It's been a strange weekend. Productive in parts. Inspiring and devastating at the same time. Christmas always makes me nervous because I can't be happy about something that is annually impermanent. Where's the joy in that? And that's why I have trouble with things that are good but must end. And everything ends.
OK, I was going to go on with that for a bit, but that's too personal, and I already know I'm going to regret this blog someday.
Tomorrow (or I guess today) I commence with a new writing project about which I am very excited, though I kind of wish I had a good drama writing partner to help me because it's going to be, dare I say it, epic. And awesome. Hopefully.
Finished crap Irish romance and am now onto better stuff. Crap Irish romance is really abysmal in terms of prose style, crap characters, and uninteresting plotting (for the most part, though to be fair there are some decent bits), but I'm still probably going to go see the movie.
I'm a girl. What do you want?
Finished Once and Again. Am savagely depressed. Partly because there's no more, mostly because I really enjoyed Julia Whelan and Eric Stoltz, and they didn't get nearly enough time together. And neither have done much since. Frick, man.
Saw 3:10 to Yuma. Crowe's a cad, and Bale's brilliant. Fun had by all. Then saw Christian Bale in the flesh. I think he's a Santa Monica resident, God bless him, and he came to the marathon at the Aero. Funny and smart in person and dealt graciously with the obsessive fandom (the guy next to me was a Christian fundamentalist in the bad pun sense of the term) and typical stupid questions. I stopped myself from asking if he was going to follow up Terminator with Rambo or RoboCop.
Santa Monica has Joe's Pizza. Thank the Western gods.
Worked hard today on project but may have not done such a great job. Will find out not too long from now. Cross your punchy little fingers...
And good night.