21: Uncorked Author; Liftoff, unplug ...

First serious step for 1Stop today.  Collaborative motion with Kaz.  More details later.  Easy pace today.  Nice to work with Luke.  Didn’t sip a thing today in the Room.  Was difficult, though.  Especially with that 2010 Cab Franc being poured straight for the barrel.  Brought the Comp book with me, into the Room.  Took a few notes, mostly when Kaz and I were discussing our joint venture.  At the home office, now.  Funny to see my desk completely clear, no clutter.  Not a single random item on this surface.  Freedom, I feel, finally.

Back at NWG, tomorrow.  Comp book coming with.  Need to stick to these deadlines with 1Stop.  Tomorrow, Lit Lunch will be more of a 1Stop Lunch.  Want to get this piece done for Kaz, along with a couple other pieces for this new blog, my “biz.” May rain tonight.  What I heard.  Would be nice.  Miss the drops.  Love what they to to my writing.  In Wine Bar mode, now.  No wine sipping, though.

Mike sat there, at that strangely neat desk.  Thought of the year’s nearness to adjournment.  Did Kelly think of the year’s stage development?  Did she paint it, or was she only doing those glasses, with her little signature animated critters?  Mike couldn’t help but envision her movements.  He knew she loved the rain as he did, but wasn’t certain if she thought of how they both enjoyed sky pours, similarly.  And Jewel, did she like the rain?  Mike never thought to ask.  He really didn’t know her.  And, he didn’t know how much he should.  He didn’t want his focus off his character, his initial.  But was she his, anymore, Kelly?  Was she ever?  She could be if he wrote it that way.  Jewel, may not be the character that Mike’s pages needed.  Or, maybe they could use her movements in that café, her tireless tending to simultaneous tasks.  Volume, elevated, slightly, to his Wine Bar beats.  He envisioned his shop, the tasting area, Kelly visiting.  He wrote a conversation between them.  A dialogue freewrite, he thought, reasoned, rationalized.  Missing her, no.  Wishing she were over, as in times not so distantly past, he wasn’t sure.  The thoughts were enough.  Fantasies, pages populated, controlled, by her.  She was like a perfect blend.  For him.  His eventual readers.  Wrong?  Not at all.  And he didn’t care.  

She.  Was.  His.  Book.  

Books.  Hers.

He, hers.

12/11/2011, Sunday