This journal documents the author's experiences as a television writer. To read the story from its inception, go to the beginning.

September 23, 2001

Carbon conundrums
For the last dozen years or so I have been divesting myself of possessions. This is not to say that I am an ascetic: I have a computer, a cell phone, and other physical amenities that I enjoy. But I started giving away the things I don't use and began to limit my purchases to only what I absolutely need or what I think will definitely make me happy. As a result each year has seen my store of worldly goods decrease and my consumerism wane. The only thing that pulls this strategy off track, however, is when I receive a gift.

Now I love gifts. The people close to me want me to be happy and gift-giving is often an expression of their love. And the gifts they give me are almost always wonderful, adding joy to my life. But every time I receive an unexpected possession that takes up any physical space of note, I go through what I can only describe as my neurotic dance of feng shui.

Yesterday, I was given a toaster by my significant other's sister who wanted to thank me for helping her with her resume. Now this is no ordinary toaster; it's a Sunbeam Options 6223. It has extra-wide slots, a non-stick removable crumb tray, and specialized buttons that calibrate the unit perfectly for toasting a bagel, a pastry, or defrosting an item inside the toaster before said item actually undergoes the toasting process. It has a beautiful, white, cool-to-the-touch-while-toasting exterior and a toast lift for easy removal of small toasty objects. If the Sunbeam Options 6223 was a woman, I'd marry it. Unfortunately, anthropomorphizing my new toaster was not an option, which meant I had to find a place for it in my apartment. And although I live in a one-room studio, which lacks a separate kitchen or dining area, I spent an hour and a half trying to figure out where to put my new creator of crispy breakfast treats.

Now many hours since I nestled the Sunbeam into it's rightful place on top of my half-height refrigerator, it is all I can see. It takes up half the apartment. It is this huge shiny toast-coffin, sucking out all the air in my domicile; brooking no passage without its intrusion into my consciousness. All because I don't like where I put it. So the question comes: Do I do this with my writing? Does my incessant perfectionism take away from that which is already aesthetically pleasing? Will I ever be able to rest my mind long enough to enjoy my own work? My own life?

Perhaps the answers I seek begin with enjoying a single slice of toast.

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� 2001 - 2002 tv writer. All rights reserved.