Juan Dussán: 5 things I'd do differently if I had to start over as a Media Composer
After eight years in the industry, composer Juan Dussán reflects on failure, growth, and the myths of success in media composition.
Nobody tells you that making it as a media composer means unlearning almost everything you thought you knew about 'making it.' After eight years of building a career from scratch—from Colombia to New York City, from zero connections to working at HBO, scoring movie trailers and independent films with the likes of Francesca Scorsese and Travis Robertson—I've learned that the biggest obstacles aren't the ones you’d expect. Here’s what I’d do differently if I had a second chance to start over.
1. Think twice about that degree
As a Colombian who grew up dreaming of New York City, enrolling in a U.S. graduate music program was my safest pathway to actually living and working here. For me, that investment made strategic sense beyond the education itself, and to this day, I think that was the best decision I could’ve made. However, if you already live in or near a prime location with strong media industries—New York, LA, London—your odds improve completely. You're sitting on a goldmine of opportunities and connections that international students crave.
I graduated in the peak of the 2020 Covid pandemic, and I soon realized that a fancy diploma doesn’t necessarily translate into well-paid work right out of school. I struggled for months, taking on any gig I could find to make ends meet in one of the world’s most expensive cities and with the looming expense of artist visa fees. The notion that I was now entitled to a studio-level gig with a shiny check attached faded as fast as my savings. The progression of a career in this field can take several years to give you a significant return, and the people who survive are the resilient ones. It’s been eight years since I moved to New York, and just about last year, I started experiencing a more balanced life.
The harsh reality is that no film director has ever asked to see my diploma. They don't care about my GPA or where I went to school; they care about whether I can deliver excellent work by the deadline, understand their vision, and solve problems creatively under pressure. These are skills you learn by working in a real-life environment, not by sitting in a classroom analyzing Bach chorales. Real experience teaches you things school never will: how to communicate with a director having a meltdown late at night, how to salvage a session when your DAW crashes mid-delivery, how to read the room when a producer says "interesting" in that particular tone, or how to fix a mistake in your score in the middle of a recording session with thousands of dollars on the line. You learn the ropes by assisting others, by taking on a handful of low-budget projects, by failing spectacularly and figuring out how to problem-solve when shit hits the fan.
If you're already where the action is, consider investing that tuition money into other things that advance your career: better equipment, living expenses while you take low-budget opportunities, or even just time to network and build your portfolio of work without the pressure of school breathing down your neck. Avoid going into school debt; it’s not guaranteed you’ll earn enough to repay later.
2. Social media is not a resumé
Over the last couple of years, I’ve built an audience of 200,000 followers across platforms, and I consider myself a prominent content creator in my niche: collaborators aren't scrolling through Instagram looking for the most technically savvy composer. They're looking for someone they actually want to spend months working with. Someone they might want to hang out with and have a drink with. This is what I’d do if I had the chance to start over with socials.
I was a child of the digital world, posting YouTube videos since the start of the platform, sharing my journey on any social media I could get my hands on. When I came to NYC to learn how to make music for movies, I started posting what I thought people wanted to see: pristine studio photos, screenshots of complex Logic sessions, and maybe the occasional brag about a project. It was boring, void of any personality, and even worse: it wasn't working. It was clear to me after trying to market my debut album, Voyage, that most of my audience wasn’t there for the music; they were there just for the aesthetic shots. I needed to start thinking more deeply about what people really wanted to see versus the idea I had in my mind of what they wanted to see.
“I learned that social media is a great device to tell the story of who you are as an artist and human being, not just showcase your projects like a movie poster museum display. Share your process, including the messy parts.“
I learned that social media is a great device to tell the story of who you are as an artist and human being, not just showcase your projects like a movie poster museum display––leave that for your website. Share your process, including the messy parts. If you don't know how to do something and you want to learn, document that journey and show how you learn. Document your creative struggles and how to try to fix them, even unsuccessfully. Talk about stories that move you, shape you and inspire you. The truth is that when it comes to social media, the world connects with emotional human arcs they identify with.
Directors and producers are creatives too. They want to work with someone who gets it, someone who brings more to the table than just technical execution. When they see your personality, your creative philosophy, your unique perspective on storytelling through music, and your ability to tell those stories in a compelling human way—that's when they reach out.
3. Ask the dumb questions
Ego and pride are expensive in this industry. I wasted weeks—sometimes months—trying to figure things out alone because I was terrified of seeming amateur. Spoiler alert: everyone already knew I was. The only person I was fooling was myself. I was even reluctant to work assisting someone else because I thought I could just figure it out by myself. However, one major experience changed my perspective.
The most successful composers I know are the ones constantly asking questions. "How did you get that texture?" “What did you do in your orchestration to make this quartet sound as big as an orchestra?” "What's your workflow for revisions?" "How do you talk to filmmakers who can't articulate what they want?" These aren't signs of weakness; they're signs of someone serious about this field, and sometimes even veteran composers continuously are the best at asking questions.
“The most successful composers I know are the ones constantly asking questions. These aren't signs of weakness; they're signs of someone serious about this field, and sometimes even veteran composers continuously are the best at asking questions.“
Assisting established composers isn't just about brewing coffee and organizing sessions (though you'll do plenty of both), it's a way to keep your ego and pride in check. You don’t know everything, and your way of working isn’t the only way. Watch how they interact with collaborators, how they manage their time, how they handle creative blocks, and most importantly, how they communicate with you, because you might be in that position next.
A couple of years after graduating from school, I was recruited by one of my music editing professors, Todd Kasow, to assist him in an HBO show called “Winning Time.” Nicholas Britell and Robert Glasper were composing. Finally, an opportunity to ask the questions I always wanted to ask. Some of the most valuable lessons I learned came from what seemed like dumb questions at the time. "How do you merge two Pro Tools sessions?" “What can we do to make our recording session happen smoothly?” “Why did you make this choice instead of this other choice?” "How do we deliver the score for ten, 60-minute episodes to HBO?” This opened up a conversation about artistic and technical confidence that changed how I approach my work today.
Your ego might take a hit, but your skills will skyrocket. And honestly? Most professionals respect someone brave enough to admit what they don't know.
4. Network with intention, not desperation
Early in my career, I collected business cards like Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, thinking quantity meant progress. I'd leave networking events with fifty new contacts but no real connections. Then I'd let those contacts go cold because I had no plan beyond "meet people."
Real networking isn't just about working the room—it's about building genuine relationships with clear intention and with the right people. Before any event, know what you're looking for. Are you seeking collaborators for a specific project? Looking for a mentor in a particular area? Or are you trying to break into a new area with the help of someone else?
When you meet someone interesting, have a follow-up plan. Not just "let's grab coffee sometime" but "I'm working on a thriller short next month—maybe you can give me some feedback?" Give people a reason to stay connected beyond politeness. It’s also worth mentioning that no one owes a stranger anything––People ask so much from others they’ve never met before, and that’s really uncomfortable. Instead, redirect and find a way to give away your value first, without expecting something in return.
But something harder than making connections is maintaining them. Set reminders to check in with people regularly. Share opportunities that might interest them, even if they don't benefit you directly. Comment meaningfully on their work and be present. The strongest opportunities in my career came from relationships I'd nurtured for years, not from cold pitches or desperate networking sprints. It really doesn’t work that way.
And here's something nobody tells you: it's okay to be direct about what you're looking for. "I'm trying to transition into documentary work" is more useful than "I'm open to any opportunities." People want to help, but they need to know how.
“Your storytelling sensitivity is way more important than your gear and music theory knowledge. You're not there to impress anyone with your technical prowess. You're there to serve the story. “
5. Remember: you're a storyteller
I’ve rebuilt my composition template in my DAW at least 17 times. Each time convinced this would be the setup that would revolutionize my workflow. You know how many directors asked about my template? Zero. The technology obsession is a trap, and I fell into it hard. We hide behind plugin chains and sample libraries because it feels safer than confronting the real challenge: connecting emotionally with an audience and finding groundbreaking creative concepts for our music.
Directors won’t hire you because you own every VST or because you've mastered ATMOS mixing. They hire you because you understand that the silence before the kiss is just as important as the swell during it. They hire you because you know when to step back and let the dialogue breathe, when to push forward and drive the emotion home. Your storytelling sensitivity is way more important than your gear and music theory knowledge.
You're not there to impress anyone with your technical prowess. You're there to serve the story. Sometimes that means writing the most complex orchestration of your career. Sometimes it means knowing that a single piano note is all the scene needs. And sometimes it means letting go of the first version you wrote because you and everyone in the team know it doesn’t work.
When you're in those meetings, in those sessions, you're not a music academic showing off your knowledge of Scriabin’s Mystic Chord or Wagner’s expert use of leitmotifs. You're a storyteller collaborating with other storytellers. Speak their language, not yours. Talk about emotion, tension, release—not about parallel fifths.
Bonus tip: The truth nobody wants to hear
If I could really start over, the biggest thing I'd change is my mindset. I spent too much time trying to follow a path that didn't exist, following advice that worked for others’ specific situations, looking for rules in an industry that rewards rule-breakers.
There's no one way to build a career in media composition. The composers I admire most all have wildly different stories. Some went to a conservatory, others are self-taught. Some started in bands, others in their bedrooms. Some networked aggressively, others had a few best friends they trusted and grew with. The only common thread? They stayed true to their unique perspective while remaining flexible about everything else. They didn't try to be the next Hans Zimmer or the next Hildur Guðnadóttir. They figured out how to be the best version of themselves.
So maybe the real question isn't what I'd do differently. It's what I'd stop trying to do the same as everyone else. Your path won't look like mine, and mine didn't look like anyone else's. That’s the whole point. The industry needs your perspective, your background, your unique way of hearing the world. Not another cookie-cutter composer who followed all the "right" steps. Trust that what makes you different is exactly what will make you more valuable.
Find more from Juan on his official website and Instagram
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