I'm already late. Three or four hours late, and I haven't even started. That figures, though, because that's pretty much how I proceed with most things in my life. A few days late, if not a dollar short. Actually, I'm rarely short a dollar these days—although I have been many, many times before in my life—but I remain a terrible procrastinator. So it goes.
Alright, so I'm late—at least I'm starting today. The fact that I'm even writing this diary is something in and of itself. OK, OK, enough bullshit. Let's just put it all down on paper (albeit electronic paper) and be done with it. Here's what I'm suggesting I do: For the next five days, I propose to allow you (the reader) into my process—in both the personal and professional sense. I'm going to work on a piece of new writing during these five daily diary entries, which will allow you (the reader) to see the creative process in action. Even if it's not very creative, at least you'll have a little something to read. At the same time, I'll be documenting my efforts at changing myself into a sleeker, fitter, and better-crafted animal. In other words: Yes, I'm trying to lose some weight.
And I'm going to put it all down here. What I'm writing, what I eat and don't eat, what I'm thinking, the cheating that I do to my hand-crafted diet. (I believe it's a loose variation of the Atkins plan, but I didn't spring for the book, so I'm not sure. I just keep eating bacon.) Keep a kind of loose journal describing the ride and see how it feels on the other end. I don't imagine anything too earth-shattering will come of it—I'm only doing this until Friday—just a sense of having succeeded or failed. I won't tell those around me what I'm doing, won't try to secure a book deal, or grab a quick million from Weight Watchers. No. I'm just going to do this thing with only you (the reader) watching and see what happens. If it's wonderful or pathetic or just plain boring by its completion, I don't really care. I'll just get on with it and jot it all down, even though I don't really expect myself to be able to follow through. I'm not great on the follow-through in life. I'm a terrific idea man, great at taking on too much responsibility, an expert at reaching too high, too far, too fast. I'm the Icarus of Desire. I love the allure of the new, the shocking, the unexpected. It always sounds terrific—the idea of taking a chance, being daring, making that bolder choice. But can I do something simple and pure like exercising and eating right when I'm trying to write? I really, really doubt it.
Alright, enough of this nonsense. It's early here—I'm sitting in Los Angeles, and it's 4:30 in the morning—McDonald's isn't even open. Not that I'm going there today, mind you, but it's just comforting to know it exists. No, I'll have a heavy-protein breakfast and then see how it goes. Watch the carbs (I think 20 grams or less—I really need to go to Barnes & Noble and glance through that damn book!) and get down to the business of writing. For now, here's a brief excerpt from a monologue I'm working on. Let it stand as a taste of things to come:
... no, I'm curious, I wanna know, what is it? What bothers you, I mean, what specific part of it really gets you? Hmm? The fact that I was fucking somebody, or that the somebody was him? Someone you know. (BEAT) Funny thing is, you used to talk to me like that ... whisper to me, ask who else I'd like to be fucking, if it wasn't you. Do you remember that? When we first got together. You'd be on top of me, usually from behind and holding me, not down exactly, but kind of like that, pinning me and talking that shit in my ear. Do you remember? And you wanted to know, you really did—I'm not even sure why—guys just do shit like that, I guess. You wanted to see if I really would, I suppose, ever fuck any one else. I mean, you must've needed to prove it, or disprove it to yourself, or maybe you just wanted to watch and take pictures. I dunno. Something. Over and over you used to say that, like, even when I was down ... that was your mantra, remember? "Who else, who else, who would it be? Who?" Again and again. Even throwing out the names of people, guys we both knew. From the neighborhood or, you know, wherever. At the movies, all over the place. So ... I guess it just stuck, huh?