So with the help of an AMAZING group of people, I make my directorial debut HERE … on my website.

Please watch and get an idea of the fun, hip, gritty, crime story waiting for you inside the pages of FIFTEEN DIGITS.

(click the 4 arrow icon in the vimeo box below to watch in FULL SCREEN MODE - NOTE: it won’t play on iphones or ipads)

WARNING: THIS IS A RATED R TRAILER — IT HAS SOME LANGUAGE INAPPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN…

*The entire book isn’t full of this kind of language, but this scene is a little “salty”.

Check it out here: http: http://www.aetv.com/breakout-kings/fifteen-digits-excerpt/

“Nick Santora has a unique style of writing that I can only compare to John Grisham or Harlan Coben or a wonderful combination of both…I love this book and I love the ending because you never see it coming.”

Read the FULL REVIEW here.

“This is called Candy Cane,” the sales girl said, handing me the small bottle.

I unscrewed the top and sniffed it.

“It doesn’t smell like candy canes; it’s just candy cane red,” she pointed out.

“Yeah … I know,” I said, playing it off.  “I’ll take it – with all the other stuff too.”

The girl rang up the order, placing eye shadow, rouge (I called it rouge, the sales girl called it blush), Berry Juicy lipstick and Candy Cane nail polish into a CVS bag.  I gave her a twenty.

“It’s $63.17,” she said, embarrassed for me.

“What for?”

“Um … the make-up.”

“Man,” I said, digging into my pocket.  “When I was a kid, my mom could do a whole week’s grocery for sixty bucks.”

Sales Girl said nothing, just stared through me.  She could care less.  When I was a kid she was 20 years from being born.

I shoved some more bills at her and left before she could give me my change.  I didn’t have time to wait for some seventeen-year-old to count out $1.83 … because it was Valentine’s Day and my sweetheart was waiting for me. 

I walked through automatic doors – they opened at my unspoken command – and as cool night air caressed my face, I thought of my girl:

Remember our first Valentines, baby?  We’d been dating for exactly 41 days.  I gave you 42 roses – all red, except the white one – the one for good luck.  We went to a restaurant I couldn’t afford.  I sold my grandfather’s Purple Heart at a pawn shop to pay for dinner.  World War II collectibles bring good money – even more when you served under Patton.  I knew Pop Pop wouldn’t care – he would’ve loved you.  He’d want me to be yours, and you to be mine.  We ate seared antelope and roasted asparagus and other foods I never had before or since.  Fancy waiters called you Ma’am and called me Sir.  We talked all night, so in loved, separated only by candlelight. How I loved watching the fire light flicker across your face.

At Sutphin Avenue, I stepped off the curb, nearly getting clipped by a city bus.  I was lost in thought about her again.  I had the habit of doing that – of thinking of her and forgetting all else – little things like the fact that buses make wide turns, that subway stops come up quick, that faucets need to be turned off.

That’s what true beauty does to you – that’s what true love does to you.  It blocks all peripherals.

My ex-wife didn’t understand this when I explained it to her.  My children were too young to get it either.  They might understand it now, but I’m not allowed to see them.  It should bother me more, but it doesn’t.  Because I have her.  Because I have my Sweetheart.

I was just a little east of Lakewood Avenue when the church bell rang out loud from St. Joe’s.  It made me think of where we were exactly two years ago, listening to the ship bells on the harbor.

Remember our second Valentine’s, sugar?  I took you on a boat trip around the city.  You said it was too cold and it was touristy, but I was sure you’d like it if you just gave it a chance, if you’d just stop being so moody.  You had been moody since New Year’s.  I knew it was because of my wife.  She was in the way.  I remember the look on your face when I told you that I had left her.  “Nothing’s between us now. Now we can be together forever,” I said.  “Happy Valentine’s.” 

I waited for your reaction.  You were speechless. In fact, you barely spoke the rest of the trip.  I knew the news would thrill you. 

I held the CVS bag tightly as I passed some tough-looking kids by a Park Lot.  If they followed me, I’d just throw my wallet on the ground and run.  They can have my money.  But they can’t have this bag.  It’s my Valentine’s present for my Girl, and I can’t let anything go wrong.  I want tonight to be perfect.

So I picked up my pace.  I didn’t want to keep my Darling waiting.  She hates it when I’m not on schedule.

Remember our third Valentine’s, angel?  You asked me what the hell I was doing there so early?  You said I was an idiot – why couldn’t I read a fuckin’ clock?  Remember how I  explained that I wanted to get to your house early to surprise you with the dinner I had made?  The truth was, I ordered most of it from a diner, but I baked the Pecan Sandies myself from a recipe my mother used when I was little.  I never asked if you ate the cookies, but I have to assume you didn’t, after I dropped them, since the platter was ceramic and all. 

That wasn’t my fault.  He startled me when he stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing his eyes, naked.  “Sorry, boss,” he said to me, so cocky, making no attempt to cover himself, almost daring me to look down at it because we both knew where it had just been. 

“Just go away,” you told me.  “It’s over.”

But that was last year.  Ancient history.  It’s our fourth Valentine’s, honey, and against all odds, we’re together again, like we always should’ve been.  Like we always belonged.  Nothing could’ve made me happier.

I love entering through the front door of your house again.  No more sneaking behind the garage for me.

When I walk up to your bedroom, you’re still lying on the mattress, where you were when I left, quiet as a mouse.  I place the CVS bag down next to you – I can’t wait to give you your gifts.

You don’t move when I put on the rouge or the lipstick or the eye shadow or the candy cane nail polish.

He doesn’t move either.  He’s still naked, just like when I saw him last Valentine’s Day.  But now he’s a little less cocky.

His head keeps sloping to the side – that annoys me – I wanted him to see us, wanted him to see that our love was the love that lasted.  But I drove the knife too deep and there’s not much left to hold the head in place.

He looks messy, unkempt, preposterously weak.

I love it.

But my girl … well …  she looks beautiful.  The dress I put her in camouflages the persuasions I had to use to get her to be with me again.  The dress is red.  It works wonders.

I take a box of Blue Tips from my pocket and flick them off my front teeth, tossing orange arcs across the room, onto the bed, into the curtains … before long, the room crackles.

I lay next to my sweetie and stroke her hair.  How I wish her eyes could open one last time and see how beautiful it all is.

And as the smoke chokes me off to sleep, my last thought is how much I love watching the fire-light flicker across her face.

Happy Fourth Valentine’s, baby.

Well, I have a face for writing.  This is not false modesty, just a fact.

I used to be handsome.  A long time ago.  Thirty pounds ago.  Lots of hair ago.

But now I’m not.  And I’m cool with that ’cause my wife digs me and that’s all that matters.

But I digress.  My point is, I belong as far behind the camera as possible.  You know when Wile E. Coyote runs off the cliff and spirals downward until you can’t see him any more and then there’s that little puff of smoke when he hits the ground that is soooooo far away?

That’s how far away behind a camera I belong.

And even though I know that, even though I’m well aware of my limitations, I threw myself in the line of fire anyway … I cast myself in my own show.

Why? 

A very simple reason — you live once.  I like doing things that sometimes scare the hell out of me.  Not “bungee jumping” or “skydiving” kind of scary – that’s just nuts.

I mean things more along the lines of “make an ass out of yourself but challenge yourself at the same time” kind of stuff.

When I first met my wife, I was singing for a band in New York while attending school.  Can I sing?  No.  But I always wanted to try it and when I saw an email for a band being formed, I absurdly showed up and told them I could do the job.

I auditioned with a Pearl Jam song (PORCH) and I think a Green Day song (SHE) and before you knew it I was the singer in a band that was very limited in what they could play because of my limited range.  But we had fun – and people who came to see us (sometimes several hundred, amazingly) had fun.  And we did it for years – and people thought we were good – people thought I was good – even though I couldn’t sing.

I also was an on-air correspondent for a nationally televised news program when I was in my mid 20′s.  I had no journalism credentials. No reporting experience. But I had a full head of hair and a set of balls so I tried out for the gig and got it.  Only lasted eight months, but once again, it was fun. I liked it; the audience liked me – well at least one person did because I got exactly one piece of fan mail during that time.  Thank you “Susan from Lansing”!

And when I was in college I thought I wanted to try acting. I had no training prior to that. No knowledge of what it took. And I realized after several years of doing it that I wasn’t very good at all. But I did like the scripts … the drama and the humor and the emotion and the recreation of the human experience. And that rattled around in my head for a long time after school until I started eventually, thankfully, writing again.

But the power of the fear of doing something new, challenging myself – the thrill of failing but still succeeding because I tried — that’s a feeling I haven’t had in a while.  I’ve been so busy writing these past few years that I haven’t felt that thrill … that chill .. that knot in the stomach, lump in the throat, pulsating in the temples fear in such a long time … until a few days ago … when I walked onto the set for “The Bullpen” on BREAKOUT KINGS (Season 2 premiers Sunday March 4th at 10pm Eastern Time – a shameless plug, but hey, it’s my website).

Actually, to be more accurate, I wasn’t nervous when I walked onto the stage per se.  I actually was pretty confident. I knew my lines. I had rehearsed with my scene-partner, the great Dominic Lombardozzi, in his apartment several times prior to that day.  And, besides, I had acted before — granted it was twenty years before - in college – but I had still done it.  So why should I be nervous?

And I wasn’t.  I was cocky.  Two of the show’s stars, Jimmi Simpson and Serinda Swan, had been riding me all week, telling me how they were going to mess with me on the day of shooting.  They were going to try to make me laugh and break character.  I responded by saying I was going to act circles around them, that I was going to “show them how it was done”, how I was going to be the first person ever to get an Emmy for a character who only had 7 lines in 1 episode.

It was all in good fun, but the truth was I wasn’t really nervous.  I mean, I’m the Executive Producer for pete’s sake.  I shouldn’t be nervous.  I had a large role in creating these characters, this world, the very bullpen where I was going to have my scene.

And on the day of the scene, as we rehearsed with our director, Guy Ferland, I felt confident.  As Dom told me “that was great, this is gonna be great”, I felt confident.  As Jimmi told me, “You’ve never really acted on film before? Because that was fantastic” I felt confident.  And even as I stepped into the elevator (from which I would soon emerge to begin the scene) I felt confident.

And then, as the crew got in position and readied themselves, I waited for a few minutes. Alone. In that damn box of an elevator that seemed to be getting smaller and smaller and more claustrophobic with each heart beat.

Then the director stuck his head into the elevator’s little window.  ”Nick, you’re gonna do fine. Stop rehearsing your lines or they will sound rehearsed,” Guy said to me.

Huh? What does he mean?  Then I realized that I had been rehearsing my lines over and over and over again to myself in the elevator.  And I had a mic on.  So everyone with “cans” (the headphones you use on set to hear the actors) could hear me.  And a lot of people had cans.

Oh Shit!  I was nervous.  Nervous as hell.  I was about to walk out of that elevator and get into a shouting match with Herc from The Wire!  I didn’t care that Dom has become one of my very good friends …. I didn’t care that Jimmi Simpson had promised me he wouldn’t screw with me during the scene … I didn’t care that technically, as the Executive Producer, I was the boss (though I never look at myself that way) … I was nervous as shit!

Rolling!

Huh? What was that? Did someone just say Rolling?

Speed!

Crap! If the equipment was running at speed that means very soon I’m gonna hear…

Action!

Oh man, here we go! I have to do this now!

As I lifted the gate inside the old-fashioned elevator, I had only one thought in my head: This was a mistake. 

And it showed in my first take. I just wanted to get the words out. I did my thing and the scene ended. It wasn’t acting.  It was just saying words.  It was pathetic.

Second take was a bit better but not much.

Third take, our director asked Dom and I to get more angry at each other.  He was right – the scene was playing too calm for the circumstances of that particular episode.  I quickly forgot that I was acting in the scene and put my “producer hat” on and talked to Dom about the scene.  ”Bury this asshole,” I told him. “He’s getting in your way and you don’t have time to waste with him.” (for the record, my character was the asshole to whom I was referring – one of the reasons I was perfect for the part.)

In the third scene, Dom laid into me and I got into his face as well.  I forgot I was acting and just became a prick from New York who didn’t like being manipulated by somebody (again, this role was not much of a stretch for me.)  When I went back into the elevator, I was sweating.  The back of my neck was clammy, my whole body was hot, I was full of energy and I couldn’t wait for the next take.

We did a few more and then went onto Dom’s “coverage” (that’s when the camera is on him instead of me).  I now felt comfortable enough to even ad-lib a line or two (but since I’m the writer, it isn’t technically ad-libbing since I can change lines whenever I want – in this case, since I was also the actor, I just didn’t have to write them down first!).

By this time, Dom and I were having fun. I was getting so comfortable that I even threw Jimmi a glance or two when walking past him to try to get HIM to laugh.

Before I knew it, the scene was over, just when I felt I could actually do a decent job.  Afterwards, Dom and Jimmi were very gracious, telling me I had done great work.

They’re my friends; they were lying.

I told Brooke Nevin, who was also in the scene, that my goal was to be a 3 out of 10 and I felt I fell just short of that.  She said I was a solid 7.

She’s my friend; she was lying.

But I will be editing this episode and I will be able to cut around my “acting”, find a few things that work semi-decently and cobble together a performance – hopefully.

But I felt that fear — I did something that terrified me.  There was a moment when I was alone in that elevator where I was so close to just running out screaming “Find Someone Else!” as I made my way, still in costume, to the Baton Rouge airport.  But I pushed through it.

And it felt great.

The truth about acting is that it is a skill like anything else.  Some have a natural talent for it.  Others don’t. Some work at it and get great.  Some don’t and stay average.  Some are great without trying.  Some are terrible despite trying a great deal.

With respect to the Breakout Kings cast — they are naturally gifted AND they work at it.  They think more about their characters and work at their craft more than any collective group of actors I’ve ever worked with.  And they do it despite their natural gifts.

And with respect to me, the truth about acting is … as an actor, I make a good writer.  Sitting at my laptop … waaaaaay behind the camera.

I talk to them often.  And more often than not someone will make a joke like  ”Hey, Mr. Hollywood, you callin’ me from your convertible with your sunglasses on?” or “Yo, Bigshot, how’s the high life treatin’ ya?” or something along those lines.

I laugh and quickly begin the task of setting them straight.

Simply put: Writing is not glamorous.  It’s a job.

It’s a job I take seriously.  It’s a job I’m proud of.  It’s a job I love.

But it’s a job in the sense that if I don’t roll up my sleeves and actually do it, it doesn’t get done … period.  And I don’t get paid.

And I lose my house.  And can’t afford baseball caps to cover my bald head.   And my kids don’t get to buy new sneakers every few months because even though they are both small their feet just seem to keep growing.

So I write.  Every day.

I don’t write in a fancy office over looking the pacific with a stunning blonde assistant with giant, fake, California boobs who grew up on the beaches of Santa Monica.

This is my assistant.

His name is Jacob.  He’s quite the dashing fellow but I wouldn’t call him stunning and he’s from Texas, not Santa Monica, and I can’t comment on his boobs because then he could sue me.  (But, for the record, they’re average at best).

And this is my office.

As you can see, it has no windows, a stained beige carpet, fluorescent lights that suck out your will to live, one chair, a garbage can and a folding card table that Caitlin, one of the Breakout Kings writers’ assistants, found in a dumpster.  I shit you not.  A dumpster.

There is no internet, no phone lines and I can just make out the bad Top 40 Musak piped in from the hallway.

This isn’t the Breakout Kings office – those are admittedly nicer.  But this is the office where I do all my non-Breakout Kings writing.  I wrote my recent pilot in this office.  I wrote my new novel FIFTEEN DIGITS in this office.  I wrote movies in this office.

Why so sparse?  Where’s the glamour?

Because I’m a writer.

Not a “talk about writing but not actually ever write anything” writer. (There are millions of them in LA.)

Not an “I like to attach my name as an Executive Producer to a show and then not do shit” writer. (There are an ass-load of them in LA too — just watch TV any night — you’ll see their names.)

Not an “I think I’ll start a project and never finish it” writer. (Throw a dart out of your window and you’ll hit one.)

I’m a “guy who actually writes” writer.  I write every damn day.  And when I do, I don’t want a single distraction.  I don’t want a phone call. I don’t want an email. I want to write.  Because that is my job.

And it is never glamorous.  My elbows hurt from leaning on the crappy card table.  My neck and back hurt from my crappy posture.  My stomach hurts from the crappy food I eat when I allow myself a break.

I go days, sometimes weeks, without interacting or even talking to anyone outside of my family. (whom I love with all my heart, but my girls are young and I can only have so many conversations about Yo Gabba Gabba and Micky Mouse before I want to blow my brains out).

I don’t see starlets. I don’t go to premiers. I don’t “take lunches” at the Beverly Hilton.

I know lots of writers, friends of mine, who do those things every week … but they’re not very productive.

And I always have to laugh when they ask me: How did you Executive Produce Breakout Kings, write and sell a pilot and write a novel all over the past six months?

The answer is so incredibly simple.  I sat down and wrote them.

If you don’t get caught up in the unimportant things about this industry, it’s amazing what you can accomplish.

I know other people who are very productive as well: Mick Betancourt, a writer on Breakout Kings, films his own comedy shorts that are funnier than anything you’ll see on TV and he’s also playing a role in Gangster Squad – a new Josh Brolin/Sean Penn film; Marc Guggenheim has a tv show and a couple of films going; Derek Haas writes movies and novels … these guys might not get to every party in town and might not close down the bars each night — they might not always get to partake in the “glamour”.

Because they’re too busy writing.  And creating.  And doing.

So to set the record straight for all my pals back home — I have absolutely no Hollywood Glamour in my life.

And I couldn’t be happier.  I’d rather just do my job and write a story.  Besides, when my girls do me up with their Barbie-Star Make-Up kit, I become the glamour.

(and it should be noted that I also don’t have a convertible … I drive a 9 year old Toyota Highlander that my kids destroyed with juice boxes and cheerios.)