It’s 3:30 AM. In a couple of hours, I’m supposed to wake up and go to work. But here I am. Just wrapped a few scenes for a feature film and decided to stop for the night.
I had cracked the screenplay till interval already, but between me and the director, we had several back-and-forth exchanges for the post-interval sequences. We both bounced ideas, and neither got convinced.
But then, today, since time was running out, I had to turn to the blank page and take the leap of faith.
So there I was, wondering how to go about the very first post-interval scene.
Frankly, the scene suffered from what screenwriters call “ferry boat syndrome”—it was just transporting the character from Point A to Point B without creating compelling drama.
So, I decided to look at the emotional trajectory from the pre-interval sequence to this proposed post-interval opening. There was a considerable emotional disconnect that could lose the audience.
The first half managed to build to an intensely dramatic climax. So, it felt safe to assume that the audience emotion at interval would be High Intensity—anger, heartbreak, anxiety, investment in the protagonist’s fate.
But then the post-interval emotional state turned out to be contemplative calm with low stakes, passive acceptance, and gentle philosophy.
Which would have led to the audience emotion after the first post-interval scene as low intensity, thoughtful but disengaged.
That would have created what screenwriters call “emotional whiplash”—but in reverse. Instead of escalating from the interval’s intensity, it was like asking the audience to downshift into meditation mode.
But was that what the audience needed post-interval?
With the explosive first half climax, the audience expects:
- Immediate consequences of the pre-interval climax disaster
- Protagonist actively struggling with their shattered world
- Rising stakes rather than contemplative pauses
- Forward momentum toward resolution
So, it was clear that the best approach forward would be: Match the intensity.
That’s when, out of the blue, an idea struck and I slipped into the rabbit hole with it.
As it happens, the post-interval scene turned out different than all the possible scenes we discussed till yesterday.
But now, I had a post-interval first scene that matched the intensity of the pre-interval last scene.
Instead of a mellow hero-meets-mentor moment, I opted for introducing the second main antagonist to increase the stakes for the hero. And I’m hoping this would maintain the audience’s investment from the explosive first half.
The new idea led to a scene that offered:
- Multiple character conflicts in one scene
- Immediate consequences of first half
- Clear setup for second act investigation
- Maintains urgency while developing themes
At least for now, it offered natural story progression.
And this is where I told myself, “It clicked!”
Now, was it perfection? Perhaps not. But to be honest, I don’t subscribe to the idea that art has to be perfect. For me, art has one goal—to be art.
I have often come across fellow artists and professionals who just refuse to stop, hoping the next idea would be the better one. Justifying their chase as seeking perfection. They tell themselves it isn’t ready yet. More drafts, more tinkering, more “just one more” adjustments.
But perfection is not some rare stone that you can unearth from under the pile of your next draft.
The trouble is, in my entire career, I have been a witness to projects that got kicked off and till today are still finishing some laps of the imaginary marathon, yet far from the finish line.
While many of the other projects that started much later had seen the light of day and enjoyed their due in the spotlight.
After all, there’s no commandment that states without perfection there’s no art.
History is filled with works that aren’t perfect yet have gotten imprinted as a legacy on time itself.
Hemingway rewrote the ending of A Farewell to Arms nearly forty times before finally stopping.
The Beatles left false starts, off-notes, and tape hiss in their tracks—listen closely to Strawberry Fields Forever and you hear splices of two takes, even slightly out of tune, yet the song is legendary.
Michelangelo’s unfinished Prisoners are half-carved men, frozen in marble, and still among the most admired sculptures in the world.
Coppola’s Apocalypse Now was chaos on celluloid, born from typhoons, breakdowns, and Brando arriving in the jungle overweight and unread—yet the result is considered one of cinema’s greatest achievements.
Kafka died leaving The Trial and The Castle dangling mid-thought, fragments that feel all the more haunting because they never quite resolve.
Leonardo da Vinci’s Adoration of the Magi hangs in Florence with bare underpaintings visible, the ghost of his process still breathing through it.
And Miles Davis, with Kind of Blue, didn’t bother chasing flawless takes—he rolled tape on half-prepared sketches, first runs, tiny stumbles, and in doing so made the best-selling jazz album of all time.
The imperfections don’t diminish the art—they make it more human, more memorable. Nobody asked for flawless; they asked for honest, alive, and finished.
Unfortunately, for those who are trapped in the perfection rut, there’s no convincing otherwise. But what if that chase after perfection is a form of escapism?
The danger is that unfinished projects masquerade as safety. If you never finish, the idea never faces the world. No rejection, no criticism, no failure. But also no impact. An unfinished story is invisible.
Our brains get hooked on the chase. The dopamine reward system doesn’t actually care about finishing—it lights up when we’re pursuing. Which is why rewriting the same scene fifty times can feel addictive. Completion feels scary because it removes the shield. Once you declare a piece done, it can be judged. As long as it’s “in progress,” you’re safe.
Then again, we are talking about art. It’s like going undercover into enemy territory with no backup and no exit plan. You just march forth and hope that if you survive, you would have experienced something exhilarating.
There’s no safe word that can pull us out of this mission. Safety is art’s enemy. Art is risk. To write, paint, compose, film—you have to give something of yourself. And that always feels unsafe.
At least for me, a good idea is when you feel it in the gut. It may or may not lean towards perfection, but in the given moment, it stands its ground from all sorts of skepticism and cynicism. It defends itself from doubts and distrust.
A good idea would stay despite the artist’s resistance. Because even if the artist is not convinced, it would just fit in like a missing piece of the puzzle. And no artist in their right mind would undo a puzzle that’s solved.
Like this piece. I could go on talking about the subject, but here’s where I would stop and leave you with a simple food for thought.
When the dust settles, what will your story be?
That you almost wrote? Or that you wrote?