Not 4AM, but 5:59. Emma and I down here so Alice can get some sleep, still battling a cold. Em lets me type a bit, and I imagine for only a bit, and Jack could come down at any second, expecting to see his little Kerouac head lean over the stairwell’s border to see if I’m here. Writerfather, time volatile, I could lose this session any minute, so I type with my espresso road coffee. Yesterday only did three hours of ten words, busy the day’s remainder and, honestly, I think the project abandoned my mind, jettisoned concentration and priority. Wouldn’t call the challenge to self a failure, just a very ‘partial’ success’.
Today’s challenge same, and write more, talk less. Try to minimize talking. For me this is difficult, as the day progresses, but I have to produce visibly the effort. Truly challenge Self— hence, ‘Challenge’. I’ll learn from such challenge, more dimensions to my Personhood and how I age and form as a writer at this new age of 37, a number I’m still not completely comfortable with and am still adjusting to. Not sure why 37 is more a deal and meteoric impact than any other age, but I reason it’s because of the babies— little Emma turning 6 months old in 5 days, Jack approaching 4 and a half while many times assuming the psychology of a teenager. Makes me laugh at times, then others pokes me to madness. More character growth, how I tally it.
6:07— Emma getting agitated with her toys, demanding the writerfather’s attention. See, this is what I’m talking about, this fragile time reality with the babies, one minute there’s collection and calm then the next you’ll be hopping from your page to a precise chaos.
Now she’s calm, again, but who knows how long that lasts. ‘Nother coffee sip, and there she goes… Not sure if her frustration is with me writing or that she can’t make one of her toys do what she wants. May sit on the floor with her in a bit, be closer to her and work from phone (much I hate producing any writing on the little devilish device..). In fact, going to floor now.
Here, and she looks tired, keeps looking at the glowing apple on the opposite side of this fold-up screen, stretches and grunts some more. Yawn… is she tired? If only I could talk to her, just ask. “Yeah, if only,” you’re thinking, if you’re a parent reading this.
After a bit of a battle getting her to calm down, yes, it was sleep. I can tell she’s tired. So from not being able to exchange words and sentiments with my little beatnik, I simply listen to her cries, and when she turns her head left, then right, the left, leaves at left for a bit before going back to right, rubbing eyes then that exhausted and strained guttural cry again, I know she’s tired and close to sleep. She just stares at me now, lowered lids and little movement. She’ll be asleep soon— Cleared my throat a bit and it startled her, but no crying. Now her eyes are closed. I was right. Rewarding moment for the writerfather. Small victory. 6:32… want more coffee but I’ll wait, enjoy the stillness of this downstairs, the visual of my little girl dozed away surrounded by her toys and the blanket I had over my lap now over hers.
Have to get in shower soon… Took allergy pill.
self notes: finish story for winery – find quote for day – post to teaching blog – budget – find pages to print… 50 at a time.
Received another compliment on my writing, a reader saying the ‘writer’s block’ piece inspired them to write, thanking me. I owe it to everyone to not just let my writings rot and decay away in and on this bloody blog. Payday today, but much of that pay will be bled by bloody bills. I need extra cash, and I have the inventory to produce it, so why don’t I. One of the things about my self with which I’m most annoyed— I need to sell writings, I need to sell writings, I need to bridge income gaps, I need extra cash, so why not find extra tasting room work? NO! SELL YOUR WRITING!!! That’s what you want, isn’t it? Remember the perfect world conversation with Dad, dinner at Monti’s… the perfect world is me living from writing, selling my mss. So why don’t you? You’re 37. Nothing to lose at all. Write and sell. Musicians and bands spend 6 or 8 hours in their garage or home studio, produce some EP and sell it like crazy. You’re telling me a serious writer can’t do the same? Produce pages, and peddle them madly.
At the winery. Finished the blog post— and the mood of the writer soars. Drinking a 3-shot mocha, wondering where the day will take me. How it will challenge me in addition to how I’ve already set to challenge myself. Notes for the Freewriting course… gather images… my ten words per house…
Emma, still asleep when I left the house, about a quarter to 8. Jackie came downstairs, but was intently respectful of her rest, not a word. Just watched his cartoons, meditated with his stuffed animals, enjoying his breakfast. Alice coming down, resting on the couch with him. Now, me in Dry Creek, meditating before setting up for a private tasting I’m to do, set up the TR, and away into the Dutcher story I go. This winery has assured me that what I want is closer than it’s ever been. I just have to be consistent, intensify my momentum and speed consistently, every day doing something visible, trackable, that I can inventory.
Quiet in this office, my brother Cass (cellar master here at DCW), at his computer. Running out of coffee. That’s fine.. need a break from the fire, for a bit anyway.
10AM— time to switch characters. Writing everything.. from filling the water carafes to opening bottles, scrubbing bird shit off the picnic tables.. everything. A story— this, mine, always.