Quote of the Day

So what are you, Jacob? A faithless preacher? Or a mean motherfuckin' servant of God?

Writing Advice

Anxious inexperienced writers obey the rules.

Rebellious unschooled writers break rules.

Artists master the form.

The archetypal story unearths a universally human experience. Then unwraps itself inside a unique, cultural-specific expression.

An archetypal story creates settings and characters so rare that our eyes feast on every detail while it telling illuminates conflicts so true to humankind that it journeys from culture to culture.

Excuse me, Mr. O' Brien, may I have another Coors? I used to drink martinis utnil I met that son of a bitch. He's the one that srinks this shitty American crap. Stupid matchstick munching redneck.

What was I thinking. My daddy warned me about him. Said he was up to no good and all he wanted was a piece of the Thompson cash. Betty, he said, a boy like that only wants two things and you have both of them: sex and money.

I guess he got 'em both. Stole my virginity. Then the bastard stole my Beamer. How am I going to tell Daddy? He's going to be so mad at me. He bought me that car for my sweet sixteen.

Do you have any snacks? Pretzels? Peanuts? Thanks. You should really fix this place up. Recover the booths, refinish the floors, it could be a real classy place.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just another dumb rich girl who got taken advantage of. You might be right. But this guy was different.

Under his torn Levis and flannel shirt he was smart. Smart enough to make me fall in love. He was a reader, got me excited about books, movies, music. He was brilliant, probably could've gone to Harvard. But he loved working on cars.

The farmhouse is empty. The only sound is the ticking of an over-worked radiator and an occasional icicle falling from the eves.

A fear beyond vioence, beyond her twisted step-father, beyond the family friend and virginity thief, beyond any husband stealing disease.

Hunter embodied love, being loved, recieving love. Hunter meant letting go of the exquiste pain of the past. Hunter was the salve that healed. The reverie of past loves lost, thoughts of a dead husband washed into shadow smiles of yesterday.

Hunter cupped her face with bothe hands farcing her eyes to his. "Where did you go?"

Sean and I were a duet. A violin and cello in harmony. Two musicians anticipating the others' bow strokes.

Transcriptions

Gas prices = foreign policy

Patriotism = shoping

Bombs = security

transcriptions

Shadow of a person

A lighter version of a true self

Sing when you are sad

I don't think you understand how much I hate myself.

Liar; producer, sound; Best Director at the Western Film and Video Showcase
Edit; producer, co-writer, assistant director; Best Picture at the Western Film and Video Showcase
ICU, producer; offcial selection at the Western Film and Video Showcase

Next project? Spark with Torrance. Have a script to look at from Luke. In negotiations with David. Considering the zombie film again.

The perfect tickless silence of a clock stopped universe filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process. Crying is even quieter.

Peri curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, cradling her bleeding fist. Sobs undulated within her body while not a whimper escapes her quaking red lips.

The bathroom was the epicenter of all life’s grief: a place to cleanse wounds, wash away the evidence of sexual transgressions, and purge toxins. A place to replace the face before returning to the world.

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the midnight streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one dream into another.

This morning Peri had tried to gaze into her own pale green eyes wondering if they displayed her torment. She’d put her feeble fist through the medicine cabinet when she imagined a cloud passing through the depths of green.

Red ribbons of skin hung from her fingers. Peri knew she needed stitches to hold the delicate skin together; however, a hospital asks too many questions.

Peri stood before the shattered mirror, wound gauze around her hand, and watched her reflection fracture.

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan apartment for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the front door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from one of her pockets as she’d peeled her jeans off the night before.

Howard’s voice was tired and gravely—lacking his first cup of herbal tea. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Howie, I need to go to the hospital.”

“Then hop into your cute little beamer and drive your cute little butt to the ER. I’m sleeping and I’m not alone. Can you dig?”

“I can’t shift and I think I’m still drunk.”

“Jesus, Peri. Can you wait half and hour or are you really dying this time.”

“Send her home gently.”

She pulled on a navy suit, opting for flats instead of wobbling on heels. The tea kettle sounded its heated protest fro the kitchen. She made two cups to-go and waited on the sofa.

The perfect tickless silence of a clock stopped universe filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process. Crying is even quieter.

Peri curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, cradling her bleeding fist. Sobs undulated within her body while not a whimper escapes her quaking red lips.

The bathroom was the epicenter of all life’s grief: a place to cleanse wounds, wash away the evidence of sexual transgressions, and purge toxins. A place to replace the face before returning to the world.

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the midnight streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one dream into another.

This morning Peri had tried to gaze into her own pale green eyes wondering if they displayed her torment. She’d put her feeble fist through the medicine cabinet when she imagined a cloud passing through the depths of green.

Red ribbons of skin hung from her fingers. Peri knew she needed stitches to hold the delicate skin together; however, a hospital asks too many questions.

Peri stood before the shattered mirror, wound gauze around her hand, and watched her reflection fracture.

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan apartment for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the front door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from one of her pockets as she’d peeled her jeans off the night before.

Howard’s voice was tired and gravely—lacking his first cup of herbal tea. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Howie, I need to go to the hospital.”

“Then hop into your cute little beamer and drive your cute little butt to the ER. I’m sleeping and I’m not alone. Can you dig?”

“I can’t shift and I think I’m still drunk.”

“Jesus, Peri. Can you wait half and hour or are you really dying this time.”

“Send her home gently.”

She pulled on a navy suit, opting for flats instead of wobbling on heels. The tea kettle sounded its heated protest fro the kitchen. She made two cups to-go and waited on the sofa.