finish a book.
Not worried about what genre, what form. Just write and collect and it will for something, some voice, some scripture.
In a bar up the street from home, just after work. One guy playing pool, others talking about something that happened either at this bar one night, one wild night, or at some party. Lady tending at trying to push this one beer, her heart to be blessed, that has all proceeds and monies made supporting the Camp Fire.
Me at a tall table, by self, stressing over writing, my writing, what I wrote this morning at Stony Point Starbucks and in Field, and now, Now.
The morning, more than these later hours.
So much more.
These hours, this time of day, night, could never parallel the A.M. value, gift to me and the page– me on the page.