…psychological assembly and tangible angles, shapes and equations.  Why do I do what I do, why has it taken me so long to have a sitting like this, actually sitting and typing?  Why am I not selling my writing.  And this is not just me, but everyone reading.  We all want something to happen in our stories, but there’s something blocking us, or if not definitively blocking then a habit we forward and possibly subconsciously encourage, and that delays our destination.

At night for example, rather than having another splash of Cabernet or that Contra Costa Grenache which truly wasn’t even that entertaining, I very much would have been more appeased and self-collected if I’d been right where I now sit.  Produce a couple hundred words at the very least.  Write.  Actually write.  And not watch the news or some old episode of some show.  I’m here now, and my son lets me write.  He likes that I’m a writer and will often mimic my scribing ways and psychologies.  I think about that now and see its true impact.            

So, the “idea” for the day, and weekend, is write, and coffin any habit or behavior which prolongs sought-for destination.  As my son sometimes fixates on something, be it reading to a certain page or writing one of his little books, or just scribbling in one of the journals I obtained for him, I need the same do.  Starting now, at this counter, and not let any nay-saying cloud obstruct.  With money getting tighter, I can feel part of me go into a certain surrender mode.  But I won’t let it, won’t let me answer to such rubbish internal talk.  Another idea for this day and weekend, and Now.  Performing my own magic …

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