At 13, I thought I had already wasted my life. It sounds dramatic, but I felt like I was falling behind. I had no accomplishments, no accolades—nothing to prove I was moving forward. The world seemed to be racing ahead while I was stuck on the sidelines.
That feeling didn’t last long—not because of some grand opportunity, but because I realized I couldn’t wait for someone to find me. I had a camcorder, an old iPhone, and a head full of ideas. That was enough.
Jacob Boatsman
My earliest filmmaking memories involve a cheap camcorder and the semi-willing participation of my siblings and friends. Together, we created what could generously be called “movies.” The technical quality didn’t matter; what mattered was the joy of creating something from nothing—the thrill of telling stories only I could tell. That passion became the compass guiding me from backyard productions to becoming an independent filmmaker.
Growing up in Davidson, a small suburb outside Charlotte, I had no exposure to the film industry—no local festivals, networking events, or resources for aspiring filmmakers. My only reference was the movies at my local theater. By 9th grade, I had my sights set on creating my own feature film.
My first attempt, a 90-minute coming-of-age crime drama called Barcley, was a scrappy, zero-dollar production. We shot it on my iPhone, edited it in iMovie, and leaned on enthusiasm to get through late nights and logistical hurdles. We had no professional crew, fancy equipment, or technical know-how, just teens with a story to tell.
Barcley wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was ours. It proved that filmmaking wasn’t just a dream; it was something I could do. The defining moment came when we raised enough money to rent our local theater for a screening. Sitting in that darkened room, watching an audience react to our work, I felt an indescribable sense of accomplishment. For the first time, I understood that the stories in my head could exist in the real world.
From then on, I challenged myself to create something bigger every year. By 18, I had made six feature films, two limited series, and numerous shorts. When I reached college, my ambitions had grown, but so had the doubts others had about me. Early in my college career, I told the head of the film department that I wanted my senior thesis to be a feature film. Instead of encouragement, I was told, “I don’t believe you can do it.”
Those words stung but didn’t stop me. If anything, they pushed me harder. I switched my major from film to dramatic writing—not out of defeat, but strategy. Writing had always been my foundation, the engine behind every project. By graduation, I had ten award-winning feature films, an Emmy-nominated limited series, and twenty shorts under my belt.
Jacob Boatsman
Today, my filmmaking is more challenging and rewarding than ever. I’m in post-production on my latest feature, Cardboard Island, a science fiction adventure that has consumed years of my life. It’s been shaped by countless obstacles—rewrites, a shoestring budget, and a revolving door of collaborators—but despite everything, it’s nearly complete.
At the same time, I’m producing 52 Short Films in 52 Weeks. Each week, I manage a team that goes from ideation to publication, handling every aspect of production—writing, directing, filming, editing, and scoring. It’s as much a test of discipline as it is a celebration of creativity, proving that storytelling doesn’t require massive budgets or endless time—just commitment and heart.
And as if that weren’t enough, I’m in the early stages of pre-production for my next feature. Every project feels like stepping into the unknown, but that uncertainty is part of the thrill. With each film, I learn to trust the process a little more, embrace the chaos, and channel past lessons into something bold and fresh.
What keeps me going is the unwavering belief that filmmaking is worth the struggle—the challenges, the solitude, and the times the final product doesn’t match my vision. It gives me purpose, allowing me to honor the kid who started with just a camcorder and his car’s headlights, the people who believed in me, and the stories that deserve to be told.
At 23, I feel like my life is just beginning. Looking back, I’m grateful for the challenges and setbacks that shaped me. They’ve taught me to persevere, create with what I have, and honor the dreamer I used to be. My journey is far from over, but I’m ready for whatever comes next.
After all, I’m doing what I love—and I’m doing what they said I couldn’t.
Author: Jacob Boatsman
This article comes from No Film School and can be read on the original site.
