writing with leopards

I was writing beautiful shit. I mean, pretty. And then a deadline moved into the movie, and the four scenes I have left (which explain everything) are suddenly shy as snow leopards. I washed the dishes, sang in the shower for an hour, called everybody and said nothing, read Camus and watched Monica Vitti, flirted and threatened and made people cry and laugh and curse me upside down, and still the writing hides . . .