Three Things Every Screenwriter Must Know Before Typing “FADE IN”
If you’re serious about building a career as a screenwriter, there are three things you need to understand—deeply—before you even think about writing your script.
Genre.
Theme.
Budget.
Ignore these, and you’ll likely waste months—or years—on a script that no one can make, no one can sell, and no one really understands.
Get them right, and suddenly your ideas—if well executed of course—will start to get traction and generate interest.
This isn’t theory. It’s survival.
I’ve watched too many talented writers pour their hearts into stories that never had a chance—not because they weren’t gifted, but because they didn’t know what game they were actually playing.
So, let’s fix that.
1. GENRE — The Contract You Sign With the Audience
Every great story begins with a clear understanding of what kind of story it is.
Genre isn’t a marketing label you slap on at the end—it’s the emotional contract between you and the audience. It tells them what to expect and tells you how to deliver it.
If you’re writing a horror film, your job is to provoke fear and dread.
If you’re writing a romantic comedy, your job is to spark chemistry, laughter, and hope.
If you’re writing a thriller, your job is to wind tension so tight it feels like it might snap.
The problem is, most new writers don’t choose a genre—they stumble into one. They mash up their favourite movies, chase a tone they like, and end up with a story that feels completely derivative, if not confused.
When a reader doesn’t know how to feel about your story, they stop caring.
Choosing your genre is an act of respect—for your audience and for yourself. It’s how you decide what rules you’re playing by. It shapes your structure, tone, and pace. It’s what separates “a script” from “a movie.”
And when you get it right, everything else will start to click.
Bottom line: you need to become an expert in genre. You need to be a world-class expert in your chosen genre. It’s history, it’s conventions, how to subvert those expectations and all other aspects of “the grammar of your story” (genre).
2. THEME — The Argument That Makes It Worth Writing
Once you know what kind of story you’re telling, you need to know why you’re telling it.
Theme is the heartbeat of your story. It’s the invisible thread that connects every scene, every decision, every line of dialogue. It’s the glue that holds literally every other detail together.
Think of it this way: Genre tells us what the audience will feel. Theme tells us why it matters.
A film like Get Out could have been just another clever horror concept—but it became unforgettable because it had something urgent to say about race, identity, and control.
Whiplash isn’t just a story about a drummer—it’s about obsession, ambition, and the price of greatness.
The Social Network isn’t just about Facebook—it’s about loneliness disguised as connection.
Your theme doesn’t have to be profound or preachy. It just has to be honest. It’s your personal point of view—your argument about what it means to be human.
When you get your theme right, your story becomes cohesive. You stop guessing what happens next, because the story begins to tell you what it wants.
Bottom line: You need to become an expert in the skilled deployment of theme. You need to develop a unique personal narrative voice, and you need to know and articulate clearly what it is you want to say through your work.
3. BUDGET — The Reality That Decides Your Future
This one’s less romantic, but it’s just as critical.
Every script has a price tag, whether you’ve thought about it or not. And that number can quietly determine whether your script lives or dies.
If your story involves five continents, futuristic cities, and creatures that require an army of VFX artists—well, you might have just written a $300 million movie. And unless your last name is Nolan or Cameron, that’s not getting made.
Now, that doesn’t mean your idea is worthless. It might be a great sample script, something to show off your skill. But if your goal is to actually get produced, you need to think small.
Small doesn’t mean boring. It means intimate. Contained. Sharp.
Write something that could be shot in a handful of locations. A film that could be made with passion, not permission. A story that depends on emotional scale, not financial scale.
Look at Reservoir Dogs, Moonlight, Manchester by the Sea, Sound of Metal, Past Lives, Get Out.
These weren’t written to impress studios—they were written to be possible.
And never forget this: the smaller your budget, the more companies there are that could make your film. There are very few companies making 300-million-dollar films. Plenty are making 1-million-dollar films.
A script that could be made for under $5 million—and ideally under $1 million—is your best shot at breaking in. You don’t need explosions to prove your talent. You need truth, tension, and a story that could survive on a stage if it had to.
Every writer dreams of the big canvas. But the smart ones earn it by first mastering the small one.
Bottom line: You need to write compelling stories that actors want to perform and directors want to direct for a modest budget because the more expensive your script is, the less likely it will sell.
The Painkiller Truth
Every failed screenplay I’ve ever seen—mine included—died because one of these three pillars wasn’t in place.
No clear genre, so the reader didn’t know what to feel.
No clear theme, so the story had no point.
No awareness of budget, so no one could afford to care.
It’s easy to mistake momentum for progress. You can write hundreds of pages and still be going nowhere if these three things aren’t locked.
So before you start outlining, before you get lost in dialogue or set pieces or clever twists—pause.
Ask yourself three simple questions:
What emotional experience am I promising the audience? (GENRE)
What truth am I trying to explore or prove? (THEME)
Could this story actually be made by someone other than a billionaire? (BUDGET)
If you can answer those three questions honestly, you’re already ahead of 90% of aspiring screenwriters.
And if you can’t yet—don’t write. Think. Refine. Strip your idea down until it’s clean, clear, and ready.
Because a great script doesn’t start on page one.
It starts with a writer who knows exactly what kind of story they’re writing, why it matters, and how it could live in the real world.
That’s how you build a career.
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