Just Another Writing Weekend

Friday: Pretty productive.
Saturday: Really long, probably because I don’t know what to write, but I can’t do anything else, and now when I’m thinking about it I literally fall asleep.  So write 30 minutes, sleep an hour, repeat.
And all during the day on Saturday I thought, if I can just get through this, maybe I could invite people over to the house.  Like friends.  Who would I invite…would they say yes? The idea makes me nervous because it’s been so long…but then it doesn’t matter, because 11pm comes and the writing is still not done–I mean I just woke up (again) at 9:30…
Sunday: Fast but shoddy toward the end–done by 4:30 because all I could think was…”I want to be done, I want to go for a walk outside, I want to watch Sunday night TV.”

I wait all week for Sunday night TV.  A little sad. But still, Sunday night TV is awesome.

And then, just before the TV, a friend called to see if I wanted to see Beasts of the Southern Wild.” I did, so off we went–the first person-other than my husband–I saw all weekend.  The remaining seats were all too close to the screen–why do those seats exist at all?  And if they must, they should be cheaper.  And even if they were cheaper, I wouldn’t want to sit in them–so we saw Celeste and Jesse Forever instead.

And then I came home and watched Sunday night TV.  I have very mixed feeling about The Newsroom. Maggie seems like someone from the cast of Girls. I know I was kind of messed up and confused in my 20s, but has she really been playing this note for over a year (in fictional time)?  They keep jumping huge chunks of time–three and four months I think–and they make stabs at having things having happened in those amounts of time, but it falls short of any kind of personal growth–which I know probably makes sense, because that’s what should be on screen–but then it’s not on screen either.  I’m just rambling.  But maybe it’s people in ruts that get to me, I have my own ruts I can’t get out of, don’t you know…

Also, along with falling asleep between lines of dialogue, I read Wild,  by Cheryl Strayed.  Really good. It sounds petty to say it made me feel a little inadequate, but there it is.  I may have reached the time in my life where I just can’t make myself do things that hurt a lot–mentally or physically.  And my sense of what “a lot” means may have changed to something less than it was once upon a time.

I never really take down blog posts (though I will edit) but I wonder if I will look at this tomorrow and find that it makes so little sense that I will want to.

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