9:32am – Iced coffee. Kids watching a cartoon. Still feeling, very much, the cycling this morning. Didn’t sleep that well, that could be why.
9:33 All minutes are stories, thinking of Kerouac and his writing, On The Road and other entries. Wanting to be more like him, just writing what is, not looking for synonyms of thinking excessively of what the prose should look like, or how the paragraphs should be molded, how marketable they are.
9:34 Truth in the writing is truth in the marketability of it. What I think, or thought a minute ago.
What’s in the day, what’s to happen, this year’s 4th. Wines last night not speaking to me with any conviction, or teaching me anything new.
9:35 Going to Sonoma tomorrow to drop off some paper work at Caddis. Like that Room, how it feels and the view of Napa Street, or East Napa Street it has. And its proximity to Kamen. Love their wines, especially that Syrah and the SB.
My book on wine, haven’t touched it in days. I’m scattered as a writer, I’m seeing, so I centralize in a book of some molding. On wine, on writing, being an AE, sales, business but not one of those how-to or ‘my shit is the shit you should do’ tomes. NO.
I write ME.
“What do you write about?” ME.
Not anymore deliberating or stressing or self-testing in that question.
I look at my kids, and while on the bike this morning in the garage looking at their toys and cars and bikes, big-wheel thingies all around me. Everything is for them. I need to study them more closely.
“More orange juice, please!” Emma says holding up her blue sipping cup, smiling at me. I ask her to kindly give me some more time to write she says okay and goes back to her cartoon.
9:44 After a brief stall with this new laptop, that rainbow wheel spinning and spinning and me getting frustrated not knowing why I’m back to my day’s syllables.
9:47 Cleaning up laptop, closing open docs and arranging a bit. Won’t let it become cluttered and scattered and distracting like the Sonic laptop.
9:48 The new journal, written since the start of quarantine, should re-read. On the memory stick the marketing department gave me, the one I thought was only a beer opener but then someone told me no it’s a “thumb-drive” and I should probably see how much storage is on it. A gig, I found out later when I looked that same day.
9:49 Frightening writing like this as you see just how fast time passes you and how fucking short and still promising and encouraging a minute can be.
9:50 Write response to Karl’s pieces. I’ll do that at some point today, hopefully. No more writing what I want to get done in the day. Finding that’s the surest way to curse those aims, ensure they don’t get done.
9:51 Study of Mike Madigan…. And Emma reminds me of the orange juice request.
9:53 All it takes is orange juice to make her happy. Kids and their simple asks and curiosities serve as tidal instruction for me, always. While on the bike, just what was around me was like lesson atop lesson garnished in sharp and staggering insight.
Am I one of those dad writers? Maybe. I am, guess…. I mean, if I’m writing ME…..