Clouds. But no rain. Woke with Jack at about 5:45am. He just went down for rest. I, however, am depleted. Impressed with my little friend’s energy. Did manage to grade 3 papers this morning. Will do the remainder, for 302, when I reach the coffee shop. Would give anything for a nap right now. But these are the type of moments, the levels of truth, that my writing needs. I need struggle, hurt, puzzle.

Just checked, and Kerouac is out. In his own dreaming land. Me, wishing I could join him. Suppose I could. But then I wouldn’t be writing. And that would be too comfortable, to take a nap. Too Human, too easy. Just the opposite of what I’m looking for. Could use another mocha. Diet Coke.. that has caffeine in it. Be right back–

A little better. Tad more pep. Long vertical shades, cracked slightly. Our barren little, and yes literally little, patio with its gathering weed sects under afternoon gloom. Total quiet in this condo castle right now. Hear birds outside.. light, playful, scattered. Class tonight.. need something new. Going over some ideas internally.. will type them once in that “office” I’m permitted to use.

12:27pm. Went through some old wine-themed pictures, a couple hours ago, while Jack stripped my wallet of its contents, tossing all cards, bills, receipts, other rubbish to embattled carpet. Forgot much of this work. There’s something there, in this utterly amateur [if I could even tag it so] “photography.” My love for wine, people, the scenery here, and in Napa. All of it.. the lifestyle. “Lifestyle…” Again, I think of a magazine. A wine, Art, Writing, Life, Love/Passion magazine… Where do I go with this? Have to keep with the brainstorming. But I don’t have time to just waste thinking. Need to act. Maybe do a 15-page FREE issue. I’ll author all the content, but just see what it does, see who bites, or submits content to me for issues following. OH, speaking of such, need to renew my vinolit URL. Not the most Literary nor Artistic of things on the to-do, but do have 2do it. Now.

Done. Going to check on my little dormant Artist. vinoLit, now renewed… something in that idea, I feel, as well.



Don’t have time. I’ll have solution by the time I’m back downstairs..

Deep in rest, still. Should probably clean up a bit. Oh the dealings of a writer dad. Should keep Self moving, as that’s the surest way to stay awake. I’ll keep this laptop open, case a thought me crosses.


5:07p. In campus office. Just put some older writings into novel. That’s 3 writing locations I’ve touched in the last twenty minutes.. Comp Book, novel, bottledaux doc. May have a little more of last night’s Chardonnay when back in castle. Tomorrow, I believe I’m TR. Or MT [mountain]. Not sure. Leaving for class in 10 minutes. Just want to enjoy a couple more minutes of peace in this office collective– And then, the high volume on this door’s other side, serving entrance to another classroom, reemerges. Loud interview about some obscure economic issue. Disruptive, annoying. Why can’t this writer have just a pie’s slice of quiet.

Still a bit surprised my 100 class didn’t get my analogies of water-thin chicken broth vs. thick pea soup, with respect to fiction, writing quality, alluding to contained details in a composition’s content. I’m not bothered, but it’s pretty clear to me. But maybe that’s my problem. Thought…

10:09pm. Back in castle. Another great session in the 100 class. No wine tonight. Much too tired. Can’t believe I’ve been up since–what was it? 5:45a?–with Jackie. Sipping some berry-flavored sparkling water. May be too tired for paragraphs, even. Yes. I am. I’ll finish this thousand-word whirl tomorrow. At some point.


March’s 8th. Still on Chardonnay. Had an animatedly rich discussion with Dad, picking something up from his and Mom’s house after work, concerning last night’s 100 class. Always appreciate his Philosophy-major prospectus. Busy in TR, today. Barrel tour, at shift’s conclusion, which I always enjoy doing. And for record: I’m in this “industry” as I choose. Not from having to. As we all know, or at least I know– I’m a writer, professor/scholar first. Funny to me how so many in “the industry” deem it so ever significant. It revolves around something consumable. A liquid. It’s forgotten. Literature, the page, its fathering thinker hold transcending promise.

Pouring my Self another glass. Thinking about the caves at work, what it’d be like to write in there. The notes I DID today scribble, holding for novel. All conversation, interaction, underhandedness. I’ve captured it ALL. That’s what makes me deadly. Where there’s ill, I expose. And I’ll never be down brought.

Courage. Not so fond of the banal, flabby overused word, concept, but that’s what stirs in my head. Standing up to so-called “superiors” or supervisors, who are ever convinced they have some “authority,” belittling their underlings with “common-sense” rhetoric. If it’s so “common sense” then why not seize that moment, as a “supervisor,” to teach, instruct, show how something could be handled better. Yes, reader, you could be thinking, “Did something happen to you today, Mike?” No, simply. Just something I’ve been thinking about. If a manager or supervisor, or whatever syllabic title they want to assume, and what you to repeat, has something to say about your performance, or something to say PERIOD, and you don’t agree, then you should speak. Otherwise, you’ll be indelibly muted.

And writers don’t accept that.

But I’m content, this evening, thinking about my students, what classes I’ll have this Fall. Maybe even this summer. I know I shouldn’t teach in summer, as it’ll take time away from Jack. I get it. But if I was awarded an English 5, or even 1A, I’d probably take it. Not just for the money, but for the material. The new students. Don’t forget, dearest of readers: Stanford is still in this penner’s sights. [3/8/13]