Almost 1600 words in today’s Literary Lunch, 6 mile run in less time than Monday’s gym visit. Now, at 10:11p, watching the news, sipping Syrah’s remains. Friday, come morrow. Starting to think I should be less project focused, and just write. Not be so winemaker-like with my writings. There are bold correlations, ones that keep me writing. But, Writing still has its unique quintessence.
Tomorrow, another commute. My poor car. It must hate me. Speaking of the early daunt, I just remembered I have two spontaneous sessions on my phone, typed while waiting for Adrianna2, on that side street, off Arnold. Written before daylight savings. Still not used to the early dark. This Syrah, quite appropriate for this season’s extended night. Haven’t seen my wine in some time. Haven’t heard from my professor, either. Sure she’s busy. whoso cellars needs more attention, as an idea at this point. Syrah, one of my targets. In my glass, a charcoal character, complimented by deep fruit; blackberry, chocolate. Shouldn’t be sipping this late. Oh well, I’m a writer. Not a wine writer, or wine blogger. Am I writing a novelette on my lunches? Maybe. Just want something to sell. NEED something to peddle, at this point. No more free writing, even for Self.
Want to return to Vegas, at some point. Capture everything on page. Those lights, more characters than I’ll be able to catch, I’m sure. What a city for fiction. Today, at the café, saw a girl, probably my age, just reading a book, sipping an espresso, from one of those tiny cups, with an even more adorable handle. And that was it. No purse, no wallet, that I could see. Just caffeine, words. I remember envying her. Her movements, with an olived structure, slow, passionate, deliberate, whimsical. I would have hit 2000 words if it weren’t for her. She sat there, no cares. Just connecting with Literature. Couldn’t see what she was reading, didn’t need to. Just sipped that last of the Syrah. Time for the writer to rest. Need to stop obsessing over word count, for day, session. Found mySelf on the treadmill tonight always checking how much time I had left, how far I had run, what my speed was, and at that speed how far I’d go by a certain time assembly. Why? Why not just enjoy? Same with these pages. “Just enjoy,” Mike now tells Self. So, now, writing is like running, and still winemaking, more I think about it.