Thinking I’m going to use the biz stash to pay down what little debt I have.  Writing, at least mine, doesn’t require funding.  Pen, paper.  That’s all I need.  My “overhead.” It’d be responsible to put this accumulated cash, that’s doing absolutely nothing where it is, on my small card balance.  To reward Self for the act… Haven’t decided yet.  Maybe some iTunes money, for some new songs.  But even that, what would it do for me, really?  Well, that’s kind of a silly probe.  It doesn’t have to “do” anything.  I enjoy music, study its word content, enjoy those Wine Bar beats when I write, so maybe I should.  Beautiful outside, I see through blinds.  Off to run errand.

Mike returned from his tasks, saw his desk, its barren medieval frigidity.  He wanted it to look busier, but had no idea how.  He was close to the end of his most recent book project, or “idea” as he had it deemed, but didn’t want it finished.  The thought of no more writing on his character, Kelly, horrified him.  That, and he was bored of the project.  Not her, just the project.

I halt in the entry, the project, because there’s nothing there.  I’ve said before, Kelly deserves better.  I try to start over…

Mike sat at his desk, exhausted from self-inflicted appointment hopping around Santa Rosa.  He wanted only to be busy with the writing.  Not really with the blog, but with that book, the one about her.  What would he do with her, if or when he finished the book.  And it was an ‘or when’, not an ‘and when’.  He wrote: “She painted then stopped, painted faster to slow her sight and shade, on canvas.  She tore the last attempt.  She wouldn’t, this blank piece.  The blankness faded into her vision, kaleidoscopically captioned.”

His phone rang.  A text.  Work.  “Please have your report ready when you get in tomorrow. firt thing..” He’d had it with their demands, their expectation, their excessive projections for him.  How could he cross that line, he again wondered.  Into Autonomy.  Into Art.  Full-time, Creating.

“Where are you gonna be tomorrow night?” Elyse asked, leaning into the already impressioned cushion

“Cloistered in some office in Sausalito, meeting with a client,” Kelly said, looking into her coffee, thinking it was coagulated somehow.

“What is it?”

“My coffee tastes funny.  Anyway, yeah, in a meeting.”

Mike stopped.  He didn’t know where this was going.  Maybe he needed to brainstorm, more, on his character.  How would he start?  With wine, of course.  The most bullish Cabernet he could find in his stash.  He pulled the cork like solution was inside the bottle.  A novel was there, glass 1 through 4.  First glass, nearly heaping.  He imagined her on a shelf, somewhere.  His name on cover.  “a novel […] by mike madigan”.  Yes, he would have it lowercase.  Looked more Literary.  To him.  Second glass, he wondered how he finished the first so speedily.  He returned to the keyboard, knowing it wouldn’t be novelty.

As she drove, possibility’s fit flurried linearly about her whirl.