web analytics


Had surgery this morning on my right index finger. Complicates my writing a bit, but the alternative would have been a permanently painful and deformed finger.

It’s not even that I injured myself or anything; my fingernail started growing a weird, subcutaneous spur. Huh.

Anyway, huge bandage on my right hand for the next week. And pain meds. Should be fun, make my writing a tad more colorful.

And tonight my play is premiering, so . . . Let’s hope I don’t make a fool of myself or anything.


I am a writer who inhabits places that can become chilly and/or wet at a moment’s notice. So while I’m not proud of it, I do wear hoodies.

I don’t like hoodies. It’s just that they’re so damn convenient for places that may be windy or misty, or for going from cold to warm and back. It’s this convenience that keeps hoodies in my wardrobe. I’m not proud of it. I prefer to wear nicer clothes, and on days when there is a likelihood that I will be seen by other living human beings outside of my immediate family, I do try to pick something more chic. A “summer sweater” or a neat little jacket or whatever. But as a writer, there are plenty of times when I could be dead for three days before anyone realized it because I have been closeted with a project. Under those circumstances, if and when they do find my body, I’ll probably be wearing a hoodie.

On the flip side of this, I do insist on wearing a little makeup every day. It’s part of my morning routine. I’m pretty convinced that if I don’t at least put on some eyeliner and lip gloss the world will implode. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

Teaser Tuesday: Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?

Teaser Tuesday is a weekly book meme hosted by Should Be Reading. The idea is to pick up your current read, go to a page at random, and post two teaser sentences. I’ve had Mindy Kaling’s book on my nightstand for ages now and am finally getting around to reading it because I need something funny to relieve the stress of this huge move. And it is a cute and funny book that makes me feel better about not being the only dorky kid who watched Monty Python and didn’t love sports (though I was GREAT at Frisbee, thanks, even won ribbons).

The tease is from Page 57 and seems apropos considering I have myself just finished a spec script:

My Will & Grace spec was a disaster. In an attempt to achieve the cheeky, gay-centric tone of the show, I had written a sample so over-the-top offensively gay that it actually reads like a propaganda sketch to incite antigay sentiment.

I like to think my Sherlock spec is not that bad. Though it may be, in fact, almost as gay. In that roundabout way of giving viewers what they want without ever really giving them what they want.

And I do have to say, as an aside, that while I totally dig the “Nguyen and Ari” song idea, I didn’t love Kaling dissing on my Johnny Cougar. I’m giving her a pass this time (because while I like “Jack and Diane” I do think JCM has done better work, and I myself don’t entirely understand the people who identify so deeply with that song), but no one ever gets more than one. Tread carefully, Mindy, tread carefully.

Mardi Gras

As someone with deep roots in the Southern Louisiana culture . . . I’ve always avoided Mardi Gras.

By which I mean, I’ve avoided the raucous street parties that Mardi Gras is known for. See, I don’t especially like having people step on my feet, jostle me, spill beer all over me, or puke on me. It’s just not my kind of fun.

I’m more of a take-me-to-the-ball kind of Cendrillion. And yes, there are Mardi Gras balls, and they are quite lovely, and sometimes only slightly less raucous depending on how the night goes on. But less crowded, too, so escape is easier.

I also enjoy the traditions. King cake. Costumes. The pageantry sparks my inner love of drama, I suppose.

And now my freezer is stocked with fish fingers so that if I choose (though I usually don’t, mostly because I forget) I can go without meat on Fridays for the next few weeks. But at least there’s nothing against eating beignets.

So We’ll Have No More of Rover

(with apologies to George Gordon, Lord Byron)

So we’ll have no more of Rover
     Barking late into the night,
Though the neighbors be still unloving,
     And the porch light be still bright.

For the dog outwears his leash,
     And jumps upon the guest,
And we must pause to breathe,
     And the neighborhood have rest.

Though the night was made for sleeping,
     And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll have no more of Rover
     Howling at the moon.

They had come to that point where, after a day spent in each other’s company, they would either be inseparable or heartily sick of one another.

It was late, the moon high and sliding slowly down the far side of the sky, and they stood under a tree in the small rectangle of grass outside her flat. In a few steps she would be inside and gone, but they had stopped walking; who had stopped first, he wondered, but couldn’t remember.

She’d turned to face him—she had parcels on her right arm from all the shopping—and his mouth had gone suddenly dry. He wanted to take her hand, the free one, but was reluctant to upset their strange balance. Like any man unsure of his welcome, he hesitated, alert for any small signal that she might be receptive to an advance.

But she wasn’t looking at him, was in fact looking down with a tiny frown as if she’d forgotten something. And so he stood there impotent, trying to decide whether to take her shopping bags and offer to carry them up. She would miss the point, though, he was sure; she was perceptive but also trusting and never sought any deeper motive in people than what they themselves suggested.

“I’d ask you up for tea,” she said, still frowning at the grass, “but I’m not sure I have any.”

Her eyes lifted then in an attitude of bravery, and she blinked and squinted at him as if he were standing in bright light, though the streetlamps were soft and widely spaced.

He reached out and gently took hold of the parcels. “At least let me help you with these.”

A shiver ran through her when his hand brushed hers, and that gave him hope. No woman who’d made up her mind against a man trembled like that.

2012 Goals Revisited

Here were my goals for 2012, which I posted at the beginning of the year:

  • Finish “St. Peter in Chains”
  • Finish “The K-Pro”
  • Finish the spec script
  • Get at least one more play accepted for production somewhere

You’ll notice a couple of them are now yellow/orange, as in “caution light” color. This is because they are in some ways completed, but not really.

For the spec script: last night I finished the first full draft. Huzzah! So that’s “finished” in a way, but I do intend to do some rewrites.

And for the play acceptance, well, “Warm Bodies” got picked up again for another play festival, BUT . . . They are supposed to be sending a contract, so nothing is final yet. Plus, I’d really like a different one of my plays to get accepted for something.

Meanwhile, with a big move in just a few weeks now, I’m glad I’ve at least made this much progress early in the year. Who knows how long it will take to settle down enough to get my momentum back after the cross-country haul?

Their Eden

He liked that she didn’t immediately get out of bed, didn’t move to dress herself, but instead curled against him, nestled, content and trusting. She was Eve to his Adam, and this was their Eden, not yet spoiled. For now they could remain shamelessly naked with each other and happily ignorant of the worse parts of the world.

Those Godless British Heathens

Just had a conversation that went something like this:

Me: Oh, I’m going to be in England for Easter.
Scott: Do they care?
Me: That I’m going to be there?
Scott: About Easter.
Me: No, of course not. They are godless heathens who know nothing of magical rabbits bearing chocolate.

The truth is, I have no idea what they do for Easter over there, since I’ve never been during that time of year. I do hope there are flowers, though. If not bunnies and chocolates.