Then one day you wake up and you’re 11 days, two months from 38. You have writing to do, you can’t keep perpetuating any kind of pattern. Everything has to be done differently. You map out a map, some plan for doing what you need to do, and you know… if you don’t follow this, you’ll go nowhere. NOWHERE. An option not. So you type, you tell your story, every detail, even the ones that hurt like the details surrounding when you got sick in high school, the ex-girlfriend, all the nights you went out with an old friend when you should have stayed in and wrote. Everything. The story… the story…. Your story.
Just thoughts I had ringing in my ears and sight and conception as I woke up and while the coffee machine was making that horribly encouraging sound and song as it finished the cup—that forced airy rumble and growl. This kitchen, the island counter, littered with parental evidence. Tranquility in the house at moment current but that will be anything but, this evening. And I can’t wait, frankly, have the babies home from their grandparents’ house, here with me and their mama at bath time. And their daddy’s about to be 38. How did that happen? I can’t dwell on hypotheticals, potentials, and a tirade re-evaluation of the past.
Still quite taxed from yesterday’s 6.3 miles along Dry Creek Road and around the Dutcher property. Need to get back in shape, I know. But when does the writer have time? Not an excuse. Make time.. sleep less, get up earlier, write first thing. And if you run first early in the A.M., as I always want to do but never do, then sit for ten minutes and take notes. Just move the pen.— Find that I’m teaching myself now how to write again, or something. Do everything different, today. Everything. See yourself on a plane, traveling to a reading, a “lecture”, traveling somewhere to meet with publishers and discuss book options and tour dates. I haven’t been dreaming enough, lately. I haven’t. And that’s gruesomely unacceptable.
I sip wine, I write about it— each sip should be at least 100 words, ideally 250. Wine is everything in my life a the moment, in terms of how I make income finds its slithery and slippery way to my account. And writing… teaching… Why would I ever consider applying for some office job in a fucking real estate office… or selling software? Mom once said, “Make what you have work.” Translating or analyzing her dialogue line like a professor, or professional reader, I see it meaning that I don’t have to only do what I’m doing, in terms of job quantity and location, but the elemental composition and worlds is where I should hold. In other words, ‘Don’t move from education and wine!’ Approach those two solitaries creatively, and everything you want will find YOU. In a way, 38 can’t get here quick enough…. I’m ready. Not for a new story but a revision of the manuscript I’ve already composed. (07:18)