So as for the script, someone I spoke to said “can’t you just get rid of this Sasquatch thing? I mean, I think your story is there, but maybe make it some other creature.” So I started getting depressed and questioning my ability to execute a vision. See, thing is, I know when I get back to writing I can do this tastefully, tactfully, and not in a B-movie way. Well, some of that will be in the execution of course, but the script I’m sure will be solid. I’ll hand it in for notes, and if someone really says, “holy crap dude, you really need to fix this,” then OK, I gave it a try and failed, but for now, I’m holding to the line that this person will read the final script and say, “wow, OK, you did it. Didn’t think you could, but you did.”

Really though, I’m pissed at myself. On a lot of levels. Pissed that I can’t get writing again, even though pieces of this story are like soggy sponges just soaking up energy in my brain. It would be so easy to just squeeze them out, and then they’re on the page. I’ve written them down. They’re not going to disappear. I don’t have to carry their water anymore. OK,  cheesy analogy, but why can’t I seem to do that? Why am I so terrified to get started again?

I really need to read “The War of Art” again. Especially the part about Resistance.

“Really? I can see you’ll do anything to avoid doing your actual work.”

“Yeah, but I think I’ll be inspired by it like I was last time.”

“Did it get you writing last time you read it?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Well there you go. Stop making excuses, asshole. Get to work. There. I said it. Look at it. Look at it again. GET TO WORK!  NOW. Yes, YOU. Stop writing this and write something on your script.”

“Holy shit…”

I can’t believe I’m not more in style either… I mean, considering that I undoubtedly have the gift, yes.

My doctor tells me the best thing I could do for my health is quit my job.

But perhaps I should just stop trying to be such a perfectionist and just do what they pay me to do and nothing more. Why am I not able to do that?

I hope I always remember the day, more emotionally removed hopefully, when I was told what to do, asked questions and not given time to answer, asked for reports which were never read. The days I had four separate bosses (not long ago), each of them asking me for something different.

Is the rest of the world like this?

Did you ever notice how, when I wanted to decorate my yard with something eye-catching, I put up a few things that didn’t make any noise? There’s a ball that changes colors at night. It is totally fucking silent. There’s a toy pinwheel type device of many colors that turns direction in the breeze. Again, silent as the fucking wind. I assume you have not been awakened at all by these items in my yard. Oh yeah, there’s the birdfeeder and the squirell-proof suet cage. Notice how there are no owls or night birds visiting it, no hooting and no shrieking at all hours? Perhaps if you took a nap, you hear the chickadees twitting away. No? Yeah, I didn’t think so. They’re pretty quiet, and the birdfeeder is quite a ways from your bedroom window.

So it is with puzzlement that after all this consideration on my behalf toward you, my close neighbor, that I consider your latest assault on my eardrums.

When your Ford Ranger, half falling apart, woke me up every morning at 5am when you started it up, I was fairly irritated, but I understood you might not have had the money to fix it.

For two years.

I was glad you were not hurt when its brakes went and you got in an accident and left it on the side of the road. I’m actually surprised you did not get in it one day and have it explode. Apparently I need to work on my psychic powers. Again, not trying to hurt you, just needed the truck gone. The sound of its exhaust reverberating through my whole house, cutting through every wall every time you went on a 5-minute errand, day after day, was just too much to bear. How many fucking loaves of bread do you need in one day anyway?

But  your latest endeavor is just a bit much. Hanging gigantic wind chimes just outside the window where I nap and sleep when I am not feeling well is not something I can forgive at this point. This is an active onslaught. The slightest breeze, once pleasant upon my brow through the open window, now brings forth a rain of of metallic clunks and clinks, clanks and bongs.

I’ve tried to consider what your motivation might be for placing these aural shards of glass next to my window? Christmas? I could be mistaken, but I thought Christmas was bells, not chimes. And these aren’t really even chimes anyway, are they. They’re more like giant organ pipes. The damn things look like a giant green jellyfish with a hat and casts on its tentacles.

I will not abide. Please remove said objects. They’re ugly and they’re noisy. If they are not gone by the next time I want to take a nap, I will beat you with them.

Also looming in the back of my head is the fact that my screenplay isn’t getting written. I have a rewrite class coming up at the beginning of January, a telephone conference on it coming at the end of January, and a contest I’d like to enter by the end of January if it is in any way presentable (probably won’t be, but still).

If I can get over this work project, I sincerely hope I can take the time I need to relax, get a healthy amount of writing done, and start getting myself into a better emotional and physical space, because right now I feel like crap after about a week of relief from cold/flu symptoms. This blows.

I guess that sort of thing has always worked well for me, but I just don’t know if all the nuances I wanted to add and all the things I wanted to “keep in mind” will find their way onto the page.

Perhaps I’ve been drilling them into my subconscious enough that they’ll just magically appear when the time is right. I guess I have to have some faith in my muse. It hasn’t steered me wrong so far. Every time I let go, something surprising appears — something I can’t take credit for.

It’s 2am and I’ve been doing “work” work since 2pm. Time to get some sleep.

But at least I’m glad to finally be writing again. This is the first bit of the script I’ve written since we went on vacation at the end of June. Can’t believe it has been that long. Going to try again tomorrow night and hopefully establish a habit again.

One of the best parts is I’m actually writing in Final Draft instead of in Word, and it’s so much easier to write in a program that’s specifically set up for scripts.

Anyway, hopefully I’ll check in again tomorrow night with positive news.

It’s too hot in the basement, and I hate the loud air conditioner I have down there. I’d rather watch the football game or a movie or Hell’s Kitchen. I’d rather clean the garage. I’d rather read a magazine.

And these bits of my story keep rattling around up there. They’re heavy. I think I’m afraid that once they get out, they’re going to scurry away and I won’t be able to rein them in anymore. At least if they’re up there, I know where they are even if I can’t see entirely what they consist of.

I’m going to have to deal with this at some point soon, I know…