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What's new?

My first screenplay was approved by the Northwest Screen-Writers Guild. Now I start pitching it to agents and producers that come to town.
Whoooo-hooooo!
"The Regular Guy," is about a broken man who tries to give others a second chance. In the process can he restore himself?
The image at the right... it just makes me happy, so there you go!

I worry...

I worry...
I worry that my cool, aloof nature is disappearing into an NPR haze of concern.
I worry that my ability to identify with both Republicans and Democrats on some issues may leave me and I'll become one of those Lyndon LaRouche wackos.
I worry that my hatred of the intolerant masses may lead my to becoming a silent leader of my own intolerant masses.
I worry that I can't tell if passing the 40 year mark is the half way point, or closer to a third of the way through.
And then all at once I stop worrying. I look into the face of God, into the face of a child, into the eyes of my true love, or I tear up, in laughter, having watched "Family Guy."
And then... I wonder, which is real, the laughter or the worry.
I wonder...

a guy gets possessed, and...

I'm writing this story about a guy that gets possessed. What do I know about possession?
Well I can't tell you, I'm writing a story about it. You'll have to read it when I'm done.
What I will tell you is this.
It's as if I am running to catch the edge of some truth as I write this story, like something I am afraid to admit to myself or to you.
Or maybe that's how everyone feels. Maybe everyone feels like there is something living inside them, something that must get out.
From The Gospel According to Thomas (Gospel of what? You'll have to go look it up yourself, or maybe you're living it)
"Jesus said, "If you bring forth what is within you, what you have will save you. If you do not have that within you, what you do not have within you [will] kill you."
Maybe that's everyone, everyday, I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see.

Solid as a rock

We are a nation divided. From the health care debate to gay marriage, from years old "race wounds" to faith wars. It seems as though things are not getting any better.
So what would you expect if some young ladies knocked on your door some late Wednesday evening and said they were selling "rock?"
In the 21st century you might expect the worse, but if you live in Seattle, in Arbor Heights, you should expect what's pictured next to these words; rocks.And maybe that's enough to remind us that the future will be bright. As bright and simple as little girls selling rocks they found, cause its fun.
This is notice, that the light we see now is not a light fading from past glory. The light we see now is coming to us from a simple, bright and hopeful future.

Out run the past

Why no posts lately? More writer's block? Nope. I've been busy writing.
Here's a snippet....


"Abe?" For just a second the silky vibrato of my name hangs in the air. It's the memory of our love hanging there, between us.
It's the tender parts of me I left behind. I did love.

I have to make sure she doesn't come back. I lurch across the dining room table toward her. I grab her wrist, an iron grip.
My training kicks in: ulna and the radius to the humerus. How many pounds of pressure?

"Baby?" I say. Smiling and I shouldn't.

The pulse of her pulse, ripples through my hand. She freaks. I relax my grip and let her slip free. In two strides she is out the door, a natural athlete.

Had writer's block

Who had writer's block for a while?

Me, that's who. I actually don't believe in "writer's block."
That is to say I DIDN'T believe in writer's block.
If someone had said to me they were having trouble writing, I would have said,
"Oh, you mean you're irretrievably lazy?"

But now I get it. If I don't rest, relax and enjoy what I'm doing,
I'm probably going to get "backed up."
So what got me free? Just being able to lay it on the line with the West Seattle Writers' Group.
That's what freed me up. I'm amazed by how often just talking about a problem can have the solution to the problem materialize, just crazy-good!

So... I am re-submitting my "Regular Guy" screenplay to the NWSG.
I am starting a Seattle food blog and I may even update my Facebook page every now and then.

Here's a snippet of something I am working on...

"Water"

All I wanted was a glass of water. I didn't care what m…

The Dining Room

INT. OFFICE, MARK’S CUBICLE, DAY

Mark is seated, typing on his computer.

Phone cradled to his ear.

MARK
(Shouting)
Are you coming to lunch with us?

STEVE(O.C.)
(Shouting)
Naw, you guys go without me, maybe
next time, I got some stuff to
knock down, before I go for food.

MARK
(Talking into phone)
You …

"Fire "

Can I blame my sister?

She is the one who insisted I have a toaster oven, when I was perfectly happy with a toaster.

Every apartment needs a toaster oven.
"Bagels," she said, "and what about little pizzas?"

So I sit here crying at Denny's rubbing my fingers back and forth, blaming her.

I stuck my hand in the toaster oven to grab my already buttered bagel and I started to cry.
Woozy even.

The heat on the back of my hand.
I didn't burn it.

But the heat on the back of my hand.
Had it really been a year since the fire?

Chastity slept.
I had one more cigarette on the porch and then to bed.
And then nothing.

Less then nothing.
The house was gone, she was gone and I was empty.

Now in a Denny's more empty because of the fatty comatose crowd, crying.
Wishing for less memory.

Wishing for more time.