Typing till I have a mocha. Shouldn’t have one, though, I know. Only thinking of Kelly, her novel.. what she’s doing in her studio. Don’t think I’ve ever so instantly felt pushed to perpetuate page for her. Has to be novel, not here. 200 pages, maybe. Or is that too much? Either way, her life, her creative impulses, her omnipresent agreeability– that sweetness, that mind, a cautious grin that reshapes anyone’s world– No, have to stop. Just want you to know, if you’re still reading, that my character’s in thought. Mine.
Last night’s lecture, slow. Supposedly being observed next class. What do I think about it? I don’t. Again, I’m at an age, a mental foxhole, where I’ve decided I’m done aiming to please; done applying, trying out, auditioning. I’m casting mySelf. Already done so. Think the morning fog, or low cloud cover may be dissipating. How appropriate. Ugh, this desk. Needs de-clutter. And the reading assignments I’ve assigned to Self, Kerouac and Plath, still need completion. Completion? They need to be initiated. Not of high cruising altitude this morning, you might be able to tell. Oh, and these entries I “upload” to the “blog” from my “smart phone” … No more. I need to act more artisanal. Simplicity, more elemental organics.
Now that my rant, vent, venom, is done [least I think it is], I can begin the day. Taking little Kerouac to a pumpkin patch in Healdsburg, later having dinner with the Particular Palates. Katie should be there as well, in a rare appearance. Grandma, too. What wines do I bring over? Thinking that Ty Caton blend, and one of Kunde’s Reserve Cabs. But, not sure. Maybe bring one of those shiners I pocketed, recently. Shouldn’t phrase it like that.. was more a gift than anything. Winemaking, not so much on mind as actual wine. A Human, unprompted, not-at-all-confined interaction with it.
Papers to grade tomorrow. How will I get those done? Maybe I should do some today, like 10-15. Would help, definitely. Was just thinking, actually, if I want another class next semester. Or, more accurately and realistically.. will I get one. Will there be “budget room?” OR whatever conveniently placed words they adhered to explain themselves.
9:30am. Mocha. Mandated. In manuscript. Later, getting away from castle to grade, write. Only letting the bloody grading get an hour of my time today, that’s it. Rest, for writing. For her. The book, taking shape before I even get to 2day’s writing for its population. Love when that happens. Just letting her situate in her own possible designs. Another moment quite Literary.. not writing a single word, but rather enjoying thoughts solitarily.
Day about to begin. In the novel, the thoughts of my character. She’s definitely challenging me, this morning. Daring me to write her story. She keeps a blog, like me. but hers, much more concise, consistent, Creative– illustrative. She sells her work, then returns to her studio as if she sold not a piece. She never celebrates her sales. That’s a curse, she’s always believed. And she hates that word, concept. “Sales.” It revolted her. But she had to do it.
Again, I’m stopping. Have to save this for novel.