Think Like a Director

by Sarah Aronson

First confession: As a kid, I did not love books. I was more interested in theater and film—in sitting back and watching a story unfold in front of me. So I am not that surprised that what changed me as a writer was an awareness of the cinematic approach to novel writing.

This is what happened:

I had just sent in my second Vermont College packet to my advisor, Jane Resh Thomas. This packet contained the opening forty pages of what would become my young adult novel, Head Case. The story, written in first person present tense, chronicles the life of Frank Marder, a boy who is paralyzed from the neck down after causing an accident that kills two people. In the opening, he stared out the window. He felt sorry for himself. He was resentful and angry about his situation.

Another confession: I was smug. I thought the text was practically ready to go.

But, as I would quickly learn, the text was nowhere near ready. Sure, the character was compelling. He was in pain. He was flawed. But Jane showed me I was missing the big picture. She gave me a challenge: rewrite the opening—without peeking at my first draft—in third person. She told me to be objective. To sit back and see just what my character looked like. To get out of his head. She referred me to pages 110 and 111 of John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction as well as Robert Olen Butler’s essay, “Cinema of the Mind” from his book, From Where You Dream. She ordered me to pull my camera back and think like a director.

I was confused. Think like a director? What did she mean—pull the camera back?

The similarities between film and fiction are fairly straight forward. Both film and fiction tell a story. They offer a chronology, a stacking of scenes, which lead to a surprising and inevitable conclusion. In “Cinema of the Mind,” Butler asks the writer to use the same tools that filmmakers do, because just like in film, “actions are evoked as images, as a kind of dream in your consciousness” (Butler, 64). That made immediate sense to me. Like Butler, when I read a good book, I see the setting and characters and action as images.

So I wrote in third person. I did not peek. (Well, maybe once.) And what happened astounded me. When I got out of my protagonist’s head, and turned the camera on him, I saw a boy in a wheelchair, dependent on his family. I saw a family in pain, running around him, not sure what to do. I saw scenes. I saw setting: furniture moved, a TV, a bunch of well-intentioned women walking in and out of the house to help him cope. Mostly, I saw that Frank was more than mad. He was scared. He was jealous. He wanted to walk. He didn’t think he deserved forgiveness, but he needed it. He wanted it, too.

I saw a new story. (Thanks, Jane.)

With this knowledge, I deleted what I had and figured out a plan—I thought about the beginning, the middle, and where I wanted the story to end. I saw the book as a series of images and conflicts that had a logical forward progression. Instead of simply letting Frank share his emotions, I put him in the scene. I raised the stakes. I got ready to say, “Action” and “Cut” as well as “close in” and “pan back.” I used time with intention, speeding it up, leaping forward and back when the story required it.

I got myself a brand new toolbox.

The basic unit of both fiction and film is the shot. Butler defines the shot as “an uninterrupted flow of imagery.” A shot can be a glimpse or a moment; it can encompass dialogue and even a complete scene.

A scene consists of one or more shots connected by time or space. Every scene must contain a story event. In a scene, the plot must move forward. Something important has to happen.

Cuts connect shots to make scenes. When the filmmaker cuts, the camera and the audience’s attention move from one character, object, or scene to another. A cut is usually clean and precise. When the transition is subtle or fuzzy, it is called a “pan” or “dissolve.”

A sequence is a series of scenes, often linked by theme. Real drama depends on moments, and how those moments are linked—how discovery is paced. Butler writes, “As in film it is the manipulation of these shots accumulating into scenes and sequences that creates meaning and produces the rhythm of the voice of the narrator.”

In other words, we see the images as dictated by the viewpoint character. The narrative voice modulates our image of the fictive world. We can jump in time. We can speed up; we can slow down. In fiction, we have the ability to place the reader at an intentional distance from the scene. Creating “long shots” and “close ups” are the job of the narrative voice. Camera angle is what Gardner called psychic distance. He explains, “When psychic distance is great, we look at the scene as if from far away—our usual position in the traditional tale, remote in time and space, formal in presentation; as distance grows shorter—as the camera dollies in, if you will, we approach the normal ground of the yarn and short story or realistic novel.”

Last confession: It took me a long time to understand that.

In my class on writers.com, we often talk about how to think like a filmmaker. If someone needs to get more in touch with the camera, I give them one of these exercises:

The Brand New Cameraman: Write your scene in a different point of view. Uncover more of what is in your scene by seeing things in a brand new way. Inform yourself.

Count your “I’s.” Examine your subjects. Do you filter your narrator’s observations by always starting with “I” or “he” as subject? When not done with intention, this tic can distance the reader. Keep looking. Do you tend to tell? Do you back up your dialogue with narrative analysis? Eliminate those explanations. Put the camera on your character’s shoulder and simply report what he or she sees. Trust the reader to know you are in your character’s head.

Play with time: Flashbacks are the easiest place to learn how to cut. Think about the structure of the flashback: the trigger, the scene and then the quick return to “now.” How few words can you use to make this transition? Remember, time increases camera angle and psychic distance. If we are remembering something from the past, it is by definition, farther away.

Look at the white space: Be scrupulous about chapter endings and beginnings. Look at how you get into a shot and how you get out. What images do you start with? How do you end? Remember that the camera must move logically. You can’t just close in and pull back randomly. It has to make sense! And most important: even if the scene is visual, you still have to make the reader want to turn the page.

Finally, the big picture: Make an outline from your draft. Look and see if the progression makes sense. Are you building off events? When do you jump in time? Why is your viewpoint character the perfect character to tell this story?

When I think like a director, my scenes make more sense, or, at least, I know when they don’t. It’s funny—my forthcoming middle grade novel, Beyond Lucky, began when I decided to test myself and write in something other than first person. I wanted to use the camera I had learned all about and write about a town full of quirky people. But about five drafts in, the main character, Ari Fish, found his voice. He took the scenes I had written from the sidelines and grabbed the camera. On the soccer field. In the action. He gave me the direction I needed to stage the manuscript in a unique, invested point of view.

Isn’t that our goal? By visualizing the story, the writer can make sure that all important facts are presented for the reader in the best order. In these ways, cinematic techniques can help the writer visualize and revise plot. We can add suspense. We can avoid basic pitfalls of overtelling. When we think like directors, we create logical, visual, well-paced fiction.

Pass the popcorn!

~

Works cited:

Butler, Robert Olen. From Where You Dream. New York: Grove, 2005.

Gardner, John. The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers. New York: Vintage, 1991.

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