Writing and Directing for the Screen
- maxchristopher6
- Dec 18, 2025
- 7 min read
By Zain Adamo
Working on Burden of Proof was running the gauntlet again, but with a bigger crew, bigger budget, and bigger stakes than before. It had been a while since I’d done a project of my own when Nate Drew approached me with his idea. I knew I had to be involved. But co-writing and co-directing would be entirely new to me. What would that look like? Would it be complicated? Could my fragile ego handle it? I’d find the answers to these questions (really fun, yes, and yes, respectively) during a long and revelatory journey that deepened my understanding of the writer/director’s journey. The size of the production, the themes we were tackling, and the fact that none of it could be done alone made for an entirely new type of project. I learned how to fight for my ideas while letting others shine. I learned how to rely on people filling roles I hadn’t even considered (working with a dedicated production coordinator for the first time, for example!). Most importantly, I learned what it means to grow as a writer/director– a journey thrown into sharp relief when working in tandem. Having Nate as a collaborator was invaluable to my growth and discovery, and I’m forever grateful for the opportunity to work alongside him and the entire 7to8 team. So, what did co-writing and co-directing Burden of Proof teach me?
Independent filmmaking doesn’t mean do everything yourself.
The writer/director is not some relentless, unstoppable visionary that fights the hard fight and emerges singlehandedly victorious. They are the leader of a team of ridiculously talented collaborators, a group of artists who’ve spent their entire careers honing the skills they’re lending you, and who are there to create as much as you are. Trust in their intentions and their expertise. When you have a problem, lean on them. No amount of masturbatory individualism will yield a better solution than one discovered in conversation with your team.
Be honest with yourself.
It’s easy to let your passion for an idea or a story overshadow your critical thinking. A cool scene, a funny line, a clever reference that you’ve been dying to work on, might be exciting in the moment, but does it make sense? Know how to differentiate between an interesting idea and a good and interesting idea, where “good” simply means an idea in service of the story. There’s no criterion for a good idea except that it serves the story in some meaningful way– what works for one script may be totally wrong for another. In Burden of Proof, I was really into the idea of Grey and Chiara having matching necklaces. Nate and I agreed that it was interesting, but was it good? We decided “yes” once we understood how it could establish their relationship visually, function as an active prop, and contrast with Father Damien’s rosary. In other words, how it could serve the story. We had plenty of other interesting ideas that we cut early on because they didn’t pass the test. Be honest with yourself in acknowledging what’s not going to work, despite how invested you may be. Your finished script will thank you. Watching a once-good idea devolve into an awkward moment on screen feels a thousand times worse than cutting it early on. But at the same time, don’t shut yourself down too quickly. Exploring these initial interesting ideas is the purpose of drafting and rewriting. Yes, Nate and I cut a lot, but we made those calls after discussing the ideas thoroughly. So develop your thoughts to a reasonable juncture, then make the hard call.
Try new things.
Writing is like working a muscle– you’ve heard it a thousand times before. Exercise it daily, or let it atrophy. But more than a single muscle, writing is working a whole system. It’s an entire body made up of different skills that need to be developed and maintained in their respective ways. Working on one affects another, and each exercise we do is reflected in the whole. Yes, you’re a screenwriter, but don’t skip leg day. Do more than just write scenes and scripts and outlines. Read poetry to develop your visual thinking. Write free verse to learn how to put your thoughts on paper. Write essays and blogs (hm!) to say things practically, then scribble in a notebook to say them with color. Write on paper and on a laptop. Write on the bus and at a desk. Read about grammar, then listen to how people talk. Try writing a song or a letter or the last page of a book that doesn’t exist.
Take every opportunity to develop every part of your skillset. It might seem useless in the moment, but it’s building muscles you haven’t even thought about. And the beginning of your journey is the perfect time to do this. Do it before you get comfortable. Speaking for myself, I’m in the baby years, and I’m scared of everything. And maybe that never changes– maybe there’s no such thing as a comfort zone, and you’re always trying something new. But don’t wait to find out. Take this chance now, while everything is still frightening and fresh, and try it all. Write the characters you’ve never thought about, the stories that make you uncomfortable, and the things that scare you. Who knows what you’ll discover?
Celebrate your victories.
Writing a script is hard enough, much less seeing that vision through to the finished film. Take the time to celebrate your victories. There’s no need to kill yourself with work or self-deprecate because it’s not perfect. A clunky draft may look like a failure today, but don’t forget that you were once daydreaming about even getting it on paper. You wrote a script! Hell, you wrote a scene! Burden of Proof is not a flawless film, but it’s a damn good one, and I won’t drag my feet over the little things. I’m gonna celebrate that we have a finished film, because that’s the greatest accomplishment of all. And don’t forget– and I’m speaking for myself here, but hoping it rings true– we create because we enjoy creating. It’s easy to lose sight of that once you get into the weeds. So let yourself enjoy it and celebrate the victories, big and small.
Write for yourself.
As a writer/director, you have no reason not to tell the stories you want to tell. You have a responsibility, of course, to be conscious of the stories you’re telling, the narratives you’re reinforcing, and the impact that might have, but you have no reason to devote your skills to telling someone else’s story. This might seem counterintuitive to collaboration, but it isn’t. Burden of Proof was Nate’s idea, but my first thought when he approached me wasn’t “how can I help him write this story?” It was “What do I find interesting about it?” I was able to tell the story I wanted to tell, to discuss the themes I wanted to discuss, within the framework Nate had created. That’s the beauty of good collaboration– it’s productive and forgiving. Both artists can tell their stories while making room for the nuances that each of them brings. Burden of Proof works because Nate and I found a way to tell our stories together. So when collaborating on a script, trust that your partner approached you because they’re interested in your voice as an artist, and not just looking for someone to nod their head and do what they say.
Specificity is authenticity.
Audiences don’t relate to situations; they relate to the feelings that situations provoke. Don’t work backwards in your quest for relatability– don’t try to write something relatable because you want it to be relatable. Write something true, with feeling, and it’ll find an audience. Nate and I didn’t write Burden of Proof so people could relate to the sci-fi horror-ness of it all. We wrote it so they could relate to the feelings that prompted the story, the despair at watching your loved ones buy into self-destructive ideology. That’s why writing for yourself is so important. It’s the only way to write something real. Tell the stories you want to tell with specificity and authenticity, and they’ll inevitably ring true.
Make your own work.
This is the core of being a writer/director. It’s what all writer/directors share, whether they’re college students or Wes Anderson. Your art does not exist without your effort. The stories in your head aren’t waiting for someone else to write them. It’s your responsibility to make work for yourself, to keep yourself creative and employed, and to realize the ideas in your head. You can’t call yourself a writer/director if you’re not writing and directing. (I’m as guilty as anyone– Burden Of Proof was the first time in a while I had done both.) Don’t forget that you’re not exactly a hot commodity, either. Maybe one day you’ll be rich and famous, and people will be throwing their ideas at your feet, but right now, there are a billion people like you, and everyone and their mother has an idea for a movie. All that sets you apart is not waiting for things to happen and making your own work instead.
Learn to love writing.
Simple as that. A script is more than a piece of the puzzle, or a means to an end– your story is a story in its own right. Learn to love the pain and the heartbreak and the cutting and the rewriting. Write for the sake of the craft. If you don’t love it, if you don’t respect it, it shows. So muster a smile, give your story the attention it deserves, and write like you mean it.
I’m still working on that last step, but I’d like to think I’m pretty close. I love writing and directing. And Burden of Proof was so special because it allowed me to do the thing I love in an entirely new way. Learning to co-write and co-direct forced me to think about what it means to be a writer/director, confronting the questions that are easy to ignore when it’s just me doing the work. From now on, when I make my own work, I’ll know to write for myself, to make it specific, to be critical, to try new things, to celebrate my victories, and most importantly– in every moment– to love what I do.
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