Rain, holding to streets, lightly. With a nightcap, an IPA from Oregon. About to print tonight’s 3 pages for book. Can’t get the first 3 from my head. I see this book getting published. Yes, it bothers me that I need someone to publish it, that I need permission to be a writer. But, like Pac said, “…You have to work from one point to go to another…” I can be a sovereign scribe and still be subsidized. How? I won’t agree to anything that compromises the intended voice of my work. If an editor makes adjustments, and I don’t agree, they don’t go to press. And, I would never sign a contract surrendering a say in my work’s finalization, or the processes beforehand.
Watching Mr. Shakur right now, in “Resurrection.” He didn’t flinch, ever. My character needs such. That’s what these late PM drops order. Tomorrow, no mocha. If it’s caffeine I’m after when cubed, scribbling notes, I need the most furious of cups. Blacker than black. “My girlfriend, blacker than the darkest night…”
Managed to finish a verse at the end of my Lit Lunch. No upload to 1Stop tonight. Not in the mood, frankly. It’s my wine business, as you may be aware, and if I’m not in the mood, and I’m not getting paid, I don’t have to touch a single key on this monster. No writing for free; such thought, intensifying. I have bills, obligations, as much as I’d love to disregard them at times. They’re there, and life is more than sententious. Not one simply writing; I’m writing to make a living. One comfortable, relaxed. See so many artists that know they should be getting paid for their Craft, who would never offer a single stroke gratis. So now walketh I. Those wanting me to freewrite for free: ungodly, devilishly wicked. He would agree. If he were here, he’d holler, ‘cause he’d hear me. Sip, sip …
[1/19/12 – Th]