Tonight’s varietal, Chardonnay. 2011, from St. Francis. Was nervous about sitting down here for session, as I had part of heart, little of mind, set on chipping away at novel. And YES, I’m saying NOVEL again. Going for the 100+ page aim. In end, I’m budgeting 102-104 pages. None more. The rain, starting again. Had a guest today from New England make fun of local Bay Area news, the whole “Storm Tracker” approach. Told her I, and Alice, agree. So, to the novel.. not in proper frame nor form to touch its sands this evening. Want to write freely. Thinking this may be an addiction, honestly, this love of “freewriting.” But that’s how I was taught, told how the most honest [and that’s what I’m after these days, HONEST material..] work comes about. So, honestly, I have no idea’d intent in touching my book tonight. Curse me.
This Chardonnay, sipping scenically. Nicely rip green apple with gentle butterscotch, oak. My smell sense is compromised, though, with this cold-like grip. Heard the rain, drops just in front of door. So many notes today, some of them rhymed. Looking down at Plath’s manuscript, I’m ready to begin study. Went to Stanford’s site today, during a 1-ounce pour of slowness, thought of me lecturing on her journal entries, some of her less-circulated poetry. This Chardonnay, has a writer feeling more than Literary. You know what, I’m opening my book’s doc… Need ink, though. PAPER. No more of this devil device.
Liking some of the ideas in this fiction, actually remembering exactly when these sentences were crafted. I remember this one in particular, while I was waiting to have my car serviced at dealer.. I was in my little XA, penning on a legal pad my father let me have the night before. Think I may still been affected by whatever we opened [more than likely something Zinny, as that’s what my palate fancied, in that day].
Lots of observations in these paragraphs.. characters in tasting Room, just like today.. random sights, flights. Some intermittent stanzas. Just what I need tonight, with this rain. Starting to think that anyone can do what I do, but not all see what this penman does. So to have both worlds’ best, stay in more musical syllable.. poem. Always. Even when I feel the urge to vent with some journaled exhaust, go to meter. And why am I always telling people I more prone to fiction? Why do I even have to respond to that banal probe, “So what do you write?” Like I’m meant to give some simple satisfying response. Frustrates me just thinking. Topic next.. wine. This wine. Glass almost empty. A sadness, topped with relief. More scribble, less sips.
Tonight, my Thursday. Don’t know what it feels like, though. Or what I’m supposed to feel, before “Friday.” Need to get my grading done, earlier Monday than I usually attempt. Keeping Stanford on brain, all the “academic” note I have salvoing somewhere upstairs, in my quasi-office. Glad the glass stands drained. Need to early wake, get the book nearer to its ribbon.. whatever its tangible inevitability be.