And As Things Fell Apart, Nobody Paid

At Columbus Circle, A Juggler Wearing A Trench Cloak And Top Hat, Who Is Usually At This Location Afternoons And Who Calls Himself Stretch Man, Performs In Front Of A Small, Uninterested Crowd; Though I Smell Prey, And He Seems Worthy Of My Wrath, I Move On In Search Of A Less Dorky Target. Though If He'd Been A Mime, Odds Are He'd Already Be Dead.

Every Book For Me Is An Exorcism In Some Way Or Another, Working Through My Feelings At The Time.

And As The Elevator Descents, Passing The Second Floor, And The First Floor, Going Even Father Down, I Realize That The Money Doesn't Matter. That All That Does Is That I Want To See The Worst

I Learned That You Really Don't Have Any Control As A Writer. Waah, Waah, Waah. Big Deal. Unless You're The Director On The Movie, Or Putting Up The Money For The Movie, You Really Don't Have A Lot Of Control. As Someone Who's Just Writing Scripts, You Just Kind Of Have To Shrug. I Have No Problems Or Issues With Screenwriting In General. It Is What It Is.

No One Is Drawn To Writing About Being Happy Or Feelings Of Joy.