There’s Only One You.

Whenever I feel down about myself, my talents, or my wobbling writerly confidence, I watch this. Neil Gaiman is a true rockstar for people like me.



I Write.

I write. Someday it would be nice to get paid for it. But I work a day job and write at night. It works for now.

Here are some things about me. I write television, novels, and poetry (sometimes). I have a few projects in progress. I’m 25 and I live in Los Angeles. My block has a lot of barking dogs. I rent a one bedroom apartment. I share it with a half-dead plant that Joe waters for me every time he comes over. Actually I don’t share the apartment with the plant. It lives outside. The plant situation is why Joe thinks I shouldn’t get a cat.

Grandma Marilyn

My Grandma loved the Dodgers. This is the first season my Grandpa will have to watch the season alone. I cried on the way to work as people on the radio talked about the price of a baseball game proposal. It was dumb but I thought of her. She really loved baseball.


Tonight I drove home from Pasadena at dusk. I normally wouldn’t use the word “dusk” but this evening was really dusk-like. Misty. Cold. Blue-gray light on everything. Dark blue shadows. Usually the drive through the Angeles Forest foothills on the 134 offers a great view of Eagle Rock, Glendale, and even Downtown, but tonight all of it was hidden. The lights of the city were glazed-over and twinkling, like there resided billions of waking fairies. The hills of Griffith Park loomed fantastically through the incoming fog. It was is if I was seeing Los Angeles as it originally was. Los Angeles before it became LA.