Listening to: “This Night Has Opened My Eyes” – The Smiths

They moved my desk at work—now I have a window. It faces west, so I watch the sun falling behind the buildings and the giant Fort Point parking lot. The downside of daylight savings time being that it’ll be dark by 4pm.

My new desk includes four dead cacti and a prime spot to spy on the mysterious gents in the corner—the ones who run an entirely different and entirely mysterious company independent from Go2. They’re too boring looking to be genuinely creepy, but it’s always the ones you don’t suspect…

I’ve been reading up on the screenwriter’s strike that started today. It’s twisted that the studios haven’t acquiesced to their WHOLLY REASONABLE demands. Instead, they’re already planning on how to keep television and film going sans WRITING. Jesus.

God bless you, Tina Fey.

In my backwards, root-for-the-underdog way, all this news about the strike has made me think more about screenwriting as a career. If only it didn’t involve having to move to LA. But there are strikers in New York too, so all’s not lost.

Just the idea of writing as a non-solitary activity sounds really nice. It’d be a way for me to use my “skills” without spending my days alone in my apartment with a laptop.