So much from day, not sure where to dawn my day’s drawings. I stress thinking about it, then I’m pushed, propelled to be a more garrulous penner. Found a Kunde Syrah in the closet. Was sure it’d be putrid, but to my illumination and delivery, it’s stirring and strangely uplifting. On the floor with legs crossed, lowered light to that atmospheric level I like. Playing Thievery, imagining I’m in a hotel, on travel, writing about my surroundings and preparing for lecture tomorrow. About what— Fear of writing, and how fear of writing should be written. Yes. Write it. Like now, truly, I don’t know what I want to write, and I could write about that— I mean, do I start with the day’s start, how I told myself the day would give me what I wanted it to (and it did, actually), or do I write about the wines and how they tasted, or Collyn’s stories and how they assure me I’m meant for the road and to carry nothing more than a Comp Book through South African, Vietnamese, Parisian, and American streets? Where do I start? Genuinely, I love not knowing where to start, and I love that I have no idea where I’ll end. I don’t want it to end. And ‘it’ being the story, my story, these writings. Need another glass of the Syrah, more of these chilled wine tracks. Seriously, reader, I have no idea where to start with this day. It was just what I wanted, how I wished it shaped and what I needed it to deliver and help me write.
How was your day?
Were you inspired?
If so, how?
How do you reconcile an unusually inspiring day? That is, how do you process it?
What’s next for you, reader/coadjutant writer?
What do we draw next?