No way I’m 

catching NaNo.  Or at least not that I can see.  End of day, and I wast beat more than I thought.  Sipping some more of that Zichichi Cab, and leaning against the counter.  Could fall asleep standing, the writer feels.  But I’m here, present in this moment this writing father with more to do than he wants to think about.  Haven’t touched the stack of papers I still have to grade.  Don’t think about hat, Mike.  It’ll drive you to a darkly mad place.  So I don’t go there, then.  Rather I focus on the Cabernet and how now it yields a more smoke-sewn suggestion and talks with more verse.  I’m a writer curious, I’m a writer eclipsed by his childish curiosity.  Get it from my babies, my son just a few moments past reading to my wife and I from one of his books, counting all the shapes he saw, naming them by their classification and telling us what each one was.  He was just having fun, not stressing about bills, budgeting, writer deadlines and that reassured this writing papa that he need reevaluate the tethers, all of them.  Another breath, time passing me with venomous vex, voracity, nothing cinematic about this as it’s just reality.  Not deserving of a show, it shouldn’t be scripted, it doesn’t deserve a cast.  It’s me.  Just me.  Singularly, with the commonality suffocating creative urge– have to work on that as well.  No pill could solve this.  Neither can this wine, that’s why I’m tilting the glass in spaced doses (I know, interesting word choice), making this glass last a while.  Forgetting about NaNo, and refocus on the month.  November.  My favorite month, the month where I always take a certain inventory, not so much moral but circumstantial, situational.