Not sure how I’m doing with the project, to be honest. Hard to find time, between Little Jack, work, life, to write, focus. Think what I need to do is wake up earlier. Budget a solid hour of writing into my day before the “day” actually lifts off. Also, all alcohol must be all but eradicated from consumption patterns. Caffeine, only. Have my morning fuel in cue, on timer. My alarm, set for 8:40am. Going to readjust to 7:30. And tomorrow, at lunch, no food. Typing, instead. 30 minutes. So there’s a solid 90 minutes of marketable project contribution that no one can interrupt, dispute, or at any level tarnish. One of my goals as a writer has always been to relay to readers how serious I am with my pages, my sessions. This, these new circumstances and subsequent habits aforementioned, should stand as inarguable submission, highlighting my seriousness to such scribed subscription. Extreme Art dogma.
Why am I so stubborn? I’m not stubborn. More like convinced, assured this is what I’m to do. Just write. And frankly, I don’t have to answer “why,” ever. Hear speeding cars out on Yulupa. Symbols, my momentum, my pages. Wrote all day in the Comp Book, and still managed to sell over $4,000 in wine. One of colleagues once called me “a machine.” I appreciate the endearment, but there’s nothing robotic or mechanical about an author. At least not like me. I’m an animal. A meanderingly elusive Leopard, on my own rhythm.
Wrote a lot today about travel, how I want to see other Here’s before I’m too old. And I want this writing to buy my plane tickets. Or bus tickets. I want other views. Inside this country and further. Want to write about traveling, and then write about something that has nothing to do with my travels but using the trip itself as my capital impulsion. Make sense? Want to be connected to roads, flights. The nailed vitality, hardly living. It’s death, at least to me. And I’m not ready to be still.
Writing my way to something that will pay for me to do the kind of writing I dream of, the writing that promises to actualize fantasy. Make sense? “Why do you think of it that way?” I can just hear someone ask.