Last night were exciting times for my writing stuff. I *finally* feel like, okay I get how it could come together. Scarlett has been awesome, brimming with great ideas -- her enthusiasm is contagious. In short she wants me to do a one person show, a reading of sorts, think Spaulding Gray (minus the talent and suicidal bend). Anyway, I have to retype all my handwritten stuff, and then organize. No joke, I'm creating a process flow for this shit.
In the end, it's an experiment so I don't have any expectations, really. I mean, mostly. I'm totally scared to death of performing it, as she likes to
taunt suggest. Even that is thinking too far in advance so I'm focusing on what I need to do next to finish the thing.
In a couple of days it will be two years that I've lived in LA. What do I say about that? That I like it *enough*? Friends who visit find this place stressful. Unfortunately you get used to it. For its shortcomings it's got its merits. Obviously, right? Else it wouldn't be LA, it'd be Omaha.