Screenwriters: Your Job Is to Name the Emotion

I read an article recently that argued screenwriters should avoid emotional direction entirely. Instead of writing "Sarah is devastated" or "John seethes with anger," we should only provide physical actions, e.g. Sarah methodically reorganizes her desk drawers, John cleans his glasses during a tense conversation. The idea is that actors will discover the emotion through the behavior.

I get the intent. But this advice is fundamentally wrong.

You're Not Providing a Blueprint. You're Telling a Story.

A screenplay isn't an instruction manual for other artists to figure out. It's a complete narrative that needs to land emotionally on the page, before anyone touches a camera.

When I write "devastated" or "barely containing his rage," I'm not micromanaging performance. I'm doing my actual job: telling a story with clarity and emotional truth.

Everyone reading this script (producers, directors, actors, executives) needs to feel what's happening. That's how you get the movie made. That's how you get everyone aligned on what story they're telling.

Ambiguity Isn't Artistry. It's Abdication.

Strip emotion from your script and what do you have? Someone reorganizing desk drawers.

Riveting.

Why is she doing that? Is she anxious? Grieving? Procrastinating? Furious? Does she have OCD? Is she just really into the Container Store?

You've created a puzzle, not a scene. Congratulations, you've turned your screenplay into an escape room where everyone has to guess what you meant.

But write "Sarah, devastated, mechanically reorganizes her desk drawers"? Now we're cooking. The director knows what scene they're crafting. The actor knows the internal reality they're inhabiting. The producer knows this moment's emotional weight.

The emotion is the north star. The physical action is how we navigate by it.

Trust Works Both Ways

The anti-emotion crowd loves to say "trust the actor." I do. But trust isn't playing hide-and-seek with your intentions.

When I write that a character is furious, I'm not dictating that they yell or clench their fists. I'm not telling them how to perform. I'm telling them what's true about this moment.

How they embody that fury? That's their genius. Maybe it's ice cold. Maybe it's explosive.

Maybe they find something completely unexpected that makes the scene transcendent.

But they need to know what they're working from. Otherwise you've just sent them on an archaeological dig through your subtext.

The Actor's Craft Is Translation, Not Guesswork

Professional actors are masters at taking emotional truth and finding authentic, surprising ways to express it. That's their craft: translating internal states into lived human behavior.

What they shouldn't have to do is play Sherlock Holmes with your script because you read one blog post about "showing not telling" and took it way too literally.

I write "heartbroken." Then the actor and director discover that this heartbreak shows up as someone obsessively straightening picture frames, or laughing inappropriately at a funeral, or staring dead-eyed while coffee overflows their cup.

That's collaboration. That's alchemy.

What's not alchemy? Making everyone guess whether your character is sad or constipated because you only wrote "stares blankly."

Your Script Has to Work as Literature

Here's what the "just write actions" crowd forgets: your screenplay needs to function as a complete piece of storytelling before anyone performs it.

It needs to move readers. Communicate arcs. Convey the full emotional experience of your characters.

If I only write actions without emotions, I'm writing half a story. I'm leaving the soul undefined. I'm basically handing in homework and saying "you figure out what I meant."

And in this industry? An incomplete script doesn't become a movie. It becomes a pass.

The Bottom Line

Name the emotion. Be specific about what your characters feel.

That's not limiting anyone's artistry. It's enabling it. It's the difference between "here's a fascinating character in crisis" and "here's someone doing stuff, good luck."

Then trust that the talented people bringing your script to life will find powerful, unexpected, authentic ways to embody that truth.

Your job: tell the whole story with clarity and conviction.

Their job: make it breathe.

Do your job. Then get out of the way and let them do theirs.

A Note About Collaboration

In the pic below, that's me and fellow co-screenwriting coach Donna Bellorado, bundled against the cold on what was supposed to be a lovely rooftop sunset at the Rosewood's Luna Bar.

Notice the smiles? Now notice the blankets wrapped tight, the chattering teeth barely concealed, the rain-soaked terrace behind us.

We're clearly freezing. And yet, we're genuinely happy.

Why? Because we're not pretending everything is perfect. We're acknowledging reality (it's cold, we're miserable) while still finding the joy in the moment. That's the collaboration I'm talking about in this post.

If I'd written this scene in a script using only action, you'd see: "Two women sit at a table wrapped in blankets."

Fine. But are they cold? Sick? Comfortable? Hiding from someone? You'd have to guess.

Add the emotion and suddenly it's clear: "Two women, freezing but determined to enjoy themselves, huddle under blankets and grin through chattering teeth."

Now you know exactly what's happening. Now an actor knows how to play it. Now a director can lean into that beautiful contradiction between discomfort and joy.

See the difference? That's what emotional direction does. It tells the whole story.

(And yes, we eventually went inside. We're not martyrs.)

Photo Credit: Lorraine Flett