Didn’t write any more in the novel, but I’ve been thinking about it all day; while selling wine while pretending the wines I was pouring were my own– Still on page 19. Sipping the last of the Meritage ’12 I bought the other day. And back in the TR tomorrow.. leaving early and finding a place to write. Everything I type tomorrow, I promise, will be for the novel. 3 FULL pages, like I used to tell my students.. seeing just what it is that Mr. Massamen wants and what I’m supposed to do with his story as the author; I think about it now and see my character has the best role and responsibility, to simply be molded and shaped on page and told by someone, that being me–
The house now quiet, and I see that everything depends on this novel and its completion. What if I could touch page 25 somehow, tomorrow, and submit it when its done if I keep such pace as a long scroll like Mr. K? that would get me out of the adjunct world and that would keep me from anything worrisome. A nice little shot of Meritage over on the counter, I can see from this island where I type in the Autumn Walk kitchen– one firm shot which I’m sure will make me want to write more but I won’t let Self after this entry [almost said ‘post’]. I will make wine, and write about it. Mark, one of the proprietors that said he’d help me get fruit, out of town on vacay. And the man works hard, so hard with his travels (which I envy, obviously), so I understand. But I can’t wait to see my fruit come in on pad, then have it crushed, to bbl for primary, racked for ML, then bottled.
But this novel, this novel, it must be finished. And I’ll give myself another Kerouac extension: 21 days from now. June 14th. My bloody novel will be finishes and printed and submitted.
Finished the wine, now I just want to read. No more writing. I’ve written enough today just not enough in the novel. But I have tomorrow. Thankfully. Where I find my written Zen and Peace. 10PM exactly now, and I see the semester is over, I mean really over. What happened? Only one blog now, and one novel on which I’m working– this novel, what should I call it? How about ‘Call I’? Just thought of that and no no connection to last sentence. Hear dogs around this new neighborhood barking, interfering with my meditation on this new project. The one that will make me.. the ME I want, if that makes any logic for you plate and counter.
Servile to this project, and that’s how I want it to be, how I want to be seen. My book on shelf, and never on some clearance sale table or some sale of any kind.
Tomorrow, no random entries. Only pages for what’s to make me ME, the ME and ‘I’ I want to see…..