9:01PM, in kitchen nook. Glass, boastfully full, ’11 Anderson Valley Pinot. Nearly too drained to write, but I wanted my moment in this nook. Two small groups in TR today, with both Literature addressed; writing, Life, passion, pursuit. My friend, and current ‘5’ student, Nadav asked me towards the end of the 8: “How long does it take you to write a piece?” I should have some kind of answer cued for such a probe, but I don’t. Does that mean there’s something wrong with my Literary practice? Do I need to focus more on singular/submittable standalones rather than these novels? I began writing something today, on a makeshift notebook, that I aim to send to The New Yorker. I do want to Self-publish, but I also want to play ‘the game’; submitting; the acceptance, rejection, waiting, not hearing a thing at all.
This Pinot, more earthy than I’d like, but how do I know what’s right with the red Burgundy? But never mind that– right now I’m ENJOYING wine. Not consumed with sales goals, how to talk about it, description, how much I pour, what I’d pair the bottle with.. I’m sipping. And that’s it. Me, wine, writing.. REAL Art.
Dreaming of writing a piece for NatGeo.. traveling somewhere, and conveying precisely EVERYTHING I see, smell, hear, taste, feel. Everything’ll be on the page. And I’ll work quick, not sleep, needing only a week, at most, to capsule what me greets. I should be transferring the words I wrote today, on those pieces of scratch paper, but I’ll leave them, those words, for morrow, with coffee. And I’ll be able to wake at cruel hour– this is my last glass of the fragile red. And it does taste fragile, scared, insecure, hidden. I’ll again sip, let it know I’m here to communicate, not evaluate.
And now, I’m on the couch. Entertaining another glass of the Anderson Valley PN, but I’m not convinced.. not necessarily swayed by its voice. If anything, I want to dive into some study on Joyce; his inner warrings, methods, practices.. remember in that documentary I saw not too long ago that he studied with heated aim in libraries. And I’m trying to enact the similar here, in the condo castle.. with the TV dead, off, and nothing but the fridge’s tremor about sense. You know what, I think I do need another glass. It’s Friday, and I’m a writer, dreaming of travel. Now I’m rambling. The wine’ll help that…
Think I should send some of this spoken word.. somewhere. OR just perform it. The Pinot will tell me. [...] First sip, last glass. So relaxed. C—— would be doing the same thing, after a day like this. That’s why I feel nothing, ‘cause my character validates it so. One character I met today, one from the aforementioned small groups, reminding me so much of her. Hope she emails me, sends me some of her writing. But even if she doesn’t, the novel will finish.
Another sip, touted.