Stomach Bleh

This weekend was not pleasant. I planned on getting work done; I planned on writing until the pages ran thick with my brain stew. I did not plan on catching a stomach virus (what I originally mistook for a hangover). I can still feel it, in pit of my stomach, clenched and toxic and just waiting for me to fuck up on my diet (I'm working with the no-grease police).

I haven't eaten a real meal in 48 hours—just apple sauce and pieces of bread. I did manage to pump out my Writing the Short Film script; I didn't manage to get work done on my Senior Project. I've been around 30 pages for what feels like months (but in reality, is only a couple weeks). I plan on whipping through the next thirty Tuesday, Wednesday night, Thursday afternoon, and possibly Friday. Then I'm off to Baltimore. Maybe I'll bring along a pad of paper and write it out on the bus ride. I just hope my head will clear and my stomach will unfurl by then.

Up in Smoke

How much dialogue is too much? When do you cut a scene? And how important is silence? I must forgo these questions for now and write and write and write and write and write and write and write (and so on and so forth). I need to see that lovely white page tarred with my sometimes not so grammatically sound writing. Push back indecisiveness, pull forth speed. Write it natural and let the voices come to me (the good kind of voices). When in rut, smoke a cig and stew. In the nicotine vapors are some of the best solutions (I just wish the price wasn't my health). Frankly, I blame technology. Sometimes, a cigarette out on the porch in the cover of darkness is the best way to beat distractions. You feel as if you are flickering through time. What year is it? Where did the time go? Oh...you filthy filter. I guess it's time to go back in. In and out and in. Is the end near, yet?