Likelihood, nearly assured. At desk now while kids play outside. Cheese, crackers, a little of the Desmond Pinot from last night. Bottle dead. Opened another for more wine character, more for the book, be it on wine or passion, or me, or sales, or whatever. Kids outside and I hear Jack making funny whistle or horn noises while playing bags with one of the other kids.
Drove to Healdsburg for site visit this morning, probably my last for the foreseeable ahead days. Felt so odd driving to HBG and not having lunch, not being able to stop and get a coffee, sneak in some writing, visit friends in tasting rooms. I know this will all pass eventually but it feels like the slow-as-fuck button has been pushed. Came across a note I sent to a prospect back in mid-March, when all this really started to elevate and magnify. MARCH, I thought. How? Time losing any conceptual relevance or promise.
Mom reminded me that I have more than enough to write about. After me stressing yesterday and I think the day before and days before that. I interpret her words as a harsh order, “GET TO WORK, FINISH A GODDAMN BOOK, AND IF NOT JUST WRITE. STOP COMPLAINING.” Mom would never talk to me like that, certain not with what’s implied by the CAPS. I’m interpreting conveniently.
And she’s right.
There’s too much in my days to write. Maybe that’s the problem, but even still it comes back to view, how I see everything… ME. Age 41…. More than interesting so far, whatever day I’m in. Doesn’t matter.
These crackers, a little stale. Eating them anyway. Time at the desk, or corner/quarantine table. With wine. Poured self another of the Pinot. Can’t remember vintage. In this scene, doesn’t matter to writer Mike Madigan.