Does this count as a page?

I'm exhausted all the time and all I do is pull up tile in my new room and sleep and work. Then I sleep and work and pull up tile. I hate theater right now because it kicked my ass. Chewed me up, spit me out, put me in debt that'd make a bookie gasp, and then hopped along to kill some new unexpecting young thing who feels like "putting on a show." I feel raw from seeing some true colors in others as my life shifted. I feel raw from seeing my friends not know what to do with me. They are concerned. They want to help but don't know how. I just gotta get the dissappointment out of my system. So all these loves in my life just gotta wait. Wait while I cleanse the toxin of business failure out of me.

Oh sure, it's not so bad. The average Los Angeles theatrical audience is eight people (yeah, I know!) And we averaged about 12. So hey, we win. And many theaters last year lost upwards of $50,000. We lost a small fraction of that. Many quit after year two. We go on. We just won't produce four full lengths and a dozen collections. We will be lucky to get two full length originals and no collections this year.

So here I am. Not doing much except sleep and eat and pay bills. My email boxes are filling up. My voice mails go unheard. I can barely answer a person who is standing right in front of me. I have rest to get.

But I also got writing to do. There's this weird thing that happens when I don't write.

I have panic attacks.

I wake up in the morning with a new scare: my debt will kill me, sudden death will kill me, illness will kill me, a dead end job will kill me, my car is getting stolen, my identity is being stolen, my soul belongs to not satan, but one of his cronies who likely will lose it -the irresponsible schmuck- and my spirit will fall through the cracks of after-life beaurocracy.

So while I can't seem to think, let alone write, I find myself in dire need of some writing therapy.

If I write, all that fear and energy can be on a page and I'll be better. My character will get a fear and confront it and rise victorious (or die, either is fine) and I will get a good night's rest.

So to get me back on the writing track, my roommate and I are racing for 20 pages. We must write 20 pages this weekend or suffer the humiliation of not following through (yeah, I know, we're big gamblers).

I got 2 pages of a treatment, 5 pages of a new screenplay, 3 pages added to my Evo rewrite, and now I think this should be considered a page or two also.

Yeah, I'm 9 short. Sue me.

Anyway, that's my weekend. Harry Potter plays in the background. People are cooking around me. I'm acclimating well to the bustle of collective living. I spent some time with the kids, which is a blessing. Such a blessing. I was staring at a room the size of a theater and thinking of square feet and stages and revenue potential and insurance etc -frozen by overwhelming possibilities. The girl, only six, sat down with me and I warned her not to sit too close to the ledge as we dangled or feet off the observation room window and stared into the theater's emptiness. I asked her what she would do with the room and the obvious answer came quite suddenly from her lips: "Turn it into a Winter Wonderland." And then I watched her run off to ask Mom if she can have a winter sleepover.

Sometimes you hit a rock and find a rose growing from the wound.

Now to get that 9 pages.