Back home. But only for a minute. Getting takeout from a spot down the street. Not too expensive, at all. Just a burger, pairing with a Syrah, I think ’15, that I just bought up the road, also inexpensive. Inspiration Vineyards, where I’ve been going quite a bit for the writer’s wine needs. Rand into connection through social, from CHI, finally getting to meet him and how beatific it was. Telling me I’m an amazing writer, certain enflaming and inciting, delighting my confidence but as well reminding me to write only wine, about wine, define her and explore the total narrative pulse to her intention.
At Lancaster, morrow. I’m going to do the “job” even less than I did last week. Only intent on showing people a time, one fun and not at all formulaically humdrum. If I sell, great. If not, no matter to a writer. I have pages, I have characters, reactions to the wines, the wines and what they do to the room be it the library or cave alcove, or the salon (TR).
Writing in the new journal at Moonlight Brewing showed me something about writing, and teaching, education principally, that I need to teach self again on certain curves and literary layers. And, that any negativity in life doesn’t need intersect with this writer’s story and page place.
Need to write everything. Wine is the cause and the laud and god to all this, what I see and how I see it. Everything I do is for that small label where hopefully my sister can make the wine and I just speak it and “sell” it. But, more than an it. Want my babies involved, somehow. Walking my own vineyard with a vineyard manager, he or she telling me about the vintage and the fruit, what the weather will do. I need be out in those rows. Mine.