Writing at the café sounded sexy in my head, but when there, too loud. 

Ladies next to me talking about planned ovulation and their friend and working at Gary Ferrell and how she didn’t want to manager 9 people… then my paranoia of people looking at what I’m writing when the chance of such occurring is essentially zero.

It was the noise, the pope and their voices and the gossip and the orders and people waiting so close to my little table, and how long it took them to make this latte and heat up a goddamn egg and ham breakfast muffin.

Put me in a mood, it’s pretty obvious.  So now I’m home trying in the nook, depressed ‘cause the kids aren’t here, and now not feeling the drive to Napa Valley.  But I have to do it, for the book, books, my mental composition and character and story.  Keep moving, I tell myself.  Don’t think of stopping.  Stopping is the equal to self-euthanizing.

Sip latte, in shower just after 11 I reason then back over here for winery meeting and dinner.  Wine is the topic, the storm of books about to fall.. anything else addressed on pages comes from that.. the drives and tastings, but more so the people and what they say.. the wine industry and how finicky it is.