a writer:  post 023

9:27pm and at the close of a long, long day, driving to Napa and back then tasks around the house, and now Emma tries to sleep downstairs with me, lights low and me fighting the pull to nap myself.  So many writings I found that I’ve done absolutely nothing with.  Not even posted to blog, and beginning to resent myself and how I’m not traveling as I wanted to, not the writer I saw myself being…  But one thing did strike me today after meeting with winemaker friend Jason at that bakery on 1st: to not care.  What do I have to lose at this point, a sentiment uttered by him when entertaining submitting some of his wines to magazines for review, “I mean what do I have to lose at this point, right?” he said.  So, same with this writer.. everything, and I do mean everything, sent out.. somewhere.  Even if to my own blog.  And logged, rostered somehow in the ledger, which is challenging with how fast and much I do write.  But I have to do it.

Then pieces to The New Yorker, the New York Times, and wherever.. and if they don’t take them then I publish them myself.  Fuck it.  No wine tonight so I’ll write something tomorrow morning, and early.  Either about wine, or politics, or wine and politics, a short story.. something that can be uses outside of my blog, my world, that I can be paid for.  Again, what does ‘a writer’ have to forfeit in so doing?

Quiet in the house at present, Jackie asleep upstairs and I think Ms. Alice may have lost consciousness with the little Beat.  That leaves Emma (Ms. Austen) and I down here.  In so much peace.  Going to start with politics— no, fiction, or.. something with being an adjunct, what  I know more than anything.

Have to get to the Road—

Everyone’s traveling but me.