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9/7/13–  Much thanks to the little Artist for the early wake.  Time, 7am.  His first calls came at 6:20-something.  Already through first home-brewed café mocha.  Posted to both blogs, now into book.  Need today to bring rich, rich, rich material.  Begging it to, actually, for my fiction.. for this novel.  Yes, NOVEL.  So now, when these dunderheads ask me, “So what do you write?”, I can finally say, with intrenchment, with no fear of self-compromise, sounding cheesy, “FICTION.” I don’t have to elaborate on my style of fiction, my ‘art of fiction’.  It’s fiction.  All’s to be fictionalized.  Like now, how I’m on this couch, listening to the Pandora station from last night, enjoying the quiet before Saturday’s tasting Room’s opposition to anything tranquil, peaceful, still.

Early to bed tonight, with race tomorrow.  But, before I allow Self to fall into dream falls.. all handwritten notes for novel must. be. typed!!  Won’t let Self fall behind with this one.  Want it done, sooner than term’s end.  Have a book, a novel, to show.. no, who cares about ‘showing it’.  I’m going to bloody SELL it.

Need another cup.  Energy unsure of itself.  Odd.  Don’t know if I want to keep writing, or take a nap.  Should probably get some of these notes typed now, as I am just sitting here, freewriting.  Off to novel, then.  Stanford calls..my Creative Writing, or Fiction, or Theory students…

 

There, all written in newJournal for this newNOVEL, transferred, typed.  I’ll inoculate yesterday’s notes at some point this evening.  Can’t wait to see what material today gives me.  Must trap more dialogue.. much more.  No talking in TR, just listening, writing.. write everything EVERYONE says.  And if you can’t, then just listen.  Whatever’s worthy of pagination, you’ll recall at table, when with pen, or at keys, trust me.

 

Studying the Art of Fiction, while practicing.  Throwing Self into moment, days, fictionalizing.  Now: Mike sat in the Room, evidenced by his son.. toys, vehicles, miniature sports balls, clothing articles just as miniature, thinking of all the grading he’d have to do this semester, but not as much as prior terms, with the reworked syllabus.  He thought about tending to, but decided he deserved a morning…

Stories, everything’s a story, I’m seeing.  But again, why are these realizations only hitting me at bloody 34?  Can’t think like that.  Just run with it, LITERALLY.. and keep writing, everyday.  That’ll keep me young, right?  Running, writing?

And finally, with this newNOVEL, I’ll have a warrant to enter my old writings’ world.  Especially the entries scribbled on the box’s dime.  Can’t wait till those idiots read my work.  If they’ll understand– er, if they can read.  I know, let it go, Mike.  No interest in doing that.  I’m Poe, targeting my victims on the pages you read.  The Name Tag piece, and the love letter work I started the other day, with those poetry lines [didn’t tell you about this, reader.. this is more a note2mySELF], blended into novel.

Love that word.. Novel.  Nooooovvvvvveeeeelllllll.

NOVEL.

Need more coffee, now.  Alice, out for her walk with Lo, her daughter Ad.  She may bring me a 3shot mocha, which would prove contently fulfilled.

Need to look deeper into the wine world, its industry.  That’s where my novel is.  And I don’t have to like it.  At all.  In fact, I hope I don’t.  That’ll provide more fang for my novel’s curvature.