I’m still a few pages from finishing the script, but it couldn’t wait any longer. I sent out the stuff I had done to the editor and artist.

I hate doing that.

Mary hates it even more than I do.

Sending out an incomplete script, even if it’s just a few pages short, is like sending out an engraved invitation to pick the thing apart. It’s not even the editor’s fault. It’s somehow human nature to perceive a *nearly* finished project — even if it’s, say, 85 out of 86 stories of the Empire State Building — as far more malleable than a finished one.

I have to learn to write faster.

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