7:18, everyone out of Autumn Walk Studio. Windows open and gaping as much as possible upstairs and down to let in the air, morning cool, natural coolant (reminding me to get coolant for wife’s Passat, which is more my car anymore as I’m the only regular navigator). Birds outside, a crow and a couple others, calls echoing off neighbor dwellings. Smoothest morning in this house in some time. Going for a run but watch has to charge. So while I write, it energizes, ready for our collaboration. Last run was the 11.3-miler last week. This morning I’m thinking between 5 and whatever. Targeting certain word count for this entry to mirror desired charging time. Mornings like this are beyond a rarity for a writing father. It’s going to be a motivating and useful day. Turned on some Thievery Corp, set mood and momentum for morning, a beat to which I can head-bob even when on run. Want to shock myself today, with everything I do, make myself shiver— when back from run, focus on 1 project— sellable writings, build the MS. Bridge income gaps and have them eclipsed by my sold writings. And I don’t care… out of my trunk’s car, from my backpack, walking up and down 4th street. I will be known as the most animalistic self-publisher in the world, rejecting all those New York corporate sludge-pots in their skyscrapers. THEY will be overshadowed by this roaming indie printer.
Won’t dodge the reality, yesterday was challenging, and such days where I work at the winery then go lecture for 2 or more hours takes more a toll on the writing father as he ages. Me now, 37. Calmer, Calmer… (French for ‘to calm down’, I think)… Thinking about it does nothing. Nothing but further stress and add something. No more additions. And no more teaching Summer school. My son has lately been asking me, “Are you going to work late?” Melts me, makes me think I’ve made a mistake taking the gig. And maybe I have. I don’t need the institution to teach. Hence the Focused Freewriting course beginning 7/5… No more jobs outside of Mike Madigan/mikemadigancrEATive, ever again. I need more time with my babies. This morning, I’d say I had MAYBE ten minutes with Ms. Austen, maybe. Emma was taken by Grammy back to her house, where she’ll eat a fine breakfast, play, rest, be kept incomparably safe. But still, I don’t see her as much as I’d like. Sure I’m not the only dad feeling so.. and if so, and you’re a dad or ‘writing father’ reading this, what is your panacea? (If there is one..)
7:31… May just write till 8. This is resounding, mornings like this, that I don’t have to rush to the winery. What if every morning were like this? What if I indefinitely worked from home, like this one blogger I follow, a fitness gal from I think New York, having her journey video’d, everything from injuries from biking to her teaching. Gives me ideas, more ideas, and more assurance that fitness and health, RUNNING, need be part of my writing world, part of mmc’s guiding sight, sequentiality in writing, storytelling. Now I can’t wait to get out to the pavement, my route, whatever that’s to today be. Thinking I’ll run to the end of Coffey, then up Hopper, down Guerneville to Fulton, then right for as long as I can go, and however many miles I’ve pocketed by then. If I’m not where I want to be, number-wise, then I’ll continue to River, then right one the always chancy and portentous Barnes Road. Then I would just come back home to shower, write some more, prep for tonight’s meeting with the 100’s.
Teacher coming out of the room where I teach last night, overheard her say when asked if she’s teaching this Summer, “No way, I’m just reading, relaxing, and…” (out of earshot by end of her sentence). I thought, next Summer, off for me as well. And by then, I’ll be traveling anyway, so…
Going to ready for run now. Be ahead of time, just beyond its jaw, fangs. I’ll have my miles before 10, then I can write and further collect, meditate. Maybe go to campus a bit early, get into character and enjoy the adjunct cell, make it my office as I did the other day— so free and onus-honed in my newly-empowered attitude. Just checked Garmin, and it says it’s fully charged after unplugging it, but I don’t believe it. So a little longer, till the aimed-for word count or 8AM, one or other. But I will say, the cold air rushing toward me through the window, right, and this Thievery playlist, I’m not that eager to leave. I will, believe me, I will run, just know that the writer’s first act after the babies left with “Grammy” was to write. Not watch TV, not go back to sleep, but write, start the day, get in running-writing-father mode. The adjunct days are coming to an end, do note. As is any other regularized occupational consistency. Soon, I’ll be traveling, writing, teaching while traveling, traveling because of my independent teaching, writing new lectures and poems and essays and sharing them with the world. Making the world more thoughtful, compassionate, communicative. A dream, I know, to make the world any of those words, but it’s a facet to my drive, my pedagogy, I swear.
After a short break to check messages and do some social marketing, I listen to the song current and think again about my running route… want to explore, do something different.. should I drive to Howarth Park? No, way too far… I’ll get crEATive with what I have here in the Coffey Park/San Miguel/Piner/Fulton district… Just want to avoid cars, and noises— Well, shit, you better get out there then…
So I go, I go, I have to go.
(Wednesday, 6/22/16)