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10:13PM…  Tomorrow, last day of regular session.  Wrote a full page, 500-something words, for narrative novel.  But it might be a new project.  I don’t know.  I just want it to be fiction.. I’ll print the page tomorrow morning, when back from leaving Kerouac at Lisa’s.  I don’t care how cozy I feel in this condo, I’m leaving right after my shower.  Grading the rest of the Poe Projects.  Writing the final letter, posting to teaching blog.  MY subject, as I approach this New Year, is writing itSelf, and Teaching.  Can’t believe I’m going to be 35 next year.  And little Kerouac’ll be 2.  How?  Time, collecting its victories, joyously I presume.

No reliance, or dependence, over-dependence, on any aegis.  It’s just me.  (12/11/13)


6AM.  First sounds from the little Artist, promptly at 5 this morning.  I just finished my first cup.  But still tired.  I’ll nap when back from Lisa’s, finish grading Poe Projects between 5 and 1A.  I’ll do so, hopefully (you know me and planning, follow-through), in the library.

Have to get a nap in before driving to PC for final session.  don’t want a repeat of the other day, when I was a zombie from beginning to end, not even the caffeine helped, nor the power nap between classes.  (12/12/13)


12/13/13–  Feel scattered right now, 9:28PM.  Sipping the ’11 Enkidu Cab I bought the other week.  Only sipped once.  Most impressed.  But back to my current post– scattered, and a bit stressed.  With the prospect of a book.. my lack of book production, fruition.  I mean, this has to stop.  Hemingway never thought of this, OVERthought as I am now.  He just bloody wrote.  “Then just write something,” you could say, as Dad once to me did.  Everyone’s right.. momentums need alteration.

Read an article recently, about streaks.  As in, how many days in a row have you done something, beneficial to yourSelf.  For me: I’m aiming for how many days I can contribute 1,000+ words to a book idea.  No.. THE book idea.  The book that will change everything.  But time is paramount, the apexed priority.  I don’t have time to write a full-length book.  Unless I can do so in 9 days like Bradbury.  I start tomorrow.  And print every page, each day’s effort, along way.

Tuesday.. Final isn’t until 4PM.  And I have to get Jack from Lisa’s at 3p, for his checkup.  So if I come home, at–  NO!  No planning.  That only cripples progress.  First glass, finished.  Want to watch more episodes of “The Following.” Study Carroll’s character, what his motives are.  And the Poe connection, of course.

The semester done.  Have to start planning for the next.  And I know just how to approach both [early] sessions.  Well, the 100 lights at 11AM, so “earlier” than what I now have.  The PhD writing sample, or article, on Plath, always on Mind.  What would she want me to say?–  What DOES she want me to say?  I’m speaking for her…  I’ll try.

Pouring myself another glass, in a minute.  With this Cabernet, I sense more texture–  No, hate that word.  More character, Earth.. more origin.  The student yesterday, ‘J’, in the 5 section, thanking me for introducing her to Plath.  Yes, she could have been simply campaigning for a grade.  But she already has an ‘A’.  So that’s not the case.  It just felt rewarding, cliché as it strays.  I want students to walk away with something new, even if they don’t with it agree.

Company party tomorrow, for my represented winery.  Just looking to have a time, with co-workers.  Brought writing/teaching bag today, and didn’t touch it.  Need to buy that new little notebook, for back pocket.  That way, I can write on spot.  Not matter what I do at lunch.. be it tasting in another Room, or walking around a vineyard block.  I’m tired…  Tired of waiting, for something.  For my own bloody book.  Next semester.  More than what students are ready for.  The 100 section, I’ll be gentle.  The 7:30AM Eng 5, not quite.  The entry, another fragment in my collectanea.


Yes, tonight just writing in 1 spot.  This blog.  And now, on this couch.  My night’s final glass.. in kitchen, as always.  Trying to think what else in on mind, on the transpiring’s spine…  Yes, my old friend, a former co-worker from the Petaluma store, gravely sick.  Cancer, of course.  Me, thinking.  How do I play my hand, my life.. are the decisions I’m making “right”?  And, what do I do next, how do I play the hand?  What do I want?  How do I want to be remembered?  So much to think about, but it has to be addressed.  Especially as a writer.

Time to study Mr. Carroll’s character.  And my character, my new one that is:  Leila; what she wants, what she sees, what she breathes.


10:24PM.  A hefty hoist of the Cabernet, probably only leaving a sip and a half remaining.  The only group I had today, 2 people, from New York.. incredibly sweet, generous, enjoyable.. also young parents like Alice and I, making this day worth what it threw.  Thought I was going to be sent home, as I initially bid for this day as PTO.  But I showed, stayed.  And glad I did.  Material, impetus, solidification, pages.  What I need, for a book.

These words, hardly helping.  But they will, once my 1k streak initiates.  And it conveys and collects to books.  A singular binding, to start.  Therapy, for these sentenced seeds.  The first book, showing not just my obsession, but my constant survey–of everything, everyONE, around me.  Nothing escapes.


12/14/13–  Back from MY company’s party.  Much preferable to other.  But finally, quiet.  No noise.  No TV.  No people.  Older I go.. people, preferred ‘no’.  At right, xmas tree, lit.  And, I have to again say, the quiet’s luscious, so luminous in its own tone.  Thinking again about Poe, his tell-tale-ness.  Now, I’m exhausted.  With everything.  I’m escaping from my own incarceration.

11:08PM.  Not precisely mySelf, so I’l adjourn.  To what?  Another story.  So time to for my final glass.  No?


12/15/13–  17 days till new year.  That and a year added, till the PhD app’s due.  Jack’s playing, and I’m quite glad I stopped before another glass, last night.  After those words, I retired, upstairs with Alice.  Today should be slow.  On my 3rd coffee cup.  Alice out for a run.  Can’t help but envy her dedication to her stomps.  This morning, her inaugural usage of the headband, gloves I recently bought her.  Nothing stops her from running.. instant reflect, for me.. an OVERthinking writer.

8:20AM.  I WILL get a little notebook today.  Goal: 1 vignette.. I’ll allow 3 little pages.  Challenging Self to write for 4[!!!!] hours, straight, at café on Tuesday.  What do I want from it?  A short story.  OR, significant contribution to novel–  NO!  Short story.  I find the short much more Literary than some tiresome elasticized trite/mainstream/excessively- comfortable-for-writers-and-readers novel.


Mike looked at the clock, as he always did in the morning.  Coffee, over there, kitchen.  Same spot he sat his wine glass every night, so when he was writing on couch, he’d sip slower, having to travel all the way over to area by sink to sip.


12/16/13–  Second day, official of 1,000+ words.  Another glass of this Cab/Syrah blend, in a moment.  Want you all to know what the writer’s thinking, doing, at all time, in case something happens.  This mentality, wielded from my old friend’s sickness.  Who knows when Time attacks as it wants.  Poe knew this far too well, taking away everyone he loved.  Why does Life do that?  Maybe that’s something I could throw at Eng 5, or 100, next semester.  Earlier, posted to teaching blog.  No responses.  Wouldn’t say I’m hurt, just disappointed.  Next semester, they won’t have the option.  I want there to be constant conversation on text, reactions; This is not a content-builder for me:  I want my students to carry onward the momentum of daily discussion, thought.  Yes, I know I said ‘thinking isn’t for everyone’.  But it should be.  Especially with MY students, all sections.


Watching a ghost documentary.  Not in any way scared.  I think it’s interesting, the conceptual setup, I guess–  But now I’m just bored with writing, my writing.  Why am I watching this bloody movie.  Won’t even call it a film.  It’s “movie”.  Yes, I reversed a noun to descriptor.  Mainstream mucus.

Studying Poe, even though I’m not lecturing on him next term.  And I will return to Faulkner, at some point.  I guess when I have him understood, more qualified.  These words, and those from day prior, tomorrow uploaded.  The café, only Romantic, I was just thinking.  A blur of reality, fantasy.  Tomorrow, I need Real.  So, staying in home to write.  Imagine what I could get onto page, with no commute, no stalls, bathroom breaks, having to find another seat.  With all that time I’d save, I could even in fit a nap, I’m sure.  Time to study, a documentary film.. Poe, dissected.  Directly eudaemonic, tonight’s mood.  Thinking of the sea, my own sea tales, like Poe’s.  Except, mine would involve more exploration, not so much vagueness, but more intrigue, hazy delineation.  but I know nothing of the sea.. maybe I could use that to my advantage…


Tech-no-logy, I sucede!  No more.  My phone, OFF.  And soon, this very laptop upon which I type…  OFF.  I’m in Poe’s Day.  Hemingway’s!  A real writer, dependent only upon my thoughts, fantasies, visions.. the envisage.  So then, letters tomorrow.  Let this compose my book.  Or most of it.  If I get back here, to the castle, by 8:45a, I could write till 2:30p, I project.  That’s nearly six hours of manuscript devotion.  Lovely.

Think I have a little more of the blend left.  This’ll be my last sip set.  Thinking now, I WILL write at 12 & Mission, capture all those lives rushing in their mornings.  Crafty, I’ll be.  Remember when I was in the hospital, age 16, watching The Godfather, for inspiration to crime fiction writings.  Not sure what to do with that reference, impulsive allusion, that memory, but here I am, now nearly 35, looking to Mr. Poe and works inspired by his pages, thinking the seconds turning provide luminous plumes.

11:06PM.  I know I’m not making sense, but that’s only ‘cause I was up with Mr. Kerouac at 5:15.  What can I do tomorrow, random?  Go tasting?  Should I visit a Room, somewhere?  Railroad Square, maybe?

11:17PM.  Tired, now.  Goal tomorrow: write at home.  Nowhere else.  Upstairs, in Dad’s old chair, for nearly 6 hours.  Completely Literary.  And print everything you can.  All over coffee.  But writers must have their rest.  This is OVERthought.  Last night of.  Ending such ringing.  Why continue with nefarious notation?  Arrested, like I said in morning’s entry…  Pages, mine, provide the fullest of fulfillment.  Behaving what I wish.