It’s 4:10 in the morning. I spent all day yesterday sleeping, running to the store for pizza, and coming back for more sleeping. BREAKING BAD interspersed. Coffee sat in the french press longer than is suggested but I still drank it.
These are my days now. Working usually replaces the sleeping part, but this is indeed my schedule – a blurring of time and activity that aches of menial importance, things that I could and very well might do for the rest of my days and still end up an okay human being on my deathbed. What I do these days isn’t wrong. It’s just… breathing and paying bills.
And so I look at my projects with pressured enthusiasm, three scripts with distinct differences. One is a pilot I promised to hand out a month ago. One is a script a lot of you have read with some excitement, always tinkering with its bits and pieces. The last is a script that I love like a poem written for me and only me. A love letter to myself. A thing that may never see fresh eyes, and a thing I’m happy to keep locked up in my thoughts if need be.
All three look like absolute shit to me.
So, I suppose I’m writing this to update a blog that does not get updated on the regular. I’m writing this to remind myself that I’m a writer who’s trying to, well, write for chrissake. A writer who should be writing more than she drinks, anyway.
I’m writing this to say sorry to those of you who sent me their work and have not yet gotten my opinion. I swear to you, I want so badly to have one long day so I can do just that, to read others’ work. I’m getting to it. I will do it.
I’m writing to say that I’m trying my best. My heart wants certain things and certain people, all of which I probably cannot have. This results in love-drunk tears and strange musings on Twitter, and I apologize, and please, whatever you do, don’t unfollow me during those bouts of insanity. I get better with time, I promise.
My brain keeps nagging about errands and debts. It costs a lot of money to sleep in someone’s living room. It also costs money to buy food, and did you know this? I feel like it’s something we don’t really know until we’re on our last twenty bucks.
My body is mumbling about how maybe I should join the gym and actually fucking use it. But that’s a different thing for a different day.
I’m writing just to write. I don’t really need an excuse for all this, do I?