policing my pages

10/29.  Over 100 words into novel.  I meant 1000.  ONE THOUSAND.  Thought about a break from the coffee, but no.  Need to keep writing.  Will have some time2Self later in day.  At least 90 minutes to dive into my book.  Like Hemingway’s character in Midnight in Paris said, “…honest book, affirms courage…” or something to such color.  Want this book done, DONE, by year’s end.  And I mean completely, ready to sell.  Need that Road.  All the roads.  Paris especially.  That city doesn’t need me, my erratically stretched prose, poetry.  Was thinking about driving up to Alexander Valley to pick up my wine from Lancaster, maybe do a roadside writing session as I used to.  But that drive would remove time from sitting, from my novel.  This book, I’m seeing it make people afraid of the workplace, so-assumed “managers” completely incapable of managing/organizing their own lives much less a schedule, squad of underlings.

Rain, just ahead.  Can’t wait.  But, that entire day I’ll be working.  I’ll be able to write in that instructors lounge before class, and maybe a little at winery beforehand.  My journal, in the old blog, talking to me, asking for a prominent role in this “novel” of mine.

Only time for a couple notes before little Kerouac wakes.  Right now, he sleeps.  Wonder what he dreams of.  Probably simple scenes, moments, which I entirely envy.  This story I write, hopefully helps him, alongside my scribed career.  That’s where the reactions to the winery’s visitors enters mind.  They are so enamored, so awestruck, so instantly in love, infatuated.  I envy that as well, loudly, especially when I notice Self becoming desensitized.  They, the guests, will always say something like, “You must have a very stressful life.” Or, “You must hate it here.” Yesterday, an older non-stop dialogue man from Florida said, while driving down from the mountain [after tasting, and he didn’t taste that much, constantly citing his diet, how he didn’t need additional points], “SO I can tell you really hate your job, huh Mike.” All remarks, satired, but still poignant, letting me know how they’re digesting, estimating what’s around them.  Vines, wines, hills, autumnal shades.  It’s almost too much for them to take in.  But I’m here everyday, not seeing it the same.  I want to see SOMETHING that way.  I see my son with such stunning encapsulation, yes.  But I need a location.. a stage.  Want to follow Kelly.  Pursuit.  Jobs.. a character’s job, perplexingly crucial.  What it does to them, how it factors into the “what one does vs. who they are” gauge.  The call center, the box, their recollections filling me with, for better tag’s truancy, rage.  No one should work somewhere like that if they want to be happy.  Simple word, “happy.” But so complex, gripping.  Only 4% left on laptop, why I hate tech.  Recharge then return–

2:30pm.  Starbucks, 12 & Mission.  Sitting with 1 goal: Standalone chapter for “novel.” 3 pages.  Nervous someone’s looking over my shoulder.  The music here’s awful.  Self-pitying country/folk/blues garbage.


10/30.  Halloween, in morrow.  No treating me.  I must be tricked.  Into this pattern.  Finishing a glass of this blend, after injecting 1000 words into novel.  Or book.  It’s definitely a book.  One I’m going to finish.  Finally.  Exhausted, after day and word sprint.  Teaching tomorrow night, and yes I thought about calling in, for Jack’s 1st Halloween.  But I need the money.  For publication, wine production, regular overhead, my morning mochas, and I can’t even think of what else.  Every dollar counts.

Wrote a full page in Comp Book today.  Felt amazing to decorate a canvas as she does.  How does she, my character, do this to me?  Want to say something like, “She doesn’t even exist!” But I know very well she does.  Stopping.  Saved for novel.  OR book.

Not sure the rain’ll make it.  Ready for it now, as most everyone’s fruit’s in.  Hoping I get to make this second wine.  And if I don’t, I can just write that I did.  Blatantly lie.  Beauty of fiction.

Can’t write, for some reason.

Think I need a break.  Or just clock out.  Just looked at remaining power.  18% — How did that happen?  Didn’t I charge this bloody thing?  This device monster?  See, when writing in Comp Book, there is no such worry.  Need another sip.  Posting this before this little tech toxin quits.  Bona …