Not letting self, force-feeding espresso.  Thinking again yesterday and just now pulling up to house how what we as writers think isn’t something deserving of page, or should be posted to a blog or put in book is precisely what you should be typing or scribbling.  Had this inner-etch step into my meditative clef yesterday when driving to Safeway to get some things for the loft (paper towels, bath tissue, dish and hand soaps).  The imperative being the start-over and re-write principle.  Today, like yesterday, is DAY ONE.

The more conceptions and direction and introspections molded themselves into ad hoc sages.  In the moment exactly, nothing perfunctory but impassioned and intricate in dimension and design.

Changing how I write, how I think, how I sit in this chair and see the loft and this Nook – my life in total, like the sum of all decisions – no matter any outcome or measured result.

Still no sales.  Not letting myself worry.  Have leads to which I need return.  Will send emails in a bit, not just yet as it turned 9 three seconds ago.

The espresso helping, urging me to go quicker.  Shed worry, be THAT writer.  The one who composes and doesn’t care.  Think of the kids and the type of father you want them to have.  Seeing them tomorrow and beside myself excited.

Stomach uneasy from the goddamn breakfast I ate at Epicenter, where the leads meeting’s held each week.  Why did I do that?  Usually refrain, but not this morning.  Kicking self for being so weak, but that’s won’t do anything beneficial or helping get ink.

Into AE mode… send one email, then another, then another.  Something has to lang eventually, right?  This has to turn around.

WHEN.

Impatience is overtaking me, affecting navigation I think.