interest in creatively sovereign whims

This morning, rain, wind.  Time, 8:30a.  Me, with coffee, session’d.  Staying home from work, just to keep an eye on Mr. Kerouac.  He’s fine, no worry need.  Just want to be sure.  My heart, a bit wounded from the hold on project1 (chapbook), but I’ll keep writing.  I don’t think any of the “bloggers” that had their writing turned into books self-published anything, much less a chapbook, and they did fine, are doing…  But, that could be part of my “branding,” as it were, all the more justification for why I should go forward with it, even if the first run is 10 copies.  So what?  I did it.

Last night, started writing right when the rain began its knocks.  Now, its album is fully in play.  What do I want from this day off?  A healthy, happy Jack.  Then, writing.  3 standalone’s.  Kelly, with her decorated glasses, other art, doing more than well.  No sense trying to catch her.  And I shouldn’t think comparatively.  Ever.  Her audience is visual, where mine is dying.  People don’t read as they used to.  I could be fighting a losing “campaign” [hate that word, from the box].  Then I’ll stop fighting.  But I won’t stop writing.  If anything, I’ll write for me.  I’ll be my audience, I’ll read my work, be my devout bibliomaniac; a sturdy scholar of my own scribbles.  So what?

Need to renew my Poets&Writers subscription, just remembered.  Wonder if I can do that online…  On my desk, an issue of a magazine called “Fast Company.” Never bought this magazine before, but did about a month ago.  And I did because Martin Scorsese’s on the cover, with the heading “How to Lead a CREATIVE LIFE” imprinted over his presence.  In reading, I saw that Mr. Scorsese is often concerned about what his “bosses” will think of his work, and ideas.  This repulses me.  Why?  An artist of his magnitude, reputation, record, should have NO “bosses.” Ever.  If anyone’s earned autonomy, it’s him.  The article relays, “Will his bosses like what he’s doing? Will they give him another chance on another project? How much of his creative vision will get into this project? How much will the powers that be screw with his vision? When does he say ‘no’ to them? When does he say ‘yes’?…And how in the world is he going to get away with doing the work he loves for his whole life?” When I read these questions, I had to ask the same of Self.  Except, I refuse the existence of bosses, when it comes to anything, especially my Creativity.  I deny Them the right to speak, breath, step.  They are categorically, empirically, definitively voided.  So, I continue to create, WRITE.  My way.  I just read through the article again, really growing from Marty’s perspective on film, Art, and Creative subsistence.

Thinking this “blog,” its tie to wine, may have something I didn’t before see.  Won’t state what I’m realizing, but I’ll let it lead for a while, see what it may gift.  Me, this idea, on our own cavalcade.  To a street on Île Saint Louis.  To a café, with music like this [“Small Town” by Morcheeba].  So I can write more.

Back.  9:09am.  Wrote something quick for the other blog, the one I was set on assassinating.  So glad I didn’t, again.  Want to build it as my Wine Business.  Interactive, fun, educational.  Mom had a couple ideas for 1StopWineBlogShop that I’m definitely going to develop.  Have one customer in my database, a family friend, one of Mom’s closest’s, a lady who’s know me since the day of my reality landing.  Probably the single sweetest woman I know, aside from my mother.  Oh, and this database, not much of a database at all.  More like a single sheet of paper with the customer’s name on it.  Have to laugh.  And don’t most businesses start that way, anyway?  The whole “bare bones” appreciation…

Rain, still in stride.  Need more coffee.  My brain, more active than its been in days.  I would die if I stopped writing now.  I mean typing.  Wonder if the vineyards are as excited as I am with the arrival of this downpour.  The Wine Bar beats order me to relax.  Actually, they urge me to listen, type slower.  “Don’t try and keep pace with or catch up to your thinking, you’ll only counterproductively tire yourSelf,” I feel like it’s saying.

Going to buy that ink cartridge today.  Going to reprint the first twenty pages or so of the ms.  That’s where the fading begins to impede readability, from pg. 20-1, as it prints backwards.  Yes, forward with the chapbook, its anchoring piece, an untitled novella (17,000+ words).  Still unbelievably thankful for those Literary Lunches, how I isolated my Self from coworkers.  That’s what writers do.  Or, that’s why I do, did.

Recess.  Coffee pour, pours …

9:34am.  My fiction pieces, the Kelly writings…  Need to address some of those, maybe put them into a larger work, one continuous but not against my erratic moment-focused style.

And the music was right, I’ve tired mySelf.  With this off day, monitoring the mini-professor, I should try to fit in a movie.  Should I upgrade my Pandora, so there’s no commercials?  No, Mike.  Watch you overhead, PUBLISHER.  Need to have a fixed budget…  How about what I have in the stash right now?  Let’s count…  $170.  Have a 20 in my wallet.  Throwing that into the stash.  Done.  $190 to start a publishing/writing life.  Good luck, right?  That’s all I can afford.  Any lose change I can find, will be spent as necessary, not exactly thrown into this pot.  Putting the rubber band back around the folded notes.  Back into bag’s pocket.  Actually, I should throw it into one of those writing containers in the closet, the smaller thin one.  Done.  Need new biz card, a printing cartridge, to start.  Circles, scribbling, me…

The coffee’s really talking to me.  Should probably slow it down.  Jack’s mom offered to get me a mocha on her way back from errands, but I have to pass.  No more caffeine for the writer.  And I just noticed this writing’s become quite boring.  Sorry, readers (which includes my Self).  Breaking … But not before I cross 1,000.  So am I simply writing for the word count, when before I’ve decried such?  Yes.  Am I multidimensional, or just a bloody hypocrite?  Latter, obviously.  The rain, telling me to type faster, to match its decent.  I tell it, “I have no boss.  Answer to me, solely.  Go bark at someone else.” (9:40am)

Off to ink, paper, with this rain.  (3/13/12 — 10:47am)