If you’re using Final Draft, Scrivener, or WriterDuet, you’re already ahead of the game.
Such software tools take care of margins, alignment, and proper indents—essential elements that can make or break your script’s readability.
Still, formatting isn’t just about software; it’s about understanding what the format is for. A screenplay is a document meant to be read quickly and efficiently—not just by a director or producer, but also by actors, cinematographers, assistant directors, costume designers, and location scouts. Everyone on the crew uses your script to do their job.
Here are 5 simple rules that go beyond margins and tabs—rules that give your script a professional sheen and make it easier for everyone to visualize the film. These are about clarity, economy, and intent.
You don’t have to be an expert to follow them, and when you do, you are many steps toward looking as if you’re a clear, disciplined writer.
(Even if you’re actually a trashbag. I won’t tell if you don’t.)
What it is: Every scene begins with a scene heading—also called a slugline. These are the lines that begin with INT. (interior) or EXT. (exterior), followed by the location, then the time of day (DAY, NIGHT, LATER, etc.).
Why it matters: This is not just to make things look “screenplay-ish.” These headings are instructions for the crew, especially the assistant director and location manager. They help schedule shoots, organize location scouting, and determine lighting setups. Is this scene shot outside at night in a park? Or inside a kitchen at noon? That affects everything—from actor call times to budget.
Professional tip: Even if a scene doesn’t shift much in tone or action, if the setting changes from one room to another, or from day to night, a new scene heading is required. But don’t use sluglines simply to break up beats of a single event. A fight that continues from a bedroom to a hallway? New scene. A conversation that continues in the same room, but with a beat of silence or emotional shift? That’s still one scene.
Example:
INT. MOTEL ROOM – NIGHT
Dimly lit. One twin bed. A TV plays static in the corner.
What it is: Camera directions like CLOSE-UP, PAN TO, CRANE SHOT, or ANGLE ON are often tempting. They make you feel like you’re “directing the movie” on the page.
Why it matters: Unless you are also directing your own film, writing specific shots is a red flag for most readers. It signals inexperience or insecurity. Even more crucially, it interrupts the reader’s immersion by reminding them they’re reading a script, not watching a movie.
The best screenwriters imply shots through word choice, pacing, and emphasis. If you want us to feel close to someone’s face, write emotionally interior or visually tight description. If you want a wide shot, describe the environment first, then the characters.
Professional tip: Writing visually is different from writing camera angles.
INSERT SHOT – THE GUN ON THE FLOOR.
Try this instead:
The gun lies on the tile—clean, untouched, waiting.
CLOSE-UP – HER EYES
They dart from left to right.
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
She’s trapped in the closet.
Try this:
Her eyes dart—left, right.
She’s crammed in the dark closet, barely room to breathe.
Same impact. More cinematic. No camera jargon needed.
What it is: A parenthetical is a brief note placed under a character’s name in dialogue. For example:
RALPH
(whispering)
I think we’re being watched.
Why it matters: Parentheticals break the flow of dialogue and can feel like micro-managing the actor. Actors don’t like being told how to deliver a line—unless it’s essential.
Dialogue can often be interpreted multiple ways. That’s part of what gives an actor room to act.
The exception is when the logistics of the scene demand something specific.
For example, if a character is whispering, or directing their line to someone in a group, the parenthetical clarifies this.
Professional tip: Don’t use angrily, calmly, sarcastically, etc. Instead, let the line itself convey tone. If the line is well-written, we won’t need a nudge.
When to use a parenthetical:
Example: whispering, etc.
DEIRDRE
(whispers)
They’ve been here before us.
Example: directed to a single person in a group
Dave pulls on to the road. Nik spins around in the front seat.
NIK
I told them about you.
Claire crosses her arms, eyeing him. There is an awkward pause.
DAVE
So you’re the chemistry genius.
CLAIRE
(to Nik)
What did you say? To who?
Nik turns to Dave.
NIK
She has no idea what she’s capable of.
Notice how in this context, we have three people and who’s saying what to whom becomes important if one’s speech isn’t specifically directed at everyone else.
DON’T DO THIS:
DEIRDRE
(sadly)
I guess this is goodbye.
If you’re doing your job properly, we already feel the sadness. Trust the reader; don’t lead her by the nose.
What it is: Every time you introduce a new location, give the reader a few lines of visual or sensory detail—2–3 lines max—so they can picture it.
Think of it as setting the mental stage. It isn’t supposed to look like a full paragraph.
Why it matters: Film is visual.
The reader—whether a producer, actor, or script analyst—needs to see what’s happening without needing a camera to show them yet. Short descriptions give a feel for the tone, vibe, and function of the location. However, they must be efficient and never overstay their welcome.
Professional tip: The first line should be a kind of snapshot—give a general mood or feel. The next one or two lines can anchor it with a specific object or action that’s important. Avoid ornate detail unless it matters to the story.
Bad:
INT. BASEMENT – NIGHT
There’s a pile of boxes near the door, some of them labeled “XMAS DECOR” and others unlabeled. A water heater hums in the corner, and next to it, a dusty wine rack sits at a tilt. The single hanging light bulb is flickering…
FFS, it’s not a novel! Be economical.
Better:
INT. BASEMENT – NIGHT
Dark. Musty. Boxes stacked haphazardly. A wine rack tilts beside a humming water heater.
The bulb overhead flickers, casting jerky shadows.
Even better if the shadows matter. Don’t list objects that don’t affect the mood, action, or character. Always write with purpose.
What it is: The first time a new character appears, their name should be in ALL CAPS, followed by a brief description. The description can be visual, behavioral, or thematic—but should never be a full paragraph.
Why it matters: A screenplay is a casting document. The reader needs to know who we’re dealing with, what they look like (to a degree), and how they act or move in the world. This is not a novel—you don’t need backstory or inner thoughts. Just a compelling hook.
Professional tip: The best character descriptions do one of three things:
After the first mention, make sure to write the name in standard form (capitalized first letter, the rest lower case).
Example:
The door swings open. In scuttles LENNY (50s) in a cheap black suit, florid from drink. He looks late for his own funeral.
Lenny sniffs the air, unimpressed.
Avoid clichés: “beautiful but doesn’t know it,” “typical jock,” or “Middle Class twat” (OK, that last can sort of work…).
These say nothing specific. Try to see the character in your mind and write one or two lines that give the reader the same instant image.
While the above five rules will do 90% of the work, here are a few extra habits that keep your formatting clean and your script lean:
No one wants to read a wall of text. Break action lines into 2–4 line chunks. Use white space for rhythm and pacing.
Especially when describing action. Don’t cram four actions into one sentence. Let the camera “cut” in your writing:
He lights a cigarette. Waits. Checks the clock.
Only highlight sounds when they’re meaningful. A LOUD CRACK is fine. Don’t write a paragraph on how the air conditioning whines unless it’s plot-relevant.
Use (V.O.) for narration or inner thoughts. Use (O.S.) for a character speaking from another room.
MARK (O.S.)
You’re gonna want to see this.
Aim for 90–110 pages for most feature specs. Fewer if it’s a tight thriller, maybe a bit more for a character drama. But if your script is 130+ pages, you’re not editing enough. The crew will thank you for being concise.
The five formatting rules outlined above aren’t flashy. They’re not some “hidden Hollywood trick.” But they are consistently followed by professional screenwriters. They make your script easy to read, quick to scan, and attractive to producers and crew.
The paradox of formatting is this: when done well, it disappears.
(It’s like eyebrows: if you notice them at all, the person is already hideous.)
A perfectly formatted script doesn’t draw attention to itself—it draws attention to the story.
When a reader flips through your screenplay and sees clean scene headings, no cluttered parentheticals, short evocative description blocks, and consistent formatting, it sends a message:
This writer knows what she’s doing.
It says you respect the reader’s time, the production’s needs, and the actor’s instincts.
In short: formatting is storytelling.
So follow these rules. Let your software do the heavy lifting. And then use the space on the page—visually, rhythmically, tactically—to direct the imagination.
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