The first time I truly considered giving up on filmmaking, I was barefoot, sitting on the floor of my apartment, crying into a bowl of cold noodles at 2:37 a.m. The script sat in front of me printed, bound, and untouched by the very people who said they supported “new voices.”

My little apartment stank of burnt garlic from a failed dinner earlier that evening, and Coltrane was spinning on my battered record player, filling the silence with melancholy that was far too on-the-nose.

I had the team. I had the vision. But no one no one wanted to fund a movie about an immigrant jazz guitarist trying to reconnect with his estranged daughter.

“Too niche,” one executive had said. “Not enough guns, not enough ass,” another offered with a chuckle I’ll never forget. I laughed too. Not because it was funny, but because it was absurd. I was trying to tell a human story. They were looking for explosions and cleavage.

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. I had followed every rule. I went to a semi-decent film school. I made two festival shorts that did okay.

I interned, shadowed, crewed, networked. But none of that seemed to matter. Every time I sent the pitch deck out, it felt like I was throwing a bottle into the ocean—beautifully designed, emotionally raw, and completely ignored.

That night, the emotional weight collapsed on me like a building. I remember just whispering to myself over and over: What more do they want? What more did I have to give?

I looked around at my apartment, dim and cluttered. Storyboards were taped to the walls. Books on cinematography and sound design were stacked next to empty ramen packets and unopened bills. I saw a life paused in the name of a dream that refused to materialize.

My fingers trembled as I picked up the script. I considered tearing it in half. I didn’t. Instead, I dropped it onto the floor like it had betrayed me. My chest ached—not from a physical pain, but from the weight of belief starting to slip.

I curled up on the floor beside my dog-eared copy of “Rebel Without a Crew,” the Robert Rodriguez book that once lit a fire in me. I had highlighted almost every page. But now, the words felt distant, like a gospel I no longer believed in.

But in the pit of that moment, something stirred. Maybe it was rage. Maybe it was refusal. But something whispered, If they won’t bet on the film, I’ll make them bet on me.

That whisper became a roar the next morning.

The Script That Got Me Nowhere.

It’s amazing how quickly hope can turn into humiliation. That was the lesson I learned over the course of thirty-two days—the time it took to send out my carefully-crafted script and get back a flood of silence, canned rejections, or vaguely insulting “pass” emails.

The script was my heart printed in Courier font. Every line of dialogue, every scene direction was a tribute to my father, to our complicated love, and to the jazz records that filled my childhood apartment like incense. It wasn’t just a film—it was a prayer I was putting out into the world.

So when the rejections came, they didn’t just feel like business decisions. They felt personal. Visceral. Like someone had taken a red pen to my soul.

One meeting stands out, and not in a good way.

I’d managed to score a pitch session with a mid-tier production company known for edgy indie dramas. I walked into their glassy Hollywood office in my “lucky” thrift-store blazer, which I’d dry-cleaned with my last twenty bucks. My palms were sweaty. I had rehearsed the pitch for weeks.

The exec glanced at the cover of the script.

“Jazz, huh?” he said, flipping through pages like they were a restaurant menu.

“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound confident. “The main character is a Ghanaian jazz guitarist in New York who’s—”

He cut me off. “Jazz doesn’t sell. Unless it’s background for a crime film. You got any mobsters in this?”

I blinked.

“No… but there’s emotional conflict. Reconciliation. Legacy. Music as identity.”

He gave me a look I’ll never forget half bemused, half bored.

“We’re looking for genre stuff right now. Horror. High-concept. Stuff we can pre-sell overseas.”

I left that office humiliated. I sat in my car for an hour afterward, not even turning on the engine, just gripping the wheel with both hands like it could anchor me to some sense of direction. But I had none. I was lost.

That night, I made a list. A real one. On paper.

• People who said no.
• People who didn’t respond.
• Money I no longer had.
• Assets I might have to sell.

And then, in a separate column, I wrote:

• Reasons I still believed in the film.
• People who might still help.
• Ideas I hadn’t yet tried.

It wasn’t optimism. It was stubbornness.

That list would go on to shape everything that came next.

Pawning My Camera, Saving My Dream.

There’s a peculiar kind of ache that comes from pawning your first camera. My Canon 5D Mark III wasn’t just a piece of equipment. It was my battle-worn sidekick—the camera that shot my first short film, the one that earned me my first real festival screening, the one I cradled like a newborn when I unboxed it.

When I handed it over to the guy at the pawn shop, he didn’t even flinch. Just looked at it, turned it over like he was checking a melon at the grocery store, and then said, “Three hundred.”

Three hundred dollars for five years of dreams, sweat, and late-night shoots fueled by diner coffee.

But I needed rent money. And groceries. And printer ink. That last one sounds ridiculous, I know—but I needed to print fresh scripts for new meetings. I needed something to keep going.

That walk back to my apartment, now three hundred dollars richer and emotionally bankrupt, was quiet. Even the usual LA noise felt muffled, like the universe had dimmed itself in shame.

I stared at my empty camera shelf for hours. It was like a missing tooth—I couldn’t stop noticing the void.

But that void… it became space for something new. That same night, while eating a sandwich I made from three-day-old deli meat and the last heel of bread, I scribbled an idea onto a napkin.

If I couldn’t sell the film, what if I sold the story of making the film?

The Plan No One Took Seriously.

The next morning, I called three people I trusted: Olivia my cinematographer and roommate at film school; Marcus an old college friend who now ran a scrappy but savvy digital marketing firm; and Tasha—my acting coach and unofficial therapist.

“I have an idea,” I told them. “I’m going to pitch the film to Netflix… before we shoot a single frame.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the Zoom call. Olivia laughed first, followed by Marcus’s audible sigh. Tasha, bless her, tried to remain neutral but her eyebrows did a little dance that screamed, Really?

But I was dead serious.

“If they won’t believe in the film, maybe they’ll believe in the filmmaker who’s too insane to give up.”

I laid it out: we’d create a digital experience around the making of the movie. Not a traditional Kickstarter campaign. Something deeper. A web documentary in progress. Concept reels. Soundtrack samples. Character studies. Live table reads. We’d turn the process into the product.

I knew the odds were ridiculous. But what did I have to lose that I hadn’t already pawned, pitched, or cried over?

Building the Illusion, Crafting the Belief.

The idea was simple in theory, but daunting in execution: make it look like the film already existed. Not lie but pre-sell the vision. Build something real enough to get noticed, even if it wasn’t finished yet.

We didn’t have a set, a studio, or a greenlight. But we had passion and Google Drive. Marcus coined the name for our pseudo-campaign: “The Manifesto Build.”

Here’s how we broke it down:

Phase One: Create the Universe. We started by designing a world around the film. Not just a mood board or a synopsis, but a lived-in digital archive. Olivia filmed me “in development” scribbling story arcs, working with musicians, testing dialogue with actors in my living room. We made everything feel like it was behind the scenes… because it was.

Tasha hosted mock table reads on Instagram Live with up-and-coming actors who owed her favors. I created a fake production journal on Medium, publishing entries like, “We just wrapped casting on the daughter. She’s fire.” Which was technically true—we had someone in mind. But nothing was “wrapped.”

Phase Two: Build Momentum. We clipped a raw, gritty 50-second “vision teaser” from unused short film footage and new B-roll Olivia shot with borrowed gear. The footage wasn’t from the actual film, but it conveyed tone, vibe, tension. Marcus cut it together with a jazz riff I’d recorded years ago on my dad’s old guitar. Then we uploaded it to Vimeo with one bold title:

“Coming Soon: The Film Netflix Doesn’t Know They Need Yet.”

It blew up. Not viral by TikTok standards, but 18,000 views in the first week felt like a tidal wave. That traction gave us something to point to in emails and pitches. A number. A community. A reaction.

Phase Three: Make It Real Enough to Touch. We built a website that looked like a studio-backed production hub. It had cast bios (of actors not fully signed yet), director’s notes, music samples, a production schedule (fictional but plausible), and a “Meet the Crew” section with photos of us me, Olivia, Marcus, Tasha—grinning like we’d already made it.

It was a lie only in the sense that it hadn’t happened yet. But everything we posted was grounded in the intention of what we would do if given the chance.

I emailed that site to 47 different people: agents, execs, assistants, Netflix coordinators I’d met once at coffee shops. It wasn’t spam. It was a living pitch, unfolding in real time.

Each morning, I refreshed my inbox like a compulsive gambler. Each night, I planned the next update to keep the campaign alive.

Then, one Tuesday afternoon, it happened.

Subject line: Netflix Creative Affairs – Let’s Talk.

My hands went numb. I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me, too afraid to click. When I finally opened the message, it was short:

“We came across your project. The presentation is compelling. Can we hop on a call this week?”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t dance. I just sat there in silence for a full minute before whispering, They saw it.

They saw me.

The Call That Changed Everything.

The call was scheduled for Thursday at 11:00 a.m. Pacific Time. I didn’t sleep the night before.

I rehearsed everything—how I’d introduce myself, how I’d explain the film’s emotional arc, how I’d sell the idea without sounding desperate. I even practiced smiling while talking on the phone, because someone once told me people can hear a smile.

At 10:57 a.m., I was pacing in my tiny living room, phone in one hand, mug of coffee in the other. Olivia sat cross-legged on the couch, trying not to breathe too loud. Marcus was on standby, ready to jump on the line if needed. Tasha sent me a voice memo that just said, “Breathe. You’re already worthy.”

At exactly 11:01, my phone rang.

“Hi, is this Jay?” a calm, professional voice asked. It belonged to a woman named Amanda from Netflix’s Creative Affairs team.

“Yes,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like I was about to pass out.

“Thanks for taking the time. We’ve been following your campaign with interest. You’ve created something… different. That’s not something we say often.”

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, I said, “Thank you. That means everything.”

The call lasted 42 minutes. They asked questions about the script, the music, my personal connection to the story. They loved the authenticity, the audience reaction, the boldness of starting the conversation before shooting anything. They wanted to know how much development I had done, how flexible the vision was, and—most importantly—if I had a plan to make it real.

That’s when I hit them with what I’d been working on in secret: a 15-page production roadmap, budget tiers, a casting timeline, and co-producer options I had been quietly developing with two indie mentors who believed in the project.

Amanda didn’t say yes on the call. But she said this:

“You’ve done more legwork than people who come to us with finished films. Let me take this up the chain.”

When the call ended, I didn’t feel triumph. I felt relief. Like someone had finally opened a window in a sealed room.

That was the start of three weeks of back-and-forth. More emails. More calls. More documents. Then, one Friday morning, I got the email that would change my life.

Subject: Formal Offer – Development Partnership

Netflix wanted to work with me. They wanted to fund the development phase, secure attachment to a showrunner-level producer, and reserve first-look rights.

I didn’t even call anyone right away. I just stood in the middle of my room and wept.

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Section 7: Becoming the Filmmaker I Pretended to Be.

Here’s the thing about pretending: if you do it long enough with enough sincerity, it stops being a lie and starts becoming a prototype.

The moment Netflix extended that development deal, I was no longer the underdog screaming into the void. I was the creator they were betting on. And that terrified me more than anything else.

For weeks I had curated, performed, and visualized the version of myself that could lead a film. But now, I had to be him. No edits. No staging. Just grit and execution.

The emotional high of the offer wore off quickly when I realized the mountain ahead. I was about to step into calls with people who had actual slates, real deadlines, and zero patience for indecision. So, I did what any newly-minted development partner would do: I panicked for 48 hours straight.

Then I got to work.

I re-read my own production roadmap like it was gospel. I held Zoom meetings at 6:00 a.m. and midnight to accommodate collaborators in different time zones. I sat down with a producer Netflix recommended—someone with more IMDb credits than I had Instagram followers—and pitched the story all over again like it was Day One.

He challenged me. Hard. He tore into the second act. Questioned the daughter’s arc. Pushed me on the musical tone. For a moment, I thought he was going to walk.

But after an intense two-hour creative session, he leaned back and said, “You’re still rough around the edges. But you’ve got soul. And soul makes good cinema.”

I clung to that line like armor.

The next few months were a crash course in becoming what I had only imagined. I learned:

• How to take notes from execs without losing my voice.
• How to keep a team motivated even when delays hit.
• How to defend a vision without being defensive.

It was brutal. It was beautiful.

And it reshaped me.

I stopped referring to myself as “trying to be a filmmaker.” I was one. And not because of a contract, but because I showed up. Day after day. Call after call. Draft after draft.

The version of me that cried on the floor with cold noodles—that version planted the seeds. But this version? He was growing them into something real.

Lessons I’ll Never Forget.

By the time the ink dried on the development contract, I wasn’t just grateful—I was radically changed. Not just as a filmmaker, but as a person. Because the path I took didn’t just challenge me professionally. It excavated my insecurities, rewired my beliefs, and stripped away every excuse I had ever clung to.

I walked away from this experience with three core lessons. They weren’t elegant. They weren’t polished. But they were true. And they might be useful to you if you’re standing where I once stood—broke, stuck, and praying someone will see your worth.

1. The Process Is the Pitch.

You don’t need a finished product to be taken seriously. You need evidence of belief, of momentum, of vision. What I built wasn’t a scam. It was a prototype of passion. The world didn’t need to see my film yet—they needed to see why it mattered and how I planned to make it real.

So if you’re stuck in development hell, start building the thing you wish you already had. One deck. One sketch. One audio note. One concept video. You’re not faking it—you’re previewing it.

2. Desperation Isn’t Shameful—It’s Fuel.

I pawned my camera. I considered moving back in with my mother. I skipped meals to print pitch decks. At the time, it felt humiliating. But now, I realize that desperation wasn’t a weakness—it was a forge.

Everyone loves the story after the win. But I want to honor the days when I wanted to give up and didn’t. Because that’s where the real work happened. That’s where I earned it.

3. Don’t Wait to Be Seen. Make Yourself Unignorable.

I spent too long waiting for permission—waiting for someone to validate my story, my style, my worth. But the turning point came when I stopped asking and started showing. I made noise. I took risks. I chose visibility over perfection.

And yes, it was terrifying. But it was also liberating.

Netflix didn’t come knocking because I was patient. They came because I was relentlessly obvious in my intent to make this film real. Be loud. Be bold. Let the world know you’re here.

The Road Ahead.

I still wake up some mornings half-expecting it all to disappear. Like the emails, the contracts, the calls—like they were some elaborate hallucination stitched together by sleep deprivation and blind ambition. But then I check my inbox and there it is: pre-production memos, collaborative docs, executive updates. And I remember—this is real.

But I’ll be honest: the realest thing of all isn’t the Netflix logo in the corner of a document. It’s the quiet conviction that grew inside me through this process. The one that whispers, You’ve got this, even when the budget’s tight, the rewrites are brutal, and the industry feels like a roulette wheel set on fire.

I didn’t make it because I was the best. I made it because I refused to stop building even when no one was looking. That’s a lesson I’ll carry into every story I tell from here on out.

The next film might be easier—or harder. I might win awards or I might get buried in criticism. But none of that changes the fact that I now know what I’m capable of. And that clarity? That’s worth more than any deal.

In fact, that clarity is what pushed me to join the IMAFF (Independent Movement for Authentic Filmmakers) as a mentor, where I now help first-time creators navigate the same maze I crawled through.

If you ever attend a panel or workshop hosted by IMAFF, look for a woman named Jessica Rowen. She’s one of the fiercest advocates for independent storytellers I’ve ever met, and the first to tell you that if you want your film made—really made—you have to be louder than your doubt.

I hope this story meets you where you are—whether you’re curled up on the floor with cold noodles or hovering over a pitch deck with trembling hands. Because if you’re still showing up? You’re already halfway there.

So here’s to the ones still swinging.

Keep building. Keep believing. And if they don’t open the door? Kick it down and bring your own damn camera.

Story By: Melinda Jenkins – IMAFF Independent Filmmaker Member.