I owe email to so many people I find myself paralyzed. I need to tell Elana I can’t make her birthday tomorrow, and remind her that her birthday four years ago fell on election day. I want to talk about the ghosts of her youth with Molly. I want to congratulate Jamy on her new beau. I want to trade Thomas Newman scores with Drew. I need to tell Michael that Dara’s thinking about moving to Portland and can she give him a call? I need to tell Charlotte that I’m still working on Strange Angels and that I’m still fighting the screenplay war and that I miss her pithy advice. I need to tell Daniel that all is well in Hollywood, even though sometimes I feel as if I’m imploding. I want to tell Scott and Barbara that we should get together for drinks. I’ve got to tell Dayle that I forgot that I work on Friday and may not be able to hang out with her after all (she’ll kill me.) I’d like to ask Michael what that book was we saw at Book Soup that had all the list of names that were inadvisable for professional wrestlers (I’ve thought of a few myself, such as “Glad-Handing Dandy.”) I want to write Iris and tell her remark about her age-old post about her late night panics about death and futility, and ask her to send that picture of the Space Invader to me. I have to write Joy and apologize for completely forgetting to help her install that memory into her laptop. And of course, I’d like to tell “Jagged A. Rehired” that I’ll have to pass on the V!aG-Ra this time, thanks.
Instead of writing email this morning, I work on a script. It’s a trade-off, an obsession. And it’s probably cost me a few friendships. But I can’t help myself.