And today I’m not sure where to start, as I have to write the article on the Cab I opened last night, the Stewart, and some notes for one of my clients, the one with the knowledge of farming and winemaking and just a thorough handle on operating a business that I just learn from being around him. Eating a breakfast sandwich, sausage and egg, paired with a mocha. Not much time for the adjunct, or writer– what am I this morning? Hard to know. But I start and end with the everyday 3 pages. The novel becoming more me by the day. Wine, and wine brokering– shit, that’s what I forgot. The piece I have to write for the other client, the 500 words for the blog, on when I meet a new wine, a sequel to the short piece I posted last night. Just keep writing I tell myself, and stay with and into the wine. The perfectly prefect world– or maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect. Have to make a couple calls to prospects, and to some other wine-purposed people. I feel stressed this morning– or not so much stressed but jittery, anxious, as I recognize all I have to write, get done. But at least I’m being paid to do so, finally, only 36 years into my life. And I know, don’t be so hard on yourself but I should ONLY be tough with Self, with little Kerouac looking to and at me as he does, and with M2 on the way, whom I have noted “Ms. Austen”, trying to get Ms. Alice to sign on with that name, Jane. We’ll see. But I’m here with my caffeine and writing my novel in strong explosive increments, the characters around me doing what they do and me here doing as I’ve always done.
Watching the barista move, quick to appease the people ordering, and me writing praying that just one reader other than Mom and myself is fulfilled, in some way. My first travel, to where.. thinking New York. Let it have a place in your notings, reader: New York will see me before even my city, Paris… First sip of the mocha and I’m off, and aside a different station, my favorite, Hutcherson. Reminds me of the writings I’d do before clocking in at goddamn K—-, before having to hear the same bullshit from that hollow-headed twit-pig manager, and pretending I enjoyed the wines, believed in all of them. All of them, no. Maybe 25% of them, absolutely. There was a Cab, an SB, then a blend, and a Chardonnay I thought were quite dignified. But the others, just rushed in production, something to sell. And friends of mine, blokes I respect and quite admire and learn from, made the wines. But I have to be honest– and how did I arrive at this trail? This thought entertainment? The coffee, having me spinning in my wine whirls… new and old world blended. And see what materializes.