Salvatore Frisella, As A Writer: 16SEP26 @viafrisella

STORIES

The Art of Writing, the Freedom of Letting Go

By Salvatore Frisella

The First Draft: Capture the Inspiration

When inspiration strikes, I write feverishly. I don’t care about grammar, spelling, or proper screenplay format. My only concern is getting the inspiration onto the page before it lifts.

Once the inspiration has been captured, the real writing begins. That requires a different part of my brain.

Seven Passes: Refining the Gold

Overwriting is essential to my process. I want the freedom to cut the fat, remove the wood, hay, and stubble—to eliminate everything that distracts from the story and its accelerating journey toward the climax.

I refine a screenplay like gold or silver, burning away the impurities until what remains is pure.

“The words of the Lord are pure words, like silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times.” — Psalm 12:6, NKJV

I use this verse as a personal principle for revision: seven complete passes, from beginning to end, refining the story each time.

By the seventh pass, I know the story intimately. I know what belongs, what doesn't, and what must go.

But sometimes, the inspiration is gone.

Knowing When to Let Go

When I reach that seventh pass and no longer feel compelled to direct or produce the screenplay, I step away. I put it on the shelf for months, sometimes years.

Eventually, I return to it and ask myself one question:

Am I willing to live with this story for the next two or three years as its producer and director?

If the answer is no, I know it may be time to let someone else adopt it.

Perhaps the story was never meant for me to bring to the screen. Perhaps my role was simply to write it.

That's when I remove Salvatore Frisella's from the title.

The person who purchases the screenplay is free to make it their own.

Sell the Car. Let Them Drive It.

Ernest Hemingway, speaking of Hollywood, is famously quoted as saying:

“A writer should meet producers at the state line: You throw them your book, they throw you the money, then you jump into your car and drive like hell back the way you came.”

Rita Mae Brown put it another way:

“You sell a screenplay like you sell a car. If somebody drives it off a cliff, that's it…”

I understand the principle.

When I sell a screenplay, I sell the car. If the new owner wants to paint it a different color, that's their business. I'm not going to call and tell them I disapprove. It's no longer my car.

If someone buys my screenplay and transforms it into something I would never have written, I can disagree with their choices without claiming ownership over theirs.

If I sell someone a car and they use it to rob a bank, I'm not responsible for their actions simply because I once owned the vehicle.

Scripture reminds us:

“Who are you to judge another's servant? To his own master he stands or falls.” — Romans 14:4

My moral convictions are mine, freely chosen before God. Yours are yours, and I respect your freedom to choose.

I will not write explicit sex scenes, rely on gratuitous profanity, or tell a story that rationalizes the protagonist's immorality. I embrace the Judeo-Christian moral code. I will portray evil, but I will not glorify it or excuse it.

Those are my boundaries as a writer.

But when I sell my work, I don't appoint myself the moral police over its new owner. I can stand by my convictions without pretending I have authority over someone else's choices.

I am responsible for what I create. I am not the master of what someone else chooses to make of it.

Credit, Character, and the Long Game

Harry S. Truman is credited with saying:

“It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.”

That sentiment resonates with me.

I know what I did, and I know what I didn't do. I stand before my Master, the Lord Jesus Christ, who knows the difference.

Would I fight with the Writers Guild of America over screenwriting credit if most of my work remained intact but I received only story credit—or even no credit at all?

My instinct is no.

I know what I contributed. I know what I didn't. And I believe the Lord knows the difference. Ultimately, that matters more to me than a title on a screen.

This doesn't mean credit is meaningless or that contractual rights should never be defended. It means I refuse to let recognition become more important than the work itself.

Nobody wants to work with a glory thief. Nobody wants to work with a neurotic complainer who turns every disagreement into a battle for recognition.

Someone might win a settlement and collect what I've heard called “go-away money,” but winning a dispute can still cost a person future opportunities. Talent may get you through the door; your character often determines whether anyone invites you back.

Learn to win with class and lose with class. Protect your legitimate interests, but don't sacrifice your reputation trying to make everyone acknowledge your contribution.

Then keep writing. Keep producing. Keep creating work with your DNA all over it.

The discerning will recognize the substance, even when your name isn't on the title card. And the people worth working with may recognize something equally important: your talent, your emotional intelligence, your professionalism, and your class.

So keep daydreaming. Keep documenting. Keep refining the work.

Create with conviction. Revise without mercy. Let go without bitterness. And never confuse getting the credit with doing the work.

It's great work, if you can get it.