snowball rollin' down the hill... look behind me, it's there still...
so. i just finished reading the new issue of Premiere. i do enjoy this magazine very much, as, well, i enjoy movies very much. but, i gotta say, the top 100 people in Hollywood shocks me every time. Well, ok, it shouldn't. But boy hidy, it does.
i'm really very very very excited about hell freezing over. "The Day After Tomorrow" looks absolutely gorgeous. And well, it's Dennis Quaid. You gotta love that. Of course, I will miss the other Quaid. Very much. Because, well I mean, c'mon. It's Randy Quaid. He had me at "Quick Change".
i am alone tonight. BJ has deserted me for greener pastures and I'm on my owwwwnnnn... feels strange. I feel adult. A rare enough occurence. I do love the solitude, though. The apartment is always peaceful, but with just me, there is a quiet that carries no expectation of companionship. no deep, exhausting, soul searching conversation tonight. no silly giggling. no drunken banter. just me. it's nice.
Destiny is kicking my ass. again. as usual. i have outlined and researched and plotted until my brain bleeds. i'm scaring myself. the damned book is not rocket science, for God's sake, it isn't earth shattering or life changing. and i think that is why i am so dismissive of it.
i am writing this book for all the wrong reasons, and i know it. i'm not doing it solely for the joy of creating. no, i am doing it to prove that i am capable of doing it. that's fucked.
how can i be so judgemental of my own passion? is that not the most ridiculous shit ever? how can i not respect what i write? i wrote it goddammit, i should be my biggest fan. and yet... i'm not. and there in lies the rub.
ick. ichabod. ichabod crane.
how come i just can't be one of those insipid little romance novel writers with a formula and a baaaaaad idea?
i'm really very very very excited about hell freezing over. "The Day After Tomorrow" looks absolutely gorgeous. And well, it's Dennis Quaid. You gotta love that. Of course, I will miss the other Quaid. Very much. Because, well I mean, c'mon. It's Randy Quaid. He had me at "Quick Change".
i am alone tonight. BJ has deserted me for greener pastures and I'm on my owwwwnnnn... feels strange. I feel adult. A rare enough occurence. I do love the solitude, though. The apartment is always peaceful, but with just me, there is a quiet that carries no expectation of companionship. no deep, exhausting, soul searching conversation tonight. no silly giggling. no drunken banter. just me. it's nice.
Destiny is kicking my ass. again. as usual. i have outlined and researched and plotted until my brain bleeds. i'm scaring myself. the damned book is not rocket science, for God's sake, it isn't earth shattering or life changing. and i think that is why i am so dismissive of it.
i am writing this book for all the wrong reasons, and i know it. i'm not doing it solely for the joy of creating. no, i am doing it to prove that i am capable of doing it. that's fucked.
how can i be so judgemental of my own passion? is that not the most ridiculous shit ever? how can i not respect what i write? i wrote it goddammit, i should be my biggest fan. and yet... i'm not. and there in lies the rub.
ick. ichabod. ichabod crane.
how come i just can't be one of those insipid little romance novel writers with a formula and a baaaaaad idea?