Missing Suspect

6:47am.  Coffee in brew.  Just as lively as yesterday morning, after first no-wine night.  Have to say, this vigor is addictive already.  Hoping to have some standalones printed, while the idea’s fresh in this writer’s head.  Before laying down last night, I found mySelf in worry over linearity, genre, marketability.. all the elements I truly wish cut out from Creative existence.  Just going to fill the pages.  New pages, old, notes.. whatever I can find to fill book’s borders.  Giving reader a 206-page flight of my Literary obsessiveness.

Coffee just stopped its opening song.  Now for my favorite, when it’s poured into cup, me stirring some of that mocha mix into its compounds.

Tonight, rather ready.  At this point, it’s in the students’ hands.  Again, ONUS.  They have to make themselves be serious students, go after their topics with organic voracity.   Both sections, majorities respectively, have demonstrate interest and connection to what they chose, how they want to develop their arguments, which makes it easier for me to help them, of course.  Thinking I may choose Portraits and Observations, that Capote collection, for the 5 class in Fall.  Well, it’s just one of the candidates at this point.  Want to have a ficus on the Author, figuring out what their perspective is, or world view.. or simply are they optimistic or pessimistic.  OR, maybe I let the student choose how they qualify the author.

Uploading some photos a new blogger/writer friend of mine sent to me yesterday.  Gorgeous vineyard shots, neighboring vineyard.  AND, it’s a Merlot block, which has to hold some happenstance fortune [as that’s my varietal, or it is now, switching from Cab].  Looking at both stills she sent me has thought of growing flying into my unwritten pages’ trap.  But I know NOTHING about planting, horticulture, vineyard maintenance.  I guess I could figure it out, sure.. get outside aid, but then there’s money.  As with everything.  “After the books sell,” I tell Self.

Coffee, paired with types.  Tastes better this morning, for some reason.  Probably since I didn’t add so much coffee to completely mute my mocha mezcla.  Jackie, perfectly content over there, going back, forth, between different toys, amusing objects.  Already jonesing for old entries.  Could believe that 50-plus page ms I found last night.. that just lied there.  DEAD.  In some laptop doc.  I remember feeling cripplingly ashamed.  But I knew I couldn’t stay in Self-sorrow.  Moved some, about 300-400 words over to book.  The book’s title, last thing I’ll for it write.  And not till EVERYTHING’s been edited, several times over.  So, that means I can’t afford to have it stand at 206 pages, not if I want it done before semester’s close.  [Thinking, 1 book per teaching term, having something to show students at adjournment.]

Jack, not in sight.  Think he’s playing with his bowls, cups, on the lowest shelf across from fridge.  Persistent little bull, this favorite character.  Need more coffee if the writer’s to keep up.  Did some research yesterday on owning a wine shop, storing inventory, selling it.. that act set, reality.  Not sure why I started looking into, at the box’s parent company no less, their website, this fantasy.  All honesty, it’s rather well done.  Organized, not over-graphic’d, gave me slews of ideas on how to organize a future wine vending trade.  But, again, the writing WILL come first.

On 2nd cup.  Well, not really.  I preemptively refilled.  What writers do, I guess.  Not sure I want wine, tonight.  How long can I keep this in motion, this wine-less wind?  So far, only benefits have fallen from the effort, onto my pages.  This, the change in character that I have so many time prior discussed but never attempted.  Now, I’m in its penning cyclone.  It feels wonderful.  I’m a new Artist, these last couple mornings.  This speed, surprising even me.  500+ words in under 20 minutes.  Last time that rose from my intuitive winks.. no way I can try to recall.  I’ll stay with it as long as I can.  And it’ll be hard, definitely, as my love for wine is nothing 2B underestimated.  [7:26am]

On my way to 1,000 words, so why stop, I’m thinking.  Done with coffee for morning, unless some unexpected crash in my tenacious temperament affronts.  Weather outside, at least at early morning scene.  Later, maybe in 90s.. why so early in year?  Who knows.  Should give my Merlot lot a good shot of sun hardihood.

Jack, doing his laps around kitchen, nook.  Coffee’s push, still very much in pulse.  But I’m just sitting here, on couch.  Need be out, THERE.  Beyond door.  Beyond country’s borders.  Back in my city.  In order to write mySelf back to Montparnasse, these dry spells, meaning not even a drop of wine, should be more regularly ordered.  I’ve never seen speeds like this from Self.  Ever.  Tempted to make Self 1 cup more.  Should I?

Looking at friend’s stills of the Merlot block, which basks hillside-ly.  Need to walk the Estate more, look at the vines, changes in development, how they respond to temperature fluctuation.. how their character changes.

Music on, Jack holds my phone, amazed by what he hears, and I think makes attempts to dance appropriately to BPM.  When on road, I’m surely set to note all scenes– from bars, to wines, wine bars, wine shops/spots, restaurants, busy streets, cafés, coffee houses, bookstores [if I can find any].  And most importantly, the characters.  Yesterday, this one “VIP” visitor to Reserve Room, having visited innumerable times, bringing guests from out-of-town [I think SoCal], talking to them like he’s holding court, some educational wine tasting seminar, even addressing aspects of growing, oenology, again philosophy, mostly with hilarious inaccuracy.  Then, he called vines “wine plants.” He said, “…and all the wines here come from wine plants on the property.” I laughed, but also was stopped by my bubble of irascibility.  Why does wine make people act like that, like they have to display their familiarity, or self-coating “expertise?” [9:07am]