12:58p.  Left office at 12:47.  Just now sitting to write, as I was confronted with stalls.  But here I am.  Read through the first three pages of my book at my desk.  Not as bad as I was expecting.  In fact, the prose’s consistency and thematic progression is surprisingly engaging.  My mocha, in a pint glass.  Hot, like it wants to be heard, seen, like it’s angry that it deserves more attention.

Quite a few cubeNOTES scribbled.  My thoughts this morning, till now, tidal waves of sight.  Like my visions multiply, promising proximal tangibility.  At the back table.  Think this may be my new favorite writing spot in the café.  A young woman sits, sips in my usual seat.  She types on her laptop, but not at a pace which indicates anything Creative, reflectively Literary.  More like the composition of an email.  I could be wrong, though, as I often am.

The Cabernet, still on concentration’s operating table.  Know just how I would market it, if I was to sell.  Not this first vintage.  Shame, as it tasted sovereignly sculpted to my palate, the particular palates of Mom and Dad.  Tonight, printing three more pages.  Have a drop-dead due date for my ms: 3/19/12, exactly two months from today.  Will keep this promise, as I did the countdown at the end of mikeslognoblog, and as I fantasize about receive acceptance from a publisher.  Yes, I boast as a Self-publishing writer.  And I am.  But, this first book I want to disseminate and market traditionally.  Going to prove to my Self that my writing’s at such a level.  Going to show everyone the same.  Want to see it on shelves, do signings, TRAVEL.  Write while I travel.

That winemaker I met on Tuesday, his words, following me, my scribbles, following me to this small wooden chair, here by the bean bar.  He went ahead and did all his way.  Took tremendous risks that paid, brought what he envisioned.  Fruitful fruition.  Now, he travels with his bottled projects.  His stories.  I’m not far behind.  I’ve written too much, far too much to be stationary, for all my pages to just be stored on some “doc,” or shoved into that plastic container in the closet, under far reaches of work shirts.

1:12p.  35 minutes.  Is that right?  Typing fast, so math’s a bit strenuous.  It’s difficult when I’m relaxed, still.  Haven’t touched the spoken word yet, today.  For when I’m back at the desk, between tasks.  May have found a couple readings, casual open mics of interest, here in Napa.  But, my exhaustive ridiculous commute, how it squeezes my time like morning oranges, has me wondering if that’d be optimal time use.  Of course it would, it’s Literary.  Time, just passing, but these entries, shorter works (yes, that includes my novel, as it won’t be some trashy Twilight book-length effort, an aircraft carrier or tanker’s anchor of paper).  Brevity, where wit sits.  Is at my table, or that girl’s, over there?  Now I’m certain she’s not a writer, as she’s mousing around some site, with her left index finger skating around.  Am I a writer?  How do I know?  I don’t have a book out.

But I will.

[1/19/12 – Th]