Teaching writing, while teaching it differently, and not teaching at all… 

If you want to know what my pedagogy is with writing, it’s about getting students to ask themselves questions.  “What kind of writer do I want to be?” And, “When do I have time to write?” And even more critically, “Why do I want to write?” The writing seminar approaching, starting 6/1/17, ‘Writing in the Vineyards with Mike’, is about knowing yourself as a would-be writer or writer and knowing where you want to go from there.  So… then…. Where are you going?  Where do you see yourself?  Either way, start writing.

journal… (no edits)

In a state of re-writing after yesterday’s lecture, and listening to this music here at the Dry Creek General store, sipping coffee and done with banana.  Tempted to order a scone, and the kid behind the register tried to lure me into buying one, upsell the writer to that baked and/or fried goodness, but I didn’t bite.  I stayed with the banana.  Relaxing tune from Bonobo comes on, I think the instrumental version.  09:26, and I have to leave pretty soon… no, not instrumental.  But still soothing, “like a gentle symphony” as the vocalist whispers.  Today.. notes all day.  Secret business operations in motion, and I couldn’t be more excited.  Changing everything, notably ME.  For my family.. me, the house, the kids, all of this.  Wish I could stay at this table all day, and just write, brainstorm, allow my storming brain to replenish and reconfigure certain specificities in my Personhood.  Headed in a positive, lucrative, enriching and educational direction with this re-write.  Funny how you look at things, as a teacher.

9:29—  Ten minutes to write, edit, post.  Banana peel at my right, looks so dead, so sad, and I’m so proud of my self like a clown that I had it rather than one of those scones.  Now I want a scone.  Blueberry.. should I?  No.  People keep walking by and shaking the ground and the table, and then I think “Who am I to get annoyed?” No one.  Exactly.  So I keep writing and mind my business, reciting some of my favorite quotes to myself while people all around me either work or browse the shelves.  Or walk to the back room which I think is used for an office and storage.  Yes.. I can see boxes of wine from where I sit and soda crates, a box of Negro Modelo cans.  And me, just here writing, re-writing, carrying the manuscript and my story to a horizon more profitable.  I will keep myself in this position of revision, rewriting— re-alignment, re-shaping, Newness in sentences and paragraph balance and bravado.  Music… in everything.  This re-write, MORE MUSIC.  No matter what I sell or market.  The creativity has to be with certain chords, positioning of octaves.  9:35am.  Wrap it up.. throw away this poor peel.

inward jot

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Sunday Hi

Quiet daddy moment where everyone in the house is asleep.  This could be broken at any second.  Half-second.  Or nanosecond.  Been a productive morning, early afternoon approaching.  Clock pluming 11:53 and I just wait for something, some foot or shoe or anvil to drop.  A noise, more than likely will come in the form of Emma crying, or Jack calling me up and that will wake Emmie, espousing a cry from her little lungs.  Business ideas all morning… from photography, to written content, copywriting, this Monday letter I have brewing.  Have to keep the creative in more vigorous streams.  Actually, I should be writing for the Monday letter, tentatively titled and will be more than likely called “rune rove”.  But, will be doing that tonight, speaking to audience directly about Monday and how it’s only an idea—  Monday?  Who gives a fuck about Monday?  If anything, you should rush at Monday.  You should look more forward to tomorrow than you do Friday.—  No more.  Saving it for first Monday of the ‘rrr’ (rune rove reign).

No sound from anyone, yet.  Wife napping on couch, so much deserved after she let me sleep, or go back to sleep, for an additional 90 minutes this morning after waking with the babes.  No sound from silly little Kerouac who giggled the whole way up the stairs and I was terrified Em would wake, but I caught a break, somehow.  So here I am, with a rare quiet daddy moment with everyone asleep.  But I have to focus on tomorrow, what I want done.  Will be at a client’s all day, but will take notes between calls and jots for him.  The photography, selling stock images… hmmm.  Thought about that before but not sure how to build such a focus within my business.  Will research a little after this paragraph, if I’m not noosed upstairs by one of the little beats.

We writing parents have one hard job and we garnish it with another, which precipitates to this, the writing parent.  So now what.  What do you write about with this free time, and all you have on your mind?  No so easy, huh?  I know, believe me.  This quiet unnerves me, unexpectedly.  Hear kids playing somewhere outside.  Want to throw open the door and tell them to ‘SHUT UP!  My kids are napping!’ But I won’t, of course.  It’s Sunday.  The day kids are supposed to be heard playing.  Thirty years ago, I had the same job.  Get up, watch some cartoons, clean my room, and play.  Around our house on Bayview Drive.  Seems like forever past, but also a near yesterday, where I can hear everyone, everything on and around that street just as I can hear the kids on Autumn Walk and Gold Leaf on the other side of that door.  Snapping out of my memory, the nanosecond turned into an actual minute or two.  Not bad.  Me, happy writing dad.  But now what do I do?

(1/29/17)