Ten years of facing the blank page. Learning, unlearning, relearning. Working on sets. And still, why was I stuck in my filmmaking career even after a decade of putting in the hard work?

Was 10 years not enough? Or was I not working hard enough? Perhaps I was not “suffering” the right way. Was there something left that I wasn’t doing? Weren’t we, aspiring filmmakers, promised some things if we put in the hard work? I mean a career. Wealth. Recognition. Fame. Films that travelled the world. Why hasn’t my breakthrough happened yet? What was I missing?

I woke one day with these questions haunting me. I couldn’t figure it out.

If you’ve ever felt stuck in your creative career, after years of effort, with no clear reason why you’re still waiting for your break, then this is for you. This isn’t advice. Just a trace of how I found some clarity in my own fog.

A Memory

The questions weren’t new. They had followed me before.

A watercolor painting of a quiet moment inside an Indian train during the day. A young woman with dark shoulder-length hair is seated by the window, looking outside. She wears a faint teal scarf or a teal strap from a backpack, which stands out softly. Through the misty window, a subtropical landscape with palm trees and hazy greenery is visible in the background. A faint, subtle reflection of a man’s face appears in the glass—not as a ghost, but as a natural overlay—blended into the window scene. The atmosphere is warm and contemplative, with sunlight gently filtering into the train. The brush strokes are soft and fluid, with a muted color palette. No harsh edges. The overall tone is reflective, quiet, and nostalgic.

A month or two back I was on a train ride from Kollam to Kochi. Beside me was this younger backpacker Mallu girl. We had kicked up a chat.

She has lived her whole life in Dubai and was in Kerala for the first time, travelling without any hotel bookings or family. Just going where the wind took her. I was about to ask her if she wasn’t scared when that reminded me of someone from a long time ago.

She reminded me of this guy who had left his job to travel to the four corners of India, without any hotel bookings, family houses to stay at, or any fixed plan. One who had the courage to go wherever the wind took him.

That was me. From 10 years ago. The 25-year-old me who had the courage. What had happened to me? When did I lose my edge?

Reflecting

I couldn’t find heads or tails in the fog of my own confusion. So I sat down in front of my journal, pen in hand, pouring all these questions and frustrations out. I took photos of my handwritten journal entries, opened ChatGPT and asked it to analyse.

Not to be consoled or to be told everything is okay in a therapist kind of way. But to help me figure out where on the map I even was. At least I hoped its clarifying questions would get me thinking.

Going through the first set of ten questions it had thrown at me was itself long and arduous. Some were confusing, like “When you say fear, do you mean fear of failure, fear of change, or fear of being seen and still not chosen?” What does that even mean?

I had to figure out my own feelings. I rambled through circling thoughts, spiralling deeper into the fog. Getting nowhere. ChatGPT kept asking me more and more questions and I tried reflecting and responding as best as I could. But the fog stayed.

The afternoon passed. A documentary played in the background. But my mind kept circling.

The Question That Bites at a Stuck Filmmaking Career

One of the questions ChatGPT asked me was, “What emotions come up when you think of giving up the dream?”

I don’t feel relief in giving up my dream. It would feel like a betrayal to my younger self, who sacrificed so much to get me here. To the choices I made. To the trust my family placed in me. This isn’t just a dream anymore. It’s the life I live.

A watercolor painting of a single, old wooden door standing upright in the middle of a foggy grassy field. There are no walls or buildings—only the door. It is positioned slightly off-center, and a subtle warm highlight glows faintly along one edge. The surrounding field is pale green and beige, fading softly into thick morning fog. The horizon line is nearly invisible, blending into the mist. The atmosphere is dreamlike, silent, and still. The brushwork is soft and minimal, with a muted, natural color palette. The image feels symbolic and poetic, like standing before an unknown passage.

In trying to answer that question, I realised something. I had assumed I was standing at a crossroads, unsure of which way to go because of the fog. But I wasn’t. There was no fork. Just one road. The one I had been walking on for the last ten years.

I was not at a four-way junction with four choices. There was only one. To walk.

I couldn’t even walk backwards. My back was against the wall. There was nowhere to go, but forward.

The Yajna that Lifted the Fog

And then the fog started lifting. Perhaps from the heat of all this yajna, this deep enquiry. I realised where I was standing all this while, hesitating and worrying, was not a crossroad. But, was in fact a doorway. A doorway for me to step into.

Where I had been standing all along, wasn’t a crossroad. But a doorway I was too scared to see.

I could stand there scared my whole life and die standing there. Or I can lift my leg, step in and face whatever lay beyond the doorway. There was no other choice.

Next Act – Pitching While Stuck in My Filmmaking Career

By evening, the fog hadn’t completely lifted. But I knew what my “stepping into the doorway” was. My next step. It was walking into a room with a producer and pitching my recently published novella The Wedding Chase. One that I know will do well as a light, crowd-pleaser romantic comedy movie.

I knew this was my next step all along. The lesson I learned wasn’t about the age-old wisdom of doing what one is afraid to do.

I was so scared of what lay ahead, all the holes I could fall into that I never even practised what success looked like. It never even occurred to me what I would do once I did get into a room with a producer. I had not prepared any of the material needed to pitch The Wedding Chase even though I clearly knew how to do it.

I had rehearsed all the ways I might fail. But I had never once practiced what I’d do if I got a yes.

My head was so busy imagining all the scary creatures and hell holes ahead that I never practised what I actually had to practice. There was work still left to be done before I could get into a room with a producer. I still needed a logline, a synopsis, potential actors, a budget, and a pitch deck to hold all this and other information.

The Knock That Tests a Stuck Filmmaking Career

I know who stands behind me. My parents, my sister, my friends who read every draft, the thousands of readers who read my books and writings. And most importantly that very dear younger self of mine who believed in his fate and his God-given gifts and in me to continue what he had begun.

I am grateful for the love and faith they have all put in me. And I intend to respect that.

As I prepare to make the pitch deck, as I prepare to knock on the door, I still am not out of the fog. I still don’t know if the door will open. Or what scary creatures and challenges lay ahead. Knocking and walking in is actually the better choice. At least the monsters in the real world hurt less than the ones in my head.

The Fog Never Fully Lifts, But That’s Okay

If you are reading this in another fog, remember. Questioning myself was the yajna that helped clear some of my fog. It helped me find my edge again.

Your door might not look like mine. You might even be at a crossroads. Just know that the fog never leaves completely. The breakthrough might come tomorrow or 50 years from now. But that is okay.

When the fog feels suffocating look into yourself. Why did you begin? Pause. Reflect. Ask deeper questions. Keep asking. Keep digging. I wish you the very best.