till now. Coffee waiting for me and the rain on its way. No one in the Autumn Walk Studio but this writer. Alone writing this morning at 3-something AM, and now I have now, this Now, to assemble further my story. Today is about selling my writing, however I can. No more of these income gaps, no more of waiting for some paycheck someone awards me. No more. The goal today is to move the pages… See that happening with verse and some prose pieces, reading, maybe even reading in the vineyard. Have to think outside the box and once I’m outside sprint as far away from it as I can—into inaccessible cosmos. But I will step in them, run around in them, write in them.
Time for the writing father, now, 7:37AM. Have to launch from property at 8, latest. Sell my writing, live as a writer… LIVE, not struggle or exist. It always pissed me off, when people referred to “starving artists”. I always would pose, “Why are they starving? What are they doing wrong? Are they selling anything?” Anyway, I’m selling everything. No free writing. Even for me. Well, especially for me. I can freewrite after I’ve sold a couple pieces.
Mornings rarely work out like this, where I’m dressed and ready, no one here but my scribbled wrangles and contentions, me in the chair listening to music and sipping coffee like a student with a full day ahead. And I am, and I do. Studying everything around me, electing what I want in my progression and don’t. Why wouldn’t I be positive this morning. Everything’s reminding the writer that he, I, am in plenary control.