Work or Something Like It

Sitting in the house with a nice fire going (in the fireplace, yes, for you literalists) and working on transcribing a novel I wrote into a movie script.
I pitched the concept to a movie producer and he liked it enough to ask to read the script...which I didn't have at the point I pitched it. I don't exactly obey the dicta of "Only a fool writes for anything but money" but I think the days are past when I would do work like this without some encouragement from a potential buyer.
Yes, writing is work. It's not HARD work or I wouldn't do it, but it's harmonious with my temperament.
I am a writer.
When people to whom I declare that ask, "what have you written?", I confess that very little of what I've written has actually been published.

Here's the opening scene of the script:

CRAZY LIKE MOM
FADE IN:
MIDWEST FARM COUNTRY--LATE AFTERNOON
A small town surrounded by cultivated fields and scattered homes. On the outskirts, a small indoor mall with a WAL-MART and a 5-screen cinema.
SMALL MALL--INT. -- CONTINUOUS
On the edge of an imitation marble fountain sits JEREMIAH KRUBBS, about 15. Wearing a backpack, Legs crossed, trying to look cool, eyes swiveling behind dark glasses. He watches the passing human traffic. Intently.
He zooms in on eyes, mouths, tension in shoulders, bags. A variety of people pass, displaying different attitudes.

JEREMIAH
I'm watching for people who love death and hate. They're the most likely terrorists. I can spot them if they make me irritated or angry.

Sound of laughter. A group of teens approaches. In the front is a lovely black-skinned AmerIndian girl, 15. She's giggling with two girlfriends, and texting on her cellphone.

JEREMIAH
But why kid myself? I can't help but notice the cool peeps and the hotties. One and the same when Elvinholm sashays by. X percent Native American, X percent Black, all gorgeous, she's cool and hot.

His eyes follow Elvinholm as she passes by without a glance at him.
Then, coming from the opposite direction, one man--looks Middle Eastern, a Potential Terrorist, scowling, carrying an anonymous gym bag.
Jeremiah rises, follows the man about 15 feet behind, dodging oncoming walkers.
Potential Terrorist stops at the Food Court. It's packed with families, kids. He looks all around, then moves inside.
Jeremiah closes in and bumps him hard. Potential Terrorist drops the bag.
Jeremiah swoops, GRABS the bag and STARTS RUNNING away from the Food Court and the crowds.
Potential Terrorist shouts, angrily pursues Jeremiah. Feet pounding, Jeremiah heads for the Exit, the Potential Terrorist closing fast on him.
Jeremiah bursts through the Exit door into the drizzle and closing darkness outside. He THROWS the bag away from the building and drops to the sidewalk.
The Potential Terrorist stops beside the prone Jeremiah.

POTENTIAL TERRORIST
What the hell wrong with you, man? Why you steal my stuff?

He walks into the street, picks up the bag, walks back to where Jeremiah is sitting up.

POTENTIAL TERRORIST
You crazy?

Jeremiah scoots on his butt away from the man. The man stares at him, then slowly nods.
He unzips the bag and dumps out of it--sweaty gym clothes, sneakers, a racquetball racquet, can of balls. He tosses bag at Jeremiah.