Class over, and I hurry to the conference room to get in some written something, not sure I’d call it meditation or just a typed journaling session or what, but here I am, writing, at the upper ’T’ part of the two tables. Need food… Need wine… Need enough sleep for the run I want in the morning. No more sleeping in as I have been. Well, sleeping in for a parent, meaning waking just before 7 or right at seven, or in some freakish cases a bit after 7. The writing father is energized still, actually kind of odd how much electricity flies about me in this conference room. But I need Newness! I need the Road, I need to show other writing fathers or merely parents in general that the stimuli and that charge and thrill as a writer need not be even slightly tarnished or reduced because you have children and you work more than one or two jobs. Your life IS the material. Class is over, but Life is ALWAYS in session for me as a writing father. This attitude and acceptance of my story and role in the story is what provides my salvo of creative shoves.
My work day is over, but now is when I really get to work, attack my pages like a ravenous animal. Create, create, create… Should stop at the store and get a sparkling water to have with dinner tonight, hold off on wine till tomorrow night. Love that feeling when I finish an early, early run, returning home with 8+ miles into my day’s chapter. Tomorrow like today will be substantial in the material it tallies. At one point today, I was moving so fast in my writings for the winery and myself that I quite actually felt as though I was observing myself. Wouldn’t say out-of-body but something similar. In this conference room, I feel it again. Right before I walk out of Emeritus Hall, out to the parking lot and to my car, home to my little beats… Wonder what they’re doing right now, how class was for Jackie today, my little Pre-K-er. He reminds me that I just need to let go and enjoy life and what I write about which IS my life, and put everything out there. I am a teacher, yes, but more than anything I’m reminded that I’ll always persist as a student, especially as a writer and observer of things.
7:45PM— Should leave. Cold in here. Class is over, class is over, I keep telling myself. But it’s not. Not at all. I learn something every sitting like this in the deserted floor of Emeritus Hall, this Summer, or any semester, where I write about 500 words or so before going home. Tonight I realize that the story doesn’t have to stop, ever, and that I can move quickly as I want. This is the book, this is the brick of pages, this is ME. Writer, father (and tomorrow morning, runner). It, me, always moving.