10:22pm.  Finding that many times when this writer tries to force Art, it doesn’t come.  The rimes I just stuffed into newJournal, incidental, profitably.  Love.. celebrating with sip.

Finding that when things are forced, fruition never folds, unfolds.. it sits untold.  Not good for writers.

1/6.  8:33am.  Soon, back I go.  To wine’s grip.  Just find the Art in it, I keep Self-impressing, pressing.. stressing.  That character yesterday, Tiffany, still on mind.  Wish I could have talked to her more, had more dialogue to trap.  So all I can do is ambiguously her mention.  No noise in house.  Absolute quiet.  Not even the heat’s chiming.  Tonight, printing pages.  Lots of them.  Don’t care if it’s organized, linear.  It should be a mess.  There’s more Art in that.  More honesty, truth to Authorial character.  Jumping journals, over to book.  Well, not really a book, or book projects, just something off blog.  Writing that’s just mine, for now, till I publish.  I have that right, don’t I, to have writing that’s more or less private till I decide to slingshot it to universe?