Ideas into my system like this wine.  I love drinking my own creation.  Makes me think I want to proceed with this aim, for this ’14 vintage.  But then the other side of me says, “Absolutely not!  You write about it, drink it, and nothing else!  Commit only to page!” And that “side” has a point.  If I’m to be a Joyce, Hemingway, Plath, Poe, or Wolff, I need the tightest of tunnel vision.  Not going to OVERthink.  Just enjoy my wine, my writing, my night.

The winery, giving me no material today.  Which I expected.  That’s always the case, in that bloody tasting room, anymore.  Need to follow my winemaking allies.  Was going to visit my lab friends, but took a late lunch instead, enjoying a burrito Dwight got me from the taco truck on 12 & Dunbar.  And I was surprised it didn’t fill me as Dwight said it did him.

Done with my first glass, already.  I can’t believe how palatably pietistic this vine-based wave tastes.  And my character, with her leanings, I’m only urged to write her story.  It has to be.  And with her wine type acquiescence, we’ll collaborate splendidly.

Need another glass, but I’ll wait till our dinner’s at consumptive stance.  8:52pm.  A late dinner, I suppose, reminding me of the late plates we enjoyed in Paris, at La Coupole.

All my authors surround me, at this circular surface in the nook, upon the teetering table; Kerouac, Hemingway, Ms. Plath.  With my prose, and verse, I’ll be a literarily delusional harpoon with fanged directives.  I’m not being stopped.  By a single single-dimensional mind out there, anywhere, in and out of the industry.


C speaks to me, from the page I haven’t even written.  This, magic.  What all writers envision, dream of, drink over.  And with this second glass, left, I only see our novel coming to quickened completion.  Quiet in this condo.  Wish rain were here, but it seems to want to remain distant from our county, Napa’s as well.


The letters I intended to write, now more than ever beckoned, by this new character.  Her wine knowledge is moderate, to slightly past.  But her realization recent, that she needs to make wine, is what drives her; provokes her, nearly cruelly; she won’t stop till she sips from her own bottle– which is interesting, as I’m doing what she hopes to someday do.  And I, as her driver, need make it a bit difficult.  Not just with fruit being hard to find, but having the winemakers help her, the wait, all of it– I had the thought today, actually tonight, just before giving little Kerouac a bath, that she could do some blending seminars at other wineries, or at some custom crush pads, walk away with a case or two of her own blends, just as practice.  She doesn’t see that as winemaking.  No.  She wants to touch the berries, watch them get crushed, crush them herself, maybe with a basket press as I did.. come out the hose, into a bin, get dry-iced, cold- soaked [somewhere cold, wherever she can find.. maybe that’s another challenge I can project at her], racked by hand– everything done by hand.  She wants to be the rare type of winemaker.  But she doesn’t know how.  All she can do is read, study, and hopefully get fruit.  But maybe I shouldn’t let her.  Maybe I should only let her follow the winemakers, take notes of everything…  I don’t know, frankly.  Never felt this way about a character.  Not even with Kelly.  I’ll let the story itself tell me what to do.

In unfamiliar terroir, if you will.  And I love it.  Need another glass.  Maybe some of that TR Elliot Pinot from last night.  I deserve it.  So does she.