Half a Tank of Gas

Yesterday.

7:00am — So. Tired.

9:00am — 10 miles Drive to Hollywood to meet and welcome the new kid. He does not disappoint. I draw a not-to-scale and only slightly inaccurate map of all the Los Angeles he’ll need. [Hey, Eric. Last night I drove through Culver City. It is nowhere near Sherman Oaks. I promise not to smoke crack before I write another stupid map in your journal.]

10:00 — 7 miles Burbank. Work. Email. Work. Phone calls. Writing.

12:30pm — I have more Steves, Erics, Chrises and Rebeccas in my life than is probably normal.

3:00pm — Call Number One Steve when I realize everybody’s about to find out I’m a horribly unfunny writer who should never be allowed to own a computer. He reminds me that I’ve written probably a million words over the past few years, and this is just another few thousand.

3:15pm — Headphones, iPod, the new Foo Fighters album, a keyboard and a deep breath. Keep writing.

5:00pm — Sixth cup of coffee. Still writing.

6:30pm — 25.8 miles Drive to Venice. Go through the city to avoid the 134, 101 and 405. Takes an hour and a half, which is still a good hour shorter than it would have been. I could have driven from Austin to Katy in the time it took me to get to Book Club.

8:00pm — I love Book Club. Hilarious, crazy, beautiful women who make me feel like we’ve been old friends since college. The cat in this house has had his fur shaved. He looks silly, but he didn’t make clouds of fur fly through the air when people pet him. What an interesting idea…

11:00pm — 17.4 miles Drive through four different highways to get to Los Feliz to watch late-night improv in a bar. Here are the actual old friends since college, and I’m getting impatient waiting for their nonstop fame and fortune. They should be ruling the world by now.

12:30am — 6.4 miles Home. Ants and fur and bills and too much TiVo. Curl into bed with husband instead.