How To Succeed As a Screenwriter without Killing Yourself
Recently I had a moment where I was just depressed and stuck. For all my efforts as a writer, I only had a half dozen people patting me on the back every so often, a stack of ideas that kept growing, and zero idea if I was doing things right. Every person I’ve emailed a script to or reached out to in order to get “discovered” either ghosted me completely or said “Script’s good. Just not my thing.”
I have been to festivals and networking events this year. Everyone who hears I’m a screenwriter has the same “Who’s a good boy?” reaction that I give my dog when he brings me a toy.
So, I did what any of us would do. I went to Reddit. And I bled my heart out on the “page.” See below for the pool of blood:
”I’m 42, Have Strong Scripts, and Still Can’t Get Anyone in the Industry to Care. What the Hell Do I Do Now?
Alright, here it is. I’m out of answers. Out of ideas. Out of whatever the hell keeps people going. I’m reaching out because I’m tapped. I know I’m not the only one. I know a lot of us are stuck, just spinning our wheels, wondering what the next move is, all of us quietly screaming into the void and pretending we’re fine.
If you’ve been around here for more than five minutes, you’ve seen me post about the little wins, about trying to find my people, about keeping at it. And every time, I get the same shit: "You’re doing everything right," "Your writing is strong," "You’re just one ‘make your own movie’ away from making it." Execs reach out, I get the polite compliments, the thoughtful passes, the whole song and dance. And still, nothing fucking moves.
I’ve wanted to make movies since I was a kid in Missouri, early 90s, back when the indie films that shaped me never even made it to the local theater. So I did what I could: directed theater, rented every VHS I could get my hands on, covered my walls with free posters from the video store. Eventually, I got a film degree, moved near NYC, and finally saw the kind of movies that left me walking out of the theater in total silence, absolutely wrecked.
Got my MFA in screenwriting. Spent the last decade grinding, writing nonstop, obsessing over every line. I write dramas. The kind that punches you in the gut. And because of the shit I’ve lived through, they’re personal as hell:
the dissociation after losing people I loved
My brother was killed in Iraq.
holding my dog as he stroked
Watching racism twist the life of someone I care about
sitting beside my dying father
The losses stacked from 2024 to 2025
friends lost
family lost
The way grief quietly rearranges your entire interior life
Not imagined. Lived. These are the stories I bled onto the page. Sure, I wrote them in school, got the good reviews, but nobody ever taught me how to actually sell this shit. Just a bunch of talk about who the buyers are and how they buy. Useless.
I’ve written dozens of drafts. Paid for pro notes. Placed in contests, got the little laurel things, got the "your writing is fantastic, but drama doesn’t sell" emails. My scripts get those middle-of-the-road Black List scores. Producers and assistants ghost me. Industry people say they love the writing but "don’t have a lane" for it. I network in Atlanta like it’s my second job. I’ve done the Coverfly and Stage32 hustle. Hired a PR team. Sent cold queries. Warm queries. All of it. Everything short of selling my soul. What I actually need is someone who gives a shit about drama and can help me get in the right rooms.
I’m looking for specific advice on how to:
Identify and connect with industry professionals who have a proven track record of championing dramas.
Develop a strategy for standout queries and pitches that genuinely catch the attention of agents or managers.
Explore alternative avenues for gaining industry presence and feedback, such as collaborations or workshops.
Any insights into finding the right manager or agent who can champion my work would be invaluable.
Yeah, I know how this sounds.
Like a whiny, pedantic asshole who just “doesn’t have the goods.”
Fine. I’ll own the whiny. I’ll own the pedantic. I’ll even own the asshole.
But I’ve read enough truly awful scripts over the last 30 years - as a reader, as a writer, as someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing - to know mine aren’t that.
The real problem? Identity.
I spent years scared shitless to show my work, scared of being pushy, scared of hearing no. Not anymore. Now I tell people I’m a writer because I fucking am. But when your whole identity hangs on something, and all your effort - or even just your idea of your effort - goes nowhere? It’s soul-crushing in a way that’s hard to even explain.
I’m 42. I’ve written scripts I’m actually proud of. And I’m still here, begging people to read them, trying to build a bridge to a system that keeps yanking the planks out from under me. I don’t need applause. But the silence? It’s fucking brutal.
The only IP I’ve got is my dad’s court case against one of the biggest companies on earth. I’m finally writing that script—the one story I’m honestly scared to touch because it means digging up shit I’m not sure I can handle. My dad died this year. The grief is still raw, still sitting in my chest like a cinder block. I’m trying to break it down into scenes I can actually face, letting myself step away when it gets too heavy. I’m writing down my thoughts as I go, hoping I don’t lose my mind. This script is me trying to claw my way through the worst of it, hoping it heals something, but honestly, I’m terrified I’ll pour everything into it and it’ll just get ignored like all the rest.
And I’m tired. Not just tired - wrung out. Burned out. Fucking exhausted.
I’m in therapy. On meds. I meditate, breathe, hydrate, journal, exercise, eat the right shit, do all the "right" things. It helps - except when it comes to writing. I took a month off and the silence cracked something open. Woke up one morning sure I was having a heart attack, and the worst part was thinking, "Fine. Let it happen." Not because I want to die, but because I’m just so fucking tired of pushing this hard into a void.
I don’t want to quit. I don’t want to make this sound more dramatic than it is, but I’m out of gas. I have no idea how to get from "talented but unproduced" to "someone whose work actually exists in the world." I don’t know how to make people give a shit about the stories of the people I love - stories I don’t want to lose. Has anyone else hit this wall? What actually got you through? I’m not looking for more empty encouragement. I want real, concrete stories. If you’ve got something that actually helped, I’m all ears.
I read and read, especially on this subreddit, the tales of people whose managers aren’t working for them, or who have sold their work but can’t figure out how to sell the next thing, but I’m not even sure how to get a manager’s interest, or sell that first thing. And I’ve read more than I care to admit about how to write the perfect logline, query letter, and do the right thing at the right time, and still, nothing works.
If anyone has advice that isn’t a fucking platitude - something real, something beyond "keep going" - I’d actually appreciate it. I want to know how to actually connect with people who matter, get real feedback, or even figure out if there’s another path I’m missing. I’m open to weird, non-traditional routes, or even jumping into something adjacent if it means not screaming into the void anymore. If you’ve got something real, lay it on me.”
After that, I had the following: 171,000 views of that post. 553 upvotes. 221 comments. 20 DMs. And a slew of advice.
I was overwhelmed. So, being the guy I am, I copied and pasted it all, all of it, into a document. First pass, I took out all the “troll” comments. Then, I looked at what everyone else said and boiled it down.
With that, I present to you a playbook, if you’re like me, and stuck being told you’re good but not having people line up to work with you. I call it, as our title suggests “How To Succeed As a Screenwriter without Killing Yourself.”
I had to just shut up for a minute and actually listen to the people who’ve been through the shit. What they said hit me right in the gut.
There’s no secret code, no magic password. Just this ache in your chest when you realize most of us aren’t losing for the reasons we tell ourselves late at night.
Here’s the shit nobody wants to say out loud.
1. Talent isn’t the bottleneck. Leverage is.
Pretty much everyone who’s actually done the work said the same thing: being good is just the price of admission. You walk in and the place is already packed with people just as hungry, all of us staring at the same locked door.
Some people get their shot. The rest of us just sit there, waiting for a call that never comes, watching hope bleed out one hour at a time.
It’s not about taste or how much you’re willing to bleed for it. It’s leverage. That’s the ugly truth nobody wants to admit.
Leverage looks like:
having something already made
controlling IP
being physically close to the industry
being useful to someone else’s project
showing you can finish and ship
If all you’ve got is a stack of scripts and some hope, you’re probably going to end up watching the light go out and wondering what the hell happened.
2. Writing good drama is not a viable entry strategy right now.
This one stings, but I kept hearing it from people who’ve actually done the work:
Dramas are incredibly hard to get made, even for people with stars attached.
That doesn’t mean:
Stop writing drama
Stop caring about depth
turn into a genre robot
It means:
Drama isn’t your golden ticket. Not now, not for a while.
You need something that actually makes people look up for half a second before they scroll past and forget you ever existed.
3. Most people don’t break in by being “discovered.”
This was almost universal.
Very few people got in because:
Someone cold-read their script
a query worked
A contest win magically fixed everything
Most people got in because:
They worked on someone else’s project
They made something themselves
They adapted IP
They were already in the room when an opportunity came up.
Hollywood isn’t a ladder. It’s a graveyard of broken dreams, and you’re either clawing your way up or getting buried with the rest.
4. Make something. Anything. Control beats permission.
This was the one thing everyone shouted.
Making your own work:
short films
no-budget features
audio adaptations
journalism
books
web series
It changes the way people look at you. Suddenly you’re not just another wannabe.
The second you make something, you stop begging at locked doors. You start moving, even if you’re stumbling.
You’re just moving forward.
People start to notice. The vibe shifts. You’re not just another voice lost in the noise, hoping someone hears you before you disappear.
5. Don’t lead with your trauma. It scares strangers.
This is not about shame. It’s about timing.
A lot of us write from pain. That’s normal.
What doesn’t work is dumping all your pain on strangers before they even know if you’re worth their time.
Early conversations should be about:
taste
craft
curiosity
collaboration
Your story comes later, when someone’s earned it.
6. Write at least one thing that’s easier to sell than it is to explain.
This doesn’t mean selling out.
It means:
a clean hook
a clear engine
something someone can pitch in one sentence
You can still put your soul in it.
But if your idea is heavy as hell, you’re just asking people to drag it around and hope it’s worth the trouble.
7. Separate “the work that feeds you” from “the work that saves you.”
This one hit me hard.
Not every project needs to:
justify your life
process your grief
represent your entire voice
Some things can just:
get made
open doors
build momentum
You’re not selling out by letting your real work sit for a while. Sometimes the best stuff needs to grow in the dark where nobody’s watching.
8. Being tired doesn’t mean you’re wrong.
A lot of people I talked to weren’t quitters. They were burned out.
Yelling into the void for years will leave you empty, your voice shot, your hands shaking, your spirit wrecked.
The fix isn’t:
yelling louder
doubling down blindly
You have to aim your fire. If you don’t, you’ll just burn yourself out and be left with nothing but ashes and a bunch of questions about where all your time went.
I heard this from people older than me, younger than me, and everywhere in between.
The people who last:
aren’t alone
aren’t precious
aren’t waiting for permission
They keep moving, even if it’s just one slow step at a time, hoping for any sign of light.
9. There is no single “right” path — but there are many wrong assumptions.
The biggest wrong one?
“If I’m good enough, someone will notice.”
The truth is harsher and more freeing:
If you make yourself useful, visible, and reliable, someone will eventually need you.
That’s the hard truth. That’s the only game this place has ever played.
If I had to sum it up in one sentence, it’d be this:
Stop waiting for someone to pick you. Build something so damn obvious they can’t ignore you, even if they want to.
That’s what I learned.
