Why would you live in Paradise, if Paradise were made of matches and God was constantly snapping his sparking, frictious fingers over it?
It's not so close as all that, but if you stand on Ventura Boulevard and look West, as I did today at the Sherman Oaks street fair, you'll see the sky is black and brown, like a volcano had erupted or a dragon was blowing its dark breath all over the coast. It makes me nervous. Damn Santa Anas. Moreover, my work's in the Palisades just south of the Malibu inferno. Tomorrow's going to be interesting.
I bought some lovely soft cookies from the Isabella's Cookie Company booth at the fair: Paddy Cookies and Isabella's Originals. The shop's in Redondo Beach, which is bloody far, so it was nice to pick some up close to home.
I am having some Act Two problems. Act Two is always the longest act, and it's always the hardest to handle. The beginning is easy. Just start. The ending is even easier. Just ask yourself, how'd you like to leave the story. But what happens in the middle, oh, that's horribly difficult.
What's true in structure is true in life. Or v.v.