So I spent the weekend at a good friend’s wedding in Yosemite. After a few hours of tutoring on Thursday, I made the drive up, leaving Los Angeles at precisely the wrong time. Not that there’s a right time to get stuck behind an accident in L.A., but the beginning of a summer holiday weekend is definitely not it.

It was fantastic to see old friends, although all the baby-having that they’re doing is tough to deal with. On some level, I have to liken it to a horror movie in which your friends get replaced by pod people. They’re almost exactly the same as the person you remember, and yet now they are capable only of bleary communication about the temperment of their little poopmaker.

Don’t get me wrong; I love kids. Babies, on the other hand, are useless.

I know I’m supposed to coo and, y’know, care, but it isn’t in me. And I feel badly, because I’m sure my friends can tell. I’m not a good faker.  I guess I’m missing the gene that makes one want to talk all goobly when they see a fat little face.

And, have you ever noticed, there are these moments when people who have babies will end their conversation and all stare at every last thing the baby is doing—which, by the way, is nothing—and this is somehow entertainment? I sorta want to scream, “WHAT?! What are we looking at? The baby isn’t thinking anything. It has an IQ comparable to a house cat’s.”

Maybe one day the pod invasion will get to me, too.  People do ask.  But I explain that I don’t even date, as writing is my everything, and they don’t seem to understand me any better than I understand them.  Having kids, it seems, is what all the cool kids are doing.

Thankfully, while they deliberate their baby schedules and their baby lives, we unencumbered get lots of extra minutes in the schedule of an event like a wedding. One of the nice things about being a writer is that you can do it anywhere, and need very little equipment.

My first full day there was the best. I followed a river for a while till I found a rock in the shade where I could sit without any signs of human beings.  After only a little time away from all distraction I had an epiphanous moment, and out flows one of the better ideas I’ve had in quite some time. (I hate when screenwriting bloggers tell you they’re working on something but don’t give you any details, but it’s far too early to describe this project. Let me offer you this: It’s a project that I think I can sell as a series of webisodes that pretty organically come together to be the length of a TV show. Plus, I think the central story naturally lends itself to a very low production cost. Like, I could probably shoot the pilot myself for about $2K and have something decent. Plus it has that combination of unlike-what-we’ve-seen-before and yet far-from-revolutionary that executives like so much. Sweet.)

My productivity was interrupted somewhat when this walrus of a man and his Dudley Dursley-esque son found my corner of the river and went for a swim. There was, however, a positive side to the interruption. The kid, upon seeing me with my little tablet, asked, “Do you take notes?”

“I’m a writer,” I explained. It was one of the first times I didn’t feel the need to explain myself, but instead went with such straight self-description. It probably helped that I’d had my best idea of the year only an hour or so before.

“You’re a writer?” the kid parroted, “Oh, that’s cool!”

Indeed, kid, it is cool.

Alas, I must report the death of my Siamese fighting fish, Studebaker. Some of us remember Studebaker as the co-star of a little comedy short we shot back in May. Most of us just know him as a free spirit too stupid not to attack his own reflection.

It seems like only months ago that I entered the pet store. I knew that my heart was so overflowing with love that I was wiling to spend as much as $1.99 to share it. The kindly adoption agent in the blue apron explained my options: either a betta, likely to live several years, or a goldfish, unlikely to last more than a week. It was a strange dilemma. The cold, utilitarian producer inside me knew that opting to spend a quarter on a goldfish would mean coming in under budget. Plus, there was a certain virtue to disposable performers. However, in the end, my inner pet owner won out. My inner pet owner had been expecting, perhaps, more affection than the daily fin-flapping posture at meal times, communicating Studebaker’s tiny-brained desire, all said and done, to crush my gills and see my carcass float to the top of the bowl.

It was perhaps as much of a commitment as I have made yet to the idea that I will live in L.A. on the long-term. I think it was the blue-aproned adoption agent’s admission that Studebaker could happily go a week without me feeding him that put me over the top.

I’m not sure exactly what was the cause of Studebaker’s death. Who can say? It may have been his head smashing against a rock as I lovingly poured him back into his newly cleaned bowl this morning. Then again, it may just as well have been old age. Or perhaps popcorn fumes. In any event, I’m sure Studebaker is in a much happier place now. That place being the L.A. county sewer system.

Studebaker’s next of kin, his adoptive father, has asked that remembrances be directed to Studebaker’s adoptive father. PayPal accepted.

It’s getting to be a problem, since I’m not reading Harry Potter 7 until I’m done, and all around me people seem to want to talk about the new book.  Today in a Jamba Juice, a couple came in, each with a copy in hand.  He had the dust-jacket marking his place several hundred pages in, and she was starting the first chapter as she waited for her smoothie.  People looking at me must have thought me a bit off, but when she turned to him and said, “You know, Harry seems to–” I had my fingers in my ears chanting “la la la” so fast…  Thank goodness for all the blender noise.

I’m not having problems with writing in general.  After Friday’s meeting of the comedy group’s writer core, from which we left with the homework to write a two-page sketch in the next week, I had my script written less than an hour after everyone left.  And a couple of weeks ago, a new collaborator friend up in the Bay Area (who I know subscribes to this blog via e-mail… Hi, Peggy!) asked for some spec commercial scripts I was able to knock out three decent ideas in one sitting.

It’s just Earl.

A smart man would go work on another project.  I have a smart romantic comedy feature with a high-concept pitch that a writing partner and I seem to keep as our perennial second priority.  Plus there’s a half-written feature that representation-types have said they want to see when it’s done.  But I want to write television, and I feel guilty when I spend time on features.  (Although I was thinking of going to Comic-Con this weekend to do research for the second one, but couldn’t work out the logistics until Saturday was already sold out.  If anyone has leads on tickets…)

A smart man might also pick a different show to spec.  Plus, I’m trying something with a high degree of difficulty.  A smart man might rethink his premise.

I, it would seem, am not a smart man.  Off to go “work” on my script some more.

Anyway, the tickets for last night were for the last IMAX screening of the evening. Huge screen, fewer kids. But when we got there, “technical difficulties” meant they had to refund everyone’s money. Sigh. One of the theater workers told us that the film was ruined. Like, I guess it all melted. On the plus side, my housemate and I got our money back plus free tickets to see it again later. And after all, I’m supposed to be writing, anyway.

In other news, things are moving along with the comedy group. Yesterday was the first meeting of the writing staff, and I’m pretty pleased. I spent a long, long time hand-picking a combination of people I thought would resonate together creatively, and it seems like that worked nicely. Any evening that includes comparisons of different Cohen Brothers movies and analysis of U.S. vs. U.K. versions of The Office tells me that I’m in the right room.

So I’m one step closer to global domination. Through comedy. Now I just need a name for the damned thing.

Yeah, well, the grass is always greener. Now that I’m living down here, I finally know the depths of my previous naïveté. First of all, the web sites I had located previously seem to have since disappeared. Secondly, I now know how very inconvenient it is to get from one side of the city to another. From Seattle, I could judge a distance of 5 miles as but a jaunt. Now that I’m in L.A., I know that for every mile of commute, one must budget approximately a week. Try getting a dozen people to one place, on time, in those conditions.

But the kicker is how much more expensive space (like everything) is down here. The going rate seems to be $20-25/hr to rent any rehearsal space of any kind. In Seattle it was $8-12. I knew that Seattle had a lower barrier of entry than most towns, especially the big ones (meaning both that Seattle has a lot of theater and that it has a lot of crappy theater,) but I didn’t think the difference was so severe. If you google “theatre space rental,” 3 of the first 12 entries are spaces in Seattle, a disproportionate share for the 23rd biggest city in the nation. My guess is that a town with that much rain needs lots of indoor activity.

Eventually I found a studio that is $50 for 3 hours. It shall have to do. And I shall have to find ways to turn a profit sooner than I thought.

So I just left messages and sent e-mails telling people the results after the comedy group auditions on Sunday. Overall the event went well, and it was a super-tough decision because everyone was awesome. And I ain’t just saying that.

In the end, the writers decided to represent, and the actors decided to flake. Not all, of course. I’m not saying every actor in the world is a big flaky flake with flakes flaking off, but… well, you get it.

So I changed gears, and picked a writing staff, and it won’t be an actor-driven comedy troupe after all.  At least not at first I’ll explain that better once I know what it means myself, but I have preliminary plans, about which I’m feeling pretty good.

It turns out that last statement is not true. Sadly, as I’m now nearly half way through my twenty-thirteenth year, my body is insisting I be more realistic about scheduling. As much as I believe one needs to keep several irons in the fire in order to succeed, especially in this freelance gig and entertainment industry wannabe existence I’m living, I’ve found myself writing three letters in a row turning down an opportunity or lessening my commitments.

I started working with a new student today. He is one of those rare kids who really wants to learn. His past has been downright frightening, but he’s made a decision to turn things around for himself and wants to do intensive study this summer to make up for years of missed educational opportunity. It stands to be pretty darn fulfilling for me, plus it gives me a lot of hours of work I wasn’t counting on, meaning summer doesn’t have to be as lean as I was hoping.

The downside is that taking this gig conflicts with my writers’ group meetings. I really like this group I joined earlier this year. It was actually somewhat competitive to get into, and everyone involved takes writing very seriously. But e-mail number one tonight was letting them know that I need to back out of meetings with them for the rest of the summer, even if it means they want to drop me as a member. Eeek! Here’s hoping they don’t want to.

Meanwhile, I have been talking to a tutoring company that places the teachers for a couple of Jewish religious private schools in Beverly Hills. I would be responsible for a couple of high school classes each afternoon, guaranteeing me a solid chunk of hours at a very decent wage. At first they liked me because I have a degree from a fancy school and classroom teaching experience. Once we met, though, I think they were at least as interested in the fact that my physical size could intimidate the students. It seems that last year the kids at this all-boys school went through several teachers, and a firm hand is the key ingredient for this year’s hire. I’ve worked in private education for a while now. After a few surgical questions from me about how the school administration supports its teachers above wealthy, contributing parents (simply, they don’t) I became less interested than when talks began. Now that I’m working with my new student, I felt it was time to turn them down.

The third no-thank-you letter of the evening was to a producer who had begun working with me earlier this year on a series of online webisodes depicting workers in a new niche industry. The project fell apart at one point, due largely to changes in his personal life, and we postponed work indefinitely. He wrote to me today suggesting we jump back on board. I like the guy, and the world of the story is definitely one we’ve not seen in pop culture before, but my unpaid, hope-this-works writing time is a precious commodity, and it’s presently already spoken for.

So there you have three letters in a row backing away from commitment. Here’s hoping I haven’t turned away something that would have worked out into a great opportunity. I always hate saying no, but in the end it will be a good thing, since I will need my time for the new online sketch group. Speaking of handing out rejection, auditions are Sunday, and I will at last know who is my new group of friends, and who if anyone gets voted off the island. Can’t wait!

I was being good about it, too. I got up early Sunday, trekked to Denny’s, and sat with my magic notebook for a while to generate some ideas. I was definitely behind, and while I don’t believe in the concept of writer’s block, it’s safe to say that a complete storyline had yet to flow for me. My grand slam breakfast and coffee came through for me, suggesting a bit of an idea, but I definitely still had work to do. I was still missing one clever little piece before it’s time to crank out scenes. I tried to call up my writing partner/idea bouncer, but he was off getting married for the third time (to his first wife) so I was on my own. Breakfast proved to be as productive a time as I would have that day.

But I still had a distractionless week ahead of me. Enough time in coffee shops, and something would happen for me.

When I woke up Monday morning, the work started coming in from every side. Two web page production gigs look like they could come through, plus a woman wants me to start working with a high schooler on algebra skills for 15 hours a week. I tried to suggest that maybe we start next Monday, but she really wanted to jump in right away, and since this is potentially work for the entire summer, I couldn’t say no. There goes my week of nothing but writing.

Sure, the moment I don’t WANT work, suddenly there it is. Hmmm… maybe I can get that to work in my favor… (I DON’T want a staff writing job on a sitcom!… I DON’T want a staff writing job on a sitcom!…)