Thought this evening: what if I were able to vend every piece I pen? The rain outside like the other day writing in the Arista tasting room tells me to write faster and not think so much.. my typing speed now a bit hindered from the glasses of Cab, the ’13 from Sanglier, and tonight in the tasting room meeting two ladies, one from Boston the other living close (I think in the City), both with kids older than mine and both of them, the ladies, older than me, but still enjoying life and not stressing, seemingly, about anything. I wholly enjoyed their collective and individual energies— they giving me short story ideas, talking and drinking what they did, one a glass of Grenache and the other some mixed drink with a dried apple (for fiction)—
Rain outside, quite audible, my coffee over to left far, cued for morning. Two k-cups, and the wine, my last of the night glass, just to its left. So, like in the condo, I have my wine in the kitchen so I have to rise to sip making the final pour longer last. Musing now a bit meticulous and straining since I’ve been up since, well, right at 6 with little Kerouac. At one point I wasn’t sure I’d make it through this day but somehow I did. And now here.. wine and typing… budgeting.. for my business.. applying nowhere and trying to prove myself to not a single gargling gargoyle soulless soul.
And what if I did sell it all? Well.. I don’t know. But there’s no warrant for a piece longer than 300 words to be on this bloody blog. Certainly nothing 500 words or more elevated. I could sell that. Should. WILL. This is the Cab talking, the wine writer, wound and windblown by the wine—
“So did you go tasting yesterday?”
“Yeah, just two spots.”
“On the Silverado Trail.”