I wrote seventy pages yesterday. There is something seriously wrong when it is simple (SIMPLE) for me to crank out seven pages in the span of a half-hour comedy.

I'm sure it's all crap. I've already started ripping sections apart to condense, as I'm coming up on the halfway mark, and I'm not even into the story. Gah. The story's not supposed to be a blow-by-blow account of Harriet's sentence in the classroom. The classroom is just the Comedy Gold factory, what with Pubert the Pooper and the rest of the chorus. The story's supposed to be about Harriet coming to terms with her small town upbringing and her friends' subsequent leaps into mundane adulthoods.

Or, it's an exorcist of my own Ruidoso-bred demons.

Or something. I can never make up my mind on these things. I'm sure Sha-Shana will tell me to consider a career writing toy asembly instructions instead.

Tomorrow is going to feature me, plopped down in front of the telly with my laptop, all a typin', while every male friend I have in this city goes tromping between the kitchen and the garage for Adam's supercharger install. Big day, big plans.