Wednesday, November 11, 2015

At three percent ...

I come to you waist-deep in bed covers with the computer battery in the red zone and a romantic question:

What if I just set this computer aside, scooched a little lower and fell asleep right now at 9:36 p.m. on a Wednesday night, 4,000-plus steps shy of my FitBit goal, a dirty kitchen, clothes done drying in the drier and ignoring the two unread New Yorkers, a Sloane Crosley and "M Train" next to my bed?

What if.

A few weeks ago I was talking to another writer friend about writing and she responded to my question with " ... I don't know. How are YOU using YOUR creative time?"


"On an elliptical machine," I told her.

Which is pretty true. It gives me an excuse to watch an episode of "The Good Wife" and still feel productive. By the way, Will Gardner died in the middle of my second-to-last workout. I had to Kubler-Ross my way to the finish line. It was brutal. This is probably why I have PTSD about going back into the basement and queuing up the post-Will Gardner era.

So sleepy.

Anyway, this is all bad for business because I finally after a thousand million years found a writing group. We have our first meet up in two weeks and all I have to show for myself is:

1. An ill-formed novel idea.
2. Stray sentences tucked here and there in my brain.
3. An essay to rework because I think I'm supposed to read something in public sometimes somewhere eventually.
4. A TV show I want to write.
5. A curiosity about one-woman theatrical performances.
6. A FitBit.

A few days ago my blog got linked to. Like, remember when people used to have little blogs and then a bigger blog would link to it and the little blogger's site meter would explode and the little blogger would be like "FINALLY I ALMOST HAVE A FAMOUS BLOG." And then that night the little blogger would stare at her little blog and think "The next thing I write has to be amazing."

This isn't like that at all because blogs are dead, yo. But some of the muscle memory remained. I went straight to my site meter and sighed contentedly. Hi, new reader. I like your hair.

We put our cat Hal to sleep and, for the most part, we managed to do it without saying the words "sick" or "hospital" to our toddler. Instead, Chuck took Hal to "the cat place" and he's not coming back because he's dead. She never liked him, so it's no big to her, though now she has sort of romanticized him.

"Hal's over there," she'll say, gesturing toward the door.

We're so haunted.

(Battery at 3 percent.)