budging. This is my writing style, or mode, or voice and that’s all I’ll ever do, responding to my moments and days– now: quiet downstairs, rain stopped for a couple hours the forecasts says; Alice asleep upstairs, or falling asleep and Jackie asleep for who knows how long. No coffee in house so tomorrow’s set to be rough. OH well. That’s the stage for morrow. And the rain, coming back. I’ll wait. One of Jackie’s stuffed animals, the Cookie Monster bloke, on the floor. What’s it doing down here, I wonder. Never know with the little Artist. His habits and ways change whenever he sees adequate.
Think I have a new story idea but I’m going to let it simmer a bit, or age, or ferment– analogy prolonged. And what kind of writer am I? I don’t know. One trying to write, trying to fucking finish something. What if I go in late tomorrow, spend more of the morning writing? Am I allowed to do that? My students get to, I’m sure, so why can’t I? What can’t I just be a Literary delinquent? Playing hooky not to go party, or taste wine, or dine out, or be lazy with Alice or anyone.. but just to write, read over my work, send it out? Be meditative all day on this couch. Coffee, jazz, pages, me, cognitive drops of resolution, radiate…
Who says you can’t?
True, but there’s a new affairs set.
10:16. Should get to bed soon. I know the little Artist is going to wake around 3, or 4, and it’s my turn to fall back to sleep with him. Am I up for it? Hope so. I’ll fall asleep I’m sure thinking of the 9:30 student’s reading, about addiction and breaking from the pain pill addiction and being drowned in withdrawal symptoms. Was horrifying to hear but motivating, he was there, in chair, eager with his standalone submission, and we all listened, applauded. Great moment for me, yes as a “teacher”, but more so as writer, Human.