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

October 4, 2001

A fulcrum for your thoughts
I want to play hide the salami with the woman on my couch. Forget about writing tonight and start kissing her all over her body until she is in as amorous a mood as I am. And why not? We are a couple. The Day-Timer she scribbles in seems far less interesting than me. And most importantly, she knows how to expertly prepare everything available from my delicatessen. Unfortunately, I am the one stopping her from jumping my bones.

There is a Manifest Destiny to being seven years old on the cusp of a big school-night snow storm. No confusing complex emotions. No conflicting interests. Only the purity of one wish: No school. But the clarity of my unambiguous childhood motivations has given way to the multi-determined rationales of adulthood. This journal exists as more than just a document of my adventures pursuing a career in television. It is my gym. My dialysis for composition. The receptacle for keeping the discipline of writing on all the days I can't stand to touch sundry other projects. On days I wait to hear if my agent has any opportunities for my partner and I to pursue.

My significant other has stopped her scribbling and has turned her attention to a book on feng shui. She wants harmony. Balance. I want these too. More than anything.

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