Good or bad, last week is gone, and the drudgery that is life marches on. More conversations, more outreach, more getting the name out there — and suddenly there’s barely time for writing. Funny how that works.

Now trust me when I say this: the day-to-day grind of outreach is not writing. Writing is sitting down and actually doing the thing. Screenplay. Prose. Poem. Blog. That’s the creative muscle. And if you don’t exercise it every day — every single day — it will poop on the carpet.

And then where are you? You’ve got guilt, a rusty imagination… and a smelly carpet. Nobody wants that.
Hey, I get it. Life throws a lot at you. Then you add chores for agents and managers on top of that. When I had a full-time job, I got up at 5:30 every morning just to write until 7:30 and make it to work at 8. When I was paid to write Axe to Grind and had a seven-day deadline, the schedule got uglier — up at 4 to 7:30, then again at 6 p.m. until I passed out (usually around 8 p.m.). And I’ll be honest: I loved it.

I still crawled through the day job, but the day went faster because the real work had already happened. Another gig followed — this time I had a whole month — and suddenly the schedule felt luxurious.
Here’s the point: be ready. You never know when the call comes. There are very few guarantees in this business. But one thing is guaranteed — the more you write, the better you get. Period.

So what are you waiting for? Get to work.

One day, when you least expect it, someone will reach out about your work and say, “Let’s talk.” After you clean up from the unexpected excitement, there are a few things to remember.
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After a few decades of these calls — some great, some strange, and some very educational — I’ve learned there’s always a pattern. I know how easy it is to get overexcited at the prospect of someone taking the time to discuss your work. Take a moment, change your pants, and celebrate how great you are. Just remember: after that is when the real work begins.
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In any creative discussion where someone contacts you about your project, the ratio should be 70/30 — and the 70 percent is not you. As much as you’d love to explain the inspiration, the struggle, and the blood, sweat, and tears that birthed it, you’re there to listen. Let them talk. What do they want? Why this project? Why you?
The “prettiest girl at the dance” analogy works, but Groucho Marx’s line — “I would never belong to a club that would have me as a member” — might be the healthier mindset. Stay curious. Let them lead the conversation.
Never agree to anything on the call. Answer questions clearly and concisely — ideally in under a minute — and don’t be afraid of silence. Silence isn’t your problem. You have decisions to make, and you won’t make good ones by filling every awkward pause.

Most important: make no decisions during the conversation. Whether you have a team (manager, agent, lawyer, or faithful canine companion), tell them you need to speak with them first. It gives you breathing room — and breathing room is where good decisions live.

​I once had lunch with a celebrated director/writer/DP from the 1970s and ’80s, and the conversation turned to what we listen to while sitting at our keyboards, trying to coax screenplays into existence. Not surprisingly, his answer lined up perfectly with mine: original motion picture soundtracks.
We didn’t get into the merits of over-ear headphones versus AirPods, but the larger takeaway was clear — nothing immerses you in your fictional world quite like a well-crafted film score. Of course, what you listen to inevitably depends on the genre you’re writing in. A noir demands a different emotional palette than a western, a romance, or a thriller.
In 1997, I had the pleasure of meeting the great Elmer Bernstein (The Magnificent Seven, The Great Escape, To Kill a Mockingbird). I wish I could have told him then how deeply his music shaped so many of my spec western screenplays. Nothing put me in the mood for a dusty, high-noon showdown like Sons of Katie Elder, The Shootist, or The Comancheros.
As my writing evolved, so did my musical tastes. Before long, I found myself immersed in the work of John Williams, John Barry, Jerry Goldsmith, Maurice Jarre, Miklós Rózsa, Bernard Herrmann, and Lalo Schifrin. And today, with composers like Danny Elfman, Blake Neely, Hans Zimmer, and Alan Silvestri still going strong, I figure I’ve got inspiration for a very long writing life ahead of me.
Naturally, this list barely scratches the surface — I’ve left out at least twenty other favorites (Mark Knopfler, Alfred Newman, Randy Newman, and many more).
So, as a little window into my current mindset — and maybe my personality — here’s a recent playlist. See if you can guess what genres I might be wrestling with at the moment:
Miklós Rózsa

• The Killers (Main Title)
• Double Indemnity (Main Title)

Roy Webb

• Out of the Past

Franz Waxman

• Sunset Boulevard

Thomas Newman

• Saving Mr. Banks (End Title)
• Road to Perdition (Main Title)

Alan Silvestri

• Forrest Gump Suite

Maurice Jarre

• The Paris Waltz

At the very least, a playlist like this reminds me why I fell in love with movies — and with writing — in the first place. Great film music doesn’t just accompany a story; it creates atmosphere, stirs memory, and quietly nudges you toward emotion you didn’t even know you were chasing. So if you ever catch yourself staring at a blank page, maybe don’t stare harder — turn the music up. Chances are, the story is already hiding in the score.

​This week I received a perfect email from a producer about regarding a screenplay. It was not a bouquet of roses. It was not even a fruit basket. And it definitely was not “clear your calendar, we’re shooting in June.”
What it was was something far rarer in this business than a three-picture deal with Netflix: a thoughtful, encouraging, human response.

I’m not going to get into the particulars of the project or quote the email line by line. If I did, I’d sound like one of those fishermen who swears the trout was “this big.” Let’s just say: the door was not slammed, bolted, or welded shut. It was — pleasantly — left ajar. In Hollywood, that’s basically a parade.

If you’ve spent any time in this business, you know the emotional rhythm: you send something out, you wait, you check your inbox 437 times a day, you convince yourself everyone hates you, then you decide maybe you should just sell shoes at Macy’s.

Then — ping — a note arrives. Not a miracle, not a disaster, but something in between. Something sane. Something respectful. Something that says, “We’re not done with you yet.” That’s not nothing! It’s also not the war. This email didn’t greenlight a movie, change my bank balance, or cause Tom Hanks to suddenly call and ask if I wanted to hang out. But it was a battle — and more importantly, it was a battle that was won. Someone engaged. Someone reconsidered. Someone is willing to look again. That’s forward motion, and in this town, forward motion is like finding a clean bathroom on the 405 at rush hour — shocking, appreciated, and worth celebrating.

Here’s what I’ve learned after too many years in rooms with bad coffee, colder water, and warmer egos: you almost never win big all at once. You win in drips, inches, and occasionally in the form of a kind email. Persistence is not glamorous. It’s less “hero charging the castle” and more “guy stubbornly pushing a stalled car uphill while muttering to himself.” But careers are built on that hill, not on the summit.
So, if you’re out there sending your work into the ether, refreshing your email, and wondering if anyone is actually reading — this is your reminder:

Never give up.
Never surrender!

Catherine O’Hara possessed one of the rarest gifts in comedy: she could make an audience laugh without ever asking for it. Her performances were never about punchlines or attention, but about belief—total, unwavering belief in who a character was, no matter how misguided, vain, or exquisitely awkward that character might be. She died Friday at the age of 71, leaving behind a body of work that didn’t just entertain, but instructed.
Tributes poured in immediately from collaborators and admirers across generations—actors, writers, and comedians who understood that O’Hara was not merely funny, but foundational. She helped define a mode of comedy that trusted the audience to catch up, that allowed silence to do its work, and that valued character over commentary.
For sketch performers and writers of a certain stripe—myself included—Catherine O’Hara was formative. During my years performing and writing sketch comedy with No Prisoners, her influence was omnipresent, even when unspoken. Unlike my own performances—where volume, speed, and desperation too often crept in—she modeled a style of comedy that trusted character over cleverness and restraint over noise. In the sketch room, we talked about that ideal constantly, even as we routinely failed to achieve it. Watching her work taught me that the strongest comic choice is often the quietest one—something I understood intellectually long before I ever managed to pull it off.
O’Hara’s work in Christopher Guest’s ensemble films--Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, and A Mighty Wind—felt, at the time, like something entirely new. In retrospect, they feel inevitable, as if comedy had simply been waiting for someone patient enough to get out of its way.
Those films were master classes in tone and generosity. No one was trying to win a scene. No one was winking at the audience. The humor arose from people who cared deeply about things that mattered almost exclusively to them—and that sincerity made everything funnier. More importantly, it made it human. Those movies shaped my writing by reinforcing a principle I still believe: if you take your characters seriously enough, the audience will laugh without being told to.
What set Catherine O’Hara apart was her refusal to condescend. She never mocked her characters, even when they were delusional or absurd. She played them as if their inner lives were rich, fragile, and worth protecting. That empathy gave her performances a strange durability. Years later, the jokes still land, but what lingers is something quieter: recognition. You don’t just laugh—you remember people you’ve known, versions of yourself you’ve outgrown, and longings that comedy rarely treats with respect.
O’Hara’s influence extends far beyond any single role or genre. She helped normalize a kind of comedy rooted in observation rather than aggression, collaboration rather than ego. For writers and performers working in small rooms with folding chairs and big hopes, she was proof that subtlety wasn’t weakness—that restraint, in the right hands, could be devastatingly funny.
Her death leaves a genuine absence, not just in film and television, but in the creative lives of those who learned from her example without ever meeting her. She taught us that comedy could be humane, that ensembles matter, and that the loudest laugh is not always the best one.
Catherine O’Hara didn’t chase attention. She earned trust. And for generations of performers trying—and often failing—to live up to that standard, her work remains both a guide and a reminder of what’s possible when comedy begins with belief.

A billion dollars to join DJT’s exclusive new scam, The Board of Peace, and there isn’t even a pickleball court. I have decided to get in on the action, announcing my own exclusive club, The Peace Club. We do happen to have a pickleball court, exercise bikes, multiple Stairmasters, and even a spin class for the ladies. Please send fifty dollars, cash only, in care of this website and, in less than two weeks, I will send you the location of your nearest 24-Hour Fitness. When entering, just tell them that you are a member in good standing of the Peace Club and they will let you in. Offer good only on Sundays after 4 pm. Please, no guests.
Well, so what else is going on in the news? Oh, yeah — the NEW American Civil War is now in its opening days to mostly bad reviews. On the road tryouts are currently in Minnesota but Trump promises to bring it to your town soon. Fox News has declared it a “Masterpiece” and says, “It could possibly run forever.” 
Yes, it seems American citizens are not free to wander freely in Minnesota without danger of being shot multiple times in the face by masked fascists — or at least, federal immigration enforcement agents have recently been involved in fatal shootings in Minneapolis, sparking protests and intense political conflict. On January 24, 2026, federal agents fatally shot a 37-year-old Minneapolis resident named Alex Pretti during an enforcement action, and that followed the controversial January 7 shooting of Renée Good by an ICE agent. These incidents have prompted widespread protests, criticism of federal tactics, and calls for investigations from local leaders, while federal authorities maintain they were acting in self-defense. 
I have 9 months until Martial Law on the brackets. What's your bet?
Just a note: Remember, Dick’s no longer sells weapons to protect yourselves so I am afraid you may have to go elsewhere. My advice is to follow the advice of the Viet Cong and begin building some tunnels. Think of it as some sort of hellish game, a real-life Minecraft that none of us will be escaping from anytime soon.
Good luck, stay safe, and remember we are only 283 days, 6,792 hours, and 407,520 minutes away. For God’s sake, mark it in your calendars and make sure you are there. Oh, yes — be prepared to stand in line.

Your times may vary depending on when you’re reading this and what time zone you are in.
Stay safe, America!

My first encounter with The Greatest Story Ever Told was at the Hollywood Cinerama Theatrejust off of Sandy Boulevard in Portland Oregon. I was eleven years old in 1965, and all I really remember about it was that it starred David McCallum from The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Oh—and I also remember it had cameos by Ed Wynn and John Wayne. It was breathtakingly pretty to look at. Other than that, I don’t recall being all that impressed. I was more of a King of Kings guy—Jeffrey Hunter, blue-eyed Jesus.
 
And yet, somehow, the movie stuck with me. Alfred Newman’s haunting score lingered, as did those vast vistas—filmed not in the Holy Land, but right here in the good old U.S. of A.
 
So when the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced that it was premiering a newly restored version of The Greatest Story Ever Told, introduced by none other than Guillermo del Toro and producer George Stevens Jr., I was intrigued. A fan of George Stevens—and of film restoration in general—I was eager to see what all the fuss was about.
 
I was not disappointed.
 
In about twenty minutes, del Toro managed to put the film into perspective. This is a deeply religious work filtered through the lens of the mythic American Western. Distinct and original, it is a sincere, almost defiant attempt to make sense of a chaotic world. Stevens had witnessed the horror of war firsthand and was among the first Americans to arrive at Dachau. This film is a direct result of that experience—his meditation on what human beings are capable of, for better and for worse.
 
The restoration is stunning. The vistas of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah are nothing short of magnificent. The film is flawed, yes—but it is also breathtakingly brilliant, from the opening title sequence to the resurrection scene. And thanks to the thoughtful introduction by a director who, among his fans, has achieved something close to rock-star status, I can now appreciate a film that an eleven-year-old simply couldn’t.

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"Into the mud, scum queen."

Of all the social media platforms, the one that comes closest to mud wrestling would have to be Elon Musk’s X. And, for the record, I use the term mud very loosely, as just about any sort of mammal excrement seems a far better term for wading through what happens there every day. What once was a platform for connection has now become a microcosm of America, discourse replaced with profanity, accusations, and name-calling. Where discourse still exists on other platforms, it thrives on X.
I mistakenly reactivated my account, taking the advice that it would be helpful for my career. All it really did was make me angry. Every day, bots masquerading as human beings (and most likely vice versa) spew out such hatred that it can only inspire more of the same. It makes you kind of wonder what Truth Social is like.
So, in order to preserve my sanity, I decided to deactivate once again. This time, for my sake and sanity, I hope it sticks.
Goodbye and good luck.