Writers used to be reviled as “schmucks with Underwoods” — Jack Warner himself said so. But these days, we can’t even aspire to that. We carry our laptops around, giving the impression that we’re just another techie, a Business major on their way to relative success. It’s true, the landscape seems less romantic now. We’re beginning to ponder if we’ll see, in our lifetime, screenwriters who write for the screen, but not for movies or TV. Who knows. It’s out there. Maybe that’s why we flocked to see The Artist, and Argo, and all those self-referential Hollywood movies. Now, here’s a writer away from Sunset Boulevard, setting out on an uncertain sail. Here’s a writer in Spain, navigating the waters of academia, a writer with an accent, who hopes not to end like Joe Gillis did. Floating in a swimming pool with a bullet in his stomach. More to come.