Posts Tagged With: Creative Writing

from today’s 3

…Home, readying for bed, doing a little work for a client but not that much.  Was contacted by the chair at SSU for a possible last-minute singing for a class.  We’ll see.  Just another case of an adjunct getting excited only to be deflated and sent away.  What makes them think they can do this to us, raise hopes only to reduce those hopes and turn them into something bitter, something venomous and directed in spite.  And they wonder why we are the way we are.  I think it’s funny, really.  But either way here it’s noted, Sonoma State contacted me, at minute last, seeing if I was available along with other adjuncts.  I feel like a dog, or a horse, a work horse seeing if I’m good enough for more trails.  I’ll confess, I do hope I get the class so I don’t have to pour wine as much, but who knows.  I don’t.  That’s what makes an adjunct an adjunct.  The not knowing, and the hunger, the persistence, the constant movement and juggle– the adjunct, the ever-grower and seeker and the musical teacher, the more artful of educators, not in some cozy office or having to just be ‘cause it’s coded contractually, we are the educators to emulate, if you must know, those of us that still love teaching.  Have it noted, this life does take the passion away from some, the weaker adjuncts.  But me this writer, I won’t let them or the system rob me of the fervor to be with students and explore Literature with them.  I won’t stop teaching, in some capacity at least.  And, looking at the pictures I took the other day of the vineyards and knowing how much I love wine and teaching and writing about both, the adjunct reality doesn’t sting as they’d like it to.  I’m quite fine with it all, really, as this adjunct remains in control– no, more than just a ‘control’ of sorts.  More a dominance.  A suppression of those wanting to suppress me and thinking they can and thinking I’ll just chase their fucking carrot, that semester to semester carrot.  Why would I do that?  I’ll teach, each term, but I’m not being led.  I lead.  Myself.  Where I want to be.

Finally, a letter from Nadav.  Haven’t read it yet, but I will here in the study area of the Autumn Walk base.  Wish I had another of these Little Sumpin’ Wild’s.  Ravishing beer, really, with the pugilistic hoppiness and the wavy texture, like an Ale-y ocean on my tongue.  Lovely.  Also this morning on my run, I thought about old writings, and collecting writings, old and new and approaching manuscripts the same way musicians do their albums– no more of this excess meditation and deliberation.  This need be a hustle of sorts and that’s how I’ll wind it, track after track.  While waiting for students to show I found myself writing haikus sequences, I think two of them if I remember to accurate points.

And I think I’m done with this day, honestly I can barely keep the writer’s eyes open and his attention focused on the session, always distracted by some message on email or somewhere else, I’m tired of technology, I need to completely unplug but I know that’s not an option not with this business I started, why did I do that to myself now I’m forever bound to these buttons and screens, but if it makes a better life for my family then how can I complain?  I can’t…

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8/4/15 morning

Two days later I finish a three page effort but it won’t count for this day’s three.  Now I find myself getting frustrated first thing in the morrow and that’s never a positive– my mind saying, “Wow, only 7:22 and you’re already incensed?” Having another of those instant coffees in a minute, the one giving me almost too much energy making me feel slightly uncomfortable but I need the energy or electricity in my step even though last night with no wine and early bed has me plenty prompted.  For my run, a in a bit, and I aim for ten miles although I doubt that will happen.  The half marathon’s in 19 days if I’m not mistaken.

The coffee in cup and I’ll drink slow.  Something about this type arming itself with far too much fire for the writer.  Outside the temperature is more than optimal for me and what I want to have done, writer-wise.  I’m thinking just 5 out and 5 back.  I should be able to do that in about and hour, twenty, maybe just a smatter more.  I see where the day’s going and after last night’s lecture on everything from editing to drafting to poetry, I feel empowered in an unusual way, growing my business and–  Forget about the obligated and just enjoy free thought, play like my son’s now doing on the floor with his cars on the carpeted toy coffin.  He organizes every item in a different way every time, I think even strategizing how the light will hit certain rows and certain vehicles, and what with that only he knows but I’m beyond intrigued how he never fails to bring his project to fruition, he just plays, the equivalent of sitting at the keys and pouring Self into the screen.  Wish it were an actual page.  Have to reference those singular words/ideas I scribbled when walking the vineyard with Andy the other day.  I didn’t bother with full sentences or punctuation or any kind of paragraphed formality I just scribbled.  Sentences are a luxury I’m finding with my tight time blasts.  He now arranged the toys in two rows, starting together then distancing themselves, like an inverted “V”.  He double-checks each vehicle to ensure its placement.  There are still some on the toy chest and he examines each to determine which is worthy of a place on the floor, in the “V”.  Sitting crossed-legged, he places the fire truck at the tip of the right arm of the “V”.  I sip my coffee and am disgusted.  Why did I make this?  “Hey Daddy, look it!” I forget about this dreadful cup, focus on my little Artist, and the run ahead of me.. where I’m going, how fast I should keep myself, and the race just days away.  Like racing to get a book done, race race RACE!

Huge sip from the cup, why’d I do that?  Disgusted.  Need real coffee.  And the rest of those packets go to the glorious trash.  Jackie doesn’t stop.  And I know I have to change my attitude, mood.

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type 1

I try this new coffee I was gifted, and I’m not as about its character as I have been in other go-rounds with coffee types.  I wake this morning with the vineyard images still entirely in my vision and more than just ‘in my head’.  And maybe now the flavor of this new coffee grows on me.  Would I have it in the office?  uh…  not sure.  But I will entertain it later I’m sure in one of my typing riles.

This morning I consolidate, and focus myself further as a writer.  Have a couple housecleaning tasks for the mmc shop–  Student this morning, or former student, texted me a picture of a guy next to her on a train either to or from Italy and the book he set down in front of him.  A Kerouac ms, which one I can’t remember but I student expressed that, after being on her Camino Walk for the past 5 weeks or so, or maybe longer, that she can’t get away from Mr. Kerouac.  I know I need travel, and I know it’s on its way, soon, my hustle if you will shall put me in other states and countries and show me and my story dimensions that only this opportunity could’ve.  And I’ll work harder as a writer and write more than any writer out there and each sentence I type or scribble will be released… so…..  I start again, for the whateverth time.

The coffee isn’t that bad actually.  Wish I could stay home, work on student papers and write some lectures for the end of the Summer term and for the Fall which I’m very much looking forward to.

Jackie plays next to me, with his cars and some coins he took from my work bag.  And the day is off, the ‘Mike Madigan, Author’ person is at work, what he would or is doing, in his perfect-ing world.  And whatever the day holds can only contribute.

Month new, habits more decorous.


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Glass Memory

When you learn in the wine world it’s different and much more punctuated I feel, than in other extensions.  The soil, the rootstock, the varietal clone the microclimate the trellising style, the adds (if any).  So much to it.  And listening to him speak of the ripening and the clones of Pinot and everything that’s to be considered as a grower/winemaker, has me considering and reconsidering everything.  I feel tireless, just like him.  Wanting so much to work those endless harvest hours.  but I pause and just watch again, seeing if I really could do that– well of course I can, if I put as much of myself into it as he did, does–


And I walk another block, staring at the hills and again realize there’s so much to this wine story of mine, of ours, all of ours in this world and business.  And the story that’s being told and narrated is not ending, ever.  Back in Bennett Valley, just up the Road from where Alice and I used to live, in that condo, which I find completely Literary in all its suggestive angles, and I still feel tireless, like I could write all night about wine and what I plan to do with it.  I’d pace back and forth, up and down that row if I could.


I follow.  Just a student again.  And I love it.  More than I can here tell you and certainly more than I have time to tabulate.  So I follow Glenn some more around the rows and look at the clusters, and one thing I do notice which he confirms is the uneven ripening, which could be negative or not.  But who knows, I guess.  It all depends on how the juice tastes, right?  So I want to study the business more and see what I can do as a winemaker, maybe, or just a wild wine writer that I already be.  My head’s everywhere, and I credit and blame the day, in those blocks.


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In Block, A.M.

IMG_7418Not sure I have time today to write 3 pages as I’d like, and after the walks in the vineyards with Glenn, I only want to stay lost in these wine thoughts, and keep sipping wine and thinking about having my own vineyard, or label.. keep myself in wine, lost and not caring.  At the Hopper base right now, in the side conference room, if that’s what you’d call it.  Sipping my coffee and looking through pictures I shot on the vineyards and about the block, of the rows and the clusters I clipped and tossed into that red Home Depot bucket, one of two that we went to go quickly fetch.  And honestly I don’t know what to do with all this material I’ve gathered, just from today let alone pictures from the past week or two.  There so much to learn about all this; wine and the business I’ve started, running a business and media and the blend of everything.  But I’m not focusing on what I need to learn but more so on what I already know.  The videos I shot with Glenn talking about the grapes and the levels he wants to see with immediate respect to acid, ph, brix.. again, still learning.

Have to do a couple house-cleaning things while here, for mikemadigancrEATive.. site and IMG_7428business cards design, and marketing.. more marketing.. crEATive marketing.. I see my office, off the H-burg square, just down or up the street from Sanglier, in a spot where I be around and about everything.  Watching the video where he talks about cluster sampling, and the samples’ intention, getting a snapshot of the vineyard and ripening, and with harvest coming ever closer.. so much to think about but I don’t get flustered, just fixate on the vineyard and its magic, especially that Bennett Valley spot, up there in the hills, a bit up the street from where Alice and I used to live.  And there’s the proximity and the unifying quality to wine, that magic and coercion that I welcome.  And my wine story intensifies, get further into my already-busied IMG_7431character.  Need something to explore, something to taste, but I’ll wait till tonight, at Mom and Dad’s whatever they decide to open and I love not knowing.. maybe I’ll send them a note to open something new and unfamiliar, with some unique chord they’re aware of and that they think I should feel.

Again with the pictures.  Those Pinot clusters in the bucket, looking back up at me and I wonder what they’ll turn into (well, even though I know these particulars are meant just for sampling, to get a read on the vineyard).  What will the vineyard look like the night before picking?  Can’t wait to be out there when the crew is, early in the morning, writing about the harvest and all the activity as I did in ’12, covering the story, and being there as the ’15 vintage is written, documented and sent to press.


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A Morning In Out (some of day’s 3 pages)

IMG_7396Finally find myself freewriting, writing freely, free in my morning writing, starting the types at 9:12– writing for clients later when in adjunct cell, and grading papers, meeting with students at 6; optional session for them but I hope several of them arrive.  Didn’t make it to class last night, stuck in that traffic, and I hate feeling behind, but it motivates me so I should do well with the current current and the ebb of my electric written impulse.  Have to leave this Yulupa base, the Starbucks of course, at 10 promptly to make the appointment where Ms. Alice and I have the engagement to see our little Ms. Austen on the screen, make sure all measurements are well, and that all is as anyone would want it.  But I type faster and whirl in my written novelizing of Self and my career and the meeting I had yesterday at the Ad office, Napa, still very much in the writer’s brain.  And I realize I’ve a break, one that will benefit me and my story greatly, expose me to more wines and wineries and the experience wine brings with it and all the characters, in the industry and out–  forlorn never, and my gravity and brio intensify with each word.  And the novel grows even more, more for me and my family– the day’s practice of three pages, a true write making a life for himself, one that will be read, rebelling against the adjunct ropes and bars, cells made to keep us complacent and now I speak up and tell them, the Them, those devils in their cozy little, or not so little if you’re a Chair (not sure why that should be capitalized), office.  I just make it my own, knowing that no full-timer will ever write about or speak to me as that one did, at that one removed garage-sale-college.  Ha.. look at my rattle, and me slither toward the aggressor rather than flee.  Fangs.. here… look closer…..

Wine, and all its educational potential, and the Human approach to wine, antithetical to what sommeliers think you want to hear..  Wine should be appreciated as Art is.  As it IS Art.  And that I mean to capitalize.  And in this day’s three, I only reflect and revel in wine, and not so much the “educational” facet or dimension, but the appreciative, as I told my new partners yesterday in the office, not wanting to leave, wanting to talk more about the wine, a Merlot, we opened and just appreciate the moment, share what we detected in the wine’s momentum and Beat.  I have to do more than just “immerse” myself in this, this stream of rich wine chapters at this point in the novel stream, or memoir stride– but I’m here recording and about my jazzy reaction and reflection, thinking of those Roads, the pourings I’ll do in hotels, the travel and the trips, the overnights in hotels and the resulting writing.  So what’s the end to this, this series of books?  I haven’t a clue, frankly.  And I don’t want one.  One rile I embraced yesterday was a reminder to just enjoy, enjoy wine and the characters with whom you sip, and go from their, form your life and write it all.  ALL.  Don’t omit a thing!  OH, and Mom reminds me just now by social media’s mount that I need business cards.  Shit!  How did I forget that?  Also need to upload some photography and copy to the bottledaux blog.  And.. officially put myself on the cards as a client of mmc, “Mike Madigan Author” I have it dubbed.  So that brings me to three clients.  And how do I market Mike Madigan?  Uh.. blogger, prose writer, poet, performing poet.. think that’s it.  What else does he write?  What do I think he should write, as his agent?  Arduous thinking of myself as a writer, objectively.  I’ll have to brainstorm, not in this freewrite.

9:26.  Time to write nearing an end already, but I won’t dismiss or let that free wind alone, not even for a second.. young lady in front of me going through her purse for something while she waits for her coffee.  Looks like she may have come from the gym or a walk, maybe.  But she looks tired and not wanting to start her day, flipping her hair and slightly rolling her eyes.  I hope not at me, the peering writer.  Now she gets her cup and leaves, about her day, looks at me again before putting some sugar in her, what I think is that passion iced tea my wife gets– rushes out, to the day, to errands and probably kids.  But I’m free, here with these characters and words and diarist accouterment, my mea culpa, theatricality in my gaze, my typings.  Looking and using what’s around me, so I’ll always be writing– this place, a place for people like that lady with her tea, me with this mocha and moment, then some that just come here to have a coffee and read the paper.  That’s their peace.  Just like wine, and in the vineyard, different intentions.  I realize, I can’t with all I have going on make wine– and I don’t want to really as I want to cover it; film it and write about it and photograph every facet as I did in ’12 at K—-.

No more distractions from email.  I know I always say that.  Had a call from client 2 this morning, that he had a busy weekend with company and didn’t have a chance to read the email and draft I sent him.  I know the feeling, I said, and didn’t mind at all.  He, with his business, everywhere and so centralized and focused, and beyond successful.  That’s mmc, soon, you’ll see, and my novels will capture everything, like a photograph but with the regimented discipline of writing and with the painted scene and plate– woman working here going around wiping off tables, the crumbs and coffee stains and used napkins.  I envy her speed and devotion to a task that most wouldn’t want to do.  That most are just too lazy to bring to any finished roundness.

Now in the morning I see what the day’s remainder looks like.  Just me at work and working toward my office which I know is closer than it’s ever been.  And wine education: I offer you don’t overthink it.  And if you want to look further into the wine you’re sipping, then enjoy.  But don’t steal the joy from the puddle in the bowl, what you sip and what contributes to the story and the occasion, the music created by conversation, like jazz in the moment and not reversed not edited and certainly not over-planned, or thought, or measured.  Just leap into the wine and explore its character like a book and see what speaks to you.  And I put an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence then deleted as the emphasis is obvious.  Just go forward into the wine and how you want to know it and don’t stop and don’t be swayed by anyone.  Certainly not some loppy-witted sommelier that recites book babble to sound versed.  That’s a facade– not with all of them, but many, even most I’d say.

9:47– the jazz slows, the trumpet and the highhat, snare, then in comes a piano like a trotting tiger, but gentle, some unseen dance, and I just want to stay here and write the characters around me and imagine this is my café, my jazz/wine bar, that my children visit when off school, go upstairs to the office and do their homework.  Something like that.  Wine should be family-placed, or as I see it– not sure where that thought was headed, but I don’t think corporations when I think of wine, or the vineyard.  I think of a house, a table, dinner, a bottle or two in the center, and people talking about what they choose, smiles and laughs and memories and new stories.  Nothing sour or downing.  Just an aloft mood and consistency…

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So much on the writer’s mind

in the way of clients and everything else.. but now I need to calm, in the final minutes before sleep.  And now I calm, know what I need to do– this is the exhaustion talking, from the 6.53 mile run, that I nearly quite halfway through.  But then I thought, just slow down, finish the running, or writing.  I’ll wake tomorrow at the 4AM spot, the launching hour– and I will launch but at the page.  Everything here by the couch.  And the memoirs and novels on their way.. everything on this desktop up for grabs.  Hate that expression.  But I know what I’m intending with this remark, and the books on the way will define me.. deadlines.. all in the head of this writer, and being taken more seriously than before.  I shouldn’t be writing now.  I should be asleep.  I should be resting as in the morning I will be working when most of this block, if not all, will be asleep.  So the writer closes the day, closes, comes back to write in the earliest of morrows, and I will be here on this couch with coffee so early that I’ll surprise myself and my readers.  Simplifying.. consolidating…  One book after the other.  And that will be it, like winemakers with their vintages.


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Morning, 7/26/15

The next day.  Shamed in that I don’t write till the next day, the next morning, and not at the hour I want, which frustrates me to no end.  And then I have it decided that I’ll leave work a bit early to get done what I need done; all the tasks for clients, some writing for the novel, and whatever else.  I can only entertain what I’d be getting done while at the winery, when it’s slow, hating how it’s slow, and then pacing around the tasting room wishing I could get all that stuff done.  But I put myself there– and this new idea I have, getting one more class to teach for Fall, but online.. never taught online before, but I know I could, and can, and will.  Just have to push, make that part of my hustle.

Jackie still asleep and I badly need a coffee.  All I have to do is put the little cup in that bloody contraption and push BREW.  But I can’t separate or sever my thoughts from these keys, this laptop thatI had charging all night and in the corner of this bottom floor by the couch with my work bag and all the other worlds of me, this current Mike Madigan, so riddled in angst and ambition, that only wants to write and can barely find it in himself to repeat those descriptions behind the bar–  “Keep writing, keep writing..” I tell myself so I won’t have coffee any time in the next few minutes or so but that’s fine, I just won’t let myself stop, and think about farmers and how early they rise and that they have no choice, they don’t have the luxury of flakiness from time to time.  It, whatever the current “it” is, has to be done, finished, then there’s another “It”.

Then I hear my boy, talking to his mama.  I have to stop writing for a minute–

And we’re both downstairs with my coffee and Jack continually saying he wants to go run, as Alice just left with her friend to take on the hills of Fountaingrove in their now-tradition’d Sunday morning powerwalk.  Which leaves me here with the little Beat, and now I can only think of how it’s just 3 minutes before 7, might as well be 11 or 3 in the afternoon.  Again, I failed to get up at 5, or just before 5 to write and do things of clients as I told Alice last night.  This morning I just feel separated and not quite as directed as I want to be.  I have to leave work early today for the prose and its sake and its development.  I look around the internet for distance learning courses but then turn it off as Jack comes closer to me, to play on the other side of the toychest and arrange his toys as he likes, then I just watch and type while he does with his alway-obsessive placement of the larger little trucks afront the little race cars.  “You see, Daddy?” he says.  I go back to typing without looking noticing all my typos, fix them then I’m back off on my story.  And the story today is building not just my clients’ stories but my own.  And the regularity and patterned ‘anything’ has to be shed.

Something Glenn said the other day, about his business and waking up as early as he does, “You have to live it,” he told me at the tall Campo Fina table.  And I want to now live as a writer like I never before have, finishing my novels and either self-publishing them or having them printed.  More than likely the former as I want ALL control.  I’m not letting them fumble my ideas so they’re more marketable, or letting them quarantine the most truthful tellings only to have them absconded, stricken altogether.

Jackie begins to lose patience with his cars for some reason and pushes them all to the floor, which he often does, now settling on the new endeavor of putting everything on the floor into the little plastic tubs, each a different color.  I should have gone for a run this morning, yes, but then I wouldn’t be able to see this, his projects and how he doesn’t complain like the writer but just does, and has fun doing so even if there’s the occasional vocal grievance .  There’s a focus, or certain cynosure to his movements.  And now to mine.  I’m learning from my little Beat, everything I need to be as an Artist, and he takes me through every step, “Daddy I have to put this toy away.” And he follows-through, doesn’t become diverted or pulled to some other urge, “And now I gotta put these toys…” I WILL be more like Jack as a writer and Artist, and teacher as well, with students and their assessment, and writing about it all, everything, the discoveries and stories, and the blog for the students– just learning and teaching what I learn as I go.. but then I again think of killing the teaching blog, right?  Too much.  Consolidate.  Or not.  Just keep it, as I did renew it recently.  Feel like a mess this morning but I’m rather centered.  OR that could be self-deceit.  Who cares, I’m onboard, fine with it.

This next day, writing and teaching myself something, and being taught by my little boy, to just live, play, and forget about stresses.  Yes I should have been earlier up, but I’m now here with my pages, with my thoughts and the visions of what I’m to do with my business and with the teaching, and the tasting room– how much longer, not sure, but not much I know.  But why I’m there I’l embrace it, use it, learn what I can from it and let it continue to contribute to the novel, novels.  Now Jack’s on the floor trying to assemble something, I think one of those air-motivated toys that sends some foam missile to the air when you jump on one end, not sure, but he tries to connect a cord to one of the pump-bases.  And he narrates each step, what he sees and learns and thinks should happen.  that’s how I should be with this new day, this next morning and till whenever I decide to leave the winery.  Have to find online classes to teach, if I can.. just one more, one more section then I’ll be in the place I need for the books and for the clients so I can focus on their needs and projects.. it’s the hours at the winery that seem to be infusing the most interference, much I enjoy being there, right in front of that Japanese water garden.  Have to plan, everything from when I wake to the drive to work, to the tasting room and what I want from there, to the couple free hours after. 

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7/24/15– notes

Meeting with client, then what.  Writing, whole day to self.  May do short run, but the writer needs time to meditate think in the context of the novel.  6:54AM, and not much in a mood for writing.  So then what.  What am I doing?  Why force?  ‘Cause I can’t sit still.  Not with the words and the streamings of what’s synaptically snapping in my head.  the novel the novel the novel, just like when I was in grad school; go to the fiction seminar then come home to write, all jazzed up but then do nothing with the pages in fact I have now no idea where they are, were, or are, in the garage?  victims of the Autumn Walk move?  Who knows.  But I’m older, much, now, and with a family, with real deadlines.  Used to hate deadlines but I now I clear conceptualize their value and grow from that, the old Chinese wisdom, Lao Tzu, of calm overcoming heat.  The connection not sure but I know there is one and one that will establish the day’s mentality and attitude, my mood which has of late proven to be volatile somewhat.  Symptomatic of writers and their ways, my ways.. the one holding the pen and collecting the pages– if I’m to be a novelist all has to be simple and all has to be contained, have borders.. so…..

On the Road I’ll have–

Hours later, i resume with whatever I thought I had, after meeting and so many wine thoughts and sips I’m confused and convinced that the wine story will show me where to go, exactly and not.  I’m not editing this entry even a little, but writing freely, so freely I’m lawless and chaotic, and defying what there is in way of law.. two Chardonnays I tasted on Healdsburg’s square before my meeting with Glenn, where again I was prompted to futher submerege in the text and subtext of wine’s clefs and frets– but then what, the entanglement of my consciousness becomes even more oceanic in its momentum–  I’m cornering myself for reason;s sake and stabilization, the anchoring of wine’s candid thesis and direction, the papers and novels it wants me to write– so now I sip more of the Sanglier Blanc, a blend of every white varietal under a Sonoma County variable sky– my beat complete and replete with a street’s beat.  And me, the novelist under deadlines always just sipping the new wine that greets him, thinking he can be a winemaker and novelist and journal everything he can– he said, “One fast move, or I’m gone…” And so I feel the same way and drink more, listen to the music of the quiet on the bottom floor of this Autumn Walk spot– distractions that’s it, Emerosn would be mad at me and he should be, and so should Dad, as he once told me that distractions are “death to a goal”.  Those were his precisely realized words, the specified direness of everything, and as a writer it vocals even more, me with my students and my novel just haunts me and makes me drink more of this white blend of 53 varietals– I just use sarcasm as a way to cope, and with what, who knows, this narrative is directionless, and I am on my Road, in these studies and always jealous of the students and those that get to travel for work, you know the ones that say “Oh I just got back from a trip to North Carolina for a week, and then Florida after that…” Just heard someone say that to me, so placidly, and I was angered or envious I don’t know I just saw the Road for me and become hellish in my realization of accepted regularity–  staring at the wall, the wainscoting, the patterns have me distracted– nothing in this room wants me to write.  So I fight, for my sanctum, and my sanity, and the stabilized penning of my Now, the Newness and the Road’s varying light, what happened?  but I’m calm, not at all overheated, or understated, but what am I truly, that’s the novel’s goal determining that so I’m destined to be flat and failed– my beat piles on a cold floor.  This white blend, telling me to go further into wine’s heave, but for what I ask, what if I stopped–  I need sleep now, the adjunct, the tremens, that’s a career right? 

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from today’s 3 pages (no edits)

…two wines to try tonight, the SB and CS from Blair’s friend.  And remember, no brokering!  Just writing about them!  And I more and more think I’m destined to make a bbl of Cab this vintage.  I’ll talk to “Arista Mark” when he’s back from his trip.  I know just how I want it produced, and I need to start setting aside money, as I know this will cost me a penny or 3, 5, 15.. who knows.  And I know that.  And I know I won’t make it back and I’m fine with that, the adjunct knows what to do with his wines, with his career, and the English Professor role I carry and try to admirably execute is always present; try to teach people and myself something new about Cabernet.. maybe a light oak approach?

Exhausted after rush-typing that article, the MOCK SOMM piece.  Need to keep that column up, and play with it, market it.. do something more with it.  My brand, if you will: the writer/English Prof writing about wines and the character they carry, their respective theses.  Needing a break but the jazz tells me know.  I’m on stage with Hutcherson, with Miles and all of them.  People are depending on me to say something but what does the writer say when he’s tired, barely has a thought to share, would rather just sip wine and watch the sun as it falls, have a glass of SB up at the Hilton on Round Barn Circle.  But I’m always working.  Always tired.  Always trying to organize and always with a wish list.  I’m always wishlisting.  But isn’t that what wine’s about, dreaming?  And writing, too?

I’ll break right after reaching the bottom of this page, my 3-paged daily effort, and with wine in my vision, me on a crush pad tasting from barrels and taking samples to the lab to have them checked out and knowing I’m on my way, my truest of true stories being told; writer and winemaker, if that’s not all I don’t know, but I have to make wine, I have to speak through it as client 2 does.  And what.. what do I really want.. I already know, or I know NOW, and I’m convinced it’s this new business idea of mine, telling and re-telling wineries’ stories.

Hard to think in this adjunct cell, now.  Feel hot.  Think the air is broken, or not in play at the moment.  the jazz tries to cool me but I can only think about all that I have to do, all that I have to learn and learn quick, about wine, and winemaking, marketing, selling, everything– even writing about it!  I know I have more to learn about how to convey the message of a wine, make it intriguing, giving it added narrative layers and what have.  And wine education!  I know I should be writing more “tips”, or thoughts.. educating people, or consumers, or anyone curious about wine, on how certain approached can benefit your connection to wine…

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