Screenwriting

IFH 867: Wes Craven’s Secret to Writing Great Movies with Glenn Benest

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Every screenwriter begins with the same hope: that the first script will somehow reveal hidden genius. Reality, however, has a different lesson planned. In this conversation, Glenn Benest—a veteran screenwriter with films directed by Wes Craven and decades of experience mentoring writers—offers something far more valuable than shortcuts. He presents a philosophy built on persistence, revision, mentorship, and the understanding that professional writing is less about inspiration than continuous refinement.

Glenn’s journey didn’t begin with Hollywood in mind. He initially dreamed of becoming a playwright, studying at Harvard before earning an MFA in playwriting at UCLA. Theater gave him a deep appreciation for dialogue, structure, and performance, but it also taught him a practical reality: very few playwrights make a living. That realization led him toward screenwriting, where storytelling skills could reach larger audiences while still honoring the dramatic craft he loved. Looking back, he makes a compelling distinction. Film school can be invaluable for directors and cinematographers who need equipment and crews, but for screenwriters, the true currency isn’t a diploma—it’s an exceptional screenplay. Your script, not your résumé, opens doors.

One of the defining chapters of Glenn’s career came through working with Wes Craven before Craven became a household name. Collaborating on A Stranger in Our House and later Deadly Blessing, Glenn witnessed firsthand how a master filmmaker approached horror. Craven understood something many writers overlook: audiences come to a genre expecting emotional payoffs. Horror fans want unforgettable scares. Thriller audiences crave suspense. Comedy audiences expect laughter. Character and dialogue matter enormously, but they must ultimately serve the promise made by the genre itself. As Glenn explains, the most memorable films are those that deliver moments audiences have never experienced before. Originality often comes from reinventing familiar ideas rather than inventing entirely new plots.

The conversation becomes especially fascinating when Glenn reflects on mentoring Kevin Williamson during the development of what would become Scream. Rather than merely celebrating the film’s success, Glenn explains why it worked. The screenplay respected horror traditions while simultaneously playfully dissecting them. It balanced wit with genuine suspense, allowing audiences to laugh without ever forgetting they were watching a horror movie. That careful balance of tone is one of the most difficult skills for any writer to master, and Glenn’s recollections demonstrate how workshops, constructive criticism, and collaboration elevate promising ideas into enduring films.

Perhaps the strongest lesson throughout the discussion concerns feedback. Glenn repeatedly argues that writers don’t simply need opinions—they need informed guidance. Random notes from friends or family often create confusion instead of clarity. Productive feedback identifies genuine structural problems while preserving the writer’s confidence. Like elite athletes relying on experienced coaches, writers benefit from mentors who understand both craft and psychology. Every rewrite should move the screenplay closer to its potential. If revisions consistently make the script weaker, the problem often lies not in the writer but in the quality of the advice being followed.

Glenn also dismantles one of the biggest myths surrounding first drafts. Too many writers freeze because they expect perfection immediately. Instead, he encourages writers to simply let the story pour onto the page. The first draft isn’t meant to impress anyone—it’s meant to exist. Only after completing it can real rewriting begin. Problems become solvable once they’re visible. Each successive draft addresses different weaknesses until the screenplay evolves into something genuinely compelling. This patient, iterative approach stands in sharp contrast to the romantic notion of effortless inspiration and offers a far more sustainable path toward mastery.

What emerges from Glenn Benest’s career is a vision of screenwriting built not on talent alone but on discipline, humility, and community. Great scripts are rarely created in isolation. They grow through collaboration, intelligent criticism, repeated revision, and the courage to remain confident even when the work feels unfinished. For aspiring filmmakers, that’s perhaps the most encouraging lesson of all. Excellence isn’t reserved for the naturally gifted; it’s earned by those willing to keep rewriting until the story finally becomes everything it was meant to be.

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IFH 865: The Screenwriting Blueprint Every First-Time Writer Needs with David Hohl

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Every screenwriter starts with the same confidence: a great idea and the belief that inspiration alone will carry the story to the finish line. But somewhere between page twenty and page fifty, reality sets in. Characters lose direction. The plot wanders. Momentum disappears. It’s a struggle nearly every writer experiences, and according to David Hohl, it usually has nothing to do with talent. More often than not, it’s the result of skipping the most important part of the writing process: preparation.

David has spent years helping screenwriters develop stronger stories as a screenplay consultant while also teaching writers through Horror Movie School, an online platform dedicated to the craft of writing and producing horror films. Throughout the conversation, one lesson rises above everything else—great screenplays are built long before the first page is written. New writers often rush directly into dialogue and scenes because they’re excited by an idea, but David argues that enthusiasm without structure almost always leads to frustration. His own first screenplay, written when he was just seventeen years old, contained interesting scenes and promising dialogue, yet lacked a cohesive story because he hadn’t learned the importance of outlining. That early failure became one of the most valuable lessons of his career.

Instead of viewing outlines as creative limitations, David sees them as creative freedom. He compares story structure to the blueprint of a house. Before painters choose colors or designers select furniture, architects must first create a solid framework. Screenwriting works the same way. Once writers understand the major turning points, sequence goals, and dramatic progression of the story, they gain the confidence to be more inventive within those boundaries. Structure isn’t the enemy of creativity—it’s what allows creativity to flourish without losing focus.

One of the most interesting discussions centers on David’s use of the classic eight-sequence method. Rather than treating a screenplay as one intimidating 110-page document, he encourages writers to divide the story into manageable sections, each with its own dramatic objective. Breaking the script into smaller creative goals makes the writing process feel far less overwhelming while also giving writers a clear roadmap from beginning to end. It’s a system that has allowed David to meet incredibly demanding professional deadlines, including writing feature-length screenplays in just a few weeks because the heavy creative work had already been solved during the outlining stage.

The conversation also shifts into one of the most practical subjects for independent filmmakers: choosing the right genre. Having worked extensively with low-budget productions, David noticed a consistent pattern. Horror films found distribution while many dramas and comedies quietly disappeared. Unlike other genres that often depend on recognizable stars, horror audiences actively seek fresh concepts and memorable scares. A strong premise can become the selling point, allowing independent filmmakers to compete without celebrity casting or massive budgets. For aspiring filmmakers hoping to produce their first feature, David believes horror remains one of the smartest and most accessible paths into the industry.

That practical mindset carries over into filmmaking itself. Reflecting on directing his feature In Search of Lovecraft, David shares the realities of making a film with limited resources. Shooting a feature in just ten days meant constantly sacrificing ambitious camera moves in favor of simply completing the schedule. Time—not creativity—became the biggest obstacle. His experience reinforced a lesson every filmmaker eventually learns: larger budgets don’t simply buy better equipment; they buy time. More time for rehearsals. More time for lighting. More time for performance. And perhaps most importantly, more time to capture the shots you originally imagined.

Networking also emerges as one of David’s strongest recommendations. Rather than waiting for opportunities to appear, he encourages writers to actively build relationships by joining writers’ groups, attending seminars, studying produced screenplays, and reaching out to filmmakers whose work they genuinely admire. Small creative communities often become unexpected launching pads because today’s beginner may become tomorrow’s studio writer or producer. Careers in filmmaking are rarely built alone—they grow through years of authentic relationships and mutual support.

Perhaps the most encouraging aspect of David’s philosophy is that he rejects the idea that expensive film schools are the only gateway into the industry. While he respects traditional education, he believes today’s writers have unprecedented access to books, seminars, online courses, podcasts, screenplay libraries, and professional communities. Anyone willing to consistently study, practice, and improve has more educational resources available than previous generations could have imagined. The challenge is no longer finding information—it’s developing the discipline to apply it.

Ultimately, David Hohl reminds filmmakers that writing isn’t about waiting for inspiration to magically appear. It’s about preparation, persistence, and continually refining your craft. Great screenplays rarely happen by accident. They are carefully constructed, thoughtfully rewritten, and strengthened one decision at a time. The writers who succeed aren’t necessarily the most naturally gifted—they’re often the ones willing to put in the work long before anyone ever reads page one.

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IFH 863: How One Tweet Can Change Your Screenwriting Career with Jeanne Veillette Bowerman

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Some filmmakers spend years searching for the perfect camera, the right producer, or the ideal connection in Hollywood. But sometimes the most important investment isn’t a new lens or another screenplay competition—it’s simply showing up consistently, sharing what you know, and building genuine relationships. That philosophy sits at the heart of this conversation with Jeanne Veillette Bowerman, whose remarkable career demonstrates that success in screenwriting isn’t always about geography; it’s about generosity, persistence, and putting yourself where opportunities can find you.

Jeanne’s path into filmmaking wasn’t conventional. Before becoming the editor of Script Magazine and one of the most recognizable voices in the online screenwriting community, she owned a motel and restaurant for fifteen years. It wasn’t until later in life that she decided to pursue writing seriously. Like many first-time writers, she began without fully understanding just how difficult screenwriting could be. Looking back, she believes that ignorance may have been an advantage. Had she known every obstacle waiting ahead, she admits she might never have started. Instead, she embraced the challenge, learned through experience, and steadily built both her craft and her professional network.

One of the strongest themes throughout the discussion is the transformative power of social media when it’s used correctly. Jeanne explains that Twitter wasn’t originally part of a marketing strategy. She joined simply to connect with fellow screenwriters while adapting the Pulitzer Prize-winning book Slavery by Another Name into a screenplay. Those conversations eventually led to the creation of #ScriptChat, introduced her to Script Magazine, and ultimately helped launch an entirely new chapter of her career. Rather than viewing social media as a place to constantly promote projects, she believes filmmakers should approach it as a space to contribute, educate, and build authentic relationships. In her experience, people remember those who consistently provide value.

The conversation also offers practical advice for writers trying to break into Hollywood. Jeanne emphasizes that representation rarely comes from simply sending cold queries and hoping for the best. Instead, she encourages writers to develop exceptional material, attend pitch events, participate in respected screenplay competitions, seek thoughtful feedback, and continually improve their craft. Most importantly, she reminds aspiring writers that managers and agents are looking for projects they believe they can sell. That means understanding the marketplace without sacrificing the passion that originally inspired the story. Finding the balance between creativity and commercial viability remains one of the industry’s greatest challenges.

Her writing process is equally fascinating because it reveals how experienced storytellers continue experimenting with their craft. For years Jeanne relied heavily on detailed outlines before writing a single page. Recently, however, she challenged herself by collaborating with a writing partner whose process was almost entirely instinctive. Instead of mapping every scene beforehand, they began discovering the story as they wrote, allowing characters and situations to evolve organically. The experience pushed her far outside her comfort zone but also reminded her that no single writing method fits every writer. The best process is ultimately the one that keeps the pages moving forward.

Another valuable takeaway involves maintaining momentum despite the realities of everyday life. Like countless independent filmmakers, Jeanne balances multiple responsibilities including a demanding career, family obligations, editing dozens of contributors, and her own creative work. Her solution isn’t waiting for the perfect uninterrupted weekend. Instead, she writes whenever she can—even if it’s only fifteen minutes. Those brief sessions keep the story alive in her mind throughout the day, making it easier to return to the page later. It’s a practical reminder that consistency often matters more than marathon writing sessions.

Perhaps the most memorable advice she shares has little to do with formatting, structure, or pitching. It’s about reputation. Jeanne repeatedly returns to the idea that filmmaking is a relationship business. Whether interacting online, attending conferences, or collaborating on projects, generosity creates opportunities that self-promotion alone never will. Helping other writers, sharing useful resources, making introductions, and treating people with respect all contribute to a professional reputation that lasts far longer than any single screenplay. Success, she suggests, is built as much on character as it is on talent.

In an industry filled with uncertainty, rejection, and constant competition, Jeanne’s journey offers something refreshingly practical. Great careers rarely happen overnight. They grow through continuous learning, authentic connections, disciplined writing habits, and the willingness to keep evolving. Technology will continue changing the business, new platforms will emerge, and distribution models will shift, but the fundamentals remain remarkably consistent: write exceptional stories, help other people whenever you can, keep improving your craft, and never underestimate the opportunities that can begin with a single conversation.

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IFH 860: Hollywood’s Book Whisperer Reveals Why Most Scripts Never Sell with Lane Shefter Bishop

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One of the biggest misconceptions about writing is that great stories sell themselves. Most writers assume that if the script is good enough, eventually someone will recognize its brilliance. The reality is much harsher. Before anyone reads page one, before they evaluate the dialogue, the characters, or the structure, they first need a reason to care. That reason often comes down to a single sentence. In this conversation with Lane Shefter Bishop, a producer and development executive known throughout Hollywood as “The Book Whisperer,” the discussion revolves around one deceptively simple concept: if you can’t clearly explain your story, you probably don’t fully understand it yet.

Lane’s journey through the entertainment industry is anything but conventional. She worked throughout Hollywood in a variety of roles, from studio assistant positions to directing and producing, eventually becoming a specialist in developing books for film and television adaptation. Along the way she discovered something surprising. The projects that moved fastest were rarely the ones with the longest manuscripts or most detailed pitches. They were the projects with the clearest concepts. Whether she was setting up a project with major producers or pitching unpublished material to executives, success often depended on reducing hundreds of pages into a single compelling idea.

What makes Lane’s perspective particularly valuable is that she often acquires material before the books are even completed. Instead of waiting for finished manuscripts, she evaluates proposals, outlines, and partial drafts. That means she frequently makes decisions based almost entirely on the strength of a concept. For filmmakers and screenwriters, this offers an important lesson. Industry professionals are constantly searching for ideas that can be communicated quickly and understood immediately. Complexity is not always an advantage. Clarity is.

The central theme of the conversation revolves around the logline. While many writers treat the logline as a marketing tool created after the screenplay is finished, Lane argues that it should exist before the writing process even begins. She describes the logline as the rudder of the story—the mechanism that keeps the narrative pointed in the right direction. Without it, writers often drift into what she calls “event-to-event storytelling,” where scenes happen one after another without a clear objective driving the narrative forward.

One of the most useful frameworks she shares is that every strong logline contains three essential elements: the protagonist, what the protagonist wants, and what is at stake. While this sounds simple, it immediately exposes weaknesses in many scripts. Writers frequently know who their protagonist is and what they are trying to accomplish, but they neglect the consequences of failure. Without meaningful stakes, audiences have no reason to become emotionally invested. If nothing significant happens when a character fails, the story loses its urgency.

This insight extends beyond pitching and into screenplay development itself. During the conversation, several examples emerge where the process of building a logline reveals structural problems in the script. If a writer cannot identify the central goal, perhaps the protagonist is passive. If the stakes feel weak, perhaps the conflict needs to be intensified. If the protagonist isn’t driving the story, perhaps the wrong character is at the center of the narrative. The logline becomes less of a sales tool and more of a diagnostic tool for storytelling.

Another fascinating point is Lane’s emphasis on specificity. Many writers believe broader concepts create broader appeal, but she argues the opposite. Specific details are often what make stories unique. Generic concepts blend together. Distinctive details create curiosity. Her job involves reading hundreds of projects every year, and she repeatedly returns to the importance of identifying what makes a story different from everything else competing for attention. That difference often becomes the heart of the logline itself.

The conversation also highlights the importance of industry access. Lane strongly encourages writers to attend conferences, workshops, and networking events where they can interact directly with agents, publishers, and executives. While many writers focus exclusively on improving their craft, successful careers often depend equally on learning how to communicate ideas and build relationships. A brilliant screenplay hidden in a drawer has little chance of changing anyone’s life. A strong concept presented to the right person at the right time can open doors unexpectedly.

Perhaps the most memorable advice comes near the end of the discussion. Writers are often told to “write what you know,” but Lane references a quote from bestselling author Anne Perry that offers a more useful perspective: “Write about what you care about.” Knowledge can be researched. Passion cannot. The stories that resonate most deeply usually emerge from subjects that genuinely matter to the writer. When combined with strong structure, meaningful stakes, and a clear concept, that passion becomes the foundation for storytelling that audiences actually remember.

For writers, filmmakers, and storytellers at every stage of their careers, the lesson is clear. Before worrying about agents, producers, budgets, or distribution, first answer a simpler question: can you explain your story in one unforgettable sentence? If you can, you may already be further ahead than most writers trying to break into the business.

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IFH 850: Why Most Creators Never Finish Their Film (Hard Truth) with James Altucher

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On today’s episode, we welcome James Altucher, an entrepreneur, author, and creative thinker whose approach to idea generation and execution offers a surprisingly practical blueprint for filmmakers and screenwriters. While he’s not traditionally from the film industry, his insights cut directly into one of the biggest challenges creators face—how to consistently come up with ideas and actually turn them into something real.

One of the most striking takeaways from this conversation is the idea that creativity isn’t something you wait for—it’s something you train. Too many writers sit in front of a blank page hoping inspiration will strike, only to get stuck in overthinking, outlining, or self-doubt. James flips that completely. He argues that ideas are a muscle, and like any muscle, they weaken if you don’t use them. His solution is simple but powerful: come up with ten ideas a day, every day.

These ideas don’t have to be good. In fact, most of them won’t be.

That’s the point.

By forcing yourself to generate ideas consistently, you remove the pressure of perfection and replace it with momentum. Over time, patterns start to emerge. Your brain begins to connect concepts faster. And eventually, something clicks—a concept worth developing into a screenplay, a short film, or even a series. As James explains, the goal isn’t to get ten great ideas—it’s to build the ability to recognize one when it appears.

This approach directly applies to screenwriting. Many writers get stuck trying to outline the “perfect” story before writing a single page. But as discussed in the conversation, over-outlining can become a form of procrastination. It feels productive, but it delays the real work. The better approach is to start writing, let the story evolve, and refine it through drafts. The act of writing itself generates clarity.

There’s also a strong emphasis on execution over theory. It’s easy to read books, watch tutorials, and study structure, but none of that replaces actually making something. Whether it’s writing a script, shooting a short film, or creating a web series, the process of doing reveals far more than preparation ever could. James shares examples of creators who started with minimal resources—using basic cameras, simple setups, and limited budgets—and still managed to build something meaningful.

That idea connects closely with filmmaking. The barrier to entry has never been lower. With modern technology, anyone can shoot, edit, and distribute content. Yet many creators still hesitate, waiting for better equipment, more funding, or the “right moment.” In reality, those are just delays. The filmmakers who move forward are the ones who start with what they have and improve as they go.

Another key concept discussed is persistence. In the film industry, rejection is constant. Projects don’t get picked up. Scripts don’t sell. Shows don’t move forward. James shares his own experience pitching ideas, including projects that never made it to air despite initial interest. But instead of viewing those moments as failures, he treats them as redirections—opportunities to pivot and create something new.

“Persistence plus love equals accomplishment,” he explains.

That mindset is critical for screenwriters. A single script rarely defines a career. It’s the body of work that matters—the willingness to keep writing, keep improving, and keep putting ideas into the world. Each project becomes a stepping stone to the next.

There’s also an important discussion about feedback and growth. Improving as a writer requires interaction—with mentors, peers, and even audiences. James describes a system of learning that includes mentors (people ahead of you), peers (people at your level), and students (people you teach). This creates a feedback loop that accelerates improvement. For filmmakers, this could mean collaborating with other writers, sharing scripts, or even teaching what you’ve learned to others.

Ultimately, the conversation comes back to a simple but often overlooked truth: ideas are everywhere, but execution is rare.

You don’t need permission to start.

You don’t need perfect conditions.

You don’t need certainty.

You need to write. You need to create. You need to finish.

In the end, James Altucher offers a framework that strips away excuses and replaces them with action. For filmmakers and screenwriters, that shift—from thinking to doing—is where everything begins.

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IFH 846: Why Breaking Into TV Is HARDER Than You Think with Sandra Leviton

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On today’s episode, we welcome Sandra Leviton, a television development executive turned producer and writer who has worked on shows like Sons of Anarchy and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and now runs her own production company while developing feature films. Her journey is one of evolution—moving through different corners of the industry while learning how the business really works behind the curtain.

From the very beginning, Sandra knew exactly where she was headed. There was never a backup plan, never a moment of doubt about her path. She started young, working in theater and cable access television, eventually landing in Los Angeles with a built-in network from her college community. That early support system became crucial, because as she makes clear, no one truly builds a career in this industry alone. Relationships, connections, and shared growth are part of the foundation of any long-term success.

Her early career is a reminder that the path into filmmaking is rarely linear. Sandra began in reality television, working on shows during a time when that side of the industry was exploding. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was opportunity. From there, she transitioned into agency work, balancing both reality and scripted television before fully stepping into the scripted world. That movement between formats—reality, scripted TV, and eventually film—highlights something many filmmakers overlook: the industry is fluid, and your path can shift as long as you stay in motion.

Her time at FX became a defining chapter. Working during what many consider a golden era of television, she witnessed firsthand how shows were developed, pitched, and brought to life. She was there as projects like Sons of Anarchy and Louie took shape, and she saw how the business evolved from more open pitching environments to a system increasingly driven by established talent and recognizable names. As she explains, what once allowed scrappy creators to break in more easily slowly transformed into a more competitive, gatekeeper-heavy process.

That shift is especially clear when discussing how television differs from film. Many filmmakers assume the two operate similarly, but Sandra makes it clear that television is still deeply rooted in a structured system. Unlike independent film, where you can create, distribute, and build momentum on your own, television typically requires navigating a funnel of agents, managers, networks, and executives. Even success stories like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia had access to industry connections that helped them break through. The lesson is not to be discouraged, but to understand the system you’re trying to enter.

After years in development, Sandra made the conscious decision to pivot. She launched her own company, focusing on producing and writing feature films, where she could have more creative control and build projects from the ground up. Her short film Zone 2 became a stepping stone—proof of concept, creative expression, and a way to re-engage with the hands-on process of filmmaking after years behind the desk. It’s a move many filmmakers eventually consider: stepping away from the system to create something on their own terms.

One of the most practical insights she shares is about strategy. Too many filmmakers pour resources into projects without thinking about the end goal. Shooting a television pilot, for example, may feel like progress, but if the intention is to sell it into the traditional system, it will likely be redeveloped from scratch anyway. Instead, she emphasizes focusing on writing, building a strong portfolio, and understanding how the industry actually evaluates projects. It’s not just about creating—it’s about creating with purpose.

Sandra also speaks candidly about the realities of building a career. There is no such thing as overnight success. Behind every “breakthrough” is often a decade of work, relationships, and persistence. She stresses the importance of networking—not in a transactional way, but in a genuine, human way. People can sense when they’re being used, and the strongest connections come from authenticity. In an industry built on collaboration, those relationships often become the bridge to future opportunities.

Perhaps the most grounded advice she offers is also the simplest: keep creating. Whether it’s writing scripts, producing small projects, or experimenting with content online, the act of doing the work is what builds skill and visibility. Today’s technology has removed many barriers, giving filmmakers the ability to create and share their work instantly. The only real limitation is whether you choose to use it.

In the end, Sandra Leviton represents a filmmaker who understands both sides of the industry—the system and the independent path—and knows when to navigate each. Her journey is a reminder that success in filmmaking isn’t just about talent, but about strategy, relationships, and the willingness to adapt as the industry evolves.

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IFH 845: The Screenwriting Software Changing How Writers Work with Guy Goldstein

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On today’s episode, we welcome Guy Goldstein, a screenwriter, programmer, and the creator of the collaborative screenwriting platform WriterDuet. Some filmmakers find their calling behind a camera, others through words on a page, but Guy found his path in the strange intersection between storytelling and technology. It’s the place where creativity meets efficiency, where the writer’s imagination is supported by tools that make the process smoother rather than more complicated.

Guy’s journey into screenwriting software began with a simple frustration many writers share. Anyone who has ever written dialogue knows that the page can lie. Lines that look sharp and clever in silence can feel flat when spoken aloud. Early in his career, Guy experimented with a project that allowed writers to hear their scripts performed using computer voices or remote actors. The idea was not to replace actors, but to give writers a practical way to hear their dialogue without organizing a full table read. For many screenwriters working independently, this kind of tool could be the difference between guessing and truly understanding how their script sounded.

But the bigger revelation came when Guy examined the tools screenwriters were using every day. Most screenwriting software was designed around a very old assumption—that writing is done alone. Yet anyone who has spent time in a writers’ room knows that filmmaking is deeply collaborative. Feature films often have multiple writers. Television scripts emerge from rooms filled with voices shaping the same story. Even independent filmmakers frequently work with partners, editors, and collaborators during the writing process.

The tools, however, hadn’t caught up with that reality.

That realization sparked the creation of WriterDuet. Instead of writers sending drafts back and forth through email, they could now open a screenplay together and work simultaneously in real time. Changes would appear instantly for both collaborators, eliminating the constant confusion of version numbers, file names, and lost edits. It was a deceptively simple solution to a problem that had quietly frustrated writers for years.

What makes Guy’s perspective unique is how he sees the connection between programming and storytelling. In software development, large systems are broken down into smaller components that work together. A screenplay operates in much the same way. A film begins as a large narrative idea, but it must be constructed through scenes, sequences, and character arcs. Each element has a purpose. Each moment contributes to the larger structure of the story.

This technical mindset helped Guy approach screenwriting software differently. Rather than focusing solely on formatting scripts, he looked for ways to improve the writing process itself. Features like real-time collaboration removed logistical barriers between co-writers. Revision history allowed writers to revisit earlier versions of scenes without fear of losing work. Branch drafts let writers experiment with alternate story paths while keeping their original structure intact.

In essence, the software was designed to support the creative process instead of interrupting it.

Yet Guy is also quick to remind writers that tools alone will never create a great screenplay. The emotional core of a story—the characters, the conflict, the voice—must still come from the writer. Software can help remove distractions, but it cannot replace imagination. The real goal is to create an environment where writers spend less time fighting their tools and more time shaping their stories.

That philosophy has quietly resonated throughout the filmmaking community. Professional writers, television productions, and independent filmmakers have all begun adopting collaborative tools like WriterDuet as part of their workflow. In a business where speed and collaboration matter, anything that streamlines communication between writers becomes incredibly valuable.

But perhaps the most interesting takeaway from Guy’s journey is how innovation often begins with a personal problem. He didn’t start out trying to change the screenwriting industry. He simply wanted a better way to write, collaborate, and manage scripts. By solving that problem for himself, he ended up creating something useful for thousands of other writers.

And that is often how progress happens in filmmaking. A filmmaker solves a problem on one project, and suddenly the entire industry benefits from the solution.

In the end, Guy Goldstein represents a new kind of filmmaker—someone who understands that storytelling doesn’t only happen on screen. Sometimes it also happens in the tools that make storytelling possible.

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IFH 840: Finding Your Way into Film Without Film School with David Powers

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On today’s episode, we welcome David Powers, a filmmaker whose journey into the industry proves that there is no single roadmap into cinema—only curiosity, persistence, and a willingness to learn by doing. David’s path didn’t begin in film school or on a studio lot. It started with a fascination for movies, professional wrestling, and the simple question every filmmaker eventually asks: how do they make this?

Originally studying business and marketing, David found himself increasingly disconnected from a traditional academic path. Movies—especially horror and cult cinema—became his gateway into understanding storytelling, tone, and genre. That curiosity deepened after attending the New York Asian Film Festival for the first time, where he was exposed to films, filmmakers, and storytelling traditions he’d never encountered before. Watching these movies didn’t just entertain him—it ignited a desire to understand what was happening behind the camera.

Rather than returning to school, David took advice that changed everything: go to set and learn the job firsthand. Within months, he found himself working on productions, absorbing how crews function, how decisions are made, and how problems are solved in real time. That hands-on education quickly led him into production work with independent professional wrestling promotions, where he learned camera operation, coverage, and storytelling under pressure—often from ladders, scaffolding, or whatever setup was available.

Those early experiences taught David a lesson many filmmakers learn the hard way: waiting for perfect conditions is a trap. Early shoots were done with borrowed or outdated gear, but the work got made. Feedback came fast and sometimes blunt, but it shaped his instincts. Each mistake became a tool, not a setback. As David puts it, filmmaking teaches you how to fail—and how to get better because of it.

Alongside set work, David began volunteering with the New York Asian Film Festival, initially helping wherever he could. Over time, that consistency turned into trust, and trust turned into responsibility. Today, he serves as Operations Manager for the festival, helping coordinate events, guests, screenings, and logistics. His rise within the organization wasn’t fueled by ambition alone—it came from showing up, asking for more responsibility, and genuinely caring about the experience of both filmmakers and audiences.

The conversation also explores burnout—an inevitable topic for anyone who has worked long days on low-budget sets. David speaks candidly about projects where poor planning, miscommunication, or ego made the work unsustainable. Over time, he learned the importance of saying no, reading contracts carefully, and trusting his instincts. Experience taught him that not every opportunity is worth taking, and longevity requires discernment as much as passion.

Yet stepping back didn’t mean walking away. Through the festival, David stayed connected to cinema in a healthier, more meaningful way—curating experiences, supporting filmmakers, and keeping the creative spark alive. Recently, he’s returned to directing through NYAFF Chat, a talk-show-style series that keeps the festival engaged year-round and puts him back behind the camera with renewed clarity.

Ultimately, David Powers represents the filmmaker who learns by moving, not waiting. His story is a reminder that film careers are built sideways as often as they are built forward—and that sometimes the path back to creativity begins with protecting your love for the craft.

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IFH 839: The Rodriguez List: How to Make Movies with What You Already Have with Aaron Kaufman & Brian Levin

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On today’s episode, we dive deep into what it really takes to make movies in today’s independent film landscape with Aaron Kaufman and Brian Levin—two filmmakers who understand both the creative and business realities of modern cinema. Their conversation cuts through fantasy and wishful thinking, offering a grounded look at how careers are actually built through action, momentum, and persistence.

At the center of the discussion is the idea often referred to as the “Rodriguez List,” inspired by Robert Rodriguez’s early filmmaking philosophy. The concept is simple but powerful: instead of writing the movie you wish you could make, write the movie you can make right now. That means taking inventory of what you already have—locations, props, relationships, and collaborators—and building a story around those assets. According to Aaron, this approach doesn’t limit creativity; it focuses it. Constraints force better storytelling and smarter production decisions.

Brian’s own career reflects this philosophy. He began by creating an online comedy show in the early days of internet video, long before YouTube became a mainstream launching pad. By consistently producing content and putting it into the world, he and his collaborators were eventually discovered by an online network connected to Adult Swim. The key wasn’t perfection—it was volume, consistency, and willingness to create publicly.

Aaron brings a complementary perspective from the producer’s side, shaped by years working with Robert Rodriguez on projects like Sin City 2 and Machete Kills. One of the biggest lessons he learned was that confidence comes from repetition. Rodriguez didn’t wait years between projects—he was constantly producing, learning, and refining his craft. That same mindset, Aaron argues, applies to today’s filmmakers releasing work online. The more you create, the faster you improve, and the more clearly your voice emerges.

The conversation also tackles a hard truth about first-time filmmakers: investors are rarely excited by inexperience. Being a first-time director or producer is always a risk, no matter how long you’ve worked in the industry. That’s why momentum matters. Having a project already moving—cast attached, a start date planned, or even proof-of-concept material—changes the conversation entirely. A script is an idea. A movie in motion is leverage.

When discussing their film Flock of Dudes, Aaron and Brian explain how the project evolved through years of development, rewrites, and studio conversations before finally being made independently. Despite the challenges of producing a comedy outside the traditional studio system, they focused on protecting the emotional core of the story: real friendships, real conflicts, and relatable growth beneath the jokes. That foundation helped the film stand out in a crowded marketplace.

Both filmmakers emphasize that the modern industry no longer rewards waiting. Festivals are crowded, theatrical releases are limited, and audience behavior has changed. Today, filmmakers must think beyond just making a movie—they must think about why it exists now, who it’s for, and how it will reach them. Whether that means YouTube, VOD, or streaming platforms, the goal is connection, not validation.

Ultimately, Aaron Kaufman and Brian Levin remind us that filmmaking is not about permission—it’s about momentum. Careers are built by creating, releasing, learning, and repeating the process. If you wait for perfect conditions, you’ll never start. If you start with what you have, you might just surprise yourself with how far you can go.

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IFH 835: What Really Happens After You Write the Script with Michael K. Snyder

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On today’s episode, we dive deep into the long game of screenwriting and career-building with Michael K. Snyder, a writer and producer whose journey is a masterclass in patience, preparation, and persistence. Michael’s story isn’t about overnight success or viral moments—it’s about understanding how the industry actually works and learning how to navigate it without losing your creative voice. From film school to studio meetings, his path reveals what happens after the script is written, when development, relationships, and timing become everything.

Michael began his career at Full Sail University, later earning a master’s degree before making the leap to Los Angeles. Unlike many aspiring writers, he didn’t move west blindly. He arrived with a plan, a growing network, and a willingness to work his way up. One of his earliest breakthroughs came from reaching out directly to Lloyd Kaufman of Troma—an act that taught him a crucial lesson early on: opportunities are rarely handed out, but they often appear when you’re willing to ask professionally and follow through. That mindset became the foundation of his career.

Once in Los Angeles, Michael balanced day jobs with constant writing, producing short films whenever possible. Access to a massive warehouse space allowed him and fellow filmmakers to shoot projects on their own terms, building real credits instead of waiting for permission. During this time, he continued developing feature scripts and pilots, understanding that every script serves a purpose—even if it never gets made. Some are calling cards. Others are doors to conversations that lead somewhere unexpected.

That philosophy paid off when a script he shared online attracted a manager’s attention. While the majority of feedback was harsh and dismissive, one email changed everything. Instead of focusing on the negativity, Michael leaned into the opportunity, turning that script into a relationship that opened doors across town. Meetings followed—not because the script was guaranteed to sell, but because it demonstrated voice, ambition, and storytelling instinct. In Hollywood, that’s often enough to get you in the room.

Michael’s experience highlights a critical truth about development: selling a script is rarely the goal. Selling yourself as a writer who understands story, character, and collaboration is what matters most. He explains how development can stretch for months or even years, involving outlines, treatments, rewrites, and constant conversations with producers. It’s not glamorous, and it’s rarely fast—but it’s where careers are built.

One of the most fascinating parts of Michael’s journey is his work adapting existing material. From pitching large-scale biographical projects to developing treatments for iconic properties, he learned how executives evaluate writers not just on originality, but on how they handle legacy, tone, and character. Adaptation, he explains, is about honoring the heart of a story while making it relevant for a modern audience—a skill that has become increasingly valuable in today’s IP-driven marketplace.

At its core, Michael K. Snyder’s story is about loving the process. He emphasizes that if you don’t enjoy development, collaboration, and long stretches of uncertainty, this industry will wear you down. But if you can learn to embrace the grind—rewriting, networking, pitching, and waiting—you give yourself a real chance to succeed. His journey is proof that careers aren’t built on single moments, but on years of showing up, doing the work, and staying ready when opportunity finally knocks.

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