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.

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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.