Miracle. Kids are quiet. Break in the chaos. No skirmishes or protests, whining or anything. I type, Emma on the office couch looking at old picture books… pics of both kids when babies, family, and whomever else. All past captures.
Being in-place to create and finish this book brings my attention to time, and me, that I’m here now and have so much to do. I know the covid thing will be over eventually, but right now I have RIGHT NOW. And not just when there’s something like covid dominating tone and action.
Student messaged me through blog and told me she now because of all this tends to new projects, puts aims for herself on page, watches the sunset every night, paints…. She’s re-writing. As am I. After my run at noon, note on run. Route, what it taught you. Last night in bed 9:50 something I believe. Earlier, tonight.
And tomorrow…. Under penalty of failing as a writer, with this book during this “break”…. 4. A. M.
It need happen. It will. 3000 words before the first of the wee beats wakes.
My letters, to Dav, Lila, Mr. Sedaris, Ms. Lawson, Maybe David Eggers. To Dad, Mom, Sister…. Just write a fuckton of letters. Emma goes in the other room to be with her brother, and I think why not write them letters as well. Collect them and deliver them to each baby when they’re 21. That would make me then….. I don’t want to think about it.
This covid thing plates a certain miracle I guess you could say for me as a writer and blogger… write more, write more about writing, about blogging, about being a DAD (like someone told me to do months before Jack was born, in 2011… I remember it was Alicia, when we worked together at that “small marketing firm” in Napa, really more of a bullshit callcenter).