Okay. I did it. Twenty two hours, eight Coke Zeros, four low fat hot dogs, and a million cherry tomatoes (wouldn’t it just be easier to smoke?): I finished my screenplay. I said I’d do it by the end of the summer or put it on that cold shelf in hell. I fell asleep twice while writing, reorganized my top desk drawer, moved all the pictures in my office to different spots four times, destroyed my baby toes, and got the motherfucking thing done. I’m not looking at it for a few weeks, advice I’ve handily dispensed all my life and never followed. The desire to start picking at it is titanic. But I’m not doing it. I think I cracked the structure problem, and I may even know what it’s about now. Maybe. My husband asked me what I’m going to do with it now. All I could lovingly think to reply was that I would shove it up my ass. A little angry? Sure. I mean what is all this for? It’s not like I’m living the dream.
Is anybody? (and try not to say anything hopeful, encouraging or congratulatory because I will only use it to club myself).
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