2:58pm. At one of the wobbly little circle tables here at the 12 & Mission sbux. Beginning session, with short story work. Don’t plan on doing ANY grading while here. Just writing, finishing the short story I brainstormed this morning, in 1 sitting. Had lunch at Mom & Dad’s, with Jack and Alice, for tax reasons. Dad’s doing ours, again. Next year, we’ll be doing our own, or having someone else do them. I want Mom & Dad, “The Particular Palates” as I call them, to enjoy retirement. Don’t want my stress to land on their existence tree.
Off to my short story. Shooting for 3 pages– Three FULL pages. See you in a bit. Planned departure: 4:45pm.
4:09pm. 1,223 words. On third page, and nearly done. Honestly, I quite like the way this piece turned out. Focus on tasting Room dynamics, interactions, characters. Fiction… my freedom. Not sure what classes I’ll get in the fall, if any. Not sure I care. And not sure I want any. Been quite contemplative, today. From morning shower till final sips of this 3-shotter. I’m at a point in a writer’s life where he needs to decide if he REALLY wants to do IT or not. I vote YES. Not from thinking it’ll be more enjoyable, rewarding, enriching, what have. Because I have to. I know I have to, ‘cause it’s who I am. I don’t know “what it’ll be.” IT may be more painful than what’s before me now, work-wise. More stressful, troublesome, degrading. But I have to do it. I’m a writer.
Think I’m going to head to campus a bit early. Just for discussion prompts, activities. Want tonight’s classes to be more enjoyable for me. And yes, I guess, the students. Want to talk about those dominant themes, for the 302. Also want to do something separate from the text, for both classes.
Tomorrow, think I may be in the TR. If not, then the VIP room, or “reserve room.” The caffeine, already wearing off. Wish I could call in. No, readers, just venting. Then I wouldn’t be paid. And I need every penny possible. Speaking of pennies, paying and/or being paid: I zero’d my CC balance. First time I’ve ever done that. Now, time for some serious, angry accumulation of capital. For our house, one having an office for the writer. A giant play room for little Kerouac, kitchen for us to cook more. A REAL home.
My laptop, skipping, balking, hiccuping. Sick of this tech. Just had an idea to print everything and anything on this bloody device devil. Want to be like Mr. Allen, with no electric interaction. Real writers write, not really encompassed in types. Think I’ll rise from this little table, now…. Take rest of night, LIFE, into MY hands. Decide how the movie progresses, eventually ends.
Around me, other characters. Most, I’m guessing, don’t have to teach to disinterested students this evening. So, I get frustrated in analyzing them, considering page placement for them.
My fault. Yes.
10:29pm. Another white in glass. Straight Chardonnay. Great classes tonight, mostly from the character building exercise, where students build a character from the ground up. Keeping this addition to day’s entry brief, as I want to return to today’s short story. Surprised how much I liked it, closing in on its end, at that 12 & Mission Starbucks. Just looked at my list of standalone’s. Forgot to log some, but I’m not backtracking. Don’t have time.
Bed, a bit tempting. But I have to finish this entry, even if I just ramble. Even though I ‘m not sure where it’s going.
My friend, still in Europe, on his adventure. Think by now he should be in Barcelona. Still targeting travel with this Literary traipses. May need one more glass of this Chardonnay, Sonoma Valley, crafted by my sister. I’m guessing there’s about 40-50% new French Oak on this project, maybe more, and probably 90+ percent Chardonnay. Wouldn’t be surprised if there were some Viognier, Marsanne or Roussanne. Maybe. But either way, I love it. Makes me think of that Burgundy tasting in ’09. Harder to concentrate, only because my mind’s flying. Away. To her, my character. Every author has their ideal figure. And. She’s. Mine.
Wasn’t exposed to much of the day’s weather, but I enjoyed what I could driving Fountaingrove, up then down to Mendocino, window down, where I turned left to head to JC. Love the homes up there, often envisioning mySelf, my family in one. I, in my office, Alice with her own study, little Jackie in his play Room. Spring break approaching… All I plan to do: write, taste new wines. Need to detach Self from regularity. As I said before, I need Newness. That means, new wines, from new wineries. The usual only contributes to sequential scribe staleness.
Off to fetch my other glass. My last. The wine, telling me something different, like I need to be focused on music, anything but prose. But I want to write fiction, these expository entries. Hemingway’s career, one I want. A house in the Caribbean, not so much. But his proliferation, certainly. Feel I already have it, just need to organize the sheets. Printing everything, starting tomorrow, hopefully. Have to get everything off this devilish box. And yes, I said BOX. Just like that evil employment place on that mountain’s other side. A rescue mission, consider it.
Maybe I should put my writings in a safety deposit box. I know it sounds obsessive, but we all are. WE, being pen movers. Okay, off to pour for Self… Full, from the tacos Ms. Alice had waiting for me when back from class. Too relaxed, here on the couch. Tomorrow, hoping I’m behind the main bar. Why do I like that main bar so much? It’s “the tranches,” and that’s what writers like me need. And if I don’t write while behind that marble, then it contributes to my collective knowledge, my character. The news just came on. That means it’s 11pm, or 11-something. Time to clock out. Incredibly successful writing day. Closer to road. Promised to sleep contently.