He didn’t like rushed writing. It was already 9:33p. He just sat down to his keys. No drinking tonight. That was last night. Two beers, a glass and a half of Cab. And that was it. He was proud of himself, actually. He sipped his Diet Coke, curved in confusion about today’s lunch. He managed to isolate a lunch hour to himself. But he didn’t write. He tried to walk in the heat. And he did, only a couple blocks. Got some cash from the ATM, and returned early to NWG, his cube, where he’d continue to fill his legal sheets with NOTES.
Listening to his Wine Bar beats, he flipped through the pages of BOOK1. He knew how he’d divide it. As a winemaker used certain blocks of fruit from the same vineyard, for different bottle projects, so would Mike. There was more than selective scheme and artifice to this long-awaited usage of B1’s pages. Mike wished she were there, to share his self-education, see what he made himself see. But it was all his. She wasn’t there. She may as well have never met him that one day in the winery, if she wasn’t with him right then.
Moving his thoughts forward, he read more of the pages. He jotted ruminative ripples when invited by his consciousness rapids’ paragraphs, just as he advised his students do. “Be an active reader,” he’d instill, or try. He threw phrases at into his full pages like “expand on motive for detail lack, or justify...”, “embellish”, “make at least twice as long, then tie-in narration/response, or reflection”. He took another shot of his caffeinated bubbles, read more. He felt a student, again. As his music followed in its obligatory augment of his office’s sensory semblance, Mike read on. Just read. No more penning.
He found another author to study.
9/21/2011, Wednesday
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