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Tag: creative-writing

  • Are Filmmakers Today Actually Less Intelligent?

    “Are filmmakers today… dumber?”

    Relax. Breathe. Put the pitchfork down.
    This isn’t a hit job on creatives. This is a hit job on the conversation.

    Because the truth is, whenever someone doesn’t like a movie, the default Boomer setting kicks in:

    “Back in my day, movies had real stories.”
    “Everything today is just CGI and noise.”
    “Nobody knows how to write anymore.”

    But here’s the uncomfortable plot twist:
    Filmmakers today aren’t less intelligent — audiences are less patient.
    And the industry has evolved so.

    Let’s break this down without sugarcoating it (because sugarcoating is how we ended up with 14 Fast & Furious movies).

    The Myth of Declining Intelligence

    People romanticise the past like it was some magical artistic utopia. But newsflash:
    Every decade has trash movies.
    Truly, catastrophically bad ones.

    The only difference?
    We forgot the bad ones from the 70s, 80s, and 90s because nobody streams them.
    But the good ones — The Godfather, Taxi Driver, Shawshank — became immortal.

    This creates something psychologists call survivorship bias.
    We compare the best of the past to the average of the present and then pretend it’s a fair comparison.

    It’s like comparing Messi’s best goals to your cousin playing Sunday football and concluding humanity is getting worse at sports.

    Hollywood Didn’t Get Dumber — It Got Scared

    Modern filmmaking decisions are shaped less by intelligence and more by terror:

    • Terror of box-office bombs
    • Terror of angry fanbases
    • Terror of cancel culture
    • Terror of TikTok-brained attention spans
    • Terror of shareholders who think story structure is a KPI

    Studios used to take risks because the stakes were lower.
    Now, a flop can vaporise hundreds of millions of dollars.

    So what do executives do?

    They choose safety.
    Sequels. Prequels. Remakes. Cinematic Universes.
    Nostalgia packaged in 4K.

    It’s not that creators can’t think — it’s that studios don’t want them to.

    Algorithms Now Write Movies (Almost Literally)

    Here’s where things get weird.

    Data now dictates storytelling:

    • “Make the explosion happen before minute 12.”
    • “Audience retention drops when characters talk too long.”
    • “Add a quippy sidekick for relatability.”
    • “End the scene with a meme moment.”

    Basically, movies are now created with the artistic depth of a YouTube retention graph.

    It’s not about intelligence.
    It’s about optimisation.

    Filmmakers aren’t idiots — they’re handcuffed by analytics.

    Imagine telling Scorsese in the 70s:
    “Hey Marty, the focus group says Travis Bickle should floss more for relatability.”

    He would have stabbed someone with a dolly track.

    Audiences Have the Attention Span of a Goldfish on Red Bull

    Let’s be brutally honest.

    People today can barely finish a 30-second reel without checking notifications.

    And you expect studios to make slow-burn, character-driven epics that need actual attention?

    We live in a world where:

    • People watch movies while scrolling
    • Subtitles are on for everything
    • “If it doesn’t hook me in 7 seconds, I’m out”
    • People search “Ending explained” before the ending even happens

    It’s not that filmmakers are less intelligent.
    It’s that audience behaviour has shifted so dramatically that traditional storytelling often doesn’t stand a chance.

    We Still Get Brilliant Films — You Just Don’t Notice

    Every single year, masterpieces are released.

    But they don’t trend.
    They don’t go viral.
    They don’t get 500 million views on TikTok.

    They just quietly exist. They are like intelligent introverts at a frat party. They are overshadowed by the cinematic equivalent of loud, drunk guys doing backflips into a pool.

    Think of films like:

    • Everything Everywhere All At Once
    • Parasite
    • Hereditary
    • Moonlight
    • Arrival
    • Whiplash

    These aren’t “dumb.”
    They’re some of the smartest, boldest stories of the last 50 years.

    The intelligence is there.
    The visibility is not.

    The Real Problem Is That Movies Now Compete With Everything

    In the 70s and 80s, movies competed with:

    • TV
    • Books
    • Maybe the mall

    Today, movies compete with:

    • Instagram
    • TikTok
    • YouTube
    • Netflix
    • Twitch
    • Podcasts
    • Dating apps
    • Infinite scrolling
    • Memes
    • News cycles
    • AI-generated dopamine hits

    Filmmakers now have to fight an entire digital battlefield just to keep your eyeballs for two hours. No wonder plots get simpler. No wonder pacing gets faster.

    The game changed.
    And so did the rules.

    So, Are Filmmakers Less Intelligent?

    Short answer: No.
    Long answer: Absolutely not.

    What has declined is the freedom to take risks, not the intelligence to imagine them.

    Today’s filmmakers are juggling constraints that directors 40 years ago couldn’t even imagine:

    • algorithmic pressure
    • global controversies
    • massive budgets
    • social media backlash
    • declining theatre culture
    • shrinking attention spans

    The creativity is still there.
    It’s just forced into narrower lanes.

    The Real Question Isn’t About Filmmaker Intelligence

    It’s this:

    Are we still willing to reward ambitious storytelling?
    Or are we too addicted to predictable dopamine hits?

    Because if audiences only show up for easy entertainment, studios will only make easy entertainment.

    And if audiences don’t support risky films, studios won’t fund risky films.

    It’s not stupidity that kills creativity — it’s indifference.

    So Maybe the Real Intelligence Test… Is Ours

    Before blaming filmmakers, ask yourself:

    • When was the last time you watched a movie without multitasking?
    • When was the last time you chose an original film over a franchise?
    • When was the last time you supported a smaller, smarter film?
    • When was the last time you didn’t say, “Eh, I’ll wait for it to go online”?

    Movies show culture.
    If culture gets noisier, movies get louder.
    If culture gets anxious, movies get safer.
    If culture gets impatient, movies get simpler.

    It’s not that filmmakers are less intelligent.

    It’s that the world got stupidly complicated.

    And filmmaking is just trying to survive it.

  • Why “Creative Blocks” Are a Myth

    “Creative block” is the adult equivalent of “my dog ate my homework.” It’s an excuse. A socially acceptable way of saying, “I don’t feel like doing the hard part right now.”

    We love the term because it sounds mysterious, almost romantic. Like the gods of creativity are punishing us with silence. “Oh, I’d totally be the next Picasso or Hemingway if only I weren’t blocked.” Please. Picasso cranked out over 13,000 paintings, countless sketches, and sculptures. Hemingway wrote thousands of pages, most of which he cut or burned. They weren’t blocked; they were prolific. Most of what they made was garbage, and the brilliance emerged in between.

    Here’s the thing no one wants to admit: the only real “block” is the one you build yourself by waiting for inspiration to magically arrive. Inspiration isn’t Santa Claus. It doesn’t just show up one morning with a gift-wrapped idea because you’ve been “nice” this year. Inspiration is lazy. It only comes around after it sees you sweating your ass off in front of the page, the canvas, or the piano.

    Think about it: do plumbers get “pipe block”? Do chefs get “recipe block”? No. They wake up, put on the uniform, and fix the damn problem. The plumber doesn’t stare at your leaking faucet and say, “Sorry, I just don’t feel the vibe today.” He tightens the wrench, gets splashed in the face a few times, and gets it done. Creativity is no different, it’s a craft.

    The myth of creative block comes from confusing expectation with execution. We want to skip to the part where the work is brilliant, effortless, and Instagram-worthy. We don’t want to sit through the ugly middle—the drafts that make no sense, the sketches that look like a toddler drew them, the guitar riffs that sound like a dying cat. That’s where people quit. That’s where they cry “block.”

    But here’s the paradox: the only way through that mess is to keep making it. Bad work is the fertilizer for good work. Nobody wants to deal with the stink of failure, but that stink is what makes the flowers grow. Every masterpiece you admire was built on a mountain of discarded, embarrassing trash.

    Writers call it the “shitty first draft.” Musicians call it jamming. Painters call it studies. Professionals in every creative field have accepted one truth: you don’t wait to feel creative. You work until the creativity shows up.

    And that’s what people don’t want to hear. Because it’s easier to tell your friends, “I’m blocked right now” than to admit, “I’m scared of sucking.” We use “block” to protect our egos from the reality that doing the work means failing a lot, sometimes publicly.

    So, the next time you catch yourself saying you’re “blocked,” translate that honestly:

    • “I’m procrastinating.”
    • “I don’t want to feel like a beginner.”
    • “I’m afraid what I make won’t be good enough.”

    Own it. Then decide if you’d rather keep bullshitting yourself or start stacking bricks, even if the first few fall down.

    Because the truth is, creativity isn’t about inspiration—it’s about discipline. And discipline isn’t sexy. It’s showing up. It’s hammering out 500 words even if they suck. It’s sketching for an hour even if you throw the paper away. It’s recording riffs until one sticks.

    The greats aren’t great because they never got blocked. They’re great because they worked through the discomfort, the boredom, and the ugly drafts that everyone else ran away from.

    So stop waiting for the muse. She’s not coming. Start building something anyway. That’s when she finally decides to show up.

  • The 3 Kinds of Writers (And Why You’re Probably All Three)

    Here’s a dirty little secret about writing: no one really knows what the hell they’re doing. Every writer is just making it up as they go, hoping they don’t look like a complete idiot in the process.

    But over time, you start to notice patterns in yourself. The different “modes” you slip into when you sit down with a blank page and a blinking cursor. And after years of watching writers torture themselves—including myself—I’ve realized there are three kinds of writers.

    And the punchline? You’re probably all three.

    1. The Vomit Draft Writer (a.k.a. The Unhinged Maniac)

    This writer is all adrenaline and panic. They don’t stop to think, they don’t stop to breathe, they just puke words all over the page like their brain is trying to sprint out of their skull.

    The Vomit Draft Writer doesn’t care about grammar. They don’t care if the paragraph makes sense. Hell, they don’t care if you can even read it. All they care about is getting it out before the thought evaporates into the abyss.

    They’ll write sentences like, “The thing about things is that the thing is basically a thing and holy shit coffee is kicking in oh my god I’m a genius.”

    Spoiler: you’re not a genius. But you are making progress.

    Because here’s the truth, every brilliant essay, every moving novel, every “holy shit, that line changed my life” quote… started as an incoherent mess in someone’s notebook. The Vomit Draft Writer is the only part of you that actually creates. They’re messy, but they get the job done. Without them, you’ll be staring at a blank page forever.

    2. The Perfectionist Writer (a.k.a. The Neurotic Editor Who Hates Everything)

    Then there’s the opposite side of you—the Perfectionist Writer. This bastard hates everything you do. They look at the vomit draft and go, What kind of illiterate monkey wrote this trash? Oh right, me.

    This writer obsesses over every comma, every turn of phrase. They’ll spend 45 minutes agonizing over whether to use “but” or “however.” They’ll rewrite a sentence twelve times, then delete it entirely, then bring it back at 2 a.m.

    The Perfectionist is ruthless. They don’t care about fun, they don’t care about flow, they care about not embarrassing themselves in public.

    And as much as it feels like they’re a sadistic little goblin living in your head, the Perfectionist is necessary. They take the pile of incoherent nonsense from the Vomit Draft Writer and shape it into something someone else might actually read without losing brain cells.

    But here’s the problem: if you let the Perfectionist run the show, you’ll never finish anything. You’ll polish and polish and polish until you’ve sanded all the soul out of your writing. You’ll end up with prose so clean it feels like it was written by a tax attorney.

    3. The Bullshit Artist (a.k.a. The Smooth Talker)

    And then… there’s the Bullshit Artist.

    The Bullshit Artist is the part of you that knows how to make things sound good—even if they’re not. They’re the one who drops poetic metaphors about sunsets and broken hearts, who can make a mundane story about buying milk sound like a spiritual journey.

    They write the punchy one-liners. The quotable stuff. The crap people highlight in books and post on Instagram with an inspirational background.

    Sometimes they’re brilliant. Sometimes they’re just spewing nonsense. (“Life is like a sandwich. No matter which way you flip it, the bread comes first.” Yeah, okay, calm down, Plato.)

    The Bullshit Artist is dangerous because they’re seductive. They make you feel like you’re writing something profound, even if you’re actually saying absolutely nothing.

    But they’re also vital. Because without a little flair, your writing is boring. And boring is death. Nobody wants to read an essay that feels like IKEA instructions for the soul.

    Why You’re All Three

    Now here’s the kicker: good writing is impossible without all three of these weird little personalities.

    • The Vomit Draft Writer produces raw material—chaotic, sloppy, but essential.
    • The Perfectionist fixes it, trims it, makes it coherent.
    • The Bullshit Artist makes it pop, gives it rhythm, and makes sure people actually give a damn.

    Take one away and your writing collapses.

    Too much vomit? Your work is a confusing mess.
    Too much perfectionism? Your writing feels sterile and lifeless.
    Too much bullshit? It’s fluff, pretty words with no depth.

    Great writing isn’t about choosing which writer you are, it’s about knowing which one to let speak, and when to tell the others to shut the hell up.

    The Real Struggle of Writing

    See, the real battle isn’t “finding your voice.” It’s referee-ing the chaos inside your own head.

    You’ll start writing and the Vomit Draft Writer will run wild, then the Perfectionist barges in with their red pen, screaming that everything sucks. Then the Bullshit Artist shows up drunk, spouting metaphors about wolves and moons that make zero sense.

    And somehow, you’re supposed to juggle all of this into something coherent.

    Writing isn’t about being one kind of writer, it’s about surviving the war in your brain long enough to hit publish.

    So, next time you’re stuck, ask yourself:

    • Do I need to just vomit this out?
    • Do I need to edit like a psychopath?
    • Or do I need to sprinkle some bullshit magic on top?

    Chances are, the answer is yes. To all three.

  • How to Write Compelling Fiction: Techniques from Master Storytellers

    By Someone Who’s Written a Lot of Fiction and Made a Lot of Mistakes

    Writing fiction isn’t about being the next Tolkien, Rowling, or that weird guy at your local writing group who swears he’s “basically done” with his 12-book epic fantasy saga.

    It’s about telling a damn good story. One that makes readers feel, think, and maybe even stay up way too late reading because “just one more chapter” turned into “oh crap, it’s 3 a.m.”

    So, how do the greats do it? What dark sorcery turns words into worlds, and characters into friends (or enemies) we remember for life?

    Here’s the real deal, no fluff, no BS, just what works, straight from master storytellers and filtered through a lens of brutal honesty.

    1. Characters First, Plot Second. Always.

    If your story is just “cool stuff happens” with no one to care about, congratulations. You’ve written a mediocre Marvel movie.

    The best stories don’t start with a plot. They start with people. Broken, brave, lovable, hateable people. We connect with stories because of character arcs, not car chases.

    Pro tip: Ask yourself: What does your character want? What’s stopping them? How will they change by the end? If you can’t answer that, don’t bother outlining chapter 12 yet.

    2. Conflict is King.

    You know what’s boring? A story where everything goes according to plan.

    Real life is messy. Great fiction is messier. Whether it’s internal (self-doubt, guilt, ambition) or external (war, zombies, exes), conflict drives emotion. Emotion drives engagement. Engagement drives not putting the book down.

    Great storytellers put their characters in impossible situations. Then they make things worse.

    3. Show, Don’t Tell, But Also, Don’t Be a Snob About It.

    Yes, “show, don’t tell” is solid advice. But sometimes, telling is faster. Cleaner. More impactful. Hemingway did it. So can you, if you don’t overdo it.

    But when does it matter? When your character is spiralling into despair or discovering love, or murdering their boss? Show that crap. Let us feel it. Make the reader see, hear, and taste the moment.

    4. Dialogue That Doesn’t Suck

    Bad dialogue sounds like a Shakespeare play got run over by a thesaurus. Good dialogue sounds like real people, just a little snappier.

    Read your dialogue out loud. If it sounds like two robots fighting over grammar rules, rewrite it.

    Also: subtext. Great dialogue isn’t just what’s said, it’s what’s not said.

    5. Pace Like a Netflix Series

    The modern reader has the attention span of a squirrel on Red Bull. Cut the fluff. Start the story in motion, preferably with a problem. Build tension. Vary the rhythm. Think like a screenwriter.

    Chapters are episodes. Each one needs a hook and a reason to keep going.

    6. Voice is Everything

    Plot? Recyclable. Tropes? Inevitable. What makes your story unforgettable is you, your voice, your perspective, your weird obsessions with morally grey villains or cinnamon rolls who cry once per book.

    Master storytellers don’t just write stories. They stamp their personality into every line. Be bold. Be weird. Be you.

    7. Rewrite Like a Maniac

    Your first draft will suck. That’s the law. The difference between amateur and pro is who rewrites it until it doesn’t.

    Master storytellers are ruthless editors. They delete their darlings. They kill scenes that don’t move the story. They sharpen every sentence like a blade.

    TL;DR:

    Writing compelling fiction isn’t magic. It’s brutal honesty with yourself. It’s empathy for your characters. It’s knowing when to break the rules and when to set them on fire.

    So go write. Suck a little less each time. And someday, someone will stay up way too late with your story, whispering, “just one more chapter.”

    That’s when you’ll know you did it right.

  • How Writing Can Help You Build Your Personal Brand

    How to Stop Being Just Another Face in the LinkedIn Feed

    Let’s be real: shouting “I’m passionate about leadership!” into the void isn’t personal branding, it’s digital wallpaper. And we all scroll past that crap.

    In 2025, attention is currency, and writing is one of the few ways to earn it without selling your soul (or posting gym selfies with “grindset” captions). Whether it’s tweets, blogs, newsletters, or even a whole-ass book, writing is how you show the world who you are, what you stand for, and, most importantly, why they should give a damn.

    Here’s how to stop hiding behind your resume and start building a personal brand that actually sticks.

    1. Writing Makes You Think and Thinking Is Sexy

    Most people don’t actually know what they believe. They just parrot stuff from LinkedIn influencers with ring lights.

    But writing forces you to figure your sh*t out. It makes you sit with your ideas, question your assumptions, and find your voice, or at least something less robotic than “Results-driven professional with 10+ years of experience.”

    You can’t fake insight forever. Writing regularly helps you sound smarter because it makes you smarter. Bonus: People love reading something that doesn’t feel like it was generated by a fridge magnet.

    2. People Buy People, Not Job Titles

    Your job title? No one cares. Your experience? Meh. But if you write about your failures, your ideas, your weird obsession with productivity hacks, people remember that. They see you as more than a CV. They see a person.

    Writing lets you show, not just tell. You’re not a “consultant”; you’re someone who solves actual problems and shares insights that make people’s lives easier. You’re not a “coach”; you’re the one writing posts that make people go, “Holy crap, this guy gets it.”

    People don’t follow roles, they follow stories.

    3. Content Compounds. Silence Doesn’t.

    Writing is the gym of personal branding. You don’t go viral on Day One. But with consistency? You build something. It compounds. A blog post turns into a newsletter. A newsletter turns into speaking gigs. Speaking gigs turn into clients, courses, hell, maybe even a book deal.

    Meanwhile, silence gets you exactly zero.

    If you’re afraid to hit “post” because “it’s not perfect,” congrats, you’re human. But perfection isn’t the goal. Clarity is. And the only way to get clear is to write. Over and over again.

    4. Writing Is a Filter, Not Just a Magnet

    Good writing doesn’t attract everyone. It repels the wrong people and draws in the right ones.

    When you write like yourself, quirks, humour, hot takes and all, you make it easier for people to say, “Hell yes” or “Hell no.” Both are wins. Because bland brands don’t build trust. They build boredom.

    Own your voice. If you’re sarcastic, be sarcastic. If you’re nerdy, go full nerd. Don’t write to impress. Write to connect. That’s where the magic happens.

    5. It’s Free AF, and More Powerful Than Ads

    You don’t need a PR team or a marketing funnel to write. Just fingers, a keyboard, and something to say. The ROI? Ridiculous.

    One solid blog post can get shared for years. One viral LinkedIn post can land you a job, a client, or a TEDx invite. One Medium article can turn into a book. This is how personal brands get built, not overnight, but one idea at a time.

    So if you’ve been waiting for permission, here it is: start writing.

    How to Start (Without Hating Yourself)

    • Pick your playground. Twitter, LinkedIn, Medium, Substack, doesn’t matter. Pick one and show up.
    • Talk like a human. Write how you speak. No corporate mumbo jumbo. No “Dear network” nonsense.
    • Be consistent-ish. Once a week is enough. The goal is rhythm, not burnout.
    • Tell real stories. Wins are fine, but struggles are better. Vulnerability builds trust faster than buzzwords.
    • Have an opinion. Don’t just regurgitate trends. Add something to the conversation.

    Final Thought: Your Voice Is Your Brand

    You don’t need to be the smartest. Or the funniest. Or the most experienced. You just need to be you, clearly, consistently, and unapologetically.

    Writing is how you package that you-ness and ship it to the world. So stop waiting. Start typing. Hit publish.

    And let the brand build itself.