Story & Scene Writing Coaching: Filmmaker’s Method (25 Questions Answered)
Personal insights, techniques, and answers from an independent filmmaker
By Matan Tal
Hi, I’m Matan Tal — a filmmaker, film essayist, and writer.
People often ask me why I teach writing at all, when my public identity is built around cinema. My answer is simple: in my experience as a filmmaker, writing is directing — just earlier. The page is the first edit. The first montage. The first rhythm. The first decision.
I’ve made narrative fiction, documentary, and essay films — and I’ve also written and published a fictional children’s book when I was 11. So when I coach writers, I’m not approaching the craft as a neutral “writing teacher.” I’m approaching it as a filmmaker who thinks in emotion, pacing, and images — and who knows what happens when a scene finally becomes alive.
This FAQ is for the kind of student who watches films like mine and thinks:
“I want to write like this. I want to build scenes like this. I want to learn story from inside the filmmaking process.”
1. What’s the difference between learning writing from a filmmaker vs a traditional writing teacher?
As a filmmaker, I think the biggest difference is the expanded set of tools I can offer you.
A traditional writing teacher may focus mostly on language, style, and literary analysis. But when you learn writing from a filmmaker — especially a filmmaker with literary experience — you get a wider toolkit that includes:
• visual thinking
• pacing
• emotion
• and the way meaning is created through juxtaposition, like in editing
In my own experience exchanging notes with traditional writers, the biggest thing they noticed in my work was pacing. Other writers have told me my writing feels cinematic because the sentences often move like shots or scenes — and because I connect events with a logic that feels like montage editing, where multiple things happening together create a larger emotional picture.
That’s not something I learned from textbooks. It’s something cinema carved into my instincts.
2. What is “cinematic writing” and how do you actually learn it?
In my view, “cinematic writing” isn’t a strict definition — it’s an approach.
Cinematic writing comes from a mindset shaped by watching films, making films, and thinking in images. The emphasis is different. For me, it comes down to two main things:
1) Pacing
2) Painting a picture in the reader’s mind
When I write cinematically, I’m not moving vaguely through description. I’m moving with intention — as if the reader is watching something unfold in front of them.
How do you learn it?
According to my philosophy, you learn cinematic writing the same way you learn directing:
by doing it repeatedly until your instincts become sharp.
3. How do you write a scene that feels like a film, not like a book summary?
When I write a scene that needs to feel like cinema, I focus on two things:
• what the reader is seeing
• the rhythm of what happens next
In scriptwriting especially, you don’t have the same freedom literature has. You can’t simply explain an internal world in a direct way. You’re forced to write what can be present: action, behavior, environment, image, sound, timing.
And in my experience, once you accept that limitation, something powerful happens:
the scene becomes cinematic almost inevitably.
The scene stops being “about” the moment — and becomes the moment.
4. How do you find your voice when you’re influenced by too many films and directors?
My answer is blunt, and it’s based on my own practice:
You find your voice by writing and writing and writing.
Being influenced in the beginning is natural. It’s normal. But as you keep writing, you start noticing patterns that belong to you.
You notice what you notice.
You notice what interests you.
You notice how you describe things.
You notice what you always return to.
That’s why people call it discovering your voice, not inventing it.
In my view, you discover your voice through creation — and only after enough pages do you see what’s actually yours.
5. Can writing be trained like directing — with exercises and repetition?
Yes. 100%.
As a filmmaker, I treat writing like a muscle. I even think of it as going to the gym:
Writing is the writing gym.
When you write frequently, something changes:
• you stop freezing in front of the empty page
• you stop overthinking the first sentence
• you start moving immediately
• you build momentum
• and the work becomes natural
Just like physical training, the frequency matters. The more often you do it, the less dramatic it feels — and the stronger you become.
B) Scene craft
6. How do you write scenes that have tension even when “nothing happens”?
In my experience, tension appears when you find the center of the scene.
If you understand what the scene is really about, tension will show itself — because you, as the writer, don’t want to bore yourself. Your instinct kicks in.
Even if “nothing happens,” you find something that is alive inside the moment:
• a detail
• a shift
• an observation
• an emotional pressure
• a tiny change that matters
And then the scene becomes compelling without obvious conflict.
For me, this is not something you force. It’s something you train until it becomes automatic.
7. How do you build a scene around subtext instead of exposition?
Subtext is not something you hammer into the scene with a tool. Subtext is created through relationships between elements.
In my view, one of the most natural ways to create subtext is:
using the outer world and the inner world as metaphors for each other.
When something happens between two characters — or when something is witnessed — the meaning isn’t only in what is said. It’s in what is implied by the way the scene is constructed.
A clear example from my own work:
In my film The Invention of Chris Marker, the subtext emerges through the story itself. I follow the footsteps of a digital cat that impersonates Chris Marker. On the surface, I’m following this cat.
But underneath, a different feeling forms:
It begins to feel like I’m following Marker himself.
And even deeper than that — it can feel like I’m searching for something, for an artist, for a presence, without explicitly stating it.
That’s subtext: it’s born from the collision between what is shown and what it evokes.
8. How do you write strong dialogue that doesn’t sound “written”?
My approach is very practical:
First, listen to how people talk.
You’ve been alive long enough to hear real speech rhythms — how people interrupt themselves, how they avoid saying the main thing, how they change topic, how they speak around desire.
Then comes the most important part:
Write the dialogue, and come back later.
In my experience, if you reread your dialogue two weeks later, you will immediately know if it’s fake. It will scream at you. You won’t need a theory to detect it.
The ear knows.
9. How do you create conflict without making characters scream or fight?
Conflict is created by two opposing forces.
Two desires. Two truths. Two directions.
In my view, you don’t need screaming to create conflict. You just need to put two opposites in the same room, in the same environment — and tension appears.
That tension is conflict.
And once the tension exists, the scene starts to breathe.
10. How do you write character through action instead of backstory?
As a filmmaker, I believe character is revealed through choices.
You write the character doing things.
You watch the character making decisions.
And through those decisions, you learn who they are.
Backstory can exist — but excessive backstory is often unnecessary. Sometimes it’s overkill.
Because if the character’s actions are true, the past reveals itself anyway.
C) Structure, pacing, and rhythm
11. How do you structure a short film so it feels complete and satisfying?
For me, a short film feels complete when something closes and locks at the end — when the ending feels inevitable based on the promise of the beginning.
In my own filmmaking practice, I think a short film succeeds when it delivers on the promise it makes early on.
Example from my short film Medea:
It begins with an actress who wants the role of Medea. She goes to an audition. She gets rejected.
From that point, she spirals into obsession: if she can’t become Medea on stage, she will become Medea in real life.
The ending becomes inevitable because the film’s beginning already planted the seed. And the film concludes with a collision between:
• art
• fiction
• and life
In my view, that’s what makes a short film satisfying: the sense that the ending is not random — it’s the result of the story’s nature.
12. How do you know if a scene should be cut, shortened, or expanded?
My method is simple and very real:
Give it to people.
Let them read it. Watch what they don’t understand.
Most people won’t tell you, “this scene is too long” in a professional way. But they will tell you something more valuable:
• “Something was unclear.”
• “I didn’t get it.”
• “I feel like something is missing.”
And then your job begins.
In my experience, the writer becomes like a doctor. People describe symptoms — and you diagnose the cause.
Sometimes the fix is:
• extending the scene slightly
• adding one detail
• clarifying one moment
• cutting a repetition that slows the rhythm
Feedback tells you where the pain is. Your craft tells you how to treat it.
13. How do you control pacing on the page before you ever shoot anything?
If you’re writing as a director — or even if you’re writing for someone else — pacing begins in your head.
In my view, pacing is controlled by writing while the scene is alive in you.
If you can see the moment playing in your mind, and you write from inside that living scene, the pacing becomes natural — because you’re writing what you’re watching.
Of course, in the beginning it won’t always happen automatically.
But with practice, you develop sensibility. You develop rhythm. You develop the instinct for timing.
14. How do you write transitions that feel like editing — not like “then… then… then…”?
In my book, I think transitions become cinematic when you write with editing logic.
Meaning: you cut between elements.
You jump from:
• one character to another
• action to reaction
• what someone does to what someone sees
• dialogue to image
• image to consequence
If you write one long paragraph about one thing, it’s like a steady shot.
But if you move between descriptions, characters, and moments, you’re already editing on the page.
That’s how you avoid the “then… then… then…” feeling.
You create rhythm through cutting.
15. How do you write a story that stays clear even when it’s fragmented or experimental?
This is one of my strongest beliefs:
Even if the film is fragmented, the writing must be accurate.
You can describe poetic or experimental imagery — but you must describe it clearly enough that the reader can see it.
In my view, fragmentation should happen in the reader’s mind — not because the script is messy, but because the images are intentionally arranged in a fragmented way.
The page should still be readable.
The intention should be felt.
D) Film-essay / desktop documentary / hybrid storytelling
16. How do you write a film essay that feels emotional, not academic?
This is a touchy subject, and I’ll say it in my own words:
Academic film essays are often didactic.
They live in the head. They argue. They explain. They keep the viewer distant — like the goal is to observe intellectually instead of feel.
But in my approach, a film essay should be closer to a short story than to a university paper.
It should be:
• subjective
• intense
• humorous when it needs to be
• emotional when it needs to be
• alive
Because understanding doesn’t only come from explanation.
Understanding comes from feeling.
17. How do you write voiceover that isn’t boring or “explaining everything”?
In my view, voiceover becomes engaging when the narrator is a character.
Not necessarily a character inside the story — but a character as a presence:
• with humor
• with quirks
• with taste
• with a mind
• with a rhythm
If the voiceover is flat and only says, “this happened in 1901…” it becomes lifeless.
But if the narration has personality, it becomes cinema.
That’s my standard.
18. How do you build a narrative using archive footage, screenshots, and found material?
My method is the opposite of what many people expect.
In my experience, it’s often better to write first — then find the material.
Meaning:
You write what needs to be seen and what needs to be said in a general way. You don’t need to script every shot as “Shot 1, Shot 2.”
You describe the scene’s purpose and emotional direction — and later you search for footage that fits that moment.
For me, editing first and writing narration later is a harder approach.
Writing first gives you a spine. Then the archive material becomes your body.
19. How do you write a script when the “main character” is an idea, not a person?
An idea cannot be filmed.
That’s the problem — and also the opportunity.
In my view, the solution is embodiment.
You have to embody the idea inside narrative, behavior, action, or a cinematic journey.
The greatest filmmakers often do this. Think of Bergman, Tarkovsky, Polanski:
Their films follow philosophical questions, but the films are not “about” the idea in a literal way.
The idea rises out of the story.
That’s the model I respect.
20. How do you combine documentary truth with cinematic storytelling without faking it?
My answer is simple:
Focus on truth first.
In my experience, you make a documentary engaging by making it alive, dynamic, interesting — and you don’t panic about “cinematic storytelling.”
If cinematic storytelling is needed, it will arise naturally from what the story requires.
Faking happens when you impose something foreign onto the documentary:
• a style it doesn’t need
• a technique that doesn’t belong
• an idea that is not inside the material
If the form grows from the story’s needs, you can’t fake it.
E) Process, feedback, and finishing
21. What do you do when you have taste, but your writing isn’t good yet?
You keep writing.
And you drop perfectionism.
In my view, the trap is believing you must write like James Joyce on your first attempt.
You don’t.
You walk into the craft with humility. You refine your own style. You stop comparing. You stop chasing impossible perfection.
Eventually, it becomes good — because you stayed with it.
22. How do you stop rewriting forever and finally finish a script?
You stop when you decide enough is enough.
That’s the honest answer.
In my experience, rewriting can become endless because it’s safer than finishing.
But finishing requires letting the story go.
I like to think of it like raising a child:
You can’t protect your child until he’s 50.
Eventually you let him live.
Same with a script. When it’s mature enough — when the elements work together, and feedback tells you it’s understandable — you release it.
Nothing is ever truly finished.
You can watch a film you made 10 years ago and still have ideas for changes. That’s normal.
But you still move on. Otherwise you get stuck.
23. How do you develop a project when you only have fragments, not a full plot?
You start by writing the fragments down.
That’s the real beginning.
In my own filmmaking practice, I did this with my film The Same Snowy Ground:
After I finished filming and had all the material, I wrote down fragments of scenes, ideas for narration, and descriptions — on small notes.
Then I placed dozens and dozens of notes on the table.
And I played.
I rearranged them. I tested orders. I looked for the story that was already there — not the story I wanted to impose.
That’s a key part of my filmmaking philosophy:
Don’t impose the story too early. Discover the story inside the material.
Some scenes get cut. Some things get reshot. But eventually the narrative reveals itself.
24. What does a 1-on-1 coaching session look like — and how do you give feedback?
In my approach, a 1-on-1 session is practical, direct, and craft-focused.
I’m not there to give you abstract theory. I’m there to help you:
• build scenes that work
• clarify what’s unclear
• sharpen pacing
• strengthen voice
• and finish real work
My feedback style is similar to how I treat filmmaking problems:
You tell me what you’re trying to achieve.
We look at what the page is actually doing.
Then we diagnose what’s missing and fix it.
Like a doctor — symptoms first, then treatment.
25. How quickly can I improve my writing if I practice consistently (and what should I practice)?
In my view, improvement is fast when practice is frequent.
Writing is a muscle. And when you train it consistently, you stop hesitating and start producing.
What should you practice?
According to my philosophy, practice the fundamentals that create cinematic storytelling:
• writing scenes with clear images
• writing with rhythm and pacing
• writing tension even in stillness
• writing dialogue that sounds real
• and finishing pieces instead of protecting them forever
Consistency changes everything.
Final note from Matan:
If you’ve watched my films, read my work, or felt drawn to my approach — and you want to learn writing through cinema, not through academic abstraction — then you’re exactly the kind of student I work best with.
I teach writing as a filmmaker: through scenes, rhythm, emotion, and the discipline of making something real.
To book a 1-on-1 trial session with me, use my Preply calendar https://preply.in/MATAN6EN3047652010?ts=17691689
If you’re interested in what is the daily routine of an essay filmmaker, read the next article on daily routine of a film essayist.
About the Author
Matan Tal — Film Essayist & Filmmaker
I have written this guide to clarify my method of teaching writing and scriptwriting, based on my experience, teaching, and practice in independent cinema.