Hey! I’m that guy trying to sell my latest screenplay, publish it as a novel or die trying.

In DIE TRYING, you will get an unvarnished look at a bitterly honest writer struggling to make it. No name-dropping or Hollywood phoniness. Just the facts ma’am on what the media landscape really is like behind the curtain.

In TODAY’S ISSUE, we paint a picture of ravenous A.I., signals and noise.

On Boxing Day, I woke up at 3am, popped a gummy and heard static in my head.

The crackly noise was left over from a NYT guest editorial on how AI would winnow out up-and-comers striving to break into creative fields like screenwriting:

“Sam Altman, the chief executive of OpenAI, similarly talked about how A.I. will eventually replace the ‘median human’ in most fields but not the top performers. However, there’s a problem with this line of reasoning: Sui generis artistic prodigies are few and far between. Artists, like most people trying to do something hard, tend to get better with lots of practice. Those who are, to borrow Mr. Altman’s phrase, median writers in their 20s might turn into great ones by their 40s by putting in ample time and work.

The creative grunt work that A.I. stands to replace most quickly is what helps emerging artists improve, not to mention pay their bills.”

With A.I., the star system will get even more top-heavy. Top talent will continue to receive patronage while the robot hollows out an already emaciated middle class of creatives.

With the gummy kicking in, I latched on to a writer who disrupted the status quo — Los Angeles’ poet laureate Charles Bukowski.

Despite being a massive drunk, there was wisdom in his words.

I got out a book of his poetry. Hit up a random number generator in a new tab to find a page number with a corresponding poem and, hopefully, some shot of inspiration.

Page 79 was the Trouble with Spain.

Buk leads with “I got in the shower / and burned my balls / last Wednesday.”

The poem goes on to describe how the writer, drunk at a party, picks a fight with a noted painter named Spain.

My balls were burning.

Do I really need advice from a guy who gets drunk and picks fights?

What’s the wisdom in that?

What is there to celebrate in Bukowski, Hemingway, Fitzgerald or any other brand-name writer canonized in drink but who actually wasted their talent in self-destruction?

I left Bukowski. No nuggets of gold to mine there.

I retreated to the couch. To lie down with the static chuffing my head.

Saw a picture frame on the wall above me. My wife and I held my daughter.

She must have been 3 at the time.

My daughter held out her hand, smiling with an impish grin. Her hand was out of focus in the photo.

I saw something in her tiny, blurry hand. Something to believe in more than kamikaze writers.

I went back to bed.

Woke up later that day. My daughter asked me to join her taking laps on her bike.

We had gotten her a mountain bike for Christmas. It was larger than her first bike. She had difficulty getting on and off it.

She would practice by riding it down the street, around the circle at the end and back.

Then she would brake in front of our house and dismount.

I stood on the sidewalk watching her ride her new bike, disappearing in the distance.

The midday sun was on my face. It felt good.

Feeling the Florida sun on your face and watching your little girl float down the street on a new bike…here was something…something to latch on to.

The static on the radio ebbed. Signal found amidst noise.

Dig this content? Help us build an audience and forward this newsletter to a friend or trusted associate.

Got something on your mind? We’d love to hear from you.