After the first script sold I bought this cabin. "Tim you gotta' be sensible with your money," she said. "You've sold one script sure, but you're not Tirintino yet." 

"It's Tarantino, mom." 

"Whatever." She then went back to cooking Motzo and left me in piece to write the second best script I've ever written. It sold remarkably well. Disappointingly well. I didn't put any of myself into it. Figures that's what sold huh?

Anyway, I paid this old Indian guy (sorry, Native American) to take care of the place while I was out and then to use the guest house next door whenever I wanted to go up to write. I know some guys write in coffee shops or pubs but I need the solace, and sure as shit there's no chance of me finding that in Hollywood. So this guy, gotta' be in his sixties, starts shaking my hand profusely when I give him the job. He used to curate the land back before it got rezoned as possible residential area in the hills. He smiled so big it made me feel like he was the one owning the cabin. 

I went up one time, after the second script got turned into a movie and I was told by my agent to write something else while I was hot. I remember it clearly, eating a steak outside with my notebook in hand while I got the idea for this great new western. I wrote half the script in one night, and drove down to show my agent. Guess I left the steak out, because apparently a bear got in while I was gone. Killed the old man. I felt real bad about it. Real bad. The city almost confiscated my property for that.

But then I wrote it into my script and made more money than I could drown  in an ocean.

Does that make me a bad person?