Do I have any dream of “being” a “published author?” No. As I already am. I’m published by Self. I don’t need a publisher. Love how some brag about being a “published author,” conveying the publisher’s endorsement legitimizes their work, efforts. Many writers embrace low Self-estimations in not having been approved by some corporation, or even small house. Why not invest in Self? This whole day’s had me thinking such.
In the reserve room. Only a handful of couples, not large groups. But I love the reactions to wine. At lunch, topped one of my barrels. Was surprised how low it was. Still needs a couple gallons, actually. Couldn’t believe it. How did it fall so low? either way, I know what I have to do. What wine am I sipping tonight? SB from last night.
On the way home, stopped by SFW [St. Francis Winery], to pick up some wine, mostly red. Did buy a Sonoma County Chard for Alice. That may be my night’s cap. That bug I had a couple days ago, done. Defeated. Deleted. Need some music.. this TV’s boring me. Channels, all “reality.” No rain tonight, unfortunately. For some time, it seems. Doesn’t help my writing. Neither does that hell cube, or the social media, even this device. Want to be free, and when these wired THINGS near themselves to me, I’m of indignant tee. There.. finally. TV off. Room silent. But no rain like night last. Getting Self a glass of my sister’s 2011 SoCo Chard, in just a minute. No.. NOW. Need to get off this machine. This monster. Laptop. Need poetry. Painting. Art. Canvas. Something to actually TOUCH.
But quickly, by the way… My drawings, soon coming. Why can I draw alongside what I write? Questions not leading me to fruition. So, just have to act. That’s my truth: I’m sick of talking, planning, even thinking.