Cold. More, on this window’s reverse. Me, comfortable, quite, in reclined Literary night. Another great day at work. Had a Lit Lunch, all pen to paper. Which felt perplexingly pleasant, to be descriptively restrained. But, I realized, I should institute just the opposite of what I wrote in my cubeNOTES, “Day, write. Night, type.” Should save inked lines for when I’m in mode unwind, latter hours. The Lit Lunch is meant for performance, not puddled prose postures. My novel needs completion, fruition. Want to watch “Capote” again. Why don’t I? What do I want? Music, movie? Thinking again, which leaps more Literarily? Should just stay where I am, seated with types.
Thinking of Aspen, for some reason. Probably because of the website I visited today, while cubed. Travel, squeezing my patience. Writing for wander, what wonder it’ll eventually gift. Writing for randomness, and, almost shamed to state, “adventure.” I put it in quotes only as I’m sure it’s been said so many times, by so many, for so many insignificant warrants. But, for these pages, I zealously delve for impetuous emprises. And it’ll happen soon. ‘Cause it has to. I see mySelf, SOON, in New York, Texas somewhere, Florida, Georgia, Canada, and, Craft willing, Paris. This is more what I need, than my writings.
Mike opened his Composition book, sipped from his beaded beer bottle like it was Friday night again. He thought of Kelly, but stopped himSelf. He needed to focus, or nothing would see a finish. He’d be writing in some unexpected hotel Room, before long. He, somehow, was certain of it. It had to happen, he told himself. He’d see waters, new characters, streets, street signs, stores, plates, wines, views. “New books,” he thought, “finally.” A detest for normality encased his sense. He wrote faster, opened another. What if he saw her on the road, somehow? Their victories colliding, colorfully.