I remember when I used to tell people that I did all kinds of studying of the writing craft. And it’s true, I’ve just about read my brains out. I read magazines. I read books. I read newspapers. I read everything. But honestly, when does the writing begin? I’ve got some sketchy tearjerkers piling up on my hard drive but nothing cohesive.

I’m jealous of Diablo Cody’s style in Juno. I would write a screenplay if I could get myself to write a paragraph, a poem, a short story.

And my friend starts a whole new blog devoted to her writing AND I have a backlog of her emails full of stuff she needs me to get back to her about.

Mostly, I write to do lists. I tried putting up a sign that said, “You must write an hour a day” but I promptly ignored it. In fact, I had to take it down after I felt it was giving me glowering looks. Yes, the sign. It was giving me low self-esteem.

Lest I be too hard on myself, when people have assigned me work, I’ve churned out a doozy or two. Thanks for all the compliments. Now if only I could just be making a million per script and holding up a sign outside the Writer’s Guild of America. In Los Angeles. Brr, far away from the city that never sleeps, brr.