When I started screenwriting at 17, I had zero clue what I was actually doing. I didn’t understand the format, I didn’t understand storytelling, and I didn’t understand how a reader would interpret what I had written. I cranked out a terrible 65 page script in less than two weeks, completely by the seat of my pants.
I would be safely into my twenties before I finished my second script.
Over that time period I started a lot of projects. I’d inevitably get lost in the middle. With no obvious way forward, I’d abandon the in-progress project in favour of the new, shiny project that definitely wasn’t going to have the exact same problem as all the previous ones did.
I wrote all the time. I finished next to nothing.
I did have some successes, as time went on. The gap between finished works got shorter, but these were flukes. It was all wildly unpredictable. I had no idea when I started working on a project if it would actually end in a completed draft or not. To make matters worse, my few completed first drafts were such a mess that even approaching the editing process felt overwhelming.
To the shock of absolutely no one but myself, this changed when I started outlining.
Instead of just diving in, I started blocking out scenes. This was helpful. It made navigating my way through the story faster and easier. It made the road to completion more likely, but I still had a predictability problem.
I still had persistent issues with getting through the sagging middle of projects. Instead of writing my way into the middle with no idea of how to move forward, I would outline my way to the middle and experience very similar problems.
This is when I started interrogating my material more. Rather than getting stuck and moving on, I’d start asking questions about the scenario, characters, backstory, and themes of the project I was working on. I found I was answering one question and asking three more.
I came to realize I didn’t understand the stories I was trying to tell. Outlining wasn’t enough. I needed to back up further.
This is when I added the collection phase. It completely changed how I wrote and made my output substantially more predictable.
It starts when I have an idea I want to pursue. It can be anything. I’ve started with a character. I’ve started with a location. A theme, scenario, a piece of dialogue, or a song lyric. It has come from all over the place.
Once I have that initial spark that’s grabbed my attention, I start asking questions about the project. The first one is typically:
What are my constraints?
This is very helpful in screenwriting. If you have a single location and just enough budget for a skeleton crew and two actors, you will figure out quickly how to restrict your project to those limitations.
Constraints also happen to be useful for prose. The length of a project, the genre, the thematic premise, the overarching narrative, and the primary narrative viewpoint are all valid things to consider early on. Constraints help bring the scope of a project into view and make it more manageable.
Going through this process I find it naturally moves towards broad stroke information about my story. Who are my characters? What are their backstories? Where is it located? What’s interesting about that location? What are the big, colourful strokes that may never make it into the final text, but make it a living, breathing organism in my imagination?
The big strokes start suggesting details. Scenarios, dialogue, interactions, inflection points. All of these bubble up to the surface naturally.
Throughout this process I’ll find myself bouncing between constraints, broad strokes, and details. That feels natural to me as well. The more I learn, the more questions I’m going to have. As I answer those questions the story will progressively start clumping together. That when plotting really begins.
Just because I’m plotting doesn’t mean I’m outlining. I’m plotting pieces that connect. Paths that can lead in various directions. I’m not constraining things down to a single path. I’m leaving it open. It allows to me to veer off wildly or to experiment with narrow variations. It’s about exploring options and seeing what converges.
There’s never an explicit point where I choose to stop collecting and start outlining. It’s more like a realization.
The paths I’ve been choosing all agree with each other and there is a broad through line. That’s when outlining really starts for me. The collecting process naturally starts contributing to outlining.
I’ll attempt to keep it as high level as possible to begin with. I’m trying to get the overall shape of the thing from beginning to end. I want to see if it works when it’s all pieced together.
The outline then goes through progressive passes. Adding details as I read through it. Parsing through my collection notes to find interesting pieces that add colour to the outline. I’m fleshing out from high level bullet points to more detailed blocks of text.
Again, there’s not a specific point where I say I’m done outlining and have started writing a draft. The outline process hits a point where I realize the level of detail I’m providing is approaching the same level of effort as just writing the damned thing.
When I initially stumbled upon this process, I stuck it into a three month window. With a full time job and additional responsibilities, I wanted to have enough time to be able to complete a project while likely only squeezing an hour a day in to focus on writing.
I found that collection typically went for about five or six weeks, outlining would take four or five, and the first draft could be knocked out in less than two weeks. That time frame gave me a little bit of breathing room to take days off in between.
I went from finishing a screenplay once every year or two under ideal conditions to finishing four in a single year. All four were individually better than anything else I’d written up to that point. I finished another twelve over the course of four additional years. Out of 26 completed feature film scripts, I wrote 16 of them in a five year span. The prior ten had taken almost 20 years collectively.
This process is now the de facto process for all of my writing. The only thing that scales is the time. For a very short project, I may only allocate a week or a few days.
It’s proving to be useful as I’m tackling prose. Currently, it’s only been tested against flash fiction and short stories, but it’s holding up. I expect when I get to novel length projects, I’ll see benefits similar to when I was writing features. Experience tells me that the benefits are better on longer projects.
If this kind of process appeals to you, I tend to have a few basic recommendations I offer to accompany it.
Pick a time frame. Unless you’re exceptionally good at finishing projects without any time pressure, a deadline is to your benefit. It gives you a goal to aim for. As you finish projects it also gives you information about whether or not your timelines are reasonable for the types of project you’re trying to complete. It makes projecting deadlines more accurate.
The process is typically linear and moves forward, but it doesn’t have to be. Don’t be afraid to jump between states. I’ve backed up from a draft all the way to collection when I realized that there were significant gaps in my understanding about a project.
Find transition points that are natural for you. My work tends to evolve into the next phase. I realize I’m in the next phase rather than choosing to transition. If that doesn’t work for you then don’t do it. Pick a point and use that as your pivot. It can be a target date or when you no longer have any open questions to answer or anything you want.
This is a process that has evolved over time to suit me. Like all my processes, it continues to evolve. Adapt it to suit you. Your processes should benefit you. When a process stops providing value for you, stop using it.