The briar patch looks very comfortable. I can be thrown in there soon, and I will loll around in that prickly little world that is my own special relaxation zone. But I don't want to go.
I've been working steadily for the past few months on my screenplay. The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You. I have no way of knowing if it's a good screenplay as industry standards go, but it works for me. I just finished Act II, and at this point all story elements are nicely in place for Act III to roll right out.
That means that if I did nothing else, in just a few days I could be finished with a pretty big project. I've been editing myself as I've gone along, so unless someone else takes it in hand, I've got the best draft I can come up with.
In short, I'd be finished. I'd be ready for the briar patch.
I don't want to have nothing to do. I know somewhere along the line I swore I was going to be a rockin' granny, and I am a rockin' granny. But a writer's got to write. A writer doesn't have to tear her hair out showing her stuff to agents and editors and producers, but she does have to be working on something.
I'll finish because the momentum won't let me stop. Then Br'er Fox will be swinging my fluffy carcass toward the briar patch. But I hope I get a reprieve. Maybe I'll send the screenplay to my friend L. He'll make me insecure enough that I'll rewrite it.
