Mission Accomplished.

I fookin' finished the first 12 pages of my fookin' screenplay, The Boys of Dublin.

So far there's just one boy, one girl, a flight attendant, a customs agent, a bouncer and two mothers. My Dublish is rusty, though, and I'm not sure the character of the place comes out in the language yet. I read an interview that Colin Farrell conducted with Cillian Murphy in the Dec/Jan Interview magazine at the gym today. It inspired me, but I want to conduct live, in-the-flesh research.

A luxury that only living among the natives again wil afford me. One week from today, baby!

Oh happy day! I started my screenplay, and I think I got all the formatting right, and I think it doesn't suck. I'll find out what the class thinks Monday when it gets workshopped.

Oy. Vulnerability. Again.

But what the fuck do I care? I'll be in Dublin next week!

Did I mention I'm going to Dublin next week, for the first time in a long time?

Writing is weird, though. It's creating and then entering a world, part imagined, part real. I feel like I was just in Dublin for the four hours it took me to write the first pages of The Boys of Dublin.

This phenomenon is exactly writing the memoir is so intense. This week I finished writing parts of my life that happened 20 years ago. And I was right back there. No kidding. But talk about power! I'm going back to those places and in order to make sense of them, beautify them, I get to rewrite them, within the confines of my own truth. I am writing my life. And writing for my life.

I just wish I didn't have to earn a living and health benefits at the same time. Oh and deal with screwy ex-boyfriends and icy roads, and Consumers Energy bills. . . .

Nah, if I lived in a bubble, what the hell would I write about?