won’t get to 3 pages, no way. But I’m in the study, writer-ready, in my writer’s mode and role and posture sipping this Lagunitas Little Sumpin’, but I feel off, not off-kilter, but off somehow, not sure how. I have over a thousand words for the day, but I feel off, and it has to be with the day’s 3 pages, I won’t reach it, I failed, but I can’t hit it out everyday, like Mom once said to me. Right? So why fret? Why not just enjoy the night and the wine thoughts and the reality that something solar is about to land on my world, soon. With the writing, and I’ve decided, as I wrote in class this evening, while they were screening a portion of “Stranger Than Fiction”: “So no, I don’t want to ‘broker wine’, I realize. I want to write about wine and that’s it. And I’ll tell Blair’s friend that dropped off those 2 bottles at the winery today. I’ll write about them, if I like them or no.” And it’s for so much more than just me, and more than my family. But for the story of Mike Madigan/Massamen. I need to solely be writing. And about wine. Or whatever I want. And my clients… I write for them because it’s MY choice. I love their stories and what they’re doing, as it’s all in wine and about wine and for people that love wine– okay so now I’m on a bit of a role and I may just reach page 3. No, I won’t let ME. Self-prescribed semiosis, like the speed work I’m ordering myself do tomorrow after taking Jackie to school and taking the goddamn car in to have that same bloody tire looked at. Always something. IT’S. ALWAYS. SOMETHING.
Should have opened that Cab that Blair’s friend left with me. Goddamnit. Oh well. It’s from Alexander Valley, one of my favorite stages for Cab, so I’m nearly assured I’ll like it, unless they did something radically wrong. But I’m useless right now, honestly– tired and easily distracted.. just thinking and dreaming about wine and I didn’t open anything tonight. GOD. DAMN. IT. Tomorrow night, that Cab, or maybe something else, that K—- Chardonnay I bought the day I had lunch with Dwight.. now I recognize again the time that me passes and how quickly and how so old I get and turn and just can’t do a thing about it.