It's official: I'm a sex columnist now. Tn'O launched on blogTO today, with my co-writer Jenny's first column about cuddle parties (and a little introductory dealie from me). I am ever-so-pleased about the possibilities of this, and also about how it lets me knock item #28 off the list of 100 random pointless things I want to do before I die. My first column's up next week, and it's about the Lost Girls.

From a writing standpoint I'm feeling indestructible right now. I wrote six pages of Toronto Omelette as soon as I got home because I finally figured out the structure of the flick. It's in five stories, although one of those stories is broken into five parts, and the other four are stand-alone, but two of them connect directly (albeit across a 50-year time gap). It's interesting. And also, those six pages I wrote are the filthiest fucking pages of anything I've ever written, ever. Woot for me.

This weekend basically went sideways on me. I was going to lock myself in my room - all tidied up for the occasion to prevent distraction - and work on the DVDs for three days straight. Instead, I have seemingly become possessed lately of an uncommon clarity of thought about what's going on in my life, so I spent yesterday noodling around some foundational ideas about what I do and do not need to be doing with my time. Today I skipped straight to the writing and in so doing turned my bedroom into a kind of recalcitrant trash heap because I literally came running in from my errands this morning with so much stuff to write down that I basically dropped everything I was holding/wearing and just started typing. I'm skipping back and forth between four - yes four - separate writing projects, got two books open on the bed, and the ideas in my head are like a perfect cresting wave that I am just barely managing to surf.