Of what? This book. A little more tempestuous than thought. Like an ardently resentful harvest to a production crew, the lead winemaker. Me, alone, to my own. Exhilarating, gamble. To where in this cluttered composer’s corner did those pages I printed a couple weeks ago fly? Oh, guess it’s that manila there that’s tagged “Book Pages.” Did I ever claim to be organized? Well, yes, a few times, to students. But, I here concede: me, anything but.
Does anyone want to read a book about a wine writer writing about writing while whisking a way, away, through wine’s world? Too much alliteration, why do I always do that? Just read through the pages. Not bad, but not in any way suffocating me with effulgence. Need another sip. Then, more key pushes, till I get it write...right, I mean.