At the coffee house, in the remaining minutes of my Literary lunch. 1000 words, under bravado belt. Need to get this book out into an ocean of carnivorous, slutty readers. Hope they like all, from the cover, first page, to final chapter, the collective profile. Listening to Wine Bar beats, with a fly circling me, in thick curiosity. Why am I so interesting to this thing? Why doesn’t he dive into this terrible mocha that she made me? Tastes like a hot chocolate made in a dusty, mildewy garage. Three more minutes to write. Thinking of a walk. No, a run. My run, tonight. Actually, I hope it is raining. Haven’t done a serious rain run in years. I think since I lived in San Ramon. My last sip of the mocha. Disgusting. Can’t believe I paid for that pathetic potion. Giving Self one more minute with the page. On my schedule, there’d be no timing, restraint. Autonomy, Wine Writing Rebellion...till I sip sovereignty.
Less than 60 seconds. Rain again teasing cement. Can barely see it from this chair in the café’s back corner. Have to pack. Clock out, to clock back in. vinoLit ... (1:32p)
9:54p. Okay, I decided something, a minute ago. I want to write a big, fat, obnoxious book. Twilight-sized, not sure what block in the boring saga, but one of them. Maybe I should write a vampire book, one about retired vampire accountants that want to change their vampire ways and open an arts & crafts shop in downtown Healdsburg. A thought...
Tonight’s run, musical, atmospherically sweet, sensorily sonorous. Damp sidewalks, sprinkled streets, retired leaves, chimney aromatics. Cold, pleasantly paining my ears. Fall opus, for my first run in days. Next race, only a couple weeks away. In glass, no wine. On oenoHiatus. Can I still be considered a “wine blogger?” Don’t care. I hope not.