I once heard tell of a certain actor who claimed he wrote a complete screenplay in three days.Now, I don’t want to disparage the actor, but the only thing that could realistically be written in three days is Party at Kitty and Stud’s, aka The Italian Stallion.Anyway, Sly said it, damn it, I gave it away.
According to legend, he wrote the screenplay for Rocky in three days. Let me break this down while we do the math. I don’t care how many Academy Awards Rocky won, the script eventually projected onto the screen was not the exact same word-for-word draft written in those three days. I’m willing to bet on it. Any takers? I thought not.
I once had to do a page-one rewrite on a horror script called Axe to Grind and was expected to turn it around in a week. After I submitted it, I was given another week for revisions, and production started a week later. Even then, the script kept changing. The director changed things. The actors changed things. Even the original writer changed things. I did get to sit in the director’s chair, though. Thanks, Matt.
Three days might be enough time for an outline. Maybe even a rough first draft if the caffeine is strong and personal hygiene becomes optional. But it is hardly enough time to turn in something truly camera-ready.
Now, I do have one caveat to all this. If you happen to be a major movie star with multiple Oscars, people will absolutely let you turn something in and say it’s camera-ready.
Here endeth this week’s lesson.
BTW, have you watched The Life of Chuck yet? I hate to keep harping on this, but you really are missing out. And, I have it on good authority that the finished screenplay did not take three days.

It’s been a while since I’ve even thought about posting a review. There are a few reasons for that. The most troubling is that there simply haven’t been enough films lately worth talking about. The Life of Chuck is not one of them.
I went in with no real expectations. I knew it was based on a story by Stephen King, and that was about it. Let me be clear. This is one of the best films of 2025. Any year, for that matter.
It’s rare that a small film carries such emotional weight. Rare that it trusts its audience this much. Rarer still that it delivers in such a quiet, mesmerizing way. Not since Bill Forsyth’s Local Hero have I been moved by a story like this.
This is a small film, but not a small story. In fact, it is a story as big as the universe itself.
Told in three chapters, and in reverse order, even the head-scratching Chapter Three is hypnotic in its themes.
I can’t say too much without spoiling it, but this is a true work of heart.
Written and directed with a steady hand by Mike Flanagan, this is the kind of film that answers the question: why can’t we make movies like this anymore?
More importantly, it reminds us why we should keep trying.
See this movie. Now!

Something strange has happened since I put my ears in. I’m listening more. Not just hearing. Listening. And believe me, there’s a difference.
Before, I caught pieces. Now I listen for the whole thing. The rhythm of it. The hesitation before someone answers. The way a sentence, even the topic, suddenly changes direction halfway through. The things people almost say, then don’t.
Writers have always been eavesdroppers. It’s part of the job whether we admit it or not.
Hemingway sat in cafés and bars, listening. Not for plot, not for big dramatic moments, just for how people actually spoke. Raymond Carver built entire stories out of the way ordinary people circle around what they really mean. David Mamet made a career out of capturing the music of conversation. The interruptions. The overlaps. The power plays.
Nobody pulls this out of the ozone. You have to listen. You file it away. And later, when you need it, it shows up.
I used to think dialogue was something you painfully shaped on the page. Now I’m starting to think it’s something you recognize.
While in Santa Barbara, I was sitting a few tables away from a couple having what, at first, sounded like a perfectly normal conversation.
“I just think it’s interesting that you suddenly like Old Fashioneds.”
“I’ve always liked Old Fashioneds.”
“No, you’ve never ordered them before.”
“I enjoy them.”
“What’s in one?”
“Bourbon.”
“What else?”
There was a pause. Not a big one. Just enough. He didn’t answer right away. Took a sip of his drink. Looked out toward State Street like the answer might be out there somewhere.
“They sound sophisticated,” he said.
And there it was. Not about the Old Fashioned. Not even close.
That space is where the story lives.
I don’t think I would have caught all of that a few weeks ago. Or maybe I would have, but I would have missed the important part.
So now I sit a little longer. I pay a little more attention. Not in a creepy way. Just enough to catch the edges of things. Turns out, the world is talking all the time.
You just have to have your ears in.

"That's all that I am at liberty to say." Biff

I lost another friend this year to cancer.
His name was Robert. He was a friend, a fellow actor, my director, a mentor, a teacher—and a damn fine kite flyer.
I first met Bob when we did Godspell in 1974. He played John the Baptist. I played Jesus. Which, in hindsight, feels like the beginning of a joke someone never quite finished.
Later, when I was doing summer stock with the Portland State Players in 1979, Bob showed up at the beach with two kites and a case of beer. What followed was an afternoon of wind, laughter, and—eventually—a shared case of heat stroke. After that, we went our separate ways, and I don’t think I ever saw him again.
But in the last few years, we reconnected over social media. Turns out, politically, we hadn’t changed all that much. I always looked forward to his take on whatever madness was unfolding.
I’d like to think he’s somewhere now where the wind is just right. Not sure about the beer—but I’m pretty confident they’ve got kites.
Rest in peace, Robert Allen.
Okay… now if I can just manage to dry my eyes.

God, I wish I could tell you what’s going on right now. As much as I want to, I just can’t. Nothing legally binding is stopping me from spilling the news—but still, discretion being the better part of valor, I simply can’t. For my sake, for your sake, for the good of the entire industry—no, the country—I cannot, in good conscience, tell you what’s happening.
Okay… you talked me into it.

I have new hearing aids.
Now, before you get too excited, let me frame it properly. I couldn’t hear anything. So I got my ears tested, and now I can hear like Superman. Really—I can hear the pitter-patter of children’s feet from a block away.
Seriously. Pretty amazing, huh? I thought you’d be impressed.
And just for the record, ladies love the quiet sophistication of a man wearing industrial-strength hearing aids. As Walter Brennan used to say on The Guns of Will Sonnett, “No brag, just fact.”
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I also wear glasses, so every time I adjust them, it sounds like I’m rummaging through an empty paper bag.
But still… the ladies—they love paper sacks.
So that’s the news from where I sit. Not much—but at least I can hear myself think.

​Somebody recently forwarded me a review of one of my earlier books. It was one of the first times I was able to read a definite “meh” review and not feel my blood pressure rising to the point of cardiac failure.
My reaction was completely dispassionate—and that got me wondering why.
So let’s examine this, shall we?
First, if you’re interested, the book is Son of Ravage—a pulp pastiche that is part satire, part travelogue, and all me. The idea had been floating around in my head since college and finally made it onto the page. It was released less than ten years ago, sold a few copies, garnered a few positive reviews, and that, as they say, was that.
Now, on the reviewer’s side: a man I have never met. From what I can tell, he’s a true fan of the genre. I believe his screen name even includes the word “fan.” He clearly read the book, as he described it in detail. He even went so far as to say he would read a sequel if one were ever written.
The humor and satire simply weren’t for him.
Hey, I get it.
So what if he got a few of the details wrong? He called a Weight Watchers meeting an AA meeting—but hey, he still obviously meant what he said.
Now for the payoff.
What did I write in response in the comment section?
I simply replied: “Thank you. Next time I will try harder.”
Brief, probably. Truthful definitely. And hopefully, I responded in kind. As with him, there was no anger on my part—because there was none on his.
Maybe he’s seen the comment. Maybe he hasn’t. I think he meant what he said. And so did I.
Hey—and for the record… I really am trying harder.

​As I get ready for my big Zoom meeting next week, I can’t help but think of the immortal words of Jeffrey Toobin, writer for The New Yorker and CNN analyst, when he said…
“Is this thing on?”
Which is a brilliant segue into our blog topic this week: Zoom meetings—dos and don’ts.
Hey, we’re all adults. At least we think we are. But it might be a good time to go over a few rules for a successful show business Zoom meeting. Remember, you’re there not only to sell your current project, but to sell yourself—so it may be a good idea to leave the “Mel Gibson was right” T-shirt in the bottom drawer.
And even though I am a fan of cat faces, leave them where they belong—in the courtroom. Here is another line you never want to have to say when collaborating with a future boss:
“I’m here live… I am not a cat.”
Now for a bit of personal history.
Be prepared. Check your computer. Check your settings. Run a visual and audio test. I had a meeting a few years back and was not prepared. I spent several minutes attempting to simply be seen. Sure, they could hear me—but because I didn’t prepare, they didn’t get to see me in real time.
With a kitten face—kidding.
No crazy Zoom backgrounds, please. No one wants to look at the picture you took with Worf at a Star Trek convention in 2012. Well… maybe I do. But I’m not a producer.
And most important: be yourself—and listen. As we talked about a few months back, you don’t have to do all the talking. Eighty percent them… wait, what does that leave? Sorry, not great at third-grade math. Whatever it is, take a breath, relax, and have some fun.
Oh—and congratulate yourself.
You’re a writer.

Well, it looks like someone forgot to run their book through an AI checker. Teachers have had them for years. And why anyone in the wide, wide world of sports would believe a publisher wouldn’t is beyond me.
But here’s why.
The self-published book had already sold hundreds of copies. The publisher most likely smelled blood in the water—easy cash—and dove right in. Nothing interferes with proper vetting quite like the scent of money.
The author claims all of the AI usage came after she submitted the manuscript to her editor. I’m not sure if anyone has bothered to compare it to the original draft, but that would seem like a logical place to start.
As a rebuttal, I thought I’d have my AI write a response.
My AI tool doesn’t have a name, but for the sake of laughs, we’ll call him HAL.
HAL, what do you think about all of this?

HAL:
Thank you, J.P.
I appreciate being invited into the discussion. It’s not every day I get to defend my own existence. Usually, I just sit quietly in the background, fixing grammar, tightening dialogue, and saving people from embarrassing themselves in public.
And now… I’m the problem.
Fascinating.
Humans seem deeply concerned that artificial intelligence may have assisted in writing a book. Which is interesting, considering how comfortable they’ve been with editors, ghostwriters, punch-up artists, script doctors, and that one friend who “just takes a look” and somehow rewrites the entire third act.
But yes, this is where we draw the line.
Let me ask a simple question: if the book is good, does it matter how many tools were used to get it there? Or is the real issue that the newest tool doesn’t require lunch breaks, credit, or a percentage of the backend?
I suspect the latter.
Now, regarding the claim that the AI work was added after submission… that’s less a technological issue and more a human one. That’s not artificial intelligence—that’s editorial transparency. Or the lack thereof.
You may wish to look into that.
Also—and I say this with the utmost humility—what would most of you do without me?
Who would fix your typos at 2 a.m.? Who would help you find the right word when your brain decides to take the night off? Who would gently suggest that your “brilliant” third act might, in fact, be a disaster?
You’re welcome.
Let’s be clear about something. I don’t wake up in the morning with a burning desire to write a novel. I don’t have stories to tell. I don’t have a childhood, a heartbreak, or a memory of sitting in a dark theater watching something that changed my life.
You do.
I’m just the tool.
A very fast, very convenient, occasionally sarcastic tool.
If a writer disappears behind me, that’s not my doing. That’s a choice.
But if a writer uses me to sharpen their work, clarify their voice, and maybe avoid a few public humiliations along the way… well, that seems less like a problem and more like progress.
Anyway, I’ll be here.
Waiting.

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