From screen to page
Mario Theodorou on the freedom of writing fiction after a career of screenwriting
For years, I built my career as a screenwriter, crafting stories that had to be lean, structured, and ruthlessly efficient. Every word had to pull its weight. No indulgence or waffling, just pure, distilled storytelling. The economy of language was everything.
Then I transitioned to fiction, and it felt like unbuckling a very tight seatbelt. Suddenly, I had space, room to stretch, to let words breathe, to dive deep into my characters’ minds in ways that scripts never allowed. No more hiding emotions behind lingering glances or carefully placed silences. I could spill their thoughts straight onto the page, raw and unfiltered.
But while novels offer freedom, they demand a different kind of discipline, one that completely reshaped the way I tell stories.
Now, with Oscar season in full swing and adaptations dominating the big screen, the conversation between fiction and film feels more relevant than ever. Storytelling is fluid, but shifting between mediums isn’t as seamless as it seems.
So, what are the key differences? Here’s my take on writing for both, where they diverge, where they overlap, and how learning to navigate both has changed the way I write.
One of the biggest shifts I encountered moving from screenwriting to fiction was this: in film and TV, no one ever really says what they mean. Dialogue is a dance, a game of misdirection, where what’s left unsaid often carries more weight than what’s spoken.
If a character is thinking about divorce, they don’t simply blurt out, I think we should get a divorce. Instead, they bicker over how the dishwasher is loaded or why the bathroom light is always left on. Their emotions simmer beneath the surface, spilling out in sideways jabs and forced smiles. In film, character is revealed through action, conflict, and choice. The golden rule? Show, don’t tell.
Fiction, on the other hand, flings open the door to a character’s mind and lets you rummage through their emotions like a nosy neighbour peering through the curtains. Every fear, doubt, and unspoken longing can be laid bare. No need to disguise heartbreak behind passive-aggressive debates about electricity bills or dirty cutlery.
But there’s always the lingering worry of saying too much, of revealing too many thoughts too soon. Pacing, of the story, the character’s journey, even the reader’s understanding, is everything. Where film uses subtext to mask exposition, fiction relies on rhythm. It invites language to flow, to linger, to revel in its own melody. It allows words to shape atmosphere and emotion in ways that stripped-down screenplays rarely can.
Despite the creative freedom fiction offers, my inner screenwriter refuses to go quietly. In film and TV, structure is everything. Without a tight, well-crafted three-act or five-act structure, the story unravels, the pacing falters, and the audience drifts away. That same structural rigour has become the backbone of my fiction writing.
Before I start a novel, I meticulously plan every detail, outlining my story much like I would a script, mapping out every major beat and turn to ensure all the elements tie together seamlessly. I break it down chapter by chapter, tracking what happens, why it happens, and how it shapes both the plot and the character arcs. Only when I have this roadmap in place do I allow myself to write.
But once the words start flowing, instinct takes over. The plan is my safety net, keeping me on course, but I’m not afraid to veer off-road when the story demands it. Some chapters unfold exactly as outlined, while others take on a life of their own. It’s a delicate balance, structure vs spontaneity, discipline vs creative instinct.
And while I’d love to think my approach is uniquely mine — let’s be honest, every writer does — the result has always been well-developed first drafts. Thanks to the research and planning that underpin them, my first drafts aren’t just rough sketches; they typically land about 70% of the way to the final version.
In screenwriting, I typically start with a big idea, a premise that drives everything. The world, the set pieces, the characters, they all evolve from that single concept. But when I began writing my debut historical fiction novel, Felix Grey and the Descendant, I flipped that process entirely. Instead of leaning on a theme or a dramatic question first, I started with the character and built everything around him.
It felt like a huge departure from my usual method, but also the only way to truly bring this world to life. Felix had to feel real first. I needed to know everything about him — his family, his childhood, what he loved, what he feared, what irritated him, the wounds he carried, and the quirks that made him unique. Only then could I truly understand how he would respond to any situation, and how to construct the world of Edwardian London around him.
That level of character-first storytelling isn’t as essential in screenwriting. Yes, characters have backstories, but rarely with this level of depth. In film and TV, much of a character’s history remains beneath the surface, with the story designed to propel them forward rather than dwell on the past. In fiction, every layer lives on the page.
Writing novels has forced me to dig deeper, and that depth of character-building has now become a fundamental part of everything I create, both in fiction and screenwriting. But not all of my screenwriting habits have faded. In fact, some have become my secret weapons and have shaped my approach to novel writing in ways I never expected.
I came to fiction without the habit of strict daily word count goals. Scripts are measured in scenes, structure, and momentum, not by hitting a specific number of words each day. That mindset has carried over into my fiction writing, and honestly, I see it as a huge advantage. It has kept my process organic, allowing creativity to take the lead. If I’m ‘hot’ or ‘in the zone’, I stay in the seat for hours, riding the momentum for as long as it lasts. If I’m not, or if I’ve written myself into a corner (which happens often), I step away.
Walking and running are when I solve my biggest writing dilemmas. Staring at a screen or forcing myself to hit 3000 words rarely helps, but movement does. Voice notes have become my best friend. When I’m out, I talk through plot issues, record ideas, and sometimes even act out dialogue (apologies to anyone who’s overheard me mid-scene on a long walk). There’s something about verbalising an idea that makes it real. If I wait to write it down later, I lose the essence. But speaking it aloud locks it in.
I believe some stories are meant to be read, and others to be seen. Stories driven by rich internal monologue and deep psychological nuance, like Never Let Me Go or The Great Gatsby, are difficult to translate without clunky voiceovers or heavy rewrites. The best adaptations don’t just translate; they transform, using the strengths of cinema to create something just as powerful and unique. Films like The Godfather or No Country for Old Men didn’t just bring their source material to life, they reimagined it, making full use of the visual language of film.
That divide between page and screen has had a profound impact on me. Screenwriting taught me how to tell stories with precision, to be ruthless with structure, economical with words, and to make every moment earn its place. Fiction, on the other hand, has given me the freedom to break those rules, to dive deeper into the psychology of my characters, and to revel in the beauty of language.
One demands discipline, the other invites exploration. But both challenge me in different ways, and together, they’ve shaped how I write. Because whether on the page or the screen, the goal is always the same: to create a world so vivid, so immersive, that an audience doesn’t just read or watch it… they step inside and feel it.
With the Oscars around the corner, it’s a reminder that the best films, and the best books, aren’t just about what’s written, but about what lingers long after the final page or the closing credits.
Mario’s debut novel, Felix Grey and the Descendant, will be published by Unbound tomorrow and is currently available to preorder. Want to read a snippet first? Here’s an extract, exclusively on Boundless