In Brief, to my defense.

The entries into this particular blog have, on occasion, been remarkably brief. From the random commentary on the assault to my olfactory senses. To the sporadic riff about my love of movies and bringing my daughter into the Marvel collective.

And most times, I'm writing these entries, in areas where writing in one's blog, is expressly verboten. I will no divulge where, that would be telling, but if you know me, you know from whence I write. And knowing that I should be doing other things, sadly does not offer a secret thrill of, getting away with something. Blogging clandestinely, isn't the same as having a romp in the bathroom of a movie theater, or stealing a piece of candy from the display case. It's this studious, hunkered down, looking more at the keys than the screen, type of thing, that requires (to a lessor or greater degree) uninterrupted space and time.

When you're writing, you don't want to field a barrage of questions about, JQuery, or HTML Validation, or having the "it's time to clean your fridge, because the condiments are battling the thing that used to be salami" argument. These are things that don't sprinkle, they dowse you with muse abusive distraction, that you can't shake rapidly, or at all in most instances.

So why do I write in places where interruptions will come at me like hordes of sugar crazed pre-teens, and I'm wearing a gumdrop suit?

It's a need. I need to write, I finally achieved that "golden level", where writing is like breathing and if I don't do it, I gasp and suffocate, expire and die. Well, not so fatalistic, but I would not want to be around me, when I haven't written anything, and the craving to do so is upon me. You'd have a better time with a tweaking crackhead, than you would with me and the muse is back. She's dry and willing to cooperate, provided we seclude ourselves, fortified with donuts from the "The Doughnut Plant" and coffee from Starbucks.

In brief, to my defense, they're in the neighborhood.

Sundance, and the freefall of all ideas.

I'm swimming in a chilly lake of cliches. I'm sitting in a Starbucks, sipping on a fine cup of bold coffee, and working on my screenplay for the Sundance Director's Program, Screenwriters Lab.

Now with my knitted cap on my head and finely trimmed goatee on my chin, I look around me and notice at least eight others, swimming in the same chilly lake.

And as I return my attention to my screenplay, which I deeply hope isn't chockful of the same cheesey goodness that the cliche I unwittingly affect, would suggest.

Damn, I gotta find a dive bar, and get in a fight, just to save my soul from mediocrity.