After passing 3000 words for day, I only want more. I want to finish my goddamn book. Get to my beach house, write more.. more… MORE. Publish everything independently and …. Stopping. See what I’m doing, with my wishlisting—
Jackie in 1st Grade now, and me just getting older and wishing. Starting new assignment, new story and creative direction in 9 days. Don’t sleep, I self-instruct and decree. Be more mad with your writings, more passion-purposed and wandering. That’s the only way to discover gems. I’ve told my students this for years, and have never followed the speaker’s specs.
I keep writing, thinking only of the book..books, everything I’ve ever written, what I wrote 5 years ago on blog— I look, and addresses of money tightness, needing coffee, no-wine nights…. I think to myself, “Has nothing fucking changed?” I’m changing it, by leaving the bloody industry and its all-too gawked-at poisons. Then I read about flash fiction, short fiction, something Mom has essentially demanded I do, for YEARS. So I still have more writing to do, do note. A short fiction piece, probably on Kelly, later.
For now… Do something. Keep moving. Quiet in house. Advantage in such, a tranquil intangible shape and voice coats my senses, all.