novel excerpt…..

Night before the Summer Session, my last at DVC before the Sonoma move, and I sit on the floor with a beer, just thinking about everything, and I know thinking too much. Posted to blog a bit ago, a little salvo if you would about wine, Pinot more precisely, and just knowing this is all a re-write. And, in confession’s mode, I’m revisiting old journal entries, finding I’m more a writer than maybe I prior estimated, with the 100 days of 3 pages or more I started last year and finished early this. I’m seeing myself in class tomorrow– and, so you know, I was invited by some people from the wine shop to go out tonight and have drinks in downtown Walnut Creek (or as I call it ‘Nutjob Leak’) to have drinks and go from spot to spot but I’m definitely feeling my age tonight, only wanting to be alone and write and maybe finish a book– and I have another vision, my book on a shelf, who knows or cares about fiction or non, I just want people to see what I’m constructed, my pages and life experience if it means anything and I’m sure it does so what I next execute: the perfect semester! My dad always talked about having that perfect flight, or trying for it. And that’s what this Summer is about, right before I move.. yes toward the end of the term I’ll have to commute, which means I won’t be making a dime, essentially, in teaching, but that’s not what I’m designing, some plan to make money from teaching– that won’t happen. I want material and I want the story, the experience, and the dialogue with students, more adjunct tales and moments, in the car and planning and grading even. I look forward to it all. All of it. And I again vision: term’s end, my students having a famous professor, or at least one noted; lecturing around the country on wine and literature, writing and wine and writing about wine, and how wine is so Literary. Silencing any and all sommeliers.. oh don’t get the writer started.
I know just what to say tomorrow, just as they file in and I see them situate themselves in the chairs, maybe have the required books out already, journals and pencil, or the rare ones that still carry pencil: I read them and they read me, then I start speaking: “You know, if I may, when I was in high school, I hated English class. I did. I avoided writing, and reading especially, and even when I first got to college, I dreaded English, which was my first class ever, a 100 section with Scott Lankford at Foothill. But something changed, and what changed is that I made it, reading and writing, my own… I read the story my way, and I related it to my own life; and if I couldn’t, then I was beside myself with excitement, honestly, as I would, and could, and did, learn something. It, reading, made my understand people better.. I started seeing them as characters, and I saw them as teachers as well…” I’ll write the rest tomorrow, but I know something’s about to happen to me, tomorrow; new stories and characters– shit, I need to buy a new Comp Book, but I can’t let go of last semester’s.. hell with it, I’ll bring it too. I sip again from the Racer 5 and know I have to move quicker. Just the reason I’m having NO wine tonight, I need to be quick in the morning for my writings and planning and syllabus arrangement– 3 essays, 14 short reactions, then several in-class writings to be recited. Then my mood falls, and I don’t know why. Probably just thinking about packing all this shit up, moving, the lugging and the luggage and the moving moving moving– last time I ever do it, till I have my dream home. And yes I have a vision for that. I’ll build it. Maybe not actually build it, but definitely design it. Maybe.

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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