1. Saying my own last name. I suddenly imagine an entire restaurant full of people who look just like me, and it's scary.
2. Asking permission for anything involving animals. Lenny made me overly cautious.
3. Eating Oreos
4. Thinking about my newly started memoir. Even saying the word makes me feel like I'm in Burn After Reading and spilling incredibly trite description of a flowering love. That being said, it wasn't working as a novel. Plus, this is weird, but thinking about it as a novel wasn't forcing me to be honest enough. As a memoir, I have an obligation to be honest, in turn, creating better writing. Getting into that creative trance where the memories don't register in the brain much before they are transferred through the fingertips.
Andreas with his NaNoWriMo is pushing me to be less lazy. All play and no work makes Zack a terrible writer.
Played Apples to Apples last night and I still believe the Cold War to be much more frivolous than Hollywood.
Working on a dark comedy script about a young boy confronting his father's drug addiction. Sounds hilarious, right?
Also working on a series of poems about Sigmund Freud. Title still to be determined. Already have plans of printing a small number of copies.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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