Sipping a sparkling water.  Not in any mood for wine.  Opened a 2010 Sauvignon Blanc I was gifted at work a couple days ago, but only had a glass.  Actually less.  More like a couple pours.  Had an intense feeling this evening, up until a couple minutes ago, really, that I was a failed writer, that I was still “trying.” Could almost see mySelf at ages later, looking back, wondering what I did wrong, why I couldn’t make it happen for my manuscripts.  Was in no mood to write, till I realized the moronic shape my thoughts were taking.  My Friday night [2nite].. excited for the writing time I’m to enjoy in morrow’s stretch.  Have to teach in PM, but before that, I’m attacking the novel.  My wine, fermenting quite quickly.  Actually took my first taste of the juice, today in the tasting Room when one of the winemakers brought in a poured glass for me.  The second wine, still in planning, negotiation.  WAITING, which I hate.

Rain, expected for Halloween.  Halloween.. has me thinking, “Am I pretending to be a writer?” Another stupid thought, I realize, as I AM writing.  I’ve BEEN writing.  Not sure why these silly entertainments speak forth and back through my careful cognition.  And I don’t have time for this putrid hypothetical puzzle–  Tastes amazing, this sparkling water.  Need a break from wine, honestly.  Seems like I’m always there.  Plan on being there tomorrow for punchdowns, learning whatever I can..  Didn’t know I could get “punchdown” into this document, on this program, as 1 word.. huh.

Glad I made mySelf sit down to write.  And yes, I’m saying “write,” even though I’m typing.  On that mountain this morning, couldn’t help but think of my travels, being on the road, anywhere.  My writing needs that, so until them I can just annoyingly remind you, and mySelf, what my wishes are.  Asked mySelf, also just moments ago, what I really want.  Is it this blog?  The winemaking?  The Parisian café I used to write about on my Napa Literary Lunches?  No.  It’s books.  BOOKS.  A career of writing them.  Traveling with them.  Write while traveling with them, so I’ll have a new manuscript when I get home.  Want to live as she does, through Creation.  Through curiosity, whimsicality; delicious Defiance.

Sometimes I think this blog’s a drug, a devilish distraction.  Other days, I feel it’s the only grip I have over my writing fantasies.  It’s always here, waiting.  I love that it’s waiting for me.  Guess it gives me some shape of oddly contrived power.  But I need to cut that.  Especially after watching that Austen movie the other night, “Midnight in Paris” only a couple days before.  In those films, real writing.. the Literary; pages, Books, from authors, not “bloggers.” This writing trail, all struggle.  I need new material.  Yes, I meet new people in the tasting Room, everyday.  But it’s still centered in that tasting Room.  There’s no variation, variety.  Starting to feel it’s too contained.  Thinking about this, again minutes ago, even made me wonder if I want to write anymore.  How dare I think such an evil self-inflicting drowsy sphere.  That’s another reason why I’m at this table in my kitchen.

To fight.

I’m writing.

And there’s nothing you, or anyone, even me, can do about it.