Trying to live a life. Sometimes.
On occasion it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. This week has been a mix of both.
I’ve written more than I have in quite a while and I know this, like love, should lift me up where I belong. Yet as the week ‘ends,’ I’m miffed that everything I wrote was not my specialty. I wrote many a blog and tweet, but no fiction. However…
I began editing my first novel again. Only about twenty pages, but I see now where some of the major flaws lie and even have some ideas on how to fix them. While it’s about as intimidating as facing down an angry hippo, I still don’t hate the book and I count that as a bundle of points in favor of keeping it up.
I stepped way out of my comfort zone and went to a real Hollywood networking party. I could go on and on about the absurdity of these events, but to be succinct: I met a couple cool people, didn’t have to interact with anyone too douchey, and spent time with some awesome friends on top of the W hotel in Hollywood, for free.
So I won’t talk about the outside party downstairs with the disinterested swaying (because it can hardly be called dancing) bikini girls on red-light podiums.
I organized an Oscar party in about ten minutes. Granted the idea’s existed for a while, but the planning and execution have been in doubt for weeks. Not anymore.
There’s accomplishment of varying degrees in all of this, and yet I don’t feel as though ‘productive’ applies to this week at all.
I need a new dictionary.
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