inward jot

Getting more serious about copywriting, this morning.  Putting together an ancillary business plan, or more of a serious plan really, to make money from my word familiarity and inexhaustible fluidity.  Connecting it with sales, brand narrative… have it be as non-formulaic as possible.  But more on that maybe later, maybe.  Need a plan for the next two weeks, writing for dollars, writing for my life.  First thing popping into the writer’s head— poetry, speaking words.  Rhythm, music, lecture, ideas, with a certain philosophy coat.  Not sure where to go from there— well, just start writing.  Right?  Or do you want to keep thinking about what you’re going to do, keep planning and brainstorming and shit… no.  Just act.  07:52.  Have over 4 hours to do something, to produce something.  And that’s the morning’s goal… produce.  Sell.

Staring at the backpack.  Want to empty it.  It encourages clutter, as I’ve said… so stop saying that, I say to myself, taking another gorilla chug of this French Roast, refusing to stop, refusing to wallow in any kind of mire.  Just keep moving… act.  Actuate.

Bag completely vacant, and upstairs in closet, never coming down or being used again accept for if I go hiking or on some photoshoot or writing mission, or something.  All these pieces of paper with poetry on them, forlorn scribbles— no, use them, make art of them.  What I plan to do… notes about wine consumers and dreams, goals, adversity, me, my kids, life, doing better… turn it into a lecture, into poetry…. OH, it feels amazing not to have that bag.  Clutter is a thought-tomb…

Copyrighting should read freely, be freeing when read.  No clutter, turbulence or syllabic rubbish.  I don’t know why it took me so long to empty that bag.  Have no idea what writings I’ll find.. there was even a small Mead memo book at the bottom of the bag and behind this protective cushion-like thing meant for a laptop.  Getting distracted by the little mounds and knolls of notes, papers, quick and rushed musings at the winery.  Dutcher Crossing, more specifically.

Jack this morning, showing me how skilled the is at solving puzzles…. I was hit, broadsided by obvious metaphor and education from my little beatnik… PUT THE PIECES THAT ARE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU TOGETHER.  I have everything I need for everything I need and want.  He would say things like, “See, Dada?  Are you watching?  Are you listening, Dada?” I sipped my coffee and observed his methods and his mild-mannered approach.  This pile in front of me, the poetry scraps and papers’ heaps, hold something, something out of which I will write something for reading… something epic and vast, grand and rhythmic for me and the world, for my children and people I’ve never met.  Cooling down now, wondering if I should go out and shoot some vines or something.. but I’ve already done that recently.  What if I didn’t let myself leave?  What if I kept myself here, in this home office, with my already-shot shots of vineyards and wine glasses and who knows what else, and these little pieces?  Something has to happen, right?  Well, yes, but stick to the copywriting… get to work.  Play and experiment later, if you can.