So much feels like a Saturday. Can tell it’s the weekend which I never can. This song putting me somewhere else…. The beach house. Could write about that house for hours, days, devote a book to it. Hmmmm…. Do I? Become an architect in book form. Design it and go back and forth between wall colors and bookshelves, room sizes, total square footage….
See it not having a patio. It’s a cottage-like dwelling, meant for one thing and that’s escape. Writing. Finishing books in a week stretch. Enter, and a little ledge to the right, keys and wallet. Small lobe-like room behind ledge. If you walk straight down small hall, bathroom on left, two bedrooms on right – one having it own BR. One room for books and writings, files or whatever (even though anymore I don’t keep “files”)… the other is the master writing room. Couch, large desk, that’s it. The aim of the cottage is composition, simplicity and singularity.. single books written in a week, maybe a couple days more.
Write another poem. That’s three for the day. Feel like Jack in the woods, or in that room where he stayed for 20-21 days to write Road. Me on my own, thinking of this beach cottage in Monterey, or Santa Cruz…. An idea, go back to my birth town. Book ideas now encircle me, taunt me, attack me asking why I haven’t finished them yet…. stemz, Santiago & San Miguel, Santa Cruz, one for each of the kids, my self-portrait… the tasting room book. Could get them all done in just one year at the cottage. Broken up into weeks, of course.
Over 190k words in this doc, I challenge self to same. Pick one book, and write it. In a week. True, not isolated as I’d be at the cottage, but that’s the point. If I can get done a manuscript with the family here with me, discipline self to wake at 4 and stay up a little later… then the cottage would be heaven, assuring book completion.
Taste Roomz…. I tentatively tittle it. Here we go, I say to myself. You better fucking finish this book. Doesn’t have to be super long, in fact I’d rather it not be. Just finish a book. 7 days…. Starting with St. Francis, an image of a table with gifts and trinkets, I guess you’d call souvenirs on it. The then-hospitality manager telling us to remove the items and move them somewhere else. “When do we get to taste the wines?” I remember thinking to myself. The room was different. An actual job. “What?” I thought. “Nevermind, just see how it goes.”
Forward a couple years, about three, I worked with a group of friends and became quite close to them. We were together often, going to city events, parties, tastings. We even shared wine notes, what we thought of wines and what we’d pair with them…. This is what the book would emphasize. People. All from wine, and how wine started something in my life, my family’s.