Editor’s note: Since 2022, Chinese ultrashort dramas — vertical episodic content designed for consumption on mobile devices — have been gaining momentum in overseas markets, notably in the United States, where studios are now producing localized versions. This has led to a surge in demand for bilingual screenwriters, many of whom transfer from traditional film and television only to find themselves having to swap cinematic storytelling for cheap, viral tropes. Here, recent film school graduates Yu Jie, 24, and Wu Yue, 26, from China, share their experiences writing for ultrashort dramas in Los Angeles.

Cliffhangers and unlikely lifelines

I’m Yu Jie, and I graduated this year with a master’s degree in writing for screen and television from the University of Southern California (USC). Many of my peers have already pivoted away from the industry, but I was fortunate to quickly land a job in screenwriting — though not in the genre I’d originally envisioned. I’m now under contract with a Chinese company that produces ultrashort dramas for the U.S. market.

The reality of being a screenwriter in the U.S. is far less glamorous than one might think. My main task is localization: taking “formulaic” ultrashort drama scripts penned by Chinese writers, translating them into English, and retooling their cultural beats to fit an American lens.

If you’d told me a few years ago that this would be my career, I wouldn’t have believed you. When I first set out to become a screenwriter, I saw myself building worlds — the kind that end up on the silver screen or in prestige TV. I wanted to make things that moved people. And now? I’m still writing, just not the stories I thought I’d tell.

For now, creating ultrashort dramas is a pragmatic choice. Bread is bread, visas are visas, and dreams remain dreams. I’ve always been clear-eyed about one thing: for a fresh graduate, survival comes first.

After three years of studying, the reality of the job market hit me harder than expected. The film and TV industry is in a slump, with few openings — and even fewer for Asian students. Then there’s the visa issue, a Damocles’ sword that hangs over every foreign artist working in the U.S. The most common path, the H-1B visa, is notoriously difficult to obtain within the one-year post-graduation window.

In this case, the O-1B visa, reserved for “individuals with an extraordinary ability in the arts or extraordinary achievement in the motion picture or television industry,” became one of my few viable options. To be eligible, an applicant must meet at least three of six strict criteria, such as achieving national or international recognition. For a newcomer like me, the requirements felt like scaling an insurmountable peak. But just as hope seemed dim, an unexpected door opened: the rapid rise of Chinese-backed ultrashort drama platforms in the U.S.

In 2023, when Hollywood came to a virtual halt during widespread industry strikes, these platforms quietly climbed the North American app store charts. Platforms like ReelShort, DramaBox, and GoodShort — where episodes run just minutes long and full-season subscriptions cost nearly $100 — emerged as an unlikely lifeline. For international arts graduates, they offered not just a job but also a foothold in an industry that otherwise had no space for us.

The overseas ultrashort drama market now has hundreds of players, with most backed by Chinese capital. What makes this industry compelling is its distinctive dynamics: remarkably short production cycles, going from idea to shooting in just weeks; distribution via short-video streaming apps means dramas reach the masses quickly; and there’s a potentially swift commercial payoff. Crucially, many of these China-backed studios prefer hiring Chinese screenwriters and are willing to provide a visa reference letter that says I’m an “irreplaceable talent.”

Eager to seize this opportunity, I forced my way onto my first project. In an online industry group chat, someone asked if anyone could write ultrashort dramas. Though I had zero experience, I immediately replied. They asked if I understood the so-called “werewolf” genre — I didn’t — but I still drafted a script. To my surprise, it was accepted.

Of the 30 students in my cohort at USC, only two of us were Chinese, and we both ended up at the same company. Meanwhile, our classmates — mostly white Americans — who studied directing, cinematography, and editing, are mostly working on independent short films.

I grumble daily about how cheesy and tacky the content is, but I never turn down a project. Trading absurd scripts for a salary of $75,000 a year is more than enough for me.

Learning curve

Before committing to screenwriting in the U.S., I first sought opportunities closer to home. Back in high school, eager to gauge my writing ability, I sent a play I’d written to a media studies professor at a Chinese university, only to receive scathing feedback. Things didn’t improve when I arrived in the U.S. — despite strong English skills, I often found myself lost in the cultural subtext of conversations, never fully at ease.

My background is in English literature, not film. That already puts me at a disadvantage in China’s entertainment industry, where graduates from specialized institutions such as the Beijing Film Academy come equipped with industry knowledge, networks, and an intuitive grasp of the domestic audience. Here in the U.S., my understanding of Asian American identity feels similarly incomplete.

The plays I want to write — the ones that feel authentically mine — don’t quite fit anywhere. In China, they may be deemed too unconventional. In Hollywood, they’re often dismissed as “too East Asian.”

I’m drawn to stories centered on women and the complexities of mother-daughter relationships. My graduate thesis was a tribute to my mother: it told the story of a vocational school teacher guiding a group of rebellious teenage girls toward becoming early-years educators. The heart of the story is in the tensions and bonds among the girls.

But the world of ultrashort dramas operates on another logic. Platform executives want “feel-good” stories or “wish fulfilment” built on familiar tropes: the female lead must be pushed to the brink by everyone around her, only to be saved by a male lead who “fixes” everything.

The stories I care about? They call them “boring.”

My ultrashort drama work is a repetitive cycle, but the monotony is not the hardest part. What gnaws at me is that I’m forced to bend to the market’s whims, stuffing scripts with cheap, tasteless tropes. I regularly receive suggested revisions that I can’t morally justify: use nudity to emphasize the villain’s depravity; humiliate the female lead. In the eyes of producers, these are “proven draws,” non-negotiable elements every hit needs.

I once refused to write an explicit scene and was promptly replaced. I’ve asked friends, “Do people actually watch this?” None of us knows, but the highest-rated dramas all have such scenes. I still can’t wrap my head around it: how did the exploitation of women become a benchmark of commercial value?

I still remember, back in film school, how often I complained to my professor about assignments and the state of the industry — that familiar blend of love and frustration so intrinsic to the writer’s life. What he said has stayed with me: “Real passion isn’t about constantly declaring, ‘I love this more than anything.’ It’s when you’re completely exhausted by it — maybe even hate it a little — and you still choose to continue.”

That was true then, and it’s true now. I couldn’t bring myself to quit, even when things felt impossible. It was in moments like those that I began to understand that screenwriting isn’t just what I do. It’s probably what I’m meant to do.

Chasing a childhood fantasy

I’m Wu Yue. My company sits right at the top of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Each morning, I weave through throngs of tourists and past storefronts glowing with merchandise on my way to work. It still feels surreal. The version of me who arrived at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts two years ago, or the even younger one who fantasized about Hollywood, could never have imagined that what would anchor me in Los Angeles wasn’t feature films or TV but ultrashort content, a format I used to openly look down on.

USC is one of the finest film schools in the world, brimming with fiercely creative and ambitious young filmmakers. Over time, many of my classmates became early players in the emerging overseas ultrashort drama scene, and they would ask if I was interested in joining. That’s how I ended up writing my first script for an ultrashort drama.

When I arrived in the U.S., the industry was a blue ocean — wide open, experimental, full of uncertainty about what kind of content would actually sell. In just two years, it has exploded in both scale and production quality. Projects kept coming my way, and more friends entered the field. Los Angeles saw a sharp rise in job postings, many specifically seeking bilingual film school graduates. Not long after graduation, I joined a leading ultrashort drama platform as an in-house screenwriter.

Larger studios are employing 30 to 40 writers, divided into domestic and overseas teams. Those based in China develop scripts tailored for the U.S. market, which are then localized and refined by overseas screenwriters before moving into production.

Smaller studios typically forgo in-house writers and outsource projects to freelancers, who handle both writing and revisions. A freelance writer generally earns $2,000 to $5,000 per project, whether that’s creating original English-language content or adapting existing Chinese scripts. Top-tier Hollywood screenwriters can command millions for a feature film or premium TV series, though such opportunities are scarce and require not only exceptional talent but also deep industry connections — a formidable barrier for most newcomers.

I recall saying to my mother in high school: “My purpose is to bring Chinese culture to the world.” While I imagined I’d realize this dream through traditional Hollywood channels, working on Asian-themed films and TV series, the reality of today’s stagnant entertainment market led me elsewhere. Yet, what began as a pragmatic career choice has actually brought me closer to that childhood aspiration.

No time for nuance

I initially regarded ultrashort dramas with a degree of skepticism. In 2023, when the series “Fated to My Forbidden Alpha” became a breakout hit on ReelShort, it drew serious attention to the emerging overseas ultrashort drama market. I decided to take a look and was unimpressed. I couldn’t wrap my head around why anyone would gravitate toward such over-the-top plots and performances.

It wasn’t until I started applying for job opportunities — and facing repeated rejections — that I realized how wrong I was. I thought my writing was strong, so the constant rejections were frustrating and confusing. Eventually, I worked up the courage to ask an editor for feedback and was told, “Your emotional intensity is too subdued, the structure lacks clarity, the dialogue is overly subtle, the conflicts aren’t pronounced enough, and the hooks fail to grab attention — all of which lose viewers within seconds.”

I was confused. In USC’s screenwriting classes, professors emphasized the importance of nuanced characterization. We were taught that the human psyche is a tapestry of contradictions, where good and evil coexist, and it is the writer’s duty to reflect that depth.

This doesn’t apply to ultrashort dramas. Here, nuance gives way to narrative efficiency. Plots thrive on exaggeration and heightened reality, and characters are rarely fleshed out with psychological intricacy. Instead, they serve archetypal roles, with villains purely malicious, and heroes unambiguously virtuous.

Where traditional cinema and TV value immersion, details, and the unspoken weight of language, nuance is only likely to confuse and frustrate viewers of ultrashort dramas.

I started paying close attention to what was trending in overseas ultrashort dramas, analyzing the genres that topped the weekly and monthly rankings. I immersed myself in the mechanics of storytelling specific to the form: plot structure, strategic placement of hooks, and the rhythmic modulation of emotional tension. I also began studying the audience to understand not just what they watched but why they watched.

Before entering the industry, I had assumed that no one in my own social circle actually watched ultrashort dramas. It was a revelation to discover that some of my relatives were not only avid viewers but also paying subscribers to some platforms.

It dawned on me that the audience for ultrashort dramas, whom I had considered distant and unfamiliar, was in fact much closer. I began learning about their lives, their frustrations, and their quiet aspirations. What I had once dismissed as cliché was in reality a form of emotional release and spiritual solace for viewers navigating daily pressures.

Some tropes also resonate universally, such as the “high-society fantasy” — a black credit card with no limit, a convoy of Rolls-Royces, a CEO making a grand entrance flanked by 20 bodyguards. American viewers lap this up, too.

The overseas ultrashort drama landscape is still emerging, but I believe the essential first step is to set aside our preconceptions. If creators lose that human connection, if we stop caring about the people we’re writing for, our work loses its soul.

Visceral payoff

Over the past two years, I’ve watched the ultrashort drama market evolve into a fiercely competitive arena. What was once a niche topic rarely discussed among my peers has now become unavoidable at social gatherings.

Even seasoned professionals from traditional Hollywood circles are taking notice. Agents have invited me for coffee, curious to learn more about this rapidly growing industry. In Hollywood, financial success commands respect. While ultrashort shows have yet to make a mainstream splash in the U.S., they are making unmistakable ripples.

Yet, with growth comes concern. As competition intensifies, I see the boundaries of content being pushed further, particularly in the use of sexual and violent material. Scripts increasingly rely on extreme suffering and exaggerated comeuppance, banking on visceral emotional payoffs.

What troubles me more is the gradual erosion of creative innovation. Producing original content overseas is risky and costly, so most studios in the U.S. play it safe by acquiring proven Chinese IPs and adapting them for the local market. These stories have already demonstrated their commercial appeal.

The problem is that once a topic takes off, it gets remade over and over, leading to a flood of homogenized content. As a result, many original and imaginative works never see the light of day. While rehashing market-proven stories makes financial sense, I fear it stifles creativity, dulls artistic instincts, and ultimately drives talented writers away.

I long ago let go of the intellectual arrogance that came with my formal training. Shifting my mindset has brought unexpected rewards: improved cross-cultural communication, deeper language fluency, and opportunities to inject even the most conventional plots with subtle innovation.

Perhaps someday, as the ultrashort drama industry continues to mature and diversify, we will move beyond formulaic narratives and cultivate a more discerning audience. That will take time, though.

As told to reporters Sun Yiyang and Zhang Lingyun.

A version of this article originally appeared in Original (Jiefang Daily). It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Kiong Xin Xi; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Visuals from ReelShort and VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)