As soon as I walked into the office this morning, and I arrived earlier than I ever have, John Updike popped into my head. How he committed himSelf to 3 page a day. That’s what pushed me, fueled me to finish the standalone short fiction I wrote at lunch, by hand. Pen to paper. End of the day, here at home. In no mood to write. Only typing trash. Is a writer supposed to stop writing if he wants to write but knows quite well he won’t produce anything worthy of eyes, interpretation. But I’m selfish, I want to write. And I think readers will enjoy time with this page. Selfish. Incredibly.
Tomorrow, Thursday. Two days from a full day to me. Updike spent each day as a writer. A “full-time” writer, as the article I read this morning read. Watching “Capote” again, hoping it’ll push me closer to my ‘In Cold Blood’. Need to compile notes, notebooks. That’ll be the next book. This first one, rushed. Quick. True consciousness fall. I can make promise on top of promise, but they’ll still only be promises. Just need to write, print, submit. Tomorrow, book focus. And these standalone’s, I’ll put them somewhere. A collection. Don’t think I’ll send them off singularly, as that won’t pay much. I need to sell full manuscripts. Why build a shack when you can build a castle?
Another head butt with technology. The internet isn’t working here in the condo, so I have to wait till tomorrow to post to the blog. This routine, getting older than old. bottledaux, the last Literary blog. Books only, genesis in ink, sheets. Going to leave this little buttoned monster at home again, tomorrow. Want more real writing. In this movie, Capote is seen writing notes, going over them, though them with his pen’s point, only later to even touch a typewriter. And, as I wrote in mikeslognoblog, no texting, tweeting, facebooking. A much simpler, more dignified time. Certainly one more Literary, Artistic and Human, Humane. See? I feel incomplete not being able to post to my fashionable blog. All I should be concerned with is printing. And even that involves tech. Inescapable.
Almost time for bed, for my favorite sitting. Under covers, with my “legal” sheets. Or my Antilegal sheets, since they’re mine, written by Mike Madigan. Just wrote a list of places, projects, to where my writing goes. Have 7 so far. Going to keep this list, never lose or misplace it. #1 on the list, this very publication, scribbled by the Bottled Ox. 3, my first book. 7, the “MasterBOOK,” the one that’ll precisely mimic Mr. Capote’s habits in Literary fruition. Getting tired of that word, “fruition.” Would look up a synonym, but my blood internet is a crashed plane in a remote part of the jungle. I do have that Thesaurus in the closet. Hold on… “Ripeness.” Approved. Hopefully Mr. Updike would approve. But I don’t always write fiction. IS that a problem if I blend fiction and non, random writings, journal entries for book’s sake, books’ sakes?
1/25/12, Wednesday (Didn’t misspell the day, this time)
entry, 1/26/12, Thursday
Tonight, tired. Won’t be typing much, other than I wanted to convey my recent investigation into Self-publishing vs. conventional. Far too much to go over now. But, concisely, Self-publishing is the ONLY way for writers true to themselves. And I’ll continue to compare this to indi winemakers vs. those at bigger, more corporate bottle houses. Corporate winemakers have to run their samples by a panel of palates, in most cases. Sovereign oeno-wizards have only themselves to test their work. They have the final say. Which, yes, makes it more difficult, risky, in many respects. But, the Autonomy is priceless. So is such with me, these sheets.
Thought it might rain today, but no. On my lunch break, went to an office supply store, bought some drawing materials. Yes, it was a bit spontaneous, and yes I’m going to return them. That didn’t last long. But it taught me something: I already have everything I need for artistic autonomy, if I really want to draw, be illustrative. Artistic. Here, with these words, in my entries. There’s art here, I hope. The sketch pad, like Kelly’s, and the colored pencils still collectively rest in a plastic bag on the dried leaf-littered floor of my car, passenger side. Just thought about it while in the office, and decided I was going to do it, buy gear for creating something to place in gallery. But, that’s all it was, impetuousness.
Internet mystery, fixed. Can upload to blog, more words to a screen. How Literary. Sorry, should take such terrible tone. But, it’s not a book, this log, these bottled auxiliaries. Yes, they are words, my words, moments. But there’s no page turning. Tomorrow, all writing, at the café. No lunch. The whole hour, type, write. Pages. Standalone sheets, for a near book. Friday, tomorrow. Looking forward to Saturday’s hours, writing in the coffee house on my block. No rush, imagine that. In my head, New York. Hopefully on a flight, with peanuts and cheap Chardonnay. Soon. Writing the whole 5, 5 and a half, hours. Thinking, with all this stress on art, 1Stop may be stopped.