1 hour, 39 minutes left in my 24hour counter. Here int he adjunct cell with my coffee thinking about my visit with Mom and Dad yesterday… Dad engaging me in another luminous transaction, retorting rhetorically, “…you’re gonna be 40 in three years…” Not to offend me, but urging me to dismiss age. That it matters only if you want it to matter. And, affirmatively, that it just doesn’t all that much matter. Doing everything different today, with the English 5 students, meetings on final papers and who knows how many will show before the final rough draft’s due Wednesday. But this is in no light or respect exciting to talk about. Need something to sell.. writing… services… ME. So how.. just do it. Have been promoting MMC a bit more than I have of late, and various services for both writing and reading, English class dynamics and everything. But, no bites. No problem, just means I need a strategy shift, which I’ll think about.
Quiet and tranquility, for sakes of writing, working on whatever I need to, becoming more a rarity in the Autumn Walk Studio, and I find myself becoming frustrated as I get resistant to it, thinking something like “Shit I need to get some fucking work done, just go to sleep!” But that’s an illogical disposition I realize. As well, when I’ not writing but actually living, being gifted valuable parenting experiences from the universe or Story itself, I need to embrace it. And if I can, scribble it in the Carpe journal or whatever journal I have on my person. Got it. (Again, probably not that riling to read.)
Hear sounds out in the hall, either the full-timer on the other side of the wall or the cleaning crew. I look at the clock, 6:50. Sip coffee. What else can I sell? Everything… pieces of writing (which is the ultimate aim, right?), services, eventually some merch’, but that will come much later. Another deep sip of coffee, returning to the keys, seeing the word count for this document. 112,013 words, about. And how much of that writing have I sold? ZE-RO! That’s infuriating. So in this last hour and 27 mins of the 24hrs meant to change this writer’s life, everything is for sale. These words, and the value: This writer realizes he has to stop fucking talking and galavanting around his own exhaustive self-evaluations and wishlisting and just bloody sell! So how’s that for a Monday morning meditation? Maybe this is that day, that awesome day that I’ve always wished would happen, since 2011 with days working at the box, miserable in that cube with a headset around my head’s sides, stuck and trapped and damned. But, luckily, I got out. And here I am, perhaps finally with that moment and day that changes everything.
7AM. Could go to the room, but I think I’ll give myself ten minutes more of collection. The building starts to come alive, hearing people come in, clear their throats, say hello, then go. That other adjunct, comes in, gives a dismissive and strained greeting, then leaves. And then, quiet again.