Already I can feel the day prompting me, assuring beneficial newness to my story. With unexpected surplus of time before going into winery, I sit here at a coffee shop feasting on all minutes. What I want from day, and how to make this sitting different from all the recents. One, not to care. Just write. Had doubts about self as a writer driving here, which never happens. This is the one dimension and context I can always rely on. So why the doubt? Not sure. Like I stressed to the students last night, the 1A section, love yourself and your ideas enough to put them on a page. That says something. And doubt is a negative, a nay-say. Something I recently vowed to altogether quit. Just need to drink this coffee, that will center the writer. Feel like I’ve been distracted as a writer. By my blog, which I love but it’s not writing as my heroes did, and other ventures. What if I only wrote content for Self? What if I only wrote for me? Invested all the eggs in the Madigan basket? Simplified, consolidated?
7:51AM now, should be disembarking from this Hopper Starbucks around 9:20, or something close. Coffee needs to cool. Almost uncomfortably hot at the moment. Weather outside calls for such a hot cup, but in here the atmosphere is welcoming to what I want, which is a river of moments for me. Writers that are fathers need this, this devouring and indulging in meditation— Huh, still have the feeling, me as a writer… I’m bored, exhausted, drained with what I write. So what do I write? Pretend I’m a student again, finishing a doctorate. Should I go back to school? Do something drastic? What’s the alternative? Keep as an adjunct? Keep working at wineries? I want to put my babies through college, and neither, I fear (meaning I could be wrong, you know), will make such tangible. HELL— I’m truly stuck in what this is. Writer’s block? No. But definitely not something that encourages sentences. Would take another sip of the coffee, but I know it’s a lava bed that wants to punish me, scold repeatedly for doubting my writing motions. Why won’t this day intervene, interfere? Focus on what I want, what the character wants— That character I wrote about years ago. Kelly, the painter/artist, selling what she could when she could, only wanting to be free from occupational regularity. Thinking I revive her paginated presence. Working at a marketing firm as an admin, at times dabbling in the creative, but mostly just assisting with projects and office functionality. Her co-workers and bosses support her, but not with enough pay to travel as she’d like, nor with flexibility in scheduling. They just say stuff to her like, “Hey, that’s a nice one.”, or, “I like this one, it’s pretty.”, as one of her supervisors, Herb, the other day said. Herb’s a couple years older than her, late-20s, and was promoted to management last year. Secretly he envies her artful attitude and appetite—
And me, Mike Madigan, her author, realize something, the morning gave me something, something I’d left a bit ago— fiction. My characters. And before doing any of these other ventures and letting it shift or steer me in any odd or out-of-character direction, focus on what I am. A writer. I write. Tell stories. Kelly’s and mine own. Not sure why I left Kelly, and her small studio in SOMA (South of Market). Me growing up in San Carlos, about 30 minutes south of SF, I was always passing through the city. But I feel like I never got to know it well. What I mean is, I’m just as much a tourist on those streets when I do walk them as the actual out-of-towners. Through Kelly I can live in the city, an artist, sell my work, learn from her and how she does it— But she too wants to teach, start a workshop business as well. So maybe I shouldn’t surrender these avenues of revenue I entertain from time to time.
The day, the morning and all its revolutions and solutions and solvents gave me wha tI needed. Coffee cooling down, but now I need a bathroom break, but I don’t want to just leave my laptop here. Don’t want to pack up everything, either. Do I trust the lady next to me? Looks like a nurse or some sort of caregiver, doing paperwork, entirely quiet and composed. She’s not going anywhere, right? Or do I wait? Wait. Keep thinking about Kelly, her story, and my story, the writings I have to write, how I have to change as a writer to finish my projects. No more block, no more stall. Listening to music, just freely typing. Going to research the city, SOMA studios, artists in the city, what to do in the city. Bars, restaurants, coffee shops, cafés… paths to walk in Golden Gate Park. Interesting, this idea. This is assuredly a charm from the morrow. One of the new students the first day said we teach ourselves through our writing. Now I see what she meant. I agreed with her when she raised her hand and said it, after I asked class “What is the benefit of writing?” Semester is promising me things the others over the past 10+ years have not. HEAVEN— Now I feel like, know I’m, a writer. Kelly’s life and what she wants, so aligned with mine, me, however so fortunate for her she’s only 22 and her author is bloody 15 past such a bright, impressionable number. But she’s anything but ‘impressionable’. She knows precisely what she wants, has since early in life, 4 or 5. She wanted to paint, draw, create, and sell. Now she does. But she needs a something else. A “break” of some kind, I don’t know. She doesn’t know. The story will show us both. We’re both in class.