Like all mornings where J wakes me, it’s been active. Emailing clients 1 & 2, contacting 3 prospects– or 2 prospects and 1 new or not-so-new contact.. and writing now. The day is off, and I won’t allow anything to sever my sentiment as I did yesterday.
for note: Dad’s story on the speech writer whose client, a governor, said he didn’t like what he wrote and he had to re-write it, again and again. And then some other similarly moral’d story.
If people have a comment about my work, I embrace it, no matter harsh or jagged or UNFOUNDED.
So I write on, noting throughout the day, jots on the wines and the people, and me– for the novel and poetry.. re-assembled, thanks to Mom and Dad’s words and transaction. Ready for the day in a way I’ve been before, but this is different for some reason, colorfully augmented. For fiction and the novel’s sake– nothing and no one bothering me. Today I’m Hemingway. I’ve brought myself to that point, as Dad once said. I just won’t be infiltrated.