Ten minutes of writing, binging on words. 

Timer started and I want to see what I can compose. No checking my accounts, or email.  Nothing.  Just words and intense and incased focus on my stage, this caffeinated atmosphere that the writer must form into something salable.  Book done.. when?  Hopefully soon.  Tour with it.  Speak from it.  All students should try this, whether a matriculant of English, Bio, Psych, Philosophy or Physical Education.  Write for ten minutes, prose, and as intensely and messy as you’re able.  What will fruition, come to some fruition.. don’t edit.  Edit later if you want. The coffee here, everywhere, and my thoughts follow such patter, pattern.  On some boat or vessel to something.  Back full of papers I have to grade and record and a coffee mug that’s too hot to connect with much I want.  People around talking and working, baristas looking like flying monkeys back and forth operating dangerous equipment.  Should I move so I can get a better view?  No, don’t do that.  Remain convinced and trenchant.  That’s what makes a writer.  That’s what will finish a book.  The blog’s great, I guess, but I want to see a book.  MY book, out there, on shelves, me speaking from it from anything from teaching developmental English to literature survey and creative writing.  Wrists start to hurt, now.  So I slow in the typing, check time— 5:44, :43: … 39…. Keep going.  The music I’m hearing offers some strange space sounds, but I work through it.  Today’s Saturday which means nothing to someone like me, who works everyday.  All days I’m working.  And all writers of this rhythm should follow fold.  Why would want a day off?  Technically, in ‘real world’ people speak tomorrow is a day off for me, on no one’s clock, but I’ll be waking so early that people will see this writer mad.  And, good.  I want to be.  Burning like those Lake County fires of 2015.  Keeping with my inferno, finishing a book.  And I’m sure I already have but where is it?  Why haven’t I edited it yet?  Something to think about.  Something to work on.  Freely writing maketh the freedom idea seem like it should have been there this whole time— that I’m already free.  Oui!  I see Paris again, me back there at that Hemingway spot, but with no laptop.  Just as Hem was, recording everyone around me, like this older couple in from of me, eating yogurt and not saying anything to the other.  Paper out, they always read the paper, I bet, especially Sundays.  That will be me soon, older and not moving as fast.  But what if I don’t agree, what if I object?  I can’t, but keep writing so fast that I ignore time and begin to not understand it.  My mind won’t interpret what’s on the board, on this laptop, in that circle with arms.  They let their coffee cool with lids removed (probably what I should do), and slowly spoon the yogurt to their palates.  Is tart to feel fearful for self, that I’m old and aging, that Time wants me to not have what I want— the travel, the finished book, the lectures, teaching.  But I won’t allow time to do its feral duty.

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