Coffee, at home, finally. And now I have to put myself into some character that’ll push the story forward with a vicious drive and skiing impulse. Not bringing laptop with me to work, not today, only pen and paper so I can really capture with journalistic believability. I don’t say ‘integrity’ because it’s more than that, and that word has that clinical taste I hate in words. Jackie stretches next me, plays with his toys, asks questions, then re-examines the object, turns and asks it differently. I don’t have enough coffee in this house to keep with his speed.
Need to finish the vignette I started the other day, about the fisherman– I’ll target that later. So maybe I will take the laptop with me to the estate. No, I need to travel light, just note ideas in the little red book and make sure I transfer them later, that’s always been a challenge as you know, and I well do know such about my writing habits. Now I see what my writing friend meant about it being a pain– I mean, I understood before but for some reason thinking about it right here in the couch with this coffee it poignantly punches and forces a cocoon of realization around me. Letters, it was her letters that she had trouble finding time to translate or transfer onto the word doc. She’s a flight attendant, remember, so that’s more than an empathizing call.
Lately I’ve been missing Santa Barbara; the beach of course but the views and sounds and the balmy sweetness of everything around you; you always hear the ocean, some volume and chord set of it. Nothing like that here. It’s always a vineyard, always the 12 traffic, and always a sign directing you somewhere– to buy something. Sick, maddening… I look at pictures and just imagine, imagine an overnight, writing as I did the night before my cousin’s wedding, with his army of structure-shaking friends too close by.
120-something words in the short short about the man finishing– I mean FISHING. And I need to get money on the way to work as run after work and… Always something to do. How ‘bout I aim for an early early early rise tomorrow morning. To write and nothing else– where’s the Comp Book? I need to log what I’ve done so far this morning. That’s 62 words put into ‘Gone Fishing Last’, the current “working” title for the piece. Writing that in Comp Book– since it’s like baseball stats, this new list, I’ll log a I go alone, as I get hits, SB’s, RBI’s, and the occasional SO, know my current AVG. And the lore’d HR! This all of course motivated and compelled by the Kerouac quote that one student shared, animating Kerouac’s obsession with how much he writes and turning it, his practice, into a sort of game and performance he could track his trounces.
Cup two. Letting it cool down a bit. Now on the floor with Jack as he eats his waffle. It’s clear he loves Saturdays, the respite after the long week– no rush no time no stress. Lovely for him, love seeing him so relaxed and paced as he likes. I envy him, I do, and I can only wish of having a day off today, and today would be the day to do it, hot as it’s promised to be.