CHARLIE: Ya know what I miss? I miss the gold star. I'd 'a done anything to get that star. Yes, miss teacher. No, miss teacher. Seventeen, miss teacher. The cotton gin, miss teacher. Half a quid at the corner store for twenty-five, and I'd 'a fucking cut a man for one. They came in red and blue and silver, but the best, the best were the gold. Ain't never been a feeling like it, before or since. Gettin' a gold star was achievement. It was a pure hit of pride, mainlined straight into your fuckin' eyeballs. If you ain't never got a gold star, that's worse than bein' a virgin. A man could have a thousand women and never once feel the warmth and serenity and satisfaction of that single golden star. But now? I got a million choices. A billion opportunities. And not one of them, not a fucking one, gets me a gold star. That's what I miss.

Words I Live By

Maxim 1: No one does anything uncharacteristic of themselves.

If you're surprised, there's something you're not seeing. Find it.

Maxim 2: Ignorance of the truth doesn't make it untrue.

Avoidance of an unpleasant truth simply makes you unprepared for when it comes knocking.

Maxim 3: The proper chaser for whisky is more whisky.

If you don't like the taste of whisky, don't drink it, jackass.

Maxim 4: The means don't justify the ends.

Sure, it feels good now, but it results in everyone being miserable down the road.

Maxim 5: Think ahead. If that doesn't work, think sideways.

Never retreat in your thinking.

Maxim 6: Nothing changes for no reason.

It's not actually calm before the storm. Find the reason for little changes.

Maxim 7: If you want a secret kept, keep it.

Don't allude. Either you want people to know, or you don't. Pick one and stick to it.

Maxim 8: Do what scares you.

Caution is useful; fear is useless.

Maxim 9: Be prepared to improvise.

Don't plan. Intend.

Maxim 10: People ask the questions they want to be asked, and share what they want you to share.

People assume reciprocation – when they aim to discover, they also reveal.

Maxim 11: Every now and then, do something really stupid.

Fact is, you're probably wrong about something. Maybe you'll stumble into fortune.

Maxim 12: Keep your perspective in perspective.

Check your blind spots.

Maxim 13: Grace is learned from falls.

There ain't a dancer around who hasn't landed on their ass over and over.

Maxim 14: Strength is weakness.

To be bold is to be reckless; to be cautious is to be indecisive.

Edit: Maxim 14 on 26 Dec 2009

Mizu no Kokoro

A mighty dam but slows a river

A single stone may change its course

A galleon cannot sail in irons

Nor force be safely met by force

Retreat from pressure

Rush into void

A solid step's the first to falter

The surest paths

Are ones that're led

By minds that flow like water

A Scene!

A bright desert day, with a noonday sun so hot you can hear it sizzle. The only feature is an old stone well. A cowboy is propped against it, his hat covering his face. Brendan lays unconscious a few yards away.

BRENDAN
Wha...?

He shakes the cobwebs from his mind and notices the cowboy.

BRENDAN
Who are you?

COWBOY
Just some guy.

BRENDAN
No name?

COWBOY
Not much use for names out here.

BRENDAN
There is now. I'm Brendan. Where the hell am I?

The cowboy stands, unfolding slowly, showing his face for the first time; a face burdened by every memory he's ever had. A mnemonic Atlas, pinned beneath the world.

COWBOY
Welcome to the West, kid. You can call me Shane.

BRENDAN
Well, it's nice to meet you, Shane. This might sound strange, but do you know how I got here?

SHANE
Same way everyone does. You rode into the sunset.

BRENDAN
Okay. So which way's east?

Shane laughs.

SHANE
They're all east, kid.

BRENDAN
How am I supposed to get back, then?

SHANE
No such thing as going back, in my experience, and out here, there's only one way forward.

Shane points at the well.

BRENDAN
Down there?

Shane nods.

BRENDAN
What's down there?

SHANE
A graveyard. The End of Days.

BRENDAN
I think I'll stay up here.

Shane doesn't respond, and Brendan has nothing to say. It makes for an awkward silence.

BRENDAN
So what's there to do here?

SHANE
Wait.

BRENDAN
Wait?

SHANE
Wait until you forget. Until you're forgotten. Until whatever's chasing you gives up and goes home.

A long pause.

SHANE
Until you go down the well.

BRENDAN
Shane?

SHANE
Mm?

BRENDAN
You wouldn't happen to know anyone named Ezekiel, would you?

A sad smile spreads across Shane's face.

SHANE
Yeah. I did.

BRENDAN
Well, it's probably not the same guy, and I don't even know what the hell it means, it's likely nothing...

Brendan cues up his recorder and hits play.

EZEKIEL
(recording)
–is Ezekiel, by the way. I just wanted to tell you–this probably won't make any sense. Probably won't matter. But if it does, please, just tell him that I'm sorry. That I'm sorry I remember, and it won't be much longer.

Brendan hits stop.

BRENDAN
That make any sense to you?

SHANE
Yeah. Thanks.

Another long silence. Brendan kicks stones and picks at the sand, bored witless. Shane just sits.

BRENDAN
So, unless I want to stay right here, I gotta go down that well, right?

SHANE
Mmm-hm.

BRENDAN
'Cause everyone goes down it eventually, right?

SHANE
That's right.

BRENDAN
So why haven't you?

SHANE
I've got my reasons.

BRENDAN
Good ones?

Shane chuckles softly.

SHANE
No.

Shane looks up, then walks away from the well.

BRENDAN
Going somewhere?

SHANE
You'll want to step away from the well.

BRENDAN
Why?

SHANE
It's almost sundown.

BRENDAN
Are you kidding? It's high noon! There's–

There's a roar and a brilliant flash as something streaks down the well. It is night.

BRENDAN
What was that?!

SHANE
Sundown.

Brendan looks down the well.

BRENDAN
End of Days. Clever.

SHANE
I've got lots of time on my hands.

BRENDAN
So how does it get back east?

SHANE
It doesn't.

BRENDAN
But if this is where the sun sets, how does it rise?

SHANE
The sun?

BRENDAN
Yeah.

SHANE
You know what a day of sunlight costs? One life. One sun. Can't nothing burn like that too long. Things that go down don't come back up.

Brendan stares at him incredulously.

BRENDAN
Man, you're full of shit.

SHANE
(wheeling on Brendan)
What, you think every son's the same? They're not.

Shane advances on Brendan, grabbing his shirt.

SHANE
Some don't burn as brightly as their brothers. In the eyes of their father, some don't shine at all.

Brendan retreats from Shane's shouts, hits the lip of the well and stumbles backwards. Shane realizes what he's done, and as Brendan falls, Shane lunges forward. For a moment they hang suspended, but Brendan slips from Shane's grasp and plummets down the well.

SHANE
ZEKE!!!!

Shane drops to his knees at the side of the well.

SHANE
Zeke....

"Here I am again, driving down another god-forsaken stretch of road to god-knows-where in the middle of the night. It's like that most of the time, now. Night, I mean. Or at least it's night more often. I mean that I'm active more at night now, not that night is any longer than it used to be.

"'Course, it might be. I lost my watch somewhere in the fall down the well, and this piece of shit I'm driving's got no dashboard clock. It might be two in the afternoon, for all I know. But that's impossible. No, it's improbable. I've gotten a little leery of the word 'impossible' in recent...weeks? days?

"I haven't seen the sun proper in a while. I've seen daytime, but there's always clouds or a haze or a mountain range in the way. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I've gotten used to night. It's comfortable. It's quiet. I'm almost starting to prefer it, a strange nyctophilia settling into my soul. If I still have a soul. That fellow down in Hell wasn't too clear on the price of this junker.

"So I spend my days driving at night, just the stars, the road, and...wait. Is that a hitchhiker?"

Why.

For my Tisch application, I need a statement of purpose; why I want to be a writer, and why I'm applying to their program. As I need every bit of awesome in this I can get, please feel free to critique what I post.

"I didn't always want to be a writer. This isn't something I've dreamed about since I was little, but rather something I discovered fairly recently, and while I've always loved a good story, the inclination to write one for myself didn't strike until I was 18. A friend had suggested I write something for our student-written full-length play festival, Infinite Monkeys. For months, I had nothing. No characters, no tales needing telling, until, while lying in bed, something grew; a scene that carried with it some strange admixture of emotion. It was a sensation complex beyond description, but it was one I wanted to share. I could think of no other way than to write the story that would evoke such reactions in a viewer.

So I spent four months writing. I chose a traditional structure, one might say a boring structure, as it was my first play. I didnʼt want to clutter the play with thirteen types of experimentation, so I wrote a kind of “Arthur Millerʼs Don Quixote,” which I named The Florentine, the play included in my portfolio. I enjoyed the process of writing, learning structure and pacing through experimentation, but the real joy didn't hit me until opening night.

I digress, but I still find it fascinating that, as busy and selfish as we are, people crowd into a darkened room to watch. There's a magic in a good story, a simple sort of sorcery that grants fools wisdom, cowards courage, and brings bold men to weeping...if only for a few brief hours. Watching an audience breathe together as they lived a story that came from my heart was profoundly rewarding. Yet, at that point, writing was still only a hobby.

It wasn't until after the show, when friends and strangers came up to me to tell me that their grandmother had Alzheimer's, or that their father just passed away. I saw people smiling through their tears. They couldn't articulate exactly why they smiled or cried, other than that it was right, and that it was true.

And still, at that point, writing was not my future. I would write another show or two, because friends told me not to stop, but writing wasn't a viable profession. In my mind, once college was over, I'd move on to a real job, one I could actually succeed at.

Nine months after The Florentine was staged, my grandmother passed away. My grandfather later told me that in the weeks that followed her death, he read The Florentine over and over. That he cried every time, but the tears weren't bitter. My simple story brought a measure of peace where it was needed, to a man I had no business advising.

The Talmud teaches that to save one life is to save the whole world. If, by simply telling a story truthfully, I can ease one heart, spark one laugh, bear a single measure of wisdom, every effort I spend is worth it.

Sadly, while I possess the art, my knowledge of the science is dismal. What little technical expertise I possess is from my own blind study and experimentation. I want to learn to tell a story, as best and truthfully as I can. I want to ensure that the story is never hampered by the telling, and to do that, I need to learn from writers who have gone before me. As much as I can, as fast as I can. There are tales full of truth in my head, and I simply want to tell them. All I ask is that you give me a little guidance. "

Ember Eyes

"When I was a little kid, I used to have the most terrible dreams. Monsters with embers for eyes and venom in their smiles. And every night they'd wait for me. Quiet. Watching. I'd scream awake, and my mother would tell me that it was just a dream.

"Of course, that was a long time ago. I don't dream anymore. There's nothing for me between dusk and dawn, just a little slice of oblivion. I suppose it's for the best. But sometimes...sometimes oblivion gets lonely, and I miss my monsters and their smiles."