Thinking of artistic independence, the same way a winemaker would their own Autonomy.  What should I do?  And I need to come to a serious decision.  One final, resolute.  This web log, journal, one approach.  Perhaps THE path for page profit.  Currently, there is no surplus for shotgunning several submissions.  But, I’m quite sure, I need to send out sample chapters.  I should, just to see what results.

Just put some entries from mikeslognoblog into the book.  At 64k+ words.  Won’t go an inch past 80.  Or 75.  Who would read that much of my writing, I have to ask.  I’ll put in 80, edit and blend down from there.  Beautiful day, looking out the windows of my parents’ house.  Never written like this here before.  Love the light, the shot of that hill, thick expanse of the trees, upward.  That little red barn over there.  This scene beckons poetry more than prose, I feel.  Feeling quite bardic…  Something to recite on stage.  Something to market, sell.  And after realizing the thin twinge of my budget, that IS what’s priority.  We, as artists, want to subsist from our work, don’t we?  Is that wrong?  Couldn’t be.

So what do I do with all these hand-written journals?  Have to go through them, soon.  Time, racing past my moments like I have no clock.  Focusing on Paris, drives on roads never seen by me.  Stopping for pictures, quick scribbles.  What I need, as a writer and Human, is travel.  And, yes I’ll use the word, ‘adventure’.  Of some kind.  My definition of Life.  Motion.  Tasty continuations…  Holding onto that image of me, on a layover somewhere, or right after an appearance sponsored by my writings, at the desk in my hotel Room.  Just sipping some Cabernet, or Pinot, writing.  Would have to be pen, paper.  Want to see more ink.  So I open the Comp Book.

“Five Literary Lunches in a row.  Where’s the book?  What is this adding up to?”

Good question.  Where is my book?  Tired of writing about that.  Think I need a drive.  But that costs money.  Gas.  Item 1 on budget list, the new one.  Boring.  Looking up resorts in Ibiza, online.  Imagine the writing that would come from sitting on one of these verandas.  Looking though this journal, the Comp Book, I have to wonder how time passes without me having a chance to appreciate moments I’ve recorded.  Yes, I wrote them down, so I guess that qualifies for appreciation of some degree.  But, my point is, they’re gone, only existent on these lines.  Then I write about something else, forgetting the prior.  Guess it’s unavoidable.  Need a drive.  I’ll worry about the expense later.  Responsible?  Don’t care.  I want sky, road, empty vines; A written winter.

Giving Self till 2p.  Pictures, those could help.  No tasting, though.  Want to be fully focused.  But do I want to leave?  This music, this view of the hill, houses on canyon’s opposite side, telling me to give this scene more time.  I have to disagree, frankly.  Maybe I just need a break.  The consciousness stream, exhausting itself.  More caffeine, or lunch?  What would nurture a delicious delineation?

Just added some more old typed entries to book project.  Over 70k words.  And I stop.  No more cutting, pasting.  That’s not writing, anything even despondently Literary.  Only pulling from these written logs, if I need pull at all.  May already have a best seller on that “BOOKNeW” doc.

1/7/2012, Saturday