a writer:  post 007

There’s no getting around it.  Self-publishing, on paper, will be expensive.  But I’d have something physical to sell.  And then, there’s no guarantee I’d sell everything.  It’s not like the wines in the tasting room, at least one will connect to the guest, they’ll buy one bottle and the speech and visit won’t be a total waste.  So, I have to start with the blogs, have them produce SIGNIFICANT capital and then print books, and ones between 100 & 150 pages– but don’t regard this as anything but tired brainstorming, dreaming about my own winery after visiting Sunce in Kenwood.. I have wine review ideas for what I sipped, the bottle I bought IMG_9885(Merlot, of course), but am too lazy to it now type.  Nursing a Racer 5 and already ready for bed.  Tomorrow, Wednesday, but my conceptual Thursday for my teaching workweek.  Have to blog everything, everything, on this desk papers from Spring ’15 and my hard-drive, the light fixture I broke from Jackie’s bathroom (tossing a plastic blue carafe a couple weeks ago over the shower doors’ frame and clipping it, it falling onto the toilet and Jackie laughing and me thinking “OH.. shit.”)… The Kerouac books, of course, more papers and other paper shit; old bills and receipts and my wallet, phone.. my wife in the other room, watching one of those BRAVO “reality” shows.  And she very much deserves to do whatever she wants.  Again this morning my beat-ette up before this lazy writing me, upstairs getting dressed and folding laundry, readying for work while I struggle to stand– no coffee in the house so not that motivation to shoot from bed and cruise to the kitchen for my Keurig-pressed coffee.  She’s more a writer than me, in many ways, with her devotion to her teaching and all the countless times she’s hurried to her classroom on days off to get ahead and write caches of lesson plans for the coming weeks.  She writes a plan, and incises herself into that story.  She brings everything to fruition, while me, I, the supposed and assumed writer struggles and fumbles.

What if I stopped with that adulation?