When people ask me what I do, I usually say I am a storyboard artist. That’s true, but it leaves out an important piece. What I really do is help people speak the language of film. I’m not just sketching out shots for directors and production teams. I’m acting as a kind of story consultant, making sure that what they want to say comes across clearly in the grammar of moving pictures.
If you’ve ever tried to explain a movie scene to someone without showing it, you already know how tricky it is. You can describe the dialogue, the setting, even the action, but unless you put those details into the right order, with the right emphasis, the story comes out garbled. It’s like speaking in broken sentences. A storyboard fixes that. It takes the jumble of ideas in a director’s head and translates them into a sequence that makes sense on screen. That translation is where I do my best work.
Storyboards as Grammar
I like to think of storyboards as the grammar of film. Just as language uses punctuation and sentence structure to create meaning, storyboards use composition, shot size, and sequencing to guide the audience’s understanding.
A wide shot is like an opening sentence. It sets the scene and introduces the reader, or in this case the viewer, to the world. A close-up is an exclamation point, pulling you in tight to emphasize something that cannot be missed. A cutaway is like a parenthesis, giving you a side note or extra bit of context without breaking the main flow.
When I am working with a director, I often find myself asking questions that sound almost grammatical. Should this shot feel like a period, closing off the thought, or should it run on like an ellipsis, carrying us into the next moment with momentum? Should we pause for a breath with a medium shot, or drop straight into the intensity of a close-up? These choices are not random. They follow rules that audiences may not consciously know, but they instinctively understand.
That’s why I call myself a story consultant as much as a storyboard artist. I am there to make sure the grammar holds together, that the film is speaking in a fluent voice.
The Building Blocks of Visual Language
Let’s talk about the vocabulary. Every shot type, angle, and composition is a word in the filmmaker’s dictionary. The difference between a high angle and a low angle is not just about where you put the camera. It’s about power dynamics. A high angle makes a character look small, vulnerable, or even weak. A low angle gives them weight and dominance.
Camera movement is a verb. A pan, tilt, or dolly move pushes the sentence forward. Stillness, on the other hand, is a form of punctuation. A locked-down shot can feel like a full stop, giving the audience a moment to reflect or absorb.
I once worked on a sequence where the director wanted a moment to feel tense and claustrophobic, but the early boards used mostly wide frames. The words were wrong for the sentence. By pulling in to tighter shots, pushing the camera closer, and cutting faster, we changed the grammar. Suddenly the scene read like a nervous stutter instead of a calm description. That was the difference between the idea working and the idea falling flat.
Story Consulting in Action
Directors come to me with great ideas, but sometimes those ideas are more like fragments than finished sentences. That is not a criticism. That’s the creative process. My job is to listen, ask questions, and then put the pieces together in a way that speaks clearly.
For example, I once had a director describe a scene to me where two characters were arguing in a kitchen. He wanted the audience to feel like they were being pulled back and forth between the two points of view. He used words like “tense,” “close,” and “trapped.” But his first instinct was to map the scene out in a way that showed the whole room.
That’s where I stepped in as a story consultant. I suggested we alternate between tight close-ups of each character, using the frame itself as a cage. Instead of watching the argument unfold from a safe distance, the viewer would be forced into the emotional heat of it. The result was a storyboard sequence that gave the director exactly what he wanted, even though it was not how he first pictured it.
This is what I mean by grammar. It’s about knowing which words to use, in what order, to make sure the story is spoken clearly.
Film Language is Universal
One of the reasons I love this work is because film language is universal. Audiences in Tokyo, New York, or São Paulo all understand a close-up the same way. They feel the intimacy of it. They sense the importance. You don’t have to explain it. The grammar is already built into the way we watch stories.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Just like in written language, small mistakes can lead to big confusion. A misplaced shot can make a scene read in a completely different way than intended. Two frames swapped in order can turn a suspenseful build-up into an awkward stumble.
That’s why I take the role of story consultant so seriously. I’m there to safeguard the meaning. To make sure the grammar holds. To prevent the story from drifting off course before it ever reaches the camera.
The Rhythm of Storytelling
Another part of the grammar is rhythm. Pacing matters as much as shot choice. A quick succession of frames creates urgency, like a short string of choppy sentences. A long, lingering shot is like a drawn-out phrase, heavy with weight and meaning.
I sometimes think about music when I storyboard. A cut is a beat. A transition is a shift in key. The rhythm tells the audience how to feel, when to breathe, and when to brace for impact.
As a story consultant, I help directors find that rhythm on paper before they get to set. It’s much easier to shift beats in a sequence of drawings than it is in the middle of a shoot with actors, cameras, and crew waiting on decisions.
When the Grammar is Missing
It’s worth saying what happens when storyboards are skipped, or when the grammar is ignored. Films can end up with disjointed pacing, confusing geography, or muddled emotional impact.
I’ve seen situations where a scene was shot without clear boards, and in the edit, the team realized they were missing crucial connective tissue. Suddenly they had to scramble with reshoots or patchy edits to make the story flow. That’s like trying to fix a broken sentence after the book has already been printed. It’s expensive, time consuming, and rarely seamless.
Good storyboards prevent that. They give everyone a chance to catch the errors early, to polish the grammar before it goes out into the world.
The Consultant’s Perspective
I think the title “story consultant” fits because my role goes beyond drawing. I am advising on communication. I am pointing out where the sentences break down, where the commas are missing, where the meaning isn’t landing.
Of course, I am still an illustrator. The drawings matter. They need to look clear, professional, and engaging. But the drawings are not the point. The point is what they communicate. If I can hand a storyboard to a production team and have them understand the rhythm, the tone, and the intention of a scene without any extra explanation, then I know I’ve done my job.
Closing Thoughts
At the end of the day, filmmaking is about telling stories. Storyboards are the grammar that keep those stories readable. They are the difference between a film that speaks clearly and one that mumbles through its ideas.
I am proud to call myself a storyboard artist, but I am just as proud to call myself a story consultant. I help directors and creative teams translate their thoughts into fluent visual language. I make sure the commas are in the right place, the sentences flow, and the message is delivered with impact.
Without grammar, even the best story gets lost. With it, a film can speak volumes. And for me, there’s no greater satisfaction than helping a story find its voice on the page, long before the cameras roll.