tora! tora! tora!

My dad is about forty minutes away on work-related travel. However, I'm not supposed to know this. He told my sister not to tell me because I would be angry with him. See, he just doesn't have time to see me or his grandson. I have two choices. I could call him and ask him what he's doing and wait for the lies to come tumbling out or I could call him and cuss him like the trifling S.O.B that he's showing himself to be. A third, more mature choice is to ignore it (and him). I mean, the man's been slighting me since time immemorial. But your girl's feeling spicy this morning (just had a toast with loads of butter and grape jelly, damn it!), so I may just wave the red blanket in front of the bull just to see if it shits.

My play is shaping up nicely. It takes place in the 1970s at a hedonistic disco club. One night, the club is raided, but the last four patrons- a housewife, a high school senior, a tranny entertainer and a Senator- refuse to leave. They barricade themselves inside because the disco means something special to each one of them and they aren't about to give it up that easily. This play is a total passion project. I love disco and I'm intrigued by the superficial frivolity offered by strangers in a dark club all dancing to the same beat. It's funny how people can be in the same room, doing essentially the same things and feel completely and utterly alone.

best week ever!

First of all, like Smokey says "Don't be listening to me. You know I be high". That last entry? Straight diet pill. Anyway, I had the best week ever! It all started with the awesome news about my screenplay and just went from there. Actually, my screenplay was the only thing wonderful that happened to me, but it was so monumental that it overshadowed anything that would have sent me spiraling into a depression at any other time. I also began a new play tonight. It's a ten minute jobby. I'm pretty comfortable with the ten minute play format, mostly because I've got the attention span of a caffinated tse tse fly. I should finish my first full draft sometime tomorrow. I wrote out a partial draft today and will probably fall asleep at the keyboard editing.

Yessiree, I'm feeling pretty confident. Drinking a daiquiri and looking through my credits binder (the old three ring which holds most of my published work) and feeling pretty damned good. Maybe it's okay that I'm not a produced playwright or screenwriter whose scripts command millions of dollars. Like somebody once told me, I am happiest when I write. So maybe I should stop worrying about what others think of my writing or where it will someday take me. Maybe I should slap those blinders on and do what I've been called to: simply write.

high

I am so high.

Sometimes I take too many pills and my heart races and I pray that none of my vital organs explode. My thoughts race and it's all I can do not to rip off every stitch of clothing and start reciting lines from Cape Fear.

Labels are a powerful thing. When I was younger, my parents swore I was manic-depressive. But I've wrongly learned over the years that, as long as "it" doesn't have a name, it can't hurt you. It's perfectly okay to be a bulemic rapid-cycling manic depressive just as long as nobody calls you that to your face.

My therapist in high school taught me that it was okay to name whatever I was feeling. Of course, I named it "Eric", which solved absolutely nothing. She was fine with it, though. As long as my "Eric" was acting up, things were fine. If my eating disorder was raging, that meant more paperwork for her. I don't blame her. I've misdiagnosed many a client on account of a fast-approaching lunch break. When backed against a wall, my mother would admit that I was "sick".

Not looking for pity or advice, mind. I just feel the need to confess. See, when I take the pills, I feel smart, productive, beautiful and radiant. I frequent the gym, am a stellar employee. On the outside and on paper, I'm incredible. It's my inside that's rotten. Thank God I've got great friends and husband to make my life here on Earth bearable until the inevitable moment when my soul is sent straight to hell.

perfect 11

This morning, as I watched my Robin Thicke DVD at work (just can't leave those dirty white boys alone!), I got to thinking about what constitutes perfect. I noticed that Robin Thicke has perfect teeth because they are straight. But does straight mean perfect or just the absence of difference? Is perfect synonymous with same? Will I ever learn to spell "synonymous"? And what about Naomi? (that last one is for my closeted Electric Company brethren)

For most of my life, I've been chasing this "perfection" ideal. The hours spent in teeth bleaching sessions, with gym trainers, trying to get my plays onstage (and we won't even go there with the hair cuttings, relaxings, colorings, wrappings, et. al)- it's all spent chasing my idea of perfect life. However, if I stop to think about it, I haven't a clue as to what a perfect life would look like. Would I be a produced playwright who weighs 100 pounds? I'm already published several times over and have a banging body (the lecherous WalMart custodian I ran into yesterday thinks 114 suits me just fine), so what am I spinning my wheels for? Does it get any better?

I'm inclined to believe that it does not. There is always a price; even perfection isn't free. Then, the question becomes when is the quest for perfection too high? Is it ever? As for me, I will probably die in the pursuit of physical perfection. But, as I tell am apt to tell friends and family, "I may be dead, but at least you can bury me in a tube top".

another wonderful day

Can you believe it? Three good days in a row. It's incredible, unprecedented and very exhausting. More and more, I'm learning to like the hatchet job the hairdresser gave me last weekend. So, in the spirit of Christian harmony, I take back back all the rude things I said about her and her mother. Tonight, I also played the wretched Wii. My husband brought home a karaoke game and- wonder of wonders- I've got an inner rock star! You should have heard how I hit the high note in that White Snake song.

I'm now reading a book about the juvenilization of American movies in the 1950s. I'm reading it slowly- really drinking it in- because it's extremely informative and what's more, contains a complete filmography of 1950s teen movies in the back! I can't wait for tomorrow. I'm Netflixing intriguing gems like "The Creeping Unknown" and "Attack of the Puppet People".

Anyway, all this change has made me tired. So, here I lay, comfortable in my rut, watching Golden Girls (season 5- the last season directed by Terry Hughes) and waiting to fall asleep at the keyboard. From toast in the morning to Dorothy Zbornak at night, it's been a heck of a day.

beyond cloud 9

Passengers, we have reached a cruising altitude of just over the moon. If you all look to the left, you will see Cloud 9. I received kudos this morning from my former editor in Hawaii as well as my screenwriting mentor. Even my dad emailed me. Granted, he emailed me, taking credit for my successes, but you take what you can get. I'm still stoked. Damn it, this contest thing made my week!

What did not make my week was my mother callling me. Yep, she called last night- weirded out and medicated to the gills- asking "how much hate I have in my heart" for her. If I'm lying, I'm dying. She's upset because my sister called her and cussed her up one side and down the other because of what a horrible mother she is/was. I felt bad for my mother because she honestly has no idea what she has done wrong. But if she can function in her delusional universe, then more power to her. I've had my therapy and come out the other side. There are things I'll never forget, but so what? As an adult, it's not my job to make her life miserable.

So the situation at home has resolved itself (I think).

Oh my gosh! Are you ready for a funny story? So my older sister was on the news in Texas one night because she and her live-in idiot tried to cash a bogus million dollar check. One million dollars?! Are you freaking KIDDING me?? On what planet do million dollar checks just materialize in the mailboxes of welfare sponges? How effing retarded can you be? Her black ass should be flown to Singapore and caned for that ignorant shit.

remember that bone I was asking for?

I just received an email from Writer's Digest Writing Competition. Your girl placed 9th in the TV/ Movie Script category!! You have no idea how huge this is for me. I've been entering this contest since I was about seventeen years old and last year was the first year I made it on the list of top 100 entries. Last year, there were over 23,000 entries and the highest I got was a couple of honorable mentions (for which I was mucho thankful) and 13th in the TV/ Movie Script Category. Anything lower than the top 10 counts as "Honorable Mention", so I wanted to place REAL bad.

Thanks, God, for throwing me that bone. You know how much I needed it.

Top ten, ya'll! I'm so stoked, I'm not doing a mickeyfrickey thing for the rest of the day. Well, I hadn't planned on it anyway, but now I have a valid excuse. I rock!

wonderful morning

Three cheers to productivity! Hip, hip, oy vey! Hip hip oy vey! Hip hip oy vey!

I got a lot of stuff done this morning at work and so now, at around 1:00pm, I have absosmurfly nothing to do! It's an awesome feeling. I spent some of the morning researching places to live when I leave my husband next week. I like Texas, but don't want to be near family. My ideal place has a cost of living that is on the lower end, but with a good education system and low state income taxes. I also don't want to be anywhere where I would be battered by hurricanes/tornadoes/Africanized bees (or Africanized thugs) every other month. Anyway, I plan to spend this afternoon editing, writing and figuring out why the batphone won't text anymore. Things that make ya go hmmm. It's been saving me on my bill, so I'm not really complaining.

The break I took this weekend from writing did a lot of good. I feel like I'm thinking clearer and able to write a lot easier. I don't believe in writer's block, but maybe I was experiencing somthing akin to it. Or maybe it was just good old fashioned discouragement that was keeping me from producing like I should. Whatever it is, it's gone now! Yippee! :-)

erotic frontiers!

In the interest of trying something new, I wrote a short erotica story. This was last night. This morning as I dressed for work, I received yet another lightning bolt of inspiration. So, I'll start my second tale o' hotness this afternoon (I am presently at work and therefore feel the need to make an attempt at working). I'm stoked because I've never really thought of erotica as anything but what filthy old women write and repressed young women read. But, I'm finding erotica fiction allows me to 1) act out my most secret desires from the comfort of the page and 2)revisit events from the past that no-one knows about except that stranger and a priest. It's also a great place to expand my literary horizons.

On another note, I'm thinking about moving out of my house.

hairy weekend

Got my haircut today. It's not what I expected, but I'm learning to live with it. Earlier today, though, I was completely traumatized by my newly shorn dome. I told my loving husband that I wasn't going to play in our soccer game today because I felt self-conscious about my head. Of course I'm feeling self-conscious! Wouldn't you after an older white lady has just spent 20 minutes chopping your locks and telling you how "thick" and "difficult" your hair is? The thickness and the difficulty of my hair is well-documented; as a black woman, I'm reminded everyday and have learned to accept it. But being bombarded with these oh-so-thinly veiled insults about something I have ABSOLUTELY NO CONTROL OVER bring back those old school yard feelings of inadequacy and, yes, shame.

As I said before, by the time I got home I was very, very upset. But, apparently I have a lot to learn about that old adage "Taking one for the team". Apparently, I'm not supposed to care that my head looks like a monkey's sack. Newsflash, I'm a woman! Women care about what they look like. And while we're on the subject, how about making your woman feel wanted every now and then? It shouldn't take me throwing things around the house for you to realize I might need some attention. And staring at me Dr. Spock-style while I'm trying to read is not attention. Flowers, maybe the running of the bathwater... hell, invite me out to lunch sometime! How about a text just to say you're thinking of me? And he wonders why I still have male friends.

He calls himself not speaking to me now. Shocked, I am. Well, he can sit there all he wants. Sit there until he turns into an inattentive git whose life consists only of sex, soccer and pistachio nuts. Oh wait a minute.

Yesterday, we visited our friendly neighborhood Renaissance Fair. As usual, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We were surrounded by D&D nerds and other outcasts and it was refreshing to see them in their element. Every outsider needs to feel like an insider now and then. The Renaissance Fair is the perfect place when you're sick of life beating you down.

As you've probably guessed, this whole "I'm quitting writing" thing isn't working for me. Although this weekend has been a nice semi-retirement, I can't deny my nature. I'm a writer. Whether or not I have readers is of no consequence.

the blows just keep a-comin'

Today, I received a rejection envelope from the Baltimore Playwright's Festival. There was nothing inside; the envelope wasn't even sealed. I checked the website and my name was not among the winners posted, so I'm about 110% sure that what I am missing is my rejection.

Ladies and Gentlemen: I have now crossed over into the realm of rejection envelope. My play wasn't even worth the grocery-receipt sized "no thanks". This keeps getting better and better.

What you're reading now is the first I've written in three days. I quit writing because I didn't think my writing "career" could get any worse. But that was before the rejection envelope.

I am so depressed, it physically hurts to breathe.

pittsburgh, Never

Why did I let myself get worked up about "Cleaver" being accepted in Pittsburgh? What on earth possessed me to think that there were not (at least) ten plays better than mine that were submitted? I received the results of the contest in my inbox this morning at 0615 and I anxiously scrolled down to see my name. Alas, it was not to be. So, I dragged my rejected ass back to my office and wrote in the inevitable "Didn't Win" beside the submission entry. Maybe my Schadenfreunde (SF) is right. Maybe the play was only good "for being written in 24 hours". It's not like it wasn't critiqued or anything. I didn't just shit out this play and send it off, you know.

There's a huge part of me that wants to succeed on this level, if only to validate my efforts. I'm oh-so-weary of being everybody else's cheerleader. I'm even cheerleader for SF and most of the time, she's not doing anything but performing the same shit over and over again. But why would anybody congratulate me? People don't get congratulated for simply entering the contest.

My writing is the most self-serving thing I do (manicures, pedicures, relaxers, body waxes and the like aside). It must be because, except for my few readers (thank you very much- Kat, Rita, Dawna, Zeke...), nobody else likes my writing. Perhaps because I write about what I like: fifties sitcoms, children who hate their parents, parents who poison their children, dying fourth graders and the comical side of drug addiction. I was writing that one last night. You know, before I decided to quit.

Earlier this year, I attended a one-act play festival in my little burg. Ya'll, my play was better than at least two of the presented four plays! But I didn't get to submit because the people who put the festival on didn't even solicit for entries. An evening at the theatre is always enjoyable, so it wasn't a total waste. And yet.

So, this is it. I'm pulling the cord and getting off the bus. I'm going to Target to pick up Warcraft and use my computer to figure out what I'm missing. Congratulations to the winners of the Pittsburgh contest. Fuckers.

schadenfreunde

First of all, if you haven't heard that new UGK/ Outkast joint, it's the shit. It's called "International Players Anthem" or something like that. Highly recommended. I love the video. The wedding singer guy looks like my uncle: he's got the oil-slick, black man hair piece that's a cross between a bob and a Caeser and his body is a perfectly round orb like those "Oh, you KNOW where I'm at!" thingies from the Boost mobile commercial.

Anyway, as the title suggests, I had a run-in today with two schadenfreundin. One I am convinced is a back-stabbing, opportunistic leach so I am keeping my distance. The other has insulted me and my writing on numerous occasions. She's getting her first paying gig and had the nerve to insinuate that the contests that I'm entering weren't on the same level because I wouldn't be paid for the performance. Excuse moi? Listen, I was paid for my writing back when her still-unfinished book was just a passing thought between jizz shots to her face. But, unlike the nutsack of many a stripper, I won't throw that in her face. Why remind her? I congratulated her because she deserved it. No matter how angry I get, we're all on this same path and anybody who takes a step forward deserves kudos.

My son just burned his monkey ass on hot pizza cheese. It's all I can do not to laugh. Serves him right for being so effing greedy.

urine-soaked musings

I have to pee so bad, it almost hurts. I've had to pee for about the past hour. The pressure is gradually building, but I think I can last at least another fifteen minutes. This is what my sad little life has become: abusing my bladder for entertainment. That and listening to Fergie ("How come every time you come around/my London London bridge wanna come down"?).

The Pittsburgh theatre company's website says that winning playwrights will be notified in mid-September (that would be now) if their plays were selected for production. I've been checking my email every fifteen minutes, hoping for an email that says "Congratulations, Fantastika! Your play freaking ROCKS and it would be our honor to share your rockosity with the greater Pittsburgh area". Ah, dreams!

Ask...but then what?

Great news! I didn't have to bite anyone and I got a chance to relax my hair. As I write this, my 'do is wrapped and ready to take on tomorrow. My husband told me today that, because of our government's shortcomings, he may be headed to Iraq around Christmas time. If this happens, ya'll, the minute he comes back, I'm moving my black ass to England. The thing that worries me about him returning from Iraq is not missing limbs. What worries me is that I'll get back a Stepford version of him. A version that looks whole on the outside, but at times, one can tell where giant hunks of his personality have been ripped away.

I was praying yesterday and ran across something strange. I read a passage from 1 John, the one about "Ye have not because ye ask not". Anyway, I prayed and said "God, I really want to be a rich and successful screenwriter". Directly following the prayer was the inevitable mental smirk. I mean, why should He answer me now? After all, I've only been praying this prayer since, oh, birth. Well, after I thought that, the strangest thing happened. It was a voice- almost audible- that said "Yeah, you prayed it, but did you actually believe it?" And don't you know I said no? This much is true-hoo... I've been praying and citing that passage from 1 John: "Ye have not because ye ask not", yet this whole time I never really believed that God would do it for me. What kind of shitty Christian am I?

Have you heard that old saying "Pray, but row away from the rocks"? Perhaps I've been putting too much faith in my oars.

mahfukkahs

There are only about two things that really set me off. One of them is people who have a complete disregard for common niceties. It costs people no money whatsoever to say "thank you" or "please" or "bless you" when people sneeze. Mahfukkahs is just rude sometimes.

I'm in such a foul mood right now. If somebody comes at me the wrong way, I swear I'm just going to haul off and bite them.

a bone

Surprise, surprise. My husband might be leaving again for another two weeks. Isn't that just a stiff rod up the unsuspecting backside? Lemme tell ya, this shit is getting mad old, but what's the alternative? It's his job. I can complain, he can leave flying behind and we can continue our lives from a refrigerator box behind Walmart or I can suck it up and drive on. I've chosen the most financially stable option, but it leaves me with a feeling of emptiness. When he's home, he's home and it's okay, but I know he's leaving in another couple of weeks anyway, so I don't get comfortable. It's like having a boarder in the home-albeit, a hottie boarder that I can be sexually deviant with.

Gotta go and query some playhouses now. It's 7am, so I have a few minutes before I have to put the boot in to my son to rise and shine. This week I should find about about the Pittsburgh play festival. I'm figuring the winners will be notified this week since they are holding auditions for the chosen plays on 24 September. Please, God. Throw me a bone.

branching out, breaking free

Yesterday, at age thirty- (mumblemumble), I played my first ever team sport. Yes, your friendly neighborhood loner suited up and hit the soccer field for the most terrifying forty minutes of her life. See, I've always prided myself on being an individual, not being a team player. As Paul Simon so eloquently put it "I am a rock/ I am an island". But I had fun yesterday and methinks I'll make my triumphant return next Sunday.

As I write this, my dear friend's husband is laying in critical condition at the local hospital. He was hit by a drunk driver while riding his motorcycle. Ya'll, tomorrow isn't promised to any of us. Our lives, as frustrating and pedestrian as they may sometimes seem, are on loan to us. It's our responsibility to make the most of them. That being said, I'm going to take my own advice. I'm going to pack as many potential dinner party anecdotes into my remaining 40 or so years. It's time to start flinging caution and business cards to the wind. The time is now to start calling agents and discover new hobbies. I'll learn to play the wretched Wii. I'll continue to play team sports and I'll try my hand at being a movie extra. I'll dye my hair and try a new condiment on my toast. Why not? Hovering in the void between life and death is not the time to second guess one's life choices.

fall lineups

Friends, Romans, t.v. watchers! The fall season is fast approaching and do you know what that means? More crap shows written by the 25 year old son of the producer of last year's big show. I've heard scathing reviews of "Cavemen" and everything else I've seen looks equally as entertaining.

two in one day? fahkin' A!

Two rejections in one day. One from a production company who doesn't give a flying African orphan about my attempt at social commentary. The other was from a manager who specializes in romantic comedies. I emailed my logline this morning and this evening, I got the big BP rejection-- Bitch, Please..! The BP is a blessing in disguise, though. My husband is reading the screenplay right now so I may be able to strengthen the work even further with his suggestions. I just get so tired of what feels like spinning my wheels. Of all the "Soul Plane", "Cookout", "Vampiyaz" movies, why can't somebody throw a couple million my way to finance my dream? Why not me?

I had a sneaking suspicion this was going to happen. That's why I bought myself a pair of black suede kitten heel boots. Just to take the edge off.

You work at a smile and you go for a ride

Talk about a kick in the teeth! Today has been kicking my natural ass. First, the contractor showed up island-style late. He demo'd what needed it, but did he bring the materials with him to put up the replacement? Of course not. That would be rational and professional. Instead, he tried to bend me over and take me for $700 for parts his sorry butt didn't even have. Needless to say, we got zero work done. Then I get a call from my husband saying his plane broke (of course) so he'll be back God knows when. God, if You know when, do me a favor and don't tell me. Really. It'll be a secret and a surprise. Just like Your plan for my life or what really happened to my first Cabbage Patch Kid. Whenever Mr. Deux et Machina does return, however, all the smoke will have cleared and everything will be fine. He's magic that way.

In his defense, he's actually having a bad day, too. When he gets back, we'll get drunk and reenact the naked fight scene from Borat.

So I get to work and I'm immediately drowning in paperwork and stupid requests. Let me back up. Before I got to work, I checked the mail. I received my new phone charger (yay! Sprint you are hereby released from sucking me) and a rejection letter that read a little something like this: Thank you for your recent query to Didn't Read It Agency. However, I don't think that Didn't Read It Agency is the right company for your project. It's sad because this agency actually has a program affiliated with it that will take a project they believe has potential and work with it until it is up to their standard. Ya'll, I don't even have potential! I don't want to know what else could go wrong today, but I've learned that when things get like this to just keep bobbing and weaving, baby. Bob and weave. Like Rhianna's hair.

dummy pants

I'm a big dummy pants.

Tell me why I just queried that agent with Luke? Didn't I just tell my dumb ass that I should wait? See, that's what happens when I turn my back. Fantastika takes over and voila! I should kick my ass. I understand that fortune favors the bold, but healthy trepidation has also saved many a man from certain ruin. Oh well. It's done now. All I can do now is wait.

crack music

Actually, I did have toast this morning. I forgot. Straight butter and strawberry preserves, but every bit as satisfying. It's 8:17am, do you know where your contractors are? I think these fools misunderstood me when I said 8:00am. Business must not be that good if you can't even afford a watch.

This morning I registered Lucas and Vlad with the WGA, but now comes the hard part. Do I query today or do I sit on it? I know of one agent in particular who is actively seeking romantic comedies and comedies. So what am I waiting for? I think I need another set of eyes on the manuscript, just to be sure. I was reading another one of those uplifting "You? A screenwriter? Phoar! Not in this lifetime, sporty" articles and it said that the only person who should see your first draft is your dog. How inspiring. I don't have a dog, but I've got some pretty savvy and literate friends who've given feedback. I think I'll wait until my husband comes home tonight (or tomorrow. I have no idea when he's coming home. But I care. I do) and ask him to read before I send off the query.

What's the rush, you ask? Well, earlier this year I set my writing goals and one of them was to secure representation by the end of the year. Well, I've had a couple of close calls, but ultimately no soap. Deep down, I'm still holding on to that lofty goal. Although, truth be told, I'd rather have an agent in January of 2008 that really believes in what I'm doing rather than an agent on paper who couldn't give two cinnamon teddy grahams about the manuscript.

Damn James Blunt. Try as I might, I like his new song, "1973". It's like musical crack. The first time you try it, it hits your brain and within 8 seconds, you're powerless, forever captive to its diabolical hold. It's crack music, son!

toast

Tomorrow I'm taking the morning off to supervise some contractors at the house. I plan to use these stolen hours to write, although I will probably end up sitting around in my pink robe scarfing down tea and toast. Have I told you how much I fucking love toast? It's like manna from heaven, especially with marmalade. And it's so simple. All you need is bread, a toaster and thirty seconds. In those thirty seconds, the senses are acutely aware that the kitchen has begun smelling like toasted bread. I love the sound it makes when it pops up. And the list of toppings is endless! Butter is a staple, but one could also add an assortment of jellies, sugar, peanut butter, nutella or- my favorite -peach marmalade. My love for toast and marmalade is only eclipsed by my love for the anticipation of toast and marmalade.

gratitude and humility

I just inhaled a huge meal from McDonalds and now I've got McBrick in my stomach. My colon's gonna be churning and flipping itself inside out trying to clean out those nuggets and pies but damn! Today was a Mickey D's day, ya know? Plus, meat fries rock.

I've been thinking a lot about the "little things" lately and I believe the most powerful words in the English language are Thank You. Case in point: I'm at work now and although I have a healthy amount of tasks I could be working on, I'm not. And do you know why? Because the people for whom I would be doing said tasks never, ever say thank you. They are the people that say "That's great. Now, what about this...?" The situation reminds me of the Bible story where Jesus healed ten men and told them to go and proclaim the great work He'd performed. Well, nine of the men broke out and were never heard from again. Just one came back to thank Jesus for what he'd done (I can't remember how the story ends, though- I think Jesus promised him a window seat on the Heaven bus or something). There is such power in gratitude, just as there is in humility. Humility would have saved Britney Spears from showing her ass (and too much else) a few nights back. Humility would save a great many of us from those things we do in the dark that serve only to feed our precious but fragile egos. As a writer and somebody who wants to Make It in Hollywood, I have to have a healthy dose of "I'm the shit". But as a human being, it's always best to consider the feelings of others.

I was also hit by an overwhelming sense of gratitude today. I'm grateful that I don't have to worry (too much) about how to pay my bills. I'm grateful that wondering where my next meal is coming from only means Taco Cabana v/s the local hibachi place. For the most part, I don't have to wait until payday for things I want. I'm not boasting, but I feel the need to commit these feelings somewhere because at some point- probably tomorrow -I will blog about how I feel abandoned by God. I will moan about how I am unsure of what my path in life is and how it would suck big balls if my life were simply a cautionary tale to those with better cosmic fortune. I'll bitch about how I'm going to quit writing and I'll accuse Cameron Crowe of stealing (another) one of my story ideas.

That's right, Cameron. I put your shit out there. I'm glad "Elizabethtown" was a turd. The original story was much better. Ask me how I know.

f*ck Rhianna

First of all, let me say that I've never served on the board of the Britney Spears Fan Club. However, after the VMAs a couple of nights ago, I've come to really feel sorry for her. Britney is to be pitied, her managment is to be shot and Rhianna and Ashanti need to be strung up by the elastic on their $15.99 quick-weave.

Rhianna was in the audience laughing out loud as the performance wore on. It was shameful on Rhianna's part. If it wasn't for Britney, little miss Barbados wouldn't even have a (singing? is that what she's doing?) career. Sorry to say, but Rhianna has always sounded a little like Grace Jones ("I'm not perfect/ but I'm perfect/ for you!) to me. Ashanti was asked during the break what she thought of the performance and she rolled her eyes and laughed. Ashanti hasn't put out an album since 2004 (a good one since 2002). They were also Britney's main competition for Worst Weave of the Weavening award. And my sistas should know better.

Rhianna and Ashanti- Karma is a mutha.

random thoughts

I punked out and dragged my ass back to work. So here I sit, tragically uninspired to do anything but talk about my family. I can't seem to find the time to go to a real psychiatrist, so this blog proves helpful.

My family is a frightening lot. My older sister...! To think that Terri Schiavo had to die when LT continues to walk this earth with perfectly good organs she could have donated (God knows she's not using them- her brain, for instance. Showroom new.) Anyway, I was particularly struck by the dissimilarities between my mother and me this morning at shower time. After I dragged my son's filthy ass kicking and screaming into the shower, he announced that he couldn't hear his radio. He pouted his soaking wet, hairless whippet-like self across the hall and jacked his CD's volume up to 11. And he wasn't exactly listening to Burt Bacharach, either. My first reaction was to yank his player from the wall and throw it in the shower with him, then I thought, "Why ruin his morning? It's only for a few minutes and I, too, fucks with Linkin Park." And what do you know? When he got out of the shower, he turned it down and began pouting about something completely new.

My mom would have thrown the radio into the shower with me and blamed me for my own electrocution.

Bing Rhames

Sorry I've been away so long. I forgot my password, so blogspot put me through the mickeyfrickey wringer to reset. Newsflash, Google! It ain't like I lost the combo to the front door at NORAD...So anyway, I left work about an hour ago and I'm still debating on whether or not I should go back. I was in a less-than-productive meeting this morning with a bunch of old white men who thought that just because they had old white dicks, they could insinuate that I wasn't doing my job. Fair play. Let's see how they get on without me.

My sister told me the funniest thing about my dad's girlfriend. Apparently, she's a size 16 bubblehead with afterbirth for brains who thinks that Ving Rhames' name is Bing Rhames, even in the face of not-so-subtle correction. I laugh every time I think about it! It makes me want to go put on my Ving Crosby records and have a swoon.

I'll write more in a couple of hours. It's been awhile since I've written and there's so much I need to get off my chest, I'm liable to lose a cup size!

rom com 2.0

So, my sister read the very first draft and gave me some pointers. I've been revising all night and sent a rough copy to my dear writer/reader friend. I felt bad asking her to read because she's a busy person, but I know that whatever feedback I receive from her will be given without reservation and free from agenda. There are certain people out there that I don't allow to read for me anymore. That's right. I said "allow". Asking somebody to read what I've written is terrifying, to say the least. It's like standing naked in a funhouse mirror, spreading your ass cheeks and asking carnival-goers to give their honest opinion of your colon. That's why I must be selective about who reads for me. I don't spread my ass cheeks for just anyone.

This would seem like the perfect place to launch into a diatribe about haters, but I'll pass this once. Revisions await and I'm excited. If this screenplay gets me an agent before the end of the year, I will spread my cheeks...for everybody!! :-)

my first rom-com

Well, I did it. I finished the first draft of "Lucas Donovan Forever". Whoever said that good writing must cost the writer something was never more right. This screenplay forced me way out of my comfort zone. I had to wade out into the deep waters of funny and sexy instead of splashing around in the shallow security of self-referential and snarky. The screenplay is still in it's first draft form, but I can put that first check mark down, nonetheless. I thought about taking a look at "Mixtape" this evening, but it may be too soon. My brain needs a break.

Today, for all intents and purposes, has been strangely productive. I made dinner, went for a walk, emailed my "mentor" (unavailable bastard) and completed four submissions. I also watched a movie called "Brick". Teen noir. Very, very well-written. Highly recommended. Sidebar: it makes my teeth itch when people say "for all intensive purposes". These are usually the same ignorant bastards who bandy about "irregardless" regardless of the fact that it is dead ass wrong. Anyway.

On the real estate front, I have CMAs and net sheets to complete. Looks like we'll make an offer next week and go to closing sometime next month. Fingers crossed that the seller hasn't fooked up her house so much so that it can't pass inspection. Fingers crossed.

Finished screenplay. Settlement on the horizon. I deserve a drink.

Tell DAG he needs to read my shit!

I've been struggling lately with feelings of inadequacy and battling with that nagging voice that says "You? A screenwriter? You're spinning your wheels, girl". It doesn't help that every time (no shit. Every-mickyfrickey-time )I read a question/ answer article about screenwriting, the answer is always "If you don't move to LA, you may as well be writing on Charmin and wiping your ass with it". Consequently, I'm taking the day off from work today. I just don't think I can go in without snapping on someone and far be it for me to be the angry black girl at work, you know? My plan for the day is to sit here in bed and finish up my first draft of "Lucas Donovan Forever"- formerly known as my inappropriate screenplay. I'm on page 82 now, so it's shaping up to be a 90 minute special. No worries. I'm stoked that it only took me about four months from idea to completed first draft. Four months sounds like a lot of time, but in retrospect, it took me a year to finish "Parks Street" and "Kelly's Haven" was actually written as a young adult manuscript when Jordan was still a nebulous idea floating around between heaven and earth (about eight years ago). Back in the day Harper Collins actually read (and passed) on "Kelly's Haven". I'm pretty sure I still have the letters from them. Never been so stoked to get a rejection! :-)

Quick updates: these new diet pills are a crock of shit. They make my teeth chatter and give me headaches and so far I haven't lost anything but $50 and a big hunk of dignity! :-) I'm reading "Women's Oral History of the 1950s" now and it's good stuff. Highly recommended for nerds the world over. My sister is moving to Los Angeles next month. I want the hookup with all the famous people she knows (yeah, she knows celebrities. That's just her), but I don't want to be an annoyance, you know? So I'm trying not to call her too much because I keep saying "Hook me up! Tell DAG he needs to read my shit! Gimme JK's phone number, yo!" I keep chickening out from writing or calling Flava Unit. Maybe I'm afraid of success. Am I sabotaging myself? I need a cup of tea.

everything's just wonderful

What a way to start off the month! It's hot outside, but not oppressively so. I'm still in my pink robe having breakfast tea and toast and watching my all-time favorite show "Leave it to Beaver". The show speaks to me because there's an innocence about it that can never be duplicated. If one were to attempt it, the end result would be more like taking the piss instead of paying homage. I haven't decided if I believe in reincarnation or not, but if I did, I think I lived in the 1950s and 1960s. Otherwise, why would I have this fascination with all things mid-century Americana? The clothes, the music, the culture...when I read about it, it's feels more like reminiscing through the pages of a yearbook than scholarly study. Do you believe in reincarnation? What/who/when were you?

Yesterday, I bought the 2008 Writer's Digest Writer's Market. I've been researching new script agencies and playhouses across the country, formulating a game plan for the next year. I may not reach my goal of securing an agent by year's end, but I did publish four times this year and, in 14 days, I'll know if I'm getting my first-ever stage play production. I need to learn to accept and appreciate the things I've already accomplished. My ultimate goal is to be able to walk into a theatre/turn on television and see my name in the credits and/or hear my words coming out of someone's mouth. That's it. Anything after that is gravy.