Sunday, December 18, 2011


Mike had enough of journal jumping.  Going into this new year, their’d be one journal.  That’s it.  From that would come all his books.  That’s it.  “That’s it,” he kept telling himself.  He saw what his flaw was.  The scatter.  True, it was part of his style, but it had also kept him stationary for years.  He knew he had to trust himself, his Self’s sight.  A book at time.  Submit his stories, his pages, not fear any rejection, ever.  His exhaustion forced him to see something, to see a lively Literary Life.
He thought of stopping the blog early, not following through with his countdown.  But he would.  For him.  To show his Self that he could.  “The first day of the rest of his Literary Life,” he thought.  He began to write about Kelly.  Details, a bit of direction, character movement, habit, scene.  But mostly object orientation.  What situated in her Room.  Brushes, obviously.  Paintings, hers and others.  Some clothes on the floor, only one corner.  A short story started to take place, but he wasn’t ready to type.  Not yet.  Mike had grown disgusted with typing in the last couple weeks.  Probably from work, all the typing he was expected to do in duty’s grip.  He just made notes, in that Comp book.  The same one he used in the cube.
How was it the year threw itself to point, so soon?  Mike could only be disgusted with time, write faster.  The only thing he could do was write.  About her.  Going into this year new, he needed more.  Much more.  He needed to bug her.  But he didn’t need that much from his favored varietal.  Only enough to embellish.  That was artistic, conveniently.  Enough for a book, or short story stream.  He kept typing.  His alarm might not ever be set.  That, floated his sphere. 
12/18/2011, Sunday

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