Monday. Home sick. Decided ‘twas best for me, recovery. Already feeling better, 11:27am. Input 1,000 words into book project. No longer just a recent “idea.” I’m into the progression of Kelly, Mike, my other characters. Even revisiting those notes from the box. Looks like rain outside, but hard to tell. Just gray. Perfect for me to stay inside, organize writing, not to mention what’s here on desk. No wine tonight, promised. Went in to see Jack this morning, but still sluggy, achy from this bug, or whatever it could be. This mocha, waking me. Brought out little file container housing box notes, putting in the little notebooks I carry with me to the winery. Can’t believe how much I’ve written over the years. So another reminder, time to collate. Precisely what I’ve been doing this morning– adding to 1 manuscript. An oddly shaped novel, which reads like a collection, progresses like one, but provides story, “proper” structure– no, scratch last descriptor.. it just forms a book, one continuous.
Watching a writing movie. Imagining who I’ll meet while on road, in those hotels, at the conferences, at the university. Not adding to that list document, where I catalogue, mundanely disgustingly, all the standalone’s I finish day2day. It takes away from the book. Anything taking from my book must be scalpel’d out. This just providing ONE example. Tomorrow, have to get FAR ahead on grading. Want it all done. That too can take from book, if I don’t stay on top of it.
Looking at this little piece I Self-published in March 2011. Huh, 2 years ago. Why is time passing faster than I want? Dumb question, especially since I’ve been asking it forever it seems. “The vessel that was his, unsteady, rattled by postmodern romanticism.” A story about Kelly. Short, only about 500 words. Didn’t sell all copies of this work, which saddens me. Don’t want that to happen again, so I’ll only run 10-20 copies of this book. I want 200+ pages bound. At first, only saw Self printing 102 sheets. But that feels quality low, sluggish, soggy. And that’s not me as a writer. I’m fiery, I hope. I want my work to been seen as rich, abundant, constant. So I have to stay in chair. Writing, even if it comes to readers redundantly.
Beauty. In Art. Art, everywhere. That’s what I’m looking for. That’s what I want to live in. This footage of Paris, what I’m now watching, orders my return. There’s freedom there.. more Art than I’ll ever encounter here in wine’s world. Starting to see ridiculous repetition here. Vineyard, vineyard.. tasting room, tasting room.. wine, wine… Exhausted from sameness. Sick, more so.
Mood, falling. Could be this bug, getting into head. Must be. Proud of mySelf for already typing the two pages I scribbled in Comp Book, this morning.
Reading notes from the blending seminar I hosted a couple weeks ago. Turned out well. In fact, I ran into one of the people who attended, a man living close to me, at Starbucks the other day. He approached with uncertainty. “You did an amazing job,” he said, at the bar, while we both waited for our morning mixes.
May go for a drive, to get some drawing supplies at a shop in Montgomery Village. Was talking about it recently, but never stood up straight on my entertainment. Maybe I will today. The only distraction I’ll allow.