room of my own


Not enough hours in the day and it gets intensely frustrating.

I’ve been working with the amazing David Franco of to redesign my main website (Hexnet designed the temporary web page that is up right now, I love these guys, if you need a site you should contact them). There will also be a ‘Dreamlines’ website on which I’ll be posting free installments of a new Bloodangel/Summoners novel (more on that later, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and promises to be a really exciting project, at least for me). I’m also back at work on another novel called SHADOW HILL, named after a street I pass when I drive up to Mulholland. The book is about narcissism and the New Hollywood, and it’s either an urban fantasy or “a dark Los Angeles fable” and love story, I can’t decide. Time (and marketing) will tell.

And I rearranged my bedroom. Got rid of some of the furniture the interior decorator had installed during that previous life known as Marriage, including the silk-and-wool rug that is a questionable purchase at best when you have small kids and small dogs running around. So now I have these clean, airy swaths of space, bare lightwood floor, unobstructed floor-to-ceiling windows (okay, still partially obstructed by stacks of books, but not for much longer). In my war on clutter, it occurred to me that I also need to get rid of anything involving drawers in which clutter finds shelter so this long, custom-designed dresser/table thing had to go. Somewhere an interior-decorator fairy just died.

But my new desk kicks ass.


In the lack of anything truly interesting to tell you, I give you pictures:

These are the vermeer calla lilies some mysterious person sent me just before Mother’s Day. So thank you, Mysterious Person:

And these are photos from an art show held in a small gallery in Beverly Hills last night. My producer/screenwriter friend Nick — readers might remember him from the entry about the Cut Copy concert in which I compared him to a Muppet serial killer for which he has forgiven me– hosted it for his artist friend Alexander. The crowd was too big for the gallery and spilled out onto the sidewalk. The event seemed well-documented, involving a photographer from Women’s Wear Daily who took pictures of us in various configurations and this other guy who said he was making a documentary about Alexander. He pointed the camera at my face and asked what I thought of the art. I rattled out something about how I liked the elements — the found art and graffiti and hey, some hot-pink, so bonus — and, when the camera continued to glare at me, ended with a little fist pump and a, “Go, Alexander!” “Thanks, that was brilliant,” the guy lied, and wandered off.

I had missed Nick’s previous two big nights — the premiere of his movie TYSON, a documentary about the boxer, and his housewarming party — and he sent me a text asking if I was going to “flake” on the art show. I told him I would be there. He texted back: Excellent!… If you get jammed and are about to miss it – just remember — I WILL DESTROY YOU. Proving once again that there’s nothing like a threat to keep a friendship alive.

And, just for fun, this is a picture of my mother currently visiting from the cold northern homeland (a.k.a. ‘Canada’). The man beside her is a lovely friend named Brian. “Pretend to be her gigolo,” I said. I was in a directing kind of mood.


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