Thursday, May 1, 2008


The life of a writer is a tough one. While the industry needs what you produce, they make you run through gauntlets only to be given the most capricious speculative judgements.

It is also a solitary one. Granted... television writers enjoy the life of the pack mentality. Other writers, however, are the lone wolves on the edges of the mainstream and scorned to show face on a film set. Unless, of course, you are a playwright where your words are sacrosanct.

Part of the drama is finding a place to write. Some people thrive on isolation... but I would like to be at least in proximity to other human beings. Perhaps I might see or hear something that sparks a tangential foray into humanity. That is, unless one finds himself in the midst of...


Cell phones ring in a cacophony of tunes. No one uses vibrate.

An African woman speaks loudly in her language.

A cute Russian girl with a Bettie Page hairdo speaks to someone behind me.

Two women with their terrible-three-tykes speak in loud baby talk.

Finally, two hotties sit at the table next to me. They start loudly discussing medical cases. They are ER nurses? I hate hearing medical speak. It gives me psychosomatic horror.

Time to go sit in a nice quiet isolated location...

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