Going the opposite way of Mr. Capote tonight, with resounding respect. As soon as I arrived back home, sped to the gym. 3 mile run, then basketball. Now, sipping some Ginger Ale, gloriously cold, listening to cars speed by my Yulupa condo. Forgot my earphones for today’s Lit Lunch, where I triumphantly trampled past 1k. Tomorrow, no forgetting. They’re already in my bag. Hoping Katie, my winemaking painter sibling, brings some samples of our Cab either on xmas eve or day. Want to see how our collaborative barreled character’s stretching, enrooting in its early life.
Ready for bed, this writer. Ready for another foggy drive, morrow. Today’s foggy 12, what prompted, fueled all the cube notes. The book, closer to fruition that I estimated. Need more dialogue, though, I’m realizing. Don’t want it to be excessively monologuing, narratively reflective. Have to listen more, maybe write less. Listen to all speech around me. Write that, all of it, no matter how seemingly insignificant it self-presents. Would love to pocket some tasting Room dialogue, but no winery last Sunday, yesterday I mean, or next, which happens to be Christmas. Then, Sunday after is New Year’s Day. Going to affect the wallet. Need to submit these chapters. Get my advance check, from somewhere, so I can finish the book. No, I should finish the book before submitting a single typed sheet, right? Feel like I need a glass of wine, now, thinking about money, how I depend on others for it. Only temporary, Mike tells himself, picking up the Canada Dry, wishing it were Howell Mountain Cab.
Notes in so many places, for the book. Now I do feel like Truman, as he gathered all his scribbles in the first types of his championing, masterfully bloody, manuscript. Just have to be patient, as I’m always told. Do I? Stream-of-thought writing isn’t anchored in contemplativeness. It thrives in constancy, whimsicality. That’s what I’ll do, with these first chapter gatherings. Trust my Self.