I'm on my third cup of tea...and if you know the size cup I use, it's really more like 47th. Actually, they are soup mugs. And it does soothe my psychoses. And make me pee at 4am.
Jake's being a bitch. I want to finish this draft of IF and get it off for feedback, but he keeps slipping moments into my brain for VOT, shoving me off track. And Antony's nowhere to be found, right now. Dunno why. But he's been incredibly silent during this whole process, leaving it all up to Jake and me.
FRT only got to Quarterfinalist in the StoryPros screenplay competition, and that's with me getting some extremely positive feedback on it from one of the readers. I got a copy. I couldn't have written a nicer version, myself. And so what? Didn't advance a bit beyond that "almost" point, again.
Whine.
Oh, I am in a mood. Jake better be careful; I may add in stuff he doesn't want to talk about, like what happened when he was in jail for nearly three years, just so I can show him who's boss.
Who'm I kidding? He is. All my characters are. In fact, he's already told me, "Let's do it." Shit. Such is life in Kyle's big city -- gridlock of the brain.
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Recently, I played several versions of solitaire while waiting for a vision on a scene I'm working on in Lollipop. When I looked at the clock it was almost four in the morning. My clicker worn to a nub, the Mac heated from endless losses at cards I went to bed.
But fear not, your muse is waiting.
I finally gave in and wrote 5 paged on Jake's story. That seems to have settled him down...but it meant I didn't get to sleep till 2:30...not as bad as yours, however.
As for my muse, he looks like Chris Evans. Even my ethereal guidance is unattainable. Sigh.
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