Definition. That’s what I feel. Relief. Confidence. Praise the Craft, the page, real scribes like I, in mode of defy. Feeling thoughts of Emerson, Thoreau, Poe, Machiavelli, Faulkner, Alcott. My manuscript, almost poised for fruition, thanks to 2day. Can’t decide what’s speaking to me more, the Cab Franc, or the Malbec. Me, brought to song. This day’s pagination, euphoric.
How many pages should this book be? Better question, How much can this penman afford? Don’t want readers to be in throws of laboriously elongated reads. I would prefer the episodic, as wine interaction, I feel, is quite episodic, moment2moment.
Listening to chill beats. Paired with rain, Heavenly. Tomorrow, up early, for a return to the desk. When was the last time I had an early scribble? Maybe a glass or two more will help the writer remember. Maybe.
My eye, wondering. For other doors. We, the Literary beasts, can’t station Self, at least not for extended pulses. Another pour?