You got on Joe's nerves. You reminded him too much of himself a few years ago. Bright, optimistic and hopeful. Not naive but still shiny her dreams of writing in Hollywood not yet dimmed by the cruel industry.

And unlike him right now you wrote for passion over money. You wouldn't work on formula movies and you called your fellow writers out when they weren't staying true to the stories they wanted to write.

And to Joe's dismay you found part of a screenplay he wrote years ago. A noir drama mystery called Dark Windows partially previewed in film magazine. Something he wrote when he still cared...Still wanted his stories told...It was gritty and long and focused on characters and story over spectacle and tricks...in short the studio would hate it.

But you thought it was brilliant. You bluntly gave Joe a few notes he didn't ask for about the opening and pacing and insisted that when he wasn't working on corporate nonsense he was a wonderful writer.

Week after week you bugged him about it. Wanted him to finish it and consider your notes. You didn't care that he shelved the project...You believed in it...and thought he should too. He was too good a writer to flicker out under rom comes and baseball flicks.

And eventually he caved.

His baby blue eyes look up at you exasperated and he drops the heavy manuscript of Dark Windows in your lap with a glare. "Here, kid." He says with a frown. "If you like the damn thing so much. You finish it. Take all the credit. Let it be your debut movie and leave me alone." He says coldly.