Just siping wine at the end of a day off, taking notes and reading my own notes, and thinking of myself as a different writer, a writer I thought I was and now am and am going to be. So…. End of day, like some business bloke burgeoning and, like I’m in college, on the SSU grid and going from village to village, wondering what girl will find me a writer, look at me like I’ve published something, or self-published something. I prefer self-pub, as you know, or don’t know, but if not then now yes… handing my manuscript over to some company makes me want to flee, escape, quit writing altogether..
This 2012 CS, putting me in new mind, of some kind. I’m watching a show that I thought I like and was really into on some level as the character primary’s a writer but now I’m just annoyed with everything the main does, and all the ancillaries are just asinine… should be listening to Coltrane. TV is cancer, and a vicious, carnivorous bastard of one at that. Need more wine… drink more of this Cab my friend gave to me. He, a winemaker for I don’t know how many labels. Me, marketing and selling, spending time in the tasting room. Should I Get into production? Am I too old? Yes. In a fucking word, YES.
On the floor, ass hurts, more wine, and thinking of utterly dismissing the wine industry only to embrace it madly. More madly and creatively than I ever have in other days and on other pages. This Cabernet is quite unnerved with this writer, I’m sure. Not giving me any notes, no suggestion, no mode or songs, voices or character. It’s making me work too hard. God.. fuck. Okay, just another glass.