How to go from a messy rough draft into a story that works.
So you finally did vomited it out. You hit the final page of the very first draft of the script.
And now the creeping dread–this script totally sucks. Not to worry–that’s part of the game. You’re not alone: everyone’s first draft sucks.*
It’s not ready. It’s messy. No amount of trimming dialogue or fixing typos is going to help it. A few scenes are gold but others are just talky garbage. Dead weight.
Welcome to the rewrite.
One of the first things to realize about screenplays is how finely crafted they are. Writing the script in the first place is maybe 30% of the actual work. The real heavy lifting comes from shaping this raw material into something that is tight, compelling, and ultimately filmable.
However, particularly for first-time screenwriters, the editing process is daunting.
Let’s explore three powerful, actionable strategies to transform your rough draft into a lean, emotionally resonant script. This isn’t going to be lame shit you hear everywhere, at once too vague to lean into and too impractical to fix a script like yours, such as “tighten the dialogue” or “raise the stakes.”
Here, we’ll discuss how to map your screenplay, apply structural templates intelligently, and interrogate the purpose and meaning of each scene for maximum effect.
*Or perhaps you’ve written a perfect script that people just don’t understand, so that’s why they tell you it’s a load of gobshite. I mean it must be a personal flaw on their part. Go somewhere else and live your best life. I’m talking to writers.
Before you start rewriting, you actually need to know what you’ve actually written.
I mean you did literally (not figuratively) just write it, so surely you have some idea. Except, yeah, nah, mate. You’d be surprised. Hear me out. It’s well worth understanding what you put where, because the structure of the script is often less clear in practice than it seemed as you were writing it.
The easiest way to see what’s actually on the page is to create a scene-by-scene breakdown—essentially a reverse outline of your script.
This is the writers’ version of stepping back from a canvas to look at the painting as a whole. It’s not time to fix your shit at this point. You’re simply mapping the terrain. Making changes might be tempting, but I urge you to hold off.
Create some sort of way to log your scenes: a Word document or physical notecard (I prefer these and go through a lot of notecards). List the following for each scene:
This process gives you a nice, clear overview of your screenplay’s structure.
If a scene doesn’t advance the plot, reveal character, or deepen the theme, this scene probably doesn’t belong. Don’t relentlessly hold on to it simply because there’s a clever line or a good joke.
Keep those little glimmers for later–and never permanently delete anything–you never know when it will be useful.
Make sure you’re saying something new and fresh in each scene. Too often, you’ll find that you’re saying the same thing twice in two different scenes.
What you’ll learn as you progress is that something that took three scenes to establish in a rough draft can be knocked out in just one scene during revision.
Sometimes great scenes are just in the wrong place.
Your emotional climax might be happening too early.
A critical reveal might be buried late.
Rearranging scenes can radically improve flow. Notecards, kids. Notecards.
If Act Two feels like a morass of expositional dialogue, weird back-and-forths, and general pointless silliness, this is normal. It’s a key place for scripts to stall. Particularly the first half of the second act. This is meant to show us “the Promise of the Premise” as Blake Snyder would have it, but it is a minefield as well because enjoying the premise invites indulgent bullshit.
Mapping helps you see where momentum dips and where to inject new energy.
Take a romantic comedy where the characters meet on page 5. Yet they don’t have an actual conflict until page 45.
There’s a long stretch of passive, if pleasant, scenes. This is a major red flag.
To fix this:
Rewriting is about making decided choices. Scene mapping helps you make these choices with clarity.
Once you’ve mapped your screenplay, the next step is to analyze your story’s shape. This is where templates like Save the Cat, The Writer’s (Hero’s) Journey, or the Yorke version of the Five-Act Structure come in handy.
These are not meant to be followed precisely–please don’t–but they provide an excellent diagnostic tool to see what’s working and what’s not working.
Let’s say you’re using Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat beat sheet (the BS2), which includes key beats such as (but not limited to):
See where each of these falls on your scene list. See whether these scenes appear early or late relative to the other scenes (there should be roughly similar spacing between the beats). Are any of these missing?
If the answer to any of this is “no,” figure out what scenes you can add, cut, or move to strengthen.
Templates are tools, not rules.
They offer guidance, not formulas.
Your story may break the mold—and that’s okay (please do!), as long as the audience feels tension, movement, and payoff.
In Moonlight, the traditional midpoint doesn’t exist as a single moment, but each chapter subtly builds its own climax. A Blake Snyder fundamentalist* would whine that it doesn’t follow Save the Cat—but it still delivers satisfying tension and emotional development.
The goal here isn’t to match the template precisely–it’s to make sure you’re creating intentional structure rather than wandering.
*BS himself, dog rest his soul, seemed fairly open-minded so not a reflection on the man. Acolytes are the fucking worst.
Try overlaying different models to see which resonates best with your story and tighten accordingly:
Pick and choose and find the one that helps you ask the best questions of your material.
Once you’ve zoomed out with your map and your structure, it’s time to zoom back in.
The final (and perhaps most powerful) editing tip is to interrogate each individual scene.
Ask yourself:
Theme is what your script is about, beneath the surface.
Every scene doesn’t need to explicitly acknowledge the theme, but it must resonate somehow with the theme (like playing a totally discordant chord). If the scene is telling a different story from the theme, then it will seem out of place.
Remember, each theme must feel as if it is a meaningful part of the film’s emotional makeup.
Stories are driven by choice under pressure. If the characters–particularly the protagonist–never choose anything, the story remains at idle.
Look at each scene:
If the answer to any of these things is no, you might well be looking at a passive scene that needs to be cut or rewritten.
Bonus tip: Great decisions–in writing, that is–are flawed but understandable.
What makes Don Draper such a well-painted character is that 90% of what he does is sort of terrible, but you know him well enough to understand why he does it.
This is the litmus test. A scene must do at least one of the following two things:
If it does not do either of these things, then it is probably dead weight.
This is even true for quiet, introspective moments. Even someone staring out a window must indicate a noticeable shift:
If the answer to any of these is “no,” then this scene needs to be cut or rewritten.
Let’s audit a hypothetical scene from a crime drama:
Scene: Detective X interviews a witness in a diner. The witness gives some vague answers, but nothing useful. Dana thanks him. End scene.
Solution: In a rewrite, the Detective can pressure the witness, risking her reputation or a relationship.
Perhaps the Detective gets too aggressive and it backfires. Now that we see her flaw, we move the plot, and we hit the theme.
(Think Popeye Doyle beating up suspects or picking up nubile young ladies on bicycles or living in a bedsit. You learn something about who this dude is, and little of it is complimentary.)
Let’s say you’re editing a messy first draft of a sci-fi thriller. Here’s how these three strategies work as a process:
Notice how, even with minor tweaks such as these, the story now seems tighter, stronger, and more alive.
Editing isn’t just about fixing typos or deleting filler dialogue. It’s where the real craft of screenwriting emerges. Editing means shaping story. It means structuring emotion. It means sculpting meaning.
Think about writing a first draft as mixing water with clay. Editing, on the other hand, is sculpting. Don’t rush the editing process. Have an idea of how you will attack it.
Whenever you feel lost, go back to the scene map. Look at the big picture. Think about the little things you can do today to make it better.
When you’re done with this pass, map it again and start over. You’ll get there.
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