A vinoLit approach, sure to sprout results, I’m hoping. These autumnal visuals urge me to forward with the manuscript blend. In a matter of minutes, I’ll appreciate them, on the exhaustive drive to Solano. This final semester has taught me one thing, surely: follow inner-intuitive pushes. I should have ceased with this adjunct nonsense long ago. Grateful for wine’s varied seduction over the past year. Me, now, for all remaining days, with vision, true conviction, passion.
Wine, one of the anchor ingredients in my Literary construction. As long as I saunter in this fermented universe, the pages will stampede to publishable projects. Once home from class, I’ll face the screen. Type till tired. Need to more so mimic the ways of Joyce, Updike, King. The morning mocha’s calling, need to see if I can somehow excavate this horribly disassembled office for adequate tariff.
6:03p. Been home for a while. No pictures taken on the way home. Just enjoyed the drive. Slowly sipping this IPA. This, night, not to be wasted. Steps forward, necessary. Not sure if the Zin on the counter is still good. Opened it a couple nights ago. If not, I eye a new Russian River Pinot.
Mike thought about the dwindling evening, what his pages should reflect. He didn’t believe in writer’s block, but that’s what he felt enveloping him, right alongside new quarrels with his social media reaches, and associated technology. He wouldn’t waste time with nonsense. It was time to envision the otherworldly. On the page, pages.
“I read your blog today, while I was at the library. You’re so passionate about wine. Made me want to have a glass of Viognier right there,” she said, startling him a bit. She leaned over his shoulder, allowing her left hand to land on his right shoulder. Her lips hover near to his ear. He counted her breaths, like light high-hat scratches in a gentle jazz piece.
His fingers trotted, atop already-toppled keys.
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