Didn’t even see one of my bigger prospects came through. So I already made quota for the month. So what, when the rest of my story is in ruin. Not sure what my next step is to be. Just focus on work, I tell myself. Not just focus, but drown yourself in it. Stay late. Arrive early.
Stony Point Starbucks again, with a 4-shot latte I bought at another shop. Not much sleep last night, and today I’m going to devote more than all dimensions and dialects of my creative might. But what do I pull from… of course, what I always suggest students do…. Where you are, what you’re doing. Like Dad’s piece the other night, the pages that painted the picture of a flight where everything that could go wrong, did. He claimed it wasn’t much writing as it was a report. Just my point, I thought in my head. That is the merit, that is the thesis. Everything that occurred, and a bit of inclusion of the narrator’s sentiment.
The exhaustion hits me again. Then an infuriating fury of furious indignation overtakes me. Zen it out. But how. Work. Don’t just focus on it… obsess in it. Be IT. The it to it all. The story and where I’m sitting, utter candor about everything transpiring around me.
What type of character will I be when this storm is over. What I’m thinking. Lonely writer finding himself in a coffee shop, with his phone’s music app not working and it beating on his patience and inner and universal composition. Need maintain. No options other. What do now… he keeps asking himself. Mike checks the time, 7:44. Make calls starting at 9. That means go home. Don’t want to. So what’s the other option, not do them? No… can’t do that.
Mike asks himself how he found self in this scene, with this circumstance set. Again, not of real impact or significance. Some people would just instinctively blame him…. Blame. Interest idea. Once blame is written and claimed and put to page, then what. Where am I going tonight… out to coast, possibly.
He keeps coming back to a horrendous idea. Dismisses it immediately. Would solve nothing. Keep writing… examine Mike’s character, where he is and what he’s doing I tell myself and maybe it would make a fine novel or memoir or stack of nonfiction shit pages I don’t know but I know the one thing that will shield me from anything is this… writing… no matter what some people might be saying about me. Knowing my NOW, freeing self in current Now and to another entirely possible. Through work… WORK. This and selling, or speaking, something. Last night realizing that this is the arrangement of my now, and that writing is evermore crucial, demanded…
Funny detail about this morning and me sitting at this table…. Another small thin bag ripped open with a plastic knife and opened used little cream cheese container just left here, for someone else, me, to remove and or clean. I did, and had to laugh to myself. Odd unexpected humor in the morning, and in this test I’m in… and I am being tested. My character and composition, my ability to deploy and adopt, purpose zen where needed. More than any intersection, tested. The only movement is work. And solitude with pages. So I’m not a lonely writing… I’m really not in a solitary slouch if the words accompany.
Where…. What…. And why. For the character. Music still not working. Hearing people talking and don’t want to… Two cops. Or, no. One. Over there talking, about something. Uncomfortable, and only want to be alone, by self, how will I make calls with this mood, this temperament. Why am I in a position to have to make calls. One day I’ll get there, where all I do is wait for referrals. Zen… composition… character. I’ll find more collection and quiet at the coast, with the water, waves, if there are any seals or sea lions or whatever out there.
All I can think about, my kids. And I tear up in this coffee shop but then somehow swallow them with aid of page, these sentences, where I am and what I’m doing… writing like Dad does. Why does everything have to be a long fucking paragraph, I think… Dad taught me that’s not the case. So this morning, would look like…..
Mike wakes just a touch after five, gets in car and heads to Santa Rosa.
Heads to Starbucks on Stony Point, works for a bit but then decides that there’s too much a possibility he could be spotted, or interrupted, so he hops again in that garbage can of a Prius and starts travel to 101, then 12, then Stony Point.
Finally, quiet. Writing… get to a hundred pages he tells himself.
Words. A hundred WORDS.
The Starbucks volume elevates. Mike become more annoyed, agitated, centered in the current occurrences in his story. People talking, one cop talking to one person in distance. They left the table.
Cold now. Mike thinks about driving around in warm car. That’ll cost. Every penny counts in this story, this chapter or vignette, set of chapters, days… whatever a reader would say.
Then, I feel more collected and eased than I have in days. And can’t explain why. Thinking of Kerouac and some of the letters he wrote, his novels, Big Sur when he was in like-statements. I’m not worried, I’m not sad, remorseful, happy or anything. Just on page, in this chair, at the back table. Ready for my drive to Berkeley, and meetings later. Must be the latte and its 4-shots. Think it’s finally working, thankfully. Couple emails coming in, responses.. still haven’t submitted that contract. What am I waiting for. Not sure. What do I, want from the day. I.
What do I want.
More pages and conversations, just not with people. With characters, the one I was writing years ago but for some reason stopped. I’ll return to him, then her. Forgot about her… but more interested in him, and his story, study of character and language, what he eats in the morning if anything.. maybe he’s like me and almost never has breakfast. Would he leave a ripped bag with crumbs, a plastic black knife, and that disgusting crumb-cakes cream cheese…?