Like a mix tape’s tracks often have no titles, I’m going ignore the whole notion of labeling my lines, paragraphs. At least for this track. Just want to intoxicate mySelf with the process. Coffee cuing downstairs. Just realized, haven’t kept a count of my words lately (word count log). One part of me finds the whole thing stupid, while the other sees it healthy to know what you’ve done everyday. And mySelf, not sure what has more reason. Just know I need to keep writing. Putting more writing into the chapbook. And when I reach the desired page count, I’m done. No more back-and-forth. You can see where that’s pigeon-holed this writer.
Sun beaming through the blinds, right into my still-Cabernet-coated eyes. Giving me Cabernet cornea. Wanted a mocha, but after reading that interview yesterday, with my writer buddy, how he home-brews his coffee, writes, breaks for lunch at 12p, then skips in-and-out of his projects the rest of the day, made me think I too need to start with a pot brewed in-base. Nothing from the coffee brothel, spending valuable change I’d be better shoving into a publication.
8:47am. Page target reached. Didn’t take long, thanks to all that writing I did during those Literary Lunches. I do miss those. 1 solid hour to ME. “Jam session,” paginated, all inhibitions evaporated. Didn’t have to share it with anyone. Anyway, I’m somewhat taken aback–hate that phrases… I’m altogether ‘deliciously discomfited’ with how many pages I pushed out in those wooden chairs. Should have written more poetry, verse while there. Speaking of rhymes, mixtapes, music, going to pour my 1st cup, then scurry to pen & paper, start the next chapter book. Think it may be all poetry pieces, some prose entries. I want my writing to be looked at as different, completely unlike the norm, what a reader would deem “marketable,” or salable. My author friend also advised that, to other writers, to forcefully write from you, your experience, not what’s trending, or what will be “Accepted” by some pig publisher. I’ll be honest, that interview was just what I needed, yesterday and probably for my life’s remaining beats. Publishers are killing their own industry, which is fantastic for us self-imprinters, we Self-subsidized scribes.
Coffee by side, the sun still screeching into my vision. Suddenly feel an almost painful call to pen some poetry. Comp Book open, right under my elbows. First sip… Asomatous. Added a little mocha mix, as I always miss my morning mochas. I really miss the Roasting Company, Napa’s downtown temple for we extreme Artists. Was just looking down at yesterday’s notes. Interesting structure. Like prose voice with poem shell. Wrote it rushed, which I like, and it probably helped, but I’m intrigued, strangely. What should I do with this piece? Should I type it, put it in chapbook2? One line, “…a toxin-lined standalone–protruding poem.”
Turning to blank page. Ready for rime writing. Love this part in MY routine. Blank page, you don’t scare me. Caffeine molecule confederacy in cup, my Composition coalition. This writer, writing from radicalism, never stopping. Manuscript mergers, transfusions–ENDLESS.
sip
scribble
fill page
still age
[3/9/12, Friday]