a writer: 020

This morning waking to the first of what’s supposed to be storming rain, Emma crying for someone to hold her which I did then Jackie waking and now he and I downstairs.  Me, in write, he afloat in some Star Wars cereal.  Me at kitchen island counter with coffee, and thinking.. “what to write today”, yes.  But more, “How?” Work, and before work getting ready and buzzing between tasks around house and babies.. so now writing is about time, and readers can only expect shorter entries from themselves if this is their set.  And nothing wrong with such.  The longer more deliberative entries come with quiet, which now is not a Now.

The coffee, like love around my thoughts and making me think of other articles and me a writer and journalist changing with this new year, for better and better than better.  What I want..

But I’ve said all this before, so just write this off as another writer’s freewrite, with coffee, and a couple moments to himself, a father with some collection and meditation..

Have to write a letter to Dav, at some point later, then start my reading log.. my challenge to Self.. 1 page/day, which I haven’t been doing, and reading a book every other week (should be every week but I’m trying to be more realistic in my goal stationing.  This has to be the perfect semester and the students MUST have the perfect professor.  Or whatever they call me.

I don’t want to be just another adjunct, and I won’t be.  I’m not, I know, and the concurrency to and with wine most assuredly abets my ardor.  Going to fill the journal Mom and Dad gave gave me before getting a new ‘holstered journal’.  Sticking to my “plan” if that’s what you’d call it.  I have say, as free as this and probably millions of other writers want them to be, it’s a swimming forward to have some trajectory cemented.  I’m redintegrated with this new year, my honest and humble aims..

7:37…  Still quietude in the domicile, but that’ll soon fade, entirely dissipate.  The rain, stopping already from what I can view.. if it’s to persist, probably not much tasting room traffic, not many out on the West Healdsburg roads cruising from bar to bar, wine flight to wine flight.

Getting books and journal from desk.. putting self in position for day.. I’m Hunter.  Hemingay.  Kerouac.  Garnished with a bit of Poe, Pac, Plath, Faulkner, Dostoyevsky.. Tolstoy, Wolff.  Writing what I want, writing myself to the Road—