What's it Really Like for a Screenwriter on a Film Set?

Let me tell you something about screenwriting. For months, sometimes years, the story lives entirely in your head and on your laptop. It’s often a quiet, lonely affair between you, your characters, and self-doubt. You build worlds in silence. Worlds you aren't even sure will make it to the big screen. 

But you see, when that screenplay finally gets optioned, scheduled for production, and you decide to go on set to experience the magic you so carefully set up, then I'm sorry, but you'll experience tons of shockers you'd never imagined. A film set is the opposite of the silence you'd gotten used to. And nothing prepares you for the day your quiet, lonely creation becomes a loud, chaotic or beautiful reality.

I remember my first time stepping onto the set of a project I had written. The first thing that hit me wasn't some sort of prestige or whatever; it was NOISE. The director calling out instructions, the generator humming at the backyard, the crew shouting about lights and cables, the smell of wood and hot equipment. Ah! It was a whole ecosystem, a "Balogun Market-like" zone of activity, all centered around pages I’d typed in my quiet little room. It felt surreal.

You walk around feeling like a friendly ghost. You see a room, a physical space with wallpaper and furniture, that previously only existed as a one-line scene description in your script: INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY. You see props, a specific wall clock, an old-fashioned telephone that you once randomly added for character flavour, now held in an actor's hand like it's the most important object in the world.

And then this happens...

As soon as the first AD yells, "Silence on set!" a sudden hush falls, and the director leans forward, everyone looks on, expectant. You can legit hear a pin drop in this silence.

Then, his voice, sharp and clear shatters it, "... and ACTION!"

An actor, in costume, stands under hot lights, opens their mouth and says the words. Your words. Words you’d wrestled with, deleted, rewritten, and agonized over. Hearing them spoken out loud, in the real world, by another human being is one of the strangest, most profound out-of-body experiences a writer can have. Suddenly, they're not your words anymore. They belong to the character.

And this, my friends, is one of the biggest lessons I learned on set: the art of letting go. You realize the story has left your hands. The director might take a scene you wrote as a small, tense argument and turn it into a loud, explosive fight. In that moment, you want to storm the set and vent, but you quickly learn your job is now to trust their vision, even when it hurts. The lead actor takes a line you wrote as a shout and delivers it as a cold whisper of contempt, making the character feel far more powerful and chilling. And oh well, you kinda like this (It's not all bad). Then, the cinematographer paints a picture with light that's more beautiful than your description could ever be. Sweet!

Dear screenwriter, know this and know peace, your script isn't the finished painting, it's the blueprint for a house you're building with other professionals. And your job, as the writer on set, is often to sit quietly in a corner, and trust the incredible team of artisans who have come together to raise that house. You learn to answer questions when asked, and to celebrate when a scene works even better than you imagined. It's going to be hard, but you'll learn.

So, for every writer out there dreaming of a first time, I can tell you this: it's as beautiful, terrifying, and humbling as you think. Your job is to write the best possible blueprint. Then, you have to trust others to build it. And watching them do is a feeling unlike any other.

But the journey isn't even over then. The real full-circle moment comes months later, when you finally see the finished product. You watch the story, now polished and alive, and you remember the quiet room where you first typed FADE IN. Then, the credits roll, and your name appears, "Written By..." Damn! Trust me, in that moment, every single doubt, every late night, every frustrating revision or annoying "on set" moment, just melts away. And if, by God's grace, that story goes on to win awards or get selected for festivals, it's just the beautiful confirmation that the blueprint you wrote with so much care truly connected with the world. So please, keep writing, your credit roll is waiting.