I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. - Dr. Maya Angelou

I met Bevy Smith twenty-six years ago when she was the Fashion Advertising Director at Vibe magazine. We were at a dinner at the fabled New York restaurant Indochine. I was fresh out of law school and studying for the bar. My future was bright, but my pockets were still very much giving broke student. I was a fish out of water, surrounded by a table full of the famous and fabulous, and I was easily the least interesting person there.

Bevy noticed that no one was talking to me. It was not intentional cruelty; I simply had not yet done anything that made the room curious beyond being a newly minted, 24 year old law school graduate. So, she changed her seat, sat beside me, and asked, “What’s your story?”

Maya Angelou famously said, and I agree, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” I never forgot how Bevy made me feel in a moment when I had been feeling small and inconsequential. She saw me before the world had any particular reason to. For me, that is the epitome of allyship: noticing who has been pushed to the edge of the room, moving your chair, and making space.

Patrik-Ian Polk and I met twenty-two years ago when we were both touring with our fledgling television and film projects. He had the beginnings of his groundbreaking, game-changing series Noah’s Arc, and I was one of the stars and producers of the indie cult classic The Ski Trip. Our friendship was not immediate because outside forces had attempted to pit the two projects against each other. Apparently, the world could only hold one piece of Black gay content at a time. You know how scarcity likes to dress itself up as strategy.

Thankfully, during one of those tour stops, Patrik invited me to his room for a drink and a chat. At a reception where both projects were being celebrated we’d realized that we had a lot in common. As they say, the rest is friendship history. Over the years, we have been there for each other in public and, more importantly, in private. As two pioneering Black gay men in entertainment, our brotherhood has carried us through the rough moments and made the wins sweeter. We write together in cafes, exchange notes and hard truths, and share opportunities. Despite the people who tried to make us competitors, we chose collaboration instead.

My relationships with Bevy and Patrik embody the kind of allyship that inspired Cultural Architects & Torchbearers: Muses, Co-Conspirators & Champions, which they will host Wednesday, September 2, at The Tess, Autograph Collection, in celebration of Atlanta Black Pride.

I created Cultural Architects to celebrate the relationships behind the work: the muses who awaken an idea, the co-conspirators who help build it, and the champions who speak your name in rooms you have not yet entered. Because creativity may begin with one person’s vision, but culture is almost never moved alone.

This particular iteration was conceived over dinner with Rashad Burgess of Gilead Sciences, Bevy, and me. As often happens when Black folks gather around a good meal, the conversation got honest. We began talking about the historic relationship between Black gay and queer men and Black women: the friendship, the kinship, the cultural brilliance, and, yes, the places where the relationship has become strained.

That tension is difficult to ignore online. Every day, some new post, podcast clip, or hot take invites us to choose sides. An algorithm that has never loved any of us is suddenly acting as our relationship counselor. And, beloved, it is not licensed. It also doesn’t reflect my personal reality and relationships with heterosexual Black folks, women or men.

At Cultural Architects, we intend to have the provocative conversation anyway. Not to stage a cage match in cocktail attire, but to ask the questions polite rooms often avoid: Is our allyship truly mutual? Do Black women feel protected, respected, and supported by Black gay and queer men? Do Black gay and queer men feel fully loved by Black women, or merely welcomed when we are entertaining, useful, stylish, or safe? How do misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, and unexamined pain show up between us? And what does it look like to defend one another when the other person is not in the room?

The goal is not agreement for agreement’s sake. Real allyship is not applause, proximity, or an Instagram photograph with excellent lighting. It is practice and accountability. It is sharing power, resources, access, credit, and opportunity. In order to be a true ally, you have to be willing to hear that someone you love has been harmed without treating their pain as a personal attack.

This gathering is also rooted in a status-neutral approach to HIV prevention and care. It means providing culturally affirming information, prevention, treatment, and support based on each person’s needs, regardless of whether they are living with HIV or are HIV-negative. It rejects the false moral hierarchy created by stigma and recognizes that everyone deserves the knowledge and resources to protect their health.

I applaud Gilead Sciences for understanding that ending the HIV epidemic will require more than medicine. It requires meaningful collaboration with local clinics, advocates, LGBTQ+ leaders, and storytellers who can meet communities where we are. That work remains urgent: Black people represent approximately 12 percent of the U.S. population but accounted for 39 percent of HIV diagnoses in 2024. That disparity is not the result of individual failure, but of longstanding inequities in healthcare access, housing, education, economic opportunity, and care.

That is why this partnership and this particular community engagement matters. My own film, 90 DAYS, demonstrated that entertainment can do more than entertain. Published research found that Black women living with HIV viewed the film as an empowering counter-narrative, a practical model for disclosure, a source of hope, and an educational tool for the community. Cultural Architects operates from that same principle: stories can reach people in ways statistics alone cannot, reduce stigma, and move audiences toward testing, prevention, treatment, and care. At the center of it all is a radical, wonderfully practical idea: everybody deserves to be healthy, informed, supported, and treated with dignity.

That principle belongs in our creative work too. Start with the whole human being, not the label. Replace judgment with information, shame with care, and distance with connection. A film, a dinner, a panel, a performance, or even a ninety-second vertical drama can open a door that a lecture may never reach. Story lets people lower their defenses long enough to recognize themselves and, if we do it well, recognize one another.

That is the power and the business of creativity. Stories do not merely reflect culture; they help determine what culture rewards, funds, fears, forgives, and imagines. Trust is infrastructure. The strongest creative ecosystems are not built on talent alone, but on relationships of reciprocity: the referral, the introduction, the shared budget, the honest note, the public defense, the seat moved closer.

Black women and Black queer and gay men are pillars of the Black community. We have created language, style, music, movements, businesses, families, and entire blueprints for survival. We have mothered, brothered, protected, challenged, and inspired one another across generations. We are not required to agree on everything. Family never has. But we cannot afford to let social media turn every disagreement into a referendum on whether the other group deserves our love.

Now is the time to resist the machinery of division. That means checking the people we love when they traffic in misogyny, homophobia, or transphobia. It means refusing to build a platform by humiliating one another. It means sharing opportunities, showing up for each other’s causes, listening without preparing a rebuttal, and remembering that somebody else’s liberation does not threaten our own.

Allyship will not be perfected in one evening. But it can be practiced there.

Twenty-six years ago, Bevy moved her chair. Twenty-two years ago, Patrik opened his door. Both gestures changed the course of my life because allyship, at its best, is not an abstract belief. It is movement.

The question is: Who are we willing to move closer to now?

If you are in Atlanta, consider this your invitation: join us Wednesday, September 2, 2026, at The Tess, Autograph Collection at 8pm. RSVP here.

I’m back from 2.5 weeks in Asia, vacationing with lifelong friends as we celebrated our milestone 50th birthdays. When I started planning the trip more than a year ago, my bank accounts looked at me and laughed. However, I had faith that the work would come and, with it, the resources for the trip. And it did. I’m so glad, because I needed this trip more than I realized until I was actually in the middle of it.

First of all, the cultures we encountered across Asia were distinct from American culture in the best possible ways. We began in Seoul, South Korea, and it was the perfect opening. It’s always humbling to remember that the United States is a very young nation compared with much of the world. Learning about Korea’s dynasties - their greatness and their great problems - put modern life into perspective. The details may be new, but many of the struggles are familiar. It is a time-traveling link of humanity that reminds us no moment is truly unprecedented. It’s all been here before, even if we have not. (I think we have, but that’s another article for another day.)

Aside from the facial that made me look like a fetus (a great thing; I looked really young after the treatment), one of my favorite moments in Seoul was dressing in traditional hanbok before touring a palace. Everyone in our group did it, including the men, and it gave us the kind of whimsy and fun we adults rarely get in our daily lives. It was the first tour of the trip, and it unlocked my inner child in a wonderful way. It readied me for everything ahead and prepared me for the spiritual adventure of a lifetime.

By the time we landed in Bali, I’d long forgotten about Breaking News, social media (except to share some of our pics), and the daily stress of running two creative businesses as a solopreneur. It was a bit of a trek from Seoul to Bali…two flights and about eight hours. Upon arrival, I was greeted by Rana, the driver our villa concierge had arranged for us. He stood beyond the terminal holding a sign, his smile wide and warm - an early indication of all the beautiful Spirits we would encounter during our weeklong stay in Bali.

For me, traveling to Bali was a 30-year dream come true. When I was 19, I interned at an entertainment public-relations firm in Los Angeles, Kelman & Burditch, and the Four Seasons Hotel in Bali was one of our biggest clients. As the intern, my job was to assemble press kits inviting celebrities like Julia Roberts and Denzel Washington to visit the resort. It was the Stone Age (a.k.a. the late ’90s), so this was all done by hand. Physical press kits. It was a hard summer for me on many levels. Dreaming about one day reaching Bali (and the Four Seasons there) helped push me through the challenges. It was also a transformative summer because of the hardship (challenges change us more than anything). Thirty years later, the trip I’d dreamt about would also transform me, but for very different reasons.

The stillness of Balinese culture. The stillness of our beautiful Villa Mandali. The stillness of the house manager and staff, even as they diligently made our stay exceptional. The stillness of poolside breakfasts with the most delicious coffee and fresh juices as I shared intimate moments with the people I love most in the world. The stillness of deep, introspective conversations over dinners specifically and lovingly prepared for my six weeklong roomies and me. The stillness transformed me. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.

I hadn’t felt that general sense of stillness in my Spirit in a very long time. And I needed it. I needed it to disconnect. I needed it to think. I needed it to dream again. I needed it to create.

Chile, let me tell you. By midweek in Bali, my creative juices were flowing like the waterfalls we’d seen spilling into and over acres of rice fields. I felt creatively alive in a way I hadn’t in quite some time. Yes, I create every week for work, but it had begun to feel like a chore. A duty to the bottom line and the task. This creativity felt fresh again. This creativity’s only duty was to creativity itself.

It wasn’t esoteric, either. I wrote the opening lines of my next novel. I’ve now written six books, but only one novel. I’ve desperately wanted to write another, yet the circumstances had not presented themselves because I’ve spent the last eight years writing to make money. Signing on to co-write and ghostwrite books for a fee. I value the work, and I am grateful for what we’ve created, but I was deeply yearning to return to creative freedom. To find my own literary voice in a way that was just for me. I found it in the stillness of Bali.

And then, Bali ended on a dream. My dearest sister-friend, Dr. Brandi Kenner-Bell, had arranged a private dinner for us as our closing night in Indonesia. I was full of all of that good stuff you feel when a dream comes true. You feel the accomplishment and energy of that dream being realized. Possibly, more importantly, you feel the strength and promise of more dreams coming true.

After Bali, we moved on to Singapore, where our airport driver said something that stayed with me for the rest of the trip: Their biggest export, he said, was their minds. Without abundant natural resources, Singapore relied on brainpower. Its innovation, ingenuity, and creativity to power its success.

It was an exclamation point on what I was realizing in real time: I needed to disconnect to reconnect with my own brainpower, innovation, ingenuity, and creativity. I loved Singapore, too, for different reasons. It was immaculate. (I didn’t dare test the chewing-gum mythology.) It was metropolitan but not overly rushed or anxious. It was fabulous. I’ve never seen more Chanel stores, but not in a gaudy or boastful way. Quiet luxury. Quiet wealth. I loved every minute of it and soaked it all up.

Science, as it turns out, is ready to co-sign. In a 2012 Psychological Science study, people who stepped away from a creativity task to do something undemanding (the kind of activity that lets the mind wander) returned with more original responses to a problem they had already encountered than people who stayed mentally taxed, simply rested, or took no break. The brain was not doing nothing. It was working offstage.

Another 2012 study, this one published in PLOS ONE, tested hikers after four days immersed in nature and disconnected from electronics. They performed about 50 percent better on a creative problem-solving task than hikers tested before the trip. The researchers could not separate the effects of nature from those of digital disconnection, but maybe that is the point. The things that restore us rarely arrive one at a time. Stillness changes the room inside us. Sometimes creativity is not something we have to chase. Sometimes we have to get quiet enough for it to find us.

It wasn’t until I returned to the States - to California - that I began to understand the full extent of the transformation. Thankfully, my life in Pasadena, which I affectionately call my own special little Shangri-La, supports the peace, clarity, and openness I reclaimed on the trip.

I love my life. However, I came back ready to make some changes, and I’ve already begun. I came back ready to make Love Will Save the Day, the movie I’ve been working on for the past four years. (My Make a Movie with Me series returns this week, too.) I came back a renewed person. A restored creative. I came back with stillness and peace reclaimed…something that was only possible after disconnecting from it all.

I will be even more intentional about protecting stillness and disconnection in my daily and weekly routines. I highly recommend you do it, too. Pushing through is necessary SOMETIMES. Pausing is necessary FAR MORE OFTEN than hustle culture would have us believe. Disconnecting was not an escape from my creativity. It was the road back to it.

“We are creating product that creates jobs and revenue for the entire industry. We shouldn’t be barely getting by.” - Sean Baker

It has been rough in these indie filmmaking streets. Rough rough. The kind of rough where you’re at a festival party smiling over a lukewarm glass of sponsor wine while quietly wondering how you’re going to pay your rent, your editor, your colorist, your lawyer, your tax bill, and the parking ticket you got trying to make it to the panel where somebody with a studio deal told a room full of broke filmmakers to “just make something.”

And yet, I feel a light at the end of the tunnel. A bright one, in fact. Not the Hollywood fantasy light where somebody important discovers you in a coffee shop and hands you a check with seven zeroes (although I am open to that happening, Dear Universe). I mean a different kind of light. The light from a theater marquee that is suddenly, surprisingly, being powered by filmmakers and creators who did not wait for the old gatekeepers to swing open the palace doors.

As Hollywood studios consolidate even faster than anticipated, the pathway to a coveted studio greenlight keeps shrinking. The proposed Paramount Skydance acquisition of Warner Bros. Discovery, a deal Reuters reported at $110 billion, has already drawn fierce opposition from theater owners, who argue that consolidation historically leads to fewer movies in theaters. Cinema United’s Michael O’Leary said the deal would be “harmful to exhibition, consumers and the entire entertainment ecosystem,” and pointed to the Disney-Fox merger as a cautionary tale: before merging, the two companies released 26 new wide titles in more than 2,000 theaters; last year, the combined studio released 14.

So yes, the studio greenlight is getting harder to get. But here is the question: is it still as coveted, or as necessary, as it once was?

I think not.

Oscar winner Sean Baker made the statement above while accepting his directing award for Anora at the Independent Spirit Awards in 2025. Baker’s words rang true for many indie filmmakers, including myself. It has become increasingly difficult to make a livable wage as an indie filmmaker. Most of us, including me, have to keep a side hustle, or three, in order to keep the lights on and the refrigerator at least half full.

Baker called the current system “unsustainable” and said indie filmmakers should not have to survive on fumes while creating the very product that keeps festivals, theaters, streamers, sales agents, distributors, publicists, trades, awards campaigns, and development executives in business. He also warned that if the system does not change, indie films risk becoming nothing more than calling cards.

That line hit me in the chest because a calling card does not feed a family. Pay the rent. A mortgage. Or, fund a much-needed vacation. does not build equity. A calling card does not create generational wealth. A calling card might get you a meeting, but meetings do not pay SAG, DGA, WGA, your composer, your production designer, your DP, your cast, your crew, your rent, your student loans, or your momma back (Momma J. has been paid in full, thankfully).

And yet, just one year later, I feel and see a shift happening.

Sure, the studios will make fewer films as they consolidate, which means they will take fewer risks. With that said, tentpole IP is no longer a bulletproof vest. This past weekend, Supergirl opened below expectations with $38 million domestically and $68 million worldwide against a reported $170 million budget. DC Studios co-chief Peter Safran even acknowledged, “Supergirl didn’t meet our box office expectations,” while framing it as part of a longer-term strategy.

Meanwhile, indie and creator-driven films are running around the box office with no shoes on, a pocket full of audacity, and a map the old system did not draw.

Backrooms, directed by YouTuber Kane Parsons, opened with $81.4 million domestically for A24 and has grossed more than $330 million worldwide on a reported $10 million budget. That is not a cute little indie success story. That is a siren. That is a Bat-Signal for everybody who has been told the audience for their weird, specific, internet-born, genre-bending thing does not exist.

Obsession, from YouTube creator Curry Barker, has become an even wilder case study. Box Office Mojo lists it at more than $371 million worldwide, with Focus Features distributing domestically. The film opened domestically at a modest $17.2 million, then grew into an avalanche. Earlier reporting put its budget under $1 million and noted that in its third weekend it actually went up 10%, which is the kind of thing that makes marketing executives stare into the middle distance and rethink every memo they sent about “awareness.”

And earlier this year, Markiplier’s Iron Lung reportedly opened to $17.8 million and went on to $50 million worldwide on a $3 million budget. Again, this was not a traditional studio discovery story. It was a creator-audience-distribution story. It was a filmmaker’s creative and marketing milkshake bringing the audiences to the yard.

That matters.

Because the game is no longer just, “Can you get someone to give you permission to make a movie?” The game is now, “Can you prove that people want to gather around the story you are building?”

YouTube understands this. In his 2026 letter, YouTube CEO Neal Mohan wrote that creators are “reinventing entertainment and building the media companies of the future,” and that “the era of dismissing this content as simply UGC is long over.” He also said YouTube paid more than $100 billion to creators, artists, and media companies in the past four years and that its ecosystem supported more than 490,000 full-time jobs in the U.S. in 2024.

That is not side content. That is an industry.

Tubi understands this too. The free, ad-supported streamer announced in 2025 that it had exceeded 100 million monthly active users and surpassed 1 billion hours of viewing in a month. Tubi CEO Anjali Sud said the platform is resonating with “cordless audiences, younger audiences and audiences that dictate culture.” More importantly for indie filmmakers, Tubi said its programming strategy includes licensing, acquiring, and developing creator projects that serve fandoms and resonate with young, multicultural audiences.

Read that again: young, multicultural audiences.

Because this is the part Hollywood keeps pretending is a mystery, even though the receipts have been stapled to the memo for years. Diverse audiences show up. Women show up. Black audiences show up. Latino audiences show up. Queer audiences show up. Genre audiences show up. Faith audiences show up. Niche audiences show up. The problem is not that the audience is absent.

The problem is that Hollywood keeps greenlighting from the center and then acting shocked when the edges are where the heat is.

UCLA’s 2026 Hollywood Diversity Report said studios are missing opportunities to support diverse filmmakers and bring audiences back to theaters. It found that horror, which was the most common genre among top theatrical releases last year, had the highest median return on investment and is a favorite genre for Black and Latino audiences. UCLA researcher Michael Tran put it plainly: by not embracing diversity in a genre these audiences already love, studios are “leaving money on the table.”

Let me say this in plain Creative Trippin’ English: the market is not confused. The market has been speaking. The market has been singing. The market has been yelling outside the studio gates with a bullhorn, a ring light, and a group chat.

Sinners proved it too. Ryan Coogler’s original, Black-led, horror-rooted studio film grossed more than $370 million worldwide on a reported $90 million production budget. It was original. It was culturally specific. It was not a reboot, sequel, remake, or cinematic universe homework assignment. It was proof that when you give a visionary filmmaker resources, ownership-minded deal terms, and room to actually swing, audiences will come.

Now, am I saying every indie filmmaker should run out and make a horror film based on a creepypasta or a YouTube series? No. Please do not all go make haunted hallways because Kane Parsons did it well. That is how we end up with 47 fake liminal-space thrillers and everybody wondering why the magic is gone by Christmas.

What I am saying is this: the old model is no longer the only model. The audience is the asset. The audience is the leverage. The audience is the proof. And for diverse filmmakers, this is not just a technological shift. It is an opportunity for liberation.

Because when you build your audience before you ask for permission, you walk into the room differently. You are not begging someone to believe in your story. You are showing them the people who already do.

That is why my longtime business partner, Richard E. Pelzer II, and I have been saying for two decades: “We greenlight ourselves.”

And it is true. You can and should too.

Now, let’s be clear. “Greenlight yourself” does not mean “be reckless.” It does not mean max out every credit card and call it faith (but, if that’s what it takes…). It does not mean ignore business structure, chain of title, distribution strategy, investor recoupment, union rules, insurance, music clearance, deliverables, marketing, or the brutal truth that making the movie is only one mountain in the range. Creative Trippin’ is dedicated to the mindset, process, and BUSINESS of creativity.

Greenlighting yourself means taking responsibility for the path. It means understanding that your job is not just to be an artist. Your job is to become an ecosystem. So what does that look like in tangible terms?

First, build the audience before you build the altar. Do not wait until the movie is finished to start telling the story of the story. Create a Substack. Create a YouTube channel. Create short-form video. Create a behind-the-scenes diary. Create quote cards. Create rehearsal clips. Create a lookbook. Create the world around the film so people can start entering it before the first frame is locked.

Second, know exactly who your movie is for. “Everybody” is not a marketing plan. “People who like good stories” is not a demographic. Be specific. Black women 25 to 54 who love romantic dramas and political intrigue (Love Will Save the Day). Queer millennials who miss adult relationship films. Horror fans who live on Reddit, YouTube, Letterboxd, and Discord. Faith audiences who want complexity instead of sermonizing. Your specificity is not a limitation. It is the doorway.

Third, make the budget honest. Not cute. Not fantasy. Honest. If you have $500,000, make a $500,000 movie with a $500,000 plan. If you need $3 million, build a $3 million argument. Budget for production, post, legal, insurance, music, deliverables, festivals, publicity, social content, audience building, and distribution. A movie without a marketing plan is a beautiful orphan. Don’t leave your baby on the steps.

Fourth, build proof of demand. This could be a short film (90 DAYS), a proof-of-concept scene, a table read, a teaser, a sizzle, a podcast mini-series, a newsletter series, a live event, a staged reading, a cast conversation, a crowdfunding campaign, or a targeted community screening. The point is to create evidence that the audience is real before you ask financiers to take the leap.

Fifth, stop treating platforms as afterthoughts. YouTube is not just where trailers go to die. TikTok is not just dancing and chaos. Instagram is not just a mood board. Tubi is not just a dumping ground. FAST channels, AVOD, TVOD, direct-to-consumer, educational licensing, community screenings, brand partnerships, and theatrical events are all pieces of a modern indie distribution puzzle. The trick is not to pick one blindly. The trick is to design the windowing strategy around the audience and the film.

Sixth, keep your rights as much as you can. Ownership is not just a legal clause. I own or co-own every film I’ve ever made. Fight for backend, yes, but do not rely on backend fantasies to survive. Fight for producer fees. Fight for writing and directing fees. Fight for consulting fees. Fight for meaningful ownership. Fight for transparency. Fight for audit rights. Fight for the ability to use your work as a foundation for the next work.

Seventh, collect data like your creative life depends on it, because it does. Email addresses. RSVPs. Survey responses. Watch time. Click-through rates. Geographic clusters. Audience demographics. Community partners. Group sales. Donor behavior. Comment sentiment. This is not just marketing. This is leverage. It is building the audience that will support you over and over again.

Eighth, make your community part of the journey. People support what they feel invited into. Not manipulated into. Invited into. Let them see the process. Let them see the uncertainty. Let them see the wins and the almost-wins. Let them root for the film before the film needs them to buy a ticket.

Ninth, use festivals strategically. I have said this before and will keep saying it because I need filmmakers to be free: stop just submitting to film festivals (go read that article). Start using them. Festivals are not validation machines. They are networking rooms, press opportunities, community-building engines, buyer environments, investor touchpoints, and launchpads. If you are spending money on submissions, know what you want from each festival and why.

Finally, demand sustainability. That was Baker’s point. Indie filmmakers cannot keep being the unpaid research and development department for the rest of Hollywood. We cannot keep making the work that feeds the culture while starving in the kitchen. We have to build smarter models, ask for more, keep more, own more, and stop confusing struggle with virtue.

Indie films are back, but not because the old system suddenly got generous.

Indie films are back because audiences are finding their way around the walls. Creators are building their own doors. Filmmakers are learning to become studios. Communities are becoming marketing departments. Platforms are becoming launchpads. And the stories Hollywood once considered “too specific” are proving, again and again, that specificity is where the gold lives.

So yes, the studio greenlight may be harder to get. Fine.

Greenlight yourself. Then build something undeniable.

Before you write the first word, cast the first actor, pitch the first investor, chase the budget, build the team, or yell “action” - you have to get your mind right.

So, as promised, here is the companion toolkit.

This is not meant to be homework in the boring, school-smells-like-pencil-shavings way (even though I did well, I hated school). This is meant to be a grounding practice. A creative check-in. A little internal production meeting with your Spirit, your ambition, your fear, your purpose, and the part of you that already knows this journey is going to stretch you.

Use what works. Leave what doesn’t. There’s no one-size fits all approach to anything in life so, you create your own process and use what follows as inspiration for it.

Come back to it when the process gets hard because, Boo-Thang, the process will get hard. That does not mean you’re doing it wrong. That means you’re making a movie.

1. Find Your Filmmaker Why

Before you focus on why you want to make a specific project, start with the bigger question:

Why do you need to be a filmmaker?

Not want. Need.

A want is optional. A need has a different temperature. It keeps showing up. It follows you into other jobs, other rooms, other relationships, other plans. It taps you on the shoulder while you’re trying to be practical and says, “We’re still doing this, right?”

Take 10 to 15 minutes and answer these questions without overthinking them (it’ll also prepare you for your red carpet and other interviews, you Boss filmmaker you):

1. When did I first know I wanted to make movies?

2. What kind of stories have always pulled at me?

3. What do I want people to feel after experiencing my work?

4. What do I believe film can do that other forms of art cannot?

5. What have I lived, survived, witnessed, loved, lost, or learned that shapes the stories I want to tell?

6. Who am I trying to serve with my work?

7. What would feel unfinished in my life if I never made films?

Now look back at your answers and circle the words, themes, emotions, and ideas that keep repeating.

That repetition is not accidental. That is your Spirit leaving breadcrumbs.

2. Find This Project’s Why

Once you begin to understand why you need to be a filmmaker, turn to the project in front of you. Every film needs its own why.

Is it personal, political, joyful, healing, or just flat-out entertaining and the world needs more reasons to laugh? All or none of the above? It’s truly the one thing that is solely up to you before other people’s thoughts get involved and mess everything up. LOL.

Ask yourself:

1. Why this story?

2. Why now?

3. Why me?

4. Who is this story for?

5. What need does this story fulfill for the audience?

6. What do I want the audience to feel when the credits roll?

7. What conversation do I hope this film starts?

8. What truth am I trying to tell?

9. What beauty, joy, release, recognition, or revelation am I trying to offer?

10. What would be lost if this film never existed?

That last question matters.

Because there will be moments when the work gets hard, slow, expensive, annoying, delayed, confusing, humbling, or all of the above wearing a trench coat. In those moments, you need to know why this story matters enough for you to keep going.

3. The Two-Why Statement

Now take your answers and turn them into two simple statements.

My Filmmaker Why:
I need to be a filmmaker because...

My Project Why:
I need to make this film because...

Do not try to make it perfect. Perfect is not the assignment. Clear is the assignment.

Here’s an example:

My Filmmaker Why:
I need to be a filmmaker because I’ve always felt a Divine calling and pull on my Spirt to make the world a better place through my storytelling. I’ve always been a storytelling even though it wasn’t until later in life that I truly knew it was my life’s mission and my Divine purpose. (That’s literally my IRL why).

My Project Why:
I need to make this film because HIV/AIDS is still an epidemic in Black and Latino communities and film is the most effective way to educate, entertain, inspire, encourage, and uplift. And, although we’ve had some beautiful and excellent movies about HIV like Philadelphia and Dallas Buyer’s Club they’ve all been sad and depressing (no offense). It’s time to make a feature length film that is filled with love, hope, a promise of a better future, and a helluva lot of fun. (That’s literally my IRL why for making Love Will Save the Day).

Now write yours.

My Filmmaker Why:
I need to be a filmmaker because...

My Project Why:
I need to make this film because...

Read more

“That’s your moment. When you’re feeling the most trapped and down and nothing can go right. Those are the moments that define you. Those are those character cannon moments that define you. What am I going to do now? How are you going to respond to that?” - Michael B. Jordan

Making movies is both magic and madness.

It is beauty with a budget. Wonder with a call sheet. A thousand small miracles trying to happen while the clock is ticking, the money is moving, somebody is late, somebody else is overwhelmed, and craft services is somehow both the emotional center and gastrointestinal gamble of the entire production.

It doesn’t matter if you’re Spielberg (my fave) or a first-time filmmaker with a five-thousand-dollar budget, there will be setbacks, challenges, seeming impossibilities, and days when you think you just can’t go on. That is not a flaw in the process. That is the process.

As Michael B. Jordan told Jay Shetty, “That’s your moment.” How you respond when the chips are down will define you. It will also determine whether your project gets done or becomes one more beautiful idea sitting in a Dropbox folder, waiting for the conditions to be perfect.

And let me lovingly ruin the ending for you: the conditions will never be perfect.

MBJ goes on to say that so many people quit at that exact moment, which is often the moment right before the breakthrough comes. I don’t want that to be you. So I’m sharing what I believe is the most fundamental aspect of the filmmaking process: your mindset.

I cannot stress enough how important it is to get your mind right before you write the first word. Before you cast the first actor. Before you talk to the first investor. Before you start designing the look book and convincing yourself that a font choice is “pre-production.” Your primary job is to do whatever you can to prepare your mind and Spirit for the trip in front of you.

That’s why I put mindset first in the description of Creative Trippin’: The Mindset, Process, and Business of Creativity.

Now, I am speaking from the lens of the person leading the ship, whether that person is the director, producer, writer, or some combination of all three because, hello, independent filmmaking. Every film has one or more captains steering the ship toward its final port: distribution to audiences.

Sure, it takes a mighty team to get a film done. A film is not a solo sport. It is a relay, a choir, a construction site, a circus, and a family reunion with better lighting. But that team is only as strong as its leader or leaders. And those leaders are only as strong as their minds.

That’s why I want to break down some essential considerations and affirmations that can help get your mind right for the long trip.

First and foremost, you must know your why.

Your purpose, not only for doing this particular film, but for being a filmmaker in general.

I firmly believe that when you approach any work from a position of service, with the work being your gift of service to the world, you will go much further. The hard days won’t run you ashore as quickly because you will remember that the work is bigger than your feelings in that one difficult moment.

My why is that I know I was divinely inspired to make a difference in the world and serve it through my art. I’m on a God-sent mission to make the world a better place, not only through film, but as the foundation of everything I do.

You move differently when you’re moving in Divine purpose. There are some things you must do, and there are many other things you simply cannot do when you move like that.

But that’s my why. You have to find yours.

Well, Nathan, that’s easier said than done, right?

But is it?

Think about when you first decided to make a movie. What inspired you? What were you doing? What was the burning desire in your heart that said, “This is something I have to do”?

Then, write all of that down in a mind map and look for the patterns. If that still feels difficult to do on your own, plug your thoughts into one of the AI tools and ask it to help you identify themes. Or, better yet, talk to other humans who know you, and even some who don’t, to help elicit that essential why.

Once you firmly know why you need to be a filmmaker, and I used the word need instead of want intentionally, it will make a difference in those rough times. A need must be fulfilled. A want is optional.

Then, it’s time to discover the why of the project.

And in discovering that, it could be a number of things. The story may be personal to you, and you want to share it with the world. The story may be beautiful, and you want to bring more beauty into the world. The story may be deeply entertaining, and you want to give people joy, laughter, escape, release, or all of the above.

There are an infinite number of reasons why you may want to tell a story in cinematic form, but the common denominator is the relationship between you and the audience. Your desire fulfilling the audience’s need.

My advice is to spend as much time as you need getting to the bottom of both of your whys before you do anything else. They will serve as your North Star when, like Jonah, you find yourself in the belly of the whale.

And trust me, if you’re a filmmaker, you’re going to be deep in the belly of that whale many times throughout your trip across the ocean of filmmaking.

Once you have your why firmly embedded and clear in your Spirit, and it may shift along the way and that’s OK too, then you need to make some deals with yourself first before you make deals with other people.

These are your non-negotiables. The things you can call back to when you’re conflicted, challenged, or compromised. I set daily affirmations, but I also set affirmations when I start a new project, and they tend to be the same.

Here are six of my affirmations that have helped me stay focused on the mission and get to the final port. These are mine. You are welcome to use them if they work for you. Or, you can use them to inspire your own.

SIX AFFIRMATIONS FOR THE FILMMAKING JOURNEY

1. Nothing Can Stop Me and I Will Never Give Up.

This doesn’t mean nothing will challenge me. Oh, the challenges will absolutely pull up with snacks, luggage, and a plus-one. It means they do not get the final vote.

When I say nothing can stop me, I am reminding myself that obstacles are not stop signs. They are information. They may require me to pivot, pray, strategize, rest, ask for help, rewrite the plan, or take a nap before I send that e-mail with my whole chest. But they do not get to decide whether I finish.

2. I Can Handle Whatever Happens.

This is not manifestation fairy dust. This is a grown-up agreement with myself.

On a film, things will happen. People may drop out. Money may move slower than expected. Locations may fall through. Someone may have “thoughts” on page 73 that make you stare at the wall like it owes you an apology. But when I tell myself I can handle whatever happens, I am not saying everything will be easy. I am saying I will not abandon myself in the hard parts.

3. A “No” Just Gets Me Closer to My “Yes.”

A no is not always rejection. Sometimes a no is protection. Sometimes a no is redirection. Sometimes a no is God, the universe, your ancestors, and common sense forming an emergency committee on your behalf.

In this business, if you let every no become a funeral, you will spend your whole creative life in black. I try to treat a no as data. It tells me who is not aligned, what needs to be stronger, where the pitch may need more clarity, or where I need to keep moving until I find the yes that was actually meant for the project.

4. The Work I’m Creating Is Important and Necessary.

This does not mean I walk around thinking every draft is the Magna Carta. Some pages are inspired. Some pages need Jesus and a second cup of coffee (tea for me but since most of y’all drink coffee I decided to go with the dark roast).

But I have to believe the work matters. I have to believe that the story has a reason to exist beyond my own ambition. If I do not believe the work is important and necessary, a budget problem, a casting delay, a lukewarm response, or one bad Tuesday will talk me out of it by lunch. The belief is fuel. Not ego. Fuel.

5. I’m Going to Enjoy Every Minute of the Journey. It’s All Working for My Good.

Now, every minute? Nathan, sir, are we including the stressful meetings, the delayed wires, and the “just circling back” e-mails that circle back like a haunted Roomba?

Yes. Even those.

Enjoying the journey does not mean pretending everything feels good. It means deciding that I will not postpone joy until the premiere, the review, the check, the award, or the deal. If I only let myself enjoy the mountaintop, I will miss the entire climb. And the climb is where so much of the beauty is hiding.

6. I Have Goals, But I Release Any Attachment to Outcomes and Timelines.

This one is for the overachievers, the spreadsheet saints, the calendar prophets, and the people who think control is a love language. I see you because I am you.

Have the goals. Make the plan. Build the budget. Chase the cast. Send the decks. Follow up. Do the work. But then, release the death grip on exactly how and when everything must happen. Your job is to be faithful to the work. Your job is not to strangle the process until it confesses.

I’ve learned that sometimes the delay is doing more work than the original plan ever could. Sometimes the person who says yes in September is better than the person you begged in May. Sometimes the door that would not open was not locked. It was a wall dressed up as an opportunity.

Conclusion: This Is the Work Before the Work

I used to think preparation for a film meant the script, the budget, the schedule, the look book, the deck, the team, the money, the cast, the locations, the contracts, and the thousand other things that make a movie real in the world.

And yes, all of that matters.

But the older I get, and the more I create, the more I understand that preparation is also internal. It is your nervous system. Your faith. Your discipline. Your capacity to keep going when the room gets quiet, the inbox gets rude, and the dream starts asking you whether you were serious when you said you wanted this.

Because filmmaking will ask you.

It will ask you in development. It will ask you in financing. It will ask you in pre-production. It will ask you on set. It will ask you in post. It will ask you again when you’re trying to get the film seen by the people you made it for in the first place.

That is why mindset is not some cute little inspirational accessory. It is not glitter on the call sheet. It is infrastructure.

Angela Duckworth’s research on grit defines it as passion and perseverance toward long-term goals. I love that because filmmaking is nothing if not a long-term goal with a camera, a thousand opinions, and a catering invoice. But I also want us to be careful not to turn grit into hustle-culture punishment. Grit does not mean you run yourself into the ground. It means you stay connected to the deeper reason you started, especially when the work gets hard.

Teresa Amabile and Steven Kramer’s research on creativity and motivation points to the power of progress, even small progress, in keeping people engaged in meaningful work. That feels true to me as a filmmaker. A movie is rarely made in one thunderclap. It is made by one page, one call, one meeting, one yes, one solved problem, one better scene, one brave conversation, one small win at a time.

And Robert Redford once said that Sundance deepens the resolve of artists by bringing them into community “so that they know they are not alone.” That is part of why I’m doing this series. Because as much as we talk about filmmaking as a dream, the truth is that it can be lonely, confusing, expensive, humbling, exhilarating, and occasionally absurd enough to qualify as performance art.

So, let’s not do it alone.

Make A Movie with Me is my invitation to pull back the veil on the mindset, process, and business of making an independent film. I’m going to share what I know, what I’m learning, what I’m still figuring out, and what happens in real time as we bring Love Will Save the Day to life.

If you are an aspiring filmmaker, a working creative, a supporter of independent film, or just somebody who likes watching a dream go from “what if” to “we did that,” I hope you’ll subscribe and come on the trip.

Some of what I share in this series will be public because I believe in giving back and making the creative process less mysterious for people who are trying to find their way.

But some of it will be for subscribers because I want to build a deeper creative community, not just an audience.

Today, in the subscriber-only companion to this piece, I’m going to share a practical Filmmaker Mindset Toolkit with exercises, writing prompts, books, resources, and a few tools to help you clarify your why, strengthen your affirmations, and prepare your mind for the long, beautiful, ridiculous, holy, exhausting, life-changing trip of making a movie.

So, if this piece spoke to you, subscribe and come deeper into the process with me. We’re not just talking about making movies. We’re getting ready to make them.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here.

Now, before we make the movie, let’s get our minds right.

The film is called Love Will Save the Day because Whitney Houston is never too far from my heart. And while a romantic comedy about HIV may sound far-fetched to some, I know this can work because I have done it before with my short film, 90 DAYS, starring Teyonah Parris, Nic Few, and Pauletta Washington.

This time, the story is bigger. The stakes are higher. The canvas is wider.

I wrote the screenplay. I am producing the film. I am also directing it. And I want you to come on the journey with me.

For one, I need the moral support. This is my narrative feature directorial debut, and I am not above admitting that I would like a little cheering section. But more importantly, I want to share this journey as a blueprint and guide for other filmmakers, artists, producers, writers, dreamers, builders, and beautiful lunatics trying to make independent films.

Because independent film is coming back. (But that is next week’s article.)

I started Creative Trippin’ for this very reason. This platform is about the mindset, process, and business of creativity, with a heavy emphasis on the “trip” itself. The journey from concept to completion. From idea to execution. From cradle to grave, which sounds morbid, I know, but is still one of my favorite metaphors. Or is it an analogy? Either way, you get the point.

I have always been most enriched by creators who share the actual steps of their creative journey. Not just the red carpet version. Not just the polished postmortem after the film is finished, the reviews are in, and everyone has forgotten how much panic, prayer, fundraising, revision, begging, negotiating, and caffeine it took to get there.

I mean the real process. How did they actually get it done?

How did they move from the first idea to the first draft? From the script to the financing? From casting to pre-production? From the first day on set to the final edit? From the private dream to the public thing?

Having not gone to film school, I have always looked for direct learning about creative mindset and artistic process. Twenty-six years as an entertainment lawyer has taught me a great deal about the business. But filmmaking is also craft, collaboration, stamina, and taste. It is decision-making under pressure. It is vision meeting logistics in a parking lot at 5:17 a.m. with a production assistant holding the wrong coffee (I don’t drink coffee – I am a tea guy, but that worked better for the sentence).

So, because of my own need for education and inspiration over the years, I have decided to pull back the veil and share the process in real time. In real life.

Both here in written form and through weekly videos on the Creative Trippin’ social platforms, including YouTube, Instagram, and some TikTok posts.

Honestly, I went back and forth about doing this. Part of me wanted to wait until everything was perfect and shiny and safely in the rearview mirror. But one thing I have come to know for sure is that when you are scared of something, that is usually exactly when you should do it.

So here we go. I will be sharing the good, the bad, the ugly, and the magic.

Speaking of magic, that is my philosophy about filmmaking. It is a mixture of magic and madness. Some days, it is much more madness than anything else, but somehow, if you stay with it long enough, the madness often leads you right back to the magic.

I will be sharing it all unfiltered. Straight, no chaser.

And for my subscribers and paid subscribers, I will also be providing written resources, almost like a course, that you can use on your own film trip. Think of it as a behind-the-scenes independent filmmaking guide, built in real time as the movie comes together.

But first, let me tell you a little bit about the film. Then, over on YouTube, I will go more in-depth about where we are in the process and what comes next.

Back in 2016, I had the idea to create a short film proof of concept called 90 DAYS. The film dealt with the love aspects of HIV, particularly in the Black community. I chose to tell the story through the lens of a straight Black woman for many reasons, primarily because Black women are disproportionately impacted by HIV in comparison to other women.

The story behind 90 DAYS is much more detailed than that, and I will go into it on the Creative Trippin’ YouTube channel. I will also be posting the film there next week if you want to see it.

To say 90 DAYS was a hit is a severe understatement.

Not only did it prove my point, it traveled around the world, racked up awards at Cannes in France, the Pan African Film Festival, and won Africa’s equivalent of an Academy Award for Best Diaspora Short. Even now, the film is still being used as a tool to empower, uplift, and educate communities.

I am deeply proud of 90 DAYS and the team that brought it to life.

Shout out to Richard E. Pelzer II, Nasir K. Ferebee, Jennia Fredrique Aponte, Sol Aponte, Jussie Smollett, Samantha Stokes Granberry, W. Imara Canady, and the entire cast and crew that made that magic happen.

But when you live with a creative project that long, eventually you know when it is time to tell a new story.

Hello, Love Will Save the Day.

Love Will Save the Day follows Loréal Rogers, an ambitious attorney in Chicago who is fresh off a big win at the Supreme Court (fiction, people) and has decided to launch her road to the White House with a run for Illinois Attorney General.

Standing in her way is Jaxon Bryant, the debonair former U.S. Attorney, son of the sitting U.S. Senator, and the apparent front-runner.

Let’s just say a lot of madness happens before we get to the magic.

I will be sharing more plot and storyline details along the way, but that is enough of a taste to invite you on the trip.

My goal is to take you through the entire independent filmmaking process as much as I can. From script development to financing. From casting to pre-production. From production through post-production. From festival strategy to premiere. From idea to audience.

By the end, I plan to give you a literal manual on how to make an independent feature film.

Hopefully, you will learn from my mistakes, my wins, my pivots, my prayers, my spreadsheets, my “what in the entire world is happening?” moments, and everything in between. And then, hopefully, you will be inspired to go make something yourself.

I have an amazing team and a fabulous cast. You will meet them all when the time is right. But for now, buckle up and take this trip with me.

Please be sure to subscribe, free or paid, because much of this series will be for subscribers only, both here and on the YouTube channel. I will continue to publish public posts throughout the process, but those will be more general. Subscriber posts will go deeper and get much more specific, including tangible resources you can use on your own creative journey.

I am so excited about this film. I am equally excited to share the trip with you.

This is something I wish I had when I was starting out, so my prayer is that it helps at least one filmmaker get closer to realizing their dream.

Making a great film will be beautiful; and I will be so grateful. Helping someone else believe they can make theirs too? That would be the true success.

I also look forward to interacting with you all and discussing each step along the way.

Let’s GO. Make a movie with me.

“Today’s filmmakers have an unprecedented opportunity to build and nurture a personal audience.”
— Peter Broderick

Twenty years ago, my film Dirty Laundry won Best Picture and Best Actor at the American Black Film Festival. It was the first major festival award one of my films had ever won, and I was there. Well, sort of…

I was at ABFF. It was my first time attending. But when our film actually won, I was in my hotel room recovering from the festivities of the night before. In other words, I missed the moment.

I never did that again.

I also have learned many other lessons about film festivals: the application process; their importance; and, most importantly, how to maximize their utility to advance your film and your filmmaking career.

That missed award taught me a lesson I have carried into every festival since: film festivals are fun, yes, but they are also work. Potentially life-changing work. If you treat them only as a celebration, you may miss the opportunity sitting right in front of you.

Last week marked the 30th anniversary of ABFF and my 20th anniversary of attending. Since 2006, I have had four films screen at the festival, including Dirty Laundry. In those twenty years, I have learned that festivals are not just places to showcase talent. They are ecosystems where careers are built, relationships are formed, films are positioned, and filmmakers learn how to move from being artists with projects to professionals with momentum.

When I first started going to festivals, I wanted audiences to see the work. That still matters. The audience is sacred. But now, my goals are also business-related. I am thinking about what the festival can do for that film, and what it can do for future work. That does not mean I walk into rooms trying to sell people like I am hawking miracle tonic from a folding table. The real strategy is not to force a transaction. The real strategy is to build alliances.

I have always despised the word “networking” because the way most people approach it feels transactional and ineffective. They scan the room for the most powerful person, stalk them politely, exchange information, and then wonder why nothing happens. The problem is that everyone else is doing the same thing.

So I coined my own term: ALLIANCING™. Alliancing is the organic and natural establishment of mutually beneficial relationships that last and span the long term.

Alliancing is not about collecting contacts. It is about building connective tissue. The assistant you meet today may be the studio executive tomorrow. The filmmaker beside you in a half-empty screening may become your producing partner. The person who cannot help you right now may remember you three years from now when the right door opens.

That is the real power of film festivals. But to use them well, you have to be strategic before you ever set foot in the theater.

The first mistake many filmmakers make is applying to every festival they can find. You finish your film, you believe in it, and suddenly FilmFreeway becomes your casino of hope. But festival submissions get expensive quickly, and if you do not have a sponsor, backer, or healthy marketing budget, you have to be disciplined.

Be selective. Research the festivals thoroughly. Look at the kinds of films they program. Ask whether deals actually happen there. Read filmmaker reviews. Study what kind of support, programs, press opportunities, industry access, and audience engagement they provide. Consider the stature of the festival, but also consider the fit.

And be honest about your work. The films that get into the biggest festivals often have major producers, known actors, established filmmakers, sales agents, publicists, and institutional relationships attached. Yes, unicorn stories happen. But you cannot build a strategy around being the exception. You build a strategy around being prepared, targeted, and relentless.

That preparation starts with the application itself. Complete your FilmFreeway profile. Write a strong filmmaker bio. Upload high-quality stills. Have a sharp logline, synopsis, trailer, poster, and press materials. If there is a place for a cover letter, write one that explains why your film belongs at that festival. Do not treat the application like an afterthought. The application is the front door. Dress it accordingly.

Also, use social media as a research tool. Ask other filmmakers which festivals treated them well. Ask where they met distributors, programmers, journalists, executives, or genuine community. That, too, is alliancing. Some of the most valuable information you will ever receive will come from another filmmaker telling you, “That festival changed my life,” or “Save your submission fee.”

Then prepare yourself emotionally for rejection. A lot of it. My short film 90 DAYS was accepted into more than forty film festivals and continues to be screened ten years later. It was also rejected by more than forty. Rejection comes for everyone. Do not take it personally. A rejection may simply mean your film was not right for that year, that programmer, that slot, that premiere requirement, or that particular moment. Sometimes the door you knocked on was not your door.

Now, let’s talk about laurels.

I am highly competitive. I used to see film posters covered in laurels and think, “Well, clearly, I need all of that.” So I chased volume. Laurels look good. They communicate credibility. They say, “Somebody chose this.” But not all laurels are created equal, and more does not always mean better.

Once you have one or two laurels from reputable, respected festivals, you have enough to establish industry perception. After that, the question becomes less “How many festivals can we get into?” and more “Which festivals can actually move the film forward?” Just being in a festival you cannot attend may look nice on the poster, but if you are not there to meet people, represent the film, build audience, participate in Q&As, court press, attend panels, and make alliances, the value is limited. The point is to use the selection.

When you win a festival award, tell everybody. Blast it out. Post it. Email it. Update your website. Add it to your pitch materials. Put it in the newsletter. Let the people know. Do not be afraid to toot your own horn. In this business, silence is not humility. Sometimes it is just bad marketing.

Once you are accepted into a festival, your job becomes marketing. You have to become your own promotions machine, with or without a publicist. Back in the day, we used to write out a plan on a stone tablet and then, hope for the best. Social media has democratized publicity in a way previous generations could only dream about. Use it.

Do not stop talking about your film. If you think you are doing too much, you are probably not doing enough. I know everyone is terrified of being “cringe,” but let me free you: promoting your work is not cringe. Believing in your film enough to champion it loudly and consistently is not cringe. It is your job.

Build a marketing plan. Announce the selection. Share the trailer. Tell the story behind the film. Post the screening dates. Tag the festival and your collaborators. Invite people personally. Reach out to press, newsletters, podcasts, community groups, alumni networks, professional organizations, and influencers who care about the subject matter of your film. Make your screening feel less like an event and more like a moment.

During the festival, promote like an old-school party street team. I used to promote parties in New York City, and before social media took over the world, we had street teams passing out flyers in the places where our people actually were. So once you arrive at the festival, go back to the basics. Do not rely only on your digital presence. Get in people’s faces in real time, with flyers, postcards, QR codes, and direct conversation. We used to call those little flyers “pluggers,” and the name still applies because that is exactly what you are doing: plugging your film, your screening, your story, and yourself.

Because you are not just building an audience for the screening. You are building what? Yep, you guessed it: ALLIANCES.

By the time the festival is over, you and your team should be exhausted because you put feet to pavement, hands to palms, and energy into every room you entered. Work that shit like the rent is due. Because it is.

After the festival, keep promoting. Post about the experience for at least two weeks. Share photos, audience reactions, reviews, lessons, and wins. Thank the programmers. Thank the audience. Thank your team. Let people feel the afterglow, because the afterglow is also part of the campaign.

Then comes the part too many filmmakers fumble: follow-up.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve met younger filmmakers who intrigued me, impressed me, or made me curious, and then they never followed up. Not once. Not a thank-you email. Not a “great meeting you.” Not a link to the film. Nothing.

Follow up with the contacts you make.

One of my pet peeves with this new generation of filmmakers is that too many have no follow-through. If someone could not make your screening but expressed interest, send them a link to your film. If someone gave you advice, thank them. If someone introduced you to another person, acknowledge it. If someone opened even the tiniest door, do not stand outside staring at it. Walk through.

I always follow up with new contacts I’ve made with a thank-you email reminding them where we connected, what we discussed, and how we might stay connected. And then I keep following up until the relationship is actually built, or until they tell me, in words or actions, to buzz off.

You are not being a pest. You are doing the work.

Follow up. A lot.

Then, stay in touch. Keep people posted on developments with the film and with you. Festival wins, new screenings, distribution news, press mentions, new projects, casting announcements, grants, residencies, all of it. These are all reasons to reconnect without making it feel random.

I know a friend who actually calendars his outreach, and it is very effective for him. I am not that rigid. I prefer a more organic and natural connection. But if you are someone who will forget to do it, and I am not, then use his calendaring method. Build the system around the person you actually are, not the fantasy version of yourself who remembers everything and follows up like a Swiss watch.

Film festivals are a great way to establish yourself and advance your career, but you absolutely must be strategic. Develop a plan, stick to it, and do not be afraid to promote your work and yourself. Everyone understands it. Everyone expects it. You are building a brand, and the only way people remember a brand is through repetition and consistency. As Prince sings, “there’s joy in repetition.” He was talking about something else, but the point still stands. Wink.

Which brings me back to my first ABFF.

Film festivals are fun, and you should enjoy yourself. Go to the parties. Have the dinner. Hug your friends. Take the pictures. Celebrate the miracle that you made something and people are gathering in a room to watch it. That is no small thing.

But do not let the fun get in the way of the mission.

Stay focused. Keep the partying in check. Drink the water. Set the alarm. Take the meeting. Show up for the panel. Work the lobby. Go to the screening. And for heaven’s sake, be awake when they call your name.

Because the next time your film wins, you want to be in the room.

You amazing award-winning filmmaker, you.

“I’m not here to play the game. I’m here to own the game.” – Byron Allen

Before I say anything else: listen to the interview.

Not the clips. Not the pull quotes. Not the one-minute social media snippets designed to make you nod, repost, and move on with your day. Listen to the whole conversation, especially if you’re a creative or artist trying to navigate and survive the current landscape in art & entertainment. Thank me later.

Because when Byron Allen sat down on The Breakfast Club, he was not simply promoting himself or his show, Comics Unleashed. He was offering a master class in: business, history, and strategy. He was also issuing a warning. He was talking about money, power, ownership, race, media, capitalism, and the unfinished business of the Civil Rights Movement.

He was not just talking about getting rich. He was talking about why Black people have so often been kept from becoming rich; and, what happens when one of us decides he is no longer content being a guest in someone else’s mansion.

Byron Allen is buying the table. And they can’t stop him.

That matters because America loves Black talent. America adores Black genius when it can package it, distribute it, quote it, stream it, sell tickets to it, build algorithms around it, and hand it an award under the proper lighting.

But America has always been far less comfortable with Black ownership.

In laying out the mentality of the status quo leadership he said they think, “I brought you here to make me rich, not to compete with me.” And in his view it is the fact that we have become competitive so quickly (the Civil Rights Movement was just sixty years ago) is the main reason the all-out attack on us is being waged right now.

A Black artist can be celebrated. A Black athlete can be worshipped. A Black comedian can become beloved. A Black creator can be called groundbreaking. But a Black person who wants the deed, the board seat, the equity, the platform, the infrastructure, and the power to decide who gets paid and who gets seen?

That is when the room gets cold. Byron Allen understands that chill. He has felt it, studied it, and decided to buy the thermostat.

For people who only know him vaguely, Allen has one of the most extraordinary and under-discussed business stories in American media. He began in comedy and television, but instead of stopping at fame, he studied the machinery behind it. He learned who owned the content, who controlled distribution, who sold the advertising, who licensed the programming, and who made the real money.

That distinction is everything.

There is a profound difference between being seen and being sovereign. A person can be famous and still be financially fragile. A creator can be visible and still have no leverage. A community can dominate culture and still own only a sliver of the industries built from its imagination.

It was after a talent negotiation for the show that made him famous, Real People where he felt undervalued that he decided he would never let his worth be determined by someone else.

So he began building – a company where he sets his value and the value of people that look like him.

Through Allen Media Group, he has assembled a media empire that includes television production, digital platforms, broadcast stations, streaming channels, The Weather Channel, TheGrio, Local Now, HBCU GO, and more. That matters not simply because it is impressive, though it is. It matters because it represents something deeper: Byron Allen has not merely been creating content. He has been acquiring infrastructure.

That is the real play. And that is the part every creative should sit with.

We are living in an era where everybody is told to make content. Post every day. Build a brand. Grow a following. Launch a podcast. Feed the platform. Feed the machine. Feed the hungry little algorithm goblin that eats your best ideas for breakfast and asks what you have for it by lunch.

But content, by itself, is not the endgame.

The people with the most power are often not the people inside the frame. They are the people who own the frame, the platform, the data, the distribution, the ad inventory, the licensing rights, and the corporate structure that turns culture into capital.

Byron Allen is not telling us to stop creating. He is telling us to stop creating without thinking about ownership.

That is why his pursuit of media assets like STARZ feels so symbolically important. His argument is simple and devastating: if companies are building billion-dollar strategies around “underserved audiences” and “underserved” is often corporate code for Black, brown, and marginalized communities then, why shouldn’t those communities have ownership in the companies profiting from them?

In other words: if you are going after us, we should own it.

That is where this becomes bigger than Byron Allen. This is not just about one-man acquiring media companies. This is about one of the oldest trade deficits in America: the gap between what Black people create and what Black people own.

We create the language, the rhythm, the style, the music, the jokes, the trends, the cinematic texture, the spiritual vocabulary, the digital culture, the cool. We make America interesting. We make America profitable. And too often, we watch other people package our brilliance, distribute it, monetize it, and sell it back to us with a commemorative hashtag and a limited-edition hoodie.

That is not inclusion. That is extraction in a nicer font.

And that is why this conversation cannot be separated from civil rights history. The movement was never only about being treated politely. It was never only about where we could sit or eat, or which fountains we could use, or whether America would finally stop calling brutality tradition.

Those were life-and-death battles for dignity and citizenship. But underneath them was always a deeper economic question:

Who owns the land?

Who owns the labor?

Who owns the company?

Who owns the network?

Who owns the story?

And who profits when the story is told?

This is why Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s later work is so often softened and sanitized. America loves the Dr. King who dreamed. It is less comfortable with the Dr. King who organized poor people. It loves the Dr. King who spoke of harmony. It is less eager to remember the Dr. King who understood that racism, poverty, and militarism were braided together in the architecture of American power.

By the time Dr. King was preparing the Poor People’s Campaign, he was moving toward a multiracial economic movement. He understood that legal access, by itself, was not enough. Dignity required jobs, housing, wages, education, and economic justice. It required more than a seat at the table. It required some power over who built the table, who owned it, and who ate from it.

That is the part that made him truly dangerous.

Because wealthy people have long understood something poor and working people are trained not to see: the deepest fight is often not about race as a feeling, but race as a tool. For the powerful, the ultimate object is green: money, markets, land, labor, control. Race becomes one of the most effective weapons used to keep the people without the green from ever uniting against the people hoarding it.

That is the trick.

Convince a poor white man that his enemy is a poor Black man. Convince a struggling worker that an immigrant stole his future. Convince marginalized groups that there is not enough dignity to go around. Keep everybody at the bottom fighting over scraps while the people at the top buy the bakery, the wheat field, the delivery trucks, and the zoning board.

It is old. It is ugly. And it still works.

That is why this political moment feels so spiritually and economically dangerous. So much of what we are witnessing is not just cultural backlash. It is economic protectionism dressed in racial theater. The language may be about “wokeness,” “DEI,” “real America,” or “law and order,” but underneath the slogans is a familiar panic: the fear that people who have long been excluded might finally understand the value of what they produce; and, demand a meaningful share of what they have built.

Because once people understand their collective economic power, they become much harder to manipulate.

That is why Byron Allen’s message lands with such force. He is not asking permission to be included. He is not begging to be validated by institutions that have long profited from exclusion. He is moving with the clarity of someone who understands that the next frontier is not representation alone, but economic control.

And let me be clear: representation still matters. We need to see ourselves. Our children need to see themselves. Our stories deserve to be told with beauty, humor, contradiction, intelligence, and truth.

But representation without ownership can become a chandelier in a house you do not own - beautiful, sparkling, and still subject to someone else’s mortgage.

That is why we need Tyler Perry. We need Oprah, Ava, Shonda, Issa, Ryan Coogler, and the many Black creators, executives, producers, and entrepreneurs building pathways where none existed before.

And we need Byron Allen too.

We need the person who can walk into a room where culture is being converted into capital and say, without blinking: I want the company.

That kind of ambition makes people nervous, including us. I went into the comments under one of the posted clips and the distractions, FROM US, had already started.

“He’s married to a white woman.” (Who cares? I hope they love each other.)

“He’s arrogant.” (You gotta have a little healthy arrogance to build a billion-dollar empire from nothing.)

“He’s not one of us.” (I don’t even know what that means, especially if you track every thing he has said and DONE.)

Getting caught up in all of those distractions will have you missing the message. It will have you overlooking the playbook he is providing for you to win too. Get focused on what the wisdom he is spitting not just for himself, but for all of us open enough and hungry enough to listen and catch it.

Sometimes we are more comfortable celebrating Black excellence when it is inspirational but not disruptive. We love the story of the talented kid who made it. We are less prepared for the grown man who comes back and says, “I’m going to buy the company and fire the board that tried to block me.”

But that is exactly the kind of disruption economic justice requires.

This is also the lesson for every creative. At some point, every artist, writer, filmmaker, entrepreneur, and performer confronts the same question: Will you spend your life waiting to be chosen, or will you build something that allows you to choose yourself?

Choosing yourself does not mean doing everything alone. It does not mean rejecting collaboration, partnership, or community. It means recognizing that your talent deserves a structure strong enough to protect it.

Dreams need scaffolding. Genius needs paperwork. Creativity needs strategy.

The muse may give you fire. Ownership gives you a hearth.

That is why I keep returning to the language of protection. When I say we should protect Byron Allen, I do not mean he should be beyond critique. No person with power should be.

But we do need to protect what he represents: the audacity of Black ownership, the insistence that economic inclusion is not a side conversation but the central conversation, and the refusal to remain a permanent guest while others profit from the show.

Economic inclusion is not charity. It is not a scholarship luncheon. It is not a stock-photo tab on a corporate website. It is the ability to own assets, govern institutions, control distribution, participate in profit, and build something durable enough to outlast one founder, one trend, or one hit season.

That is how wealth becomes more than money.

Byron Allen is not the only answer. No one person ever is. But he is offering a piece of the answer with unusual clarity. He is reminding us that culture without capital is vulnerable. Talent without ownership is exposed. Representation without infrastructure is temporary. Progress without economic power can always be reversed.

So yes, listen to the interview.

Listen for the business strategy. Listen for the history underneath it. Listen for the warning. Listen for the invitation. Listen for the part of you that has grown too comfortable being chosen when you were born to build.

Byron Allen is buying the table. Not because he wants a better seat. Because he understands that the person who owns the table decides who gets fed.

And if America has spent centuries eating from Black genius while denying Black people ownership of the kitchen, then maybe it is time someone walked in with a checkbook, a strategy, and a memory long enough to know exactly what this moment means.

This is not just business. This is the next chapter of the movement.

This is resistance with a balance sheet. And if we are wise, we will not just applaud Byron Allen.

We will study him.

“The war on Black Americans that is being waged by this President and this Republican Party is one of the only things that they’ve put their mind to in the past year that they’ve done pretty well at: a comprehensive attack on Black public officials and Black public power.” — Rachel Maddow

Voting rights under assault. Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs dismantled with surgical precision. Civil rights enforcement weakened. Public sector jobs gutted in ways that have disproportionately harmed Black women. Fair housing protections under attack. Federal contracting protections rolled back. Black unemployment rising while the machinery of government pretends it is merely “streamlining.” The NAACP Legal Defense Fund has been tracking how Project 2025 proposals and Trump administration actions overlap, including attacks on equal employment opportunity, civil rights tools, federal anti-discrimination protections, and DEIA programs.

This is not politics as usual. This is architecture. This is blueprint. This is demolition with permits.

Nothing has threatened to set Black people back this swiftly and sweepingly in over one hundred years, not since Woodrow Wilson resegregated the federal workforce and used the power of the presidency to turn Black federal progress into a ghost story.

In late 2024 and early 2025, I completely understood the sentiment from many Black people that the fight going forward, particularly against Donald Trump and the Republican Party as they began to implement Project 2025, was not our fight. We were exhausted. We were dejected after Vice President Kamala Harris lost to a fraud and felon whose cruelty had already been displayed in surround sound.

We had marched. We had posted. We had organized. We had saved democracy more times than America had bothered to thank us for.

So when some Black folks said, “Let them have it,” I understood. Deeply.

But here is the hard, holy truth: they were never going to let us sit this one out.

Project 2025 was never some theoretical policy document collecting dust in a conservative think tank like a villain’s scrapbook. It was a 900-page warning label. And the audacity to write it down told me then what we are seeing now: they were serious. The Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights describes Project 2025 as an effort to empower the presidency, embed ideologues in the civil service, and unravel civil rights gains made over the last seven decades.

Even more chilling is the intellectual obsession behind some of it. Kevin Roberts, president of the Heritage Foundation and a central figure associated with Project 2025, studied American slavery and Black family structures in his academic work. His scholarship examined enslaved families, kinship, and cultural identity. That does not mean scholarship automatically becomes sabotage. But in this moment, it is impossible not to notice the grotesque irony of a man trained to understand the architecture of Black survival helping lead a movement intent on dismantling the protections that made modern Black advancement possible.

So yes, I understood when we were tired. I understood when people said, “Black women have done enough.” I understood when folks wanted to protect their peace, their joy, their soft life, their little corner of the world that finally felt like safety.

But now it’s time to motivate, move, and mobilize.

And because I am an artist, and because I have studied the history of artists, entertainers, writers, musicians, filmmakers, dancers, and cultural workers in every major movement for progress, I know this much:

It has always been us. And it will be us again.

Black artists, Brown artists, it’s time to clock in.

Not because we are superhuman. Not because we owe America another rescue mission. Not because we should be expected to bleed beauty on demand. But because culture is where the imagination of a people gets organized. Politics moves policy. Culture moves people. And oppressive regimes know that. That is why they ban books, censor classrooms, defund the arts, attack drag performers, demonize Black history, police language, and turn “woke” into a weaponized slur. They are not afraid of art because it is decorative. They are afraid of art because it is infrastructure.

They know what we sometimes forget.

A song can become a marching order. A film can become a mirror. A joke can puncture propaganda. A poem can outlive a president. A painting can make denial impossible. A performance can turn fear into fellowship.

Ask Nina Simone.

After the assassination of Medgar Evers and the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham that killed four little Black girls, Simone wrote “Mississippi Goddam.” It was not polite. It was not calibrated for bipartisan comfort. It was rage with perfect pitch. PBS’s American Masters notes that Simone used the song to pull from the past, speak to the present, and warn about what was yet to come. The song became a civil rights anthem precisely because it refused the narcotic of respectability. It made America hear what it wanted to ignore.

Ask Harry Belafonte.

Belafonte did not just lend his voice. He lent his money, his house, his network, his fame, his strategy, and his body. The National Museum of African American History and Culture notes that he used his voice and wallet to finance social justice, while the National Park Service records that he organized demonstrations, raised money, and contributed personal funds to keep movement activities going. Belafonte understood that celebrity is not power unless it is converted into leverage. Otherwise, it is just applause wearing cologne.

Ask Sidney Poitier.

Poitier’s strategy was different but no less significant. He carried himself onscreen with an almost architectural dignity at a time when Hollywood wanted Black men contained, comic, criminal, or invisible. His presence challenged the visual grammar of white supremacy. He was not on every picket line in the same way Belafonte was, but his image did political work. That is a crucial lesson for artists: there is not one way to serve the movement. Some of us raise money. Some of us write. Some of us disrupt rooms. Some of us reshape representation so thoroughly that the culture has to make room for a new reality.

Ask the artists of the Black Arts Movement.

From 1965 to 1975, the Black Arts Movement operated as the cultural wing of Black Power, joining music, literature, drama, and visual art to ideas of self-determination, political consciousness, and African American cultural pride. It built institutions, workshops, journals, theaters, and language. It gave Black people not only protest but vocabulary. And vocabulary matters. Oppression thrives when people cannot name what is happening to them. Art gives the thing a name, then gives the people a rhythm to fight it.

Ask the anti-apartheid movement.

Artists helped turn South Africa’s apartheid regime into a global moral emergency. The cultural boycott was designed to stop international artists from performing in apartheid South Africa and to isolate the regime culturally. Musicians, writers, and performers were central to publicizing anti-apartheid campaigns and winning mass support, particularly in Britain, where concerts and cultural campaigns helped raise funds and pressure. Culture did not end apartheid alone. No serious person would claim that. But culture helped make neutrality socially and morally untenable. That is one of art’s greatest powers: it can make silence embarrassing.

Ask Taraji P. Henson.

At the 2024 BET Awards, she warned people about Project 2025 and urged viewers to educate themselves and vote. Afterward, “Project 2025” began trending on Google, according to local news coverage. That is what a platform can do when it is used with precision. One person, one microphone, one major cultural stage, and suddenly a policy threat that had been hiding in plain sight got dragged into the group chat.

Now, let’s be clear. I am not suggesting every Black or Brown artist has to become a full-time political operative. I am not suggesting Beyoncé has to run a PAC between world tours or Rihanna has to turn Fenty into the Department of Resistance, though I would absolutely buy the lip gloss and give it to my nieces. I am saying that in abnormal times, normal behavior becomes complicity faster than we want to admit.

The Met Gala can wait. The brunch can wait. The algorithm can wait. Our people cannot.

Self-preservation is human. Comfort is seductive. Affluence is anesthetic. And too many of us have worked so hard to get inside certain rooms that we now mistake proximity to power for protection from power.

But the lesson of history is brutally clear: no amount of money, fame, polish, or assimilation will save us from a system determined to make Black and Brown progress reversible. The machine may flatter you before it flattens you, but flattened is flattened.

So what do we do?

Here are five things Black and Brown artists can do now, rooted in history, strategy, and proven effectiveness.

1. Use the platform to educate, not just perform.

The first responsibility of artists in a repressive moment is to make the invisible visible. Authoritarian and discriminatory systems depend on confusion. They flood the zone. They rename cruelty as efficiency. They turn civil rights into “special treatment.” They call censorship “parental rights.” They call historical erasure “patriotic education.”

Artists can cut through that fog.

Today, that means using captions, concerts, comedy sets, podcasts, films, scripts, Substacks, reels, and interviews to explain what is happening in plain language. Not everyone is going to read a policy brief. But they may listen to a song. Watch a monologue. Share a clip. Sit through a film. Laugh at a joke that sneaks the truth past their defenses.

Make the issue legible. Translate policy into human consequence. Turn abstraction into story.

That works because people do not organize around what they cannot understand. The artist’s job is not merely to express pain. It is to make the stakes undeniable.

2. Build cultural coalitions, not isolated statements.

A single statement can matter. A coalition can move weather.

Black and Brown artists today need coalitions across film, television, music, theater, literature, comedy, dance, visual art, fashion, digital media, and sports-adjacent culture. We need shared calendars, shared messaging, shared rapid response, shared fundraising, shared amplification. We need the famous, the almost famous, the locally famous, and the “famous to the right 4,000 people” artists working together.

That means partnering with civil rights organizations, voter protection groups, legal defense funds, labor groups, HBCUs, grassroots organizers, and local community institutions. The artist brings attention. The organizer brings strategy. The lawyer brings protection. The community brings legitimacy. Together, that becomes power.

3. Make resistance emotionally sustainable.

Oppressive regimes want people exhausted, isolated, paranoid, ashamed, and numb. Art fights that by creating emotional stamina. Spirituals did this during slavery. Freedom songs did this during the Civil Rights Movement. South African resistance music did this during apartheid. Nueva canción did this across Latin America, where folk music became a vehicle for political resistance against dictatorships and social injustice. Smithsonian Folkways notes that nueva canción emerged as a proactive movement contesting political dictatorships of the time.

That history matters because joy is not a distraction from resistance. Joy is fuel. Beauty is fuel. Humor is fuel. Dance is fuel. Church is fuel. Ballroom is fuel. A cookout can be fuel. A poem can be fuel. A meme can be fuel. A really good petty caption can be fuel, too, beloved.

Artists can create spaces where people feel less alone and more able to keep going. Concerts for civic engagement. Short films followed by community conversations. Comedy shows that fund bail funds or voter protection work. Digital series that explain threats without traumatizing the audience into paralysis. Plays, readings, and performances that make grief communal and courage contagious.

The effectiveness of this is not sentimental. It is strategic. People who feel connected are harder to intimidate. People who can imagine a future are harder to control.

4. Practice strategic refusal.

Sometimes the most powerful thing an artist can do is say no.

No to the performance. No to the photo op. No to the gala. No to laundering the reputation of people and institutions actively harming our communities. No to appearing at the celebration while the house is on fire. No to letting our beauty, talent, rhythm, humor, and cultural brilliance be used as mood lighting for oppression.

The cultural boycott against apartheid South Africa worked because it made participation costly. It forced artists and audiences to ask: whose legitimacy am I helping manufacture? What regime am I normalizing by showing up? What violence am I making glamorous?

This is where our biggest stars matter. Beyoncé and Rihanna did not have to attend the Met Gala this year. Their absence would have made the kind of statement that rippled around the world. And this is not about singling them out for punishment. It is about naming the truth: when you have extraordinary leverage, ordinary silence is louder.

Strategic refusal is not random cancellation. It is targeted, disciplined, and public. Artists can refuse events funded by companies attacking DEI. Refuse partnerships with institutions rolling back civil rights commitments. Refuse to perform in states or spaces actively harming Black, Brown, immigrant, queer, and trans communities unless the performance is tied to direct organizing or community benefit.

Refusal works when it creates consequence. It says: you do not get our culture while attacking our people.

5. Fund the fight and tell people where to go.

The movement needs beauty. It also needs money.

Artists can host benefit performances, donate a percentage of sales, create limited-edition works for movement organizations, direct followers to vetted funds, underwrite local organizers, sponsor voter registration drives, fund documentary crews, pay designers and editors for civic education campaigns, and make resistance look as resourced as the opposition’s propaganda.

Political science research on civil resistance has found that nonviolent campaigns between 1900 and 2006 were twice as successful as violent campaigns. That does not mean hashtags alone save us. It means organized, disciplined, mass participation matters. Artists are uniquely positioned to help bring people into that participation, then direct them toward action that already exists.

Do not just say “vote.” Say where. Say when. Say how. Say what is at stake. Say who is organizing. Say where to donate. Say where to volunteer. Say what meeting to attend. Say which local race matters. Say which school board is banning the books. Say which sheriff is cooperating with cruelty. Say which judge is on the ballot.

In oppressive times, vague inspiration is not enough. We need wayfinding.

And let me say this plainly: inaction has consequences.

If we do nothing, we will not simply return to some neutral baseline. We will watch protections vanish. We will watch Black women pushed out of economic security. We will watch Black history criminalized in classrooms. We will watch civil rights enforcement hollowed out until the law remains on paper but disappears in practice. We will watch immigrants terrorized, queer and trans communities targeted, poor people punished, and Black and Brown communities told once again to wait, behave, endure, and be grateful.

We have seen this country do that before.

Black and Brown artists, we are not here merely to entertain the empire while it sharpens the knife. We are not here to decorate decline. We are not here to be invited, photographed, praised, and politically neutered.

We are here to tell the truth beautifully enough that people can bear to hear it.

We are here to make courage contagious.

We are here to turn memory into strategy.

We are here to remind our people that they are not powerless, not voiceless, not alone, and not crazy for recognizing the danger.

Clock in.

“Was the intention to be dull and listless?” – Miranda Priestly

It was a rhetorical question posed by the fabled, fictional magazine maven Miranda Priestly in the highly anticipated sequel to the 2006 smash hit film, The Devil Wears Prada. It could also be asked of the first half of the movie itself.

I don’t do reviews.

Well, I said that last week before going on to review Michael and declaring, with conviction, that fans would love it. I fear if I do one more of these, the accuracy of that statement may be in jeopardy. In my defense, the intention of this article is not fully to review the film, but to use it as a mirror, because sometimes pop culture does what scripture, journalism, and common sense have been trying to do for years: show us ourselves.

And what The Devil Wears Prada 2 shows us is a world where taste has become content, status has become performance, publishing has become a ghost of itself, and billionaires keep trying to buy the one thing their money cannot quite purchase: cultural legitimacy.

But let’s start with the positive.

The characters and performances remain the film’s strongest currency. Emily Blunt shines even in the too-small amount of screen time she is given. Anne Hathaway, returning as Andrea Sachs, lands the plane with the grace and efficiency she always has. Stanley Tucci has lost a bit of the spark that made Nigel so instantly beloved in the first film, but I blame the writing more than the actor. And then there is the grande dame herself, Meryl Streep, who can do no wrong and does not begin here, even when handed material that feels less like couture and more like an outlet rack imitation of itself. She still slam-dunks one of her most famous characters, because Meryl Streep does not need the machine to work. She is the machine.

The film has its moments. There are the expected fashion-and-society-fueled quips and barbs. I laughed out loud at least twice, with other audience members doing so more than that. But the first half is unnecessarily long, both in character examination and pacing. More critically, the film seems oddly reluctant to lean into its best storyline.

And that is where things become interesting.

In true Law & Order fashion, the movie rips its juiciest storyline directly from today’s headlines. A billionaire, Benji Barnes, played by Justin Theroux, attempts to buy Runway magazine for his girlfriend so she can transform it into her dream. The sequel officially brings back Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Emily Blunt, and Stanley Tucci, while adding Justin Theroux and Lucy Liu to the cast, which only makes the underuse of this storyline feel more conspicuous.

It is juicy. It is current. It is almost too easy. It opens the door for every other storyline to fly: the collapse of magazine publishing, wealthy executives cashing out while rank-and-file workers are discarded, the fading mystique of high fashion, and the strange economic contradiction of an industry whose cultural exclusivity is dying even as people from every socioeconomic level still clamor for three-thousand-dollar bags.

By refusing to fully lean into its most compelling premise, a Bezos-modeled billionaire acquiring Runway as a social play for his ambitious, image-conscious girlfriend, this second round of fashion and publishing falls flatter than the fictional magazine at the center of the story.

All of the ingredients for a juicy, spicy, relevant new battle are there. Lucy Liu’s MacKenzie Scott-esque character is severely underutilized. The film has one tender, well-seasoned meatball sitting in a giant pot of bland spaghetti. You taste what it could have been, then spend the rest of the meal wishing somebody had seasoned the sauce.

The movie suffers from the same dilemma as the fashion magazines it is depicting. It is trying to evolve a specialized product from a formerly exclusive industry for mass consumption while pretending that the exclusivity was not the point.

The original Devil Wears Prada worked because it offered a fictionalized peek behind the curtain at the highest echelons of fashion decision-making. Twenty years ago, Anna Wintour was still a looming, mysterious enigma. The thought that this movie was giving us a glimpse, even a fictionalized one, of what might happen inside the temple of Vogue was exciting, daring, and gossipy in the best way. The thrill was not just that Miranda was cruel. The thrill was that she appeared to know something the rest of us did not.

Now, Wintour is in on the joke. She and Streep have appeared together in Vogue’s May 2026 cover story and promotional video, with Streep essentially stepping back into the Miranda Priestly mythology beside the woman widely understood to have inspired it. That may be delightful marketing, but it also drains the danger from the thing itself. The dragon has agreed to pose with the sword.

That is the problem with institutional satire once the institution starts producing the satire. It becomes merch.

There is a great movie buried inside The Devil Wears Prada 2. Someone should make it. And that movie is not simply about fashion. It is about money attempting to launder itself through taste.

Which brings us to Jeff and Lauren Sánchez Bezos.

It is no secret that Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos are making a highly visible play for the upper chambers of culture, fashion, and society. Their lavish Venice wedding became a global spectacle, covered by Vogue, Vanity Fair, and nearly every major style and celebrity outlet. Vogue covered the wedding fashion and celebrity arrivals extensively, while Vanity Fair described the three-day celebration and its high-profile guest list, including Oprah Winfrey, Kim Kardashian, Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Brady, and Bill Gates.

The point is not that wealthy people cannot have nice weddings. Please. Rich people have been weaponizing flowers and seating charts since the Medici. The point is that there is something particularly revealing about the way modern billionaire culture uses aesthetics as absolution. The private jet lands, the city groans, the gowns arrive, the cameras flash, and suddenly we are all expected to confuse spectacle with elegance.

Lauren Sánchez Bezos has also undergone what can only be described as a high-fashion image renovation. She has been seen at Paris Fashion Week with Law Roach, the celebrated stylist known for architecting Zendaya’s fashion dominance, and multiple outlets have framed the pairing as part of a broader style transformation. Again, there is nothing wrong with hiring a stylist. There is nothing wrong with wanting to evolve. Reinvention is one of my favorite art forms.

But style and taste are not the same thing.

Style can be purchased. Taste has to be cultivated. Style can be borrowed. Taste has to be lived. Style can get you photographed. Taste determines whether people respect the photograph.

And that is the tension the movie almost captures but never fully devours. Benji Barnes does not just want to buy a magazine. He wants to buy meaning. He wants to acquire the machinery of taste and install his girlfriend as its beneficiary. It is not enough to have the yacht, the plane, the body transformation, the couture, the access, the wedding coverage, the front-row seats, the carefully managed photographs. The final conquest is cultural authority.

But cultural authority does not respond well to cash offers.

This is why the real-world Bezos-Sánchez ascent feels so fascinating and, for many people, so off-putting. They are not merely visible. They are insistent. The public keeps being asked to admire the acquisition of spaces that once pretended, however falsely, to be governed by taste, artistry, or lineage. Of course those spaces were always about money too. Fashion has never been innocent. High society has never been pure. The Met Gala has always been part philanthropy, part theater, part velvet-rope Olympics. But there used to be at least the illusion of an organizing principle beyond net worth.

Now the curtain is gone, and Oz has a sponsorship deck.

In 2026, Bezos and Sánchez Bezos were reported as honorary co-chairs and sponsors of the Met Gala, with coverage explicitly positioning their rise inside the fashion establishment as emblematic of a new Gilded Age. That phrase matters because the Gilded Age was not actually golden. It was gold leaf. Shiny on the surface. Corroded underneath.

And that is where MacKenzie Scott becomes the perfect counterpoint.

In the film, Lucy Liu’s character, clearly drawn from the MacKenzie Scott archetype, represents a different use of wealth. She is not trying to buy the room. She is trying to fund the work. She is not chasing proximity to cultural power. She is redistributing power. She is not trying to be seen giving. She is giving in a way that changes what can be seen.

In real life, Scott’s philanthropy has become one of the most consequential examples of modern giving. Her Yield Giving platform states that it has distributed more than $26 billion through more than 2,700 gifts to nonprofit teams, largely with the freedom for organizations to use the money as they see fit. Panorama Global’s analysis of her public giving data reported that 2025 alone represented Scott’s largest giving year to date, with $7.17 billion awarded across 186 grants.

That is not a fashion moment. That is a philosophical stance.

Scott seems to understand something many billionaires do not: if your fortune was built, in part, by systems that involved countless workers, consumers, communities, tax structures, market advantages, and societal infrastructure, then giving the money away is not an act of noblesse oblige. It is an act of moral accounting.

There is a reason her giving is celebrated differently. She does not appear to be asking for sainthood, social acceptance, or a place at the best table. She is not trying to turn altruism into a personal brand so much as a redistribution mechanism. That is not to say her philanthropy is above critique. No billionaire philanthropy is above critique. The existence of that much private wealth in the first place should raise questions in any functioning society. But Scott’s posture is materially different from the more common billionaire pageant of naming rights, gala tables, vanity initiatives, and public self-mythologizing.

The Bezos approach, by contrast, often reads as a pursuit of symbolic conquest. Space. Media. Fashion. Society. The body. The bride. The city. The institution. The magazine. The gala. The room.

It is not enough to be rich. They must be ratified.

And people can feel that.

That is why the backlash is not merely jealousy, despite what the wealthy and their defenders often claim. It is not that people resent glamour. We love glamour. We invented entire industries around staring at pretty people in impossible clothes. We do not dislike wealth on screen. We stream it, binge it, quote it, meme it, and sometimes dress up as it. The problem is not extravagance. The problem is extraction wearing couture and asking to be called aspiration.

There is a difference between fantasy and insult.

The original Devil Wears Prada gave us fantasy. It gave us coats, offices, withering glances, impossible standards, Paris, transformation, and the intoxicating sense that work, even brutal work, could bring one into proximity with excellence. We knew Miranda was monstrous, but we also understood why people orbited her. She represented a world of taste and precision. Her cruelty had an organizing intelligence behind it.

The sequel gives us a diminished version of that world, which may be honest but is not always entertaining. Runway is still valuable, we are told. But why? The print magazine is dying. The digital strategy feels desperate. The authority is diluted. The old glamour is wheezing beneath the weight of algorithms, HR complaints, layoffs, influencers, and short-form video.

That could have been the point.

Instead, the film seems afraid of its own implications. It wants the comfort of nostalgia without fully confronting the rot underneath it. It wants Miranda to remain iconic, Andy to remain principled, Emily to remain deliciously bitter, Nigel to remain soulful, and Runway to remain aspirational. But the world around them has changed too much for the old magic to work without interrogation.

Fashion has changed. Publishing has changed. Fame has changed. Wealth has changed. Even ambition has changed.

There was a time when people clamored to get into fashion shows (I was one of them) because the room itself meant something. The editors decided. The photographers documented. The buyers translated desire into commerce. The magazine consecrated the whole ecosystem. Now everyone is backstage, everyone is posting, everyone is influencing, and everyone is pretending access is the same thing as authority.

It is not.

That is why the Bezos storyline should have been the engine of the film. It contains the entire thesis of our age. What happens when a billionaire tries to buy a dying magazine not because he believes in journalism, fashion, or editorial authority, but because he wants to gift cultural legitimacy to the woman he loves? What happens when the old gatekeepers need his money but still look down on him? What happens when a girlfriend wants to become an institution by acquiring the shell of one? What happens when the ex-wife, quietly giving away billions, becomes the only person in the room with a moral center?

That is a movie.

That is a feast.

That is Miranda Priestly walking into the lion’s den, removing her sunglasses, and asking why everyone is pretending not to smell the smoke.

Instead, The Devil Wears Prada 2 tiptoes around the bonfire in very expensive shoes.

The most frustrating thing is that the movie knows better. It alludes directly to Bezos’s own physical transformation. It mirrors the public fascination with Lauren Sánchez Bezos’s fashion evolution. It introduces a MacKenzie Scott-like figure whose philanthropic seriousness exposes the spiritual emptiness of the social climb around her. It gives us the pieces, then refuses to assemble the garment.

And that refusal matters because this is precisely where culture is right now. We are living in an era where billionaires are not satisfied with building companies. They want to become mythology. They want to be in the magazines, fund the museums, own the newspapers, sit at the galas, shape the cities, influence the elections, colonize the skies, and, apparently, rescue fashion from itself.

But money is not mythology. It is only money.

Respectability requires something else. Taste requires restraint. Legacy requires service. Power without generosity curdles. Wealth without humility becomes costume. And society, even at its most compromised, still has a nose for desperation.

That is why MacKenzie Scott’s public image lands differently. She is not begging the culture to admire her. She is forcing the culture to reckon with what money can do when it is released instead of displayed. Her giving carries an implicit rebuke to the entire billionaire performance economy. While others are buying seats, she is building capacity. While others are staging entrances, she is funding exits from poverty, instability, and institutional neglect. While others are chasing the room, she is changing what rooms can exist.

That is also why the film’s underuse of Lucy Liu’s character feels like such a missed opportunity. She could have been the moral blade of the movie. Not sanctimonious. Not preachy. Just sharp. A woman who has seen the machine, survived the marriage, understood the money, and chosen a different kind of power.

Imagine that confrontation.

Miranda Priestly, high priestess of taste, faced with a woman who does not need to be styled, seated, or validated. Andy Sachs, still trying to reconcile integrity with survival, watching as the two women represent opposite forms of influence. Emily Charlton, deliciously appalled by everyone and secretly understanding the game better than all of them. Nigel, the old believer, asking whether beauty can survive when it is funded by people who do not understand it.

And at the center, a billionaire boyfriend trying to buy a crown from a kingdom that no longer knows whether it is monarchy, museum, mall, or meme.

That is the movie I wanted.

Instead, we get something softer, safer, and strangely less glamorous. The sequel is not bad. It is too polished to be bad and too well-acted to be dismissed. But it is also not brave enough to be great. It wears Prada, but it lacks the devil.

The irony is that The Devil Wears Prada 2 is most compelling when it accidentally becomes a documentary about the death of the world that made the first film possible. The old hierarchies are crumbling. The new money is knocking. The magazines are shrinking. The influencers are multiplying. The billionaires are sponsoring. The editors are collaborating with their fictional shadows. The audiences are nostalgic for an era that was never as pure as we imagined, but at least had better dialogue.

Maybe that is why the first half feels dull and listless. It is not just pacing. It is grief.

The movie is mourning a world that it cannot quite admit is gone.

And perhaps that is the final, accidental brilliance of it all. The Devil Wears Prada 2 is a film about a fading institution that itself feels trapped inside a fading institution. It wants to sell us escapism, but reality keeps barging into the fitting room. It wants to give us fantasy, but the fantasy has been bought, branded, sponsored, flattened, optimized, and posted. It wants Miranda to still be the most powerful woman in the room, but the room now belongs to whoever can fund the gala.

That is the modern tragedy.

The devil no longer wears Prada.

The devil underwrites it.

And Miranda Priestly, somewhere behind those sunglasses, knows exactly what that means.

That is all.

Typically, I do not review films or television because, as an artist, I try to steer away from critiquing my fellow artists. I also carry a general skepticism of critics. That skepticism has only been deepened by some of the astonishingly out-of-touch reviews of Michael now circulating from the critical class.

On Monday, I attended the star-studded U.S. premiere of the film at the TCL Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. From the moment I stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard, it was clear I was not alone in my anticipation for the first major theatrical biopic of the King of Pop. The television movies about Michael Jackson have ranged from passable to downright abusive, so I went in nervous, especially having followed the reshoots and the public back-and-forth surrounding the production.

Then the lights dimmed, and the first notes of one of MJ’s iconic hits began to thunder through the theater in full Dolby surround sound. The audience applauded, and that applause quickly became a roar as the opening images flickered across the screen. From those first frames, I could feel that we were in for something special. I was able to sit back, relax, and surrender to the experience because it became instantly clear that the film understood the assignment. The remaining two hours and ten minutes did not disappoint, except in leaving many of us wanting more.

In short, Michael is a triumphant celebration of the man, his music, his relationship with his parents, and his relationship with the Divine inspiration that made him a genius. It is a movie for the fans, and it is a movie that demands to be seen in a theater, in community, with an audience.

Many biopics fail because they try to compress the entire life story and brilliance of our most celebrated artists and public figures into two hours. For that reason and more, I was deeply disappointed by the recent biopics of my beloved Whitney Houston and the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin. The most successful biopics, in my view, either give us meaningful insight into the complexity, brilliance, and core being of the artist, as Judy did so beautifully, or they offer a soaring celebration of the artist and their art, as Bohemian Rhapsody and Rocketman did.

Michael manages to do both. And it does both very well.

The film is intent on showing us the artist and the inspiration that led Michael Jackson to become the biggest star the world has ever known. It pulls back the veil in a way that shines a bright light on his incomparable creativity, his process, and his relentless will to become “The Greatest of All Time.” The result is inspiring, revelatory, and deeply moving. It conjures empathy and sympathy for the loneliness of the path MJ traveled on his way to global stardom.

The balance between the pathos of his life, including physical abuse, isolation, and profound misunderstanding, and his extraordinary commitment to greatness and to his craft is what makes Michael a biopic worthy of Michael Jackson. Antoine Fuqua skillfully balances spectacle and intimacy in a way that only a highly competent and deeply talented director can achieve. The film is a remarkable feat of entertainment and introspection that will satisfy MJ fans and, I suspect, many general audiences as well.

To be clear, the star of this film is Michael Jackson himself: his music, his persona, and his spirit. But none of that would work without the exceptional performances from the cast.

Nia Long, as Katherine Jackson, grounds the film with integrity, care, and tenderness. She plays both the passivity demanded by Joe Jackson’s commanding presence and the quiet strength of a mother determined to protect her most sensitive and extraordinary child. Her performance gives the film emotional ballast.

For all intents and purposes, Joe Jackson is the antagonist of the story, but Colman Domingo’s virtuoso performance keeps him from becoming a cartoon villain. Through Domingo’s Oscar-worthy work, and yes, I believe this performance should finally send him home with a trophy next March, we see the layers of a complicated man shaped by a different era, a man who had a vision to lift his family out of poverty and into the spotlight, turning them into a kind of American royalty. His physical transformation, paired with spot-on physicality and emotional precision, makes this a slam-dunk performance by one of the greatest actors of our generation.

Then there is Jaafar Jackson, Michael’s nephew, who, despite never having acted on screen before, delivers the kind of star-making turn that almost feels predestined. It would have been easy to slip into mere impersonation. Countless people around the world have tried to imitate Michael Jackson. Instead, Jaafar does something far more difficult. He does not imitate his uncle so much as embody him. He channels him. What emerges is not a performance built on mimicry, but one built on emotional truth, reverence, and startling control.

At no point did I feel like I was watching someone trying to play Michael Jackson. For the duration of the film, I felt as though I was watching Michael Jackson himself on screen, rendered with nuance, tenderness, and layers of emotion that usually only the most gifted and seasoned actors can access. For a first screen performance, what Jaafar accomplishes here is remarkable. He makes it look effortless, which is often the surest sign of artistry. Great artists make the impossible look natural.

The film is brilliant on many levels. Critics are complaining about inaccuracies and about who is not in it. Janet and Rebbie Jackson respectfully declined to participate, but they are not missed. The critics seem to want the mess. The fans want the music and the man. This film gives them both in sparkling spades.

Now, before the film has even officially opened, much of the conversation has centered on its abysmally low critic score. But once audiences have the chance to see it for themselves, I truly believe the conversation will shift. They will not be talking about the critics. They will be talking about how wrong the critics were.

It all makes me think of one of my favorite quotes from Teddy Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Michael Jackson endured many trials in his life, but one thing Michael makes beautifully clear is that he was on a Divine mission to change the world through his music, and that he dared greatly in pursuit of becoming the greatest of all time. In the end, that is precisely what he accomplished.

The film honors that. And in doing so, it becomes a high achievement in filmmaking, worthy of the man and most definitely worthy of the audiences who, I suspect, will love it just as much as I did.

I never got to meet Whitney, purposely. I’ve met Beyoncé briefly twice, and remain convinced we are destined to become besties. But I did get to spend an entire day with the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson, and among a life already blessed with extraordinary memories, that day still ranks near the very top.

It was November 2007, a chilly night in New York City, and my dear friend James had a few of the fellas over to his place for drinks, laughter, and the kind of easy fellowship that made living in New York feel electric. One of the things I loved most about those years was how commonplace these impromptu, not-for-anything-special gatherings were. In a city so dense and often mythologized for its hardness, it was remarkable how easy it could be to find community. If I miss anything about New York now, it is that camaraderie, that feeling that life was always happening just one phone call or subway ride away.

As the evening began to wind down, Phillip Bloch, the trailblazing celebrity stylist, casually mentioned that he was going to be styling MJ for Ebony magazine.

Yes, the Michael Jackson.

The King of Pop. The icon of all icons.

And to make it even more momentous, it was for a historic cover story celebrating twenty-five years of Thriller, the best-selling album of all time.

I lost it.

What astonished me most was Phillip’s casualness. Sure, he had styled the A-list of the A-list, and had even famously reworked Halle Berry’s Elie Saab Oscars gown when she became the first, and still only, Black woman to win the Academy Award for Best Actress. But Michael Jackson was different. He occupied a stratosphere entirely his own. No one was, or is, as famous as Michael Jackson.

I ended up staying longer than I intended, gushing over my love for MJ with no ulterior motive whatsoever, except that Michael inspired that sort of devotion in people. I have always loved Michael Jackson and always will. Like so many children of that era, my cousin Chris and I used to hold our family hostage with our reinterpretations of “Billie Jean,” “Beat It” (Chris’s version was “Feel It,” as he was four), and “Thriller.” I am certainly in contention to be Whitney Houston’s biggest fan, but I know I am somewhere in the top ten percent of MJ fans too, while also fully aware there are megawatt disciples whose dedication would humble me instantly.

My enthusiasm prompted Phillip to make me an offer I could not refuse. He was going to leave a piece of jewelry at the hotel, which I could pick up and bring to the Brooklyn Museum where they were shooting. He could not guarantee I would meet Michael, but even the possibility was enough for me. I immediately called out of work for the next day. I had a date with a king. I did not tell them that, of course. I’m sure I performed some theatrical cough into the receiver.

I am not sure I slept at all that night.

I grew up on Michael Jackson. My family had loved him long before I arrived in the mid-70s. My father’s family is from Gary, Indiana, and my mother was from nearby Chicago, so Michael and the Jacksons were woven into the cultural fabric of my family story. For me, life has always included them. The Jacksons are, without debate or equivocation, Black American royalty.

The next morning, I woke two hours before I needed to, no alarm required. I cycled through what felt like twenty outfits because it all had to be exactly right. I needed to look good, to look like I belonged on a set with Michael Jackson, but not look like I was the set. It was a delicate equation of confidence and restraint, and I believe I solved it well enough, judging by what happened when I arrived at the Brooklyn Museum.

After picking up the jewelry, I made my way to Brooklyn. I had never been to the museum before, and when I saw the scale of it, then realized they had taken over the entire institution for the shoot, the enormity of the moment finally landed. I grew tense, then slightly nervous, as I approached the first security checkpoint. Thankfully, Phillip and his team were consummate professionals, and I moved through each layer without issue. The final stop was with a legal representative who handed me an extensive NDA to sign. Being a lawyer, I was neither surprised nor alarmed, even by the $15 million penalty for violating it. First, I had no intention of breaking the agreement. Second, good luck retrieving $15 million from my bank account at that time.

Once cleared, I went upstairs to the dressing room area, an oversized conference room transformed into two Michael Jackson-ready luxury suites. Michael and his team had not yet arrived, but the museum was already buzzing with that uniquely glamorous kind of organized chaos.

I ran into my friend Harriette Cole, who was the Creative Director for the shoot at Ebony. She greeted me warmly as I explained I was there to deliver jewelry for Phillip.

Then I stepped into the room and saw Phillip, who rushed over, thanked me for bringing the piece, and asked the question that changed the day.

“Can you stay? I need someone in the jewelry room to watch it and log it. It’s about six million dollars’ worth of jewelry, and I don’t need any sticky fingers walking away with anything.”

Phillip has always had a wonderfully direct style.

My internal answer was immediate and emphatic: Of course the f-ck I can stay.

The odds of meeting my idol had suddenly skyrocketed.

The dressing room layout required anyone going to Michael’s private suite to pass through the jewelry and wardrobe rooms first, which meant that at the very least I would get to see him throughout the day. I expected nothing more. I was essentially a temporary production assistant crossed with museum security, tasked with ensuring that every borrowed piece returned safely to Chopard, Jacob the Jeweler, Tiffany, and the rest. I have never been more delighted by a mundane assignment in my life.

After about an hour of preparation, it happened.

The doors opened and the first members of Michael Jackson’s team entered. You could sense he was near before you saw him. The energy in the room shifted palpably. We had all been moving in calm, focused motion, but suddenly the lights seemed brighter, the pace slowed, and everyone’s heartbeat appeared to rise in anticipation. That is the power of true iconography. Even Phillip, who had been so relaxed the previous evening, now carried the unmistakable charge of excitement.

And then Michael entered.

Flanked by two of his aunts, the biggest star the modern world has known swept into the room with a force that seemed to take all the oxygen with him. Time stopped, or at least became irrelevant for a moment.

Then he said, softly, in a surprisingly warm baritone, “Good morning, everyone. I’m excited for a great shoot today.”

He looked directly at each of us as he passed, acknowledging everyone individually. I nearly cried, though I managed to hold it together on the grounds that I was technically at work and public weeping felt professionally unsound.

This rhythm continued through much of the morning. In and out. Upstairs and downstairs. Meetings with the photographer Matthew Rolston, Harriette, Phillip, and the broader creative team, then back again.

At one point, Michael stopped near where I was seated and began admiring the jewelry, selecting favorites and asking questions. By then, I knew every piece intimately, its provenance, stones, setting, craftsmanship. Since our phones had been taken, and since phones in 2007 were not yet the tiny supercomputers they would become, I had spent the downtime reading every accompanying card and information sheet.

That accidental expertise changed the trajectory of my day.

Michael and I ended up speaking about jewelry for at least fifteen minutes, even while people gently attempted to usher him elsewhere. Then he returned to his dressing room. Moments later, Phillip emerged and said, “I don’t know what you said to him, but he wants you downstairs when we shoot.”

Wow.

And so I went.

We shot multiple set-ups throughout some of the museum’s most famous galleries. The music playing was classic soul, R&B, and naturally Michael’s own greatest hits. He was fun, funny, warm, and deeply inquisitive. We often paused while moving through the museum so he could ask curators about an artifact or installation that had caught his eye. One image remains permanently etched in my mind: Michael dancing to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” in front of a sarcophagus.

It was magical because Michael was magical.

I will not go into much more detail, if only out of lingering respect for that NDA.

But I will say this. At the time, Michael was embattled by lawsuits, scandal, ridicule, and relentless public scrutiny. He could easily have been guarded, withdrawn, or difficult, as many celebrities become under far less pressure. Instead, he was the opposite. He was gracious, attentive, and palpably appreciative of the care people were showing him.

He also seemed lonely.

Even surrounded by family, assistants, staff, and the machinery required to sustain someone at that level of fame, I sensed a profound solitude in the quieter moments we shared, whether discussing jewelry or chatting in an elevator about an exhibit we had just seen. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps that was my Pisces intuition freelancing beyond its jurisdiction. But I felt it deeply.

And in feeling it, I realized something about myself.

I no longer wanted fame.

I had wanted it since I too was a child with grand fantasies, but that day clarified the difference between visibility and fulfillment. What I wanted was a life of impact, creativity, meaning, and enough recognition to open doors, but not the kind of fame that turns a person into a planet everyone circles while no one truly reaches.

I will confirm this theory with Beyoncé once we become besties.

They say never meet your heroes, and often that is wise advice. I even followed it with Whitney. But I remain profoundly grateful to Phillip Bloch, Harriette Cole, and everyone at Ebony for giving me the chance to meet mine.

Michael Jackson did not disappoint me.

He deepened me.

I left a bigger fan than I arrived, not merely of the icon, but of the man, the person, the spirit, and the being who lived inside the enigma.

And if you look closely at that cover, those three diamond brooches?

Yes.

I placed and pinned them on him.

My sole styling credit, and the only one I will ever need.

The Michael Jackson biographical film, Michael, is scheduled for release in theaters on April 24, 2026.

The real problem is not race. It is romance.

Filmmaker Nina Lee stirred up a storm online when she posted that a studio will not buy her already produced feature film until it sees how You, Me, & Tuscany performs at the box office. The new film, starring Halle Bailey (The Little Mermaid) and hunk du jour Regé-Jean Page (Bridgerton), is produced by one of my idols, Will Packer, and lands in theaters on April 10th.

Nina went on to post, “A film that has nothing to do with me could quite literally change my life. Plus, I’ve heard it’s really great so I’m looking forward to supporting.”

Her post lit a match. What followed was a familiar debate about the state of Black romantic comedies, including one widely circulated claim that it had been a decade since the last one had a theatrical release. That is not accurate. The Photograph, starring Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, was released in theaters in 2020.

But whether it has been six years or ten is beside the point. The real issue is that there have been very few Black romantic comedies released theatrically in recent years.

So the call went out. Show up. Support the film. Prove the audience exists so Hollywood will make more.

But that framing raises a bigger question.

When we call something a “Black” film, what exactly do we mean?

Because while You, Me, & Tuscany stars two Black leads, the film is written and directed by white creatives. That does not disqualify it in any way, but it does complicate the narrative. Are we talking about representation on screen, or authorship behind it? Are we supporting a category, a cast, or a creative voice?

And even beyond that…

Are we talking about race, or are we talking about romance?

Yes. And…

“It is not your job to keep theaters open. It is our job to make things that make it worth you coming out,” Ryan Gosling said recently while promoting his latest film.

Cyber high-five, Ryan. I could not agree more.

We are in a different era of movie distribution. Streaming has made it easier and cheaper to watch films at home. Going to the theater, something I personally love, requires more effort and more money. Between ticket prices, concessions, and time, the equation has changed. Add in large home screens and high-quality sound systems, and the living room starts to look very competitive.

The pandemic accelerated this shift, and the theatrical business has not fully recovered. And yet, audiences still show up when something feels worth it. That part has not changed. The point is simple. People go to the movies when they feel they have to.

Studios are releasing far fewer romantic comedies in theaters than they did even a decade ago, and certainly far fewer than in the 1990s. This is not just a Black romcom problem. It is a romcom problem.

And one of the biggest reasons is this: the way we date has changed.

The romcom used to be built on tension. Will they meet. Will they connect. Will they choose each other. Now we swipe past each other in under three seconds. The entire ecosystem of romance has shifted. Attention spans are shorter. Options feel infinite. Vulnerability is harder to access. And ironically, connection feels more elusive than ever.

So when the culture changes, the genre has to evolve with it. Right now, it has not. Which brings us back to this moment.

What we are really talking about here is not just race. That is the easiest headline, and in some ways the least interesting one.

What we are actually talking about is romance. What it looks like now, how it feels now, and whether the genre that once defined it has evolved enough to keep up.

Because the truth is, the romantic comedy did not just fall out of favor. It got outpaced.

It is not your job to keep theaters open

It is not the audience’s job to save an industry. It is not Black people’s job to show up out of obligation so studios feel comfortable making more films.

Hollywood studios do what they want to do regardless. When Black films underperform, it becomes a referendum on Black stories. When they succeed, it is rarely treated as proof of sustained demand.

As Gosling said, it is our job to make something worth leaving the house for.

That is the job.

And in today’s environment, that job is harder than it used to be. If you are asking someone to come out for a romantic comedy, it cannot feel optional. It has to feel necessary.

Marketing starts with casting

Before a trailer drops. Before a poster goes up. Before a single press interview is booked, the marketing has already begun. With casting.

The audience is asking a very simple question: do I want to watch these two people fall in love? Not on paper. Not in theory. In feeling. Do they spark something? Do they intrigue me? Do I believe them? Do I want them to be together?

Because in this moment, casting is not just about talent. It is about magnetism. And when that is unclear, everything downstream becomes harder.

You have to do the hard sell

There was a time when a romcom could coast. A good premise, recognizable faces, a charming trailer, and the audience would show up.

That time is over. Now you have to campaign for the film. Relentlessly. Creatively.

Look at Timothée Chalamet. A film about ping pong is not an easy sell. His comments about opera and ballet aside, he showed up everywhere. Press, interviews, fashion, cultural moments. He made the film feel like something you needed to pay attention to.

He did not wait for the audience to find it. He made sure they could not ignore it. That is the level of activation required now.

The Tyriq Withers effect

And then there is what happens when the right energy breaks through. Tyriq Withers is a perfect example.

He feels like a breath of fresh air. There is a natural charisma, an ease, and a kind of openness in how he shows up publicly that makes people lean in. On social media, in interviews, in clips that travel, he does not feel overly manufactured. He feels present.

More importantly, he feels like someone you want to watch. And that matters more than ever.

His film Reminders of Him is not a comedy, but it is a romance. The kind of film the industry has quietly moved away from theatrically. And yet it opened to $18 million and has already climbed to nearly $42 million on a $25 million budget.

That is not accidental. That is what happens when casting, timing, and audience curiosity align.

It is proof that the appetite for romance in theaters still exists. But it has to be activated. It has to feel like something worth showing up for.

This is not just about Black romcoms

Zoom out, and the bigger picture becomes clear.

Romantic comedies as a genre have been in transition for years. Fewer theatrical releases. More streaming premieres. A shift in audience behavior. Some argue the genre is making a comeback. Others say it never left, it just changed platforms. Both can be true.

But what is undeniable is this: if a romcom is going to work in theaters today, it has to feel like an experience, not an option.

It has to give people a reason to leave their homes, coordinate with friends, plan a date night, or make an evening out of it. It has to feel like something you want to share.

The 90s were not magic. They were quality

We often look back at the 90s as the golden era of Black romantic comedies. And it was. But not because studios were being generous. Those films worked because they were good. Sharp writing. Clear point of view. Memorable characters. Real chemistry.

Audiences did not show up out of obligation. They showed up because the films delivered.

You cannot demand attendance

This is where the current conversation starts to break down. Telling audiences they need to support a film “or else” does not work. Especially not for a romcom. Romance is not a genre built on obligation. It is built on desire. You cannot guilt someone into wanting to see a love story.

Black audiences will show up

And yet, history continues to prove the same thing. Black audiences show up.

We show up early. We show up loudly. And when we love something, we bring everyone else with us. We lead the audience. But we do not show up out of obligation. We show up because we want to. Because something feels good, exciting, worth our time and energy.

Which brings us full circle. If the goal is to bring the Black romantic comedy back to theaters, the answer is not pressure. It is precision.

Make something people cannot wait to see, with people they want to see, on a screen big enough to justify leaving the house. Not something they will casually add to a queue and get to eventually.

I truly hope You, Me, & Tuscany does well, but only if it is a great film. I also genuinely hope romantic comedies, as a genre, find their way back to theaters. That hope is both altruistic and self-serving.

My upcoming feature film, Love Will Save the Day, is a romantic dramedy. I want there to be a market big enough to sell it. But more importantly, I plan to do the work to make it worth buying and, most definitely, worth seeing… in a theater.

In my next article, for paid subscribers only, I will break down a foolproof marketing strategy for romantic comedies, especially Black romantic comedies. So subscribe today, and I will see you tomorrow.

“Nothing. And I don’t want them to pay me,” I replied.

There was silence on the other end of the line. I could practically hear the gears turning in my mother’s mind as she tried to process what sounded, at first blush, like a terrible business decision. I knew I had some explaining to do, though in truth what I was attempting was less explanation than enlightenment for my ever-practical Capricorn mother and lifelong coach.

I had called her with excitement because I had just been hired to write a weekly column for Essence magazine, the leading magazine for Black women in America and around the world. In the column, I would draw on the lively conversations and adventures I shared with my fabulous sister-friends to offer love and relationship advice from my particular lens.

More importantly, it represented something deeply personal. It was my return to writing in a serious and ongoing way.

I wrote my first book at eight years old and won my first writing competition, the Illinois Young Author’s Competition, at ten. Writing remained a constant companion through my teenage years and into college. But like many people who go into the legal profession, I eventually found my creative writing replaced by legal drafts, contracts, and memoranda.

My mother simply could not understand why I would agree to write a weekly column without being paid.

But I understood something she didn’t yet see.

I wasn’t working for free.

I was working for ownership.

Essence was an extraordinary platform, one that allowed me to reintroduce myself to the world as a writer. But I wanted to own what I wrote. If they paid me, the column would become their intellectual property, and they would control how it was used in the future.

So I made the trade.

Ownership instead of a paycheck.

For nearly five years I wrote The Girl’s Best Friend column and loved every minute of it. The articles sparked conversation, debate, and sometimes controversy. A few Black men even accused me of revealing too many of our secrets. But what mattered most was that the column resonated with readers.

Soon other publications began reprinting the work. The Huffington Post, Elle, and Black Enterprise were among those that ran my columns.

And because I owned the work, I was able to expand it.

The column ultimately became two books: a novel, Ladies Who Lunch & Love, and a collection of essays, The Girl’s Best Friend. It also became the foundation for a television project that I later developed and shopped in Hollywood.

If Essence had owned the column, none of that would have been possible.

In the years since, the work has generated far more income and opportunity than whatever nominal fee the magazine might have paid at the time.

Eventually Momma J came around. In hindsight, she applauds the decision and now fully understands the value of ownership in creative work.

In fact, I own or co-own nearly everything I have ever produced. That has often meant accepting smaller paydays in the beginning in exchange for the possibility of larger returns later. But ownership also means control. It means I get to decide how my work is used and where it goes.

I have never regretted that trade.

If anything, I was simply early in recognizing what has now become one of the defining economic realities of modern creativity.

Ownership matters more than ever.

In many ways, the modern creative economy has quietly split artists into two categories: those who make things and those who own them. The first group often works constantly yet finds itself perpetually chasing the next check. The second group builds assets that continue generating income long after the original work is finished. This difference has become increasingly visible in recent years as music catalogs sell for hundreds of millions of dollars, film and television libraries become prized acquisition targets, and individual creators build companies around their intellectual property.

The lesson is both simple and profound: in the long run, the real wealth in creativity is rarely in the labor. It is in the ownership of what that labor produces.

Or put even more plainly: the creative who owns the work eventually outpaces the creative who simply gets paid for it.

Across media, entertainment, and technology, consolidation has dramatically reduced the number of companies that control distribution. A handful of streaming platforms, publishers, and studios now determine which stories reach the public and which creators are invited to participate.

But the rise of digital platforms has also created a counterforce.

Today the global creator economy is estimated to exceed $250 billion, and analysts at Goldman Sachs project it could reach $480 billion by 2027. At the same time, intellectual property itself has become one of the most valuable assets in entertainment. Music catalogs alone have sold for staggering sums in recent years, with artists like Bruce Springsteen selling his catalog for roughly $500 million and Bob Dylan selling his publishing rights for an estimated $300 million.

Those deals are not about nostalgia.

They are about ownership.

Because in the modern creative economy, the real wealth is not simply generated by making things.

It is generated by owning them.

Even at the highest levels of entertainment, ownership is the new black on the balance sheet. And increasingly, it is the pathway to becoming not just successful, but extraordinarily wealthy.

Some of the most powerful creators in the world have already understood this.

Ryan Coogler and the Power of Negotiated Leverage

Oscar Winner Ryan Coogler’s rise in Hollywood illustrates how creative leverage can translate into ownership. After directing critically and commercially successful films such as Fruitvale Station, Creed, and Marvel’s Black Panther, Coogler built his own production company, Proximity Media. Through that company he has negotiated producing deals and profit participation structures that allow him to retain equity in the projects he creates rather than simply collecting a directing fee.

In practical terms, that means he participates in the long-term financial success of the work through backend profits, licensing, and future adaptations. For emerging creators, the lesson is not that ownership arrives immediately, but that success and reputation can be strategically converted into ownership once leverage exists.

Taylor Swift and the Economics of Masters

Taylor Swift’s fight to regain control of her master recordings has become one of the most public case studies in intellectual property ownership in modern music. When the masters of her first six albums were sold without her consent, Swift responded by re-recording the albums and releasing them as “Taylor’s Version.” The strategy effectively shifted streaming revenue, licensing opportunities, and fan attention to the recordings she now owns.

The move proved enormously successful, with several of the re-recorded albums debuting at number one and generating hundreds of millions in additional revenue. Swift’s strategy demonstrates a fundamental truth of the entertainment industry: the artist who owns the masters controls the long-term economic value of the music.

Rihanna and Equity Over Endorsements

Rihanna’s business empire offers one of the clearest examples of how ownership transforms celebrity into lasting wealth. Rather than entering into a traditional licensing agreement with LVMH, Rihanna launched Fenty Beauty as a joint venture in which she retained a significant ownership stake. The brand generated over $550 million in revenue in its first year alone and quickly became one of the most successful beauty launches in history. That equity stake played a central role in propelling Rihanna’s net worth past $1 billion, making her one of the wealthiest musicians in the world.

The lesson for creators is straightforward: influence becomes exponentially more valuable when it is paired with ownership rather than a one-time endorsement fee.

Beyoncé and the Ecosystem of Ownership

Beyoncé has spent decades quietly building one of the most sophisticated ownership models in modern entertainment. Through her company Parkwood Entertainment, she controls large portions of her music publishing, touring, film projects, and brand partnerships. Projects such as Lemonade and the Netflix film Homecoming demonstrate how owning both the music and the visual storytelling allows her to monetize the work across multiple platforms simultaneously. Touring alone has become an economic powerhouse, with the Renaissance World Tour reportedly grossing over $579 million globally.

By controlling the intellectual property surrounding her music and image, Beyoncé has created an ecosystem in which each creative output fuels multiple revenue streams.

Oprah Winfrey and the Blueprint for Creative Ownership

Long before the phrase “creator economy” entered the cultural lexicon, Oprah Winfrey built a media empire around the principle of ownership. Through her company Harpo Productions, after receiving advice on a date with the late film critic, Roger Ebert, Oprah owned The Oprah Winfrey Show, which allowed her to control the program’s syndication rights. Those rights generated hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue and turned her daytime talk show into one of the most profitable programs in television history. Oprah later expanded that model into film production, publishing, and eventually her own television network.

Oprah’s career stands as one of the clearest demonstrations that the individual who owns both the intellectual property and the distribution can capture the overwhelming majority of the value created by their work.

The Real Lesson for Creators

What unites all of these stories is not celebrity.

It is structure.

Ownership of intellectual property.
Equity in the underlying business.
Control over distribution.

Those are the levers that transform creative work into long-term wealth.

For creators who are just beginning their journeys, ownership does not always mean refusing every paycheck. Sometimes the smartest move is to accept the check in order to gain experience, exposure, or resources. But whenever possible, creators should be thinking beyond the immediate fee and asking a more important question: who owns the work when it succeeds?

Because a paycheck solves a short-term problem.

Ownership creates long-term possibility.

Conclusion: The Deal vs. The Asset

For most of the twentieth century, creatives were taught to chase the deal. Landing the job, signing the contract, getting the paycheck were seen as the ultimate markers of success.

But the landscape has shifted.

Today the most sophisticated creators understand that the true prize is not the deal itself, but the asset that exists after the deal is done.

The intellectual property.
The catalog.
The brand.
The company.

Those are the things that compound in value over time.

In other words, the difference between a working creative and a wealthy creative often comes down to a single question: who owns the work when the applause fades?

Ownership is not simply a financial strategy. It is a mindset.

It is the decision to think long term when everyone else is thinking about the next check. It is the discipline to build assets instead of assignments. And perhaps most importantly, it is the courage to believe that what you create today might still matter tomorrow.

Momma J eventually understood that.

And if you are a creator navigating this new era, you might discover that ownership becomes your best friend too.

When that didn’t happen, I kept going. I followed the film with television projects, books, and other creative work. I stayed busy. I stayed productive. But the phone never rang off the hook.

Actually, it barely rang.

What that experience taught me very early in my career was something that many creatives eventually learn: you cannot wait for someone else to create your opportunity. You have to keep creating it yourself.

For most of the last century, the entertainment industry operated on a relatively simple premise. If you were a creator with a story to tell, your job was to find your way into the system. You wrote the script, shot the short film, or developed the idea, then you pursued the familiar sequence of gatekeepers who controlled access to the audience. Agents opened doors to studios (I’ve never had one). Studios pitched networks. Networks sold advertising to brands. And if everything aligned, your work eventually reached the public.

For generations of creatives, this pipeline defined the entire ecosystem of media production.

I have worked within that system and continue to do so. My first television pilot script was optioned in 2017 and, after years of development, we eventually reached the stage of preparing to shoot the pilot. Then the network shifted its programming direction and the project stalled. I have sat in pitch meetings where executives told us they were “buying the concept in the room,” only for nothing to materialize afterward.

Anyone who has worked in this business knows the emotional rhythm of that process. The excitement of possibility. The thrill of a pitch going well. And the disappointment when momentum suddenly stops.

For years, the traditional pipeline was the only way to get something made. And even during the peak television boom, it meant that only a small number of creatives ever reached the holy grail of the greenlight. (I’ve always said that I greenlight myself).

But quietly, over the past decade, something fundamental has begun to change.

The traditional hierarchy that once governed entertainment has started to loosen, and new players have entered the storytelling business in ways few people predicted. The most significant of those players are not new streaming platforms or emerging production companies.

They are brands.

Companies that once functioned primarily as advertisers are now building internal production arms that operate remarkably like entertainment studios. At the same time, creators themselves are discovering that the tools required to launch and distribute content have never been more accessible.

As a result, the structure of media is evolving in two powerful directions simultaneously.

Brands are becoming studios, and creators are becoming media companies.

For those paying attention, this shift represents one of the most important opportunities in modern creative history.

The Rise of Brand Studios

Brands have always understood the power of storytelling. Advertising has relied on narrative and emotion for decades. What has changed is the realization that audiences increasingly avoid traditional advertising altogether. Streaming platforms eliminate commercial breaks. Social media users scroll past banner ads in seconds. Attention has become the most valuable currency in the digital economy, and brands have realized that the most effective way to earn that attention is not through advertising but through entertainment.

In response, many companies have begun investing directly in content production. Instead of purchasing advertising slots, they are financing documentaries, short films, cultural storytelling campaigns, and serialized digital content designed to live organically within the media ecosystem. These initiatives often exist within divisions that look and function much like entertainment studios.

One of the earliest and most successful examples of this model is Red Bull, whose production arm, Red Bull Media House, produces documentaries, live sports events, feature-length films, and digital programming distributed around the world. The company’s leadership often describes Red Bull not simply as an energy drink company but as a media company that happens to sell an energy drink.

Sports leagues have operated under similar philosophies for years. Divisions such as NFL Films and NBA Entertainment have produced award-winning documentaries and television programming that extend their influence far beyond the games themselves. Meanwhile, global lifestyle brands like Nike and Gap increasingly invest in narrative-driven campaigns that feel less like commercials and more like cultural storytelling.

The logic behind this shift is simple. Traditional advertising interrupts entertainment. Storytelling is entertainment. And audiences are far more willing to engage with brands when they feel emotionally connected to the narratives those brands help bring to life.

For that reason, with my upcoming film Love Will Save the Day, my primary focus for financing has been brand partnerships. I intentionally wrote the script with the possibility of organic brand integration in mind. As a writer, my first responsibility was always the integrity of the story and the quality of the writing. But as a businessperson, I also understood the importance of building a project that brands could naturally partner with.

That strategy is already proving effective.

For creators, this development dramatically expands the universe of potential collaborators. The number of organizations interested in producing meaningful content is no longer limited to studios and networks. A growing list of global brands now recognizes storytelling as a central part of their cultural strategy.

And those brands need filmmakers, writers, directors, and creators who know how to tell stories that resonate.

Why This Moment Is Perfect for Independent Media Companies

I sometimes joke that if social media and the modern internet had existed when I was in college, my path into the entertainment industry might have looked very different. In truth, I probably still would have pursued higher education, and possibly law school, because that training sharpened many of the skills I rely on today.

But what I know for certain is that after graduation I would have approached my entry into the creative industry in a very different way.

The good news is that it is not too late for me. And it is certainly not too late for you.

At the same time that brands are entering the storytelling business, the technological infrastructure required to produce and distribute content has undergone a profound transformation. Only a generation ago, launching a production company required enormous financial resources. High-end cameras cost tens of thousands of dollars, editing suites required specialized facilities, and distribution often depended on relationships with networks, theatrical distributors, or broadcast partners.

Today the entire equation has changed.

Cinema-quality cameras are accessible to independent creators. Editing software operates on laptops. And distribution platforms reach global audiences instantly.

Digital ecosystems built around platforms such as YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, and Substack have democratized access to audiences in ways that were almost unimaginable twenty years ago.

A creator with a clear voice, a compelling perspective, and the discipline to publish consistently can now build a global audience without the infrastructure of a traditional studio.

That reality is causing many creatives to rethink their career strategy. Instead of asking how to sell a single project into an existing system, they are asking a much larger question: how do I build a media platform that exists independently of that system?

We see this strategy clearly in companies like Hello Sunshine, founded by Reese Witherspoon, which built a powerful content brand around female-driven storytelling before being acquired for nearly a billion dollars. We see it in the entrepreneurial approach of creators like Issa Rae, who has expanded her work into a broader ecosystem of production, cultural influence, and brand partnerships. And we see it in the digital landscape, where creators such as MrBeast have built global entertainment enterprises that rival traditional media companies in both scale and audience reach.

These creators are not simply producing content.

They are building media ecosystems.

Why Hollywood’s Consolidation Is Actually an Opportunity

At first glance, the current wave of mergers and consolidation within the entertainment industry can appear discouraging to emerging creators. Large conglomerates such as Warner Bros. Discovery and Disney now control vast libraries of intellectual property and global distribution platforms. As companies grow larger, development pipelines often become slower and more risk-averse.

But history tells a different story.

Moments of consolidation frequently create the conditions for entrepreneurial innovation. When large institutions become more complex and cautious, independent creators gain the freedom to experiment and move quickly. The rise of cable television in the 1980s opened the door for programming that traditional broadcast networks had ignored. The independent film movement of the 1990s emerged in response to the rigid economics of studio filmmaking. And the explosion of online video platforms in the 2010s allowed individual creators to build audiences that rivaled those of established media brands.

Today we are witnessing another evolution. While major corporations consolidate power within traditional distribution pipelines, the creator economy continues to expand in parallel.

The creators who understand how to cultivate audiences, produce consistently, and develop strong intellectual property are increasingly able to operate outside the constraints that once defined the entertainment industry.

The Creator Playbook for This Moment

If the structure of media is changing, the most important question for creators becomes how to position themselves within this new landscape.

Here are four steps creators can begin implementing right now.

1. Build an Audience Before You Build a Project

Audience has become one of the most powerful forms of leverage in the creative economy. A creator who has built a loyal community brings something incredibly valuable into every partnership conversation. You are not simply presenting an idea. You are offering access to an audience that already trusts your voice.

2. Think Like a Media Company, Not a Freelancer

Freelancers focus on completing projects. Media companies focus on building intellectual property. That means developing recurring formats, series, and content ecosystems that can grow over time across multiple platforms.

3. Establish a Clear Creative Lane

In an environment where audiences encounter an overwhelming amount of content every day, clarity becomes a competitive advantage. The creators who stand out are often those who become synonymous with a particular perspective or subject area.

4. Build Multiple Revenue Streams

The most resilient creators diversify their business models. Brand partnerships, speaking engagements, digital content platforms, newsletters, licensing agreements, live events, consulting, and educational products can all become components of a broader creative ecosystem.

This diversification does more than increase income. It creates the independence that allows creators to pursue meaningful work without relying entirely on a single project or gatekeeper.

The Future of Creator-Led Media

We are entering a moment in media history that feels remarkably similar to earlier periods of creative disruption. New technologies are reshaping how content is produced and distributed. Audiences are discovering voices outside traditional institutions. And creators who once needed permission from powerful gatekeepers now have the tools to build platforms of their own.

In the coming decade, many of the most influential media brands may not emerge from traditional Hollywood studios. They may originate from independent creators who cultivated their own audiences, built their own platforms, and partnered with brands that understand the cultural power of storytelling.

The next generation of media companies may not begin in corporate boardrooms or billion-dollar studio lots.

They may start in living rooms, on laptops, and in the imaginations of creators bold enough to build something new.

And for creators who recognize this moment for what it is, the opportunity is extraordinary.

GREENLIGHT YOURSELF!!!

My grandfather, aka Big Daddy, said that after my mother told him I was leaving my high-paying job at a New York law firm to pursue a career in entertainment. Big Daddy had always wanted to be a lawyer, so becoming the first lawyer in my immediate family was a dream realized for him through me.

At 27 years old, I made more money than my grandparents and parents had ever made annually. But what Big Daddy didn’t know was that it had always been the plan. My mom and I had discussed it many times. Law school served two purposes: it provided me with bankable skills I could rely on when I did make the leap (I like steak way more than pork and beans. I’d waited tables right before law school, and although I had a lot of fun at Bennigan’s, that was not the life for me). It also provided me with a solid business foundation so I could manage my creative career efficiently.

My mother and I made a deal that once I finished law school, she would support my creative dreams in whatever way she could and needed to. Law school was my insurance policy while also serving as a foundation for my career.

Big Daddy’s concern was that a creative career was highly risky, and he didn’t want to see me throw away all the years of school I had worked for. He wanted to make sure I was safe.

We were not raised to chase dreams. We were raised to manage risk.

Sensible First. Creative Later.

For many of us in Generation X and the older edge of the Millennial generation, creativity was something you did after the bills were paid. It was the novel in the drawer, the screenplay on a hard drive, the business idea you sketched between conference calls. We were told, explicitly and implicitly, that adulthood meant stability. A sensible job. Benefits. A 401(k). Something you could explain to your parents without watching their blood pressure rise.

And so we complied. We built careers. We mastered corporate language. We learned how institutions function. We sat in rooms where decisions were made and we paid attention. We navigated office politics, economic downturns, mergers, layoffs, and reinventions. We developed patience. We learned how to read contracts. We discovered how capital actually moves.

All the while, we were gathering something far more valuable than early visibility.

We were gathering perspective.

The Young Founder Myth

There is research from MIT Sloan that disrupts a popular myth about entrepreneurship.

The average age of a successful startup founder is 45. Not 25. Not 30. Forty-five.

In fact, founders in their 50s are nearly twice as likely to build high-growth companies as founders in their 30s. That data point alone should recalibrate how we think about timing.

The narrative we have absorbed says that creativity is a young person’s sport. That innovation belongs to the fearless and the freshly minted. But the numbers suggest something more nuanced. Experience increases the probability of durable success. Networks deepen. Pattern recognition sharpens. Emotional regulation strengthens. The very qualities that take time to cultivate are the ones that scale.

Not Late. Layered.

When Jay-Z released 4:44 at 47, it did not feel like a young buck’s album. It felt like a boardroom confession. It was about ownership, generational wealth, marriage, accountability, legacy. It resonated because it was seasoned.

Similarly, Ava DuVernay did not direct her first feature until she was 38, and her cultural breakthrough came in her forties. In fact, Ava was the publicist for the first feature film I produced, the perennial cult classic Dirty Laundry. She had just made her first short film, and whenever possible, we screened hers before ours. I saw in real time someone who was not fresh out of college or an eighteen-year-old wunderkind make a successful pivot later in life that has blossomed into a hugely successful creative career.

And there are more examples.

Vera Wang entered fashion design at 40 after careers in journalism and figure skating. Tyler Perry was in his late thirties when his first major film reached national audiences. Frankly, this list is a very long one, and we’ll be highlighting many of these stories on the Creative Trippin’ platforms on Substack, Instagram, and YouTube over the next few months.

These are not anomalies. They are evidence.

Similarly, I made my writing and directorial debut eleven years ago with my short film Love for Passion. That same year, I published my first novel, Ladies Who Lunch & Love. Both projects moved me from producer to lead creative. Since then, I’ve won numerous awards and achieved significant milestones, including an Emmy nomination and directing for Sesame Street. I was 38 when I directed and produced Love for Passion, and after moving cross-country from New York to Los Angeles, I have not looked back.

From Gatekeepers to Gateways

Many of us came of age in what I call the Gatekeeper Era. If you wanted to make a film, you needed a studio. If you wanted to publish a book, you needed a publisher. If you wanted to distribute music, you needed a label. The pipelines were narrow and heavily filtered. Youth was often favored because youth felt malleable, marketable, easier to brand.

Today, the infrastructure looks entirely different.

Platforms like YouTube, Substack, Patreon, Instagram, and TikTok have collapsed the distance between creator and audience. Distribution is no longer the guarded territory of a few executives. It is a skill set. It is a discipline. It is accessible.

Welcome to the Authority Era

This shift matters profoundly for older creatives.

Because while youth may dominate virality, experience dominates value. Algorithms, contrary to popular belief, are not sentimental about age. They reward retention, depth, watch time, and usefulness. They reward content that keeps people thinking, learning, and coming back. The currency of this era is not just attention. It is authority.

Audiences are increasingly drawn to creators who can explain systems, not just perform within them. They want frameworks. Context. Lived insight. They want to understand how the thing actually works. This is why voices like Scott Galloway have built massive followings grounded in analysis and business acumen rather than spectacle. It is why someone like Martha Stewart can remain culturally relevant decades into her career. Authority compounds.

For Gen X and older Millennials, lived experience is not a footnote. It is intellectual property.

Network Is a Moat

We have survived analog and digital. We remember dial-up and streaming. We witnessed the rise of hip hop from subculture to global commerce. We have navigated recessions and reinventions. We have seen industries collapse and reassemble. That longitudinal view is rare. It gives us pattern recognition that cannot be taught in a weekend course.

There is also a structural advantage to starting later. When you begin a creative endeavor at 45 or 50, you do not begin at zero. You begin with relationships. Former colleagues. Clients. Mentors. Investors. Decision-makers who answer your calls. You understand how to run a meeting, how to negotiate a deal, how to protect your intellectual property. That network density alone changes the trajectory.

Youth may have followers. Experience has relationships. And relationships build enterprises.

This Isn’t Too Late. It’s Leverage.

This is not an argument against younger creators. Their boldness and speed have transformed industries. But speed without clarity often burns bright and briefly. Clarity, which tends to emerge with time, sustains.

There is a 47-year-old executive right now who understands her industry better than most commentators online. There is a 52-year-old with a manuscript that carries decades of insight. There is a 43-year-old who has navigated corporate America, nonprofit leadership, or public service and possesses a masterclass worth of knowledge.

The distribution is here. The audience is here. The appetite for expertise is here.

What remains is the decision to step forward without apology.

For too long, many of us have framed our creative ambitions as something we “should have done earlier.” But perhaps earlier would not have been better. Perhaps earlier would have lacked the perspective, the network, the capital, the emotional steadiness that now sits at our disposal.

The delay was not a detour. It was development.

We were told to get sensible jobs. In doing so, we learned how systems operate. We learned discipline. We learned strategy. We built leverage. And now, in an era that rewards authority over novelty, those years are not a liability. They are an asset class.

Gen X’s got next. Millennials too.

Not because we are chasing youth.
But because we have earned clarity.

And clarity, in this moment, is the ultimate creative advantage.

As for Big Daddy, he changed his tune when he was able to watch my first film, The Ski Trip, on TV. By the time of his passing in 2018, he had seen that my creative career was, in fact, the real “good job” and one that I wake up excited to do every day.

Turns out, managing risk was never the opposite of chasing purpose.

It was preparation.

And for those of us who took the long road, built the foundation, learned the systems, and gathered the perspective, this moment is not overdue.

It is right on time.

“The secret to life and success is this: you have more power than you think.” – Unknown

Turning Fifty Didn’t Feel How I Expected

I turned fifty on Sunday.

I’ve been excited about turning fifty for the past two years. Mainly because I, more than anyone, know how much I’ve grown over the past five decades, particularly the last decade, my forties. Moreover, I’m surrounded by people who turned fifty and began to thrive. As my dear friend Bevy Smith says, “It gets greater later.” I was enthusiastic about it getting greater.

Then it arrived and it didn’t feel how I had anticipated.

There were so many challenges pulling my focus and dulling my excitement. The world. No further explanation needed there. Momma J has been ill for the past four weeks and I’ve had to step firmly into the role of caregiver. She will be fine soon. One of my closest friend’s mothers, who was like a second mother to me, passed. Even my beloved furry son, D’Oji, had some health issues going on.

I won’t wallow in all that was “wrong” because I don’t want to give it more air than I already have, but let’s just say life was life-ing.

For my birthday, I didn’t want a big party. I had one last year in New York and I’ve had many over the fifty years that I don’t actually remember. I wanted basic things. No fancy dinners or extravagant setups. I wanted Red Lobster. The movies. Bowling. To play some cards.

I’m also going on a dream trip in July with my literal lifelong loves, my divas who have been in my life ranging from thirty-plus to fifty years (Hi, Andrea).

Two of my other dearests in Los Angeles planned a great evening on Friday. We had a private bowling lane and then drinks in a private lounge. About ten people were there. It was perfect and exactly what I wanted.

I had a blast. So much so that when I woke up Saturday morning, my cell phone was floating in the toilet in my bathroom.

I laughed. It signaled that I indeed had a great time.

One thing I’ve learned over these fiddy years is not to stress over things. I knew I had insurance and that although it might be inconvenient, I would get a new phone at some point. My sole concern was receiving the birthday wishes from my family and friends that I knew would be coming on Sunday. The biggest blessing is knowing you are loved.

I borrowed an old phone from a friend. It’s an iPhone 6, so needless to say it’s limited in its capabilities. However, along with my iPad, it was enough to receive most of my birthday wishes and respond in gratitude.

What I did not realize was that my phone falling into the toilet, and the limitations of the temporary phone, would be exactly what I needed.

For the next level to begin.

To learn a fundamental lesson that I already knew, but that the Universe and God wanted to drill into my consciousness.

When the Spark Went Missing

On my actual birthday, my plans shifted. My Mom and I had to cancel our birthday brunch at one of our favorite places because she still wasn’t up to it. So I scrapped the day and chose to rest and reflect.

As the day progressed, my energy decreased. I found myself sinking into a dark place. It’s rare for me, which makes it even more profound when it happens. Usually it lasts a day and then I can get back to it. This time, it spilled into Monday. Then into Tuesday as I returned to work.

My superpower is my deep belief in myself.

When my parents and elder family members told me I could do and be anything growing up, I believed them. That belief has been the secret sauce that made the impossible possible in my life. It has led to a life of achievement and joy that I could not have written any better.

But for three days, I could not access that spark in my spirit.

I wouldn’t say I was fully depressed, but I was certainly down. When it was time to get back to work, I woke up overwhelmed. That feeling permeated most of my day. I got up much later than usual. I had to lie down twice because I couldn’t shake the grey cloud.

I pushed myself to go to the gym. Then I decided to share with my friend Meyako what I was going through.

Generally, I work through issues on my own. Not because I don’t have anyone to talk to, but because that’s my preferred way of dealing with things. I also believe constant complaining and “venting” rarely solves anything. And most people don’t care about your problems.

But something told me to share this time. So I did.

Immediately, Meyako was the safe landing space I knew she would be. She prayed for me and sent assurances that it would get better. That conversation, along with my workout, forced me to realign my evening. I would go home, cook dinner for my Mom and me, then read and journal.

The next chapter in the book I’m reading, Think Like a Monk by Jay Shetty, was titled “The Mind.”

Exactly what I needed.

After finishing the chapter, I prayed and went to sleep at my normal bedtime. I woke up refreshed and fully back in the center of my Spirit.

The Monkey Mind Is the Real Opponent

More importantly, it illuminated the lesson I needed to be reminded of: learning the power of your mind and how to control it is the number one thing you can do to succeed both professionally and personally.

I’ve been studying mindfulness for at least fifteen years. I was introduced to it through Oprah Winfrey and thinkers like Eckhart Tolle. One common theme is that your mind can be your best friend, but all too often it becomes your worst enemy.

Comparison.
Negative self-talk.
Doubt.
Fear.
Suffering.

These are the byproducts of what ancient theorists call the “monkey mind.” We get caught in patterns and swirl in the mud when it tells us:

“You’re not good enough.”
“Your dreams are never going to come true.”
“You’ll never…”

While I was cooking dinner, I watched the opening of Katt Williams’ new Netflix special where he talks about controlling your mind. Around the same time, Bevy posted about always feeling like you’re in the middle, never in a season of ease.

Both primed me for the realization:

The key to success is learning how to control your monkey mind. Developing a system for getting out of the negative swirl and back into possibility and power.

It takes practice. Years of it. But without it, you will never fully arrive at happiness or ease. You might achieve external success, but you will not enjoy it.

Talent Is Not the Advantage

Recently, I’ve seen criticism of people like Brené Brown and Mel Robbins for repeating ideas about mindfulness. I think that misses the point. Greatness requires repetition. You have to hear the same message over and over until it rises to the level of consciousness.

Athletes, musicians, artists, business people, entrepreneurs, and creatives only get great through practice and accumulated experience. The same is true for mastering your mind.

For some, it may be Oprah. For others, Mel Robbins or Jay Shetty. For others, the Torah or the Bible. It’s all practice. It’s all about learning to live above doubt, fear, and perceived limitations.

This post from “The Spiritual Magic” sums it up perfectly:

When you change your mind, you begin to change your life. You don’t need to have all the answers, a perfect background, or even powerful connections to start. What you truly need is belief in yourself and the willingness to rewire your thinking. The Law of Attraction isn’t magic. It’s mindset. It’s about aligning your thoughts, energy, and habits with the life you want to create. When you let go of limiting beliefs and start showing up as the version of you who already has what you desire, everything begins to shift. Success begins in the mind. And once you begin to see it, you’ll start to believe it. And once you believe it, watch how it manifests.

You can have the best education. A world-class business plan. Extraordinary talent.

But if you do not have control of your mind, you will sabotage your own success.

Talent is not the advantage.

Mindset is.

It Gets Greater Later… If You Master Your Mind

In hindsight, my phone falling into the toilet was a blessing. It disconnected me from the distractions. The dopamine hits. The noise. It forced stillness.

I needed to go through it so I could begin this next chapter in full command of my mind.

As creatives and entrepreneurs, we are charged with creating something out of nothing. But it’s never really nothing. It comes from your mind.

If your mind is scattered, fearful, doubtful, reactive, your creation will reflect that. If your mind is disciplined, hopeful, centered, powerful, your life and business will reflect that too.

The number one thing you can do to succeed is get your mind right. Study it. Train it. Guard it. Practice mastery daily.

Because at fifty or at twenty-five, in a boom season or a hard one, the truth remains:

It only gets greater later if you learn to control what happens between your ears.

And that is a skill. Not a gift. Not luck. Not talent.

“I’m from the Southside of Chicago and that tells you everything you need to know about me.” – Michelle Obama

Let me tell you about the time I cussed everyone out at the network over Oprah Winfrey.

But first, that quote from our forever First Lady, Michelle Obama, is one I have co-opted and used ever since I read it in her book, Becoming. It so perfectly sums me up, and that’s no surprise since both Michelle Obama and I hail from the Southside of Chicago and we’re both proud alums of Whitney M. Young Magnet High School in the great city of Chicago. Go Mighty Dolphins!

Our high school motto is: “Where excellence is the standard,” and it is enshrined on a small monument at the entrance of the school. Growing up on the Southside, it is also enshrined in our spirit that we don’t take mess. We are tough cookies. Yes, Mrs. Obama reminds us to go high, but if you’re from the Southside, you most definitely also know how to go low. Both sentiments, excellence and toughness, have served me well throughout my life and career.

As I approach my fiftieth birthday this weekend, I’ve been doing a lot of reminiscing and reflecting on the five decades of living I’ve been blessed to enjoy. A lot of that reflection has centered around work, achievements, fun times, and more importantly, lessons learned.

Back to Oprah.

I was the executive producer of a show called Leading Women (formerly Real Life Divas). Leading Women was a highly acclaimed biography show that showcased the brilliance and legacy of Black women across entertainment, fashion, art, politics, business, and social justice. Throughout the six seasons the show was on the air, I, along with my two partners Sean Joell Johnson and Crystal McCrary, conducted the interviews. In that role, I interviewed countless celebrities and notable figures such as Naomi Campbell, Patti LaBelle, André Leon Talley, Iman, Representative Maxine Waters, and so many more.

And I was great at it. We all were.

When we first launched the show, created by Sean and Crystal, it wasn’t always easy landing the big names. We really had to use our connections to get people to say yes in the first season. After we had successfully and beautifully produced a couple of seasons and the show gained notoriety, the yeses came easier.

By the time our sixth season came around, we had landed Dr. Maya Angelou as one of our featured Leading Women. With that came the holy grail of interviews: Oprah Winfrey.

Being from Chicago, Oprah has meant so much to me from a very young age. She not only showed me what was possible through her eponymous and game-changing talk show, The Oprah Winfrey Show, she opened my spirit to so many elevated ways of thinking. I started meditating because of Oprah. I started journaling because of Oprah. I started exploring mindfulness because of Oprah. Oprah is one of my idols. She means the world to me, and I will forever be grateful for her existence because it has enhanced and elevated mine in such meaningful ways.

So when we got the news that we were going to be able to interview Oprah, I went through the roof. It was one of those moments that made all of the hard work and sacrifice worth it.

But then the network said they were bringing in someone new to conduct the interview and that I would not be able to attend. What you talkin’ ‘bout Willis?

Being able to land Oprah was a direct result of our excellent work leading up to that point. And now we, I, were not good enough? Oh, hell to the naw, in the words of my other idol, Whitney Houston.

It just so happened that my mom, affectionately known as Momma J, was visiting me in New York. After getting off the phone completely dejected and feeling totally rejected, I told Momma J the story. She’s from the Southside of Chicago too. Let’s just say she wasn’t having any of it. She told me to call them back and demand to be included in the Oprah interview. And so I did.

After a few hours of back and forth, the “final” decision was made that I would not be able to attend. I got off the phone. I cried for a moment. Then I looked at Momma J’s face.

Are you really going to let this happen? I didn’t raise a punk pushover.

Yes, her face said all of that.

I called them back, and that’s when the low part of the Southside of Chicago came roaring out. I cussed everybody out and told them this was non-negotiable for me and that I would be going to Chicago to interview my idol. I had done the work to get us there, and I was not about to allow someone else to reap the benefits.

And it worked. Sometimes you have to get low to get what you want and to let people know that you are not a pushover. After I got off the phone, Momma J and I booked flights to Chicago, she still lived there then, and I prepared myself to realize a dream coming true.

It was worth it. Interviewing Oprah Winfrey about Maya Angelou is one of those professional memories you never forget. During the interview at Harpo Studios, wow, Oprah gushed about what Dr. Angelou meant to her life.

After it was over, we formed a receiving line to thank Ms. Winfrey and say goodbye. As the executive producer of the show, I was last in line. When Oprah reached me, I began to tear up and said, “Ms. Winfrey, you are my Maya Angelou.”

She leaned back to look at the name tag they had us all wear, because Oprah likes to call people by their names, and said, “Nathan, I think that is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.” Then the Queen of All Media took me into a warm, long embrace.

I lost it. The tears flowed freely. They were tears of joy and of triumph.

I don’t regret asserting myself. However, in retrospect, I could have handled it differently. I could have been assertive without the profanity. I love to cuss, mind you, but not at people. This moment is one of many that I reflect on from my thirties that I would handle differently now with more wisdom and finesse.

When I first met Dr. Angelou, I was a senior in college. My organization had planned and invited her to speak. At the reception following, she ended a conversation with me with these words:

“In life you must be tough, yet tender. If you’re not tough, you’ll never get anywhere. If you’re not tender, you’ll never stay.”

The entertainment business is difficult, especially for Black people and other marginalized groups. Our voices are often overlooked and our boundaries ignored. You have to fight for literally everything, but we are not allowed the same latitude as our white male counterparts. We have all heard the stories of the famous producer or director who yells, screams, and is generally a jerk to everyone, but is still successful. We don’t have that luxury.

As I’ve matured personally and professionally, I’ve come to realize that Dr. Angelou’s words to me are gospel. Yes, I have to be tough, but I have also learned how to be tender enough to get what I want in a more effective way. I’ve come to understand and appreciate my edge, that Southside of Chicago in me, that is essential to my longevity and success. Now I temper it and use it to my advantage.

These days, I am a much more skilled warrior. I still fight for what I believe in and for what I deserve. I just do it with more tact and finesse. It makes for much smoother navigation of life, professionally and personally.

I also know that I’m still from the Southside of Chicago, and you will get cussed out if need be. So please don’t play with me, especially if it’s about Oprah.

Joking. Mostly.

Here’s the business lesson I wish I had understood earlier: advocacy is not about volume. It is about leverage.

You must know your value. You must know when something is aligned with your contribution. And you must be willing to speak up when you are being sidelined. But how you do it determines how long you get to stay in the room.

In your twenties and thirties, toughness may open doors. In your forties and beyond, refinement keeps them open.

Be tough enough to protect your work.
Be tender enough to protect your reputation.
And be wise enough to know the difference.

Because in business, just like in life, excellence may be the standard, but longevity is the goal.

I’ve lived in “Hollywood” (technically Pasadena, but you get the point) for eleven years next month. Over the past decade-plus, I’ve seen so many people come and go, both literally and figuratively. It is almost never due to a lack of talent or, just as rarely, a lack of commitment (there are some lazy people who deserved to be sent packing). Without fail, financial strain and struggle are the reason people leave on the midnight train to Georgia.

In hindsight, I’ve always wanted to be a creative, but I have also never wanted to be broke. “As God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again,” Scarlett O’Hara’s famous words from Gone with the Wind (racist overtones aside), have been a quiet mantra. Granted and thankfully, I’ve never been hungry, but I have most certainly been broke. Many times.

I’ve also had a lot of resources, which has been the real reason behind my longevity in this business. I began my creative career in earnest nearly twenty-five years ago, and what has sustained me are two things: (1) having a high-income skill (entertainment lawyer), and (2) diversification of revenue sources. I believe both are critical to financial sustainability and the ability to withstand the ebbs and flows of the life of an artist or creative.

What Are High-Income Skills?

Not everyone has the desire or ability to go to law school. One skill that all creatives have is: creativity. The creator economy is expected to double from $250 billion in 2023 to nearly $480 billion by 2027. Yes, that’s billions with a capital “B.”

The irony is that many of the people who make up the creator economy today are not traditional creators in the sense that they are professional writers, editors, dancers, or actors. They are mostly people who had a vision, something to say, and were not afraid of being cringe while doing it.

That last point is what blocks so many professional creatives from entering the creator economy. Many of us are afraid that joining the fold will somehow diminish our credibility. Or we fear that we will look cringe doing a silly dance on TikTok or even sharing our creative paths with people. Those fears could not be more unfounded or misguided.

We have seen the actual blueprints for how stepping out and showing the world what you have and what you can do can lead to “traditional” success in entertainment and the arts. Issa Rae is just one of the myriad examples of a creator who leveraged her creativity in a DIY way, built an audience, and then had Hollywood calling.

Yet it is not only the hope of the suits “seeing” you that makes this the right choice. The money you can earn is substantial. Nearly half a TRILLION dollars by next year (in my best Austin Powers voice). And it is only predicted to grow, while those traditional pathways and verticals continue to shrink.

I’ve been studying many successful social creators like Jay Shetty, Mel Robbins, and Chris Williamson for over a year. The common piece of advice they give is simple: Just do it. Yes, your first attempts will be trash. Yes, it takes consistent effort. However, you will not get there if you do not start.

Here’s some further inspiration.

Jay Shetty is estimated to be worth $30 million. The former monk has leveraged what he learned at the ashram, along with his background in finance, into a multimillion-dollar podcasting, publishing, beverage, and coaching business. I am currently reading his New York Times bestselling book, Think Like a Monk, and loving it. Jay is great, but he is not any better or more qualified than you. You, too, have a story to tell. And if you are more “seasoned” like me, then you have many stories to tell.

Mel Robbins’ estimated net worth is in the tens of millions. She launched her creator career after hitting rock bottom and being $800,000 in debt at age 41. She openly talks about the days when she could not get out of bed and felt like a failure financially, in her marriage, and as a mother. Then one day, she had the idea for her “5 Second Rule” theory, which forced her to get out of bed, stop licking her wounds, and share her story. At 57 years old, her business is at the height of its popularity. Her podcast, The Mel Robbins Podcast, was recently nominated for a Golden Globe, and her speaking tours sell out large venues across the globe.

Chris Williamson, like me, was once a nightclub promoter before going on two reality shows, Love Island and Take Me Out. In 2018, he launched his podcast, Modern Wisdom, which has achieved over 70 million downloads by focusing on self-improvement and psychology. He is now a multimillionaire.

I know the cynic or skeptic in you is saying, “Yeah, that’s a one-in-a-million chance.” Hush. Those are just three examples of successful creators who started off doing something completely different but translated their stories into big bucks. They are no better than you. You can do it too.

In addition to the creator economy, there are many high-income skills that can dramatically reduce the financial pressure of pursuing a creative career while actually strengthening it. These are skills that are portable, in demand, and often adjacent to what creatives already do instinctively. Strategy, consulting, producing, project management, brand development, copywriting, marketing, event production, facilitation, teaching, coaching, and public speaking are all examples of skills that can generate real income while keeping you close to your creative center. Many creatives underestimate how valuable their lived experience, taste level, storytelling ability, and problem-solving instincts are in rooms where businesses and organizations are trying to connect with people in authentic ways. Those skills are not hobbies. They are monetizable assets.

Learning and honing sales skills sits at the center of all of this. Sales is not about being slick or manipulative. It is about clearly articulating value, understanding what someone actually needs, and confidently offering a solution. If you can pitch a script, explain your art, convince someone to take a meeting, or move an audience emotionally, you already have the raw materials to become excellent at sales. Sales skills allow you to advocate for yourself, price your work properly, close deals, and create leverage instead of constantly waiting to be chosen. In this business, talent opens doors, but sales skills keep them open and make sure you get paid once you walk through them.

Diversification

In the fall of 2023, I found myself sitting in my car in my garage in tears. I was preparing to begin my first shift as an Uber driver that day, and I felt utterly dejected. How did this happen? How did I get here? I had a very expensive education from some of the nation’s best schools. I performed extremely well at those schools, straight As or honors at every one. I was a lawyer with bar memberships in three states. WTF?!!!!

I had retired from practicing law in January 2022 after finding success with speaking engagements, mostly in the diversity, equity, and inclusion space. I had big-name clients like Procter & Gamble and Novartis. I also had several deals in motion for projects I had created with the likes of Gabrielle Union, Sunny Hostin, and the fabulous EGOT herself, Whoopi Goldberg. The years of sacrifice were starting to pay off in real, tangible ways. In my mind, I had not quite “made it,” but I was close.

Then that day arrived. I was about to become an Uber driver.

Shortly after I retired, DEI became a dirty word. Many companies that had made grand commitments after the murder of George Floyd were not only reneging on those commitments but actively abolishing their DEI initiatives. One income source drained.

Then the entire entertainment industry came to a screeching halt with the 2023 strikes. The deals I had in motion either stalled or disappeared altogether. Another income source drained.

Cut to me sitting in my car, in tears, feeling sorry for myself. Then I shifted my perspective. If I was going to be an Uber driver, I was going to be the best damn Uber driver there was. I remembered that my dharma, my purpose, is to serve. While my intention has always been to serve through creativity, what is being an Uber driver if not direct service to people? With that shift, I turned on my phone and accepted my first ride.

By the time I stopped driving for Uber (it lasted about three months), I had a perfect 5.0 rating, had grown to enjoy my mornings bringing joy to people heading to work, and had earned more in tips than in fees. Why? Because I decided to be excellent at whatever I was doing.

More importantly, those hours driving gave me time to think. How could I use the skills I already had to generate more income? That is when the idea of launching my creative services agency took root.

I had been working with clients on an ad hoc basis for years, producing activations for organizations and brands. I realized that if I became more intentional and proactive, I could attract more clients and more work.

My fourteen years as one of New York City’s top party promoters reminded me that I knew how to conceive, produce, and deliver high-end events. It also reminded me that my side hustle had not only been lucrative but had introduced me to people who later impacted my primary career.

In late 2024, I launched iN-Hale Media & Entertainment. We had a banner year in 2025, our first fully operational one, with high-profile activations for Paramount+ with Showtime, Gilead Sciences, and Power to Decide.

Launching the agency allowed me to diversify my income, regain financial stability, and further my reputation and visibility as a creator. It has been a win-win, and we are actively growing the company as we speak.

Hopefully, you do not need a dark night of the soul sitting in your car before assessing how your existing skills can diversify your income. If you have read this far, let this be your sign to do it today.

Financial Stability and Freedom Are Already in You

Yes, this is a hard business in which to find success and remain financially solvent. But you already have the skills, ability, and opportunity to fund your life while pursuing your dream. I wish I had thought about creating revenue in this way earlier, but life delivers lessons when we are ready to receive them.

I truly hope to get a message from at least one of you saying that after reading this article, you got to it. That you realized your dream was worth fighting for and holding onto, and that you do not have to starve to make it happen.

Let’s GO!!!

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work.” – Toni Morrison

Our nervous systems and our peace have been under constant attack for at least the past six years. Probably more like ten years, when Donald Trump entered our political ecosystem.

There’ve been pandemics. Fires. Strikes. Wars. Genocide. Famine. Poverty. All of the elements that make up the apocalyptic fictional stories in movies like The Day After Tomorrow and Contagion, or novels such as The Road and Station Eleven. Except this time, it’s not a figment of some creator’s imagination. It’s real. It’s lived. It’s felt. Deeply.

Inspiration is a cornerstone of creativity. For many of us, inspiration becomes harder in chaos, making it increasingly difficult to create. Moreover, so many creators, especially those of us who work in Hollywood, film and television, are struggling with the fundamentals. How to make ends meet. How to keep a roof over our heads. How to keep food on the table for our families. How to get out of bed every morning and get to the thing. It’s a perfect storm for apathy and dejection.

I get it. And I am here to inject some hope and encouragement into the conversation using the late, great Toni Morrison’s words.

We often joke about Mary J. Blige being at her best when she’s in conflict or chaos. “Mad Mary is the best Mary,” or some version of that, is something I’ve heard over and over again. Mary’s best music has come from her pain. We love Mary J., and we don’t want her to be in pain, but there is something to it.

I interpret Ms. Morrison’s words from this talk to mean that art isn’t just for comfort. It is crucial for healing, for challenging despair, and for reflecting and shaping society during difficult, chaotic, or oppressive times. She is urging creators to use their voice when it’s most needed, not when things are easy.

Call to Action

The remainder of Ms. Morrison’s quote is truly a call to action for artists during difficult times.

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.” – Toni Morrison

Artists have a unique privilege and ability to see the world from a lens that others do not. It is the artistic gift. With every gift, there comes a duty. “To whom much is given, much is expected.” This is true for artists, and this is why we need to activate our creativity in these times. To shine a light on what’s going on. To heal ourselves and the world. And to provide creative pathways forward through art.

It’s time to get to work.

Creativity Rallies Against Despair - Remembrance

I’ve been working on a project about Frederick and Anna Murray Douglass. I dialed in earlier this year in a way I had not before since we started developing it. It was such a cathartic and illuminating experience writing about this man and his often-forgotten wife, who changed the course of history.

We romanticize history in a way that does it, and us, a disservice. Frederick Douglass, the most photographed person of the 19th century, would go on to advise President Lincoln, and his many great achievements are etched in the annals of history forever. It all came at a price. One that he repeatedly had to pay over and over again.

One of his most famous quotes, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress,” sums up not only his life, but life in general.

Living in his and Anna Murray Douglass’ world daily as I worked on the project was creative therapy for me. It was a reminder of the resilience, strength, wisdom, and downright badassery of Black people in this country. The more I wrote, the more empowered I became to do the work that is mine to do right now. In this time.

The creative act, in this historical context of remembrance, did not allow for my despair. There was no room for it because I was sitting in the center of a story that was the antidote to despair. No matter what is going on right now, it pales in comparison to what Mr. Douglass endured. Yet, it parallels what is possible for us in this moment to push past, in and with hope.

My creativity was a catalyst for motivation to persist and fuel for my resilience.

Reflecting the Times - Documentation

“An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times.” – Nina Simone

We are the writers. The poets. The filmmakers. The painters. The musicians. The creative artists of our time. It is our duty to reflect the times in our work. To document the joy we’re finding just as much as the suffering. And the cruelty.

One of the reasons they’re trying their best to either erase or recreate history is because what you don’t know is easy to repeat.

Conversely, one of the reasons why I remain hopeful is because I’ve read. Because I’ve engaged with historical art. Studied it in ways that remind me that none of this is new. Not only is it not new, but these periods of extreme cruelty and evil do not last long. Tyrants always die, and tyranny ends.

Art did that for me. Does that for me. It has taught me about the cyclical nature of the world. Nothing is new under the sun. With all of our technological advancements, the core of humanity, its triumphs and struggles, has not changed throughout the course of history. Part of the experience of living is the clash between “good” and “evil.” Since Cain and Abel. Since before then. It has always been so.

Thus, the job falls on us to document this time. To record it, dissect it, and analyze it in real time. Yes, for ourselves. More importantly, for future generations, so they understand what is happening now to inform what will be happening then.

Sure, it’s hard as hell to focus right now. Sure, shit is crazy right now. And sure, it has become increasingly more chaotic right now.

But also, right now is exactly the time when we need to get to work.

You heard Ms. Toni.