SEVEN GRAINS OF SAND
I wrote the best thing I have ever written in the spring of 1987, sitting at a card table in a rented bungalow in Silver Lake, drinking instant coffee out of a mug that said "World's Okayest Screenwriter." The bungalow had a lemon tree in the backyard and a water heater that groaned like a dying man whenever anyone took a shower. The rent was four hundred dollars a month, which was cheap even...
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