And the sitting starts, even with swarming distractions. So much writing in the box beneath this desk, in the Comp book. What do I put towards the book? Not thinking about it tonight. Not going to think about anything. At all. Just write, freely. Yes, with the Syrah encouragement. Not as hot tonight. And with the window permitting the outside’s flavors into this writer’s corner, I’m sanely sedated. Was ignited again by Lisa’s words tonight when she said, “Real writers are the ones who think about it all the time...everything’s writing to them.” Wanted to brandish my little notepad right there, in that corner of the wine bar. Could’ve had a short in three minutes, I bet.
The vineyards, talking to us, writers, at this point in their growth, as if they want us to be proud of their progress, survival. Walked around a little in one yesterday, but with my vessel’s emergency lights stuttering, and the meaty sun on my already-sore shell, the afterwork saunter was held condensed.
Tomorrow, Friday. Not much relief, as I’ll be at the winery both Sat & Sun. But then I rise in the reality that both, Saturday night’s event especially, are certain to courier material. Needing characters, more, more. Characteristic, both in animations and inanimate. Especially with the book nearing its end. Already have book2 in scope. Think I read a few lines in Capote’s ‘Portraits & Observations’ that said something to the effect of always having the next project embracing your brain. Again, I think. Been reading more, lately. Finally. And I usually do so when tired, after work, the commute back, forth. So who knows how credible my recollections are.
Bed, not sounding appealing. Just want to stay up up till I have to speed back to Napa’s downtown. AND WRITE. And maybe crack that old Cab, finally. Scratched, though, by present. This Now. My Now, now. Entirely musical, I realize. All of it. Even the turbulence. And these instrumentals, putting me elsewhere. Beautiful. Sipping, scribbling. Me, no frenzy. Solely harmony, disarming breeze. Still.