mikeslognoblog — novel’s watch

11/2/12.  Last night’s 1k+, into novel.  Staying in sight of “deadline.” 12/1.  But other voracious vapors encircle my hurdle.  Not sure how to approach this sitting.  Do I always feel like that?  A little, each time being lowers into written role.

The Plath entries, right.  More focus on poetry this evening, meaning abbreviated detach from manuscript.  Do I have any intention of writing for publications?  No.  That’s precisely why I’m the Ox in Bottle.. why I only elect Self-pagination.  Not a fascination, but actual manifestation.  The view this evening, leaving the event, late sun over recently-picked blocks, just what the writer needs.  But I’ve seen it before.  True, not that EXACT scene, but something similar.  Need the Road, with Kerouac.  My character, her materialization, telling me what to do.  She takes breaks from the blank calling to her brush, but she’s ever in her role, her reality; her Equilibrium.

Publications in wine’s “industry,” vomitus.  Not encouraging reflection, even slight individualism, but recital, subscription.  Like Vonnegut said, “Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world of writers…” Me, I see the same fold with Wine magazine “writers.” They do nothing to shape minds.  Not even a coy insinuation of voice, the Literary, Artistic.  Don’t want to be tribed with them.  I won’t.  Just had to convey, I felt, what vocal’d internally.  Now exorcised.

Moving on, choosing to save last night’s blend till tomorrow’s session.  Sipping the sparkling lime water opened last night.  Already feel like I need rest.  Hope I’m not getting sick.  Can’t afford, this writer’s sure.  Need this book to be done by assigned deadline.  Don’t stress Self, I say.  The road’ll wait.  Glad I passed on last night’s ’08.  Need to be speedy [I type in deep yawn..].  Hoping to force Self to wake up early tomorrow, for a run.  Whatever happened to my love of intervals?  It’ll be cold, dark, but I can’t help but think about what I’ll think about while speeded; what idea inventory I’ll collect.  They’re already landing in my cognition, collectivity.  But what exactly to do…  I’ll know after the run.  Set alarm.  Take that dissolvable pre-cold tablet.  I’ll be ready.  All this, for book.

Last night’s session, looking through old blog’s posts.  Returning me to box–  Leaving it [notes on that place] on, IN, those pages, the book.  Topic next–  Knowing what I want to do with this vintage’s wines.  My 2nd wine, dying to know what it’ll be.  Was also wondering what wines I’ll be pouring for Self on Road.  My fiction, talking to me but not letting me talk about it here.  She, especially, urges direct withhold.  What else can I do, but turn as she orders?  Then I lose my thought’s furtherance.  It submits to staying stationary.

Blame and credit her.  The novel she’s making me write.

Possible my energy fade from some bug.  Should out-clock early, this evening.  The writing, will only ail alongside.  Not a surrender.. necessarily.  A warranted fallback.  Soon healthier–no, livelier–to WRITE another day, night, all in hours around.