Everything Beautiful Little

Later in day, after work, actually night and I feel advanced and at the same time still.  Haven’t written much today but had a wondrously granting meeting with my friend Chelsea downtown, Healdsburg (funny hearing tourists mispronounce) talking about all that’s wine and vineyard and branding and all connected to what I’m trying to do, for me and clients.  But I haven’t lost my Literary leap and skip across these pages, and my novel.  And tomorrow morning, I’m waking at the running hour, to write– and with firm goal, goals:  3 standalone pieces, 500 words, at least, to novel– and read through the 100 3-page days.  Progress.  Get out of the pattern and keep with all I need.  But the writer has to organized, has to plan more and be clean and consistent in his practices.  Right now, in study, dryer going upstairs, the day’s lost its heat and this penner was engrossed in the outside temp as I watered the grass, looking out at the street upon and within which Jackie played only an hour ago with his new neighborhood friends.  Papers from last semester form a ruined tower on this desktop.  Key right– and a pen, disorganized and I hate that feeling.  And the Pinot I’m sipping tonight does nothing for the writer, really, but I’ll write about it anyway.  For content.  It won’t get the most vocal review but a review nonetheless.  A lot going on now for the writer.  Just need to consolidate; from bottledaux to mikemadigancrEATive–  Should be speaking with another potential client tomorrow, lady from NYC who owns a vineyard in Windsor, I think Chelsea said.

I take a breath, try not to stress and look at all the clutter around me, on this desk, I need my own office, and I think I’m nearly there.  Want another sip of that Pinot, to see if I saw what I thought I did, or if I can see something else.  Talk about something else, I order Self– so what then, I talk back.  I don’t know.  I take the keys that were on my right and move them to left, now there’s this lovely welcoming void on my right side, on this desk’s top.  I feel freer.  So more de-clutter, more!  And now the lock, that secured the small thin chain cages storage at the condo complex.  And tuck a power cord wire around one of Alice’s laptops, even freer, more liberated.  I can;t have anything around me, only recollection and thought, and the vision of how I want my office– clean and clear and no obstruction.

So plan for morrow:

4:30AM

-1 short

-finish short started the other day (about college students close to grad)

-recitable narrative (performable, 500 words)

-micro fiction piece (100-110 words)

-novel contribution, 500 words

If the write fails to do all above, then he fails for the day; battle lost and he hides till he enough strength gathers to charge, fight once more.  Noise, now, from the TV my wife watches to the dryer upstairs.. how does my son sleep through this?  I’m annoyed suddenly, and again think of the Road, what I’ll experience and not just experience but live, learn, appreciate and grow from.

Technically I’m over a thousand words for the day but I feel like I’ve done nothing, nothing, feel like that write who keeps telling himself that he’s a writer and he’ll be a someone someday, but I’m an adjunct, forced to pour wine in a tasting room– what am I doing?  Will wake early tomorrow, and leap from sheets with angered energy, and make progress that startles me– my Road only carved partially, the rest invites, and I bite, in that harsh dark morrow to next night.  Reading On The Road with the students this Summer, more so than the past two semesters, has taught me to be more a daring writer, and to truly shun what critics and editor pigs tell me.  Like the recent assignment with the online magazines, saying my writing style isn’t what there looking for and they won’t be hiring me back for more articles.  But they want me to do a round of edits on what I wrote, after she told me she’d “take it from here”.  I’m not angry though, nor upset, nor irk, or irritated, not incensed or bothered or befuddled.  Nothing.  Just moving on.  I won’t change, not at this age.  And why should I, why bother the world with my ‘I’m-going-to’s’ when I can just change and shift and have people saying ‘oh, there’s something different about his, isn’t there?’ That’s what I’d rather.  And that’s what’ll happen.  Only 9 minutes, one hour left in June 26.  And I need to get to bed, especially if I’m to get up when I want, need.  Thinking of my room again, my office, what I’ll see from those windows.  What I’ll write that first day, the first real whole day working there, remembering all the horrible jobs I’ve had over the years, from the grocery gig at Lunardi’s to the Sears days, to the insurance office in San Leandro, to the ad idiots in Marin, then to the box, the Kenwood winery, and adjuncting– and yes, the adjunct cage is the worst tie I’ve ever found myself in.  But I make it work for me and there grip has never been able to pause my page stream.  The more I look into the adjunct qualms and grievances, the more thankful I am that I won’t let myself get that way; I did when I was a couple years in, I won’t fib, but now I have more, I see more, and I want more.  And will have more.

Battery to die, this goddamn thing.  Still need to xfer that story I wrote in class!  Have that count for one of the pieces tomorrow morning, if I can’t think of more material.  Would love to keep it separate from tomorrow’s A.M. session, but if I have to type I will.  Would rather than just have it rot on those legal sheets– oh shit, it’s already on the list.  I forgot.  Nevermind.

(6/26/15)

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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