinity have just escaped from the matrix, but their mentor Morpheus has been captured by evil agents. They know that, given enough time, the agents will “hack into” Morpheus's brain to retrieve a code that will mean an end to humanity's hopes for freedom. Neo faces a dilemma: he can either let that happen, or he can unplug Morpheus, killing him before he can be cracked. The idea of killing his mentor is unthinkable, but if he does not do it, he will doom them all. Neo and Trinity must choose the lesser of two evils. However, at the last moment, Neo discovers a third option to the dilemma. They could go back into the matrix and rescue Morpheus. This option is no more appealing than the other two. Two fighters against a building full of agents is suicide. And if they can't reach Morpheus before he surrenders the code, it all will be for nothing. All three options are unappealing, yet Neo chooses the third. The rest of the story hinges on whether Neo chose correctly.

Dilemmas over what action to take can make extremely powerful turning points. In addition, a good ethical dilemma can work wonders to communicate character and theme. Captain Miller in Saving Private Ryan faces an ethical dilemma at the story's midpoint when his squad captures a German machine gunner. Most of the squad want to execute the German, but the Corporal considers it murder. It is up to the Captain to decide. Both sides make strong arguments, and no matter what the Captain chooses, he will lose the respect of his men. Captain Miller decides to let the German go, communicating information on his inner character and providing evidence on the story's theme.

Dilemmas are not found in every story. A story can do fine and dandy without one. However, if dilemmas are used, they should be used sparingly. One or two per story is enough, ideally at the end of the second act, or just prior to the climax. Dilemmas are one of the most powerful tools at the storyteller's disposal, so overuse results in overkill. Anything of power loses its ability to shock and surprise if used too much. Save your big bombs for when you need them the most.

CONCLUSION

Dilemmas and forced decisions allow the storyteller to naturally advance the plot while retaining the integrity of the characters. A storyteller naturally wants to put characters into more and more extreme situations as the story advances, but the characters, being sensible people, would rather not put themselves at risk. By creating forced decisions and dilemmas, the storyteller manipulates the character's universe so the character is forced down roads they do not wish to travel, leading them ultimately to the dramatic climax. Looking back, the story's climax should seem necessary and inevitable, since there was never any other option along the way.

STARTING YOUR SCRIPT: the SCRIPTMONK method

Well, you just sit down and start writing, don't you? Just bang away and hope the story finds itself as you explore your ideas as you write. Well, you could do this, but this would be akin to getting in your car and hitting the road without any idea of how to get where you're going. And, you will most likely end up with a 150-page monster of a first draft that is meandering, unfocused, and haphazard in its structure. When it comes time to rewrite, you may be in over your head. It may take several drafts to pound your original story idea into workable shape.

However, if you take the time and effort before you start writing to explore and understand this story you are trying to create and what path must be laid in front of your characters, you can cut the torture of rewriting in half. This preparation all comes down to a series of simple steps.

Your script begins mostly as a loose collections of thoughts in your head. You've come up with a basic premise, thought up the characters who occupy it, and have probably managed a few pages of notes or a couple dozen notecards scribbled with ideas for scenes, bits of character, scraps of dialogue, and so on. But, regardless of what your Syd Field book tells you, the last thing you want to do at this point is grab the corkboard and hack out some half-cocked 3-Act structure. This might help you churn out a first draft, but it will undoubtedly be so weak and hole-filled that you will be consumed with confusion when you try to fix things in the rewrite. You are trying to create a story, and story does not come from plot. Story comes from character. So this is where we must start.

1. START WITH YOUR PROTAGONIST

You may be confused to hear that all story comes from your protagonist, and not the other way around. After all, you probably came up with your screenplay's premise first, and then invented a character suited to be its lead. But this was not the story creating the protagonist. This was merely the premise -- the seed of inspiration that will eventually lead to the creation of the story proper.

For now, forget about all the events you foresee happening in your story and focus only on your intended main character. Really get to know them, the way you might get to know a stranger whom you will be sharing the next year of your life – because, in a way, you WILL be. You need to grow to know this person better than you know your best friend. Explore their world and the people, places, and things they share it with. Understand how they feel about these things and how they choose to interact with them. Think of how they see themselves fitting in with that world. Think about the unique point of view they have towards it. How to they interpret the things around them? Positively? Negatively? Apathetically? Look into their past and find the reason behind that particular outlook. We are all an accumulation of our past experiences, and in order to understand who this person is in the present, you need to look into his or her past.

Above all, root out your protagonist's MAIN FLAW. The main flaw (or "Fatal Flaw") is the a psychological misconception that holds the character back in life. This is the cognitive/behavioral roadblock which has kept the character's life from being as happy or as successful as the character wishes it to be. We are all incomplete human beings. We all have internal flaws holding us back. No character can be perfect. If you have envisioned a “perfect” protagonist, give up on this script right now and start again, because nothing could be more boring or more inauthentic. A good story can be thought of as the process of watching someone grow as a person. A character begins flawed, but through the trials of dramatic events, the character is forced to change. The character cannot overcome the story problem while they are still flawed, so the character must reevaluate how they act and think, how they see themselves and the world, to transform into a better, more capable person. No matter who your character is, no matter how successful or happy they start out, they can never be a 100% complete person. They all have a flaw, and that flaw is holding them back. Find this flaw. It will be the source of the protagonist's INTERNAL NEED.

2. IDENTIFY THE PROTAGONIST'S INTERNAL NEED

The internal need is the essential thing missing from the protagonist's life. It is something that, once gained, will make the character a more complete, more satisfied person. Though the character may not yet realize it, this lack creates a hole in the character's life which prevents them from becoming a happier, more successful, more self-actualized individual.

The internal need is always directly linked to the character's main flaw. For instance, if a character believes that other people cannot be trusted, he or she will have few positive personal relationships. They will then be lonely, socially-isolated, or will lack the system of support he or she needs to achieve life's goals. Or, if the character believes he or she is worthless or incompetent, he or she will lack the confidence or drive to pursue basic objectives which may grant life a greater sense of meaning or self-worth.

The internal need should not be confused with a character's Story Goal. The Story Goal is an objective the character must physically achieve by the end of the story to overcome the Story Problem and resolve the main conflict. The Story Goal requires physical action. The internal need applies to the character's internal nature only; it relates to the character's abstract state of emotional well-being. To present a simple example, let's say you are running a marathon. The GOAL is to reach the finish line. To achieve this goal you must keep running and running and running. However, you may have entered the marathon because you feel a need to prove to yourself that you can survive this grueling test of endurance. By crossing the finish line, you fulfill this need. While reaching the GOAL may win you a trophy or medal, fulfilling your NEED grants you something of much greater personal value that will stay with you long after the race is over.

Characters rarely recognize their internal need. Most are ignorant of the fact that they have a need at all. If they understood from the beginning that they are incomplete persons and could be so much happier with a simple change, they would probably make an effort to achieve this change on their own before the story even begins. In other cases, characters begin their stories well aware of their personal problems, but refuse to change out of stubbornness or lack of will. In both cases, characters require the physical events of the story to force them to reevaluate their flawed ways of thought or action so the character may finally recognize and take the necessary steps toward achieving the need.

3. CREATE A UNIQUE STORY SITUATION THAT FORCES YOUR CHARACTER TO PURSUE THE INTERNAL NEED.

Here is the point where story literally emerges from character. The characters need to change. But they aren't going to change on their own. The rules of inertia are at play. Things don't start moving until something forces them to move. When the Story Problem engages at the inciting incident, circumstances force the character into action, placing him or her on a road filled with physical predicaments that will demand that the character slowly grow and change.

This is the “Mind Worm” that Robert McKee mentions in STORY. A mind worm is a fictional creature that can burrow inside a person's brain, learn what that person needs out of life, and then create an adventure specifically-tailored to give that person exactly what he or she needs. The mind worm might take a character in need of self-confidence and draft him into the army and send him to war. Here, the character must either learn to trust in his personal capabilities or die a coward. It might take a lazy, irresponsible character and make his rich industrialist father die, putting the family business into the slacker's hands-- a business his father's rival wishes to bankrupt.

You already have the premise of your story already in mind, so at this point it is just a matter of adapting the plot and its events to what your protagonist needs to experience to achieve a greater state of well-being. Or conversely, reimagine your protagonist so that his or her internal need is a perfect fit for the type of story events you plan to dramatize. Remember that a cinematic story must be made of physical actions that can be photographed and put on screen. A strictly internal journey will not play on screen. The plot must be made of tangible events in the external world that will consequently influence your character's internal nature.

4. MAP OUT THE STORY'S SPINE

Now that you have a story situation directly linked to your protagonist's internal need, map out the Story Spine which will comprise your hero's basic journey. (Do I have to again repeat just how damn important a Story Spine is? There's a reason why I capitalize it!) Specifically state – IN WRITING – 1. The Story Problem that confronts the protagonist. 2. The Story Goal the protagonist must achieve in order to overcome that problem. 3. The Path of Action – the series of actions the protagonist must take in order to reach that goal. 4. The Main Conflict that stands in the way of the protagonist's goal. And, last but certainly not least, 5. The Stakes that motivate the protagonist to keep pushing for the Goal despite the conflict standing in the way – what the protagonist has to gain upon success and/or what he or she will lose upon failure.

The Story Spine will be the basic roadmap for the rest of your story development.

5. CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF CONFLICT

Since the majority of a story's action is made up of the protagonist and antagonist clashing over competing goals, it is important to consider this source of dramatic conflict before we move on to plotting. Take time to think about the antagonist (or source of antagonism if the main conflict does not come from a singular person or creature) in the same way that you explored your protagonist. Map out the antagonist's spine. Have a clear idea before you start plotting of what the antagonist considers to be his or her problem, what the antagonist has chosen as a goal, what the antagonist is willing to do to accomplish that goal, what stands in his/her way (the protagonist of course, but it could be more than that), and what the antagonist has to win or lose to motivate his/her actions. The spines of the protagonist and antagonist should conflict; meaning that the actions the protagonist must take to reach his/her goal should somehow block the actions the antagonist takes to reach his/her own goal, and vice versa. This will create the maximum dramatic conflict, since it becomes impossible for one side to win without first defeating the other.

6. PLOT OUT YOUR STORY'S MAJOR TURNING POINTS

Now it is time to plan out the major events that will make up your story. This is where the world-famous 3-Act structure finally comes into play. But rather than start at the beginning and continue through to the end, there is a much easier and more logical way to perform the tasking mindwork of what-must-happen-when. Like any building project, we start with the most basic framework, and then gradually fill it in to slowly make it stronger and more complex.

The easiest, and possibly the most productive approach is to take a page from the world of animation artists. Animators use a method called “in-betweening” when it comes to drawing the many pictures necessary to make a character move. If an animator needs to draw an action, let's say make Bugs Bunny jump straight up in the air and land again, and this action needs to last for twenty frames (twenty individual drawings), the animator does not simply start with frame 1, then move on to frame 2, 3, 4... Instead, animators start by first drawing the two extremes of action. That would be Frame 1 of Bugs standing still before starting his jumping motion, and frame 20, when Bugs hits the ground again. They then draw the midpoint drawing, the drawing that is smack dab in the middle of the action. This would be frame 10, where Bugs Bunny is at the height of his leap. We now have three drawings: 1, 10, & 20. Now, the animator draws the “in-betweens,” the two frames that exist right at the middle points between the drawings we already have, meaning frames 5 & 15. This gives us five completed drawings. With that done, the animator does the in-betweens again for the frames that exist squarely between 1, 5, 10, 15, & 20, until we have nine drawings completed: frames 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 13, 15, 18, 20. This process continues until all twenty frames are finished.

When beating out your major turning points, start by establishing your extremes: the Inciting Incident and the Main Climax – the points where the story begins and ends. Then, fill in the plot's remaining Major Dramatic Turning Points: the End of 1st Act Turning Point, the Mid-2nd Act Turning Point,  and End of 2nd Act Turning Point, (we are using 3-Act structure after all). Now, do some in-betweening. What major event needs to occur to get your protagonist from the inciting incident to the End of 1st Act Turning Point? From the End of 1st Act Turning Point to the Mid-2nd TP, and then to the End of 2nd Act TP? From the End of 2nd Act TP to the Main Climax? When that is done, in-between again, until your story contains all necessary turning point events to construct a full 3-Act structure. A first act will usually have 2-3 turning points, including the inciting incident and end of first act turning point. The second act usually have 5-7, including the mid-second and end of second act turning point. The third act will have another 2-3, including the climax.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: In retrospect, I am uncertain whether I can still fully endorse this strategy. If you find it works well for you, then carry on. In more recent years, I have found a method of story construction based upon the structural interactions between the Story Spine, Character Arc, and Thematic Argument to be both more accurate and more effective. This method may be found in my book Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I: The Unified Narrative Structure. -- MWS 3/31/20)

7. FILL IN THE GAPS WITH ACTION

See those gaps between your turning points? Those are called scene sequences. Scene sequences are made up of (duh) a series of related scenes. In each sequence, the protagonist has an immediate sequence goal he or she pursues to get him or her one step closer to the Main Story Goal. The object of the sequence goal is usually set up by whatever game-changing event occurred at the previous turning point. The pursuit of this sequence goal moves the story forward, sending the protagonist further down the Path of Action until he or she runs smack-dab into the next game-changing turning point.

Here is where you finally beat out your movie scene by scene. You must come up with actions and objectives to move your characters from one turning point to the next. First, understand what immediate goal the character will pursue in each sequence. Consider what actions the character might choose at this moment to continue the pursuit of his or her main Story Goal, given the obstacle or complication encountered at the previous turning point. What could be the character's new immediate objective and how should the character go after it? Think about your antagonist or force of antagonism. Where is he/she at this point in the pursuit of his or her goal? What might the antagonist conceivably do at this point in reaction to the choices the protagonist has made?

8. REVIEW YOUR OUTLINE

By now, you should have something close to a completed outline. Review it thoroughly. Make sure it works. There should be no holes, everything should make sense, the story should have flow and movement, and the structure should be strong and secure. Go back to make changes if things aren't shaping up as they should be. It doesn't have to be perfect at this point. This outline is just for a first draft. But make it as strong as possible before moving on to writing the actual script. It is far easier to spot mistakes and make changes at this point than when wading the 120+ pages of wood pulp that will be your finished draft.

The "SCENE": What it is, What it actually does

Many beginning writers are afflicted with a chronic condition known as “scene-itis.” Years of impassively viewing movies have led them to mistakenly believe that a film is nothing more than a collection on scenes. This misbelief is often compounded once they get their first look at a shooting script, with each of its scenes chopped-up and cut off by INT.'s and EXT.'s and then brought to a close by a CUT TO: at the end. Writers stricken with scene-itis come to believe that the scene is the basic unit of the cinematic story, that scenes are self-contained, and all one has to do to create a great screenplay is to string a collection of great scenes end to end in a somewhat related fashion. The scripts created by these writers often do have great scenes, but the story itself doesn't hold together. This is all because these writers have failed to see the forest because of all of the trees. A cinematic story comes not from a collection of scenes, but rather from a firmly established Story Spine and the actions the characters are willing to take to achieve the objectives contains within that Spine. The scenes themselves are just the physical times and places where these actions are performed.

The idea of writing a screenplay in scenes comes from far more pragmatic concerns than creative ones. Scenes originated in their archaic form in the theater, where the opening and closing of the curtain was necessary for the stage crew to change the location and lighting or to indicate the passage of time. Therefore, the limitations of the stage demanded that the story be separated into clearly defined chunks of action. Modern editing eliminated the curtain as a story device, however the notion of writing in sectioned-off scenes continued for the sake of the complex procedures of film production.

For the sake of efficiency, movies are shot out of sequence, and the need to keep track of what part of the script should be shot when and where created the use of “sluglines.” The writer him or herself has no real need for the INT/EXT. LOCATION – DAY/NIGHT gobble-de-gook that junks up the top of every scene. The slugline is only there so production staff can easily a break down a script to schedule the production in the most logical and efficient manner. But, if a writer would ignore these artificial barriers that bookend a script's scenes and look at the cinematic story as a whole, the writer will see that the story is not merely a series of self-contained segments laid end-to-end, but is rather one continuous flowing line of action that starts in the very beginning, and continues its development unbroken all the way to the story's end, moving like a river from its source to the sea with no barriers in between. The “start” and “stop” of a scene is merely an illusion. People use terms such as story “line”, or story “thread” to refer to the fact that the scene itself is just a small section of a constantly developing current that began long before the scene's start and continues long after the scene is over.

To create a story which achieves this constant flow, a writer must always remember one simple rule: A story must ALWAYS be MOVING FORWARD. By moving forward, I mean it must always be developing, growing, evolving. And in order to do this, every scene must cause some sort of CHANGE in the story situation. The characters’ situation must be somehow different at the end of the scene from what it was at its beginning. Circumstances have been altered, whether this change be big or small, for better or for worse. If a scene does not alter the situation, it does not advance the story and therefore should not belong in the script. Nothing happens. The scene keeps the story stagnant, damming the flow of the narrative river, and accomplishes nothing but to slow things down.

We may call the story-altering change that occurs in each scene that scene's FUNCTION. The function is the reason the scene exists in the story. It is what the writer needs to accomplish in order to advance the narrative and move the characters on to the next scene. In essence, the function creates the next scene. The change that occurs in one scene sets up the actions that need to be performed in the following scene, in a cause-and-effect manner. To put it as simply as possible, a scene’s task is to create moments of change that progressively push the narrative toward its eventual completion.

But how does a screenwriter do this? How can he or she make scenes perform their necessary story-advancing functions without seeming contrived or artificial? The writer might just have the characters go straight after what need to get done, or have events conveniently fall into their laps so the story can move on. But the audience will neither buy nor enjoy this.

Here lies a paradox of our artform. Storytelling is the art of creating dramatic contrivances. Everything in a movie's world is fake and manipulated. Characters do what they do because the storytellers makes them do it. Things happen because a storyteller is intentionally pulling the plot’s strings. You, the storyteller-god have every person's fates mapped out before hand, and create the events that get them there. Of course, the audience implicitly understands that the story's world is artificial and contrived, but they do not want to believe this! And they certainly do not want to see it. Movies are intended to create the illusion of reality, and the audience wants to hold on to the illusion. And, like the Great and Powerful Oz, the audience will not believe in your spectacular illusion if they can see you pulling levers and pressing buttons just behind a curtain.

The only way to make scenes achieve their function without seeming contrived is through character actions based on rational wants and needs – and the logical outcomes of the means and methods used to pursue of these wants and needs. Through such character action, the functional outcomes of each scene become, as Aristotle would put it, “necessary and probable.” In short, the scene accomplishes what it needs to accomplish narratively through an indirect approach – by way of characters in conflict.

If the writer has created characters with well thought-out spines, every character will have some sort of overall objective or story goal. Achieving this overall goal requires many smaller, more discrete actions. Thus in each scene, the character will have something he or she wants or needs to accomplish in relation to that overall goal. In other words, each character will have a particular scene goal, a smaller objective that will somehow benefit their personal cause.

However, different characters have different goals. This means characters may want opposing, if not completely contradictory things. This creates conflict within the scene. There may also be forces at play which reside outside of the control of the characters: the pouring rain, the unexpected explosion of a roadside bomb, the intrusion of a third character. Through these three conflicting elements; the scene goal of Character A, the scene goal of Character B, and any forces outside their control, that the writer creates the dramatic events which will result in a moment of change and thus accomplish the scene's function.

Sometimes the change occurs by one character winning the scene's conflict and getting what he or she wants. Character A defeats Character B, or B defeats A, and moves the story forward by claiming their desired objective. However, more often then not, the moment of change issues from some unforeseen third outcome – an unexpected result of the character conflict. Let's say we have a scene where Character A confronts Character B. Character A's scene goal is to force some vital information out of Character B. Character B's scene goal is to keep the information a secret. The two come into conflict. As a result, a scuffle breaks out. A pistol falls from B’s pocket and shoots Character A by accident. The shooting is the CHANGE that advances the story (the scene's function). Character A is now dead. The story situation has been irrevocably altered. Now, neither character expected this outcome at the top of the scene. Neither character wanted this outcome. Nevertheless, the moment of change came a result of their scene conflict, achieving the scene's function. The characters’ scene goals and the conflict caused by them were merely the means by which this moment of change became necessary and probable.

Let’s look at a few simple scenes from the beginning of Star Wars to illustrate how characters’ scene goals work to bring about the moments of change necessary to move the story forward- not through direct achievement, but through indirect consequence:

C3P0 and R2D2, two droids owned by the Rebel Alliance, have become stranded on the desert planet Tatooine. R2 is secretly carrying vital military secrets. The are then captured by Jawas, a band of nomadic merchant creatures. In our first scene, Luke Skywalker's Uncle Owen meets with the Jawas to purchase some droids for work on his farm. Owen's scene goal is to get some quality droids at a fair price. He selects C3P0 as one of his purchases. C3P0 does not wish to be separated from his companion R2D2. So, C3P0's scene goal is to convince Luke to get Uncle Owen to buy R2 as well. Although both characters achieve their individual goals in this scene, the important story-advancing change comes about as an indirect consequence of those goals: Both rebel droids are now the property of the Skywalker family. Owen and Luke do not know that these are rebel droids, nor are they trying to protect them. However, individual scene goals create this new circumstance through indirect consequence.

In the following scene, Luke is tasked with cleaning the new droids. Luke has other plans, so his scene goal is to finish the job as quick as possible. In his haste, Luke inadvertently triggers R2 to play back part of a message Princess Leia recorded for an Obi-Wan Kenobi. Luke never intended to do this. It was in indirect consequence. However, this action achieves the scene's function: to give Luke a reason (and desire) to seek out Obi-Wan. The scene ends with Luke being called to dinner.

At dinner, Luke asks his uncle and aunt for permission to leave home so he may join the rebellion. Uncle Owen flat out refuses. Though Luke fails to reach his scene goal, the scene's function is still achieved through indirect consequence: Luke becomes even more motivated to leave home. Also, as part of Owen's argument against Luke’s departure, he aids the scene's function when he mentions that Obi-Wan knew Luke’s father. This has the indirect result of giving Luke a second reason to seek out Obi-Wan Kenobi.

CONCLUSION

In a screenplay, the purpose of an individual scene is to create a moment of change which develops the story further down its spine toward the resolution.

How this works:

Characters enter a certain time and place with certain desires. They go after these desires using necessary and probable action. This causes the characters to come into conflict with other characters with contradictory desires. Through the heat of this conflict, and CHANGE occurs that alters the story's situation. This is the dramatic structure of a scene.