The Writer's Block Diaries

I’m currently taking three weeks off work to hole up in my office and write full-time on the Lost season 4 book. For everyone emailing me asking why I’m not writing more on Heroes or Fringe or anything else on television, my simple explanation is: because I haven’t watched the new episodes yet. I have about 3 weeks of Fringe and 2 of Heroes on my PVR right now, along with a million other shows. When this book is done, I’ll be doing a TV-viewing marathon unlike any other.

So now, in the vein of Homer Simpson (who left Marge once to live in the treehouse outside, only to have a 3-week beard, ragged clothes, and a rope belt after about 12 hours), I shall detail my shockingly fast descent into madness.

It is now Day 8 of my captivity. I’m not sure if the walls around me just feel like they’re closing in, or if my publisher has some switch like in the garbage compactor in Star Wars where he can actually make them move. Hm. My money’s on the former. (I think?) I have finished four episodes, two intermission chapters, and a sidebar. I look outside my window and I swear I see palm trees. Was that Desmond walking by? Just a minute... I’ll be right back...

No. It wasn’t Desmond. It was just a harried postal worker, now more harried since I ran up to him declaring my undying love and telling him I was better than Penny any day.

Now I’m on “The Shape of Things to Come” and I’ve fallen behind. There’s so much to say about this episode I’m worried I’ll either say too much or too little. My schedule is written out down to the hour (stupid One-Week-Ago-Me) and now I’m stressed because I’m not right on it still. Dammit. As of Thursday, I was still totally on schedule. Now... not.

I was allowed out of my prison yesterday to partake in a bird these islanders call a “turkey” and one of the sentries referred to “Thanksgiving.” It’s apparently some sort of celebration of the conquest of the Others or something. The bird was quite yummy. But then I fell asleep. I believe they drugged it with some Dharma chemicals.

My eyes are bugging out of my head. I barely recognize my children. I answer only to the names Kate or Juliet, depending on my mood or what episode I’m working on.

I’m afraid I shall go mad. If I haven’t already.