Addiction

I have been without internet access on my PC since Tuesday or Wednesday.
I get emails on the BlackBerry, so I'm not  completely out of touch.
But no blogging. No Twitter. No loops.
I have been skating the edge of crazy.

Since the Cable Guy is not even coming here until tomorrow night...I  am increasingly anxious. Panicky. Shortness of breath. Palpitations. Loss of appetite. The whole Magilla Gorilla. So far I have not really experienced acute physical pain, drooling or foaming at the mouth or cramping. It's probably only a matter of time, though. Especially since, after I clear everything out of my den closet to provide access to Cable Guy, he is probably going to tell me, as Verizon Boy did, that he has no freakin' clue.

So  how am I here, you may be wondering?  A newly-accquired Toshiba mini with a screen only slightly larger than the BlackBerry, but a keyboard I can type on with more than my thumbs.  And a huge new additional Verizon bill. And a night and morning spent at Starbucks. Let's not go there.  Let's just say  I've been sloshing down many grande lattes and venti iced coffees.  Which may or may not  account for all the palpatations and flutters and feet tapping.

I prefer to chalk it up to my untethered, out-of-control E Addiction, though.  I can quit coffee any time I want.

Hope I'll be around for Six Sentence Sunday. 

We'll see.

Characters Welcome

       On Saturday, two of my long-time writing pals came over for pizza and snacks to chat about whether we really need to see a shrink if we sometimes have schizy voices shouting in our heads, like competing Kanye-esque producers of an Oscar-winning documentary.
       (And curse you, Cablevision and ABC.  You may have relented from your greedy, broadcast-blackout shenanigans about an hour into the Academy Awards show Sunday night, but all is not forgiven. But, as usual, I digress.)
        Generally, I fly solo, seatbelt free, tossed and turned by bits of dialogue that seem to spring out of the jets in my shower. They wash over me, leading to actual scenes, but essentially remaining on the skin surface. Not steeping and percolating with something fuller, richer darker, more substantive -- like something with caffeine.
        We had fun this weekend -- at least I like to think so -- but we also got some things accomplished. At least I did. You want your federal agent to own an $80,000 pimped-out Cadillac Escalade? Why would he have one? Why is his ride so important to him? Why would he risk driving such a flashy car when he knows the bad guys are on his trail?
       Suddenly, you've got back-story, you've got layering and texture, you've got character arcs, you've got plot points. You have partners who are invested in your hallucinations and want to see your space pirate travel through conflict and villainy from Planet Zontar Deluxe (thanks Wry) to the Klyxan-Smee Galaxy. You have ... excitement.
       Afterwards, I was thinking that any civilian happening by and overhearing our raucous discussion of magic and space and terrorists and runaway brides would be calling for the white-coated attendants with the butterfly nets and shipping us off to Shutter Island straightaway.
      For that I am grateful, you guys.
   
     Miscellaneous:
     Stumbled across these forms and spreadsheets and what-not at The Scriptorium Toolbox. Thought some of yez might find it helpful.
      And for those of yez in the mood for a road trip, there's always Lady Jane's Salon.