How Stranger Things Got Made: Writing is like Pulling Teeth, and that's Normal

Welcome to the Fiction Emailer: A newsletter that aims to make sense of our chaotic world through the lens of ‘Speculative Journalism & Fiction’.

A decade ago, Netflix subscriptions felt like luxury spending. I came late to Stranger Things—picked it up after friends wouldn't stop talking about Hawkins, after reviews promised Stephen King's horror mystery merged with Steven Spielberg's wide-eyed wonder.

What hooked me wasn't just the Upside Down or the Demogorgon. It was how the Duffer Brothers smuggled genuine craft inside pop-culture packaging: the homage to 1980s Spielberg adventures, Dungeons & Dragons as character vocabulary, a quiet town hiding cosmic threats, a heartbroken cop seeking redemption, kids on bikes channeling E.T.'s spirit of friendship.

The show became one of Netflix's most-watched English-language series ever, amassing over a billion viewing hours. But the real achievement isn't the numbers—it's how the Duffers built a cultural phenomenon by returning to first principles of storytelling while everyone else chased viral moments and algorithm-friendly cliffhangers.

Recently, I enrolled in the Duffer Brothers' Masterclass. After binging their lessons on structure, mythology, and the unglamorous discipline of daily writing, I realized their success isn't about nostalgia or supernatural intrigue. It's about understanding that monsters only matter when the kids matter first. Here's what I learned.

The Duffers are refreshingly honest about their craft: writing is like pulling teeth, and procrastination always wins unless you build systems that don't negotiate with motivation. Their solution isn't romantic.

They write early mornings, disconnected from the Internet, with daily word-count targets that ignore mood entirely. When developing Montauk (Stranger Things' working title), they learned what Stephen King already knew—discipline creates conditions for creativity, not the reverse. King writes 2,000-2,200 words daily regardless of circumstance. 

The Duffers adopted similar non-negotiable targets, using partnership as accountability: when one brother procrastinated, the other pulled him back. This matters because the most common failure in aspiring TV writers isn't lack of ideas; it's lack of finished scripts.

Their "idea bag" technique solves the wrong problem if you never actually write. Spend days dumping every concept into a document—good ideas, terrible ideas, half-formed scenes, jumbled sentences. Don't format, don't polish, don't judge. Quantity precedes quality, but only structure produces completion.

Once the bag is full, then you outline. Free online tools handle formatting later. The point is getting messy material on the page—because you can't edit a blank document, but you can absolutely reshape chaos into a story.

During Season 1, the Duffers wrote a 25-30 page document explaining the Upside Down's complete mythology—far more than viewers would ever learn. Matt Duffer's principle: "It's scarier when you don't fully understand what's happening."

This separates competent world-building from masterful world-building. The Upside Down operates under clear rules: time froze at Will's abduction, the hive-mind governs all creatures, music with emotional significance breaks Vecna's psychic hold. But those rules reveal gradually across seasons without contradicting established logic. Consistency creates credibility; mystery creates engagement. These aren't contradictory.

This mythology work happens after you've dumped dozens of ideas into your document and sketched an outline by selecting what serves your core story. Then comes structure.

The Duffers stress jumping immediately into intense action. They reference Indiana Jones—Indy thrown into danger, character established through crisis, not exposition. The Stranger Things pilot opens identically: mysterious lab, fleeing scientist, monster attack. Then it hard-cuts to kids playing Dungeons & Dragons. Mystery and action hook viewers immediately while signaling something larger is coming.

Screenwriting instructor Jacob Krueger calls this the "series engine"—the blueprint showing not just what this episode will be, but what the entire franchise can sustain. The Duffers structured their show as three parallel generational narratives: kids in Spielbergian adventure (E.T., The Goonies), teens in 1980s horror (Carpenter, Craven), adults in conspiracy thriller territory (Close Encounters). This architecture allows tonal shifts without losing coherence.

The technical craft is simpler than film schools pretend. Scripts contain description, action, dialogue. Download free screenplays online—the Duffers recommend Panic Room for its minimal action description that reads quickly. Use sound words: "buzz," "screech," "wham," "boom." Add music cues as scene markers. You don't need credentials; you need completed pages and understanding that your opening hook determines whether anyone reads page two.

The 1980s setting could've been mere decoration—synth soundtracks and period costumes as aesthetic window-dressing. Instead, the Duffers made the era narratively essential. The pre-digital world creates organic tension: characters without smartphones must search physically, visit libraries, conduct actual interviews. The Cold War provides geopolitical stakes. The "Satanic Panic" transforms Dungeons & Dragons from character vocabulary into cultural threat. Every period detail serves story structure. Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill" exemplifies this philosophy. The song wasn't background flavor—it became a plot device central to Max's survival against Vecna's psychic assault. 

Academics coined "pseudo-nostalgia" to describe how Gen Z engages with Stranger Things—experiencing longing for an era they never lived through. The show creates nostalgia even for viewers with nothing to be nostalgic about.

Don't randomly email screenplays to studios. Find an agent—but know that process is brutal. The Duffers interned at studios during film school specifically to make connections. If you lack industry proximity, attend events, secure internships, network relentlessly. Earn trust before asking for attention. Eventually, someone responds. But only if you're in the room.

The Duffers' success isn't about 1980s references or supernatural mythology. It's about understanding that television's most powerful tool isn't spectacle—it's the accumulated weight of watching characters we care about face impossible choices. Nostalgia, genre conventions, and pop-culture homages are delivery mechanisms for the only thing that's ever mattered in storytelling: making audiences feel something real about people who don't exist.

That philosophy might sound like sentiment, but it's built on rigorous craft. The Duffers outlined extensively but remained flexible. They built mythology documents viewers would never read. They wrote daily regardless of inspiration. They made nostalgia do narrative work instead of replacing it.

The lesson for writers isn't about mimicking their 1980s aesthetic or copying their monster mythology. It's about recognizing that discipline, structure, and genuine care for characters create conditions where creativity flourishes. You can't edit a blank document, but you can absolutely reshape chaos into a story—if you're willing to show up every morning and do the unglamorous work of actually writing.

Internet’s Best: Resources to Build the TV Writer in You!

AI isn't just changing business—it's creating entirely new income opportunities. The Hustle's guide features 200+ ways to make money with AI, from beginner-friendly gigs to advanced ventures. Each comes with realistic income projections and resource requirements. Join 1.5M professionals getting daily insights on emerging tech and business opportunities.

Get the guide