journal, 4/25/15

Busy day, workout where I did log 3 miles but with cost after attempting bike time; leg left instantly locked at about minute 15. So I had to stop. Tired and bitter and angry with my form for halting me as it did. While running I felt fine, fine, yes the left leg around knee was sore but I pressed on. And I now I further frustrate in this nook with all the topics I want to build– so build, I tell myself, focus on ONE thing. What. The novel. Mike Massamen and his search for his dream job, and he knows what it is but how get it, ‘it’, how to get there, how to BUILD ‘it’: the equation that’s in need of a solve. Just write me, write him, write about the students and re-tell what has been told to me through these books I so follow. Hem, JK, Plath– or no, follow the singularity in everything. This wallet for example, my wallet, currently with no cash only debit receipts, and business cards I’ll do nothing with.. and my insurance card, car and health, and some coins in the little pocket, right side when you open. Always in back pocket, but for what? Why do I carry it with me if there’s no cash? I know, my license, but it’s one more thing, another item that down me weighs. There’s cash in my backpack, stray 1’s I could put in there but then I have to use it, have it on me, whatever. It takes me away from being a true writer, I believe, always having to feel it when I sit, or fear I lost it, or misplaced, or left it at home when I’m turning left onto River Road (which happened once). It’s a burden, and that’s me being kind. Just took some papers and pieces random from its interior, so now it’s lighter. But I still don’t want it. Don’t want to have to have it on me, in my pocket on my person part of my anywhere presence. So I dump the pieces in trash and the wallet in backpack, with the cash. Think that’s a healthy compromise.
Tomorrow morning I should be able to early wake and put a maddened dent in the novel, bring it closer to death. And my death, I mean Life. Put it out there, promote a bit, then start the next, the next MS that will show me as a real writer, and not some blogger, not some wineblogging idiot who will do anything for ‘exposure’ or attention or some fucking social media ‘Like’. This next week, and I swear this on the future and Wellness of my son: I. WILL. PRINT. the novel’s pages. As I write, I edit and print. And my story as an adjunct– well, and Mr. Massanmen’s– will be heard, read, spread. Just opened the doc, and am on page 15. What if that was the only thing I worked on? Till my birthday? What if that was my 36th birthday gift to myself? What if I wrote a novel for myself? IS that vein? Do I care? NO. So away I go, and I’ll stick to a calendar like Dad with the payment duedates for Autumn Walk, which kept us all ontrack and uptospeed…. There, marked on calendar. And I may submit this novel, as well as Self-print it. I may write short stories here and there, some sketches, but they will be part of the day’s journaling, not a self-published standalone. I say that now but who knows. I’ll aim for 3 pages a day in the novel and go from there. And I have to finish this. I swore on my son, so do know I take this project more than just ‘seriously’.. it has, holds, and speaks, SCREAMS, dire gravity. Ten more minutes till bed. Can’t wait. I’m tired and keenly athirst for the morning, for my coffee and my three pages for my book. The wallet, still on right– trash in its delightfully welcoming trash and the wallet on ledge by door (backpack in living room and Alice take a nimble snooze. The novel.. what subject.. the adjunct trying to build; himself and his career and some strain of Peace, Personhood, Purpose.