Short story began the other day, nearly finished. Nothing to report from day– I worked, two mountain tours which yielded not a sole fold of writing push. Only had one beer tonight as I want to wake early, at mother-in-law time, 4:45AM. Want this novel done, as I’m always telling you. Semester, only days away, less than 4 in fact. And I’m leaping towards it with a separatist sentiment. The wine world doesn’t exist anymore to me. Only the page and the novel and what I envision through certain caffeinated road in the morning. But I won’ be with a hot cup so early.. don’t want to pull the little Artist from sleep. He just went down, for the second time– and I feel an urgency about me with my novels and poems that I’ve never before held. I thank Jack London, his ranch, and Dad for going with me. But I still feel intimidated or scared or reluctant for some reason, like I’ll never be him, Jack London, OR Jack Kerouac. I have to stop that and just keep writing, everything I feel, be honest, like how this morning’s meeting, the big important one with —— was such a waste of time and so pedantic and condescending, like we’re kids– when will they realize that we, especially I [!!!], don’t care? Not going into it, not letting them into my evening, into my night or my thoughts. Thinking of a run tomorrow morning if I can, I’m working a wine club event and don’t have to be in till around 12:30 I think– hidden boon, I think.
Can you envisage punching a clock the rest of your breathing? Imagine if you spent your last breath on someone’s clock, watch, payroll? Would you look down or back and think ‘shame’? I would, but that’s me, and my attitude as I sit here in the nook. I have to write everything and record every observation but I don’t feel like there’s enough time– the water bottle, new comp book, cell phone charger, and on floor: work bag, plastic bin of papers I still haven’t graded, or finished anyway, my running shoes, and one of Jackie’s sandals. Odd swirling of realities. This eventide with bottled auxiliaries, ones telling me to take divergent routes to things, like my dreams and my paths and especially the Road. Dad once asked me if in a perfect world what would I be; writer or professor? If you have to ask, and you know me, you know the answer. My sensibility lies in the pen’s simplicity. And that’s all there is to my envisioned branches– there will be no branches, just one root. Away with this laptop, this blog [year’s end], and any “social” media. I’m reverting to what writing is– WRITING. Ink. Sheet. And my semester will embolden students to know what the value is in such a scope. Looking at the pictures of Mr. London’s office makes me ashamed of my practice, I have to be honest. But proudly, I report that I’m ever more innervated to modify my manuscript manners.