Adequate Chord

Night before a ‘half’.  More in my head right now than I can handle.  Not even sure I should be writing as I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere.  In fact I know it won’t.  So, the ‘learned’ from this moment, what I’m feeling now tonight: Know when to stop writing, know it’s okay to take a night, think, collect.  I’m…  No, need to switch mood around.  I’m annoyed at present, pugnacious and rattling, snake cornered.  Just write through it, I head myself self-advising.  Well, usually I would.  But tonight’s different.  Change in the story’s air, texture and atmosphere.  What does it want me to do?  What does this story want for my next move?  Maybe I decide…  Just a writing father’s paranoid and overtly self-conscious measurement, those thoughts of “Am I doing the right thing, career-wise?” and “How do I know when to let something go?”, referring to the adjunct life.  Just too much on the writing father’s head.  And I’m not going to make any ridiculously expected proclamation to myself, or to this page.  Just noting my frustration, so hopefully I come back to this entry soon with more composition.  Remembering the ‘perfect world’ discussion with day, that one night at Monti’s.  In a perfect world, I’d be doing what…  Already know.  Then go get it—  Well, it’s taking a long time.  Toughen up, I know.  Have a run tomorrow.  Need be composed.

Next morning, 10/9/16, morning of half-marathon, I’m up and ready for launch, sitting on couch, 6:02.. to be in car and Headed to Healdsburg by 6:15.  This race is of mammoth meaning for this 30-day project and my story principally.  I’ll run, there’s a prize for me at the finish line.  What, I’m not quite sure, but this race is a race toward a panacea for all the me stresses.  What was in my head last night and kerfuffling me is now gone.  I’m zenned, I’m walking in my head now, just strolling, or sauntering like Emerson, and knowing all will be well.  Everything.. from my presence in wine’s world to the adjunct thing.  This run will expose the writing warrior I am and have always been, how I’ll live from my fearless paragraphs and help others write the same way— or not the same way I do but with the same comfortability, the same ardor and assurance.

There is definitely change in the story’s feel and stage, and that’s what propels me.  Consider this my own stemwinder, with my soul as intended audience.  Wondering what the route will be for this half, but not knowing is the nucleus of my intrigue, my fire this morning.  Frankly, I’m tired of normalcy, predictability, the schedule.  It’s negative, and just a couple months ago I quit negativity.  So the ebb perpetuates.  This morning, with my half-marathon in Healdsburg, I’m like Duke in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I’m going to find my story—  MY fucking story.  How’s that for “lifestyle” writing?  Paranoia and low self-estimation, toppled.  A new bulwark reinforcement of character’s been typed, set to page for ever.  EVERYTHING starts and re-starts with this ‘half’, as it’ll pulse profusely in making the writer full.

Learned:  I WILL have ‘It’.  MY perfect world.