These are the things that happen when you are faced with writing an outline:

• The sink in your bathroom starts spitting up murky, brackish water and you spend many valuable writing hours pouring toxic chemicals into the drain hole while wondering if you’re somehow poisoning yourself, even though you are wearing yellow Playtex gloves the entire time and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink, just in case.

• Your husband tells you on the eve of your first anniversary that the 30 pounds you’ve gained over the past year (hey, thanks, bad knee and failed gallbladder!) are not sitting well with him, either, and he’s hoping you can make some positive life changes before it’s too late. (Too late for what, exactly, you wonder?) You embark on a crash diet that involves only eating three bites of food per day, but does not affect your red wine consumption one whit. Headaches ensue. You totally blame your husband.

• Your dog—your stalwart companion, your rock, your touchstone, Emma (What? You’ve never seen Terms of Endearment?)—becomes your latest source of obsession. Is that a new lump on his side? (He is an old and lumpy little fucker, not unlike you.) Does he need a walk? A biscuit? A bath? The answer to all of these questions, of course, is YES.

• Four days before your outline is due you have a tragic closet catastrophe. It starts when your fattest fat pants are a little snug and you find yourself pawing through your stacks of denim because clearly you’ve grabbed a pair that you were wearing some ten pounds ago. Sadly, this is not the case, and, as a result, you decide it’s the perfect time to try on every single piece of clothing in your entire wardrobe. Hysteria ensues.

• Emergency trip to Old Navy.

• You get out your suitcase for your trip to Laguna for your anniversary weekend. The outline is looming in your head, but it takes a back seat to what swimsuit you should pack. (If you can’t relate to this, fuck you. You’re dead to me. Dead.)

• You re-read the first few chapters of Nick Flynn’s The Ticking is the Bomb and Stephen Elliott’s The Adderall Diaries. This is both wildly encouraging and totally deflating because, though moved by the way those boys can sling some truth onto the page, you are pretty sure you will never be able to produce anything as meaningful and profound.

• You finally sit down at the computer and pound out a draft. It sucks. You drink red wine and let it macerate for the night. The next day you are astounded to find that your work is brilliant.

• You go get your nails done.

• You re-read your outline, nails still tacky with their single coat of Essie Mademoiselle, and realize that you were mistaken. Horribly, horribly mistaken.

• Your deadline looms.

• You type into the night, channeling some whiskey-throated, brazen voice of desperation and you hope for the best.

• Onward to Laguna! Tune in next week to hear about the anniversary trip to the OC and the outline feedback. It’s like "The Hills" (or whatever more recently relevant show came after it), only fatter and way more literary.