I’m thinking of Miles from Sideways, tonight, which of course also makes me think of Miles from Star Trek, the best Miles in all of existence…though Sideways Miles is also great. Thinking of how he’s written this book, but it’s overly long, nobody wants to read it, he can’t sell it. How often do we see the Hollywood ending for that character, where they finally get the book published and it turns out to be brilliant and they’re famous? I wonder if it ever actually works like that. Sometimes, I suppose. But I like the way Alexander Payne did it—we don’t see that. We just see that she read it. He drank his special wine, he sent her a letter, and she called to tell him she read the book and she loved it. We drive back to Santa Barbara. Beautiful.
So wiped. Got the parking space re-dug out. 210 pages on the manuscript. Netflix work d-u-n. Pups handled. Bear hung out with. I ever got to watch some footy. Or is it footie. I don’t know. Crazy Brits. And I am literally almost falling asleep as I write this. It was a push week. Still got more to do, but it’s there, within my grasp. So, really, it was exactly the week I was hoping for, thank baby g.
Night night.