How thinking like a screenwriter can improve your novel

One of the facets I like the most about scriptwriting is the anticipation of collaborative possibilities between myself as the writer, the actors, the cinematographer, the composer, and the director. While world-building occurs within my mind, the idea of shared responsibility for bringing the characters and story to life is liberating, especially to a novelist who assumes sole narrative authorship. Before scriptwriting, it had not occurred to me to contemplate readers’ role in actualizing a story. Thinking of my readers as collaborators propelling my novel forward makes me consider how the story may resonate with them and how it might shape individual perceptions and yield a personal meaning beyond what I intended. Plus, it’s lovely to assemble an innovative team, and creating an entire life seems less intimidating when you have others to share it with, like parenting. 

But more than that, the process creates an interplay between storytelling’s external and internal dimensions. This is a fun, experimental place to inhabit! Externalizing the internal focuses on the narrative’s dramatic embodiment through action. Considering how others perceive and actualize the story facilitates a deeper understanding of the internal motivators that could propel the characters’ journey. Dramatizing emotion allows you to search for underlying reasons behind dialogue, actions, and responses to the story and gain insight into emotional drives. 

Specific chapters may not lend themselves to dramatic action, as films and novels inherently diverge in their narrative structures, as some realms thrive within the privacy of the mind rather than being externalized on stage or screen. I’m not suggesting an exercise in book adaptation; instead, it is a prompt to envision how emotions might influence each character’s actions or inactions. While novelists, myself included, are typically preoccupied (obsessed) with internal landscapes, recognizing the role of visual storytelling and reader participation encourages us to contemplate the staging of emotional frequencies for our characters.

Conceptually, I see the novel as an emotional blueprint, whereas the script represents the lived/built experience. When crafting a novel, I carefully select an emotional tangle of cause and consequence to craft around characters and events. In contrast, scriptwriting demands that every action primarily serves the character’s objectives within the larger narrative. Events remain secondary to character motivation; revelations of consequences permeate each doorway opened. Even in scripts whose purpose may seem arbitrary, nihilistic, or reminiscent of Lynchian aesthetics, the character’s objective remains firmly at the forefront.

The work of a novel and a film diverge in how they occupy the creative space. I think of this space as The Room. Scripts utilize imagery to convey emotions, dialogue is loaded with undertone as humans seldom communicate explicit intentions, and subconscious influences often drive our actions and reactions. The script, for me, explains the actions resulting from an unseen river. Though unseen, the river in the script uses visual imagery that evokes a current of deep feelings, nostalgia, and relationships with humanity. 

On the other hand, novels with direct access to internal dialogues and even subconscious thoughts are the river water itself. The novelistic experience spills into the crevices of our humanity. The cinematic experience alludes to the places where the story could spill, and by maintaining a focused objective driven by the protagonist (at all costs), we fill in the cracks for ourselves. Yet, emotions dictate the selective portrayal of imagery to audience/readers – from the outside in and the inside out, and by considering these insights (and economies of storytelling scale) while writing my novel, I enhance my full understanding of narrative construction.