A friend of mine just sent out a bulletin that she’s pregnant. That’s great news, and I’m very happy for her. For the shortest moment, I thought about reposting the message as mine, but then thought better of it. On the one hand, it would be really funny to see what kind of reaction that little news item would bring. On the other, there’s just something sad about a childless woman in her mid-30s making a joke about being pregnant.
The guy who stocks the coffee at work hasn’t been stocking it for the pot nearest my desk. So I have to walk alllllll the way over to the other side of the building to get my mojo. I don’t mind the walk, but I do mind the scalding I inevitably receive on the trip back. For whatever reason, not sure if one of my legs is shorter than the other or what, I can’t walk with a cup fulla joe without spilling it on my hand, my shirt (only if I’m wearing white), the floor, etc.
I’ve started a new writing group with two other writers. One is mostly an actor who’s just started writing and the other has written a shitload of plays and also directs. So they both have a duality that they’re bringing to the deal. I need to bring my own duality, but I haven’t figured out what that is yet. The thing I love about writing groups is the amazing energy that starts flowing among the participants (assuming said participants are open to the process and have left most of the ego at the door – those jagoffs who think their writing is already golden are always death in a workshop setting) (plus, I gotta tell you, if your writing is that fucking good, you wouldn’t be bothering with a workshop and would instead be home polishing your Tony or fucking your lead actor or whatever). We only look at one writer’s work per week, so my time isn’t up until a week from Monday. I looked through the different works-in-progress I have on the home computer and was amazed to find a short piece I’d forgotten I’d written. I mean, I remembered it once I opened it up and started reading, but I really have no recollection of having written it, and I haven’t thought about it since I wrote it. Don’t know if I should blame the wine, being busy, having a tired brain or what.