[comp book, 10/6/12] And I’m back in love with notions of winemaking. Going forward with it, just being more patient, deliberate. And Self-publishing: It’s altogether obvious 2me that I rely and flock so frequently, reflexively to this blog because of a confidence drought in Self, that I’m never going to send pages to print. Telling Self, “So what if you only run 15 copies. Just do it, already.” Reasoned. A victory. Sipping on Dad’s favorite brews, Sierra Nevada’s “Torpedo.” Only allowing Self a couple paragraphs for this “post.” Want that novel done. Thought of my novel, and Kelly, her studio apartment/Art studio/coffee/scented candles, those light dresses she wears, and the sweats on rainier days– oh, when I saw that Petite Sirah today, our winemaker and his wife swirling the skins around, pushing the forming cap into below juice. Wine, today, delivered spells, certain sentences meant for manuscript trips.
You know what I was thinking of, a drive. Yes, the road, but more than that. Just driving, randomly. Only carrying a Comp Book. For sake of a project? Maybe. But more so for the process, the experience of that reflectively nomadic Autonomy. Want to see scenes that one would call “bucket list worthy.” How else can I keep penning? If I see the regular, regularly, my paragraphs I fear will crust. That’s not going to happen, I’m just being dramatic. Distracted by racket–
In chair, finishing bottle’s remainder. With novel on mind, I remember the characters from a past tasting Room, those from one present. That stage, just ignites character stormings. The classRoom, same, but different. Even still, I have a page or 3.
She approached the bar, looking at him with dread droplets. Could she do this? She looked right, at Shelly, but she was already skimming the menu at the counter, about a foot-and-a-half in front of Kelly.
“Hi, did you want to do a tasting?” Steve asked, preparing himself for pulling a couple stemless’ from bar’s below area.
“We definitely would…Steve,” Shelly said, looking at his name tag with distinctive direction.”
“I’m gonna pass, I think,” Kelly said, looking down at her camera’s screen, to see all stills she snapped at the winery previous.
“What? The reds and whites here are supposed to be amazing,” Shelly said, refocusing to the menu, the bottles displayed on the shelves behind bar.
“So only one, then?” Steve asked.
“Guess so,” Shelly said, setting down her purse, angrily molding a grin.
Mike got up from the table, knowing he left the page halved. Was that the correct writing? Did he ever type correctly? ‘Type’, because he did that more than actually write. He hated himself for that. He looked through his tasting Room notes, knowing he had at least two books. The wine brought everything to life, as the lives in that Room were alway brought there for wine. Interesting, Mike thought, the elemental interchangeability of it all. Mike knew his character didn’t want to taste wine. What would that do for her? She wanted to take pictures, later paint them, draw them as she saw them through honestly Artful scope. Her story triangulated like dizzying winds.