But my tastes are changing, my desires are shifting, and I'm finding I want to take the things I would normally put here and use them in other ways, in other venues - and in some cases, not exploit them at all. So that's what I'm gonna do. The blog will probably stay here until I do a redesign, but once the new storefront goes up, it'll be gone.

Before I completely shut the doors, though, I wanted to take one last kick at the cat to say thanks to those who have continued to read throughout the years. It's been cool to have a collaborative partner in this thing, both people who felt comfortable enough to comment on the site, and those who preferred to e-mail me directly and have a dialogue that way. I appreciate it.

Here's to future endeavors. Rock on.
Carly

Yeah, so. Things got kind of busy for a while there... and still are, to be honest. I find I'm spending most of my time writing for people who pay me - which, obviously, is yay - or writing passion projects that will eventually pay me. And then there's Twitter, which is highly unlikely to pay me, but functions as my virtual water cooler. However, I don't want to entirely neglect the blog... so here's some random thoughts on the last month or so:

* Comic Con was a blur. Literally. I don't ever want to do anything like that ever again on the heels of the worst bout of food poisoning I've ever had in my life. I'd say it was a mistake to go so soon after, but I was able to experience some fantastic things, meet some amazing people, and do some wonderful interviews with inspiring creatives, and I really didn't want to miss out on all that. I just wish I didn't feel like hell the entire time. There were days where I felt on the ball, and others where I was so off that I think people thought I was costumed as a zombie. I actually gave up early and drove home Saturday night. That said, seeing the fan passion, exhibitors and witnessing people geek out over the coolest things was well worth the gastrointestinal distress. (Here's all my coverage from it.)

* I finished another script this past week that knocked the hell out of me, but thankfully I've learned some useful tricks that made my recovery time take only a couple days rather than nearly a month this time out. I spent much of the past week feeling wonky until I gave in to a two-day creative coma, where I spent my time napping, watching copious amounts of Lost and napping some more. By Sunday morning's hike I was ready to run a marathon. I find it interesting how much a script can suck the life out of me, especially when I open up an emotional vein... and man, did I open a vein on this one. I started working out the hardest part of it when I was on a girl getaway trip with Retta up in Mammoth, and it wasn't until we started YouTubing questionable television memories from my Canadian childhood that I was able to pull myself out of the void I was in when I was writing. Even so, I'm endlessly thankful I can go that deep... and also find a way out of it to go back to being the happy person that I am.

* Of course I have to share some of my idiotic childhood TV memories with you (and I feel as though this should explain A LOT about me):

This is the classic that is The Hilarious House of Frightenstein. This clip is of Wolfman Jack, who would routinely play music that he and Igor would dance and air guitar to on a psychedelic background:

This show was fucking genius on so many levels, and not just because it was clearly created and executed by hardcore drug users. Seriously, watch the associated videos - especially the ones with The Oracle, SuperHippie, and the Grammar Bammer Slammer. And bear in mind this was a kid's show. Someone needs to release the entire series on DVD, stat.

Then there was The Polka Dot Door:

For the record, Polkaroo clearly went through some kind of sex change between when I used to watch it and 1986 - Polkaroo sounds way more feminine than I remember. And though it's not embeddable, I love this clip, which led Retta to ask me countless times what I'm up to with my wagon. (It was funny to us, but then, we'd had wine.)

Of course I couldn't resist the Fraggle Rock theme, and my favorite Canadian cartoon short, "The Cat Came Back" (not the Fred Penner version):

I refrained from showing her the "Log Driver's Waltz" or my absolute favorite of all time, "The Big Snit":

Seriously - who comes up with this stuff? (And does anyone remember the one with the dude who is trying to compose on his piano, but procrastinates the hell out of himself? I love that one, but can't remember the name of it. I think it was another NFB short.)

And last but not least, Today's Special, which seemed to be either a rip off of or an inspiration for Mannequin:

The less said about this, the better.

* I'm finding myself less and less interested in travel writing these days, with some exceptions to the rule. India definitely took a lot out of me, but aside from all the food poisoning drama and all that, I'm losing my taste for junkets. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunity to see the places I've seen and done the things that I've done, but being on trips with others can sometimes be super draining when you're surrounded by super negative people... and there seem to be a lot of super negative travel writers, for whatever reason. I'm lucky that my last few trips have been solo ventures that allow me to bring a friend along so I can avoid this, but I'm kind of feeling like my travel writing experience is drawing to a close... which is fine by me. It was an awesome ride. But it's time to do something new.

* I've been going through a really interesting learning curve with setting boundaries and finding it's not as difficult as I thought it would be. In many ways I grew up in an environment where there was no such thing as boundaries. They almost weren't allowed in a way. So I'm not just learning about setting them, I'm teaching myself about them, too. There have been about a billion examples from my past that have made it difficult to learn how to put my foot down firmly and actually mean the word "no," and also understand that if someone continues to try and push me, or hates that I said it, or thinks that I'm a bitch for saying it... well, that's their problem and not mine. It's been a lot of trial and error, sometimes with interesting results. But I can't say I'm regretting it. Not one bit.

* This week marks 10 years ago that I moved to the U.S. and eight years ago that I moved to L.A.... and I've never been happier with this decision than I am right now. (But that's an update for another time.)

* Great change is in the wind. Can you feel it?

And now, I'm gonna go watch and review Adventureland.

I landed in Gurgaon in the wee hours of Monday morning India time (which meant it was around Sunday noonish in L.A.) I promptly went to bed, spend the first day hanging around the hotel, and then the real adventure began the following day when we drove into Delhi. I can say with complete honesty that after seeing how people drive in India, I will never again complain about L.A. traffic. There are lines on the road, but everyone ignores them and drives where they want to. They cut each other off. The amount of near misses in a short jaunt is staggering. And yet, miraculously, accidents are rare and there's no road rage. I have no idea how it works - I'd be at a loss at attempting to navigate their roads - but it works for them. Somehow there 's sense in the chaos.

We started out in Old Delhi, where - two by two - we were assigned rickshaw drivers who carted us through a wholesale marketplace whose streets are so narrow, cars can't fit down it. And yet somehow there are fleets of large oxen carting massive packages of junk, and people are everywhere, motorbikes fight them for space... it was mayhem, and utterly fascinating. We stopped in the spice district and checked out some goods (and yes, the smell was incredible), and then hopped back in our rickshaws to finish up our tour. I took at least a billion photos, half of which were of the electrical wiring haphazardly strung about. How there's not a massive electrical fire every day is a bloody miracle.

After lunch we visited the Gandhi memorial (marking where he was assassinated), then got suckered into a high-pressure sales experience with a family-run rug company. Thankfully it was made up for by taking us to Dilli Haat, an outdoor bazaar/market of handcrafted goods of various kinds that were incredibly reasonably priced - and bargainable. Day three took us on a five-hour road trip to Agra, where we visited the Taj Mahal (outstanding - pix don't do it justice), ate at an awesome family-run Indian food place (that also served Chinese food - we watched a Bollywood movie as we ate), and hit up the Red Fort, where we got stuck in a flash monsoon and wound up soaked to the bone. On our drive home we sampled Indian rum and pumpkin candy, then retired to our rooms to prepare for the following day's flight to Goa.

This is where the trouble began.

The hotel made arrangements for me to have sashimi sent up to my room. This isn't overly bizarre, as they have a sushi station in one of their restaurants, which specializes in delicacies from all over the world. I'd had their sashimi for lunch and dinner already, and found it to be more religious experience than meal. Their fish was flown in directly from Japan and was so melt-in-your-mouth good... just writing about it makes me want to order it again, even though it's responsible for making me have the most violent tummy trouble I've ever experienced.

Anyway. So I ordered. It had been about seven hours since I'd eaten anything before I ingested my sashimi delight, which accounts for why I plowed through it despite thinking the shrimp tasted a little strange. But I was on a mission at that point: eat followed swiftly by sleep.

The next morning? Chaos - worse than that of the driving conditions. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say, I have no idea how I managed to shower, pack and primp in my condition. Fast forward to the airport, where I was swaying uneasily as I stood in line waiting for my seat assignment, and I was getting this old, familiar feeling of maybe needing to faint - the ringing ears, everything sounding like I was underwater, my legs feeling like jelly. The last time that happened was roughly 11 years ago - and I fucking hate fainting. The helplessness of it all is more upsetting to me than the actual fainting (which, I suspect, gives me much fodder to discuss with my therapist.)

What happened next is pretty much a blur. I told one of my travel mates I was going to bite it and didn't know what to do, and then suddenly I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by people. Then I was being wheeled through the airport, feeling like I had the world's worst sunburn, barely able to hold my head up. On a bed in medical, I finally found enough energy to let tears slip out of my ducts, whereas doing so before felt like it would take too much energy. I told the doc what the trajectory of my illness was while his assistant stuck a thermometer in my armpit, then later read the reading to him: 113. Which, I think, means I should've been dead, so who knows how accurate that was. But it sure felt like death. (Cue the melodramatics!)

I was given a round of antibiotics and oral rehydration salts, and given the option of flying if I wanted to. The intense gnarliness of the fever peak that hit me in line seemed to have broken enough to leave me moderately functional, so I pushed myself to get on the plane. I slept most of the way, then went straight to bed as soon as I got to the hotel. And that's where I stayed for the next two days - in bed, watching DVDs, cuddling a hot water bottle and listening to the Arabian Sea crash outside my room.

But this hasn't soured me on my Indian experience at all. I kinda feel like - maybe naively - this is part of what travel is all about. It's experiences, both good and bad. It's a test of your mettle, your survival skills, your faith in yourself. Of course, this could be the softened optimist in me talking right now - and to be honest, I'm not yet 100%, so you might want to ask me about this once I've fully recovered in a couple days. But at the moment I'm feeling pretty blessed that I was able to get swift medical attention and awesome, 'round the clock care when I needed it, in such an amazing setting. And yeah, I'm happy to be heading home. Not because of this, or despite it. Just 'cause it's time. (It's time for a lot of things, really.)

Speaking of time, that's enough out of me for now. I'm a little light headed and I'm thinking there's gotta be some strange subtitled movie on TV that I should watch. So I'm gonna lay in bed and do that, and also pray that this bug bite on my hand doesn't develop into something life threatening.

My brain is in somewhat of a melty state, as I've had to jump into hardcore work and prep mode before I take off on an adventure toward the end of this week, which leads into another adventure. Both are experiences I've been wanting to have for, like, at least my whole life. And so I figure the best way to express my excitement over the next two and a half weeks of activity is to share it in haiku:

A business-class flight,
With lay-flat seats, catering.
But I won't sleep. No!

I can't wait to see
Everything I'm going to see.
Like sacred cows, man.

I didn't get shots,
So no street meat for my gut.
Damn. I like odd food.

Guragon, Delhi.
Goa has a techno scene.
Re-live the 90s!

Will see Taj Mahal,
Try ayeurvedic treatments.
Spiritual, yo.

And then, Comic Con.
Indians, then nerds abound.
Mothership? I'm home.

4. The great outdoors. I spent many a family vacation either camping, staying in a cabin in the woods, or doing some natural variation thereof, and I can't help but think that it's stuck with me considering my affinity for hiking, biking and various other kinds of ings I prefer to do outdoors rather than being trapped inside at some stuffy, meat-market gym. I love the beach, I love the mountains, I can spend hours in a car en route to spending time at either or both... and though I never appreciated those trips when I was a kid, I sure as hell do now. (Hence why my 4th is being spent camping... with a bunch of actors. This oughta be good for some kind of blog fodder next week.)

3. Queen Street. I grew up in Edmonton (the mall!) and Calgary (the Stampede!), but never really felt at home in either. Nothing felt quite right until I moved to Toronto 13 years ago and lived in various spots all hovering around Queen Street. When I went back for a visit last July, sure, some things had changed... but on the whole it was exactly how I remembered it: vibrant, fun, packed with people, a real community feel - exactly the things I love about where I live now. You could walk everywhere and run into everyone, shop for anything you could possibly need from groceries to clothes, and then hit a pub or club in short order. One of the best summers of my life was the last one I spend combing Queen Street with pals before I split for San Francisco. I'm always gonna love it.

2. Certain TV shows. I'm sorry, but it needs to be said: a lot of Canadian TV was crap. But the stuff that wasn't? Gold. Say what you will about The Beachcombers, but it was the first Canadian TV drama I got hooked on as a kid, largely because there weren't many other options on the grid at the same time, and I found myself fascinated by the concept of a dramatic show about... logging. Seriously. But then I discovered Degrassi and that all fell by the wayside. Degrassi was the shit to me, because it dealt with so many things that so many people didn't want to talk about. I salute it for that, and for provoking my first incident of yelling "NO WAY!" at the TV when, during School's Out, Caitlin said the word "fucking" on national television. (I still love that the CBC didn't censor that.) Of course, I grew up on the Friendly Giant, Mr. Dressup, the Polka Dot Door, Today's Special, Jeremy the Bear... but Degrassi and The Beachcombers were the two shows that really made me pay attention to TV in a different way.

1. Shar and Renee. Two of my oldest and dearest friends, residing on either coast. They have seen me through all kinds of bullshit, been there during the best and the worst without judgment, always treated me with love and respect, visited me in my new homeland, welcomed me to stay with them when I went back to theirs... and the country is a better place with them in it.

And Alanis just came on iTunes as I finished writing this. How's that for synergy?

Happy b'day, Canuckland!

Note the word "tried."

I wanted to sleep in the worst way. My entire body was exhausted. I believe my brain was, too... and yet, falling asleep and staying asleep felt like an exercise in futility. No matter how much I meditated or listened to hypnotherapy CDs, I couldn't get to that blissful state that usually locked me in dreamland for a reasonably uninterrupted eight hours of zzzzz's. My brain was jumping all over the place. I was having disturbing dreams. And then, last Friday happened.

I'd made the decision after I finished this most recent script that aside from rewrites on what I've already done, I needed to take a break. I've been really proud of the work I've done - especially on these last two, in which I essentially opened many veins and really jumped into some deep emotional crap to create them (as evidenced by this last post.) At one point I'd told Sharolyn that I felt like I had tapped into this crazy energy that really connected me to the way I felt at the time something really profound was happening to me that I wound up recounting in one of the scripts... and I felt the person I was writing about, too. Almost like they were there with me. It was insanely intense and unlike anything I've ever felt before. And it wound up helping me write something that I had no idea I was capable of writing.

So following last Wednesday, I started feeling really depressed. I was drained. I went to my acupuncturist and when she nailed my energy point, I nearly leapt off the table. "I don't get it," I told her after I finished howling in pain. "I mean, I'm kind of sleeping but not really... and yet, when I hike I feel fantastic."

"Yeah, that's not real energy, though - that's just auto-pilot. It's like false energy, not root energy," she explained, and started telling me I needed to meditate before bed. I didn't have the energy to tell her it wasn't working.

By Friday I was sinking further. I really don't have anything to feel depressed about right now, yet that morning I found myself sitting at my computer answering e-mails, and I started to cry for no reason whatsoever. I thought maybe I was going through some kind of creative postpartum depression and rallied myself for a hike. Predictably, I felt great while hiking... and then when it was over, I felt drained all over again. I just wanted to go hide in a cave with my favorite comforter and pull it over my head.

On the way home - head down in "Don't bother me" body language - this guy walking past me grabbed my arm. I looked up and took my earphones out of my ear.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Why?"

He looked at me for a moment, unsure of what to say next because really, how do you respond to that? And then he pulled one of these out of his ass: "Hey, don't I know you? Yeah, you're, like, from Russia or something!"

And I said, "You don't know me." And I kept walking, sticking my earphones back in my ears.

A flash of fear washed over me. I knew he'd started following me. I'd hoped he'd get the hint and go away, but no. He followed me for two blocks until we came to a stop at a crosswalk. He walked right up next to me and started nattering again, and I took my earphones out and said, "What?"

"I'm sorry, I thought I knew you," he said. "This town can be really small sometimes. You looked familiar."

"It's okay," I said, and put my earphones back in.

But he kept nattering. And then he said something bizarre.

"You know, there was a homicide down the street," he said.

At this point I'm thinking, Really? This is your game plan? To follow me for two blocks when I've made it clear I want to be left alone, and now you're going to talk to me about murder as some kind of pick up line? Needless to say, his approach came off as more than threatening. So I turned to him and said, "Look, I'm sorry, I'm just busy."

And he went off. "Oh, I get it - it's because I'm black, isn't it? If I were blond haired and blue eyed--"

"The fact that you went there just proves that you and I have nothing to talk about," I said, cutting him off. At this point the light had turned and I crossed the street, and promptly ducked into a store and informed the woman running it that I was being followed and threatened, and that I needed to hide out for a moment to make sure I was safe. And then I sat there and shook for a bit. And then I went home.

The next day I called my energy worker and told her how I felt like I was going insane, and how I was attracting people who were fucking with me, which isn't the norm. I knew I was off kilter and not myself, and I couldn't figure out how to fix it. And she said to me, "Okay, what I'm seeing is you haven't disconnected from the energies you tapped into to write your screenplays, so all those people are swirling around you and taking over, and there's no more room for you. It's why you can't sleep, it's why you feel disjointed, and it's why you feel like you're stuck."

I knew exactly what she was talking about. The things I've been dreaming, some of the thoughts that have flitted in and out of me... they aren't mine and don't feel like me at all. And I forget when I'm in the middle of doing a creative project that there are certain things I have to do on an energetic level to take care of myself - chiefly among them, Epsom salt baths and periodically doing a scrub with lemon and sea salt. It all sounds odd, I'm sure. But for some reasons these things work for me, and when I do them on a regular basis, I run in peak condition. The problem is, when I need it most - in the middle of a creative boom - is usually when I ignore protocol. And then I wind up in trouble.

So now I'm in that mode that we've probably all found ourselves in - where you've eaten like shit for a month and suddenly your jeans don't fit, and you're going, "How the fuck did that happen?!?" Except for me, it's energetic. I did a massive cleansing in my apartment on Saturday that knocked me on my ass, and Sunday I felt more even keel, and was capable of my first decent night's sleep in about two months. Day by day I've been feeling better and more like myself, but naturally, I'm frustrated that I'm not back to 100% already now that I've figured out what the problem was. I'm recognizing that it's probably going to take a month of hard work to get me back up to par, so I've been doing my best to balance my responsibilities with taking good care of myself.

I've read a lot about this sort of thing recently - in fact, in one article Johnny Depp was talking about how after finishing a particular movie, he wound up super sick and drained from playing a character that required him to tap into some pretty dark stuff and he found it hard to shake. I get it. I get why screenwriters are paid so much, and in turn, why actors are paid so much. Getting deep into a character is intensely hard and draining work, and you can really fuck yourself up in the process if you don't take care of yourself. Actors and performers going mental, writers becoming recluses and addicts... it makes sense. I understand it. And I have such a newfound intense respect for everyone who envelops themselves in this craft. I'm watching movies and TV in a whole new way. I'm seeing my actor friends in a different light. I'm reading up on my heroes and learning from their processes differently, too.

For all the bullshit that seems to go on in Hollywood, the creative process behind it is a pretty fucking fascinating thing. Which is a good chunk of the reason why I want to be a part of it. The other reasons? That's a discussion for another time. I have a date with my bathtub, some salt, and Tori Spelling's memoirs.

I'm gonna be honest and tell you I really don't know what to write about today, because my life as of late has been the following: hike, write, eat, sleep, lather, rinse, repeat. Thankfully there were some social moments in there, or else I probably would've come completely unhinged. Actually, I think this past weekend taught me why a lot of creatives develop substance abuse problems. Spending that much time in your head writing about emotionally ugly things can really screw with you, and yet can create some of the best material.

(As an aside, I had a moment while working on this particular script where I was thinking I should drag out the appropriate songs from my youth - the tunes I'd listen to when I'd break up with a boy or something. Y'know, stuff like "Could've Been" by Tiffany and "Foolish Beat" by Debbie Gibson, or even better, "It Must've Been Love" by Roxette. But now I hear those songs and laugh my ass off at how melodramatic I was back then. Kind of breaks the mood, you know? That said, "Somebody" by Depeche Mode will always floor me, teenage angst be damned.

Anyway. I digress.)

So there I was, in dim light with my gut-wrenching playlist writing about gut-wrenching things, thinking, "Piece of cake, I've lived through this - it'll be easy to mine for content." Famous last words. I mean yeah, it was easy to mine for content, but the difference was being able to say what I really wanted to say about it, with the character I was writing for being the age I was when I was going through it. And then all of a sudden I was back there again, really and truly. It was like I was feeling that pain for the first time.

So yeah, I lost it. Went to bed. Slept 12 hours. Got up the next afternoon and wrote some more, and managed to go to bed at a decent hour and put in my usual 8. Didn't eat much, but wrote like there was no tomorrow.

I had this moment where I wanted to run from it all and find someone to talk to about it - it took a Herculean effort to get me back to my computer on Sunday afternoon, but I didn't want to quit when it was going so well and take the chance that I wouldn't start again. But the more I thought about finding someone to talk to, the more I talked myself out of it and decided the best thing would be for me to channel it into what I was working on. So I did. And then later that evening I got an e-mail that said the following:

"You're not going to have a lot of people you can talk to about this."

So very, very true. And I'm glad I put it all in the script. But man, am I ever looking forward to getting together with friends to talk about everything but what I've been writing about. Especially because writing about writing is getting a little too meta for me. Time to go experience life for a bit.

Can I just say that this is equal parts shit-your-pants terrifying and scream-your-guts-out exhilarating?

There's no way I would've been ready for this a few years ago. And I'm not saying I'm the world's foremost authority on how to take people cutting up your work, but I think years of working with a bazillion editors has made it easier for me to understand that it's not personal. Or at least, discern between those that are personal versus those that are structural, mechanical, what have you. Either way, scriptwriting has renewed my lust for writing in a way I never thought possible. I've always been passionate about the written word, but not to the point where I've wanted to dry hump my laptop upon completing a key scene. (Okay, that might be taking it a bit far, but you get my drift.)

And the thing of it is, I have no idea where I'm going to land. I'm seriously leaping without a net. There are a number of avenues open to me right now that I'm carefully treading on, which includes the interest of producers, agents, managers and the like, and that feels nice. But I know that there's no deal until there's a deal, and that the way something appears might wind up as something completely different by the time all is said and done. So I'm staying open to what comes, the possibilities that present themselves, the opportunities that arise.

It's kind of funny because to the casual observer, it would appear that there's nothing to get giddy over... and yet, I am. I'm beside myself with glee that I've taken this step, beyond happy that there are people enjoying the work I've done, and joyous beyond compare that I'm just taking this step - this first, teeny tiny step. God knows what's gonna happen when I get to live the dream. I might explode.

I can't wait.

There's just one problem - I really suck at this.

Here's the thing. If I haven't made it evident to you, allow me to be blunt: I fucking love what I do for a living. I feel like my whole life is a vacation. So if that's the case, do I really need to take a break? My body is telling me yes, but my mind is telling me no... and therein lies the issue. My fucking brain will not shut up. It's all excited about everything we've got going on, all the plans, all the ideas, and it refuses to stop chattering at me about it.

Perfect example: last week I finished working on a spec script for one of my favorite TV shows. I knew it wasn't 100%, but my goal was to give myself permission to write like crap (as I learned from reading an article by Jessica Bendinger, who wrote Bring It On) so that I could at least finish what I was working on, then go back and tweak it later. Cut to me laying in bed, wide awake, having the following mental conversation:

Brain: Hey.

Me: What.

Brain: You awake?

Me: Yes, you won't let me go to sleep.

Brain: Cool. So you know that scene where x, y and z happens? I think it'd be better if you switch it around and break it up a little.

Me: Yes, I've already thought of that, but it's time for bed, so let's talk about this tomorrow, okay?

Brain: Yeah, yeah. Right. Okay.

(About 10 minutes passes.)

Brain: Okay, you remember the part where you make the guy-

Me: Are you kidding me?

Brain: What?

Me: We gotta sleep, dude! If we don't, we'll be useless tomorrow.

Brain: Yeah, but if I don't tell you this right now, I'll forget tomorrow.

Me: No you won't. For Christ's sake, you remember every phone number we've ever had since we were six. You're not going to forget a plot point overnight.

Brain: I might. Just to spite you.

Me: Goodnight, and please, quiet down.

Brain: Humph.

(Another 10 minutes pass.)

Brain: Ooh! Ooh! You know what you can do to the part where-

Me: Look, I love you, but SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.

And so it goes. And I know full well that this is how I got sick. The crazy thing is that creatively, I'm still on fire... but I can't do this and run myself down, or I'm never going to survive. So I figure these last few days of May are my way of figuring out the balance - how to nurture rampant creativity, but rest when it's time to rest. How to write like a triathelete, but disconnect from the adrenaline rush long enough to recharge and come back at it twice as hard the next day. This is so not gonna be easy, but it's so necessary.

Here goes. Wish me luck.

I've been having dreams about my ex-boyfriend.

There've been a lot of them over the past few weeks, but I had a couple in the last week that were really insanely vivid and seem intent on sticking in my mind. In the first dream I was in his building's garage, and I was trying to figure out a way to get out without him seeing me. His neighbors all recognized me and were being nice, almost as if they expected me to be there. Then suddenly I saw his car pull into his parking spot, and I was trying desperately to hide... but I remember seeing all these flowers in the car. Like, tons of them, to the point where visibility was likely an impossibility. And as he got out of the car and turned around, I woke up.

In the second one, I was out somewhere... a lounge, some reading event, something social. I spotted him, he spotted me, and it was one of those things where I didn't feel like pulling a Miranda and running in the opposite direction was a reasonable reaction. So, I gingerly approached and we traded pleasantries, and then the conversation quickly grew serious. He told me that his mother had moved to his neighborhood and they had a falling out, and they weren't speaking (totally odd, as his mother is an incredible woman and highly communicative.) He was really upset about it and I was consoling him, and he kept saying, "Don't leave. Don't leave." And I woke up.

Needless to say, I was completely unsettled. I grabbed my dream dictionary and looked up the things that stuck out most to me: the flowers and the ex. The entry for "flowers" told me that they signify a new beginning and new growth, to which I was like, the hell? How can I have growth with someone I haven't had a conversation with in two years? Unless the growth is mine alone, in which case, go me. The entry for "ex" said, and I quote, "You are still searching for your ideal lover." THANKS FOR THE FUCKING NEWSFLASH, DREAM DICTIONARY.

I really don't know what else to say about this, because it's so baffling to me. There's no doubt that he was a huge part of my life, and that I loved him more than any other man I'd ever loved before. The entire time I was with him, all I could think about was how I didn't deserve him. And how someday he was going to go away. That wasn't the reason why we broke up, though. I'm not saying that our relationship wasn't fundamentally flawed from the beginning, because it was - on both our sides. But I can't talk about his side, because I don't know it - I only know mine. I'd be a liar if I claimed that it didn't make me sad to think about it. But what really makes me sad is how broken I was before it, during it and after... and how adept I was at masking it all.

I remember right after our split that I only allowed a couple people to see what a total fucking mess I was, although in retrospect, most of my actions during that time were probably pretty telling. I was drinking too much. I was blatantly hitting on - and making out with - acquaintances in hopes that it would get back to him and hurt him. I was being a party girl. I totally reverted to wounded teenager behavior and acted so embarrassingly abhorrent... ugh. It makes my skin crawl and I find myself overcome with the desire to take a Silkwood shower whenever I think about it.

But the thing of it is, if I hadn't gone through that relationship and the subsequent fall-out of it, I wouldn't be where I am now. And the other thing of it is I think that he came to me to force me through that growth. I honestly don't know that if I met him today that we'd have had any kind of relationship at all, because clearly it was who we were four or five years ago that attracted us to one another. Maybe we were supposed to be a catalyst for one another. Actually, I suspect that that's the case, as I've never sunk so low and stayed there for nearly three years, only to find a way to break free and start ascending in a way I never thought possible. I can only hope that the same has happened for him.

There are things that I might always miss: the heated discussions we'd get into on the phone about life events that he would derail by asking "what are you wearing?", our adventures all over Cali and New York (and once, the Bahamas), the way he'd challenge me (even when it pissed me off), how he'd squeeze the most ticklish part of my thigh and wouldn't stop when I squealed in protest, how he made an effort to befriend my friends, the insanity of our chemistry. I don't think I've ever experienced anything as amazing as the feel of his skin under my hands, or the physical connection we had once it was linked to the emotional. For me, it was of mythic proportion. But to an extent, it was also built on deception. I wasn't authentically me. Not like I am now.

A friend once asked me if he was the one that got away, and my answer was this: if he were the one, he wouldn't have gotten away. He was as close to a Vaughn or Angel as I've ever come... but I've gotta think that if he were my match, he'd still be here somehow. And he's not. So maybe I'm just going to miss those things until I meet the real deal. Because I finally have faith that I deserve all that, and more.

So. What to write about. Oh, I know: a tale of girl getawaying and the joys of Mercury Retrograde!

Our grand master plan was to drive up the coast and enjoy the ocean scenery before cutting inland. Attempting to do this without a solid map led us on a wayward jaunt through Oxnard, and what was normally a four and a half hour trip took nearly seven. Good start! But we made it there all the same, and were taken to our awesome bungalow overlooking a golf course. We immediately started cooking up plans on how to fuck with the golfers. Some of the ideas we came up with:

• Screaming "You suck!" right at tee off.
• Sounding an air horn intermittently.
• Standing on our patio pantsless with the binoculars.
• Making signs advertising a car wash, then waving them around while wearing bikinis.

We lost interest in the golfers, though, by the time we made it to dinner and discovered that our hotel encouraged the making of s'mores in their entryway fireplace for dessert. So rather than go for a chocolate molten lava pate thing to end our meal, we went old-school and fired up some balls of sugar - that I'm totally not allergic to, nosireebob - for placement on Keebler graham crackers and Hershey's squares. Had it not been for the loud talker with a proclivity for verbally abusing his girlfriend who decided to join us and use it as an opportunity to tell his lady love how everything she does is wrong, we woulda stayed there all night.

But as it was we had sangria waiting, and movies, and discussions and whatnot. And the next day I had a yen to hike the looming hillside that we were warned was "tougher than it looks and a butt burner." Sounded like my kind of hike. So the following day after a massage that left us mush mouthed, Retta and I got dressed in our hiking gear and started out. First we called the spa to let them know where we were going - the Lion's Head trail. They said, "That trail is closed because it's not clear."

Surely you see what's coming.

Yeah, so Retta and I venture out using the oddly-drawn and not totally cohesive map that we got at the spa, and went in search of the trail head. It took us 20 minutes to find it, and at one point came across turkeys on the golf course that I was tempted to race after... but then we found the starting point and we were on our way. Now, the trail we were allowed to take was open, and actually merged with the Lion's Head trail. So when we got to the merge point, it didn't seem so bad, so we made an executive decision: we were doing Lion's Head, if only because our egos - and butts - demanded it.

The trail - which was actually quite clear - took us up to nearly 1200 feet in elevation, giving us an incredible view... and the further we went, we were still able to see that the trail circled the property we were staying at. The problem was at some point it was supposed to cut downward toward the winery and lead us back to our room, but somewhere along the line we missed that turnoff point, and the trail took us down the other side of the mountain and spit us out in a farm. On said farm was a large moving truck that had the following spray painted on its back door: "MINE. So that means don't fuck with it." Duly noted.

Three hours. We had been gone three hours. It was starting to get dark, we were walking at the side of the road like a couple of hitchhikers just begging to become the plot of a horror movie, and all we could do was laugh. Eventually we called the hotel to come get us, which they did, and then we proceeded to order a ton of food from room service to make up for the caloric deficiency we were experiencing from our endless hike.

And yeah, I guess there's a lesson to be learned about listening... uhm, what was I saying? Oh yeah - I climbed the mountain. Goal attained.

At last week's Cabal we didn't do anything overly constructive (on purpose, anyway - one of us had a rad breakthrough on some writer's block), but we did discuss what each of our work days are like. As one put it, "It really helps me to know what it's like for you guys to work versus what it's like for me to work, because I already know what it's like for me to work." This prompted one colleague/friend and I to exchange glances, as just the day before we'd discussed how much we enjoyed having the opportunity to work in our ginch, or - if it's particularly swelteringly hot - naked.

Case in point: last week I went on a bender. Not a drinking bender - a writing bender. These happen to me at least once a month where I become so inspired by something I'm working on that I don't answer my phone, e-mail, pay attention to Facebook, Twitter, or even leave the house. And if I change clothes, it's a fucking miracle. I have no idea how this trend started with me, but sometimes I can get into such a creative groove that I fear doing the slightest little thing will throw me off.

So yes, for two days straight last week, my workday looked like this: eat, write for two hours, take an Alias break, write for two hours, eat and take an Alias break, write for two hours, take an Alias break, write for two hours, take an Alias break, write for two hours, eat and go to bed.

Now. You'll notice that nowhere in there did I say "get dressed," "do hair," or "shower." Believe me when I say I'm ashamed to admit this, but yes, when I get into a groove, I sometimes find I have to force myself to shower... but I will let it go for a day or three, just in case. I don't know what it is about the smell of my B.O. that signifies accomplishment - maybe because it reminds me of the first race I ran and medaled in (which, honestly, everyone medaled in - it was like the Special Olympics), maybe because it tells me I'm so freakin' busy being creative that I can't take a shower. Whatever it is, I know it's gross. But it's tradition. So the man who marries me needs to be aware that for at least two days out of every month, I will smell like rotten onion soup. (That said, for the right man I might convince myself to break protocol and shower through a streak. I dunno. We'll see.)

This isn't to say that I always write while sitting in my own filth. It really is a once-in-a-while phenomenon, though I will cop to not making much of an appearance effort unless I know I'm going into a meeting. Every once in a while, when I get bored of looking at my casual image in the mirror, I will start my day with a blow-out and closet consultation as if to convince myself that I work in an office environment that necessitates such attention. But on the whole my work wardrobe consists of yoga pants, jeans and t-shirts, wifebeaters and the like. I have been known to get up, change out of yoga pants into gym gear, go hiking, then shower and change into fresh yoga pants to sit at my desk and work. (Strangely, my UPS and Fed Ex delivery boys don't seem to mind.)

Yeah, I leave the house, and get to do neat-o things, and interview fun people, and attend fun events... but on the whole, it's just me and my computer. And yeah, the underpants/naked thing. It's been known to happen on occasion, but because I get deliveries on a semi-regular basis, it's kind of a pain to run for my robe repeatedly throughout the day when I could just be semi-decent and answer the door. That said, I have been known on occasion to strip down at my desk when I come home from a long day of running around, and it's often done while checking e-mail. And I think that's largely because there's something about my desk that signifies a comfort zone to me. (Go figure. The place where I feel most figuratively naked makes me want to periodically get literally naked.)

Aren't you glad you know what my inner sanctum is like? Should make for some interesting visuals as you read something I wrote in Business Traveler (or any of the other peeps I write for.)

Oh, and it probably goes without saying, this is way NSFW. I'm gonna get crass up in here.)

* When you've passed that threshold into the part of discussion that pretty much seals the deal, but nothing has been said yet, sucking the juice off her fingers after she squeezes lemon in her drink is hot. (If she's into that. )

* If she's responsible enough to tell you about her STD ahead of time, it's reasonable to decline relations, but obviously way cool if your response is, "We'll just have to play it safe." That said? If your version of "play it safe" is "she does everything while I do nothing," move along. Sex is a give and take, man. She's not a live-but-passive sex toy, so don't make her feel like one.

* If you don't have condoms, get them. She'll wait.

* Going to that whole "playing it safe" thing again? Sticking a finger in her ass doesn't count.

* If, after a long day followed by too many alcoholic beverages, you are unable to get wind in your sails, don't turn it into an international incident. You're not the first dude it's happened to. We know this. And while we're slightly disappointed, we know it's not the end of the world. Besides, miracles happen after water and a nap.

* However! If, after water and a nap, your game plan is solely to tit fuck her, know that this is a condiment and not the main course. Yes, it's fun for you. But other than a mild enjoyment of you getting pleasure out of it, it's pretty fucking boring for us.

* To reiterate: sticking a finger in her ass is not the only way to pleasure her. Pull something else out of your bag of tricks. Like that old standard, "penis in the vagina." Besides, how would you like it if all we did was stuff a digit up your bum and called it fun? (Actually, some of you would probably love that. So lemme repeat: give and take. Variety is the spice of life. Blah, blah, blah.)

* The answer to "Do you want a towel?" is ALWAYS yes. While at some point in the day we will likely take a shower, we don't want to wear your crusty man chunder around our necks until then. Don't ask. Just get the towel. It's gentlemanly (at the very least.)

This one-nighter PSA has been brought to you in partnership with NBC's The More You Know.

I'm in New York while I write this, greatly enjoying the silence that has followed an evening of catching up with friends (and making new ones - Brian, I'm looking in your direction...) So while I'm technically late on my deadline, it's only 10 in California... so I'm still keeping up on my promise! But because I'm up so late on a school night - and one where I have meetings in the morning and afternoon - I feel it necessary to keep it short. Why? Because I've been up since 4am.

Anyway. So I'm packing and eating at the same time, and it takes me until I get to terminal 3 at LAX to realize that I've dribbled yogurt on my shirt and pants, and it's now dried to a fabulously white crustiness, kind of like... dried yogurt. For the most part I was able to cover it with my sweater, and by the time I made it to the gate and boarded, I'd given up on caring. Most people on the plane were comatose and could give a hoot that I'd missed my mouth this morning.

And then I spent five creatively-charged hours crammed into the middle seat on the plane, working away on my laptop. I took a slight Alias break at one point when I was reaching the brain explosion moment that comes when I break through - and then write - a massive part of the script I'm working on, but then something miraculous happened. Usually I need a day or two to recuperate when I do one of those, but this time? An episode of Sydney Bristow's antics later, I was back in the saddle. It's been a long time since I've been this excited about writing something... and you know, even if it goes nowhere, I'm still excited that I get to write it. The process is unlike any other that I've ever experienced before. I love it.

I landed early, gunned it to my hotel, had just enough time to change for a business dinner, then met Sandra for drinks and deep discussion. My trips to visit Sandra always wind up bearing something tremendously amazing afterward... and I have no doubt that this trip will be the same way - and not just because I got notice from my editor that we'll be attending a premiere at the Tribeca Film Fest.

And this is barely even day one...

• Operation: Kill Cold is still in effect. I went to The Torturer (my acupuncturist) yesterday and said, "Please get rid of this - I can't take it!" So she cupped me and sent me home looking like I'd given myself hickeys with a vacuum cleaner attachment. I'll admit that I felt much better this morning when I got up, though I did feel a bit like I was running out of steam in the afternoon. I've been put on house arrest til Friday, which I ignored today, I admit. At least I'm honoring her No Working Out rule (much to my chagrin. There's hills to be hiked, dammit!)

• Last week I was having a conversation with my dad, and I'd said something to him like, "Oh, I figured you would've read about XYZ in my blog." And he said, "I stopped reading your blog after you told me it wasn't real." I started to protest and began to explain to him that it's not that it's not real, it's just not my whole entire life... until my brain jumped in and said, Doofus, if thinking it's not real means he won't read it, LET HIM THINK IT'S NOT REAL. Right. So, yeah. TOTALLY NOT REAL.

• My dreams have been really vivid lately, with a lot of them telling me - according to my dream dictionary - that I'm going through a transitional phase that's really good, and essentially ditching a lot of bad crap out of my life that doesn't serve me anymore (but you got the gist of that from my last entry.) Last night's was a little less clear. I dreamed I was on a horse and someone else was riding along with me. We were going up all these hills, one right after the other, and finally my horse was like "Fuck it, I'm not doing this one." So it stopped and kind of wandered off to the side for a break. Next thing I know I'm futzing with a remote that won't do what I want it to do with my little mini-DVD player, and I remember there being a bunch of people around that I knew... and that was it. I woke up. The dictionary says that horses represent energy at our disposal... so maybe the dream was telling me I've climbed a crapload of mountains, and now it's okay for me to take a bit of a break and... enjoy some TV?

• In just over a week's time I'm going to be participating in my first official BSP.

• I have the great fortune to be working with two really gifted writers, helping them both reach the next point in their careers. Both have an incredible passion for their gifts, both soak up the information we exchange like sponges, but one loves to fight me. I feel like I'm the damn Writer Whisperer when I work with her, I swear. One afternoon I gave her my advice on something and she kept railing at me so much about it that I had to ignore her IMs. Next day she messages me and says she wanted me to know I was right, and I was so elated that I yelled at my computer screen, "DAMN RIGHTS I WAS RIGHT!" We went to a spa event together and when I told her, we both laughed about it enough that we nearly wet our respective pants. So, clearly she knows she pushes me, and I know I push her... but I love that she's so dedicated to what she's doing - and on such the right track - that she pushes back. It makes for an interesting dynamic. Working with both of them is awesomely rewarding on a lot of levels, and helps inspire me, too.

• It's been about two and a half months, and though it doesn't consume me the way it did the first month, I still miss my dear departed kitty. Aw crap, here come the tears. Medic!

That's enough out of me for today... more work to do, and not enough hours in the day!