Woke up for my run, 4AM, but went back to sleep. Then, just now, a skirmish with technology. My mood unstable, and I feel the urge to call in sick and just go for a run, write somewhere.. no, need material, and I’ve decided to run after work. And tomorrow morning I’m set to run as well, and run somewhere new. But where. Maybe around Fountaingrove, those hills. The older I get the more Newness I require and demand of my days and my novel can’t only be finished if there’s a new nugget of life everyday. Force life to tell a new story and narrate new gems sequentially. One compliment for Self: I become more petrous with my writing discipline and habits as I age. Last night no wine, and I feel this evening may be the same, so I can early wake for a run and writing right after. GODDAMNIT, why didn’t I just get up and run? Right now I sit here at the kitchen island, or counter or whatever, in my running shorts, what I fell asleep in last night so I could launch at my envisioned hour this morning. But no. I laid back down like a surrendering Frenchman– sorry, shouldn’t have said that. It’s just my mood. And the fact that my first cup is empty. More coffee. And more hours in my adjunct cell just writing. That’s what I need. Finish that novel, MY novel, Mr. Massamen’s story and continue looking through those 100 days of 3 pages– or “continue”.. what? How ‘bout just START! My frustration come to whatever surface you want to label or cite, this morning. 7:20, Alice should be back from her walk with her ‘mommy friends’ a bit after 8. If I launch just as she gets here, I could probably log a quick 5 miles. Have to stay running. Have to quit technology. Have to discipline Self to 3 pages a day again and note somewhere where it goes. Wish list continuance. Second cup in motion.. almost done…….. there. Let it cool off just as I need to cool off and maybe not be so hard on myself. What did other novelists and short story writers do, how did they act and what did they do with their mornings?
I’ll leave work at around 4. Drive to downtown Healdsburg and launch from there. I’m aiming for 8 miles, at least. Want to do that half marathon next month, the 9th. I will. I will run as I want to and not let work, or anyone which includes mySelf, even the writing, his novel or any pageset, get in my way. I could feast on my grievances, make some slop with them, or some odd plate, some colloquial amuse bouche. I don’t know how good it would be, or how excited the guests would be to eat it, but that’s what I could do, be some radicalized chef with my words and momentary musings.. the wishlisting that I’m always typing… My son plays with his toys, watches some cartoons and stress about nothing.. look at him, content and collected, composed in a way his writer-father can’t be as he rushes through his compositions. I spoke about this with Kevin yesterday when he came over for a couple beers, we watching the Autumn Walk children play in the street, only concerned with how their bikes functioned and the bubbles one of them was propelling at the other. It was fascinating to me like it hadn’t been before and I saw more in and of and about myself that I hadn’t before, as I age and get close to the the next big age, the one that rabbles everyone in fear, 40. But I don’t know how I’ll be a tthat age, what I’ll be thinking and if the wishlisting stew will still be my feature dish. Maybe then there’ll be a written actuality, my family on a farm that I buy for them somewhere in Sonoma, somewhere quiet, and some piece of property on which I never have to escape as it will BE the escape. Wishlisting, dreaming.. stir stir stir….. And I’m full. Sure you are too, reader, if you’re still scrolling down or flipping through the pages– I remember that one day Jackie will be reading his father’s work, so I type wearily and more freely, paradoxical paradise for Mike.
7:52. Can only hope Alice comes back in the next twenty minutes or so if I’m to this morning run. Or not! I will do my Healdsburg run. From the Square and up into the hill above that one street, the one the Oakville Grocery’s on. Wish I could write there all day today, that’d be lovely. Write for my clients and my self and figure even more out about myself and this little ad shop I’ve started.. but I think more about it and there’s so much to do, with this business, this actual business I’ve built, and there’s so much more BUILDING to do. Have to email a prospect, now.. be back.. and for more entry and more reaction to the morning. Still scolding self for not walking out the door at 4:10 or 4:15, but I have to recover and write a new story, put more in the pot.
Email sent to prospect. Now I think about Time, again. I always am. Stir, stir, what sustains and feeds me as a novelist in my perfect world. The perfect world where all I do is write fiction, long and short. That’s it. No ad copy, no “content”, just fiction.. my characters and I in our constant collusion for idealism on page, the book on the shelf and just imagining and wishing and diving into the cauldron. Holding off on sipping the rest of this coffee.. what if I could get a run in this morning, but Alice would have to come back in, well, now. So never mind. I throw it into my character, French Roast.. me alive and more alive than I was minutes ago.