3/15/13. Friday — Loved how at the end of shift the vineyard manager, a friend of mine, came into the Room, had his stainless SB, talked with a couple guests, mySelf. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have a Merlot in that cave. One of the two last guests I had, also a writer. She wondered how a writer who blogged could put their Self into space, into consumption’s open invite. Astute question, as I often the same wonder. Another question to me posed, by a fellow blogger, on how I write as much as I do. To both poses I similarly–no, identically, respond–it’s who I am; I’m a writer, and that’s just my voice.
Tired. And I won’t fib, I’m with a Lagunitas Ale. But sipping quite slow. Time, 10:04p. TV off, enjoying quiet. Even the slapping sounds of these keys. While waiting for our takeout, I did what I usually do.. write, really type, a verse to phone. Saved as “Draft,” currently. Need more poetry, song. This prose, exhausting me. And I’m not letting Self get to 1k. Not tonight. Topping at 500 words. Not a nugget more.
16 days to finish this book. I’ll get it done. For once. 206 pages. How many copies run? Thinking 15, at first. Maybe 20. Really small. I’ll print on request, I guess.
Tomorrow, barrel tasting in Sonoma Valley AVA. Ready for whatever… Just have to stay in writer mode, get ready to capture characters. It has to revolve around character, all fiction’d efforts. Again, the drunker, the more unruly, most riotous, the better. I want arrogant, bubbly wine snobs, from random states, like South Dakota, Kentucky, or Iowa. So glad the TV’s off. Love this silence, no distraction. And no inspiration. Which is fine with me. Have to find finds within head.
I’m just running, not sprinting, just healthily trotting, along the Deschutes, in Sunriver. Staying at our house on Circle 10. When home, I’ll shower, then write for a couple hours. Not really focused on a particular project, manuscript fruition. I just want to write while I’m up here. Someone said there was a black bear roaming around the area, that we should be abreast. I hope he stops by, has a glass of this random Sterling Cab I found in the house’s collection. An assertive air, without notice. Could be one of these high desert storms coming in. Love being up here by mySelf. Only a mile or so left in my run. Think these clouds are chasing me. See a couple men down the path, fishing. Wonder if they’ve caught anything. I imagine them editors, piggy publishers, fishing for writers to trap, live from their leans, poaching all their pages. Good thing I’m Self-published, so they’ll never catch me.
My friend at work, back from his Europe travels. End of word limit. Just know, reader, I’m in envisioned roam. Competing with Self. Certain civil word strife. Interesting. To ME. Next week off. Finish this thing, finally [BOOK].