5:23, busy day for the writer, and I’m only just starting, downstairs after bringing Jackie to his mama as he requested.. meeting at 9:30, then followup meeting at 12-ish, then readying for tonight’s gathering where we know more about M2 and who HE or SHE is. Either way, I want to do what wine intends, open something more than special, something I otherwise wouldn’t. Possibly a Pride Cab, or the Cirq, or something of note, something that’ll drive me to write, bring me closer to wine– The stories of these companies and outfits I’ll be working with.. motivating me, more than just the push I need, this mmc idea and how it’s becoming more than just “an idea”. Will never lose my creative edge, ever, I’ll always writer, be a writer, be Literary, see things; people and places and where businesses are and the businesses themselves (especially wine-purposed) as stories to be written.. like today, I have to write and re-write something on restaurants and what they are in the wine world, and how vacations and occasions are often centered around them.
Finding this sessions difficult on some chord, and I can’t determine why. I’m awake, fully, not having even the slightest wine sip anoche. So then what? WHAT! I’m in some mood, and I’m shedding things and day-types that stop the writing and get in the way of me being crEATive. Should make some coffee, but then Jackie would wake, and I can’t, I can’t have this sitting interrupted, so I have to prey on and pull from memory, how coffee feels and what it makes me write, and how empowered I feel, not at all slowed as with wine or some beer.
Received a letter from one of my writing friends.. and she shares her struggles, the confusion and the obligation of work and what work does to her, citing a sense of “ennui”. And I remember, or not even remember so much as I do somewhat experience still, what that is. All the way back to my first job at that bastard’s store in Belmont. And I remember thinking, maybe even venting to another bagger, “I’d rather be with my writing.” Shouldn’t have said that, yes, I know, but I was young, not too distanced from an incident which I won’t pester you with.. and here I am in the Autumn Walk house, my wife and son hopefully asleep upstairs, and me meditating, still writing but with more wholeness and robust qualities, and certainly more precision. And, of course, M2 on her/his way. Which, tonight we learn.
Hear someone stirring upstairs, I think Jack but it’s hard to calculate. Outside’s shade lightens, the day approaches, right after rain, so so much renewed and ready to be tried. Having thoughts now, here, a minute ago just staring at he screen and not seeing it, totally removing myself in some lucid picturing. Hard to explain but I’m close to where I’ve always wanted to be, writing, storytelling.. for people, the clients, but yes myself as well. Can’t wait to see this vineyard today, this morning, around 9:30, and what it’ll look like, if there’s fog and what the soil will impress in terms of texture and overall character; the smell of the soil: rich, thick, damp, depth and conviction.
The morning turing into somewhat of a night in its feel then more morning with the outside light intensifying its naturalist bulb and the eyes to it harness. “Whoa,” I think, “something’s going to happen today.” And I hope so, that tremendous chapter I always hoped the elements would write for, or more ‘with’, me. Something I have to research, but I decide not to– sprinklers outside, a car, a plane overhead somewhere, and the day’s lit. Me here typing knowing I should have this in the novel, which really now has become that “toy truck” King mentioned in that book. But why, I think, “why not collect these entries, make it my novel, or memoir, and why do I have to be pinned to one of those bookstore tags, or cards, or isle signs?”
Still before 6, and just indented the above paragraphs. See what blogging has done to me? I need to connect with my ‘wild typewritten pages’ that I opened, or started last week. More traffic outside, more motion and characters doing something. Today’s a day, a day I won’t forget and one that won’t be by anything lessened. Still before 6 and here I am, writing, a writer doing not just what he does but who he is– more light to the room and more noise outside, some truck passing by or a streetsweeper or.. something. The noise frightened me a bit, as it sounded like a plan was about to crash or land on the houses behind us. I’m jumpy this early, and no coffee is you me believe, and exceptionally perceptive, and more driven to write my moment and this day especially from minute one to last. And there’s that sound again. Is the driver of the truck lost? Now a crow, then a bird with a higher octave’d call, the fridge humming, the crow again; 1, 2, 3 in its cawing pattern. And what does that say? Like my character, Mr. Massamen, I have to dive, immerse and submerge, into that 100 day 3/page project. See what I wrote and what my character felt and who I was in that stretch. Writers like me hate to do that cuz it’s going backward and we write in the moment. We write THE moment, the one we’re in. But that could be just the scope and practice I need sever. I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t matured or simply grown up much since those Lunardi’s days. I’d like to think I am, but that could be me just selling myself like I do prospects.
The coffee calls, and the day does as well. Have to get Jackie ready with racer pace this morning, shave before, luckily I retrieved the clothes I had dry-cleaned so clothes aren’t even a slight issue this A.M. Thankfully. As so many times that’s been a stresser. Silly I know. 6:01, time for a cup, time to start.. I can upload this all to blog, or novel, or memoir, or whatever the hell I want, later.