Quiet in this bottom floor hall. Prep’d for rough draft workshop but the stomach ache I had last night/early morning, that nearly made me sick still shimmies a bit. If after the second Mendo section I feel like this, I’ll leave straight for home, rest, and the run from last night also influences my standing today. Hate feeling like this when I have to work with students– when I’m fiery and lively, I’m me, the sturdiest of me’s. But now, I’m only half-character and I hate it.
whoso issue due in ten days. So I need to edit. Wanted a picture or some kind of image on the cover but it’s just “not in the budget” as they say.
Feel not me, and I hate it. But I have to gather Self for students.. 8:52, so I have a little time to meditate. Not in the mood to write, either– I should just go home now, rest, re-collect, maybe even take tomorrow. If I leave here, Mendo, I won’t get paid as there’s no sick time accrued. But there is at SRJC and the winery, so something to think about. Again, if this feeling remains. Hemingway would power through it.. I know I know. But I’m not him. I’m a different Literary shape, and speaking of.. what sources can I offer on Hem? Didn’t have time to look last night with the Giant’s game and the Syrah I chose to sip.
12:56PM. Out of classes, just finished meeting with student. Now to SRJC.– And a student stops by to see me. Tired, even though I feel much better than I did this morning. Definitely need coffee. Not going to this oncampus café. Too crowded and I don’t want all those voices around me. Okay, I’m telling myself… two more draft workshops then I can rest, be home, sleep.. and I yawn as I type this, ready for some home, some motionlessness, just actual REST.
1:08. How did time pass that fast? Don’t want to write anymore.. leaving… thinking of Hemingway and him saying all around him was his. At this point in my life I can only think as he does, my own lit mag started and a self-published novel right behind the inaugural issue. Collecting the 500-word pieces for a possible other book (didn’t write one yesterday unfortunately but I will later, or try depending on how I feel or if I wake up or not..). I can’t “fail” as a writer. I just won’t allow it. This is how I will make my tender eventually and the only way. That crazy wedding planner that I blogged for years ago told me: “You need to focus on what it is you want to really do.” Or something like that. Either way it stuck, loony as she was. But I am Hemingway, Hemingway-ian, or -esque, and I will impose my writing presence wherever I am, and now on page and not just a bloody blog.
5PM. Library, third floor, in corner with most beneficial view I’ve ever had in a sitting here. Hear female students laughing somewhere to right, in the stacks. The novel is done, I have written the last “new word” in it, just a couple minutes ago. So if I add anything else it’ll be an older writing and the character will have it as something he stumbled across, upon, ran into or whatever. Still need to do a 500-word piece for today, but I’m tiring. I’ll write one tomorrow morning, early like Hemingway. In fact, I’ll only write in 500-word standalone bursts tomorrow. I should easily have three. Right now I just need to meditate in this seat with the view across the street, at the Emeritus quad. Ran into a student from Spring ’14, he was in the café where I bought this Dr. Pepper and he was reading War and Peace, which surprised me as he wasn’t the strongest student in that class, always sitting in the back and rarely volunteering a thought.
Can’t wait for the next class to be done. I’m tired. Feeling much better, yes, but tired. I may go right–
Had to move. Students of course chose to sit right behind me. Now I’m on the third floor. No view. Only of books. Which is fine. The books I can see are on paintings, the Vatican, Art theory.. let’s see….. the “power of art”.. this can’t be coincidence. In one of the sources I found on Hemingway, it stated he viewed his art, writing, as more of a job than anything. And I now, only now at 35, am seeing the dire nature to what I want to do for a living. So I need to write a 500-word piece now, now– NOW!
Now in Emeritus. Somehow, some twinge of misluck, a former employee of the winery, Alec, stumbled into my safe quiet zone. I won’t hide my annoyance on this page. I was already forced to move now I’m made to be here in the conference room, but I suppose this is only a boon, as no students will be scouring these halls, and if they are it won’t be for me.
With the novel done, I’ll wait to start another. I need to edit, I know, and I’ll start tonight, one page at a time and minimally! I don’t want this to be antichaos I want it to be BEAT, and Cubist, and JAZZ. Musical if you have my intention understood. The exhaustion compiled in this day is now becoming visible, I can see it. This last class, the 6PM, has to be casual, conversational. The 3PM took a lot from me even though I was sipping the Sumatra blend– hot in its nightish movement and casings. I’m starting to taste whatever I’ll eat when home and feel the comfort of those sheets, and imagine the next day as I fall asleep.
Just looked at the first page of the novel. Not bad. Definitely me, rushed and frantic and obsessed with coffee, but how can I write otherwise, you know?