Three pages typed today. And I didn’t save one of them. Not one. Just typed, edited, printed. Like I had a typewriter. That’s the writer I want to be, realizing again, sitting here with Peanut Butter M&Ms, 1st decaf cup. Running or writing tomorrow morning, early. Haven’t decided which. See how I feel, just wrote on third page.
Want to enjoy my writing more, I also wrote. Look forward to what happens next, if you know what I mean. Character from today: woman who rang me at shoe store; scared of monitoring supervisor, confessing she was always nervous with her there, right in front of me she said, “You always make me so nervous when you stand there.” Felt sorry for her. Is this where she is, at this point in her Life? [Probably mid-50s, or late 40s, hard to tell as she looked worn, tired.] Made me again affirm to Self how I will never run from some “manager.” I work for me. Writer/Educator. So, what do I write to make me more a fan of my work? My first response, Fiction. And Spoken Word, yes. But there’s something to Fiction that has always rallied with me. The characters, it’d have to be.
So, more vignettes. Fictionalize everything. I understand I’m not the type of New Journalist to fire lengthy chapters. More than fine with that. And frankly, that loses me as a reader. So, snapshot approach. Link them, see what you think.
Another M&M. Sip.
May need another cup. Wonder if the café at which I today ate, wrote quite a bit, has coffee. They must. Tuesday, I’ll stop there for coffee, write. I’ll eat on drive to Cotati, where it locates. I’ll trap everything I can. Everyone. Every color, sound, scent, scene. It’ll all be mine. And yours, reader.
And, 10pm. News on. But I’m not interested. Can only think of tomorrow morning, anyway. Run, or write? What would you do? Shouldn’t involve you, sorry.
My visions of tomorrow’s run, lurid. But sitting here, in dark as I did the other morning, just the same picture potency. Oh, what do I do? Two M&Ms left. Feel Self tiring. No 2nd cup. What if I closed this laptop? Would that make me less Literary? A little, I have to say. But I shouldn’t be blamed, judged. Not now.
Running clothes still upstairs. Ugh, when am I going to run again? Not letting Self go another 10 days. No way.
The news, muted, more annoying than with sound. Why don’t I turn it off, listen to my wine bar beats.. good idea.
There.. imagining scribbling as I did today at Redwood Café, in Greece, looking out at ocean, acknowledging its might, its voice, how much it’s written. More than I ever could. The night air, playing between all those islands, writing rival pieces. Don’t want to get in middle, but I have to. My character, giving way to ‘nother. She travels, only observes, never complicates.