Post-Visit Analysis

After a lovely three nights in SLC I'm back in the rathole again. Salt Lake was spectacular--sunny and snowy and clear and everything this particular burg is not. I had the good fortune to finally meet the esteemed Lisa B and the Historian and Assertively Unhip...and to watch them move through space and inhabit three dimensions and produce one-liners from their mouths without the interface of a computer. Also good to see the Otter Butt herself and Zoe and Strange Polkas and Marsha, and, of course, Mr. Boonasty.

Got a last minute nonstop to LAX, thus avoiding the dreaded transfer in Sin City. Maybe things are turning around!

This is a picture of the Rossman stone cold chillin.



This is a picture of Middlebrow and Sleepy E preparing to do battle. Middlebrow prevailed this time around and shall retake possession of the Golden Woobie for the next year. Sleepy E was more enraged than he cares to admit. The game was his to lose...and he lost.



This is a picture of Dr. Write and Son tromping through the snow near the reservoir. Snow. Snow!



This is a picture of the very innocent Assertively Unhip stone cold tippin at the lanes.



This is a picture of the explosive Mr. Boonasty documenting off-camera knife fights at the lanes. Boonasty's high-velocity bowling makes the powerball of Beefcake look downright wimpy. I have never seen such spectacular pin action. Watch the pins detonate. Detonate! Middlebrow shocks the world with his finessy style points, rolling an evening-high 153. He self-destructs during the second game, getting crushed by Dr. Write and losing the crown to the underachieving Condiment.



This is a picture of Middlebrow and Dr. Write sedated and snuggling.



It's only fitting that on my last night Middlebrow and I wound up (by consensus) at the Salt Lake Roasting Company (and not the bar), sipping tea and talking about bran intake and 401(k)s. Ah, youth.

There was also a piercing Jazz game somewhere in there.

HIFF

I am pleased to report that Way of the Puck has been accepted into the 2006 Houston International Film Festival--Worldfest. Screening times are TBD but it'll go down near the end of April. This is especially cool since--as you probably already know--Houston is the capital of air hockey and we could get a good strong rowdy turnout there.

Now I have to finish the movie, though, which will be a pain worse than death.

I'll be cutting and recutting and tweaking right up to the end, and this will dominate my life for the next two months solid. Oof. I'm not sure I can get it ready in time but I will try my best.

I've held a grudge against this particular festival for twelve years now. Back in 94 I sent them my student short "the Delivery" and paid the very high entry fee (2-3x as much as everyone else), but never heard back. Nothing. No confirmation or rejection letter, no flyer with the names of winners, nothing. One day my check was cashed, and that is all.

Weird to think that they are the first ones to see any value in my newest movie...and that their endorsement will pave the way for acceptance elsewhere.

Thanks for listening.

Korn on the Kob

This is a picture of Korn.



This is another picture of Korn.



This is a picture of one Korn. Or a cernel. Or a kolonel.



This is a picture of their custom mic stand, sculped by one HR Giger.



This is a picture of HR Giger's inscription, which means it must be true.



This is a picture of Korn-E (Korny), the newest member.



Remember, never overcook your Korn.

The Further Misadventures of Bait & Switch, Vol. 1

Author's note: The roles of Ms. Bait and Mr. Switch shall be played by the same two actors from episode to episode, using cosmetic disguise to create the illusion of difference in landlords.

Tuesday's Episode: 917 N. Curson #4 West Hollywood, CA

Fade In:

E drives and drives and drives.

E: Damn, I'm getting tired of this. I've been looking for a place for almost a month now. This is a total waste of time. I'm gonna build a yurt...or live in a storage unit, or something.

Thirty minutes later:

E arrives at his destination in leafy, funky Weho. He is pleased that the building is not a rathole and the he is within walking distance to the Tomkat (formerly the Pussycat) Theater. He checks his watch and sees that he is fifteen minutes early, but decides to prowl around anyway. Amazingly, the landlord is already waiting in the vacant apartment. E enters.

Switchman: Hello?
E: Oh, hi. I'm E. I'm here about the apartment.
Switchman: Oh, hello, I'm Mr. Switchman.
E: Switch...man? You're dead ringers for this other guy I know, Mr. Switch.
Switchman: I get a lot of that. Nope, it's Switchman.
E: Hmmm.

E looks around the apartment. He is pleased. The apartment is large and sunny and free of rats.

E: The apartment is big and bright, and the price is right...
Switchman: I've had so many calls on this unit, but you're the first to see it, lucky you!
E: You know, I think I've rented from you before, actually.
Switchman: Oh, really?
E: Yeah, in Los Feliz, on Kingsley.
Switchman: Oh, sure. Now I remember.
E: I was in there for about three years.
Switchman: (smiles) Well, that's a good sign.
E: I remember vividly because you gave me my entire deposit back, and I was..well...how shall I say...IMPRESSED.

E looks at Switchman and looks away.

E: I'll take it.
Switchman: Great, so here's the preliminary paperwork. If you're an independent contractor then we'll need a xeroxed bank statement and tax form from last year and your last few pay stubs. Get a money order for half of the security deposit, fill out the credit check form and call me when you finish and we can meet up again.
E: Okay.

E drives drives drives and handles all this stuff, then drives drives drives back to Weho and meets Switchman at his own pad near Crescent Heights. It is tastefully decorated and pet-free. Switchman looks through E's paperwork.

Switchman: This is great, perfect, so organized, my...They're going to love this.
E: Great.
Switchman: So, I 'll send this in and Ms. Bait will run a credit check on you...which I'm sure you'll pass...
E: My credit is unstoppable.
Switchman: ...And then you can come by and sign the lease.
E: (under) I would do anything for this apartment.
Switchman: Excuse me?
E: Nothing.

The next day:

E wakes up with a feeling of dread in his gut. Something is going awry with the apartment, he knows it.

E: Jesus, what is this feeling I'm having? I feel so moody and out-of-control. If I don't get this apartment I'm going to smash things with my fists. What is this feeling? I know, it's like being in love with one of my erratic ex-girlfriends. Ah, this feeling takes me back to darker times. But I was alive then, so alive! But why am I worried, anyway? It's a shoo-in! An absolute no-brainer--

E's cell phone vibrates.

E: Hello?
Bait: Hi, this is Ms. Bait from B&S Property Management. I have some terrible news...
E: Don't tell me I didn't pass the credit check--
Bait: No, your credit is unstoppable.
E: What then?
Bait: The building is being sold and the new owners want to fill the vacancy themselves.

Pause.

E: Huh? Then, why...
Bait: I don't know, I'm sorry. We just found out.
E: What. Truly?
Bait: Truly, truly!
E: Is there some other reason you don't want to rent to me?
Bait: No, it's not you. It's not you.
E: I spent all yesterday handling all the paperwork.
Bait: I'm so sorry. I didn't want to make this phone call...

Pause.

Bait: We'll send you a check for the amount of the deposit--

E hangs up and goes for a long, knee-pounding run but he is still enraged so goes out to the garage and flattens aluminum cans for forty-five minutes.

Blackout.


Tomorrow: An Unexpected Twist!

The Further Misadventures of Bait & Switch, Vol. 2

Author's note: The roles of Ms. Bait and Mr. Switch shall be played by the same two actors from episode to episode, using cosmetic disguise to create the illusion of difference in landlords.

Today's episode: 1255 N. Harper Ave. #14 West Hollywood, CA

Fade in:

Sleepy E navigates his car through miserable crosstown traffic.

E: Fuck! Ever since they put in that Target and Best Buy on Santa Monica Blvd everything is awful. Hollywood is awful, Sunset is awful, Fountain is awful till LaBrea, Beverly is awful after Fairfax...

He honks at a nonchalant jaywalker, refusing to slow, nearly colliding.

E: This apartment is in a great location, though. Walking distance to the finest multi-screen arthouse theater in LA, walking distance to shops and bars and a social life. Ah, social life...

E drives and drives and drives.

Thirty minutes later:

E stands in front of the apartment building, waiting, waiting, waiting for the landlord, Ms. Bait, to appear. She does, ten minutes after the scheduled meeting time. Bait guides E to the second-story apartment and unlocks the unit.

E stares.

E: I'm sorry, I thought the ad said this was...six-hundred and...
Bait: Right, 650 square feet.
E: This is not 650 square feet.
Bait: No, it is.

Pause.

E: I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that.

E removes a bright yellow 25-foot Fat Max steel tape from his messenger bag and starts measuring. Bait frowns, displeased.

E: I'm just curious, that's all. It's not that I don't believe you.

E finishes his measurements and tries to do the math in his head. He fails. He writes it down on the back of the fraudulent advert itself.

E: Twenty-eight by fifteen is...420 feet.
Bait: .....
E: That's not 650 feet. That's 420 feet. That's over a 50% exaggeration!
Bait: Well, that's what my husband said it was so that's what I put in the ad.

E's eyeline drifts off the paper and onto the floor below.

E: These are not hardwood floors.
Bait: What do you mean?
E: This is that fake flooring stuff they put down. This is not wood.
Bait: These are hardwood floors.

E sees a tiny nook off to the side with a curtain covering the entrance.

E: Is that the bedroom?
Bait: Mmm-hmm, it's small, but...
E: There's no door even. Shouldn't this be a "junior 1-bedroom" or a "single" or something?
Bait: No, this is a one bedroom.

Pause.

Bait: So, are you still interested?
E: How much is this again?
Bait: $1,200 a month.
E: Is the pool heated?
Bait: No.

Pause.

E: Corpsed.

Blackout.


Yesterdays episode, Vol. 1, forthcoming....

Breaking the Silence/Resolutions

I wouldn't say that I'm into New Years Resolutions, necessarily, but I am big on goals. Call me Taskmaster E. Each year, each month, each week gets its to-do list.

So I'm happy to report the very first goal-failure of 2006: Blog Less.

Usually the act of writing a goal down helps to solidify its importance...yet the pull of the blogosphere is mighty like the moon on the tides...I am already sucked back into my 2005ish ways after only two weeks of reticence. (Dr. Write has fared better, I feel...Otter butt also).

Ultimately, it is not the act of blogging that is the problem, but the act of perpetually checking everyone's blog for new comments that squanders my productive hours. Unfortunately, it is difficult to have one without the other. Oh well. Such is life.

But I will blog less when World Cup comes round, tho! I promise!

Tease

Today I flirted with a gay landlord so that he would rent to me.

Discuss.

Epic Comedy

The very first assembly of our new screenplay has weighed in at 172 pages. According to the one-page-of-script-per-minute-of-screen-time rule, this would put the movie at two hours and fifty-two minutes. No worries; we believe this rule is flawed. The actual adjusted screen time would be closer three hours and fifteen minutes. Whew.

Of course we do not intend to deliver a three-hour comedy. We'll cut it down to about 100 pages and all of this preliminary length is more about fleshing out characters, writing wildly, nonediting, just like in the Novel Writing Month of yore.

But it got me thinking about how sadistic it would be to film a three-hour comedy. And it got me wondering about long comedies in general and if any actually exist. I can't think of any comedies--actual comedies, not dramas with comedic elements--that roll in over the 2-hour mark. Even the much-maligned Ishtar (very very underrated, quite hilarious actually) is only 1 hr 47 minutes, even though everyone felt it was a two and a half hour stick in the mud.

What is the longest comedy you've seen? Lisa B?

Does something happen to our brains after 90 minutes of laughing?

Nap

I like to nap when I am in writing mode. This gives me two productive sessions in one day: a morning session and an evening session. On these days off I usually get up around 7am, then nap from 4pm to 5pm, then stay up till about 1am before crashing out. This divides the day neatly in half--for what it's worth--into daytime and nighttime.

I've always harbored a lot of guilt about napping, especially when it's calculated (as it is lately) and when it's serious, PJ-wearin'-under-the-covers nappin. My naps do not last twenty minutes. They would last for at least two hours if I abandoned the use of alarms and woke up when my body felt like it.

Does this mean my body is not getting enough sleep? Or does this mean it just digs the nappin? Regardless of whether I sleep four hours a night, or six hours, or eight hours, or ten...an hour never feels like enough in the afternoon.

An old girlfriend used to tell me her favorite thing in the world was sleeping. I remember this vividly, because I recall being quite a dick about it, mocking the notion that the "temporary nonexistence" of sleep could be anyone's favorite activity. I think I said she had a "dormancy fetish" or something like that.

But now I understand. Sleep is sweet, especially in the afternoon, especially when everyone is still toiling in the world.

Of course, all of this means I am becoming my father, but that is another story.

Do Not Be A Fool Who's Pre-ju-dice!

We were filming downtown today and big Buick drove past, blaring Run-DMC's "It's Like That," which was one of the singles off their very first record (1983?). I shocked everyone by reciting most of the lyrics. "It's Like That" was one of the songs preferred for lunchtime breakin' battles with Shawn Cromenant ("The Cosmonaut") and Don George. Cromenant was half-Asian and Don George was Native American and they were both thugs, multicultural breakdancin' thugs. They struck terror into our lily white hearts and I shall never forget the Cosmonaut doing some weird and sinister Pop-Locking, advancing on me slowly while the middle school watched and "It's Like That" blared from his stolen ghetto blaster.

I knew "It's Like That" before I even knew who Run-DMC was. Along with Afrika Bambaataa's "Planet Rock," Grandmaster Flash's "White Lines," and "Jam on It" by Nucleus.

I also know "Sucker MCs" by heart and the entire Public Enemy album "It Takes a Nation of Millions To Hold Us Back," which I listened to every day for about 2 years (and wore out 3 cassettes in the process).

Sometimes I wish I could delete those memory files and free up some space on the ole gray hard drive (for names, perhaps, or birthdays, or anything C-Span related). I would like to release the PE lyrics into the ether, but the Run-DMC lyrics should stay and stay forever.

Here's another point in life you should not miss
Do not be a fool who's prejudice
Because we're all written down on the same list
It's like that (what?) and that's the way it is
Huh!

Peace to JMJ!

Cooperative Screenwriting

My friend Michael and I are finishing up the first draft of our screenplay, The Secret Unbelievable.

My history with screenwriting (and cooperation itself) is tumultuous. I swore off screenwriting about four years ago. Screenwriting is horrible and pointless. It is not even writing. It is something other than writing. It is making up dialogue and wacky scenes. It is following a formula. And, in the end, your script means nothing unless it gets produced. It cannot stand on its own. It is a non-work. It is a "blueprint," as they like to say. And it requires little mastery of English or Engish grammar, which is probably why there are so many people working on scripts whenever I go to the Insomnia Cafe or the 101 Cafe. Screenwriting is unsatisfying. I have written ten scripts and they are all bad. I wish they were dead.

Cooperation is also kind of a problem, especially on the writing front. I learned by age 20 that writing partnerships never ever work and that one should forge ahead on his own (in writing and in life). Writing partnerships are like fucked-up marriages: In the end nobody gets what they want and everybody is frustrated and resentful and passive aggressive and withdrawn. People expect things from other people when they enter these partnerships. One cannot not expect things. But people by their very nature are flaky. People will let you down in the end. It is written. And so we become victims of our own expectation. Buddha would say that pain is caused by the frustration of desire (or your writing partner flaking out on you). And so on, and so on.

That is why I am startled to report that the current writing project is going like gangbusters. We are producing incredible work at incredible speed. We are geniuses. The script is hilarious and moving and smart and kind of sad too. It is everything. It is Total Script. This sounds completely farfetched, but I have no doubt that Michael and I will be shooting and directing this film in China in the next couple of years.

This is how good it is. And it is so effortless and easy, how strange!

And I hope everyone here understands how much I hate everything I work on so when I say something is actually good, well...

So there you go. Is it this particular writing partnership? Is it the particular story? What is fueling this unexpected productivity? I am still waiting for the meltdown to occur--but so far it hasn't...

Part of me thinks this script could only be written at this particular point in time under these particular circumstances. I am only able to succeed at this project because of the ten awful scripts that came before it. I am only able to enter into a partnership because of the long time off in between. This project could never have happened before now and the window might close soon.

But for now all of the ingredients are in place.

I realize I am tempting fate with all of this gloating. Must hit "publish post" before I have second thoughts...

Taiwan Keywords

High Intensity
No Tourist Infrastructure
Scooters!
Clean Wide-Boulevarded Taipei
Karaoke Miscue!
Kanji Game
Lost Or Just Wandering Around: You Decide
Seafood
Laid Back Locals
Tallest Building In the World
Menu Decoding
Accident-free Traffic Insanity
Genki Cab Drivers
Sidewalk-free Walking
Chinese Medicinal Foods
Jade Shopping
Tea Shopping
Shopping Shopping
Dinner Theater (Evening Storytime)
Train Disembarkation Plan
Train Disembarkation Debacle!
Where Is the Eighth Bag?
Nobody Listens To Me
Safe (and not-so-safe) Walking
Unreliable Travel Books
Bamboo Street: True or False?
Wrong Exit!
Free Umbrella!
Bathroom?
English Menu?
Internet?
Taiwan's 2nd Language: Japanese
See You At the Hotel
Snake Alley!
Afternoon Naps
Temple OD
Here There Are No Taxis! Go There!
Walking walking walking
Starbucks: Grande Hot Coffee, One, Stay Here

One Country, Two Systems: Images From Hong Kong

They say that Bangladesh has the highest population density on Earth, but it probably doesn't get the tourist influx during the holidays that Hong Kong does. Hong Kong isn't even a country or a city-state anymore; I don't know what it is. It was very very dense and very very fun. In certain busier parts of Kowloon police would barricade crosswalks with long ropes, then open the floodgates when the lights turned green and let the mass of humanity spill into the street. It looked like the start of a marathon, repeated every few minutes.

Pictures From Macau

Here are some pictures from the former Portuguese colony of Macau. Macau reverted back to the Chinese back in 1998 (I think), but it still has its own unit of currency (the pataca) and they put a stamp in my passport, so I'm not sure what this means. Macau is vastly underrated; it is most beautiful in the morning when the tourists are asleep and when the quiet, curious blend of Europe and Asia is allowed to surface. It is not just a gambling den.

I am starting work on a collection of linked stories called "Second Cities" and Macau will feature in one called "The Impostor."

Holiday Greetings From the ROK

Hello everyone. I just have a couple of seconds to post these pictures from the Korean portion of holiday travel. It was cool to revisit my old town of Pusan although I didn't manage to connect with any of my old friends. Korea is very cold in the winter. I nearly forgot.

Strange Human Behavior

People who press on an illuminated button (elevator, crosswalk, etc) over and over and over, incessantly, as if that will cause the anticipated event to occur sooner.

People who get visibly and audibly irritated when the person directly in front of them in a long line (at the bank, at the airport) leaves a three- or four-foot gap between them and person in front of them. The actual number in the queue hasn’t changed—there are still the same amount of clicks from the front of the line—but this gap fills the hindmost person with rage. It destroys their illusion of forward movement, and amplifies the non-relationship between physical proximity and one’s position in line. Grrr.

People who think that supermarket parking lots are large square versions of Bourbon Street, where one can loaf around wherever they want, with impunity, while large vehicles with crushing power wait patiently for them to clear out of the way. Parking lots are for pedestrians, these people think, until they get in their cars and swear at the loafers shoving their shopping carts right down the center of things. Somehow they fail to make the connection.

People who eat entire boxes of Dr. Write's homemade cookies in a twelve-hour span. They were lovely and now they are gone. Those caramel chocolate chunk bar things were the devil's business...I love the neat box and the cute packaging too, well done!

Sometimes I Enjoy My Job Very Much

Here are some pictures from the roof of the Bonaventure Hotel downtown (4th between Flower and Fig). We were thirty-six stories up, doing time lapse for a Japanese Mazda commerical. You could see all the way to the Vincent Thomas bridge in San Pedro.

Snow Day

Middlebrow called yesterday morning when I was in the throes of pre-work dread. Although I often hate my job I never really experience pre-work dread like I used to when teaching or working at the video store or working as a waiter or administrative assistant or whatever. There isn’t that whole before-work-winding-up and after-work-cooling-down time to get the resentment up—it’s just a bunch of work from the moment you wake up to the moment you pass out. You learn to accept your fate.

I came out to do two days of B-camera on a Super Bowl car commercial and the director, a typically boorish, buffoonish ass, was operating my camera. He didn’t seem that talented—rumor is that he has a brilliant editor—but he clearly enjoys the role and will bully any and everyone he views as being beneath him. It’s laughable because in a situation like that the high-profile director is actually the most expendable person on the shoot. The client hires the ad agency, the ad agency hires the production company, the production company hires the director, the director hires the cinematographer, and the cinematographer hires much of the crew. The agency has the concept and most of the shots all storyboarded out, so even if the director didn’t exist (particularly this one), the commercial would still make itself. You shoot the product from an infinite number of angles and then the brilliant editor cuts it together and they buy the rights to some Led Zeppelin cue and whammo, you have your commercial. It’s not hard. But this guy was going to be a dick and I had to be next to it and receive some of it, so there you go I was seven years old again and back on the playground.

So I went to work, already prepped for a little abuse, but when I arrived it was discovered that there had been a mixup and I wasn’t supposed to be on for the last day of the commercial. Hooray! Of course Production tried to imply that it was a camera department blunder and didn’t want to pay me, but it was their fault so I worked out a deal with them and they paid me cash and I walked out of the airplane hanger and into the wonderful 80-degree sunshine of my snow day.

There was a rebroadcast of an old This American Life last week about a guy who decides to live his life as though he only has six months to live. Eventually, he becomes convinced that he will cease to exist at that point in the future, so he goes about, making preparations and tying up loose ends. He begins to wonder what he wants to do with his remaining time and is surprised to discover that he doesn’t want to climb Mt. Everest or go scuba diving in Belize. He wants to do the ordinary stuff. He wants to hang with his parents and work on the deck or wash dishes or take out the trash.

This is how I felt yesterday. Every little ordinary thing that I did was charged with life. I went to a café and put on my iPod and drank coffee and studied a little Korean and wrote out some New Years goals. And I had the best time doing this. I went bowling with my friend Jimmy. I did a little reading. I ate some hot and sour soup. I got a bottle of wine and watched Minority Report. I fell asleep on the couch. Ordinarily, this would be an unspectacular day off, but on this—my snow day—it was very very sweet. Delicious almost.

The Humiliation of Home Movies

My friend and I have put together a couple of short films documenting our road trips over the last couple of years. The first was something I did when he drove me from NYC to Boston in March 2004. K just finished the newest, a film about our drive from NYC to New Orleans earlier this year.

As many times as I have seen myself on camera, it always astonishes me how strange I look and behave. I suppose this is natural; people are often faked out by the way they perceive themselves and the way they actually appear on film. I am totally bizarre...I look tired, with big black bags under my eyes, and I have no chin, just a line of flesh from my lower mouth to my clavicle. I mouth breathe a lot and when I talk my two upper incisors feature prominently, like a chipmunk. My lips move strangely and I grimace by default. I punctuate my sentences with "uhhhhhhs" and my voice sounds simultaneously deep and nasal somehow. I come off as someone with an IQ pushing 100.

This is not the way I see myself at all, but film doesn't lie.

It would be interesting to harness modern technology to find out what people think their voices sound like in their heads. It would be fairly easy to record them talking and let them manipulate the pitch and resonance, etc...until it sounds like voice they THINK they have. The same could go for appearances...let people computer modify their photos to show how they think they look. I would love to hear what Mid-B thinks his voice sounds like.

Furthermore, why does everyone get discouraged when they see what they actually look and behave like? why is it always a harrowing experience? Why aren't there some people who have low self-esteem and then they look at pictures of themselves and say, "Whoa, I'm totally attractive!"? Why doesn't it work in this direction?

I guess it does, actually, even though it's very abnormal. These people are called actors, and they have a whole other set of problems.

Post-Noveling Analysis

I wrote 5,000 words today and finished the novel. It was an arduous grind but it is all over. I finished two days late but I wrote long, ending up w/ 64,000 words (228 pages).

There were three goals:
1. To finish
2. To create a literary thriller where no one dies and where no weapons exist
3. To cram all of the story beats into a plotty 50,000 words, so that the expansion to 100,000 would still retain a rigorous plot in spite of digressions, meditation, and writerly wheelie-poppin

The MS steals from a bunch of different things, most notably "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" and 'Red Harvest."

It centers around the famous 1940 Narrows Bridge collapse in Tacoma, Washington. The protagonist, an agoraphobic nineteen-year-old man beset by a lifetime of weather-related tragedies, discovers a mystery in it. He must engage with the scary outer world if he is to solve the deal and finally grow up.

It will be called "Strange Weather."

This writing experiment was really awful, but also kind of fun too. Since this was my first time to ever work on a novel (let alone one written at breakneck speed), it was interesting to see how sleep, diet, exercise, caffeine infusions, and scheduling affected productivity and quality. I found that I became superstitious, like a sportsman, to the point where I had a hard time writing at all if I had the wrong kind of coffee or the wrong music on or if I tried to write in the middle of the day.

I never did quite shake that feeling of pointless, though. Like what a waste of time this is. Playing make-believe. Inventing plots and schemes. Why? I mean, it's kind of fun but I have a hard time taking it seriously. It's hard to think that a book could actually make a difference in the world. Especially a novel.

I will come back to this MS later but I don't want to spend more than a couple of months on it. I think about all of the other things I could be doing with my life, like watching good movies or cooking more or going on dates or taking swimming lessons or hiking or resuming study of Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and Spanish. Anything really seems more important right now.

Tomorrow we shall start the Coffee Reduction Act.