The Gate Collapsed
There’s a brutal kind of irony to it: the moment I felt like I was finally gaining traction in screenwriting—finally—the road just... vanished.
Coverfly is shutting down.
For those who don’t know, Coverfly wasn’t just a website. It was the only platform that aggregated your screenwriting contest entries, feedback, and wins into a single profile. It tracked your momentum. It housed your portfolio. And if you were lucky—and relentless—it might land you a spot on the “Best Unrepped Writers” list.
That was my goal. That was the light on the horizon.
And now it’s gone.
Atlanta Is Not A Writer’s Town
I’ve spent the past three years grinding in Atlanta. It’s a production city, sure—crews, stages, locations—but all the writing happens in Los Angeles. Every time I finish a script I’m proud of, I do what the industry says to do: I send it to producers, reps, managers, and lawyers. I enter it into contests. I try to make noise.
You know what I get back?
“We don’t accept unsolicited material.”
“You need to go through representation.”
Silence.
And in the rare case I get a response, it’s from an actor saying, “If you have a part for me, I’d love to be considered.” Filmmakers I meet? They’re shooting wedding reels, or TikToks, or deeply locked into their own crews from college. If I’m lucky, I’m a guy they’ll use for background. Never the guy they write with.
I’ve joined writers’ groups. They’re all novelists.
I’ve tried meetups. Novelists.
Conferences? Novelists.
And the classes offered by the local film organizations here? They push you into the PA pipeline, and they’re honest about it: “If you have a family, a soul, or a spine, don’t bother. You work until you drop.”
That’s not my path. And I’m not going to apologize for that.
The Only Door That Was Open Just Slammed Shut
Coverfly was the only place I felt like I had data to prove I was doing something right. Wins, scores, placements, coverage. It wasn’t perfect. A lot of people thought it was a scam. But it was working for me. My scripts were climbing. My confidence was climbing. I had a strategy.
And now there’s no “Best Unrepped Writers” list. No centralized portfolio. No momentum trail.
It feels like I called an Uber from Atlanta to LA, and it dumped me out in a cornfield in the middle of Oklahoma when the company shut down.
I've Tried. I've Been Trying.
This isn’t me whining from my couch. I’ve done the work.
In Richmond, I joined a local screenwriting group—then had to leave when I moved.
In Colorado, I joined a film forum and ended up on the board of a film fest—but I was the writer, not the filmmaker. Always peripheral.
In Texas, I reached out to local film schools—only to be met with suspicion or outright elitism.
In Philly. In Jersey. In Missouri. I’ve tried to plug in, connect, contribute.
And the truth I’ve learned through all of it is this:
It costs people nothing to say no. So you better give them a reason to say yes.
But how do you do that when the only thing you’ve got is the work itself, and the work isn’t being seen?
How do you build trust in your voice when the industry won’t give you the mic?
This Isn't A Cry For Help—It's A Declaration
I’m not new to starting over. I’ve done it more times than I can count.
I deleted every short film I ever made. I began again in 2010, alone. No footage. No crew. Just scripts.
And somehow, here I am again—forced to begin again.
But I’m not stopping. Not this time.
Instead of begging to be let in, I’m building the house.
I’m launching a portfolio hub that doesn’t rely on broken platforms.
I’m starting a writer/filmmaker collective for people like me—unrepped, unbroken, unwilling to disappear.
I’m filming my words. Even if it’s just a monologue on a phone in my apartment.
I’m showing the journey. Not as an “influencer,” but as a fucking human.
Because if no one else is going to carry this torch, I will.
If You Feel This Too...
You’re not alone. If you’re an unrepped screenwriter who feels like the doors are welded shut, come find me. Let’s build something they can’t ignore.
You can strip us of platforms. You can ghost our queries. But you can’t kill our voices.
We’re still here.
And we’re not asking anymore.
