auld lang balls

In a couple of hours, 2007 will be history. I'm not sad to see it go, personally. This had to be my most prolific year on record! I published four times (my goal), fell in love with the ten minute play format, placed Top Ten in the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition and- the biggest chicken noodle coup of all- the "Suburban Psycho" option! When I look back at those accomplishments, it softens the reality that I'm still unknown and sans agent.

Since you asked, I'll tell you. My only two goals for 2008 are: 1) have a stage play produced and/or movie script sold and 2) get a flippin' agent. Not technically a flipping agent. I mean, acrobatic skills not required. Anyway.

Today was strange indeed. For the whole day, I felt like if I spread my wings and hummed loud enough, I could fly. Literally take flight! I was that full of hope and promise. Usually that only happens after a pharmaceutical cocktail, but today it was completely natural. Probably because it was Monday; Mondays and I tend to get along. I mailed three queries and maintained a healthy feeling of optimism about the San Antonio playhouse to which I submitted the disco jobby. Imagine with me for a moment: my stuff on stage, appreciated by the masses. Complimentary finger foods and a Q and A with audience members. Mmm.

Right. Enough of that nonsense. Time to get back to work. Gotta find a home for two creative non-fiction pieces and fast. Both are over two years old. I've been sitting on them so long, I expect them to hatch any day now. So, the hour finds me on duotrope.com, that wondrous database of markets for those of us with writing to market. Back to the grind. Let's see if luck be a lady (or a bald-headed bus station skeezer) tonight.

Happy 2008! :-)

order in the midst of chaos

Outside the temperature is hovering around sixty degrees and there's a light rain. Today is the perfect day to spend in one's robe watching a terrible Lifetime movie and eating a particularly creamy vichyssoise. Instead, I'm on my way to town in search of cool 2008 calendars and ski gear for our upcoming winter excursion.

Yesterday, I was nasty to a woman at work that I am insanely jealous of. She's the cow and a half that got the undeserved raise. I'm ashamed of myself because I know better and I knew I was wrong in the midst of the wrongdoing. If there was a way to go back and correct it, I would. Sometimes I'm such a common bitch. As if you didn't know.

Rest assured comeuppance is mine. For I began the day with a rejection from a Boston playhouse. I'd submitted two plays, both of which were judged and found wanting. This isn't a huge shock, as the rejection is about a month late. Still, closure is always welcome. When I get home, I've got more queries to fire off. On Monday, I really need to get off my chocolate duff and call managers and production companies. As usual, I'll find an excuse not to call. See, cold calling these people terrifies me. On the other hand, I believe that conquering that fear is what stands between me sitting in my home office and me attending my first movie premiere.

Speaking of home office, this place is a mess! I'm talking a no shit, can't-see-the-top-of-the-way-cool-Ikea-desktop, hot ham and cheese mess. I've got Christmas prezzies that need to be put away or eBay'd, gym clothes, shoes, jackets, random papers-- all of this surrounds me. Gotta get this under control before somebody calls Niecy Nash and embarrasses me on television. Then again, cleaning my office may be just another distraction from the inevitable cold calling. Either way you slice it, they both have to be done, right?

the day after

Merry Christmas, readers! Did you get your two turtle doves? I didn't, but I did get Hairspray and some High School Musical booty (not Zac or Corbin, just the books). Hope your booty was as sweet as mine. I took a day off from writing to celebrate food, folks and fun (dig that vintage McDonald's slogan) and it was great, if not exhausting. So, this morning finds me in the wee hours wearing festive thermals, watching "Hairspray", and attempting to craft a coherent blog.

I made a point several months ago of trying to enjoy life more and it's working. I've enjoyed these past five or so days off from work. Not having to go in at 8am, writing all day if I want to, having time to read my books. It's fantastic!

The writer's strike has still got me worried about my future in the entertainment business. Sometimes it seems as though everyone but me has the right answer. Today is the day for another ten minute play. Don't know what it'll be about, but when I'm finished, I'll let you know.

christmas spirit

Allow me to opine about Kwanza. Never was there a heavier load of quasi-cultural bullshit. My people pulled this malarky from their collective fourth point of contact for the sake of being different and difficult. So here's my holiday message to the moron who made it up: Look here, potnah- December 25 is, and always has been, Christmas. Christmas is the celebration of when the baby Jesus was born. There is no baby Kwanz, therefore we do not celebrate his notional birth. This whole concept is ridiculous, but I'll make you a deal. I'll start celebrating Kwanza when I get my reparations. Yeah, wait on it.

Believe me when I say your girl is cloaked in the spirit of mahfukin Christmas! In fact, I'm wearing that bitch like a giant yuletide body condom. Of course, I've passed the point of getting loot from Santa, but this year I received life and laughter from God everyday. Or is it Kwanz?

Oh, the weather outside is frightful!

Okay, I lied. It's not frightful. It's 44 degrees which isn't freezing, but isn't exactly Miami in July, either. I'm gracing a Christmas shindig in about half an hour and I'm stoked because it's with two of my three- count 'em, three- friends in this sleepy little burg. Last year, my friends and I had a Christmas party where I got embarassingly drunk and tried to undress. I got as far as my top. Unfortunately, I became stuck inside my own turtleneck and spent about twenty minutes screaming like a banshee and pleading with the other guests to "rescue" me. The next day, I felt compelled to bring the hostess a houseplant and an apology.

Got a Christmas bonus today! Yay! I went straight to el banco after work and cashed the hell out of it. Now, I've got pocket full of duckets. That's always a good feeling.

So far, I've gotten about $50 in Starbucks gift cards this Christmas. I gave one to the bank teller tonight. I think I'll stand outside Kmart and give the rest away tomorrow. I appreciate the sentiment, but coffee and teeth bleachings don't mix.

Let the merrymaking begin!

syndication

This marks my 100th blog entry! If this blog were a television sitcom, I'd be eligible for syndication (if I wasn't cancelled already for mentioning fingering an anus).

In other blog news, my terrible diet is catching up with me. My skin isn't as glowing and my teeth are telling on me and my affinity for Tazo tea and let's not get started on the hair. It's probably the second most important thing to me (behind my teeth) and it needs help. It's losing elasticity and doesn't want to behave. Luckily it's about to be relaxed within an inch of its obstinate little life...

It's a bitter pill to swallow when you are faced with the truth about yourself. Today I realized that I'm the master of lip-service. One of my favorite sayings has always been: "if there is no wind, then row". However, it's been easier said than done. Instead of giving the ol' oars a workout, I've been sitting in my dinghy pouting. So, the time has come to get off my butt and do something. That's why I've emailed Corbin Bleu's agent with my Lucas Donovan pitch. Maybe he'll read it. Maybe he'll think I'm a looney tune, but it makes me feel better knowing that I did it. If I don't hear anything from him by 4 January, I'm mailing my written query. I checked Corbin's profile on imdb and, besides Freestyle, he doesn't have any other projects in the pipeline. My movie couldn't come at a better time, right? Right?!

Received a rejection today. Was a relief, truth be told. In the past few weeks, I hadn't heard any writing news at all. Therefore, I've busied myself with my spec scripts- one for "Psych" and one for "Suite Life of Zack and Cody" and preparing my submissions to the ABC/Disney Fellowship and the Nickelodeon Fellowship. Nickelodeon application gets mailed on 2 Jan. Don't know when I need to get the Disney one in, though. I also entered my disco play to the Act One Series at the Renaissance Theatre. The festival is in May '08; don't know when chosen playwrights will be notified. I'm excited about this one. The artistic director and I have a pretty healthy e-relationship.

I would SO die if C.B.'s agent wrote me back! :-)

joke break

For Christmas I'm getting you a pair of slippers and a dildo. That way if you don't like the slippers, you can fuck yourself.

Happy Headed No

Imus is back!

I personally like him. True, he said some dumb shit, but he was probably just repeating what he'd heard somebody else say. It's kind of like when my white friends say that something's "nappy"; say, like, undercooked chicken, without knowing what it means. "OMG", they would say. "This chicken is gross! It's so nappy!" It's just ignorance and ignorance is correctable and forgivable.

Dog the Bounty Hunter is a cat of another color. First, let me say that I used to love Dog (I feel the need to preface what I'm about to say before he chews his way through my front door while I'm sleeping and eats my son), but when he called that girl a N*gger, that's exactly what he meant. He wasn't being igmorant (ha ha! Big ups to Kat for that one), he was being malicious. So fuck him. Not literally. Leland, maybe. Maybe fuck Leland. But definitely fuck Dog. Not in a good way.

Thank you for being a friend

Out of the blue today, I got an email from an old friend. Seven years ago, we served together in Germany and now he's one year away from retirement and I'm still crazy. I had forgotten what great times we had! We used to sneak away from work for coffee, have lunch at the local pizza place, and have lengthy conversations about neurolinguistic programming- altogether very stimulating. Good friends- those without an agenda -are hard to find.

Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my boss to let her know I intend to quit my job. See, there's this annoying, uneducated blob of uselessness that was just promoted. She's only been with the company for six months (to my year). I found this out on Friday and for the past few days, I've been trying to figure out the hows and whys. We're talking a 20k raise, ya'll! That's some serious "balls on chin" money. My question is: whose asshole do I need to finger to get in on the action? I'm normally not in the business of fingering random anus, but if my midget digits and pride are the only thing between me and 90k a year, then, shit. With that kind of dough, I could buy more pride.

Sorry. Sometimes my thoughts run away with me and stuff gets dirty. But that's the beauty of this place! It's like a dog park for my Id. Anyway, for those of you who care, Corbin Bleu is coming out with a new movie. This one is called "Freestyle" (about motocross) and will actually be released in theaters. Hopefully, next he'll play the lead in Lucas Donovan. After all, I wrote it for him.

On the come up

The title is misleading. Technically, I'm in the same spot I was in yesterday, but I did write and that always makes for good times. I spent most of the day watching High School Musical 2, staring Wig Hat Zac and his T.V. dad Joe Shit the Rag Man. He's so called because he wears cheap-ass, threadbare KMart duds. You know da kine. Da Kine that if you wash them twice, the threads separate like mesh. The bastard is wearing car rags! I want to spray his chest with Armor All and wipe him across my dashboard. But I digress.

In between writing in two different screenplays ("Mixtape" and an as-yet-untitled G-rated tale), I visited my friendly neighborhood Walmart and can I just say that I am so over the freakshow? Hillbillies yelling across the store at each other like it's damned Heathrow Airport. Old Man River picking his FAHKING nose in line and he's not to be outdone by the wheelchair brigade. If there's anything that really pisses me off, it's fat fucks in motorized wheelchairs. If you have a medical condition, that's one thing. But if you have a condition that involves cheeseburgers leaping "uninvited" down your chubby throat, then tough titties. Walk it out, walk it out...

I also saw an old woman getting chewed out by a Dave Grohl lookalike. And to make matters worse, I also saw somebody who looked eerily like Shannon Hoon, lead singer from Blind Melon. Except ol' Shanny Shan Shan's been dead for the better part of a decade.

On another note, these punk-ass playhouses can eat a dick. Not mine, of course. But random penis. Why come I can't get an answer from them????!!!! MWWWWWAAHHHH!!!

I had to get that out. I'll now retire to the water closet so I can get something else out. Ca-chow!

Passin' Me By

For those of you who I've tricked into thinking that I am a mature, rational adult, allow me to burn through the illusion. I'm about as petty and mean-spirited as they come. In fact, there are three parts of my personality- the me you see (and who apparently loves Seuss-like verse), my whiny Id ("why come I can't have what they have?!") and Baroness Bitch McNasty ("you fat, untalented, loser, you're wasting time"!). Let me tell you why all this is important.

See, a friend of mine called me yesterday with some cracking good news. She's going to be on a new reality show doing what she does (and does well)- fashion design! At first, I was so excited, I couldn't stand it. I've known her all my life and she's always been talented, always striving to get what she wants on her terms. Ah, but then my pouting little Id chimed in with the inevitable "Why not me?" That's when Baroness McNasty took the opportunity to answer: "I'll tell you why not you, you little shit," she hissed. "Because you're laying your fat, lazy ass on the couch in a pink robe and Betelgeuse knee socks watching the BBC when you should be writing." Hurt as I was, I acknowledged that she had a point. But she wasn't done with me. "While she was on a plane to L.A. facing fear and chasing down her dreams, you were baking cookies for a freaking PTA bake sale. Your whining and sense of entitlement is sickening and damn near eclipsing whatever talent you might have had."

This, friends, plunged me into a despair so dark and encompassing that I couldn't claw my way out if I had Prozac and a flashlight.

Cards on the table: This isn't professional jealousy or even personal regret that I'm feeling. It's straight-up envy. E to the N to the V to the Y. And I don't know why I'm feeling it with her and not my other successful friends. Maybe I do and I'm afraid to voice it... I may as well eat a supersized number 2 (gluttony), sleep with Vin Diesel (necessity, er- lust), then have the gall to get mad (wrath) because I'm a fucking undiscovered genius (pride)! I'm telling you, all this plus this freaking waiting game with the agents has got my skull all wound up. Fuck it. You think I'm doing shit today? You think I'm writing? Ha! There's a robe, a day old bagel and a Joni Mitchell CD in my future. That's sloth for your monkey ass.

impasse

I've been uninspired to do anything today but mope and whine about how my writing career is dead in the water. Right now I'm sitting at the ol' Mac stalling because Bad Joke is fast turning into Worst Joke. I think the element I'm missing (you know, other than believable plot, engaging dialogue and overall entertainment value) is relationships. People and their relationships cause conflict and right now there is no conflict. In fact, my poor characters are simply passengers on a slow moving plot locomotive and are reciting lines- not speaking to one another.

I need to get off my lazy chocolate ass and write. My characters didn't ask to be created; I created them. And if they must speak, the least I could do is give them something to say.

seven meatballs

Calorically speaking, I was very good today. I had seven meatballs, two chocolate candies, eight Chick-Fil-A nuggets, a thing of waffle fries and most of a lemonade today. Oh, and a pot of cole slaw and a red pill. But that was it. I got on the scale this evening and wouldn't you know I gained two pounds?! Life is so cruel sometimes.

Besides my "yay Kay" email this morning from the theatre in Texas, this Monday was pretty uneventful. At work, we had a brainstorming session about what kind of person they wanted to replace me and, as I walked that Green Mile back to my office I realized that I was, in fact, being replaced. Through no-one's fault, mind. It's just my time to rotate out. Still, being faced with the realization that you are dispensable is a hard pill to swallow.

Blogging notwithstanding, I've been sapped of the desire to write anything lately. I think it all started when I was reviewing/ editing my latest ten-minute jobby "Bad Joke" and realized it should be re-named "Bad Plot" or "Oh, Plot, Where Art Thou?" or "Searching for Bobby Plot". You know things have taken a turn for the desperate when your story features a giant, drunk mushroom.

Happy Monday!

Traditionally, my Monday's are fantastic. I seem to always get good news or be on the receiving end of good fortune on Mondays. This morning I opened up my email and there was a message from a playhouse I've been pestering (er, courting) for about a year now. Anyway, they're part of my "congrats" mailing list, so whenever I get positive writing news, I pass it on to them. ANYWAY, the artistic director wrote me back (re: Suburban Psycho optioning) and with a hearty congrats and an offer for me to submit to the one-act festival in May. Yay!! How cool is that? I'm going to write her this morning and let her know that, although I cannot submit "Suburban Psycho" because of the format, scene changes, etc., I can submit another one-act that I have under my hat. An aside- I wonder if she's gone back and read "Slow Burn" because of my email? That's the purpose of the mailing list. To jog people's memories and let them know I'm still out there.

Last Friday, I received a rejection letter from a New York playhouse. That one was for the ten-minute tongue-in-cheek 50s play. Ah, well.

It's 6:25am and I'm due at work in an hour, so I'll have to close. I'm excited to see what the rest of the day brings!

corporate heathens

I worth with some heathens during the day. Case in point- somebody busted ass in the elevator yesterday. I stepped in the elevator and almost immediately threw up. I got off a floor early and walked upstairs. And wouldn't you know, the same idiot had busted ass in the enclosed fourth floor lobby. How do I know? Because it was the same fetid stench as in the elevator, that's how. Like a tiny rotting goat carcass had been stuffed with the sum of humanity's evils (and a pint of cottage cheese) and shoved up the offender's backside. Terrible.

recurring characters

Several days ago, I had a convo with a friend about recurring characters. See, she writes mother-daughter conflict very, very well. Not the same conflict, but many, many facets of it. I also tend to write about parasitic, unhealthily symbiotic relationships, but more often than not, I'm writing priests, rabbis or random Jewish folks. Even where they obviously don't belong, I'm quick to create a situation friendly to your neighborhood holy man. "Potty Mouth" used to have a priest (before I turned him into a dirty preacher at the last minute). In my sitcom, the husband is Jewish and in the second episode, a priest and a rabbi share a scene. The disco play has a Catholic Senator, the Satan screenplay takes place in a Catholic school and my current play has two guys- fresh from a Halloween party- dressed as a priest and a rabbi each. Do I keep writing the same story over and over or do I just have religious issues?

I'm watching Black Books and avoiding the day. You see, tomorrow is my son's Christmas party and today I must buy the decorations and stuff for the holiday craft. But I don't want to go out because it's cold as shit. But if Santa can put in an appearance tomorrow night, then I should at least drag my chocolate ass out into the elements for some glue and glitter. But before I do that, I must get dressed. This is especially vexing since I have nothing to wear.

Right. I can no longer put this off. We must get up, scrape together an outfit and join the world at large.

festival updates

Ya'll, I can't even list how many places I've sent my plays to in the past month. The update is that I haven't heard from anyone yet. Not even Massachusetts. I even emailed the contest coordinator and was like "It's past 1 November and I haven't hear anything. Can I assume my play wasn't chosen?" but no response. I checked the website and winners aren't listed either. Ah well. I will most definitely let you know what happens in the future. Hey! Tomorrow I may get some freaking awesome news, huh?

my local Doppler radar

Can I tell you guys how much I love the Weather Channel?! The anchors are totally my friends! There's nothing better than waking up in the morning to toast and Nick Walker or Marshall Seese and Kim Perez. They're always so animated about, of all things, the freaking weather! Their energy always rubs off on me and lifts my spirits.

I used to feel that way about the hosts of the Home Shopping Network. My favorite was British Ford. She made me want to buy all manner of foolishness simply just because she was friendly.

No news is good news?

That's the anthem. Get your damn hands up.

I fell off the wagon and took a red pill today. I felt weak and dirty, but would you believe that I can actually feel the fat evaporating off the back of my neck? Yeah, I wouldn't believe that shit, either. ;-)

Creative Screenwriting has a killer DVD sale going on right now- tons of DVDs for $12.97 apiece. 'Tis a steal, especially for those of us without the means to travel hither and yon for conferences.

Today I finished what I consider to be the final first draft of "Potty Mouth". Yeah, that ten minute jobby that I was supposed to finish about a month ago. I finished it today at lunch while sucking down a whole can of chili (400 calories, hence the red pill) and watching Dave Chappelle on "Inside the Actors Studio".

Speaking of, Martin Lawrence said something interesting when he was on ITAS. He said he was won Star Search and the next minute he was "walking around at home in my drawls sayin' 'I was on Star Search and I still don't have any jobs'". Preach on, brotha. I'm walking around in my drawls, too (not literally. Literally I'm in my skin suit) and it's getting old. And to add insult to BVD-clad injury, "Cavemen" is now on hiatus. BASTARDS!

the last today- I promise!

I gave a writer-friend feedback today and I'm uneasy about it. The piece was wonderful (as usual), but I'm afraid that I may have said something that offended her. See, I have a schadenfreunde who constantly mistakes a request for critique as an opportunity to tear my writing down and I don't want to be like that. I'm probably totally overreacting (as is my wont), so I'll just leave it as it is. But I don't want her to think that I didn't like the story. I just don't know if I got that across or not. Okay- I'm done analyzing it.

This afternoon, I found no less than six more potential places to send my ten-minute plays. Instead of writing neurotic blogs, I should be banging out pages of "Bad Joke". The play is just what it sounds like, too- a bad, sad, and oh-so-tired joke. Why do I feel compelled to write it? Because it's my joke!

the essay about high school

Hey ya'll! Below is a copy of the essay I was talking about a couple of posts ago. For the record, I never went to the reunion.
--K

Dear Becky Sanderson-Kobb,

I'm sorry to inform you that I won't be attending the ten-year reunion of John Marshall High School's graduating class of 1994. I know you're looking forward to seeing me. We have a lot of catching up to do.
Thing is, since 1994, I've scarcely had time enough to bask in my own good fortune, much less prepare for such a momentous occasion such as the one you and your lockermates have been planning for the past umpteen years. Awards shows, interviews and movie shooting schedules tend to eat through the most ironclad of plans. And far be it for me to appear ill prepared when you've forsaken a career and so much more for this one night.
Memories are funny things, so feel free to look me up in the yearbook. Unfortunately, you won't find me among the "Best" or "Most Likely" lists. No, I take that back. Haley Flinn wrote me in for "Most likely to Suffer from an Anorexia-Related Stroke". You guys got a good laugh out of that one, as I recall. By the way, if you see her, let her know I'm fine now, thanks.
If anyone remembers me, it should be Lance McHenry. You know, the editor of Marshall's creative writing journal "Wellspring"? You were banging him, so your twenty-seven line epic about an Oglivie home perm gone awry, as well as other inspiring pieces by your clique, were included. My poem was not. In fact, one afternoon I popped into the journalism department to check on my submission and heard you and Lance, Tiffany and Haley reading it aloud and laughing. You probably didn't see me since there were actual tears in your eyes. It was a haiku about my dying grandfather, as a matter of interest, but I'm glad you got a chuckle.
Alas, every kick in the teeth has a silver lining. Years after the Wellspring incident, I ran into Tiffany at Kroger. Lucky cow, she looks exactly the same! Yep. Same Bon Jovi bangs, same acid washed tragedy of an outfit. She hasn't passed go nor collected $200. I offered her a smile, but only received a half smile in return. Not entirely her fault, though, as the other half of her teeth were missing.
Speaking of our old pals, I ran into Haley a couple of years ago, too. I was flying into San Antonio and wouldn't you know I'd finished my book on the plane? There I was in the bookstore and, between Deepak Chopra and James Patterson (literally filling the space between C and P), were Haley and her ginormous ass cheeks. She gave me a look she reserves only for the leafiest of greens, and lumbered past me with a huff. Well, I later discovered that it wasn't me she was upset with. The person behind me was purchasing the last bag of gummy worms.
Again, so sorry I can't make it to your little shindig. Trust, there's nothing more I'd like to do than flaunt my success and age-defying body in your faces, but who knows? Maybe I'll make it to the twenty-year reunion. By then, I'll have something like Golden Globe or Oscar worth talking about. International success doesn't begin to compare with your trials of, say, infant mouth thrush, but then again, I was always a step behind. Anyhow, Beks, hope you, Tiffany, and Haley have a bang up time next week. Just be sure to toast the ones you've left behind, as I'm sure they're on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean toasting you.

Laughing loud enough for you to hear,
Kay

the pages

I mailed the submission yesterday. This is the second agent to review "Lucas Donovan". Wish me viel gluck.

i didn't even have to use my AK

2000 zero zero party over- oops- out of time!

I'm happy to report that I did not spontaneously combust from having to make merry at a company party last night. Thank God. I saw so many fake smiles, it was pitiful. I did a good job of pushing food around on my plate and making small talk. It was hard, though. We had one igit who insisted on talking about Norman Rockwell paintings. And we care why? I stayed for dinner, but didn't party like it was 1999. The rug was just fine without me attempting to cut it, thank you.

This morning I got an email from Western Connecticut State University (I know- just hear me out) saying my entry into their "Writing High School" contest had been selected for an anthology and they'd like permission to use it and my bio, etc. There's no pay, but the essay I sent them was similar to the short screenplay I optioned earlier this year. That is, little more than a writing prompt. My essay was a tongue-in-cheek letter to the reunion committee about how they and their reunion can suck my imaginary penis because I'd rather stick flaming toothpicks under my gums than continue the torture I left behind upon graduation. I'll post it here for your enjoyment later.

Yes, today's gonna be a good day. Our contractor is finishing our shower today, and my son's school is sponsoring a pancake breakfast. And let the choir say "Yum!" I don't know what it is about pancake brekkie that gets me giddy. It's not like it's toast or anything. Maybe it's gluten-induced delirium.

It's not even seven o'clock in the morning yet and it's already a good day.

If "if" was a fifth, we'd all be drunk as fuck

Didn't mail the pages. Too lazy to care. Why spend the money when the shit's gonna be rejected anyway? I could use that dollar to buy a Kit-Kat.

As the title suggests, I've been bitten by the "if" bug. What if I don't make it as a writer? If I do make it, what will I have to sacrifice? If I do have a movie made, then what? What if I run out of stories to tell?

Tomorrow is my work Christmas party and I'm not wanting to go. There is a large contingent of people at this job that, had I a dick, I would tell them to suck it. But since I don't have a dick and I've already RSVP'd, I'm gonna go ahead and show my face. I think I've gained weight, though. Luckily, I won't be the fattest person in the room.

Today was a strange day indeed. At work, I didn't feel like doing anything. At home, I felt like doing even less. I did write today, though. Began outlining a story I inspired by toast crumbs in the butter, if you can believe that. I don't know how commercial it is. Don't even know if there's a real story in there. Unlike the toast crumbs. Those were real as hell.

On another note, it looks like I'm going to Ski Week in January with my husband and in-laws. Can't say I'm looking forward to it. My mother-in-law is an interesting study, but a whole week might drive me to drink (absinthe). Look, I don't want to have to explain why I think her daughter is a putz or why I don't practice random acts of procreation. But my husband has this need to see his family. I'll go to keep her from pouncing all over my son- asking him why he's not like her sons. That's is, practically perfect in every way, of course. Yeah, so my son loves his video games and can be a lazy butt munch. But he's my lazy butt munch. And if the MIL thinks that she's got a captive audience to regale us with tales of what God's gifts to the textbook industry her children (and my sister-in-law's children) are, I'm ghost. Packing my shit and WALKING to the nearest airport.

That was extremely tangential and i've since forgotten what the original thought was. I'm tired now.

career options

Ya'll, I'm not even going to front. I spent the better part of today feeling sorry for myself and bemoaning my sub-plankton station in the writing food chain. Why do I continue to put myself through this? Just as I was about to explore career options in underwater welding, God came through once again. It seems my Lucas Donovan query letter has piqued the interest of a second agent who would like to see the first 10-12 pages. Although I'm still licking my Cave-wounds, I'll go ahead and send it tomorrow anyway.

what did you expect?

Project: Cavemen. Status: Rejected.

gallileo! gallileo!

These past few days have been relaxing. No, I haven't heard anything from the agents reading my work, but I've spent quite a bit of time on my latest work. I'm on page 60 right now (presently taking a break to blog it out) and will probably get up to 70 quality pages by day's end. Last night and this morning, I revisited the outline and figured out what I was missing. As a writer, it's a tricky thing to translate the entire story in your head onto the page.

My confidence in my Cavemen script is waning. My sister read it for me (after it had been submitted) and pointed out a glaring defect that no-one else found. Well, shit. Not much I can do about it now; it's already been mailed. I also haven't heard anything from any of the playhouses I've submitted work to. It's the holiday season, though. So, I expect everyone is moving at the speed of yuletide these days.

I've taken my husband's advice and thrown myself into other activities so I'm not sitting around waiting for the rejection/contracts in the mail. Our neighborhood Christmas party is in two weeks and I've appointed myself chairperson for the festivities. I've rediscovered my love for online shopping and Freddy Mercury. Alas, it hasn't been all Laredoute.com and Bohemian Rhapsody. I also learned that my son is the most conniving person on the planet and I can't trust him. Point blank. He's a liar. How does one raise a liar? And more importantly, how does one un-raise a liar? He is also a showboating know-it-all. I'm truly at a loss as to what to do with him. I do know that the festival of indulgence that has been his life so far has come to an end. It's time for him to grow up.

Me, my baby and flat iron

First of all, let me say that I am deeply sorry that you had to read about my adventures in B.M. land. But I'm a human being. Does not a human feel? Does not a human poo?

So this morning I went to WalMart for some Frizz-Ease and a flat iron for my 'do. Well, I'd forgotten that it was Black Friday (mostly because every Friday is "black Friday" for me. Or is it Negro Friday? I dunno). Anyway, I was in the hair serum aisle when I saw a woman with a cart loaded down with overpriced plastic madness. She was a complete stranger, but your favorite social cripple had to ask the pointed question: "I hope there's something for you in there". She told me that there was, in fact, nothing in the cart for her and that she was halfway down her daughter's list (which included Hannah Montana tickets and a hamster). We engaged in a lovely convo about how the going price for H.M. concert tickets is nearing the realm of one vital organ per ticket and the long lines before parting ways. The woman was a saint.

People watching on Black Friday is wonderful. I'm going back out next year, too. I love the hustle, the bustle, the desperation on faces, the ridiculous lines, the calculated product shortages, the sheer lunacy of it all. As an amazingly anticlimactic postscript, I did eventually get my flat iron and Friz-Ease and now my hair is mad shiny. Ka-chow!

post script

I'm taking a shit and my son is playing Operation on the floor in the bathroom. Yes, the same bathroom I'm trying to shit in. How am I supposed to grunt/moan/remove my bra/ curse the heavens with him here? Oh, the joys of motherhood!

pep talk

I'm so tired right now that I can barely hold my big head up. All this waiting for agent's replies is taking a toll on my psyche, which in turn, is taking a toll on my body. As it write this, my son keeps nagging me to do something with him, but I'm giving him the old stiff arm. Ya'll, he likes to watch the same shit every day and I'm just not feeling it tonight. And I sure as hell don't want to play "Guess Who" or "Scrabble" with his cheating ass. So, I'm gonna log in my thoughts, then hit the sack.

On another note: am I missing the point of Christmas? I only have five gifts picked out for my husband and I'm stressing. Resolved: I'll buy the five things I have picked out and then other things as they come up. My Lord, it's actually become a competition. I can't let him out-give me!

Can I just say how much I love talking to my writer buddies? One of them read my Cavemen spec today and actually laughed out loud! She gives feedback like a champ and I respect her for that. Whenever I feel like I'm spinning my wheels in the mud of the undiscovered, she reminds me of the thing that all artists need to hear every once in a while: that we do what we do because we can and we must. That doesn't mean that artists don't require practice, but I believe that if we weren't called in some way to create, then we wouldn't. Not everybody will appreciate your art, but that's okay. She's having a bit of a time with editors who are looking for so-called "everything", but aren't feeling her work. It will come for her, I know. Her storytelling and character building is far superior to mine. Publishing houses are definitely sleeping on her.

If you aim for the moon, you will get there (or at least a brilliant star). But no matter where you aim, as long as you land farther than you are, you're a success.

Goody Fantastika

I'm quitting teaching Sunday School, starting last Sunday. I've been denying it, but whenever I drive up to the church, my stomach churns. It's beyond icky when the door guards give you that pitiable smile that says "You'll never be as holy as me, but thanks for coming. Enjoy the complimentary donuts". I'm weary. Still, there's nothing better than spending time with a bunch of five year olds who know God better than 90% of the adults I know. Unfortunately, that's where my joy ends.

Remember the Salem Witch Trials where the young women (Goody Sarah, Goody Margaret, Goody Good Pecker- okay, not the last one) were placed on trial as a result of that "you're either with us or against us" mentality? Look, just because I don't enjoy church doesn't mean I'm a heathen or that I'm even backsliding. I wonder if I can get that on a tee shirt?

the waiting game

Three weeks, two agents, one shot. That's what my writing life has boiled down to. But it's all good. I've got several irons in several fires, so in the event that one spike turns out dull, I'll use my remaining energies to stoke the other flames. And, yes, that concludes that chain of excruciating blacksmith metaphors. Last night I tried to work on another screenplay of mine, but I fell asleep at the keyboard again. Productive, indeed... I also received my 9th place certificate in the mail today. In fact, I'm using it as a coaster for my teacup right now. Yeah, it's 9th place, but it's the highest I've gotten so far. Simply looking at it validates the struggle.

My sister sent me a fly-ass tote bag yesterday. How can a tote bag be fly, you ask? Easy- when it's Beatle related. Can't wait to rock it this weekend. Of course, that means I have to find a place to go. How about Starbucks? If the Starbucks crowd can't appreciate the vintage tote, nobody can. So that's where I sit now: bumping Dr. Dre ("ain't nuthin but a G thang baaaaybay/two loc'd out G's going craaaaayzay"), avoiding writing and planning to sport my fly Beatles tote.

It's like this and like that and this and uh...

into the wild, blue yonder

Can you hear that? It's me humming the old Air Force jingle: "Off we go! Into the wild blue yonder!" This fateful morning, I'm sending off my Cavemen spec into the wide world. I'm fairly confident, though. The better part of the weekend was spent writing, rewriting, tweaking (and drinking martinis, but that doesn't have anything to do with the script) and now I can say that it is as finished and as funny as it is going to get.

I still haven't heard anything back from that LA agency about Lucas Donovan. No news is good news, or so the saying goes. I sent it out on 11/7 and it's been almost two weeks. It's a short script (about 90 pages) and everyone that's read it says it's a quick read. Maybe she's already passed on it and my rejection is enroute? Or maybe she was blindsided by my genius and is drawing up a contract? Wouldn't that just beat the band? I'm choosing to think positive.

Negotiations between WGA and producers are set for 11/26. I'm rooting for them, but not too much. After all, I need time to secure representation before people go back to work. After the strike, I'm not going to have their attention like I do now. But if the writers emerge victorious with more money from online streaming and iTunes downloads, then it could only benefit me in the long run.

Remember that song "If I Had" on Eminem's first CD? Recommend revisiting it. For all of us would-be screenwriters, novelists, fashion designers, rock stars, astronauts... the desperation in his voice is oh-so-familiar.

free fallin'

I don't know if it's because of the song itself or just the video, but the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers ditty "Free Fallin" always gives me a feeling of buoyancy. Hence, the entry title. I received two happy emails today. One from an agent that represents T.V. writers. As it turns out, she is more than happy to read my "Cavemen" spec script "with a two week exclusivity toward representing you". Woo-hoo! I'm giving the script a once over again to make sure it has the right mixture of funny and self-referential. I plan to send my baby out into the wind on Monday. Wish me luck.

The second happy email was from a theatre company in Denver. The owner/director lady said she liked that I had dangerous plays and was looking forward to reading them. Over the moon was not the word to describe how I felt! It's November 2007 and I may- just may -end up with representation or at least a venue for a world premiere of my play. A couple of months ago, I sat here lamenting the fact that my writing career had stalled. Crazy how things work out.

I've gotta go and free fall into my script now. Gotta find the funny. Gotta succeed.

merry Christmas from me to flu

I have the flu, so I'm home from work. At first, I wondered if it was the actual flu or just depression in flu's clothing, so I just took the day as a precaution. As it turns out, I'm actually physically ill this time. Who knew?

Alas, if there's one thing that makes me feel better, it's Christmas. I love Christmas as much as I love toast. In an effort to cheer up my immune system, I'm listening to Harry Connick, Jr's Christmas CD and watching the DVD. Nothing says yuletide like a big band and a square jawed crooner. If I hadn't left Barry Manilow's Christmas CD in my desk drawer, I'd be rocking that one, too. Well, as much as one can rock Manilow.

On the writing front- I haven't heard anything back from the agency that requested my entire script. I'm optimistic, though. I'm talented, right? My movies are at least as good as the stuff out now, right? I have confidence that, as soon as someone actually reads my work, they'll take me on. My stories are compelling, damn it! On another note, I've been getting my rejections back a lot quicker. My hunch is, because of the writer's strike, many agents are sitting on their thumbs. Why not use those under-employed digits to rip open my queries? I'm using today's down time to fire off more queries. That's a lie. I used a good deal of the morning on housework like laundry and cleaning dried boogers off my son's wall. I should save them and put them in his stocking, nasty fahker.

morning symbolism

This morning on my 6am walk, I had a strange encounter. I saw what I thought was a rabbit in someone's yard. Nothing too odd about that; rabbits are pretty plentiful around here (I guess there's some truth to that whole adage- they multiply like you-know-whats), so I wasn't all that shocked. I reminded myself to keep a safe distance in case he was a rabid bastard and keep on truckin. I watched it as it watched me and then took off across the grass. Then, the strangest thing happened. It took flight. It bounded one, two times and then was airborne. That's when I realized that it wasn't a rabbit at all, but a bird (I also realized that I need to start wearing my glasses more often). Okay, so it wasn't exactly a "road to Damascus" moment, but being on that eternal quest for meaning, I didn't have to look far for the literary symbolism. Maybe the pieces I relegate in the limbo file should be given their day. Just because I see them as dime-a-dozen, rabid bastards doesn't mean I should not give them their chance to fly, right?

Gas

Gas is now $2.91 a gallon where I live. I must say that, although I think it's a crock of warm shit, I'm thankful the cost doesn't hit me in the pocketbook like many others.

I still love Dog the Bounty Hunter. A lot more people than you'd imagine think and say a lot worse. I know I've thought and said a lot worse about my own people. Like Chris Rock said, "There are black people and there are N*ggers". I love black people. I can't stand n*ggers. And for the record, n*ggers come in 37 flavors and then some.

Well, I've gotta get my black ass out of bed and make it through the day. Scratch that. I'm going to make a difference to someone today. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Montana, Never

I forgot to tell you: I didn't make it to the one-act festival in Montana. Side note- I should stop saying "I was rejected or I didn't make it", because it was ME who was rejected. For one reason or another, it was my play. If I change the way I talk, can I change the way it stings? I can call a needle a whiffle ball bat, but when it pierces the skin, it still hurts like a summamabitch.

Good fortunes

I'm having the most freakingist awesomist day a human being could have (so awesome it defies proper conjugation, damn it)! This morning, I received a note from a Hollywood agency saying they'd gotten my query letter and were interested in reading the screenplay. I filled out the release and sent it off this morning. This is another milestone for me- only the second time this has happened! The first was a small Georgia production company that look so long to review the piece (almost a year) that I actually wrote to them and requested that they withdraw my script from consideration. Alas, it's a new day and a new script (that last one involved a drag queen and a one-legged reporter, so in retrospect it was probably for the best that my name wasn't associated with that trash in public).

Needless to say, I am over the moon with this news! Could this be the break I've been waiting for?

I've finished the outline for my Cavemen script. Am I going to wait until the strike is over to run out and find a home for it? Let the church say "Hell, no, bitches!" It's like this, potnah: remember that episode of Alice where Mel and the girls were locked in the stockroom? They were in there for hours, a captive audience to Vera's particular brand of homespun foolishness. Well, the WGA strike is the locked storeroom and it's me and the agents, baby. A captive audience. Want something to read? You don't have working clients or new projects. In fact, by my reckoning, you ain't got nothin' but time...

Life is too good today.

The Passion of the Claus

Today was damned productive. I woke up resolving to have a great day and I almost succeeded. The people at work were buttheads, but what are you gonna do, eh? I suppose that's why it's called work and not play. At any rate, I ordered a crap load of Christmas presents for my son today. So much so that my husband has told me that I cannot buy any more for a while. Whatever. He's not the boss of me. Boy, I love Christmas! The sights, the sounds, the smells, the ripping open of wrapping paper and the subsequent lazing about among presents. Christmas' when I was younger were the bomb. They were the only times when I was truly happy to be alive. Yes, I was a depressing soul, even as a youngin.

Listening to Serena Ryder (iTunes her because she rocks) makes me want to try to tackle my guitar again. I got pretty far a couple of weeks ago. I learned an open G and F. I kept trying to convince myself that the reason I haven't been playing is because my fingers are too short. That's right. I'm not a lazy fooker, but a lazy fooker with stubby fingers. Maybe I'll buy myself a mandolin. Then, I can learn to play the intro to "Losing my Religion" and call it a day.

Guess what? I've found a place to send my bastard Christmas play "The Passion of the Claus". It's a gut-wrenching slice-of-life that chronicles the debilitating self-doubt and niggling insecurities an aging Santa must battle the other 364 days of the year. Did I mention it's written for Kindergartners? I'll let you know how this all turns out...

One last thought- I cannot listen to the Spencer Davis Group without thinking about all those STOOPID financial planning commercials! Look, words cannot express how much I freaking love the Spencer Davis Group. I even believe that Steve Winwood- with the help of corrective dentistry- could be a major hottie (don't knock it. Dentistry turned David Bowie from a space freak to a space freak with perfectly capped incisors). "Gimme Some Lovin" shouldn't remind me of ex-hippies who, instead of spending the last forty-odd learning bulls and bears, sunk every peso they had into ill-fated hemp futures.

Last thought- Did you know that John Phillips (Mamas and Papas) taught his daughter to shoot heroin at 12 years old? He died last year and is now burning in hell.

critique

I received a critique today. It stated my piece sounded as if it was written by someone on drugs who just sat down at a computer and started typing. They didn't like my descriptions (a bedroom on fire and gangrene of the lips, for example); thought they were too weird. Although they found the piece very entertaining, it was a little too weird for them.

This is a great time for a word on my influences. I grew up listening to (and I suppose internalizing) psychedelic, mind-bending lyrics by Led Zepplin, the Strawberry Alarm Clock, and the Doors. My favorite movies are the ones that make me think so hard that I can only watch them once (Velvet Goldmine, Boogie Nights, Blair Witch Project). My sense of humor tends toward the irreverent and the inappropriate. I often throw words together to see if they stick and I'm obsessed with the way a sentence sounds when it's said out loud. Too many "s" sounds in that last one, by the way.

Now I must feed my family, edit a coupla ten minute jobbies and get back to challenging the world, one alliterated sentence at a time.

need a minute?

I'm thinking about taking a leave of absence from work. It's no longer fun and I need an Atlanta minute to get my thoughts together.

things we said today

One of my favorite Beatles songs is "The things we said today". As I sat at my desk, I got to thinking about the things I tend to say, even if they are only in my head. You know, uplifting little things when I'm in the car like "Could you waddle across the street any slower, you fat fuck and a half?!" or standing behind the pokey poke in the sandwich line: "What comes on the rueben? Gee, my crystal ball is broken, but lucky for us there's a TWENTY FOOT CHALKBOARD right in front of your stupid, non-observant, pug-like face with all the listed ingredients. Oh, sure. I'll take a moment to give you time to order and feel like the asshole you are".

Just checked the Massachusettes festival website. There are no results posted clearly marked 2007 winners, but there are some "congratulations playwrights" posted. Don't know if it's for this year, but I do know my name wasn't included.

That gaping black hole of depression is pulling me into it's orbit (this is the part where my junior astronaut cadet of a husband says that black holes don't have orbits. We get it. You're a genius. Moving on). So depressed I'm almost catatonic...I'm very unhappy because my writing career-such as it is-sucks, I'm bored of real estate and the world would be better off without me. Ya'll, there's an impending writer's strike in Hollywood. Can you say "Kay the Scab"? I wish somebody would ask me to fill in. I would cross those lines faster than a crack head on fire.

My son told me that he wouldn't mind if I moved out if it meant that he could have a pet snake. Last night, he went trick or treating with his dad, Mr. Perfect. The only time my son and I spend fun time together is watching "Martin". It's so broad and silly, we can both enjoy it. Maybe I should write Martin Lawrence a thank you note.

wanna hear something scary?

The rejections are coming in low and fast, people! Yesterday I got one from the one-act festival in Montana and today I had my Halloween short story rejected. I wasn't counting on the Halloween story, though. I just submitted it to fill my submission quota for the month. Naughty, naughty writer monkey!

Today at work everyone was dressed up and I felt about as included as a nun at a wet tee shirt contest. So, in the spirit of not being a complete bitch, I dressed up as Amy Winehouse. My costume was fierce, I say! Although I didn't have the bloodstained ballet slippers (you know, from where I inject heroin between my toes), I had the nappy beehive and winged out eyeliner and I even got drunk. How's that for authenticity? That's where this blog finds me, ladies and gentlecreatures. Too lazy to remove this heavy ass wig and too drunk to care. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna wake up with a hangover and subsequently be late for work. My husband suggested that instead of calling in sick, I should call in Winehouse, but I said no, no, no.

I don't think I'm going to write tomorrow. I'll probably blog, but not write. Methinks I need a break. Oh, yeah. I got my hair cut today. It looks wondermous. I love my stylist!!!! She's not at all like that retardo numb shit that fucked me up a couple of months ago. Janet, you rock.

contest rankings

Today the rankings were posted for the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition. I won 9th place and the other three entries of mine ranked 12th, 21st and 25th respectively. Top 25 on all four! I'm pretty stoked about my placements. Now, if I could just stop stressing over Massachusetts, life would be gravy. Chosen plays for the Massachusetts playwrighting festival will be announced the day after tomorrow. Yes, I'm fully aware that I keep writing the same shit over and over again, but this is what has consumed me. When you're this close to your dream, it's hard not to go a little crazy. At any rate, I'll keep you posted.

musketeer C

For those of you who don't know, I've been 1/3 of a group for some time now: the Writing Musketeers. There was Musketeer A, Musketeer B and yours truly. Although we are all presently on this path toward literary "success" (as defined by our own individual standards), fate brought us together at some point and for the past several years, we've been traveling on this writer's road together.
Musketeer A was an incredibly talented writer. I could read one hundred books on creating the perfect character; her characters just sprang forth fully matured like Tribbles. Entire novel-sized manuscripts were full of not only real, rounded characters, but believable situations. We even attended a writer's conference together. I was enrapt at how this girl could work a room. While she was steadily impressing authors and agents alike, I was busy entertaining conventioners with my impression of woman completely unable to talk to strangers. To this day, I believe Musketeer A will land the agent and the "big break" before either me or Musketeer B. Why? Because she has equal parts talent and drive.
Which brings me to Musketeer B. Ah, my Musketeer B! Ever fond of calling herself a writer, but rarely wrote. In fact, the last time she wrote an original piece, the words Bobby Brown and crack pipe weren't even synonymous yet. However, she had a gift for self-promotion. She was able to walk into a room and every man, woman and houseplant prostrated in her wake. She would attend massive nationwide conferences and have the most jaded of agents eating out of her hand. The problem was, when the smoke cleared and said agent requested that all-important manuscript, it simply didn't exist.
Then there's me. Not quite as talented as A, certainly not as balls-out as B, but I have determination. But even with all that determination, I think that, after making that first sale, I'll be looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to expose me for the talent-deficient hack that I sometimes believe myself to be.
On another note, I spent a lot of time brainstorming "Potty Mouth" today and reading more one-act plays. I'm fully convinced that the right time and theatre are just around the bend for my play(s). Which brings me to my next question.
Am I a screenwriter or a playwright? To tell the truth, I'm comfortable in both conventions. Am I being unnecessarily prideful? Or am I a multi-hypenate literary juggernaut poised to take over the world?
I'll figure it out in the morning.

BBC 1

Forgot to tell you- I mailed that "award winning script" to the BBC yesterday. Wish me luck!

potty mouth

So, last night was very productive for me. I started a new play called "Potty Mouth". I got the idea about a week ago and jotted down some notes at work, but last night was the first time I actually put it down in play form. These women are like no other women I've ever written about. They're in their 40s, overweight, church-going and huge Barry Manilow fans. I won't tell you what the play is about, though. Hopefully you'll see it on stage one day. Besides, it's bad luck, isn't it? Kinda like disclosing a pregnancy before the third month. Anyway, suffice it to say I think it's funny. This play gives me a chance to step outside my snark box and talk dirty. You know, "pound my cookie with your giant cock", "cum between my tits" kind of stuff. Maybe not production material for your average middle American black box (theatre, that is. Not a euphamism), but somebody might enjoy it.

Festival Updates: so the one-act play festival in Massachusetts announces its winners on 1 November (this Thursday! Yikes!). I don't know when the one-act play festival in Montana announces their winners, but their website says auditions are being held for the chosen plays on 18 November. Either way, I should know something pretty soon, right? Granted, this whole situation has the potential to become another Pittsburgh (reference seething "Pittsburgh, Never" blog from September), but I can't help but become excited. I couldn't imagine a full production of my play! Wouldn't that just beat all??? In the name of research, I even read a couple of produced one-act plays and lemme tell ya, they're not much better than mine. My husband says it may be my subject matter and I'm inclined to agree. After all, who among us remembers disco club raids and who wants to see a serial killer play with optional laugh track?

my night with Adam Levine

Last night, I had the strangest dream. I was in an alternate universe that was about to implode because of the wicked ways of its inhabitants. Well, yours truly had been marked to create the next race of superheroes. Except it wasn't that easy. See, these next superheroes had to be half-Jewish. So, I wandered the countryside until I ended up in what looked like Whole Foods Store where I ran into Adam Levine, the cutey-cute-cute lead singer from Maroon 5. Anyway, over the organic broccoli display, I informed him of my plight. I told him that, in order the save the world, I must beget the next race of Jewish superheroes and, since he was Jewish, I would need to sleep with him (several times over, natch). He told me that their Jewishness would be suspect because their mother (i.e, me) woudn't be Jewish (apparently it's passed through the matriarch). But that didn't mean anything because the next minute, we were naked and writhing on satin sheets- creating baby Jews to save the world.

I have no idea where this twisted shit sprang from. I do know that creating a race of super- Jews to save our planet is just a good a reason as any to sleep with Adam Levine. Maybe.

it ain't over till it's over

Back when I was a Gitano jean-rocking whippersnapper, Lenny Kravitz had a song called "It Ain't Over Till It's Over" (that was before he lost his negro mind and started wearing wings and fringe). Anyway, I got to thinking about Kravitz and his ditty tonight as I updated my submission log and publications list. See, I was bummed around August because it was the second half of the year and, in the publishing and entertainment world, nothing of note happens in the second half of the year (or so I've read). That meant I had zero chance of getting anything done! But, as evidenced by not only my submissions log, but publication list, there's been mondo activity in this second half of the year.

I guess it's like my broker always says. Just because the market is bad, doesn't mean the market is impossible. It just takes a little more diligence and elbow grease.

My broker also says that if you call yourself a part-time anything, you should spend at least two hours a day doing that thing (putting you at 10 hours a week if you take weekends off). Friends, if that's the case, then I am about as full time as you can get. Sure, I don't spend eight hours a day writing, but I spend at least four a day- EVERY day-either writing or engaging in some kind of writing activity (researching markets, editing, blogging, etc).

Having said that, I have to get back to my writing activity for the day. I'm going to fire off my agent queries for "Luke". I'm going to go out on a limb and send that award-winning sitcom (yes, it feels good to be able to say that!) to the BBC Writer's Room. My other sitcom was rejected by them, but for good reason. The shit wasn't funny. But this time'll be different. Why? Cuz it ain't over till it's over!

thou shalt not scat on that

Dude, it was curtains for me after last night's blog. I didn't do a damned thing but stuff the manicotti and go to sleep.. And, no, that's not double entendre. I literally stuffed pasta shells for tonight's dinner, watched three episodes of "Cavemen" and went beddy-by. However, I did wake this morning with renewed vigor. I added minutes to the Bat Phone, checked voicemail and placed my bi-weekly Victoria's Secret order. God help me, I'm becoming a lingerie junkie!

I shouldn't hate Angelina Jolie. I'm gonna stop calling her a liver-lipped, homewrecking slut. After all, I don't even know her. Just a thought.

Strange things on the work front: a guy came into my office and- hold the phone -methinks he was flirting with me. Yes, I know. Weird. Anyway, he's yakkity-yakking on about how important he is and all the while I'm thinking: dude, I am not that complicated. If you want to impress me, bring me a bull whip and a Butterfinger. Really. A little nugat and rough sex and I'm putty in your sado-masochistic hands. That is, if your shoes weren't payless and you weren't fugly enough to stop time. Feel free to stop reading now, by the way. For it only gets worse...

My writer-friend told me what "scat" was this weekend. Wow! I won't tell you what it is here, but Google "scat" and see what foul depravity you unearth. She was even so kind as to explain the word origin to me. Lemme tell ya'll something: I don't care where the word comes from, but I DO know if a negro scats anywhere near my 600 thread count sheets, I'm a-whuppin somebody's ass! Water sports are doable in a designated area (i.e, nowhere near my sheets), but let a muhfukka piss on my new lingerie and see if I don't fuck him up.

very tired

I was exhausted today and hardly got anything done- at work or with writing. This evening I cooked two meals, which made me feel a little less like a slug. At work, I've been stuck on a party-planning committee and the women there were talking about food. What to serve, what colors go with what, what's a starch...I kept thinking over and over: why am I here? I don't even like food! All that talk about ham and green beans made me want to throw up.

I'm still exhausted, but I feel like I need to accomplish something. Beyond laying here and watching The Golden Girls (2nd season-the episode "The Actor" is too funny!), I don't know what else I can manage. I should go buy a replacement for the casserole dish I exploded a few months back. My eyes are drooping, so I'll write more later.

chefs and rockstars

"Mom, I was thinking about what I want to be when I grow up and I'm going to either be a rock star or a chef".

This is how my evening started out, with my seven year old pondering potential vocations. Vacillating. Stuck betwen a rock and a flake pastry. I can so relate, though. On the writing front, I'm in a holding pattern. As of this morning, I'm awaiting answers from three one-act festivals that I've submitted work to (New York, Montana and Massachussets) and their results should be announced/posted on the website any day now. There are also festivals in Kentucky and Wisconsin that I have entered, but their results won't be announced until the beginning of the new year.

This weekend, I finally finished the ten-minute, Disco-themed jobby. My writer-friend Elayne read it and gave valuable feedback. My husband also read it and picked the story bones clean like the critiquing vulture that he is. I say this with total love, however. Sometimes I get so caught up in the dialogue ("did I give the Senator enough lines"?), subtext ("What is the real nature of Chip's relationship with his mother?") and themes ("Is the Wizard of Oz too trite?") that I forget that the shit doesn't even make sense. I also submitted an essay I'd written about the neighborhood ice cream man to Critique Circle. And before you sigh, I'm not putting him on blast for selling bootleg Sponge Bob sicles, it's a heart-warming nostalgia piece.

The quest is on for more people to read the disco jobby. I don't know why, but this play is the play I have the least faith in. Perhaps because it's brand new and hasn't "proven" itself in any contest or festival. Maybe it's because the subject is too close to my heart and I'm afraid to share it. With feelings like these, I'm sure this will be the one that makes it to the stage first.

I'm telling my son to go ahead and be that rockstar.

the argentinian

We just got back from the D.C. United v/s Columbus Crew game (3-2 Columbus, by the way). D.C. United looked like a bunch of short bus rookies out there tonight, fumbling around like virgins on prom night. I guess that's what happens after you've made the playoffs and don't give a damn. Anyway, when D.C. United finally managed to shit out a goal, the stands went wild. My husband and I were sitting next to a young, cool couple and we had two crazy Argentinians behind us. The Argentinians smelled like they had been drinking since, oh, Tuesday and every third word out of their mouths was "puto", but I digress. So we score this goal and me and the female half of the cool couple get excited and we hug. Well, Mr. Drunk Argentinian decides to get in on the action and pulls us both into a bear hug. What's more, this fucker kissed me! He kissed me on my freaking mouth! I almost DIED. If there's anything I hate worse than death by hungry octopus, it's fluid sharing. I wanted to die, but I thought it would be rude.

Earlier, I sat an open house for a collegue of mine. It was a total bust, but I did get to finish watching "Attack of the Puppet People" and "Teenagers from Outer Space". Tomorow, I have another open house, so I'll finish up "Alligator People" and the awesome $1 Sci-Fi DVD I found at Wally Martinez.

Oh yeah, I got my certificates from Writer's Digest. It seems "Kelly's Haven", "Expiration Date" and "Cooking with Bixby and Kenzo" all received Honorable Mention in the TV/ Movie Script Category. That means they received anywhere from 11th to 100th place. I'll check the website and get back with you on the actual placements. I didn't think Bix and Kenz was gonna do anything of note; it was written well before I started learning in earnest about the television sitcom format. Oh well. Thank God for small victories, right? Barring any naughty Argentinians, tomorrow should be great, too.

bah-bra

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Barbra Streisand? I'm listening to her now as I procrastinate. See, I should be writing in "Mixtape", but in light of my recent personal triumphs, I'm gripped with the fear that whatever I write isn't going to measure up to whatever I've written before. Peaking is a very real fear of mine. But I've got to keep moving forward, right?

The song just changed. Have I told you how much I freaking love Manilow? Okay, now I'm just being silly. I'm gonna go write something.

second great day in a row

What a day! First, my clients finally settled on their home, putting them in over 2,000 square feet and $4,000 in my pocket. Then, I received and signed my first option agreement with Showbiz Shorts. Then, I went to WalMart and found "The Alligator People" for $5! My love for 1950s sci-fi and horror is almost to the point of fetish, so to find such high quality entertainment for mere pennies on the dollar makes me smile.

Usually at the end of each day, my inner bitch accuses me of wasting time. "What have you actually ACCOMPLISHED today?" she challenges. Well, today, for the first time in a long while, I'm able to shut her up without aid of medication or alcohol. As I write this from the chaos of my home office, I feel as if I've earned the right to rest on my laurels for a bit. Just a bit.

Want to hear something ironic? One of my friends commented on how angry I seem to be in my blog, so I told her that I would try to bleed out a more upbeat entry. Wouldn't you knonw I didn't even have to try? Ya'll, tomorrow is Friday, I've optioned a short screenplay, finally settled on this property and weigh 113 pounds. Can it get any better?

movin' on up to the east side

I got my first option today! Yay! This huge for a screenwriter. Somebody who shares neither my blood nor my bed thinks I rock. I'm dying to tell you how it happened, so the story unfolds below:

Last night I couldn't sleep because I took too many diet pills. So I ended up perusing the various "writer's wanted" websites. I queried one in search of short scripts- I'm talking 1-3 pages long with minimal sets. Anyway, I submitted my logline for "Suburban Psycho"- the gripping tale of a bored housewife who murders her neighbors for sport (it's a comedy). Ya'll, I didn't even expect an answer back. Well, wouldn't you know the Creative Director of the company emailed me this morning and said my logline sounded interesting and she wanted to see the script. So with prodding from my writer-friend Elayne (elaynehill.blogspot.com; see what a real blog looks like), I punched up my dialogue, tweaked my format and sent it in.

When I got home, there was another email from the Creative Director. I assumed it was rejection as I tend to attract those dastardly things. So, I opened it up and the first words I read were "Hi Kay! Your script is fabulous and we want to option it from you". Now, when a script is optioned, that means the company basically owns it for a year (or the length of the option). If they produce it within the year, I get paid ($50 for this one) and a DVD of the performance. If they don't produce it within a year, then the rights revert to me and I don't get paid. By the way, if it is produced, it will be shown on KXLA in Los Angeles.

Some say a free option is a bad idea but I see it like this: "Suburban Psycho" is, and probably forever will be, ten pages of a first and very rough draft. What I'm actually optioning is three pages of a ten page writing prompt. A free option on a piece of a half of a screenplay? Sure, why not?

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's difficult to describe just how happy I am right now! I couldn't be happier if Vin Diesel was naked in my kitchen making me toast and marmalade. This shit is totally George Jefferson! We're movin' on up, yo!

time in a bottle

There are very few things in life that are more comforting than warm butered toast and the musical stylings of Mr. Jim Croce.

Texas sucks

The one time I was truly proud of my older sister is when she got a job at Kmart. She worked at the jewelry counter, had her own apartment and was finally paying her bills with taxable income. Anyway, she lost that job because she cussed her manager out. It seems he wanted her to wear shoes to work. Well, this was unacceptable! My sister explained that she was on her feet all day behind the counter and $9.99 house shoes from aisle 6 were a suitable alternative to, say, loafers. Because of this, she lost her job. I don't think she's held steady employment since.

Who the fuck wears slippers to work? She's insane! And what's more insane is that this green eye contact, quick-weave-wearing plankton is raising two children that she is apparently "home schooling" in an unheated, no running water trailer. I can overlook the whole Jed Clampett trailer thing, but how is she home schooling these children? The chick has a GED and her man is CLINICALLY INSANE! In an effort to save the children, my younger, more sane sister and I ring Texas social services every month, but to no avail.

I wish I could be proud of her, but I can't. I wish I could take her children and give them a life they can be proud of, but I can't. So instead, I'll blog about it and call social services again in the morning. Texas, you suck.

no suspicious discharge

The word of the day was "suspicious discharge", but I failed to get anyone to say it. I even spoke with some former military types who I was certain would have a story about a "suspicious discharge", but no such luck. Where's an OB/GYN when you need her, huh? Oh well. There's always tomorrow. For tomorrow, the game's afoot!

I told myself that, productivity be damned, I was going to have a good time today. And, you know what? I did. I didn't stress over my upcoming settlement this Thursday; didn't even bring one real estate related thing with me to work. One of my friends called me this morning and set my mind at ease about a couple of things which was fan-freaking-tastic and my little potbelly is gone. Yes! Ladies and gentlemen, my six pack is now on on full display. Now if I could only get over that whole two-piece bathing suit phobia...

My local museum holds a concert series every now and then. A couple of days ago, I received a membership email from them stating that they were kicking around the idea of having a Beatlemania concert and did I think it was a good idea. Are you kidding me? Short of a KISS-mania concert, a celebration of Beatlemania is ALWAYS a good idea! Anyway, I wrote the chairlady back and told her that I thought it was the best idea since Tampax Pearl and I would be willing to help organize it. She didn't write me back, but I'm hoping she accepts my help. I would love to put a show like this together. Even if I'm enlisted to stand on the corner in an advertising sandwich board and shower cap. Fun is what I'm after these days and I think this fits the bill.

I took two pills this evening and consequently won't be able to sleep for quite a while. My husband's very much asleep now so I think I'll go downstairs and watch another episode of "It's Me or the Dog".

princess

Roaming the cobblestones of the Magic Kingdom, I noticed a lot of princesses. Too many fucking princesses. Everywhere I turned, there were little girls stumbling around in tiara and taffeta, asking completely uninterested strangers (i.e, me) if they thought she looked pretty. For the record, I told her no. I told her she looked the right prat and that Betty Freidan would rise from her grave on Halloween and kick her simple, six year old ass.

If I ran Nudey Judy into my boss' office, threw a 36B in his face and offered to suck his gnarled dick in exchange for a promotion, I couldn't do much more damage than Cinderella. Little girls of the world, listen up. Being a princess is not, nor ever will be, a valid occupation. Become a princess and you will invariably end up in the clutches of wicked witch or, worse, stuck with some brainless prince who thinks the most effective way to rescue you from a tower is to climb up your weave. Don't wait for Prince Charming to rescue you with his romantic gestures. Fuck romantic gestures. Buy you some "C" batteries and rescue your damned self.

fuck

I returned home from vacation today and haven't done anything of note. Scratch that. I ate a giant Slim Jim. Using productivity and multitasking as my benchmark, I haven't done a damned thing. All this thinking about productivity reminds me of my extreme Catholic upbringing. Sex in the church was viewed at as a necessary evil; something mommies and daddies who loved each other very much did in the dark (silently and with minimal nudity, natch). The end result was always, always children. Although I've since defected from the church, this sentiment has carried over into my adult life (not entirely, as I still enjoy a sweat-your-hair-out, spank-me-daddy fuckfest) in that I cannot engage in any activity if I don't feel it will ultimately result in a tangible finished product of some kind. Ladies and gentlemen, I've never learned how to have fun.

I dropped my iPod in the toilet in Florida and I bought a new one this evening. Of course, the sonofabitch isn't working, so I'm sans tunes for tomorrow's run. I can accept the idiocy of dropping my iPod in the toilet and having to drop "earmarked for four inch patent leather pumps" coin for another. But for the new one not to work is not in the plan. When things don't go according to my plan, that's when I lose my mind. My husband and I have spent the better part of the evening trying to make it work, but to no avail. I'm wasting time and I don't like that.

This week, I'm going to learn to have fun. Fun for the sake of fun. There doesn't always have to be a reason. It's not always creating a product, reaching the goal or even coming. Sometimes it's just a fuck.

magic

It's been a couple of days and boy, are things going my way or what?! I'm writing this from the comfort of my Disneyworld resort bed. I'm wearing my newly-acquired Wildcats sweatshirt and generally feeling groovy. We're here celebrating my husband's birthday and, I've got to say, I've never ever seen him this happy. I love Disneyworld! When they say this place is magic, they aren't kidding. Case in point: we were watching the High School Musical celebration yesterday at MGM Studios and somebody's little rat spilled their popcorn. The kernels weren't on the ground for two seconds before two uniformed, insanely happy custodial types swooped down and neutralized the mess. Forget Fantasia. That shit was amazing. Still, it got me thinking about the dark underbelly of Disney. What happens behind the scenes that makes all this happiness possible? I bet there's a Disney super-pimp that puts the smack down on insolent employees. "Bitch betta have my Mickey!"

Anyway, today one of my best friends is getting married. I'm happy for him, but I also feel like I'm losing a part of him. I shouldn't be so possessive, right? I mean, what gives me the right to say "You must remain alone forever so you can be at my disposal anytime I want" when the same rules don't apply to me? He called me yesterday for advice about the wedding and I felt myself getting agitated. Here I am, about to board the Great Movie Ride and you're rubbing in my face that, in a few short hours, your chick is going to insert herself into our lives, rendering our friendship paralyzed, if not completely DOA? Ridiculously selfish, but hand-to-God, it's my truth.

A few years back, I traveled to Florida to meet my best friend from middle school again (the last time I saw her, I was a freshman in high school). Well, she was basically the same person, except she had another best friend, a husband and two kids. Don't get me wrong. It was wonderful to see her again, but I felt left out. I mean, I'm supposed to be her only best friend. And who gave her permission to grow up? These thoughts threatened to ruin my day before my good sense finally intervened.

This latest trip to Disneyworld has got me thinking: Why don't we believe in magic anymore? Why can't things just be what they are without hidden meanings or consequences? Who granted permission for any of us to grow up?

Gee, wally! Has it been 50 years already?

Hooray! Today marks the 50th anniversary of "Leave it to Beaver". In honor of the day, TV Land is running 24 hours of the Beav starting this morning. There's an episode that I'm itching to watch. It's called "Beaver and Chuy". It's the one where a (gasp!) Mexican family moves next door to the Cleavers. I was all set to watch, but that's when my civic duty called. See, it was my turn to teach Sunday School. Yes, I know. I'm a heathen myself, but that doesn't mean I'm not a deeply spiritual person with heathen ways. I've been trying to change, but everytime I think I've got it licked, it sucks me back in.

Can I just say that I can't stand pushy Realtors? I'm working with one now (I'm the buyer's agent in this particular transaction) and she wants to close in, by my calculations, twelve days. She really needs to stop smoking that cheap crack. Listen, there are several inspections that need to occur before a house is occupied. Not to mention the ratifying of the contract and all the other papers. Anyway, I totally agree with my clients in that they are not going to be bullied into anything. The seller's financial woes are none of my concern. If this Realtor calls me again (I've heard from her five times in the past 24 hours), I'm going to jack her up by her handlebar mustache.

Soccer began at 1:00 instead of 4:00. I'm supposed to be there now, but I need to call inspectors, pick up some paperwork and, most importantly, celebrate 50 years of good, clean and very, very white television.

monkey weave

I got to thinking today about being busy. See, my days are always full. My friends think I'm kidding when I say "Let me check my calendar". Anyway, am I busy or just in a hurry? There is a distinct difference in my mind. To me, busy equates to productivity. What am I producing? What am I doing/where am I going? Whereas in a hurry simply means moving quickly from one thing to another. But I could easily be flitting from one nothing to another nothing without actually accomplishing squat. That's my deep thought for the day. If my life has to be full, then I'd rather be "busy" than "hurried".

Yesterday, I read a couple of articles that were interesting. The first was about how five random acts of kindness can be good for the soul and boost one's moood. Me, being the quantitative pinhead that I am, immediately began a checklist. So far, there have been two receipients of my goodwill(and it's not even noon! Surely that counts for something). I don't know if I can squeeze in any more. After all, I'm a very busy person! :-)

The other article was about how married couples tend to take on each other's habits. This may be true. I have this habit of making up games and playing them throughout the day with unsuspecting strangers. My favorite is to pick an unusual compound word. Nut Sack, for instance. Then, I lure people into conversations where I try to get them to say the word "nut sack". It's hilarious! It's like playing charades when the other person has no idea that they're playing! The word for today, boys and girls, is "Monkey Weave". My husband used to think this was a silly game, until I caught him trying to play with me. Ha!

Now I've got to go and bait somebody into a conversation about primates who make baskets. Or do hair. Whichever.

friendship

Okay, so yesterday wasn't the best, but that night, I watched half of High School Musical 2 and just about learned the dance to "Work It Out", so the day was salvagable. Anyway, I called a friend yesterday afternoon and told him I was having a shit day and needed some encouraging words. Did I get them? Of course not. This bastard is what I call a "myfriend". Just like the "friends" we collected on myspace, they were buds in name only. When you're feeling like you can't take one more step for fear that the world will come crashing down around you, real friends step up (or step back-whatever the case may be). At any rate, real friends never do NOTHING.

But what did I expect? He never gave a rat's ass about anybody but himself. Lord knows this life philosophy has served him well over the years (insert sarcastic cackle), so why would he change? Who needs deep, meaningful friendships when you can get your dick sucked by any number of STD-riddled strangers?

Cannot just lay the blame at his studio apartment door, though. I'm a grown woman, right? At the first sign of adversity, I shouldn't run to my friends and expect them to hold me up. It's not their job. Or is it? If it's not, then I will gladly stop making late night phone calls and house calls to friends in need. Gladly.

I've always been a tad on the antisocial side, so forgive my ravings. I'm still trying to navigate this minefield called "friendship".

balanced

I'm finding it increasingly difficult to strike a balance these days between feeling completely switched on and the depths of pessimism. Today is a dismal day. I talked to my sister earlier and she told me I should be excited because of the contest. Granted, I should and I was-- last week. But this is a new week with new problems and new failures. Maybe my brain isn't producing dopamine like it should. Back in the day when I was a drug counselor, I learned that prolonged use of stimulants can create, over time, a reduced amount of dopamine in the brain. Quite simply, the reduced levels of dopamine make it harder and harder for a person to naturally "get happy". But it's not like I smoke crack or snort cocaine. I don't even drink coffee!

I did receive my Mark Ronson CD in the mail today. Highly recommended. There's a really funny version of Britney Spears' "Toxic" with ODB hollering in the background "Ooh, nigga, I'm burnin' up!" Instant classic for my money.

Speaking of money, today I had to pay my Realtor dues. Fucking $600.

invisi-girl!

It makes no nevermind if I've spackled on six pounds of Mary Kay or if my bra pushes my boobs up so high, it looks as though I've got nipples growing out of my chin. I have this amazing ability to remain essentially invisible to the hairier sex. Really. I don't attract the attention of men except my husband and, of course, your friendly neighborhood lecherous Wal-Mart janitor. However, the tide seems to be turning. In the past couple of weeks, men have taken to bestowing compliments on me that range from "classy" to "Excuse me, miss lady. I just had to say that you are WORKING that DRESS!"

Not that I'm complaining. After all, I don't know one red-blooded American woman that doesn't need to hear a compliment like that every now and then. Problem is, I never learned how to take compliments- from friends, family or superstore cleaning staff- graciously. When I look in the mirror, I always see the twelve year old with zits and a gherri curl (don't laugh. my shit was BANGIN'!) with the dead-on Pee Wee Herman impression. I don't know how to fix this or even if I should. Humility is good for the soul and my impressions were the bomb.

I kinda like being the "funny" one of the group. It carries lower expections.

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.