Just Another Writing Weekend

Friday: Pretty productive.
Saturday: Really long, probably because I don't know what to write, but I can't do anything else, and now when I'm thinking about it I literally fall asleep.  So write 30 minutes, sleep an hour, repeat.
And all during the day on Saturday I thought, if I can just get through this, maybe I could invite people over to the house.  Like friends.  Who would I invite...would they say yes? The idea makes me nervous because it's been so long...but then it doesn't matter, because 11pm comes and the writing is still not done--I mean I just woke up (again) at 9:30...
Sunday: Fast but shoddy toward the end--done by 4:30 because all I could think was..."I want to be done, I want to go for a walk outside, I want to watch Sunday night TV."

I wait all week for Sunday night TV.  A little sad. But still, Sunday night TV is awesome.

And then, just before the TV, a friend called to see if I wanted to see Beasts of the Southern Wild." I did, so off we went--the first person-other than my husband--I saw all weekend.  The remaining seats were all too close to the screen--why do those seats exist at all?  And if they must, they should be cheaper.  And even if they were cheaper, I wouldn't want to sit in them--so we saw Celeste and Jesse Forever instead.

And then I came home and watched Sunday night TV.  I have very mixed feeling about The Newsroom. Maggie seems like someone from the cast of Girls. I know I was kind of messed up and confused in my 20s, but has she really been playing this note for over a year (in fictional time)?  They keep jumping huge chunks of time--three and four months I think--and they make stabs at having things having happened in those amounts of time, but it falls short of any kind of personal growth--which I know probably makes sense, because that's what should be on screen--but then it's not on screen either.  I'm just rambling.  But maybe it's people in ruts that get to me, I have my own ruts I can't get out of, don't you know...

Also, along with falling asleep between lines of dialogue, I read Wild,  by Cheryl Strayed.  Really good. It sounds petty to say it made me feel a little inadequate, but there it is.  I may have reached the time in my life where I just can't make myself do things that hurt a lot--mentally or physically.  And my sense of what "a lot" means may have changed to something less than it was once upon a time.

I never really take down blog posts (though I will edit) but I wonder if I will look at this tomorrow and find that it makes so little sense that I will want to.