I was living in an apartment house above Franklin and Ivar.  Things were tough at the moment.  I hadn't worked in a studio for a long time.  So I sat there, grinding out original stories, two a week, only I seemed to have lost my touch.  Maybe they weren't original enough.  Maybe they were too original.  All I know is... they didn't sell.                      

I love this line from Sunset Boulevard and have always meant to write it down somewhere -- so I'm writing it down here.