The first time I remember seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was twelve years old. We had successfully managed to beg, whine, cajole, and generally be annoying little brats, and Lucy's mom had agreed to rent it for us—a movie that had already taken on truly cult status in the hearts and minds of middle school girls everywhere. We'd heard older teens talk about it, and now, at long last, we were going to see it.

If you ever want to make absolutely sure a movie lives up to the hype, make sure you show it to a group of twelve-year-olds after they've spent the entire afternoon gorging themselves on pizza and sugar. Seriously. Every line was poetry, every song was the music of the spheres, and every fishnet-covered body part was a revelation (I hadn't even known you could put fishnets on some of those body parts). I walked away obsessed with all things Rocky. I acquired the photo "novelization" of the movie, a book on the history of Rocky Horror, and a copy of the score. I begged until my grandmother bought me the soundtrack from the stage show. I developed a real fondness for fishnets.

As the years stacked up and I plummeted into my teens, I began going to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show almost every Saturday night at the UC Theater in Berkeley, where Indecent Exposure was the standing cast. I dutifully learned all the call-backs and dance routines. I bought cast T-shirts and learned to put on pancake makeup. I even started making my own sequined applique patterns, and designed my own Transylvanian costume* from scratch. I pan-handled for quarters to pay my admission. I dragged my friends. I sat up all night in IHOP, talking about this movie which was a shared experience and a shared community for all of us.

If you've never been a Rocky fan, it was sort of like being a Browncoat, only sluttier and with more sing-alongs.

I'm older now than I was then; I no longer have the time to devote three nights a week to being part of a specific fandom. But I miss it. I really do. I miss the feeling of community, the in-jokes that we were happy to explain to anyone who said they wanted to join, the ticket stubs and the smell of damp velvet and the after-movie donuts at the cheapo donut stand down the block. I miss sewing canvas backing into my lingerie and calling it "outerwear." But most of all, I miss the moment when the whole theater would be chanting "LIPS! LIPS! LIPS! LIPS!" and the lights would go down, and for two sweet hours, the world would start making sense.

Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change ready. This moment of nostalgia brought to you by tonight's Rocky-themed episode of Glee, which will be watched by twelve-year-olds, and which brings my world full-circle.

Let's do the Time Warp again.

(*My hand-sequined tuxedo coat was one of the things I lost when we lost our entire storage unit the year I turned seventeen. I scoured yard sales and flea markets for years, hoping it would show up. It had a sequined applique of a teddy bear dressed as a Transylvanian on one sleeve, and one of a doll whose hair matched the way I always styled mine on the other, and it was battered and odd and I loved it. I still miss that jacket, even if I don't do Rocky anymore.)

Words: 2,871.
Total words: 107,473.
Reason for stopping: once again, it's bed time.
Music: The Rocky Horror Glee Show.
Lilly and Alice: glaring at me from their nest of pillows.

Tonight's word count is a little shaky, since that's the end-of-night total, after a) I wrote for two hours solid, and b) I made a whole bunch of edits, most of which involved deleting (I always overwrite in my first draft, because it's easier to cut than it is to come up with new text at the eleventh hour). So I probably wrote around 3,500 tonight, but as the final total is 2,871, we're going to roll with that. Either way, this is me, calling the time of done:

I estimate a completed first draft by the stroke of midnight on October 30th. I will finish this book before the new year begins, or I will probably have been hit by a bus while trying to do so. Because I am that close to finishing. I know who, and where, and what, and why (which is often more than poor Toby knows).

There's going to be a lot of rewriting, because there always is. There are bricks that need to become pillows, and pillows that need to become bricks. There is dialog to add, tighten, and delete entirely, and there are scenes that need serious revision. But the first draft, the starting point, is going to be done by Saturday night.

All I need now is a white plastic belt.