Back from

taking Jack to school, him challenging me his impatient writer father the whole way, even when I took him to SBUX for a morning treat. But I kept my composure, I mean what else could I do so now I have about 15 minutes to write to the Hutcherson channel, eating the waffles J didn’t; now crispy, burnt from more toaster exposure, and me thinking about the day and the novel and little standalone pieces, everything a writer should but shouldn’t obsess over. I’m taking ‘Road’ and ‘Sur’ with me to work, in the moment-molding mode all day, scribbles and thinking of my Road and the travel and the wine I’d sip at night after a day of talking about literature and writing, or wine, or a blend there in and of. First waffle bite, more charred than I’d estimated.

My mood this morning a bit of both, the yay and the nay. But I have to leave anyway, go about my day and act and sell and write– sell myself that there’s a novel in here somewhere, not some cookbook or recipe collection– that I’m a real writer, a novelist and one that won’t halt till he sees the world and writes about it. Today I take pictures and imagine I’m a photojournalist like Dav, that I need those moments and still and the long plane rides to get where I need to be.

11 minutes left in my sitting, and I type like the world’s is about to turn off. My allergies slow me slightly but I’ll only let it so much. Stop and go and already another pause– Stop rubbing your eyes! You could be typing! The house wants me to stay home, call in sick and just write at this island, as I told Dad last night I do well and frequent. So I.. no I can’t. I have to earn the money, depend on the clock like everyone else and blah blah– But I use the shift for material.. whose story do I really want to write? No I shouldn’t be asking myself this question at this point, I know, I already have and I have an answer but I stop again and know: Massamen, in his adjunct struggles and how he just wants to travel and lecture and not depend on the schools for teaching “assignments”, and he hated that he was being assigned anything, why couldn’t he have more of a choice, why did it always have to be English 100, or 1A, 5 or 1B? And at his age. He growled at the counter, while he wrote his notes– And making wine, why not, he could lecture about it and his story would be shared and he’d learn from it as if he were in the audience listening to the talk, right? He thought and thought and went in circles with his thoughts, just thinking and letting mind in a wondrous wander, not really hoping to accomplish anything specific but to know there was something to do, something new and rich and enriching, enthusiastically he went deeper into his thought, more than a submarine, one of those creatures that could live at unspeakable depths. He was comfortable there–

5 more minutes.. edit post then go! Waffles done, as is my time to my Self. So the time’s not mine, not anymore– But what if I gave myself a couple more minutes, went over budget so what people do it all the time, those people I see crazier than me with their own business. Is she a better wedding planner than I a writer? Does he sell insurance stronger than I write and type? Oh my god this has to stop.