Now Where Was I?

Other than a few exteriors, the film crew is finished. I'm not expecting any calls this morning. By tomorrow I shall have recovered. (That's a tense you don't get to use very often.)

It's actually fun work, kind of interesting, and it makes me channel my inner used-car salesman. I test so far to the introvert side of the spectrum I'm one notch to the right of comatose, I think.

When there are trucks to park, dolly's to move, talent to arrange, stuff to borrow and a line producer who's excellent at her job but also relentless, my shy-and-retiring self gets replaced by a hawker.

For two days I've had my cell glued to my ear, making deals all the time. My buddy who's head of one of the departments we stormed yesterday morning joked: "Your fingers are going to fall off before this is over." I was furiously thumbing a phone number in as he spoke.

It's sort of the flip side of writing, that loneliest of endeavors and in many ways it leaves me more tired than other work. It's summoning from a different inner place than creative effort.

Some people summon that strength more easily yet creativity with greater difficulty than I. Some worry less about feelings being hurt than I do.

I guess it's been like being a different person for a few days. That's probably valuable insight.