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Introduction by James
When I first stepped off the bus onto Hollywood Boulevard, I had nothing but a notebook, a laptop, and a dream that felt much too heavy for my shoulders. I wasn’t sure where to begin, and the blinking cursor on my screen felt like an enemy more than a friend.
But then something extraordinary happened: I met people—giants, legends, mentors—who showed me that writing movies isn’t about genius striking from nowhere. It’s about craft, rhythm, humility, and community. Aaron Sorkin and Diablo Cody showed me how format is the doorway. Shonda Rhimes and Rian Johnson welcomed me into the chaos of collaboration and the new reality of AI tools. Greta Gerwig and Jordan Peele taught me that movies can entertain and still cut deep. Bong Joon-ho, Rajamouli, and Lulu Wang expanded my sense of what it means to tell a story that travels. And Tarantino, Edgar Wright, and Damien Chazelle dared me to find my voice, mash genres, and make it sing.
I came to Hollywood a tourist. I’m leaving these pages a beginner screenwriter—hungry, humbled, but on the path.
(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event)
Scene 1: Hollywood & Vine: The Page That Looks Like the Job
The sunset slants across Sunset Boulevard like a warm spotlight, catching the chrome of parked motorcycles and the edge of a sun-faded awning that reads: The Page Turner Café. Inside: laptops, legal pads, headphones, big dreams. James pushes through the door with the awkwardness of a traveler who isn’t sure he’s arrived—until he sees them at the corner table.
Aaron Sorkin is stirring sugar into black coffee with the intensity of a courtroom objection. Diablo Cody is doodling on a napkin, a tiny typewriter sprouting angel wings. Sorkin glances up, clocking James in a single, surgical sweep.
“James,” Sorkin says. “Sit. First lesson: you are not a tourist. Order coffee like a writer.”
Diablo grins. “Also tip like a writer. We live on kindness and caffeine.”
James sits, palms damp. “I—thanks for seeing me.”
“We’re not seeing you,” Diablo says. “We’re reading you. Different muscle group.”
Sorkin taps the table. “Laptop out.”
James obeys. The screen glows. The cursor blinks. The future clears its throat.
“Let’s start where everyone pretends they don’t need to start,” Sorkin says. “Format. Hollywood is allergic to amateur layout. If your page looks wrong, it is wrong, before anyone reads a single word.”
Diablo slides a short checklist across the table, drawn in Sharpie:
12-pt Courier (monospace).
1.5” left margin; ~1” right; top/bottom about 1”.
Scene Headings in ALL CAPS:
INT./EXT. LOCATION – DAY/NIGHT.Action in present tense; character names in ALL CAPS above dialogue.
(Parentheticals) sparingly.
1 page ≈ 1 minute of screen time.
90–120 pages for a feature.
Avoid camera directions and editing commands in a spec.
“Memorize that,” she says. “Then get Final Draft or Fade In. Celtx is fine if money’s tight. The software is your training wheels; format should vanish from your brain so story can drive.”
Sorkin swivels James’s laptop and begins typing with surgeon’s speed.
“Watch,” he says. “If your scene heading feels like a sentence, it’s wrong. It’s a label.”
He types:
INT. PAGE TURNER CAFÉ – LATE AFTERNOON
JAMES (20s), all nerves and hunger, threads through crowded tables toward
AARON SORKIN (60s, staccato mind) and DIABLO CODY (40s, glittering wit).
“Simple. Precise. Music in my head,” Sorkin says. “Action lines are clean. Present tense. You’re building a movie people can see without squinting.”
Diablo leans in. “Dialogue next. Character name centered. Don’t stack paragraphs like a novel—white space is your friend. Make it breathe.”
She types:
DIABLO
(cheerful, razor-edged)
Tell me you didn’t bring a 160-page ‘epic’ about a chosen orphan.
JAMES
(relieved laugh)
I… deleted two chosen orphans this morning.
“Note the parenthetical,” she says. “Flavor, not sauce. Use sparingly. Actors do not need you to puppeteer their eyebrows.”
Sorkin raps the table. “Two drills. These drills are church. You do them every morning until your prose stops lying.”
Drill 1: Scene Heading Sprint
“Write ten clean slugs in sixty seconds. Different places, different times. Go.”
James hesitates, then starts:
INT. STUDIO APARTMENT – NIGHT
EXT. SANTA MONICA PIER – SUNSET
INT. WRITERS’ ROOM – DAY
EXT. RUNYON CANYON TRAIL – DAWN
INT. COFFEE SHOP BATHROOM – NIGHT
EXT. HOLLYWOOD FOREVER CEMETERY – TWILIGHT
INT. FINAL DRAFT TUTORIAL WINDOW – DAY
EXT. BACKLOT STREET SET – AFTERNOON
INT. ACTING CLASS – EVENING
EXT. VISTA THEATER MARQUEE – NIGHT
“Good,” Sorkin says. “Now you have doors. Next, walk through one.”
Drill 2: One-Page Scene
“One page. Two characters want different things. Nobody leaves unchanged. Go.”
James’s fingers tremble—then settle. He writes. Diablo watches him the way a lifeguard watches a swimmer—the poised readiness to yank him back if he drowns in exposition. Sorkin times him with ruthless silence.
When the minute hand completes its orbit, James stops. They read.
“It’s not bad,” Diablo says. “You did the thing: conflict on arrival. But you’re explaining feelings in the action lines: ‘James is sad.’ We don’t do that. Show sadness by behavior. Have him stir cold coffee, read an email he won’t open, smile at a joke that isn’t a joke.”
Sorkin nods. “And tighten the dialogue. Listen.”
He edits:
JAMES
I thought the format was the trick.
DIABLO
It’s the door. You still need the house.
“Clean. Rhythm,” Sorkin says. “Every line earns oxygen.”
A server drops off fresh mugs. Steam curls. The café hums around them like a low, approving orchestra.
“Okay,” Diablo says, “craft tour. Three beats you love to skip and you can’t.”
She numbers on the napkin:
Logline — One-sentence spine: protagonist + goal + obstacle + stakes.
“A grief-haunted line cook must smuggle his younger sister out of a doomsday cult before a solar eclipse triggers a mass ‘ascension.’”Beat Sheet — 12–15 tentpoles: inciting incident, break into 2, midpoint, low point, finale.
“If you can’t write the skeleton, your dinosaur won’t walk.”Outline/Treatment — 2–10 pages prose; proof you can tell the story without dialogue doing all the work.
Sorkin taps the table with each point. “Add Theme—the sentence your movie argues with itself,” he says. “Not a slogan. A debate. ‘Connection is riskier than loneliness—but worth it.’ Every scene must either further the plot or deepen that argument. Preferably both.”
James scribbles until his wrist aches. “What about act structure? Is three acts mandatory?”
“Mandatory is a funny word,” Sorkin says. “You can call it five acts, seven sequences, a ring. Audiences feel setup, confrontation, resolution. That heartbeat matters more than the labels.”
Diablo points at James’s screen. “Show him secondary slugs, Aaron.”
Sorkin types:
INT. PAGE TURNER CAFÉ – NIGHT
AT THE COUNTER, James watches a barista stamp loyalty cards.
BACK TABLE
Diablo underlines a logline like it owes her money.
“You don’t need a new master slug for every micro-move,” he says. “Capitalized locations inside a scene are elegant pivots.”
“And while we’re here,” Diablo adds, “you’ll meet MONTAGE and INTERCUT. Use when they’re obvious to read.”
She types:
MONTAGE – JAMES LEARNS FAST
— INT. APARTMENT – NIGHT: Final Draft tutorial plays. James mimics keystrokes.
— EXT. BUS STOP – DAWN: He scribbles loglines on transfer tickets.
— INT. LIBRARY – DAY: He outlines on notecards. The stack grows, then narrows.
“And INTERCUT is your phone call friend,” she says. “But remember: the cleaner the read, the kinder you are to your future collaborators.”
Sorkin leans back. “Scene Numbers? Don’t. Not on your spec. Production adds them. Transitions? Rare. If you write CUT TO: on every line, you’re just telling the editor the sun will rise in the east. Save transitions for intention.”
Diablo flips to a fresh page. “Character introductions: a splash of essence, not a DMV form. Caps on first appearance. Give us a tell we’ll remember.”
She types:
MAYA (30s), joy with a scar, balances three drinks and a grudge.
“See?” she says. “I know her already.”
“Voice-over and flashbacks,” Sorkin says, “aren’t sins—excuses are. If the story only works because you’re whispering explanations over it, the story isn’t working.”
James breathes in, out. The room has brightened; or maybe he has.
“What about AI?” he asks. “Everyone says use it to move faster.”
“Use it like a verbal sketchbook,” Diablo says. “Prompt for ten alt jokes. Ask for five bad endings to avoid. Summarize your own scene to catch bloat. But the choices—the wounds, the weirdness, the smell of your childhood kitchen—that’s you.”
Sorkin nods. “And be practical. Final Draft’s Beat Board and Story Map—learn them. Fade In if you want a cheaper, excellent tool. WriterDuet if you’re collaborating. Deliver PDFs that print clean. Rename files clearly: TITLE_draft_01_YYYYMMDD.pdf. You laugh, but half of Hollywood is a file-naming convention.”
Diablo pulls out her phone and thumbs a few titles. “Places to not be alone: Stage 32, ISA, Reddit r/Screenwriting. Be generous. Give feedback before you ask for it. And get your script read aloud—your ear will catch what your eyes forgive.”
Sorkin studies James. “Homework. Two weeks. No excuses.”
He enumerates on the napkin:
Write 10 loglines. Pick 3.
For each, a 15-beat sheet.
Choose 1. Draft a 3–5 page treatment.
Write five one-page scenes, each with clear conflict and a reversal.
Every morning, Scene Heading Sprint (10 slugs in 60 seconds).
Read one produced script nightly. Copy a page by hand to internalize rhythm.
Diablo adds a heart next to “copy a page by hand.” “Imitation first. Originality second. You can’t swing till you’ve learned your stance.”
James looks at the napkin like it’s a map out of a maze. “What if I fail?”
“You will,” Sorkin says. “Repeatedly. Failure is your co-writer. The trick is to keep the chair warm.”
Diablo lifts her mug. “Here’s the real secret: protect your joy. Format gets you in the door; joy keeps you in the room.”
A breeze sneaks through the café and lifts a single page from James’s notebook. He snatches it, laughing, and in the laugh there’s the relief of a person who knows what to do tomorrow morning.
Sorkin stands. “We’ll be at the same table in two weeks. Bring pages that look like a job.”
Diablo winks. “And a logline that scares you a little.”
Outside, Sunset Boulevard is turning to neon. James steps into the glow, the napkin checklist folded in his pocket like a passport. Behind him, the café hums on—espresso, clatter, the soft percussion of keys—while ahead, Los Angeles opens its thousand doors, waiting for a slugline.
Scene 2: The Writers’ Room in Burbank: The Machine That Never Sleeps
The Warner Bros. lot is a hive of golf carts and whispered pitches. James, still carrying the napkin from Sorkin and Cody’s café lesson, is escorted through a soundstage door painted with peeling numbers. Inside, a TV writers’ room: whiteboards covered in multi-colored beats, index cards stuck like confetti, laptops glowing. The smell is half-dry erase marker, half-pizza.
Two heavyweights are waiting for him.
Shonda Rhimes greets him with the briskness of a showrunner on deadline. Rian Johnson leans back in his chair, smiling, a mystery twinkle in his eyes as if he already knows James’s next ten questions.
“Sit,” Shonda says, pointing to the empty chair between them. “First rule of a writers’ room: ideas over ego. What do you bring to the table?”
James stammers. “I—I brought… the napkin. Sorkin’s drills. Format. Slugs. Dialogue.”
Rian nods approvingly. “Good. You’ve got the skeleton. Now let’s add muscle. This is where collaboration lives.”
The Writers’ Tools
Shonda snaps her fingers and a production assistant rolls over a laptop. On the screen: WriterDuet.
“WriterDuet,” Shonda says. “Think of it as Google Docs but born for television. Real-time co-writing. Multiple writers, one script. Color-coded input so you know who wrote what. Revision tracking. No excuses about lost drafts.”
James watches as the cursor dances across the screen. Rian, without touching the keyboard, dictates a scene beat:
INT. BUNKER – NIGHT
The safe door groans open. A figure enters, carrying a torch.
Shonda adds:
SHONDA
What’s inside the bunker? Conflict, not decoration.
The script updates instantly, her line tagged in green. James blinks. It feels like magic.
“Collaboration,” Shonda says, “isn’t just sharing pages. It’s pressure-testing your story against other voices. This tool forces humility. You’ll hate it. Then you’ll love it.”
Rian pulls out his iPad. On the screen: Arc Studio Pro.
“Clean, distraction-free,” he says. “This one helps me think structurally. Beat boards, story timelines, export into professional format. Great for planning mysteries, where you need to plant seeds in Act One that bloom in Act Three.”
He shows James a flowchart: branching arcs, color-coded for character vs. plot. It looks like subway lines crossing at midnight.
“This is where you see the story before you write the story,” Rian explains. “Arc Studio keeps you honest. No sagging middles. No forgotten setups.”
AI at the Table
James raises his hand timidly. “What about… AI? Everyone’s whispering about it.”
Shonda exhales like she’s heard this a thousand times. “AI is the intern who never sleeps. You don’t let it run the show. But you can ask it for twenty variations of a line, or a list of scene ideas when the room stalls. Writer’s block dies fast when the machine keeps typing.”
Rian nods. “I use AI to test bad ideas. You’d be shocked how freeing it is to see a terrible outline in front of you. You laugh, then you fix it. It’s safer to fail when the machine does the first draft of failure.”
James scribbles: AI = tool, not author. Spark, not fire.
The Whiteboard Drill
Shonda points to the board: a grid labeled A-Plot / B-Plot / C-Plot, with days of the week scrawled across the top.
“You’re on a show now,” she says. “One episode, ten beats. A-plot: the main engine. B-plot: emotional counterpoint. C-plot: comic relief. Fill it.”
James stares at the blank square like a gladiator at the arena gates. He gulps and writes:
A-Plot: Rookie detective must find missing child.
B-Plot: Detective’s father in hospital, time pressure.
C-Plot: Partner obsessed with fantasy football.
Rian tilts his head. “Decent. Now, invert something.”
James frowns. “Invert?”
“Make the comic relief plot life-or-death,” Rian says. “Fantasy football debt turns into mafia trouble. Suddenly the silly subplot matters.”
James revises. The whiteboard feels alive, like a chessboard where every move alters three others.
The Lesson in Humility
An alarm buzzes. Lunch break. The writers stream out for tacos. Shonda lingers.
“You know what this room teaches faster than anything else?” she asks James. “You’re not special. Your script isn’t precious. A scene that dies on this board will save the episode. Learn to kill pages. Learn to accept better ideas. That’s how you grow.”
Rian chuckles. “And don’t forget to enjoy it. Mystery is a playground. If you’re not curious about your own story, the audience won’t be either.”
James looks at his notebook, filled with arrows and scribbles. He realizes his fear is shrinking. In its place: hunger.
Exit
As they walk him out, Shonda hands James a short list:
WriterDuet (for collaboration).
Arc Studio Pro (for structure).
AI tools (Saga, Melies) as assistants, not authors.
Kill your darlings — humility first.
Join the room — learn rhythm, conflict, balance.
At the door, Rian claps James’s shoulder. “You survived your first writers’ room. Next time, bring your own beat.”
James steps out into the Burbank sun, head buzzing, the soundstage door closing behind him. For the first time, he feels less like a visitor and more like an apprentice.
Scene 3: The Academy Museum: Stories That Dance Between Escape and Truth
The Academy Museum of Motion Pictures glitters on Wilshire Boulevard like a temple of memory. James approaches the glass sphere of the David Geffen Theater with a nervous reverence. He’s ushered inside, where the cavernous auditorium hums with history—Oscars on display, posters from every era, whispers of legends.
Two seats down the row wait Greta Gerwig and Jordan Peele. Greta waves like an old friend, bright-eyed, a notebook balanced on her knees. Jordan leans back, hoodie up, radiating a mischievous calm.
“James,” Greta says, patting the seat between them. “Ready to watch how movies can make you laugh and ache at the same time?”
Jordan adds, “Or scream and think at the same time.”
James settles in. The lights dim.
The Dual Screens
On the massive screen, Greta cues up a split reel: pink-saturated images from Barbie on the left, shadowy frames from Get Out on the right.
“Two extremes,” Greta says. “Escapism and social commentary. But they’re not enemies. They’re siblings. People think they want either sugar or medicine. Truth is, the best films dissolve the medicine in the sugar.”
Jordan nods. “You can terrify an audience, but the scream means nothing if it doesn’t echo after the credits. Get Out wasn’t just a haunted house story—it was a conversation about race, about trust, about survival. The horror was the wrapper; the truth was inside.”
James scribbles: Escapism + Commentary = Resonance.
The Beat Board Lesson
Greta pulls up her laptop. Final Draft opens, revealing its Beat Board—a constellation of pastel-colored notes, each beat like a stepping stone.
“See this?” she says. “This is where I test balance. Every comedic beat must hold hands with an emotional beat. Escapism is fun, but commentary keeps it grounded. You can track the pulse of your film—laughter here, reflection here, both colliding there.”
She drags a note across the screen: KEN discovers patriarchy → hilarity + heartbreak.
James watches, mesmerized. “So you can visualize theme alongside story?”
“Exactly,” Greta says. “Theme isn’t an afterthought—it’s baked in at beat level.”
The Alternative Drafts
Jordan cues up an AI tool—Saga—on his tablet. “Watch this,” he says. He types: Generate three alternate endings for a horror satire about surveillance culture.
The screen spits out three short summaries:
The hero burns the servers.
The hero joins the system.
The hero realizes the surveillance was inside his own brain.
Jordan smirks. “Garbage? Mostly. But you see the possibilities. AI throws you a bucket of clay. You sculpt. Sometimes it hands you clichés you can dodge. Sometimes it throws you a curve you hadn’t considered.”
James scribbles: AI = endings factory (sort the gold from trash).
Drill: Two-Minute Flip
Greta hands James a card: INT. FAMILY DINNER – NIGHT.
“Write one beat that feels like escapism,” she says. “Then flip it to commentary.”
James hesitates, then writes:
Escapism: Family laughs at a silly toast, wine spilling, kids giggling.
Commentary: The joke lands flat—because no one at the table mentions the empty chair where their father should be.
Greta reads. “Beautiful. Same scene. Different lens. Remember: commentary lives in silence as much as dialogue.”
The Audience’s Desire
“James,” Jordan says, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “What do you think audiences want in 2026?”
James gulps. “Maybe… joy? We’ve been through pandemics, wars, divisions. But also… honesty. Like people want to dance in the theater but also cry in the car ride home.”
Greta beams. “Yes! That’s it. Joy with substance. Popcorn that leaves you full, not empty.”
Jordan adds, “Never forget: the audience doesn’t always know what they want until you show them. But they know when they’ve been cheated. Respect their intelligence. Give them thrills and questions.”
Exit
The lights rise. Posters of Chaplin, Hitchcock, and Spike Lee watch from the museum walls. Greta hands James a small notebook, its cover painted with pink stars.
“Every scene you write, ask: Is this just sugar? Just medicine? Or both? If it’s both, you’re on the right track.”
Jordan claps him on the shoulder. “And if the ending feels too neat, write the scarier one. Audiences respect scars.”
James leaves the Academy Museum into the Los Angeles twilight, notebook heavy with new wisdom. His next page will not only try to entertain—it will dare to mean something.
Scene 4: Netflix on Sunset: The World in One Writers’ Room
The Netflix tower rises like a glass lighthouse above Sunset Boulevard, its lobby a museum of global posters: a Korean thriller, a Spanish heist, an Indian epic, a Nigerian coming-of-age, a French sci-fi romance. James signs in, pockets his visitor badge, and rides an elevator where the floor numbers blink in a dozen languages.
A producer ushers him into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Waiting there: Bong Joon-ho, calm and curious; S. S. Rajamouli, eyes alight with mischief and scale; Lulu Wang, precise, warm, the kind of presence that turns a room into a conversation.
“James,” Bong says, shaking his hand like a peer. “Welcome to the plural future.”
Rajamouli grins. “And welcome to spectacle.”
Lulu smiles. “And to specificity.”
They sit. Outside, Los Angeles blazes in noon light; inside, the table is scattered with index cards, a laptop, and a stack of translations for a show bible: English, Spanish, Korean, Hindi, Mandarin.
The First Principle: Specificity Travels
Bong gestures to a still from Parasite: the cramped kitchen, the low window, the rain.
“People ask how Korean details became universal,” he says. “It’s the wrong question. The more specific we were, the more people recognized truth. The smell of damp clothes is international.”
He takes a pen and writes on an index card:
Rule #1: Be local so you can be global.
Lulu nods. “When I made The Farewell, I did not translate culture into something flatter. I invited the audience into a family’s private room. The audience is smart. If you give them honest details, they do the traveling.”
Rajamouli leans forward. “And if you give them honest emotion, they cheer in every country. Friendship, loyalty, sacrifice—those beats erupt in Mumbai and in Manhattan. But don’t dilute your spices. Let people taste where you’re from.”
James writes: Specificity = bridge, not barrier.
Tools of a Global Writer
Lulu opens her laptop and drags a folder onto the screen: BIBLE, LOOKBOOK, TREATMENT, PILOT.
“Global buyers expect clarity,” she says. “You need:
Logline that carries across borders (no cultural shorthand the buyer won’t know).
2–10 page treatment that proves the story stands without local winks.
Series bible (if TV): character webs, season arcs, tone, comparable titles from different countries.
Lookbook: images, palette, locations—show us what it feels like.”
Rajamouli adds, “And if you pitch an epic, include a scale plan—set pieces listed by act, rough minutes on screen, and why each exists emotionally, not just visually.”
Bong smiles. “And please, include context notes. If your story hinges on a festival, law, or ritual, give us a paragraph. Let the reader meet your world with respect.”
James underlines: bible—lookbook—context page.
Formatting Multilingual Scenes
Bong pulls a sample page and writes:
INT. FAMILY KITCHEN – NIGHT
(Chinese with English subtitles)
NAI NAI
Eat more. You are thin like a noodle.
BILI
(in English)
I’m fine, Nai Nai.
NAI NAI
(in Chinese; teasing)
Liar. I can see your ribs from the moon.
“Keep it readable,” he says. “Slug the primary language for the scene. Use parentheticals when switching languages. Don’t overstuff the page with translation notes. And never apologize for subtitles. They are not an obstacle; they are an intimacy.”
Lulu adds: “If two languages overlap, INTERCUT or DUAL DIALOGUE is okay, but only if it’s legible. Remember your collaborators—actors, ADs, translators—must use this page to work.”
Community: Where to Find Your People
Rajamouli flips a card and lists:
Stage 32 — international networking, pitch sessions, classes.
ISA (International Screenwriters’ Association) — listings, fellowships, feedback.
Reddit r/Screenwriting — crowdsourced wisdom, script swaps (be discerning).
Sundance Co//ab, Austin Film Festival, Raindance — labs, conferences, coverage, craft talks.
AFM (American Film Market), Busan, Cannes Marche du Film — markets for meeting producers/distributors.
“Online first,” he says. “Then fly when it matters. Use the internet to earn the meeting; use the flight to close it.”
Bong adds, “Seek sensitivity readers when you enter a culture not your own. Pay them. Credit them. A respectful page travels further than a clever one.”
Lulu: “And keep a time-zone workflow for collaborators abroad: weekly agenda doc, shared calendar, clear version names. Chaos kills good stories.”
James scribbles furiously: systems = creative oxygen.
The Drill: One Story, Two Doors
Lulu slides a blank card to James. “Write a logline from your life. Then reframe it for a different culture without changing its heart.”
James thinks. Writes:
Logline (U.S.):
A Midwestern line cook must choose between his dying father’s wishes and his immigrant girlfriend’s dream, the week a tornado destroys their town.
He rewrites:
Logline (India):
A small-town dhaba cook must choose between honoring his father’s final ritual and his fiancée’s visa interview in Mumbai, the week monsoon floods swallow their market.
Lulu reads, nods. “Same stakes—duty vs. future. Different doors. That’s how you travel.”
Bong smiles. “Now write the third version in a country you’ve never been to. Then find someone from there to tell you what you got wrong.”
Scale with Soul
Rajamouli stands, animated. “Spectacle is a language. But if the set piece does not move character, it is noise.” He sketches on the whiteboard:
SET PIECE → EMOTIONAL TURN
Bridge collapse → rivals must trust each other → bond is born.
Palace dance → hidden signal in choreography → rebellion ignites.
Chariot race → hero faces fear of crowds → reclaiming voice.
“Pitch your big moments as emotional engines,” he says. “Executives everywhere understand that.”
James writes: Big scene = big change.
The Business: Rights, Credits, Reality
Lulu lowers her voice. “Two cautions. First, if AI assisted your drafts, track that in your process notes. U.S. guilds and some studios require clarity about authorship. Second, protect your rights: option agreements, shopping agreements—have a lawyer glance at them. ‘Exposure’ is not compensation.”
Bong adds, “Beware of ‘global notes’ that flatten your story. A note that asks you to erase culture for ‘wider appeal’ often means ‘we are afraid.’ Translate, don’t erase.”
Rajamouli: “And learn to pitch yourself in three sentences across borders:
Who you are (one human detail).
What this story argues.
Why only you can write it.”
He gestures at the window. “That works in any city.”
The Assignment
Lulu hands James a checklist titled Passport to Global:
Write two loglines of the same story for two regions.
Draft a 3-page treatment that stands without cultural footnotes.
Build a 1-page lookbook (8–10 images) and a context page explaining any crucial customs.
Find one international collaborator (Stage 32/ISA). Schedule a 30-minute Zoom to sanity-check your treatment.
Write a two-page scene with multilingual dialogue using clean formatting.
Identify two comps—one from your home market, one international—and state in one sentence what you’re doing differently.
Bong caps his pen. “And watch one film this week from a country you have never explored. Copy one page of its script—if you can find it—by hand. Feel its rhythm.”
Rajamouli laughs. “Also, go outside. Los Angeles has ten worlds in ten miles. Eat somewhere you’ve never eaten. Talk to the owner. Stories are waiting for the bus with you.”
Lulu squeezes James’s shoulder. “Remember: you’re not trying to write a ‘global’ story. You’re trying to write a true one—and let it travel.”
Exit
They walk him to the elevator. The lobby posters tilt their faces toward him: a heist in Madrid, a romance in Lagos, a thriller in Seoul. The doors slide open.
“James,” Bong says, “specificity is generosity.”
“Scale is a love language,” Rajamouli adds.
“And clarity is kindness,” Lulu finishes.
The elevator descends, carrying James past floors where teams subtitle, dub, market, and deliver stories to a thousand cities. He steps onto Sunset with a new list in his pocket—bible, lookbook, context, comps—and a question louder than traffic:
What is his local truth?
He heads toward the metro, thumb hovering over the Stage 32 app, already drafting a message to a writer in Manila he’s never met. The city feels larger now—because it includes the rest of the world.
Scene 5: Downtown Rooftop: The Courage to Be Original
Downtown Los Angeles pulses with neon. From the rooftop of an old theater, the skyline is a jagged orchestra of light and shadow. Script pages flutter in the breeze, pinned to clotheslines like prayer flags. James steps into the glow and finds Quentin Tarantino, Edgar Wright, and Damien Chazelle waiting like guardians of voice.
Quentin chews on an unlit cigar. “James. You’ve learned the drills, the rooms, the global stage. But none of it matters if you don’t bleed your own blood on the page.”
Edgar winks. “And have some fun while you bleed.”
Damien nods toward the night sky. “And make it sing.”
The Lesson of Obsession
Quentin slams a stack of VHS tapes on a crate. “Movies live in your bloodstream. Watch everything. Steal everything. But filter it through your obsessions. I loved kung fu flicks, exploitation films, French New Wave—so I mashed them and got Pulp Fiction. Find your obsessions, James. Put them in your blender.”
James scribbles: Obsession = originality.
Edgar flips open his laptop. He shows Fade In, a clean interface bristling with notes. “Cheaper than Final Draft, but pro-level. My scripts live here. You’ll need a tool that feels like home—lightweight enough to let your chaos run wild.”
He types a few beats:
INT. ROOFTOP – NIGHT
A mentor trio confronts JAMES. Neon flickers. Pages flap like restless wings.
“Format matters, but rhythm is the secret weapon,” Edgar says. “Comedy, action, horror—it’s timing. Use white space. Make the reader hear your cuts.”
Drill: The 3-Genre Mash
Damien tosses James a challenge. “Write a 3-line scene that blends three genres. Go.”
James hesitates, then types:
INT. SUBWAY STATION – NIGHT
A violinist plays as zombies stumble onto the platform.
A couple kisses, unaware of the blood pooling at their feet.
Damien grins. “Horror, romance, music. It works. That’s hybrid. That’s voice.”
The Courage to Pitch
Quentin leans close. “Someday, you’ll stand in front of execs. They’ll want to shove your story into a franchise. Resist. If you can’t explain your movie in one sentence, you don’t own it yet. If you can explain it but they still don’t get it, maybe you’re ahead of your time. Be okay with that.”
He scribbles on James’s page:
Originality = career, franchises = rent money. Know which check you’re chasing.
Where to Stand
Edgar writes on the back of a script page:
Workshops: Austin Film Festival, Sundance Labs.
Markets: American Film Market (AFM), Berlinale Co-Production.
Communities: Stage 32, ISA, r/Screenwriting.
Festivals: Submit shorts—proof of voice is gold.
“Originality needs a stage,” Edgar says. “Put your pages where people gather.”
The Assignment
Damien hands James a note:
Write a 5-page short script that blends at least 2 genres.
Format it in Fade In and export to PDF.
Submit it to one online competition or workshop.
Watch 3 films outside your comfort zone this week.
Write one scene by hand from a script you love—feel its rhythm.
“Your style,” Damien says softly, “isn’t found by thinking. It’s found by doing, failing, repeating.”
Exit
As the night deepens, the mentors step back. Quentin’s grin is wicked. Edgar’s eyes sparkle with play. Damien’s smile is steady, musical.
James gathers the fluttering pages and tucks them under his arm. He looks at the skyline—not as a wall of lights but as a stage waiting for his words.
Down below, traffic hums. Up here, he hears only the echo of three voices telling him the same thing in different ways: find your voice, write it clean, make it sing.
James breathes in the neon air. For the first time, Hollywood doesn’t feel like a place he’s chasing. It feels like a place he’s already inside.
Final Thoughts by James
Looking back on this journey, what overwhelms me most is gratitude. Not just for the advice and the tools—Final Draft, Celtx, WriterDuet, Arc Studio, Fade In, even the AI assistants like Saga and Melies—but for the reminder that stories are alive. They breathe because writers care enough to fight for them, rewrite them, and sometimes throw them out to start again.
Hollywood isn’t just bright lights and red carpets. It’s coffee-stained napkins, late-night rewrites, community notes on a whiteboard, and the courage to pitch your truth even when no one’s sure it will sell. I’ve learned that originality matters, that global voices belong, and that audiences want to laugh, scream, cry, and think—sometimes all at once.
I may still be at the beginning, but I know this much: the page is no longer my enemy. It’s my invitation. And tomorrow morning, I’ll open a blank one again—because now I believe I have something worth writing.
Short Bios:
Aaron Sorkin
American screenwriter, playwright, and director, best known for his fast-paced dialogue and sharp storytelling in The West Wing, The Social Network, and A Few Good Men.
Diablo Cody
Academy Award–winning screenwriter and author, recognized for her witty, offbeat voice in films like Juno, Young Adult, and the TV series United States of Tara.
Shonda Rhimes
Television powerhouse, writer, and producer behind Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and Bridgerton, known for redefining television with diverse, character-driven storytelling.
Rian Johnson
Acclaimed filmmaker and writer of Knives Out, Looper, and Star Wars: The Last Jedi, celebrated for his inventive narratives and genre-bending style.
Greta Gerwig
Director, screenwriter, and actor whose films Lady Bird, Little Women, and Barbie blend warmth, humor, and sharp cultural insight.
Jordan Peele
Oscar-winning writer and director of Get Out, Us, and Nope, pioneering a new wave of socially conscious horror that combines thrills with deep commentary.
Bong Joon-ho
South Korean filmmaker and screenwriter, globally recognized for Parasite, which won the Palme d’Or and four Academy Awards, including Best Picture.
S. S. Rajamouli
Indian film director and screenwriter best known for epic blockbusters like Baahubali and RRR, praised for blending spectacle with strong emotional storytelling.
Lulu Wang
Writer-director acclaimed for The Farewell, known for exploring family, culture, and identity through intimate and authentic storytelling.
Quentin Tarantino
Iconic writer-director of Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, known for his bold dialogue, nonlinear storytelling, and encyclopedic love of cinema.
Edgar Wright
British filmmaker and writer behind Shaun of the Dead, Baby Driver, and Last Night in Soho, admired for his energetic editing style and genre-blending creativity.
Damien Chazelle
Oscar-winning filmmaker of Whiplash, La La Land, and Babylon, noted for his rhythmic, musically inspired storytelling and exploration of artistic ambition.
James
He is a freshly minted Hollywood screenwriting enthusiast who arrived with more caffeine jitters than completed pages. Armed with a secondhand laptop, an overstuffed notebook, and the courage to ask too many questions, he’s learning that scripts don’t format themselves and that “kill your darlings” isn’t actually about murder. Along the way, he’s picked up mentors, AI assistants, and a few rejection emails he wears like badges of honor. James may still be a beginner, but he’s got one thing every writer needs: relentless curiosity and the willingness to open a blank page again tomorrow.
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