Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

9:12PM.  Mendo tomorrow morning and I’m not looking forward to it.

NOTES:  overwhelming urge to write, finish novel and magazine.  Tuesday, I keep telling myself, Thursday, Friday.  But I have to grade, last semester like this I won’t let this happen again.  And I festoon in late hour with my words and thoughts of tomorrow and the semester ending and the next run, whenever I can fit that in.  Grading certainly takes from the writing but that’s my world now, my role, an English teacher, but as I dive garrulously into the journalism world, and HST, I find that I need to be devoted solely to story, the reality of what I’m finding.  And now, with the GOP gaining more ground in Congress, I’m following, I’m checking reports– wish I was in Washington.  HST was right, it’s much better than sex, MUCH better.  This urge to write and report and do something and travel with my notebook and come back to type it all, keeping me awake, what made me pour out the Lagunitas so I can focus and dream more clearly.

Last night with that Red, interesting how it’s tasting now, and how I’m responding to wine, especially reds like that, and why everyone likes it, meaning people coming into the TR, members or new characters.  They love it, what I was sipping last night, and I mean true love, as in they can’t have enough, and when we sold out of the last vintage, ’10, they fitted, hysterics, nearly lynching the teller, me, behind the bar just being a journalist of sorts, delivering fact, reality.  Time for bed for me, the tired writer, with only dread for my commute and destination, but loving that I have no winery appt come Tuesday.  This is only good news, beneficial development in a way that makes me accelerate in written spinnings.  Love.  My dying tort for the sui generis, left in the parking lot, I don’t need it anymore, so I can only be honest, what’s the worst that can happen I say to myself.

8:54AM, and I feel I’m behind on everything.  Luckily I have the day off tomorrow.  Have to take Passat in.  Again.  Always something with that bloody car.  Letting students go early, having them finish some Hemingway readings and start on their longer reaction to his work.  Rest of the semester planned and organized, for the most part.  Tired this morning, as I always am, but I’m waking more directly and with more gemness than earlier with that mocha.  Cold this morning, my car temp reader showing 47 degrees.  Hate the sound this office’s keyboard makes when keys are pressed, like hollow thin plastic, small and clerical.. I just hate it, plainly.  Behind on all projects.. the lit mag.. will be done tomorrow, I swear.. “Deadlines, Mikey…” Nate said the other day, when I told him I hadn’t finished editing down the issue.  Shameful, really.

9AM.  There it is.  That time.  I should get to class before the students, I can pick up this entry and edit– there, I edited the first few lines of the first article in the issue.  I feel anxious in this office, and I blame the office, and this campus, and the drive, not the mocha, and not me.  Tomorrow, all mine.  Going to wake early as I did the other morning and start grading the Wolff papers, and further planning the rest of the term.  December 17th, that’s the magic day, which is…  44 days away.  14 days, 1 month.  I can do it I keep telling mySelf.  Dav was right, I was doomed to get burned out.  Good thing I put in for the days off this week.  Going to do the same for next month, 12/2, 4 & 5.  And that should seal the semester sufficiently I think.  Going to class, giving them instruction, then leaving.  It’d be lovely if I could get this whoso issue to print tomorrow.  And why not?  Okay, done, scheduled, that’s what I’ll do.

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Late Punch-in

10/28/14–  5:37AM, couldn’t sleep, kept thinking about freelancing as a writer, or journalist, or diarist.  Woke about 25 mins ago and all I’ve been thinking about is how my interest in teaching, if you could call it that now, has suffered.  So what else to do, write, standalone to standalone.  And I start with the magazine, MY magazine, whoso, and the other pieces I send out.

Fridge doing its usual hum in the dark and I wait for Alice to wake up, around 6 or 6:15.  Not sure if I’m staying home today, even though I’ve pretty much assured that in yesterday’s entries.  Running today after Alice, it’ll be in the dark which I don’t particularly care for but I have no choice this time of year.  Should be healthy for me to get outside any zone of comfort and go out there and “get the story”, right?  As a journalist would do.  Already gathering material for the next issue, starting with that longer short “No Notice” and the Palooza piece.  That’s about six occupied pages of material right there.  Of course, last night I had one of those moments where I second-guessed the whole idea of the magazine.  No, not now, not at this point, I’m sick of me doing that.  Need a brief bio for this new lit mag I’m targeting as well as others that demand or expect the same from their writers– and just that, “their writers”, like we’re their property– but I can’t think like that, not now.

I love these early sessions.  And my battery eroded so I have to scoot to the other end of the couch, left, where the charger is, my wife’s.  Hear someone upstairs, turning and stirring.  Sounds like Jack but I can’t tell.  Can they hear the keys as I touch them?  Trying to be as quiet as I can.

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And wine, more

in the mind and on my cognitive conveyor than ever.  Not since I started blogging in 2009.  FIVE years ago.  And my approach to wine is still very much Literary but it’s about wine, journalism in wine and the novels and stories and short stories–vignettes and poems–in WINE.

10/27, Mendo office.  8:54AM.  And I’m noticing myself getting a little disorganized.  whoso will help with this.. oh!  I have to print the draft!  Here I go!

I did it!  I did it!  I printed a draft!  The magazine’s on its way and nothing will stop me or my fellow writers from being read!  I love the cover; simple, worded, no visual.  Not yet.  Just did a quick read through.. nice.  Finally I print!  And I used Mendo’s money to do so.  My revenge for the review, or just one facet of it.. this morning’s lecture, Hemingway, the first. We’ll start with some writing and–  I can’t concentrate!  All I want to do is write.  Thinking the next issue of whoso will be all prose, no poems.  Want some short stories, some essays, that Palooza piece, wine material.. this Saturday night will help.  I’ll only allow myself one beer and one glass of whatever wine’s opened at Blair’s house.  Need to get home and work, writing, editing, PRINTING!  And I will write a short piece while here, after class, print it for the colleagues at SRJC, just as a letter or communication but in fiction form.  Happening, all happening for me this morning.

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10/22/14

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?

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Over 3,000 words for the day, and I’m exhausted, but I still want to write.  And my writer friends, can only wonder what they’d say.  And my friends that teach like I do, all of them with FT jobs mind you, never having to worry about pouring for tourists, answering stupid questions about wine that they are convinced are so glowingly important– no sales goals, no threatening, no reprimanding, being treated like a wandering toddler with a gnat’s attention span– none of that.  I sit here, an adjunct, in a shared office, in a noose of malignity.  And I’m more or less prepared to meet with students, those that choose to show.  And my notebook is…

(7/30/14)
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25

7/15/14–

Next day, I’m up around 6:40-something. Sipping coffee, watching little Kerouac play, on this toy drum that talks back to him and encourages him to hit harder, make his own music which I like.  Last night, sleeping better than I have in some nights.. deep, composed, still and mentoring.  Jackie doesn’t like me typing, so this session has to be postposed.

 

“Owed…”

Didn’t want to come in early.  And I’m not.  I’m just in the parking lot, the “overflow” as they call it.  Part of me was afraid to come to the estate early– “the estate”, makes it sound so exalted, so mighty, but it’s not, it’s an ordinary workplace, just much prettier.  I look out at the Merlot and Chard blocks, see the tree to my immediate left, nearly touching the roof of this Passat.  It moves with the wind’s orders.  And I listen to my music, pretend I’m not here, or fully embrace it.  Have to apply to that job, the distance learning assignment through Klamath.  OH– and I need to call Solano.  Should do that now, or do it on their dime, while I should be working or setting up or counting some bloody register.  This novel will reveal everything, showing all the industry that writers won’t be quiet– and I mean REAL writers, not dim-witted and dopy-brained bloggers or wine journalists, or wine writers– yes, I know I titled my latest blog, which I started over 2 years ago, “another Literary wine blog by Mike Madigan”, but that’s just it.. ‘another’, meant to be sarcastic, satirical and spiteful, and ‘Literary’ meaning that it’s more important than the wine component, and not just from being capitalized.  The jazz, telling me to go to San Francisco, walk where the Beats did, live like them, continue the revolution, or social movement.. move, you have to move and be in constant movement to be part of a movement, don’t you?  The mocha, in fact all the coffee I’ve sipped this morning, making me uneasy, a bit touchy, or “punchy” as Dwight says of me when I’ve had too much, but I’m rolling with it.. this fiction, about the characters based in the TR and the ones visiting, sure to change it all, strip this guised industry of the fantasy, show how most Rooms are merely revolving doors, only interesting in the “bottom line”.  You could call it justified in the capitalist net, but I call it carnivorous opportunism.  And I’ve had it.  Now the coffee feel’s beginning to balance.  Much better.  Miles Davis with me, and the image of a dark room, trumpets, saxophones, drums, a young female vocalist riling me.  On a trip, to Manhattan, for my book, then down to Missouri to see my brother, Dav.. check in on his photojournalism, his studies, his latest works.  Now Sonny Rollins, I’m on the Road, visiting people I never thought I’d meet.  So I continue with the logging of everything I see, each corner, light, building, smell, concrete stain, bookstore, auto repair joint and tavern.  But I don’t drink, not a single thing, which is hard to believe for one formerly in wine’s wicked industry.  I have only the little pages in my back pocket…

 

See a young lady, sipping her coffee at the bus stop.  Part of me wants to go up to her, see her coy red lips, not too bright, up close, and examine the pattern of her white shirt, sleeves only going down to where shoulder meets bicep and tri, how her hairs like a thick caramel path to her upper back, partially exposed; I wonder what she does, she’s probably a singer, or maybe a student, why is she taking the bus?  Maybe that’s what they do in New York, no one has a car– I’ve heard that actually.

 

Alley.  I want to go down, but something tells me know– I mean ‘no’.  See?  Too much coffee…  I only see a lone dumpster, no litter on ground which is curious to me.  No people, no cars, just quiet, and the dead-end, like an atmospheric message saying ‘don’t bother, you won’t get far’.

 

9:11AM.  Should go in soon, or not.  Maybe I should leave early.  That would help me, and that’s all I’m concerned with at the moment; the page, the characters, the story, my novel.  A former student, ‘A’, experiencing fiery betrayal from a loved one; I tell her it’ll get better, but I understand pain, the two-faced reptiles that hive and enter our lives.  And I think about what I wrote her, mostly questions– she, a grad student; me, envious.  But I’ll be on the Road soon, maybe visiting her, in Portland, or wherever in Oregon she is.  A little hot in this car so I roll down both windows, but no crossing breeze greets me– there it is.  How will I look back at my position here, at the winery?  Will I wish for it one day, regretting my resentment?  I don’t think so.  I’m 35 and know what I want– or more, I know who and WHAT I am.  Novelist, poet.. with maybe a short-short and/or vignette in between.  I heard a weed whacker, or lawn mowers, and it intrudes on Arturo Sandoval’s playing.  Goddamnit.  “Shut up!” I want to scream, and hope someone hears me.  Maybe I’d be fired.  Huh…

9:17.  And the fucking countdown.  One of my coworkers just pulled in; Karen, in her red mini.  She has the same expression on her face that I held driving in, before I started writing: “And again…” I don’t blame her.  Why else would I be writing, wishing for a Road, wishing for visits, those Manhattan sights, the Portland micro-breweries.  Don’t think I’ll make a thousand or maybe I will, but I can’t edit a single thing– this does this to me, the schedule, the clock and how it’s always threatening; you don’t clock in you’ll be written up, you won’t make enough, you.. you.. you…..  How is that a Life?  Well, plainly, it’s not.  Certainly not Art.  I want more coffee, the most jurassic I can find; I want seismic coffee, that makes me rattle and results in internal tsunami.  Love.  that’s art– the push of Self.  Oh, jazz…  Kerouac…. poetry and Life and escape and Big Sur and the Bay Area, where I grew up.  I see my whole life and I’m not dying.  I’m just coming alive in a way that was drawn, that Grandma promised.

***

9:25PM.  Sipping the 2012 Malbec.  I know, I should have waited, but I didn’t want to, and I have no regrets.  Yes, it’s muffled, but I don’t want to think, I want to enjoy what I drink.  Nice class tonight– oh, need to post to blog, almost forgot.  I’ll do that after this little paragraph.  In full teacher mode, especially with the possibility of landing a Comp section at Mendocino, for Fall.  Couldn’t be more excited.  This weekend, my writer’s retreat, and I’ll write the whole time.  No Gatsby nights, as I used to.  Total isolation.. printing.. wine.. relaxing…  Jazz.  I want it to be one of those sittings where I remove all clutter from this kitchen nook table, maybe setting it on floor or on one of these teetering wooden cheap chairs, then having one of my favorite bands or artists play what gives them life, then giving me life, finishing my novel.. and the wine, only an additive.  Not really needed at all, just pleasant to sip in quiet, my peace, my place, my night.  Little Kerouac asleep upstairs, and I envy his peace, his optimism and joy and movement, how does he do that?  My notes from tonight’s class, just ruin, and what do I do tomorrow night to keep them interested?  How do I keep it “fresh”, whatever that means?  There has to be some teacher magic or resource, or “method” (hate that word when talking of teaching, sounding so clinical)–  But who knows.  And if I was traveling, how would I have time to teach?  It’s just what I’d rather do.  I do love it, but not as much as the reality of living by pen–  PEN, not laptop, which is what I now touch, these fucking keys and the noises they make, like little plastic giggles reminding me of what a bloody hypocrite I am.. no, I’m not a man of consistency, but one of layered pattern and myriad mess, failed test, just more unrest.

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note, 7/5/14

Coffee, now shower.  Thinking about that measly check from yesterday.  I’m going there today with a predator mood.  I want blood.  I need it.  I’m the orangutan.  They, my rue.  Making it known today, I’m moving on– mentally at first, then tangibly second.  What is that wage going to do for my family?  It’s not my Beat, that’s for sure.  So much time of my life, and for what?  My hangover, not tearing at me too tyrannically at the moment.  Glad I switched over to water last night before bed.  Mocha, now, just at right, reassuring me it’ll be a good day.  Hope it’s right.  Keep saying to myself, ‘my Beat, my Beat’…  And what it is.  Thought I figured it out at the end of Spring semester.  Think now– or realize now that I’m just starting to put pieces together.

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TWELVE

And an offer.  $15 per hour.  IS that what I’m worth?  I’m fed up, and I can’t take anymore of the dismissal, and the reduction, and the interviews, and the applying.. I’m hiring mySelf, and I’ve said that before, but I’m changing, tonight, doing what I want, curing mySelf of this regularity and boredom.  Would have another beer, but I’m saving it for another time, for the Road.. may write at 3rd Street tomorrow, or somewhere else I can observe characters, other lives, and just record.. indulge in whatever, whomever I want.  The objective: escape.. through fiction.  Have to wake early tomorrow, start more than early on something.. anything.. not necessarily project focused, but more on the process, the writing.. the characters.  Will I run as I aimed?  I doubt it, as tonight I’m too very much fixated on the writing.  I can run another day, but if I don’t make progress on a MS tomorrow, then that potential advance will be lost.  So the pages deserve more attentions, immediate attention.. MORE immediate attention and address.  I don’t want to die never having seen the Road.  That would be defeat, that would be failure, and I won’t be a failed writer, I’m not a failed writer, and I never will be.

 

And the location, any location, any setting, a scene and character to itself: a subject, something for standalone submission, to my own publishing company.  You should read this offer letter, it’s humorous.. but I won’t go on about it.  I’m already bored, after being insulted.  $15 an hour, me.. wow, thanks.  Already know where I’m going tomorrow to write, to plan tomorrow night’s lecture.  And poems.  What if I surprise mySelf, over lunch, a couple afternoon beers, finally get what I want.. in one day!  It can happen, right?  I’m fed up, completely, utterly.. I don’t need another entity, 2B FREE!  Time for some sparkling water, sip it slow, hydrate, percolate…

IMG_0696

Drinking this sparkling lemon water like it’s scotch.  I don’t drink scotch.  I never have– well, that’s not completely true.. I had some at that 2006 wedding, my sister-in-law’s, in Virginia.  I hated it, the scotch.. like hell vintage elbowing and clawing its way through my orbit.  Tomorrow, I’m writing in the Comp Book, and I’ll sip like I’m on the Road, at whatever pub or bar or restaurant I find mySelf at.  And I’m going there, wherever ‘there’ is, for material.. to add to the book, the next one, after the poetry chap.  Adding more money to the petty cash.. what I’ll use for my chapbooks.  What’s in Schwab is for MY wine label.  At least that’s the now-plan…

I haven’t given up on wine, nor am I dismissing it, but everything has to be on MY terms.. everything.. even the quick stills I snap at the estate…

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8:45PM…

Check in.  Made a fair amount of grats today.  Will count publishing stash, and the novel will certainly have decent subsidization from the poetry vending.  Sipping an ’11 Chard from my sister’s winery, then moving to a ’10 Rockpile Red blend from her op’ as well.  Today was a fight, right from the launch, but smoothed with the mountaintop guests, the views, and the strange winds which I thought would be uncomfortable but only eased me, allowed me to meditate while holding dialogues with visitors.

This Chardonnay, forcing me to see what my sister has done with her career, and what I’m about to do with my writing aims, efforts and leaps.  I’m a falcon, or some type of hawk, not necessarily hunting, just enjoying the wind keeping me aloft, with these views, above all troubles and angst.  Another sip, hardly any oak override.. more of a harmony shove through levels of sensory shades.  This is just what keeps a writer of my gallop quite motioned.  Tomorrow I’ll be running after work, as the ‘half’ is a week from tomorrow, exactly, up in Windsor.

11:03, and the night’s cap has been mustered, a glass of the ’10 Rockpile.  I can only laugh at what earlier stressed me.  Do I jolly as Poe, no.  But certain method to be soon implored will mirror his illustrative ilk.  About to count publishing stash, and I find myself more eased, rational, level than I’ve been in some time.  She would compliment me, as she won’t let her office frustrate or shake her.  She has her sight on the wine, her wine.  And I sip this thinking of her, how she’d react to it, and she’d do so without showing how much she knows, or how much she’s recently learned from her studies, her research, and what bottles she’s bought to deconstruct, searching for “notes”, as she notes.  With this Rockpile Red, she enjoys the depth of current in the wine’s way, but think the impression, the impact, is a bit much.  It’s a Bordeaux blend, from a hearty AVA, so that’s to be known, or expected, but that’s not what she wants.  And no, she doesn’t seek to make feminine or gentle wine, she wants to provide bottles with an artistic feel to them, a certain painted grace about how they bow to sippers’ senses.  She walks to the kitchen, sips again…  Too much oak, she writes.  But that could be from this as her third glass.  She’s focused, she’s intent, she’s serious.  She WILL get out of that office and make her own wine, sell it.  She’ll pour her bottles and sell it and speak of it how she wants, not how They want her to.  It’s wine, she tells herself, looking over some oenology website’s article, stating how Cabernet should taste.. then Chardonnay, then Carignane, then Sangiovese.  She hates that.. ‘how it SHOULD taste’, what it SHOULD express, or deliver.  Wine isn’t that.. it’s supposed to be expressive, Art, something for someone to sip and channel through which one making wine can relay his or HER belief in what comes from the vineyard, the vintage, varietal.  It’s voice.. concerted code to sip.

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4/21–  Especially tired today.  Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning.  Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students.  Sending them to library…  Need nap before Fountaingrove hills.  Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously.  I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.

Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday.  Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.

12:35PM.  In library.  Students looking for topics, researching.  I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think.  Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length.  What the author could really use: a nap.  All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching.  And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was–  Too long ago, once in graduate school.  And here I am, exiled in the library.  Hungry, but ignoring those impulses.  Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left.  The novel, my novel… under some type of construction.  So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap.  But what if I didn’t?  What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them.  I mean how else will the novel finish?

Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story..  Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’  There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life..  You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library.  But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor.  Am I talking reinvention?  Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation.  A “new era” for me, indeed.  One of the page, constant typing, writing…

Those students in the study room, doing anything but study.  Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.

Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’.  I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time.  Here and there.  Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording.  The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”.  My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention…  POETRY…  BOOKS…  revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight.  Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil.  And they can be defeated by Us, small presses.  And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life.  What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed.  8 days, one month, till 35.  THIRTY.  FIVE.  Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”.  Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false.  Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”.  And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation.  Who do you think you are, fool, devil?

1:13PM.  Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital.  Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs.  The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet.  But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet.  Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here.  Ready for lunch, some sustenance.  And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor.  The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.

Not submitting from here.  Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap.  Then, ready Self for run up hills.  Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking.  Need to enjoy that same course more frequently.  And now, I make the leave.  Should count Self-publishing funds once home.  I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do.  So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish.  I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago.  But in these new chapters, it stops.  And I finally can begin.

8:14PM…  As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today.  No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back.  So 4.5 total miles.  I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters.  I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions.  Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer.  I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible.  And I start with this poetry collection.  One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’.  But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration.  And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?

Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced.  My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era.  I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely.  That would be the reason this writer still sips.  I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel.  Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self.  I only need approval from myself.  And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners..  I’m fanatical, extremist, militant.  Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.

The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.

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