Tuesday. Finished a standalone piece. 600 words of fiction about one of my preferred characters. Feeling entirely Literary today. Creatively careless. Clocked out at 12:44p, I think. Sipping mocha2, no surprise. Don’t really feel last night’s run, may have to put Self on another after work. Then, still. A little girl, probably 2 years old, with her dad, at table to right. She plays with his cell phone. I look at her and am reminded of time, how indiscriminately speedy it is. As she dives into a fit, he strolls her out the door. Even still, how did I get from that age to this one? What happened? Where did it go? Where did I go?
Still devoted to the book, just not working on it now. Events of the morning shaped my scope for shorter works. Now, I have three written in ’12 that I could submit. Working on some wine-grounded things outside the page that I’ll disclose later. But, know, there are changes coming. Ones that’ll find their way to a page, pages. Books. Or shorts.
The Roasting Company, nearly empty now. A young man and woman sit in my usual seat, which is fine. I’m by the stairs, Napa’s main intersection, the view of, at right. So much traffic this afternoon. This morning’s fog, promising, optically musical. Wish I could have just pulled over, called into the the office, and wrote. Just ink, page. No laptop. The buttons wouldn’t have paired with what I saw in Carneros. Such visible dampness begs a brush, canvas. Not a device.
Need a glass of wine, soon. Miss the entity of wine, how it gravitates on tongue, provokes imagination, especially for me as a writer. Getting tired. Would love a nap right now. Or, to just go home and write. I could stay here, right? Just counting down time left for me. Hate that. You know what, I’m just going back early. Bandaid philosophy…