10 Best Things in 2018 (Trying to be positive here)

2018 wasn’t exactly fun.

In my sister’s words – “it sucked.”

She’s not wrong.

But I’ve decided to adopt an attitude of thankfulness in life instead of giving in to my struggle with constant complaining. And even when life punches me in the face, then kicks me while I’m lying on the ground (why does it do that?), I’ve determined to find something beautiful or special to acknowledge. Even if it’s just being thankful for my stage fighting classes in high school that taught me how to fall better.

I really should take some more of those.

10 Best Things in 2018

  1. My brother and my cousin each added a little boy to their respective families (babies I can hold and then give back :).

  2. A lot of good movies came out, including, but not limited to – A Quiet Place, Black Panther, Mission Impossible: Fallout, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, and Ant-Man and The Wasp.


  • Music got to me, including my anthem Stronger by The Score.

  • I moved in with a roommate, and honestly, it was a great idea.

  • Some aggressively positive people helped me get over my anger and showered me with care while also challenging me to let go of the past and be better. We are not islands. We need other people to love on us and help us.

  • I went back to church and the community is helping to heal my soul.

  • My relationships with my sisters and their relationships became stronger and more authentic – these are the craziest, most loving, strongest folk I could ever ask to have in my life. received_405788886912149

  • I traveled with my awesome mom.

  • I DP-ed for multiple films and produced a 48 Hour Film Project team. Only being the DP is my new favorite. I’ve always worn multiple hats on set, which is an Indie film normality. But it is much more fun, effective, and less stressful to do just ONE job.

  • I made it. I’m still here. It took a lot of other people’s help though.IMG_9876


There are plenty of other great things that didn’t make it to this list, such as sword fighting, going on a family vacation, filming my newest film project, hanging with my nieces and nephews, seeing a lot of family I haven’t seen in a long time, filming weddings, book-writing progress, having a screenplay featured in a live read, making massive health strides and so much more.

It’s okay to say it how it is sometimes, because sometimes life really does suck.

But after that acknowledgement, I’m going to focus on the good.

Then I might just punch life back.


That’s Really What It’s Like to Be A Boss

That's really what it's like to be a boss

I pressed my office door open and stepped out into the midst of cubicles. Writers and digital specialists stared intently at their screens, silence like a curse on the air. Each tap of the keys from a writer echoed across the big open area.


I continued forward in search of a hot water refill. One of the digital specialists twisted around in her chair. I halted.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I have some questions,” the specialist said.


I grabbed an extra chair and wheeled it over. As I got settled, the specialist scrolled through her document and glanced at her hand-written notes. She pointed at a section and began to ask a series of questions, which I answered slowly and methodically and with probably too much explanation.

When I finished, I asked,

“Anything else? No? Ok.”

I stood, wheeled my chair back to its home and returned to my water mission, all with my trademark awkward smile. The specialist returned to her screen and her project, also smiling, a word of thanks thrown over her shoulder.

And it occurred to me: every day I go to work and I get to help people do better at their jobs. That is the main function of my job.

As I strode toward the kitchen and an immediate future without thirst, I marveled that life had brought me here to this unlikely position of power.

That’s really what it’s like to be a boss.

When I Grow Up


“This way,” Dad said, inclining his head to the left.

I followed him up the sidewalk, him on the outside by the street. He refused to let me walk on the outside – that was his job. He was the first line of defense in case a car jumped the curb.

Cold burrowed into my neck. I always forgot to bundle up enough for these walks. The sun crept over the trees, but its slow ascent would remain the background of our walk. The dew hung in droplets off of the tired grass. Tired, because it was still green and this was October.

“I have a new business plan,” I said. “About a social network for truckers.”

“Huh,” Dad said. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

I smiled. He smiled too, and we segued into talking about our family and the latest problems we had run into. We walked slowly, which was hard for me to do. Old habits. It helped that the street was a good uphill terrain. The houses we passed lay quiet. Too early for chaos yet. Just wait till we got around the bend – children would be waiting for the bus, parents watching from the porches.

Always seemed too early for people that age to leave for school.

Dad listened when I talked. He asked questions. He gave insight. Sometimes he made sarcastic or funny comments. Mostly we just relaxed our speech, focused more on just spending the time.

It was Tuesday. Breakfast with Dad was on Tuesday. My 3 sisters and their kids would gather at my parent’s house for pancakes or eggs and bacon every Tuesday morning. Dad always made the food. Sometimes other people brought tasty things as well – not me though, I lived the farthest away and used the extra time before my siblings arrived to walk alone with my dad.

Alone time with my dad kept me going in a very dark time.

The summer had left me bereft of my closest friends. Due to work schedules and a nasty breakup between some of them, the entire group left me and my spouse in the dust. Accustomed to meeting once every week for 2 and a half years, I found myself lost. Introversion is a curse, not a strength. It is a terrible thing to depend on a small group that decides to fracture and leave you behind. An extrovert could make other friends or have other friends, but I didn’t have anyone really present in my life except family.

Not that family isn’t a joy and a comfort.

My family, however, was suffering. My sister was in the middle of a lengthy, aggravated and combative divorce. Despite her best efforts to peaceably separate herself and her 4 kids from her husband, he was unwilling to yield.

We were unprepared.

My other older sister was carefully and diligently helping her youngest child of 3, a girl barely 1 year old, recover after a second surgery. Baby A was a miracle that almost left us the year before, but the prognosis was starting to look up after all the hospital visits and surgeries. It is strange how much you can love someone you’ve only known for such a short time.

My younger sister and her husband had serious, re-occuring health problems. His daily struggle kept him from a normal work schedule, and she was picking up the slack as best she could. The next few months ahead would see them moving out of their house for weeks in order to eradicate mold, all while dealing with special diets and multiple jobs.

My older brother had the least of the burdens, but his life wasn’t easy. At that time he was in a beautiful relationship with a lovely woman, one he wanted to marry, although I’m not sure she knew that yet. But he had been this close before, and things had gone very badly for him. Instead, he focused on his job and helping out his family as best he could.

My parents cared for my in-process divorcing sister, her 4 kids residing happily in my parents’ small home. At the time the oldest was 7, the youngest 1. Too young for their own suffering.

And I…my suffering was different. I was married to someone I loved, who apparently didn’t want to be married to me. Instead, he was quietly pushing me to unravel everything real about myself and morph into the person he thought I should be. He had moved me away from my family and my church. He was in the process of starting a very intense affair with a very young person. He constantly flirted with other women in front of me. He told me I wasn’t living up to his expectations, but he refused to tell me what those were. He shut me out of his thoughts and when he wrote future goals, none of them included me.

He asked me to marry him, but he was giving up on me.

But when I was with my dad, I felt valuable. In a sea of suffering and chaos, Dad took the time to just walk with me. Just be.

It is more than a year later. We haven’t done Tuesday breakfasts in about that amount of time. It just became too much of a hassle.

This past spring my former husband’s many affairs came to light. Instead of facing the truth about himself and his actions, he chose to give up and shut me and my family out of his life. He is not regretful. He is not sad.

In the middle of the summer I found myself displaced, but eventually, with the help of my grandparents and family, I am now in a stable living situation and moving up in a job that I love. The week I moved into my current place, I had no bed. I didn’t think I even had the money for a bed. Instead I placed my camping pad on the cement floor of my place and layered some blankets on it. It hurt my back a bit, but I was free from the constant emotional and mental prison, so who can’t deal with a little back pain?

Dad and mom insisted that I have a bed. Not only did they find me a mattress, they bought a frame and came to my house to assemble it. Mom also brought me numerous household items, as I had left my old living situation in a hurry, without any dishes and most cooking utensils.

A few weeks later, Dad came over to help mount a curtain rod in my room because the outside lights were keeping me awake most of the night. When I had a housewarming party, Dad volunteered to buy pizza when he figured I didn’t have enough food for people. There are too many other things to list.

As this past fall progressed, Dad felt worse and worse. His work back injury was taking a much harsher toll in him. His stomach was hurting all the time, and his blood pressure was suddenly off – something that had never happened to him. Finally the pain was too much, mom brought him to the ER. Several unfruitful days passed – they sent him home with no news. He went back and was committed again as his health deteriorated.

A few more days passed. My sister came over to my house to make food with me. Mom called and asked where she was. Then she said she was on her way.

I knew then.

When mom came in I was quiet.

“They have discovered that he has tumors in the lining of his stomach,” she said. As she explained the rest of the situation I just stood there, silent, controlled, watching her and wondering how long I could keep it together.

I hugged her at the end. So did my sister. As she left, she told us that she was headed to our other sister’s house, then the next. She had already called my brother, who had moved 10 hours away upon his marriage to the lovely girl.

We could fight this, still. There were home remedies. Treatments. Options.

As the options are exhausted, the home remedies rendered impossible due to increasingly complex problems, I see Dad suffering. At first all he could say or think about was all of us.

“Let me walk you out to your car,” he said to me when I was leaving his hospital room. He was attached to multiple machines and beeping up a storm. I smiled and told him I would be fine.

He bought the neighbor’s car when he found out they were getting rid of it, because “your sisters might need it.”

He talked to a guy a church and asked him to check on my car if he had time.

In one year, I have experienced the complete definition of a selfish man and a self-less man. The selfish man chose to leave and continue his him-focused life. The self-less man is suffering every day and chooses to live his self-less life for his family.

When I was 9 I told my dad that when I grew up I wanted to be a writer.

Dad, when I grow up, I want to be you.

Once Upon A Goat

We frequent a coffee shop that uses a goat emblem. I always call it goat coffee. In honor of my students from this week and my Dad, I’m going to write a short story for you every time I end up at the goat coffee place.

I’ll try, anyway.


North Wall Vines


Brighton nestled deeper into the prickly vines. Thorns and sticks scratched her face and hands. Gloves. Next time she would remember her rough gloves.

Right. Next time she had to randomly jump into the vines on the North wall to avoid The Boys she would definitely remember gloves. Maybe carrying gloves should’ve been her go-to action all along, since avoiding groups of people seemed to be her lot in life.

“Come on,” Samuel called out. “She doesn’t want to talk to us.”

Brighton listened to the six retreating footsteps. There should really be seven, Brighton observed. Someone was hiding. Probably Marius. He was always working harder than the others for her affections.

Give up now, she thought, while you still have half a day left to explore the world.


Brighton’s breath caught in her throat. She bit her lip to keep her mouth closed. Don’t cough, don’t cough.

The cough broke free, throwing her head forward into thorns, her hands back against the rock wall to steady her. Coughing and coughing and more coughing. Air seemed in very short supply suddenly.

Hands reached through the vines, parting them like curtains. The hands gently settled on Brighton’s shoulders and pulled her out of the green chaos into the golden hour of twilight. She couldn’t think but coughing, her body shaking, her eyes closed. A flask of water pressed to her lips. She gulped.

Heat surrounded her. She sighed. She opened her eyes to The Boys. All smiles. All aglow. All offering shy pats of encouragement and care, all ready with another flask of water, all focused on her comfort.

She took a deep, free breath. Closed her eyes.

They only want your good, she told herself. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“Are you alright?” Samuel asked, the chosen leader. He stood beside Marius, whose hand was still softly gripping Brighton’s shoulder. Samuel might be the speaking leader of The Boys, but Marius was definitely the bravest when it came to winning Brighton’s affections.

Brighton sighed again. She offered a smile. Smiles in return. The group relaxed again, happy to be released from any guilt. They only wanted her attention and her comfort, after all.

The slimmest boy, Peregrin, stepped forward to offer a handkerchief for Brighton’s bleeding face. The thorns had caught her harshly and left an angry stain of red across her cheeks. It isn’t queen-like, she thought, to hide from my own subjects. Especially when they simply want my company. Selfish.

“Samuel,” Brighton said. “Must you always follow me?”

He grinned.

“Only when you lead us on such good adventures.”

Brighton had to smile at this. The rest of her life would be leading them on adventures, as dictated by her tribal leaders. Queen. Warrior. Adventurer.

And yet.

“Well, let’s be off,” she said, knowing that every boy would follow her. Knowing that every single one of them longed to be chosen. Knowing that no matter who she chose, she would have their loyalty until her last breath. Knowing that no matter how many vines she hid behind, none could stop the future of a Wandering Queen, even if that queen was only thirteen years old.

She accepted the offered handkerchief for her face and strode away from the wall, Her Boys falling into step behind and around her.


Filmmaking is for Warriors: How to Break a Filmmaker

Filmmaking is for Warriors_How to Break.png

Empty white tables. 9 students shuffling in, at least 3 of them super early for class, and at least 3 of them walking in about a minute late. The teacher, a distinguished man with an uncanny resemblance to Tony Stark, sits at the side of a large white board hanging on the wall in front of the pressed-together tables.

The students settle into their normal spots – when you only have to deal with 8 other people, keeping your sacred seat is easy. The majority of these students are graduate students in writing. The rest are split up between undergrads in Communications or English.

I am one of the students that is majoring in Communications, Film Emphasis, and I always feel like everyone else thinks I’m a few dollars short of full-on eccentric weirdo status. I’m the one who wrote the short film about my brother leaving the kitchen cabinets open. I’m the one who dislikes reading aloud in class. I’m the one who did a presentation of the definition of “chick flicks.” (Which is actually an interesting topic that I’d be happy to explore later.)

Let’s be clear: No classmate ever bullied me or said anything malicious in the entire 2 years I attended that school for my Bachelors. Or, if they did, it was done in such a way that I didn’t take it as an insult.

But I was very shy.

And, for the sake of reality, I am a little bit short of normal.

Class starts when Tony Stark begins interacting with the students. He’s fairly informal, but it’s clear that he is in charge, has a plan, and knows what he is talking about. Today is a criticism day, so the format of class is already known to the students. Basically, the first 10 pages of a student’s script are going to be dissected in front of the group, shredded to bits with choice words and “feedback” and then left for dead out on the cold, white tabletop.

How do you break a filmmaker? Enroll them in a screenwriting class and let the games begin.

Here’s the drill: each student has 3 months to finish writing a feature film, a short film script or a TV series script with a full series bible. Since I always worked on a feature screenplay, I won’t waste time explaining the other two concepts in this post.

A feature film is typically between 90 to 120 pages. It must adhere to script guidelines, which are very specific, but if you have Celtx or Final Draft the program has your back on most of that formatting. Script formatting is not something that the teacher devised to ruin your life, though, as opposed to other scholarly guidelines. Script formatting is in place to paint the pictures of your story into the heads of every person on the production crew. By refusing to follow script formatting you are not making a statement about your individuality, you are giving the potential director, cinematographer, set designer and a host of other people a headache.

I wanted to be a professional screenwriter, so I always worked on features (that’s not a commentary on short film writing – generally shorts are harder). I took screenwriting 4 semesters in a row, in addition to other writing classes. The first semester was the easiest, in a way, because I don’t think we actually had to complete a full feature for that one.

Now, imagine this, you have 3 months to write at least a solid 90 pages of workable script. After the first 4-6 weeks you have to have something to be reviewed in class, because your classmates and teacher are there to help you become a better screenwriter. So you write and you write and you write. And those weeks fly by until it’s the night of your work, and everyone has been sent the first 10 pages of your script. As Tony explained, if you haven’t created all the expectations and set-up in the first 10 pages, you better revise.

So me, shy me, introvert me, I bring copies of my script to be read aloud in class. And when the dust settles, all the prose and dialog finished, I stare down at the white pages with black print in horrified anticipation of the reactions.

Tony Stark starts with an opening line like,

“Jessie, I want to like your script…”

(Brace yourselves, he’s about to shoot  me in the heart, and add a double tap to the head for good measure.)

“…But I just don’t get it.”

“Yeah, me neither.”


Agreement surrounds me. I wait, patiently, the blood pumping out of my heart, as Tony Stark continues, his words carefully chosen for maximum punch.

The descriptions are falling flat. The characters are too cartoony. Motives are unclear. The environment is difficult to grasp. The plot is too complex.

By the end of the class period I’ve nodded and thanked everyone for their feedback, and I stand awkwardly to gather all of my things. The 9 file out, but I’m waiting til the last, not even a Hobbit in their fellowship. My work of the last month has been reduced to a few lines of a concept, and every bit of my soul that I poured into those 10 pages is withered and gasping, a fish that survived the Pelican, but was dropped on the dry beach to breathe itself to death.

There will always be a time for constructive criticism, but the surest way of breaking a filmmaker is to show them what that really means.

But in the breaking, that filmmaker will be re-made. And the new creation will be far better than the one that was broken.

I left that night, and I contemplated giving it all up. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a screenwriter. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a writer. Maybe this was my sign to stop killing myself and become an FBI agent instead.

So I went home. And I rewrote that whole script. And I let them tear it apart again. And I signed up for the next semester of direct hits from the man who made billionaire status cool again (or his look-alike anyway).

Because this created better scripts.

And no matter how hard they broke me, this filmmaker never gave up. Because writers write, filmmakers make films, and we do it all the better when we listen to constructive criticism and refuse to give up.

The Tragedy of Small-Minded Grammar Snobs

When I was 11 and carried a notebook everywhere, people wondered about me.  When I still did it at 14, people asked, “What’s with the notebook?”  And I told them I was a writer.

This should’ve freaked them out, really.  I mean, if I saw a little girl who still carried a notebook everywhere from 11-14 and said she was a writer I’d be on my guard.  Mostly because of people like this:

Behave, Geoffrey Chaucer actually did eviscerate people in his writings.  Who do you think provide the best character ideas?  Real people.

But, I always kinda thought that writing was about giving humans somewhere to escape.  I didn’t write to tell the truth–like journalists are supposed to do (hahahahaha).  I wrote because I wanted a new truth.

And I never expected that writers should be this outstanding example of good grammar.  Most of the writers I really loved as a child and even now don’t follow a lot of traditional grammar rules.

If I correct someone’s grammar, it’s not because it’s wrong.  It’s because I want what they said/wrote to be understood.  Whatever the existentialists say, every speaker/writer has an intent to their communication.  And to quote a movie from last year, “Precision of language!”  (The Giver)

So when I see things like this:

“The speech impediment of the 21st century” I die a little inside.  What does Marc Johns think “and I was like” means?  Because he should know, as an English speaker (if indeed he is) that “I was like” doesn’t mean “I said.”  It means, “this is sorta what I said but not precisely, more like the feeling I had/the idea I was communicating, whether in words, thought or body language.”

“I was like” is actually more accurate than “I said” and conveys a lot more information.  If I say, “He told me that he was late because he fell asleep, so I said, ‘Right, have fun with that,'” it’s just not as much information as;

“He told me that he was late because he fell asleep and I was like, sure, he fell asleep.  Probably started texting that slut from Math.  Seriously, he expects me to believe that?  I was like, right, well, have fun with that.”

What this Marc person claims as a speech impediment is actually a more effective method of communication than that which he snobbishly holds in esteem.  Languages, ones that are spoken today all over the world, are living, breathing things.  They change.  They have to.  Communication is constantly updating.  What do we call a picture we take of ourselves that has to be posted in a social networking setting?  How do we say that a book or story is so good at getting our emotions over-flowing that we run out of words to describe it?  What do we call the scent of rain when it stops?

More writers make up words than correct grammar usages.  I hope.  Neil Gaiman isn’t the only person to create a firestorm after coining the above word.  Language is about getting information across, even if that means we make up a better way to understand each other.

The next time someone complains about the addition of “selfie” to the dictionary, say, “Precision of language,” and walk away.  They’re obviously not that interested in communication.

Rules, Anyone?

Welcome to 2015.  The Earth is still round.  The USA is still my home.  Gravity still keeps us trapped on the surface of the only habitable rock in nearby space.

Stop that.  What I’m saying is this; a new year has begun, but humanity remains the same.

Last time I posted I told ya’ll of my new goals for this year.  I briefly mentioned something I dubbed “12 Months of Movies.”  I’ll elaborate.

In this illustrious 2015 I shall complete a film every month.  A “film” in this instance is anything motion captured that exceeds a minute in length and tells a story.  Whether the story is true (or a version of truth, called a documentary), or fiction, animated (drawn, generated, stop-motion), or live action, silent or full of diegetic sound, filmed by me or another person, written by me or another person…it’s all an open field.  When I say “I” in this instance I mean that I will be the driving factor behind the film, whether I produce, direct, write, edit or shoot it, I must be either the main reason or the partnering reason the film gets finished.


  1. I shall complete a film exceeding the length of 1 minute each month.
  2. The film can be any genre and any medium.
  3. I must be the driving force behind it’s completion.
  4. I must post it here, whether it succeeds or utterly fails.  We learn more from our failures than our successes anyway.

(Joss Whedon)

You may be asking me why I am doing this.  After all, I had a fairly successful year last year with 52 creative projects.  Why trouble my life by seeking out a new way to suck my time and energy away?

There is a terrible burden in being an artist.  It is this:  does my work, my life, my soul and heart and time mean anything?  Is this art actually worth anything?

I don’t know yet.  I don’t know what kind of stories I should be telling.  I know what kinds I like to see, but I don’t always make those kinds of stories real.

What I can tell you is that I shall make some comedies.  I shall make some dramas.  I will hopefully make an action film or two, since I enjoy those greatly.  And I shall want, desire and ask for your feedback.

Tell me what works.  Tell me what doesn’t.  Give me your opinion.  Even if it’s “I hated this movie a lot”, tell me.  And when I ask you why, please be specific.

That’s the only way I’ll ever really know if it means anything.

Following that line, what story or genre or type of film would you like to see, if anything could be made?  A vampire movie?  An epic?  A drama about a big family?  An action movie?

Next time I post, it will be a film.  Talk to you then.

52 Weeks of Creative: Week 49

A friend of mine is an English major.  She is an excellent poet.  Her influence, along with my brush with Shakespeare the other week, challenged me to try my mind at a poem.

Please don’t read this thinking I know what I’m doing.  I don’t.  I did my best to follow the instructions and example listed here.  This person knows what they are talking about.  Well, I hope they do anyway.  I wouldn’t know either way.

Here’s my first try at a sonnet.  The dark material comes naturally to me and has nothing to do with reality.

He Said

He said, “we all have secrets left to live”
Like unwrapped Christmas presents left to give
We all have dreams to shatter on ourselves
Like broken black gates leading straight to hell

He said, “I’ll tell you what you’ve been given;”
“All the color of life and its dark paints.”
Where have you hidden the burns of your sins?
In bottles of jade like the dreams of saints?

Now you run from the darkness you run and
You hide the hurt in a coat and a smile
You’re running your soul across the miles
You can’t forget you’ve been chosen for trials

I wrapped all the presents I can’t give
He said, “we all have secrets left to live”

As always, feel free to comment with suggestions, feedback or projects of your own!

52 Weeks of Creative: Week 19

I saw The Amazing Spider-Man 2 on Saturday.

For those of us who are versed in the comic books and/or the animated series, the intensity of this film came as no surprise.  The references to the comics and series were special, funny and fitting.  The suits, acting, action, visuals, characters…pretty much EVERYTHING, made sense and was good.  Great even.

So why isn’t this movie getting good reviews?

The writing team behind this film wrote the new Star Trek movies.  All those emotional nuances and layered characters beloved by audiences (including me) are back in this totally different film.  How Alex Kurtzman, Robert Orci, and Jeff Pinkner were able to transfer all that writing strength into the super hero genre is beyond me.  They are geniuses.

Not surprising that the person who links them is one of my favorite people, J.J. Abrams.

Why am I talking about Spider-Man when it has absolutely NOTHING to do with my creative project this week?  Because it’s a fantastic movie.  It’s really good. But it won’t make you feel that good when you leave.  It’s not like walking out of the door after The Avengers or Thor 2 or Captain America.  The people in front of me sobbed rather loudly during the film.

But just because it’s not a totally feel-good movie doesn’t mean it isn’t awesome.  That’s my opinion.  Let me know what you think of the film when you see it.

(Also, it has Paul Giamatti in it, one of my favorite actors)

My project this week was a book called Silence Stressed.  I’m guessing at this moment that you’re double-checking the title of this blog.  Yup, same name.

Not a coincidence.

I wrote this book a few years ago.  I’m finally moving forward to self-publishing it through a company called CreateSpace.com.  The proof came in the mail this last week.  I spent the week proof-reading.  It’s all set now.  It’ll be available on Kindle soon too.

IMG_2858 copy

It’s about a girl who gets caught up in a lie, a band, a drummer and a bass player.  It’s about stupidity, growing up, writing.  It’s about young people and music.  It’s about rejection, choices and moving on.

It’s not my life story, but I did write it.

Buy Silence Stressed.  🙂

closeup blue guitar

As always, feel free to comment with suggestions, ideas and projects of your own!

52 Weeks of Creative: Week 12


Here’s the link to our Indiegogo campaign: Keep Coming Back.

A looooooooooooooong time ago I received an email from a school friend of mine.  She was wondering if I would be interested in revising/rewriting her screenplay.  Basically shehad written out her story of how she had gotten out of a life of drug addiction.

So I did research.  And I talked to a paramedic.  And I listened to her descriptions.

And I rewrote and wrote a screenplay called Keep Coming Back.

We of course wanted to produce the film.  For my 12th week, I made a promo video for the project.  This is us, talking up our project, which will shortly be live on Indiegogo.com.