Should be running a couple more errands, but it’s my day off. Decided to come home and write for about an hour, fifty minutes. Same as a Literary Lunch. No mocha by side. Would get a Diet Coke, but I think I drank the last one at some point this last week. While driving home from paying the AT&T bill, at the bee hive of a mall, its carnivorous Christmas shopping crowd, I thought of my sister’s words: “Don’t second-guess yourSelf.” And I won’t, I remember thinking, driving to the overpacked plaza parking lot. Maintaining my plans. Almost feel like a glass of wine, funny enough. But, no, definitely too early. But, tonight, last night’s ’07 Merlot paired with Wine Bar beats, like those now playing, through an actual speaker, no M&M-sized phones. Not sure I’m going for a word amount, in this sitting.
All visions, currently. My book, the planes that’ll carry me to signings, readings, conventions. Simplifying, that’s all I can do. And it’ll help, I’m sure. Even still, following through with all plans, thoughts, no double-clutching. Following Katie’s advice. Just put some notebooks in the plastic box. So many old, past pages in there. Sad. But not for long. There numbers will be called, sooner than even I know. As winemakers let their varietals, their terroirs, talk, I so shall with my scribbles. That’s what I’m being told, by something. Instinct? Don’t know.
Have to get this clutter off the desk. That’ll help, I think. Stressing Self by thinking about it. Just enjoy the music, I tell. Not sure where to go, at this point. No external taunts, as I need. Should jet to the coffee shop on my block? Put on one of my writing movies? I don’t believe in writer’s block, as I can’t afford to catch it at this point in my life, just as winemaker’s can’t permit Creative clots during harvest, or any part in their process, processes. Not sure I want 1000 words, at the moment. Maybe eventually in the day. But not now. Just want to enjoy the visions, no disruptions in my homeostatic haven...
Think I do want to fit in a couple scenes from one of my favorite films containing a Literary edge. Which do I pick? Enjoying this music so much. Don’t want to mute its scoot. Which pairs more optimally with page, Wine Bar Beats or film? Easy, option A. But, I just crave some characters. What the types, or scribbles, always need: LIFE. Might need a break. But then, a beat comes on that has me reciting spoken WORD. Want to jump to the Comp book. Miss the stage, performing. Getting ideas, that’ll take me to those visions, to those plane rides, my wished travels. Taking a break in a minute, think the hunger bending my brain. Like Harold Crick said in “Stranger Than Fiction,” I need my life to be more musical. And yes, maybe like West Side Story. Like anything musical, lyrical.
2p. Remember one of my professors, undergrad, not Coleman (R.I.P.), said to me “Poetry doesn’t sell.” As active as I am, recently especially, with words spoken, what if I make it mission to disprove, disqualify that assertion? So decreed. Caffeine talking. Thinking tonight’s session may be pan2paper, universally. More an organic sipNscribble. Could be what I need, what my books need in their infancies. An inked genesis.
How to market my spoken word, verse. Why on earth am I thinking about that now? Shouldn’t I be writing first? That’s death to writers, weighing Self down with marketing, sales nonsense, commercial superficiality before brush kisses canvas.
Mike typed, about patterns of murders, at wineries, during a tempestuously moiling harvest. He wanted a short that would sell. Yes, he wanted to sell. He wanted publications to pay for his pages. Sipped, wrote, what he did as the rain whistled to the window, roof. How should he market it? Which magazines should get a packet? He couldn’t let this entertainment thunder in his thoughts. The character on his page, looking for reasons for these horrible events. But was the whole ‘I’m going to solve this on my own’ approach a bad idea? Maybe. Probably. But he trusted his vagaries, kept typing. 5 pages. 7. 10. Mike stopped, read from 1 till last. Actually agreeing with the read, he wrote more, onward with sip.
On one of the final Merlot back-throws, Mike noticed more chocolate singing alongside spice notes. Maybe he would produce a Merlot someday. He wrote the killers name, “Merlot.” Why he did, no idea. But he loved it. The police, puzzled. Mike was onto something. On his 19th page. In one day. He had something, he thought. Finally. Deserved sip, of his ’07 killer. He hopped downstairs, for another menacing sanguinary, plush pour.