1. I was cast in Glengarry Glen Ross, which opens tonight at The Generic Theater and runs till Feb 10. You try keeping up with a blog while rehearsing a play and see how it goes. I'm playing Kevin Spacey.
2. I went to Georgia twice, Charlottesville 4 or 5 times, Baltimore once, North Carolina once, D.C. twice, and almost went to Florida.
3. I'm not allowed to write; it's a writer's strike, after all.
4. Okay, I'm allowed to write. But I tried to get permission to reprint a great article from Creative Screenwriting about the strike and why it's important, and they were all enthusiastic but never got back to me.
5. I watched a bunch of Oscar screeners with my dear friend Ginny and her son Matt and his awesome girlfriend Joan. They're voting members so they get the magic DVDs.
6. Cloverfield is going to be the most profitable movie in years. I know this has nothing to do with why I haven't been writing lately, I just wanted to point it out. Want to make massive cash? Shoot a movie for <30 mil, cast unknowns, shoot handheld camera, and only use 10 minutes of the expensive kind of CGI. NOTE: this will only work if you put talented people in charge.
7. I got two baby sugar gliders and have been raisin' 'em up. You try keeping up with a blog while being a daddy. It's impossible. What? Lots of people do it? Fuck.

The Dave Matthews Band played the welcome picnic during my orientation week at the University of Virginia. They were beginning to attract attention for their regular Tuesday night gigs at Trax, which by my third year there was a statewide phenomenon. But at the time, they still played picnics and fraternity parties. I thought they were neat, but didn't stay long since I had yet to develop the ability to interact with strangers my own age. What I remember about that day was the crazy guy in the straw hat playing violin.

Three years later, I was pitching him my music video ideas.

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A few months ago, my friend The Finn told me to send him a DVD of our indie movie, Moving. It turns out he had a friend who was starting a new distribution company, a subsidiary of Universal. They offered us $20,000, 20% of net profits, and we would have had access to the full Universal music library for licensing if we wanted to put in new music. At my insistence, we turned them down.

To be precise, I proposed revisions to the contract they wanted us to sign–and they flatly refused to consider them. So we didn't sign. Here's why it was the right thing to do.

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I've started a new category called "Human Behavior Lessons." Follow it to discover amazing things about humans! Better understand humans and you will write better characters. Write better characters and you will write better screenplays.

I hope I haven't left you hanging too long, dear readers, but I've had to spend the last day and a half trying to repair my email system and address book due to a corrupted email synchronization, due to a computer intrusion. The repair failed so I had to restore my hard drive from a backup. Lost a day and a half of work.

Now, today's lesson: How To Prevent People From Telling You the Truth:

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"Glen Phillips is playing the NorVa," said my friend The Finn.

"That's the guy from Toad the Wet Sprocket," replied Traveling Matt.

"Duh. Let's go."

"Don't know if I can afford it."

"I'm bringing two women."

"Pick me up at seven."

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So in Part One I went to Maine, and in Part Two I went to Canada and got blown up at.

In Part Three I return to Maine and have a terrific week with Fancy Pants, FPS (Fancy Pants' Sister), and their assortment of very large dogs. I really like those girls. They're smart and goofy and kind of ruthless; they're full of odd personality combinations. They love the outdoors and have cynical senses of humor. They love their dogs.

We left Canada and headed back over the border. At the border checkpoint, I sat in the passenger seat. Both times. Both times I passed my identification over, and both times the border guard–up in a booth on the driver's side–examined it and waved us through without looking at my face. I could have handed them some other dude's ID while smoking a joint wearing a turban and they'd have given me a gift basket.

Marshmallow Fields Forever

The thing that surprised me most this trip was that in Maine they grow marshmallows on farms. They're lined up in rows, in field after field, each one the size of a cow.

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I've sent off my package. I am now an official applicant for the commissioning grant. As you can tell by the sleepless, starving, sweat-stinking guy on the right making a stupid face, it was stressful to put together. Thanks to everyone who weighed in and pointed out to me that the good fellow was genuinely offering help and I'd be stupid not to accept it. I deferred to your votes and comments; don't ever say I didn't. I let the Internet tell me how to live my life, and I'm proud of it.

There is an incredibly funny sequel to this story, however, and I'll mention it in a later post…

In the meantime, wish me luck. Those of you who believe in Science, pray heartily for glorious triumph!

I decided to apply for a $20,000 Commissioning Grant for the new screenplay I've been working on. I've been doing round-the-clock web-design work to afford food; this grant would free me up to take a break and finish writing. It could be a hell of a movie if I could concentrate on the damn thing for more than an hour a week. So I asked a Hollywood producer who's seen and liked my work to write me a recommendation letter.

Today he wrote back and said, "Please send me the letter you'd like. I'll sign it and return it to you on my letterhead."

Am I right to feel vaguely dirty about this, or should I be falling all over myself with gratitude?

I mean, the guy likes what I've done. He's trying to help. But this just feels downright fucked up.

Maybe I should stop being so creeped out by the way they do things out there and just write myself the most glowing recommendation letter in the history of the planet.

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So where we left off in Part One, I was 1) struggling with whether to make the characters in my screenplay more sympathetic, and 2) in Maine.

After a day in lobsterland, we packed up and continued on into Nova Scotia. In case you were wondering whether they have a different set of values up in the Northeast with regard to their natural environment, the following two pictures are from a highway rest stop along the way:

Every writer needs something different to write their best. I need trees, water, and wildlife. (And the occasional shoulder rub doesn't hurt.)

This was my first view of the Nova Scotia coast:

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When I visited New York City several years ago, I went to the New York Public Library for the first time. I walked up between the giant stone lions, past which the Ghostbusters in the 1980's ran screaming. (photo: Wally Gobetz, used with permission) I hopped up an old staircase and found myself in a room filled with glass cases. In one of them was a small hardbound book, with yellowish-white pages, opened to the title page printed in that distinctive, spread-out all-caps old-timey typeface (you know what I mean)–it was Walden by Henry David Thoreau.

Just under the title and author was a small note, written in pencil. I don't remember the exact wording, but basically it said, "To my dear friend Ralph Waldo Emerson" and was signed "Henry David Thoreau."

What I remember most was the fact that it was written in pencil. I don't think Henry was giving much thought to how it would endure in museum displays; he was just writing a note to his buddy Ralph, who was more famous than he was.

But that's not an interesting story, so feel free to go back in time and not read it. The point is that I was thinking about Walden the last couple of weeks. Henry David Thoreau stepped into the New England woods and came out with one of the great beloved books in American history. Every writer is different, of course–some can write brilliantly in the middle of subway trains, NASCAR races, and leafblower conventions. Most of the ones I've met, though, are a little more like Thoreau and need their space. We can go anywhere to read Walden, but Thoreau had to go to the woods to write it.

So when I was invited to go to Maine and Nova Scotia for two and half weeks, I emailed all my web design clients, called a few friends to cancel plans, and left within three days. A dear friend got frustrated with me and said, "You don't have to leave to write! You can do it anywhere." We are no longer on speaking terms.

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