Just listening to music on my Friday night. Sips, drizzling scribbles before my vision fizzles. Tomorrow, a run, no failure. Giving Self less than ten minutes of composition, for this post. My aim for tomorrow morning’s mocha manuscript effort: all productivity, forward stepping to fruition. More new wines sipped at NWG, today. Too much out there to try, with wine; varietal, vintages, producers, AVA’s, cooperage... Do I need a focus? Starting to think I do. With Lit, too. Well, that’s already done. Plath, Capote, Shakur. But wine... not sure. Guess I have to keep tasting. I have to say, that Syrah again has me in hysterics, romantic regression. Just seeing where it the author takes.
Didn’t write during lunch today. Didn’t even bring the laptop. But, logged plenty of notes for the book. Tomorrow’s goals, written on a post-it, just now. Decreed, for me. Lamented, and in my mind, moreover indented. Another sip, better this night. Love when wines develop with dashing delay. The book, like a Syrah, I think. Muscularly situated, but elegantly aqueous, humble, mellifluous. That’s just my hope, though. Tomorrow’s AM sitting, with the 3-shot mocha, initiation of momentous shift in this Fiction writer’s wine-timed career.
Mike looked at the glass, then at Kelly. She peeked up at him, second’s stretch, then back to her sketch. “What are you drawing?” he asked.
“You’ll see in a minute, be patient,” she said, in squint, covetable concentration strain. Looking up again, barely, as if to glimpse under and past her meek, as if supernaturally crafted, eyebrows. Mike didn’t want to wait. He needed know. But, then, right at that respiratory snap, self-calm. He delighted in delay. Mike, enjoying their shared list of Wine numbers, his ’08 Sonoma County Syrah, her position on the couch, moving that black pencil about the surface, which he was held from his viewing, for time being. Love.