This interview is with Monte Albers de Leon, Screenwriter, Attorney at The Parables.

Monte Albers de Leon, Screenwriter, Attorney, Drop a Piano Productions

As a professional with diverse expertise in film, law, and entrepreneurship, can you share your journey and how these different fields have shaped your career?

Sure. I was a corporate attorney for over two decades, which means I spent a lot of time in boardrooms, conference calls, and contract purgatory. It taught me how systems work, how people think under pressure, and how to stay precise with language—skills that translate directly into screenwriting, believe it or not. Law also gave me a front-row seat to the human condition: ambition, fear, ego, compromise. That’s material.

Entrepreneurship came next. I co-founded businesses, built teams, pitched ideas, took risks. That part of my life taught me how to bet on myself—and how to stomach uncertainty. If law taught me discipline, entrepreneurship taught me grit.

Film came later – I never saw it coming. One night I had a loud argument about AI and the end of humanity. I wrote my rebuttal in the Notes app on my phone. That rant became my first screenplay. It won over 160 awards. I kept going.

What connects all three paths—law, business, film—is storytelling. Whether you’re building a case, a company, or a scene, you’re trying to move people. You’re making them care. You’re fighting for clarity. And if you’re doing it right, you’re telling the truth—even when it’s uncomfortable.

My path has definitely zigzagged. But every piece of it has shown up in the work.

You’ve mentioned hosting film readings in the Hamptons. How did your background in law and business influence your approach to organizing and executing these creative events?

Hosting readings in the Hamptons wasn’t about throwing a party so much as it was about building a pressure test. My legal background made me obsessive about structure: Are the scenes working? Is the logic airtight? Is the dialogue doing its job or just filling space? Law trained me to find the weak link in the chain and fix it fast.

My business background kicked in when it came to execution. I treated the readings like a startup launch: location, logistics, audience mix, timing, outcome; every detail mattered. These weren’t just social events—they were controlled experiments. I needed real-time feedback from smart people who weren’t afraid to be blunt.

The goal in these readings wasn’t just applause; it was truth. Do the characters land? Does the story move? Do people care? Hosting these readings helped sharpen the scripts and the vision. And honestly, it gave me the same high-stakes thrill as closing a deal—except this time, it was personal.

Balancing a career in the film industry with parenting can be challenging. Can you share a specific experience where your role as a parent influenced a decision you made in your screenwriting or film production work?

Being a parent shows up in my writing more than I ever planned. A clear example: I named two characters—JT and Jackson—after my sons. Not just as a tribute, but as a reminder of who I’m doing this for and why it matters.

There was also a moment during the writing of “Good” when I hit a wall. I was tempted to soften a character’s decision—to make it cleaner, easier, less risky. But then I thought: if my boys ever watch this, I want them to see that telling the truth matters more than playing it safe. That complexity is okay. That people can be flawed and still choose the right thing. So I wrote it the hard way. The honest way.

Parenting doesn’t just influence the work—it raises the stakes. It demands clarity of purpose. If I’m going to spend time away from my kids to make something, it better be something that means something. Period.

New York and the Hamptons are known for their vibrant arts scenes. How have these locations inspired your creative work, and what advice would you give to aspiring filmmakers looking to draw inspiration from their surroundings?

New York and the Hamptons have both shaped my work in very different but equally important ways.

New York forces you to see everything. The noise, the struggle, the beauty, the contradictions—it’s all right there, every block a collision of stories. You can’t walk down the street without overhearing a line of dialogue better than anything you could invent. The city doesn’t let you look away, and that’s a gift if you’re a writer. It sharpens your ear. It raises your standard.

The Hamptons are the opposite in the best way. Out there, there’s space to think. To step back. To let the story breathe. That’s where I host readings—not just for the feedback, but for the clarity that comes when you take your work seriously enough to test it in front of smart people. It’s a place to recalibrate. To remember why you’re doing this.

My advice to aspiring filmmakers? Pay attention to where you are. The people, the rhythm, the friction, the quiet. Don’t wait to be inspired—train yourself to see what’s already in front of you. Good stories aren’t hiding in some mythical creative city. They’re in overheard arguments, late-night train rides, awkward silences, and the way someone looks at their phone when they’re trying not to cry.

Where you are is enough. Just start writing.

As someone who has experience in both law and filmmaking, how do you navigate the legal aspects of the film industry, particularly when it comes to protecting creative works? Can you share an example from your own experience?

Coming from law, I don’t romanticize the business side of filmmaking—I respect it. You can write the greatest script in the world, but if you don’t protect it, you’re handing your work over to a system that doesn’t always reward good intentions.

Every time I finish a new script—or even a major draft—I register it with the WGA. Not once, not just at the end. Several times along the way. It’s part of my rhythm now. I treat each draft like it could be the one that gets sent out or ends up in the wrong inbox. I also copyright all my work through the Library of Congress. That’s non-negotiable.

There was one instance early on—”Good,” actually—where interest came in fast, before the festival wins, before I even knew how this world worked. Because I had legal muscle memory, everything was already registered, time-stamped, and trackable. No stress. No scramble. Just clean documentation and peace of mind.

My advice? Don’t wait until you “make it” to take your work seriously. Protect your IP like it matters—because it does. You can’t control what people do with your script once it’s out there, but you can make sure you’re covered. Creative freedom’s great. So is having your name on the title page—and keeping it there.

You’ve mentioned the importance of authenticity in outsourcing creative work. How do you maintain the unique voice and vision of a film project when collaborating with a diverse team of professionals?

Outsourcing doesn’t mean handing over your voice—it means building a team that knows how to honor it. I’ve worked with editors, composers, designers, and producers, and the throughline is always the same: clarity. I don’t expect people to read my mind. I make sure the vision is loud and clear from the jump.

That means showing, not just telling. I give references. I explain tone. I walk through what matters emotionally in a scene—not just what happens. If a character’s supposed to be broken but still funny, I’ll make sure the actor, the wardrobe person, the editor all get why. Because if everyone understands the heart of the story, they can bring their own skills to it without steering it off course.

That said, I leave room for collaboration. I want people to bring ideas. But I’m also not afraid to say no when something feels off. Authenticity doesn’t survive when you’re too polite to protect it. You’ve got to be the anchor. Especially when you’re the writer—your voice is the spine of the project. If you lose that, it all falls apart.

So please, collaborate. Hire well. Listen. But always stay the loudest advocate for the story you set out to tell. That’s the job.

Travel often broadens one’s perspective. Can you describe a travel experience that significantly impacted your approach to storytelling or screenwriting, and how it translated into your work?

A few years ago, I was on safari in Botswana. One afternoon, the guides dropped us off in the middle of the plains—no fences, no vehicles, no noise but wind and hooves—and then they drove away. Just like that. For a moment, it was just me and this ancient landscape. Herds of elephants in the distance. Flocks of birds moving like muscle memory. No tech, no schedule, no control. Just life—exactly as it’s been for millions of years.

It was awe in the purest sense. And weirdly, it wasn’t fear I felt—it was clarity. The scale of it. The silence. The way everything moved with purpose, but without rush. That moment reminded me that the best stories don’t scream. They hum. They carry weight because they’re grounded in something older, deeper—truth that doesn’t need decoration.

Since then, I try to write with that same honesty. Less noise, more purpose. I trust the audience more. I let moments breathe. That Botswana moment stripped away all the extra—and what was left was something real. That’s the bar now.

Small business ownership and filmmaking both require strong leadership skills. Can you share a challenging moment you faced while leading a film project, and what lessons in entrepreneurship it taught you?

Midway through pre-production of my first film, “Good,” we hit a full-blown cash crunch. The kind where you’re not sure if you’re pitching a producer or shutting the whole thing down. Vendors needed to be paid, festivals locked, flights booked—and suddenly the numbers weren’t adding up. I’d self-funded most of it to that point, and reality was knocking. Loud.

It felt like running a startup in free fall—except instead of a product, I had 105 pages of chaos, emotion, and existential jokes that I believed in with everything I had.

The entrepreneurial part of me kicked in fast. I cut non-essentials, renegotiated terms, leaned on relationships, and got brutally clear about what the film needed versus what was just “nice to have.” I also got honest—with my team and with myself. No spin. Just: here’s where we are, here’s what we can do, here’s what it’ll take to finish.

And we got through it. Not because it got easier, but because the mission stayed clear: protect the story, protect the crew, and get it done with integrity.

The lesson? Vision gets you started, but leadership gets you through. When the money gets tight—and it will—you learn real fast who you are. That’s entrepreneurship. That’s filmmaking. Same muscle.

Looking at the current state of the film industry, particularly in New York, what do you see as the biggest opportunity for independent filmmakers and screenwriters? How can they best position themselves to take advantage of it?

Right now, the biggest opportunity for indie filmmakers and screenwriters in New York is simple: there’s a content vacuum, and studios are scared. Between the strikes, the streaming shakeups, and the AI chaos, the old system is cracking. That’s not bad news—it’s a crack in the wall, and independent creators can push through if they move smart and move fast.

New York has always been about voices. Not polish—voice. And right now, platforms, festivals, and even execs are actively hunting for material that feels different, human, urgent, unfiltered. If you’ve got something bold, now’s the time to stop workshopping and start making noise.

How do you take advantage? Be undeniable. Write with precision. Shoot something that doesn’t apologize. Protect your IP. Build relationships before you need them. And stop waiting for someone to hand you permission.

This city rewards the ones who show up like they belong here—and back it up with the work.

Thanks for sharing your knowledge and expertise. Is there anything else you’d like to add?

At the end of the day, I didn’t come to film to play it safe—I came to say something true. If I’m not doing that, I’m wasting everyone’s time, including mine.