Up. Coffee. Loud kids bickering what cartoon they want to watch in mother-allotted 20 minutes.
Novel, about adjunct English Instructor, wanting more. What, at his age, 42. He doesn’t know. No idea. He’s spinning. He has a glass of wine, late, wakes late, frustrated in repetition.
Sits on floor, sips coffee, write to a student, then stops. He right there deplores writing. Doesn’t want touch another key, scribble another line.
More than frustrated, something else…..
Not wanting to begin novel like that. Thinking is surely the problem. Just move Mike, and keep moving. Do everything differently.
Stomach still a bit upset from those two tacos from Maya yesterday. Surprising. I’ve always love their dishes, and have never felt off after a meal there.
Wine, the tasting room, the people yesterday, what I sold….. story. Maybe.
This teaching character, the adjunct… what can I do with him. Would I even want to write that? I’ve already lived it. Maybe that’s exactly what I should write. Don’t have time to research some random or other profession, in frame of the reel.
Kids…. I should just write them. The two. Jack, Emma… record all their everything. Words, other.