Sipped a Grenache from the Paso Robles area that honestly sent me to other plains. My cap of night, this sparkling. Christmas eve, my night. Wonder how to perceive this night of nights. Maybe I shouldn’t think of it that way. Or maybe I should. Tonight was special, with Mom’s cooking, Katie’s conversation, wine education. And the wines, especially that Grenache. Never really been a fan of the random Rhône, but I am now, after tonight. Could this be the newest edition to the whoso cellars lineup, this vixen varietal? Can still taste its taps. The syrupy raspberry ticks, mint, waving herbs.
Can’t believe tomorrow’s Christmas. How did this year fly with fluid indifference to my nerves? My nerves, rather eased with this sparkling about my settlement. Now, looking through cubeNOTES in the Comp book. This blog, a book, I’m thinking. Just noticed something with a couple reads of these progressing sentences: I’m comma-happy. Why is that? Is it “grammatically flawed”? I don’t think so. So I’ll just write in wishes about tonight, the Grenache, Katie’s and my wine, the novel. Who knows what’s around the corner? There’s a new slew of barrels this way barreling. Exciting, as a winemaker, writer.
Christmas, so much entailed. Nothing cliché in this installation, only introspective tremors. This night, tomorrow’s day, involving everything that characters should allow in their development. Wine, family, moments memorable. Writeable. Love 2nite, 2morrow.
= Just saw a commercial against driving drunk, warning that They’re out there, waiting. Then, I see a spot for Absolute Vodka. Did anyone else notice this? Now I’m tired, looking forward to my morning mocha.
And 2morrow night’s wines.
Mike scribbled a little on the Comp journal’s lines, then set it down by the battery-fed candle. He looked at what remained in the flute. Tired bubbles, for a tired, wined-out writer. He didn’t know what to do with all this “wine blog” writing. Should it go into a book? Would it make a book? He didn’t want to just toss it in that plastic box of old writings, as he’d been doing for years. So, then, he reasoned, it was a book. He smiled, sipped, headed for bed.