I am trying viciously to write this play. No one is making me write this play. I get no money from this play. I have no standing offers for production of this play. I am blocked writing this play, yet I keep whacking away at this play. This is what they talk about when they talk about the hard times before the good times? In hindsight, will I be happy I spent the last 6-8 hours of my life researching court cases for the development of this play? I am under my own deadlines, and I don't want to fail myself. I need to do this, I think. Why do we do what we do do?
I woke up at 6:45 and read a Stephen King essay on writing on the back patio. The newly damp wood smell promised a hearty Sunday. I ran 2.5 miles and read an article on creativity. I wrote. I wrote. I tried to write. My sister and I had a tiny cafe birthday brunch before I blitzed off to a two-hour music improv workshop. And then it was back to my typing paper full of squiggles and doodles and lines I want in this stupid thing. I ate popcorn and watched my Redbox-rented Wild. Then I had some candy. Then I ate only cookies and candies for the rest of the day. Tomorrow the dump truck of work crushes me. I'm trying to reserve my weekends for errands, movies, dates, and writing. I need this time. I need it. Tomorrow is coming.