Leslie Lee

What inspired you to become a screenwriter, and what keeps you motivated to keep writing?

I’ve always been drawn to story in its most immersive form. Novels allowed me to build worlds—but screenwriting allowed me to see them breathe. There was a moment, while writing Child of Dawn, where I realized this story wasn’t meant to live only on the page—it was meant to move, to be embodied, to be experienced collectively. That realization pulled me into screenwriting.

What keeps me writing is the same thing that started it: a deep, almost spiritual need to tell stories that matter. Stories that wrestle with darkness but still dare to hope. Stories that remind people they are seen, even in their brokenness.

Can you tell us about your writing process, from the initial idea to the final draft?

My process always begins with a spark—usually a character or a moment. Not plot. Never plot first. It’s a feeling, an image, a line of dialogue that won’t leave me alone.

From there, I build outward. I immerse myself in the emotional core of the story—what it’s really about beneath the fantasy or action. Then I structure. Screenwriting demands discipline, so I map out major beats, character arcs, and turning points.

But I leave room for discovery. Some of my most powerful moments weren’t planned—they were found.

The final draft is where the real refinement happens. It’s less about adding and more about distilling. Stripping away anything that doesn’t serve the emotional truth of the story.

How do you approach creating characters, and what techniques do you use to develop them?

My characters are never just characters—they’re reflections of something deeply human.

I start by asking: What wound do they carry? Because every great character is shaped by what they’ve lost, what they fear, or what they long for.

From there, I build contradictions. Strength paired with vulnerability. Light intertwined with darkness.

I also write extensively in their voice—journal entries, monologues, moments that may never make it into the script. It helps me understand not just what they do, but why.

Right now, I’m deeply immersed in bringing my fantasy world to life on screen—particularly through adaptations like Silken Waters and Child of Dawn.

These stories are rooted in myth, but they’re really about identity, love, sacrifice, and belonging. Silken Waters, especially, explores the tension between duty and desire—what it means to be called to something greater, even when it costs you everything.

There’s also a deeply personal layer to these stories. They reflect my own journey—of becoming, of wrestling with purpose, of choosing to create even when it’s difficult.

What do you think sets your writing apart from others in the industry, and how do you showcase your unique voice?

I think what sets my writing apart is that I don’t shy away from emotional intensity. I lean into it.

My work lives at the intersection of epic and intimate—grand, mythic worlds paired with deeply personal, human struggles.

I also write with a strong sense of thematic purpose. I’m not just telling a story—I’m asking a question. About love. About faith. About what it means to endure.

And I protect that voice fiercely. Even when adapting for screen, I make sure the emotional core remains untouched.

How do you balance your personal creative vision with the needs of producers, directors, and other collaborators?

Collaboration is essential—but so is clarity.

I come into every project knowing the heart of the story. That’s the one thing I won’t compromise. But how that heart is expressed? That’s where collaboration becomes powerful.

I listen. I stay open. But I also advocate.

The best collaborations don’t dilute a vision—they refine it.

Can you talk about a particularly challenging moment you faced while working on a project and how you overcame it?

One of the hardest moments was adapting my own work for screen. Letting go of scenes I loved. Condensing characters. Reimagining pacing.

It felt, at times, like losing pieces of the story.

But I had to shift my perspective. Film isn’t about preserving everything—it’s about translating the essence.

Once I embraced that, everything changed. I stopped trying to replicate the book and started focusing on how to make the story live in a new medium.

How do you see the role of screenwriting in the film industry evolving, and how do you see yourself fitting into that future?

I think audiences are craving authenticity now more than ever. Spectacle alone isn’t enough—people want stories that resonate.

Screenwriting is becoming more voice-driven again. More personal. More intentional.

I see myself as part of that shift—bringing stories that are both cinematic and deeply meaningful. Stories that don’t just entertain, but stay with you.

Don’t chase trends. Don’t dilute your voice trying to fit into what you think the industry wants.

Also—finish your work. That’s where most people stop.

And be willing to rewrite. Over and over again. Great writing isn’t about getting it right the first time—it’s about having the courage to refine it.

Finally, what are your long-term goals as a screenwriter, and what legacy do you hope to leave in the industry?

My goal is to build worlds that endure. Stories that move from page to screen and live beyond me.

I want to create films that people return to—not just for the story, but for how those stories made them feel.

If I leave anything behind, I hope it’s this:
Stories that reminded people of hope.
Stories that made them feel less alone.
Stories that dared to believe in light, even in the darkest places.

Because at the end of the day—that’s why I write.