Intermission
a creative coffee break from writing the play

This is a little disgusting, I ‘m sure,  that my dog has a thing for things that have been in my ears. Occasionally, we will find Q-Tips strewn about the house, and I’m pretty sure it’s not me or The Beloved leaving a trail of some kind.

Last night, as I was having a phone conference with MBH about our TV pilot, I realized said dog was
happily munching away at something. I never expected my earphones to die such a quick and meaningless death. Needless to say, the situation made me a little cranky, which MBH quietly endured through our call.

We’re in the midst of writing the pilot script for our original half hour television series. Yeah, okay, it’s a sitcom. We’ve spent over a year working out characters, episodes, story arcs, etc., and finally started writing the first episode. We’ve segmented the episodes into four parts: teaser, Act 1, Act 2, and closing tag, each with their own associated minutes. Once we had the outline for the pilot, we decided to experiment by splitting the writing between us. I wrote the teaser and Act 1. He wrote Act 2 and the tag. And then we put them together to see what kind of creative mess we had made. Each of us deviated from the outline slightly. Our script clearly had difference voices for one character in particular, yet we had a very workable first attempt. We had to step back a bit and discuss the story and and the arcs of the initial episodes. We made small, surprisingly organic, changes, which we hope results in more compelling storytelling. Our goal, beyond the obvious completion of the scripts, is to somehow develop a third voice between our very distinctive writing styles. We decided the next step was for one of us to take the script alone and weave it all together, and incorporating the changes we talked about. I got that assignment because I have more time at the moment. Maybe below the surface of that decision was MBH thought I was cranky and needed something fun to do. It is fun, creating a new world.

Most of January has been spent retracted inside my, uh, turtle shell. The norovirus paved the way to a respiratory thing. I’m running a bit in slow motion and there’s much to catch up on. The play I’ve been writing is not yet finished. Normally I write about ten pages a day on average. This month the page count has been about four a week. Not that I count pages. As my energy returns to whatever normal is, I’m sure the writing will as well.

My morning routine is, after feeding previously mentioned dog, and our more behaved cat, is coffee and newspapers, followed by exercise (weights and cardio on alternate days), three to five hours  playwriting, and the remainder of the day dealing with the assorted important details of things like, uh, work. Sometimes work or other projects force the writing to the evening. Soon, I suspect the writing will move to the evenings more and more. I am the sort of writer who has to write. Eaten earbuds aside, I get pretty unbearable when I’m not writing.

The Beloved and I have postponed celebrating New Year’s for a couple of weeks. We’ve been at home, in a quarantine of sorts, recovering from a norovirus, not really registering what’s going on around the world.

Yeah, sure, I have a new found appreciation for why these viruses are so potentially deadly for people who are old, or have compromised immune systems, or for infants. Forget bird flu, people, it’s the noro-roro-whadyaname-em-things that are gonna get us. Okay, a little voice of doomish, I know. I’m still recovering, and I wouldn’t wish one of these viruses on my worst enemy. Honestly. I’d worry about the karmic ramifications.

We were home a good 24 hours from our wonderful holiday with The Beloved’s family, and I was rejoicing quietly over the fact this was my second winter season of traveling wherein I managed to avoid an influenza. See, I had a five year period there where I kept getting what the docs kept calling the flu, and each year it came on harder and lasted longer. After some very scary times, oh really  nevermind, who cares? I wrote about it all in a play anyway. Metaphorically.

So, anyway, The Beloved left work early, not feeling well, and our night ended with a trip to the ER, which included blood tests, an IV for dehydration and morphine for pain. When the second doc arrived to release The Beloved back to home care, he tried to keep as far away from us as possible while proclaiming The Beloved had "acute gastroenteritis." Innocently, I inquired after the virus the first doctor had mentioned. "Oh yes, we’re talking about the same thing." "Ut oh," I thought, and knew, despite any precautions I might take, I’d already been exposed. Some twelve hours later, my symptoms arrived, and while I was aware my bout was not as bad as The Beloved’s, well, even this is more than anyone wants or cares to know, I’m sure. Any acknowledgment of 2007 has been shoved off until the idea of a romantic dinner once again sounds appealing.

I know I’m feeling better as I’ve been pondering the humor in a coming change in our lives. This change brings a bit of fear around a couple of things we’ve found hard to stomach. Yes, I do think illness can be a metaphor for what’s going on. I’m glad more often than not the last couple of years, there have been less trying metaphors cropping up.

I’m not a resolution maker. I learned over twenty years ago, that I can resolve at any time to create new habits of thought and behavior. And when I fail, if I fail, I can pick myself back up and begin again. Each day I set my intention for the day before it begins, and reflect at the end of the day how my intentions held forth. For a handful of years, I’ve used New Year’s Eve, to reflect on broader intentions for the coming year, and I enjoy writing out my dreams, thoughts, and goals. Instead of Dec 31st, this year, thanks to the norovirus, I’ll wait until Jan 17, the anniversary of the last drink of alcohol I had, in 1985. I should be more than ready and re-energized for the kind of pondering I do not feel up to right now. Somehow it seems a fitting date this year. Thanks to the noro. Yeah, I keep saying that.

Over the last couple of days I’ve managed to watch an entire season of Ugly Betty, which, to my surprise, I enjoyed immensely. I also watched Superman Returns, which I enjoyed because I could fast forward through the boring parts, and The Family Stone. The latter a bulky, confused movie I found absolutely delightful. And I type this post, as The Beloved watches some silly football game downstairs, and I have Monk on the TV upstairs. An irony about the noro-thing: Not many people who know me realize what a germ-a-phobe I really am. Being sick for months at a time can do that to a person. I try to keep it private. Monk can be annoyingly narcissistic about his phobias. Of course, I cannot hide it from The Beloved, who to my good fortune is (again an irony here) a food safety expert. She lectures me that soap and water is still the best safe-guard against germs. Alas, soap and water are not always available in a timely fashion, and so she indulges me by bringing home samples of anti-bacterial hand washes I carry around with me. I am easy to please. And now you know way too much.

 As I’ve bleached the bathrooms, the doorknobs, the railings for hopefully the last time, I’ve begun to muse about the over-writing, or re-writing, of plays. How, uh, "sanitized" plays can become so they are devoid of the original passion which inspired their birth. And that is a topic I hope to get to soon.