is this how everyone else is doing it?

My new manager prepped me, way back in May, September should be when we should "go out" with our first project. In some ways I was a very lucky sign for him. Usually when writers are looking for new reps it's because they've got goose egg and they need someone to make an omelet of it. I was different. My arms were full and I was getting worried I was going to drop something.

At first he was even a little confused. Like, what's the catch here? You don't expect me to get you a job, you seem to wince at meetings (which most folks are begging for now). I said the catch is I have a lot of enemies at the moment and I can't read social situations to save my life.

The more we worked together the more he came to respect me and see how impressive my slate was. I'd told him I'm not good at dabbing myself up and this was all proof. I told Puhg recently how awful it feels to be back in LA after the Fringe on a deep subconscious level. Because at Fringe every artist is valued. Like, truly valued. No one is there for the money, can be there for the money. You can't look cool carrying your props to and from the broom closet every day, while also by the way, in full hair and makeup. We are a band of clowns and messy makers. Meanwhile the point of Hollywood is to devalue artists.

It's really that evil and simple. Every person you talk to has a job, and that job is to devalue you. Even your mentors, even your friends, even your team. I write a script I love and give it to an exec. The exec loves it but it's their JOB to convince me it's worth as little money as possible. I agree. They send it to a director, play the same game with them, and then the director's JOB is to convince me they are more valuable than the script, that it will be garbage without them. Then we do the same game with actors and crew. I talk to my reps who have my back but also don't, because if they were to really fight for my worth, they'd have to stand up to corporate lawyers, and they have their JOBS because they're good at convincing artists they are worth less than they are. Additionally, one's reps can't make an artist think they are TOO valuable, because then they'll want to switch agents, to a bigger, better buzzier company. So there's a push and pull of your manager hyping you up then cutting you down. It's not personal. It's incredibly personal.

Anyway, I keep this new guy at a distance. I didn't want to work with a man, but in some ways it's easier. We can be friendly but not friends. I tell him, to his face, I'm watching him carefully and when he made the one mistake he's made since we've been together I told him, very clearly, "I'm glad this happened because now it will never happen again, is that clear?" It is clear. This isn't mean. This is business. It's not call "Show Friends," I say a lot now.

So anyway, what's cute about Pip is he is so excited to become a Team. (Yeah, just decided I'm going to call my manager Pip from now on here.) He was supportive and interested before, but when he came to my play in May, that's when things turned. He cried, his girlfriend cried, he saw me do my thing at the talkback. He was happy to assist before, but after that he wanted to Work Together. To be able not just to sidebar with my lawyer about the stuff I already had going, but to call companies and say, "Hey Alice and I are developing this TOGETHER." And I'm in for it. This is a very lonely career.

Anyway, the thing I told him I had to write next was a short story, which was basically a movie pitch. But instead of writing a whole script just so it could ping around town for a year then only maybe get bought, I decided I'd write the thing as prose--so it was DONE--so I could at least hold it in my hands (and maybe to a live reading).

I am a very intentional writer (NO DUH the sky screams). Knowing I had this Sept 8th deadline meant I had to have a first draft done by early July, allow a few weeks for Trusted Readers to respond, spend two more weeks of August revising, send to another few readers, revise again, then send to my copy editor no later than Sept 1st. This is how I work. Slow and steady. But that's just not what could happen this summer.

Fringe took up about 10 x if not 50 x the effort I thought it would. As a producer there was just...always something. Details or big choices or wrangling schedules or wrangling actors or rewrites or drama or the hot water turning off in the flat. July sailed by with me barely hanging on...and I got about five pages written of the 20-page thing. No worries, no worries, I told myself (very worried). I'll just write the other fifteen by August 10th, do one round of notes and revisions...that's fine.

Well it wasn't fine. It wasn't fine at all. Halfway through August I'd had about two hours to write total. I liked the pages I'd added, but there were not enough of them is the problem. The end of Fringe and my inbox exploded. I couldn't kid myself. Alright, I can write the entire thing on the plane to Iceland, maybe get one reader to look, revise....yes this won't be ideal but it will work.

Reader, I didn't write anything on the dang plane to Iceland. I was exhausted turns out. I was crying into my diary turns out. And the eight-hour flight back to America wasn't much better. I made notes in my journal, sure. But I mostly coughed and sneezed and closed my eyes listening to rap albums and Olivia Rodrigo. That's okay, we land on Sunday and I have to send the manuscript Tuesday. I have a WHOLE DAY to get it all together.

Reader! I slept and hacked on that Monday! I walked around the neighborhood slowly and sadly. I ate Thai food and listened to YouTube lectures about Carl Jung! I am not a procrastinator. This feeling was so foreign I may as well have been abducted by aliens. YES, this story is a departure from everything I've ever written and I worried it was going to be terrible and it's been much too much pressure from Pip, but wow. What a sensation.

I wrote Pip Sept 8. I said the story was nearly ready. (A stretch for being on page 6 of 20.) I said I wanted to get my copy editor on it and needed to give her a week. How about I deliver Sept 14? He said that was great! I forget, writers stereotypically turn in drafts months late.

I got the copy editor to agree to the job, to corner myself into a deadline with money attached. I might disappoint myself, but I never waste money. She said, yes, Thursday to Sunday would be just fine. Flat rate.

I wrote a few pages Tuesday. I wrote a few pages Wednesday, hoping to finish and send to editor in the morning. NOPE, I emailed her begging for one more day. Also said, haha lol it's looking like 30, not 20, pages. She agreed like an angel. Thursday I went to one of my haunts for the entire day. 9 - 3 when they closed. AND I DIDN'T FINISH THE STORY! I found myself opening Instagram a lot, looking at photos from vacation, nibbling my tart like a rat.

Friday I attacked the thing, it was truly now or never. I wrote in the morning. I lost faith. I decided to pause and read the piece top to bottom. I realized...I liked it!

I struggle to like my own work. Hence I need all the feedback and readers. I need to know. I don't know myself. But this? I liked this? Maybe no one else would. That's okay. Pip will have to get a grip if this isn't our project. I'll take time off and come back with another idea. I'll, I'll...I'll I don't know what I'll do.

I wrote in the afternoon. I booked massages for me and Puhg, at 8. I had to be done. At 7 pm, I attached the file to an email for the editor. I said I was humiliated to send it, but here it is. I Venmo'd her $300. I closed my computer. Puhg and I walked to the shop. After, I took a hot shower, ate chips for dinner, and fell asleep with the lights on.

Saturday copy editor (a true gem) had finished the gig. She wrote, "I LOVED this," and she could lie. It's not her job to give me opinions. I weeded through her changes that night, before the improv show in the garden with all the cuties and the night out with the neighborhood pals.

Sunday I pencil-proofed. I had to fly out to the east coast yesterday, but prioritized sitting at the cafe for half an hour underlining certain words. I took my notes with me, from the gate made final tweaks, saved it as a PDF (scary), sent it to Pip.

I wrote, "It gives me absolutely no joy to send this, but nevertheless it is attached." I got on the plane. He emailed, before takeoff, "Reading this right NOW!" When I landed I turned on my phone and got his texts. "Alice!!! That short is incredible...." I tell him he has to say that. He says lol he does not. "Alice. It's phenomenal"

He's making a list of who to send it to. Maybe he's right. It's hard to believe, because I just trusted my own voice, my own preferences. It feels like a slapped it together, but I guess my brain shaped it on her own for a year, huh? Is this how everyone else is doing it?

goodbye scotland

I've started about a dozen blog posts over the past month. All starting with me saying I was desperate to capture all the magic of my August World Premiere, but it was slipping away like a bottle of wine. Finally, I'd at least log that day. And, of course, I'd barely get through a paragraph before an actor needed something in the flat or a producer emailed or I had to run to a show.

I am going to process everything and get at least something down soon, but for today, I just want to say--Fringe 2026 was one of the most incredible experiences of my entire life. Puhg and I fly to Iceland today, and I felt it would be bad luck not to at least say thank you, in writing, to the theatre gods who have smiled on me so generously this past month.

I've been crying on and off for days because I am so happy and nothing lasts forever. That is the medium I have chosen, the one that gets built up and ripped apart in a matter of weeks. It's good to remember that's everything, that's life. Death is strike.

Wasn't going to go to the final rager on Sunday night, figured I'd be exhausted from the last show. And I was. But WN encouraged me Thursday, when I was already misty eyed in the artists' bar--he said just poke your head in.

I wore a white skirt and tank top and felt like the belle of the ball. Or like I was in the last act of a movie. As I walked in that big deal NYC producer was gabbing with a stand-up and screamed, holy shit meet Alice she wrote a phenomenal play! The stand-up had just been featured in the most buzzy show of the festival. I'd seen him the night before. Mutual starstruck, something so sacred. Pushing through the crowds with my berry cider, randos would reach out and say they saw me in our improvised musical. (I cannot believe I was part of two of the best shows at Fringe?! How!? Who am I!?)

Puhg even made it in, bless him. He lasted until 1:30 when the bar line nearly destroyed his tender sensibilities. But it was so nice to have his big shoulders behind me on the floor, as the little girlies swung by and I yapped at them about labor rights in art even though Shania Twain was blaring. (I'm fun.)

Too much to write, and I still don't have time, but at 4 am I was crying hysterically, announcing I'd never see any of my ensemble again--specifically the UK muffin. I got angry even, wishing maybe I shouldn't have done this because it just hurts so bad at the end.

Luckily AR and AD were dance goblins and took me to the roof for their cigarettes and gossip and I laughed and laughed and the bouncers pushed us out at 5. I wanted to go home, but RD was thinking about climbing the mountain, as is Fringe tradition. I said no, no don't. You're not dressed for it and the climb is muddy and everyone is drunk. I could have left her to make her own choices, but I had promised her mother just that morning, I'd always look after her. Cut to us at the top of the rock, horrified, dirty, cold, knowing that was very stupid, but the sun came up and all the artists from all over the world cheered. As we walked down I met a magician and his girlfriend. They told me they recommended everyone my play. They meant it. We had a meaningful conversation about gun violence the whole trot.

I finally went to bed at 7:30 after a hot shower, woke at 10 and ate a crumpet with eggs. The next days there was packing and logistics and I was/am a mess. Puhg and I took the train to a seaside town. The sun opened right as we walked the beach and looked into tide pools. Counted three snails. Had a fish and chips, best of my life no doubt.

Late dinner at the nice spot around the corner. First little pink coladas in the basement, then our table was ready around 8. And then, WN walked right by. Puhg called to him. The whole cast was at a table behind us. I covered my face in my hands because ohmygod I'd done so so many goodbyes.

I couldn't bear to go over there, so they all came to me. I turned bright red and gave out more hugs. Said the I Love Yous. We had the greatest spicy curry and cheese naan. Our waiter approached our table with a new energy, mentioned the whole restaurant being fans, apparently. I didn't realize you were famous, his eyes glinted. Twenty later, my beloveds walked out in a line, passing us. They all waved and made hearts with their hands and blew kisses, a parade just for me.

They laughed at me too. We all know I'm dramatic. But oh well, I am a playwright.

wondering

I'm in a terrible mood

if I go too long

without writing.

I wonder about you.

Like when you'd be at the dark wood desk

back to me,

in a storm cloud.

I'd wonder if you were angry

because you were writing

or if you were angry because you hadn't

gotten to write

sooner.

I wonder if you feel connected to something bigger

like I do. I wonder if you feel you were put on earth for it

like I do.  I wonder if you know what will put you in a good mood

like I do. And I wonder if you remember when you knew,

like I might. I was at the gray box,

just like you.

I wonder about you--

like what you're working on now and why and inspired by what,

like what pieces are your all timers and which are your duds,

like what part of the process always annoys

like what part of the process always delights

and what would you approach differently

if you could rewrite anything,

or all of it. There's still time to revise.

some happy holidays

I remember as I was falling asleep, thinking, specifically, it was such a nice Valentines. Puhg got me a bouquet and we went to our cafe nice and early so we could don bright road vests for the annual neighborhood clean-up. We ungunked gutters and sorted trash and ended around noon at the burrito hut. I wrote a while then napped on the balcony, in a little spot of sun, before an evening showing of Wuthering Heights. We picked up a pizza for dinner.

Summer solstice was my favorite things! A true celebration of the day! I was up early writing and spent some hours lizarding at the pool and then the trio of gal pals gathered our partners for the first time. The six of us had such a bright pineapple night at the tiki patio. Good matches, good matches. Only downside was I was having so much fun I didn't notice the sunset. I looked up and suddenly, it was night. But even that is a little solstice magic.

Didn't do a good job prepping for 4th of July. Puhg masterminded tickets for Jaws at 10 am, the old timey theatre down the street. I suggested leave at 10:15, Puhg said 10:20 would be fine. I was at my desk a little too long, showered a little late. The two of us realized, wordlessly, we didn't do the math right. Puhg had to hike out on his own, but even if got there in 20 minutes flat (closer to a 25 minute walk, especially in the heat), that means too late for a really good spot and concessions, good luck!

I got very hot and laid down. Suddenly, I leapt from bed and knew--I could fix it. I called a Lyft, which would arrive in 5 minutes. I shoved my wallet and keys and comb and peanut m & ms in my purse, ran downstairs. Would be on fire if I had to hustle, but I barreled into the back of an ice cold Tesla and the guy floored it. I saw Puhg on the sidewalk, miserably hoofing. No time to stop. I called him, "I'm here, send me my ticket." I arrived at 10:35 and reserved four perfect seats in the third row.

Once Puhg made it in I was like a pig in mud, showing off my bounty. I got us each mini popcorns and sodas, happened to be in the lobby right when E & T got there. During the movie, there was a little rustle when the holiday was mentioned. A perfect film in that red, white, and blue theatre. The marquis. When the guy said, "You're gonna need a bigger boat," Puhg did the faintest, most humble golf clap. So I gave a loud, "WOO!" The crowd erupted in applause. Sometimes people are looking for a reason to applaud.

my first world premiere

Dizz clarified last night on our FaceTime, "Oh so a World Premiere isn't just a thing you say. It's an official title." Yes, I informed, a play must be produced 21 times, invite press, and be presented "professionally"--with memorized actors and sets and costumes etc--to be an official WP. This summer my play will finally World Premiere. I've been working toward this for 20 years. I feel almost relieved but not quite yet. I'll celebrate in 32 days.

I've been saying this thing a lot lately, when people ask me about my career: "It's a miracle to even get one." And I believe that. It's an honor to ever create a single work of art that holds significance to others. I know I've done that with this piece.

But if World Premiere weren't an official title, then what would my world premiere have been? I think my world premiere was in my childhood bedroom. My family called it the "triangle room" because it was inside the eve of the house. Steep angled walls with blimp wallpaper. A tiny red desk. Glow in the dark stars and a moon. I think I was about six or seven years old. The play didn't have an official title. Maybe, in hindsight, I might call it The Magic Muffin.

I set up my favorite toy set on the floor--a collection of cups and cutlery and muffins that all changed color with water. Like, if you poured cold water into the juice glass, it turned orange. If you dipped the knife into water, a smear of raspberry jam appeared on it. Then you could wipe the smear on a muffin half and voila, a smear of jam appeared there too.

The show had, I believe, four or five characters and was created for an audience of one. The main character was large bunny with a Southern accent. She had a little sidekick, a bear I think. There may have been one more stuffy, but I don't recall who. I played the fourth character, a waitress. Twist, the fifth character was the single audience member.

I wrote the script, then recorded the three animals' lines into a tape recorder. I left long pauses for the waitress (me) to deliver her lines in real time. If the play went according to plan, the fifth character would never actually speak. I cast my father to originate the role. He accepted and sat dutifully on the floor to attend.

There wasn't much plot. Basically, the big rabbit was a chatterbox who overtook the whole conversation, while the bear yes'd all her opinions. The other stuffy chimed in occasionally with comic observations. I would zip in, ask everyone for their orders, and interact with each critter. However, whenever I asked my dad a question, the large rabbit would interrupt and order for him or speak on his behalf.

I remember I was overjoyed when the whole ordeal went according to plan. I'd rehearsed several times of course, but you never know what will happen once you premiere. My dad beamed through the whole thing. I'd leave the room and peek in at him through a crack in the door. I remember thinking it was funny he would look at the stuffed animal who was supposed to be talking even though all the sound was actually coming from the black tape machine.

I think the play was a hit, but it opened and closed that very day. I remember thinking next time I might try to take a risk and add space for the audience member to improvise. But we never remounted. And that's show business.

13th of June, new wallpaper

Wrote at the cafe, even got a bagel for good measure. Did an interview and some light brainstorming.

I hopped home to change into purple shorts and a nectarine tank top. BM picked me up in her Subaru just before noon. We had a devil of a time but found a spot 15 minutes from the grass. Dreamy if it weren't for BM's cooler not having wheels. We tip-toed in the heat, stopping every couple minutes under witch tree shade, swapping who had the cooler and who had the chairs.

Took us a while to find the group because of everyone on the mondo chat, the only people there I'd never met. BM texted, "I'm in a joveralls and Alice is in lilac shorts if that helps PROBABLY DOESN'T" because it didn't. Luckily we got the important clue, blankets by the fruit cart. We got to know the few gals in there, my pink hand fan coming in clutch, eventually BB arrived and we laughed about how we used to do a weekly comedy show for years but barely know each other. Trotted around to bump into my barista and that director and an old costumer the prop-master from my last workshop that comedian who was in my play, by the port-a-potties.

Someone did poetry in the big white tent and a swarm of lesbians frolicked around the speed-dating meadow. Tira texted she couldn't find us, but my respond text couldn't go through. EP straight up messaged the group she had to wave as she drove by, giving up fully on parking. CS & JC arrived joyfully, right as we'd just about had our fill. Ate some pretzels to salt my blood before leaving. BM says she had fun when she drops me off, I don't know if she did. She'd brought juggling clubs but never took them out of her bag.

Showered the vat of sweat off, opted for my denim romper with a peach windbreaker and braid. Wrote and stickered a little card. Hopped in an Uber downtown for MS's going away party.

I really did cry a few times at MS's party. He's the godfather of our writers' group, a group that has meant so so much to me over the past seven years. We talked about it, me and DH, in the corner of the karaoke room. How it was such weird happenstance I joined the group. I sat near him at the guild, and he invited me to the next meeting. And then I never stopped going.

At dinner I sat at the end of the table, got a fancy lemonade and mini pizza. (It was $40 I hate capitalism.) Chatted with JC and the guy I'd actually somehow never met, DT. His husband too, MS's manager. We laugh it up, though I feel a little tentative around them. The next morning they've both followed me on Instagram, one after the other, like they mutually decided over coffee.

Karaoke was really fun and emotional. People changed lyrics to be about our king our friendships all and more. I did "Graduation" by Vitamin C obviously. The Gen X folks had never heard it can you believe! ML asked if Nine Inch Nails was too much. I looked deep into his eyes and said, "You have to be yourself." And he nodded, staunchly, like he'd never heard that before. He crushed Nine Inch Nails. Later, we did "Shallow."

SR almost didn't sing then did a gentle rendition of "House at Pooh Corner" which truly touched all our hearts. DH and I lined up the Golden Girls theme and Greenday to end it all. But someone kept adding "Somewhere That's Green" to the list. Two minutes before we were kicked out of the room, MS shuffled up and sang it. He's off to find a haven in the Pacific Northwest with his lover. It was so simple and beautiful. I will cherish the clip in my mind.

It occurred to me as we were pouring out of the dark, into the abandoned mall, how I'd associated that park and karaoke room with the same old friend. I guess new memories show up on top of old places. Like fresh wallpaper. MS says hopefully he'll get a job the moment he vanishes. We all nod wanting that to be true but knowing it's very unlikely. Not because MS isn't an amazing writer, but because there aren't jobs for anyone, even amazing writers.

G yelled out, "Did we ALL drive here?!" It offends his sensibilities how younger people bring so many cars places. I give him the good news, I'd be happy to mooch a ride. We have a gay old gab on the drive to our shires. I ask about his ideal roles, his life as an actor. I tell him he can drop me off at gas station, so he doesn't have to flip a U. He says he wasn't raised that way. I see him just a few days later, at the picnic benches by The Greek, when we're both there before Stars & Broken Social Scene. They say your whole body regenerates all its cells every seven years.

weds June 3 2026 -- five project day

At 5 am I was tossing and turning. I had to send the final casting email. We’ve been looking for the right actor for nearly two months. I wrote the decision email the night before, but needed to sleep on it. Strange as it seems, a young man’s voice floated into my head. In my half-dream state, the voice assured me, essentially, this is the right choice, if it isn’t, I will take care of it… I’ve only had a voice in my head like that a handful of times in life. Once while crossing the street as a child, once in my friend’s spare bedroom at 30, once on a beach in Moorea, and now I suppose right before I pressed SEND on an important email. Four different voices, I should note. I think I know whose voice this was, but, of course, I’ll never know for sure.

I managed to rest 6 to 7 before getting up to smash a dance workout then hop on my 8 am meeting with the high school theatre festival coordinator. We chatted about how I might attend a career fair or give some remarks to the students, tell them I did this exact same program 20 years ago and it drastically changed the trajectory of my life. Had to sidebar with the guy, what was the show that got him hooked? (He was in MacBeth as a freshman of course.)

By 9 I was really sad about the LA primary election results. It’s not over, but, to quote Puhg first looking at the polls for the reality star villain, “I don’t understand the world.” Yes, chef. Zipped to the cafe for an iced tea and necessary journaling session, to clear my little head. I ran into DR writing, chatted with the barista who is also pitching a comedy series, volleyed a few signifiant texts.

Showered, laid out various outfits for my big meeting. Puhg picked it in the end, as he does have a much better understanding of fashion than I do. I’d chosen a ratty concert crop top and pink skirt. He chose some smart black wide leg jeans and a classy pink linen tank. He also recommended I wear a bra. Wanted to reach my lawyer about the regional theatre deal, couldn’t, set a call with her assistant for later in the week.

Wrote the marketing team some notes about the announcement copy, wrote the director thoughts on the new option for understudy since our first choice passed. We did three rounds of callbacks to find the correct pair, but now we’re out of time. Director just happened to see this girl the day before at a different audition, gave me her name. I watched ten minutes of her YouTube videos and decided she’d do. This business is insanely unfair.

Ate an apple, peanut butter, cinnamon yogurt bowl while brushing my hair straight and listening to a new age YouTube video about embracing the next chapter. Drove to WeHo singing reputation and thinking about my path as a writer. I'm the one living it, but sometimes driving to meetings I have to think about me in third person. What's the story, for this storyteller...

M & B’s office was much bigger and fancier than I anticipated. I had to wait on a sofa for a little bit, read more of Cruel Optimism. One gal greeted me and told me about moving here from China. Then the other gal, more a honcho, led me into the conference room. I took a strawberry peach LaCroix from the mini fridge and they told me all about the program I’m being considered for. It’s incredibly cool and competitive. 500 applicants. And I…didn’t apply. I jumped the line because my dear friend SR put me up for it. All news to me.

They tell me what they’re looking for, and I simply don’t have it. They ask, well what are you working on? I tell them about my newest creation, the one that I’ve been breaking for the past year and a half. I'm positive it's not right. Honcho says, “I love it. This is exactly what we’ve been looking for.” As they walk me out I fish for my parking ticket. They ask if I need validation. I shake their hands and say, “Absolutely! I’ll take a compliment from each of you please!” They laugh and then I go to the front desk. The 20something there has a really cute tattoo, a bubble heart. He says it’s favorite “right now.” I repeat, “right now.”

I have to burn rubber to make my 3 pm meeting back home. I give my ticket to the valet and he pulls me into a disagreement with two other folks working in the garage. They want to know if a man or woman should cook. In about ten minutes I know all I need to know about this trio. I suddenly blurt, where is my car? A parade of porches and bmws and Teslas have rolled through. I point to my scratched grey beloved in the corner of the lot and someone fetches it.

I make it home just in time for my meeting with one of the most famous living comic artists. He’s very nice and sometimes I don’t think he’s listening, but then I realize it’s just that he’s signing covers while we talk. I’d been angry at this team last week because they dropped a bunch of balls. This week that much is all still true, but I have accepted it. I consider, as I do basically every day, how to stand up for myself in a way that doesn’t annoy people. Nearly impossible I keep finding, via trial and error.

Once we wrap, I see AB has texted me. Our production company has officially asked for script delivery! I double check formatting and send it off, finally. My manager emails: a prod co loves my play, they asked for a coffee but he thinks I’m too busy—can I zoom? We set.

Puhg lumbers in to see my tornado of a desk. I fill him in on everything, mostly positive but it’s all laced with thick anxiety. “Condolences on your good news,” he says gravely. Not unlike the other night when I was hunched at my desk. He walked in, gave me one look and diagnosed: “Living the miserable dream.”

Tons of emails about casting. How many shows will the understudy get, should they be paid equally or less than cast, will everyone flier if needed. Therapy at 5, so I close everything down at 4:50. I talk with J about disappointment, and how some people get uncomfortable when I express it. But if I don’t express it, then I’m uncomfortable. Also, if someone suddenly seems unsafe, is that good gut or bad wiring?

I close my computer. Sigh the biggest sigh ever only to see my manager calling. He wants to hear about the meeting. He chatted with the comic producer too, will link with my lawyer tomorrow. I admit I’m annoyed with __. I chuckle, “Ah the special moment in every creative partnership with someone I would have died to work with, where I kinda hate them.” Manager chuckles himself, “I can’t wait to get to that point for you.” I say, “And likewise.”

As soon as I sit down, SR calls. He inquires impishly, and I tell him it went very well! He says he knew it would! He encourages me, then, he has to go on a hike. I write down notes of what I need to do first thing in the morning. I feel myself crashing. Puhg suggests Burger King, and I agree. It’s Whopper Wednesday, which means $4 Impossible Whoppers on the app. I order very boring Whoppers. You can have it your way, and I do. No toppings except lettuce and barbecue sauce.

Puhg offers to scoop our paper bags, but I could use a little jaunt. We drive into the palm trees at dusk. Right as well pull up, the sign blinks on. They made a mistake and give me free fries. We eat our feast while watching an episode of Widow’s Bay.

I pick up my phone for the first time in an hour to see a billion missed emails and texts—details about cast offers. I stand silently volleying for a while then change into sweats. Tidy up my corner, sit outside genuinely doing nothing at all. Thinking at the trees, 9:30 - 10:30, when Puhg and I watch a Couple’s Therapy while eating churro-flavored Fat Boys.