Tuesday, June 17, 2003
This is one of those mornings where I feel even more lost than usual. Lost. Hansel and Gretel lost. Whose woods are these, I think I know, but I don't, not really. They rise up around me so high that there seems no hope of ever getting my bearings again. I cannot see the sun, nor moon, nor the stars. I want to turn and head back the way I came, but, with every step, I only blunder deeper into the forest.
I wrote zero words on Chapter Five yesterday.
I sat at the computer for four hours and wrote zero fucking words on Chapter Five.
I have the meeting about the screenplay at 3 p.m. and my head is full of dust.
On May 31st, from somewhere in New York City, Moby wrote in his tour journal: "i miss alf. i know, he ate cats and all, but i still miss him." I thought I was the only one who missed Alf. I started watching Alf because Isaac Asimov said good things about it. It was the American sitcom made truly witty. It was the anti-Mork and Mindy. It would have been wonderful to see Alf aboard Moya, trading insults with Rygel, putting moves on Chiana, eating things he shouldn't.
Somewhere in Atlanta, I'm missing Alf, too, and hoping I find my way out of these woods and write at least one good sentence today.
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