Today, busy. No rain. Well, not much. Just a drop smattering, here, there. No significant disturbance. We all heard a thunder snap, around noon, maybe. Still haven’t topped my barrels. And I won’t be able to with morrow, as I have the day. Tonight, sipping the Barbera-based blend I brought home. Looking to put a significant dent in its mass. A co-worker asked me, today–Cindy, someone I’ve know well over ten years: “So, you’re finishing your novel?” I remember thinking to mySelf, “I hope I didn’t talk about a book I was ‘finishing’ when we were neighbors.” I talk about my writing only from passion, but I shouldn’t. Talking about writing, especially specific projects cheapens Art– my ART. So, this book will be done within days. No fail.
Page 495 in doc. Ox, nearly out of bottle. But does he want to leave? There’s thought in the bottle, freedom, peace, solitude, quiet.. more PAGES. Friend of Alice’s, her husband actually, about to tour with his book. Fiction, of a more youthful audience mode. But still, he’s to be in travel with his pages. Even more of a push to get this book done. Tonight, to page 65. Hoping I’m successfully tricking mySelf, meaning I set an attainable goal only to then go far beyond.
The poetry, streamed all day. None of it written, though. Maybe that’s a positive, like I’ve said, that the most Literary act is many times not writing at all. Time, 9:27pm, and I need another sip of the Barbera blend. Just had a small swig. My reaction to its palate presence, that I need to have a standalone something done by tonight. Musicians, singer/songwriters/spoken word Artists all go into studio with aims of walking out with something performable, salable. That’s me, tonight.. but what do I want to focus on– What kind of question’s that. The book, of course. Need to get more competitive, nearly angry with my Literature. Like Hemingway’s depiction in “Midnight in Paris,” when he said, “If you’re a writer, declare yourself the best writer, but you’re not as long as I’m around…” That’s what I should be exuding, constantly. But, do I see mySelf as the “best” writer? No. But certainly the most obsessive, that I know.. writing WHENEVER I have time. I mean to say, I’m ALWAYS writing. Always. That has to amount for something. It will. In this book.
When on the road, during my traveling, I’ll only compile more characters, more stories. Today, a couple from Oregon [seems to be the state of the week, at the winery], telling me about their careers, how they love wine in their state and CA.. how happy they were to be at the Estate, and I only wanted to get home to book, to write more about them.. the lady, an elementary school administrator, with 2 M.A.’s. Do I want that PhD? Only after the books deliver me…
Think the rain’s stopped. Supposed to rain consistently tomorrow, and forcefully. Should go for a run tomorrow morning. Need to throw Self back into that habit.. FORCEFULLY. All is about this book.
I need to be alive to write it.
Writing only for projects.
Looking through these old entries. Wine in nearly every 1. Now, through the stills stored in my phone. Same, wine’s voice. This tells me to continue with what’s ado. Thinking of these old entries as potential missiles shot at the box, everything it embodies. That musty digitized encapsulation. Feels long ago, distant, but still near enough to enrage me. I’ll return to cripple it, all inside, in those cubes.
A year ago, I was in AV. Pouring and sipping some of the best wine with which I’ve ever spiritually sideswiped. Need to pickup my allocation, still. Not that I need anymore wine in this condo, but I did pay for it. Now, blocked. Cure, another glass. And, going to watch one of my favorite writer movies. Again. Beginning2end. Hoping for some new insight. May read ahead, in Gatsby, tomorrow. Yes, I’ve already ready it, but I’m re-reading for sake of keeping pace with students, and I think I’ll read a bit ahead, putting Self in student’s role. The PhD, again on mind. All more push to finish this book.