Thinking of how to make money as a writer. Isn’t that a dumb idea to conjure, to meditate or stress over, or anything over? I should be working. I should be productive… I did just sell some wine over the phone, so that’s something, right? Already November 4th. And I don’t know if I can keep with this NaNoWriMo mojo.
The quiet in the office unnerves me. Should go for a walk. Talk to self and take more pictures of those rows just outside this cottage office. Photographed those Cabernet vines I don’t know how many times, but there’s a challenge there, right? To do it differently. You want to be a photog’? Then get CREATIVE.
Sip again the mocha… Not working as I need it to. Why can’t I have the day off? I need a walk. A walk outside. I need air. If you don’t have air you die, right? Don’t think I don’t notice myself seeking affirmation or confirmation, validation for my sentences this morning. I’m in an odd mood. Not a “bad” mood, but it’s about oddity this morning for me. So I imagine myself as my son or daughter, I’m in college, and I’m reading Dad’s memoir– “Why was Dad so hard on himself?” I think, as Emma or Jack. “Why was he always asking himself questions he already had the answers to?” This could be excess deliberation I realize but it’s natural for a writing father to mentally mince his identity this way.
One way to make money, just sell everything I write. My book when it’s done… just gather a bunch of writings, whatever I can find on that goddamn laptop, and sell it. Poem and paragraph… the messier the better. Just have something to read, right? See, there Have something to read then you have something to sell, Dad. I again go. “Mikey-a-Mess” I call myself when I get like this, all over-caffeinated and ornery.