The only film I’ve ever made was terrible. I wrote a 10 page screenplay titled “Blackout” during winter break in 2017. The premise was simple: two estranged siblings reconcile after a blackout forces them to spend time together. When I first pitched the idea to my friends, I was only met with positive feedback (that should have been my first red flag). I spent 4 months fine tuning the story, down to match the exact image that I had in my mind. I researched effective techniques involved in crafting sincere dialogue. I wrote a total of 7 drafts that I sent to various acquaintances at absurdly late hours of the night. The characters were stuck in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about their broken relationship or the catharsis brought on by communication. I laid awake at night with the constant buzz of “Cut to.” “Int. Night” “I love you!-Why didn’t you ever just tell me that. A Beat.” I had to do something, anything, to tell this story.

I settled on a draft, and I ran with it. I spent a day texting, direct messaging, snapchatting, and calling anyone who could add something to my project. My final crew consisted of an editor, two actors, a writer/director (me), and a composer. It may sound fancy to an outside viewer, but we looked like the island of misfit toys. I bought a new memory card for my family’s Nikon; I fashioned a pseudo boom mic out of a broom handle, a box of playing cards and my phone’s audio recorder; and I scheduling the shooting dates.

If personalized hells exist, mine would be a loop of the weekend we spent filming. First, the lighting tests that I had conducted prior to filming did not account for the shifts in daylight as the day progressed. Next, my two actors, who were previously great friends, got in a fight during filming because one refused to drive the other one home. Naturally, it’s hard to film sentimental scenes when your two (and only) leads aren’t speaking to each other. After several bouts of fighting, reshooting, readjusting, and more fighting, they all went home. With about an hour of footage in my camera and my story close to complete, I sat on my couch and stared at my script. My name was under the title: “Blackout by Juliette Watkins”. I could remember of the warmth radiating off the paper after it came out of the printer. I recognized every word on the page, it was mine. My characters had faces, my words had audible sounds now, and my descriptions were physical spaces. Wet dots appeared next to the text; my cheeks were flushed. I hated it.

I grabbed my camera and started sifting through the footage. The background didn’t look like what I had imagined, the characters didn’t speak with the same inflection, it all felt wrong. It was no longer mine. It belonged to the viewer now. Whoever watched it wouldn't see what I had seen. I had never felt anything like this before. I remembered writing every word on the page, yet they felt foreign when I heard them back. My chest felt tight under the weight of my decision to make the film. My work, that I had always held close, was now released.

I had done my duty. I had given my characters a voice, and I had given myself a platform. The fact that the final product was subpar made it less painful. My first work shouldn’t be my best; otherwise, I would have no reason to keep writing. The only film I’ve ever made was entirely fulfilling.