7:03am. Potential novel pages, everywhere it seems. And I have to be honest, I’m getting real sick of thinking what I COULD do with them. And I know I always say that, too. Blame it on the blog, this immediacy. For now. Yawning, here atop sheets. Today, Saturday. My Thursday. Getting confused. Glad I’m getting my 300-500 done now [assuming little Kerouac doesn’t wake] so I can print some pages before I flee for tasting Room. Another day much cooler, like yesterday.. welcomed. As I noted earlier, the higher the mercury the smaller the page stack. Can’t write when I walk in high 90s, or even when I know that’s what’s on the other side of those twenty-foot, red, church-like tasting Room doors. Always thought those things were impressive, even before I started working behind SV Winery’s bar. Maybe those doors serves as some sort of symbol for me, each entry. Let’s examine this, just for a bit… One atmosphere on a side, then juxtaposing aura on other; you approach with intent to enter; once in, you intend to interact with a targeted entity, wine; maybe you buy a couple bottles, maybe you don’t.. but either way, you followed through with what you intended to do, whether a virgin visitor, or returning, or club member; you, the consumer, want what’s behind the doors. For employees, what’s the vision, perspective, reflection? Saved for book. NOVEL. There, I typed it again.
Wonder what my poetry professor, Ms. Gillian Conoley’s doing this morning. Is she writing? Had so much fun studying under her. Don’t think I ever had a more sweet, supportive, insightful and inspiring Creative Writing professor at any point in my studies. Grad or undergrad. She was, IS, amazing. Just did a search on her name. Many collections of poems, dozens of which are widely anthologized. No fiction, or essay works, that I can find. She’s stuck to her sight, followed through. Need some lyric in this dark Room, sitting up straight, right elbow supported by leaning pillow tower …
eventuality, like a last sip–cloud pinch
every ounce, worked away. smile day.
barks from under phone poles, sending
notes to abandoned boats. forgot my
assignment at a
record store. what was it doing
there with me?
My poetry class, in graduate school, not as engaging. The professor, nowhere near as strong a verse-ist as Ms. Conoley, felt it necessary to question–NO, interrogate–all forms that appear anti-formalist. She gave me a high mark on the first poem I submitted (a poem that I now realize would be perfect for a character to write about Kelly), only to be succeeded by lower marks on other efforts. I re-wrote two pieces, I think, still only earning a B- in her poetry youth core -esque seminar. My lowest grade as a grad student. In Gillian’s sections, both A’s. The first class with GC was a Poetry writing section, when the other was independent study; I would collect poems, I think 15-20 pages each time, then submit to her. We’d meet once a month in her office to discuss, deconstruct. She was honest in her critiques–not sure I’d call them “criticisms”–very gentle. encouraging. I don’t even know I’d call them “critiques.” We just talked. About poetry. My poetry. Hers. It was Art. More about the process than product. But that was then.
And now, there’s a clock. Hunting me.