New Novel, imparted

11/24/13–  Survived the day.. hurrah…  At home, after relaxing dinner with Mom & Dad.  In a quiet condo, trying desperately to make up for time lost, writing time lost, last night.  Know quite well that’s impossible, so I move on, write on.  Sipping slow a Torpedo [Sierra Nevada].  Should I go to bed soon, wake early to write, a Barleycorn session?  Sounds astute, useful, brave, I suppose.  Not sure what to do, exactly.  But there the writer goes again, OVERthinking.  So quiet in this condo.. perfect for a session.

Just did a quick audit of entries on blog vs what I have here on this bloody laptop doc.  Hard to keep up with Self, my writing pace.  What if I all but quit technology, completely?  Only posted to blog, typed, after writing by hand?  Something to think about.  But what do I do with all these entries?  Post in sections?  Am I OVERthinking, again?

10:19pm.  Need some music.  Now the quiet’s beginning to get to me, present itself unpleasantly.  So what do I do–  Sip.  That’s what.

10:42pm.  Night’s cap poured.  The rest of the ’06 AV Cab from the other night.  Watching a little of the writing movie I used to always, nearly every night.  Thinking about the drive around the estate this morning, with S, J.  How beautiful the morning was, and how utterly relieving the air was.  This desk, needing clearing again.  Just had it to an inviting stage for this writer.  The clutter makes it impossible for me to remember what happened today– or is it last night’s events?  I don’t know.  I refuse to be too hard on Self for last night’s Gatsby outing.  I own everything I sipped, did, said.  The bowling alley, the games, the singing.. what else can I do with that stage?  The seriousness of some, piling playfulness of others.  Then the other spots, Santa Rosa’s downtown.  In any other circumstance set, I wouldn’t have gone.  I would have been in home, writing [which I should have done anyway, not trying to make rushed justifications].  But I needed to.  Only remember crowds, movement constant.  Last night’s budget.. what was it?  $75, according to some writing I did just before Alex & India retrieved me, on Yulupa & Bethards’ intersecting crook.  Do have some leftover cash, but it’s downstairs, and I won’t be putting it back into stash.  Rather, I’ll put $100 into the envelope.  So I’ll have to make an ATM run tomorrow.

The wine, not affecting me much.  Must be from the exhaustion.  Still quite a bit of grip to the the wine’s palate presence, progression.  This is just the type I’d sip in my hotel Room.  What I see Poe sipping while scribbling away at his newest tale.

 

Mike put the books onto his lower shelf.  What did he want his books to look like, when on someone’s shelf?  He wanted them at eye-level.  Always visible.

“Is that funny, to think that way, to want that?  I mean, not everyone’s going to like my writing, right?” Mike asked Steve.  His espresso done.  He smelled the deserted little cup, thought of that bakery, Paris, just around the corner from that inn.

“Well I don’t know if that’s fair.”

“What do you mean?”