“If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it”

— Toni Morrison

The samples below are to give prospective clients a feel of my writing style.  The writing I do is not limited to the topics, styles or formats these samples present. I can work within whatever style your project requires.  

Sample Screenplay

Please note the format of the following sample is not representative of screenplay formatting due to website limitations


 MAN (V.O.)

Everyone else forgets, but I am plagued with the memories. I see it all play out before me as genealogical constellations. 



Full white moon illuminates the darkened city of Paris. A soft yellow glow emanates from various historic monuments; the Acre de Triomphe, the Louvre, the Eiffel tower, and finally the Notre Dame Cathedral. The bells of the cathedral ring four times as the scene descends into the streets traveling through the desolate avenues. Ending on the river Seine. A bridge spans the river with bright lights cutting through the darkness making it appear gold in places.


(speaking while the camera pans the city)

Now, here I am in this miserable reincarnation. A wealth of mediocrity. I exist as an average man, a government clerk, permanently submerged in despair and troubled by my own resignation. Consumed by melancholy afforded to my singularly tragic fate with full awareness of passing through the abyss of time.

In one dark corner where the pillar meets cement before sloping steeply into the water, a man sits. He is in his mid 40s. He is unkempt, wearing ragged clothes. His choppy speech is punctuated by brief sporadic movements of his hands.


Separated from a life I can no longer touch. Last time I was here; I wasn't even a man but a Labrador retriever. 

Camera pans out getting further and further away from the man on the bridge. His voice becomes quieter and more distant until the scene ends overlooking a half-submerged barge once tied to a small pier.


(faded and distant)

In that life, I saw the rise and fall of one man bent on saving the world through his anarchistic metaphysical musing. That is where my life ended. That barge.



The small bedroom of the barge rocks steadily from the gentle motion of the water. The room is only a foot wider than the footprint of the sparse medal bed frame. It is cluttered with personal possessions of everyday life. Sounds of water and creaking wood are accompanied by the gentle snoring of the man on the bed. He lies in the double bed, half covered with a blanket and naked from his waste up. Four bells from the Notre Dame Cathedral fill the small space as the man stirs to wakefulness. He plants his feet on the wooden boards of the floor and stands, his hair lightly brushing the low ceiling. The moon filters in through a skylight. He studies his aging face in a broken mirror shard, disappointed. When he can no longer take the reflection, he puts a t-shirt on over his ripped jeans. He grabs his jacket, walks through the thin passageway to the galley and up the ladder. He emerges in the crisp autumn air on the top deck of the barge. He walks the plank of the pier, across the street, passing a man under the bridge who looks to be a few years younger than he had in the opening. He pays him no attention as he walks to the Garden of Tuileries. He walks through the labyrinth of trimmed shrubs listening to the birds awaken. He intermittently plays Dance of the Hours on his harmonica filling the early morning silence. As he comes to the end of a lane, he sighs heavily before turning back home.


The sun has risen above the horizon as Matias walks to his kiosk. He goes through the routine of opening the kiosk. He lifts the tarp and sets out books for display. The books are all titles published before the turn of the century. He settles into a chair and opens a book entitled French Cavalry of the 18th and 19th centuries, lights a cigarette and begins to read. A woman dressed in business casual attire walks behind the Kiosk and kisses Matias on the cheek.



Good morning, Florentina.

He hasn't looked up from his book. He speaks in a monotone of disinterest.