journal

I did it, I did it!  I finished the standalone piece I began last night, the piece of flash fiction.  Even edited it!  No procrastination from the writer today.  So far, incredibly strong beginning to Sunday, which would be my…  OH yes, I don’t have days off.  And I don’t want them.  I’d have no material if I stopped moving.  Could retreat into my head, but that’s not the type of writer I’d prefer be.  On second coffee cup, still wanting to write.

Planned run after work.  Not sure how far.  Thinking five miles, maybe more.  No, no more.  Having 5 be my magic number.  OR, I could do that 7 mile run I did the other night.  Want to charge that device, so I can get some reading on my time, maybe listen to some music while dashing.

Also tonight, organize grading books, materials, do some grading as well.  Not letting Self get behind this semester, not even a single stone’s toss in time’s debt.  Already September’s end.  How is that possible?  Time catching me.  But I run faster.  With recent news of a sick uncle, cancer of course, I can’t afford to pause, go back to sleep if Ms. Alice offers in morning, when Jack wakes.  Stay lucid, sip coffee, write write write–

Brewing another cup of the medium roast Ms. Alice bought her writer husband.  Diligent in these reactionary revolutions.  And if I’m to see Stanford, they need be unplanned, whimmery, spontaneity’s storm.  I don’t have three or six years to write a book.  I don’t know how any writer, regardless of genre thinks they can afford such.  Constant Create, my mode.. and to coffee, yes please.

Wish the rain would come back.  Better writing weather.  But the A.M. chill currently set just outside that front door, within which little Kerouac and Ms. Alice walk, up the steepness of Woodview with her friend Lori, her daughter Addison, sends me into portraits, observations.  Oh Mr. Capote.. how I’ll never be able to release you.

And to the coffee–

I’m wrapped in my own

thinking–

terminal:

writer life..

survive to

die–

finally quiet.

(9/22/13)