Tuesday, February 23, 2016


i moved to philadelphia for a job eleven-ish years ago. the good news is not just that i had a job for eleven-ish years -- a not-remotely-horrific and frequently-highly-rewarding job -- but that upon arriving in this glorified demilitarized zone, i started writing fiction in earnest.

mind you, well before this major life upheaval, i co-wrote a screenplay about a high school friend who made random circuit city patrons take off their smashing pumpkins shirts in the parking lot because they were "giving the band a bad name," but kids happened around the same time and... okay, i can get how that was maybe a non-starter.

anyway, the head count post-move is roughly six novels, four feature-length screenplays, and five short screenplays. i could (and do) look at that two ways: a) although the majority of my public appearances entail staring tipsily into my reflection at the corner bar, i got -- and get -- a lot of stuff done away from the ol' 9-to-5, and b) at best, if you know me on facebook or whatever, you're probably familiar with, uh, not many of those stories (the film stuff is getting there... slowly).

that doesn't distinguish me from any other self-centered wannabe-capital-W-writer moron on the planet. but for some stupid reason -- mine is that i find day-to-day, childless, non-homeowning reality crushingly boring, and nothing compares to at least aspiring to tell an imaginative, original story -- i can't stop. or learn a real, marketable skill. so, i'm going to kinda start writing about my (barf) oeuvre and (dry heave) experiences doing this stuff, if for no other reason than to anthologize -- for what remains of my ego -- that i haven't entirely wasted the last eleven-ish years of my life. if i'm alive at seventy, at least i can point out to a bunch of somebody else's annoying grandkids that, "here were a bunch of okay-ish ideas executed so-so-ly." #lifeswork.

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