More honesty in prose; manicure it till each character on line sprouts in divine shine.
Wine, not mysterious, more endorsing than I estimated b4. Ride alongside–
1:48pm. Writer needs more coffee. Not in function to grade papers. Not in mood for bad writing.
Writing. Writing. Writing. Love that word. Both in page appearance, shape, chime. Know what I’m doing, finally. Cutting through this canvas’ stubborn blankness. It tries to be marble, but I’m a slab of refusal.
Now what? Almost 2. Need another writer. Yes, Ms. Plath. Wade across her confessional map. Voice voyage, voltage..
Letters. Have to write my letters. But when? Tomorrow night, I’ll be hawked, locked in this castle. I’m pouring out any keys. Think Cabernet’ll steer for me. Better for honesty, at least the kind I want to “sell.”
Hate these devices more than I can write. And won’t, waste this sitting on tech’s edge. It complicated, reprograms Life. Not mine. And this isn’t rebellion, or defiance. It’s conviction; torrential tenaciousness; dreaming.