When the writers walked

I couldn’t write? It was a little death, or maybe not so little. Like early retirement. The golden years? Retirement means taking out the garbage, every day, maybe twice a day. Going to Dutton’s Books to browse. To the pet store to talk to the parrots. Looking at TVs wider than our couch. Picket and gossip.

It’s only 8:30 p.m.? I can’t go to bed at this hour. Would it be disloyal to the guild to watch an “all-new” episode of “The L Word?” To think maybe Leno is better without writers?

Wrote a letter to Obama, telling him what to say and how to say it, threw it away and took the garbage out. I would have turned my unproduced script into a play, except Warner Bros. owns the copyright and I couldn’t even talk to them about making a deal because I was on strike.

Write an Op-Ed piece? Sure.

Haiku-like.

They’ll change it

Cut my heart out

Old story