Are You Only Watching Superhero Movies? (Then What Are You Really Learning About People?)

Are You Only Watching Superhero Movies? 

(Then What Are You Really Learning About People?)

Every generation of screenwriters grows up on something. For some, it was westerns. For others, it was noir. For me, it was a mix of big, noisy disaster films — The Towering Inferno, Earthquake, The Poseidon Adventure — and smaller, human‑scale stories like Midnight Cowboy, Three Days of the Condor, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, Taxi Driver, Marathon Man, and Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. 

The big movies thrilled me. The smaller ones taught me how people actually behave.  

And that’s the question I keep coming back to today: If a young screenwriter grows up watching only superhero movies and CGI‑heavy action spectacles, how do they learn to write about ordinary human emotion? How do they learn to write characters who bleed, hesitate, doubt, yearn, break, forgive, and change? 

Because here’s the truth: You can’t write real people if you’ve never paid attention to real people. 

Superhero movies — even the good ones — operate on mythic logic. Characters don’t talk the way people talk. They don’t react the way people react. Their emotional arcs are engineered to serve spectacle, not humanity. And that’s fine. Those movies are fun. They’re huge. They’re loud. They’re roller coasters. 

But if that’s all you consume, you’re training your storytelling instincts to chase scale instead of truth. 

A screenwriter’s job — at least the part that matters — is to understand what makes people tick. Not “characters,” not archetypes, not tropes. People. 

The guy who’s terrified of disappointing his father. The woman who stays in a bad relationship because she doesn’t believe she deserves better. The kid who lies because he wants to be seen. The friend who betrays you because he’s scared you’ll leave him first. 

You don’t learn that from a city collapsing in IMAX. You learn it from stories where the stakes are emotional, not explosive. You learn it from films where the camera lingers on a face instead of a green screen. You learn it from watching characters make small choices that reveal big truths. And you learn it from life — from paying attention, from listening, from being curious about people who aren’t like you. 

So if you’re a young writer who dreams of writing movies, here’s my challenge: Watch the big stuff, sure. Enjoy the spectacle. But balance it with films where the most dramatic thing that happens is a conversation that changes someone’s life. Seek out stories where the climax is a confession, not a collapsing building. 

Because if you want to write movies that matter — movies that stay with people — you need to understand humanity at ground level. You need to know how ordinary people feel, hurt, hope, and heal. 

Special effects can carry a movie. But only character can carry a story. 

And if you’re serious about writing — really writing — you owe it to yourself to study the full spectrum of human behavior. Not just the operatic, slow‑motion, end‑of‑the‑world stuff, but the quiet moments where people reveal who they are without meaning to. The glance that betrays fear. The pause before a lie. The smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. The tiny, human beats that no CGI budget can manufacture. 

Because someday you’ll sit down to write a scene that has no explosions, no portals opening in the sky, no villain monologue — just two people in a room, trying to tell the truth. And if all you’ve ever absorbed is spectacle, that moment will feel impossible to write. 

 But if you’ve fed yourself stories built on character — stories where emotion is the engine — you’ll know exactly what to do. You’ll recognize the rhythm of real people. You’ll understand how they talk, how they hide, how they break, how they heal. 

And that’s the real superpower of a screenwriter: Not the ability to imagine worlds, but the ability to understand hearts.

From script to award-winning short horror film!

Thinking about writing the next Spider-Man movie? (Think again.)

Many years ago, a friend of mine — who proudly considered himself a screenwriter despite never actually writing anything — decided he was going to write a James Bond script. Not spec a Bond script. Not imagine a Bond script. No, no — he was going to write one and send it straight to the producers. 

But first, he figured he’d give them a heads up. You know…whet their appetite. Let them prepare themselves for the cinematic brilliance about to descend upon them. 

So off went his letter. 

A few weeks later, he received a very short, very unfriendly reply informing him that if he wrote the script and sent it — or if he even thought about sending it around town — he would be sued into a fine powder. 

And that was the end of his Bond career. 

So, boys and girls, what have we learned? 

We’ve learned that you do not write for an established film franchise. You don’t write James Bond or Indiana Jones or Iron Man or Spider Man or Batman or any other character whose face is already on lunchboxes. The people who make those movies only hire top tier writers — the ones with résumés, awards, and possibly their own parking spaces on the lot. (And even then, half the time the script still gets rewritten by twelve other people.) 

Agents and producers want new writers to write original material — original stories, original characters, original dialogue. They want to know what you sound like, not what your version of a 60-year-old British spy sounds like. 

Sell a few scripts that carry your voice and only your voice, and then — maybe — you’ll be in the running to write the next Bond flick. 

But please…no letters.

The Doldrums...

Creativity has been my compass for as long as I can remember. My mom once wrote in my baby book that I was “a little comedian,” and decades later, I’m still chasing stories, shaping scenes, and finding ways to make people laugh or lean in. It’s not just what I do — it’s who I am.

There’s always a project in motion: a screenplay draft, a novel chapter, a blog or Substack post, or a street photography series (you can see some of my shots on Instagram @jimvinespresents). Creativity is my constant companion, the wind in my sails.

But every so often, the wind dies. The passion, the spark, the drive — gone. I drift into the doldrums, watching YouTube videos, doing nothing that looks remotely “productive.”

And here’s the truth: that pause isn’t failure. It’s fuel. Those quiet stretches are the hidden engine of the creative life. They’re the moments when ideas ferment below the surface, when strength gathers invisibly. Creativity needs silence as much as it needs noise.

Then, almost without warning, the breeze returns. The sails snap taut. Suddenly I’m scribbling notes, hammering out script pages, or writing the very words you’re reading now. The doldrums pass, and the voyage continues.

So if you find yourself becalmed, don’t panic. Rest is not the enemy of creativity — it’s part of its rhythm. The stillness is what makes the storm of ideas possible. Step back, recharge, and trust the wind will rise again.

Find me on SUBSTACK!

The Joy of Writing...

Do you write for yourself, or do you write only with the hope of landing an agent or making a sale? It’s a question every writer bumps into sooner or later, usually on a day when the words aren’t flowing or the rejections are piling up. But for me, the answer has always been clear: I write for myself first.

I love the act of writing. I love the quiet ritual of sitting alone with a blank page, the way the world falls away as soon as the first sentence appears. There’s a kind of electricity in that moment — a spark that says, something is happening here. It’s fun, it’s exhilarating, and it’s deeply satisfying in a way that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t felt it. Writing is one of the few pursuits where you can be completely alone and yet feel entirely connected — to your imagination, to your characters, to something larger than yourself.

Over the years, I’ve optioned or sold a handful of screenplays. That’s always gratifying, of course. But there are many more — many more — that never made it past my desk. They’re tucked away in a drawer or stacked in a box in the back of my storage unit, gathering dust. And here’s the surprising part: I don’t regret a single one of them. I enjoyed writing those scripts. Every last page. The success wasn’t in the sale; it was in the making.

Because if you don’t love the process — the strange, joyful alchemy of inventing characters, building worlds, shaping moments, hearing dialogue spark to life — then what are you doing here? Writing without joy is like cooking without tasting, or painting without color. It becomes mechanical, joyless, a grind. And what a bleak fate that would be: to spend your days wrestling with stories you don’t love, chasing approval instead of discovery.

FOLLOW ME ON SUBSTACK!

PROCRASTINATION...

I used to know a budding screenwriter — I’ll call him Henry. We’d grab lunch, talk movies, and especially talk about writing movies. I’d tell him the storylines of whatever script I was wrestling with, and he’d tell me his idea for a screenplay.

Did you catch that? His idea.

Henry always had the same one. And it never existed in screenplay form — not a page, not a scene, not even a rough outline. Just an idea he carried around like a lucky coin. This went on for more than a year.

Eventually I asked him, “It sounds like you’ve got a pretty good concept. So why aren’t you writing it?”

He had a whole menu of excuses, but the one he served most often was, “I’m doing research.”

Since then, I’ve met plenty of writers — screenwriters, novelists, you name it — who lean on the same line. And look, I’m not anti‑research. Research is great. Research is useful. But at some point you have to stop researching and actually write the thing.

Personally, I do very little research before I start a project. Most of my stories don’t require much. (There was one exception back in 2008: I was hired to write a script that sent me to El Salvador for a week of on‑the‑ground research. Then I came back to L.A. and spent three months on a submission draft.) But generally, if I hit a moment in a script where I don’t know the mechanics of something, I just fake it with something plausible and leave myself a note: DO RESEARCH.

My only goal in the early stages is to get a first draft done — to make sure the story works from fade in to fade out. I can always go back and fill in the blanks.

And that’s really the point: don’t let research become the thing that keeps you from writing. It can feel productive, but it can also kill your momentum. Burn enough time “preparing,” and you’ll be exhausted before you’ve even finished your first act.

At some point, you have to stop gathering information and start telling the story.

Come visit me on SUBSTACK!

How Many Drafts?

The other day I spoke with a relatively new screenwriter. He told me he’s written about seven screenplays so far—none of which have gotten any traction. As we talked, I asked him: “How many drafts do you usually write before you consider a script ready to submit?”

His answer floored me. “Two, maybe three drafts,” he said.

Only three drafts for a screenplay? I couldn’t hide my surprise. He turned the question back on me: “How many drafts do you do?”

I told him I don’t keep exact numbers, but it’s always in the double digits. That piqued his interest, so I walked him through my process.

First, I get the initial draft down as quickly as possible. I’m not aiming for perfection—I just want the ideas on the page and the story locked in, knowing full well things will change. (I also stressed how important outlines are. Whether it’s a couple of pages or, in my case, 20-plus, you need one.)

Once that first draft is done, I go at it with a red pen. I cut unnecessary dialogue, description, and plot points. I strengthen weak ones. Then I repeat the process, draft after draft, until I’m no longer bleeding ink across the pages.

On average, I’ll do anywhere from 15 to 25 passes, depending on the complexity of the script.

So when he said three drafts? As Vizzini declared in The Princess Bride: “Inconceivable!”

 

Come visit me on SUBSTACK!

Finding Your True Starting Point (aka The Angle of Attack)

 

Sometimes, you’re halfway through writing a scene and suddenly—you're stuck. Not because the scene itself is broken, but because your Angle of Attack is off.

You’re aiming for Point D, but you’ve started at Point B. So you try again, this time from Point C. Still no good. The rhythm’s off, the emotional beats don’t land, and the scene feels like it’s chasing its own tail.

But if you’re lucky—or just paying attention—you’ll realize what’s missing. You need to start at Point A.

That’s the true beginning. The place where the scene breathes naturally, where the setup flows into the payoff, and where the emotional logic makes sense. Starting from Point A gives your scene the foundation it needs to move the story forward with clarity and purpose.

So the next time you’re writing a scene—or even outlining your entire screenplay—check your Angle of Attack. It might be the difference between forcing a moment and letting it unfold.

The Riches of a Creative Life (Even When the Checks Don’t Cash)

 

I was born into something of a showbiz family: my dad was a successful TV and radio announcer, and my mom was a Columbia Studios starlet and model. As for me, I was a creative little kid—always being silly, always making people laugh, always keeping folks entertained. But I truly fell in love at age eleven—not with a person, but with a Super 8 camera. It was 1974, and that little machine opened a door to a world where imagination ruled. My friends and I made movies with cardboard props and wild ideas, edited them with tape and scissors, and screened them for anyone willing to watch. We weren’t chasing fame or fortune. We were chasing joy.

At Beverly Hills High School, I found my tribe. The film and TV department was a dream factory, and for four years, I lived inside it—writing, directing, acting, editing, even building sets. The school had its own cable channel, broadcasting our work across parts of Los Angeles. We were kids, but we were creators. And that mattered.

After high school, I kept going—live theater, more video productions, and a stint in the film industry as a still photographer, grip, and even a stuntman. I met cool people, learned the rhythm of a set, and soaked in the energy of storytelling. Did I make a fortune? Not even close. But I made memories, friendships, and art. That’s a different kind of wealth.

In the ’90s, I turned to screenwriting. Working at a talent agency and major studios gave me access to hundreds of scripts. I studied them like sacred texts. Eventually, I optioned one. Sold another. Saw my first film produced in 1999. That moment—seeing something I wrote come to life—was electric. Not because of the paycheck, but because I had added something to the world I loved.

The journey hasn’t been smooth. Scripts have been shelved. Projects have fizzled. There were days I considered giving it all up and becoming a potato farmer. But the spark never died. I kept writing. Kept dreaming. A couple more of my scripts have been produced—though not yet released. Still, they exist. They were made. And recently, I discovered the joy of novel writing—two books so far. No royalties (well, nothing you could call life-changing), but endless creative freedom—and wow, unbelievably fun to write.

And yes, it’s important to pay the bills. I’ve worked plenty of “regular” jobs—waiting tables, hauling boxes in warehouses, doing security at major film studios, even grinding through mindless tasks at big Beverly Hills talent agencies. None of it was terribly glamorous, but it kept me (and my family) fed and afloat. The point is: you can do both. You can work to survive and still carve out time to create. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it.

And I’m still writing screenplays. In fact, I’ve got three new scripts—each in a different genre—currently being sent out, or about to be sent out, by my manager. The thrill of crafting something new and watching it find its way into the world hasn’t faded one bit.

So, to the young dreamers out there: if you’re wondering whether to follow your creativity even when the money’s uncertain—do it. The world needs your voice, your vision, your weird little stories. I’ve lived a life rich in meaning, even if the bank account didn’t always agree. And the only regret I’d have is if I’d ignored that eleven-year-old kid with a camera and chosen something “safe.”

Create boldly. Love the process. And trust that joy is its own reward.

QUOTE FOR THE DAY...

“There's this glorious and astounding magic that happens when I put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard. I go to this alternate realm of consciousness. It's where I meet characters who speak to me, who take me to interesting places, and who introduce me to compelling situations. I'm not certain where any of this comes from because none of it was there when I sat down, when I was convinced I didn't have any words in me. But still, it's all there. So even when the thought of a blank page makes me feel a little queasy, I force myself into that chair anyway. And it's after a minute or two of laying down those once elusive words that I have to wonder what all the fuss was about. The words come; they always do.” -- Jim Vines

YOUR QUESTIONS & MY ANSWERS (#1)...

 

Q: I want to write screenplays, but I don’t know where to begin. What’s the best way to get started?

A: My foremost guidance? Delve deep into the art, craft, and mechanics of screenplay writing. Begin with a selection of instructional books. A handful of well-regarded resources should be enough. Take some time to explore and identify the books that come with strong endorsements from fellow screenwriters. Progress to perusing a variety of produced screenplays. A simple online search for “free movie screenplays” will unlock a treasure trove of resources. Watch the films these scripts birthed. Then, revisit the scripts—not just as a reader, but as a student of the craft. By this juncture, you’ll have amassed a wealth of knowledge to propel you into writing your inaugural script. And then, take the plunge—seat yourself and commence writing. I won’t prescribe an outline just yet, nor will I dictate the medium of your writing. This journey is yours to chart, through trial and error, learning and evolving. Find your stride, your method, your voice.

“DO THE WORK.” Those three words encapsulate the essence of growth. Now, brace yourself for the first draft—a wild ride through any genre, any story. Perfection isn’t the goal here (remember, “Don’t get it right, just write”). Pour your heart onto those pages. Once you’ve wrestled your draft into existence, share it with three or four trusted, discerning friends. Seek their insights: Did any scenes meander aimlessly? Was the dialogue authentic? Did characters leap off the page or fall flat? Their feedback will be your compass, guiding you toward refinement.

Equipped with feedback, embark on the rewrite odyssey. The path you choose is uniquely yours. Some writers are digital purists, while others, like myself, prefer the tangible feel of paper and the flourish of a red pen before digitizing their edits. This journey is personal, a voyage of discovery. Screenwriting isn’t a one-size-fits-all craft; it’s about finding what resonates with YOU.

Dismiss the notion of selling your debut script. The marketplace is tough, and the likelihood of your first script being picked up is slim. Treat these initial attempts as your apprenticeship in the craft. It may take multiple scripts before you pen one that’s market-ready. In fact, the harsh truth is that a saleable script may never emerge from your efforts. Screenwriting demands a blend of artistry and craftsmanship, and not everyone is cut out for it. I, for one, can’t draw to save my life, but that’s the reality of art—it’s not for everyone.

Screenwriting has become a popular arena, with many eager to try their hand at it. With technology at our fingertips, anyone can attempt to write the next blockbuster. But the question remains: can you? So, dive in. Give screenwriting everything you’ve got. Write with fervor, learn from each word, and let the journey shape you!

Screenwriting Book of the Week...
A BEAST IS BORN

PLOT TWISTS: BALANCING SURPRISE AND PLAUSIBILITY...

 

 

When your lead character pulls off an “amazing” escape, it’s essential to lay the groundwork early. Take a script I critiqued: our protagonist, a woman on the run, suddenly hops into a stolen plane and soars away, leaving frustrated cops below. The catch? For the first 90 pages, we had no inkling she could fly an airplane. No need for a lengthy backstory, but a subtle hint would’ve sufficed—maybe a passing comment about her past aviation adventures. And then there’s that corridor scene. Our woman, cornered, pushes a hidden button, revealing a secret door. But wait—this location wasn’t previously established! It’s like she stumbled into a parallel universe. Let’s keep our heightened reality plausible. Audiences will suspend disbelief, but they won’t tolerate eye-rolling moments.

My journey from idea, 
to script, 

to marketing,
to award-winning short horror movie --
A BEAST IS BORN!

BLENDING GENRES

 

BLENDING GENRES

It can be a delicate art. Action/Adventure, Sci-Fi/Action, Sci-Fi/Thriller, and Comedy/Drama are all classic combinations that work. But caution is key when venturing beyond these boundaries. I once reviewed a script that was a hodgepodge of Sci-Fi, Comedy, Drama, Musical, and Western elements. Imagine space cowboys and musical showdowns—quite the chaotic concoction. Experimentation is part of the creative process, but remember, moderation is your ally. Once you’ve made your mark as a seasoned writer, then you can play with genre conventions. Take, for example, a script that aimed to mimic Pulp Fiction’s dark comedy but missed the mark on both humor and entertainment. Its climax, featuring a hitman’s heinous acts, was far from comedic. It’s a stark reminder: know your genres and strive for harmony in your storytelling.

If you'd enjoy a novel about a struggling Hollywood screenwriter, 

then I hope you'll check out...

Luigi's Chinese Delicatessen!

GET THE WORK DONE...

 

GET THE WORK DONE

Writing is a daily discipline for me, a commitment I uphold nearly every day. It’s not always about churning out pages; sometimes it’s organizing thoughts, outlining, or refining ideas. Each day, I dedicate anywhere from half an hour to six hours, depending on whether I’m drafting or revising. This routine, which spans 5 to 7 days a week, is crucial for maintaining momentum and productivity. As for my writing spots, they’re as varied as life itself. From the tranquility of beaches to the bustle of coffee shops, I find inspiration in the energy of life around me. While home offers comfort, it’s the vibrancy of public spaces that truly fuels my creativity. To me, these writing sessions aren’t work; they’re a joyous exploration of endless possibilities that a blank page represents. For fellow writers, I say: find your own haven of creativity and make writing a consistent part of your life. It’s all about putting in the effort and letting the words flow.

Follow my journey from idea to 

award-winning short horror film...

A Beast is Born!

PASSION?

 

A few years back, a producer with whom I had previous engagements approached me with a proposition: to write a screenplay about Edgar Allan Poe. This producer wasn’t just anyone—he had a string of produced films to his name, and the opportunity seemed ripe with potential. He was even willing to offer a reasonable sum for my writing services.

        He shared his vision for a script that would delve into a particular chapter of Poe’s life. On paper, it was intriguing. Yet, internally, I hesitated. My passion didn’t typically lie with tales of 19th-century poets and authors, even if they were as enigmatic as Poe. Nevertheless, the allure of the project’s challenges won me over. I convinced myself that there was a compelling narrative to be woven from Poe’s tumultuous life and controversial marriage to his cousin.

        Contracts were drafted, meetings ensued, and a commencement check landed in my bank account. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

The following eight weeks were a testament to perseverance. While sparks of enjoyment and fascination occasionally broke through, the truth was that my heart wasn’t fully committed to the story. Despite this, I powered through, piecing together a 110-page screenplay that I dubbed the “first draft”—a term I use loosely, as it was more akin to a third or fourth iteration.

I sent off the draft to the producer, laden with the premonition that it might not meet his expectations. It was a script born not out of pure inspiration but out of a sense of obligation—a reality that weighed heavily on me.

A few days after submitting my script, the producer, a connoisseur of dining and deals, invited me out for lunch—a setting he favored for discussions. We met the next day, enjoyed a pleasant meal, and then he shared his thoughts. He appreciated the script’s intriguing moments and sharp dialogue, but felt it wasn’t steering in the direction he envisioned. Consequently, my involvement with the project came to an end. No hard feelings, though. In fact, months later, he enlisted my skills for a rewrite on a contemporary thriller—a genre where I truly thrive.

This experience reinforced a valuable lesson for me: Write with passion, write what resonates with you. Anything less is a disservice to yourself and, if you’re being compensated, to the person funding your work. Passion is the pulse of authentic writing; without it, the words may exist, but the soul of the story remains elusive.

Psst...

I wrote a novel about a screenwriter. 
You'll love it. 

Click here!

DON'T TAKE “NO!” FOR AN ANSWER!

 

My real-world experiences are a testament to the unpredictable nature of the industry and the value of perseverance.

Once upon a time, I handed my horror script to a “respected” screenplay analyst. He was on the hunt for scripts to produce. After a couple of weeks, he delivered his verdict: “Sorry, I just don’t care for it.” Ouch. But little did I know that this seemingly discouraging moment would lead to unexpected twists. In the years that followed, I managed to option that very same script to not one, but two production companies that saw its potential. It turns out that while the analyst didn’t see the magic, others did. Lesson learned: one person’s rejection doesn’t define your script’s destiny. But the rollercoaster ride continued. 

My manager arranged a meeting with a director who hungered for fresh scripts. I pitched three ideas: two horror scripts and one thriller. The director’s response? He dismissed the horror concepts outright—no love there. However, the thriller idea caught his attention. He requested to read it. Hope bloomed. A week later, the director’s verdict arrived: “Thanks, but no thanks.” Disappointment? Sure. But then fate intervened. A few months down the line, I optioned that very same thriller script to a production company that embraced it with open arms. They loved it enough to renew the option after a year. Suddenly, my script had a new lease on life. And here’s the kicker: those two horror scripts the director didn’t care for? Well, I went ahead and optioned BOTH of them over the next few years. Turns out, even rejection can’t stop a determined writer. 

In 2005, I was inspired to create a collection of interviews with screenwriters who were actively earning their livelihood through their craft. These weren’t necessarily the marquee names but rather the unsung wordsmiths of the industry. Despite my enthusiasm, publishers were less than optimistic. The responses ranged from “Interview books don’t sell,” to polite rejections wishing me luck. Undeterred by the lack of publisher interest, I pursued the project with vigor. I quickly connected with 16 screenwriters, each sharing their unique journey and insights. To my delight, David Trottier, author of “The Screenwriter’s Bible,” agreed to pen the foreword, adding a touch of prestige to the endeavor.

I took the plunge into self-publishing, releasing Q & A: The Working Screenwriter as a paperback in 2006, followed by an e-book version years later. The book’s journey has been gratifying, to say the least. It’s performed admirably over time, even opening doors to opportunities such as being invited to speak at the Scriptwriter’s Network—an honor that speaks volumes about the book’s impact and reach.

I recall a producer, a seasoned gentleman with a flair for the artistic, who took a shine to my horror screenplays. His track record with art-house films was impressive, and his interest in my work was a promising sign. Initially, he secured an option on one of my scripts, and about a year later, he did the same with another. He embarked on the arduous journey of fundraising for both projects. Despite his efforts and our shared optimism, the financing didn’t come through. Yet, this twist of fate didn’t dampen his belief in my writing. Recognizing the potential in my words, he commissioned me to pen two additional screenplays. This time, it was more than just an option; it was a job that came with a genuine paycheck.

Once upon a time, back in the '80s, I penned a stage play—a labor of love, fueled by creativity and a dash of audacity. But it wasn’t until 2006 that I revisited that old script and thought, “Maybe it’s time to breathe life into these words.” Navigating the murky waters of play production was uncharted territory for me. Armed with determination, I reached out to an actor I’d met—an actor who also happened to own a theater. Fate smiled upon me; he was actively seeking plays to produce. I sent him my script, and his response was music to my ears: he loved it! The wheels were set in motion—casting, staged readings, rehearsals—all the ingredients for a theatrical feast. But then, like a magician’s vanishing act, he disappeared. The project fizzled out, leaving me with dashed hopes and a lingering question mark. Undeterred, I fast-forwarded to 2009. Perhaps lightning could strike twice? I queried various theater groups, bracing myself for the familiar chorus of polite rejections: “No thanks,” “Not our cup of tea,” “Too many characters.” It seemed my play was destined to remain in the shadows. And then, like a beacon in the fog, came the golden response: “Yes, we love it!” Finally, a theater group saw the potential. The curtains rose just a couple of months later, and my play took flight. True, it only graced the stage for three weeks, but those were three weeks of magic—the kind that lingers in the hearts of both creators and audiences. So, here’s to the tenacity of the human spirit and the resilience of words. My play may not have conquered Broadway, but it danced under the spotlight, and that, my friends, was a sweet success!

Countless tales echo the same truth: the unpredictable nature of life’s journey. One moment, a door may close, casting shadows of doubt; yet, in the next, another door swings wide open, ushering in a beam of opportunity. It’s the serendipitous dance of chance and endeavor. But amidst the pursuit of writing—a craft that can be as rewarding as it is challenging—lies the essence of existence. To truly live is to embrace the world beyond the written word. Cherish moments with family, bond with friends, travel to distant lands, and immerse yourself in adventures. These experiences enrich not only the soul but also the stories we tell. As you navigate the writer’s path, let your passion fuel your craft. Send your finest work into the world, persist with tenacity, and hold fast to hope. Never surrender to the siren call of defeat. The road may be strewn with trials, but it’s also lined with unexpected joys. Stay the course, and you may just find yourself marveling at the wondrous tapestry of events that unfold. May your life be as vibrant as your narratives, and may your stories reflect the fullness of your lived experiences. Keep writing, keep living, and let the surprises of life inspire you!

Psst! 
Do ya like novels about screenwriters? 
Then I hope you'll check out Luigi's Chinese Delicatessen!

Patience is a virtue...

 

I recently came across a post from a budding screenwriter on a forum, riddled with anxiety as he awaited feedback on his submitted script. His distress was palpable, and while many offered sound advice, I felt compelled to share my perspective. Screenwriting is not for the faint of heart. It’s a tumultuous journey, filled with highs and lows, and not every script will receive the attention it deserves. You might find yourself in a void of silence after submitting your work or strung along with promises of “I’ll get to it soon” that lead nowhere. Occasionally, you’ll encounter someone who adores your script, and for a brief moment, everything seems perfect—until they vanish, leaving you with unanswered calls and emails. And sometimes, you’ll collaborate closely with a producer, revising your script, discussing casting and locations, only to have the project abruptly canceled. It’s a harsh reality, but it’s the nature of the business. The key is to remain undeterred. Always have another script in the works and never hinge all your hopes on a single project. Waiting on responses from agents or producers can be maddening, so keep writing, keep creating, and stay grounded. Embrace the unpredictable scriptwriting journey with resilience, and remember, every setback is a setup for a comeback. Keep pushing forward and let your passion for storytelling be your guiding light. 

Follow the journey from idea to 
award-winning short horror film: 

A Beast is Born!

JUMPIN' THROUGH HOOPS...

 

JUMPIN’ THROUGH HOOPS—AND NOT EVEN GETTING’ PAID FOR IT!

 

Screenwriters often voice their frustrations about endless rewrites requested by producers who’ve shown interest in their work. These aren’t the producers actively developing a project; they’re the ones who dangle the carrot of potential production. The term “producer” is used loosely here—many claim the title without the credentials to back it up. They might be well-intentioned, promising to bring your script to life on screen, but without tangible results, these promises don’t pay the bills.

Imagine you have a script that a producer “loves”—a term you’ll hear often—but insists it needs more polishing. Eager to please, you dive into revisions, often without compensation or a guarantee of production. It’s a precarious position, working on faith that this person can deliver. But who is this “producer”? What’s their track record? Are they industry veterans or newcomers?

The reality is, this producer likely has multiple scripts in the pipeline, each at different stages, hoping one will lead to a production deal. Whether yours will be the chosen one is uncertain. But being considered is a step in the right direction, even if the path ahead is unclear. It’s a common hurdle in the screenwriting journey, one that requires patience and a bit of optimism.

The crux of the matter is compensation for rewrites. It’s unlikely that a producer expressing interest is paying you for these revisions, nor is it probable they’ve formalized the relationship with an option agreement and meaningful financial commitment.

The notorious dollar option deal is a red flag. It’s a token gesture where a producer offers a nominal sum to legally option your script, often just enough to buy a coffee. This should prompt caution; if a producer truly believes in your work, they should be willing to invest more substantially.

The amount that constitutes “substantial” varies, but it’s a measure of the producer’s commitment. A genuine producer will put their money where their mouth is, providing some financial assurance of their intentions.

Beware of the chummy facade some producers may adopt. While they may sing your praises during the option period, their tune often changes if they fail to advance your script. Remember, in Hollywood, business relationships often masquerade as friendships. It’s a tough industry, so navigate with caution and keep your wits about you. There are indeed sharks in these waters.

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THE OUTLINING PROCESS (PT. 2)

 

THE OUTLINING PROCESS PART II: GO IN-DEPTH

 

In crafting a more detailed outline, we delve into the specifics that bring the story to life:

 

Joe’s Workday: We open with Joe at his job. What’s his profession? He’s in a luxurious office, indicating a high-ranking position. He has a private secretary and is surrounded by colleagues he’s known for years, including his friend Ron.

 

The Drive Home: Joe’s journey home in his upscale car, listening to jazz, sets a relaxed tone. He arrives at his expansive house, noting another car in the driveway—his wife’s.

 

Home Life: Inside, Joe’s actions are routine: checking mail, loosening his tie, pouring a drink. He settles into work at his home office desk.

 

A Troubling Discovery: Time passes, and Joe notices his wife’s absence. He searches the house, leading to a grim discovery in the bedroom—his wife, lifeless, a victim of strangulation.

 

Police Interrogation: A detective questions Joe, probing into their marriage and fidelity. Joe’s responses paint a picture of a troubled but loving relationship.

 

Return to Normalcy: Days later, Joe struggles to focus at work. Ron offers support and invites him out, but Joe declines, still enveloped in grief.

 

An Unexpected Encounter: At a local bar, Joe meets Carla, sparking a connection. They bond over drinks and shared experiences of heartache.

 

A Night with Carla: The scene shifts to Jill’s modest home, where passion ignites between her and Joe, leading to an intimate night.

 

Another Shock: The next morning, Joe awakens in Carla’s bed, alone. A voicemail hints at concern for Carla’s whereabouts. Joe’s search ends in horror as he finds Carla’s body in the bathtub, echoing his wife’s fate.

This expanded outline provides a richer narrative, setting the stage for a complex tale of mystery and emotion. It’s the intricate details that transform a simple plot into a captivating screenplay.

Details are the essence of storytelling. They enrich the narrative, bringing it closer to a vivid reality. As you continue to refine your outline, adding dialogue and subtle intricacies, you’ll gain an increasingly sharp vision of your screenplay. By the time you’re ready to draft, you’ll have a comprehensive understanding of your characters and plot points, essential for weaving a compelling and marketable story.

Outlining is often misunderstood as a constraint on creativity, but it’s quite the opposite. It’s a canvas for your imagination, allowing you to visualize your film in its entirety before committing to the full script. It’s far more efficient to tweak a 20 to 40-page outline than to overhaul a cumbersome screenplay.

Remember, an outline isn’t a rigid contract. It’s a guide that you can diverge from as your characters evolve and your story unfolds. Discovering new paths along the way is part of the creative process. By ironing out the details early on, you ensure that your narrative arc is solid from start to finish, smoothing out the journey through those 110 pages.

If you like novels about creativity -- about screenwriting -- then you'll probably really enjoy 

LUIGI'S CHINESE DELICATESSEN

THE OUTLINING PROCESS (PT. 1)

 

THE OUTLINING PROCESS

 

Outlining is a pivotal step in screenwriting, serving as a roadmap for your narrative. The depth of an outline can vary greatly among writers, from simple bullet points to extensive 30-40 page documents. A more detailed outline can streamline the writing process, providing clarity on character details, settings, and plot developments that drive the story forward.

The Bullet Point Outline offers a high-level view of each scene, focusing on the essential plot points without delving into specifics.  For example:

 

·       Joe arrives home from work to find his wife’s dead body in the bedroom.

·       He’s interviewed by a police detective.

·       A week later, Joe struggles to get through his day at work.

·       Post-work, Joe drowns his sorrows at a bar, meeting Carla, an attractive woman.

·       They return to his place for an intimate night.

·       Joe wakes up to find Carla dead beside him!

While this outline sets up the first act, it’s just scratching the surface. As you flesh out your script, you’ll encounter questions that require deeper thought. Addressing these early on can save time and ensure your story’s elements are cohesive and compelling. Remember, the outline is not just about sequencing events; it’s about envisioning the film in your mind and laying a solid foundation for your screenplay.

Let’s delve deeper into the bullet points to flesh out the narrative and character details:

 

Joe’s Arrival Home: Starting with Joe’s arrival might be too abrupt. It could be beneficial to first depict Joe’s work life to provide context. Is he a blue-collar worker or a corporate executive? His work environment and interactions with colleagues can offer insights into his character. The type of neighborhood and house he returns to will also paint a picture of his socioeconomic status and lifestyle.

 

The Discovery: When Joe enters his home, his actions can reveal much about his relationship with his wife. Does he eagerly search for her or nonchalantly grab a beer? The discovery of his wife’s body should be shocking, and the method of her murder—stabbing, shooting, strangulation—will set the tone for the investigation.

 

Police Interview: During the interview with the detective, Joe’s demeanor and responses can hint at his innocence or possible guilt. His emotional state, the questions asked, and his answers will shape the audience’s perception of him.

 

Returning to Work: Joe’s behavior at work post-tragedy can show his coping mechanisms. Is he withdrawn or pretending to be strong? Introducing or re-introducing a colleague who may have had an affair with Joe’s wife adds complexity to the plot.

 

Meeting Carla: The setting of the bar where Joe meets Carla can influence the mood of the scene. Their interaction, who initiates contact, and Carla’s background are crucial elements that will affect the dynamics between them.

 

The Morning After: The circumstances of Carla’s death, whether similar to Joe’s wife’s or different, will raise questions about Joe’s involvement. His immediate actions upon discovering Carla’s body will be telling—does he call the police, a lawyer, or try to cover it up?

By asking these questions and exploring the answers, you can create a more layered and compelling story. Each detail adds depth to the characters and their world, making the screenplay not just a series of events, but a story that feels real and engaging. By probing deeper and asking questions about your scenes, you enhance your ability to chart the course of your screenplay. This process of inquiry not only clarifies the sequence of events but also enriches the world you’re creating, offering a clearer vision of the story’s trajectory and the characters’ journeys within it. It’s a method that ensures your screenplay unfolds with purpose and direction, resonating with authenticity and depth.

Check out my screenwriting e-book A BEAST IS BORN!

WHY DO WE CREATE?

 

Here’s a question to ponder: What drives us to create? Is it the allure of FAME? The pursuit of GLORY? The desire for WEALTH? Fame can be elusive—how many screenwriters can we name off the top of our heads? William Goldman, Shane Black… and then? Glory is fleeting—who remembers the latest Oscar winner for Best Screenplay? And wealth? According to the Writers Guild, the average screenwriter’s salary isn’t the stuff of dreams. If you’re seeking fame, glory, or fortune, screenwriting might not be the path for you. For me, it’s the Creative Process—the thrill of nurturing a mere idea into a full-fledged, marketable screenplay. And if that script becomes a film, or brings a touch of recognition and financial reward, that’s just a bonus. The true excitement lies in what happens after your work is released into the world. Once, I had an experience that crystallized why I create. It was a moment that defined the essence of my passion for creation. During a recent phone conversation, a friend and business associate shared her enthusiasm for my latest screenplays. Despite my modesty, she was adamant about their excellence and thoroughly enjoyed them. She’s even working on elevating them to producers. She also brought up a short film I made, which she adored and shared widely. One of her friends, feeling down at the time, found joy and laughter in it, brightening their day. That feedback is incredibly rewarding. It’s affirming to know that a simple creative endeavor, born from a desire for fun and expression, could lift someone’s spirits. That’s the power of creation. This is the essence of why I create. It’s a reminder for all creators—whether you’re writing, filming, painting, or photographing—to recognize the potential impact of your work. It’s a testament to your existence and influence on others. Remember this as you create: your work can touch lives in unexpected, meaningful ways. It’s a declaration that says, “I was here.”

Check out my screenwriting e-book A BEAST IS BORN...